Shouto partitions himself. Like a corpse. Sections of meat, a dead sort of topography over the body. That's what Shouto is: the brisket and the flank and the shank. Cured meat. His father's hand: the butcher's knife. And of course, his home: the fire. This is non-disputable, non-negotiable. It's the condition of his Being.
Shouto was born as an it.
He has siblings. He never met them, never saw them (there is a memory, so fleeting and so transient that he doubts it's real: strands of silver-red hair behind pillars, stilted falsetto laughter and tiny footsteps, oh-so-familiar obsidian eyes peeking in keyholes, fractals of snowflakes climbing up the wall like secret messages, droplets dripping down like dulcet tones) but he knows they exist.
Like the way he knows dragons existed, once, before his father and his father's father killed them all.
Shouto was separated from—no, Shouto was picked from his siblings because he is perfect. That's why Shouto is an it and not a he—because people have no way of being perfect. They can't be. People can't be perfected.
Weapons are a different story.
Shouto understands why his father treats him the way he does. There was once a time where he did not understand, he is sure, even though those times are hazy to him more than anything. Days after days after days of the same routine, the same mapped over bruises, the same sweltering matchstick air, the same clots of red, red blood. Sometimes Shouto wonders if he was just born this way, like one day he just materialized out of his mother's womb bearing the scar and the fire and the ice with partition marks all over his body and no ownership over his own hands.
He understands why his father loves him like that. His father loves him like that because it's his right to love him like that. It's ownership is what it is.
Shouto is branded, after all, all over.
His skin is proof. He thinks in the right light, at a certain angle, you could see it all over him like fine layers of dust on glass: handprints and serrated flesh. The ache beneath the mangled rib cage. The memory of his love, imprinted, burnt into him, onto him. Burnt and beaten. Like a piece of fine blade, sharp because it remembers all the violence it bore for the sake of its edge.
He loves him like that because he owns him.
It's simple, really, like when you love a flower so much that you pluck it from its bush. It's the same kind of love.
Shouto understands.
His father's love isn't wrong, considering what he is loving. Considering what is being Loved.
(It's simply just that Shouto is wrong.)
It's an explanation that he could accept. It's a state of being that he could live in.
This is all Shouto has ever known.
(Or is it?)
Of course. He doesn't remember anything else.
(Does he?)
He doesn't.
He didn't. He didn't remember anything else.
(If only it was true.
If only he never saw the moon.)
VII
Shouto is not unfamiliar with traveling. Far from it.
The title of Crown Prince is not equal to a life of luxury. Perhaps it once was, or perhaps it still is, in another place. But the Fire Nation did not achieve what it has by spoiled negligence nor indiscipline. That sort of methodical, cultivated ruthlessness that Fire Nation masters so well is not without sharpening. It is not without principles.
Greed and gold and meat. Riches. They were plenty, within no less than an arm's length for those of high blood and titles. Shouto has spent his time from his father's side watching generals and aristocrats sway to the most exquisite rice wine in silver-threaded silk. Golden melons, whale meat. Ruby grapes the size of a baby's fist. Luxury paid in blood and sweat and tears.
(Not their blood, sweat, nor tears, of course.)
His father never indulged. Shouto used to wonder why until he came to a certain age, and to an understanding of the hunger in his father's empty eyes. This petty, shallow, fleeting sort of opulence is not what his father wants. It is not even worth his time.
The Fire Lord brandished his weapon with pride. His father brought him to travel often as a child before Shouto was deemed old enough (thirteen) to take his own troops. Shouto was eight the first time he was taken on a mission. The destination was an Earth Kingdom colony, south-west of the Great Divide, across the Crescent Island. It was the first time Shouto saw the sea, as big and as vast as the sky. The size of it never-ending, bigger than anything Shouto has ever seen. Miles and miles of nothing but water on the horizon. It was the first time Shouto thought of the word infinite.
It was the first time Shouto burnt a village with his own hands.
It is not a lifetime of gold or wine or silken robes that his father wants. It is not even a lifetime of leisure. There is a reason why Endeavor is empty—infinitely empty.
Shouto does not think of that time often, but the memory is vivid in his mind without his consent. The first understanding, real understanding he has of what pain means. What destruction is truly capable of. Because the weight of pain isn't truly felt when you are the one who bears it; you truly understand it only when you are the one who wields it.
Shouto never understands pain more than when he is the one causing that pain.
Kill it, Shouto.
Shouto is a tool. An it. But it does not mean he can't think.
He knows what this is: an obsession. A gift, from his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father. A sickness of ever-consuming, infinite greed. Avarice so hot and so insatiable that it burned everything else away.
Fire is consumption. Fire is rebirth, fire is gold and fire is power.
Kill it, or are you weak?
The weight of pain is heavy, cloying, like honey. Lingering, blood-sweet, like honey. The weight of holding down a thing in your palm and knowing despite all the life it has breathed, despite all the days it has persisted in being, in existing, it does not matter. Shouto can simply unmake it all.
This is the power that pain holds. The power that he holds.
His father's legacy is nothing but fire and bottomless greed. An absolute consuming need to be the absolute. The desire to unmake the entire world and remake it anew in their mirror, burnish it by the matchsticks of their fingertips. God-yearn. To be the first and the last. The best.
And Shouto has inherited that fire. He was born out of that fire. He was made to kill god.
Shouto understands why his father is so empty. There is a particular hollowness in a man that will never have what he yearns for.
So Shouto is not unfamiliar with traveling. He was taught to navigate terrains of places he has never even stepped on like it's beaten to the palm of his hands. He was taught how to survive without food and water for weeks on end. He was taught the map of the stars, the taste of the north-wind. How to burn away rashes and how to pick one's fruits in the wild. How to kill a wild bear whose territory you invade. How to command fear from the people whose village you burn.
It is all commandeered in him, like a machine. Programmed. Constructed.
Find the Avatar, he was told. Live your destiny, he was told. Kill your destiny.
And he obeyed. Roam lands and seas and skies he did. Take and destroy and burn he did. He obeyed, and he kept obeying—except for the last part.
He has tailed the Avatar for a year. The first time, finding him was easy. The second time just as so. The third time, not quite. Until somewhere along the line—
(Shouto wonders if it was also his incompetence. If he hadn't meant it enough.)
—he realized that the Avatar was smarter than he'd thought.
Izuku was smarter than he'd thought.
Shouto should not pay too much attention to civilians when they are not part of his objectives. Aside from his night escapades and his missions, Shouto has never had much of a chance to do so. All his life, Shouto was brought up amongst soldiers. A military life, with commanders and generals and admirals. War consultants. Mercenaries, on occasions.
The only people of his age that he knows are either the Palace servants or soldiers. Fire Nation drafts children from the age of fifteen; peasant children to ones of aristocracy, such as Momo.
Shouto knows a civilian when he sees one. If the servants avoid him and his men revere him, the civilians fear him.
That's what the Avatar's companions are. A bunch of ragtag civilians.
Even with his intels, how the Avatar acquired such companions seems random. Bound by fate. An Airbender here, a mechanic there, a flying bison there. None of them are soldiers—fighters, yes, but not soldiers. Shouto would know.
From this distance, it's even more blatantly obvious. They must be the same age as the Avatar. Children. Teenagers, at best, with raw, unpolished bending and uncoordinated movements. Novice tactical planning. And certainly no resources.
Knobby knees, scrappy bruises, dirt under the fingernails, dirt all over. Rough, torn-up cotton fabric clothes. Round-cheeked. Wide-eyed.
(Freckles. Stars-made.)
They are just kids.
Those kids do not let him walk at the back. They disperse around him like river-water round boulders, except in this case they act like the boulder is a ticking bomb ready to detonate at the slightest provocation.
Shouto feels their stares, hot and sharp at the back of his neck, like singed pinpricks. They are the same everywhere. The stares, that is. It does not change. Fear, resentment, morbid curiosity. The kind of stare one would wear when one sees a wild animal where it shouldn't be. The don't look too much or you'll get bitten kind.
It isn't hard to ignore. And Shouto does not care enough to feel uncomfortable.
They whisper among themselves, voice low enough so that Shouto knows they don't want him to hear. Shouto certainly does not care enough to try.
And then Izuku walks right up to him.
Shouto does not flinch, although he can't help the way his heart clenches, his knuckles pale. He can't help the way he is aware of Izuku's every move. Every breath that he takes, every shift of his clothes, the ever-closing distance between the two of them—he is aware of them all, all of them, painstakingly.
Shouto stares right ahead, not looking into the Avatar directly. He tells himself it is because it's unnecessary, not because he is a coward.
"Here," Izuku says (his voice so close to Shouto's ear, too close) handing him a water satchel.
(It is still odd addressing him as Izuku in his head, and not The Avatar, or The Thing That Should Be Killed, or His Reason to Live, or His Destiny.)
Shouto stares at the satchel, and then at Izuku's companions, who are in return staring at Shouto with the same amount of friendliness, which is none.
Shouto is not particularly thirsty, or hungry. Even if he is, he does not feel the need to indulge. The area they are in after they landed was once a greenery, but the trees have been burnt off, leaving an almost tundra-like ecosystem. The air is hot and there is very little shade if any. But Shouto is a firebender; and he has survived from malnutrition and dehydration before. He has survived a lifetime of cloying heat. He could more than handle this.
Shouto wrenches his gaze from the tundra and turns to look at him in the eye. He pretends it does not hurt. "It is fine," Shouto says curtly, and does not elaborate. The implication is clear enough. You do not need to spare some for me and I do not need your aide. After all, he does not expect them to treat him like an ally by the blink of an eye. He has tried to kill them. And he has almost succeeded. Most of the time.
Izuku chews on his lip. For a moment, Shouto thinks it is the end of it, but then, "I insist," Izuku says. "We have to walk the rest through because Appa can't carry too many people for long. We still have plenty of water, and, um, I know bending water doesn't taste good."
His eyes. Wide. Bright. Shouto cannot stare at them a moment longer.
He takes the satchel (tries to ignore how close their skin is to touching) and ties it to the band of his waist with quick fingers. He watches from underneath his eyelashes as Izuku gives him a relieved smile, as if Shouto just did him a favour and not the other way around.
Shouto does not know what made him relent. Maybe he just does not care enough.
Izuku does not leave his side after. They walk together, not exactly side by side, but not exactly not either. Shouto pretends like it doesn't matter.
He does not touch the water.
The group's destination, as it turns out, is the abandoned Northern Air Temple. It is a strategically good choice: fairly hidden, within a manageable distance to a local village by land and less than a week's worth of travel to Ba Sing Se. It's the best location they could pick nearest to the Northern Water Tribe, Shouto supposes. The structures are crumbling apart, though liveable. It's certainly not something the Fire Soldiers would find them any moment soon.
Not now that his father has eyes on another matter.
The area is now plentier in greenery, surrounded by some woods. Wild plants slither up the high walls of the temple. Its current and only occupants before them all.
Shouto stands aside, farther away from the group. The group and Shouto are divided by an invisible line in the empty, ancient dome of the temple. The way they hold themselves, the stance that they take—they are preparing for a battle against him.
The Avatar himself—Izuku—is in the middle between the two, looking for all the world confused. Like he doesn't even know where to begin.
Personally, Shouto is not sure if he cares.
"Well," one of Izuku's companions, one that Shouto has never seen before, clears his throat. His face is young, bespectacled. There is an air of nobility in the way he carries himself and his clothes are a better quality above the rest. He is taller than the rest of the group, along with a mature build. "Now that we … er. I suppose an introduction is apt.."
"An introduction?"
The blond boy. The one with crackling fire-fists and the perpetually sneering mouth. "What is this, a fucking summer camp? I'm telling you, Deku, this is a shit fucking idea! I can't keep playing along with this shit. Did you all forget that this—" he gestures to Shouto as one would a rash "—this fascist stalker right here chased us around the fucking earth, chased you—" with this, he points to Izuku "—around the fucking earth? What is wrong with you? For all we could know, he's a spy, or insane—or he's here to kill us all off. Which," he whirls back to Shouto, jabbing a fiery finger at his direction. "I won't fucking let you, you royal fuck—"
"Kacchan," Izuku says, low, like a warning. A reprimand.
"—and oh, have I mentioned that he's a fucking war criminal? And you," he does not come forward to attack Shouto, but he might as well have, from the way his fingers twitch with the need to burn, the way he looks at him. He jeers at Shouto in a mix of contempt and disgust. "You. What the fuck are you acting like a pussy all of a sudden for? Huh? You tried to kill us once a week and now you're just following us acting like some—acting like some fucking lost kid. What, did you get a moral enlightenment?" Those eyes narrow into cruel slits. "Did you expect us to throw a welcome party? To just accept that you don't have any other motives? Because to me it just looks like you had a fight with daddy dearest—"
"Enough!" Izuku's voice is sharp, cutting. He has a hand on the shoulder of his companion, knuckles white and gripping. Shouto has seen this expression on him before: anger. His mouth set in a hard line. The way his freckles strain with the rigid line of his jaw. "Kacchan, enough."
But the blond boy (Kacchan) isn't finished. "Here we go again!" He shrugs the hand off roughly, sparks fly off the movement dangerously and he does not give a damn. "You were always too fucking soft—"
As the commotion explodes and the group is reduced to bickering, Shouto slips away.
(If only he never saw the moon.
If only he never felt her fingers cupping the side of his jaw (his left side) with something so sweet he feels the loss of it like an ache reverberating in the marrow of his bones. If only he never felt the petal-soft warmth of skin of hair of palm so gentle it ruins him to the heart. If only she never taught him the language of tenderness, the only language with a color: silver, and a scent: rainwater when it kisses the earth.)
"You are pretty hard to track down, huh."
Shouto does not reply. He did not wander that far away; just far enough that he could not hear all that noise.
It's starting, in a way. The noise of a battle, Shouto is well attuned to. But a bunch of teenagers arguing with cracking voices were new. Terribly and uncomfortably so. He did not know what to make of it.
And you don't care, he reminds himself.
"Your companion is right," Shouto says in lieu of a response. His voice is clear of any inflection, any mirror of judgement. It's merely practical. A fact.
Behind him, Izuku steps from the shadows of the trees. "Kacchan is a little—well, that's the kind of guy he is. He's just a bit protective, sometimes. And … I don't agree with him."
There is a way in which the Avatar—Izuku—speaks to him. The soft timbre of his voice. The openness that acts like an invitation. No one ever addressed Shouto like that before, like he is a person to be reasoned with.
It's a novelty. It's vulnerable. It's dangerous.
Shouto turns, looking at him in the eye. The day has started to darken, dusk bleeding in the horizon. The air has started to chill.
Izuku meets his eyes head-on. Fearless. There is a sureness in the line of his body, the way his jaw is set. A growing confidence, so far from the scared little boy he was just a year ago. He has grown yet again, Shouto thinks. And Shouto has stayed the same. "I don't understand why," he says.
And as much as he keeps his composure, the words feel too close to a confession. He can't bring himself to elaborate. I don't understand why you brought me. I don't understand why you hadn't left me. I don't understand why you saved me.
Izuku stays silent for a moment, as if considering his cut off words. And then he says, quietly, "must there be a reason?"
When Shouto does not answer, he continues, "even if there were, it's … it's probably the same reason as.." for a moment, he stops. The line of confidence wavers, like how water ripples. There is a slight tremble of hesitation in his voice as he finishes, "..the same reason as why you took my hand."
(If only Shouto wasn't loved once. If only he wasn't loved, truly loved, the kind that bathes you with seawater, the kind that you know exists and lives and shines upon you even though you can't see it sometimes. The kind of love that doesn't care what you are or why you are, only that you are. The kind of love that as long as you are, it will shine still in the darkest, blackest of night. The unconditional kind.
If only Shouto never knew the moon.
If he never knew the moon, this bleeding, bruising, hot-white open wound kind of love would be enough. If he never knew the moon, he wouldn't be in so much pain all the time. He would be fine with being in so much pain all the time.
If only he never knew what he had lost. If only he never knew what he would never get back.)
"What's up with that look? Food not fancy enough for you?"
The blond (Katsuki, he's been told) sneers at him, and yelps when the redhead beside him elbows him in the rib. "Enough, will you," he chides, and then glances at Shouto with what he supposes was meant to be apologetic, but comes off more wary than anything.
(The redhead had introduced himself previously. "I'm Eijiro, Earthbender. We never um, met before. I mean, we sort of did, but at that time I was basically running away from you so I don't think you remember me.." he trailed off. "Anyway. Nice to. Finally meet you ... I guess?" he paused. "That was so bad," he turned to the boy that has called himself Tenya. "Can I have a do-over?")
Shouto eats in silence. He has taken a seat some distance apart from the group, away from where the light of the fire camp could reach him, half-shaded in the dark of the night. The nearest person next to him is the Waterbender. The same Waterbender that he encountered in the garden. The same one that said you regret it, don't you? You did not wish to kill it.
It does not matter, Shouto reminds himself, reminds his jumping heart, the hollow at the base of his spine. It does not matter. You don't care.
Unlike the others, there is something else in the way she talks. An odd softness in her voice that Shouto isn't sure what to make of. We've met, but I never properly introduced myself, she had said. She looked at him head-on, like how Izuku did, with wide, unwavering eyes. You may call me Tsuyu.
It took him a while to figure out what it is that made her different, the way she addressed him. She isn't afraid of him, just like Izuku. He could tell. They aren't afraid of him.
The Airbender, Ochako, still glares at him time to time. Shouto understands that better. She is currently in a heated discussion with Izuku, far in a distance that Shouto can't possibly hear them. He knows what they are talking about though.
Shouto ducks his head, staring at his food. He still isn't hungry. There is no meat in the curry, only pieces of mushroom and soft boiled potatoes. The portion of rice is very little. But he's surprised they even have rice at all. They are rationing, he supposes, as they are technically convicts, still. Shouto would know. He's the pursuer, after all.
Was.
Is he now a convict too, then?
"Oh, sorry, is our peasant salt and pepper doesn't fit Your Highness' taste bud? Sorry we don't have shark fin soup! Sorry we don't have. Fucking. Gold-plated king crab, or whatever the fuck you royal fucks eat, you royal fuck—"
"Cut it off, dude."
(He didn't remember.)
(Until now.)
(But it doesn't matter, because sometimes love isn't strong enough.
Sometimes love isn't the cure. Sometimes love isn't the answer; sometimes it's the gasoline in the fire, the boiling water in the kettle.
Sometimes it doesn't matter how much you love or are loved because all things die anyway.)
"Where do you think you're going?"
After dinner, the Airbender approaches him with folded arms. Ochako. Her gaze is steady. Wary, but appraising. From this distance, it's apparent how much shorter she is to him, but it does not seem to deter her staring down at him. "You think you get to eat and then go off somewhere contemplating all your mistakes in a dramatic show of woe? This isn't a charity."
"No need to put on an act, Ochako-chan," Tsuyu says archly, patting her hand on Ochako's shoulder for a moment as she passes them both.
"Shut up, Tsuyu," Ochako says, her cheeks a shade redder than before. When flustered, she looks much softer, more genuine. When she turns back to Shouto, the softness hardens to flint. "Well? Did you think you could just tag along without earning your keep?"
The moon is a waning gibbous tonight, and will be for the next five days until the light diminishes to last quarter.
Did you know, Shouto, that rabbits came from the moon?
Shouto used to fear that one day he would forget about his mother completely. He could not bear to look in the mirror, but if he could, he would ponder which part of him are hers. If he resembled her in any way at all. If his father could see her when he looks at him, the way she saw his father when she looked at him.
(A wishful thinking at best, a foolish one at worst. His father would never see anything in Shouto other than a weapon.)
Memories are a fickle thing. Ink blots. Spilled drain. Shouto's childhood was all about routine. Discipline. Get up. Fight. Go down only when you've shattered your bones clean. Childhood was burst-splinter nails. Childhood was never lasting a week without a cut lip. Childhood was either eat or no dinner for you unless or eat, EAT, or would you rather starve. Childhood was bloody teeth splatter to the ground like marbles. Shouto has always had a good kinetic memory.
Did you know, Shouto, that rabbits came from the moon?
So many things he must have forgotten. Just slips through the trellises of his mind. So many things he could have forgotten.
One day, the Old Man of The Moon came down to earth...
It's funny how memories just come back to you. No warning. A piece of gold buried in the graveyard dirt. Much too good to be true. Much too late to be good.
The night air is cold, biting against his skin. Shouto does not bother to kindle a fire. The trees shudder and the leaves weep as chill wind whistles through. They are only a few miles from the sea; he tastes salt as he licks his lips.
The woods around him shift along with waning moonlight, and the starlight—the north sky is generous with stars. The Fire Nation Capital is down west, where stars are dimmer, if any. The city lights swallow them shut.
"Can't sleep?"
Shouto flinches. Below him, the … Izuku is looking up at him from underneath the tree. The branches hinder the light from finding his figure, but Shouto recognizes the hints of wild hair, the shape of his mouth.
Izuku walks around silently, and makes a soft noise as he stops beside the tall pile of firewood at the base of the tree. "Did Ochako ask you to get these?" He can't see Izuku's face from this angle, but he can hear the frown in his voice. "You really didn't have to, we still have plenty.."
Shouto lands to the ground silently with ease. The dark hides most of Izuku's face, but a glimmer of moonlight hits his left eye like crystalline. The corner of his lips, the line of his shoulder. The harsh silhouette whets the soft line of his jaw into something sharper, more vivid. The way dreams are vivid, sometimes.
Shouto wonders what he himself looks like, like this, in the dark. Maybe like a sheathed knife.
"I hope she didn't scold you too much," he says, soft, always so soft. "It'll take some time for her to … well, to trust you, but I promise she is the kindest person I've ever met. She's just a bit … on edge. But she's really nice, I promise—"
"I understand."
Izuku blinks with surprise. As if he didn't expect Shouto to respond.
Shouto looks away. Somewhere, an owl hoots. The trees weep, weep. "I could have killed her," Shouto says. Practical. "I could have killed you."
The clouds shift. The dark engulfs the both of them, smothering, for a moment. But the shape of Izuku's mouth is unmistakable, the crinkle in his eyes, the everythingness about him that is seemingly inescapable to Shouto.
Izuku smiles. "But you didn't," he says. Soft. Always so soft.
There is a thing akin to shame, twisting down to his gut, that has festered since he took that hand. Since he walked with them.
I am not yours, Shouto had told his father. Not anymore.
But what good is a weapon without its owner? What good is a knife that cannot cut?
Other than to be burnt again, chrome blood hot-white through the fire into the mould.
Unmade. Bled dead.
He is useless.
(No one keeps a wilted flower.)
Shut up, the voice in his head says. He isn't sure if it's his or his father's or if there is any difference that matters between the two. You think you have the right for pity? No. Not even self-pity.
Suddenly, Shouto is struck with deep, birdling shame. We will wait for you, they had said. We will wait for you, my Lord.
He has made a promise to his men, one that he very well intends to keep. Shouto has no time to break apart. No time for some adolescent existential crisis. And he certainly has no time to mourn.
He has to make a decision.
"No," Shouto says, it feels like swallowing needles down his throat. It feels like stepping on the edge of the mouth of a crater, like facing a raised hand. "I did not."
And now he has to pay for it.
"So it's true. The Mighty Fire Prince himself has decided to join our merry little band."
Shouto has seen the girl before, another one of the Avatar's companions. An Earthbender; a highly capable one, Shouto had noted in the past. The best to ever exist, even. She leans against the doorframe, easy and lithe. Her voice is smooth, dripping with something like sarcasm. "Well, how are we feeling this fine evening, Your Highness?"
"I'm not a Prince anymore," Shouto says, curt, half-automatic.
"So I've been told," she says. "Damn. I really thought they were fucking with me."
After a moment of silence in which Shouto does not choose to respond, she straightens herself with small annoyance, a hand on a hip. "So? Are you going to introduce yourself or what?"
Shouto looks up, meeting her eyes. The color is a stark contrast with her dark hair, milk-white. Blind since birth. They crinkle with humor. Unseeing and sharp with confidence.
"My name is Shouto," says Shouto.
"Nice to meet you, Shouto," she drawls, "you may call me Kyouka."
He should have guessed. The Avatar's band has grown much more than he had thought. A proof of his lack of due diligence in his time as their pursuer, he supposes.
"This is Hitoshi, and Hitoshi, this is—"
"Prince Stalker Himself," Hitoshi says. He is tall, his gait limber and lazy, with a messy head of shocking purple. "As I live and breathe. Fantastic. Did you also win him over by the power of love and friendship, Izuku?"
Katsuki scoffs.
"No—not exactly. Anyway," Izuku cringes, at himself more than anything. The tips of his ears are reddening rapidly. "Yeah. Now that we've more or less regrouped, I think we need to revise the plan.."
"Hold on," Ochako says. She steps in front of them, eyes sharp on Shouto. "Are we really discussing this? In front of him?"
Izuku sighs. "Ochako.."
"Listen, Deku," she sounds more exasperated than angry. "You want to adopt one more villain—fine. The Crown Prince Murder Machine being said villain—stupid, but fine. Discussing our plan of thwarting Endeavor, father and Emperor of the aforementioned Crown Prince's nation in front of him?" Ochako then makes a series of exasperated gestures with her hands. "Just no."
"Round Face is right," says Katsuki. Ochako looks at him. "Ochako is right," Katsuki corrects himself.
Ochako takes a deep breath. "Deku, I know that you—for whatever, incomprehensible reason—I know that you trust him. And you know we trust you with our lives. But whatever it is that you see in him?" her gaze is hard, piercing in Shouto's own. "He has to earn it from us."
"I hate to be discourteous, but Ochako is right," says Tenya. He looks almost apologetic. "Although Princ—er, Shouto has not made any move against us … neither has he proved himself to be an ally of ours."
"I second that," Eijirou chimes in, though near reluctantly. His mouth twists in something that isn't quite a smile. "Sorry, but ... whose side are you on, really?"
Both Izuku and Tsuyu stay silent, as if waiting for his answer. Truthfully, Shouto has expected this to come sooner. Far sooner.
Shouto clenches his fist. Unclenches. His palm is rough, mottled with burn scars, just like the rest of him. Shouto looks up to stare at the Avatar—at them all, in the eye.
Shouto holds a rank in Fire Nation's Eastern Navy as a Commander. He has his own troops. He is not unfamiliar with public speaking. And yet, staring at this—this group of ragtag teenagers, these children, he finds an unfamiliar sensation, a surprising uneasiness in the pit of his gut. Just like everything else in his life, he resolutely ignores it.
Well, now. Where to even begin?
"The Fire Lord made me for the Avatar," Shouto begins, very evenly, and rather straightforwardly. Voice empty. Practical. "The only reason I was alive is to kill the Avatar."
The tension in the air rises, coils sharp and tight like a python. Shouto gives no regard to that—after all, what he says is only true. He continues.
"But I do not belong to the Fire Lord anymore," he says. I don't know what I am anymore. "I am not his anymore," he repeats, to assure himself, to convince himself. I don't know what I am anymore.
A useless thing. A knife that can't cut.
His fist clenches. He has made his decision. He has a promise to keep and no time to break down. "I will help you kill my father."
(Kill. So easy to say. So easy to do.)
"He isn't lying," Kyouka's voice cuts through the silence like a whip. She sounds thoughtful, near somber. All traces of sarcasm lost. "He is telling the truth."
"So.." Eijirou shifts in his seat. "Now what..?"
Katsuki clicks his tongue impatiently. "Dammit, he's said his piece, hasn't he?" he barks. "So what's the verdict, Ochako?"
There is something about her, Shouto thinks, that reminds him of Momo. It's hard to pinpoint what it is. "I will go along with what Deku thinks is right," she says. "But if you make one step backwards.." she walks up to him. Maybe it's the conviction in her eyes. The absolute loyalty.
From this distance, the height difference between the both of them is obvious, but it does not seem to deter her from staring him down. "If you make one slip up," she continues. "Give me one reason to think you might hurt Deku … know that any of us here are willing to kill for him."
"You better believe it," Hitoshi says from the back. "His friendship-bending is incredible."
"Yeah, yeah," Katsuki cuts in. "So what's the plan, Deku?"
"Right," Izuku says. He seems distraught, a little flustered. "The plan. Well, I can't take the Fire Lord as I currently am, obviously, and I still.." he cringes. "I still can't get the hang of firebending."
"I still don't get why you don't just teach him," Hitoshi comments off-handedly.
Katsuki flinches. "Shut up," he says. "I—I've fucking tried. Okay? It can't be me. It has to be someone else."
It isn't the first time the topic has been brought to light. Hitoshi shrugs, not pushing it further.
"No offense," Kyouka says, lazily stretching over a large boulder that she's somehow made look comfortable, "but your earthbending could use some work too."
"Right," Izuku looks pained. "Yeah, so I need more time.."
"Forgive me if this sounds as if I am … prioritizing my own interest," Tenya says quietly, "but I believe if we want the invasion to work, we need to find my brother … and the rest of our group, of course."
"I second that," says Hitoshi. "We need Aizawa-sensei back with us."
"Just say your dad," Eijirou says with a knowing smile-grin.
Hitoshi throws some dust at Eijirou, which Eijriou easily bends away with an easy laugh. "He is not my dad," Hitoshi says.
"Back to the topic please," Ochako reminds them, but not unkindly. "I agree that we need more manpower along with their guidance. But finding their whereabouts is the issue; after the Northern Tribe, they've seen our faces, haven't they?"
"I mean, we've always been convicts, after all.."
"I think finding their whereabouts should be easier now," Tsuyu says. It's the first time she joins in the conversation since it begins. She is looking at Shouto in the eye with that same head-on clarity. "After all, we now have Shouto with us."
Just like that, eyes are back on Shouto again.
"That's what you've been thinking, isn't it, Izuku?" Tsuyu says again, glancing sideways to the person in question. The eyes momentarily flicker back to Izuku, who has been silent for a while.
"Yes," Izuku admits. He chews on his lips. Must be a nervous tick. "Shouto, do you know where Endeavor might keep war prisoners?"
Eyes back on Shouto. Singed pinpricks on his skin. Shouto clenches his fist, unclenches. "You are talking about your troops who were taken in the conquest of Ba Sing Se."
The group looks at him, and then at each other, as if they didn't expect Shouto to cooperate. They probably did not.
"That's right," Izuku says slowly. "Iida Tensei, Aizawa Shouta, Usagiyama Rumi … are any of these names familiar to you? Or perhaps their code names.."
"Yes," Shouto says curtly. Ingenium, Eraserhead, Rabbit. All are prominent figures in the Resistance.
The group bristles, clearly engrossed in the matter. "Well?" Hitoshi pushes, urgently. "Do you know where they are?"
Shouto does not hold any privilege in handling prisoners. He frowns slightly. "My best guess is that they were taken to the Boiling Rock."
"The Boiling Rock? I think I've heard of this.." Izuku mutters.
"Are they … safe?" Tenya asks, anxiously.
Shouto's mouth flattens into a thin line. Safe is one way of putting it. "It is the highest security prison in the Fire Nation. It is known for zero successful escape attempts in all of its years of operation."
Izuku looks deep in thought. "What kind of place is it?"
"It's on an island," says Shouto. "In the middle of a boiling lake. It's inescapable."
Katsuki scoffs. "We'll see about that. Where is this place?"
"It's in the middle of a volcano between here and the Fire Nation. You.." Shouto pauses. "We actually flew right past it on the way here."
"There we have it," Hitoshi throws his hands in the air. "So what the hell are we waiting for?"
"We can't rush this," Kyouka deadpans. "You heard him. Zero successful attempts and whatnot. We gotta plan this."
"Kyouka is right," Izuku mutters, walking around thoughtlessly. He's biting his thumb. Another nervous tick. "In and out … maybe get a map … more info … how many people … contact Mei.."
"Right, this is all exciting and all, but don't forget the other matter. Your shit bending."
"Hey," Eijirou says, offended on Izuku's behalf. "Don't be so rough. He is pretty good already. His earthbending is better than mine now."
Izuku perks up, touched. "Eijirou-kun.."
"Yeah, but it's not better than mine," Kyouka says, bluntly. "And, he might be good at the other elements, but his firebending is definitely shit."
Ochako sighs. "So the plan is to get Izuku master firebending and to bust out our allies from a Fire Nation prison.."
"Which is in the middle of a volcano," Eijirou adds helpfully.
"That's the gist of it, yes," Izuku nods. He looks a little pale. "So, our priority right now is our allies."
"Right," Ochako says. "After we wait for the Sozin's Comet to pass—"
"You can't," says Shouto.
All heads turn to Shouto, more surprised than anything else. It's the first time he has said anything first without being asked. Katsuki and Ochako look almost offended.
"Can't … wait for the comet of which firebenders get a tenfold power boost … to pass?" Eijirou inquires. "Uh. Sure we can?"
"The whole point of fighting the Fire Lord before the comet is to prevent him from winning the war," Tenya says. "But now that we've lost the capital, well … the point is moot."
So they don't know, Shouto realizes, with a pang in his chest. Of course. Why would they?
Shouto's knuckles pale as his nails dig into his palm. "On the day of the Sozin's Comet the Fire Lord plans to raze the Earth Kingdom to the ground," he tells them.
A beat passes where he watches the horror grow on their faces as the information sinks in.
"What the fuck?" Kyouka says. Her voice shakes slightly with contained fury. "But they already conquered Ba Sing Se. Why the hell would they launch another attack?"
They don't understand. They don't understand what kind of … they don't understand his father. Not like he does. Shouto answers, his voice emptier than before. "Because they haven't conquered the people's hope."
A beat passes. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Katsuki seethes, even though he knows exactly what that means.
"The Earthbender rebellions have prevented the Fire Nation from achieving total victory in the Earth Kingdom," Shouto phrases, word for word, like he is reading from a textbook. "When the Comet last came, my father's father used it to nearly—"
"Wipe out all of the water tribe," Tsuyu finishes. She sounds hollow.
Shouto nods stiffly. "Yes. And my father.." he trails, the word a razor blade in his throat.
The Comet will endow us the strength and power of one-hundred suns, Endeavor said. Do you understand what that means, Shouto?
"The Fire Lord knows that your people are strong and proud," voice even, he tells himself. Voice even, empty, practical. "He will use the Comet's power to completely end the Earth Kingdom."
Silence. Then, "of course," Izuku says softly to no one in particular. He is more than a little pale now; he looks like he is going to be sick. "Of course. How could I miss that—of course."
Eijirou shakes his head, eyes hazy. "But that's—that's fucked up. That's completely … that's just heartless."
"The comet is only a month away," Ochako says quietly. "No, less than that.."
"Twenty days, to be precise," Tenya says it calmly, but his fingers tremble as they touch the rim of his glasses. "We only have twenty days."
"That's.." Eijirou doesn't need to finish the sentence. That's impossible. They fall into a suffocating silence before Hitoshi clicks his tongue sharply.
"What the hell? Get a fucking grip!" his anger sounds like ice. "Why are you guys acting like it's the end of the goddamn world? Not fucking yet. We still have twenty days and we better get our ass moving."
"Hitoshi is right," Izuku says, suddenly. The paleness in his palor makes his freckles stand out more prominently, but his eyes are bright. Focused, determined. "We still have time. But this means a change in priority. I have to find a firebender teacher—"
"You already have one here."
"I've told you," says Katsuki, irk in his voice. "It can't be me—"
"I'm not talking about you," says Tsuyu calmly.
Katsuki closes his mouth shut. All eyes are back on Shouto.
Shouto freezes.
"Oh," Izuku says like it's punched out of him. His eyes are as wide as saucers with the realization, as if it completely escaped his mind.
Shouto feels the weight of their stares like it's hammered down to him. Branded hot.
And then It comes with no warning.
He's felt It before. The unbearable cold. The unbearable heat. Like his skin is sizzling in too many places, pulled too tight, spread too thin. The sudden sensation of his chest collapsing in itself.
He knows what this is. "No," he says, finally managed to drag the word out of his mouth like a corpse, a chunk of meat bitten out of a roadkill.
"What?" someone says, but Shouto's vision is escaping him. And god, he knows what this is, he doesn't know why it's happening now of all times but he knows what this is—and he knows he needs to get out of here, now, so he turns to leave but someone drags him back, someone is dragging him back by his shirt—
"What the hell do you mean no?"
"Katsuki!"
"Kacchan, let him go—"
"I meant no," Shouto's teeth are clenching so hard he hears them crack. "No. I won't. I—"
"You never had any goddamn issue using your fire to hurt him before, so why don't you—"
"Stop it!"
"No," Shouto tries to take a breath, tries to get more air in his lungs. Tries to keep it under wrap. Tries to keep it under control.
Vulnerable. Weak. Look at you—"Shut up," Shouto says. He doesn't know to whom.
"Listen you half and half fuck, the world is going to end—"
"So why don't you do it?" Shouto seethes, anger and fury and ugliness seeping into the timbre of his voice, the most emotion he has ever shown ever since he has joined this little band of the Avatar, and Katsuki lets him go like it burns and Shouto feels like he can breathe again, if a little.
He knows he isn't going to last longer than this, he has to leave, leave, leave, so he turns and—
Someone takes his arm in an iron grip. Shouto jerks roughly. His vision clears, for a moment, and it's still the fucking Katsuki boy.
A distant, faltering part of Shouto notices that there is something else in the way he looks at Shouto now, something other than anger. Another set of renewed intensity. "Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Katsuki says. There is a difference in his voice. Less rough, but no less intense. If Shouto were more lucid, he would recognize it as confusion. "You're burning up like hell—"
Shouto snatches his arm back like his life depends on it. His skin feels raw. Behind Katsuki, Izuku is staring at him with wide eyes, his own arms half-wrangling his friend. Shouto didn't even notice him approaching.
"Shouto.." Izuku says, carefully. Halting. Soft. Always so fucking soft. "Are you alright?" he moves as if he wants to touch him, like he is some helpless fainting maiden.
There is something about the look in Izuku's eyes.
Shouto feels sick to the stomach. To the bone.
(He does not deserve pity.)
Shouto blinks sweat out of his eyes. Or perhaps tears. "Get the fuck off me," he tells them all, and then he leaves.
He's made a mistake, after all.
(He shouldn't have taken that hand.)
(Shouto has no time to break apart.)
(Why did he take that hand?)
His shoulders shake with the cold, flinch with the heat, and everything in between. The beating of his heart a thunderclap in his ears. He is more open wound than boy.
He has no time for this. No time to. The shudder that wrecks his body feels so childish. A child's cry, is what it is: the full-body earthquake that shakes as he tries to gain breath, and anything, anything, like his body is too small to contain all of the destruction and the fire, and the ice. Hot and cold. His face, melting, his body too, dripping down to the earth, stripped bare. And his hands. Gods, his hands.
(Why?)
His hands—he tries to steady them as they crumble apart, they're so hot, scorching, boiling, so bright. Molten atoms. Trembling, jagged stars, fuming and smoking and he smells like oil, like charcoal, like rust. His hands, so heavy, heavy and burning with the weight of the dead rabbit in his hands. The dead moon spirit. The dead mother.
You regret it, don't you, said the Waterbender. You did not wish to kill it.
Shouto puts his hands together and burns them.
The pain is familiar. Almost sobering. Just almost.
He gasps, blinking water off his eyes, trying to make sense of the bird of a heart violent in his chest like thunderclaps. His hands still shake, but at least they are not blinding anymore—no, no more, his palm raw red and scorched, skin splintering. The pain is an anchor. The punishment.
It's grounding. The clarity that flows through his mind, seeping in ever-so-slowly, relieves him. It reminds him of what he is, doesn't it?
(So what is he?)
He doesn't know how long he lays there, on the ground in the middle of fucking nowhere a traitor to the Fire Nation a useless, cast-away ex-prince looking up at the sky, sea-salt and blood on his tongue where he bit his lip open from the pain he inflicted on himself. His cheeks are wet from having cried from whatever outburst of insanity-tantrum, the Unnamed It that had come upon him like a fussy, spoiled child.
That is fine.
His hands hurt like hell. That is also fine.
"What the hell are you doing?"
He looks up to see Izuku staring at him with horror.
"You—" Izuku surges forward with no warning, taking Shouto's hands almost roughly to himself. "Did you just—why would you hurt yourself like that—"
If he were in any saner condition, he would've taken them back, flinch, or even push the boy away. As of now, though, he can do nothing but stare.
"Why would you do that—oh, Shouto, why.."
Oh, Shouto. Something about how his name sounds, out of Izuku's mouth. Oh, Shouto. He's never heard that before—that timbre in the shape of his name, something dear, like his name is a fragile thing. Shouto stares.
A finger traces the edges of the burn on his skin. Izuku's finger. His hands, Shouto notes—Izuku's hands—are trembling. Shouto stares. Izuku's skin is several shades darker than his own, sun-tanned. The roughness of his palm, above Shouto's own. The heat—and this heat, how rare, for someone like Shouto: human warmth. The texture of his fingertips; soft and fierce.
And then the water comes—beckoned from the earth itself, all encompassing Shouto's pain—just like what happened at the Pohuai Stronghold. The water shimmers, above the rawness of Shouto's hands.
Shimmers, like moonlight.
The pain is gone within seconds. Shouto looks up, and meets Izuku's eyes on his own: soft and fierce. "Shouto," he says again, barely above a whisper. Something dear. Something fragile.
The night wind around them. The moon above, silent. The world holds its breath—and Shouto can feel nothing but Izuku's gaze and Izuku's hands and something so dear, so familiar unfurling under his ribcage. Something he'd lost. Something he thought he'd lost.
And what could he do? What could he do?
(Why did he take that hand?)
His hands, held between Izuku's own. Held softly, fiercely—as if it's a precious thing. As if Shouto is a precious thing.
"Don't do that again," Izuku says, softly. Fiercely. "Never hurt yourself ever again."
And then Shouto thinks: oh.
Oh.
So that's why.
How arrogant. How foolish.
For a fleeting, fragile moment, Shouto thinks he almost remembers.