Lately, Shouto has felt his life is at a crossroads.
He'd convinced himself that if he could just talk to Bakugou again, an answer would be clear, but when the boy he's yearned to see for years looks like he wants to crush Shouto beneath his boot like a bug (and he's not even wearing boots) Shouto realizes he was wrong.
This isn't how he imagined this would go, though now, he remembers nothing he imagined. (Except for Bakugou's eyes, vibrant and red. Those are just as he imagined.)
"Why the hell would I know who you are?!" Bakugou barks, but it's too late; Shouto sees the flash of recognition on his face. (It'd be less painful if he'd really forgotten.)
The hand around his throat tightens, and Shouto realizes gambling has failed him again. (It normally does.) It'd be so easy for Bakugou to end him now. Shouto watched the video of him fighting back against the Sludge Villain; he knows just how destructive those explosions are.
Aniki was right, after all. He thinks, swallowing hard. I should have let sleeping dogs lie.
Bakugou tightens his grip enough to cut off Shouto's air supply, but he makes no moves to stop him.
(He could. Easily. In his rage, Bakugou's left himself open, and he doesn't know Shouto's Quirk. All Shouto has to do is form an icicle, and force it through the gaps in Bakugou's ribs to pierce his heart. No fingerprints. No murder weapon. Just a body left to bleed out in the alley. Only Midoriya is here as a witness. Shouto could easily take care of him as well.)
But even now, with his vision going black at the edges, Shouto knows he wouldn't be able to hurt Bakugou or Midoriya.
You've always been too soft. A voice like his brother scolds him. Will you really let him kill you?
He won't kill me. Shouto lifts his hand, his fingers lightly stroking the back of Bakugou's wrist. Otherwise, I'd already be dead.
I would let him, though.
As if burned, Bakugou releases him, and steps back.
Shouto suppresses the urge to cough. He can already feel the bruises forming.
"It's been three years." Bakugou says it like an explanation, but Shouto doesn't understand what for.
"You never came back," Shouto says. His voice comes out creaky, like a rotten wooden floor.
Bakugou stares at Shouto's neck, emotions Shouto can't parse swimming in his crimson eyes. His fingers twitch.
"I never wanted to see you again."
Shouto thought so, but it doesn't make it hurt less. There's so much he wants to say, so many things he's kept trapped in his heart, so many words just on the tip of his tongue wanting to spill out.
Every day, I thought about you. I wondered where you were, what you were doing. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to ask if I had overstepped. I wished I'd been brave enough to go with you that day. I finished the book you gave me. Did you? I still haven't seen the movie, because I wanted to watch it with you.
I wanted to see you, at least once more.
Instead, all he says is, "I see."
Bakugou continues to stare and not for the first time Shouto wishes he knew how to read faces, because Bakugou's face flashes through several thoughts and emotions at once until he turns away, fists clenched tight.
"Don't try to contact me again."
"I won't…" Shouto wants to reach out, to grab Bakugou's hand or wrist.
Please.
He keeps steady.
"Can I ask you a question before you go, though?"
Bakugou looks at him, eyes immediately on Shouto's neck. There's a subtle twist in his features, like he's tasting lemon but doesn't want to react to its sourness.
"...Fine."
"Do you still plan on becoming the Number One Hero?"
Bakugou had only mentioned it once, but Shouto never forgot the feral grin he had when he said it; his face was bright and open, confident and free in a way Shouto had never seen before on anyone.
"Absolutely!" And there it is again, as if Bakugou can't help himself. It's a little dimmer, a little sharper but otherwise exactly as Shouto remembers. It makes him feel greedy, and he can't stop himself from asking:
"Why?"
There's no hesitation in Bakugou's next words.
"Because Heroes are the best, and I'm going to be the best of the best."
It's a familiar sentiment, one Shouto associates with flames and burns and wrath. It's not at all what he was expecting (or wanted) to hear. It strikes him suddenly, how little he actually knows Bakugou, and how much he has built him up in his mind over the years.
Something sharp settles in Shouto's chest as he watches Bakugou leave without a single glance back, like broken glass poking through a trash bag.
I thought you were different, he doesn't say, swallowing his disappointment.
He slides his mask back onto his face.
Midoriya is waiting where he left him, twisting his hands nervously. He tries to smile when Shouto approaches, but it comes out crooked.
"Kacchan stomped off that way." He points down the street. "Were you able to thank him like you wanted?"
No. I don't think he'd have welcomed it.
Shouto doesn't want to say that, though. It'll make Midoriya frown and ask questions.
"Do you have somewhere you need to be right now?"
"Oh… Not really."
"Let's sit for a second." Shouto leads him over to a playground outside an apartment complex, though calling it so is a little generous; it's only a single, metal slide, blinding in the sunlight and a pair of swings hanging from rusty chains. They're trespassing, technically, but Midoriya doesn't seem to realize it, and Shouto doesn't enlighten him.
He chooses the swing that's a little closer to the ground, and the chain squeeks in protest of his weight. Midoriya's swing seems to be in better condition, barely making a sound as he sits.
"I haven't been on the swings in a while," he says, kicking his feet lightly.
Shouto matches his pace, but his legs are a little too long. The toe of his shoe drags in the dirt.
"Why do you want to be a Hero?" Shouto asks.
Midoriya pauses. Thinks. Mutters to himself. In the short time Shouto has gotten to know him, he has learned Mirdoriya's brain is constantly working, thoughts flowing freely from his mouth in rapid fire. There is something relaxing about the constant stream; for most of his life, Shouto has known only silence.
Midoriya tells him of his admiration of All Might. Of growing up hoping and dreaming despite his Quirkless status. The tears of his mother. Bakugou's cruelty. Yet, the desire to be a Hero never wavering. Always wanting and wanting until, finally Midoriya was given the chance to become a Hero.
There's an answer in there somewhere, but Shouto has never been good at reading between the lines. Still, he can tell Midoriya's desire to be a Hero stems from something similar to Bakugou's, with how big a role All Might seems to play in it.
And it always comes back to All Might, doesn't it?
"Do you want to be the Number One Hero someday?"
Midoriya stutters and nearly falls off the swing. It takes him a few tries, but eventually Shouto understands the answer is a vehement 'Yes.'
It seems Aniki was right about this too. Shouto stops his idle swinging. He feels exhausted suddenly. They're all in it for the glory.
"You have to be heading home soon, right?" Shouto stands. "I'll walk you partway."
Midoriya rambles the entire way, about his studies, about his training, about his favorite Heroes and Quirks, and Shouto lets the words wash over him. They soothe some of the ragged edges inside him until they have to part.
Shouto reaches into his bag, pulling out the copy of Jurassic Park Bakugou lent him, one of the few possessions he kept with him at all times. He runs his fingers over the cover; he's done his best to keep it pristine, but there are little scuffs and marks on the corners.
"Will you give this to Bakugou for me?"
Midoriya takes the book with gentle hands. He nods.
"Umm… It's okay if you still want to text. Even if it's not about Kacchan. And… umm… whenever you're back in the city, we can train or hang out or-"
Shouto places his hand on Midoriya's shoulder to cut off the spiral of words.
"I'd like that."
Shouto stares at the chipped paint of the motel door, listening to the muffled sound of blaring rock music. He sighs, already feeling the headache forming at his temples. His brother wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow, and Shouto is not in the mood to deal with him. His throat still hurts from where Bakugou gripped it, and he tries to tug up the neck of his shirt.
Unable to put it off any further, he slides his key card into the motel lock, and coughs at the powerful stench of smoke that greets him.
"Welcome back," his brother calls from where he lies on the bed shirtless, blowing a puff into the air. He rarely smokes. Something must have happened.
"You're going to get us kicked out." Shouto closes the door and takes off his mask.
"Doesn't matter. We're skipping town come morning." He sits up, puts on the cigarette on his thigh and laughs at the way Shouto frowns. He's got a split lip, and an ice pack rests on his shoulder. Bruises bloom along his unscarred skin. "Where've you been?"
Shouto shrugs and forces himself not to run a hand along his throat.
"Just wandering. I got bored waiting for you." He turns down the radio, then scowls at it. They didn't have a radio when Shouto left this afternoon. "Did you steal this?"
"Nope. Santa brought it as an early Christmas present."
"Right…" He cracks the window a little, just enough to let the smoke escape while keeping the blinds closed. "Did you eat anything yet?"
"No. The job went south. I needed to lie low for a while." He stretches and tosses some crumpled bills at Shouto's feet. "I'm gonna shower if you want to grab something."
The sound of the running shower fills the room. His eyes sting (from the smoke, probably), and Shouto leans his head back to force the tears threatening to overflow to stay put. He bends down to scoop up the money and ignores what must be dried blood staining some corners. Most people won't notice it, anyway.
Shouto switches his shirt out for a black hoodie and opts for a disposable face mask. He's found it a little daunting for most people when he wears the full face covering, and makes interacting with them harder than it needs to be. He always feels over exposed without it, though. Six years out, and he's still terrified someone will recognize him.
Would it really be so bad if someone did? Aren't you desperate for something, anything, to change?
It's a thought he's had increasingly over the past few months. How easy it would be to just show up at Endeavor's Agency or the Todoroki residence and say, "It's me. I know you thought I was dead, but I'm really alive and I'd like to come home now."
You left because you wanted anything but the future your father had planned. Going back now would just mean admitting you are really nothing more than his pawn, just another cog in the machine of society.
It would mean betraying Aniki and leaving him on his own.
And that's something Shouto can not do. His brother is a match, convinced he must burn to exist, and it is Shouto's job to put out the fire before his brother disappears.
When he returns to the motel with burgers and fries, his brother is sitting on his bed staring at the floor, water dripping from his hair. The music is off and the smoke has faded. His brother closed the window at some point and has the AC blasting at full. Shouto sets down the food and grabs a towel from the bathroom.
"You're going to get a cold." He covers his brother's head and dries his hair gently, using his Quirk to add just a little warmth. White roots peek out from the black. "You need to dye your hair soon."
It's a while before his brother becomes responsive, and nearly an hour before Shouto can coax him to eat. Then, like a switch getting flipped, his brother suddenly sighs and leans back, and he's back to himself.
"You always get the shittiest food."
"You could go get it yourself."
Shouto never knows what triggers his brother, what makes him retreat into his mind and numb his senses, and they never discuss it after the fact. (It's just one of the myriad of things left unsaid between them.)
"No. Develop a sense of taste." He stares at Shouto, blue eyes narrowed as he reaches towards Shouto's throat. He pokes one of the bruises, and Shouto hisses, smacking his hand away. "So, who'd you piss off? Have you been messing around with that asshole Hideki again?"
"Hideki lives in Tokyo, and I already cut things off with him after last time." Shouto rubs his throat. "I just… I miscalculated something. I have already dealt with it."
"You sure?" His brother crowds in close, a flame bursting to life in his palm. "If you've got a problem, I can make it go away, Sho. Whether that's Hideki or Ryota or some other asshole that thinks he can put his hands on you."
Shouto doesn't back down, sparking his own flame.
"I can solve my own problems, Aniki."
His brother grins without humor, more reminiscent of a wolf baring its fangs than a human smile. (Oddly, it makes Shouto think of Bakugou.)
"I feel like fucking some shit up. Wear something pretty."
Shouto's yet to figure out if his brother means it as a code or a joke, but he always tells Shouto to "wear something pretty" when he means discreet, as if Shouto owns anything that isn't plain and black (as if he doesn't spend his life doing everything he can not to draw attention to himself.) Still, Shouto dresses so that every inch of his skin is covered, even his wrists and hands and neck. He switches out the mask he normally wears for something more heavy duty, shoplifted three years ago from an airsoft supply store.
Then he follows his brother into the darkness in search of trouble.
Dabi (because as reluctant as he is to call him that, that's who his brother is right now) comes to life in a way Shouto doesn't see in the daylight. He's more present, more sure as he stalks the alleys in search of unsuspecting prey. It's laughably easy in this part of town, this late at night, to find lone people staggering drunk in the night. Or to stand on the corner with his hair undone and mask pulled down and coax more sober ones to follow Shouto beyond the streetlights. Or to flash some cash in an offer of whatever they're selling. No matter how it happens, Dabi soon has them backed against a wall and tosses their wallets or watches or anything they have of value Shouto's way.
And Shouto keeps watch while blocking out their screams. He destroys any identifiers with his own fire and ignores the smell of burning flesh. He waits until he's sure only ashes remain, and Dabi laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs while Shouto uses his ice to put out any remaining flames.
As the sun rises, Dabi picks an abandoned building, and with their combined firepower, they raze it to the ground.
When his brother inevitably collapses, skin sizzling and feverishly warm, Shouto supports him as they stumble back to their motel room. He soothes his brother's burns the best he can, but he can already see where more staples are going to be needed.
"We've gotta leave in a couple hours, Sho." His brother clutches his hand, teeth chattering like he's freezing, but his skin is still hot to the touch. "They'll discover the remains soon. It's time to go."
"I know, Aniki. I'll take care of it." Shouto brushes back his brother's hair. It's soaked with sweat. "You've gotta get some rest first. You overdid it." The "again" is implied.
"You're so good, Sho. Too good for me. I don't deserve it."
"It's alright. Just go to sleep."
"No, Sho. You should leave." His brother tries to shove him away, but he's too weak. "Get far away from me."
"I'm not gonna leave you, Aniki." Shouto grabs his hand, forces it down.
"You should. While you still can." His brother lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, blue eyes shiny and wide. "I was gonna kill you, Sho."
"I know, Aniki."
As his brother's eyes finally slide close, and his hand grows limp, he tries one more time to push Shouto away.
"I still might kill you someday."
"I know, Aniki."
And finally, his brother falls asleep.
Shouto rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and breathes, slowly, deeply. He gives himself exactly ten seconds to compose himself, ten seconds to choke back one silent sob, to pray for the people he led to their deaths tonight, to drown in guilt and sorrow that threaten to overtake him.
Ten seconds, then Shouto wipes his eyes and gets to his feet. He packs their things in their shared duffle bag, shoving in some of the motel's towels, shampoo, soap, toilet paper, basically anything that'll fit. He counts the money they stole, makes plans for what they can sell and pawn.
Turning on the tv, he keeps the volume low but pays careful attention to the news. The story of the murders has broken, but the police haven't put out a statement on a lead. This doesn't mean they don't have one, only that the public at least won't be able to identify them.
He gives his brother two hours to sleep before Shouto shakes him awake. He's still a little feverish, but the delirium seems to have worn off at least.
Ten blocks from the motel, they find a motorcycle; after a few attempts, Shouto is able to sculpt an ice-key that fits the ignition, and climbs behind his brother as they book it down the street. They'll need to abandon it at some point, but it should at least get them out of the city. Shouto yawns. He's been awake for over thirty hours and closes his eyes as he presses his head against his brother's back. It'll be awhile before he can sleep, probably, but he's used to it.
As they cross the city line, he wonders if Midoriya gave Bakugou his book back yet.