Chapter Text
From the very moment of his birth, Shouta never understood the concept of warmth. He grew up like every other kid, but with more injuries than one usually got at that age. He learnt how to live like every other kid, but with more scars than one usually bore at that age.
He grew up in a bitter household, and instead of his family being a closely-knitted one, he watched his parents scream at one another, items flying and furniture shattering, his mother often coming out shattered and hurt. Where other children played with newly bought toys, Shouta messed with the broken shards of what was once a beautiful vase. Having the parents home supposedly entail family time, filled with laughter and joy, but Shouta knew family time to be full of agony and tears.
His only solace and form of escapism is the television, where he watches big men and beautiful women with superpowers take down the bad guys and save the helpless. He especially loved TV programmes about real life heroes rather than the cartoons featuring them, but it wasn’t often they were shown, so Shouta settled for cartoons instead.
One particular broadcast, however, got him enamoured with the idea of real heroes.
It was night time, and the sky had been dark with smoke and glowing a fearsome red as raging infernos reach for the heavens. Shouta hid behind the doorframe to the living room, eyes glued onto the bright screen while his parents sat on the couch watching the news. He saw a man, a large, tall man with yellow hair that looked like bunny ears, carrying what had to be five people on him. There was an excited voice, tinged with disbelief, followed soon after by a barking laughter from the large man in the frame.
The camera zoomed in on the laughing hero, and he chuckled deeply, gazing into the camera with glowing blue eyes.
“I am here!”
‘I a…am here…’ Shouta mouthed under his breath, repeating the action with his mouth until he could get it to sound the same as the man on the screen had. Eyes glinting with excitement as a smile split his face, Shouta scampered back to his room, silently so as to not get his parents’ attention that he had been out of his room after curfew. Sliding into his thin futon, a faint smile remained on his face as he repeated the phrase “I am here” again and again, soft voice fading off into the darkness until he succumbed to sleep.
At the tender age of five, he watched from stained windows adults bringing smaller versions of themselves, dressed in light blue clothes and bright yellow hats, to a building near where he was. Hiding behind the window panes, he peeked out everyday when the clock looked the way it did, with its hands pointing in those specific directions. He wondered why there were so many of the same kids in the same clothes, wondered why they were outside when all that he remembered of his life up till then was being in this dark, empty place they called home.
He also thought a lot about that girl who made her skin change colour, surrounding by other kids with awe etched upon their faces.
He’d gestured outside the window once, tugging at his mother’s blouse and making incoherent noises in his throat. His mother shook him off gently, soft voice coaxing him away, but Shouta, still a young child seeking his mother’s attention, persisted, making random noises in his throat as he held onto the woman’s leg tightly.
Without warning, the adult kicked her leg roughly, sending his small, frail body into the coffee table, causing a glass cup to shatter under his feather-light weight, and it prompted an angrier response from the woman before him. Incomprehensible sounds left her lips but Shouta couldn’t understand, not when he didn’t know how to read nor write, not when he was being shaken roughly as his mother screamed hysteria at him, mania evident in her eyes.
Barely a minute later, his mother fell silent and knelt down in front of the crying boy. She ruffled his messy hair gently and shushed him, muttering words that Shouta didn’t understand then, but knowing it was over, and he cried into his hands.
A year after that incident, Shouta found himself being forcibly dragged out the house, the only world he’d ever known, and out into a whole new universe. Shouta stuck close to her from the instant they’d left their home. He was also dressed in a new outfit, one that wasn’t just a shirt that once belonged to his parents, a gakuran, they called it.
In all honesty, Shouta had been terrified; this new place was so big and there were more people than he’d ever seen before. He tugged hard at his mother’s hand, brows furrowed in distress as he tried to pull her back where they came from.
“Home. Go home.” He’d spoken with unstable pronunciation, using the words that his father had forced him to learn that year.
“Not now, Shouta.”
She responded kindly, a smile gracing her face as she pulled a little harder at the boy’s hand. “Shouta, please,” but Shouta was too wrecked with nerves to even consider listening to his mother. “Baby,” she knelt and placed a warm hand on his cheek, trying to ease his fear. “It’s just school, it’ll be okay. You’ll have fun there.”
Somehow, hearing her words made him feel so much better, and he sniffled once, nodding his head in response. His mother kissed him on the cheek before getting up, and they continued their way.
In the child’s mind, all he could think of was how it’d be nice to come out here every day (and he did), if it meant he wouldn’t get hit or yelled at for being naughty (but he did).
That day his new teacher spoke to his mother when she came late— an hour late— to get him. She brought up how she shouldn’t have been that late, even if she had been busy. She mentioned how horribly thin the boy was. She also brought up her concerns regarding Shouta’s unusual withdrawn behaviour and inability to speak. To which his mother laughed off as his anti-social behaviour and a learning inaptitude, saying he was a slow learner.
His mother’s smile was sad as she conversed with the other woman, and that night, Shouta had to endure listening his mother’s violent sobs, seated in the living room watching TV as she brawled her eyes out in the kitchen. ‘Why are you crying, mommy?’ He wondered. ‘Why are you crying when daddy isn’t home?’
That night, his father returned home drunk out of his mind, getting into a yelling match with his mother. His mother quickly ushered him back into his room, telling him bedtime would be earlier that day.
Angered screams rocked the house, and the loud breaking and shattering of household items filled Shouta’s ears. He huddled with his one and only cat plushie his mother had bought him in his close-to empty room save for his meagre belongings and a small futon. He really needed to pee, his mind reminded him, but the boy refused to leave his one and only sanctuary when his parents are fighting like it was a death match.
Time passed, and the yelling slowly died down to silence. His mother entered the room at one point, and despite the earlier altercation, she was gentle in her actions as she tucked Shouta in while the boy pretended to sleep. She laid a goodnight kiss on his forehead, brushing back messy dark strands. Only after she’d left did Shouta open his eyes. And after a good five minutes or so, he dared to exit his room, if only to go to the washroom like he’d been wanting the past hour.
Taking small, quiet steps, he tried his hardest not to run into any of the other occupants of the house. And not to aggravate his fresh wounds he’d received not even three hours before. He by-passed the living room, where he can see the television lighted up as noise droned out of the old machine. Aizawa-san was a big man, tall and broad with dark wavy hair, similar to Shouta’s own, and Shouta can see a head of messy dark hair pooling over the top of the couch in front of the television.
Despite all his efforts to stay silent, he really couldn’t help the pained gasp that erupted from his throat when he stepped on a glass shard on the floor, easily slicing through his skin and embedding itself in his flesh.
Blood gushed out the cut and Shouta slipped as the red liquid covered his foot. He heard a sound from the living room and his face paled. As heavy footsteps got louder, Shouta willed himself to move, get out of here! But his legs had turned to jelly and fear had sapped out whatever control he had over his body.
All he could do was helplessly wait like a sitting duck, praying that perhaps his father, in the midst of his drunken stupor, would ignore him.
The steps stop directly behind him, and Shouta could feel his father’s large presence behind him. But nothing happened. Out of fear and curiosity, he slowly turned around to face the man, only to face the bottom of his father’s sock-cladded foot instead.
Pain erupted in his cheek as the foot contacted hard with his face, and he fell back onto the ground. Before he could recover, a large hand fisted itself in his unruly hair, pulling at his sensitive scalp. Shouta was bodily dragged into the living room, screaming and afraid as his father’s relentless grip on his hair nearly scalped him. With almost zero effort, the large-set man threw his son against the wall, a resounding thud bringing the yells to a halt.
Now wrecked with whimpers, Shouta quivered in submission on the ground before the larger man, whispering quiet apologies over and over, tears beginning to prickle at his eyes. But in a drunken haze, the older Aizawa was capable only of delivering pain.
Shouta was brutally beaten, crouched under heavy fists and merciless kicks, thrown around the room as if he were a prey in the mouth of a savage animal. New bruises blossomed under paper thin skin, showing up intensely against the stark white backdrop that was his body, bony and pale from malnourishment and lack of exposure to the sun. Gashes split his skin as nails bit into his limbs and sharp edges dig into his weak body, drops of blood painting the floor a dull red.
By the time his father was done with him, Shouta barely had the strength to move. His pants were damp from having wet himself in a combination of his need to relief himself and fear. Instead, he laid on the cold ground covered in his own blood and piss as the man left the room, the last vestiges of his father’s slurred words ringing through his head.
“You should’ve just fucking died. I hope a villain kills you like the worthless shit you are.”
Words, he might not understand. But the pure and utter hatred he could sense in his father’s voice was more than enough for his childish mind to grasp the intent behind them.
The television continued to broadcast the midnight news, showing once again the amazing hero known as All Might, whose heroic heart and seemingly invincible strength saved the lives of hundreds of civilians that afternoon, shadowed face on screen as he laughed heartily at something the reporter said.
“I am here!” He had bellowed.
Was he really? Shouta asked himself, as he slowly gave in to unconsciousness.
Was he really there to save him?
Life was as normal as Shouta could ever hope it to be, normal from his point of view, at least. He went to school like a normal kid, made friends like a normal albeit awkward kid, and returned to his home to either being ignored or more beatings.
But one day his quirk came in unexpectedly.
He’d actually expected himself to be quirkless, like the rest of his classmates taunted him, like his parents cursed at him. He’d resigned to the fact he’d never be like those cool heroes he saw on TV.
On the way home from elementary school, he was caught up in a villain attack.
The day had passed with little to no incident, another mundane day, though there had been more police officers around than usual, but the boy paid them no mind. As Shouta waited for the traffic light to turn green, the fire hydrant beside him erupted in an explosion of cold water and debris as the ground underneath the hydrant caved in.
Shouta fell hard to the ground, screams starting up around him as people realise there was an attack.
“EVERYONE RUN!! THERE’S A VILLAIN!!”
He tried to, he really did. But the shaking of the ground underneath him prevented him from getting to his feet. The water spilling from the crater where the fire hydrant once was suddenly seemed to get a mind of its own, twisting and swirling and morphing into something unrecognisable. Before long, a pair of eyes formed on the mass of water and stared deep into Shouta’s eyes, body looming over his threateningly.
Scampering to his feet, Shouta made a mad dash for safety. A little way away, he spotted a woman, decked out in a bright and form-fitting costume, slicing through the air as though she were skating on air.
“Come here, kid!” She yelled, speeding overhead screaming civilians towards Shouta. Her hand reached out as she neared his panting form, covering a pathetically small distance from the villain still settling into his form behind him.
Their fingers brushed, and Shouta was violently pulled away from his only form of safety and into the watery form of the villain. Liquid slowly morphed into concrete, and the hero’s eyes widened in realisation that water wasn’t the only thing the villain could turn into.
A concrete tendril shot out in the direction of the woman, who swiftly dodged and with eyes locked on Shouta’s, made a quick dash towards him.
Shouta couldn’t breathe, there was concrete around his neck, crushing his throat and cutting off his ability to breathe. Little choking noises left his mouth as he struggled to take in the vital oxygen that his body needed. Tears prickled in his eyes, and a throbbing emanated from deep within his skull. Blurry eyes watched as the hero who’d tried to grab him floated high up into the air, avoiding the attacks of the villain holding Shouta captive.
Pressure pushed out from behind his eyes as more tears leaked out, and suddenly the woman was falling. She struggled in the air as she seemingly lost control of her powers. Through black-dotted vision, Shouta watched as the hero let out a distressed cry, before she was mercilessly slammed into the side of a tall building across the road, leaving a gigantic hole which caused the building to collapse on itself. He only registered that his hair was floating when it fell back down around his reddened face.
The stone figure holding him let out a laugh as it withdrew a concrete arm, bloodied at the end. The villain turned to face the police officers who had gathered in the short amount of time the hero had bought, guns out and shields equipped.
“Release the child this instant, and we won’t shoot!”
The mocking laughter didn’t stop, only increased in volume. The concrete around his neck loosened, and Shouta took a gasping breath, only for it to spread down his body, encasing half his torso in a tough grey shell that made it difficult to move.
“Hmm, I’d rather not,” came the droning baritone of the villain, under the pretence of contemplating his options. “Go ahead then.” A manic grin appeared on the stone body, eyes wide and taunting.
“Shoot.”
Shouta felt his body jerk as the villain lifted him further up front, and he could see the slight hesitation on the faces of the men surrounding him, brows furrowed behind their visor. The sudden tightening of the concrete around his neck made him choke violently, hacking noises leaving his throat involuntarily as black crept into the corner of his eyes. The policemen stiffened in their places, but then their faces changed, and Shouta recognised a grin on one of the men’s face.
He was abruptly thrown on the ground as a loud slam sounded from behind him. Rolling on the hard ground, he bounced off the rough tiles a couple of times before he was cradled in large, beefy arms. Shouta coughed painfully, the pressure from the stone tendril constricting around his throat leaving behind a burning sensation. He barely felt it as he was gently let down on the ground, hacking and holding onto his neck, trying to will himself to stop coughing. A large, warm hand placed itself on his small back, softly rubbing and the sound of someone speaking lowly brought him back to awareness.
All Might knelt protectively over his small body, strong hands meticulously removing the concrete that had been stuck on his body, taking great care to not hurt the boy anymore than he already was. “Are you alright, boy?”
Shouta couldn’t respond; the pain in his throat and the sheer shock at seeing this man in front of him leaving him mute. The blond slowly checked him over. Seeing the already purpling bruise on his neck made him frown. The frown only deepened when All Might found cuts and bruises well hidden under the collar of his uniform, dark marks peeking out from the top of his collar and out his sleeves. Not to mention the swollen cheek on his face, riddled with smallish cuts.
“Did the bad man do this to you?” He softly asked.
In his mind, memories of the previous day’s beating rose back to the surface, and Shouta started to tremble. He brought his knees closer to himself, arms wrapping around them as, out of habit, he began to shush himself. He saw the thick brows of the number one hero furrow, anger lines forming on his face, but never once did he stop smiling.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe from the bad man now.” Shouta only stared at the glowing blue eyes in front of him. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘not this bad man.’
“For I am here.”
But if this is what it took to have All Might save him and catch the bad man, Shouta wished it would happen again.
His parents hated his quirk. As did his classmates.
They called him a mistake of God. His father called him a mistake, an unnatural creature that shouldn’t have been born. He tried beating it out of him, but his ability was there to stay.
Controlling it was difficult, and Shouta often found himself cancelling others’ quirks on accident, which had left him under the care of a quirk specialist in school, for his erasure had created many problems and accidents. After the fifth time he accidentally erased his parents’ quirk mid-usage, they would blindfold him, only allowing him to remove it when he is in his room or when they didn’t require the use of their quirks anymore.
Two years had passed, and Shouta still found himself thinking back to the day he got to meet All Might. He was nine now, and he was more understanding of the world around him. He recognised that his family wasn’t normal. He was also more educated now, able to keep up with his classmates and teachers in school now, when he had been struggling to catch up in previous years. (His teachers had praised him for being smart, but they still expressed concerns over his inability to make friends.)
He also learnt that heroes only come when very big bad things happen. When there was a villain.
He was doing his homework on the dining table that day, while his mother did something in the other room. It just so happened that when he’d turned to face the door, his mother was within view, using her telekinetic ability to levitate a large porcelain vase. It’d looked expensive, even when it laid on the ground smashed into thousands of tiny pieces as his mother’s quirk stopped working in the split second Shouta looked at her.
A split second of silence past, two pairs of eyes locked on the shattered remains of the porcelain vase, and Shouta swore his lungs didn’t work in that instant. When his hair fell back around his face, the moment was broken as a hysterical screech tore through the air, his mother lunging over the shards on the ground and at him. In his fear, he couldn’t even move, and found himself caught under the wrath of his mother.
“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!!”
His head was slammed multiple times against the edge of the table, pain radiating from the point of impact all the way down his toes. Blood splatters showed up on the wooden top of the table, increasing in size the more his head hit the edge. Soon, he was dropped on the ground and a swift slap to his face left him speechless as pain overrode his other senses.
“M… mommy—”
His weak attempt to speak was interrupted by yet another kick to the face, and he gasped desperately for air as the impact made him wheeze harshly. He could feel the ground vibrating as his father thundered down the stairs.
“What happened?!”
But answers weren’t needed when the man turned the corner and saw the destroyed vase on the wooden tiles just outside of the dining room.
He entered the room wordlessly, face hidden by long hair. Strolling up to his mother, Shouta vaguely registered the woman trembling before his father roughly backhanded her.
“WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU DUMB BITCH? THAT VASE WAS EXPENSIVE.”
“FUCK OFF, DID YOU THINK I DIDN’T KNOW?” She snarled back, tears rolling down her cheeks as she held a hand to her jaw, where the man’s hand had contacted. “It was him!” She’d yelled in a fit of rage and fear, effectively turning his father’s attention onto Shouta.
Shouta reeled back, body weak from the beating he’d just taken, and he found himself afraid of what was to come.
“Daddy I’m so sorry—"
He was grabbed by the hair and pulled to his feet, a cry escaping his lips. “I’m sorry, please, please, I’m so sorry, Daddy! Forgive me I won’t do it again!”
Behind him, he heard his mother’s sobbing, but he didn’t get much time to think about that, as he was hurled out into the hall and subsequently had his face smashed into the ground. Glass shards cut cleanly into his face and chest, and his lips split as a small piece broke the sensitive skin there. His father ground his face into the broken glass, and Shouta just barely avoided getting his eyes sliced open as his face dug hard into the wood.
His body was flipped over, and before he could get a word out a fist was flying at him. Followed by another. And another. And another.
Under the flurry of punches, there was really nothing Shouta could do other than to lay there and accept his punishment. The punches pulled open his new wounds even further, causing more blood to trickle down his body onto the ground. The back of his skull radiated a nauseating pain, and his vision went blurry as a dark haze clouded his vision.
His mother ran out of the room, loudly pleading for the man to stop. She pulled hard at the man’s shoulders, but he didn’t budge at all. All it got her was a rough shove, head knocking on the wall with a loud thud as she slid down onto the floor.
Shouta had long since stopped begging for forgiveness, and instead resigned to the violence under his father’s hands. He continued to lay flat on the ground, motionless, even as his father got up and spat at him, leaving behind his hysterical wife and crying son. In the corner of his eyes, he saw his mother in a foetal position, hands covering her ears as she rocked herself where she sat, muttering a stream of words under her breath.
With the last of his strength, he crawled over to his sobbing mother, leaving blood stains on the floor as he dragged himself to where she was. Shouta reached out, thin arms coming around the woman’s neck in a poor imitation of a hug he’d seen his classmates give their parents. To his surprise, arms came around his beaten body, his mother pulling him into her lap as she rocked them both gently. He buried his face in her neck, hiding his tears as the woman mutters apologies again and again beside his ear.
“I’m so sorry, Shouta.”
“Mommy’s sick, I don’t mean to hurt you like this, baby.”
“I’m so sorry, my baby, I love you...”
Shouta drowned them out as his mother continued to whimper, lovingly cradling his small body and covering him with her warmth. “I love you too, mommy.” He let himself indulge in this tender moment with his mother, and he thought how nice it would be to have this.
She’s sick, and it’s all because of his father. Maybe if his father weren’t here, she would get better. Without his father, he and his mother could be a happy family.
‘Maybe,’ he thought to himself, recalling an event he saw on the news a few days ago, ‘the heroes can help me.’
‘I can make mommy happy.’
That night, when his mother tucked him into bed, he’d pretended to sleep, but in actual fact, he didn’t. Rolling in bed for a good two hours, he finally heard his father turning off the television downstairs, and Shouta listened intently to his loud footsteps disappear into where he knew his parents’ room were. Giving himself yet another hour of wait, he threw his covers off himself, walking on his tiptoes as he exited his room but making sure to bring along his cat plushie. He’d worn his shoes to make sure his feet didn’t get wet, knowing by experience it would hurt later if he wasn’t careful.
He snuck into his father’s workshop after tossing his plushie into the living room, snagging a large container of something he always saw his father using to burn the rubbish. With sheer will alone, his weak body managed to drag it up the stairs, sweating and panting by the time he made it up.
Shouta unscrewed the cap, slowly moving the container so it laid on its side, the contents of it spilling out on the wooden tiles and spreading down the hall. When the liquid flow stopped, he tipped the remaining of the content down the stairs. When he was certain the container was empty, he put it aside, and cautiously, he stepped down the stairs, making sure not to step onto the glistening surface coated with petrol. He made it downstairs at long last, and from his pyjama pocket, he took out a matchbox.
He wasn’t sure of how to use it, but he’d seen his father use it before.
With a couple of quick flicks, he dropped the burning match into the puddle of oily fluid. In an instant, a larger flame roared to life and began to spread rapidly up the stairs. Shouta watched in fascination as the flames licked greedily at the petrol, making it up to the second floor in mere seconds. Only when the fire at the bottom of the stairs started getting too close was he shaken out of his daze. Jumping back in pain, he shook his hand violently from where the fire had reached him, barely restraining the cry that nearly burst from his lips.
Shouta, satisfied with his work, retreated away from the flames, wondering if maybe now the heroes will come. He went to the living room, sitting down in front of the television. He debated turning it on, because it was way past his bedtime and if he got caught he would be in big trouble with his parents. In the end, his rebellious side got the better of him and he reached for the remote, turning on the television onto the news channel. He suddenly remembered his cat plushie lying on the ground beside the couch, and he made a quick move to grab it.
There he sat, eyes blankly watching the screen in the dark room, the only light source being the luminescent orange glow from behind him and the television screen. His eyes, however, refused to focus as the throbbing sensation in his head made it physically impossible to do so, the screen blurry.
Shouta tried to stay as still as possible, his wounds, untreated, still sluggishly bleeding from him overexerting himself just before, and the stinging and throbbing only continued to get more intense.
He’d tried his hardest to ignore it— big boys don’t cry, I am a big boy now, mommy said so— and he kept his eyes glued onto the television. On the news, as usual, were reports of villain attacks and some other events that talk about stock prices and market and things he didn’t really care for. He continued to watch as the broadcast carried on, moving on to Shouta’s favourite section, heroic stories. He’d watched as the reporter interviewed a hero he’d never seen before, and while the hero talked about his experience rescuing the occupants of a collapsing building, Shouta found himself tearing without any provocation. Unbidden tears spilled down his cheeks from a mixture of the smoke that’s starting to irritate his eyes and from these unwanted emotions.
All of the day’s event hit the boy hard alongside the pain that wrecked his body. He sobbed on his own on the floor, jerky breaths causing him to inhale too much smoke at once and sending him into a coughing fit. Through his coughs and hiccups, he could hear a faint scream some somewhere in the house, followed by a couple of crashes and loud yells. Suddenly, there were hysterical screams from above, high pitched and desperate as another voice nearly drowned out the cries. Outside, he could hear the initially quiet night begin to buzz with life, as raised voices were heard through the window.
There was loud stomping upstairs, right above Shouta, and staggered footsteps sounded as though they were headed for the stairs. The stairs are a good distance away from where Shouta was, at the opposite end of the large open space that was their living room, with the exit being in the next room that led out into the main hall.
The screams had died down, leaving loud thumping noises as if someone were struggling with a heavyweight. The fire had spread exponentially, the ceilings beginning to fall apart as the flames eat at the wooden tiles, the structure of the house beginning to crumble under the blazing heat. Shouta was sweating profusely already, despite him being relatively far away from the fire, eyes stinging horribly and throat parched and dry like sandpaper. Breathing hurt, and he tried to ignore the pain as the smoke and heat irritated his wounds, cuddling with the black cat plushie in his arms.
The furious stomps now sounded a little too close for Shouta’s liking, and he span around sharply, body on high alert despite his fatigue. He eyed the stairs warily, flinching as screams started up again, this time a lot louder. The screams were nightmarish, completely animalistic as the owner of the voice roared in agony. The boy simply hugged his plushie tighter, squinted through reddened eyes and taking shallow breaths of smoke filled air.
‘Ignore it’, he told himself, ‘the heroes will definitely come.’ He heard loud sirens outside, the shrill wailing of fire trucks and police cars sounding from right outside the house. Shouta focused on the noises outside, trying to drown out the haunting roars from within, bouncing off burning walls and amplifying in the enclosed space.
The ceiling failed to withhold itself under the merciless heat of the fire, chunks of the building’s framework beginning to crash down onto the ground. The walls were starting to fall apart too, weakening the house’s structure as the wood creaked and cracked under the abuse.
Abruptly, the yells stop, and soon after came a loud crashing sound as something collapsed down the stairs. Shouta dared to peek out of the safety of the couch, and there, in the midst of a burning inferno, laid his parents unmoving bodies. Curiosity peaked, he painstakingly pushed himself off the ground, wincing at every little move as they pull at his wounds, carefully making his way a little closer while trying to avoid the licks of flames trying to reach him.
Both bodies were on fire, his mother’s body charred a dark red and black, luscious brown hair entirely burnt off. Beside her, his father was worst for wear; leg was twisted at a weird angle, blood spilling from his head as flames continued to creep up his body.
Shouta didn’t know what the pinkish stuff seeping out the dent in his father’s head was, but he didn’t like it. It was gross, it was ugly, it made him want to tear his gaze away even as his body stayed frozen in place where he stood, oversized hoodie and all. He heard the front door crash open, and the sound brought an awkward smile on his face (he never did practise his smile much).
“Mommy, the heroes are here, let’s go.”
There was yelling from the main hall, and loud sizzling was heard as a water jet began to douse what it could of the inferno. Shouta hadn’t realised, but the flames had reached the other side of the house, where the kitchen was.
“Mommy, let’s go. The heroes can make you better.” He dropped his cat plushie, limping towards where his mother laid unmoving and unresponsive. The fire prevented him from getting too close, so he stayed a safe distance from where she was, out of reach of the flames.
“… I’ll wait here with you, if you don’t want to move.”
Shouta made himself comfortable on the heated floor, sweating buckets and creating more pain on his injured body. His eyes were in absolute agony, barely able to keep them open, but he forced himself to continue watching over his mother.
He didn’t move an inch, not when he heard the strangers bust further into his house. Nor did he budge, when a loud voice demanded the others to quickly search for survivors. He didn’t respond, even when he heard someone yell that he found a child, followed by frantic discussions. He’d heard something about ‘kitchen’, ‘gas’ and ‘explode’, but he didn’t know how they connected. Why would the kitchen explode? His mother cooked there every day, never once did it explode before.
Shouta finally turned to face the source of the noise, and the firefighters seemed overcome with relief. They’d yelled at him to go to them, gesturing with their hands as they kept checking in the direction of the kitchen. He found himself flinching away from their raised voices, even though he knew logically they meant him no harm. Some of them were attempting to step through the crumbling debris, but they were going at turtle-pace.
He just stared in confusion, he didn’t want to leave without his mother. She didn’t want to move, though. Should he ask them for help?
Just as he opened his mouth, dizziness hit him like a train, and he fell forward, catching himself on trembling arms as he coughed violently, vision going dark as drool dripped from his mouth. He heard a panicked voice yell: “GET OUT!”, and suddenly, he was thrown from his spot onto the ground a few feet away as a deafening blast sent heat seared at his body.
When his mind cleared, the flames had grown into an uncontrollable blaze, destroying everything in its path and coming closer and closer to Shouta. The walls had collapsed, ceiling tiles now piled up on the ground, burnt into smithereens. He can hear anxious voices outside the house, a cacophony of noises from shouts to sirens to the angry sizzling of water hitting fire.
Shouta choked on a smoke-filled breath, curling up on the ground as he quivered at the amount of pain he was under. Tears stung his bloodshot eyes, blood vessels bursting under the abuse. His body twitched with every breath, and he wondered if the pain would ever stop. His parents… They’ve been lying there all this while, why weren’t they waking up? Did it not hurt? Was it not supposed to hurt?
He swallowed dryly, parched lips splitting from the slight movement. Just as Shouta was about to crawl over to his parents, now convinced that the flames would not actually hurt him, he was stopped by a loud crash, followed by a looming presence behind him, a heavy thump that signalled the arrival of a person. He spun around, and in front of him, knelt All Might, who’d seemingly arrived from the main door, if the shattered ceiling tiles that had blocked the firefighters previously were anything to go by.
“Don’t worry child. I am here!”
The man continued to grin that famous grin, even as flames threatened to burn them to a crisp, as the house groaned ominously around them. In his hand, he held what looked to be a transparent oxygen mask attached to a small canister. All Might gently gathered the barely conscious boy in his arms, eyes raving over the damage that had been done to his battered body, smile becoming more strained as his hand came away caked with blood. He pushed sweat-slicked hair off the boy’s face and covered his mouth with the oxygen mask, and the gush of fresh air felt like heaven to Shouta.
The hero’s eyes widened, as under the oversized hoodie and injuries, he spied scars, old and many. His gaze immediately snapped to the two motionless body of Shouta’s parents, and for the first time ever, Shouta saw a frown mar the always-smiling face of the number one hero.
He didn’t want to cause anyone any more grief, didn’t want to upset the man he’d idolised for so long. So he did what his mother used to do for him, and he reached out weakly, cupping All Might’s cheek with his tiny hand, trying to reassure him that everything was fine. Shouta inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with much needed clean oxygen, untainted by smoke, as a wide smile pulled at cracked and bloody lips.
He smiled through tear-stained cheeks at All Might, now knowing that he would finally be saved, thinking of the future he could now have with his mother.
He could finally be happy.
“You’re here.”