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Hawks never put much thought into family.
The only memories he had of his parents were… foggy, at best. Raised voices, broken glass, piles of garbage. Family was a cage to be saved from. That was why he didn’t put up any struggle when the Hero Public Safety Commission came along, paying his parents a huge sum of money to keep their distance from him. He’d been eight when that happened, and at seventeen he still hadn’t heard a peep from the people who birthed him.
But… He didn’t expect their reunion to be like this.
It was a traffic accident, he’d been told. That was why it was a closed casket funeral. An ugly, twisting feeling settles in his stomach when he looks at their portraits- the last time he’ll ever see them. They look just like he remembers; his mother, a stern-faced woman with sharp eyes barely hiding anger - his father, her opposite, with his ever-present smirk that made him seem just as sleazy as he was.
He doesn’t miss them. Not really. His appearance here was all orchestrated by the Commission. If not for their insistence, he’d still be relaxing at home. But why not take the chance to portray a future top-ranking hero as a loving son who missed his poor, deceased parents?
Most of the people here must know he didn’t live with them anymore… It feels so fake.
Still, he accepts the worn-out condolences. There’s not many to take, though; his parents didn’t really have friends and had cut off most ties with their family. All of the people here are older. Grannies, grandpas; all of which he never met beforehand. Parents who had outlived their children, a child who had outlived his parents.
What a sad bunch.
The door opens a short while after the priest finishes his chants, everyone turning to see who arrived late. Hawks freezes when he meets eyes with a child.
(Weary eyes, golden with dark triangular marks in the tear ducts. Hawks sees those same eyes in the mirror after every training day. After every evaluation. It brings back ugly, nostalgic memories.)
The child bows respectfully, perfectly composed despite his size, “I’m sorry for being late.”
Old ladies swarm him. Hawks catches their sad, nurturing reassurances to the boy. More sickness brews in the almost-hero’s stomach. Ah… So that’s what changed with his parents. Or maybe it was never a change - just another road bump.
(Takeshi Takami. Seven years old. Born exactly ten years after Hawks came into the world and two years after he left.)
It’s after the burial that the talk of the youngest Takami child picks up again. About legal guardianship, where he’ll go. Even though Takeshi was showered in affection earlier… No one is willing to take him. Many cite their age, health conditions; I don’t want to leave the poor dear all alone…
The one who brought him here, a stern-faced man who was apparently his social worker, just shakes his head.
Hawks avoids inquiring eyes. He’s not an adult- even if the Commission had gotten him signed off as an emancipated minor. He can’t take in a kid. They haven’t even met before now. Won’t the foster system take care of him…? But then he remembers how bad the foster system in Japan really is and guilt mixes in with the day's other toxic emotions.
Ah, damn it.
“I’ll take him.”
The process passes by in a blur.
Seeing as he’s the only one who volunteered, his guardianship is put soundly in place. People seem to be okay with skipping over the age issue. He’ll be eighteen soon; he does have supervision in the form of Commission workers; he’s technically a licensed hero even if he hasn’t properly debuted just yet. Circumstances work in his favor.
Tons of paperwork falls into his lap, along with plenty of home checks. Some of the people who were at the funeral help out with getting the apartment all ready for a seven year old…
He's almost done with the process when his main handler, Mrs. Asato, pays him a visit.
"What is this?" She asks, face barely hiding her rage, as she holds up a stack of papers. Custody papers. The last thing he'll need to sign before Takeshi is firmly in his care.
( How did she get those? A voice in his head - outraged, rebellious, buried away - asks.)
Hawks looks up from his work assembling a desk. Meant for his office in the hero agency he'll be heading. His smile is easy, not quite meeting his eyes. A courtesy smile and nothing more.
"Mrs. Asato! Good to see ya. Those are personal papers…"
"Answer the question, Hawks."
Ooh. She sounds mad. But, that makes sense. The Commission knows about 99% of what he does, and 100% about any important life decisions he makes. Or… At least they should. He's skipped over this little detail and ignored any time it could've been brought up.
"...Apparently, I have a little brother. No one else could take custody. So… I volunteered."
Asato pinches the bridge of her nose with a frustrated exhale, her glasses pushed slightly askew. Her eyes are stone cold when she continues, "Why didn't you alert anyone beforehand?"
"It was… Kind of a split second decision. I couldn't just let him waste away in an orphanage."
She grumbles for a while. Clearly, she doesn't want anything to inhibit his ability to devote his all into hero-ing. Being a caretaker is a round the clock job. Especially for a child who had lost his parents recently, who probably had plenty of other hidden traumas by virtue of being a child of the Takami couple.
Hawks has personal experience, locked up in a little box that he'd keep hidden until he died.
"...You're a pain, Hawks," She says, eventually. Then mutters something about how the public loved heroes who show care for their family, so just maybe this could work.
It doesn't sit right with him. That Takeshi is already being turned into an ornament. He barely knows the kid- hasn't had the chance to form a real connection. But he knows better than to argue. The Commission just wants the best for him, that's all.
How does one connect to a little sibling who you've never met?
Hawks is sure his search history is full to bursting with similar queries. The date for Takeshi's arrival draws nearer, and the teen feels less and less prepared with every day that passes. His untouched guest room had been converted into a room befitting a child a month ago. Space was cleared out on his calendar weeks ago, where he'll take Takeshi shopping for new things he might want for a his room. He's totally passed the multiple inspections… Hell, even his cooking skills had greatly improved.
But he isn't prepared.
There's a slowly growing stack of parenting books in his office. A notebook is filled with tips and tricks taken from reliable forums and websites. He focuses a lot on grief studies and how to raise foster kids from bad homes. Some numbers are written down - specifically, child therapists.
If the Takamis were the same people Hawks remembered… Takeshi will have issues.
Damn. Why is this so hard?
Hawks groans, sleep is so tempting even in the glaring light of his computer screen. But he's thinking too much. This isn't what he's been trained to do. It isn't punching a bad guy, saving some civilians, smiling pretty for a camera or saying some inspiring half-baked line. This is… personal. Delicate.
He's slowly realizing that he doesn't know how to connect on this intimate a level.
That's something that he has uncomfortable feelings on. He doesn't even want to approach it and toe the line of having a whole existential crisis. There's enough fodder for one already. He's seventeen and he's going to become, for all intents and purposes, a parent.
Being a hero is simpler.
Peeling his face off the keyboard, he asks the internet his fiftieth question of the hour. How to connect with a seven year old? A few bland responses pop up. Many with focus on bonding over interests… Fuck, he doesn't even know what Takeshi likes. He's going in completely blind. There had been talks of sports, right? He could vaguely recall something along those lines, talking to their maternal grandmother - who the boy was currently staying with while Hawks prepared.
Instead of going down rabbit holes in the form of parenting blogs with not-quite-right solutions, Hawks pulls up the civilian database most heroes could access. Then he types in:
'Takeshi Takami.'
A few of them pop up, but his smiling little brother is one of the first ones. Hawks clicks on his picture and his file is pulled up. Blood type, birthday, medical files he'd need special permission to get into… All of it is right here.
Should he feel weird about doing this? Yeah, probably, and he does. But it isn't like this is a random kid. This is his brother.
Takeshi had just entered second grade in a particularly grimy part of Japan. His quirk had come in when he was five; a grey pair of wings similar to Hawks's own. Sword Feathers. An interesting sounding quirk. Hawks files that away for later, then he clicks on details for his schooling. Pretty middling grades - mostly Bs with the occasional A. But he excelled with physical activities. Apparently, he'd won a couple of little leagues in their hometown and was on his way to being a full-on prodigy with the sport.
He doesn't lurk long. Just enough to feel a bit more in the know, then he exits out and shuts off his PC.
Baseball… Okay, he can work with that.
X
Takeshi isn't looking forward to living with his brother.
Keigo is a... mystery, to him. Their parents were clearly enamored with their older son- or, his apparent roll as an upcoming hero. Otherwise… Not much else about him was mentioned. His quirk was often brought up; in relation to Takeshi’s, and how they hoped his wings would work similarly.
(Being reborn with wings had been a doozy in of itself. Suddenly having an extra set of appendages, which needed specialized care, that constantly threw him off balance? A pain.)
At around four, he pulled out his first feather. The steely grey baby fluff had turned into a sharp dagger as soon as he tugged it out, pricking his finger. He couldn’t even relax it if he wanted to. It certainly didn’t listen to commands (mental or verbal) and didn’t reattach to his wings. Very much unlike his brother’s, much to his parent’s disappointment. But it was fine. They were still living off what he thought of as Keigo money.
He was just a failed experiment.
Now, three years later, they were dead. And he was being driven to Keigo’s apartment.
His backpack is full of meager belongings. Baseball cards he’d been given by his grandmother, a few sets of clothes, stuff he needed for school. Takeshi didn’t have much.
(His hands ache for a baseball bat. The sturdy, metal kind. One that would make a nice crack against a ball. Maybe turn into a sword with a hard enough swing.)
Keigo lives in a fancy part of Kyushu: Fukuoka, more accurately. His apartment building blends in with the many other highrises. It reminds Takeshi of hotels he and the other Vongola stayed at when they took rare, but very needed, vacations.
Ah. There’s the pain he’s been missing. How are they? They must be in this world too, right?
Mr. Suzuki, his social worker, opens up the car door for him when they find a good enough parking place. It already looks just as expensive as expected, Takeshi can tell with one glance at the like-new parking lot. But in the building proper? That’s a whole other animal.
The lobby is modern, high ceilings and shiny tile floors. Most of the people down here are wearing clothes more expensive than the old Takami apartment had been- in its entirety.
“We’re looking for Hawks’s apartment,” He tells the receptionist, willing to take the lead.
She seems surprised. Then seems to notice his similar appearance to the hero-to-be, her smile pleasant, “Oh! Aren’t you so cute! You must be the little brother Mister Hawks arranged to live with him. Here,” A plastic room card is given to him, like the kind you get in hotels, “Take the leftmost elevator up to the fourteenth floor, Hawks owns the penthouse there. Enjoy your stay!”
This piece of plastic must cost a lot... Takeshi misses Namimori’s simplicity.
The elevator ride is filled with Mr. Suzuki trying to fix his choppy hair and adjusting his shirt. Being related to a future top hero is a task demanding nothing less than perfection.
Keigo is there when the elevator opens. He’s less over-dressed, though he’s wearing jeans that look like he stole them from a modeling shoot. And a sweatshirt that is probably very expensive. Big red wings twitch with every breath he takes. Anxiety, probably. Takeshi knows from his own pair.
“Thank you for taking him, Hawks,” Mr. Suzuki bows so low he almost bonks his head on the tile. In comparison, Takeshi’s bow is barely an incline of his head.
“No need to thank me!” Keigo waves his hands, a embarrassed red tint on his cheeks, “It’s the least I could do, we’re family after all.”
Plastic. Keigo’s words feel like plastic.
It isn't like him to be so skeptical of people. But... This world is unlike what he's used to. Hero society is weird, all smoke and mirrors and glitz and glamour; where a child can be bought and sold because of a particularly "heroic" quirk. Still, Takeshi maintains his own smile. He’s spent a lifetime smiling through ugly feelings and sour interactions. Just because this body is still so new to him doesn’t mean he’s lost control over that grin.
“I’m still so happy I finally get to meet you, Hawks! Mom and dad talked a lot about you.”
After Mr. Suzuki leaves, the atmosphere grows increasingly awkward. Keigo shows him around the apartment- and… Takeshi notes the lack of personal pictures. The closest it gets are pictures with his brother in full hero garb, surrounded by people in suits. The Commission.
“This’ll be your room,” Keigo says, pushing open the door of a room at the end of a small hallway, “You have a personal bathroom attached. We’ll go shopping for stuff later this week.”
Takeshi walks in, taking in the peach colored walls and the oversized plush bed. Bigger than his old one. What catches his attention, though, is what's on the bed. His breath catches in his throat, head swinging around to look at his brother. There’s a more genuine expression on his face; a smirk, filled with nothing but pride. Takeshi forgets his worries almost immediately.
“What are you waiting for? Check it out!”
It’s like a dam has been burst. Takeshi’s wings flutter as he races to his bed, picking up the familiar weight of a baseball bat. It’s the expensive kind- the kind people in major leagues use. A few similarly priced baseballs are also resting in the plush comforter. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Thank you, Hawks!"
“Just call me brother already, pipsqueak.”
It goes well, until it doesn’t.
The first week is mostly about adjusting. Keigo spends a majority of his time asking about Takeshi; from his favorite color to whatever baseball trivia is on his mind at the time. He’s… nothing like their parents. Nothing like Takeshi had expected him to be. The dread he’d felt at living here is nothing more than a bad memory.
“We should go out to eat,” Keigo says one day, over a simple dinner of tonkatsu, “I have to show you my favorite place!”
“Do they have sushi?”
No sushi could be better than Takesushi, that’s just a given. But he’s starving for something close to familiarity. At least until he’s allowed into the kitchen to make his own.
“Nah,” his brother says, shaking his head, “It’s more of a skewer place. Have you heard of Yoritomi?”
Takeshi nods, ready to say something else- And then Keigo’s phone beeps.
There’s a noticeable slump to his shoulders, but the older boy doesn’t hesitate to answer. His voice is overly cheery, answering someone named Mrs. Asato , walking away from the table with a motion just asking for one second.
It just gets worse from there.
Keigo takes him out to buy stuff for his room- only to be called away by a sudden villain attack close by, leaving him standing in the clothing aisle. Keigo is in the middle of making dinner, when he’s reminded of paperwork he has to do tonight. They never go out to Yoritomi if they so much as bring it up. It’s always Hawks going out with his fellow Pro Heroes… And it only gets worse when his agency is properly established.
Whatever budding relationship they had that first week starts growing cold.
Luckily Takeshi happens to be a full grown adult in a child’s body. Fukuoka is way different than Namimori, but once you start to notice the landmarks navigating is a breeze. He signs up for his new school’s baseball team, a few self defense classes, and kendo.
Grocery shopping is easy; chores are easy; caring for himself is easy. It helps that he’s hit a few early growth spurts since he moved in with Keigo and people don't see fit to question him. Takeshi enjoys himself even as he listens to his brother chattering away into the phone. Being able to do work like this reminds him of being with his dad, his real dad, picking up some chores to pull his weight and to ignore the empty hole left by a murdered mother.
It doesn’t hurt, until the Commission gets involved again.
Mrs. Asato visits the apartment one day. Keigo warned him beforehand. It still feels… intrusive. She doesn’t even knock.
“So, you’re Takeshi Takami,” She says, eyes raking over him, “I can see the resemblance.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Keigo pats Takeshi on the back, smiling in a way that doesn’t meet his eyes, “Here, how about you go and do your homework? This’ll probably be boring to you.”
He doesn’t put up a fight. But he does make sure to keep his door cracked open, just a bit.
A math sheet is halfway done when he really needs to listen in. Mrs. Asato's voice is raising in a particularly... intimidating way. He stops writing, not even the sound of pencil against paper a welcome interruption. Takeshi tilts his head. Focusing on the… ‘adult conversation’ a room away.
“How long are you going to be doing this, Hawks?”
“Doing what, Mrs. Asato?”
“Playing family with that child. You haven’t brought him into the public light, there’s no advantage to taking him in. I thought you agreed to do some publicity shots with him.”
...What?
His brother laughs, nervously, “I… I’ve been busy, Mrs. Asato. Other meetings - other photo shoots. I’ll get him to do that with him this weekend - we’ve been wanting to go out to eat since he moved in.”
“Get to it, Hawks. I don’t want to keep providing for your spur of the moment decision without seeing a benefit.”
Takeshi feels numb as he puts his pencil down. He’s known his brother (or, at the least, the people who manage him) is very concerned with how he appears to the public. Easy going, goal-oriented Hawks. A hero for the people, who wanted nothing more than to change the world for the better.
Wouldn’t saving his orphaned little brother just make him more heroic?
Rational parts of him try to reason. Keigo didn’t even know he existed until he showed up at the funeral, how could he be manipulated into taking him in solely for publicity? Asato said herself that it was a surprise decision on the hero’s part… But another piece of him starts to worry. A piece he’s swallowed down.
Keigo hasn’t done anything with him since that first dinnertime phone call. At least, nothing that wasn’t interrupted halfway through. What if he really doesn’t care? What if this is a means to an end?
Mrs. Asato leaves a few minutes afterwards, and Keigo knocks on his door. Takeshi barely replies before his brother enters, a bright smile on his face. Totally unaware of his little brother’s conflict.
“Hey, how about you and I go to Yoritomi this weekend? No phone calls- no interruptions. Just some you and me time.”
Takeshi pastes on his smile, bile rising in his throat as his pulse jumps, “Sounds great.”