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Shouto’s pouting. He’s been pouting a lot lately, ever since that stupid article. Japan’s Most Eligible Pro Hero. God, that was a fucking joke. But a popular one, apparently. Touya doesn’t even know who finds the time to run these things. Sure, he burned a few hero suits on duty early on in his career when he got into too tight of a spot, but—well. He’s his father’s son as far as dealing with the public goes. He doesn’t get how that makes him desirable.
And Shouto—
Sweet little Shouto who won his first Sports Festival with Touya cheering from the audience for him to give it his all, Shouto who thinks of fire and probably doesn’t hate himself only because Touya set a better example at burning—at fucking cauterization, really—
Shouto blinks at him from across the breakfast table, eyes wide. “Why can’t I do it?” he huffs.
“Do what?” Touya asks. And whatever he was expecting for an answer, it wasn’t—
It wasn’t Shouto wiping his mouth primly on his napkin before saying, “Why can’t I be your wife?”
Touya chokes on a sip of water. “What?”
Shouto shrugs. “You’re expected to get married,” he says. “You know, eventually. Because it’s good if the public also sees you as a devoted family man, right?”
“I don’t give a single fuck what the public thinks of me, Shou.”
“But they want to fuck you,” says Shouto, poking at his food like the very concept offends him. “And I could—”
“Since when do you talk like that, you little brat?”
“I’m seventeen.”
Maybe a handful of years ago Touya would have cooed ooh, baby Shouto is all grown up. Now, he bites his tongue. It’s been—different, ever since Shouto presented. Touya’s not dumb enough not to notice. And really, he shouldn’t be thinking about Shouto and fucking in the same sentence at all in the first place. Because when Shouto says it like it makes perfect fucking sense and he wants Touya to be the voice of reason, that’s—
It just makes Touya and his well-documented lack of impulse control want to pull him in by the back of his neck just to bite him. Right here, right now. And then he can contemplate the repercussions with Shouto’s blood still warm in his mouth.
“So pick someone out,” Touya huffs. “Plenty of dumb eager kids out there. Pretty sure a couple of your little school friends would be real fucking honored to have you as an omega.”
Shouto’s mouth purses. “Why are you allowed to curse?”
“Because I’m an adult,” says Touya. “And you still have math homework.”
“I don’t like it,” Shouto huffs. “The thought that you’ll have to take an omega and get married and have pups and I’ll—well. The old man will most likely try to force a respectable alpha on me. And then I’ll have to sit there and explain I’d rather die than be—you know.”
“No,” says Touya. “I don’t.”
It used to be cute, when Shouto was younger. His staunch refusal to do anything that didn’t make sense to him. Touya’s glad, in a way. Glad he got to stomp his foot and say no instead of spending a childhood in cold training rooms alone because all of dear old dad’s prior attempts failed. Worth burning, and all that. If Shouto still likes him enough as patchwork. (And—he seems to, doesn’t he?)
“You know,” Shouto insists.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Touya says. Tries to save his own neck, really. Because if he opens his mouth and says what he wants to, Shouto is most likely going to end up taking his very first knot bent over the edge of the breakfast table. And then Touya’s going to have to pull out and squeeze at his still-swollen knot and shamefully tug his pants back up just to explain to Fuyumi that he bit their baby brother.
“I know,” Shouto says stubbornly. “That’s why I’m—I’m telling you I want to be your wife.”
Touya laughs, can’t help it. “You’re telling me?” he repeats. “Do I get a say, or do we just go about figuring out how to resolve the fact that my knot is bigger than your wrist?”
Predicably, Shouto’s pretty face goes red, red, red. Brat doesn’t know how to follow through quite yet. And good, honestly. Touya might’ve torn some helpless alpha’s throat out with his bare teeth if Shouto actually went out and tried to practice this bit with his little friends. Which—
Well, he’s never once in his whole life claimed to be above hypocrisy.
“I could—I could make it fit,” Shouto mumbles, meeting Touya’s amused gaze like he’s proving a point. “We could practice.”
“Yeah?” Touya runs his tongue over his teeth. It feels ravenous, the nameless, twisting thing inside his chest. “You wanna practice, baby?”
Shouto’s eyes dart away. “If—if you don’t mind,” he says, worrying at his lower lip like he’s asking to stay out an extra half hour after curfew. Like he’s asking for something he knows he could get if he said please the right way.
And Touya—
Well, Touya has never been that good at being a hero off-duty. So. He runs his mouth. “You know what people expect of their omega, don’t you?”
“Touya-nii, I’m not—”
“Because I don’t think you do, sweetheart,” Touya interrupts. “You’d have to let me stuff you nice and full. You’ve never even kissed your school friends, and you think you could handle my ruts?”
“I could,” Shouto insists. Then, voice softer, “I don’t want anybody else.”
God, this kid is stubborn.
“You’d have to be the one giving me pups,” Touya points out. “If you’re that set on being my wife. How about that? You gonna let me?”
Shouto whines. “Nii-san,” he says. “That’s mean.”
Which is not—
Well. Not nearly as repulsed of a reaction as Touya was expecting underneath the—what? Vague, misguided hero worship? It shouldn’t be enough, either way. Not enough to stare at your brother and let the open arousal at the thought of giving him pups fill the barely-there space between them. Because Shouto’s little pussy is all wet where he’s probably got his thighs pressed together under the table. Has to be, with how intense that soft scent of his—somewhere between spring flowers and the heaviness before rain bursts on a warm day—feels, almost like something Touya could taste if he bothered. If he licked his lips trying to catch it.
“Holy shit,” he says. “You actually want it.”
Shouto huffs. “That’s what I said. Are you—you’re quick on duty. I’ve seen the videos. Why are you being difficult about this?”
Touya arches an incredulous eyebrow at him. “I’m being difficult?”
Mouth pursed, Shouto says, “Very.”
“Might drop a couple spots in the rankings, don’t you think?” Touya points out. “If word gets out that—”
“I don’t care about that,” Shouto interrupts. Then, softer, “I care about you. And I don’t want—I don’t want any of this if you’re not here with me. I don’t want to be someone’s omega. I want to be yours.”
Touya laughs. If he looks past the big, flaking shouldn’t printed in bold letters wrapping like a flimsy chain right over his most selfish urges, Shouto being his doesn’t sound bad at all. Even—even all that petty little kid hatred ended up with him just thinking too hard and too long about Shouto’s teary-eyed face, about stroking the tears off his soft cheeks and hearing him say nii-san because he needed it, back then. Protection. Family. To be taken care of.
And Touya wanted (wants)—
This.
Shouto parting those pretty pink lips just to say, “Do you want me? Do you—I mean, I think you do, I was just—I thought I should, you know, ask.”
“Is that how it goes?” Touya asks. “First you lay out your demands, then you tell me you can make it fit, and now you ask if I want you?”
Shouto shrugs. “You wouldn’t have listened any other way.”
He’s right, too. Touya does have the bad habit of picking at scars and scabs and healthy skin alike. And Shouto’s neither. (Shouto’s the one good thing in his life. Maybe that’s why Touya is only ever scared of words like breaking when Shouto’s in that same sentence. Because Shouto is the one person he tries—actively, with fucking purposeful effort—not to hurt.)
“Yeah,” Touya says. “Good point.”
And Shouto—
Shouto tells him, “See? This is why you need a wife,” like it’s the most normal string of words he could possibly utter.
“What for? To kiss it all better?”
Shouto nods resolutely. “I’ve got practice,” he says. “I think I’m, uh, more than qualified for the position.”
“Am I even allowed to pick you?” Touya teases. “Seems like favoritism.”
Shouto huffs. “It’s not favoritism if you already like me,” he says, and—
God, he’s young. Young and eager and—Touya has such a bad track record of not breaking his toys. Even if—Shouto’s hardly a toy. But he’s asking for a pretty similar thing. Because he’s already precious and breakable and irreplaceable. Touya’s teeth on his unmarked neck would just fuckin’—underline a preexisting point.
(But maybe that’s it. What Shouto really wants. The confirmation. The chain around his neck. Or just—for Touya to choose him.)
“Hey, brat,” says Touya. “Get your facts straight. I love you.”
“Oh,” says Shouto, very softly. “That’s—nice. Thank you.”
See? Fucking precious.
“You sure you’re ready to take a knot?” Touya asks, leaning across the table just to poke at the blooming warmth on Shouto’s soft cheek. “Wouldn’t wanna be responsible for tainting your innocence.”
“Touya-nii,” Shouto whines. “Stop teasing.”
“C’mere,” Touya coos, pushing his chair back and patting his lap. “I’ll show you how the wedding night starts.”
And—
He was mostly trying to be a jerk, to uphold the longstanding tradition of teasing your baby brother, but Shouto wrapping both arms around Touya’s neck and tucking his face so his nose is pressed to Touya’s scent gland is—well. Kind of a lot. Especially when he pulls back and says, “I like it better like this. When you’re—when you’re close.”
Because—
Yeah, Touya does too. Maybe it’s that simple. (You know, as simple as indulging your favorite omega’s whims.)