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It's disquieting.
Distantly, he can hear the clamor of his classmates, all of them gathered around the TV in the common room. He doesn't pay attention to them.
His dead brother is on live television. On the news.
His dead brother is alive.
It's not monumental. It won't change the trajectory of Shouto's life. He just sits there, watching the screen apathetically, numb like always. Fuyumi will care. Natsuo will definitely care. Natsuo talks about Touya like he was a martyr, gone too soon, and Fuyumi has always cared too much, cared till it hurt. Shouto doesn't have a heart so big it threatens to burst out of his chest, and he barely has memories of Touya.
He barely has memories of Touya, except─
Rough, jittery hands grasp his sides, Shouto trembles against them, sucks in his stomach and doesn't move.
His entire body hurts. He can't stop his eyes from leaking and he feels hot, bubbling shame in his chest. He shouldn't cry. That's not- it's not what he's meant to do.
Shouto's stomach swims as he's lifted into trembling arms. He chokes down on a whimper, every muscle in his body cramping up and constricting in pain. He shoves his hand into his mouth, even though he's not supposed to. It's not what he's meant to do.
The hands adjust and grasp him more securely, but his vision goes crystaline and still hurts and cramps and burns-
"Shut up." A voice hisses by his ear, but he's tired, and training always hurts but it never hurt this bad before and He always says that it hurts because he's not good enough but he always tries his hardest, so why does it still hurt? He can't help the whine that stumbles out of his chest. His hands clamp down on his mouth, trembling, but the sounds escape from between the cracks in his fingers.
Shouto is tense as he's carried somewhere. His mind drifts, as does the pain, and he falls into the cotton inside his head.
"─upid old man, leaving his masterpiece alone," The voice laughs, but it sounds more like a painful wheeze bordering on hysteria, "He's─ Yeah, he's going to regret doing that."
Shouto comes back to reality on a bed that is the same as his, except the covers have a different texture. The room is dark and the door is closed and there is a figure pacing in front of the bed, clutching at their hair desperately, anxiously, obsessively, muttering under their breath.
Then the figure crouches down in front of him and grabs him by his shoulders. Shouto trembles, but he's not scared. Touya looks him dead in the eyes, something dangerous swimming inside his own, but all he can focus on is the fact that theyre watery and sad, just like his.
"I'm going to fuck you up." Touya says, his grip tightening. Shouto trembles. His bruises burn, his ribs creak and his muscles are cramped up, but he stretches his arms and grasps the sleeves of his brother's shirt, making direct eye contact.
The rise and fall of Touya's chest becomes more erratic and the fingers holding his shoulders tremble, "You're- fuck, dumbass, didn't you hear- I'm going to fuck you up." He says in all one breath, eye twitching, watering, "Do you not understand? Are you stupid?"
Shouto stares, tightens his grip.
"I'm going to kill you." Touya hisses, but it comes out more like a whisper, like something he's told himself a million times before.
Shouto hasn't ever spoken with him before, only ever sees him in the corner of the hallways, haunting Father's shadow like a specter. On the off chance that he manages to make desperate eye contact before Father drags him away, Touya looks at him with wide, hateful eyes and a clenched jaw but Shouto childishly clings to an unwelcomed sense of kinship. He continues the eye contact, despite the tears that obstruct his vision, turning Touya into a blur of colors in the darkness of the bedroom.
He hears a choked sound and suddenly there are arms surrounding him, fingers grasping his shoulder blades and head in a painful grip, his body flaring up in pain. Shouto cries out, but he moves his grip to the front of his brother's shirt.
"Touya-nii?" He whispers, quiet as a mouse, and his lukewarm breath bounces off his big brother's chest. Touya's grip is bruising, aggravating on the fresh bruises on his skin. Shouto trembles, not because he's scared. Not because he's scared.
"Don't- call me that." Touya gasps, grasping him tighter, pushes him tighter against him, like he's trying to absorb Shouto and become one with him, "I'm- I wish you were dead so fucking bad."
Shouto clutches back, not as desperately, anxiously, obsessively as Touya. He just rests his head on his brothers neck, wipes his tears on his shirt.
"I should've killed you." Touya says, and he repeats it under his breath deliriously, "You're-" He gasps, choking on a sob, and he takes one of his hands and pulls at his own hair, clutching the red, the last drops of blood on snow, desperate for more, even though he knows the red doesn't want him. His lips twist upwards into a crooked smile. Shouto watches with round, watery eyes. Touya always smiles like he's smiling for the last time, like he wants the edges of his lips to rip his cheeks into two. It looks painful.
"I used to be perfect." Touya whispers, hoarse, his voice breaks as he breathes the words, and Shouto wishes he could switch places with him. He doesn't want to be perfect, if being perfect means being hurt. "You should be happy, you should be happy..."
Shouto does not say anything. He wants to be happy.
Shouto does not say anything. He cries, silently. When he's silent he's okay. If he's silent no one will notice him, or hurt him. He hugs Touya tighter, except it's not really a hug, it's just two lonely, sad children clutching at each other, because Father will only look at one of them, and Mother's eyes only ghost over their frames while her hands shake, and their siblings won't understand, no matter how hard they try.
Later that night, Shouto will pass out in crooked arms. Next morning he'll wake up in his own bed, sore muscles aching, head pounding and crusty eyes. He'll wake up, and he won't smile, but he'll want to.
Next week, there will be a forest fire. He wouldn't know for another month that Touya burned away with the leaves and wood.
Looking back, he's not sure if he feels guilty or not, for feeling joy at the obvious grief his brother was going through. They were both in pain and sad, for different reasons. Shouto guesses, he had hoped he could share his ache with his brother, and that his brother could share his ache with him. The sort of selfish kinship animals carry with them in the winter, huddling up against each other because they do not want to be cold. He was hurt, but he didn't want to be, so he created some sort of imaginary relationship with his brother because he didn't want to be hurt anymore.
Choosing Touya for that attachment was, sort of, logical. He had been Endeavor's sucessor before him, so surely, if anyone would understand, it'd be Touya. Plus, its not like he actually had a chance to even know his other siblings, so Touya it was. As damaged and frazzled as the eldest Todoroki had been, Shouto had seen himself in Touya, and ached a bit.
Shouto can't help but wonder if there could have been a way that Touya could have ever loved him. If there could have been a way where he ever loved Touya. Would he have seen him, acknowledged him, if he was less perfect? Shouto doesn't love Touya, not one bit, but if he reaches deep within his thoughts, he finds that he would have liked to have him in his life.
Looking back, he wants to go back into his five year old body, grab Touya back by the shoulders and scream Please look at my flaws Look at how ugly I am how unperfect I am Look at my selfishness please please please and love me in spite of it I will love you back I can't bear being untouchable any longer I want to bury my hands in filth if only for my outside to feel like my inside does─
"─roki-kun?"
Shouto blinks. He looks up and finds his classmates looking at him, their faces twisted in concern. His brows knit together in confusion.
"Yes?"
"Ah," Midoriya stares at him, "Well, we were worried for you, Todoroki-kun. You... weren't responding to us." His tone is anxious, trembling. It's odd, how he can carry so much emotion in his voice, so effortlessly.
"Oh." Shouto blinks again. He's not quite sure what to respond, there's really no cause for concern. "I'm fine."
The classmates that have gathered around him hesitate. Odd, he really didn't notice them move, or when they called out to him. That might become a problem, having situational awareness is essential for being a hero. It's quieter in his head, though. Nicer, more peaceful. No one can hurt him inside, no one except himself. He can just... drift. Dream away, like he's asleep. No pressure, no hatred, no loneliness, no embarrassment─
"─bout your brother, though? He's a villain..."
Ah. He probably shouldn't let himself fall into the static, not right now, during a conversation. His eyes shift to Uraraka. He thinks she was the one who spoke, the timbre of the voice was high and anxious, but not quite trembling like Midoriya's. More stable, confident.
"I have few memories of him." He says. Bored. Emotionless. Standoffish. Distant. Shouto is sick of himself. He isn't really though, and that's the problem. He just doesn't care. Can't care. Everyone surrounding him cares so deeply its like their heart is only skin deep, isn't buried far deep in their chest. Not like his, buried too deep within scabs to actually react.
But it's true. He has few memories of Touya. Touya, who is dead, because Dabi isn't Touya. Why would he care about Dabi? He hurt his classmates countless times, kidnapped Bakuguo. Why would he care about him, when he looks at Shouto like he's a twitch of a finger away from burning him alive?
He doesn't have any type of heartache. Not even a distant pain, the same level of distant all his other emotions are dipped in. It's not even a phantom pain, because that would imply he misses Touya, and he really doesn't.
He misses something that doesn't exist. He misses the what if and could've been because if anyone could've understood him, really understood him, it would've been Touya. He'd still have black hair, he thinks. Now that he knows about Dabi, he can't really see Touya not having that dark aesthetic. It makes sense. He'd still be an asshole, but he would look at Shouto. Look under the bangs that cover his eyes, the glazed eyes, and he'd understand.
He'd understand that burns from five years ago never stopped hurting. He'd understand how Shouto never feels like a part of the family, no matter how many dinners they have together, no matter how many times Fuyumi asks how school is doing or many times Natsuo asks about his friends. He'd understand how unbearable it is to look in the mirror every morning, the cast of your nightmares staring back at you from the reflective surface. He'd understand the sleepless nights, curled up under the covers, chanting I don't want to be anymore, throat and eyes itching, hands resting on his neck, fingers twitching. He'd understand fantasizing about his father dying, laugh and say that's a good one, but I see him kicking the bucket a different way, let me tell you...
He wouldn't be kind or soft, his sharp edges are something no one could take from him, not even Shouto's rose tinted imagination. He'd be mean and angry and he'd hate Shouto, but he'd understand. It's desperate and childish but they share the same flesh, blood and bruises. Surely, if anyone would understand, it'd be Touya.
Shouto yearns for something that doesn't exist, will never exist. He sits back and watches a stranger, who he has seen at his lowest, darkest moments, dance, and tries to ignore the echoing sobs of a child who hates his guts from his ears. It's disquieting, but not really. Shouto doesn't care for Dabi.
Shouto doesn't care for Dabi. Dabi doesn't care for Shouto. They share skin and bruises and burns, but Dabi can't understand him, not like Touya could've.