Chapter Text
Shouto begins to suspect the broken nature of things at age three.
The year is almost over and their big pond in the courtyard has become a smooth sheet of ice. All the fish that used to come up above the water’s surface to gape their odd mouths at him have settled at the bottom to sleep until it’s warm again. He’s not allowed to play outside today, so he’s here in the kitchen where his mother can keep an eye on him, legs folded into seiza as he guides a toy villain and a toy hero through a wild brawl. The radio is on and his mother is at the sink. She’s got a scrub-brush in hand, scouring the dishes in short, brisk circles.
A man on the radio is reading names, the popularity results for the year’s top ten heroes. He recites the first five quickly, and elaborates on the deeds of number five. Shouto doesn’t pay much attention, really. He’s got his own heroic battle happening right in his hands.
“Burning up the second spot for the third year in a row, number two hero, Endeavor!”
Shouto startles as a plate clatters into the sink. His mother goes very still.
“Endeavor has certainly become a household name throughout his career. We gotta give it to him, the man works hard.” The man keeps talking, oblivious to the way he stopped time in Shouto’s world. His mother seems frozen, as cold and still as the snow-burdened courtyard. It's like she's gone, like she left the room and forgot to take her body with her. Shouto feels a chill skitter down his neck, and his insides feel a little tight.
“Father didn’t win,” he acknowledges, and looks down at his toys. He tries to keep playing, act as he has been, and he hopes that Mother will do the same.
“Here it is, ladies and gentlemen,” the man on the radio declares, “Your number one Hero for this year. No surprise, it’s... All Might!”
His mother inhales, a big gasp like she’s been holding her breath. The man talks about All Might. Then she drops her scrub-brush and she’s moving again, leaving the kitchen in swift steps.
“Mother?” he calls after her, but she hauls open the sliding door to the adjacent hallway and descends it with speed. She’s moving with a purpose, and he follows her as best he can, until they both stutter to a halt as Fuyumi-nee opens the door to her study from the other side.
“I heard,” she says, looking a little wild-eyed. She’s older than him, fourteen years against his three, and seeing her scared, seeing Mother scared - that means there’s something happening to be really be afraid of.
His mother nods, hands folded at her breast. “Hurry and take Shouto now. He’ll be home soon. Go into the media room on the second floor and lock the door. Alright? Lock it.”
Fuyumi-nee nods back and moves past their mother with the same quick intent, picking him up under the arms and heading for the stairs.
“I can walk on my own!” he protests, trying to twist out of her grip. He hates it when people just pick him up and move him, like they own him, like they’re Father. His little palms try to push away from her shoulder, but she only stops once they're on the second floor.
“Alright, alright, stop squirming.” She sets him down and he takes steps back, huffing his unsettled worry through his nose, feeling a little sick. “Hold my hand, at least. Mom said to hurry.”
So he allows Fuyumi-nee to tug him down the hallway, because at least running is better than being hauled. Her legs are long and he struggles not to trip but he keeps up, until the crack of a door slamming against its frame resounds throughout the house. It’s loud and it scares him, and he can’t keep himself from turning back to watch the mouth of the staircase, terrified to see what sort of monster will ascend it.
“Come on,” she urges, picking him up and jogging now. He doesn’t protest being carried this time. At last Fuyumi-nee nudges the media room door open with her foot and closes it behind them with one hand, twisting the latch and leaning against it. She sets Shouto down and looks at the ceiling, breathing a little heavy. A low din has started: Loud, loud voices can be heard through ceilings and walls.
“Who is that? A villain? Did a villain get into our house?” He’s awash with fear. “Is Mother-”
“Mom’s fine,” she interrupts, but something in her face seems wrong. He isn’t convinced at all. Something is happening that isn’t supposed to be, something in the house is going wrong.
“But she’s still down there!” he shrieks, and he feels hot tears swell in his eyes. “Mother needs-”
“Shh!” Fuyumi-nee insists, clapping her hand over his mouth. He doesn’t struggle. “Be quiet. The best way you can help Mom is by being quiet.”
He’s crying now, whimpers bubbling up to pair with his tears. He swallows them down. If he can help his mother by staying quiet, he will. He hears the strange roars downstairs and sips on air instead, quick little breaths in and out, blinking and blinking until his vision clears.
“That’s good. You like hero shows, right, Shouto? I’ll put one on. Just cover your ears, okay?”
“Cover my ears?” he whispers.
“Yes. Like this.” She guides his palms over his ears and presses them in, muffling the sounds of whatever is happening below them. He thinks he hears something shatter, like a knocked-over glass, and his sister sets the TV up with a movie he’ll never watch again after today. It’s about a hero saving people from the wild torrents of a hurricane, based on a true story, and Shouto keeps his hands over his ears and thinks about how strange it is to watch the pictures moving without sound.
He’s helping, he reminds himself. He’s doing what Fuyumi-nee said was the best way to help Mother. Sudden noises reach him still, but not many, and he stares blankly at the screen as the stranded people are gathered from their flotsam. Shouto focuses on the hero, and he keeps his hands clamped over his ears to keep the rest of the world on mute.