Work Text:
It was a Friday evening, and the sky was unnaturally gloomy for the middle of summer. Shoto had picked today specifically because the weather forecast had promised a sunny day, bright skies and cool breezes, the perfect day to bury someone he wasn’t interested in mourning. However, as he stood outside the funeral parlour with his friends to his left and right flank, the sun seemed to have stubbornly hidden behind thick rainclouds that mocked him. Sneering down at him as though to say, “It doesn’t matter what you want.”
“Sho, you alright man?” Izuku asked, bumping his shoulder against Shoto’s. He was dressed casually, in a black button-down and slacks—something about showing solidarity with Shoto and not wanting to get dressed up for his funeral. He blew out a large plume of smoke, resting his head on the brick wall behind them. “You don’t need to be here, ya know? Fuyumi is in there; she can take care of your mom for today.”
“Course he needs to be here, Izuku,” Katsuki countered, leaning forward to shoot his husband a look. “It’s his father's funeral, even if Endeavour was a piece of shit, Shoto should have the chance to say his goodbyes.” He leaned back as well, running a hand through already dishevelled hair. “Even if it's just to spit on the casket.”
Shoto snorted at that, a ghost of a smile curving on his lip. He peeked at Katsuki through the corner of his eye. The blonde was in a full suit down to the vest buttoned beneath his jacket. “Katsuki’s right,” He said finally, pushing off the wall and reaching over to take Izuku’s cigarette from him. He took a deep pull, coughing slightly as the smoke filled up his lungs. He didn’t smoke often, more out of a stubbornness to live longer than anything else, but sometimes, in moments like this, he would bum a smoke from Izuku or Sero, whichever one was closer.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.”
-
The funeral was small, it wasn’t like there weren’t people who wanted to attend. In fact, his fan groups, which still existed despite Shoto not understanding how anyone could dedicate their time to such a man, had begged him to let them attend. They had erected shrines for him all over Japan, started hashtags online to mourn his death and celebrate his achievements. There had been fights breaking out around Tokyo between fans and haters of the man regarding whether he deserved to be memorialised as a hero. It seemed like even in death, Enji Todoroki caused discourse. The funeral was small, though. Shoto had made sure of it. Only a handful of his old classmates had been invited alongside his family, of course and some of Endeavour's old colleagues.
Hawks was there, sitting at the front with Fuyumi, looking too small in his suit despite being in his forties now. Shoto took a deep breath, nodding to both Katsuki and Izuku as they took turns squeezing his hand. He tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, trying to muster up some kind of a smile before walking over to the front pew and sitting down beside his mother. He took her hand in his immediately, no words were exchanged, but he could feel the tips of her nails digging into his palm.
She hadn’t cried yet. None of them had.
It was a closed casket, not because Enji looked gruesome or anything. The mortician had done a pretty good job of getting him to look like himself again, but it didn’t really matter. Shoto didn’t want to see him, neither did his mother and Fuyumi had gone to see him at the hospital when they first pronounced him dead anyway. Natsu didn’t come. The priest went up to the podium to speak, to say his prayers, his well wishes for the dead. He said some things about heaven and hell, and hoped that his soul would be able to rest.
Shoto wanted to scoff. If there was an afterlife, he hoped the first face that greeted his father would be that of his brother. He found his thoughts drifting to Touya continuously as people went up to speak, an old hero who had worked with him in his prime, Toshinori even said a few polite words. Izuku spoke as a representative for the current working heroes, though Shoto was sure the sharp edge in his words would result in a firm talking down from their bosses at the Commission later. When it was Hawks’s turn to speak, Shoto tuned him out completely; he hadn’t wanted the older man here. Didn’t want to hear him wax poetic about what a hero and inspiration Endeavour was to him because he knew it was true. Everyone else who spoke kindly of him did it with a sense of responsibility or because they had to. With Hawks, with Keigo Takami, there was no pretence. Endeavour was his hero; Endeavour was the one who promised him a light at the end of the tunnel. Endeavour was the one who gave Hawks his inspiration, his motivations, his drive and passion and Shoto resented him for it. He wasn’t sure who he resented more.
Shoto watched as the blonde man walked back down to sit beside Fuyumi, his hands shaking violently as he blinked away the tears pooling in his eyes. Maybe he should have listened, maybe he could have finally understood why Endeavour affected Hawks so much. The church was silent, and Shoto realised with startling clarity that his sister was frozen to the spot. He turned his head and reached past his mother to grab Fuyumi’s hand.
“Ane,” He said softly, squeezing her hand. When she didn’t respond, he tried again, standing up and kneeling in front of her. “You don’t have to do this if you can’t. You don’t have to speak.”
Fuyumi finally met his eyes and shook her head, fear and embarrassment warring in the depths as she looked down at him, “Someone has to,” She insisted, swallowing hard and digging her nails into her forearm until they broke skin. “Someone from the family has to speak, Shoto.” She said again, her voice trembling uncontrollably.
Shoto waited, keeping his grip on her knees firm and supportive. If she wanted to speak, she should; if she believed that someone from the family should speak, then that’s exactly what she should do. Shoto did not want to speak. He didn’t want to say nice things about his father or give any kind of speech. He did not have anything to say to him or about him.
Shoto did not want to speak.
-
“My older sister wanted to be the one to do this,” he said wearily, looking straight ahead at the exit sign above the door, “but it seems she’s come down with something. So you get me instead,” He tried for a charming smile, but from the way Ochako cringed, he figured it came off more as a grimace instead. Shoto took another deep breath, his hands automatically moving to shove deep into his pockets as he looked around at the gathered crowd. He turned to look at the casket, deep brown wood. Oak, if he remembered correctly, though he couldn’t be sure. He had just made the payment, Fuyumi was the one who handled everything regarding the burial and the actual funeral. When he turned back to face the crowd, his eyes met his mother's tired ones. He tried for a smile again.
“I didn’t get along with my father,” Shoto began, chuckling under his breath at the nervous way some in the audience exchanged glances. “It’s no secret or surprise, my brother ensured that all our family's dirty laundry was aired out before the entire country and while I don’t think I’ve ever resented him for it, I do wish I had been the one who got the chance to inspire that kind of regret and fear in my father.”
Shoto stopped, his mouth feeling ashy and dry like he had said the wrong thing. He shook his head ever so slightly before continuing, “I’m not sure what to say about him. I’ve spent my entire life avoiding talking about him, to the press, to fans, even to friends sometimes,” his eyes flittered over to where Katsuki and Izuku sat, knees pressed together and Katsuki’s hand in Izuku’s lap as though trying to keep him steady. “He wasn’t a good father. I think we can all agree that he wasn’t a good father or a good husband. He wasn’t much of a good man either.” Shoto sighed and brought his hands up to rest on the podium, fingernails picking at the calluses on his palms.
“They offered me paid time off, you know?” Shoto asked the audience after a moment of awkward silence, “The commission, I mean. When the news came out that my father had died, the people in charge reached out with kind words and apologies, and even sent me a gift basket. Told me to take some time off, that it wouldn’t affect my ranking or anything, that I would still be paid for that time. ‘Just rest and take care of yourself’ are the exact words used, I think.” Shoto looked around, his eyes scanning the pews at the back until they landed on a balding man with a chin that jutted out like a perch. “Akira-san, I believe you were the one who came to my agency,” he said, offering the man a tight-lipped smile.
“I had asked for paid time off a few months ago,” Shoto continued, his eyes moving back around the audience, stopping on each official from the Commission who was in attendance. “My older brother, the one who’s still alive but isn’t here today, just had a baby,” Shoto explained, “and I wanted to go see her. Wanted to give my brother and his wife some respite, maybe take care of some of the stuff that needed to be done around their house, but my request was denied. I guess I didn’t meet the criteria then,” He shrugged, “but I guess the death of my abusive father made the cut.” Shoto ended his sentence like it was a joke. With a chuckle and raised eyebrows as though he was expecting laughter, when he was met with a few awkward chuckles, he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, “Sorry.”
Shoto considered stepping off the podium, as the judgmental gazes of his father's old colleagues and the concerned ones of his friends washed over him, he considered stepping down and just letting the priest wrap things up. They could bury the old man, the priest would pray over the grave, and they could all adjourn. Shoto could drag his friends to a bar and drink until this entire day faded into yet another memory of his father he kept locked in his mind like it was something that had happened to someone else.
And then he saw his mother again. He saw the way she clenched her hands in her lap, the way she had sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and the slight smudging of makeup around her waterline. He sighed and nodded at her.
“He died alone in that big house,” Shoto wasn’t sure what his mother wanted; he wasn’t even sure what she was thinking most of the time. The thing no one tells you about reconnecting with a parent is that the gulf never really closes entirely. Even though they were closer to each other now than they had ever been, there was still a sort of disconnect between them, an iciness neither of them could fully thaw. Whether that was because of Endeavour, or Touya, or whether it was just their relationship with each other, the space between them had settled like a comfortable distance now. Shoto loved his mother, and he knew that she loved him, but she wouldn’t ever fully understand him. He realised in that moment that it was okay because he wasn’t ever going to fully understand her either. So he took a deep breath and pushed forward, taking her looks to mean what made sense in his mind and using them as kindling for the fire that burned in him.
“It’s been years since I’ve been back there. In the house I grew up in, the house where our lives were destroyed and rebuilt. It’s a big house,” Shoto said, his lips quirking up to one side. “Not just in size, but the walls are heavy. There is so much pain and regret in the walls of that house, it’s almost like an oppressive force. It presses down on everyone that walks through it, and as much as his health and old age killed him, I believe that house did its part as well. Enji wasn’t good at moving on,” Shoto explained, chuckling softly as he fiddled with the handkerchief tucked in his pocket. “He grabbed onto things and refused to let go, no matter how much it hurt. I know some people like that,” His eyes met Katsuki’s, sat at the front pew to the left. The blonde smiled at him, something that met between understanding and reassurance. “The difference, however,” Shoto continued, “is that Enji hurt everyone around him in his effort to hold on. He couldn’t give up on his ambitions even when they were hurting our family, when they killed my brother the first time, when they put my mother in the hospital. He couldn’t let go even when it tore our family apart.”
He brought the handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it down flat on the podium, the embroidered initials looking up at him almost mockingly. “He couldn’t let go even after everything happened with Touya. Even when we made it clear that we didn’t want anything to do with him, that we just wanted to move on and create our own lives apart from him and his damage, he still couldn’t let go.” Shoto scrunched the handkerchief in his hands, closing his fist so tight his knuckles went white. “He clung to the hope that if he waited long enough, someone would come back, that someday that house would be full again.”
Shoto turned to look at the casket once again, his eyes burning with tears he would not let fall. “I wish you had said something when you got sick,” He whispered, “it wouldn’t have changed anything. Wouldn’t have fixed a single thing, but you should have told us. Even if it was just to guilt us, you should have said something.” He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat getting thicker with each word. “Why didn’t you say something, Dad?” Shoto asked, his fingernails piercing through the handkerchief clutched in his fist. “Stubborn bastard right to the end, weren’t you? Made sure we would feel the guilt right up to the end. Well, I’m not going to feel guilty about this,” he spat through gritted teeth before turning back to the crowd.
“I spent a lot of my life thinking happiness is a selfish act. My mother wasn’t happy, nor were my siblings. There was an understanding in our household that if you were happy, you weren’t working hard enough. My father drilled it into our heads that sacrifice and dissatisfaction were the true way to live. He believed that strength came from the ability to put aside the things that made you happy to chase after the things you desired. Laughter was seldom heard in our home, and reassurance and praise were even rarer. He built that place on pillars of self-doubt and hate, and when it crumbled, he had the audacity to be surprised.” Shoto chuckled and shook his head, smoothing out the handkerchief once more, running his thumb over the initials at the bottom.
“My father would have liked this, and I don’t know how I feel about that.” Shoto left the handkerchief on the podium and shrugged off his jacket. “He was all about grand gestures,” he explained as he draped the jacket over a chair nearby and reached up to loosen his tie and undo the top button, suddenly needing to be less formal. Needing to disappoint him in some childish way one last time, “was never one to show up every day, could never be good every single day or put in the work for lasting change. No, Enji liked to show up after not being in contact for years with a gift or a gesture, to buy me a car or offer to pay for Natsu-ani’s wedding. He tried to buy the house where Fuyumi-ane and Mom are staying now. He was all about the fucking grand gestures.”
Shoto laughed this time and walked forward to sit down on the top step leading off the stage, “He would have loved that I was speaking here today, standing here after not giving him the time of day for over ten years and giving a speech about him.” Shoto turned back, leaning on his hand to stare up at the coffin. “I hope you’re not listening,” he sneered, turning forward again and burying his head in his hands as his eyes burned once more. “This isn’t for you. It never has been.”
He stayed seated there for a long while until he felt a careful hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Hawks’s concerned eyes. Shoto wanted to scoff and shrug the birdman off, tell him to go find someone else’s family to latch onto, tell him to screw off, at least tell him that he hated him, but all Shoto could do was bite down on his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. Hawks nodded, squeezing Shoto’s shoulder, his own eyes filling up as though he understood. Shoto allowed the other man to pull him into a hug. He stood there, rigid and overwhelmed, as Keigo hugged him.
When Hawks finally let go and stepped back, Shoto stayed perfectly still, unsure of what he felt. Unsure whether this man who idolised his father so much could ever truly understand the extent of his hatred, unsure whether it even mattered because when it came down to it, they shared this grief. They shared the pain of losing someone they had known since they were children, no matter how different their experiences of him were. So Shoto smiled, small and tentative, but a smile nonetheless and moved to stand behind the podium again.
“It’s hard to come to terms with the death of an abusive parent,” Shoto said with a sigh, “It’s easier when he’s alive. Easier to hate him when he’s around to accept it, when I know that he can feel it.” He turned his head to face the casket once more, walking back to where it lay to grip the edges, “I don’t know where to put it now,” he whispered in a voice meant only for his father. Speaking so earnestly, he knew Enji would hear it even six feet under, “You took that from me, too. You took the place I had to put my hate, and now it just exists in this vacuum. Why didn’t you fucking tell me you were sick?” He demanded, his grip on the edge of the casket tightening. “I would have at least told you how much I fucking hated you! You took that from me, you keep taking things from me.” Hot tears finally fell from his good eye, sizzling when they hit the wood. “It feels like you’ll never stop taking from me… and now you’re dead.”
Arms wrapped around his shoulder once more. This time, he looked up to see Izuku standing beside him. He nodded, allowing his friend to lead him back to the podium. “It was easier to hate him when he was alive,” Shoto said, his hand nestled safely in Izukus, “When he was alive I could at least hope that he would still somehow fix things. I had hope that all of this,” he gestured around, “all this anger, this hate, all of it would come to an end one day. Hope that things would get better.” Shoto looked down at the embroidered letters, the ‘ E.T’ in looping cursive letters that were stitched into the pristine white cloth in a golden thread that resembled the sunrise.
“But now he’s gone... He’s gone, and I know it’s over. I know it’s never going to get better.”