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Shouto didn’t cry when the call came.
The voice on the other end was calm and detached; he could barely recognise her as his older sister, Fuyumi. Her words sounded so soft and young.
“He died in the night,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Sho.”
Shouto couldn’t bear to stay on the line until the end. There wasn’t a need for that anymore. The only part that mattered had already been said. He was gone.
There weren’t many things Shouto could say about his brother. Good things, that is. Sure, maybe when he was a child he had held some sort of love for him, but that came naturally among siblings.
Touya never had a chance, doomed from the beginning. Happiness and Touya had never shared the same space in this world. They couldn’t, and they didn’t.
Touya’s funeral arrangements were made possible by Fuyumi. It was nothing special, just the remainder of the family gathered round in the Todoroki garden beneath the grey, unforgiving sky.
A tiny wooden box with the name “Touya” carved into it. No last name, no hopeful or blissful quote. Just Touya.
The space between them was louder than any words they could have said. None of them had the strength to speak. It was easier this way.
No good times were shared because there weren’t any. Sure, there must have been some bittersweet childhood memories of him, but they had been overshadowed by the trauma and pain he had caused too many people. So they settled for the soft drumming of rain to speak for them.
It still felt like too much for him. Déjà vu washed over them like a tsunami, dragging his body back to the battlefield. Flashbacks held them by the throat and squeezed whatever life was left in them. The smell of rotting flesh filled the battleground while screams echoed in the distance. Unbearable heat rose from the soil, and just knowing that Touya was slowly burning himself away was enough to make Shouto tremble.
After everything, his ashes were never spread. The box stayed sealed shut. They couldn’t bear to take him out of that box and let him go forever.
The news and the public had many opinions on the matter, most deciding that a funeral was too generous for him to receive.
Shouto, by no means, forgave any of Touya’s actions, but at the forefront of his mind, he just wanted his brother.
His kind. His blood.
Someone who understood how cruel life could be. How blindingly evil the world was at such a young age. Yet, at the same time, how incredibly forgiving the world could be. Shouto had found his people: a teacher who would protect him at all costs, friends who would die for him or alongside him, so many people who believed in his ability to do good.
Touya had never had any of that.
And Shouto hated it.
He didn’t love him—he couldn’t. But he also couldn’t not love him. Maybe in a different life that could have been how Shouto turned out. He thought about that often. If he had succumbed to his darkest thoughts and acted on them, he could have become his brother. Maybe if Shouto had killed his father, then Touya could have been free. Free from the hatred that clung to him, free from the weight of expectations, free from worry, free from living up to what his father wanted him to be.
Touya could have been anyone.
But he never had that chance.
After everything, things could never go back to normal. There had never been a normal to begin with. Naïve and ignorant came to mind, because that’s what Shouto had been. He hated himself for never doing anything for Touya.
Never speaking out about him dying the first time, all those years ago. Never asking questions, never digging deeper, never blaming his father.
That was what he should have done. He should have spoken out, and maybe, just maybe, Touya could have been saved.
Instead, he feigned ignorance just like his other siblings and simply moved on.
And look at him now. Weeks had passed, and he was still numb. Still angry. Still in denial. He was everything all at once, and he wasn’t okay. He had never been okay.
Shouto’s forehead rested lazily against his desk in his dorm room. The cool surface barely kept him together. He just needed someone to take the weight off him. He just needed one moment of lightness.
Shouto could barely keep his breathing on track. He was breathing too slow and too fast all at once, and he couldn’t think. Nothing felt right. Thoughts slipped and slid away in his brain, and nothing made sense. Nothing ever made sense anymore.
Hot tears clung to the corners of his eyes as his fingers gently crumpled the paper in his hand beneath the desk. The gentle rustle meant it was no longer in its original condition. Shouto didn’t care.
This letter would never be sent to anyone or seen by anyone else.
Not anyone living, anyway.
When he finally sat up, his head was full of cotton, noise, and a pounding that mimicked his heartbeat. His eyes fell to the paper, and he clumsily tried to uncoil it, but the creases and imperfections remained.
Teardrops littered the page, making some words droop and blur. He had poured his heart and grief into those words, and now he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop himself from feeling everything.
The years he lost. The moments he lost. Memories that could have been perfect and precious had never existed. Shouto would forever long for the experiences he could have had with him.
Shouto would never forgive anyone for that loss.
The one person who could have understood him had been taken away.
Tears clung to his eyelashes as he blinked slowly over his confession. Letters and words jumbled and scattered until their meaning blurred. Shouto didn’t need to read them—he already knew every line by heart.
This letter couldn’t change anything that had happened. But Shouto needed it.
A small sob escaped his lips, his hands shaking as he tried to keep the paper still.
In the end, he brought the letter close to his heart and hugged it. Hugged it as if his brother were with him, holding him close.
Sobs wrecked his entire body while broken gasps tore from his throat. His shoulders curled inward, protecting the letter, protecting himself.
Tears fell freely, splashing onto the page. His body shook, raw inside and out.
He mourned like he had been holding it in forever. Ache spread through his chest and down his throat. He was the image of a small child yearning to be loved.
There were many things Shouto hadn’t said to his brother when he was alive. Too many things he should have done differently. He knew that now.
He was broken, just like his brother had been.
Now only Shouto could decide whether to stay broken or to become the hero Touya had once wanted to be.
When he was young. When he was still bright with hope.
That was how Shouto would remember him.
Not as a villain of pain and destruction, but as a child with ambitions. A child who once dreamed of being good.
A child who had a dream.
And Shouto would do whatever he could to fight for that boy.
In the letter he wrote to Touya, he confessed all his regrets and mistakes. Some he wished he could forget, and some he prayed he would always remember.
Everything started from here.
Shouto’s life started now, because he had to make one person proud. And he was going to try, with everything he had, to make that possible.