Chapter Text
Takami Keigo received his first gift when he was three years old.
The morning of, grubby fingers pinched his face, tugging him out of a dream of flying. Keigo frowned and tried to make himself go back to sleep— he preferred the dream to the reminder of the filthy floor below him and the heavy breaths of those who he lived with. But the nails pinched at the corner of his eye lashes and his eyes fluttered open on instinct, beading with little tears from the stinging.
“Thought you were dead,” mumbled his mother, sunken eyes staring right through him. Keigo thought she might’ve taken her medicine recently— the shots she sticks in her arms. They make her eyes funny. “If you weren’t so fussy in your sleep I’d always think you were dead.”
“Sorry,” Keigo said. It was his favorite word and it flopped off his tongue with practiced ease, even with threads of sleep still tugging at his eyes. His mom must’ve noticed those threads because her nails bit into his cheek. Keigo jolted, grunted, and his mother tutted at him.
“Get up,” she ordered him. “We’re going out.”
Keigo blinked, mouth parting to suck in a startled gasp. “Out?”
“Yes, out. Hurry up or I’ll leave you here.”
Keigo scrambled to his feet and took his mother’s hand, clutching her tightly at the fingers. Bits of dirt smeared onto his hands, but he didn’t mind so much, it wasn’t like his hands were much cleaner. He bounced at his toes and shook out his stiff wings. He never got to move his wings too much around his parents. They ached eagerly for the outdoors.
The door groaned and sighed as Keigo and his mother slid past it, out into the early morning air. The sun teased the bluish horizon and Keigo’s wings shuddered on their own at the thought of sunshine on his feathers.
“Calm down,” his mother chided. “Don’t make a ruckus, or we’ll have to go back.”
Keigo shut his grinning mouth so quickly his jaw clicked, and his wings scrunched into his back as tight as they could go. Mom hummed, something like approval, and pulled at his arm so he’d follow her again. They wove through vacant backroads. Keigo scrunched up his nose as he tripped into a particularly smelly crevice between buildings. His mom let go of his wrist and he stumbled right into a heap of slimy trash bags.
“Smell that?” said his mother, soft and dull against Keigo’s frantic swiping at the slime on his skin. “Smells like rotting food. Look in those bags. Might still be some good enough to eat.”
“Gross,” whined Keigo. A hand clapped the back of his head with enough force to send him stumbling into the trash bags but not enough to hurt. Not really. The hurt came from toppling into the bags, slipping in the juices of rot and nastiness, scraping his knees on the jagged, pliable ground, and he coughed out a cry.
“Shut up,” hissed his mother. “You want someone to chase us out?!”
“No,” Keigo said, shaking his head feverishly for emphasis. His wings still itched to move. He wasn’t ready to go back.
“Then don’t make a sound. Understand? Silent.” She advanced to a dumpster, sticking her arms in and rustling around. Her extra eyes bobbed and twirled in the air. “Look in the bags. Put those claws of yours to use for once.”
Keigo cast his eyes down, wrinkling his nose at the bags, at his overgrown nails— claws. The skin of his fingers toughened around the base of the curled black things. He rubbed the rough tips of his fingers together, stooped to his knees, and tried not to think of the squishiness as he dragged the tip of one claw through the stretched plastic. It split easily and folded out like curls of skin, noodly insides spilling onto the ground. Keigo gagged at the stench, but he crouched even closer anyway. He stuck his nails— claws— into the mush and picked it apart. Keigo had a good nose. Better than his mom or dad. He could always smell the bits of rot and around them, he always knew what was too bad to eat.
The stuff was past bad. He sliced open all three bags and fished through them. Tears stung his eyes as his stomach clenched into ball. “Nothing,” he told his mom, wondering, even as he said it, if there could possibly be something a little edible. It could mostly bad, just the littlest bit good, and he’d eat it.
“Keigo,” his Mother interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up sharply. “Come here.”
He scrambled to his feet, scuttling over to the dumpster, and covered his face when her hands snaked towards him. There came none of the gentle whacks, though, just her fingers gripping his ribs and hoisting him up to hang from the lip of the dumpster.
“In there.” She pointed to a damp-looking square hidden beneath wads of trash. “Do you see it? It’s a book. If you can get it out, it’s yours.”
Keigo’s heart gave a jolt and his wings fluttered without his thinking of it. They pummeled his mothers face so her fingers curled and scratched as they drew away. He bounded over the edge of the dumpster, touched down in the squishy bowels of it without grace, and scraped the rubbish from the book cover. His eyes bugged at the cover, still slick and gross, but beautiful. Outlines of birds splashed with color decorated the page and were framed with words Keigo couldn’t read yet. But it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.
He shot out of the dumpster, wings pounding the air feverishly, and presented the book to his mom.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “It can be your early birthday gift. Don’t ask for anything else, okay?”
Keigo didn’t know what a birthday was, but a… gift? That was wonderful. He’d never had one of those before. And it was the nicest thing he’d ever gotten.
When they finally returned home after scrounging unsuccessfully— (Keigo had been twittering with excitement so much that his mom sighed heavily and dragged him home, complaining of the flashiness of his quirk) —he cleaned it up with one of their tattered towels and examined it further. Some of the pages were water damaged beyond repair and at least two were missing. The back cover had rotted partially away. But it was a book with art and words and Keigo spent hours enamored by the drawings, tracing the outlines of the colorful, happy-looking birds.
It was the nicest thing he owned. He never wanted to put it down. He never would, he decided, as he clutched it against his chest.