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Shouto stands in the cramped storeroom behind the temple’s main hall, taking in the rows of old butsudan. Most are modestly sized, made of wood, but there are a couple of larger, more ornate altars inlaid with gold leaf details that probably belonged to affluent families whose children sold the estate after their parents’ passing and donated the religious implements that didn’t fit their homes or lifestyle.
It’s a question Shouto has struggled with himself—whether it makes sense to have an altar in his own home instead of continuing to visit the one at his parents’ house. There’s the issue of space, of course; the living area of his tiny one-bedroom apartment barely has enough room for a sofa, which Bakugou helped him choose because, “I ain’t sitting on the damn floor every time I come over here”, but also, Shouto’s never been very religious despite having been raised with all of the traditions.
Maybe growing up the way he did, then having to fight a war at sixteen left him disenchanted about the idea of a higher power. Or maybe what Touya used to say, that religious rituals were just something to distract the masses from the reality that nothing mattered, had seeped into his subconscious, because his brother might have had a warped way of seeing some things, but his critiques on society were usually valid. He wonders if this will count as a strike against him, if the temple official he’s meeting with will sense his lack of faith and refuse his request.
***
“You care too much about what people think,” Touya had told him once.
It was a month after Shouto’s official debut as a pro hero, before Touya’s health began to decline. They were sitting in Touya’s room, making origami stars to pass the time while they talked.
“No, I don’t,” Shouto had replied.
He was aware of the way the public was keeping a more critical eye on him than his peers, due to his family’s history, so he made a conscious effort to keep his head down and focus on the work, but he didn’t think it was something worth commenting on. After all, everyone had a version of themselves they showed to the world and a part they reserved for the people closest to them.
“Yes, you do,” Touya had insisted. He gave Shouto a look. “You’re not me, Shouto.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t need to keep doing penance for my sins. That’s Dad’s job.”
Shouto shook his head, but let out a huff of laughter at the last bit.
“You’re allowed to do what you want,” Touya had said, “You’re allowed to be happy.”
***
So now here he is, six months after Touya’s funeral, picking out an altar so that he can properly honor his dead brother who would probably mock him for conforming to outdated traditions. He’s not sure if this will make him happy, but it’s something that feels important.
Reverend Fujiwara, a middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and a warm smile, greets Shouto with a bow and welcomes him into the storage room behind the temple.
“It’s nice to see a young person like yourself interested in carrying out these traditions,” he says as Shouto leans closer to examine a butsudan made of polished ebony wood.
“Is it that unusual?” Shouto asks.
“Most young people these days live such migratory lives,” Fujiwara says, “Traveling from one city to another, moving away from their family unit instead of staying in once place. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, just a product of the times.”
Shouto nods and continues examining the different altars. Some show signs of age—scuffs on the wood, a bent hinge on the door, or a carved flower with a missing petal, but they’re still beautiful. Each one contains the story of the family who owned it. He thinks about the story that resides in the altar in his family’s home and whether the things from the past that he’s tried to make peace with will continue to follow him as he moves forward.
“Is it really okay?” Shouto asks. “I mean—”
“All of the butsudan we have here were cleansed when we received them. They would need to be blessed when they’re placed in a new home, of course, but it’s a simple ceremony.”
Shouto nods, but the questions he really wants to ask still remain. Questions about faith, and family, and Touya.
A look of understanding passes over Fujiwara’s face and he smiles kindly. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with our teachings, Shouto.”
Shouto looks down. He can’t remember the last time he attended a Buddhist service. Touya’s funeral had been a quiet affair, with only the family present, no speeches or dharma message, just the chanting of the sutras and offering of incense.
“Sorry, I remember a little, but it’s been a while since—”
The reverend waves away his apology and leads him to a large butsudan at the far end of the room. This one looks like it’s used regularly—it has all of the altar items, including a golden image of the Buddha, to which Fujiwara bows his head respectfully before turning back to Shouto.
“The beauty of Amida Buddha is that he is able to save anyone, regardless of their circumstances, or who they are,” Fujiwara says, “I think you might be able to relate to that a little, with your work as a Hero.”
Shouto nods, though it’s more to be polite than because he actually understands. It’s true that he’s never questioned whether someone deserves to be saved before trying to help them, but he remembers the reactions some people had when his family fought to keep Touya alive and brought him home to rest comfortably before the end.
Fujiwara gestures toward the golden image as he continues, “Amida Buddha doesn’t discriminate. He guides those who have passed on to the Pure Land without judgment.
“Pure Land? Is that the same thing as ‘heaven’?”
“Heaven and hell are Christian concepts,” Fujiwara says. “Of course it is best to strive to do good in one’s life, but no matter what choices a person makes while they are alive, when we die, we are all reborn into the ultimate resting place prepared by Amida for the salvation of all people.”
Shouto turns away, his throat tight, and pretends to examine a butsudan with intricate carvings of chrysanthemums and other flowers on the threshold as he blinks back the moisture in his eyes. The image of Touya being at peace is something he’s tried to hold onto, but having it validated by someone else means more than he thought it would.
The following Sunday, Shouto goes to visit the Todoroki family estate. His dad is in the garden and raises a hand in greeting when Shouto passes by but doesn’t follow him into the house to talk; they’ve come to an understanding that if Shouto has something to say, he’ll be the one to reach out. Shouto does sometimes, usually if he wants a second opinion on something related to a mission, but today he just nods and continues down the hall to the room with the family butsudan. He knows it’s just an object, that Touya’s spirit isn’t anchored here, but he wants to say goodbye to it since he doesn’t know how often he’ll visit once he has his own altar where he can pay his respects daily.
He lights a stick of incense, bows his head briefly, then settles in to sit in his brother’s presence. There are white asters mixed with his mom’s favorite rindou flowers in the vase and an offering of rice cakes on a ceramic dish. His eyes wander over the intricate carvings of intertwining branches on the upper edges of the butsudan, wondering what it would be like to trace the lines of his family tree, to be able to know his ancestors as more than fading photographs that sit on the shelf. Given his family history, maybe it’s easier not to know.
Touya’s image is displayed most prominently, directly in front of the altar. It’s not his middle school photo that was there for a decade. Instead, it’s Touya on his 26th birthday, stone-faced, refusing to smile for what he probably knew would end up being his memorial photo.
He was still healthy, or as close to it as he had gotten after the war. In the photo, His white hair was short and fuzzy, patchy in places where it hadn’t fully grown back, and his skin was still a patchwork of scars, even after multiple treatments and skin grafts, but he was once again recognizable as Touya. That day had been a mix of bittersweet feelings. At the time, Touya had been able to walk around the house without assistance and even ate a slice of the birthday cake that Mom and Fuyumi had baked, but deep down, they all knew what was coming. Shouto wonders if people celebrate birthdays in the Pure Land, or if it’s considered a human attachment that fades away after death.
His mom joins him after a while, touching him softly on the shoulder. She lights a second stick of incense, places it next to his, then bows her head with her hands in gassho. Shouto feels a sudden wave of guilt; if he stops coming to visit the family altar, will it seem like he’s walking away from her as well?
As if sensing his unease, his mom looks up at him.
“Shouto?”
“Are you…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase his concerns without making her feel like she needs to lie to protect him.
She waits, letting him gather his thoughts.
“Are you okay with me doing this?” he asks.
“I think it’s a lovely thing to do, Shouto.” She smiles and takes his hands in hers. “As long as it feels right to you, that’s all that matters.”
She turns to look thoughtfully at Touya’s photo, but Shouto stares at his mom. She’s been so strong through all of this, trying to make up for their lost childhoods as best she can by letting them live their lives the way they want. But there’s a sadness that lingers in her eyes and Shouto can’t help feeling that he needs to protect her.
“I’ll still come back and visit,” he promises, “Or you can come visit me more often. My schedule has been more predictable lately.”
“Actually, your father and I are separating,” she says.
Shouto blinks in surprise.
“Not legally,” she adds. “That would be to… complicated right now. But I’m moving out.”
“When?” Shouto asks, still trying to wrap his head around this new information.
It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it before. His father had suggested the idea during Shouto’s first year. Shouto had been living in UA’s dormitory at the time, but Fuyumi and Natsuo had started to move in and get the house ready for their mom’s release from the hospital. But then Touya revealed that he was alive and exposed their family’s dark secrets on national television, and everything that happened after… happened.
“We’ve already arranged for movers,” she says, when Shouto offers to help, “And anyway, I don’t have much that I want to take with me.”
Shouto can relate to this a little—the urge to leave this place behind and start anew, the fear of never being able to escape the past. But as terrible as it all was, there are some things that shouldn’t be forgotten. His mom retrieves something from one of the drawers below the butsudan and hands it to him. It’s a copy of Touya’s memorial tablet, the only thing he hadn’t yet acquired for his altar.
“Don’t you need this for yourself?” he asks.
“I think it’s better if you hold onto it. That way I can visit both of you.”
The implicit promise makes Shouto smile as he takes the memorial tablet reverently in both hands. He traces the characters of Touya’s name with his fingers and feels a tug in his heart as he reads the date of death. It’s a small detail, but it’s proof that his brother died not as ‘Dabi’, but as Touya.
His mom steps away to let him collect his thoughts. When she returns, she hands him a photo.
“You can’t use this one for the altar but I thought you’d like to have it.”
Shouto stares at the photo. It’s of him and Touya, taken on the same day as the one displayed at the family butsudan but Touya’s expression couldn’t be more different. He’s laughing, not sarcastically, but a real laugh—mouth open, smile stretching across his face, eyes dancing with mirth as he holds a large strawberry over Shouto’s head.
In the photo, Shouto’s expression is a blend of amusement and exasperation. They’d been arguing about dessert, of all things, whether strawberries were better than blueberries just by virtue of being more popular. Shouto thought he’d presented a compelling argument in favor of strawberries, but then Touya had said that Shouto only liked strawberries because he was as strawberry and proceeded to ‘prove’ it by listing every quality that Shouto and strawberries had in common. Shouto can’t remember everything now, but it had been a surprisingly long list.
It’s bittersweet, looking back on these memories now. Mostly, he’s grateful for the time they had to get to know each other, but a part of him resents the unfairness of it all. They should have had a lifetime of memories like this, not just one moment frozen in time.
The butsudan Shouto picked out is delivered on Friday. It’s tiny compared to the one at the Todoroki family estate, barely a half a meter tall, but it fits perfectly on the cabinet in the corner of his living room. The warm undertones of the keyaki wood are more noticeable here than under the fluorescent lights of the temple’s storage room, the natural patterns in the wood adding depth to the phoenix whose likeness is carved at the top.
When Reverend Fujiwara arrives to perform the blessing, he nods approvingly at the way Shouto has arranged the Buddha’s image, Touya’s memorial tablet, and the other traditional implements of worship. He smiles at the plate of soba that Shouto set out as an offering then lights a stick of incense and performs an abbreviated version of the familiar chant. Shouto lets the rhythm wash over him. For some reason, the ritual is comforting, even though he doesn’t fully understand all the sentiments in the ancient sutra.
When he’s finished, Fujiwara bows toward the altar once more then turns back to Shouto.
“Thank you for doing this,” Shouto says. “I know it was an… unusual request.”
“There’s nothing unusual about wanting to honor your brother.”
“Even if…”
Fujiwara smiles kindly at him. “All humans are flawed, and some do more harm than others. But Amida Buddha sees each and every one of us as an irreplaceable and precious life, regardless of what they have done.”
Shouto swallows and fixes his gaze on the carved phoenix as he blinks to clear the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.
“Life is a series of encounters,” Fujiwara continues. “Every encounter broadens our world, allows us to discover a new side of ourselves. I imagine that’s especially true for you and Touya.”
Shouto nods. In a way, their lives were always shaped by each other, mirror images growing in opposite directions until circumstance and sheer determination forced them to mingle. Every memory he has with Touya, both before and after the war, is part of him now, the impact of their encounters etched on his heart even if the details eventually fade with time.
“Even once the people we love are gone, we continue to live each day experiencing both joy and sorrow through these encounters,” Fujiwara says.
He then bows deeply and departs, leaving Shouto to contemplate his words.
There are still things Shouto wishes he could have said when Touya was alive, arguments they could have had—about the flaws in their society, or whether pineapples are an appropriate topping for pizza. He’s not sure if this is the right way to process his grief, whether he actually believes the reverend’s words or if he’s just searching for something to pin his hopes on. For now, all he can do is cherish their encounters and sit in Touya’s presence and find comfort in believing that his feelings will reach him.