Chapter Text
Shouto always says yes.
To his father, to Fuyumi, to his teachers, walking through desks and collecting homework, to the subtle transparent woman-like tight voice, stuck in his left ear, telling him to write his mother another letter filled with frivolous news on his grades and his friends and maybe this one time will be the time she’ll forgive him for locking her up in a nuthouse to spend the rest of her life reading the same five-six books she won’t understand because her brain is fucked-up by meds.
But especially to his father.
Of course, not without some resistance. He rebels, he agitates like an insect caught in a jar, and like an insect without any hope to be freed. His only freedom is to get angry, to scream, to punch the heavy walls of the Todoroki Dojo.
His no’s are weak, imprecisely whispered towards the floor or thrown through the corridor until they’ll reach, strangled, his father’s eyes. No, I don’t want to train today. No, I’m not hungry and I don’t want to eat. No, I didn’t bring the quirk analysis we did at school. No, I don’t want to become a hero. No, I don’t want to become like you. No no no. I don’t want anything of this.
But Shouto also knows that there’s nothing further from “what he wants”, than the path of the life sculpted in front of his eyes which will make him become the number one hero in Japan (supposedly). Surrendering seems the only option even years after he was able to rip away a chip of his life for himself, his little chip ripped away from Endeavor’s rough hands. He’s so docile deep within, he will surrender to his classmates as well. That’s how he made friends with Midoriya, a kid with such weird thoughts if you ask him, he makes him angry. A kid with a will so strong one time he conditioned him into thinking that becoming a hero is what Shouto wants.
What Shouto wants. Who knows, maybe it’s too late to dig into his childhood memories and pretend that the same memories weren’t already crafted by the usual string-puller. Maybe it’s too late and his entire existence is tainted by somebody else’s yearning and sixteen years of infection have had their result: Shouto possesses a single part of himself, the one that weakly says no, so much embarrassed to be different from everybody else that most of the times it will bring him to drift away from his body somewhere outside the windows and into the sky during class.
The other himself, the part that always says yes, belongs to Endeavor.
The 5 am alarm is a vibration from his smartphone thrown on the floor next to the futon. Lately Shouto wakes up a couple minutes earlier, like his body wants to prove it doesn’t need any alarm. The ceiling is foggy, the room is still dark enough. There’s no light to annoy him into fully waking up. Shouto rolls his body belly-down, heavy with sleep, presses his face against the pillow and his hips against the futon. He feels the hard floor under it and he sighs, enjoying the fleeting moment of pleasure before his brain turns on and chants the ritual. From five to six training in the dojo, from six to seven getting ready for class and after he’ll be free to fuck off to U.A. where Endeavor cannot follow him.
Already in a bad mood because of fleeting dreams that disappear from his memories in the ten meters from the bedroom to the bathroom, Shouto washes his face, throws half a look at the mirror and enters the Dojo in his pijamas. The chances Endeavor is there are always fifty fifty. His hero shifts are hectic nonsense, extremely long and unscheduled, leaving Shouto either basking in solitude for days or stuck with Endeavor for – just too much time. Days when his five alarm coincides with Endeavor’s return from a night shift are especially bad. It’s like the work charges Endeavor with more energy to ruin Shouto instead of making him tired, and softer.
This morning Shouto’s lucky, the Dojo’s empty. Stretching it is – he hasn’t slept well enough and hasn’t eaten enough for a high intensity workout. In the silence of dawn Shouto moves with lazy precision, warming his muscles and articulations, sighing and sighing, deeply trying to get rid of the constant nagging hollowness he feels whenever he follows this stupid routine without Endeavor’s presence to force him. If Endeavor was here, he’d feel better. Shouto would have no choice. But alone he’s forcing himself, for fear of being found out which is even more humiliating. His only act of rebellion is finishing up at six minus five. Here’s his conquered freedom: a five minute break.
All day blends in with Shouto’s indifference so much that he keeps reminding himself which day is it and what time is it (thanks to Fuyumi for buying him a watch, he really needs it all the time). He manages not to draw anyone’s attention except Bakugou glaring at him because at one point they’re at the gym, and Bakugou talks to him, and Shouto doesn’t hear him, and instead of repeating what he said Bakugou just scoffs and leaves - after a few minutes Shouto thinks about it again and guesses that maybe Bakugou was trying to get paired up with him for training. Shouto ends up pairing up with Shoji.
On the journey back home Shouto sinks on the back seats of the black car sent to pick him up from school (the same since, probably, elementary school), says a quiet hello to the driver and closes his eyes.
When he opens his eyes, the car door is open.
His entrance at home is quiet because Shouto is quiet in his movements, always listening in. A knot of annoyance starts churning Shouto’s stomach. Endeavor’s boots aren’t at the Genkan. As usual. Now Shouto has to do his homework, English biology Japanese and so on. He keeps his school uniform and the tie tight around his throat and collapses on his futon and closes his eyes.
When he opens his eyes, there’s a thud from the Genkan.
Heavy steps stop behind his door. Shouto lays still as a rock while inside him his arms his legs his chest his ribs burn with anxious impatience, light up by a small spark quickly spread all over his body by his nervous system (he’s not alone he’s not alone he’s not alone anymore).
Shouto gave up trying to identify how he feels about Endeavor. He wants to see him he doesn’t want to see him. He makes him feel bad but…
The door opens.
"Shouto. What are you doing?" Silence for him to answer but he doesn’t.
“I thought you’d be studying. It’s Monday, you can’t possibly be tired already. Don’t be lazy.”
“I was just getting up now.”
"I know when you lie, so stop provoking me. Or do you want to train your fire all evening?” Endeavor’s lips curl in a weird smile (weird because it never means he’s happy, when has he ever been happy).
"Yeah, right.” Shouto raises his head only, looking at Endeavor’s weird smile.
“With this attitude, that’s what you’re getting.”
"Don’t you ever get tired of-“
"I don’t want to hear it.”
“-tired of repeating the same…”
“You have one hour to finish your homework and after I’ll be expecting you at the Dojo. Be quick.” Endeavor always manages to raise his voice higher than Shouto’s, and that’s how most discussions end. The door closing. The steps fading. Shouto breathing.
“…Aren’t you tired of repeating the same things over and over…?" Shouto says to the empty room and to himself.
Of course it works. Shouto finishes his homework, lively and with his cheeks red from intention, changes into his sweats and goes to the kitchen to eat some sugar before training. There’s Fuyumi in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Shouto startles. How long has she been in the house? He never even heard her coming back. She is always so quiet (he always forgets about her).
“Shouto! Did I scare you?” She laughs weakly, feigning a good mood and moving to one side while Shouto opens the fridge and retrieves a juice, punches the carton box with a straw and sucks hungrily.
“How was school? Are you tired? I’m preparing some soup for dinner, since it’s getting chilly outside… I wanted to ask you, can I put some spice in? You like spices, right? Like hot peppers…” Fuyumi looks really interested in getting replies, as if her life depended on it actually, but Shouto replies with gestures, telegraphically, thinking that Fuyumi reminds him of Endeavor (she wants to know everything like him, only he actually does know everything and she actually doesn’t). Shouto finishes his juice then throws it in the trash, “I have to go training with Endeavor, see you later”, and disappears.
Just outside the dojo, Shouto’s feet come to a halt. His toes curl on themselves, cold, and his eyes lose focus looking at somewhere between two floor panels. He’s not thinking anything in particular but his body’s getting drowned in weird sensations and his head is empty, going somewhere else.
A thought above the white noise materializes when Shouto opens the door for the Dojo: he’s looking forward to a situation he’s been waiting for days, exactly since last Monday exactly at eight twenty-five pm while Shouto’s eyes were stuck on the Dojo clock on the wall while Endeavor-
His hands are sweating. He gulps.
“What quirk training have you done today?” Endeavor puts his phone down when his son enters. He’s wearing all black sweats, which is unusual. Shouto draws his eyebrows together and doesn’t know why a simple change of clothing upsets him. He tries to look Endeavor like he judges him, trying to switch roles.
“Why no Endeavor costume, Endeavor?”
“Spare me, Shouto. I kept that damn costume for thirty hours. Let’s proceed.”
“…We trained resistance. The specific task was to… generate a continuous, constant attack, with no particular intensity, that would last as much as possible. I used my ice…” Shouto’s throat closes up, he gulps again while Endeavor starts walking back and forth with his arms crossed, and doesn’t look at him “because it’s still the quirk I control better. They timed us. My ice flow lasted thirty-seven minutes, then I started getting frostbite so I had to stop.”
“And in these thirty-seven minutes, you were not able to-“
“I did try to use my fire, but using both causes… my attack to become unstable, so I was afraid it would interrupt the ice stream much earlier on.”
“And how did your classmates fare?”
Shouto opens his mouth, closes it, considers lying, twisting the truth, considers insulting Endeavor who is openly staring at him now. Surrenders.
“Some classmates did better… double that time. There are quirks which are less powerful, but more resistant…” There are several moments in which Shouto waits for an insult, a disappointed look, a raised brow, but there’s nothing. Endeavor touches his shoulder (always too heavy), which just signals that he’s to get into his fighting stance.
“All right, then. Enough with the talking, let’s begin.”
Training is a dance that Shouto could dance with his eyes closed. Endeavor’s instructions become a mantra to which he obeys without even listening; the flames, the voice booming straightaway, the smoke rising up like his heartbeat and his focus. The endorphins released with the fighting are the only reason he manages to make a few jokes with Endeavor here and there, while Endeavor beats the shit out of him (most of the time), it’s probably the only time of day Shouto cracks a smile (while he’s being beaten), and he feels ashamed, and the shame distracts him while Endeavor trips him with a very basic attack. If he had a penny every time he hit his head against the Dojo pavement… (he’d still have less money than Endeavor, probably).
“You’re thinking about something else, like you always do. Stop it.”
But Shouto commits, weirdly. Today he wants to show that he’s committing. It’s a ‘yes’ day. Today has been so empty he needs approval, needs Endeavor to fill his day or he would have been better off laying on his futon sleeping. Shouto knows exactly what he needs.
But one hour passes and Shouto’s body becomes tenser and tighter, and during a time out for breath recovery Endeavor catches an impatient light in his son’s eyes, and takes a step back, caught in the headlights. He’s fast to react, charging a fire attack Shouto has no hope to avoid. Shouto absorbs it, thrown against the wall, and falls to his side, and gets up almost right away. Gets into position again, waits for instructions. His hands are raised and shake violently.
Endeavor looks at his small son, fragile, sweaty all over and panting with his mouth open. He’s perfect. Without knowing anything, Shouto has a devastating power against him. Endeavor can’t take it, can’t be the one to endure.
“All right. We’re done today, it’s eight thirty, go get yourself cleaned before dinner.”
Shouto stays still and the smile he didn’t know he had slips through his face and uncertainty takes its place. He keeps feeling out of breath, out of touch. Endeavor’s leaving, and Shouto’s not moving.
“You made an effort today, but there’s a lot to improve.” Endeavor avoids looking at him, speaks with a low voice and disappears in the corridor.
Shouto collapses on his knees now that he doesn’t have to feign having any strength left, and he’s surrounded by his own steam, lowering his body temperature. Endeavor looked mad, for some reason. He looks at his own hands, still shaking, and doesn’t know what he did wrong. Decides to stay like that for a couple of minutes before doing that Endeavor told him to do.
The gratification Shouto was waiting for comes at 2.15 am in the profound silence of the entire street, the entire city it seems, and Shouto has his eyes opened minutes before he hears the pavement creaking and the door sliding in its hinges, like the silence itself is dangerous when it can be broken. The earth stops moving at his father’s arrival. Shouto’s legs always start to shake way before anything happens at all. His father pulls on the blankets, gets inside his bed and puts a warm hand over his pijama on his belly, like he thinks normal parents show affection this way. Shouto is focusing all his energy on stopping his teeth from chattering, but the muscles on his face are moving on their own.
“…Let me sleep.” Shouto lies his way into pretending he wasn’t waiting for this. He wasn’t waiting for this since last Monday at eight twenty-five which was the last time his father touched him under his clothes.
“Don’t play dumb… my little Shouto…” His father kisses him on the temple, on his hair, his ear, and speaks with the lowest voice, rough, he knows he’s doing something wrong and no one has to hear him (although Shouto hears him).
“I know that if I don’t come to you, you won’t sleep well. I know you.” Shouto keeps his mouth closed tight, biting his tongue, his cheek, squeezing his eyes, pretending he’s dreaming. Only when his father’s hand slips between his legs, under his pants, and it’s already burning up, he moves. Startles up, putting his arms between his and his father’s body, and you’d think the darkness wouldn’t change his father but it does, it changes him, it makes him stronger and scarier. His father easily grabs his wrists, lifts them up above Shouto’s head, spins him round like a doll and presses against him, chest to Shouto’s back. He breathes calmly in Shouto’s left ear, and with his free hand starts caressing him gently, delicately, like if he moves slowly enough he’s not doing anything wrong at all. Shouto is caught like a fish in the net, tries to kick and fight his way out, but his father absorbs all his blows like it’s nothing. After a minute or two, Shouto lays the back of his head on his father’s chest and surrenders.
“This was what you wanted… in the Dojo…” His father whispers cruelly. In his voice, the smile of a winner. Shouto stops kicking, he’s half squeezed between his father and the futon, and his body trembles with pleasure, his arousal obvious in his father’s hand. “You’re ashamed of asking, but I can read it in your eyes. I’m your father, you don’t have to hide anything from me, Shouto.”
Shame burns even more when found guilty. And Shouto cannot hide it anymore, breaks his silence and opens his lips with a powerless, quiet groan. His wrists hurt, his position makes it hard to breathe, and yet all he feels is that hand, moving faster up and down, squeezing him harshly, knowing how he likes it just as if it was his own hand, maybe even better. His legs fill with shivers of pleasure cascading down, from his thighs to his toes. He feels close to orgasming and his father only came into his room minutes ago. It’s not normal. Shouto doesn’t feel normal, doesn’t feel that what he’s doing with his father is normal. He knows that some things are – has listened to enough conversations in class and has read enough articles online to know that there’s nothing wrong with wanting release, but… he’s pretty sure this is the wrong way to go about it.
Maybe it’s the attention he gets during these encounters, the sweetest words Shouto has ever received (from anybody). Maybe if a stranger came into Shouto’s bed at night he’d stay docile and let the person touch him, without even pretending he doesn’t want it. Maybe growing up without a mom and siblings and friends fucked up his brain for good.
“That’s it, good Shouto… let me hear how much you like it.” Endeavor rubs his stubbled chin against Shouto’s throat, then sucks on it. Shouto’s eyes open wide and he pants hard. Suddenly the oxygen in the room has run out. Shouto feels like he could come or he could faint at any moment. His head starts spinning.
“Dad… I’m not feeling so good.” Shouto’s chest fills with anxiety, stronger than his arousal. The room becomes pitch black, the darkness envelops him and his body loses weight as if he was falling from a cliff.
The thought of orgasming terrifies him right now. He can’t. Not with him.
(He never came with anybody else, actually)
His father doesn’t seem fazed and squeezes him even tighter all over, since Shouto has started moving and turning and searching for his face, trying to move his father to pity him enough to let him go, to make him stop that hand which is going to make him insane.
“I told you to stop, dad… I can’t! I can’t!” Shouto begs him, and keeps begging him while Endeavour maneuvers him under himself, stuck between his knees, his pleas suffocated in the pillow. He keeps pleading like that for a while, and Endeavor finds it arousing because Shouto always gets like this before coming, it’s his tell-tale.
"Ssshhh… ssshhh… it’s okay. Let go Shouto. You’ve earned it today." His father’s words come from afar, and they seem sweet, and Shouto cannot reply, cannot tell him it’s not true, he doesn’t deserve it he’s bad everything’s wrong.
“You were perfect… you are perfect. You’re my masterpiece.”
Shouto convulses, screams into the wet pillow, and comes in his father’s hand.
The five alarm is a vibration waking Shouto from far, very far away. From a deep sleep, in which he remembers a storm, he remembers himself as a child touching the window glass with his hands and looking out to this stormy sea. And the wind was blowing. And he felt scared.
Shouto sits up and squeezes his face, then stays still, jammed in his non-thinking. Suddenly he grabs his cellphone and puts another alarm at six.
In the exact moment he throws himself back under the blankets, he falls asleep.