A few days had passed since that fight was over. Many people had died on the battlefield and society was still shook up from the video Dabi had broadcasted all over the country, revealing who he was, the crimes he had committed, and his explanation for those. That video which his mother had to see as if she hadn’t suffered enough already.
Right when Shoto had started to hope and believe for a better future, he was proven once again that life was cruel. That there wasn’t any MERCY. Right when his emotions about his family and those that surrounded him had started to settle, when how he viewed himself had changed, when he was certain of the path he wanted to follow and he’d try to move on from his past, his dead brother would stare back at him with those empty, sickening eyes which only wanted his death, to prove to him that everything had been nothing but a delusion.
He didn’t deserve happiness. Not when his existence had been the reason his family fell apart. He had nothing. He had lost everything he had tried to build. In one moment, he was left ALONE once again and this time, his family was broken beyond repair. Everything because of him.
The news would play over and over again Dabi’s broadcast. Everyone knew for his father’s plan to make him his successor and for the abuse he’d have to endure as a kid. Everyone knew how fucked up his family had been and everyone seemed to have gotten the right to comment on their lives. Shoto wouldn’t care if Fuyumi and Natsuo weren’t involved in this messed up situation. He wouldn’t care if his mother hadn’t seen the broadcast. If he was still allowed to visit her.
It was one of the few times he’d leave his room. He didn’t want to talk or see anyone. It seemed as if anyone he stared at, would look back at him with pity. As if his past being made public changed who he was. All he wanted at the moment was to get something to eat. He didn’t recall if it was one or two days that he didn’t put anything to his mouth. Moving was still hard for him with the burns covering his body - a constant reminder of him - but he could take such a small walk.
He got into the kitchen, not seeing anyone except Kirishima. Not saying anything or even glance in his direction, he moved to the fridge, opening it and taking a yogurt cup. That should be enough to keep him for the day. “If Iida asks, tell him I took it,” he said, making his way to leave once again.
In the days that follow what could loosely be called a war, Eijirou mostly feels like he is existing. It’s a struggle to get up each morning, when so much has been lost. Friends, heroes, villains with names he would never know.
His mothers call him, he talks to them as much as he can manage, it’s hard, these days, to find the energy to carry a conversation.
Not a single one of them had escaped without tragedy, without scars. Some physical, some deeper than that, embedded in the soul where they would stay, for the rest of their days.
Leaned against the kitchen counter, Eijirou is hardly focused on anything around him, red-gaze heavy and unblinking where he stares, lost in thought, at a mug settled on the countertop.
He thinks of Katsuki, skewered through his middle in an attempt to save a boy he’d always claimed to despise (though, Eijirou has always known better,) and he thinks of said boy, pushing past every limit he had.
When Eijirou dreams, he can feel the place on his ribcage that a part of him was forcibly chipped off, hardened skin shattered away. Bandaged, now, it would leave behind a permanent divot in his flesh, a weak spot where he could no longer push his Quirk to its strongest.
He thinks, too, of Shoto.
The news plays his pain every day, a physical manifestation of parental failures and heartache like some sort of dark concert.
Eijirou doesn’t watch the news much, these days.
When footsteps tear him from his thoughts, his head comes up, though the movement is sluggish, he’s as tired as any of them. Constantly on edge, the way they all had been the first time tragedy struck their school.
Who he sees is the last person he expects to, hardly anyone had seen hide nor tail of Shoto in days, and yet, here he is.
Not doing anything drastic, he’s only reaching in to the fridge to grab a cup of yogurt, but somehow, that’s enough to make something give in Eijirou’s chest.
Before the boy can get far, he straightens up a little, gives himself a shake to brush the shadows clinging around his throat, there were better things to be doing that standing around, lamenting over what had already been.
“Sho,” Eijirou calls his name before the boy can leave, before he can step a foot out of the kitchen, and suddenly doesn’t know what else to say, “Could we- I was just about to make lunch. Why don’t you join me for a bit? I could use the company.”
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