it was a muted question of trust : gloveless hand reaching, with two fingers arched high, to pull free the ribbon from dark locks. scarred fingertips dancing throughout as they gradually unwound the braid that it once held.
unprompted ask / always accepting
Little Tomura is quiet, the kind of quiet that were he any of the other villains he’s practically adopted, it would be trouble. But from him, it leads to a sort of peacefulness unexpected from them. There’s still anger in Bran’s heart, the kind of rage that runs white-hot and burns everything it touches - but it can’t be helped. He’s being used, not unkindly, but still in a way that he didn’t care for and the confession still burns at what little shreds of himself that remained after so much time.
It’s not a rotten deal, not entirely. Death would, if it came to be, give his charge peace from the man that wanted into his body. It would free him from the burden of his Quirk, his gruesome adopted father, and the weight of the lives taken by his hands. It would be kind, and quick, and everything he supposes he would want for himself.
But death at his hands would mean more weight on Bran’s shredded humanity. It would mean more blood on his hands, the kind that would stain too dark and never come clean. It would mean another soul, another person, cut down by his power, and though it would be a kinder & more merciful death than any that had come before, it would be a painful one for himself, and it would be pain that would remain with him for the rest of his eternity.
So, he’s angry, still, days later, even though he acknowledged that it would be the best course of action for them both. He’s angry, and he’s as tired as his years, and he’s trying to put it behind him.
Trying, and failing, because his little monster is reaching up to him with ungloved hands in a way that reads more of fondness and a want to be trusted than usually given.
Bran stops reading, breath catching as the words he’s been so carefully pronouncing die in his throat. (He reads out loud, because he knew it helped Tomura’s spirit, even if the boy pretended not to hear him and would have no interest in translated Welsh tales of false kings and monsters and women of lakes. But he does, he knows he does, because he always stops fiddling with electronics when he starts up and stays quiet until he’s finished.) Eyes dark but trusting as two fingers wrap around the ribbon he tied his braid with and tugged it free. He can feel his own exasperation showing as the ribbon his dropped, gaze flicking between the boy’s hand and his face, trying to understand his goals.
His hair, as it were, was a sore spot between them. It had been longer once, before the boy had lost his temper at Bran’s careful detangling of his own hair. Where it had been long enough to reach his waist before, it was shorter now thanks to an unwanted and rushed cut, falling a few inches from his shoulder, and he was wary of letting it grow shorter.
But he doesn’t stop Tomura’s fingers as they reach up again, doesn’t jerk or move back as they begin to unravel the loose braid. Instead, he watches those fingers carefully, gaze only flicking once or twice to watch red eyes narrow in concentration.
By the end of it, his hair is loose and free, but whole. Not a single strand sacrificed to a Mutated Quirk, and his youngest (but most favorite) ward is looking pleased in a way that’s decidedly feline - that is to say almost unbearably smug.
"... Do you want me to finish?” He hesitates at asking the question, unsure of what this is about, and wary of it being some kind of an attempt at buttering up before another bombshell is dropped. When he receives nothing but a look and lopsided shrug, he sighs and returns his gaze to the book, forcing himself to focus on translating Welsh to Japanese so Tomura would understand while pretending not to listen.
It’s a good afternoon, a quiet one.
Bran knows it will be one of their last.
