In all honesty he was rather nervous about his reply. There was so much meaning and intimacy in Warwick’s words that Shouto was not sure if his own reply carried as much weight. His own words carried his own burden, his own pain and struggles, but was it enough?
Was it selfish to want it to be enough?
He did not want Warwick to feel like Shouto was not putting in his best effort to understand because he was. He absolutely was. He may not understand or comprehend Warwick’s circumstances but at the very least he wanted to be able to share in Warwick’s pain.
To be able to take his pain from him and know what it means so he wouldn’t have to suffer alone anymore. No one should have to suffer in their pain alone. Was that too much to ask of him? Too selfish of him to reach?
So he said what he thought was the most intimate thing he knew of. His mother. Dearest, out of reach Mother. Stolen Mother.
Only Izuku knew of these words and even then when Shouto spoke of it to him, it was never like this. It was not a sharing and bearing of hearts. In that moment it was a calculated move, an assumption he had and wanted to see if it was right. It was not but still the words did not mean the same as they did in this moment.
Even if Warwick was the second person he shared the news of his mother with, Warwick was the first in bearing his heart.
When all was said and done, he introduced himself. Introduced himself as Chul Min-Tang did. A first meeting of two true open souls. How poetic and how terrifying to lay yourself so bare to one who has the capacity to hurt you. Shouto never imagined being in a position like this, never imagined he could be in a position where his heart could break all over.
Then he was being hugged. He had arms wrapped tightly around him, so tight it was enough to make his own ribs hurt by the sheer strength of it all.
There was sobs in his ears and tears falling on his skin.
Was Warwick crying? Why was he crying? Who was he crying for? For him? For himself? For both?
Worse, Shouto could not even comprehend the moment itself. Hug. Hugging. Being hugged. When was the last time someone held him? Was it his mother? Maybe his sister after the incident?
Cherished and comforted memories like those were very slim in number in his memory. He has only ever known violence and anger. Had grown up around it and learned to thrive in it.
Hugs were beyond him, beyond his being, beyond his understanding. A fitting end for someone like him who was deprived of all affection growing up.
The panic that had somewhat subsided came back in full. What was he to do now? Hug back? Say something more? The thought of returning the hug left an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
A hug was too… He was not ready for a hug yet. He was still too bruised, too torn up, too full of anger to return something that carried so much love and affection. If Shouto gave Warwick a hug, he knew in his gut it would be wrong. There would be nothing in it, nothing that was needed in a hug.
Warwick deserved better than, better than him. He would not give this man a hug that did not carry the same sentiments he was given in return-even if it was not on purpose. His heart clenched at the thought, of how long Warwick would have to wait before Shouto could properly show him he cared.
A long time, but please wait. I am getting there. I promise.
Raising one of his hands gently, he placed it on one of Warwick’s arms-the only gesture he felt comfortable and worthy enough of returning. The only comfort he could share.
“I can’t hug you back yet,” He thought as he breathed in quietly, trying not to break the moment, but still feeling the need to apologize.“One day I will. Please bear with me until then.” // @wvrwick
No arms folded around him, something that he did not expect. While he did not think the boy would turn into an envelope, capture him between folds of paper that was never his to read, but he did think that he would bend. It wasn’t something that he would think to heavily on, because that wasn’t who he was, but he did tuck it into the back of his mind. That maybe he should have asked before throwing himself into the boy’s arms, that maybe Shouto wasn’t ready for whatever was happening here, that maybe Warwick was moving too fast like he always did.
His name held weight, but not as much as the boy’s baggage and arms get too heavy when asked to take on too much. He had thrown too much at Shouto, had given him a part of his soul to carry and expected to be held afterward.
Tears came harsher, louder and Warwick was buckling under reality.
The man who tried too hard to be strong was breaking.
Words fell on him like a Spring rain, relief pouring through all the doors he left open for this boy, all the windows he left ajar in hopes that he would come in and he did. Shouto made himself at home within the back crevices of Warwick’s chest and the man had no way of thanking him. He wasn’t going to leave. He wasn’t going to leave. He wasn’t going to leave.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Each word made him lighter, filled him with a sense of weightlessness that he didn’t think he was able to achieve.
He had torn open his chest, let it bleed out of him like the past that it was, he handed his bloody life story to a boy that deserved so much better and Shouto took it so gingerly, held it in his hands and gave his own back in return.
Warwick would carry it with him. This gift. The trust that the boy had given him, the baggage that would never again be left on a conveyor belt at an airport because Warwick would never let it leave his sight. He was proud to carry it, proud to brandish it the way that he did his own scars. Wield it against those who tried to put others down, hold his trust with an iron grip and carry it as if it was his own.
“Thank you.” The words fell out his mouth, shattering on the tile floor and to be honest, Warwick couldn’t tell you what he was thanking this man for. It felt right. It felt like it needed to be said. Because when facing a mountain, when looking to the summit, knowing that you can still turn around and still taking on the adventure was something that he wasn’t sure anyone would do when they looked at him.
But Shouto wore the same shirt that he did.
The same flag woven into their war banner, marching in sync.
They came from two different time lines, too different stories and yet Warwick found so much within the boy that reminded him of himself. He hated that someone else had to go through that, be forged in the fire of someone else’s rage and hatred, but it felt so good to have someone to share it with. Someone to help carry the weight. Someone to carry, because he always needed a reason to move forward.
He never stopped, after all.
“Thank you.” He would build a bridge, using the hand that laid on his bicep as foundation. He would build a whole damn city if it would make this boy smile. // @shcvtcs
