Chapter Text
Keigo’s new place is fucking lit. Shouto will like it.
At least, that’s what Touya tells Shouto when he catches him on his way home from school. He’s walking away from the gates with Midoriya and Iida, staying quiet while they talk about the run they’re planning on doing later. And then another in the morning. They never stop, and they’re inviting Shouto too even though they both know his dad’s a strict asshole who never lets him out of his sight.
Well.
Those rules don’t apply to Touya.
He pulls up in a black sports car that isn’t his, and rolls down the window.
“Hey, Shouto!”
Shouto stops walking. Turns his head, sees his brother stretching across the passenger seat to open the door.
“Oh, is that your brother, Todoroki?” Iida asks.
Shouto nods, and approaches the car. Semi-wary. Touya might just be here to taunt him again, to swing by his school and embarrass him before disappearing for the next two months. Sometimes he’s in jail. Other times rehab. Other times the emergency psychiatric ward because he’s stopped taking his medication for the millionth time.
Midoriya and Iida hesitate before joining Shouto by the car. He doesn’t blame them. Touya is scary-looking, and acts scary too. He’s got spiky dyed-black hair and black tattoos swirling across every part of him, even his face. When their father first saw the ones on his jaw, he punched his fist through the wall. When he saw the ones beneath his eyes, he punched Touya himself.
You’re bringing shame onto the Todoroki name, he shouted.
“You’re coming with me,” Touya says.
“Am I?” Shouto says.
“Yeah, you’re coming with me to Keigo’s. Say bye to your little friends, and get the fuck in.”
Keigo is Touya’s new boyfriend he hasn’t shut up about. He’s an actor, Touya had told their father from across the dinner table on the last night he was home, about two weeks ago. I think you’ve met him?
Their father must’ve known who he was talking about, because the fuse he blew was the most impressive one Shouto had seen in a long while. It also made Fuyumi cry, and Natsu storm out, but that was beside the point.
Touya was too fucking cool.
And he hated Shouto most days, but sometimes he’d decide he didn’t. And it happened that today, a random Tuesday, was one of those times. And Shouto wouldn’t be caught dead passing this up.
“Um, didn’t you say you have to get home?” Midoriya asks, a step behind Shouto.
“It’s fine if it’s family.” The lie rolls off Shouto’s tongue easily.
“Oh. Okay, then. See you?”
Shouto looks Midoriya and Iida in the eye as he gets into the car. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
Before Shouto’s got his seatbelt on, Touya pulls away, making it lock as he tries to plug it in. Shouto would tell him to slow down, but if Touya came to UA to get him personally, he isn’t going to ruin his lucky break.
They’re stuck in traffic within two minutes anyway, inching through Musutafu slower than they would if they walked. Touya checks his phone, lights a cigarette, checks his phone again, smokes the cigarette, and keeps going until the whole car is hazy.
“Man, if you wanna piss off Dad, you shoulda never gone to high school. And then I wouldn’t have to bother with this goddamn school run.”
Shouto blinks. “He wouldn’t let that happen.”
“You think? All he needs is a little push.”
The understatement of the century. Touya had multiple breakdowns before their father made that decision for him. He was sent to some facility for young people, not unlike the one their mother’s still at, and stayed there on-and-off for three years. By the time he was nearing his seventeenth birthday, he was so detached he and normality could never meet again.
And he’d also switched his obsession from making his dad proud to pissing him the hell off.
Shouto doesn’t need to be told that this is Touya’s reasoning for borrowing him in the first place. If he can snatch Todoroki Enji’s precious heir for a few hours, maybe longer, he’ll have to look at him.
“God, I’m regretting this,” Touya says as the light changes to green. “You’re so fucking boring. Always ruminating. You’re fifteen, Shouto, get the fuck out of your head.”
“Sorry.”
“So? You gonna say anything?”
“Um.” Shouto racks his brain. “Um.”
Touya drags one hand down the side of his face. “You cannot be serious.”
“Wait, you said you’re bringing me to Keigo’s place, right? What’s it like?”
“Finally a fucking question.” Touya grins, and Shouto swears his heart loses a few pounds. “Okay, so, you’re gonna love it. It’s this penthouse downtown, top floor. Got a pool.”
“I haven’t got a swimsuit with me.”
“Oh, no, whatever will you do?” Touya makes his voice all high, even though Shouto’s voice is lower than his. “You’ll be fucking fine. Ask Keigo for spares.”
Of course Touya has always neglected to mention who the public know Keigo as, or show any pictures. (Besides the one of his dick that he’d threatened Natsu with, and laughed about later. I wasn’t being for real, obviously. But would you think Natsu was such a prude, Shouto? Shouto had said that Keigo probably wouldn’t like his nudes being used that way, and then Touya called Shouto a prude and didn’t speak to him for the next week.)
And when they take the elevator to the top floor of the skyscraper, Shouto a pace behind Touya, he does not expect fucking Hawks to be waiting in the hall.
His head whips around to face Touya.
“You… you didn’t…”
“I didn’t what?”
“You didn’t say your boyfriend was Hawks!”
Hawks, standing by the door to his apartment, the one that was in the magazine Fuyumi got from the shops this week, throws his head back and laughs. Shouto understands why Touya won’t stop talking about this boyfriend. The previous few were weird fuckers, but Hawks is like an angel on screen, in every damn blockbuster movie. Shit, he was nominated for an Oscar this year, at the tender age of twenty-fucking-two.
And he’s like a god in real life. Golden hair, golden eyes too, with his signature eyeliner that got him oh-so-many brand deals. Sports jersey, also sponsored. His fancy-ass folding phone, courtesy of another company wanting a piece of him. And the car outside, which Touya just clogged up with cigarette smoke like it was his.
Speaking of Touya, he’s also coughing with laughter, the cigarette burnt to a stub between his long, pale fingers. The heat rises up Shouto’s face.
“Surprise,” he chokes.
“No—Touya—you can’t expect me to ask Hawks for spare swim shorts. He’s—he’s like—”
“Aw, kid, it’s okay.” Hawks closes the gap between them, sliding an arm around Shouto’s shoulders. For all the modelling he does, Shouto hadn’t expected to be taller than him. “You’re Dabi’s brother, yeah?”
He calls Touya by his stupid nickname, huh. “Yeah.”
“Well, y’know what, you seem way more together than he is—” Touya chokes more at that “—I mean, look at you! UA student, all neat in your uniform. Messenger bag. It’s too cute, isn’t it, Dabi?”
“No, he’s a fucking nightmare. Let us in.”
He doesn’t mean it. Not today. Even if Shouto’s face is so warm it’s probably the same colour as the left side of his hair. As his scar, that ugly red blotch covering a quarter of his face.
Touya barges past Hawks into the apartment, dragging Shouto with him by the wrist. Shouto looks around, standing awkwardly just inside the door, taking in how it’s got the same contemporary minimalist style every famous person seems to choose for their house, with lots of white and chrome and massive glass doors, which can slide aside so you can go straight from door to poolside.
“You like it, huh?” Hawks says.
“It’s cool,” Shouto says. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands now he’s taken off his shoes, so he puts them in his pockets.
“Did Dabi pick you up from school?”
More like snatched me off the street. “Yeah.”
“You enjoy it there? What d’you specialise in? UA’s got a good drama department, yeah?”
Shouto looks at his feet. “Um.”
Touya, who has already made it to the poolside, collapsed on a deck chair and lit another cigarette, the previous one crushed underfoot on the tiles, looks up and says, “Don’t bother asking him about school. Dear old dad’s trying to get him to switch to business after he picked the art route behind his back.”
“So art, then?”
Shouto nods.
“What’re you working on?”
“Oh—” He fumbles in pocket for his phone, unlocks it, then swipes through his photos app until he finds a picture, which he shows to Hawks, face still burning up. He feels dumb. Like a kid. Doesn’t help that Hawks led with calling him one.
“Ceramics, then? You’re good.”
“I’m doing the underglaze tomorrow.”
Hawks smiles. Shouto isn’t sure if he likes him or not—he gets on with his shitty old man a little too well for comfort—but he seems fine. Though, then again, to Shouto, everything is always fine. Nothing’s good, nothing’s bad. Everything carries the sensation of treading water and slowly losing energy.
Actually, about that—
“Wait, you said you wanted to borrow trunks, right? You wanna go in the pool?”
“Touya told me about it in the car,” Shouto says. “But I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t be stupid, you’re a guest! I’ll get you the ones Dabi normally uses and you can change in the bathroom.” Hawks cocks his head on one side. “By the way, what should I call you? You got a nickname like your brother?”
“Um.” Shouto thinks, but comes up with nothing, and he’d rather avoid Hawks calling him his surname around Touya, who’ll no doubt throw a fit. He’s so touchy. “Shouto’s fine,” he says at last.
Hawks smiles again, then disappears off to get the trunks. He returns two minutes later, hands Shouto a crumpled mass of synthetic material, points him towards the bathroom. It’s the smallish one meant for visitors, and Shouto avoids peering in the mirror above the sink while he sheds UA’s summer uniform and pulls on the trunks. They were probably bought just for Touya—they’re black and purple. Hawks has thrown in a duplicate of his jersey too, probably for after. Judging by the way Touya immediately made himself at home by the pool, they’ll stay here a while.
When Shouto gets out of the bathroom, Hawks is fixing some kind of lemony cocktail at his gleaming kitchen island.
“D’you want one?” he asks.
Shouto hesitates. He’s in trouble with his old man already, by not coming home. He turned off his phone when he was changing, but the second he switches it back on, it might explode from texts and missed calls. Shouto. Where are you? Shouto. I hope you’re not with Touya again. Your siblings are distractions. Shouto. Come home now. Shouto. Shouto. Shouto. Shou—
“It’s okay if you don’t,” Hawks says. “Aren’t you, like, fifteen anyway? Shit, I shouldn’t be offering a kid alcohol. I didn’t say anything, okay? You go jump in the pool or something.”
Shouto has perfected his glare over the years, and it’s coming in very handy right now. Midoriya’s told him he can be intimidating.
A thud comes from the poolside, and Touya storms into the apartment.
“What the fuck are you guys still doing? I’ve been waiting fucking forever.”
“Hold your horses, Dabi.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Touya turns to Shouto. “D’you want the damn cocktail or not?”
“Um—”
“He wants it, birdie, got that? He’s just acting like a kid to make a good first impression, but this little shit’s hardly innocent. He practically begs to go drinking with me, don’t you, Shouto?”
This is a lie. Shouto’s never begged. Touya always persuades. Okay, maybe Shouto did beg one time, maybe two years ago, but then he got drunk and threw up in his dad’s office while he was telling him off for staying out late. Shouto had to borrow Fuyumi’s concealer after that.
Since then, Shouto’s never wanted a repeat. Even though it happened anyway, and each time it got more humiliating.
“Hey, tell you what,” Hawks says. “Have it after you’re done swimming. It’s safer that way, yeah?”
Shouto likes how he tags on ‘yeah’ every time he speaks. He’s so easy-going, not at all the kind of person Shouto expected would willingly hang out with Todoroki Enji. How did they even meet? Must’ve been a partnership of some sort. Endeavor Corps invests in a lot of production companies, and with Hawks being an actor, they must’ve come across each other that way.
And how did Touya end up meeting, and getting together with, Hawks? Too many questions.
Shouto shakes his head so they go away, then makes his way towards the pool, pausing at the edge. It’s deep, enough to jump in. But he needs to hold on, just for a bit, until—
Touya is walking towards him, cocktail and cigarette in one hand, a six pack of beers hanging from the other. He’s three metres away. Two. One, and settling back on his deckchair.
Shouto jumps.
He hears Touya’s shouting and swearing before he comes up for air, and when he does, he sees Touya standing up and yelling at him from the poolside, screaming something about his leather jacket.
“Shouldn’t’ve been so close, right?” A laugh bubbles in Shouto’s throat, but he swallows it on instinct. He can’t remember the last time one escaped.
“You…” Touya’s left eyelid flickers. “You…”
“What? You gonna fight me?”
“You fucking asshole.” Touya rips off his precious jacket and plunges into the pool, tackling Shouto in the middle of the water. He pushes down on his shoulders, leaving Shouto’s neck craned up so his mouth stays above the surface. “You think you can do that shit to your big brother? You think I won’t fuck you up?”
Shouto gasps, and his head goes under. His eyes sting when he peers through his eyelashes at Touya, whose white shirt is billowing and tinted blue.
He loves it, though. He loves it, because it’s Touya.
Touya would never hurt him like Enji does.
“Oh my God, what are you doing to each other?” comes a shout from above, and Touya lets go of Shouto’s shoulders. He shoots to the surface, spluttering, eyes streaming, to see Hawks aghast on the poolside.
“Just messing around,” Shouto says. “I splashed him.”
“You say?” Touya whacks his head, and Shouto’s face splits into a grin. Times like these are always so… perfect. He can’t get enough.
Hawks shakes his head. “So is everyone crazy in your family, or what?”
“Yep.” Touya pulls himself up on the ladder, the tattoos on his chest dark through his wet shirt. “Dad, Mum, me, Fuyumi, Natsu, and Shouto. The whole lot of us are batshit.”
Shouto kicks to the side, and clings to it. He coughs, and gluey water comes out. Hawks gazes down at him, chewing on his lower lip.
“You sure you weren’t a bit rough with him?”
Touya shrugs, planting himself back on the deckchair and cracking open a can of beer. His part-smoked cigarette bobs in the pool—he must’ve forgotten to let go of it before going after Shouto. “He’s the same size as me. He can handle himself.”
“If you say so.” Hawks takes the deckchair next to Touya, pulling off his jersey and lying face-down so his back faces the sun, the red angel wings tattooed across his shoulderblades fully visible. “Now, shush. I gotta keep up the tan.”
“Don’t fucking shush me.”
Shouto, finished hacking up water, ducks down under, swimming so low the floor scrapes his chest. Everything’s turquoise and white bubbles down here, so tranquil, not at all like the pool at UA his friends like to train in. Why did he make friends with gymrats again? He’d had enough of his own father, who’d always wanted him taking part in sports, being the model son his two older brothers had spectacularly failed to be.
But Shouto does like being active. It’s just hard to square with himself.
When his head breaks the surface at the other end of the pool, he looks around to see that Touya’s abandoned his deck chair yet again, and is pressed against Hawks’ back. The blonde man has his head turned to the side to Touya can kiss him open-mouthed.
Shouto dives back down. Touya gets like this with all his boyfriends. He’s walked in on him more than once, and it isn’t even like he’s seeking it out. He was about ten the first time, wanting juice from the fridge but finding Touya blowing a random guy he’d met at the psych ward on the counter instead.
He doesn’t like to admit it, but after witnessing that, he never felt the same again.
He tells himself he’s okay now, though. He’s gotten used to Touya. Touya with all his mood swings, all his parties and drugs, all his boyfriends that their father yelled at him over.
Even if the constant hot-cold of their relationship is fucking tiring.
He’s careful that, when he resurfaces, he’s facing the view, not the deck chair. He’s also careful to not listen. He stays underwater as much as he can, peering through the strip of glass in the pool wall, through which the cityscape ripples green. It’s so pretty. Why doesn’t the bastard have their house fitted with a pool? They have the space, and the money. Why’s he always so uptight? So boring?
Maybe, if Shouto does avoid getting disowned, he can get himself a penthouse like this. One where Touya and his famous boyfriend can’t visit and violate the deckchairs.
It’s nice fantasising about things like this. It’s nice pretending this place is his own, and he’s the one who’s twenty-three, living the high life as an actor. Would he like the attention, though? He has no social skills.
He misjudges where his head pops up and he ends up catching sight of Touya and Hawks. They’re actually disgusting. Not as bad as that other incident, or the others, but…
Shouto pulls himself out of the pool and, walking over, says, “Can you guys go fuck somewhere else?”
They break apart. Touya’s glowering, Hawks is laughing with his whole chest. Why can’t Shouto laugh like that?
“Sorry, Shouto,” he says, just as Touya says, “Fuck off.”
“I mean, I can go if you want,” Shouto says. He doesn’t need his reflection in the glass doors to know his face is beet red. Has he not blushed once since meeting Hawks? The man must think he’s Shouto’s celebrity crush. Well, fuck him, because Shouto’s never had a crush on anyone and never plans to.
“Nah, it’s okay.” Hawks pushes Touya off him, and sits up. It’s weird how skinny he is. They must do a lot of editing in his adverts to make him seem less, well, unhealthy. “We’ll go, yeah, hot stuff?”
Shouto throws up a bit in his mouth. Hot stuff? Seriously? And Touya tolerates being called that?
Touya shrugs, and stalks indoors, grabs the cocktail meant for Shouto off the kitchen island, then disappears in the direction of Hawks’ bedroom.
“Well,” Hawks says, wearing a stupid, awkward half-smile. Seeing him flustered gives Shouto a grim pleasure. Finally he’s not the one dying of embarrassment.
“Well?” Shouto says. “You gonna follow him?”
“You’re forward.”
“No, I just know Touya. The longer you keep him waiting, the more mad he gets.”
Hawks rubs a hand across the back of his head. “I guess. He’s demanding, isn’t he, your brother?”
“Very.” So demanding there was no point in arguing when he picked me up from school today.
“Well, you can go do whatever, yeah? Watch TV, steal from the fridge, anything. It’s all cool.” Hawks stands, puts on his flip flops and goes indoors, following Touya’s path.
It’s ten minutes before Shouto gets out of the pool. He dives and practices holding his breath, which is actually quite nice without Touya holding him underwater, and very freeing. His dad’s not here, and won’t be able to find him. Even if he does, security won’t let him in. And he doesn’t even need Touya to be present to do this. Maybe, just maybe, if Shouto becomes friends with Hawks, he can do this more often, and have no one ever breathing down his neck.
Eventually, though, he climbs out and wanders off in search of the jersey Hawks gave him. It’s still in the bathroom with his uniform, as it happens. He’s pulling it over his head when he spots his phone, fallen out of his trouser pocket and still turned off. Maybe he should switch it on—Midoriya must be wondering if he’s all right. He’ll be texting like crazy; he always gets so anxious when Shouto’s family is involved.
But if he turns it on, he’ll see the bastard’s messages too, and be bombarded by phone calls. Oh well. Midoriya will just have to stay anxious.
He leaves the bathroom and grabs one of Touya’s cans of beer from the poolside. The metal’s been baked in the sun so the drink won’t be chilled anymore, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the atmosphere Shouto wants, isn’t it? The ability to do whatever the hell he wants for once in his life.
He curls up on Hawks’ white leather corner sofa, cracking open the beer, sipping some. Pulling a face, then sipping more. Going from a million rules to none always has this effect on him, and he can’t explain why. He probably needs a therapist, it’s not normal for your father to hit you, after all, but it’s okay for now. He’s very well adjusted, all things considered.
But for all he’s well-adjusted, he still spends way too much time clicking through all of Hawks’ different subscription services, his brain short-circuiting at the sheer volume of options. He’s never allowed to watch TV at home, and when he does it’s on the whole-family account, on strict lockdown, courtesy of his old man. God forbid Shouto wants to crawl out of the rock he’s under.
But for all his choice, he winds up putting on the same old cookery show Fuyumi always watches. Even though he can’t cook for shit, it’s familiar, and right now, he feels like an alien beamed down into this penthouse, unsure how anything operates.
At one point, he fetches the rest of Touya’s six-pack from the poolside. Maybe he shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. That’s the advice people give, right?
He isn’t focusing on the show anymore. Or even the action of drinking. He’s gone, drifted away from his body, and what pulls him back, who knows how long later, is a knock at the door.
He gets to his feet. The room tilts sideways, and he clings to the sofa to steady himself before making his way towards the door. Whoever’s there is still knocking. Will they stop? It echoes through his skull, making it ache.
At the door now, peering through the peephole. A middle-aged white-haired man, a younger, blue-haired one behind. He scratches the side of his neck with two fingers, scowling.
The white-haired man’s the one who’s knocking. He’s going fucking hard with his knuckles on the wood. Maybe Shouto should fetch Hawks, but Hawks is fucking Touya right now. He doesn’t want to walk in on that—he won’t be able to bring himself to return here, and he really, really likes this place. Touya was right about that. He’s usually right when it comes to Shouto, even when he’s being horrible.
Another flurry of knocks on the door.
The white-haired man sighs over-dramatically, then speaks into the doorbell (why didn’t he just ring it? It would be way less of a headache), which is no doubt connected to Hawks’ phone, wherever the hell that is.
“Keigo. I am at the door. We arranged to meet, remember?”
They’re on first-name terms, huh. Maybe Shouto should let him in.
“You know I don’t like being kept waiting.”
So this guy’s like his old man, then. The exact same stupid line, usually (in Enji’s case) a prelude to the door being forced open with an overly powerful shoulder. Shouto amongst splintered wood, eyes wide and sitting up on his futon, alarm bells going off in his head as his father—
It’s best not to make these kind of men mad, so Shouto opens the door.
The blue-haired man, upon seeing him, immediately chokes with hoarse laughter.
“What?” Shouto says, suddenly very aware of the fact he’s only dressed in swimming trunks and a borrowed jersey. And his hair is wet. And he’s a bit drunk. And although the blue-haired man looks like he rolled out of bed two seconds ago, the white-haired man is all slick in a two piece black suit, white dress shirt beneath.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the latter says. “Shigaraki Zen. This is my son, Shigaraki Tomura.”
“Um, I—” Shouto hastily forces himself to bow. The way this man carries himself… Yeah, he’s a powerful bastard, just like his father. “I’m Todoroki Shouto.”
“Ah, Enji’s boy? Perhaps we have met, once or twice, although I haven’t seen neither you nor your father for years now.”
Yeah, because my old man hates your ass. It’s all coming back now. Shigaraki Zen, Oscar-winning movie director, the guy Hawks works with pretty closely. The guy who shouldn’t be ranked above the Todoroki Enji in all the weird power hierarchies rich men have, but somehow is anyway.
He’s also got about a trillion dismissed cases against him, but that’s another shitheap.
“I should’ve known that hair the second I spotted it. It’s very unique, isn’t it, Tomura?”
Tomura shrugs. “Looks fucking dumb to me. Anyway, are you gonna let us in or not?”
“Oh—okay.” Shouto stands aside, and the two Shigarakis enter, both scanning the place as if they’re police officers at a crime scene. And in a way, it is, with the cigarette still bobbing around in the pool and the empty cans of beer. The yawning absence of Hawks and Touya. Shouto really must look like some random kid who turned up and decided to squat with his favourite celebrity for the afternoon.
“How old are you now, Shouto?” asks Shigaraki Zen from where he’s unpacking his briefcase on the kitchen island. A laptop. Papers. A fountain pen. More papers, bound together with a tube of black plastic. A script, maybe?
“Fifteen.” Shouto swallows. He has to direct the conversation away from himself, right? Downside is, he can’t hold a conversation on a good day, even less if he’s had maybe-two cans of beer. ‘Maybe’ because he isn’t entirely sure, and he’ll never be now Tomura is helping himself, scratching his neck even while he drinks. “Those belong to Hawks,” he tells him at last.
“Yeah, and you clearly didn’t take that into account yourself.”
And here comes the heat gathering in Shouto’s face yet again. He clenches his fists so hard his nails leave crescent-moon-shaped marks in his palms.
“Are you here with your brother, Shouto?” Shigaraki asks. Why does he keep calling Shouto by his first name? He didn’t even ask if he could, just went for it.
“You’ve met Touya, then?”
Shigaraki nods, but the slight flaring of his nostrils at the mention of Touya’s name isn’t lost on Shouto. How surprising is that reaction, though? Touya annoys everyone who has the misfortune to run into him.
Wait, he’s meant to be avoiding talking about himself, right?
“D’you want me to get Hawks? He’s with Touya at the minute.” He’ll just knock on the door or something. Anything to get away from Shigaraki and his similarly creepy son. They don’t even look anything alike. Is Tomura adopted?
Shigaraki smiles. “Actually, Shouto, can you read the highlighted parts out for me? I’d like to try something.” He’s holding out the bound-together papers to Shouto.
Can he argue? Say something about how he needs to get changed? Needs to go home? No, that won’t work. Shigaraki’s looking at him with laser-like eyes, freaky in how Shouto can’t see himself reflected back in them.
“Okay.” Shouto takes the papers. Sure enough, it’s a script, with a codename—some callback to an older horror movie—instead of its true title. At the top, is scrawled ‘Takami Keigo’, and one character’s lines, presumably for Hawks, are highlighted neon orange.
“Isn’t this meant for Hawks?” Shouto asks.
“Ah, I was visiting to ask him if he’d be interested in this role. We work well together, and he was an overwhelming success with last year’s project.” He smiles again, and there’s no way it can ever reach those empty eyes. “Anyway, Shouto, let’s begin. We’ll start at—hm—page 74.”
Shouto flips to it. “At the top?”
“Yes. I’ll read the other characters’ parts.”
And he begins, commanding the script in a way that makes Shouto’s head pound. What is happening? He was watching a cookery show ten minutes ago, and the damn thing’s still on in the background, Tomura stretched out on the sofa while Shouto stands, still in the borrowed jersey and swim shorts, in the middle of the kitchen.
“Your line, Shouto.”
“Oh. Oh, right.” Shouto reads it out. He doesn’t stumble, at least. If Shouto was taught anything by his old man, it was how not to make an absolute fucking joke of himself in front of authority figures. Shame he’s not in a better state of dress or, for that matter, sober, but he’s also got to continue to give said authority figures the middle finger somehow.
He doesn’t see the point of this, though. This is a part intended for Hawks, known for the sheer breadth of emotions he can imitate (and the heartache he makes everyone attracted to men suffer), and Shouto can only talk in a monotone.
At least this’ll be over soon.
But Shigaraki presses on from one scene into the next, and Shouto has to ramble through that until, finally, Shigaraki nods at him, and closes the script. Shouto hands Hawks’ one back to him, planning his escape to the bathroom and his clothing. He can’t be in front of a Best Picture-winning movie director like this any longer.
Shigaraki turns his head in Tomura’s direction. “Well? How would you say Shouto did?”
“Shit,” is the reply. “Just give the role to Hawks like you planned.”
“Yeah,” Shouto says. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to act.”
“No, no, give yourself some credit,” Shigaraki says. “Tomura’s just in a bad mood today. I actually think you’re a perfect fit for this. Your personality maps well onto the protagonist’s, and you’re the right age, too. I do like Keigo, but he’s a little old for this part.”
Shouto glances back at the sofa, praying for Tomura to shake some sense into this goddamn pushy movie director, but he’s dead silent. For all his talk, he’s trained to follow Shigaraki like a dog.
“What about me being a ‘little old’?” comes a voice from the corridor, and in walks Hawks. When his eyes land on Shigaraki, they narrow. “Get out of my house.”
“You’ll find I’m the reason you live here.”
“Yeah, well, it’s mine. And you should get out.” Hawks steps towards Shigaraki, glaring at him with a fire Shouto wouldn’t have expected if he hadn’t seen clips from his movies. He’s never seen the full things, though—his old man won’t let him.
“Now, Keigo—”
“And stop calling me Keigo. You shouldn’t be talking to Shouto anyway, not with the insane power imbalance you’ve already got going.” He glances at Shouto, apologetic, then turns back to Shigaraki. “Go.”
His lip curls as he packs his briefcase before making his way to the door.
“That’s right,” Hawks says. If it wasn’t illegal, Shouto’s sure he’d be brandishing a gun or a knife right now—that’s how fucking tense it is in here. So tense he mourns being separated from the beer cans, even though if he drinks more, it won’t be pretty.
Halfway out the door, Shigaraki turns and says, “Be home by eleven, Tomura. And Shouto?”
Shouto opens his mouth to reply.
“Don’t answer him,” Hawks says.
Shouto closes his mouth, and Shigaraki laughs, full-bodied and echoing around the cavernous apartment.
“Really, Keigo! Anyway, Shouto, come to Tsubasa Studios, Thursday at eleven am, and ask for me at the front desk. We can discuss further there, and I’ll reimburse you for any transport costs.”
And off he goes, through the door, with the only sound left behind being nails scraping across Tomura’s neck. Shouto’s stomach won’t stop clenching and unclenching, and he can’t tell if it’s because of the beer (how much did he have?) or Shigaraki.
At last, Hawks closes the door, locks it, and returns to Shouto’s side. His hair sticks up in all directions at the back of his head, and although his jersey and basketball shorts are replaced, he’s only wearing one sock. He must’ve rushed to the kitchen once he realised Shigaraki was in his house.
“I’m sorry for letting him in,” Shouto says.
“It’s okay.” Hawks rubs a hand across the back of his head, making his hair stick up even more. “You wouldn’t have known.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Exactly.” Hawks swallows. “Just promise me, Shouto, don’t go meet him. No matter what he told you.”
“Why shouldn’t Shouto meet who?” Touya wanders back into the kitchen, joint in one hand.
Tomura’s head pokes up from over the back of the sofa. “Sensei brought me here. He wanted to talk to Hawks about some role for his next movie, but it looks like he’ll cast your squirt brother instead.”
Touya plunges his free hand into the pocket of his joggers—stolen from Hawks and the only damn thing he’s wearing, the perv—and nods at Shouto. “Well, there it is.”
“What?”
“Only your ticket out of hell.”
Oh.
Hawks stares at Touya, open-mouthed. “I can’t believe you.”
“Yeah, and whatever your ‘Sensei’ did to you, it won’t have been as bad as what our old man’s done to me and Shouto. Y’know our mum’s in the loony bin? Y’know he—”
“Stop!” Shouto says, before Touya tells everyone all the details. The last thing he wants is for Hawks to see him as weak, as someone who needs protecting. Someone who’s so traumatised from his shitty childhood he can’t take care of himself, which is just untrue. It might be (kind of) that way for Touya, but Shouto is not him. Midoriya always likes to drill into him how he’s his own person, and Shouto holds that shit close to his chest.
Hawks sighs. “Look, I don’t know your family’s deal exactly, but it’s no excuse for Shouto to run from one abuser to another.”
Tomura is dead silent, staring at them in turn with his head swivelling left and right like he’s watching a tennis match. Shouto wishes he was him right now. Just a spectator, not standing in partially-dry swimming trunks with his brother and his brother’s boyfriend yelling at each other over his head.
Touya advances on Hawks. “Nah, you don’t get it, Takami Keigo. This is Shouto’s only opportunity. At this rate, he’s either gonna be broke and living at home forever, or he’s gonna kill himself in his mid-twenties ‘cause he can’t fucking stick being his dad’s nepo baby at the company.”
“You shouldn’t say that about your brother,” Hawks says, fighting to keep his voice steady. Is he trying not to worry Shouto? Fuck him. He really doesn’t get it. “Anyway, the movie industry sucks. Taking over Todoroki Enji’s company is depressing, but this shit will kill him before he turns twenty. Especially if he’s mixed up with Sensei.”
“I mean,” comes Tomura’s voice from the sofa, and all heads twist in his direction, “I wouldn’t say that. Sensei is actually a really good teacher, y’know. Like, the squirt seems talentless, but there must be a vision there. He’ll get his success. He’ll get away from his dickhead father. That’s what you want, yeah?” The nail on his forefinger draws blood, and he inspects it, scowling.
“Exactly!” Touya says. His eyes have a manic gleam. “Shiggy gets it. You’re just projecting all your struggles onto him, birdie. Now, why don’t you take him out to eat or some shit? Make up?”
“You’re the one mad at Hawks,” Shouto reasons. “Don’t you guys need to make up?”
“Nah, we’ll be good. The rich asshole wants you to go to his studio to talk more, right?”
Shouto nods. “Thursday, eleven in the morning.”
“Okay, so if birdie’s so fucking worried, he’ll give you a lift to Tokyo. And even if you decide to pass this shit up for whatever reason, at least you’ll have looked into it more before saying no. Got it?”
“I guess.”
“Great. Now take him out, birdie. He likes soba, so get that.”
“Aren’t you gonna come?” Shouto hopes he will. He came here to spend time with Touya, not his boyfriend, and all Touya’s done is ignore Shouto and fuck said boyfriend. But really, Shouto should’ve never expected more. He’s known throughout the only reason he’s here is to piss off their dad, and if Touya’s lucky, he’ll get his hour-long screaming match, but…
It’s nice to dream, you know?
“Nah,” Touya says. Of course he does.