Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shouto times his routine around avoidance, so he comes home to an empty house. He takes care to be quiet anyway—his footsteps are silent after he toes off his shoes in the genkan, feather-light, even though his limbs are laden with exhaustion; he’s memorised the aches of this house, places to go where no one can find him. Nooks and crannies behind linen closets hidden into. As if the fresh-laundry smell can mask the rosin and metallic tang of blood. Floorboards that creak glossed over like skating blades on ice, to offset the drag of gut strings on skin. It’s heavy just to walk, heavier even to peel himself off of his futon the morning he’d found himself awakening in, which was always so starkly different than the night. He’d always hated how his environment kept changing around him in his unconsciousness. How the only constant is the violin. Today, the case he carries is no less heavy than it had been yesterday.

It’s a sign of something: Shouto keeps on with music because it’s what he does, not that he knows how to answer the question why he does it, not that it matters. The artificially chilled air of his orchestra’s practice hall chaps his lips and cracks the skin on his palms, standing in front of everyone for his solo makes him nauseous, and he wants to quit, but it’s just not in the stars. He makes his way to the kitchen instead. It requires tracing paths he treads once a month, if that—Shouto doesn't feel an immediate familiarity upon passing a lot of the areas of the estate, having been mostly confined to a scant few rooms, alien and discombobulated even within the walls in which he’d spent his childhood; dinners taken separately from the rest of his siblings, downtimes scarce and snuck around whenever Todoroki Enji is playing.

His father pays somebody to do the grocery shopping now. Ever since the last of them left, nobody else is there to keep the house running and remember what brands Shouto likes, no one to maintain the modicum of warmth they all pretend exists. Not that he has much of a preference. He eats whatever he’s served. The miso paste they have now is more expensive, but tastes worse than the one Fuyumi always got. Fuyumi never listened to their father when it came to grocery shopping. Sometimes, Shouto would find little packets of flavored konjac jelly in the fridge.

All he can find now is Pocari. He takes it.

The simple motion of opening the cap stings the raw skin of his hands, but then it’s washed away by the refreshing cold, of a kind that invigorates him—cold reminiscent of the pleasant February air outside, the kind of temperature nobody could find fault in. But it’s not enough to stop ruminating and start thinking about the passage he’d spent the entire month trying to perfect. The dreaded first chair he occupies has always been suffocating, but never as much as it has become ever since he was assigned Paganini's Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. 47.

Practice had been hell as per usual. In the back of his mind, Shouto thinks that maybe, he wants to drown. 

Ignoring desire comes to him like breathing. Only after his furtive pilfering of snacks does Shouto start to trudge up the stairs, and he lets the thought of peace run through his mind, entertains them as dreams and nothing else. Sinking further and further underwater. Sweets rank in the top five of his favorite foods, even if his doctor may have banned them from his regular diet, he doesn't regularly break the rules, he’s not even sure who stocks the pantry with these processed foods that his father disapproves of. Only the empty halls know what he’s doing.

When he walks past the room with the perpetually closed door, he pauses. Considers. His scalp twinges a little with the reminder that he’s had his hair pulled back in a bun for eight hours, the strap of his violin case cutting into his shoulder, the pull of gravity beckoning him to just lay down here, in the middle of the hallway, and pretend somebody would care enough to be concerned, but he disregards that in favor of observing the handle. His mind is quiet. Tranquil, despite the discomfort of being. This mood, the contemplation, is stillness of the mind that only surfaces when he’s considering making a bad choice—but today Shouto wants to see something other than the cold, impersonal way his room is set up. 

As quiet as it is, the sound the wood makes when it slots home echoes far too loudly. He winces internally. It’s a heavy door. Had he known, he would have been gentler.

Shouto doesn't visit Touya’s shrine often, just like how he doesn't think of Rei often, except when he’s thinking about her violin. It always seems a path better untrodden. He never saw Touya much when he was around; he never really talked to the rest of his family much, either, kept away and focused on in his gilded cage as his father ignores the rest of the family, until Touya had… well, Shouto had been told that Touya died in a tragic medical accident, though he privately thinks Fuyumi might know something more about the ordeal. People don't just go missing from hospitals; people don't just lay there burnt from the inside out. But Touya is legally missing and presumed dead, so Shouto will believe that he is dead—he will pay his respects to the shrine, this picture of his brother. When he looks, the person in the framed image looks younger than Shouto is now and entirely untouchable.

He swipes a thumb over the glass, noting that it comes away clean, and lights incense. The smell of smoke wafts through the room. Shouto doesn't feel any kind of settling in his soul, or any wash of calm over him, just awkward holding burning sticks with one hand and balancing crinkly plastic packages with the other; no weight off his mind when he stabs the incense into their holder—this ritual holds no water for him, no real significance. Shouto wonders why he wanted to do it.

Then he picks out the box of cookies and cream Pocky before putting it on the shrine as an offering. He knows it’s unorthodox. His father (because who else is maintaining this shrine? The house is deserted) may decide to be enraged about it later. Shouto can’t really bring his over-tired heart to care, though, because as blurry as Shouto’s childhood may have been, he remembers flashes of Fuyumi, of Natsuo, of Touya, of Rei. He remembers Fuyumi when she first came home with glasses, in a pastel yellow she picked for herself. Natsuo fallen asleep on top of his choice of downtime reading: a biology textbook. Touya and his boxes of Pocky. Rei… Rei and the kettle, and how much Shouto had wished in that moment that he could take away the pain he caused his mother. He wants to pay his respects to the memories that he still has despite it all.

And he thought Touya might like the snack.

What’s happened has happened, and there’s no point in trying to change the past. Shouto bows perfunctorily to the shrine and leaves the room.

It’s been a strange, melancholy day with no clear upsides. Better than worse, but worse than better. He doesn’t have a lot he wants to do and no free time to think of anything. It does not surprise Shouto that he finds himself drawn to the places in this house that carries the most grief when he does find himself with some freedom; sadness and anger are magnetic, resentful as both are of the calm that real happiness has been foretold to carry. The contentment. He hates the thought of it. Though he has lived in this house for seventeen years, and its insides soothes him, he also feels the trappings of everything keenly.

Shouto has avoidance down to a science. He knows the less-traversed hallways of the estate like the strings of his own violin, the places that evoke his special firebrand of stubbornness, the one that makes Shouto reject everything that is his father, even knows how to silence people by simply existing in a certain way. Within these walls, he has discovered two crucial facts: there are very little things that get his father to back off. The shower and real emotions. His tiled bath is therefore the only reprieve he gets from the constant invasion of his father’s presence; that means showering should wait until the man is back so that Shouto can spend his time being lazy instead of rehearsing again—or watching other people’s performances—or listening to another lecture. Currently Todoroki Enji is not scheduled to play anywhere outside of Shizuoka, so all ideas of personal time have been shelved, and nobody is in the house to try to step in anymore. It’s not that big of a problem—

at least it can’t be, because he doesn't need anything else to worry about. 

It’s not at all hot indoors, but Shouto undoes the top two buttons of his shirt haphazardly, and inversely lowers his accursed violin with care. Then he stretches out his complaining muscles. Now, Shouto had long made peace with circumstance; his father can stick him in that orchestra all he wants, ensure his written exam results will be reviewed by a family friend all he wants, but Shouto is going to get into Yuuei Conservatory of Music by merit. Whatever Todoroki Enji wants has no say in what Shouto will do. The irritating practice hours that have consumed Shouto’s entire life, the isolation from his siblings who escaped, his mother, the way his father walks, even, gets on his nerves. He’ll do the exact opposite of everything his father wants him to do. There’s a perfect plan in his mind, after all, precise and measured out. He just needs to pull it off.

Shouto isn’t arrogant and he won’t set himself up for failure, but he has his own repertoire that strays from the expectations of his father, who isn’t going to be happy that he’s straying from “their” plan and that’s the most important goal of all. He just thinks, instead of three different pieces, Paganini: 24 Caprices, Op. 1: No. 4 in C minor is a better choice. All he has to do is practice it without getting caught and inevitably lectured for arrogance. He doesn't want his father’s approval, he doesn't want to make it because of him. He is his mother’s son.

It’s never made sense to Shouto. Why set him up for success if Todoroki Enji doesn't actually believe in that possibility?

At some point, Shouto must’ve missed the front door opening. There are footsteps outside his room.

He hits pause on the YouTube video he had been watching and moves to grab his towel—but his father is quicker, knocking once, twice perfunctorily before Shouto can make it to the hanger on the other side of the room. The door swings open. It’s his most hated sound.

“Shouto,” the man greets, immediately eyeing the bruise on his neck, visible through the loosened shirt collar. Perhaps that judgement may have also strayed to Shouto’s mussed hair, or the Pocky box on the futon, but that is neither here nor there. He is well accustomed to bearing scrutiny. After his father finishes his scan of the room, and in turn Shouto, finding it lacking, his gaze snaps back to demand eye contact. Shouto hates it. Makes his skin crawl. “...When did you arrive home?”

The last thing he wants to do is answer, but the consequences of keeping quiet just aren't worth it this time. 

“Half an hour ago.” A lie. Shouto doesn’t keep track.

His father pauses. Then: “Have you had dinner?”

“No,” Shouto replies, also perfunctorily, no longer able to maintain the bare minimum of looking into his father’s eyes. He hadn't even had lunch, ravenous but queasy at the same time from the nerves he likes to pretend doesn’t exist, glad that he didn't have to run to the bathroom during breaks to throw up as he thought of the mistake after mistake he’d made. He’d just drunk as much water as he could without getting too nauseous and then came home to eat snacks. Nothing filling or particularly effective at replenishing his lost energy. The hunger has long passed, though, mostly because being in this house saps him of any other emotion rather than vague rebellion and cold indifference.

“Why didn't you have anything when you were outside?” frowns the man, genuinely looking puzzled. “You still have your card, don’t you?”

Shouto is already tired of this conversation. “I wasn’t hungry,” he says, almost snaps, moving past to grab his towel anyway as an unsubtle fuck off. His fingers still sting, just as his wrist does. First chair is demanding. “Let me know when you want me in the practice room, but I have to shower first.”

A pause.

“Alright,” his father acquiesces, as though that’s something the man is even capable of doing, and he turns to leave the room. The door closes quietly behind him.

Shouto exhales then, grabbing his hair tie to keep the mass away from his face as he showers, and then freezing as realization flickers to life in his head.

He had been bracing himself for a shouting match brought right into his room, or a strike to the face, had his father been in a particularly bad mood. Actually being left alone has never been in his roulette wheel of possible outcomes.

And he needs to wash his hair. Irritated, Shouto tosses the hair tie back onto his desk.

The success of his latest teenage petulance strategy stubbornly haunts Shouto as he places his clothes into the laundry hamper. Everything is so inconvenient; lathering shampoo on his scalp causes at least three different parts of his body to twinge in protest, moving reveals strands of his hair stuck onto the walls in strange red and white curlicues. He observes the bruise on the non-dominant side of his neck and determines that it is healing well, mottled yellow-purple instead of the black and blue of the dominant one, then shuts off the shower as the water loses its soothing quality. 

Shouto is strangely hot-blooded: disliking how quickly his body adapts to the soothing nature of cold water, forgoing scarves in winter, always fighting his father. Telling his father to leave never works, he needs to remember. Today is a fluke.

Despite it being on the forefront of his mind, Shouto is not very keen on seeing what argument they will have later. His approach to it is avoiding getting dressed immediately, instead wrapping a towel around his hips and sitting down on the toilet lid. As though this room will grant him some kind of escape route.

So, review. He’s been stealing time to rehearse Paganini’s fourth étude whenever the man isn’t home, rather than the Sibelius he’s cursed with. It shows in the humiliating amount of mistakes he’s made. He still hates his music. Today had been the first time he actually attempted the concerto with his whole orchestra. He had wanted to storm out the whole time, when he kept tripping up that one passage in the second movement, when the conductor had looked at him impassively, when the knowledge that it was only Todoroki Enji’s pull that even got him the opportunity makes itself known. Shouto is under no delusions that his audition to that damn orchestra had been judged organically. He should have been second chair, at most. Even if the other members of the orchestra seem impressed by his work.

Other people’s good is his sub-par.

If only Shouto could lock himself in this room forever and simply stop playing the violin, oh, perhaps he would also stop feeling so damn miserable about himself.

He sits there (for heaven knows how long) until the water on his skin starts to dry, feeling the tautness of the scar from the face wash, and his hair turning tacky where it sticks to his cheeks—only then does Shouto rise, grab the hair dryer, and start assembling himself back together. He takes his moisturiser and slathers it on the burn scar; the oil glands there never did recover from their boiling.

Even his outfit is chosen meticulously. Comfortable and whatever I can find is the perfect way to describe his default, and luckily the turtleneck he chooses even serves well to cover up any unsightly marks, except for those on his jaw. Those are simply hopeless. Shouto has always put more thought in total for presenting himself in these training sessions than he ever has for actual training, and it makes him feel like a ridiculous preening peacock, but he knows the fallout of not doing it. Worry. Eyes on him. He’s used to it, but it’s… he doesn't like it. Doesn't exactly revel in the attention, though he knows he deserves it. He collects the cascade of his hair where it falls just below his shoulders, ties it back in that same bun he always wears, and wishes he had the patience to braid it. 

Natsuo would like to, Shouto thinks bizarrely. Not Fuyumi, who has never liked her hair long. He always enjoyed that sort of precision work. The methodical logic to it. It is probably why Natsuo chose to walk the path of medicine that led him out of here. This house is haunted by the suffering of those who no longer reside within, the ghosts visible only to the residents, keeping the aura of sadness simmering and making people prone to maudlin moods—and dramatics, if Shouto is to be trusted. He dislikes himself sometimes. The harbinger of disaster. How placid and still his life seems from the outside and how much it grates at him.

He turns away to walk into certain doom. Usually his father will come to fetch Shouto to train, and a glance at the clock on his bedroom wall tells him the usual time has been surpassed by an hour, so he supposes the ball is in the man’s court now. Though he knows he’ll have to soon, to renew the stinging on the pads of his fingers, Shouto doesn't leave his room. He sits cross-legged on his futon and waits. All things considered, he’s not half bad at it. The practice had paid off. He’s been waiting for his mother—for Rei—to come home since she first left, after all, and he hasn’t stopped.

Without anything to occupy it, Shouto’s mind runs. 

The fault in music is that it involves more thinking than is generally expected. Typically his body is in motion, and some part of his mind is working overdrive to keep that motion consistent; Shouto has never learnt how to shut off that part that constantly analyzes everything. He has perfect pitch, so he’s been told, which means he can hear everything and give it a name. Though he had at least taught himself to keep the perfect pitch as a screensaver, it means that whenever the screensaver comes out, he can no longer ignore the permanent workings of his mind.

For example: his ticking clock is going at D#. It just is. The sharp annoys him a little, but not as much as pitches that are microtonal, like the glide of his bedroom door opening. Of course the door opening also means that the presence of his father is imminent—so that’s another score against the sound.

Somebody knocks on the door. Ironic. Shouto likes to allow himself two seconds to pretend that somebody else lives in this house, somebody who wants him around because they enjoy his presence, and then rises. His father is dressed in what is clearly stripped-down concert black, sleeves rolled up, and the way the room is laid out, Shouto’s violin case is within his reach.

“You’re dressed,” he says.

“Yeah. Aren’t we due for practice?” replies Shouto coldly, although he’s careful to modulate how much frost spills over—just in case his father’s decided to stop this newfound hobby of being a father and morphs into his strict, totalitarian violin coach form. It’s strange to even have the man try to act fatherly. It doesn't fit. Shouto isn't sure when his father stopped using corporal punishment as discipline, because it still feels like something that may be taken out of the toolbox should he ever misbehave enough.

“I—I thought that you would like a break,” offers his father. Now that Shouto is paying close attention, there’s a kind of clumsiness present in the man’s frame that makes Shouto himself want to falter. They’re supposed to be fighting. Animosity is honest. Tenderness deceives.

“Right,” says Shouto skeptically.

His father does not raise to the bait. “I have dinner, I bought it on the way home. At the dining table. We could eat together.”

The universe is playing a cosmic joke on me, Shouto thinks hysterically. Last time any Todoroki ate with another Todoroki, porcelain bowl shards ended up embedded in the dining room wall. The marks are still there.

And Natsuo may have a good arm, but Fuyumi has deadly aim, which means that Shouto was—still is—grateful that his sister doesn't share the hot boiling temper of their male family members. Touya included.

Her anger has never burnt; it’s calmer, and infinitely more dangerous than the quicksilver rage even Shouto feels flashes of at times, slow to flow over like how Shouto imagines their mother is, even-tempered until the glacier breaks. But there’s none of that coldness to help anneal Shouto and his father here. Father and son, hell-bent on burning each other alive.

“Fine,” Shouto finds himself saying. He shoulders past the man and walks towards the dining room, knowing without a doubt that heavier footsteps will soon follow.

It does. He would almost be disappointed if had he been proven wrong.

There's a layout of bowls on the table, but it’s not the ichiju-sansai he was expecting. Instead Shouto sees noodles, soba, it even looks like. There are hot drinks to go with it; shouga-yu beside his bowl and ocha beside the other one. Ginger is anti-inflammatory, after all. He never liked the biting taste of the tea, but frequent colds as a child accustomed him to it—it’s tolerable now, and it’s such a non-issue that the thought of protesting is positively laughable.

He folds down in seiza and watches as his father does the same. Perfect posture. A normal family would be eating at the kotatsu Shouto knows they have, in the middle of February, but when has normal ever been in either of their vocabularies?

“Shouto,” tries Todoroki Enji.

There’s no need to dignify that with a response.

“Shouto, I… know the Yuuei auditions are coming up. You must be practicing more for it.” He pauses. “You shouldn’t strain yourself—you have to be in top shape. I’m sure the orchestra will understand if you step back sooner rather than later.”

Instead of bothering to point out the contradiction there, Shouto wraps a hand around his tea and savors the warmth of it. He doesn't speak. He still doesn't speak. Here, the ticking of the clock is at a nicer A.

“Don’t injure yourself,” is what his father finally settles on. “You should—Yuuei should be an opportunity for you to make connections as well. Not merely work.”

Still not speaking.

“Do you need a break?”

“As if,” Shouto laughs sardonically. His grip tightens on the smooth glazed surface of the cup, because this is what provokes him? Concern? That’s pathetic, Todoroki Shouto. He doesn’t continue.

“It’s still important that you don’t strain yourself so badly that you end up being unable to attend the auditions.”

The A goes ever so slightly flat every other tick. It’s more irritating than the one in his room now.

“Well,” scoffs Shouto, all hateful and bitter, “should've known that would be your most pressing concern, old man.”

“Not at all the most pressing, but it is a concern, Shouto,” comes the halting reply. “I know you want to get into a conservatory, I know you don't have to go. Yuuei is the best. I suppose Shiketsu is always an option if you miss the day, but… you have to see that failing to attend the auditions because of an injury would be devastating. Your bruises are darker than they should be and your wrist...”

Fuck. Has his longing for—escape, reprieve, novelty—has it really been so clear? So blatant and obvious that even his fucking absentee father has picked up on it? Is he really that easy to read?

“My wrist is fine,” Shouto mutters, even though it twinges and complains. “You raised the hard worker you wanted.” So stop complaining about it.

“I do not wish for you to be so absorbed by your work. I never have. That is not necessary for hard work. You’ve never indicated any interest in socialising with your peers, only to play your instrument,” says the man, and by this point neither of them has actually moved to touch the food. Sitting in seiza always makes Shouto’s legs go numb. He’s usually very good at ignoring it, but as the pinpricks of cut-off blood circulation crawl up into his peripheries, he feels like breaking something. “You’ve always been driven, Shouto, focused. It’s a good quality to have. But it was a poor choice to restrict you to homeschooling when conventional education would have served you better. You know the conservatory is important, it’ll be a poorer choice to continue the homesch—”

Ah, there it is, his old friend, the rage. “I’m only driven because you gave me nothing else to do.”

The words force their way out of him in an explosive way that Shouto never could prevent; his father brings out the absolute worst in him, and while he typically has his reactions under airtight lockdown, the exhaustion and frayed nerves are working against him in real time. His outburst even knocked the aching muscles of his abdomen against the table; the wince that causes is impossible to hide. Shouto’s voice comes out rough as he ignores the urge to soothe the pain, ignores the anger replaced by—something gentler, something softer, on his father’s face—to end their disastrous conversation: “Let’s not talk about this.” His hand clenches into a fist. That hurts, too.

“...As you wish,” is the reply, the bizarre allowing reply, as the man sitting across Shouto finally picks up his chopsticks. “Itadakimasu.”

It’s not even cold, Shouto thinks. Outwardly, he says, voice catching: “Itadakimasu.”

Well, at least all is right in the world again, since they’re fighting.

Bless her heart, nobody can ever accuse Fuyumi of not trying hard enough. From her humble beginnings of Canon in D, to eventually mastering Gymnopédie no. 1 and no. 2 and the Gnossiennes, too, before she quit piano, nobody has ever said she wasn't diligent enough. That’d be a blatant lie. Therefore it still remains unclear to Shouto exactly how she was allowed to simply stop; there is nothing as soothing as hearing Fuyumi play, with her soft, gentle approach that evokes a dormant dreamlike spirit in everybody who’s ever listened to her—so who in their right mind would let her quit?

Well, everybody but their father, which had made twelve-year-old Shouto suspect that perhaps they had a heartless jackass for a father. Still do.

That does also mean that Fuyumi is the only sibling to have been released from the clutches of musical imprisonment, though. Natsuo is tone-deaf and seems to dislike the art in general, and so was never incarcerated; Touya left, and Shouto decided to stay put in his gilded cage mostly because it has no vulnerability to exploit. Perhaps that explains why Fuyumi is the only one who can stand their father, the only one who visits, and listens to Shouto play without preparing to pounce on every little slip-up he makes.

Every so often Fuyumi comes over. Fusses over Shouto, which is why he’s wearing another turtleneck today, so that the damning stains of his bruises are at least not so visible to the naked eye. Sits down at the kotatsu, though she loves the cold even more than Shouto does. Smiles and watches her baby brother play for her.

He’s been harsher on himself than even his father is recently, considering that Shouto is juggling both his obligations to his orchestra and to himself. But Fuyumi is here and he doesn't have time to fuck up; so he puts everything else aside and plays.

It’s almost therapeutic, the way it hurts.

By the time Shouto finishes, his fingertips are even more sore than yesterday, but he also feels something like pride rather than the drained hollowness he always ends up with after practice sessions.

“How beautiful,” Fuyumi says, even clapping for emphasis. She’s usually over when their father is home; she worries, even though everybody knows her departure from the Todoroki estate has given her a vivacity that is so vibrant and bold that the Fuyumi who used to live here seems like a husk compared to the young woman sitting cross-legged to watch Shouto. This time she’s here for his brother only, though. Not because he’s brilliant, but because she… she cares for him. “I can't believe my little brother’s become such a showboat.”

Oh, right.

She does that. Teases.

“I am not showboating,” protests Shouto, lowering his bow and violin to look at his sister in a mock-insulted sort of way, even though his muscles burn a little and he wants to slump over the table. “It’s a ridiculous conservatory with ridiculous standards.”

“Well, choosing Paganini is definitely a showboating thing,” she grins. “There are so many options, Shouto, you’re not even expected to be able to do a decent down-bow staccato at this point. Beethoven is a classic…”

“It’s not even the nineteenth,” he mutters. He even tries not to sound petulant. By this point his defensive position in holding his instrument has wilted like an overwatered plant, though, because his arm muscles can only last so long, which possibly does not help his goal of not appearing sulky.

Fuyumi laughs, so he’s definitely failed. “It sounds lovely, Shouto. They’ll be impressed no matter what you play.”

“What, even 4’33”?”

“Isn’t that a piano composition? You’re auditioning for violin.”

Shouto waves a hand dismissively and joins her at the kotatsu, sitting cross-legged like heaven intended, carefully setting down his violin onto the table. The luster of its wood is starting to fade—he should probably polish it soon. “It’s made for any instrument.”

“Well,” shrugs Fuyumi, “I imagine it’s not particularly hard to adapt for.”

“I imagine not.”

“You should take more breaks,” she tells him. She’s definitely noticed the strain. Unfortunately for Fuyumi, her little brother doesn't really care.

“I’m not playing right now,” Shouto replies, “so I’m taking a break.”

Fuyumi gives him a look. “Shouto, I’m just concerned. At least soak in a bath—you know that always helps, especially so close to your audition.”

“Nee-san, the date is marked on my calendar,” he grumbles, trying not to snap at her. It’s not her fault that they’ve only really started interacting when Shouto was old enough to send her memes, not her fault that she needs to mother-hen him because there was nobody to mother-hen anybody, not at all. It just grates on him. He doesn't want her to know, but it does.

“You know, Shouto,” she says, mercifully changing the subject, “have you ever considered trying an electric violin?” Fuyumi doesn't touch the instrument. She has more of a claim to it than Shouto, but still she doesn't, not even to feel the delicate carving on the body of the violin. Their mother had loved the carving of this wood, played it over and over before she saw Todoroki Enji in Shouto’s face and decided it had to be eradicated. How could Shouto touch something so imbued with his mother’s presence? He does it every day, playing Rei’s instrument, but how could he nevertheless?

Fucking hell is this a morose subject to change to.

Shouto grows into most things well. Unwrapping the case for his first instrument, matching with his mother’s, had been one of the last few happy memories he had before she had a breakdown and sent the both of them to the hospital, mother and son, one in the psychiatric ward and the other in the burn unit. So he shoved his child’s violin away and took their mother’s, and pretends like he doesn't wish their father would react to seeing it. Like Shouto doesn't want to see anybody acknowledge—

“I haven't heard you touch the piano in a while, nee-san,” he replies, and if there is a large gap in time between her statement and his answer, she doesn’t point it out.

“That’s true,” she says, then she rises to approach the lonely piano sitting in the room, dusted by the maid who comes daily for cleaning but unused all the same, lifting its lid. She ponders the instrument. “You’re right.”

He doesn't say anything, not wanting to break the bubble of their peace.

“Ask me to play something,” Fuyumi says decisively, sitting down and shedding her cardigan. She’s wearing a baby blue T-shirt underneath, probably Uniqlo, nothing thick enough to ward off the chill without the kotatsu. Even though goosebumps break out on her arms, she shows no reaction to the cold.

He still doesn't want to speak.

“Please?”

“Fuyu-nee,” he manages. His throat feels dry.

She softens and smiles at him. “Yes, Shouto?”

“Play me A Model of the Universe.”

She presses her fingers to the keys, and Shouto’s wish is granted.

The end of February approaches quicker than is expected, despite the lack of snow promising spring, but then Shouto wakes up on the morning of his audition to a frozen-shut window.

Even their heating seems to be giving out, though it may be just the fact that his father doesn't pay it much attention; everybody living in this house, at some point, all has some resistance to the cold. Everybody else loves (had loved) the lower temperatures, while Shouto runs hot like his father, and despite that it is chilly under his blanket. When he peeks outside of the house through the front door, all he sees is an expanse of white—but how? It doesn't even snow that much in Shizuoka. 

Shouto puts away the futon, gets into the bathroom, showers because he knows damn well it’s nowhere near his audition time yet, wrings out his hair, and decides to take Fuyumi’s advice of soaking in hot water even if it makes him feel a little silly. He’s just doing nothing in there, after all. He even decides to toss one of those bathing teas in the tub that he’d been given as omiyage a while back, although from who exactly he’s forgotten. It smells nice, at least, like houji-cha and cinnamon. It’s something Shouto would drink. But he’s not drinking it, he’s sitting in it.

It’s a cold day.

There had been frost on the windowpane before he filled up the water, and now the steam rises to melt it and produce condensation instead. Like an impermanent kind of sandblasted glass.

He slides against the slatted wooden side of the tub and goes under the surface.

The water submerges him totally, because water is as water does, blocking out sound and oxygen and enveloping him in a kind of peace that Shouto knows will last a minute at most. It’s comforting, like the world doesn't exist, like he doesn't have to face anything anymore. Fuyumi was right. This helps. He knows his limits, too; and while his body may complain, he won't drown. The tea tints the bath a little to a murky golden-brown, but Shouto’s not opening his eyes underwater, so it doesn't really matter.

When he does emerge, the first thing that damn mouth of his does is gasp for air.

It carries nothing but trouble.

Then Shouto climbs out to wash his hair and body. He unplugs the tub as he leaves. It’s no less cold in this room than it was before, but Shouto feels more awake now, rather than teetering on the edge of winter dormancy.

As he approaches the wardrobe, he realises that his father will probably want to go to Yuuei with him. Of course he wouldn't drive, but Shouto would have to be in the same car as the man for an extended period of time nevertheless, and heaven knows what kind of criticism he’s going to be more inclined towards today. Comments on Shouto’s hair, perhaps. How unprofessional the usual tiny, low bun is, as if the black elastic has personally slighted him. Shouto’s clothing, even though no one even cares what male violinists wear. The way he breathes. Stands. No one cares.

Alright. One person cares and it’s Fuyumi, so Shouto picks up his phone from its charging stand and calls her, where she picks up on the second ring with a sweet “hai, moshimoshi, Todoroki Fuyumi desu,” in her default teacher voice.

“Shouto da yo. Did I wake you?” He knows his sister has his number saved, so either she’s busy and can’t take a personal call (but is too polite to let the phone ring) or she’s half-asleep.

“Ah, Shouto, no, sorry, I just didn't see the caller ID,” she replies, still smiling but less saccharine. “What's wrong?”

He frowns. “Nothing’s wrong,” Shouto says, a little baffled that the immediate conclusion his sister arrives at is that he needs to be bailed out of something. He’ll bail himself out, thank you very much. “It’s audition day and I—wanted to ask for—clothing advice?” His voice fails him as he realises how ridiculous he sounds.

Fuyumi laughs like a flutter of snowflakes. Ephemeral and light, a joy that is fragile and must be handled with care. “Oh, finally, you’re ditching the all black look,” she teases. “I was afraid you were going to move to Europe, dye your hair brown, and start having espresso with cigarettes for breakfast.”

“You have very strange ideas,” replies Shouto, feeling the seed of a smile take root in him. “Cigarettes are for lunch.”

“Just for that, I’m adding Natsu to the call,” threatens Fuyumi, although it’s obvious it’s less of a threat and more of a warning. True to her word, Natsuo is called and answers in about fifteen seconds flat after she had announced her intentions.

“Hai,” Natsuo says. “What’s wrong, nee-chan?”

“Why is the first thing both of you assume is that something’s wrong?” Shouto finally complains. “Nothing is wrong, I just don’t know what to wear for auditions.”

“Your brother thinks cigarettes are for lunch,” says Fuyumi unhelpfully.

“I do not,” Shouto replies.

“Okay, Shouto, I’ve never seen you wear anything but a black shirt or turtleneck,” points out Natsuo, ignoring the part about the cigarettes. Medical students live in the unhealthiest of ways. “Why change that?”

Fuyumi scoffs. “Natsu, you’re not helping. Everybody’s going to show up in exactly what he’s used to wearing, we should help him stand out!”

“What, he doesn't stand out enough?” Natsuo retorts. “Half his hair is bright red!”

“It’s not about standing out,” gripes Shouto. Suddenly he’s seized with both the need to explain himself and to curl up into a ball like a pillbug, still in his towel and freezing. He has his father’s hair and eye, of course he’s going to stand out. “It’s—forget it, I don't know why I called. I’m wasting your time, Natsu-nii, nee-san, forget it.”

Silence ensues for a bit. Shouto really thinks his siblings have disconnected the call, and is about to pull out a pair of slacks when Natsuo speaks up again.

“I’m… sorry, Shouto. You’re not wasting anyone’s time. I don’t really understand fashion, though, so if anything it’s me who’s—”

“Stop it,” Fuyumi says sternly. “Natsuo, you’ve got a better eye for details than I do. Shouto, turn on video and show us your clothes. All of it.”

The tension melts.

“Fine. But half of it is kimono,” he warns, opening the wardrobe doors entirely and grabbing a yukata just so he’s at least somewhat decent. It’s a navy blue one. He dons it, hangs his towel up, and turns the camera on just like Fuyumi had requested—demanded, whichever—aiming the lens at the wardrobe. 

“Can’t wear kimono for an audition,” he hears Natsuo mutter. “That, at least, eliminates half of the potential… uh… outfits.”

“You were going to say diagnoses, weren’t you,” Shouto says.

An explosive sigh sounds out of Shouto’s phone speaker. “Yeah.”

“I think your brain is fried,” remarks Fuyumi, of all people, before thoughtfully asking: “Shouto, do you have a white waistcoat? I can’t see one from here.”

“I do,” he says. He sets down his phone onto his desk behind him and reaches in to find it, one he knows is embroidered with flowers along the hem, though Shouto hasn't worn it in so long that he’s forgotten what flowers they were. Behind him, he hears twin shocked reactions from his siblings as (presumably) Shouto comes into view of the camera. He ignores them and pulls it out. “Here.”

“Shouto,” starts Natsuo, since apparently Shouto talking had broken a spell. “Your neck.”

Oh, right, his fucking bruises.

“Shouto, is this why you were so covered when I came over?” Fuyumi asks. “I thought you were just cold! Have you been applying salve to them?”

“They look new,” says the medical student in the call, damning Shouto just like that. “...Shouto, are you OK? I know it’s—from practice, but—are you letting them heal?”

“It’s nothing,” he says dismissively, because he’s started feeling cold and not just from the weather. Shouto hates it when his siblings ask questions. They already know the answer, and there's nothing they can do about the truth, and the concern is just… pointless. He brandishes the waistcoat. “You asked to see this?”

“Yes,” Fuyumi agrees, and the second abrupt topic change goes unacknowledged like before, leaving Shouto with an outfit that is admittedly flattering and a strange kind of feelings that sits leaden in his stomach as he listens to his siblings leave the call first, as is polite. They kept his turtleneck. Despite the familiarity, it feels odd.

He does the last button that needs doing, checks and re-checks his violin case’s humidity, then closes it gently. Shouto, however, has not been gentle enough with it; there are some scuff marks on the white outer case near the area that touches the floor the most, but there is no undoing damage already inflicted, so he brushes a hand over its black seams and details as a cursory dusting before picking it up.

Then he ducks out of the room without another glance at the mirror, resolving to ice the bruises on the way to Yuuei.

Shouto has had enough of his own face.

Yuuei is highly coveted, not just because many well-known musicians have walked their halls as a youngling, but also because they let you do whatever the hell you want once you pass their written exams. And Shouto has definitely passed those written exams considering that he was immediately led to the sectioned-off audition path the second he left the room. His lingering bad mood from running into somebody on the way into the building and having his violin case scraped on the ground has dissipated.

There’s the typical triad of scale-playing, sight-reading, orchestral excerpt, and then… the solo. The most highly anticipated part. Rather than just a short solo, most people go all-out with long pieces, or even multiple pieces if they are courageous enough to request the opportunity. Most people show off. There are no time or genre limits. Audition takes as long as it takes over the course of several days. Here, the only goal is to impress the judges, and that is a lot of freedom.

Shouto is technically also showing off, but not the way his father wants him to. If he plays his cards right, he’ll be in and out of the Yuuei auditorium in forty-five minutes at most.

He signs himself in, finds the waiting room, and occupies an empty seat in a particularly empty area—he’s one of the people who finished the exam early, it seems—and people-watches as his competition starts filtering in. The enthusiasm some are exuding seem to be entirely drowned out by the tension of this crowd. Shouto understands; since he came in, he’s been tapping his fingers on his case in a restless tic, rehearsing the fingering of his piece. It’s not that he’s anxious. He’s just feeling electrified.

Eventually the seats fill up enough that somebody sits next to Shouto, a quiet brown-haired girl who looks anxious enough for the both of them, and he watches as his seat is taken by a boy too loud for his own good when he’s called inside for his turn.

It’s jarringly quiet inside after the chaos of the waiting room, with the carpet muffling his footsteps. There’s the staging area up front where the judges are sitting on the front row. Alright. Shouto knows how this will go—roughly—so he adjusts his sleeves, pulls the turtleneck up, pats down his hair to re-check that his little bun is still in place, then treks onto the stage to step into the spotlight (these dramatic bastards) and takes his place near the music stand. There’s a table there for the sight-reading music and to place the violin case on, he presumes, so he does before turning to the judges.

The line-up is as predicted: Yamada Hizashi, Yuuei Philharmonic’s current conductor. Aizawa Shouta, harpist first of all but also a man proficient enough in other stringed instruments to hold the overseeing position for the entire string section of Yuuei. Nedzu, the underground musical genius of the twenty-something century and elusive headmaster. That should be the complete array, in a good and right world. However—and this does surprise Shouto a little—Toshinori Yagi is also there, the legendary violinist who most classical musicians would give up both legs to meet. As a judge? Shouto thinks. He can’t be teaching if he’s still performing full-time, so what is he doing here?

“Ohayou gozaimasu,” Shouto says, bowing. “My name is Todoroki Shouto. I’m here to audition with the violin.” Then, belatedly, “It’s an honor to meet all of you.”

“Ohayou gozaimasu,” returns Yamada Hizashi with a smile. Out of the judges—none of whom seem particularly interested in his face, thankfully—it looks like he’ll be leading today. “Well, you know us—looks like we can skip the introductions! It’s nice to meet you too. Now, Todoroki-san, all of our auditions are recorded, which should have been noted in your exam notice letter. We’ll be starting with asking you to play a three-octave scale of your choosing. Would I be correct in assuming you’ve auditioned for an orchestra before?”

Shouto nods tensely. The camera is nowhere to be seen. He suddenly feels utterly unwilling to speak, because of course he's auditioned for an orchestra before, but Yamada-sensei just beams at him. “Excellent! Then you know what to do. Please take out your instrument.”

That. That he can do. It’s routine, but as Shouto lifts it out of the case, he suddenly realises that most people has never seen him play nor seen his instrument; what with his father keeping Shouto’s presence such a clandestine affair and Shouto not actually having any interest in being a child prodigy competing with other child prodigies. There are no dramatic gasps as he settles his violin on his shoulder, testing the friction between his shirt, waistcoat, and the carved wood, but Shouto can feel their eyes. He’s lucky it’s not the one he wants to destroy, he couldn't bear unearthing his old instrument, even though he knows his father wanted him to. This one—Rei’s—was famous, has shallowly carved details on it, only visible when he plays and it catches the light. Little subtle snowflakes. It’s pretty and simple and he hates his father.

“What a beautiful instrument, Todoroki-san,” says Toshinori Yagi warmly. “How nice to see it again.”

“...Thank you, Toshinori-sensei,” replies Shouto, wooden and awkward, ignoring the looming of so many empty seats waiting there to judge him anyway in their silence. Internally, he wants to burn himself to the ground.

As Aizawa Shouta and Nedzu both study him, expressions inscrutable, Yamada-sensei nods, encouraging. Of course he knows how to deal with awkward teenagers. “I agree. When you’re ready, please.”

Right. The scale.

He readies himself and plays out a D♭. Tuned and in pitch. Looks like he’s doing D♭major for three octaves. It doesn't ring as much as D major does, of course, because of the lack of open strings, but intonation and timbre has never been Shouto’s problem—his problem is expressiveness—so a scale is not so gargantuan a task, all things considered. It’s a clean enough playthrough even if he wants to wince sometimes at going a little too sharp, a little too flat, accidentally going microtonal. He finishes ringing the last note (after deciding not to leave everybody hanging by ending on C) and lowers his bow, looking expectantly at the judges.

They don't seem particularly impressed, but there is interest there.

“Fascinating choice,” Aizawa Shouta drawls. Shouto can’t get a read on him. It’s not as disconcerting as Shouto expects, but it’s enough to make him stand up straighter.

“That it is,” nods Yamada-sensei agreeably, since he seems to be agreeable every time he speaks. “Can you explain why you chose that scale?”

“It demonstrates proficiency in many techniques efficiently,” says Shouto, because it does. He’s not a complicated person. He likes things to be efficient, and he likes to do what he wants. Since he can’t have both, he’ll always aim for the first.

Yamada-sensei nods some more. “Sound logic, Todoroki-san. It’s highly appreciated! Now that you’ve warmed up a bit, would you mind picking one of the pieces to sight-read? There should be three options. If you make a mistake, you are allowed one redo. Take fifteen minutes to study the piece.”

Shouto does as instructed and picks the one without any tempo rubato instructions, avoiding the allegro vivace of the easiest one and the creative liberties that the judges are no doubt expecting from the second one. The third one looks as though it would sound cold, lonely, and desolate when played out. He can respect that.

Lento is scrawled on the top of the paper—it looks like the composer had forgotten to add the instruction—and a quick glance assures Shouto that the entire thing he has to play, in the basic 4/4 time signature, is not very long after all.

The real challenge with this piece is the fact that it’s in G♭major.

After cursing the heavens for three seconds and placing the two sheets of music he has to play perpendicular to each other on the stand, Shouto picks up his violin bow from the table and again looks expectantly at the judges; waiting for his cue, waiting for instructions. He doesn't like it, but needs must.

“Ah, you’ve chosen a piece,” Toshinori-sensei remarks. He seems human this close up, separated by a stage as they are, because Shouto can't see the otherworldly violinist that provokes such rage in his father; only a man with a kind smile and intense eyes. Not intense like they might burn you, intense like he knows the secrets you cradle close to your heart and respects you anyway. “Which one will you play, Todoroki-san?”

“...Étude Op. 37, No. 2 in G♭major, Snowdrift," he answers, reading off the sheet music. “Composer unlisted.”

“Excellent choice,” says Toshinori-sensei. “When you’re ready, my boy.”

My boy?

Shouto feels like he’s on the verge of falling, but this unnamed emotion cannot jeopardize his ambitions, so he ignores it resolutely and takes a deep breath, then steps onto the ice, trusting it to hold his weight.

The first bar of this piece is a mournful, quiet wail. One that would pierce through even the coldest of winter nights. He plays it through, and continues, trying not to stumble or falter.

When he doesn't, he thinks the most surprised person in the room currently is himself.

“Wonderful!” exclaims Yamada-sensei into the strange quiet—after the last echoes of Shouto’s vibrato has faded off into nothingness. Even he seems somewhat subdued now, though. The judges confer, and Shouto is preparing himself for the orchestral excerpt, when suddenly they cease all talking and a particularly annoyed Aizawa Shouta throws a piercing glance at Yamada-sensei that shuts him up for good, immediately.

Then Nedzu gestures vaguely in the direction of Shouto, and that looks like bad news is about to descend.

“Todoroki-san, we wish for you to skip your orchestral excerpt,” Aizawa-sensei says. He doesn't sound like he particularly cares either way. “How many pieces do you have prepared for your solo?”

“One, Aizawa-sensei,” Shouto replies.

“And how long is it?” comes the unimpressed response.

“Approximately six minutes and thirty seconds.”

It’s moderate for Yuuei. He could cut it shorter, like a typical audition would demand, but Shouto doesn't see the efficiency in giving half when you are asked for the whole, so he had decided against it.

Aizawa-sensei makes a vague gesture. “Do you have another piece prepared?”

“No, sensei. If you need me to perform another piece afterwards, the excerpt is an option I’ve practiced.”

“Very well,” says Aizawa-sensei, before he leans back in his chair and observes Shouto with his visage still firmly in place. He looks exhausted, beyond the sullen unreadability. “When you’re ready.”

Shouto nods, inhales, exhales, ignores the throb of his bruise, and even readjusts his waistcoat before stepping into position again. His stubbornness in avoiding using numbing creams has caught up with him—his arms ache, and his core does too.

…He’s tired. It’s a realisation he only comes to as he prepares for the first note of his piece. It’s not unusual for a violinist to be wrung out after an audition, or so near its close besides, it’s hard physical work—his arms are going to ache for the rest of the day, though not as much as they could, since Shouto’s practice sessions with his father includes lectures about exercise. He locks himself in the home gym at least once a week. But his knees feel weak and Shouto realises oh, this is the anxiety that I should’ve felt catching up with me. It’s a foreign feeling.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s in an awkward motion that he readjusts his stance and prepares his instrument, breathing through his nerves, then he looks up at the judges—not to seek permission but to tell them he’s starting—before then playing the octave jump that starts off Paganini’s fourth caprice.

The world blurs into focus. Shouto is suddenly hyper-aware of everything that touches his skin, the tightness of his clothing, how the fabric bunches up as he moves. How he’s observed. Every mistake he makes. He keeps playing, even when he feels like snapping his bow in half, when he feels like the skin of his fingers are about to give out on him and allow all the terrible, unnameable things inside of him to burst out and splatter all over the stage floor.

When he moves with the last of the note, that’s when his mind catches up to his body and realises that he’s finished. That’s it. That’s the end of his audition, because he is sure the judges know there's no need to ask for another piece; he has either failed utterly and completely, or he has succeeded, and Shouto does not remember enough about his performance to make that judgement himself.

The judges are quiet, some writing down notes, but no one looks at him.

Shouto packs up his violin in the silence and only turns back to the front row to bow at the waist, a gesture acknowledged by everyone in the panel, with one hand pressed to his chest—Western style. At least Toshinori-sensei would appreciate that. Then he exits the room as quietly as he entered.

Trying to staunchly ignore the shaky feeling of an adrenaline come-down, Shouto re-enters the waiting room and is greeted with more hopefuls eyeing him like he’s a predator in a room full of prey. It’s unfortunately kind of obvious who he is. Most of the classical music world fanatics (read: every classical musician) know that Todoroki Enji has a child around the age where he would be ready for conservatory applications, so seeing a teenager with his red hair and blue eye is a definite giveaway even if the teenager is… split perfectly down the middle like some kind of bizarre lab experiment.

He brushes down his waistcoat and steps swiftly away from the entrance, almost running into somebody else. It’s the same girl who had sat beside him earlier.

“Sorry!” she squeaks. Her case is black and held together with pink tape, and so worn that it doesn't hurt where the edge had scraped against his forearm. There are strands coming out of her hairdo. He feels the urge to say something, but comes up short, so he doesn't.

Shouto just inclines his head, then, watching her leave, and observes as the name Bakugou Katsuki is called and an arrogant blond walks up. From the windows in the room, light beams in and allows his eyelashes to catch the sun; some patches fall onto his softer cheeks as well. His eyes look like molten fire. Glowing reddish. His shoulders are tense and his scowl distorts his mouth, but it’s obvious to Shouto that anxiety highlights the tense lines of his body, his index finger tapping on his black case impatiently. Waiting for the attendant to confirm all his data for some reason.

For one reason or another, there’s a strange compelling feeling that tugs at Shouto to keep looking—not danger exactly but alertness—but this Bakugou doesn't seem to care about being stared at. When he finally moves to go in, he turns his face away from the room. His lips are pink, but the upper one is darker, Shouto notes idly.

Shizuoka’s capricious sun is threatening to set when Shouto finally manages to wrangle his way out of Yuuei, delayed initially due to paperwork and then by the pressing need to evade the press waiting at the main gates. His father may have been planning this day as a kind of soft launching of the Todoroki legacy—behold, my son—but truth be told Shouto is no longer sure whether or not he’ll be accepted, so he’d managed to sneak out via one of the side entrances of the conservatory just in case he does fail. No proof he was ever there to be publicised. Yuuei protects all auditioners, faculty, and students that way.

Fuyumi had texted. How did it go? 

ok, Shouto had replied. Natsuo hadn’t said anything to him. It’s possible that texting Fuyumi is the same as texting Natsuo, since they both know Shouto is famously averse to communicating, and are more likely to pass messages to each other. He allows himself one second to wonder about what his mother would think. Then he has to shove his phone away before the unhinged paparazzi can manage to take pictures of his screen.

It had not been a shock to be stopped by Yaoyorozu Momo as he lingered listlessly, since they both had somewhat of a familiarity with each other. They keep each other company during fancy galas. It had been a shock, however, to encounter her when trapped inside Yuuei campus after hours and then being given a black beanie to cover his hair. He had taken it. Even though he’d refused Yaoyorozu’s further offer of make-up to cover his left side, it’s not common knowledge that Todoroki Enji’s teenage son has a massive second-degree burn marring his face—so without his hair, nobody should recognise him as anything more than a particularly ornery musician on his way home from practice.

Besides, Shouto saw the metallic logo etched on the glass bottle. That foundation was Dior. Surely the brand meant something, and it shouldn't be used for cover-ups.

As he walks, Shouto acknowledges that he’s meant to call his father once he’s allowed to leave. Then he ignores the responsibility. Taking the train is the much better option compared to being stuck in a small, enclosed space with that man after a full day of socialisation; there have been a lot of musts and have tos involved in this day, and Shouto’s a little over it.

Like clockwork, his phone rings.

It’s probably his father because there are less than ten contacts in his phone. He takes the call as if it isn't, because not looking at the caller ID will magically make the caller be somebody Shouto actually wants to hear from. “Hai. Todoroki Shouto desu.”

“...Shouto,” says Todoroki Enji on the other line. “Are you ready to go home?”

Damn it.

“The crowds are hard to get past,” Shouto replies.

“I see.” A pause, as his father seems to hesitate to speak his mind now. “Yuuei has already contacted me regarding your acceptance, as they’ve disclosed that they are under a strict schedule this year to get the news out as soon as possible. Your enrollment has been confirmed. Will you be taking their offer of on-campus housing? The estate is not far, but… I understand if you want to move.”

Wow. It’s impressive how much Shouto doesn't give a fuck. Not even relief flickers to life in his chest; he doesn't want to think about it anymore, acceptance be damned.

“Yes. I’m taking the train,” he replies. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll have them put your name down for the dormitories. We will have to discuss your audition later,” the man says in return, and that pisses Shouto off just enough for him to disconnect the call on his end rather than doing the polite thing.

Despite his bravado, Shouto has only ever taken the train once: when an error in logistics had rendered the estate without a driver. Rei had dressed him in a button up and offered a hand, allowing Shouto to curl his fingers around hers, though with his child’s proportions he could only manage to hold two. Then she’d slung his heavy violin case over her shoulder before bringing him to the station.

It was loud to him. He had bundled himself into her skirts, scared of the sounds of trains passing by and the garbled speaker announcements, but now that Shouto is older and waiting alone he’s struck by how quiet the station really is. Five-year-old Shouto had never left the house beyond the back garden and found anything other than absolute stillness, absolute suffocation, to be overwhelming—seventeen year old Shouto no longer hears muffled laughter through his bedroom windows or feels that envy, but he knows people talk. It’s their natural state. He may not be entirely sure on how to ride a train but his convictions lie in the line of thinking that public spaces should be louder, bustling, full of life.

Shouto adjusts the strap of his violin case and steps into the train. No one reacts to anything, the quiet of the compartment enveloping everybody within it, and he reaches for one of the standing handholds so the woman behind him can take the closest available seat. He settles into the position and almost takes out his phone before a quiet harsh voice calls from behind him; “Todoroki.”

It’s just loud enough that no one other than Shouto turns to look, and there he is in all of his bratty blond glory, taking up a little more space than he should, violin case on his lap. There’s orange glitter embedded into the glossy resin of the black surface, now that Shouto is close enough to observe, and the shirt Bakugou Katsuki had done up to the second highest button last time Shouto saw him had been undone even further. He’s slightly pink. Flushed from exertion, perhaps.

He tilts his head in a silent question. Bakugou aggressively gestures to the seat beside him.

Just before the train starts moving, Shouto takes the seat.

Bakugou takes out his cellphone and starts typing furiously, thumbs flying over the screen in a blur that makes Shouto wonder just how good his jumps could be, and hands the phone to Shouto. The screen is opened to a notes app and says:

why tf are u here

A bit underwhelming. Shouto thought Bakugou had more to say, judging by how long it had taken him to write it out. He replies with something just as short.

do i know you

He hands it back to Bakugou, who frowns at the response.

saw u at the audition. ur pretty hard to miss. even if u dont know me we r classmates so might as well get to know e/o. what, u don’t have a driver?

Shouto rolls his eyes. Bakugou doesn't seem like a liar, so he’d probably been accepted as well. What a great omen for his time at the conservatory. 

not here to make friends

okay didnt expect todoroki enji spawn to be a fucking emo

? my hair is natural

ofc it is you prick

what do you want

Bakugou is clearly incensed at the short demand, guessing from the way his eye twitches slightly. He’s more aggressive than Shouto thought. For some odd reason, this doesn't tick Shouto off as it should.

i shld have left u to stand. bastard. guess even u have to suffer the indignity of public transport. have u even seen twt??

What an odd question. Perhaps somebody was photographed, after all. Since the only apps on his phone are either music related or came with the default settings, Shouto replies simply with, i dont have social media

This time, the way Bakugou reclaims his phone is less aggressive. He exits the notes app and opens… something, Twitter, it seems, and hands it to Shouto. The screen is filled with the same frighteningly clear image reprised over and over again: Shouto leaving the grounds, furtively pulling down the beanie, though the little almost-pink bun at the base of his skull is still visible. There is another picture, though, of Shouto looking to the side, inadvertently showing off the scar.

He scrolls down a little. The other image that seems to be sending people into a frenzy is of Yaoyorozu Momo.

That poor girl. She should have a PR team more efficient than this. In the image she is standing there, her frozen visage on Bakugou’s screen, ponytail glossy as she speaks to Aizawa-sensei. In the background, he spots a shock of green hair caught in a patch of sunlight.

Shouto looks up at Bakugou. His lashes are muted in the fluorescent lighting of the train, and a hint of concern is etched in his expression under the annoyance. Now Shouto remembers why he doesn't want to think about Yuuei anymore.

Rather than saying anything, he returns the phone.

Bakugou opens the notes app again and starts typing. This time it’s a longer message that Shouto suspects hasn't been edited at all—and is therefore how Bakugou actually speaks.

that’s why i asked, idiot. yaoyorozu had bodyguards and shit. youre just rawdogging the public space like this? ur gonna get mobbed. does your father not care about u lmao

Heavens, it would be so much easier if his father didn't care.

In lieu of answering, Shouto types in his LINE ID and hands it back to Bakugou. Thirty seconds later, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and takes it out.

answer my question asshole, Bakugou’s message says, the characters for his name written in his profile. He types exceptionally fast. Shouto is just finished with the first bubble when the second one comes in: and now youre giving ppl personal info? this is how u get stalked. dumbass

He doesn't want to save the number, and he doesn't have to, but his fingers have a mind of his own and has moved to type in Bakugou Katsuki when the train jostles him, causing a typo that leaves his name as Bakugou Katsu. 爆豪勝つ. Shouto blinks once, twice, then he saves it as is.

The awkwardness is… Shouto is coming up short for a suitable word, so he places his phone on his lap and thinks. It’s not irritating. It’s not particularly offensive. It must be a positive thing, perhaps amusing? It has to be. He nods to himself and realises that he hasn't answered Bakugou, so he types in a simple response: who gives a fuck

Beside him, Bakugou blinks. r u actually dumb? your father is world class famous

He has perhaps a bit of a point, but Shouto still doesn't see a problem. People ride on trains all the time—it’s not an activity particularly unique to Shouto. he has an army of lawyers and its none of your business

A pause stretches on for long enough that Shouto thinks he’s finally mortally offended Bakugou, and he’ll both be freed and have to find somewhere else to stand, but then his phone lights up with a response: whatever ♡

Shouto sees the little heart and catches himself thinking something he can't pin down. Amused, surely. It’s warm like amusement.

FUCJ TYPO IGNORE THAT, another message comes in immediately after. if u want to have paparazzi show up at your house that’s your prerogative.

why would they ? 

Bakugou rolls his eyes. youre hopeless 

thank you for your concern Shouto says, but who gives a fuck

kys. i’m not fucking concerned about u

ok, replies Shouto. And then, pointedly, he shuts off his phone. 

The only other notable thing that happened is that Shouto fell asleep soon after their conversation ended. He jerked awake to the announcement of his stop, head on Bakugou’s shoulder, though of course he was shoved off to stumble outside the second he regained consciousness.

Embarrassing.

As luck would have it, Todoroki Enji is fully booked for the entirety of March. Perhaps this is a reward from the universe for the disaster that his audition had turned out to be, that Shouto doesn't have to face his father for at least a month; and then in April he would move into the Yuuei dorms a week before classes start. If this trend continues, Shouto will not meet his father until he has to go home for summer vacation.

He hopes that’s the case. The current peace is so blissful.

In the meantime he meanders; sometimes he trawls online shopping sites for things he’ll want for the dorms, but can’t take from the estate. Sometimes he even leaves the house to attend orchestra practice, and doesn't go straight home.

Though… the train feels strangely empty without Bakugou.

Mostly, then, Shouto’s wandering leads him to the area around Yuuei. It’s easy to excuse as familiarising himself to his future campus and its surroundings, if ever prompted, but of course no one is there to ask and Shouto would never answer.

His phone vibrates with a notification. Last time anyone had texted him was Natsuo, confirming that Fuyumi did pass on news of Shouto’s continued existence and relative well-being to their brother—and asking why exactly Shouto had gone viral, but that wasn’t too long ago, a week at most. And this couldn't be his father or spam. Who wanted to talk to Todoroki Shouto?

Are you alright? says a notification banner from a contact saved as Todoroki Fuyumi.

Shouto frowns. yes

Her response is immediate, not uncharacteristic of Fuyumi but slightly concerning considering what the topic is, and condensed. Father is worried. Apparently the audition didn’t go as planned? What did you do?

Irritated, Shouto answers curtly: i played the violin 

Perhaps a chilly answer, but Shouto is often painfully reminded of why he is so averse to speaking; his sister has a way of phrasing things as though Todoroki Enji is automatically in the right, a major point of contention between all three surviving Todoroki siblings. Natsuo absolutely despises their father, Fuyumi is too prone to playing peacekeeper, and Shouto…

The way he said it, replies Fuyumi, I thought you’d gotten into a screaming match w/ the judges to skip the orchestral excerpt

Shouto wants to punch somebody. Instead, he reminds himself that his hands are insured, and replies to his sister while this moment of sociability remains: no aizawa shouta told me to skip. why would i piss him off twice and the judges too i have to live in his house

And then, in a fit of pique, added still believe whatever he told you nee san ?

Fuyumi sends him a placating cat sticker before his rage can mount any more. No, Shouto, I never did. That’s why I’m here asking you.

now you know, Shouto replies almost coldly. He’s never been able to talk about his father without feeling rage burn in his chest. i have to go

He ducks into the nearest soba-ya just to get off the streets of Shizuoka.

“Irasshaimase,” greets the lady at the counter, inclining her head but not even looking up from her work. Yeah, that’s how you know the food’s probably fantastic.

Shouto doesn’t reply except for an incline of his own head. There are some tables with three seats shoved against the right wall of the establishment, but it’s a pretty small space, so most of the seating is bar-like (or fancy café-like, based off of what he knows of Western culture via the Internet). There’s even a row to sit in front of the window. A smattering of customers have decided to sit on one of the four-seater tables, some others more sparsely dispersed on the bar where a window into the kitchen is visible. More than one instrument case is visible. This soba-ya must be frequented by musicians and musical students alike, hence why his violin case hasn't drawn any attention.

Judging by the layout, it’s probably an order-at-the-counter style of service. He approaches, the ringing of the door-bell fading away as he does, to observe the menu.

“Our QR code is currently broken,” the lady informs him. She raises her gaze to look at Shouto, seemingly aware that Shouto already has an order in mind. “We still accept card and cash, though.”

He finishes skimming the menu and raises his gaze, too. “Card is fine,” says Shouto. “Mori soba. One portion.”

“I hope not to-go?” she asks him.

“No. That would be a crime.” He even stops glaring for her—a tiny little thing, but since the joke is the most levity he’s had today, he’ll take the win when he can.

She reads out his total and takes his offered card, not batting an eye at the Amex Platinum card Shouto had been handed when he started going to orchestra rehearsal, presumably because his father had realised he needed to eat food. It’s always cringe-inducing to use. Most of the cards in that wallet are travel-oriented since the man’s never home—small mercies—so it’s not really a surprise the first one he had pulled out wasn't really meant to be used in small, quaint soba-ya or convenience stores.

But, well. Her place is barely ten minutes away from Yuuei. She probably doesn't care.

After Shouto enters the PIN (somebody’s birthday, he’s not sure whose, it may be Touya’s), she hands him a receipt. “We’ll let you know when it's ready.”

There’s a black-haired man sitting at the window counter, his piercings catching the low light of the establishment. It’s the same man that had run into Shouto before, the one who had scraped Shouto’s case. The one who had been carrying an electric bass. He grabs the seat at the window-bar, two stools away.

Immediately his presence is noticed—the man moves like a cat, perking up upon seeing somebody he recognises, and he puts down his chopsticks before raising a hand to his mouth.

“It’s you again,” the bassist says, polite enough to do so only after swallowing. His eyes are blue, Todoroki Enji blue, so much so that Shouto avoids looking at them. Up close, his skin seems interesting in texture. As if most of him are just healed burns.

“And it’s you again. Planning to destroy my violin case some more?”

The bassist laughs. It’s not the sweetest sound in the world, but it reminds Shouto of something nice. “You ran into me, brat.”

“I did not.” Shouto narrows his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Answering comes easy to this stranger: “I live in the area. What’s your excuse?”

Shouto frowns and pays rapt attention to the bassist’s ripped jeans as he answers. Something about him is familiar, far beyond their first encounter, and he’s trying to figure it out... “I got into Yuuei, so it only makes sense to get familiar with the places around it.”

“Yuuei, of course,” comes the reply, not mocking exactly, but with an undertone of something Shouto can't discern right now. “Say, did you pay to pass the auditions, or are you just that good?”

“I was accepted on merit,” Shouto says, voice suddenly running as cold as his blood. This had been how the man spoke to him, too, before… in a way. When Shouto had told him to get out of the way and the man had retorted. He hadn't been this blatant and Shouto brushed off the slight as normal annoyance and his unsocialised mind misinterpreting the nuances of a social cue, but. “The idiot who bribed their way in will get eaten alive. And they should be.”

“Who says the idiot won’t just bribe their way out of that mouth?” smirks the man.

Shouto thinks back to the judging panel of his audition and tries not to lose his temper at a stranger. “Nedzu would rather eat glass than take hush money.”

To his surprise, the man laughs. “Touché. I see Enji has managed to raise decent offspring.”

Now the coldness returns. “You know who I am?”

“Sure do, Todoroki Shouto.” The man picks up his chopsticks and snaps them rudely to emphasise his point. “I’d recognise that hair anywhere.”

“Maybe I should invest in some hair dye,” Shouto says.

“Your funeral, brat.”

Shouto narrows his eyes. “It seems unfair that you know my name, but the best thing I can call you is a strange man with spiky black hair.”

The man laughs again. “Haven't you been told not to talk to strangers? It’s Dabi.”

“That’s a horrible fake name,” replies Shouto flatly.

“Well, it’s all I got, so take it or leave it,” Dabi retorts. 

Just as Shouto was about to argue back, a bell rings out from the kitchen window, signaling that an order is ready. He swivels in his seat to confirm that it’s his and rises to pick it up.

When he returns to his spot, he notices that the sauces and utensils have been moved closer to him.

He doesn't say thank you. Dabi doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, Shouto starts to dig in and pulls up his exploration checklist—there’s still things left to do, but most of it has been completed.

Find boba is unchecked. He should do that next.

“I know a good boba place,” says Dabi, not even apologetic about looking at Shouto’s phone screen. Shouto shuts it off and glares at him.

“You’re not helping your stalker image,” mutters Shouto.

Clearly only amused, Dabi raises an eyebrow. “So… do you not want to know where it is?”

“Fine,” Shouto sighs. “Tell me.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” Dabi pulls out his phone and hands it to Shouto. When Shouto takes it, it’s an empty new contact form with only the name filled—Todoroki Shouto—and Shouto looks at the man with his eyes narrowed.

“Not interested,” he says, just to be a dick. “My father says I shouldn't give my number out to strange men I meet in soba-ya.”

Dabi glares at him. “Fucking gross, brat. I’m just trying to send you a list of places that sell decent food around here. Do you want it or not?

Interesting response. Since Shouto can feel a grand total of zero malicious intent from this man, he doesn't refuse; in fact, the guy reminds Shouto of what little foggy memory he has of Touya. By a lot. Both people with a penchant for drama, trying too hard to seem standoffish, but trying nonetheless. Somebody who wants to do good; somebody who is definitely not dangerous. “Well, how kind of you,” Shouto shrugs. He types his number in and hands the phone back.

When the texts come in, he saves Dabi’s number in return. Then he scrolls through their newly minted LINE conversation to look at the goldmine of information in it, something even Shouto can recognise despite the fact that he never actually leaves his house.

“Has that empty head of yours absorbed some information?” Dabi grouses.

“My head’s not empty,” Shouto says idly, scrolling through the menu of a nearby boba store as he continues eating.

“Yes, it is. If I knocked on your skull, it would reverberate.”

“Complex word,” remarks Shouto. “Didn't peg you as the type.”

“Your lines of thought are deranged,” says Dabi in return. “Finish that tray and I’ll show you how to get secret menu items; maybe your fried neurons will stop seeing connections where they don’t exist.”

Never let it be said that Shouto is ungrateful. He absolutely revels in his unlimited access to his father’s credit card, especially because it allows him to order yet another useless item. He’s going to completely remodel his dorm room.

Perhaps the shopping is a bit of a problem, though—going off of the provided list of amenities that had been sent to those choosing to live in the dorms, the students will already be getting a lot. A shared floor bathroom, toilets in each bedroom, a communal kitchen and living space, keycards for access. He doesn't really need so many things. He just wants them.

Strangely, the students’ living arrangements are not totally segregated the way Shouto would have assumed. Men and women live in the same building, share the same kitchen and lounge, their rooms only separated by being on different sides of the same hallway—there are keycard scanners on the elevators leading up to their sleeping quarters, but not to ban them from visiting other floors.

There’s a rule that says men and women shouldn't visit each other’s rooms, for courtesy, but there aren't actual steps taken to prevent that. Which is strangely… modern, and one might even say Western, of the conservatory. Shouto wonders how no Yuuei scandal has ever made it to the news.

Well. It’s not like that would be a problem for him. He marks the discovery as interesting and files it away in his mind, moving on to the next thing; considering the purchase of a nice Bluetooth speaker. With the auditions done and over with, Shouto has had enough of classical music and currently has rock music playing in his room—something vaguely violent and definitely against everything Japanese society stands for, which is always a delight. That’s another reason he’s glad his father is gone. Even listening to music can become a dreadful chore with the man around.

League of Villains, reads the artist’s name under the song title, as the guitar solo fills the room.

This EP of theirs is the most recent: it released two days ago, a bit after the Yuuei press frenzy had died down, a bit after Todoroki Enji’s PR team failed to scrub the internet of a picture the photographers had caught of Shouto, scar in full view. Whoops. So the album had been a nice surprise; a good thing after an avalanche of bad.

But one of the songs in it is a sweet ballad that definitely strays from the usual screaming, aggressive electric-guitar, thumping-bassline music that the band produces. It made him curious enough to wonder. A quick Google search tells Shouto the song is dedicated to the bassist’s mother, which makes sense with the lyrics; it sounded like the lead vocalist had given that bassist his role, too, for the song.

Which is hilarious. The bassist is the same Dabi he keeps running into.

Shouto isn’t a liar, though. Dabi may be aggravating, but he has an indolent kind of voice that suits the sorrow of the song perfectly—he’s untrained, Shouto’s heard many trained singers, but he clearly knows music. And the lack of polish sounds good. Raw.

The song actually reminds Shouto a little bit of Rei, whatever good gentle softness she had before her mind had cracked under the pressure of one Todoroki Enji, how the lyrics speak of tenderness from the cold, and ravaging destructive heat from fire. It’s probably the Barnum effect. Still, he finds himself putting it on loop, thinking about the Dabi who had called him a brat and the Dabi singing his heart out through Shouto’s laptop speakers.

Being sentimental comes far too easily to him. Touya should have lived to be a good musician like this Dabi figure. When Shouto had looked him up, pictures of the man showed up—on stage, in photoshoots, candid paparazzi, he looked confident in his own skin in each photograph. All of the man who ran into him and bought him boba as apology. The man in the soba-ya. It still strikes Shouto as bizarre just how blue the man’s eyes are, they could be Todoroki blue eyes, with the way the color matches perfectly. And it makes Shouto wonder, hate his father, and wonder some more.

He does have a tendency to draw lines where there aren't any, though. Shouto is just getting attached. In a fit of impulsivity, he’d even bought a vinyl of their latest album and now has an excuse to bring his record player to Yuuei: so he’s back to decorating as the major concern in his life, not a rock band.

By the end of March, he has tatami mats ordered to the exact dimensions of the room he’s been assigned to.

He also has plans to take the bed out and place a futon in. Nobody’s stopped him—Aizawa-sensei had replied to his query in a very succinct manner, not even signing off the e-mail properly, saying that he [didn't] care as long as you don't cause structural damage, and his father never comments on the things that show up on the credit card bill. Shouto is convinced he could buy a Stradivarius on that thing and his father wouldn't even bat an eye.

Moving in is not going to be easy. But Shouto suspects it might be interesting.

There’s a cup of coffee on top of his many stacks of boxes. Or presumably there still is, because it hasn't spilled all over him yet. Shouto can't see where he’s going. He’s not even short—he was just cooped up in that house and given too much access to online stores, and now it’s highly likely that he’ll have to spend his first week of residence still working on moving in. All he’s brought for day one are the essentials, and even then his father’s chauffeur had raised an eyebrow before helping him load the items.

…To be fair, they had to load an entire futon in the trunk of that sleek black car. The man had even asked Shouto why Yuuei didn’t provide mattresses, to which Shouto had to awkwardly explain his distaste for Western beds.

He’s going to retrieve the futon after this last round of items, and then he’s finishing that coffee, even if it may taste somewhat questionable. He’d had a restless night and the Yuuei dormitories open at six in the morning, and he grasped the head start with both hands, throwing his hair in a ponytail that’s sure to give him headaches by the end of the day. 

Most of his decisions prove to be idiotic—this one is not an exception.

He continues trying to navigate his hallway; there are things everywhere, rolled-up posters leaning against the wall and beloved items stacked precariously. People are weaving in and out of the rooms as well as the elevator itself. Parents, siblings, friends, perhaps. Somebody’s girlfriend comes in carrying a massive brown plush bear at some point. His hair tie catches on something and snaps loose, and he has no more elastics to contain his hair with. He’s regretting putting a shirt over his tee; it makes his clothing decent, but it’s hot in here. There’s enough commotion for all four occupied rooms on this floor, the highest, but he knows one of them isn't here, even if he hadn't bothered to check who’s placed where other than himself. There are movers for that missing person. Shouto thinks he’s the only one here moving alone, but at least no one’s going to be a hindrance when he puts down the tatami mats.

Fuyumi had offered to come, but she’s busy wrangling lesson plans and new, poorly socialised children—Natsuo is still a medical student—and there's no one else. Shouto wishes there were two more names on that list.

It’s a little pathetic, he thinks, finally setting down his things. I’m a little pathetic. Out of fear of the coffee spilling (and nerves) he grabs the cup and downs all of its contents in one fell swoop. Not his favorite method of consumption. But it settles him, even though it also makes somebody laugh from behind him—Shouto turns, meeting a girl with an angular bob haircut and wired earphones hanging from her ears.

“Nice,” she nods. Her clothes have a rockstar tinge to them, with the cropped leather jacket and loose tank top, but her shorts and slippers cancel the edge out. He thinks her tank top is League of Villains merch. That’s nice. “Got rehearsal right after?”

“How’d you guess?” he says, raising his eyebrows involuntarily. He does have Sibelius concerto practice after this, Her name is just out of reach, but he's definitely seen her before, probably heard her, too, just not her voice—a glance at the room that the random girl had marched a massive teddy bear into reveals an electric violin in an open case near the door, and suddenly the answer is so obvious: “Jirou Kyouka?”

It actually is, because she’s a veritable legend, and Shouto has no idea why she’s at a conservatory as a student rather than a teacher. They’ve run into each other in galas, too.

“Todoroki Shouto,” she echoes, smirking now. “I know because I, too, have a mandatory appearance in two hours… and that’s what this is for. Last hurrah as a competent musician before I slave away at the feet of our instructors.” Jirou raises a can of an energy drink, shakes it ominously, and throws it back like she’s drinking a shot of alcohol.

He sympathises, so he nods in approval. There is solidarity here. “Todoroki is fine.”

“Call me Jirou, then,” shrugs the girl, crumpling the can and tossing it into the bin behind her without looking. “Can’t wait to see you in action. Who knows, you might actually survive the first year.”

“I thought you’d bet on me dropping out by August,” Shouto replies, a small smile rising to his face unbidden.

“Oh, that’s the second thing I put money on,” grins Jirou in earnest. She’s vicious. That’s respectable. “I’ll catch you later. My girlfriend’s going to burn the place down if I let her decorate alone.”

Shouto inclines his head, trying not to be visibly irritated by the way his hair falls in his face. So the girlfriend is hers. “Best of luck,” he says. At that, Jirou laughs sharply—she's expressive, he thinks—then walks away, and in her movements is the undercurrent of danger that he can see emerge every time she puts her bow to her violin strings. She moves like she knows just how deadly she is, and her instruments reflect that, all electric abstract marvels, and he goes off to drag his futon up silently laughing at the encounter.

When he does manage to yank the roll out of the elevator, sacrificing several strands of his hair in the process, he runs into somebody quite directly. Shouto doesn't fall, and the person he collides with doesn’t, either; but Shouto is then left awkwardly hugging the futon to keep it coiled up and watching through his hair as the boy straightens up. It’s like Shouto’s seen this set of eyelashes before, that annoyed mouth, the brilliant red-molasses eyes. Thought about it a little too often, actually.

Bakugou Katsuki.

“...Watch where you’re going,” Shouto says, and immediately the boy seems enraged.

“Fuck you, Half n’ Half,” snaps Bakugou. “Why are you even lugging around a whole futon in here? The beds not good enough for you?”

“I fall out of Western beds,” Shouto replies. He blows some of his hair out of his line of sight. “And it’s still none of your business.”

Bakugou crosses his arms and scrutinises Shouto’s hair, misshapen from being tied up while wet, his clothing, which probably doesn’t suit him as well as Bakugou’s tank top and shorts, the stupid roll Shouto is still hugging to keep from expanding in the hallway. “So the tatami mats and sliding door tracks are yours?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Don’t have an aneurysm yet, they’ll be out of your way.”

“Out of my way? Dumbass, none of your shit is in the middle of the hall like Jirou’s decor—or whatever her girlfriend brought—I was asking because literally nobody brings tatami mats to move into a fucking dorm. Wanted to know who was weird enough to. Figures that it’d be you.”

Shouto blinks. “In that case, just don't look at my dorm room. Close the door.”

“That’s not the fucking problem!”

His arms are starting to ache. “Then what is?”

“You’re not going to get that done in time.”

“That may be a problem, but not your problem,” replies Shouto, looking flatly at Bakugou from under his eyelashes. He’s resting his forehead on the futon roll, to rest his neck, and from the canopied vision of his two-toned hair Bakugou is blurry. Softer. Shouto might like him better this way. “Can I go put this in my room now, or do you want to do it?”

Bakugou splutters, but he does move aside (albeit indignantly). Shouto considers this a win.