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Fuyumi had forgotten the sound of Touya’s voice two years ago. One day she had tried recalling it but found nothing there. She cried that night for hours on end. His face met her every day on the small altar she had made him on her drawer, but his voice was gone.
During her life, she had lost a lot of things. Now Shouto barely came home anymore ever since he moved into the dorms, and Natsuo hadn’t set foot in the house since the day he moved to university. And her big brother had become her youngest brother.
Forever thirteen years old, forever stuck as a child that had been desperate to prove himself an adult. Touya would stay that way. All that remained of him were framed pictures and a forgotten voice. Everyone would continue to age, just like they had done since that day ten years ago, while Touya didn’t.
Or maybe Fuyumi wouldn’t. Maybe she too would stay stuck in time while everyone else moved on. Most already had. Her hair was the exact same length it had been when Touya died, the frame of her glasses the same, and the house she wandered in which had driven Touya to an early death, the same.
She had tried to convince herself it was for Shouto, so he wouldn’t be all alone with their father at the house. But sometimes she questioned it.
Once, she had looked at an apartment close to Shouto’s school. It was a two-bedroom. She would have had a spare room if her brothers had wanted to stay over. The kitchen was small but modern.
It was on the internet for two weeks. Every night she opened a private browser and looked it up. Spent hours staring at the floor plan, zoomed in on the wallpaper, and thought about what the water pressure would be like in the shower with glass doors.
The day it had disappeared from the website, having been rented out, she had cried. Fuyumi cried a lot; she knew. Ever since she was young. Touya used to mock her for it, but every time she cried, he was there.
Now, alone on one side of their houses, no one heard her. No one would crawl into her bed and call her stupid and hug her, like Touya did. No one would awkwardly pat her back like Natsuo did.
She was alone in a house she didn’t want to be in.
Fuyumi used to have dreams for herself. She used to envision a life that contained everything she wanted. She wanted a big garden, a huge TV, and to work as an artist. Mother had given her a sketchpad when she was younger, but by the time Fuyumi had managed to fill it out, Mother was gone.
She didn’t paint anymore. Wouldn’t even be particularly good at it. Had she continued, maybe she would have been. Now she could draw bunnies and cats which her students loved, but nothing like what she had imagined as a child.
Fuyumi used to dream of love; how silly that even was. Touya did that too, sometimes, even though he pretended he didn’t.
So, Fuyumi told herself there was a reason she stayed in the house. Shouto needed her when he actually came back, and if Fuyumi left, Father would be alone.
If she stayed, maybe she could fix it. Maybe then, when everything was okay again, she could finally learn how to paint.
Or maybe she was just unable to move on. Maybe that was why she never got that apartment, why she never bought watercolors, why she wandered a house as a glorified maid while pretending to not hear the sounds from the training room.
Quiet to the noise of skin on skin as Father slapped Shouto. Averting her eyes every time it happened, traitorous thoughts of wishing Shouto would stop agitating Father and make it easier for everyone. Refusing to meet Shouto’s gaze after it happened, too ashamed of herself, until Shouto stopped trying to meet her eyes.
But these days it didn’t happen that often anymore. Father was trying to be better, so it was becoming a rarer and rarer occurrence. Sometimes, though, Father slipped up.
Those times, instead of looking at Fuyumi, Shouto looked down on the ground, his jaw clenched as red blossomed on his cheek.
Just like Fuyumi did.
Nothing made Fuyumi hate herself more.
Would Shouto one day turn out like Touya? Would he die young, like many heroes do? Was that his fate, to be pierced through the heart by a bullet or crushed under the remains of crumbled buildings? Burnt to death in an inferno of his own making?
Fate wouldn’t be kind to Shouto, just like it wasn’t to anyone else in their family.
But Fuyumi was frozen in time, unable to move on while everyone else did. She should be happy they did, but every time she thought about it, she was filled with such jealousy and despondency she did nothing but cry into her pillow until the feeling subsided.
Natsuo always sounded disappointed in her when they talked, and Shouto had almost stopped talking to her. She knew both felt betrayed by her in some ways. Some days, Fuyumi couldn’t help but wonder if Touya had looked at her with their brothers’ eyes. Had that betrayal and disappointment burned Toya long before his fire did?
Fuyumi never did anything. The only thing she seemed to do, however, was add another year to the life she already had, while Touya, who did everything she didn’t, would never be able to.
Now she met people who didn’t know about him. Barely anyone knew about that big, big part of her life that had gone out in a blaze. Sometimes Fuyumi thought about how scared Touya must have been when his own quirk turned on him.
Had he cried, like Fuyumi always did? The thought made her nauseous with grief she had no way of getting rid of. He must have been in so much pain.
Had he been angry? Had he been sad? Had he hated them? Had he hated her? Had he regretted things?
Fuyumi had dreamt of having friends when she was younger. Anxious to grow up so she could get a friend group like people always had on TV. Now, the closest things to friends she had were coworkers she barely interacted with. Now, she didn’t think even her brothers saw her as a friend.
Every person she met would never meet her older brother; would never get to know him. Would only know Fuyumi after Touya. Did anyone really like that version? How could they, when even Fuyumi didn’t?
The brother she had idolized and loved didn’t know her now. But she knew that he would be disgusted with what she had turned into.
One day, Fuyumi wanted to have children. On her phone, deep in her notes, she had a list of names she liked. Some nights when she couldn’t sleep, she would look at those names. If she ever had any, they would one day grow older than Touya. Their uncle they would never know. The first time she had that thought, she cried herself to sleep.
But what kind of mother would she be? She had never been able to protect anyone, and maybe she never would. How could she raise and love children of her own when her love for the brother sharing the same womb as her had been too weak for him to stay alive? Her brother, ten minutes earlier than her, had now been dead for nine years.
Now Shouto was living his life, and she couldn’t even bring herself to look him in the eye while their father hit him.
Would she be like her own mother?
Shame clung to her because she knew that answer was no.
Sadness drenched her because she knew she would be even worse.
Shouto was back from school for a week. She hadn’t asked why. Maybe it was some kind of break.
Like she always did, she pretended not to hear the noises from the training room. In the kitchen it wasn’t hard to do. They were faint in there, and if she turned on the fan high enough, they were drowned out.
She rolled the noodles in her hands, waiting for the water to boil.
Shouto’s scream filled the air all of a sudden, breaking through the loud noise of the fan. She flinched. Shouto didn’t usually scream like that during training. When he was younger he did until his lungs went out, until they suffocated them all, but now he was much more quiet.
Fuyumi was thankful for it.
And Shouto was better with pain now.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Father was trying to be better. He was trying to change, trying to become something that he had not been since even before he had met their mother. She couldn’t fault him for falling short this time.
She couldn’t.
Father was only human, and he made mistakes. He was trying to make up for them now. Maybe, if Shouto just managed to keep his head down and stop riling Father up, the rest of the week would pass more easily.
Then Father could prove how much he changed and how much he wanted to change.
Soon they were going to come and sit down on the floor around the table, and they would eat Shouto’s favorite food, and they all would be a family again. She would smile and talk, ask questions, and maybe Shouto would answer them in more than one word.
Maybe soon Natsuo would actually agree to come to dinner, and then they would really start coming together.
Fuyumi could see it in front of her. Natsuo would tease Shouto about something, maybe about liking someone at school, and Shouto would shove at him while Natsuo laughed. Their mother would reprimand Natsuo but would share a small smile with Fuyumi when neither of the brothers was looking.
Father wouldn’t say anything, but he too would smile, and then maybe tell them about the latest villain he had defeated. And Fuyumi would tell them all about the kids in her class, and Mother would tell embarrassing stories about when they were young, and Touya would flush bright r-
The door to the training room was loudly torn open just as she dunked the boiled spinach in ice-cold water. Heavy steps followed, vibrations crawling up her legs, as Father got closer.
Without even looking at her, he turned the tap on and rinsed his hands, tearing the kitchen towel from the hook to wipe away the moisture.
When she felt his gaze on her, she avoided eye contact as she dropped the noodles into the boiling water she had used to cook the spinach.
The cloth Father had used was stained a pale red, clear on the white fabric. She swallowed.
“Is Shouto coming?” She asked cautiously, bending down to take the towel and put it on the furthest end of the counter. Later she could wash it.
“Yes. If he knows what’s good for him.”
She chanced a look over at him. He was in training clothes, his fire down, but didn’t look particularly worse for wear. Just like always. But he seemed to be in a foul mood. Thinking back, he had been for the entire day. Maybe now wasn’t the best for conversation. That could come tomorrow, if he is happier then. She bit at her bottom lip, her brows furrowed as she peeked a look into the empty hallway.
Was Shouto okay?
The water in the bowl she was holding turned just cold enough not to freeze. She threw in the noodles, trying to keep her hands steady. There wasn’t any sound from the training room, no light steps walking towards them.
When she served the food, she was quiet. Father seemed to appreciate it, at least.
Shouto would be joining them, he had said. Father was trying to be better, trying for them.
She made a plate and placed it opposite Father, where Shouto always sat. The pile of blanched spinach was taller than hers. He needed the nutrients if he was going to become a hero. Shouto was skinnier than he probably should be. She would cook him a lot this week, when Father wasn’t home.
Fuyumi didn’t want to start eating without Shouto, so she stared at her own plate, knees folded under her.
When Father was halfway done, she gathered the courage to ask, “Should I go get him?”
Father paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Her heart was beating fast because there hadn’t been any sound from the training room, and Shouto was still not here.
She almost breathed a sigh of relief when Father grunted consent, giving a sharp nod.
“If you don’t, I will,” he said, in what felt more like a promise of something bad instead of comfort. Today was a really bad day. But it was okay. Those happened.
Everyone has bad days.
Without further ado, she quickly and carefully stood up. As soon as she left Father’s view, her speed picked up. The training room wasn’t far, so she arrived in no time. The door was halfway closed, probably slamming back after having been opened so violently.
“Shouto?” She asked, keeping her voice down so she wouldn't disturb Father. There was no response.
“Shouto? You’re missing dinner.”
There was a rustle, and fear she didn’t know she had fallen off her shoulder, her breath coming easier. How foolish she was to worry.
Because that was preposterous. That was a stupid thought. Shouto had screamed, yes, but now there was sound so he wasn’t d-
“I’m coming in.”
Fuyumi pushed open the door fully and stopped at the sight in front of her. Her breath caught in her throat as she all but stumbled over to Shouto.
“Shouto? Hey, Shouto, come on,” Fuyumi whispered, throwing herself to her knees beside him and lifting his head into her lap. She barely recognized his face, blood pooling from his nose that looked to be at an angle it wasn’t supposed to be, his lip bust open.
After a few seconds, he blinked his eyes open. His left one was so swollen it barely opened halfway.
“Nee-san?” Shouto mumbled, his voice hoarse and strained.
“Are you okay? What hurts?”
Shouto coughed, seemingly trying to sit up but failing as the action made him groan. Fuyumi’s blood ran as cold as her quirk when she saw the bruise in the form of a hand like a necklace around her little brother’s throat. It ran colder still as she saw the burn on his jaw.
He was starting to look like Touya. Her breath escaped her at the thought.
How long would it take before Shouto too burned in a pyre of his own creation? Before his jawbone was all there was left of him, up on a lonely mountain?
How long until his picture would join Touya’s on the small altar she kept in her room?
How long until Father stopped having good days?
“You need to come and eat, Shouto.” She said, eyes flickering to the door.
“‘m not–” he groaned again, “hungry.”
Father was trying to be better, but he couldn’t be that if Shouto refused to join dinner. Shouto couldn’t turn to ash if he was sitting at the dinner table, if their family could be mended, if all six of them– no, five was the right number—were together again.
If they would play football, and she would throw herself at Natsuo when he cheated, and Touya would have to pull her back as Shouto laughed, as their sat around the living room table drinking tea their mother boiled, as they watched the sunrise after the new year had began and prayed for their fortune–
Her heart was beating loud in her ears, and Shouto still wasn’t getting up. They couldn’t have that if Shouto didn’t get up.
“You need to come, Shouto. Father wants you to.”
But Shouto still didn’t move, and Fuyumi felt her eyes heat up, Shouto’s face starting to slowly blur. Why was the only thing she was ever capable of doing crying?
“Please,” she whispered, because Shouto was hurt worse than he had been in a long time, and something was off with their father today, and she knew he wasn’t lying when he said he would come get Shouto if she didn’t.
And if Father had to, it wouldn’t be good for either of them. Finally, Shouto started moving. She helped him sit up, and she avoided meeting his eyes.
In the corner a towel was thrown, and when she trusted Shouto not to fall over sitting, she rushed over and grabbed it. It looked clean enough.
“Hold still,” she said as she crouched down in front of Shouto, grabbing her chin as gently as she could.
Shouto did as told but hissed when she started wiping away the blood that had finally stopped pouring from his nose. And then the blood from the miscellany of scrapes and cuts.
But Shouto sat still, even when she knew it must hurt. Because this wasn’t just to help Shouto. It was to help her, too. Father didn’t like when Shouto looked like he currently did. When he was covered in grime and blood because that was not what a hero should look like.
There was this one time, four years ago, when Fuyumi had been sent to get Shouto after a training session like this one, and he had been bloody with tear tracks heavy on his cheeks still round with youth. He had been so mad at Fuyumi and those bruises on her face had taken so long to heal, and–
Maybe Father felt guilty. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want Shouto to look hurt. Maybe that’s why he had gotten mad, because he felt guilty. That was a good thing, right?
He was trying. And– and everyone failed, sometimes. But maybe it was a one-time thing, and he would be better from now on.
She quietly told Shouto so, trying to comfort him. But it seemed to have the opposite effect because he pulled away from her; the towel in her hand was left hovering in the air where his face had been.
“You’re stupid if you believe that,” Shouto said, and Fuyumi wanted to argue, to tell him not to be mean to her, but the tone of his voice made her hold her tongue.
Her little brother, her second youngest brother, looked tired. Looked exhausted. His clothes were burned, as was his skin, looking just like Touya used to look.
The blue of his eye sang the same songs Touya’s had, once upon a time.
His grey barely visible, the same dull like their mothers. Just like hers.
But Shouto got up, shrugging over her hand as she reached over to help steady him. The rejection stung.
“Took you long enough,” Father said, not looking up from the newspaper he was currently reading. His plate was empty.
“Sorry! We’re here now,” Fuyumi said in answer, trying for a cheery voice but even to herself it rang false. She helped Shouto sit down, this time reaching back when he tried to shrug her off yet again. Luckily, he relented.
With a shaking hand that she knew wasn’t trembling out of fear, Shouto slowly started eating. She sat down again, and silence covered them.
“Good.” Father looked up at them with a frown. “Eat everything, Shouto.”
Because more often than not, Shouto didn’t. Especially when they were younger, Shouto sometimes refused to eat. This time, however, he just nodded.
By the time she had managed to finish her food, Shouto seemingly hadn’t even made a dent in his share. His chopsticks kept failing to pick up any noodles, and he dropped them more often than not.
Fuyumi slowly moved over to him, her knees scraping the floor as she came to sit beside Shouto. His legs were awkwardly folded under him. She chanced a quick look at Father, but he wasn’t looking at them. He must know but didn’t say anything. So it was okay.
Then she met Shouto’s eyes and she felt like crying. It now just looked dull and empty, but tears, she knew, wouldn’t fall, pooling at the corner of his eye.
He looked at her, something defeated in his expression, and he didn’t argue when she took the chopsticks from him. She tried to not look at the burns and bruises on his arms, the myriad of twisted night skies, and incinerated trees.
One of his fingers didn’t seem to be bent the right way. They would have to call the family doctor, most likely. Today was a really, really bad day for Father.
Testament to that was that Father didn’t say anything while she slowly started feeding Shouto the noodles and spinach and the fried tofu.
Her brother looked ashamed, and if she had known him better, maybe she would have known something good to say. But she didn’t.
When they were halfway through, Father spoke.
“Enough. He can eat the rest himself.”
Fuyumi should argue. She should say something. Say that Shouto looked bad, that he was so exhausted and hurt that she should continue helping him eat, but when she met Father’s gaze the words died within her.
Instead, she slowly put down the chopsticks, giving them to Shouto who nodded at her. Like she was the one needing comfort.
So she got up and took her and Father’s plate and walked to the sink. She filled it with water hot enough to turn her skin red.
When everything was okay again, when they were a family again like Father promised, maybe she would meet Natsuo’s girlfriend. She could cook with Fuyumi and Mother, and they could tell her how lucky Natsuo was. Maybe she and Fuyumi could become good friends. She didn’t have any at all currently, so it would be nice. The girlfriend would probably have a family already, so then all of them could eat dinners together.
Hopefully it would be loud and happy affairs, but she would have to make sure Touya didn’t do anything b-
“You better rest tonight, Shouto. So you can heal,” Father spoke, his voice steady.
Fuyumi felt relief course through her. Because mistakes happen, getting better didn’t happen overnight. Some days it was one step forward, two steps back. But Father was trying to be better, to be a family, and he was concerned.
Before he wouldn’t be. Not like this. She looked over at Shouto, trying to catch his gaze.
See? He’s trying.
Shouto wouldn’t be another Touya. Wouldn’t hurt like him, wouldn’t rage like him, wouldn’t hurt like him. Fate didn’t have to be repeated. Everything was going to be okay. They could go to the movies together like normal families did, could have beach days in the gazing sun, and could invite over Shouto’s friend from UA so she could finally meet them.
What would they be like? She had seen some on the TV, and she had gathered that the blonde and green-haired boy were his closest friends. They seemed like lively people. Maybe she should invite them over.
How would they fit, with the six of them? What would dinners be like?
Touya would probably argue with the blonde (Bakugou, that was his name, she remembered from the Sport’s Festival), and Father would scold him for being rude to the guests, but Bakugou would probably be just as loud judging from what she had gathered from the TV and Shouto, and maybe Bakugou and Touya could become friends, being the same age and all, and–
“You need the energy for training. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve become sloppy. All this time at school and you haven’t been improving.” Her hands stilled in the water too hot for her hands. It was quickly becoming cooler. “I’m disappointed.”
Shouto didn’t answer.
She didn’t know why, but she started talking even though her chest was constricting more and more.
“He seems pretty tired, Dad. Maybe it’s better he rests a few days first? School can be exhausting,” she said, turning around and trying to keep her voice casual.
Shouto looked up. His eyes were widened just a fraction. She was surprised herself.
“He doesn’t need rest. He needs to get better,” Father said.
“Well, don’t y–”
“Quiet.”
Fuyumi shut her mouth. Father sent her a glare, fire in his eyes and she looked down the second their eyes met.
She turned back around to the dishes. Father continued talking.
The knife in her hand was wet and slippery. Big and sharp.
Father was talking to Shouto, going over the training schedule for the week, berating him for slacking off at school.
This wasn’t–
Was this ever going to change? They were back at square one, back at the start, just like when Shouto had just started UA. Was progress this easy to lose?
”I thought you said you would try and change.” Her words left her before she even realized she said them. They were quiet sounds, but they were heard.
Father stopped talking, and slowly she turned around. Shouto was looking at her, still as surprised as the last time she spoke, her eye searching for something. What it was, Fuyumi didn’t know.
”Do we need to have this conversation, Fuyumi?”
There had been a few conversations in the past. They hadn’t included very much talking, but they had given her an insight into how Touya and Shouto lived.
It wasn’t nice. Afterwards, when Touya or Shouto made their father mad about something, she hated herself for the complete and utter relief she felt when the anger wasn’t directed at her anymore. When the bruises healed, she was happy her quirk wasn’t fire.
She had been happy she wasn’t beaten like her brothers. She really was the worst sister, wasn’t she?
She shook her head.
”Good,” Father said.
Fuyumi looked at Shouto.
Father’s fist slammed on the table. Shouto apologized for something.
He was sitting with his head bent, his fingers still bent wrong around the chopsticks, and it was with absolute and soul-crushing horror that Fuyumi realized Shouto wouldn’t turn out like Touya. He would turn out like her.
Father was still talking, and the knife in her hand was once again so, so slippery in the soapy water.
Would they ever meet Natsuo’s girlfriend? Would they play football, or meet Shouto’s friend, or go to the beach, or tease Touya, or be a family again?
Could things change when they weren’t even six anymore?
Would she ever learn how to paint?
The answer to all of those questions made her swallow.
She wanted to escape to her room, to bury her face in his pillow and cry and cry because she didn’t know how to paint, because her brother was dead, and because she was so fucking happy she wasn’t Touya or Shouto.
Tears hit the water in the sink. Fuyumi wanted to be a good person. Wanted to be a good sister. But she wasn’t. Would probably never be.
She couldn’t even look at her baby brother while he was hit, because it was uncomfortable. For her.
She would die in this house. Maybe she already had. Maybe her picture already was on the altar next to Touya’s. Maybe they died together that day.
The air was gone from the room, and her heart was beating too fast; the only sound she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears.
Or maybe it was Shouto who would die in this house. She could see it before her. Shouto’s framed picture, sitting together with his older brother, forever immortalized. And Fuyumi would continue to age, continue to cry, and Natsuo would hate her even more than he already did, and she would look at apartments she never would buy.
And if she ever managed to have children, then they would one day be older than Shouto, who died young like Touya. She knew what picture to use for his altar. The picture she had taken once when he got back from an outing with his class, she would use. She had saved it to her computer as well. That would be nice.
She could light candles and incense for both of them.
Should she ask Shouto’s favorite flowers so she chooses the right ones to put at his altar?
She wanted to have children. She wanted to be a protector. She wanted her big brother back. She wanted Shouto to grow old. She wanted to have friends. She wanted to paint.
A look over her shoulder. Shouto was dripping blood from his lip onto his plate, but he still ate the noodles splattered with it. His arm was shaking, his expression pained and far too tired for someone his age.
Father was talking. Now his flames were burning bright.
He never stopped.
The knife was steady in her hand when she dried it with the towel Father had used before.
Father’s back was towards her, and Touya was opposite of him. His hair was split in the middle, both red and white, with a scar just like Shouto’s. His arms were scarred, like his jaw, purple and aching–
Why did he look like Shouto, who was still a child?
Touya couldn’t die twice. It wasn’t fair.
And Father wouldn’t stop.
He wouldn’t.
Their mother had known that. Touya had. Maybe it had been intentional, that day.
Fuyumi knew she wouldn't get an apartment before Father stopped.
Father’s back was towards her.
His back was to her.
Fuyumi never learned how to paint. She wanted to love and to be loved. She wanted to be like Touya.
She plunged the knife deep into the side of his neck, right into the pulsating artery.
(Later, she would say she couldn’t remember what had happened.
That wouldn’t be a lie, not exactly, because the moments next happened so fast she didn’t even know they had happened until she was standing in a pool of hot, hot blood.)
Father didn’t die instantly. He turned his head towards Fuyumi, trying to uselessly pull at the knife lodged to the hilt in his throat. His eyes were wide with shock. With betrayal. His mouth opened as if wanting to speak, but then blood rushed out and drowned whatever words he was trying to form.
It was a macabre sight. Father fell to the side, twitched a few times, and filled the air with awful gurgling sounds.
Then he stopped.
Fuyumi wouldn’t place his framed picture next to Touya’s. She wouldn’t build him an altar.
(Later, she would beg the police to find the man who killed her Dad.
Later, she would cry into Shouto’s chest as they looked at their father lying in the casket, and she would actually mean it.
Later, when the house was cleared by the police, she would kneel before Touya’s altar and mourn like she never had the chance to, the candles’ light flickering blue.
Later, after they moved into Natsuo’s extra bedroom, she would whisper the truth to him in the middle of the night.
Later, she would change.
Later, she would start to move.)
Now, she stared at the body of her dead father, as Shouto stared at her with eyes she didn’t recognize.
”…Nee-san?”
“You should eat, Shouto.” She pulled the knife out, her hand shaking as she started wiping off the blade. “So you can grow big.”