( his mind can't wrap its way around the feeling. what are these feelings, and where do they even come from? he's spent months worrying about them, but somehow they've never felt as keen as they do now; he's spent months denying them, but somehow it had been easier to skate around them the same way that fuuta skated around them all the same, as though they could both accept the distance if it came together, not from one side but from the both of them. but here, fuuta is clamoring to be closer to him in a way that he thinks he only felt once, distantly, during that stupid game--and is that it? he wouldn't put it above this place to make the whole beach some fucking love-drunk honey trap, and maybe fuuta's just more susceptible to it, or maybe he's spent more time here than he has. because there's something absolutely impossible about it, isn't there? the way that fuuta tucks in against his side, rubs his head in like a cat eager to mark its scent; no one would feel that way about him. no one would do that sort of thing without an ulterior motive or an excuse.
god, he doesn't understand it. why does it feel so good, being here? having fuuta look at him like he's the only person in the resort, now, like he'd rather not be anywhere else? it makes his heart rabbit, makes his stomach twist in discomfort; he can feel the tears of excitement, beading up behind his damaged lids, hoping for some kind of metallic, tangy release.
he wants to reach out and touch him, wants to pull that eyepatch off; if he's baring himself, here, then shouldn't fuuta bare himself all the same? but he cares, or he's forced to care, or it's the drink, or it's not any of those things, but all the things he keeps denying: he centers his gaze down onto the sand, between his knees, and gently, warily, lifts up the arm that's trapped between them. )
...Quirks. They're hereditary. You know? Like I said already.
( quiet, muttered--as he stretches his arm out around fuuta's shoulders, craning him in against the incessant heat of his side. )
You can inherit your father's quirk, or your mother's quirk, or whatever, a combination. Or even something completely different. My...father. ( his teeth clench a little, like it's hard to admit it: hard to use the word. ) He chose a woman based on her quirk to try to enhance his own, found that her family was willing to sell her off for it. You know, creating a designer baby. The kind of shit that society thinks is disgusting. He wanted that half-cold half-hot quirk, wanted to create a kid that could surpass the strongest pro hero.
Wanted a kid that could make him feel like less of a weak, fucking failure, being stuck at number two.
So they made me. ( his gaze is stuck so resolutely on the sand, almost like--he's afraid to look at fuuta now. ) My father's quirk is fire, my mother's quirk is ice. I only got the fire part, or so they thought, but that was fine. I had more power than he did. More potential. So he thought he'd raise me to be better than him, better than the number one hero, better than everyone.
( a slight tilt of his head; his fingers tighten in around fuuta's shoulder, like he'll keep him close by force if he has to. )
Started training, and all that. Convinced me to buy into the dream, you know? That I was gonna make it, or whatever. That I was gonna be the son he'd be so proud of, you know? ( a scoff of a laugh--real laughter, like it's actually funny. ) But turns out they fucked up, 'cause I had my mom's body. Tolerant against ice and cold, not heat and fire. I burned myself all the time, training, 'cause my body can't handle it. Still can't. 's why I'm hot all the time.
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god, he doesn't understand it. why does it feel so good, being here? having fuuta look at him like he's the only person in the resort, now, like he'd rather not be anywhere else? it makes his heart rabbit, makes his stomach twist in discomfort; he can feel the tears of excitement, beading up behind his damaged lids, hoping for some kind of metallic, tangy release.
he wants to reach out and touch him, wants to pull that eyepatch off; if he's baring himself, here, then shouldn't fuuta bare himself all the same? but he cares, or he's forced to care, or it's the drink, or it's not any of those things, but all the things he keeps denying: he centers his gaze down onto the sand, between his knees, and gently, warily, lifts up the arm that's trapped between them. )
...Quirks. They're hereditary. You know? Like I said already.
( quiet, muttered--as he stretches his arm out around fuuta's shoulders, craning him in against the incessant heat of his side. )
You can inherit your father's quirk, or your mother's quirk, or whatever, a combination. Or even something completely different. My...father. ( his teeth clench a little, like it's hard to admit it: hard to use the word. ) He chose a woman based on her quirk to try to enhance his own, found that her family was willing to sell her off for it. You know, creating a designer baby. The kind of shit that society thinks is disgusting. He wanted that half-cold half-hot quirk, wanted to create a kid that could surpass the strongest pro hero.
Wanted a kid that could make him feel like less of a weak, fucking failure, being stuck at number two.
So they made me. ( his gaze is stuck so resolutely on the sand, almost like--he's afraid to look at fuuta now. ) My father's quirk is fire, my mother's quirk is ice. I only got the fire part, or so they thought, but that was fine. I had more power than he did. More potential. So he thought he'd raise me to be better than him, better than the number one hero, better than everyone.
( a slight tilt of his head; his fingers tighten in around fuuta's shoulder, like he'll keep him close by force if he has to. )
Started training, and all that. Convinced me to buy into the dream, you know? That I was gonna make it, or whatever. That I was gonna be the son he'd be so proud of, you know? ( a scoff of a laugh--real laughter, like it's actually funny. ) But turns out they fucked up, 'cause I had my mom's body. Tolerant against ice and cold, not heat and fire. I burned myself all the time, training, 'cause my body can't handle it. Still can't. 's why I'm hot all the time.