Rabbit Heart / Lion Heart

Oftentimes, Shouto wakes to his scar throbbing.

Cold sweat drips down the back of his neck, his chest heaves, his heart feels like it's in his throat, and his scar aches aches aches to its rhythm. For just a moment, he is frightened, terror overtaking his body and wrapping around his throat like a noose. Unsightly, unsightly, unsightly, his mind keeps skipping like a broken record. It's been damaged for as long as he can remember, repeating over and over since that day when he received his scar.

Shouto can't remember the last time he cried. He thinks he's out of tears by now.

The morning sun filters through his window, faint and delicate, spreading like liquid across the floor and embracing the parts of his room it can reach. His bed is too far aside for it, and Shouto feels a sort of detachment - here he is, lurking in the shadows, and the sun is right there, but he can't bring himself to step into it.

Shouto knows he won't sleep again, but he curls up and tries regardless.

(Shouto, his mother tells him in his dreams, white clouds of breath floating around her, hair whipping like a wraith, but fingers gentle, gentle, and cold and so real against his cheek, never forget who you are. Never forget what it is that you can do. This power of yours belongs to you and you alone. You are not your father's plaything.

And then she vanishes, dissolves into thin air as in her wake Enji looms, and he is tall, taller, tallest. He smiles, says, I do this because I care for you.

Shouto only thinks, this is not love.)

When sleep doesn't come to him, Shouto takes to the outdoors. The morning air is chilled, nipping at his cheeks and rolling over his skin, dragging goosebumps up with long, cold fingers. Running clears his head - it gives him a chance to allow his more intrusive thoughts to blow away into the rising sun, just for a moment. When he runs, Shouto feels free, like he's flying, like he's weightless and in a constant state of free fall, feet never touching the ground. He runs until he's breathing hard and then he runs some more.

He remembers, vividly, that the festival had been that day.

It's odd, he thinks later - he only remembers it specifically because of his run that day, specifically because of the sensations and the wind dragging wiry fingers through his dual colored hair. When he arrives home from the run, his father is waiting, all fury and coldness crushed into one looming man.

Shouto does not fear his father. He does not fear Todoroki Enji. He fears what Todoroki Enji can do, will do, without hesitation. He fears Endeavor, all scorching flames and merciless fists and cold, cold, cold eyes. Shouto fears his own lack of courage to do anything but petty rebellion. He is not his mother; he won't step forward to take the blows when they're aimed at someone else. Something always swells in his throat, something always screams stop him, or say something, you coward, but he never does.

The festival takes place at night, in the center of the city.

Enji doesn't want to go, and his displeasure shows in the flex of his arms, the slow, downward drawl of his lips. Nonetheless, he takes Shouto by the arm and they go - he's got a reputation to uphold, and there are people expecting him. So he goes, and Shouto knows that Enji will show his displeasure later, knows there will be hell to pay when they're away from prying eyes.

Shouto is a teenager, but he sees the way others his age run around the festival, laughing and chattering, and realizes there's this distance between him and everyone else that he never quite managed to close.

He dubs it the Incident - one moment, his father is talking to someone, someone of stature, someone who will be a good connection in the future, and the next a hand is curling around Shouto's arm and he flinches, but there's a voice, soothing and soft and feminine in his ear. She's talking quickly, too quickly, and he can't see her face, but a part of him doesn't want to turn.