The King is Dead

Long Live the King

There's a fine line between discipline and abuse.

Shouto didn't know that.

Wrapping his neck with bandages to hide a bruise from his tutor tomorrow, he realizes that maybe this isn't normal. Maybe he doesn't actually deserve this and maybe, just maybe, father has been doing wrong this entire time.

(He doesn't like to linger on the last thought, because if father has been doing wrong it means Shouto was a mistake too.)

He tucks the bandage into itself and swallows, hating the way his Adam's apple bobs against the tight fabric. It makes him nauseous to think about and so he doesn't, think. Thinking isn't necessary right now, not while father is on his way home and expecting a good round of training out of his son.

Listening is what's important. He walks to the training room and sits in the middle, waiting for father to come in and finish with his one-sided anger match, waiting for when he can sleep.

It's his first year without mom. He doesn't have to wear bandages anymore but his eye still hurts, every time father insults it or burns it. Every time Shouto's mind wanders to the thought of mother, he feels himself becoming unreal, and then he's nothing more than a stinging pain.

(He likes it, there aren't any similarities between him and father when he's nothing but pain.)

He hears footsteps, and he feels less lonely; a benefit of father's presence. As long as he's here, Shouto won't be alone. He'll be protected and beaten and safe and damaged. The way he was always meant to be.

"Shouto," Enji stands in the doorway, legs wobbly from one too many drinks and a paper in hand. He drops it on the floor. "You're failing math."

Shouto clears his throat. "My tutor says I've done 'exceptionally well'," he wrings his hands together. "I have an A-."

"You should have extra credit with how much you use your schoolwork as an excuse from training!" Fire comes at Shouto, and it takes the flick of his hand to keep it just far enough to not touch his skin. Manipulating other people's fire is a pain but it's a neat trick.

"Shouto. You're excused from your studies for the next week."

Shouto tenses, knowing what that meant. School had always been a good thing. It meant he got interaction and time outside.

No school means days of darkness and neglect. It means a wooden door that he can't kick down. It means peering through a crack to see when father leaves the room. It means stuffy air and a dry throat.

Shouto doesn't say anything, just gets up and walks to his room, into the closet. He feels like a dog that's been trained, doomed to follow orders either out of stupidity or loyalty, maybe both.

It's dark, but he's glad father was too drunk to remember to cut Shouto. The smell of his own blood is one he's used to, and yet it revolts him. The feel of it running down his arms is a feeling he'd rather not know, the itching of old scabs is something he'd like to have taken from him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, for a minute he thinks he's fallen asleep but he dreamt the same dream he always has. Watching himself wherever he was, like he was a movie or show. It didn't feel like sleeping, but father said so, father was never wrong.

"Shouto, come out now."

Shouto stands and opens the door, smelling potent alcohol. It repulsed him and called to him all at once. He needed to be away from it, he needed it to be in a bottle held by his hand, where he got to choose to drink it or not. Liquid relief that burned his throat more than his own bile. Liquid relief that saved him more times than he can count, another side effect of the calm.