Chapter Text
The pencil moved with surety across the rough paper, gently scratching the surface in the near silent room. Shōta focussed on the scritch, scritch, scritch of the pencil, ignoring the wall clock that ticked loudly by the door and his own gentle breathing. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost block out the entire world around him, tunnelling on the maths problems in front of him and the soft sounds of the pencil as he worked through them. There was sometime soothing about maths, despite how boring Shōta found the subject, as there was a rationality behind each step, a logical progression to an answer that he only had to follow. Maths made sense. He could understand maths. He could solve all its problems.
The clock continued ticking but Shōta was so close to completely tuning it out. He could not even feel the mild discomfort in his thighs from sitting too long or the tenderness in his back from a rough shove against a wall last week.
Maybe it was this state of single-mindedness that lead to Shōta jumping in shock and banging his knee on the underside of the table when he heard the front door slam open. The instance of pain distracted Shōta for a few precious seconds while he rubbed at the sharp sting. When he managed to focus outwards again, he could hear heavy footsteps trudging along the short hallway towards his room.
The frantic racing of his heart drowned out the ticking clock, as the teen stared wide-eyed at the door to his bedroom. He sat on the floor, cross-legged at a knee-height coffee table he had found to use as a desk so he could work somewhere out of the way of his father, Osamu. The footsteps paused outside the door, and the pencil shook in his hands despite the familiarity of this scene. Without knocking the door was pushed open, sliding to the side with a clatter, and revealing his father. Shōta flinched.
Dark grey eyes glared down at Shōta, and he regretted not standing up. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel as small next to his father’s lofty height.
Osamu wasn’t a very notable man in appearance – he was taller than the average Japanese man, and held himself confidently with very broad shoulders, a wide barrel chest and a relaxed back. He kept himself well shaved apart from a neat patch of trimmed hair on his wide chin. He had a dozen of dark freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His dark brown hair was a swarm of gravity defying fluffy curls atop his head, thick, untameable, and kept short on the sides and back. His hair ended just above his eyes, which were seemingly tired with drooping bags underneath if not for the sharp gaze. All together, Osamu could blend quite easily into a crowd as nothing more than an average, over-worked commuter.
Shōta was happy that he didn’t take much after his father’s appearance.
There was a few beats of silence of Shōta’s pencil hovered nervously above the work booklet he had been assigned. He knew to wait, to be silent. His father always preferred to speak first. It was rational to just wait and spare himself a punishment.
"Shōta." His father’s voice rumbled deep from within his chest, seeming to shake the room. He gestured with his hand, summoning his son closer. "Where were you earlier?"
Shōta stood on thin shaky legs, placing the pencil down with a soft click, and steadily walked up to his father. He stood in front of Osamu, a mere arm’s length away, the top of his head only coming up to his father’s chest. The world felt muffled and distorted around him; except for the sharp spotlight that contained only him and his father, the rest of the room was a blur. The boy swallowed around his swollen tongue, keeping his face blank and voice even, despite his hand twitching at every syllable. "I was at school, father."
"Tsk. What for?" His father rolled his eyes, shifting his stance. Shōta bit the tip of his tongue, warily watching for any shift towards violence. His father never hit him without a reason, using swift hits to the back of Shōta's head as a quick punishment for when he perceived the boy as acting out or misbehaving, but the possibility of a blow still scared Shōta. There were many small things that his father saw as disrespect or disobedience. The question was rhetorical - answering would be foolish. "Never mind. Take the next week off."
Shōta barely blinked. It wouldn’t be the first time he has missed school because of his father and his ‘job’ – Shōta only managed to attend classes half of the time, making studying a struggle. Still his tongue reacted before he could think clearly.
"I have a test on Thursday." The statement was quiet but clearly spoken. It was rewarded quickly with a sudden clip on his ear. The pain registered a moment later as his left ear smarted. Comparatively, it was a gently hit from his father, though it still hurt. A small punishment for a small impudence.
"I don’t care." His father growled and Shōta felt himself leaning away slightly before his steadied himself. His father hated when he flinched or leant away – it was a sign of weakness, one that Osamu believed could be beaten out of a person through aggressive fighting. "It’s your birthday tomorrow, right?"
Shōta numbly nodded, more shocked that his father was bringing up his 14th birthday than about being hit. Osamu only ever mentioned about his birthday once a year, on the actual date itself, when giving his traditional gift of 50 000 ¥, a pat on the head and a vague threat not to waste it on anything stupid or frivolous.
There’s another smack, harder this time for the so-called blatant disrespect of not verbally responding, and directly on the back of his head. The world ringed briefly before the ticking of a clock and his father’s voice snapped his back to reality. "Answer me properly, boy." His father growled, and Shōta could feel Osamu’s husky voice vibrate through his barrel chest.
"Yes."
"Well, consider it an extra birthday gift. Most kids would love to take a day off for their birthday, never mind a week. You’re lucky."
Shōta doesn’t feel lucky. He didn’t want to spend a full week with his father, or worse his father’s colleagues. He didn’t want to associate with criminals, especially a gang as prolific as Amphisbaena. He kept his face neutral though, determined not to anger his father. He didn’t want to spend the next week with fresh bruises.
"Also, pack an overnight bag. We’re gonna spend a few nights at Base." Shōta internally grimaced. That was exactly what he wanted to avoid. The HQ of Amphisbaena, casually known as Base to its dedicated members, was a sprawling mansion that housed members either permanently or temporarily. While Shōta and his father did share a house, his father would often drag his son to Base for several nights when bigger heists were being planned. It was a method that guaranteed an eye could be kept on his son when his criminal career required more focus. Shōta had spent long swathes of his childhood, locked inside the perimeter and hating every second of it. "Gotta a few new plans to sort out. Plus a surprise."
A surprise?
"Yeah. A surprise." Crap, Shōta didn’t even realise he said that out loud. He had just been so startled by the idea that his father had planned a surprised of some sort. Though now he felt mostly suspicion, dread and anxiety. The last surprise his father gave him started the tradition of monthly trips to watch (and sometimes participate) in illegal ring fighting. Shōta buckled down those emotions – he knew rationally that whatever his father has deemed worth surprising Shōta with, it couldn’t be as terrible as his life is in general now.
His father straightened up slightly and looked Shōta up and down critically. The teen squirmed slightly under the judging glare. He was aware that he was awkward looking, with lanky thin limbs that seemed to be determined to outgrow the rest of him, face and hair prone to greasiness, and exhausted eye bags so deep they look like someone pressed them under his eyes with their thumbs. Puberty had ensured that he looked as out of place in his body as he felt.
"You’re a man now." His father stated. Shōta wasn’t sure how to take that. He certainly didn’t think he was a child anymore, on the cusp of turning 14, but he didn’t know if he felt ready to be an adult yet. "You can’t stay coddled forever, you gotta start pulling your own weight now. I can’t be around all the time." Hot dread coiled tightly in the boy’s stomach, and nausea rose in his throat. "Especially with Rea and Asahi getting nicked by heroes last week."
Ah, that explained Osamu’s bad mood. That terrible storm lingered for the full week and Shōta often found his father’s frustration directed at him if he loitered too long in his presence. The man had dragged his son into several sudden sparring practices, throwing the smaller boy around in the name of toughening him up, until his anger was spent. The faded bruise on his spine tingled, like an electric current had run through it.
The teen swallowed and resisted the need to sway. He could handle this. He could rationalise this. It was fine. He just needed to agree so his father will be happy enough to leave him alone, a simple logical decision. Maybe he can finish his maths homework, though now he won’t have a chance to hand it in.
"…. Yes, Father."
Osamu grinned, seeming to be happy with his son’s obedience. "Good. Now go get us some food. I’m starving."
Shōta was quick to start following his father’s orders. When the boy went to past his father at the doorway, the large man lunged forward at him. Shōta fully flinched backwards, his back hitting the doorframe with a thud and dulled throbbing shooting through his tender muscles. Gravelly laughter filled the air. This close Shōta could smell old traces of alcohol and the strong odour of recently smoked cigarettes.
"Man up, son. You can’t go flinching at every movement or you’ll be useless." Reaching out he ruffled Shōta’s short dishevelled hair. It was a mock of affection and Shōta could feel twinges in the back of his head, right at the base of his skull, from the earlier blow. "I will schedule some more training when we’re at Base." Shōta felt his shoulders hunch up towards his ears, as his father left the room, heavy steps stomping towards the living room.
The teen lingered in his room briefly before heading out. It was irrational to wait around, it was best to just leave and pick up dinner as quickly as possible. Shōta quietly slipped out the front door, pulling a heavy jacket over the thick jumper he was already wearing. The sleeves were slightly too short with his most recent growth spurts and he furtively tried to tug them down to protect his wrists against the brisk coldness of November.
The boy darted down the short path from the house, taking a sharp left at the gate towards the nearest convenience shop. This late in the day, with the sky completely dark and street lights humming a pale yellow, there would be no decent vendors to take away some fresh hot food. Microwavable meals would be fine though – as long as Shōta and Osamu got their daily nutritional intake, who cared what form it was in? It was a rare (and logical) opinion that both Shōta and his father agreed on.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pocket, and started a casual amble. There was something calming about being in a totally silent area, with even traffic being muffled to near nothing by distance. It helped clear his mind, being out in the dead of night. It was relaxing.
It reminded him a little of maths – though significantly more interesting. He should finish that work booklet after dinner. Even if he could not hand it in on time, he should still study. UA’s hero course was difficult to get into, and he couldn’t afford to let his grades slip, even if he missed another week of classes.
The teen took a right, skittering briefly on some loose stones; his trainers knocked a stray broken bottle. The glass spun into a wall and shattered, breaking him from his daydreams of UA. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale beer. It reminded him of his father and Amphisbaena.
Shōta pondered on the next week, wondering what the so-called-surprise his father was strangely planning. Maybe it had something to do with Rea and Asahi? They were the latest, but probably not the last, members of Amphisbaena to be arrested. Both heroes and police had set their sights on dismantling the gang, and so far were succeeding if a little slowly. Each month, another couple of members got clumsy or stupid and were caught red-handed. Each month the gang lost precious members and became more and more desperate. Each month his father got angrier and angrier.
Maybe Shōta would be lucky and his father would be arrested next?
The teen watched his breath condense into heavy white vapour, stained yellow by a flickering street light. A slight tremble ran through his arms as he supressed a shiver from the chilly night. As soothing as nighttime is, this late in the year makes it bitterly cold. The convenience shop was directly ahead, shining like nirvana on the dark street, beckoning with promises of warmth and easy meals.
Maybe they would have some strawberry flavoured juice pouches?
