[The important parts are close enough. The way it had happened, a kettle full of boiling water to that side of his face. The reason it had happened, his father, that hateful man. After hadn't been like this; there had been doctors and noise, a deep, throbbing ache that had only subsided much, much later.

But he'd always felt so alone.

The young Shouto looks up at the touch of a hand on his head, and when he does there are bandages covering that side of his face, the edges of the burn an angry red and pulling at the unhurt skin around it. Only one eye is visible, but it's brimming with hurt and anger and loneliness, pain and impotent rage.]

It doesn't hurt.

[A lie. A lie he's fiercely telling himself.]

It doesn't hurt, and it's not that bad, so--so he should bring her back, she shouldn't--it wasn't her fault--

[And then he's crying. He's still so angry, but he's crying, and his head drops again, hot tears falling as his little fists clench at his sides.]