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[numbertwohero]

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[numbertwohero]

[He knows it's a dream.

That is--he knows he's done this before. He knows this isn't real. It's like he's watching a rerun on TV, something old and so familiar that he knows all the words, even the ones that aren't his. But he's also six years old, and all of this is happening to him for the first time. It's a strange sort of dissonance.

He watches, disembodied, as his six-year-old self creeps to the door of the kitchen, looking for his mother. He sees how haggard she looks, how strained. He hears the trembling in her voice as she tells whoever is on the other end--her sister?? Maybe?? They never got to see her family, not really--about what's happening. To her. To Shouto. All the things his father has done.

His mother had looked so big, then. He was only six, and so small, and the look on her face as she turned to see him, as she looked only at his left side, shock and revulsion and fear and hatred--that left side looks so much like his father's--he could never forget that. It was burned into him, seared in along with the boiling water from the kettle. She flings it, and he screams in pain, and she's apologizing, and he's screaming, his tears burning hot on his face, and there's his father's voice, the sound of a blow, his father's voice roaring, and Shouto is begging his mother not to go, sobbing that it doesn't hurt, really, it doesn't, he's fine--

--but they're gone. They're all gone, and there's nothing but silence, and the throbbing agony on the left side of his face, and the sound of his sobs lingering in the air.]

[hagrides]

[The source of that burn, then. A memory, or a distorted version of it made real by the repetition.

Grimm steps forward. He does not belong in this scene, but the nightmare offers him no resistance to changing it. He crouches in front of child Shouto, placing a gentle hand on top of his head.]

There now, little one. You are not alone, and the pain will fade soon enough.

[numbertwohero]

[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.]

[hagrides]

It is alright to hurt.

[Slowly, so as not to scare or startle little Shouto, he draws him into a warm hug.]

It is alright to feel pain when you are hurt. It is alright to be upset, even with the people you love, even when you don't want them to go away.