"Come on mom, you sit at the table. I'll clean this up. Please. Get up."
But she didn't get up, she continued to cry, her leg spasmed again, more violently this time. The tremors ran through her entire body like electricity, and Arthur could see her fighting against them, her jaw clenched tight as she tried to maintain some semblance of control.
She cried into her child's shoulder. Arthur could feel tears soaking through his shirt, warm at first, then growing cold against his skin. But he stayed there letting his mother cry, his small arms wrapped around her trembling neck.
"Ok, don't get up. I'll stay here for as long as it takes."
She wailed, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her chest, raw and broken. She screamed, not words but intelligible whimpers that rattled. Her fists pounded weakly against the floor, and Arthur winced as he heard her knuckles scrape against the rough wood. She kicked, her legs jerking spasmodically, and one of the fallen meatballs rolled further across the floor.
Arthur held her through it all, his enhanced hearing picking up every hitched breath, every sob that caught in her throat. He could hear their neighbors moving around in the apartments next to theirs, the muffled sound of a television, someone washing dishes.
Normal sounds of normal people living normal lives, while his world crumbled in the kitchen of their tiny home.
The spasms gradually lessened, her breathing slowly evening out as exhaustion took hold. Her grip on his shirt loosened, and her head grew heavy against his shoulder.
Then she slept.
Arthur, merely six, looked down at his mother's face. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed with pain, and tear tracks had dried on her cheeks.
Very carefully, he shifted his position, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. His quirk-enhanced strength made it easy to lift her, though he moved slowly, testing each step to make sure he wouldn't stumble.
The bedroom was only a few steps away, but it felt like a journey across an ocean. He had to turn sideways to get through the narrow doorway, and he held his breath as the old hinges creaked softly.
Their bed was low to the ground, a simple mattress on a wooden frame that his father had built before Arthur was born. He settled her down gently, pulling the worn quilt up to her chin.
He caressed his mother's hair, the brown strands soft between his fingers. She had always told him he had his father's hair color, that same wheat-blonde. But her hair was darker now than in the old photos, as if the color had drained out of it along with everything else.
"Don't worry mom," he whispered softly, his voice barely audible even to his own enhanced ears. "I'll take care of you."
He walked out of the room, closing the door with care, waiting for the soft click that meant it was properly shut. Back in the kitchen-living room, the scene of devastation awaited him.
The broken plate lay scattered across the floor and the meatballs had rolled in different directions, some still steaming slightly, others already beginning to cool.
Arthur grabbed one of the two plates he had set on the table and knelt down on the floor. One by one, he began picking up the meatballs. Some were easy to retrieve, still round and intact. Others had broken apart when they hit the floor, and he had to scoop up the pieces with his fingers.
When he had gathered all the salvageable food onto the plate, he stood and placed it carefully on the table.
He knelt again and began picking up the ceramic shards. Most were large pieces, chunks of what had once been the rim or the center of the plate. But as he worked his way inward, toward where the impact had been strongest, the pieces grew smaller and sharper.
He reached for a particularly jagged shard, and as his fingers closed around it, he felt the sharp edge slice into his palm. Pain shot through his hand, and he dropped the piece instinctively. It hit the floor and shattered into even smaller fragments.
Arthur looked at his palm. A thin red line ran across it, already beginning to well up with blood. A single drop formed and hung for a moment before falling to splatter on the wood beside his knee.
Without thinking, he put his finger in his mouth, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood. When he pulled it out moments later, the cut was gone.
Arthur looked at the remaining ceramic pieces scattered across the floor.
He gathered them all, every last fragment, using the enhanced vision that came with his quirk to spot even the smallest shards.
He swept the area with his hands repeatedly, feeling for anything his eyes might have missed. When he was finally satisfied that he had found every piece, he carried them to the trash can and carefully dropped them in, listening to the faint tinkle as they settled among the other garbage.
The plate of tomato sauce still sat on the counter where his mother had left it when the episode began. The sauce had formed a slight skin on top as it cooled, but when he carried it to the table, his enhanced nose could still smell the garlic.
He took a seat at the table.
There he sat alone.
Arthur poured tomato sauce onto his plate, watching it spread in slow ripples across the ceramic. The sauce was thick and rich, the way his mother always made it, with just enough sugar to balance the acidity of the tomatoes. He added several meatballs, arranging them carefully around the plate.
He picked up his fork and speared one of the meatballs, dipping it into the sauce.
Then he bit into the meatball.
The meat was lukewarm at best, the fat beginning to congeal into white specks throughout the ground beef. The sauce had cooled as well.
There he ate alone.
"It's cold," he murmured in the quiet of the room.
There he cried alone.
It was a whimper.
He had never cried before.
At least he never remembered doing so.
It was awful.
His eyes stung and burned, and his face felt hot and swollen. His breathing became labored, coming in short gasps that made his chest ache.
His nose began to run, and he had to wipe it on his sleeve because he couldn't see well enough to find a napkin. He hated it.
And yet he ate. In the cold. In the suffocating silence. He ate forcing each bite down even though the food tasted salty because of his tears. Because it was his mother's food, made with her hands and her love.
When he was finished, he carried both plates to the small dishwasher beside the sink.
He didn't want to accidentally wake his mother, who was sleeping peacefully. So instead of going to his own room, he walked to the living area and settled onto their small sofa.
The cushions were worn and soft.
And there he slept alone.
But sleep didn't come easily. He tossed and turned on the narrow couch.
He cried again, softer this time, muffling the sound against the sofa cushions.
Finally, the sweet calm of sleep took him, pulling him down into dreams.
He awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through their small living room window. His neck was stiff from sleeping on the sofa, and his clothes were wrinkled from tossing and turning.
The apartment was quiet, almost peaceful in the morning light, and for a moment he could almost pretend that the previous evening had been nothing more than a bad dream.
He walked carefully to his mother's room, his bare feet silent on the cold wood. The door was still closed, just as he had left it. He pressed his ear against the wood, using his enhanced hearing to listen for any sign of distress. But all he could hear was the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.
It was Sunday, so there was no school.
Arthur made his way to the kitchen and prepared his breakfast the way he always did on weekend mornings, a glass of milk.
While he waited for his mother to wake, he settled in front of the television, keeping the volume low enough that his enhanced hearing could pick up every word while still being quiet enough not to disturb her.
The hours passed slow. Arthur found himself checking the clock on the wall repeatedly, watching the hands move with agonizing slowness toward noon.
Finally, when the sun had climbed high enough to fill their small apartment with warm, golden light, he heard movement from the bedroom. The soft creak of bedsprings, the whisper of feet on floor, the quiet sound of the door handle turning.
His mother emerged from the room. Her face still showed the faint traces of the previous night's tears, red-rimmed eyes, slightly swollen cheeks that Arthur thought only he would be able to see with his enhanced vision, she wore a smile.
It scared Arthur more than her tears had.
"Hey Aki," she said, her voice bright and cheerful in a way that felt forced. "How were the meatballs?"
Arthur felt his throat close up.
"Sorry I had to go sleep early and couldn't have dinner with you," she continued, settling onto the sofa beside him as if nothing had happened. "I think I had a little bit of a fever. So how were they?"
Arthur wanted to cry again, wanted to ask her about the plate and the spasms and the way she had held onto him. But her smile held him captive, it stopped him from doing anything that could make her sad.
"They were perfect mom," he said instead, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.
She smiled, and it reached her eyes this time, or at least Arthur chose to believe it did. She ruffled his hair with fingers that only trembled slightly.
"So what are we watching?" she asked, settling more comfortably against the sofa cushions.
"Looney Tunes."
"They still have this? I remember watching this when I was a kid in Birmingham. Let's turn up the volume a bit."
As they sat there in what felt like comfortable silence.
She looked at him.
"What do you want for breakfast?" she asked, rising from the sofa with movements that were almost normal.
"I already had milk," Arthur replied, holding up his empty glass.
"Hmm, then how about some toast?"
Arthur nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Perfect. What do you want on them?"
"Ham."
"I'll bring them in a moment."
"Thanks, mom."
She smiled again.
Arthur heard everything as she moved around the kitchen. The soft whoosh of the refrigerator door opening, the crinkle of plastic as she unwrapped the ham, the gentle thud of the bread hitting the cutting board. He heard her slice the bread quickly. The crackling of bread as it heated and browned. The pop of the toaster. He heard as his mother poured a little bit of oil on each slice and put two slices of ham on each.
He heard her walking toward him, her footsteps light on the wood, and turned to accept the plate she offered. The toast was golden brown, with thin slices of ham arranged neatly on top.
"Thanks, mom."
"Anything for my little knight," she said, ruffling his hair again.
Then the moment was shattered by the harsh ring of the doorbell.
"I'll go get it."
She walked to the door, with not a care in the world. Arthur heard the chain rattle as she undid it, the deadbolt sliding back.
Arthur turned to look and felt his stomach drop. A huge man stood in their doorway, so large he seemed to fill the entire frame. He had dark skin, a black suit that felt a size too small, and black sunglasses that hid his eyes.
Even though Arthur knew it was rude, his curiosity and growing sense of alarm got the better of him. He listened in, his enhanced hearing picking up every word even though they spoke in low voices.
"You're Victoria Tadashi, right?" The man's voice was deep and official, the kind of voice that belonged to someone who was used to being obeyed.
"That's right. And who are you?"
"I'm Junpei Mamoru. I'm here from Social Services. Your doctor has notified us of your worsening condition. I'd like to talk a bit with your son."
"Social Services?" his mother asked, and Arthur heard her voice crack slightly. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide with something that might have been panic. "Oh, yes, come in. I'm sorry."
The man lumbered through their small doorway, and Arthur was amazed he managed to fit at all.
He approached Arthur and knelt down, bringing his enormous frame closer to eye level. Even kneeling, he was still taller than Arthur sitting on the sofa.
"Hello, Aki," he said, his voice gentle, soft, a weird distinction to his physicality.
Arthur looked away from the television reluctantly, meeting the man's hidden gaze behind those dark glasses.
"What is that you're eating? Toast with ham?"
"Yeah." Arthur kept his voice neutral, though his heart was racing.
"Aki, I'd like to ask you some questions." The man's voice took on a more serious tone. "Has your mother demonstrated weird behavior? Happy in one moment, sad in another?"
Arthur's mind thought of last night. The spams. The crying.
Then he did something he never thought he would do, but had already done once today, something that went against who he was as a person.
He lied.
"No. Why?"
"No reason. We're just worried about you, is all. Thank you. You can go back to watching your cartoons."
Mamoru stood up, his knees creaking with the effort, and walked back toward Arthur's mother. Arthur pretended to focus on the television screen, but every fiber of his being was concentrated on the conversation happening behind him.
"Everything seems to be in order," Mamoru said, his voice carrying clearly in the small space. "We'll be watching you closely."
With those parting words, the man lumbered toward the door, taking his oppressive presence with him. Arthur heard the door close, heard his mother slide the chain back into place and turn the deadbolt.
Victoria leaned against the door for a moment, and Arthur heard her release a shaky breath.
"Tsk, damn nuisances," she muttered, her voice filled with anger.
Arthur looked at his mother as she walked back toward him, noting the way her hands shook slightly.
"Mom, what was that about?" he asked, though part of him already knew he wouldn't get an answer.
"Don't worry about it," she replied, walking up to him and ruffling his hair again, but her hands this time curled in his hair, clinging to him. "Just eat your breakfast. We'll go to the park today, okay?"
She walked to her room without waiting for a response, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Arthur was left alone again, staring at his cooling toast.
He felt like crying, but he had no tears to give.
He murmured his response even though she could no longer hear him.
"Okay."
A/N: Sup ladies and gents, I got the bonus chapter out. Hope you all enjoyed it now onto other things. The idea was to end the part of his past he says to Nezu here but I started thinking about the emotional impact and how it would be lessened if the other part of his past wasn't fresh in your guys' memory. So what would you guys prefer?
Thx for reading. Author out.