As a kid, Karma always thought he would be the one to first know the feelings of his father’s hands against his face. He’d longed for it, almost - that sign his father cared about him enough to get angry, to be angry enough to hit him. He’s constructed the entire scene in his head and played it on a loop: Karma, saying the wrong thing or moving the wrong way as he always seemed to do in his father’s presence; Gakuhou, frustrated and empty of patience; the sight of his father’s hand rising in the air; the helpless knowledge of what was to come; the numb acceptance of the blow; and, finally, the loud smack! and sting of flesh. Karma knows this fantasy like he knows the scars on his hands. Gakuhou never needed force to hurt him, though; his words and the ever-present look of distant disapproval was more than enough to leave lasting, if not physical, scars.

Still, if his father ever was to hit one of his children, Karma would have bet on himself. The idea of his father hitting Gakushuu - his precious, perfect golden child who mastered every lesson taught with haughty ease - has never even crossed his mind. Until today.

Karma stares at the bruise blooming ugly across Gakushuu’s cheek. He thinks he knows what it’s from and who caused it, but he doesn’t know. Gakushuu is staring right back, eyes hard as steel, and he wonders if this is how Gakushuu felt when Karma was showing up to class bruised and angry.

“Was it him?” he asks, and he doesn’t need to clarify who him is; they both know who he’s referring to.

“Yeah,” Gakushuu says. “Guess he finally got tired of using his words.” He smiles too, like this is funny. Like this whole situation - like the purple and green mark on his face - is one big, funny, ha-ha, hold-your-sides-until-you’re-crying joke. Karma wants to strangle him.

No, actually, he wants to strangle Gakuhou. Karma turns on his heel and moves to do just that, but Gakushuu grabs his wrist and drags him back.

“Stop,” he says, exasperated, as though talking to a child. “I’m fine. I’ve taken harder hits when sparring.”

“You think that makes it better?” he asks, incredulous as he tries to free himself from his brother’s iron grasp. “You know the difference between being hit while sparring and being hit by your father? One of them is illegal.”

Gakushuu frowns. Karma, sensing the waver in his brother’s certainty, takes full advantage. He twists his wrist away and breaks the hold, but immediately seizes Gakushuu’s own wrist, holding him still and demanding his attention.

“Gakushuu,” he says. He taps a gentle finger against the bruise marring his stupid, perfect face. “This is not okay.”

Gakushuu breathes - a long, slow inhale he holds for a few seconds then releases in a gusty sigh. “I know.”

Karma chews at his lip, hesitating, before asking, “Has he ever-”

“No,” Gakushuu denies, quick and firm and leaving no room for argument. “He’s never done this before.”

“You’d tell me?” Karma presses. “If he has, or if he does again?”

“Yes.”

“Promise me,” he demands. 

“Who’s the older brother here again?”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, okay,” Gakushuu relents, cracking a tiny grin that looks more real than any of the smiles he pastes on for his lackeys. “I promise I’ll tell you if he hits me again.”

Karma, solemn as a funeral, holds up a single pinkie. 

Gakushuu eyes it. “Seriously?”

He nods.

Gakushuu sighs again. Rolling his eyes, he wraps his pinkie around Karma’s. “I promise,” he repeats.

Karma releases his pinkie, mollified for the moment. “Okay,” he says, then abruptly changes the subject. “So I was planning on making you buy me ice cream since, you know, I scored the highest on finals.” He flashes a smug grin at his brother’s groan. “But now I feel bad for you, so I guess I’ll buy you ice cream. I am the kindest, most loving and adorable little brother in the world, after all,” he preens. 

Gakushuu stares at him. “You’re insane,” he says flatly. “You have so many screws loose, I’m surprised your head is still attached.”

Karma squawks indignantly, poking his brothers harshly in the ribs while crying mean! mean! while Gakushuu tries to fend him off. The tense atmosphere has faded, for now, and they’re both happy to see it go. 

The conversation isn’t entirely finished, though. Later, Karma will probe into what life was like with just Gakuhou as a parent, and Gakushuu will ask pointed questions about the origin of the injuries Karma would always show up to class with and brush off. They will both get angry, they will both shout, and they will both part ways frustrated and hurt and so, so scared. Even later than that, though, they will both apologize (with a hug) and all will be forgiven, but not entirely forgotten.

They both learned a long time ago to always look after each other, even when no one else would, and those instincts, while rusty from misuse, still hold as strong as when they were little boys whispering promises through the sound of their parents screaming.

****

Later, Karma knocks on the front door of his childhood home. He hasn’t been there since he was eight years old, and maybe if he could feel anything other than the ice cold rage flowing through his veins he would be afraid or lost in the melancholy of past memories, but he can’t and he’s not. He pounds on the door again. 

He expects a maid to answer the door, but when it opens he’s greeted with the sight of his father, barefoot and dressed casually, blinking at him in surprise.

“Karma?” he says. Maybe he was going to say something else too, but that’s all he gets out before Karma punches him in the face.

Karma has had a lot of practice hitting people. He’s good at it. He knows how far to pull his arm back, how to keep his wrist locked against impact, how to twist his hips for more power, and how to pour his whole body into a punch that leaves his target breathless (or, once, unconscious). He was good at it when he was fighting thugs on the street, and he got even better when Karasuma drilled proper martial arts concepts like form and technique into his head. Karma is naturally strong, and a year of hardcore physical training only added to that strength. 

The point of this being: when Karma slams his fist against his father’s face, Gakuhou, unprepared for such an attack and faced with a trained, rage-fuelled combat assassin, goes down like a sack of rocks.

Karma doesn’t follow him. He stays standing in the doorway, chest heaving with barely-contained fury. His father pulls himself up so he’s sitting rather than sprawling across the floor, staring up at Karma with wide eyes as though he’s never seen him before. He hasn’t, really - not like this, anyway. In his father’s presence, Karma had molded himself into the perfect child; he was quiet, and sweet, and well-behaved. He said please, thank you, excuse me, I’m sorry. He was everything he thought his father wanted, but it didn’t matter because it still was never enough. 

Karma hasn’t been that kid in a long time.

“That,” he says, flexing his hand and ignoring the sting of split knuckles, “was for Gakushuu. Maybe he won’t punch you back for your crap, but I will.” He crouches down, then, so he can stare his father right in the eyes. “This is your only warning. If you ever, ever, lay a hand on him again…” He flicks his wrist, and his switch-blade makes a brief, grim appearance before disappearing up his sleeve again. He looks directly into his father’s eyes, and he lets him see the resolve burning in his own. “I swear to God, it’ll be the last thing you do.”

Gakuhou nods, both an acknowledgement and acceptance. Karma smiles the cold, satisfied smile of an assassin and stands, knocking his knuckles against the door-frame as he leaves.

He shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks off down the street, whistling merrily to himself. Gakushuu will probably be mad at him later - if he finds out, of course - but Karma refuses to regret his actions. No one, not even their father, is allowed to lay a hand on Gakushuu and get away with it. That is Karma’s promise, made to himself and sealed with his father’s blood spilled in retribution.

Karma is curled up in a stiff plastic chair, knees pulled up to his chest, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his cellphone clutched between his fingers, when his father finds him. Gakuhou doesn’t say anything. He sits beside Karma in his own stiff plastic chair and watches him, not saying a word.

Karma swallows around the lump that’s been lodged in his throat since Korosensei died. “You don’t have to stay with me,” he says, his voice hoarse from the aforementioned lump. He hasn’t spoken since the mountaintop. That’s why the police wrapped him in the shock blanket. “Mom is on her way.”

“Okay,” his father says, but he doesn’t move. 

Karma is too tired to dredge up the familiar anger. He’s too tired for anything. He thinks he’ll be this tired forever - the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that reaches to the soul and weighs his whole body down. He traces a finger across the edge of his phone. 

“They’re going to get rid of you,” he says. He doesn’t sound happy, or vindictive, or smug - just very matter-of-fact. “The parents will be out for blood, and they can’t go after the government. You make a very nice scapegoat.”

His father gives a soft exhale that could, charitably, be called a laugh. “Yes,” he agrees. “My days at Kunugigaoka are over. Does that make you happy?” he asks, only mildly curious.

Karma taps a finger against his phone, considering. “If I was a nice person,” he says, slowly, “I would say no.”

Gakuhou does laugh at that. “You’re my son,” he says. “You were never going to be a nice person.”

Karma glares from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t contest it. “It serves you right,” he decides. “After all the crap you pulled in this school, you deserve to be kicked out on your ass.”

Gakuhou nods. “A fair assessment.”

They sit in silence, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Karma’s phone buzzes with a text from his mother, telling him they’re fifteen minutes away but traffic might delay them. Karma wonders what kind of traffic could possibly exist at this hour, then realizes the traffic that occurs after major, life-altering events. He sends back a thumbs up emoji. His hands, unoccupied once more, begin to tap a staccato beat against the back of his cell.

His father remains absolutely still in his chair, no signs of nervous movement or absentminded tics. Clearly, Karma’s restless nature was not inherited from him. He seems content to sit with Karma in silence, but Karma, suddenly, is not.

“Why are you here?” he blurts out, with zero forethought. 

Gakuhou tilts his head. “Do you want me to leave?”

“That’s not an answer.”

His father huffs a quiet laugh, nodding his acknowledgement. “I saw the news,” he says after a long stretch of silence. “The reporter was talking about some monster in Kunugigaoka, and the government wasn’t saying anything. Nobody knew what was going on, just that something was happening and it was bad.” He pauses, and Karma waits, wondering when his father would get to the point that led him to sitting in an uncomfortable chair, keeping his estranged son company in the small hours of the morning.

“And then your mother called me.”

Karma visibly startles in his chair as a bolt of surprise rips through him. He’d been staring at his shoes during his father’s story, but now he turns to openly gape at Gakuhou. Never in a million years would he guess his mother would ever willingly, of her own volition, speak to his father again.

“Was she mad?” He realizes how stupid the question is as soon as it leaves his mouth. 

A wry sort of smile twists Gakuhou’s lips. “I think furious is putting it lightly. I couldn’t understand some of what she said through the screaming, but I got the gist. You had run off to Kunugigaoka on some suicide mission for your class, and if anything happened to you she would string me up herself.”

“She didn’t really say that,” Karma denies, then hesitates. “Did she?”

“No,” Gakuhou says drily, rubbing a tired palm against his eyes. “She was much more graphic.”

Karma’s jaw drops again. He can picture it suddenly, playing clear in his mind like a movie: his mother red-faced and rumpled in her pajamas as she screams at his father through her cell phone, crying and issuing threats in the same breath; his father, sitting at his desk or on his couch, watching the news in blank shock and listening to his ex-wife’s promises to kill him if anything happened to Karma.

Karma swallows roughly. “You deserve that too.”

“Yes,” Gakuhou agrees. “I do.”

Karma nods once, sharply, waiting for Gakuhou to resume his explanation.

“Your mother ran out of steam eventually and hung up. I called Karasuma and asked him what was going on, and he told me what he could. I woke Gakushuu up, told him what was happening and not to answer the door or phone unless it was me, and then I drove here.”

Karma nods again, thoughtfully this time. “That’s still not an answer,” he points out. “Why are you here,” he stresses, “with me, sitting in this stupid chair when you could be literally anywhere else?”

Gakuhou frowns, slumping back in his chair in a casual show of exhaustion Karma has never seen on him. “You’re my son,” he says, a raw edge in his voice, as if that is all the explanation required. “My youngest child.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“No,” his father agrees, almost sadly. “You’re not. You don’t need me to protect you anymore. This is probably more for me than you, anyway. I needed to know you were safe.”

He scoffs. “I didn’t know you cared.”

The wry smile makes a reappearance. “Neither did I. I had convinced myself I didn’t care what happened to you or your mother. At least, until you popped up in the last place I expected to find you.” He sighs softly, head tilting back to watch the ceiling. “I have many things to apologize for, Karma. I messed up with you in so many ways. But I don’t think you want to hear them right now, so I thought I could sit with you until your mother got here and…” he pauses, searching for the right words. He must give up on finding them, though, because he sighs gustily and sinks lower into his chair. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he admits. “I doubt I offer much in the way of comfort. Do you want me to leave?”

Karma considers. “Any other night, I would probably say yes. But tonight…” 

Tonight, they killed Korosensei. Tonight, he scraped his nerves raw during his confrontation with his mother. Tonight, he’d been sitting by himself in a stiff chair, wrapped in a shock blanket, replaying the night in his head and feeling more and more adrift until his father sat down beside him and made him feel less alone. 

“Tonight, you can stay,” he says. It’s still not forgiveness. His father hasn’t apologized yet, and Karma still hasn’t decided whether he’ll grant it. If anything, it’s a white flag - a temporary cease-fire. For now, it’s enough.

Gakuhou nods, and they settle back into silence. 

A while later, his phone buzzes again. It’s another text from his mother. They’re five minutes away now. His time with his father is ticking away. He wonders how he should spend it. Silence is probably safest. Karma is too numb right now to work up enough anger for a fight, but if he opens his mouth and says the wrong thing he might mess up the fragile truce they’ve landed on. He realizes, to his slight consternation, he doesn’t want to mess it up. 

What he does want, he realizes, is the answer to one simple question. If he’s lucky, Gakuhou will answer. If he’s really lucky, he’ll be too numb with shock for the answer to hurt too badly. 

He fiddles with his phone some more, twisting it in his fingers as he considers whether to ask his next question.  “If I ask you something,” he says, haltingly, “will you give me an honest answer?”

“Yes,” is the immediate reply.

“You’ll tell me the truth?” he presses. “Even if it hurts me? Even if it makes me hate you?”

“I thought you already hated me,” Gakuhou says, amused. Then, more serious, “I won’t lie to you, Karma. Even if it hurts. Ask your question.”

Karma nods, still considering. He checks his phone and sees he only has a few minutes before his parents arrive. Whatever, he thinks, metaphorically tossing up his hands. I’ve been torturing myself with this for years. At least now I’ll know. 

“Were you sad when mom took me?”

He’d like to say the room grew quiet after he spoke, but that would be a lie. People are still bustling around them, fielding phone calls and doing whatever government people do after a major crisis. The world moves on, even when you’re falling apart. 

Still, in their corner of the room, Karma feels like a bubble has separated him and Gakuhou from the rest of the world. The noise of other people doesn’t exist anymore. For him, there is only silence and the sound of his heartbeat as he waits for Gakuhou to answer.

It takes a long time. Or maybe it just feels long because he’s holding his breath.

“When I watched her drive away,” his father says, measuring the words out bit by bit, “and realized that was it - when I realized she was taking you and you weren’t coming back…” He sighs, a heavy sound. “Yes. It didn’t feel real until that moment. I watched the car disappear and thought I was having a heart attack. I locked myself in my office and drank an entire bottle of sake until it stopped hurting. I didn’t cry,” he muses aloud. “I think I was too sad to cry. Too sad, and I didn’t think I deserved to. It was my fault, after all. I drove you both away. I didn’t have the right to cry about it.”

Karma rests his chin on top of his knees as he processes. If he was in his right mind, he would probably be angry. That’s his typical response to anything his father says or does. The anger still feels far away right now, but he knows he’ll feel it eventually. Maybe not tomorrow (today?) or even the next day - not with grief for Korosensei still so fresh in his heart. Eventually, though, he’ll replay his father’s confession and feel a blood boiling rage he won’t know what to do with. It’s what he’s been waiting for all these years: his father admitting he loved him, maybe even that he still loves him. It’s every wish he’s ever made since he was a little kid. He’ll feel angry and heartbroken all over again, and he won’t even have Korosensei to help him deal with it (and oh, that thought sends a fresh wave of grief over him, so powerful he almost drowns in it. He latches onto the numbness and sinks further into it. It’s safer there).

He isn’t angry now, though, just numb and a little sad. He lifts his chin from his knees and presses his face against them, wrapping the blanket even tighter around himself. He’s hiding - either from his father or the world in general. He doesn’t know for sure, and he doesn’t feel like analyzing it. 

“If you had told me that six years ago,” he says into his knees, muffled but still audible, “I would’ve forgiven you for anything.”

It’s the truth. Eight year old Karma would have done anything to hear that his father was sad he left, that he loved him enough to be sad. He would have let go of every bitter feeling in his heart and forgiven Gakuhou wholeheartedly for every misdeed. Eight year old Karma, he thinks, was an idiot. 

Not an idiot, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Nagisa chides. Just a child. Just a kid who wanted to hear that his father loved him. That’s not stupid. That’s just how kids are.

His father doesn’t say anything, but Karma didn’t really want him to anyway. They’ve both said their piece. It’s too late to change the past, and neither are even sure if they have a future. Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. 

His phone buzzes, but this time it keeps buzzing. Twisting his head to the side so his cheek is pressed against his legs, he checks it. It’s his mother. She’s here, presumably, and looking for him. Time to go. He sighs, letting his feet fall to the floor as he stands, the blanket sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap on his empty chair. He answers the call.

“Hi, mom,” he murmurs as he walks away. “I’m on my way out now.”