Shattered 1.4

[A/N: Word Count: 2,484 words

Trigger Warning:

This chapter contains scenes depicting physical and emotional abuse, panic attacks, and themes of parental neglect. Reader discretion is advised. If you or someone you know is experiencing these issues, please reach out for help. In the United States, you can call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.]

****** 

Oliver: Hey, guys! It's Oliver.

Ochaco: Hey! Ochaco here. (*^ ‿ <*)♡ Kinda surprised you remembered our numbers, tbh. < p>

Izuku: Hi. This is Izuku… Yeah, same here…

Oliver: lol. I remember what I care about. 

Ochaco: ♡'･ᴗ･`♡ 

Oliver: So, what are you guys doing tomorrow?

Izuku: I…I don't have any plans.

Ochaco: Me neither. What's up?

Nigel shifted in his seat with a slight frown as he shared a glance with Sohvi and Brandon. "Ollie, I really don't think this is a good idea. Are you sure you don't want to just go to the house? It has two pools. Indoor and outdoor, seven bedrooms, eight baths, a theater, a gym—Brandon perked up at that—a basement that spans most of the mansion. It cost a fortune to get installed last minute, but since I love you and am the best…" Nigel continued listing the amenities, trying to get Oliver to change his mind, but Oliver just tuned him out.

Oliver: Wanna come over to my place for a swim? Like around noon? I'm moving into a new house today, and it has a pool. 

Ochaco: Umm… It's pretty cold out…

Oliver: The pool is indoors.

Ochaco: Oh, in that case, count me in! Sounds fun!

Izuku: Yeah, that sounds good. Where do you live?

Oliver: Shizuoka. 

Ochaco: Okay, that works for me.

Izuku: Yeah, me too. 

Oliver: Awesome. I'll send you the address later. See you guys tomorrow! ;)

Oliver stored his phone and took a second to glance out the window at the most profitable tech businesses in Japan. It looked just like it had years ago. "I haven't seen him in five years," Oliver said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

With a shake of his head, Nigel leaned back into his seat. His eyebrows were now fully furrowed. "He doesn't deserve to see you, Ollie. He's a cold-hearted mother—" 

"He's my father," Oliver cut in, his tone sharper than intended. He knew Nigel meant well, but his emotions were getting the better of him. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. "You know, something could have changed since I last saw him. He could be... different. I have to... I—I need—" He didn't finish the sentence, but they all knew what he meant—what he needed. 

And that's why they were—against their better judgment— now parked in front of his father's billion-dollar business when they already had a pretty good guess as to how this would turn out. 

Oliver had a complicated relationship with his father. And that was being generous.

Oliver's father's attention—his love—was always conditional. Always dependent on Oliver's achievements.

When Oliver was young, his father was rarely around. Hiroshi had a billion-dollar business to run, after all. But for some reason, that never stopped his mom (who ran a fashion empire) or his aunt (who was America's number one hero) from showering him with unconditional love. They were always there for him. 

When Oliver turned four, he started to see glimpses of who his father truly was. Glimpses he would hide from his mom, and everyone else. 

Hiroshi's expectations were out of this world. The things he would expect from Oliver were insane. The pressure Hiroshi put on him to excel in academics, sports, and social settings was immense. Nothing less than perfection was acceptable.

At four, the month after Oliver awakened his Quirk, Oliver's father made him choose an instrument to play. It was either the piano or the violin—Oliver chose the piano. 

He initially thought it would be fun, a way to bond with his dad like dads do with their sons. But he quickly learned otherwise. 

He was required to practice the piano for at least five hours a day—It didn't matter if he was sick. It didn't matter if he was exhausted. And it definitely didn't matter if his fingers were bleeding. 

Excuses were never permitted. 

Excuses were for failures.

If he played the wrong note, he would get hit. If he looked at the keys instead of the sheet music, he would get hit. If he didn't maintain perfect posture, he would get hit. But, if somehow he managed to play a piece perfectly, without a single mistake, without a single error, he would get a slight nod of approval from his father. 

That nod meant everything to Oliver. No, it's better to say that pleasing his father meant everything to Oliver. So, he did his best to play perfectly. 

If his father praised perfection, he would become its incarnation. 

Now, about to see his father after five years, after his mother divorced him, some of his earlier memories flooded back. 

Oliver remembered the first time he failed to meet his father's expectations publicly. He was six, playing piano at his first recital in Japan. His mom was in Italy for her launch, leaving him alone with his dad in a different country for the first time. 

Oliver had two pieces to perform: Prelude No. 5, Op. 23 by Rachmaninoff and Binary Data IX by Alfonso Peduto. Being his first recital, he practiced until his fingertips bled. He practiced until he memorized every nuance of emotion he needed to display. He practiced until he could play the pieces in his sleep. 

He was only six, but his father expected nothing less. 

And neither did he.

He began the recital magnificently, completing the first piece without an error, but as he concluded the second, his tiny fingers slipped, hitting the wrong note. He froze in complete shock. All of that time. All of that effort. And to make that type of mistake, in public at that, was unacceptable. 

Unforgivable. 

The music stopped, but the real silence came afterward in the car ride home. His father's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his voice colder than the winter night. "You are a disgrace," he had called him. "A failure," he added. Oliver's heart shattered... and so had his body. 

When they got home, Hiroshi beat Oliver until he nearly bit right through his tongue, and then he locked him in his room for over three days. He was so scared his father would punish him for soiling himself, he used his closet as a toilet. He was given no food or water, or even a bucket to piss in. Nothing to wash off the blood or clean his injuries. By the second day, he was ready to eat his own feces. And the fucked up thing was he couldn't even remember if he did or not because he was delirious from the agony at that point. 

He screamed, and he cried, and he begged, and it didn't matter. 

His father let him out after the third day. 

"You deserved it," his father had said. 

...And the sick part of it all? Oliver believed it. Deep in his bones. All the way in his soul. He convinced himself that he deserved the pain, the humiliation. How dare he embarrass himself. His father. How dare he.

"Don't tell a soul," his father warned. It was the first time he said that, but it wasn't the last. 

And being the good son he was, the son that desperately yearned for his father's love and approval, he never breathed a word. To this day, he hasn't. And most likely never will. 

Sohvi peered at Oliver through the rear-view mirror, her eyes soft. 

Nigel closed his eyes and clasped his hands, "Lord, I pray you guide our path and quell my potential fury, for I do not want to go to jail today. Lord, you know orange isn't my col—" 

Sohvi opened her door. Brandon followed without a word.

These were the people who had been by his side his entire life. This was part of his family. And their unconditional support and love meant the world to him. All he wanted, all he needed, was one more person to—

Oliver and Nigel got out of the car, and the quartet walked up to the building. From the outside, it was obvious the glass building was an architectural masterpiece. It was imposing. It was dominate. And it was cold. 

Inside, the building was utilitarian, designed only for functionality. No one was present but the secretary chomping away at her gum. 

They approached the receptionist, a slim, lanky woman with beady eyes and a bob cut an inch too short for her face shape. 

Nigel's grimace showed he agreed.

She slowly lifted her head from her monitor, her eyes narrowing. If she tried to hide her frown, she didn't do a good job of it. "…I think you have the wrong address."

Sophi cocked her head at that.

Oliver stepped in before Sohvi could cause a scene; his lips curved into a practiced smile. "Hello, Ms.—" He read her name tag. "—Hana. Apologies for the intrusion, but we are here to see Hiroshi Togashi. Could you please let him know Oliver Dean Bate is here to see him?"

The receptionist's eyes combed Oliver's entire body and scrutinized Nigel, Sohvi, and Brandon again. "Do you—" she said, her eyes dismissively returning to her computer as she typed away. "—Have an appointment?"

"No, ma'am, we don't, but if you tell him I'm here, I'm sure he will—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, you must be confused." Hana cut him off without a glance. "Mr. Togashi is a very busy man and would never see someone who looks like..." She gestured to them with a dismissive wave. "You. So since you don't have an appointment, please see yourselves out—at once."

Oliver was about to speak, but Sohvi took a slow, deliberate step forward and snapped Hana's laptop shut. "No." Hana recoiled, mouth agape. "You're the one who must be confused. I don't know who you think you're talking to, but you've got the right one on the wrong day. Call. Hiroshi. Now. And tell him his son is here to see him."

The color drained from Hana's face as she pushed her seat back to gain distance from Sohvi. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but no words came out. Sohvi had that effect when she wanted to. She was usually the most calm of them all, but her fuse was short when it came to Oliver. 

Just as the receptionist was about to choke out a syllable, the elevators perpendicular to them dinged and opened. And out came—

"F-father," Oliver whispered.

Standing before him was the man he hadn't seen or spoken to in five years. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that accentuated his lean muscles and stood a couple inches taller than Oliver. His black hair was styled away from his face, showing his chiseled jawline. He had straight eyebrows, no facial hair, and dark-brown, emotionless eyes. Just as polished as Oliver remembered. 

Just as emotionless as Oliver remembered. 

The receptionist finally found her voice. "Mr. Togashi! These people are causing a disturbance, but I will have them escorted out immediately!"

Hiroshi stepped out of the elevator and turned left, walking towards the exit. He didn't acknowledge Hana's words. Why would he? 

He didn't even acknowledge his son's presence.

The crack of Brandon's fingers pulling into a fist was background noise to the footsteps of his departing father. This wasn't the first time Brandon had witnessed Hiroshi disregard his son like a piece of trash. And it was apparent he was at his boiling point.

Brandon was at his boiling point five years ago after he caught Hiroshi—

Oliver turned after his father's departing figure and stepped forward, trying to ground himself. "H-hey d-dad. It's good t-to… see y-you, to see you a-again," he stuttered. Something he thought he had trained out of himself years ago.

To his surprise, Hiroshi paused his exit and, after a beat, turned around to face his son. "You still haven't managed to overcome that stutter…? How unfortunate." His gaze swept over every inch of Oliver's body with those critical eyes he was familiar with. "Looks like you remain nothing more than a disappointment."

Oliver's chest tightened. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps. His arms hung limply at his sides, fingers twitching. 

He was… He was—

Brandon couldn't hold his anger anymore and broke forward. He snapped out a punch so fast the air cracked, and the windows vibrated from the pressure. Hana screamed in shock. 

Hiroshi, still expressionless, nonchalantly turned his gaze towards Brandon, and Brandon froze mid-motion. His momentum completely vanished, locked in place by Hiroshi's telekinetic hold.

Brandon's veins bulged as he tried to break away. 

He couldn't speak. 

He couldn't move. 

Hiroshi blinked and Brandon began convulsing. Blood fell from his nose.

"D-dad…" Oliver's heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst. His lips trembled uncontrollably, and he could barely get the words out.

He was a completely different person than he was earlier today. Then, he was over the past years. Guess that's what happens when he's in the presence of his father. 

"P-please s-stop."

Hiroshi didn't bother listening to his son's pleas. He continued to stare down Brandon, who convulsed as the blood streaming from his nose intensified. "You're still stuttering, son. It's quite unbecoming."

Sohvi took a swift stride forward, her hand reaching into the breast pocket of her blazer. Without even a glance from Hiroshi, she froze, her body rigid. 

Oliver's heart raced, his breathing becoming more erratic. 

He felt like he was going to faint. 

He felt like he was—

Blood was coming out of Brandon's eyes now. The convulsions intensified. His chest was expanding. 

He was going… he was going to die! 

Something snapped inside Oliver. 

"Dad, stop!" he yelled.

Hiroshi unhurriedly turned his gaze from Brandon to his son, his eyes still emotionless. But this time, he gave Oliver a curt nod. "There you go, son. A coherent thought at last. Good job."

With that, he released his telekinetic hold, and both Brandon and Sohvi slumped to the ground.

Hiroshi didn't wait. He walked out the door with measured, deliberate strides, leaving nothing but silence in his place.

Nigel was frozen with shock. 

Hana lay passed out on her chair. 

Oliver, his hands trembling, rushed to Brandon, who lay convulsing on the marble floor. He pressed his left hand—where the word [HEAL] was tattooed on the side of his ring finger—onto Brandon's chest. A green light emanated from his hand. 

Brandon's convulsions subsided, and his breathing steadied.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," Oliver muttered, his voice cracking, eyes burning. 

They had warned him it probably wouldn't turn out well. 

Deep down, he had known. 

He knew what his father was like. He knew what his father had done to him. 

They told him, and he knew they were right. 

But he had hoped. 

He had hoped for something different. For a change. For love. 

They told him, and he—

He broke.

******

[A/N: This was quite a difficult chapter to write, and I am somewhat still not pleased with it, but I have done my best. I hope those of you who experience abuse, both physical and mental, get the help you need. My prayers are with you.]