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First Place #1yofsadhoot - by Amanda Lang
🕑 Added 2023-05-01 16:12:51 +0000 UTCBecause Instagram is shit and nothing really worked, I allowed every way of submitting work to me! I received this beautiful piece via E-mail from Amanda Lang.
But I want to share it to you all of course, so they gave me the permission to publish it publicly for everyone on my Patreon. I really like how they made the connection between Dabi, Hoot and me as an artist continuously throughout the story!
Quick summary of the contest:
In celebration of my first year on Instagram, I launched a contest between 02/'23 and 05/'23 where my followers and supporters can enter. The challenge: What is sadhoot? You can find some (sadly not all) submissions on Instagram.
Thank you to all participants and enjoy!
Credit: Amanda Lang
Instagram
AO3
The Boy, The Artist, and the Owl
The first time he sees the owl he is more wound than man. There is the sloughing skin, of course, falling from his bones like meat cooked to perfection, really the only way he has ever been perfect. There is also the recently irritated wound of his family, one more injury that never quite healed right. His mother in the sloping burns of his back where he doesn’t have to see her anymore. His sister in his hands that she used to hold, palms that will no longer register any type of touch. His first brother in his arms where his skin is the toughest, the most healed and re-healed, grown strong as Natsuo managed to become. Shouto in his hair, the greatest sign of his failure.
His father is his heart. His weak, wrathful, stubbornly still beating heart. Something he wishes to destroy. Something so much himself. So much. Too, too much.
The owl flies right through the broken window and lands on the arm of the couch that Dabi is resting restlessly on top of. He can’t tell what type of owl it is. There is something strange about it that he can’t quite figure out until his brain finally decides to register the incomprehensible. The owl is crying. Cartoonishly large tears falling from its all black eyes. Dabi stares at the strange creature. The owl does the same. It occurs to him that it’s incredibly fucked up that an owl can cry while he can’t.
The owl ruffles its feathers and drops a roll of paper from its talons before spreading its long white wings and flying away once more. The paper lands in Dabi’s lap and he sits up, staring vaguely at the discarded object. He wonders if the pain is making him hallucinate. He picks up the paper and begins to unroll. Once he sees what is on the paper he decides that he is definitely hallucinating.
It’s a drawing of him, vibrant with color and texture. His flames look like they are moving on the page, cyan blue with hints of azure. His hair is white, flying up and out, parallel to his fire. His face looks particularly deranged, one eye is squinted nearly shit and his teeth are bared like an animal, but it is him. It is exactly how he felt when he stood atop Machia and proclaimed his name to the world. It’s beautiful.
He looks out the window again. Briefly, the image of an owl drawing a picture of him crosses his mind before he discards it. Someone sympathetic to the league maybe? Didn’t carrier pigeons used to be a thing?
He should burn it. He has no use for beautiful things anymore, not when he is so close to disposing of this reanimated corpse for the final time. He didn’t even have use for beautiful things back when he was alive, with his mother handing him a box of charcoal sticks with her wobbly smile.
He folds up the page and presses it against his heart, laying back on the couch once more. Somewhere an owl cries.
—————
But it keeps happening, again and again. The owl becomes a companion in his moments of pain, grief, of victory. It is a particularly astute companion, strangely prophetic. No sooner has he tied his seppuku robe than the owl is there again at his window, tapping its beak against the glass. He lets it in and thanks it for the scroll. It's only polite for him to show gratitude to one of the last tethers to his sanity.
The image today is of him in his tone, sleeves falling down his ruined arms and rictus grin across his subhuman visage. He is a ghost, a wraith, a demon of vengeance, and his staples glint gold against the Cherenkov blue background.
“Is this my fate that you are showing me?” He asks the owl. “Or just a reflection of the ladder that led me here?”
The owl of course says nothing.
He sighs, and unlatches the stolen suitcase that he has been lugging around from safe house to literal cave for weeks. Each drawing is laid carefully out at the very bottom, as clean and well kept as he can manage. He lays this one there as well. He doesn’t know why he is doing this. Maybe it’s some remnant of a boy who once imagined a future, a long life filled with glory and grace. Or maybe he is just glad to know there is someone watching. Even if it is just a fucking owl.
—————-
The next one comes after the war has ended, when he is laid out in the hospital, more scar than skin, with tubes sticking out of seemingly everywhere. He doesn’t even know how the owl got into the room. He can’t imagine any of the nurses letting it in, but there it is, perched on the railing of his bed. The tears seem to come faster now.
“Hey,” he says, more breath than voice. “Good to see ya.”
The owl as usual, says nothing.
“What do you got for me there?”
The owl hops onto the Touya’s blanketed knee and begins unrolling the paper as carefully as it can with its talons. The owl flaps its wings once to lift the page, bringing it closer to Touya’s eyes.
Touya rasps out a pained laugh. Are hadn’t even realized it was his birthday.
For some reason, the “him” in this drawing has black hair, but even more bizarre is the small plush toy of his dad sitting on the table in front of him. He wonders if whoever made this drawing was hopped up on drugs like he is right now. Maybe they just wanted to fuck with him.
Maybe they wanted to make him laugh, despite the agony of his body and the emotional maelstrom in his chest.
Still, though, the drawing is subdued, lacking the mania of the previous gifts. The colors are muted and so is his counterpart’s expression, seemingly disinterested in his own birthday. It’s in character for him.
Touya turns back to the owl, studying its tearful gaze, its clean white feathers.
“Who are you?”
The owl, as predicted, says nothing.
—————
“What the fuck is that?”
“Natsuo, language.”
“Um, ok, sorry…. What the actual fucking hell is that?”
“Nat- Oh… oh wow.”
Touya looks up from his spot on the couch, following Natsuo and Fuyumi’s gazes toward the window.
“Oh shit!” Touya exclaims, tossing the book he was reading down on the coffee table. He hurries over to the window, unlatching it to let the owl inside. The owl flies over to the coffee table, landing right on top of Touya’s book.
“Touya, I don’t think I need to explain to you why letting wild animals into the house isn’t ok,” Fuyumi says, crossing her arms with a frown.
“She isn’t a wild animal…. or…. I don’t know what she is, but, she’s been coming to me for a long time. She brings me stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Natsuo asks, tentatively walking closer to the owl. “Is it… is she crying?”
“Yeah,” Touya laughs. “It’s kind of her thing.”
“What is she holding?” Fuyumi asks. She’s staring at the owl’s wicked talons and the roll of paper held delicately between them.
“It’s what she brings me.” Touya kneels down in front of the owl with a smile. He still isn’t quite used to his expressions not hurting him. The skin grafts are still new, still uncomfortable, but they’re better than the staples. Miles better. “What have you got for me today, girl?”
The owl kicks the paper over to Touya and he unrolls it, his smile widening when he sees the image on the page. “Holy shit, it’s Toga!”
The drawing is bright, the glow of the golden sun filtering all across the page. Toga’s hair shines bright as well. Her head rests on Touya’s shoulder, her expression calmer than he has ever
seen. She is sleeping, and the seemingly ever-present dark circles under her eyes are nowhere to be found. The Touya in the picture looks calm as well, his scars covered by a dark scarf, no malice filling his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Did that owl draw you a picture?”
Touya looks up to see Shouto entering the room with his mother, a tray of tea held in his hands.
“You know, Sho, I honestly have no idea.”
“Can I see?” Rei asks, taking a seat next to Touya. He nods and hands her the drawing.
She smiles at it, resting a hand on Touya’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. He isn’t used to being touched. He doesn’t think he was used to it even as a child.
“You used to draw, you know.”
“What? No, I didn’t.”
“Actually, you did,” Fuyumi says. Touya stares at her. “It was… it was after dad stopped training you… I don’t know whether you liked it, but you were in that art class at school? There was a homework assignment and you became kind of obsessed with it. You drew Sekoto peak. It was really good.”
Rei nods. “You drew a lot of different things for that class. You were very talented. You’ve always been good with your hands.”
It’s annoying that Touya’s blush actually shows up on his face now with the new skin grafts.
“I saw them,” Shouto says. “Sometimes I would go to your old room to get away things and I found the drawings in your desk. I was jealous that you were so good at something that had nothing to do with Dad.”
Touya doesn’t comment on how creepy it is that Shouto went into his room back when everyone thought he was dead.
“It’s kind of creepy that you went into his room back when we thought he was dead, bro.” Natsuo does it for him.
“Maybe the two of you could try drawing together,” Rei says.
Shouto looks away, face going pink.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Touya says, causing Shouto to look up, eyes wide with hope. “Hey, Mom, do we have any crayons here or anything?”
—————-
He and Shouto sit in silence at the breakfast table together, only the scratching of pencils on the page filling the room. Occasionally Touya will catch Shouto looking up at him, glancing at his paper. Touya doesn’t mind. It’s strange that he doesn’t mind.
When they finish they exchange their drawings with each other to examine. Shouto drew the two of them. It’s not a very good drawing, he didn’t even bother with the hands, but Touya feels the emotion in it anyway. It’s a picture of them as kids, Shouto is a baby and Touya is around thirteen or so. Touya is helping him walk. Touya smiles at the circular blob that is Shouto’s baby self.
“Sometimes I would make up memories of you. Fuyumi and Natsuo had all these memories of you but I didn’t have almost anything. I wished that you had been there. We all did. We didn’t forget you.”
“I know that, now,” Touya says softly.
“Yumi was right, you know. You’re really good at drawing.”
“Really fucking weird, huh?” Touya says with a laugh.
“Maybe we can do this more often?” Shouto asks tentatively.
“Yeah, let’s.”
————————-
The owl comes to his bedroom window, holding nothing in its talons. No tears in its eyes.
“I don’t know if you’re the one making these or not but… this is for you… or… for whoever is doing this. I want to say thank you. So… yeah, thank you.”
The owl as predicted, says nothing.
——————-
It’s the artist’s first time in Japan. The plan is to travel throughout the country, visit Kyoto, and Osaka, attend the Sakura festival, and maybe meet some other artists. Right now the artist is in Tokyo staying with a host family. This family has a garden in their backyard with a maple tree creating a shade of violet leaves. That’s where the artist sits now, below the dark leaves of the maple, their pad and pen on their lap, enjoying the Spring sunlight.
The artist is so entranced by their work that they don’t notice the owl land in front of them. When they do, they almost fuck up their drawing.
The owl hops close to them, seemingly unbothered by the presence of a human. It occurs to the artist that owls are supposed to be nocturnal. The artist feels a hint of excitement bubbling up and tries to reach for their phone. How funny it would be to share this on Instagram. A real owl to go with their Instagram handle and watermark. They don’t want to take their eyes off the owl though. So they stop fumbling in their pocket.
The owl has something in its talons which it drops into the grass, kicking it toward the artist’s sneakered feet.
“Um….,” is all the artist can say. The owl stares at them. Finally, they unroll the page and their mouth drops open.
A crying owl graces the page, feathers flawlessly white, tears streaking down its avian face. One wing reaches out gracefully toward a human hand. The hand is long-fingered and elegant, with dark scar tissue reaching up toward the knuckles, held together by crude staples.
“Holy shit,” the artist says. The artist has studied enough Japanese that they are able to read the Kanji at the bottom of the drawing. They don’t notice the owl fly away, disappearing into the wind.
At the bottom of the page, reads: Thank you for everything, Touya Todoroki.
