#gran torino proceeds to sell his nice apartment

[shih-coulda-had-it]

Okay but can we have AFO attempting to comfort this very lonely (even if it's his fault) man?

he's not very good at it. wc: 910, using the "gran torino dated all for one, broke up with him, and was abruptly blindsided by his ex's decision to obliterate nana" set-up. tw for alcohol (plus, y'know, afo's yandere take on the relationship)

//

When Toshinori was packed off to the States, he boxed up his entire life inside Sorahiko’s apartment and stacked the cardboard cubes inside the closet. The sheets were laundered, the surfaces of his desk and dresser wiped clean; after Toshinori started wheeling his luggage to the car, Sorahiko peeked inside the spare bedroom and realized that Toshinori didn’t plan on living with him after Gran Torino gave the all-clear.

It hurt more than he expected, but really, Toshinori’s intentions made total sense.

All Might needed flexibility in movement, and privacy from nagging eyes. Sorahiko--too aware of what a hyperactive young man could dream of--would always feel like he needed to rein in the kid’s enthusiasm.

So it didn’t matter, the fact that Toshinori expected to move out the second he came back home to Japan.

Sorahiko still took the first opportunity to shrug on his wool-collared leather jacket, jam his feet into sturdy laced boots, and make a beeline for a local bar. The crowd was pathetic for this time of night, but for right now, he was more interested in the liquors offered than a companionable shoulder.

He tapped the chipped wood, ordered a glass of straight Suntory whiskey, and looked at the sole television mounted on the wall. The channel was set to baseball. Judging by the lack of attentive watchers, it was likely the bartender’s decision.

“No ice?” the bartender checked.

“None,” he said, and slid over his credit card to start a tab.

Gratifyingly, the bartender didn’t bother to start a conversation with Sorahiko. He left him alone, and so did the other patrons, who deemed his presence unremarkable (maybe even tolerable, since Sorahiko wasn’t going to be a rowdy customer) and returned to their quiet conversations, if they weren’t stewing in their own silences.

Sorahiko had never been a heavy drinker, and he couldn’t afford to social-drink at all with Toshinori living in his spare room. Not that he ever liked social-drinking either. He went once, with his U.A. colleagues, a few weeks before Nana died--it’d been loud, and Sorahiko hadn’t been able to maintain a good buzz.

He took his time with the whiskey, and let himself sink into his seat. Shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded, and attention drifting, Sorahiko failed to react in a timely manner as a huge presence loomed over his shoulder.

“Torino Sorahiko,” said his least favorite ex in the world.

Sorahiko attempted to glass the bastard, but Shigaraki Hisashi caught his wrist and eased the tumbler from his white-knuckled grasp. Things were still syrup-slow around him; the instinctive rush to injure Hisashi had subsided, and now Sorahiko struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

“You,” he said, faltering. “What are you doing here?”

Hisashi sniffed at the contents of the emptied glass, and gestured for a refill. The bartender hadn’t batted an eyelash at the violence, and in fact hurried to serve Hisashi two generous helpings of the alcohol.

“I’m here,” Hisashi said gently, “because I heard a little bird had flown the coop.”

There was a hand curved on the nape of Sorahiko’s neck, a possessive heat bleeding into his skin. This hand had killed Nana. It hadn’t even gotten bloody. He shuddered under its hold, the air in his lungs rattling as he exhaled.

“I won’t touch him. I promise you that.”

“You shouldn’t be able to,” said Sorahiko, hoarse. He’d made sure of it. The identity, the transcripts, the tuition payments--Sorahiko had scrubbed the records and his money as clean as he could get it. What connection existed between Toshinori and Nana? Between Toshinori and Sorahiko, even?

“Well, you make a tempting dare, but nevertheless. Here. For your nerves, dear.”

Sorahiko numbly accepted the refilled glass. He kept his eyes off Hisashi, focusing instead on the pale liquor, and twitched as Hisashi leaned in.

“Drink,” said Hisashi. “It’s on me.”

“I’m not going to have sex while drunk off my ass,” said Sorahiko.

“We’re celebrating! Or are we mourning? What do parents do, when faced with an empty nest, Sorahiko?” Hisashi lifted his own tumbler and clinked it against Sorahiko’s, encouragingly. “I’m here to offer you company. However you’d like.”

“I want you out of my life.”

“And abandon you to suffer a lonely future? Sorahiko, please. I’m the only one you have left, you know. The only one who cares where you go, what you do…” Hisashi drained his drink and set it down, reached over and firmly directed Sorahiko to turn his head and meet the gleaming crimson eyes, alight in their victory.

“For someone who killed my best friend,” Sorahiko seethed, “you’re awfully confident about your reception.”

“I know you,” said Hisashi, sly. “You like to think of yourself as an unyielding force of nature, Gran Torino, but every storm has its break. You’ll forgive your loved ones any transgressions. So take the drink, my dear, and rest easy.”

Sorahiko bared his teeth in a snarl, raised his drink to knock away the hand cradling his jaw, and had a measured sip. He wasn’t stupid enough to match Hisashi’s enthusiasm. When he set the glass (over two-thirds full) down, Hisashi was eyeing him with rueful affection.

He would never be strong enough to kill All for One on his own. Hopefully, Toshinori found the States to be a productive experience.

“If you’re not going to leave,” Sorahiko said, “then have the decency to buy some snacks.”

Hisashi smiled. “Whatever you need, my dear.”