I said this in a whole reblog, but just copy-pasting to a separate post because I think it'll give some reading comprehension and reblogs don't show up in the search feature.. again, I'm reiterating what I said in another post.
Go check out @demidokuriya 's post for this; OP's post made me put this all down in like. 20 minutes. Mind went vroom vroom cuz HEY THEY'RE ONTO SOMETHING.
(They also reblogged the post with some hint to some behind the scenes of what led to the ideas if you wanna check that out)
Look below at how, when Mineta told AFO to spare Tokoyami, AFO specifically went "..."
He remembers Jirou and thinks, The braying howls of the weak...
He was going to take Tokoyami's Quirk. He took Hawks'. But after Mineta pleaded with him, AFO just straight-up left and didn't take anyone else's Quirk.
AFO saw Yoichi in Mineta.
These scenes are near-identical to each other.
Mineta and Yoichi (at that time) are both much smaller than the normal person at their age
They're both hurt, yet dragged themselves up from the ground to throw something at AFO, to get his attention and make their voice
Both are considered weak, even if they have a Quirk (Mineta's Pop-Off and Yoichi's undeveloped Factor)
The fact that Yoichi got AFO's attention here by throwing a can at him, while Mineta got his attention by throwing a Pop-Off ball; and it stuck.
Mineta's call for his attention landed and actually stuck to AFO. This is unlike when Yoichi and his can bounced off, and AFO kicked him, not listening to him; AFO listened to Mineta and left Tokoyami alone, technically doing what Mineta wanted—to not hurt this person.
AFO just went on to hurt more people away from Mineta's [Yoichi's] eyes so the small weakling wouldn't see.
Yoichi and Mineta both cried to AFO to not hurt in his ways, when AFO was intent on stealing people's Quirks
AFO even stole Hawks' Quirk during this time.
He had time to steal Hawks' Quirk, and though he could've tossed him to the side, he let Hawks stand in his way.
He had the energy. Right after this event, he flew off and left the scene. But he didn't go for Tokoyami immediately.
And this let Mineta play his part, and remind AFO of Yoichi.
"A putrid, festering Quirk Factor."
That sounds like Yoichi, AFO.
".. such garbage."
Hey hey hey, what did Yoichi throw at him when they were kids?
A discarded can. Garbage.
This chapter (385) where AFO listens to Mineta is literally called [A Youthful Urge].
Mineta told AFO to take his Pop-Off (hurt him) instead. But last time, AFO hurt Yoichi by kicking him; this time, AFO not only listened to Mineta to not hurt Tokoyami, but didn't touch Mineta at all.
Even though this time, Mineta [Yoichi] offered to take that place of suffering.
Yoichi didn't do that back then. AFO just turned on little Yoichi anyway.
Yoichi through his whole existence is literally [the braying howls of the weak]. AFO acknowledges he's weak and idealistic, yet he still loves him.
Side note about this panel, I think it's interesting that in this vision, this was the first time we saw Yoichi's eyes: when he was being defiant, despite being pushed down by someone much stronger than him.
Really characteristic of him, honestly. Yoichi's soft-spoken and frail, but it's always reiterated that Yoichi had a powerful will against his stronger big brother.
Mineta at this moment reminded him too much of Yoichi, because the two scenes are near-identical to each other. Parallels, really.
Reiterating something from OP's post that I reblogged this from;
"The reminder of his brother made him uncomfortable, so he hurried away."
AFO didn't want to hurt Yoichi again.
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context here and here... short fic (~1k words) about reporter au marc, turning over what their sepang could be... unspeakably divorced vibes to this one...
Marc lays the recorder down in front of Valentino. He starts, carefully neutral:
“So. You were a little bit shaky on the braking this weekend, was there any specific reason? It looked like you were having trouble with grip?”
Vale crosses his arms, narrow posture folding.
“Marc.” He counters. Face serious.
Marc ignores him. Ignores the tornado shredding his stomach. He scribbles something in his notebook, mindlessly underlining a question he doesn’t even want to ask. He’s been trying to keep it more professional, after the last few weeks. After—
“Do you need me to repeat the question?” He says.
Vale doesn’t give an inch. “Why did you write that article?”
So he did see it. Marc flicks his eyes up from his notebook, quick. Vale’s eyes bore into him. unerring. Feline.
He shrugs a little. Sucks on his teeth.
“Did you have a problem with it?” He shouldn’t, really. Wouldn’t if it were anyone else. Marc’s just doing his job, he won’t compromise that for anyone. Journalism isn't about making people happy.
“No.” Vale says, and Marc’s asked him enough questions at this point to know what he looks like when he lies.
He fingers the end of Marc’s recorder. Long hands against shitty plastic. He switches it off.
“You didn’t tell me this was going to be off the record.” Marc says mildly, like he’s joking. He doesn’t know what Vale wants from this— apparently not an interview—and judging by the expression dragging at the corners of his face, the chances of Vale indulging the small part of Marc scaffolded on hope are slim. In fact, a picture is starting to form, uneasy and edgy, lighting the barely-dormant spark of hurt in his gut.
He can’t be serious.
Vale laughs, brittle and hard.
“So you don’t regret it?”
He is serious.
Marc puts his pen down as something in him clenches, sick and determined. Vale can’t— he shouldn’t get to do this, after the last few weeks. shouldn’t get to be mad at him for the sort of article that he wouldn’t care about if anyone else had written it. Not after how he's ignored Marc, skipping over him in press scrums. After how he implied Marc was overstepping, too familiar. Not professional. After how Marc— after they—
After.
Marc feels like an idiot. Whatever. His piece is still good, his writing stands on its own. It asks valid questions, makes the correct comparisons, and gives Jorge Lorenzo a few hard-earned compliments. It's an incisive article. Interesting. Impersonal. Entirely professional.
Just like Vale wanted.
“Why would I?”
Vale keeps studying him, and Marc thinks a muscle jumps in his jaw. He meets him head on, intense. That same chemistry that they’ve been building for the last few seasons turned sour now, crackling like a live wire. Vale’s eyes drop to Marc’s mouth, then back to his eyes. His expression sets.
Marc sees him arrive at some sort of conclusion.
It can’t be just about the article— others have said worse, gone farther. Marc was careful to stay in bounds, tame and even normal compared to some of the other journos in the paddock. No remarks about his personality or his age. Just a few observations about how Jorge is steadily gaining in the standings, and how Vale is slowly losing the lead he’s had all season. The facts, as Marc sees them. Objective.
But Marc has also never written anything like that before. Has built a name for himself on complex opinions and strategic analysis. On the experience he has as a former racer, and as someone who was supposed to be on the other side of the recorder— supposed to be answering questions instead of asking them. On interviews strengthened by the easy, genuine relationship he has with Valentino Rossi.
But it’s not like he can exactly rely on that last one anymore.
Vale tilts his head forward, eyebrows up. A wry little expression plays across his face, there for a flash, before he shakes his head and pushes back his chair.
“Eh, I guess you are right.” Vale stands, nods. He leans over the table and waves a hand in the air, face animated. Cheerful, if you don’t know him. Studied nonchalance. “Why would you? It’s your job.”
He says the last bit like it means something, extra emphasis on each syllable.
“It is my job.” Marc agrees.
“Right.” Vale says, after a moment, tension threading through them both, taught as a bow string.
He says it like it’s final. Like it’s the end of something. It's exactly the same tone of voice he used a few weeks ago in Phillip Island, when Marc had stumbled out of the cold bed in his crappy hotel room and saw Vale fully dressed, looking for his wallet. About to leave. His head had whipped up when he saw Marc awake, and the look on his face was crystal clear. Had made Marc abruptly feel like he was about to vomit, cold rising from his toes as Vale started to speak.
Too young. Too close. Too unprofessional.
Right.
“Right.” Vale says again now, confirming whatever he sees in Marc’s face, blue eyes clear and remote. The hinge of his jaw is wound tight, day-old stubble blurring his sideburns.
Marc’s chest throbs.
He doesn’t say anything, lets the silence fill the room until it’s about to burst.
Vale stares at him a minute longer before he turns and leaves, door swinging behind him.
Marc sits there, staring at his notebook for a long time.
He doesn’t end up writing anything.
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