Chapter Text
There were many names Shouto answered to. He’s not stupid, he knows that the name given to him was Shouto. At birth, upon seeing his split genes, father decided it was best. ‘Burn’ and ‘freeze’. From birth, Shouto had his purpose and life laid out for him, maybe even before.
His name also means blessed. He is lucky to have a quirk, lucky his body can handle it, lucky the number two one hero is training him, lucky I didn’t kill you, lucky momma didn’t burn him sooner.
Father also calls him Touya. And Rei. He must be very angry, when he does that.
The dark has always been frightening.
He’s sure it has its reasons to be. The dark must be hiding something (father. Or momma? Shouto?). He just knows to protect his neck. Knows the limits of how much pain his back can take before it makes the rest of him hurt. He knows that everything he goes through will end, and it will all start again. It is a vicious cycle, unending and repetitive. Pain, light, eat, dark, pain, light, eat, dark. Homework is sprinkled between the events, he showers. Father asks him how he’s feeling. Shouto opts to hide in the dark, where it is safe.
Endeavor is stronger than him. It has never been an unknown fact, Shouto has never doubted it for a second. Father is strength. He is the rules. He is everything Shouto is not. (not real) Shouto hears the crack of a bone, his own. Somewhere on the body. He feels the pain but his mind doesn’t tell him where, can’t quite pinpoint where Endeavor is touching.
Endeavor is stronger than Shouto, and so it is with a great struggle that Shouto tries to push Endeavor off of him. But Endeavor is heavy, and Shouto is weak. Too weak to defend himself, or the forgotten children, or the white haired woman. He hits Endeavor’s chest, tries to stop him from squeezing another bone into submission. It doesn’t work. Shouto screams.
Angrily gnashing teeth take shelter in Endeavor’s flesh, bite down until they touch again. Blood fills his mouth. He gags. Endeavor doesn’t move away from him, only stands, shaking Shouto off of him. Shouto feels it in the way the tatami sinks. Even though he has learned to question everything to survive, he knows what happens next.
Fingers trace the roots of his hair, all too familiar. They rub circles into his skin, bringing some sort of comfort while Endeavor lines his staff up with Shouto’s ankle. His scar burns. The fingers trace that, too.
Rei’s hand clamps over his mouth when he screams. Blood smears over their skin, but she manages to keep his jaw shut tight. After the first hit, Endeavor hits again. And again. And again. Shouto can’t see what face he’s making, Endeavor is a shadow in the dark.
The bones crunch and break and become unreal, Endeavor does this to the other ankle, too. Rei is humming a lullaby. Shouto turns his head to the side, her hand falling from his face as he succumbs to it, like always. Shouto knows this is his job. He knows he was created for this. He knows he isn’t supposed to break the rules which harbor punishment. Knows that he’s as important as the blood stains on the tatami, never more important than Endeavor. Rei kisses his forehead.
“Shouto!” Endeavor screams. The sound echoes in his head, mixing with the distorted sounds of Rei’s singing. He thrashes in her hold, trying to get away. He needs to get away. He can’t-
He screams, but it might be Rei’s scream. He doesn’t know. He needs to get out. Out of the dark room, and Rei’s hold, and away from father. Shouto hears something move, next to him. He scrambles away, out, before it can get him. Before father can hurt him more. His hands brace over his neck, he hides himself. The room is not dark. The night light illuminates it dimly. He screams.
“Hey, Todoroki. Todoroki, it’s safe,” Shouto clenches his jaw shut. His hands find his ears, press tightly over them. He doesn’t want to be hurt, he swears he didn’t break the rules again. He swears.
“Todoroki,” the voice says again, Shouto presses tighter against his ears, squeezing his skull. His fingernails stab into his scalp, he yells through clenched teeth. He has to get away.
Warm fingers catch on his wrists, pulling them down to his thighs, pulling him forward. Shouto’s chin connects gently with a shoulder, it sits there comfortably, tears cascading down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric of the shirt he’s leaned on. The hands don’t leave his wrists, they don’t hurt. Shouto tugs away a little, in some pathetic last effort to free himself. He fails, as the grip does not tighten, but hardly reaffirms itself.
After a few moments of catching his breath, trying to remind himself that Endeavor isn’t here, he realizes the body pressed to his own, is Bakugo’s. He breathes deep, tries to match the pace of Bakugo’s lungs.
“Are you okay?” Bakugo’s voice has not been fully woken, like he has, by Shouto’s freak out. (He isn’t supposed to call them that, anymore.) It’s grumbly and low, Bakugo coughs to clear it. “That was intense.”
Shouto takes a deep breath, one that might lead to more tears. “I’m sorry.”
Bakugo shakes his head, releasing Shouto’s wrists and holding his back, instead. His arms wrap around Shouto and the trapped feeling only lasts a moment, before he’s being squeezed. Bakugo sighs, “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
Shouto can’t relax fully, not with Rei’s hands still lingering. Over Bakugo’s shoulder, he lifts his wrist, checking the time on his watch. It is only 8:42, which means it must’ve only turned dark a little while ago.
“It’s the thirty-first of December, New Year’s Eve. We both decided that we’d get two hours of sleep before staying up the rest of the night. I think we’ve got like twenty minutes left,” Bakugo answers, before Shouto can even ask. Shouto does relax, just a little, at this. His head falls further onto Bakugo’s shoulder, rolling to his neck. Shouto feels so, so tired.
‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Thank you’ both die on his tongue. He isn’t sure which one makes more sense here, just which one he’s used to saying, and which one Bakugo likes to hear, better. He keeps quiet, his voice caught in his throat the way it is when the body won’t talk.
He remembers their earlier conversation, now. Bakugo told him that it’s tradition to stay up all night. A more personal tradition of his, is to go to sleep at sunset, wake up at nine and stay up the rest of the night. Bakugo sleeps early. He can’t stay up that long. He asked Shouto if he wanted to, told him he didn’t have to. Shouto agreed, wanted to.
Bakugo fell asleep on the right half of Shouto’s futon, Shouto on the left, closer to the door.
“Do you want to go back to sleep?”
Shouto shakes his head.
“Me neither,” Bakugo huffs, voice groggy. “I could go for some dinner, now. I bet glasses has something cooking down there. Wanna come with? Or I can bring some to you?”
Shouto shakes his head, making to stand. He already ruined Bakugo’s tradition by twenty minutes. All because he couldn’t tell that it was just a dream. He pulls away from Bakugo and uses the wall to stand. His legs threaten to fold underneath him, Bakugo stands quicker than he does, and his hands hover around Shouto. Shouto feels lightheaded, the world swaying as he adjusts to the new position. They wait a minute, before Shouto finally steps away from the security of the wall, into the unsureness of the hardly lit room.
Bakugo takes his hand, his right hand opting to open the door and then close it after them. Shouto holds on tight, one hand on Bakugo’s shirt, squeezing the fabric like he could milk safety straight from its threads. His right hand is in Bakugo’s, Shouto doesn’t think he can let go. His hands feel frozen, he feels frozen. But it must be an illusion, since he’s walking. He follows Bakugo, apprehension snapping at his heels.
“Hey, you guys good? We heard Todoroki scream,” the door next to Shouto’s opens, Sero peeks out of his room. Kaminari is behind him. “Everything alright?”
Bakugo tch’s, for an answer, and they take the elevator down the stairs. Bakugo mentions that the class is going to sit on the porch to catch whatever fireworks they can. He isn’t sure if UA will light their own, or not. He doesn’t make Shouto let go of him, if anything, he holds on tighter to the other.
Whatever activities are going on in common rooms completely pass him, his head is a foggy mess, still trying to decipher dream from reality. Rei’s hands move to his neck. Bakugo’s hand squeezes his. He hears someone tease Bakugo for holding Shouto’s hand. The grip doesn’t falter. Shouto is sorry. Father’s hands join Rei’s, squeezing. His hand leaves the comfort of Bakugo’s shirt and scratches at his neck, tries to tear the hands away. Words bubble up in his throat like bile, Stop, he tries, because it worked the last time he said it. The hands do not retreat. They must not even be real, just like Shouto.
“Everyone ended up making a little bit of whatever they wanted,” Satou explains to them. Bakugo doesn’t let go of his hand, gently pushing him onto a stool at the counter. The grip loosens.
“I’m gonna make tea. I’ll be just over the counter.” And even though Shouto feels safest when Bakugo’s hand is in his, he lets go.
Bakugo rounds the counter, picking out two mugs and pressing a button on the kettle to start it. He opens each pot on the stove and peers inside, placing the lids back on when he’s decided if he wants any or not.
Shouto isn’t hungry. Mr. Suzuki told him that when he feels uncomfortable, he might turn back to old habits and rules. Not eating must be one of them.
It must’ve been years before he could veil himself with the illusion that he really did eat more often than father allowed. He’s heard the news, heard people play it when they thought he wasn’t listening. Endeavor speaking to Hawks, “…twice a week,” he said. Shouto remembers the plain rice and meat meals he would eat. Sometimes, there were mushy veggies from the freezer, boiled and placed over the rice. Endeavor made sure he ate healthy, when he was allowed to eat. Father kept him alive.
Hardly. Father kept him alive because he was afraid to kill another son. Shouto’s life has always been conditional. Father gets to train and beat Shouto, Shouto stays in the dark room. In return, Shouto is allowed to continue surviving. Shouto apologizes, father might leave him alone. Father tears him down again, and again, his whole life. That vicious cycle. Rei tears him down, in the kitchen by the stove, in his dreams. Everyone has always torn him down, left him to pick up the pieces, even when he doesn’t know where they go anymore.
His life has been a never-ending cycle of being torn down. Just this time, people are trying to rebuild him.
Bakugo sets a small bowl in front of Shouto, from across the counter. A little square of tofu floats to the top, before sinking back down. Two chopsticks are slid over to him on a napkin. “Try eating, if you can. Don’t need you shriveling up, before midnight.”
“Aw, Bakugo, you totally care about him!” Next to him, Ashido sits. “Hey, pour me a bowl, too!”
“Hell no,” Bakugo snaps, “Get the hell out of here.”
“Uh,” she drawls, “They’re called the common rooms for a reason.” Despite this burst of energy, the awkwardness from the day his life was exposed, is still there. It’s there with everyone, even Bakugo. They must hate him, for being Endeavor’s son. Or for not telling them he is.
“Hey, Todoroki,” she greets, a small wave. Her voice is quieter than before. “Were you sleeping just now? You totally have bed head.”
Shouto tries to mentally fan the fog from his brain, tries to stay with reality as it runs circles around him. He opens his mouth, he knows what he’ll say. The words don’t come, even when he mouths them. Ashido tilts her head.
“He had a bad nightmare,” Bakugo explains, stirring the miso at the bottom of his bowl around. “Don’t force him to talk.”
“Oh,” she nods, turning back to Shouto. She smiles, “Sorry, you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want.” The kettle boils, a timer sounding. Bakugo turns and pours water into both of their mugs. The water stains a mute green color.
“Will you watch the fireworks with us? I hear some of the third years got permission to light some, so they’ll be super close.”
Shouto nods, it sounds nice. He makes a mental note to write Ashido’s name in his notebook, because she talks to him and he doesn’t have to respond verbally, and he wants to ask Mr. Suzuki what exactly it means.
“At my house, we never lit fireworks cause we had these crazy neighbors that did it every year! They had these really cool ones that were probably illegal, but nothing ever went wrong…” Shouto listens to her story, accepting tea from Bakugo. Somewhere in between her changing topics from fireworks to some mythical animal, Uraraka and Iida sit down with them.
When he finishes his tea, leaving half of his soup untouched, he checks his watch. It is 11:40 pm. Bakugo manages to pull him away, and Shouto follows him with ease. They change into warmer clothing, Shouto borrows a fleece sweater from Bakugo, since his parka is dirty. Bakugo brings a blanket along, they slip into their shoes and then sit with the rest of the class. Some are on the porch bench, some on the railing. Bakugo sits shoulder to shoulder with him on the steps, tossing the blanket over them both.
“They should start in a few minutes,” Midoriya says. “Togata says they’re waiting until 1:00 exactly.” He sits down a foot from Bakugo, leaning forward and looking to Shouto. The rest of the class starts their own conversations. “Todoroki, is this your first time celebrating New Year?”
Shouto shrugs, he doesn’t know.
“Well, me and my mom always make wishes on the first firework we see. Kind of like shooting stars, except we don’t see those that often. This feels luckier,” he laughs, a puffy vest wrapped around his abdomen. Bakugo mutters for him to shut up. Just the sound of Bakugo’s voice has him feeling real. He’s stopped trying to make sense of it, of how Bakugo’s voice pulls the strings of his heart with the simplest words. It pulls him away from the News, where everyone is talking about him, and from the nightmares, where Mother is not as kind as he remembers. It cools the fire inside of his head down, snuffs out the flame of confusion that relights with every thought of father. Of the dark room.
A shiver runs through him as the wind picks up. It isn’t snowing, but the ground is still soaked with the frozen weather. He grabs the edge of the blanket and wraps it the rest of the way, tucking it to his chest. Warmth bleeds into the cold of his skin, Bakugo’s body emanating a dull heat that serves as great comfort. With his free hand, Shouto finds Bakugo’s. This way, he won’t leave him. He’ll stay right here, with Shouto.
“Togata says they’re gonna start any second now,” Midoriya says, and the shouts and happy screams from other dorm buildings sound off. “Happy New Years!,” they yell. Ashido comments on how they’re supposed to wait until the fireworks have started.
It doesn’t feel like any time has passed, really. Not in the usual confusing, all-consuming way time always seems to trick Shouto. It just feels like a chain of pleasantries has placed itself on the timeline of his life. Like he was just sipping tea with his friends, just meeting his mother for the first time since he was the old him, just mixing sodas with Shinsou and Kaminari. Like the first time he sat with Bakugo like this was maybe just hours ago, when in reality, it was days ago.
Bakugo squirms his way closer into Shouto’s space, leaning on his shoulder and sighing. Just as they settle in, it happens. Shouto doesn’t know how to react, at first. He jumps at the sound that resonates in the air, a whistle ending in a thundering boom, before red explodes into the air, and the class behind them yells out into the sky. “Happy New Years!,” they shout, Bakugo only mutters along. Shouto watches, awe-stricken and silent as the red fizzles out into white, and then into nothing.
More follow, green and gold and blue, so many colors that Shouto wonders how many will go off. He stops flinching after the third time around, expecting the bang. Bursts of color fill the sky, he hardly feels when Bakugo tugs his hand upwards, slightly. The movement draws Shouto’s eyes away from the sky. He watches, confused, as Bakugo brings the back of Shouto’s hand to his lips, and whispers something, before he softly, so gently Shouto hardly feels it, kisses his hand. He means to ask what he’s doing, means to wonder aloud what it could mean.
But he stays silent, lips tugging up at the corners.
This must be what happy feels like. This must be what it feels like to be free.
He watches the fireworks from the reflection in Bakugo’s eyes, ignores the deep blush in his cheeks. This is good. It’s nice. It’s like snow, and like every good thought he’s ever had. This is his subtle stand, his way of unraveling Endeavor’s rules. Unraveling the expectations, and the decisions, and his tendencies. Unlearning what loving truly isn’t. Unlearning the conditions given to him from birth, slowly, one by one.
(Can gated trees outgrow their confines?)
His time is pouring out of its hourglass, each high five, each call of his name, each kiss, only helps it along. The tides of ice and fire are ceasing their thrashing inside of Shouto, calming down and making way for a bite of serenity.
He tries, like so many other times, to string the events of his life together. What brought him here? Why does he deserve this? How come he gets to hold this stroke of serendipity?
Shouto, with his impassive disposition, and overflowing emotion, has always been deserving of this.
He has always been enough on his own.
Shouto looks to the moon, past the vibrant lights in the sky. The stars surround her, in all her beauty. He closes his eyes, and wishes to never stop growing.
Endeavor retires a month into the growing Todoroki scandal. Hawks takes his place as the Number one hero. Almost immediately, it is revealed that the League of Villains was behind the leaked records, in an attempt to create wavering trust between heroes and the people. The country is shaken time and time again by the series of events following the exposure of Endeavor’s crimes. He is never taken to court, never fully held accountable for his wrongdoings.
The world never forgets, Shouto will never forget, but Endeavor eventually leaves the spotlight, and they all move on.
Shouto’s birthday is spent at the same pizza parlor Aizawa first took him to. Kastuki is there, this time. Kaminari mixes his drink the same as before, Shouto ‘broadens his horizons’, as Kaminari suggests, and tries combo pizza. He hates it.
The class throws a party for him. Shouto’s first. Not a surprise party, because then he might get confused. Nobody minds it. They watch movies and then Shouto’s mother visits him with his siblings. They bring him a present and he manages to hug Fuyumi and Natsuo, this time, too. It makes his skin itch but they don’t hurt him.
In March, Aizawa tells him that Mr. Suzuki and Mrs. Kugimiya spoke with each other about his recovery. He is allowed to visit his mother more often now. They tell him not to push it, to take his time and slowly integrate her back into his life. They go out for lunch twice in March. She smiles for the entirety of both times.
It’s April, and Uraraka comes to him bearing news that she went home and brought back cuttings from a few of her succulents. Katsuki watches from the porch bench as they scoop soil into the small jar Shouto was given as a first Christmas present.
“Press down a little bit with your finger, that’s where the plant will go. Make sure you don’t put too much pressure, otherwise the roots will have trouble growing,” she explains, bubbly as ever. Shouto makes a small notch in the soil with his index finger, trying to copy Uraraka.
Katsuki scoffs. “Yea, right. Pressing down too hard won’t change shit.“
Uraraka wipes her hands on her jeans and pouts. “That’s how I was taught. If the roots can’t take to the soil it will wither.”
“Open your eyes, pink cheeks. Take a walk down any sidewalk and you’ll see weeds growing in cement. A little pressure ain’t gonna change jack squat.”
“Let me teach!”
Katsuki throws his hands up, “Fine, whatever.”
“Now what,” Shouto redirects the topic. Uraraka points to the cutting she gave him and tells him to place it in the notch and surround it with soil. He packs it lightly, distantly wondering if he has to water this like how the sprinklers water the grass every other day.
When they finish, Shouto feels a small sense of pride. He holds his plant up, holding it like it’s fragile. “Look,” Katsuki peers up from his phone screen.
Katsuki looks off to the side in the way he does when he hides his smiles. “Yea, nice job, Shouto.”
Shouto grins.
It is springtime, and all he can think about is this lucky streak he’s been granted. Most days are harder than the rest, Mr. Suzuki tells him that’s what recovery is. That he’s learning, gradually, how to be okay with being uncomfortable. Shouto’s past is a blur of overexposed moments in the dark; shadows and affliction. His roots remain in Endeavor’s home, in the garden in the courtyard and the dark room. His branches extend past those walls, into Aizawa’s home and UA, and his own dorm room.
Mr. Suzuki tells him that he has to keep moving forward in order to face what’s been behind him. To face the memories he will never regain, the ones that are gone forever, ceasing to exist at all. He says that every once in a while, Shouto should turn around, “Look how far you’ve come.”
His blood still remembers the pain. The fog in his brain still grasps onto the darkness, at times.
But his heart has ached to be rescued, and so the idea was screamed into existence, and fulfilled by everyone who chose to care about Shouto.
And so he is okay with remembering.
He has let himself come undone piece by piece, and all at once. The body can only handle so much. The mind, less than. It turns out, unraveling Endeavor’s intentions means unraveling himself, too. The body has since learned that he is worth it. It has started holding onto him tighter, only letting go very occasionally.
He checks his watch, it is 9:35 am. The sun is on one side of the sky, casting light over the tall trees in the forest behind them, creating shadows that dance lightly in the wind. The air is cool, not cold. The sun’s light warms them slightly. A gentle hand envelops his own, pulling him up and out onto the lawn. Katsuki points to the ground, at a bright patch of purple. They are standing in it, surrounded by it. A honey bee hovers above the dew-covered grass.
It is Spring, and the flowers are in bloom.