Chapter Text
“What did you just do?” Shouto demanded, glowering at the boys stood across from him. All of them belonged to a rival school and judging from their knife-sharp grins, they clearly had a problem with him. The sudden arc of electricity up his spine had also been unnatural, unmistakably the sign of one of their quirks.
The boy closest to him shrugged. “Just a little prank quirk. Don’t worry about it, Endeavor Jr.”
Shouto’s glare burned, ice and fire mixed in one. “What. Did. You. Do?” He repeated, gritting his teeth.
“Told you, a prank quirk, you’ll just, you know, switch bodies with a relative for a little bit. Or a while.” They snickered.
“I’ll . . . what?” He shook his head. “Nothing’s happened though.”
“Heh, it’s pretty unstable. It activates whenever it wants or maybe you’ll be lucky and it won’t activate at all!”
“Undo it. Now.”
“Sorry, no can do. Besides, boy wonder, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a relative .”
Shouto didn’t even know where to start with all the possible things that - could and would - absolutely go wrong.
Shouto squinted down at his calloused hands, inspecting them with such intensity, as if to burn the image into his memory. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror and ran a hand over the warped skin at his scar. Well, he certainly hadn’t switched places with anyone. Switching places with Fuyumi or god forbid, his father, would have been noticeable to say the least. Not to mention, entirely disturbing.
A week had passed since his troublesome encounter, but he was still Shouto, Todoroki Shouto, himself. Perhaps, he had been lucky for once in his life and the quirk hadn’t activated at all, or and more likely, the boy and his friends had simply intended to mess with him. If the latter was their goal, Shouto was ashamed to admit they had succeeded in doing so.
The past week he had been wracked with paranoia. From checking his hands every few seconds or glancing into the mirror constantly to ascertain he was still himself, he was beginning to feel like a damn narcissist with how often he was inspecting himself. And ever-observant Midoriya quickly noticed his unease, asking quietly once they were alone, “ Is everything alright, Todoroki-kun?”
“Just peachy, only paranoid about what was most likely a prank, but nothing much.” He had held his tongue though and nodded instead, opting to thank him for his concern. He was grateful, but he was making this into a bigger thing inside his head and there was no use in doing so; it only served to further unnerve him.
With a final look at his reflection, he decided to drop it. Entertaining thoughts of being stuck in Endeavor’s body was torture enough, especially since he wasn’t sure if he’d want to laugh or cry or both if it actually happened. Throw in vomiting and the intense urge to punch himself (Endeavor’s own face) and it sounded almost tempting. Almost.
It was nights like this that Dabi wanted to burn.
Let his fire run unleashed and wild, like a wolf starved, let it consume and devour everything in his path until eventually, it consumed him as well. It was nights like this that Dabi forgot the fire already had. The fire had been burnt into his flesh, amidst heady smoke and red-hot ashes, a reminder that his fire had been caged but never tamed.
Nights like this Dabi awoke with sand in his throat, a scream dying on his lips, and a feeling that he was seven or eight or nine and the old bastard yelling, spittle flying, “ You call that fire? Hotter!”
As he scorched the lowlifes in front of him into a charred stain, he sneered and thought to himself, that hot enough for you? He was only made aware that they were screaming when it abruptly stopped, leaving only the familiar sound of pops and sizzles of molten flesh. He took a breath, loosened his posture, and reminded himself of where he was.
Alleyway. Dead nobodies. Annoying nightmares.
Lately, there had been an increase in what he considered an acceptable amount of nightmares. Especially ones related to or pertaining to the old man. Sometimes, like the one he suffered through last night, they were dreams about every single training session he had and about none of them at all. Nothing specific, but it was the same theme and the same pit in his stomach that accompanied him to every training session.
He had to burn hotter. Brighter. Stronger. And never was it good enough.
He thought he was done with these types of dreams and the effect they had on him, but it seemed the single encounter with Shouto had lit the very fuse he had so furiously tried to stamp out. Who knew family reunions could be so stressful?
Dabi snorted and stuffed his hands in his pockets, casually stepping over the sizzling pile of flesh. Before everything, before the slippery slope of villainism, he had wondered how Shouto would fare after he’d run away. Fuyumi could only do so much under Endeavor’s oppressive influence after all. He had hoped Shouto would escape somehow, break free from Endeavor’s grasp, become his own person.
Maybe he had, seeing him at the training camp had been telling to a certain extent, but Dabi had somehow hoped for more. Something more from the golden child, the brat who had cried buckets and clung to their mother like glue. And wasn’t that ironic taking himself into consideration?
But that was enough of dwelling on ashes. He made his way out of the alley, stopping when a jolt of electricity suddenly raced up his spine. His gaze darted around, alert and cautious. Smoke billowed from his palms, quirk at the ready. When no attacker showed themselves, the air quiet and still, he sighed and rolled his back, cracking it.
“I’m getting back pains now? Fuck.”
Dabi awoke to a soft futon and the dulled lilt of chirping birds. He groaned, burrowing his face further into the pillow. Birds were always an unwelcome alarm clock; having grown up in a bedroom with shoji doors leading to the courtyard, it was one of the few things he could appreciate about living in a basement studio. There weren’t as many noise nuisances. Yet why could he still hear the birds chirping?
Groggy and annoyed, he stuck an arm out from under the futon and groped blindly for his phone. Had he changed his alarm tone? All he felt was warm tatami. His basement studio had thick concrete walls and floors, perfect to help dampen noise.
Slowly and surely, Dabi felt the growing cold of panic wash over him. He blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes. He sat up straight, bracing himself on the futon, and inspected his surroundings in disbelief. A fancy, traditional room reminiscent of his old household filled his vision.
He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breathe. The futon frosted under a cold palm.
“What the fuck?” His breath escaped visibly as though it was winter and suddenly, he shivered.
Meanwhile in a well-hidden basement studio, Todoroki Shouto awakened. Heat spread across the expanse of his body, his skin plastic stiff and angry with what felt like withering flames. Leather sat heavily on his chest, his arms, his legs, his eyes. Black spots clouded his vision. He tried to move. White-hot pain burst across shriveled skin, curling his toes and reminding him of a boiling pot of water and red, raw flesh. Shouto screamed with a voice that was not his own.