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one.
You’re coughing up everything in your stomach because your dad hit you so hard your body couldn’t handle in, and your mom tries to intervene and so your father hits her, too. You hear it more than you see it, the sharp sound of a slap and her hurt cry. And that hurts more than your scratchy throat or pounding head, because she got hurt because of you and you know that.
You don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be like that, you sob into your mom's shoulder, I don’t want to be the kind of person who bullies you and treats you bad, I don’t want to be a hero at all.
She runs her shaky fingers through your hair, sweaty and plastered to your forehead, and says you’re not, Shouto, you’re not like him.
He pushes you hard hard hard and she tells him to hold back, go easy, give him a break, and father doesn’t like being told what to do. It’s always your fault she gets hurt because you can’t handle it, because you’re too weak to handle it. You become an adult at five years old. You’re six and then seven and then eight and each year you get older is another year that you’re too old to act like a child. You’re not a child, your father tells you, you’re a masterpiece. You’re going to be his greatest weapon.
You hear your mother one night, and she says, “You have to stop treating him like a thing. He’s your son. He’s a child.”
You know that she’s afraid of him, her voice watery but firm, and it strikes you somewhere, hits you somewhere, that your father is not treating you the same way other fathers treat their kids. He likes to say you’re above all that coddling shit. Mother doesn’t seem to think so, and you’ve always trusted her judgment more than you’ve trusted his, but he is in charge and you slip into her room later and she’s crying.
“Shouto,” she says, and takes special care to keep you on her left side. Runs her hand through the right half of your hair but keeps a hard line down the middle. “I love you. You know that, right?”
She’s crying, but it’s quiet. It’s like, every time you think back on it, every memory you have of her, she’s crying. She’s always crying and it’s always your fault.
“I know,” you say, curling into her side and letting her hold you close. Her hand trembles when she touches your left shoulder. You wish it wasn’t part of you at all.
two.
Fuyumi finds you on the far side of the courtyard, where you and father do your outdoor training. It was hard today. It’s hard everyday, but it was really hard today.
You’re younger than all of your siblings. Your oldest brother is out of the house by now, even though he didn’t have to leave. Fuyumi isn’t the closest to you in age but she’s the one you talk to the most. Father never really took the time to care about the rest of them. You don’t know if your brothers ever really forgave you for that, or if they cared enough to think about it.
“Shouto,” she says, and she sounds like Mom when she says your name like that. The thought makes you want to cry, so you push it down.
“I’m fine,” you say, and you are. It’s just a few burns. You’ve had worse.
She sighs, and you don’t know if it means she’s annoyed or sad or just tired. “Let me see,” she says.
You don’t like people looking at you when you’re like this, especially not your father, but it’s never as bad when it’s Fuyumi. She makes you feel like a child, but not in a bad way. She makes you feel your age.
Wiping the dirt off your face, you sit up and hold out your arms. It’s a familiar routine. She smears burn cream up and down with her cool fingers and wraps the gauze around your arms. Both of their hands are bigger than yours—your sister’s and your father’s—but there’s such a big difference in the way they touch you. She touches you soft, the way mom used to before she grabbed your hair and yanked your head back and emptied the tea kettle onto your face.
Sometimes your father touches you soft, deceptively gentle. Tilts your chin up to look at him or puts a big hand on your back when company is over to remind you to stand up straight and be polite. Big fingers curling around the nape of your neck when he finds you making toast late one night because you were hungry and training had cut into dinner that day. He was drunk, you remember, and he got very close to you and curled his fingers around your neck and said my masterpiece, my Shouto, one of these days, one of these days. And you didn’t know what that meant but you knew you were scared, and you wanted him to go away, so you held very still until he did. You threw the toast away. You weren’t hungry anymore.
“There,” Fuyumi says, pulling back to examine her handiwork. She’s gotten good at this, over the years. You both have. “Good as new.”
“Thanks,” you say, and she gives you an apologetic smile and says she’s gonna go get dinner started.
You sit in the courtyard for a while.
There’s a patch of grass in the corner that’s still on fire. It’s close to burning out, starting to taper off into smoke. You watch it die out slowly, watch the strands turn black and crumble, and you hate him. He burned the grass and your mother and you, and everything crumbled because he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. The courtyard is a mess and your head pounds and you hate him so much you think might die from it someday. You think it might burn you up from the inside out, that you won’t be cut down the middle anymore—your fire will eat away at you until there’s nothing left but everything your father gave you and everything your mom was afraid of will come true.
You watch the grass burn and you hate him.
three.
“Todoroki?” Midoriya asks one day. The two of you are in his room at his apartment, homework spread out on his bed. There’s a test later this week, and you’re ready for it, so Midoriya asked you to help him, even though you’re not the best at math and there are definitely better people to ask. He let you borrow one of his pencils because you left yours at home; it has a funny little eraser on the end that looks like a bumblebee.
“Yeah?” you answer, glancing up.
“What you told me at the sports festival,” he sounds hesitant, freezes a little when you freeze a little, because he’s so perceptive you feel like you can’t hide a thing around him.
“What about it?”
“I’ve uh, I’ve been meaning to ask. Does he still…? I mean, does he still—“
“No,” You say quickly, maybe too quickly. Pull down the sleeves of your blazer just a bit. “No. He doesn’t hurt me anymore.”
You don’t know why you don’t want Midoriya to know. You know he doesn’t have a big mouth—the shit you told him could have been spread around the school in a matter of hours, but it wasn’t. You also know he’s allergic to minding his own business, and you don’t know much he looks to authority figures for help. You don’t want an adult to know. You don’t want a scandal. You don’t want the backlash. You don’t want the million and one things that would come with telling another adult. You just—you can’t. It’s all fucked up and the last thing you wanna do is protect your bastard of a father, but he’s still paying mom's hospital bills and he’s paying for you to go to school and you don’t want to think about what he would do if he ever found out you told Midoriya.
Midoriya looks at you funny, tilting his head like he doesn’t believe you. Allergic to minding his own business. You’d think it was annoying if it hadn’t actually done something for you.
“Okay,” He says anyways, “I just wanted to ask. If something ever happens though, you can always talk to me about it.”
You don’t like the way he says it—like you need his help to deal with what you've been dealing with for the past ten years of your life. Like he understands anything about it—and he’s the one who said it, the two of you are so different, he can’t imagine what your life has been like. He can’t imagine a damn thing. You don’t want him to see you as some kind of helpless victim.
“Thanks,” you say anyways, because you don’t think he means it like that. But whatever, you’ve never been great at reading all the little social cues in conversation. “But it’s fine.”
The tiny fingerprinted burns under the sleeves of your blazer itch, but they’re none of his business anyways.
four.
You’re rushed to the hospital in a haze. You’ve never been to the hospital before because you can usually deal with things at home, but this is bad enough to need professional help. You don’t think you like hospitals, even though you can’t remember most of it. The smell of harsh antiseptic, white floor and ceiling and walls.
The things you remember most are: cool metal digging into your arm on the chair you’re sitting in, the way the left side of your face hurts like nothing you’ve felt before, somebody asking what happened what happened and your father's voice saying it was an accident, a bad training accident. No one contradicts him because he’s a hero. Your mom’s voice rings in your ears on repeat— his left side sometimes seems unbearable to me, the teakettle screaming on the oven. The teakettle screams and screams and doesn’t stop screaming. It screams for you, because your father’s hand is tight on your wrist as the doctor examines your burn and clean it up carefully.
Mind your manners, his hand says, don’t say anything stupid.
When you get home later that night, your mother is gone.
“She hurt you at a vital time, that stupid woman. I’ve staked too much in this for you to be ruined now. Obviously she’s been hospitalized, for both of your safeties.”
Your face burns and the rest of you burns with it. “It’s your fault,” you say, uncaring for once in your life about what will happen, “It’s your fault she hurt me. It’s your fault she hates me. It’s your fault.”
And for once in your life, your father doesn’t have anything to say.
He leaves you on the floor of the training room, curled up and crying because your mother hurt you and your mother is gone and your mother hates you because you got something from her but you got half of yourself from him, too. That half of you was too much for her to take. The teakettle screams and screams, and all you can think about is how much her hands shook when she ran her hands through your hair and then yanked it back, the way her eyes were empty like a stranger’s.
You hate him. You hate him. You hate all the parts of yourself that he gave you, you wish she burned all of it out.
Those are the moments you remember the most: the look in your mother's eyes and the way her hands shook, the teakettle screaming on the oven, the way your father didn’t say a goddamn thing to you. The way your body trembled so hard you though you might shake yourself apart.
It wakes you up sometimes, or comes back to you in times it shouldn’t. You push most of it far far back enough that you don’t think about it unless you have to. You spill your guts at the sports festival for no reason because nobody knows you here and if you manage to do what you’ve set out to you want someone to know that you did. But you don’t, and maybe that’s not as bad as you thought it was. Maybe not using half of your power was giving your father even more control over you. Limiting yourself because of him was just letting him win—thinking about him is letting him win. For a moment there, in the match again Midoriya, you forgot all about him, and you’ve never felt more free.
five.
You’re not doing good with this training exercise today. You don’t know. Your head’s not in it, maybe. You’re staring at UA next week, and you think you might be excited about it. It’s a long train ride away, which means most of your day will be spent out of the house. You’ll get enough training in at school that it’ll be fine. Maybe you can stay after school and finish your homework there.
“Shouto,” your father says, snapping you out of your reverie. You aren’t at UA yet, you’re still at home in the courtyard, and your left leg is aching a little bit. “Pay attention.”
Fights with your father are never fair. He’s bigger than you, and taller than you, and he never holds back. When he’s angry, it’s more of a beating than a spar. He’s not angry yet.
“Sorry,” you say, and crouch back into position.
He lunges, you dodge, he swipes and you kick and he catches you by the ankle easily. You’re on the ground in an instant.
“You just tried that attack,” he reprimands, “Don’t be predictable.”
You try not to be, but you’re just not focused . You don’t want to be here right now. Your father is having company over later and you’re expected to make an appearance, to be polite. You don’t want to do that, either. Father like to say you’re going through a rebellious phase. You think you’re just tired of his bullshit.
You try again anyways, and end up flat on your back a second time. He grabs your wrist and yanks you up hard enough to bruise.
“What is wrong with you today?”
“I’m tired,” you say, keeping your voice schooled, “I don’t want to do this right now.”
Your father sighs, disappointed. Like he’s dealing with a child, or a misbehaving pet.
“You know you can’t skip training. Don’t be lazy. You’re better than this. You’re my perfect masterpiece,” he says, but the word always sounds like an insult instead of praise, “You need to act like it.”
“I’m not your thing ,” you snarl unthinkingly.
“You’re whatever I want you to be,” he says, staring down at you, daring you to say something else. “And what I want you to be is a hero who surpasses All Might.”
Something in you snaps, “I don’t care!” you cry, “I don’t care about All Might or your stupid, one-sided fight, because he obviously doesn’t give a damn about you.”
The sting on your face is expected, but still hurts. You’re knocked sideways, but you aren’t a child anymore so you don’t fall.
“You’re like a dog who doesn’t care about their owner, or a weapon that doesn’t want to be useful. That fight is what you were made for, Shouto. I’ve put everything into shaping you to win. You will not let me down.”
He sounds angry, angry like he sounds when he’s angry enough to do something about it. Your cheek stings. Your hands shake with something —you’re pissed and upset and you hate hate hate the way he looks at you, the way you aren’t a person when you’re here under his gaze—but you dig your nails into your opposite hand tight behind your back, and say nothing.
six.
You wake up halfway through the night, teakettle ringing in your ear, and decide that you’re thirsty. You creep carefully to the kitchen, bare feet padding quietly against the floor. Your father is out right now; he got a call earlier that evening about some villain, and he hasn’t come back yet. You’re tired, and groggy from sleep, and your father isn’t here so you don’t watch yourself we closely as you should. The cups are in the higher cabinet and you haven’t started getting taller yet, just on the cusp of ten, so you have to stand on the tips of your toes to reach them.
You’ve always been careless, though, and instead of grabbing a glass you knock it down. It falls and shatters across the kitchen floor.
The sound shocks you awake, staring dumbly at the mess you just made, and you’re suddenly hyper aware of where you are and what you did.
You don’t know when your father will be home, but it might be soon. You have to clean it up before he can see it.
You’re ten and stupid so you crouch down and starts scooping up the broken glass with your hands, carting handful after handful to the trash can. You’ve almost got all of it cleaned up before you hear the sound of the door sliding open and then closed.
Your father’s home. There’s no time for you to run without being loud about it, so you scramble to your feet just before he walks through the kitchen door and hold your bleeding hands behind your back. He stops mid stride, and looks down at you. He looks tired, but other than that, seems unharmed.
“Shouto,” He says, “What are you doing up so late?”
“I was just thirsty,” you say, proud of yourself for not stuttering. “I came down to get some water.”
“Water? Is that why there’s glass on the floor?”
Your heart sinks. Of course he would notice the last little bit of it. “I cleaned it up.”
“What are you holding?” He asks, deceptively calm.
“Nothing,” you say, clenching your hands together, like if you just hold them tight enough the bleeding will stop.
Your father frowns, drawing his shoulders up and staring down at you in that way that always makes you feel small.
“Show me your hands,” he says, and you only hesitate for a moment. When he sees what you’ve done to them he scoffs.
“Stupid child,” he says, “Did you pick it up yourself?”
“I didn’t—think, I’m sorry.”
He frowns harder. “These,” he says, grabbing your small wrists in his big big hands, “Belong to me. So when you hurt them, you hurt me, do you understand?”
You nod quickly, and he shoves you back. “We’ll be behind schedule tomorrow. Clean up your mess. Don’t let this happen again.”
He leaves you alone in the kitchen, hands still bleeding, glass still shattered on the floor, heart beating wildly in your chest. He was so mad, is all you can think, and he didn’t do anything. You feel relieved, maybe grateful, and disgusted that you feel grateful because why should you feel grateful to someone for not hurting you? You don’t know. You don’t know. You spend the next thirty minutes sweeping up the glass and wrapping your hands up as best as you can, and then you go to bed and get up the next morning and he doesn’t mention anything about the cup you dropped the night before and you feel even more grateful and you hate yourself for it.
It’s years later and you’re living in the dorms at school and you go to get a glass of water and you drop it instead. It shatters on the floor, loud enough to wake someone up—you’re gonna wake someone up, you think anxiously, dropping to your knees, you have to clean it up before anyone sees. You know he said not to clean up with your hands but there’s nothing else here and it’s all you can think to do; it cuts into your palm but you barely notice. You have to clean it up. You hear footsteps and your heart beats faster— he’s gonna be so mad . You did it again. He’s gonna be so so mad.
“Todoroki?” You hear, and you snap back into yourself. You’re sitting on the floor of the kitchen in the dorms. Glass is shattered across the floor in front of you. Midoriya is standing a few feet away, looking down at you all concerned. You blink.
“Midoriya,” You answer, because it’s all you can think to say.
“What happened? Are you—god, are your hands bleeding?”
You look down, and oh, you think remembering the sting of glass against your palm, they are bleeding.
“I guess so,” you say.
Midoriya crouches down next to you, mindful of the glass. “Did you try to clean it up with your hands?”
You feel your throat catch in shame, and you look at your hands so you don’t have to look at Midoriya’s face. Stupid child, your father says. Stupid stupid child.
“Sorry,” you say quietly.
“You don’t—Todoroki, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s just a cup.”
Your hands clench tight tight on instinct, and you wince. Flinch harder when warm hands hover over your wrists. Hesitant. There’s a beat, and then two, and you watch Midoriya carefully uncurl your fingers, one at a time. They’re sticky with blood; some of it smears on Midoriya’s, and you feel even worse.
“Sorry,” You say again, because you don’t know what else you could possibly say to make this better; you can never make it better.
“It’s okay,” Midoriya says quietly. “We should bandage you up.”
“The cup—I have to clean it up first.”
“It’s fine, I got it.”
You shake your head, “It’s my fault.”
“It was an accident,” Midoriya insists. You bite your lip hard; he sounds annoyed. He probably didn’t expect to have to clean up your mess in the middle of the night. “I’ll go get the first aid kit; wait here for a second.”
You can’t do anything else but nod, and stare hard hard at the ground. Midoriya is back a few moments later, and he takes your hands and dabs the disinfectant on the cuts and you don’t flinch because you’ve learned not to, and he wraps them up with care you haven’t felt since your sister. They’re not deep cuts; they’ll heal up quick, luckily.
You’re both quiet as Midoriya stands up and finds the broom and sweeps up the glass. As the moments pass, you feel more and more embarrassed. God, you’re ridiculous. You feel useless and childish.
“Hey,” pulls you out of your thoughts, and Midoriya is back in your line of sight, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” You say, “I’m fine.”
Midoriya is quiet for a moment. “What happened?”
“I came down to get some water, but I dropped the cup instead.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“You looked kind of... I don’t know. Like you weren’t all the way here.”
You bite the inside of your mouth hard enough to hurt. You’ve already told him so much, oversharing instead of keeping your shit to yourself, so what’s a little more?
“I don’t know. It broke and it was like… I was at home. And he was gonna be so mad at me.”
Midoriya doesn’t ask who you’re talking about. You don’t know what you would say if he did.
“Are you going back home for the short break next week?” he asks eventually.
“Probably.”
“Do you wanna stay over at my house? Just for a day or two?”
The break is only a day or two long, but he doesn’t say that. You finally look up at him, hoping you don’t look as pathetically relieved as you feel.
“I don’t know if I...”
“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Midoriya days when you hesitate too long. “I just thought maybe if you don’t wanna go back to—I mean, I don’t wanna assume anything, but—“
“I think. That would be nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But will your mom be okay with it?”
“Oh yeah, for sure. She loves when I bring friends over—probably because I never really had any, hah. But I’m pretty sure she likes you fine, she thinks you’re super polite. I’m sure she’d be fine with you staying over for the break.”
You listen to him ramble the way he does, voice quiet but strong in the air of the kitchen, and let the sound of his voice settle under your skin until you can barely hear your father or the teakettle screaming.
Your hands stop shaking.