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Shouto didn’t want to go home.
The Sports Festival loomed on the horizon. Training - both at home and at school - was becoming tougher, more frequent. It was the hardest they’d pushed themselves yet, training for as long as they had to in order to work out any kinks and cracks in their armor to come out on top, and the stress of it all was weighing on him. Every movement caused his bruises to pulse in complaint, hidden cuts opening back up each time he bended or stretched wrong. That was before he got to school, and the training he endured for U.A only slathered another layer of bruises and grime onto his skin.
Shouto wasn’t social to begin with, but he isolated himself even more. Endeavor’s eyes bore holes into his back wherever he went. Everything he did was a constant reminder of what was expected of him, and all of his focus zeroed in on giving his father as big of a middle finger as he could feasibly pull off.
Not only was all of his effort focused on that, but he couldn’t take having to hang around people that only saw him as Endeavor’s son, an icon, lucky. It made him want to scream in frustration, grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say he’s not who you think he is! over and over until they finally understood, but he couldn’t, and he found himself helpless, struggling to move forward but refusing to turn around.
So he did neither. He stalled for time. He found himself hovering around the classroom after school more and more, regardless of Bakugo’s annoyed glare, waiting until Aizawa had to leave before doing so himself.
One day, when the thought of going back to the suppressing quiet of his home made his gut clench and his skin preemptively tingle with the feeling of phantom flames, he asked Aizawa if he could stay after for a little while longer than normal. He claimed he focused better in the classroom than at home - which wasn’t a lie - and to Shouto’s surprise the man didn’t question it. Aizawa’s gaze flickered over Shouto’s shoulder, momentarily distracted before he met his eyes again, telling him he would be in the staff room and to get him if he needed anything or when he was finished with his homework. Aizawa left the room, leaving Shouto with an empty classroom.
Well, seemingly empty. Izuku was gently whispering to either himself or Shouto, the student wasn’t entirely sure which, perfectly content with having a one-sided conversation.
He meant to do homework, he really did. Shouto had set up a studying spot in his usual seat and was fully prepared for the migraine that was English. But when Izuku started pointedly tapping on his desk and then at the back of the classroom where the EMF resided, Shouto figured he could postpone the migraine for another day. He stood from his seat and walked over curiously, pulling the machine from its storage.
He turned it on and waited a while in an awkward silence. He wasn’t sure how much Izuku had to say, so he just guessed. Shouto warned Izuku that he was pausing - as he’d seen others do - and played it back.
He mentally thanked the support course girl that had fixed the EMF, otherwise this conversation would’ve been a nightmare to understand.
“Yóu ҉lo̧o͘k ́sa̵d,͝” Izuku said, voice managing to push past the static. “I’m ͞so̸rry ͘f͟or ̶slapping ͟your ha͟i̴r ͞to͘day͢.͜ I ̵d́idn’͏t m̷e̛a̧n t̶o͝ ma̡ke yo̕u̵ u̶pset̶. ̴I’m sor͞ry.”
Shouto sighed. Right, Izuku wouldn’t know. It’s fine, it’s...not because of you, he explained.
”Do y͏ou̧ wa̕nt ̶t̢ò t͡al͢k ͡abou͏t ͜i̸t?”
He paused at that, thoughtful, and in his silence Izuku tapped the table to get him to record again. It took two recordings to get Izuku’s rant in, but they managed.
”Nobody use͢d t̀ò ̸li̡sţęn͟ ̧to m̸é, ͝e̡v̡eņ ̵tho͡u͘gh I want́e͟d̶ ͜t͜o ́t̀alk,̨” Izuku said. “N̷o̵body’s n͝o͝ti̧ce̴d you҉ ͝b҉ein͘g͜ s҉ad, I ̨th́in̷k,҉ so͘ ́t̴h͞ey h͘ave͝n’͝t ͘listen͡ed͏ t̷o͠ yoù ̶either̸, b͘u̸t I’ll̨ ҉l̡ist̡e̡n҉ ͝if͠ ͝you want ̢t̨o.͜”
The words built up like a tidal wave in his throat, and he choked on them. He both desperately wanted to take up Izuku’s offer and pretend Izuku had said nothing at all.
Before he decided, he had a question to ask. Do you know who Endeavor is?
”The҉ Num̴be͞r Two ̴Ḩe͏ro,̶” Izuku replied in the silence, hesitant. ”He̕ ͠s͢e̢ems s̵c̶͡҉ąr̶y̶̢͜.̴ Laşţ I̕ ҉k͠new͞ ̸peop̸le ̶did̵n̸’͠t ́l̡ik̶e͝ hi̢m v̷e̛ŗy mu͠ch.”
That was all Shouto needed. At first he kept the story vague, only giving the bare minimum of an explanation so Izuku could follow, but then Izuku started tapping the table and asking questions.
No one had asked for his side before. Not in so much detail.
The story ended up pouring out of him, the invisible limit to his endurance and patience snapping like a rubber band, and he talked in a rush, desperate to get the words out as if he was draining poison. He talked about his mother, about his siblings, about how his father treated him and how the man’s shadow casted a somber, quiet atmosphere at his house and the strain he was under as the Sports Festival crept ever closer. He admitted how much his body pained him, how much he hurt. How much he hated his old man, and how much he hated the fire he could wield and the promise he made to himself to spite his father.
When he finally finished, he felt exhausted, and he sighed in both relief and tiredness.
Izuku spoke in the silence as the small machine recorded, his speech slow and careful.
”Ņo͡b̸o̶dy l͏i͘s̢tene͏d͟ to m͜e,” he began, and Shouto carefully absorbed each word.
It wasn’t often the dead could speak on their regrets, and Todoroki knew he wouldn’t just offer platitudes and blind reassurances. He could tell in Izuku’s serious, somber tone.
”I was̕ a̕l̕one. I ҉w̶a͟s ̸śc͞ar͠e̶d and̵ şa͏d҉ ͠an͏d̶ ͢did͠ ͟so̴m͞et̨h͟ing̡ ̕I ̶reģret.͡ ̸Ì wo̷u҉l͜d g̢ive͘ ͢anythi̷ńg͘ ̴f͏o̷r͡ ̶a c҉h̨ance̕ ͜to ̴g͞o ҉b҉a̢ck a͘n̷d̀ d̡o͏ th̨ing͞s̵ ͘d͠iffér̨ent͏ly,̢ a̡nyt̶h͢ing. ҉Ha̵t̴e͝ yo̷ur̛ ͝da͢d͟,̵ he ͜de͞se̷rv̕es̨ ̛it, bu͜t̕ ̨d̶òn̸’̀t̴ ͡hate̷ yo̴u̷r͜s̨elf́ t̸o͢o͟. ̸Ìt̵’͜ş ́no̸t҉ ̷fa̷ir. ͝It’҉s҉ yoųr ̵Qu͜i͝r͟k ̵t̨o do w̡h͟a̧t y̡ou̡ w̷a̴nt̶ w̸i̡th it.̨ ̛D́o̧n͘’t͢ h̵a͡t̀e͢ yo̵ur͡self̕ ̷fo̡r͢ l̵i̧v͏i̶ng͏,͜ maḱé it ͜y͜o͏u͠r h̡op͡e ̢i͟nst́e̴ad͠,͝ ̴tǫ ̵d̛ơ ̶bètte҉r͏.̡ ̷To ͜b̶e ͟b͝et͏ter͢!“
He stared at the EMF as Izuku’s voice faded out, eyes wide as his brain tried to catch up to the advice he was just given.
The precious, life-changing advice.
Your Quirk.
He’d never thought of it like that before. He had always seen it as a power forced on him, pressed into his palms by his father’s hands until they warped to fit the flames. Not once did it occur to him that it wasn’t his father’s Quirk. It was his now. His hands were molded to fit fire and heat already, ever since his birth, and his father only added the scars.
It hit him then, why Izuku would be telling him this, why he reached out at all. Izuku had been paying attention, could tell the difference in his attitude as the Sports Festival crept ever closer, and he had been concerned for him.
Like a friend would.
He couldn’t see through his blurring vision. Shouto wiped his face with his sleeves as he swallowed a sob.
His world suddenly looked bigger. Not brighter, maybe, but he realized he had more options, and he no longer felt like he was suffocating in his own smoke. A hand had finally reached out to him, friendly, helpful, and Shouto would be damned if he wasn’t going to take it.
Izuku tapped his back quickly, chills shooting down his spine, and Shouto looked back to find that he had mildly set himself on fire in his burst of emotion. He desperately patted himself and the chair down, thankful that the fire alarm hadn’t gone off.
He sniffed as he stared at his palms, and he blinked a couple times to soothe the burning in his eyes. A gentle brush against his knee made him record again.
”Are͠ ̕yo̢u ̸o҉ka͏y͏?̴”
Shouto, for the first time in a long time, smiled. I’m okay, he said, and he meant it.
He still had his father to face when he exited the classroom doors, but he didn’t let himself worry about it yet. He curled up next to the EMF and spoke to Class 1-A’s ghost until his voice was hoarse. Izuku helped him come up with ideas to get used to the flames - his flames - starting with the warmth concentrated at the tip of his finger, flickering and tiny. Shouto’s hands shook, but the murmuring of a distorted voice kept him grounded. Izuku’s giggles bounced off the walls, and he cheerfully said through the EMF, ”It̵ l̨o͠o̷k̀s l̵ik̡e͜ ͘a͞ ca͟ndle!͢”
In that moment, Shouto felt like nothing could stop him, not even Endeavor. It was his Quirk, and no one else’s.
If Endeavor had a problem with Shouto using his Quirk to make the ghost of a kind, helpful child happy - making his friend happy - then the old man could eat shit.