Chapter Text
Todoroki Shouto didn't care about things.
He used to, when he was very young. The same way a child doesn't understand why talking to strangers is dangerous, he hadn't yet grasped why attaching emotional value to one's possessions was a bad idea.
Luckily, he learned that lesson soon enough.
He didn't have many toys as a child, but the ones he did have he treasured. One was a stuffed bear, which he had simply called "Bear". It was about half his size, with black beads for eyes, tufted honey-colored fur, stained brown on the left foot from the time he had spilled soy sauce on it, and he tried not to think about it too often because the vividness of the memory, as if he had just seen it yesterday, left him feeling embarrassed and melancholic at the same time.
One day, only a few months before his mother had left, he made an error in training. He couldn't remember exactly what it was, but he remembered it was a mistake he had repeated several times, despite being corrected. His father, enraged, had strode out of the training room- Shouto trailing after him anxiously, stammering apologies- walked into his bedroom, and picked Bear up from the floor. He stopped for a moment, holding the toy out in front of him, allowing Shouto to savor the dread building in his chest and the way the glass eyes bored into his, almost pleading.
Then Bear burst into flames, and that was the end of that.
At some point that night, crying softly over the pile of ashes that were the remains of his friend, he had a realization. There were things in his life that he cared about, and Endeavor would destroy those things to hurt him. Some things, like his family, he doubted he could stop caring about, even if he tried. But possessions? He didn't need them, and the fewer tools Endeavor had to use against him, the better, right? It was like training, he told himself as he gathered his toys and pushed them into the farthest corner. He was getting stronger, he told himself as he dropped Bear's melted eyes into the trashcan. Unlike the training he did with Endeavor, this was his choice. A small burst of pride consoled him as he dried his face and laid down to sleep in a room that felt a little emptier than usual.
(The thought that, if he stopped caring about all but the most important things in his life, Endeavor could only try to take those select few treasures didn't occur to him until after he had come home from the hospital to discover his mother was nowhere to be found.)
Still, he kept his promise. Over the years a few items had managed to slip their way past his wall of impassivity: a picture Fuyumi had drawn for him, a sweatshirt that felt like a hug, a book of poetry with a scribbled love letter on the inside cover, written for someone he would never know. He tried to save them. He hid them in his desk drawers, behind bookshelves, even in plain sight, but with the accuracy of a bloodhound Endeavor managed to find them, almost as if he could sense the slightest uptick in Shouto's mood, the barest trace of a smile, and could sniff out a path to its source. Then, it was only a matter of time until Shouto did something to displease him, and after that, it was goodbye.
If he was being honest, he was almost grateful for the harsh discipline. Every time he watched something he had grown to cherish shrivel in the heat of Endeavor's fire, it drove the lesson into him a little deeper.
Don't get attached.
By the time he had been admitted to UA, he was living the life of a monk. His shelves were bare besides for textbooks; all of his clothes were chosen by Fuyumi, bland black or navy pieces he could barely tell the difference between; the only thing he had to do to clean his room was dust.
Occasionally, when he couldn't sleep, he would imagine what would happen if he were to simply disappear. He would walk out the front door, or maybe just evaporate into the air, and leave nothing behind. As if he had never been there at all.
His spartan lifestyle was one of the few things he took pride in. His Quirk, his training, his grades... he considered all of these to technically be Endeavor's accomplishments. He gave Shouto his genes, forced him to train his ability, refused to allow him to do anything but study in his free time. But this? This was something that belonged solely to him, a tiny rebellion against the man he hated.
He was aware, of course, that this was an unsual way for someone his age to live. He didn't need to have friends to know that the average teenager's room was cluttered with the detritus of their life and decorated in their own particular style, but the contrast was especially stark the day Class 1-A moved into their dorms. Standing in their new common room, watching Yaoyorozu leaning on her stack of eight boxes while talking to Sero, who had seven, he tried, and failed, to picture what could possibly be filling them. Apparently his question would be answered soon enough, he noted as he passed by Ashido yelling something about a "room competition" on his way to the elevators.
The room was fine, he thought as he closed the door behind him. Slightly more spacious than his one at home, even- not though he needed it to be.
Putting away his things took about five minutes. Afterwards he sat on his futon, taking in his new room with mild boredom. Dinner wouldn't be for several more hours, and he had already finished his homework. Maybe he could do some training? No, the training grounds were closed by this hour. It occured to him that he could read a book, but then he remembered he didn't own any. He would just sit quietly, then.
That plan lasted less than ten minutes.
He didn't usually seek out social interactions, but even Bakugo's company would be preferrable to mind-numbing boredom. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to build a rapport with the people he would now be living with. His classmates were interesting, if nothing else.
He opened his door and stepped out into the hallway, fully expecting to see at least two or three people congregating there, either chatting with one another calmly or engaging in some kind of tomfoolery, depending on who else was on his floor.
Instead, he was assaulted with a wall of noise, and a sudden appreciation for the high-quality soundproofing the rooms must have. He hadn't been able to hear a thing with the door closed, but outside, his ears were being overwhelmed by overlapping sounds of scraping, squeaking, thuds and the occasional crash.
What in the world was going on?
He noticed Sero's door partially open, and curiosity overwhelmed his manners. He padded quietly down the hall and peered in, careful not to push lean in so far that he couldn't duck back out of sight if he needed to.
Shouto was often told that he wasn't very expressive. Nevertheless, as he stretched his neck to lean into his classmate's doorway his eyes widened to what felt like twice their normal size.
Suddenly he understood why the others had needed so many boxes. In fact, he was now beginning to wonder why they didn't have even more. The bed and desk were the same as in his own room, as well as the color of the walls, but the similarities stopped there. Sero had added a small table, a chest of drawers, and... was that a hammock? It didn't stop there, either. He had put down a rug that covered most of the floor, installed a new shade for the ceiling light, and hung up a tapestry as well as several other pieces of artwork, all with colorful geometric colors. The boy himself dropped a screw from where he had been standing on another unopened box to hang a set of bamboo blinds, and Shouto ducked back out before he could turn around and catch him spying.
Well, assuming everyone else was dragging as many things through their rooms as Sero was, the noise was perfectly understandable. His interest now piqued, he made his way to the third room on his floor, near the other end of the wall- who it belonged to, he wasn't sure.
This room was empty, and more sparsely decorated than Sero's. Still, it wasn't at all lacking in individuality. Again, a table had been added, this one bigger and with a plaid tablecloth, as well as a set of bright green curtains, and although the room's occupant was missing, the small oven various baking implements set out on a table, display case full of what appeared to be cake pans, and yellow comforter with the word "SUGAR" printed on it covering the bed all indicated that the room belonged to Sato.
So that was how a teenagers decorated their rooms, he mused, as he slipped back into his own. Interesting, how personalized they were. He was beginning to look forward to the "Room Contest". Perhaps it would help him get to know his classmates better, seeing how their dorms reflected their tastes and interests.
For a solid five minutes after he reentered his room he stared idly at the wall, mind wandering between inconsequential things, like what would be served for dinner and whether or not the building had backup generators in case Kaminari sneezed.
And then he had the realization.
The room contest would be a class activity. He was expected to participate by showing the others his room. Based on his observations of Sato and Sero's, everyone else's rooms would be uniquely decorated, while his was... not. A shiver went down his spine.
There were few things Shouto despised more than standing out. The feeling of judging eyes on him, the prodding questions that resulted, made his skin crawl. Of course, between who his father was and his shaky grasp of social conventions, there were times he couldn't avoid it, but he liked to think he got by without drawing too much attention to himself by blending into the crowd as much as possible. Hence his panic as he looked wildly around his room, which looked virtually the same as when he had first stepped into it.
He needed to fix this, now, or else he took the risk of becoming a spectacle. It was- he pulled his phone out of his pocket- 4:15. Dinner was at 7:30, so he had three hours and twenty minutes. Ok. That was plenty of time. He could manage this. He took a deep breath to steady himself.
And promptly careened back into panic when he realized he had no materials to work with. Not a single rug, piece of artwork, table... he was even using the bedding UA had provided. He peered into the few boxes he had brought with him, but they were just as empty as he knew they'd be. Could he leave the campus to buy something? Desperate, he ran out to the balcony and leaned over the edge of the railing, trying to see if there were any shops close enough to be visible. And then his eye caught on something on the ground below. Construction materials, evidently left behind from the building of the dorms.
Approximately four and a half hours later, Shouto stood with his hand on the handle of his door and a crowd of clamoring classmates behind him. He was fairly sure he had made the right choice: although Ojiro and Shoji had left their rooms as minimalistic as his had been originally, they did seem to be teased for it. Meanwhile rooms with unique themes, such as Tokoyami's, Aoyama's and Sero's, had received a positive response. Still, he couldn't help but feel nervous as he opened the door and awaited his peers' judgement.
Having no idea of what his "style" was supposed to be, he simply replicated the traditional design of his home. With all the wood and tools he'd found, as well as some discarded furniture he'd been fortunate enough to discover in a storage closet, all it had taken to transform the room was some hard work, (which was perfectly alright as far as he was concerned). He'd taken a cue from Sero's rug and laid down tatami mats, which were more comfortable than hardwood floors anyways. In fact, as much as he loathed his father's house, it was oddly comforting to be in a place similar to the one he'd grown up in. Besides, this approach allowed him to keep his space fairly uncluttered, without looking bare.
There was a beat of silence before an explosion of noise erupted behind him, making him wince. Overlapping with exclamations of surprise were a slew of questions- most some variation of "Todoroki how the hell did you even do this"- which he did his best to answer.
His voice stayed even, but his stomach churned. It appeared that despite all his efforts he had still managed to be the exception. What was he doing wrong?
Then, he heard the other students' comments as they moved on to Sato's dorm.
"You'll make such a good pro," Hagakure, sighed and Sato muttered something about "pretty boys" and "tricks up their sleeves". Were they... impressed? It was hard to tell, when they wouldn't just say so outright, but their words seemed to be approving. Well, he hadn't accomplished his goal of blending in with the crowd, but at least the attention he received seemed to be positive. Not a perfect victory, he thought to himself as he followed the others, but then, few things were.
That night, he would be lying if he said he didn't spend a while staring up at the ceiling, savoring the warmth of pride in his chest in lieu of sleeping. Not only had he managed to strike a balance between his ideals and societal norms, looking at the other students' rooms had only strengthened his conviction that his choice to live with as few material posessions as possible was a wise one. Not that there was anything wrong with owning more things; it was just that when he saw Yaoyorozu try to shimmy through the tiny space between her ornate bed and oversized desk, or recognized the flash of panic in Tokoyami's eyes when Midoriya tried to touch his sword... it was a kind of weakness, wasn't it, to allow mere objects to hold control over one's life? A weakness that everyone he had ever met seemed to be unnable to resist.
Not Shouto, though. No, Shouto had overcome this deficiency with nothing but pure strength of will.
And that strength was more important to him than any trinket could possibly be. It had carried him through everything he had been through, every single second of trauma and pain, and allowed him to emerge from it all as who he was. A person who could endure whatever trials came his way.
His strength had kept him alive, and it could never, ever be destroyed.
The room he drifted off to sleep in was a model of discipline, just as always had been, ever since that pivotal day when he watched his stuffed bear go up in flames.
And it would have stayed that way, if only Midoriya hadn't given him that damn cat.