Chapter Text
Todoroki Shouto liked to think of himself as the King of Spite. Years with Endeavor as his father certainly made him skilled in petty revenge, and that’s why he knew he had struck gold when his unwashed ballsack of a father sat him down and told him to take up dance:
He and Endeavor awkwardly sat across from each other at their dinner table. Shouto knew his heavily-practiced glower (not that it took much effort when his father was the abusive asshole known as Endeavor) was working when Enji began to look uncomfortable.
“Shouto,” Enji finally spoke. “I know you don’t want to hear this from me, but I have an idea as to how you can better improve your hero course rankings.”
Shouto merely continued slurping his soba, making any effort to avoid interacting with Enji.
“I noticed that sometimes your ice slows you down. Due to the cold, I mean.”
Shouto glared into his noodles.
“And I was thinking that maybe taking up something requiring coordination and balance, such as dancing, may help you out.” And that’s when Shouto stopped, and smiled, as a notion formed in his head.
He met his father’s eyes.
“Yes, that sounds lovely. I’ll make it a routine.”
Shouto knew he was a petty little shit, and he embraced it with pride as an idea came to his mind: he’d take up dance, alright. It just wouldn’t be the kind his dad would approve of: JoJo Siwa’s eclectic style, specifically characterized by the choreography he found for “Guilty Pleasure.”
He would learn to dance, but it would be the most graceless blazing dumpster fire his dad had ever witnessed— and that was saying something considering that Endeavor was little more than trash and had a fire quirk.
And that was how Shouto found himself sitting in the 2A common room at 11:00 p.m. on a Sunday evening with the “Guilty Pleasure” choreography video on loop. Todoroki had already resolved to perform “Guilty Pleasure” while preserving JoJo’s dynamics and rhythm, so he noted things to keep in mind while practicing as he watched: legs flopping, powerful jump, weird tarantula move…
Man, Endeavor was going to be mad. And he couldn’t even say anything because technically, technically, Shouto was in fact abiding by Enji’s wishes.
Damn, he was brilliant.
–
Shouto decided that every night at eleven, right before he fell asleep, he would practice. After all, what kind of gay man would he be if he didn’t respect the creator of gay pop?
… It was also really funny annoying Bakugou. (Aizawa, for whatever reason, decided that the war made them more amenable to each other and thus made them neighbors. Shouto was so ready to take advantage of that opportunity.)
And so he danced: loudly, proudly, and very clumsily. It only took him about a week to get through the choreographies for “Karma” and “Guilty Pleasure,” so he enlisted Ashido Mina’s help in figuring out how he could develop choreographies for the remaining songs on her album.
“Ashido?” Shouto peered around the hallway’s corner, into the common area where he knew Ashido would be.
True to his thought process, Ashido whirled around and beamed at him. Shouto greeted her with a tiny smile of his own, prompting her to dash towards him and leap into his – not ready, very not ready – arms.
“Shouto! You gorgeous, gorgeous boy! How are you?” Ashido laughed at the cold feeling of the arm that had caught her.
“Hey, Ashido. I’m well, and you?” Shouto was unused to the pleasantries his classmates used – at least in the form they were in. Shouto had quickly learned that for his peers, these interactions could never be as casual as those at business dinners he had attended with his father. For his peers, compassion and curiosity were as instinctual as breathing.
Despite the unfamiliarity, Shouto couldn’t help but feel grateful for the hearth of his friends’ love.
“So good! You know, when the class pretty boy asked me to meet up, I couldn’t help but be nervous. Also grateful, though,” Ashido chirped. Shouto blinked. Pretty boy? With his scar, he couldn’t understand anyone viewing him as anything but unsightly.
“Thank you,” Shouto calmly articulated.
“So, what did you need my help for?” Ashido wiggled, signaling her desire to be put down, and Shouto obliged gratefully.
“I want to learn how to dance to songs that do not have set choreographies. Dancing is… fun, and I want to improve my agility while not making a total fool of myself.”
Ashido had laughed at him and told him not to overthink his movements. After all, dancing at its core was merely a physical form of emotional expression, an artistic rendition of a hug or a kiss rather than a verbal articulation of the root emotions.
Easy for you to say, Little Miss I-Know-What-I’m-Feeling. Growing up in the Todoroki household, especially as his father’s “masterpiece,” hadn’t done wonders for Shouto’s ability to process his feelings.
“Hmm, Balance Baby. This sounds interesting,” Shouto mused. “The lyrics certainly indicate what movements I might have to do.” Twirling in the ballroom, twerking in the bedroom, he supposed. I can just do what the lyrics say JoJo likes to do.
How hard could it be?
–
Turns out, Shouto had no idea how to move his body to the second line (and frankly, the most ridiculous thing he had heard in a HOT -- pun intended -- second) in the chorus.
Fuck.