Archive of Our Own

Shouto moved behind Iida, his pace measured. Kirishima and Sero followed close, Asui leaping lightly over a low beam. They had fallen into rhythm—quiet coordination, no wasted motion. Shouto’s mind kept half a step ahead, analyzing the angles, the pipes’ pressure gauges, the patterns of the random bursts of steam. It reminded him of their joint training with Class B. Back then, he’d called it a draw, but it still felt like losing.

He’d promised himself not to repeat that mistake. No carelessness. No slip.

“Pipe overhead,” Asui murmured. Shouto nodded.

“Understood,” Iida replied, raising an armored arm to shield his face from a spurt of harmless mist. The hiss died as quickly as it came.

They advanced through the maze—slow, deliberate, the air growing thicker, damp with the metallic tang of steam and oil. Shouto could feel the humidity pressing against his left side, the scar itching faintly beneath the heat. He ignored it.

Then—

A metallic clang. A sharp crack.

“Wait—!” Sero’s warning cut through, but too late. Iida’s knee armor had struck a protruding pipe as he pivoted. The seam split with a shriek of pressure, and a white cloud of boiling water burst outward.

Shouto saw it in fragments, slowed by adrenaline: the rupture blooming, droplets spinning through the air like molten glass, and then—impact.

The water slammed across the left side of his face. Heat seared through his scar, sharp enough to steal his breath. For an instant, every sound collapsed into a single, piercing whistle.

The world folded.

He was back in the kitchen.

The air smelled of scorched metal and tea leaves. His mother’s voice—broken, pleading—“I’m sorry, Shouto, I’m sorry—”

The kettle screamed on the stove, the sound splitting his skull.

Pain blossomed across his face, blinding, endless, real.

He crouched down instinctively, palms clamping over his face, fingers digging into wet skin. The training zone vanished; only the memory burned.

“Todoroki-kun!” Iida’s voice—too close, too loud. “Todoroki! Are you injured?!”

Someone’s hands caught his shoulders. The grip was firm, armored, dragging him backward out of the steam. The sudden pull ripped through the echo of the past. His breath stuttered; the hot water still dripped from his hair, into his collar. He couldn’t see—eyes squeezed shut, the world too bright and too loud.

“His face—look at his face!” Sero’s voice cracked. “Is he burned? He got the full blast—”

“Let me see,” Kirishima said, kneeling beside him. “Hey, bro, can you hear me? It’s okay, it’s okay, just—just let us check, alright?”

A shadow moved at the edge of the steam—Asui’s calm voice, quieter but steady. “Everyone, stop crowding him. He’s shaking. Move him away from the heat.”

Shouto tried to breathe, but the air rasped against his throat like smoke. The noise of the ruptured pipe blended with the kettle’s shriek; the metallic scent was the same. His body refused to distinguish now from then. Every muscle locked.

Iida crouched in front of him, visor fogged. “Todoroki, answer me—did it burn you? Can you see?”

Shouto couldn’t. His hands stayed pressed to his face, nails biting his palms. He forced a breath—short, uneven—and pressed the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger hard, the old pressure-point trick. Pain, small and real, flared there; he latched onto it like a rope.

“Let me check, please,” Kirishima urged, trying gently to pull Shouto’s hands away. The movement made Shouto flinch so violently that Kirishima froze.

“Whoa, okay, okay! Not touching, sorry, man—just trying to help!”

Sero hovered behind him, voice trembling. “I swear, I saw skin—was it blistering? Guys, what if he can’t see out of that eye?”

“I said calm down,” Asui snapped softly but firmly. She placed one hand on Sero’s arm, grounding him, eyes fixed on Shouto. “Give him space.”

Iida nodded once, his breathing sharp through the helmet filters. “You’re right. Kirishima, back up. Sero—find a shut-off valve. That pipe’s still venting.”

“Right!” Sero scrambled away, tape snapping against metal.

Kirishima hesitated, watching the way Shouto’s shoulders trembled. “He’s not answering. He’s just—he’s still—”

“Move,” Iida said, more gently now. He knelt again beside Shouto, lowering his voice. “Todoroki, it’s me. You’re safe. The steam’s off. We need to get you checked.”

But Shouto couldn’t hear the words as words. They folded into noise, blending with the remembered shouting from years ago—the panic, the apology, the smell of burning. His pulse thundered in his ears.

It hurts. It’s not real. It hurts anyway.

He pressed another point—inside his wrist this time, hard enough to bruise. Focus on the pain. Not the heat, not the water, not the kitchen.

Slowly, through sheer force of will, he recognized the cold metal floor beneath his knees. The chill contrasted the phantom burn crawling along his scar. He forced his breathing into rhythm—inhale, hold, exhale—but the tremor in his chest wouldn’t stop.

Iida’s hand hovered near his shoulder, uncertain. “We’ll take him to Recovery Girl,” he said, directing it to no one in particular. “He’s in shock.”

Kirishima exhaled shakily. “He’s Todoroki—how can he even get burned? He’s, like, fireproof, right?”

“Not like that, ribbit,” Asui murmured. Her eyes lingered on Shouto’s trembling fingers. “This isn’t about heat tolerance.”

None of them truly understood, but they stayed there anyway—forming a loose ring around him, shielding him from the press of steam and the curious eyes of other students approaching from the maze. The hiss of the broken pipe faded; silence took its place, heavy and wet.

Shouto’s breath finally came in uneven gasps, his face still hidden behind his hands. The world no longer felt like the kitchen, but it didn’t feel safe either. He kept his pressure points pressed tight, holding himself together one trembling breath at a time.

No one spoke again. The only sounds were dripping water and the faint hum of cooling metal.

And still—behind his closed eyes—the kettle kept whistling.

The sound faded first. The hiss of steam, the shouting—it all thinned until only his own heartbeat filled the space behind his ears. Shouto’s palms still pressed against his face, slick with condensation, fingers trembling just slightly no matter how hard he tried to still them.

He breathed in through his nose—slow, deliberate. Held it. Exhaled. Then again. He worked through the sequence in order, forcing each inhale to stretch longer than the last. His fingers found the familiar pressure points: the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, the inside of the wrist, just beneath the collarbone. Press. Breathe. Count. Again.

It was mechanical, but it worked. Little by little, the tightness in his chest loosened enough for him to feel air again instead of boiling heat.

When he finally lowered his hands, his vision swam for a moment. The light was too bright. Steam still drifted around the group in lazy curls. He blinked through it, eyes stinging—not from pain, exactly, just from exhaustion.

He exhaled shakily. “I’m… okay.”

Iida was still crouched beside him, one hand hovering near Shouto’s shoulder as if afraid to touch. His armor was speckled with droplets, his glasses fogged completely over. He sounded breathless. “You’re certain? You took a direct hit of that boiling water. We should get you to Recovery Girl immediately.”

“I’m fine,” Shouto said quietly. The words came out hoarse. He straightened a little, though every motion felt heavy. “Sorry for… scaring you.”

Iida shook his head so fast his glasses nearly slipped. “Don’t apologize! It was my mistake. I struck the pipe—I should have been more cautious. I—”

“It’s okay,” Shouto interrupted softly, cutting off the apology before it spiraled. “It happens.”

Kirishima crouched on the other side of him, still red-faced from adrenaline. “Dude, you sure? That thing hit you hard. Like, right in the eye.” His gaze darted to the left side of Shouto’s face, searching for blisters. “Can you see alright?”

Shouto hesitated. His left eye throbbed faintly, but that was nothing new. Can I see? Not really—not since he was five. He’d learned to adjust years ago, to pretend depth and clarity came equally from both sides. He gave the smallest nod. “It’s not worse than before.”

Kirishima exhaled loudly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Man, that’s good. You scared the hell outta us.”

Behind them, Sero edged closer, his expression caught somewhere between concern and guilt. “Seriously, though, does it hurt?” He leaned in, squinting. “I can’t tell if that’s just steam or if it—uh—”

Shouto shifted back half a step before Sero could get too close. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said, voice flat. Then, quieter, almost reflexively, “It just… reminded me of… something.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. A truth wrapped in vagueness. Sero blinked, confused, but didn’t push.

Kirishima glanced at Iida, then at Asui, a silent exchange of “Did you hear that?” None of them spoke, but the air changed—subtle, heavy. Understanding, incomplete but genuine, passed between them. They weren’t stupid. Everyone in the class had wondered at least once, quietly, how he got a scar that bad on the face. They’d never asked. They’d never needed to.

Asui was the first to speak, her tone as steady as ever. “You don’t have to explain, ribbit. Let’s just finish up and get you out of here.”

Iida nodded sharply. “Agreed. The exercise’s objective is already compromised, and it’s unsafe to continue with that leak. Our priority is regrouping.”

Sero gave a shaky laugh, trying for lightness and missing by an inch. “Yeah, guess ‘Team Todoroki’ doesn’t get an easy win today.”

Kirishima grinned faintly at that, more out of habit than amusement. “Hey, we still did great. You took care of half the hazards before the rest of us even blinked.” He glanced back at Shouto, sincerity creeping into his voice. “You always do.”

Shouto’s throat felt tight. Compliments were easier to handle when they were about skill, not… this. He forced a small nod. “Thanks.”

Asui hopped lightly ahead, scanning the path through the maze. “We should move before the steam makes it hard to breathe. Come on, ribbit.”

Iida moved first, his engine-calf plates clicking softly with every step, but he slowed his usual stride so Shouto could keep pace beside him. His hand hovered near Shouto’s arm the whole time—not touching, but ready.

The walk out felt endless. The pipes loomed high above, dripping rhythmically, echoing each step they took. Sero muttered something under his breath about how Recovery Girl was going to yell at them for “turning a safety exercise into a sauna.” Kirishima chuckled weakly. The noise filled the silence Shouto couldn’t bear to break.

When they finally stepped out into open air, the breeze hit his damp hair, cool against overheated skin. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“You’re pale,” Iida said, frowning behind his fogged glasses. “Sit for a moment.”

Shouto shook his head. “I’m alright.” He meant it—mostly. The trembling had faded to an ache in his hands. His breathing was steady again. He could think.

Kirishima stretched his arms over his head. “Next time we pick terrain, I’m voting for literally anything that doesn’t have boiling pipes.”

Sero groaned. “Yeah, no kidding. Pretty sure I’m gonna dream about exploding valves tonight.”

Asui gave a small “ribbit” of agreement. “At least everyone’s okay.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward Shouto, quiet but certain. “And, Todoroki, we’ve got your back. Always.”

He blinked at her, surprised by the simplicity of it. No questions, no pity. Just that.

Iida adjusted his glasses, nodding firmly. “Indeed. We function as a team. No matter what happens, you can rely on us.”

Kirishima grinned. “Yeah, man! We’ve got you covered. Literally, if pipes start exploding again.”

Sero added with a nervous laugh, “Preferably not with boiling water this time.”

Their laughter was thin but real, and Shouto managed the faintest curve of a smile. The heaviness in his chest didn’t lift, but it loosened enough for him to breathe.

He looked down at his hands—the skin slightly reddened from the water but unbroken—and flexed his fingers once. “Thanks,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure they even heard it over the wind.

They started back toward the rest of the class together, their steps uneven but steady. The scent of metal and steam clung to Shouto’s hero costume, a reminder that wouldn’t fade soon. But for now, surrounded by voices that didn’t demand answers, he let himself match their pace.

He could still feel the ghost of the kettle’s heat behind his eyes, but he focused instead on the sound of Iida’s engines cooling, Sero’s jokes, Kirishima’s laugh, and Asui’s quiet, grounding presence.

He didn’t know how to explain any of it—and maybe he never would.

But he walked with them anways.