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Shouto’s been fighting for so long he can’t remember when it started.
It feels like it’s been ages, but his head is pounding, probably from some sort of concussion, and he knows it’s been a long time from how heavy his limbs feel. His body is sagging, and he knows in a few steps, his legs are going to give out.
He can’t remember what he’s fighting for, can’t remember why he’s fighting at all, but he knows it’s his job to take down the enemy. Whoever that is. Damn, he can’t remember.
His old man would be unimpressed with him. Well. Seems sometimes the old man would be unimpressed no matter what Shouto does, so maybe this isn’t too different.
Shouto’s eyes sting with smoke as he tries to get his bearings. His hands are bleeding, but he’s not sure if it’s his blood or someone else’s. He can’t see much in this fog. He can barely feel his own body — probably means he’s been overexerting himself for far too long. He staggers a few feet over the rubbish of a building. He can hear fighting in the distance, but he’s been left behind.
“Todoro…” Midoriya gasps from somewhere on his right, and Shouto turns, squinting to try to see Midoriya through the smoke and rubble dust. He doesn’t sound well, sounds a little like he’s wheezing out his last breaths.
“Midoriya,” he calls back. “Where…”
He catches sight of a tuft of green hair and stumbles over building fragments until he collapses next to Midoriya’s head, knees giving out.
Just Midoriya’s head, because the rest of Midoriya is buried under a huge slab of a building, what looks like a good chunk of a wall. Shouto’s body is trembling with the exertion of staying even in some semblance of uprightness.
“Midoriya,” he chokes out over the smoke.
“Todo—” Midoriya starts coughing, hacking coughs that wrench their way out of his body. They sound painful, like his body is trying to eject something that will not budge.
“Hey, hey— stop, I’ll get the building off.”
“Todoro—” The coughs start again, huge gasps in between them like he can’t get enough air in. They sound almost wet, like there’s water in his lungs — water or blood. He’s choking, choking and gasping, and Shouto doesn’t know how to help. He’s… he’s helpless, he can’t… His hands hover over the building, but he can’t get the entire chunk up by himself, not in this state, and maybe his father was right, maybe he wasn’t ready to be a hero, because he can’t save Midoriya.
In school, they never talk about this. About the people you can’t save. The people you watch die. They don’t talk about it, but everyone knows about it. Everyone knows that sometimes people die, and there’s nothing you can do, and it doesn’t make you a bad hero because sometimes tragedies happen and you can’t stop them.
What people forget, what Shouto forgot, is that sometimes — sometimes it’s not the victims that die. Sometimes it’s the heroes, sometimes it’s the friends, sometimes it’s Midoriya Izuku, and Shouto — can’t— breathe—
He knows what a person dying sounds like.
He refuses to admit to himself that Midoriya’s coughs make him sound one.
Even when blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, even when his eyes go dull and unfocused, even when his breaths go shallow. Shouto will not concede that Midoriya is dying, and that there is nothing he can do.
“Hold on,” he pleads, managing to dig a hand under the building. “One more second.”
He forces ice out of his aching body, forcing the slab of wall up off of Midoriya. At the sight of Midoriya, his body seizes against his will, spasming reflexively. Because Midoriya’s body has been punctured one two three… six times over by pieces of piping sticking out of the building. And because Shouto lifted the building, blood is now pouring out of the gaping holes, and it’s Shouto’s fault.
He can’t feel his hands. He’s going to throw up, he’s going to—
“No— no no no…” He turns to Midoriya’s head, horrified with what he’s done.
Midoriya’s eyes are dull and… and his chest isn’t moving, and Shouto — for fuck’s sake, Shouto can’t get enough air—
“Help!” he screams, reaching for Midoriya’s wrist to find a pulse. He can’t find one but he checks again and again because sometimes it can be tricky to find, especially in situations like these. But no matter how many times he checks, no matter which point he presses his fingers into, he can’t find a pulse. “Midoriya, wait,” he sobs, scooping up his body even though it’s against first aid protocol and forcing his body to move. He needs to find a medic, needs to find Recovery Girl, because Midoriya can’t die, he can’t just…
Shouto stumbles and falls to his knees, Midoriya’s body tumbling out of his arms like a dead…
No.
No…
Shouto screams, the force of it scraping the back of his throat. No one’s coming, and it’s just him and the friend he must have failed to save.
He looks up and meets Midoriya’s dead eyes. They’re rolled back, just the whites visible, and blood is oozing out of his mouth, almost black.
Just as his body forcibly convulses again, trying to rid itself of that image, Shouto sits bolt upright in bed, gasping, voice making a horrible whining sound at irregular intervals.
It takes him a second, a moment of staring at tatami flooring and the earthy-green walls of his dorm room, a moment of gasping and squeaking in horror on every inhale, but he suddenly remembers where he is.
And it’s not a battlefield.
And it’s not staggering over a toppled building.
And it’s not collapsing over Midoriya’s dead body.
He’s in his dorm room. Safe, or at least as safe as anyone can get these days.
And that. That was a dream.
He takes a breath, realizing he hasn’t inhaled in a while, and starts doing a systematic check over his body, making sure everything’s in place. That felt… so real.
And it could be real.
Every day, Shouto has to remember that one of them will die. Probably Midoriya given how much of a target he is, probably before any of them are ready, probably during hero work. One day they’ll get a call, they’ll see the news, and they’ll know one of their members is gone, that the class size has gone down to nineteen because of something stupid like a fallen building, a train going too fast, a flood that couldn’t be stopped. One day one of them will be the first to die.
Shouto rubs his hands over his eyes and climbs out of bed. He can’t stay in his room right now, not with the memory in his mind of the flop of Midoriya’s head as his body hit the ground.
He pads down the hallway on silent feet, grateful for years of practice sneaking around his house teaching him how to be quiet. It’s all about weight distribution, really, keeping his body low and centered, stepping with perfect balance. There are threats around every corner tonight, the shadows hiding dead bodies and hidden enemies, but Shouto makes himself hold his course, taking the stairs down to the ground floor.
For lack of something better to do, he goes to the kitchen, feeling his way forward in the dark by keeping a hand on the wall. He pulls a glass out of the cabinets, figuring he might as well hydrate himself if he’s going to stay up.
The lights flip on and Shouto nearly drops the glass as his body tenses all at once. Spinning around, he activates his quirk instinctively.
It’s Aizawa, though, eyes already red and preventing Shouto from burying half the dorms in ice. Shouto catches his breath again, careful to keep his face flat.
“You’re up late,” he says monotonously, hair dropping as he releases his quirk. “I didn’t take you for one to break curfew.”
Shouto considers lying, and decides it’s not worth it. “I had a nightmare,” he says flatly, setting the glass down before he gets startled so badly he does drop it. He feels on edge already.
Aizawa doesn’t say anything to that, just watches Shouto quietly.
Unsure on whether or not that’s a sign to continue or not, Shouto explains in a soft tone, “Midoriya died.”
Something passes over Aizawa’s face, a moment of darkness. “That happens,” he says, voice worn like he’s a wizened man who’s seen far more than he should have.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Aizawa’s a hero too, that he’s seen his fair share of death and painful trials. He probably has plenty of trauma in his system after years of heroics. Shouto forgot, really, that Aizawa has experience with these kinds of things.
“Do you ever regret it?” he asks, words falling out unfiltered. He’s too tired to stop himself. “Being a hero. Do you ever regret it?”
Aizawa doesn’t even consider, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t.”
But Shouto regrets it sometimes. Wishes he’d been born into any other family, wishes he’d gotten the chance to discover what he wanted to do, wishes he’d learned it was something else. Sometimes he looks at the death, the injuries, the constant movement, and just feels endlessly tired.
In this career, he has two options: watch his comrades die before him, or die first. And he doesn't like those options. He wishes he’d been allowed to pick a job that didn’t come with an eighty percent death rate.
He’s seen the statistics, heard Midoriya muttering them under his breath. Most heroes don’t live past forty. It’s part of the job description. Heroes die in battle. Heroes sacrifice everything, until there’s nothing left to give, and then they pay in blood. Heroes don’t come home.
Sometimes Shouto wonders why he wants to be a hero. And sometimes he wonders if he wants to be one. And sometimes he wants to be someone else, anyone else, other than Todoroki Shouto, Endeavour’s golden child, the kid destined for the top.
“Do you?” Aizawa asks, dark eyes piercing even under the bright lights of the kitchen.
“I don’t want to die,” Shouto says, and he’s half-surprised to discover it’s true. “And I don’t want to watch anyone else die.”
“You will.”
Shouto turns and grabs onto the counter with both hands, like it’ll keep him upright, give him the strength to keep going. “I don’t want to,” he says stubbornly.
“Neither does anyone else,” Aizawa says, voice haunted. He sounds like he’s remembering something he wishes he could forget, and Shouto looks over again, searching his weary face for answers. Aizawa doesn’t give him any, though. He’s just as good at Shouto at hiding his emotions.
“Why do you do it?” Shouto asks, realizing he’s never asked before. “Why are you a hero?”
Aizawa pauses, giving Shouto a long look, clearly deciding if he deserves the answer to that question. “At first,” he says gruffly after a moment, “it was to prove I could.”
Like Shinsou.
“I wanted to show the world anyone could be a hero, if they had the heart for it.”
“And then?”
“And then…” He sighs, staring at something over Shouto’s shoulder. “And then, one of my classmates died. Here. He was… He was a lot like Uraraka, actually, if she laughed a little more. Amazingly confident, and so… so driven.” He scowls, looking away. “But then, he died. In a building collapse. And… after that I became a hero so I could make sure nothing like that happened again on my watch. And I became a teacher to make sure none of my students had to see something like that happen either.”
Shouto didn’t realize how much Aizawa cares. He’s never heard Aizawa talk this much about his past before, and blames the late hour for the sharing. “Is it working?” he asks, hope beginning to glow in his chest.
Aizawa frowns. “No one’s died yet,” he says, but his forlorn tone suggests he knows it’ll happen eventually. “But those are my motivations, not yours. Why do you want to be a hero?”
There’s the teacher in him, turning this into a lesson.
Shouto shrugs, looking down at the glass of water on the counter. “I don’t know,” he answers quietly.
Aizawa doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Shouto’s almost sure he’s left, when he says, “I suggest you find out.”
Shouto nods, looking up, but Aizawa’s turned around and is leaving again.
“Get some rest, Todoroki,” he says flatly. “All Might’s teaching tomorrow.”
Shouto nods, picking up his glass of water carefully and flicking off the kitchen lights, heading up the stairs again.
The dark threatens to consume him, but he makes it back to his room before anything happens, and he sits on the edge of his bed, every light turns on, and tries to invent a reason for being a hero. Spiting his father isn’t a good enough reason anymore. That’s not worth the care he’s put into this, not worth losing his classmates.
His eye catches on a peeping corner of an All Might poster Midoriya talked him into buying. It’s tucked way in the back of is closet, but…
Well.
That’s it, isn’t it?
His classmates.
That’s why Shouto’s a hero. Because no matter what, he’s not going to let any of his classmates die on him. Especially not Midoriya, not Midoriya, not Uraraka, not Yaoyorozu, not Bakugou, not Ashido, not Kouda. He’ll protect his classmates until he can’t walk anymore, and then he’ll keep moving to save them.
That’s a good reason, right?
He’s not sure, but it feels right. And Midoriya said once that any reason to save people is a good reason, and Midoriya’s usually right about these things.
Shouto will be a hero that saves people who wouldn’t usually be saved. He’ll be there for the heroes when they slip, and he’ll forget his father and the legacy he’s supposed to fulfill. That’s not his reason for being a hero, it’s his father’s.
And Shouto thinks he’s finally found something that’s all his.
He smiles a little to himself, wrapping both hands around his glass and preparing for a sleepless night. No way is he falling asleep again right after that nightmare, but that’s okay. Because for the first time, Shouto thinks he knows who he is. He’s a hero, and more than that, he’s… a friend.
He’s been fighting longer than he can remember to figure out his purpose. And it feels nice to have found it, even if it’s the result of something as horrifying as that nightmare.
Shouto won’t let that dream become a reality.
No one in his class is going to die on the job. Not on Shouto’s watch.
With that settled, he makes himself comfortable in bed and waits for sleep to find him again. Maybe his dreams will be better this time around.