Chapter Text
***
It’s different without her.
It’s different not blinking through his tears to stare up at his mother’s back with her arms held out protectively as his world spins. Shouto can feel it in the near-silence, the quiet of the home, and the thickness of the air being stretched and stretched across small, scared glances and held breaths. He leans his back against the wall, glaring up at his father—breathing fast, ears ringing at his words.
“She hurt you, so I had to put her in the hospital.”
Shouto’s head throbs.
His left eye burns and the pressure of the bandages barely makes it better. His nails are denting his palms and he’s shaking with something that feels too big to hold inside of him. His chest is tight, his throat hurts and his eyes sting as his breath catches. He grits his teeth.
“It’s your fault,” Shouto hisses, pushing himself away from the wall.
He furiously wipes the tears falling from his right eye and the crying only makes his head hurt worse. Making it throb and ache from behind his burnt eye. The dull pounding is as furious and fast as his heart. His breath gets out through clenched teeth.
“You’re the one who made her do it.”
He’s the reason behind the hurt everyone in this house feels, but he’s hurt mom the most and Shouto hates the fact that his father is acting like she is the bad one here. She wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for his father and Shouto can’t stand it. He hurt Shouto; not his mother.
His father is quiet for a moment.
When he turns around, Shouto takes quick steps back, his fists shaking at his sides. His father is tall and Shouto already knows how bad his hits hurt, how much power and force he has behind his swings, and as much as he wishes he wasn't, Shouto is scared. His father gets closer and closer, and Shouto’s back hits the wall. He angles his chin all the way up and his lips tremble.
His father crouches to Shouto’s height and is somehow still so big, so scary. His eyes are like knives, but his expression is vacant. Shouto doesn’t understand it. He can’t guess what his father is thinking or feeling when he looks like that.
The expressionless, blank sheet of his father’s face might hurt Shouto worse than furrowed brows and the pulled corners of his lips. There is nothing; nothing Shouto can read, nothing he can pull at and analyze, nothing he can use to predict the events of the next few seconds. Shouto tenses more than he ever has at raised fists and hissed insults. He braces himself.
When his father reaches forward, Shouto flinches hard.
And then, the warmth of large arms is around him.
Enormous, muscular arms that usually burn and make him cry whenever they’re near him, are warm as they squeeze him. They hold him close and tight and they feel almost as loving as his mother’s. His father guides Shouto’s face to his chest with a large palm caressing the back of his head and he says ‘ssshh’ into Shouto’s ear. The embrace is firm, but not forceful, not violent. It doesn’t hurt and his voice is quieter than Shouto’s ever heard it.
His father is hugging him.
Shouto screams.
“Get off of me!” His small, open hands repeatedly smack against the wall of his father’s chest as Shouto tries to push him away—his eye throbs every time he raises his voice and screams. His father grabs Shouto’s wrist in his large hands.
“Shouto.”
“No, no!” Shouto yanks back, but his father’s grip is strong. “Let me go! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch—!”
Shouto tries to push his father away and aggressively moves his body to wiggle out of his hold, swinging his fists as he shouts that his father hurt his mother, hurt him, and he hates him; he despises him and he never wants to see him again. He wants to go with his mother.
His father squeezes tighter and says, “It’s okay, Shouto,” and “I’m sorry, I know this is difficult.” And Shouto doesn’t understand.
Shouto struggles and pulls and tugs and he growls, and his father just holds him until he can’t fight anymore; until he’s weak and tired and can’t move and he’s forced to lean against him, panting and crying and shaking.
“You’re confused, Shouto,” his father tells him. “I know how hard this is for you, I know how much this hurts. Nobody should hurt you like that.”
“No, no. You’re lying, you’re wrong!” Shouto shakes his head against his father’s chest and sobs. “You hurt me like that! Me and Mom, you hurt us! You’re the one who hurts me.” Shouto’s face feels gross and messy and his tears are wetting his father’s shirt. “You hurt me.”
“No,” his father says, carefully. “I train you. And I do it because I love you.”
“You don’t, no, you don’t! Love isn’t supposed to hurt.”
“You’re right. But I train you because I want you to succeed. And success hurts. You can be better. Shouto, I want you to be the best hero. It’s still your dream, isn’t it?”
Shouto doesn’t know.
He’s confused—he doesn’t know what his father is saying. He doesn’t like what he is saying about his mother, and he doesn’t know why he is being held so closely and tight by his father and why it feels so warm. He can’t remember his father ever doing something like this before; his arms are supposed to be as scorching as his hands, they’re supposed to burn, they’re supposed to hurt. His father is supposed to be loud and he’s supposed to shout and call Shouto weak and make Shouto cry. All of this is wrong.
Shouto doesn’t know what is going on—his father is confusing him.
He wishes his mother was still here.
If she was here then maybe everything wouldn’t be so confusing. Maybe she could tell Shouto what it all means, maybe she could explain why his father is being so weird and confusing and why Shouto feels like he is going to break, snap from the inside. Like something is spilling out of him, from his stomach—deep inside his stomach—even if he can’t see it. Why it feels so painful.
He doesn’t understand the hurt in his chest and why it aches rhythmically, why the pain he feels isn’t physical but makes his stomach curl and hands weak nonetheless.
He’s so confused.
But Shouto thinks that it feels nice. To be held like this by his father. It’s weird, it’s different, but it’s nice to have his father speaking low and gentle and kind to him. It doesn’t burn, it doesn't leave marks.
He wonders why his father can’t be like this all the time, and he wonders if he could be.
Wonders what he could do to make it like this all the time.
“Shouto. Do you still want to be a hero?”
He does. Shouto does want to be a hero.
He nods his head with a huff. “Yes.”
“Don’t let your mother stop you from making that happen.”
No. No, she wasn’t going to stop Shouto, she was the one making it happen. She’s the one who told Shouto it’s okay for him to be a hero. Because his father hurt her and he hurts Shouto, and Shouto doesn’t want to be like that—but it’s still okay for him to be a hero. She’s the one who taught him that.
Isn’t she?
Yes. He remembers—he remembers. Shouto doesn’t want to be someone who bullies his mom, like his father, but it’s still okay for him to be good.
“No…” Shouto shakes his head. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong, she wasn’t—she didn’t—”
“Listen to me,” His father pulls away and his big fingers trace the bandage over Shouto’s left eye. “She hurt you, Shouto; because she can’t see the potential of perfection. She can’t see what I see. She thinks you are unsightly and disgusting, Shouto—she can’t bear to look at you.”
Unsightly. But that’s only because… That was only because…
Shouto wants to hide his face in his hands when the tears start again, but he is stuck looking at his father because his father’s expression is the gentlest he’s ever worn. The corner of his lips are pulled up and his brows aren’t drawn. He’s so open.
“You remember the boiling water.” Shouto flinches. “How she was so crazed and angry at you for just existing that she wanted to destroy you—your eyes. That is what she tried to do.”
Shouto frowns. “My… My eyes? She…”
No. No, no. Shouto knows that’s wrong because he heard her talking. It wasn’t—she wasn’t trying to destroy him, not his eyes. That’s not how it happened, that isn’t why. She did it because… It’s because she—
“—tried to ruin your sight and stop you from achieving your dreams. Your dream of becoming a hero. The greatest hero.”
His father grits his teeth. He looks so mad, so angry, but Shouto knows it isn’t directed at him this time. He’s—he’s angry that his mother hurt him. Shouto doesn’t understand. He can’t understand.
“But I want to make that happen for you. I don’t want you to fail like your mother does. I want you to understand that you are designed perfectly. You are my masterpiece, Shouto. How dare she hurt you?”
His father’s fingers brush over his cheek as Shouto sniffles, blinking furiously through his tears. He is crying because he doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know what to do. Something inside of him aches and it’s twisting, making him nauseous. It twists further, deeper, the more his father talks about his mother—about his mother hurting him.
Mom is good. She is good.
Isn’t she supposed to be?
Shouto doesn’t understand why she would try to ruin him. He doesn’t understand why she did that—why she would trick him into thinking she was safe and good and then hurt him like that. Why she would try to ruin the dreams she encouraged him to take on. Why would she do that if Shouto is designed so perfectly?
Shouto’s face twists. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
“Your mother is very weak. She couldn’t handle all of what we’re working toward, you remember. How she stood in the way of your training to be a hero, how she tried to stop me from making you the best. You are strong, Shouto. I know you can handle it, but your mother couldn’t —she wanted to drag you down with her. That is what those who are weak do. They want to drag you down.”
“Why would …”
“Because they are jealous. You are above all of them, Shouto. Realize how strong the power I have given to you is." His father holds out his palm and a flame sits atop it. “Fire is everything. Destruction. A sterilizer. Illumination. Beauty.”
Shouto studies the flame in his father’s palm; Bright, contained, although wild, and —
“It’s pretty,” Shouto whispers.
“It’s beautiful, Shouto; but above all, it is powerful. This power is mine, and it is my gift to you. A gift and a promise of success, because I want you to succeed, and to achieve your dreams of being a hero. Of being the best. It’s why we work so hard, why I teach you things only meant for the strong.”
Shouto wipes his cheeks. “What… What things are meant for the strong?”
Shouto doesn’t want to be dragged down by the weak—by someone like his mother, by someone who is trying to stop him from being a hero. He won’t allow himself to be hurt. He wants to be strong.
“Things like control.”
His father turns to the side and holds out his hand. A thin stream of fire shoots from each of his fingertips, like jets. It illuminates the dark room and Shouto’s mesmerized by the orange, the yellow and the dark red at the tip of the swirls. It swirls and curls; then it’s a wisp of smoke.
“If you are in control, you remain strong.”
Control. Shouto wants to be in control.
Shouto holds out his hand the same way. He holds his breath and reaches inside himself for his flame, and it’s—it’s nothing like his father’s. It shoots out of his palm in weak streams, it doesn’t burn as bright, and it isn’t beautiful. There’s a pang in his chest as he gasps and brings his hand closer to himself.
“I’m weak,” Shouto says. “I don’t—I don’t have control.”
“But I do,” his father says. “I have control. And I can make you strong.”
His father grabs his wrist and squeezes it in his hold.
“Tighten up. Fix your form. Like this, Shouto,” he hits his ankles to part them and turns his waist, making him bend at his knees. His hold tightens on Shouto’s arm and he controls it so it’s strong and calculated; exactly the way he would do it. “The fire should go through a thin tunnel in your mind. Visualize it. Feel it. Create it.”
Shouto turns to his father.
He knows his eyes, the tone of his voice—when he’s getting ready to pinch Shouto too hard and raise his voice and make his hands hot enough to burn and mark Shouto’s skin. And Shouto wants control, he wants control, but he doesn’t want to burn.
“Is it going to hurt, still?” Shouto asks.
His father squeezes his wrist again.
“You will be strong. That is why it must hurt.”
***
It took five seconds for him to find his footing; an entire eight to regain his balance.
It does not impress Shouto, and he knows if Dad were watching, it wouldn’t impress him either. Shouto wouldn’t expect it to; there is nothing impressive about his performance.
Shouto tries to think of what Dad would do if he were here, in Gym Gamma, to watch Shouto struggle. Struggle to do this simple thing that he should have gotten a week ago. He’s supposed to get it that evening—when he’s been taught the move in depth after being shown it again for the first time since he was five. And he was sure he could get it. He was sure he could do it because it’s something they’ve been working up to for years. Dad appreciated how confident Shouto was when he went into it. “Make me proud,” he said, and Shouto said he would. He would.
He’s supposed to.
Instead, Shouto is pressing himself against the wall, sweat pouring down his neck as he gasps for air. His sides feel like they are on fire, his throat burns, it hurts, it aches, but he won’t allow himself water right now, nor relief.
It’s one of Dad’s rules.
He won’t eat, he won’t drink until he succeeds; he hasn’t earned it yet, he doesn’t deserve it. His hands are shaking and he thinks he might be overusing his fire. It’s what’s causing all this. Shouto wants to laugh—it’s pathetic.
Dad could do so much better.
Shouto should be able to do as much without the thought of using his ice to bring his temperature back down. Building his body’s tolerance to extreme levels of his fire is a part of his training. It’s what he’s supposed to do, and yet, he somehow finds himself in this situation constantly. He feels overworked despite not doing much of anything. The lightheadedness and nausea have him swaying if he doesn’t have support of some sort; he hates it.
He goes back home tomorrow for the weekend. Dad is expecting something and Shouto has nothing to give. He hates it.
Make me proud, Shouto.
Shouto grits his teeth and he knocks his fist against the wall with a harsh exhale. Get up, get up, get up, stand up. Dad expects more from him, he expects more than this, and Shouto’s job is to deliver, he has to deliver.
Shouto pushes himself from the wall. His steps are uneven as he backs up, too loose, too messy. Tighten up, Shouto. You look weak. Do it right and save yourself the embarrassment. He holds his arms at his sides and tightens up his fists as he breathes through his nose. He takes more careful steps back, better, stronger.
You’re Endeavor’s son: act like it.
Visualize the tunnel, the cylinder—it’s tight and smooth and shoots with precision and speed. Shouto takes a deep breath before he tries again, lifting his left arm with as much grace as possible and he rolls his wrist for the jets. He collapses the next second with a wheeze and it takes him five seconds to get to his feet again. The sweat makes the pads of his fingers glide against the floor and he is stumbling with a hard swallow, standing up to try again.
Shouto tries again. His body isn’t letting him. It’s shaking and his fire is weak—it’s weak.
He tries again—he fails. In three seconds, he is on his feet, gasping, clawing his fingers into his side trying to somehow squeeze out the pulling pains under his chest. He stares straight ahead, his mind is clouded and his thoughts are racing, but he doesn’t even know what he is thinking. He doesn’t know what his own thoughts consist of—there are so many and they’re too fast and they’re so hard not to grab at, not to focus on, but he can’t. He can’t.
Again, Dad would demand because he knows how to push Shouto, knows what it takes to become the best. He wants Shouto to be the best. Again. Do it again. Get it right—again. Do it again, Shouto, again.
And then Shouto’s nose is bleeding. He tastes it when he licks his chapped lips, the wetness and the taste of pennies on the tip of his tongue. He makes the mistake of sniffing on instinct and it burns a little before he wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. It smudges above his lip and over the pale skin of his wrist. He stares at it.
It’s alright. Training is better with a little blood. It makes him feel more at home and lets him imagine himself in that small, burning room with Dad. Allows him to push himself further, harder, like Dad knows how to do.
Except, when Shouto stands, his legs are trembling and he doesn’t think he can.
Which—which isn’t right. He hates it. He hates it. His own limitations. He needs to get over them as soon as possible. They’re holding him back. Shouto wipes at the sweat over his face again and pants. He blinks through bleary vision. His heart pounds hard and fast against his chest, in his ears. It isn’t an excuse, but he’s tired. He shouldn’t be making excuses, but he is tired—
“Todoroki.”
Shouto flinches more at the touch to his shoulder than the sudden voice and quickly pulls away from it.
It takes him a moment to realize it’s Midoriya.
The high lift of his voice doesn’t process until an entire three seconds later. By then, Shouto is already staring into the emerald of his eyes. Wide, concerned as ever, to the point it’s annoying. That’s how Midoriya is, though. Shouto would like to say he is used to Midoriya and all of his strange quirks by now; he isn’t.
“Midoriya,” Shouto says and turns his body around completely. “Are you here to train as well?”
“Huh? Oh, no. Um,” he squints and gets a little closer. “Todoroki, you’re bleeding.”
Midoriya takes a moment to look around Gym Gamma. The confusion on his face is obvious when he’s looking at Shouto again, with his brows drawn and a strange twist in his lips.
“How did… I mean. Were you fighting someone, or…?”
“No. It was an accident with a few icicles.” Shouto wipes the back of his hand under his nostrils for the second time and he stares at the blood against his skin. It’s so rich in comparison. So deep. He pulls his eyes away and looks up at Midoriya. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Icicles?” Midoriya tilts his head. “So you’re using your ice, then… hmm. I don’t see you use it much.”
Shouto narrows his eyes, something sour starting in his stomach. He doesn’t enjoy using his ice; It’s his mother’s power, so he only uses it at Dad’s request. It’s Dad’s idea of perfection, this half-hot, half-cold Quirk. If that’s what it takes to surpass All Might—and Midoriya himself, All Might’s protégé —then he’ll use it; train it.
“Why are you here if you aren’t going to train, Midoriya?”
“Oh, right, yeah. You’ve been down here for hours,” he says. Shouto quirks a brow, signaling that he didn’t get Midoriya’s point, and Midoriya wrings his fingers. “Ah, well, I guess you’re used to pretty intense training already. Sorry. But it’s dinner… You should eat.”
Shouto stays quiet for a moment.
It’s dinner already. How long has he been down here? He isn’t planning to eat unless he makes some progress—he can’t. He hasn’t even done anything to eat yet. And he doesn’t want to return to the dorms without accomplishing something. He knows Dad is going to test him as soon as they get back and—Shouto wants him to see what he can do, how much he’s improved since UA, since the Sports Festival, how much better and stronger he’s gotten.
Shouto wants to make him proud. He hasn’t done that much recently; not at all, actually. Between Kamino and the Remedial Courses after failing the Provisional License Exam, Shouto has failed; failed himself and his father. A lot. It hurts.
“Uh—”
“What time is it?”
“Half-past six before I came down.”
He can go until seven, but he somehow doubts Midoriya will let that happen. He’s got this strange obsession with making sure everyone is okay and taking care of themselves at all times, so if Shouto says he wants to stay for thirty extra minutes, Midoriya will be back in twenty-five to take him away for dinner again.
Shouto will just have to continue the training in his room, then—the balcony, actually. Sneaking away after Midoriya leaves him alone once they get back to Heights Alliance will be fairly easy. He does it a lot. Nobody really cares about his presence; he doesn’t care about theirs. He can’t.
“Alright.” Shouto stands and rubs his hands off his pants. “But, you didn’t need to come all the way down here. Being interrupted is annoying. A text would have been fine.”
“A text? Right. Where’s your phone, Todoroki?”
Shouto pauses, pats his pants and blinks. “Oh. That’s a good point.”
He must have left it in his room or something. Shouto doesn’t have his phone on him when he trains anyway, at home or at Heights Alliance, but Dad likes to check in on him from time to time and Shouto doesn’t like missing his messages.
Midoriya gives him a strange look and then continues forward without a word. Midoriya doesn’t like him very much.
He’s nice to Shouto because he is naturally polite and nice to everyone. But Shouto has made it clear that he doesn't like Midoriya at all—they are not friends. They’re rivals. Shouto has to beat him, and he already has. Many, many times. (That doesn’t mean Midoriya hasn’t put up a fair fight, especially with the recent developments to his quirk.)
And even though Midoriya is polite to him, and is nice enough—Shouto can notice the difference. He can tell the strain Midoriya must feel around him when he tries his best to be open and kind and is met with everything Shouto will not give him.
Midoriya’s name is called as soon as he makes it back and his eyes light up like jewels, his cheeks raise higher and there’s a bounce in his step when he speeds toward Uraraka and Iida. They look back at Shouto—Uraraka smiles with a wave and Iida gives him a polite nod. Shouto does not return either. He looks away. Their kindness and welcoming nature is hard not to give in to. Shouto has almost given into it multiple times—their invites to lunch, movie nights, and outings. They sound fun.
But he isn’t there to make friends. Becoming their friends doesn’t benefit him. They’re all beneath him—he’s at the top and it has to stay like that. He has a duty, a legacy to uphold, a purpose he must fill with precision and perfection. It’s what Dad expects, and Shouto has to deliver.
Dinner at Heights Alliance, in the dorms with his classmates, is very different from the dinners back at home with his father. The noise level alone is enormously different. Everyone in Class 1-A is so loud and Shouto doesn’t understand why they have to be.
Kaminari and Sero’s table is the loudest because everyone who sits there is already loud on their own. Kaminari and Sero are the same people who disrupt the class in the middle of lessons and get shouted at for throwing paper wads and occasionally falling asleep.
(They’re also the same ones who cram in studying at the last minute in order to pass the term and Shouto doesn’t understand. They wouldn’t be falling behind if they just paid attention in class. What’s the point of training to be a hero if you won’t take it seriously?)
Mina and Kirishima are also loud, but they at least try to pay attention in class. They’re at their loudest outside of class. Kirishima always shouts in enthusiasm and passion alike. (It’s not a bad thing, but Shouto finds it annoying. His enthusiasm and passion could make a greater impact if he did well on his exams and trained harder to stand out enough in class.) Mina likes talking about gossip and new music and trends, so she is always dancing and complaining or whining about her grades or an assignment. (She should just do her assignments instead of whining about them so she doesn’t have to complain about her bad grades.)
Then there is Bakugou who confuses Shouto the most.
He’s loud. The loudest of them all. But he is also the most efficient. He pays attention in class, studies well and gets his homework in on time. He ranks high all while his obnoxiousness still stands. He’d taunted Shouto during their fight at the Sports Festival and he nearly won. He doesn’t complain about studying, doesn’t stick around for meaningless conversation, doesn’t do movie nights or outings, and he isn’t involved with the class at all; it doesn’t seem like he wants to be.
But then—he somehow is involved with everyone, and it somehow seems like he does want to be a part of the class. Everyone likes him even though he is loud and rude and annoying. He’s strong—Shouto’s most efficient rival, right up there with Midoriya. He is a big part of what makes Class 1-A… Class 1-A. It’s puzzling. And vexing. Shouto doesn’t understand the things they do or why they do them.
Despite that—the confusion and everyone who annoys him at the dorm—he thinks he might like it better than dinners at home. It’s very different from eating dinner with his father across the table in near-silence. Different from the somehow thick, suffocating air at the table when his brother and sister join them for the meal on rare occasions. The room somehow feels too small during nights like those even though it’s spacious, he always feels too hot even when his skin is littered with goosebumps. He doesn’t like it.
(When it’s Fuyumi and Dad and Shouto, he thinks things are just fine; as fine as they can be. But Fuyumi likes Natsuo to be there, too. And when Natsuo is there, things always, always go wrong.)
The air is never too thick at the dorms as long as Shouto doesn’t speak. (When he speaks, things get quiet and his classmates exchange glances and things are weird.) If he stands by and observes, nothing ever feels like it’s getting stretched too thin, he can always breathe just fine, and he never ends up having to put band-aids over the accidental cuts on his arms from the picking and scratching.
At the dorms, there is laughing and jokes and movies in the background and milk shooting out of Kaminari’s nose, but the air is never too thick.
It’s like that right now. Shouto can walk and he feels like he glides, he isn’t stiff, he doesn’t hold his breath when someone says something that might upset Dad, and it’s always busy enough, loud enough to give him the freedom of leaving when he wants. He glances around. Dinner… His stomach tugs and curls and his jaw clicks.
He hasn’t done anything yet so he can’t. He will later—when he lands the move efficiently enough.
Shouto leaves. He takes the stairs and makes it back to his room without any trouble.
When he shuts the door to his room behind him, he cracks and pops a few of his stiff joints. It’s quiet. A different kind of quiet from when he’s home. He doesn’t have to press his ear against the walls or his door to listen to heavy footsteps or the irritated grumbling from Dad. Doesn’t have to sit stiffly and anticipate when he should rush out of his room to show Dad he’s doing extra training to keep him from barging in and lecturing Shouto about wasting his time. (And he gets it, he understands. He’s just tired a lot of the time, too.)
It’s oddly light. Light in a way that allows him to breathe in the fresh air of the outside when he slides open his balcony door. His breath shakes as the cool wind hits his face and the corner of his lips tug up. It’s nice.
Shouto opens his eyes and stares at the balcony space—his stomach gives another pull. It feels like it’s caving in.
He hopes he can land this move quickly.
***
Dad: I am picking you up near the front.
Dad: Be ready. I will not wait all day.
Shouto has, unfortunately, been ready since the early morning.
He went to bed late last night because of the jets which he hardly did correctly by the end of his personal training. He was too exhausted to eat, too exhausted to even change out of his clothes. Then he somehow forgot he always had his alarm set to 5 AM for every morning—so even less sleep.
And then he remembered it was Friday.
Friday means going home after class. Shouto couldn’t stop pulling at his dead lip skin once he’d remembered that. And now he’s in the common room at one of the tables far away from everyone else, pulling at lip skin, bouncing his leg as he stares at the texts from Dad. Shouto is ready to be picked up, but being ready to go home to show Dad progress was another thing.
Shouto: Okay. Thank you.
Shouto closes his eyes and squeezes his phone in his grip.
He’ll pull through.
He always does.
***
“Shouto.”
“Hello.”
“Oh shit, it’s Endeavor!” Shouto hears Kaminari’s voice. It’s loud, even from a respectful distance behind them. “He’s so big and cool… Man, Todoroki’s so lucky!”
“Right?” Mina says. “He gets to live, learn, and train from the number one hero! Ooh - I’m so jealous!”
“Yeah, why do you think he’s literally top of the class? It’s why he’s super talented and cool. It must run in the family or something.” He believes that’s Jiro’s voice.
Shouto goes to look over at his classmates, but Dad brings him back with a hand on his shoulder.
“Fix your posture.” He taps Shouto’s chin up twice with two of his large fingers and squeezes his shoulder tight; it’s a demand. Eyes on him. “Don’t embarrass me. You should like a winner at all times.”
“Sorry,” Shouto says, squaring his shoulders and holding himself up.
“And pay them”—Dad nods to his classmates, lips curled in disgust—“no mind, Shouto. They’re all beneath you.”
Pay them no mind.
It’s a hard thing to do in a class like 1-A. They’re so inclusive, or—at least try to be. Midoriya, kind and polite as ever, always invites Shouto to lunch and study sessions, and Kaminari jumps to ask Shouto to join movie night whenever he catches him.
Like he’s said, It’s tempting; They’re always talking about things that Shouto has no knowledge of—things that happen in their group fun while Shouto wasn’t there to experience it with them, and it feels strangely cold sometimes.
Like there are four glass walls up around Shouto, boxing him in. There’s a small door he could go through if he gets low enough to slide himself through. If he wants. He could. And Dad wouldn't know at all—he’d have no way of knowing. Shouto could.
But Dad is right.
He isn’t here to make friends, he’s here to continue the legacy. To get strong enough to surpass him, to surpass All Might—to make him proud. Shouto looks at Dad and he nods, holding his small bag tighter before he follows him into the car.
He can hear his classmates shouting their goodbyes and well wishes and with the way Dad is staring at him, hard through the rearview, Shouto knows it’s best to keep his fists in his lap, look straight ahead, and not say anything back to any of them.
It’s silent as always and Dad is still glancing at him through the mirror every now and again. Shouto tightens his jaw and shifts evenly in his seat. His finger is twitching, tapping against his leg and his teeth pull at his bottom lip. There’s no more dead skin to pull at—if he keeps biting, he’ll bleed.
“Did you catch a bit of the conversation your classmates were engaged in?”
Shouto looks up and he blinks, head tilting a little to the side. Dad grips the wheel, a crease between his brow. His patience is short today. That’ll carry into training—Shouto should try to get the jets right the first few times.
“They’re right,” Dad continues. “About the genes. You’re a Todoroki—you are my son. You are meant to stand at the top. It is your purpose to surpass me and All Might. Understand that well, Shouto.”
He understands it well; he thinks. Or he tries to understand it well.
Shouto stares hard at his hands. His index and middle finger keep twitching. Sometimes they vibrate fast, sometimes he has to squeeze them until they burn. That’s what he does now. He uses his left hand to squeeze his fingers on his right really tight, the tips of them itch and they slightly pulse when he releases the tight grip.
Shouto never says it out loud—not to Dad, not to himself in the mirror—but the weight of Dad’s words feel like anchors at his feet and he’s—trapped. At the bottom of an ocean. And something in his gut tugs and tugs and he is… Getting nowhere. Like he’s been trapped and stuck for years. Stuck in the same spot, still getting nowhere.
(Shouto once tried to tell Dad about it, about the feeling of being trapped. He wished he never opened his mouth that day.)
“Shouto,” Dad speaks again. “You understand your purpose well. Yes?”
Shouto presses his fingers into his thigh to get rid of the pulsing in his tips and he looks up with a hardened expression. “Yes.”
“You’re my masterpiece, Shouto. I’ve designed you for this.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done a lot for you,” Dad is speaking through breaths and sighs, almost heavy, and Shouto can’t figure out why.
If he is frustrated or angry, he would come right out and say it; unless he’s disappointed or upset at Shouto for something he did. In that case, Shouto has to coax it out of him. He looks over at Dad, watching his eyes narrow on the road ahead of them. It’s intense—he’s intense—and he speaks with conviction. His passion for Shouto and his success are unwavering. Always.
Dad says, “I’ve sacrificed a lot of my personal time to teach you. To train you. To make sure you perform as well as I know you can—I’ve shown you the potential of using even your mother’s Quirk. I’ve been by your side since the beginning—leading you, teaching you, and you’ve come far. I’ve done the most for you out of anyone else in your life since the beginning, because I care about you.”
Shouto’s lips press shut. So much work has been put into Shouto and his success and he feels like it’s constantly wasted on him. Like—he maybe doesn’t deserve it because he has a thing with messing things up and doing things wrong. He still… Wants it. He wants the opportunity to carry on the legacy and surpass All Might and his father. But he doesn’t—know how to handle it. He’s too weak right now.
He needs to get stronger. Dad expects something—he’s put in so much time and effort and work into perfecting Shouto—Shouto can’t let it all be in vain. He has to deliver.
They’re pulling into the driveway and half of his stomach tugs away from the other half and it falls. It’s a long fall but the drop is so quick, so fast that it makes Shouto sick. His insides are coiling and being drawn in knots. They aren’t even in the room yet. Shouto forces his leg to stop bouncing and squeezes his index and middle finger until they curl in pain and throb in his grip.
He’s being weak.
“So show me how much you care about me, and perform as well as I’ve taught you.”
He can do this.
Shouto will perform.
***
Shouto doesn’t understand why he can’t do it.
He’s weak, he’s so weak. Dad is expecting and Shouto said he could do it—he told him he’d made progress.
Dad tangles his fingers in Shouto’s hair and yanks his head to the side hard enough for Shouto to wince. Shouto’s nails dent his palms and he swallows down the shout that claws its way up his throat. His breath stutters, heart pounding when Dad squeezes his fingers at the roots of his strands.
“What have I told you, Shouto? You are useless to me if you can’t perform.”
Shouto’s chest aches. It hurts, it burns almost as much as Dad’s hot fingertips against his skin. They’re stinging his scalp this time. Twisting in the roots of his hair and angling his head in a way that has Shouto struggling to breathe. Useless.
Shouto’s eyes sting, his lips tremble and he sinks his teeth into his bottom one to stop it. It isn’t Dad’s fault. Shouto isn’t performing. He is useless at the moment. Dad could throw him out whenever he pleases for a better Shouto, a more perfect Shouto. Shouto wants to be perfect. He can be perfect, he will be, he wants, he wants—
“I can do it,” Shouto says, voice hoarse. “I swear, I can do it, I—”
“Do you think you deserve my power, Shouto?” Dad cuts him off.
He wants to deserve it. He wants to be worthy. He wants success.
His throat is closing in so small, so fast and he struggles to swallow at the angle his head is being forced to stay in. His chest is heavy and his face is burning. Shouto chokes, balling his fists, tears burning his eyes. No.
Don’t cry.
Do not cry.
“I’m worthy.” Shouto grits his teeth, “I’m worthy, I—”
“Then show me. Show me you deserve my power. Show me you are my son.” Dad lets go of his hair and steps back. “Get up, Shouto.”
Three seconds.
It takes three seconds, and then Shouto is back on the floor with the force of a punch. Pathetic. He’s coughing the next second, fingertips scrambling at the floor for a grip. Useless. He doesn’t—he can’t—he can’t - he needs a moment, a minute, a second, one, he needs—
“I said get up.”
—to get up. He needs to get up.
Get up, Shouto, get a grip, get up. You’re Endeavor’s son, so act like it. Act like it. Get up!
Another kick to his stomach and Shouto thinks he is going to pass out.
The vomit travels up his throat fast and he can taste it on his tongue, can feel the flip and churn in his stomach. He swallows and stumbles to his feet, twisting himself and avoiding Dad’s next throw. The room is spinning. Blotches of colors are all over the place, covering areas he should be able to see. What is wrong with him? Focus, Shouto—focus!
His head is throbbing.
It hurts, it hurts, his chest aches, it burns. Shouto steadies his footing. Don’t be weak. Dad expects so much more out of him. He’s given so much for Shouto. He’s done so much, has sacrificed and put in so much, so Shouto could be the best, so he can rise to the top. He’s given Shouto all the tools and more and this is what Shouto’s giving back?
It’s pathetic. He’s useless if he can’t perform.
Shouto sucks it up.
He ignores his shaking knees, his exhaustion, and focuses on Dad’s movements, searching for an opening. He grits his teeth as he holds out his left palm, twists his wrists, and curls his fingers to let thin jets of fire shoot out the tips of his fingers.
Shouto’s stomach constricts, his throat is aching and sweat is beading at his forehead, running down the back of his neck as he tries to keep the jets even, keeping the temperature consistent.
Dad stands to the side and watches him, and when Shouto’s given everything he has—he collapses with his palms pressed into the floor, gasping, strands of red and white sticking to his flushed face. His throat is on fire every time he swallows and with every inhale, his side is twisting painfully, a dull knife digging in and settling between his ribs. He can’t breathe.
But that was good, he thinks. That was good.
Shouto did it right this time. Didn’t he?
“Your form is still weak. Shaky knees, unsteady stance, your jets were pathetic,” his father growls and something breaks inside of Shouto. That was weak. That wasn’t good enough. “Stand up. Do it again and don’t you dare use that ice. You need to master this on its own first.”
He can’t breathe—Shouto can’t breathe.
Shouto is huffing—there is a high whistle (it sounds familiar. It’s high and it sounds more like screeching, there is steam, it is too hot, something burns) every time he breathes in and he lifts his hand—nothing comes out. It shakes, his fingers curl and there is nothing.
“Is this a joke to you?”
Shouto furiously shakes his head and fights the chest nausea as his hand drops. It’s not. It isn’t a joke to him, he’s serious, he wants to do this, but it hurts and it burns.
“Weak. Again. Get up, Shouto. Fix your jets, visualize the cylinder—”
“I—” Shouto wheezes, curling his arm tight around his straining ribs. “I can’t—”
“You can’t,” Dad repeats.
Shouto is blinded by the streaks of sweat falling into his vision. He blinks them away and pinches the inside of his cheek with his teeth as Dad bends down in front of him. He bruisingly grips his chin, squeezing tight enough to push up Shouto’s cheeks and he lifts Shouto’s head to stare him down.
“Shouto,” Dad’s voice is too gentle. He presses the pad of his thumb against Shouto’s cheek. “You are not my first attempt at creating a masterpiece. And you don’t have to be my last.”
Shouto breathes in sharply through his nose, his throat is closed. It clamps shut, it’s tight, he can’t speak. He stares back at his father with wide eyes, breath trembling. His chest rises and falls rapidly, breathing louder—the room feels too hot, too small, fingers trembling. No. No. No.
“You remember him,” Dad continues. “You remember your—”
“I’m sorry,” Shouto wheezes with a cough. With wide eyes, he grabs Dad’s wrists, squeezes as a silent plea and he shakes his head. “I’m not like him. I’m—I’m not, I’m—I can be your masterpiece, I can—”
“Shouto.”
“Don’t throw me away. Not me.” Shouto whispers. His eyes sting. “Dad, please—”
“You,” Dad starts. He speaks very, very slowly. “Are useless if you cannot perform. It is not just a thing I say to anger you, to upset you. It is truth. I had to have figured it out through trial and error. Don’t be another error, Shouto. Be the product of perfection. Perform.”
Shouto is on his feet as soon as Dad pulls away.
Don’t be another error, Shouto. Be the product of perfection. Perform.
You are useless if you cannot perform. Come on, Shouto. Come on. He’ll throw you away. He’ll create something better, he’ll create something more perfect. Shouto can’t let that happen. Not like it happened to… Him—he can’t.
Shouto takes in a big deep breath, fixes his form, and he tightens his stomach completely. He keeps his breathing steady as he reaches in for Dad’s power and pulls out the flame. Shouto rolls his palm and he holds out his fingers for the jets.
Steady, Shouto. Steady—steady.
They’re even. They’re bright. They burn. But they’re perfect.
The swirls of fire are strong as they travel and they curl into smoke all at the same time. Pretty. Beautiful. Powerful. Dad’s power, truly, is amazing.
Shouto’s legs give out again and he reaches out for absolutely nothing as he tumbles to the ground. It knocks what little air is left of him and when he huffs, he almost cries with it. He breathes harshly and grits his teeth to keep his tears at bay. He’s fine. It’s alright.
Then, Shouto lifts his head to look up at Dad and—he can’t read the expression. Dad’s always been stoic, unreadable. It’s terrifying. Shouto swallows, tasting blood at the back of his mouth. It’s metallic and dizzying.
His fingers curl into his palms as he sits up and Dad stares down at him, enormous arms folded over his chest. Shouto blinks through the sweat dripping into his eyes from his brows, he feels the queasiness of his stomach, but he parts his lips anyway.
Then he curls in on himself—an intense ache shooting through his arm.
He claps his palm to the forearm of his trembling left hand and holds back a wince as he grits his teeth. Too much strain—which means he still has a long way to go. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do good. He still completed the move.
Shouto still—he did the move completely. And he did it well. Right?
“Um,” Shouto says, quietly. “… Dad?”
“Tend to your injuries immediately,” He finally says.
And that’s… That’s fine.
It’s fine.
Shouto understands the importance of injuries, patching them up, cleaning wounds and cuts as soon as you can after receiving the injury. And on top of that, Dad owes him nothing (he’s already given him so much - if his performance isn’t worthy of commenting on, he’ll try harder next time).
If he doesn’t have any complaints, then that’s enough for Shouto to latch onto as a sign of fair work. He needs to do better next time. Needs to work harder to get a reaction out of him, something to make Dad proud.
He wants - he wants—
“I knew you were ready for the move,” Dad suddenly says as he’s making his way toward the door of the room. Shouto jumps, eyes wide, lips parting, and looks at him. Dad nods. “Well done, Shouto. Join me for dinner at six.”
The door shuts behind him.
The taste of copper sits in Shouto’s mouth and he cradles his trembling arm to his chest as he blinks through his tears. They spill over and the cuts on his cheek burn when his tears track over them.
I knew you were ready, he said. Well done.
Well done.
Shouto sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and shuts his eyes with a wavering smile.