Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Among the Earth revolving around its axis, the uncertainty of the ever-growing turmoil that seems to taint every aspect of life, and the downpour that’s enshrouding the entire city, three boys, all from different backgrounds and pasts, converge.

In the silence and emptiness that comes with living alone, Shouta Aizawa is not privy to anything going on, but he’s not oblivious, either. He’ll wait for each and every one of them to seek him out, whether it takes all night or an eternity.

The elusive wisps of a recollection featuring scorching flames and unbearable heat, juxtaposed with a set of ocean blue eyes seeps into the memory of one Shouto Todoroki, trailing him even as he steps out into the cool, damp streets of Japan. The relief that the rainwater provides is immediate, cooling down his arms and neck through the fabric of the white sweater he tossed on in his haste to get out of his residence. He reaches for the zipper, his hands fiddling with the metal piece as he secures the placement of the garment, not holding any sentimental value, but providing him with a sense of mild comfort and security as it covers up the scanty T-shirt he has underneath, encapsulating his arms, along with his head as he pulls the hoodie part over his soaked hair.

The temperature outside is steadily dropping as evening transitions into night. The last of the golden rays of sunlight illuminating the crowds on the sidewalks and the cars that are heading home are replaced by the dim streetlights and ineffective constellations obstructed by the dull, lifeless overcast. Shouto stares down at his water-saturated, worn-out cerulean sneakers and tainted laces as he makes his way through the masses of loitering citizens and insignificant passersby.

He’s only seeking to find one person, and the passage he needs to take to get there is one that has been well-memorized, having done it time and time again. He doesn’t know how the scruffy, haggard man, better known as his homeroom teacher, is going to react to his sudden visit. He hadn’t had the time to send a text or call, or any other sort of warning or herald to prepare the guy for his appearance, but to be fair, that hadn’t been on his mind as he fled his house. Out of all the events he expected to encounter when he headed inside, he hadn’t expected a catalyst threatening enough to force him out.

Even though the crux of it is over, he knows he’s going to face another struggle when he shows up at the front door of Aizawa-sensei’s abode. He doesn’t want to impose his issues and emotional uncertainty on the man’s free time and leisurely activities, especially not when it’s a Friday night and all the school faculties are duty-free for the next two days, the interval between the termination of one school week and the inception of another one. He doesn’t want to be that kind of person, not when he knows that his personal life is something that should be dealt with himself.

He wouldn’t be doing this if he had another option. He’d exhausted all of his contingency plans and, even with all of his proactivity and preventive measures, he’d landed himself in his current situation. Running through the streets to someone who isn’t part of his family like it’s a completely neurotypical thing to do for a teenager with a father who has finessed his way to becoming the current number one hero, he’s certain he looks like a psychopath.

The burns littering his arms, torso, and the base of his neck almost evade his mind as he wallows in his self-doubt and insecurities. They hurt, but it’s a familiar kind of pain. One he’s known for over a decade, ever since his quirk first manifested. He’s felt it before on many different occasions; training, punishments, practice, and fighting all contained fire, a tool and a weapon, a gift and a curse. It’s a part of him he’s rejected for the longest time, a part of him he still wishes he wasn’t associated with.

It’s beautifully tragic; Endeavor is a travesty of a father, and if creating a son with abilities greater than his own is what the man wanted all this time, then Shouto will show him what a better hero looks like.

As he approaches the house he sprinted all this way to arrive at, he supposes that there’s no room for turning back now. His limited options to resolve his current dilemma are either to knock on the door in front of him, or to spend the night on the bleak, desolate roads where the shady, dishonest riffraff of society lurk. He can understand why Aizawa chose to reside where he does: it allows him to serve his purpose as an underground hero more easily, and without complications.

Shouto thinks him a saint for signing himself up for such dubious, compromising activities, without as much as acknowledgement from the media, or simply even from people he’s acquainted with. He works silently, efficiently, and for nothing more than the well-being of civilians he has never met before in his life. That’s altruism to the highest degree, and it’s a main part of the reason why Shouto respects him much more than many of the other notable, big name heroes.

The wielder of both flame and ice stands in his frigid, sopping clothing, under the relentless veiled sky and lifts a hand to the door, rapping thrice on the sturdy wood with the same knuckles he used to strike his father.

A boy with an unruly mess of indigo hair that can’t seem to be tamed even in the rains of the merciless tempest, sits on a bench in solitude. He stares apathetically at the scenery in front of him. The sound of rustling leaves and raindrops colliding with the asphalt intermingle and combine into one long, infinitely monotonous drone that serves as nothing more than background noise to his much louder, much more pressing thoughts.

He’s tired. He’s so tired, but he knows that there’s nothing good waiting for him back at his foster home. He tries to avoid being in there as much as possible, even if it means staying up until the early hours of the morning, and leaving for school before he can hear the stir of a human being in the rooms around him. He’s kept the same strict, purposeful (unfortunate) sleep depriving routine for as long as he can remember.

It’s the only way for him to stay safe; a preemptive tactic to keep the scars and bruises from showing up on his skin, put on display for the entire world to see and make assumptions about a life they know nothing about. It’s happened once before, and he’s been doing everything to make sure that it doesn’t happen again, at least not in his current school, where he’s finally received the chance to start again, to be someone new. To leave his reputation behind, because he’s here to prove that he can be a hero, even with a villain’s quirk, even with everybody pitched against him. He will do it right, this time.

Aizawa’s been teaching him how to use his signature binding cloths ever since the sports tournament, where he participated in a match against Midoriya. The weapon is difficult to harness and frustrating to practice with, even more so when he’s watching someone so much more advanced than himself demonstrate its usage, but his determination is unwavering, and his motivation resolute. He’s set on becoming a hero, and to do that, he needs more than simply the ability to brainwash. He needs to prove his worth, his skill, his passion.

He trusts Shouta Aizawa with his life, and that fact is the reason why he pulls his phone out of his pocket, browsing through his contacts list. He’s been to the man’s house before, mostly for training and additional lessons, so he knows where it is by heart. He also knows that Aizawa is not one to leave anybody, student or not, vulnerable and helpless in the outdoors with practically nowhere to go, so through his guilty disregard for presumptuousness and impertinence, he opens up his text messages and prays to whatever higher being is out there that his mentor would do him a favor he needs, but has done nothing to deserve.

Sensei. Are you busy?

The reply comes promptly.

Do you need something?

Aizawa is a clever man, and Hitoshi Shinsou presumes that he knows his students (or protégé, in this case) wouldn’t contact him out of school if it wasn’t for a pressing matter, something that needed to be addressed punctually. Hitoshi suspects that the guy had some sort of idea what was going on a long time ago, despite the two of them never having discussed it. Aizawa is patient to no extent, which is something incredible on its own. It is perfectly plausible that he has waited--and is still waiting--for Hitoshi to approach him about the situation and be the one to initiate the conversation. He’s waiting for something that Hitoshi can’t muster up the courage to provide.

It isn’t too late for him to retreat now, if he truly desires to do so. All he has to do is send a reply saying no, claiming that it was a mistake, claiming that he didn’t mean to send it to him or that he didn’t mean to send it at all, that he changed his mind and is able to handle his issues on his own, and that he’s sorry for issuing a false alarm, or—

Shinsou. I know you read this.

Screw it.

I need somewhere to stay.

It’s an admission, a concession, a testament to his predicament. He’s enrolled himself for a night of dubiety and precariousness. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, and it makes his heart race faster and his perpetual headache grow stronger. He’s exhausted; he can feel it in his bones, in the way his movements are more relaxed, more sluggish. His vision is slightly blurry, and he knows the dark circles under his eyes are being tinted further with each restless night and every additional hour he spends awake. He needs to rest; he wants to rest.

And Aizawa-sensei would never reprimand him for sleeping in. He would never be against the idea, and he would never punish him for it. And maybe that’s enough encouragement for Hitoshi, because when Aizawa sends him a location as a response, he knows that it’s intended to be an invitation--a welcoming. They both know that Hitoshi doesn’t need a roadmap to know how to get there.

The sound of the slap resonates throughout the entire house. Katsuki stumbles backwards from the sheer force of a woman he knows he cannot oppose. He feels the rear of his head hit something.

There’s a certain annoying, insistent, and vexing burning sensation in his eyes that typically accompanies fights and arguments like these. As the child in this relationship, he cannot win, regardless of how valid his point is, of how worthy his defense is. If Mitsuki Bakugou--his mother--doesn’t like what he’s saying, he doesn’t stand a chance. She doesn’t listen. She doesn’t deal with words; just actions, movement, measures--she uses violence to subdue him, brutality to discipline him, savagery to convince him, to change his mindset, to manipulate his thoughts, and he can’t do a single thing about it.

“Masaru!” he hears his mother yell, louder than necessary.

He cringes at the sound and wipes at his eyes, trying to ignore the stinging on his cheek.

“Come deal with your son!”

And with that, she stomps away from him, heading toward the edge of the staircase to prompt his father to come into the living room. Logically, Katsuki knows that his father wouldn’t cause him any harm. He never gets mad at him for anything; that’s his mother’s job. The only time Mitsuki ever calls him is when she needs somebody to be the middleman for the two of them, the intermediary to help settle the dispute. And he always, always takes her side.

And Katsuki decides that he’s not going to stand for that anymore.

He’s had enough.

He forces himself to keep still and wait until Mitsuki rounds the corner, until he can’t see her hand on the banister anymore. And then he runs.

It happens in a flash, a flicker of a moment. One second he’s inside their living room, filled with photos bordered with ornate frames, creating a false sense of hope and the facade of a family that’s whole, and the next thing he knows, he’s running through the streets, his sneakers in hand. He must’ve snagged them on the way out, which is good, because he’s barefoot, his front door is open--dammit--and there’s dirty water all over the ground, coating the tarmac and grass and whatever else is beneath him. The drains can’t keep up with the speed at which the skies are emitting precipitation, and it’s chaotic, shutting people indoors and making drivers wary, circumspect, and slow.

Katsuki manages to dart past an unsuspecting woman in her minivan. She looked positively startled, which he feels a twinge a regret for, but not enough to make him slow down his pace, because he needs to get out of sight before his mother comes looking for him. It’s only a matter of seconds at this point, and all he can think about is running, running, running.

He doesn’t register the pain in his calves, and the sharp, repetitive, twinges in his side until he slumps by the wall of a corner store, struggling to get air into his lungs, using the architecture to prop himself up. He pulls his shoes on and doesn’t care to check for any scrapes or lacerations before he’s off again.

He has to squint to see his surroundings; the moisture in his eyes (he likes to think it’s just from the weather) is hindering him by obstructing his view. He’s got a good distance between himself and his household now, he thinks, but then--now…

Where is he supposed to go?

He kicks an empty soda can lying on the sidewalk.

He didn’t think this far into his plan--if he even had a plan in the first place, that is. It was more of a spur of the moment thing than something he’s had mapped out in his mind, even if he has considered fleeing his house for a very, very long time, after every single disagreement and yelling session between him and his mother. He’d wanted this, so why now is he having doubts?

Sighing in exasperation, he pauses and ducks under the awning of the nearest pharmacy. He needs to think.

The only person whom he knows lives nearby is Deku, but he’s not so sure he should attempt to seek refuge at the green-haired nerd’s house. Inko Midoriya most likely wouldn’t mind, and Deku would probably be taken aback, but he wouldn’t deny Katsuki entrance either, if the blond really did need to stay; however, that’s not what bothers Katsuki. It’s not the practicality and convenience of the matter, but rather the ethical aspects. The morality, the merit. All his life, he’s treated De--Izuku like someone inconsequential and worthless--someone beneath him. And yet, the kid has never retaliated or changed his behavior around Katsuki. He’s still the same happy-go-lucky, carefree, non-judgmental, and unbelievably forgiving person he’s been since the two of them were in preschool.

And Katsuki doesn’t have the heart to take advantage of that.

So he won’t.

After a minute of deliberation, he frowns and reaches into his pockets, scrounging for anything that might of use. He really didn’t think this through.

There are a few loose bills in his right pocket, but no phone. He left the device to charge in his room as soon as he got back from school, so there’s no way he could’ve gone upstairs to retrieve it even if he had intended to bring it with him before he took off. He grits his teeth in frustration, reaching back into his pocket to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything. All he finds is an extra quarter.

He inhales sharply, using his opposite hand to check his left pocket, because if he really doesn’t have anything else, he’s going to have to go back, face his mother’s confrontation, face her wrath, watch as his father stands idly at the other side of the room and prepare himself for another one of her punishments and--

His fingers come in contact with a small slip of paper. He pulls it out immediately and wipes his hands on his pants before he begins to unfold it impatiently, albeit handling it as gently as he’s capable of managing. He doesn’t want to rip it, just in case it’s something important.

There are numbers and letters scribbled across it. He steps directly in front of the glass double-doors of the shop, allowing the fluorescent lights to cast themselves above the page fragment, torn out of his notebook.

It’s his teacher’s phone number and address.

The man gave it out in class first thing in the morning after he confirmed that everybody was present, saying that it was ‘to be used for emergencies’. He refused to mention Katsuki specifically, not wanting to draw any attention to the Kamino Ward incident, and the blond is mildly grateful for that. Getting kidnapped by the League of Villains and then needing to be rescued by a congregation of the top heroes and swarm of his classmates that somehow managed to bend the rules yet again is most definitely not one of his finer moments.

He bites his lip and stares at the note, being careful to hold onto it by the corners as to not dampen the area where the pen ink lies. He’s not able to call anyone right now, so the foremost option isn’t going to work. That leaves him with the latter choice: to show up at his sensei’s home without notice.

He’s never even been there, but judging from what he has copied down, it’s not too far from where he’s currently standing. He just needs to take a few trains, maybe, except--

He reaches into his back pocket in a jolt of alarm. His hand hits a solid, thin plastic object, and he sighs in relief. He has his subway card, which grants him the ability to transport to anyplace he pleases for tonight. That’s more than enough.

He glances at the address once more before folding it back up and returning it to the safety of his pocket. He’s going to do it before he can second-guess himself.

It takes a while. There’s quite a few seconds worth of time between Shouto knocking on the door and the door actually being opened, but he presumes that it’s just due to Aizawa making sure that he’s not someone with an ulterior motive. (Or maybe he was busy. Or maybe the knock caught him off guard. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like answering the door. Or maybe he saw that it was Shouto and didn’t want to--)

With one hand on the edge of the doorframe, an easily-recognizable dark-haired man stares at Shouto, face unreadable. Disheveled, wavy locks fall around half of his face, cascading over his visage, shadowing his feelings, thoughts, opinions.

Shouto stares back, and there’s a sort of tension between the two of them, filling their surroundings and thickening the air. The intensity of it is almost palpable, and if Shouto reached out, he’d be able to feel the tingling, disorienting static of one person expecting an explanation and the other not having anything to say.

There’s an undertone of understanding, though, or at least Shouto thinks there is. There’s a look in Aizawa’s eyes that read mutuality, connection, consensus, and then, to his surprise, Shouto doesn’t need to initiate the conversation anymore.

“Are you alright?”

Shouto exhales in relief. The question isn’t why are you here or what do need from me, but rather, it’s an inquiry that doesn’t require him to elaborate on his reasons for showing up--a query that doesn’t need him to justify his actions. The gesture is reciprocated with his internal utter gratitude.

“Aizawa-sensei, I--” Shouto threads his fingers through his slick hair. “Yes. I’m quite alright.”

It’s more of an equivocated truth than a downright lie, Shouto knows. He may be using every single loophole he can find, but it’s not a lie. He isn’t being dishonest toward his teacher. If they’re speaking about this in the present, then yes, he most definitely is as alright as he can be at the moment. Aizawa is his respite, his salvation. A man who deliberately refuses to show any sign of affection to his students, but is still more tender than Shouto’s father.

Aizawa’s gaze bores into him for a minute, calculating, considering. He then shifts, moving to the side. “Come inside.”

Shouto nods weakly, staring down at the wooden floorboards as he makes his way past the man, who is holding the door open wide for him to enter. It’s much warmer inside, and he’s able to sense the difference immediately, revelling in a special, cozy type of heat that seems so alike, yet so different from the temperature he knows he could generate himself through the usage of his quirk. It’s an all-encompassing comfort, a non-discriminatory snugness that is diffused throughout the atmosphere rather than concentrated in a particular area like a flame is.

The interior is very dark. There doesn’t seem to be any lights on other than the lamp in the corner. Aizawa is a minimalist in his own way, and Shouto entertains the idea that he’s trying to be parsimonious by decreasing the cost of his electricity bill, likely since he’s the only inhabitant. Not that Shouto minds, of course. He personally enjoys the tranquility of the nighttime, a period when things begin to quiet down and the world tends to be more relaxed, less tense.

Shouto leans down to remove his shoes out of respect, maneuvering with practiced hands. There’s no need for him to leave a trail of wet footprints inside the place.

Aizawa shuts and locks the front door behind him. He turns, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on a kid he doesn’t know enough about.

“Take your jacket off as well. There’s water everywhere.”

At that, Shouto’ breath hitches. He’s wearing nothing but a thin shirt under, which isn’t nearly enough to cover up the marks his father burned onto his skin, branding him with blemishes that are the evidence of a struggle. One look, and everybody will deduce that it was due to a flame quirk; another pause, and they’ll surmise that it was inflicted by an enemy he fought.

A heartbeat, and Aizawa will know that it was Endeavor.

Shouto meets Aizawa’s gaze, deadpanning. There’s a flicker of something in his sensei’s eyes, but it’s so brief that Shouto thinks he may have imagined it, or that it could’ve been a reflection from the light outside, percolating through the window blinds, simmering in the living room.

Shouto trusts him, but he doesn’t know if he can trust him enough. He doesn’t know if he even wants to, in the grand scheme of things. (Although he probably could. He should.) He needs to let someone in to be his anchor, to be there to ground him when he needs it the most. He seeks to have someone close to him, and if that’s a selfish request, then Shouto is a selfish person, but he wants this--no, he needs this.

If he is to develop that type of bond, though, he’s going to have to reveal more of himself than what’s on the exterior, the surface of what makes up who he is intrinsically. He needs to give something if he is to take something. The ground must be leveled, chipped at and scraped away until they are on the standing on the same territory, playing a fair game.

It’s now or never, so Shouto grabs the zipper of his jacket and yanks on it, stripping off the layer of deception, the protective coat that has shielded him from the dominance of truth. He’ll face whatever’s in store for him head-on, even if he’s terrified, even if he’s putting himself out on the line without a scheme in mind.

Aizawa kneels down in front of Shouto.

“Is there anybody else aware of this?”

His voice is gentle, allaying, and reassuring. His tone is barely above a murmur, but with just the two of them here, there’s no need for him to project any louder. Shouto can hear him without a problem, even with the thunder that reverberates off every building and structure laid out in the city, and the barrage of raindrops that batter the roof and windows of the house.

Shouto picks at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.

“No.”

Aizawa reaches out for Shouto’s forearm, but his fingertips don’t make direct contact. They’re mere millimeters away from touching, and he doesn’t continue to move. The distance cannot close unless Shouto does it himself.

Aizawa is silent, and Shouto knows that he’s asking for approval, for permission to place his hand on a part of Shouto that hasn’t been treated all that well. He is asking for authorization to perform a gesture akin to the one that has left him with burn marks just today, and a multitude of scars that have accumulated over the years. He’s requesting consent to make the same motions, but this time to heal, not to harm.

He wants to take all of Endeavors actions and rewrite them until all Shouto knows is the comfort of soft hands, light, skimming touches, and careful, considerate handling. Contact that isn’t associated with spiteful, intentionally inflicted pain; feeling that isn’t mutually inclusive with flickering sparks, chaotic and searing and unbridled.

Aizawa is the ice to Endeavor’s fire, and Shouto is splitting at the seams, conflicted between which side he belongs to, which side he’d rather take. He’s dithering between two roads: one he has always known, and one he has never traveled.

And maybe, just maybe, he could embark on something new, even with all of his memories and sagacity and experience. He could be part of two worlds at once, and he could gain something without having to give anything up. He could have it all.

He lifts his arms and holds them out for examination, exposing every torn fraction of himself, every shattered fragment pieced together into a precarious whole.

Aizawa very carefully places one palm under Shouto’s left arm to support it before using the fingers of his other hand to flit across the worst of the injuries. Shouto’s elbow and forearm are coated in a conspicuous, flaring red. It’s where Endeavor grabbed him tightly as he tried to run. Attempting to pull free only ended up in expanding the surface area affected as Endeavor’s grip slipped down to his wrist.

Aizawa frowns when Shouto winces at a particularly painful spot, and he lets go of his arm.

“I’m going to go grab a few things. Stay here.”

And with that, he was off, heading in the direction of the bathroom, leaving Shouto by himself in the entrance hallway.

Shouto looks down at himself and finds there are certain portions in his shirt that are completely singed, tinted a brownish-black color at the edges. He prods at the holes in the flimsy fabric and his fingers come back with soot on them. He’s going to need to find something else to wear, because it’s practically rendered useless at this point.

Aizawa returns not even a minute later, staring at his phone screen while holding a first-aid kit and a few towels. He tosses the latter in Shouto’s direction, and it is swiftly caught.

“Thank you,” Shouto tells him, unraveling the bundle.

It’s pristine and clean, and he grimaces when his hands end up leaving a streak of ash. He begins with working on drying his hair, which is still steadily dripping, leaving rainwater on his face. It’s coursing down his neck and clothes as well, augmenting the reservoir that’s already accumulated at his feet, forming a small puddle.

His sensei watches him from the corner, where he’s kneeling down to sort through the myriad of medical supplies he brought with him. He slides his phone in his pocket and turns his full attention over to Shouto.

“You should get that off,” he advises, nodding toward Shouto’s shirt. “I can lend you a spare.”

“Oh.” Shouto grabs the back of his shirt, pulling it off in one fluid motion. “Okay.”

The full extent of the damage is much more visible this way. Scars old and new are all unhindered, and he feels exposed and unguarded, but it’s more than just that, this time around. He feels free, as well. Liberated, as if someone has handed him his deliverance right there and then.

A sharp inhale comes from beside him.

“Todoroki, you can’t let this continue.”

Aizawa’s voice sounds forced, as if he’s suppressing his full reaction.

Let what continue? Shouto ponders bitterly. His own weakness, or his father’s supremacy?

There’s so much he regrets in his life, and this is just one more thing to tack onto the list. He resents his own lack of resolve and willpower. He’s fifteen, and he’s only begun to show insubordination now. But then again, defiance and indiscipline was never his thing, not when he was born and raised for a sole purpose, one that doesn’t involve his opinions and beliefs.

He could’ve taken action long before this, before things escalated so far, before he got himself caught up in a matrix he doesn’t know how to navigate, let alone find a way to get out. But he didn’t, and he'll have to accept the retribution without complaint.

“How?” Shouto asks, and it sounds more like a plea, an ask for help, a solicitation, rather than a request for elaboration.

Aizawa looks down at a tube of some sort of cream in his hands, turning it over to read the label. “Have you heard about the plan for implementing dormitories in the near future?”

Shouto shakes his head, finishing up on drying his hair. “I didn’t know.”

“The school is going to have to gather parental consent for each member of the classroom, but I presume we already have your answer,” Aizawa says, twisting the cap off. He surveys Shouto’s injuries and offers the medicine. “Do you want to do it yourself?”

Shouto nods and takes it. It’s some sort of antibiotic ointment. He squeezes a considerable amount onto his hand before spreading it on his right shoulder, the other major burn besides the one on his opposite arm. It stings, but it's a necessary evil.

“Thank you,” he remarks.

“The ointment?” Aizawa asks, raising his eyebrows. “You’re doing me a favor by using it before it expires. I forgot I even had that in here.”

Shouto smiles, and it lessens the tension within him, assuaging his anxiety. Aizawa is still the same, self-denying man he’s always known. The conversation is easygoing, and it’s beginning to feel natural.

“I meant for everything,” Shouto clarifies. “I apologize for intruding on a weekend.”

“Kid, I’ve told you this before, and I’ll say it once more. My responsibility for you, along with the rest of your peers, doesn't end in the classroom. I didn’t choose to be a hero for nothing,” Aizawa tells him, and suddenly, he’s standing directly in Shouto’s line of sight. His stature is slightly taller than the boy’s, but they’re more or less looking eye-to-eye.

Shouto bites his lip, casting his gaze downward. There’s a bit of ointment residue on his hand, so he applies it to his other side--his hot half--starting with his wrist. It’s ironic, how he is capable of harnessing the power of fire inconsequentially when it is of his own doing, but he falters when it’s coming from somebody else’s quirk, somebody else’s leverage. The single element his entire life has revolved around can both construct and destroy, and for some reason, he’s the intermediary, the equilibrium between the poles.

He fidgets with the damp corner of the towel he has in hand.

Aizawa sighs. “Do you want to sit down?”

Shouto shrugs. He doesn’t really know what he wants at the moment.

The raven-haired man seems to take that as an affirmation. He gestures down the hallway. “Claim any seat at the kitchen table. You’re still soaked, so I’m going to find you something to wear.”

Shouto follows him to a modest dining area, where Aizawa flicks the light switch on. The instantaneous brightness hurts both of their eyes.

Aizawa exits the room, and Shouto is in solitude once more, so he decides to check his pockets for his phone. He wasn’t sure if he had it with him when he made his breakout, but it’s there, and by some miracle, it isn’t waterlogged.

He wipes off the droplets with his towel and presses the side button, displaying his lock screen.

There are a few notifications from Class 1-A’s group chat, but nothing from his individual contacts. He hopes Endeavor has finally taken the hint and decided that leaving him alone was the smart thing to do.

He doesn’t ever want to speak to the man again, but he knows for a fact that he will have to do so eventually. He just prays that it isn’t anytime soon, because he’s not going to be able to deal with it, if that’s the case. What he needs is some time to himself to think things over and try to come to terms with it, even if that’s the extent of his leniency, because his father is never going to receive his forgiveness, regardless of what happens.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when Aizawa lays a stack of garments on the table. It’s a fresh, crisp white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, along with a belt for adjusting the fitting.

“Bathroom is right there,” Aizawa informs him, pointing over his shoulder. “I would recommend a shower as well, but that’s definitely not going to bode well with your wounds, and we still need to bandage them, so I suppose you should just change for now.”

“Okay,” Shouto agrees, gathering the clothes in his arms. “Thank you.”

Aizawa nods once to signify that he heard him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, clearly checking up on something.

Shouto heads into the bathroom and closes the door, locking it. He deposits his borrowed attire on the sink counter and catches a reflection of himself in the mirror. Pausing to take a look at his face, he consequently finds that he looks indisputably exhausted, his cheeks ashen and pasty. He sighs and leans against the wall, shutting his eyes for a moment.

It’s going to be a long night, but there’s nowhere else he’d rather spend it.

Hitoshi doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but he seriously wasn’t expecting to find someone else already inside when he arrives.

His eyes widen when he spots Shouto sitting down at the table, brooding. He’s not friends with the kid—they’re barely even acquaintances. They met at the sports festival, but other than that, they’re not in contact with one another, and this may as well be their first proper introduction. (A truly terrible occasion to make initial impressions, too, but life is like that.)

Aizawa looks between the two of them, standing with his hands on the back of a chair situated directly across Shouto.

“Hello,” Shouto greets timidly, attempting a small smile.

Hitoshi stares and stares and stares. The other kid has disheveled, tousled hair, and he’s wearing dry clothes that obviously aren’t his, although those aspects aren’t what Hitoshi is the most focused on. There are more pressing matters, such as the burns that are easily perceptible and very impossible to miss.

Shouto averts his gaze, and becomes interested in studying the grain patterns of the wooden table.

“Shinsou, take a seat,” Aizawa says, pulling the chair out.

He’s not going to be able to avoid Shouto if he chooses to comply and sit down there. Fun stuff.

He feels almost guilty for making preconceptions about the hero course students, and especially the son of Endeavor, because whatever more advanced, better-suited-for-hero-work quirk the dual-colored haired boy is in control of ultimately appears to have been insufficient for whatever fray he got tossed into. Hitoshi has always thought him to be invincible, untouchable, and far above the league of his classmates and practically the rest of the school, but he hasn’t ever considered a divergent possibility until today, at this very moment. He hasn’t thought past the image of Shouto that is public knowledge, widespread comprehension.

For someone who prides himself on being able to get into the minds of other people, Hitoshi Shinsou realizes that he doesn’t ever truly know anybody, regardless of how sure he is of his opinion, or how close he is to a certain person. There’s always, always room for error, and he’s made a grievously incorrect judgment about Shouto Todoroki.

He slips into the offered chair and drops his backpack off on the ground. It makes an irritating squelch as water meets dry, untouched floor.

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose. “Todoroki, let him use one of the towels I gave you. I need to search for another outfit.”

Shouto nods and passes Hitoshi an unused one, not meeting his eyes as he performs the action.

“Thanks,” Hitoshi acknowledges, accepting the towel. He frowns at observing Shouto’s injuries up close.

He wants to ask about them, but knows that he’ll be crossing a line of no return if he decides to do so. Shouto can ignore him and rightfully decline divulging any personal information, and he’ll be completely alright with the wordless tension that follows. Or, albeit unlikely, the kid can be open about the events that transpired, and Hitoshi won’t know how to respond.

He’s never been good at communicating with people. Empathizing internally and conferring with others are two very different things, and he doesn’t do much of the latter. It may be due to circumstances he’s had to take in stride while growing up, but it’s so deeply ingrained in the person he is today that he doesn’t know if he’s able to change his behavior in that particular area anymore.

If Shouto lets him in on something so confidential, he’s not going to be equipped with the social skills needed to console him and say the right things a regular person would in such a circumstance.

So he settles for something less obtrusive to commence with. “You should probably patch yourself up.”

It may sound rash and insensitive to any layperson, but at UA, neither of them are unaccustomed to frequent mishaps and constant trips to Recovery Girl and the infirmary. They’ve grown used to attaining anything from a bruise to a laceration; it’s all part of their training and practice required to shape them into the people this quirk-filled planet desperately needs. Speaking about wounds and injuries in such a casual manner is nothing out of the ordinary. (Even if Hitoshi senses he should take this a little more seriously. The burns look severe, and he thinks there’s something off about the mood.)

Shouto’s eyes flicker upward with curiosity and light amusement. He chuckles. “Yeah. I was going to, prior to your arrival.”

Hitoshi shrugs. “You don’t need to let me stop you.”

Shouto reaches over to the edge of the table for the first aid kit Aizawa left for him, and sifts through the items until he finds a roll of gauze bandages.

Hitoshi frowns. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital or anything?”

Shouto could easily be restored to prime condition by a healing quirk, even if it’s one that’s inferior to Recovery Girl’s. It wouldn’t take long, and despite all the clues indicating he’s able to handle the damage himself, it still isn’t convenient, and it’ll leave scars. (There’s something undeniably off about the entire situation. It doesn’t make sense why the number one hero’s son is here, out of all places. Especially when he clearly needs medical attention.)

Heterochromatic eyes meet dark purple ones, and Shouto presses his lips into a thin line, absentmindedly unwinding the roll. “No. This is fine for me.”

Weird. Hitoshi isn’t one to readily admit his weaknesses either, so decides to drop the topic rather than make a hypocrite out of himself.

He barely has time to move his hands when a plaid shirt is hurled his way. And then some khakis.

“Ah—thank you.”

“Go change,” Aizawa mumbles, waving his hand vaguely. “You two are virtually mopping my floors at this point.”

Shouto laughs softly at that, and there’s a ghost of a smile on Aizawa’s lips. Hitoshi feels his heart warm up a little as he gets up and heads for the bathroom.

There’s a sharp knock on the front door, and Aizawa walks toward it immediately, looking exasperated.

“I swear, if it’s another—”

He’s cut off as the visitor asserts himself loud enough to be heard perfectly through the door. Hitoshi can recognize that tone of voice from anywhere, and he’s sure the rest of the world can, too. The first place competitor in this year’s sports festival is not someone who can easily be forgotten.

“Open up! I’ll blast this door open if I have to!”

“Bakugou?” Aizawa asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Obviously,” Katsuki huffs, crossing his arms. “Who else do I look like?”

The water in his hair is weighing each individual strand down, overwriting his key attribute, and he doesn’t want to know how unusual he must look to his homeroom teacher right now.

“What are you doing here?” Aizawa asks, eyes scanning Katsuki’s entire frame as he looks for signs of injuries.

(He’s not going to be able to find them unless he can read the kid’s thoughts. Or feelings. Whatever.)

Katsuki stays silent at that.

And then, out of absolutely nowhere, because the entire universe has been conspiring against the blond this entire day, Shouto peers over Aizawa’s shoulder.

“What the hell?” Katsuki asks, scowling at his half-cold, half-hot classmate. “Why are you inside, Icy Hot?”

“Why are you not?” Shouto replies, looking bewildered.

He obviously didn’t expect to see Katsuki here, but neither did Katsuki expect to see him, so they may as well fight over who is further perplexed by the current circumstances.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Katsuki retaliates. “Tell Eraserhead to move, and then I’ll be inside.”

Shouto shakes his head, rephrasing his question. “What I mean to ask was why you aren’t inside your house.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki warns. He came all this way precisely to forget about that, and he’s not going to allow one insufferable person with split-colored hair to break through his defenses and remind him of it.

There are some very weird things he’s witnessed in his life, but not even being sucked through a portal at the summer training camp was as weird as this. This is a whole new level—no, an entirely novel definition for ‘weird’. He’s not sure if he’s dreaming.

But in his dreams, his emotions are never this strong. Every border, every edge of his view is cloudy and blurred when the details aren’t real, and the colors are duller, more muted. In his dreams, he isn’t able to perceive the way his fingernails dig into his palms as sharply, and he doesn’t feel every new drop of water that lands on his head as clearly.

And Shouto Todoroki doesn’t show up in his dreams. The kid already irks him enough at school that his subconscious doesn’t need such a nuisance in his mind when he’s finally out of the UA campus.

Which leaves him with a conclusion that very explicitly states he is awake.

“So, are you going to let me in, or not?” Katsuki asks, because he needs to know.

He needs to know if his last resort will take him in, or if he will need to commute back to his mother. He wants to think that this wasn’t all for nothing, and that he will get the help he seeks, but none of it is set in stone until he can get verbal confirmation.

Aizawa relents. He looks frazzled. Katsuki contemplates whether it’s because he’s tired of Shouto.

“Enter.” The pro-hero swings the door open and doesn’t spare a second glance before walking the other way, allowing Katsuki to see Shouto’s full frame.

“What the hell?” The blond repeats yet again, and the phrase is starting to lose its meaning. It’s also turning into more of a remark than a question.

Shouto sighs. He’s not even halfway through wrapping his wounds. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”

“You better tell me about it,” Katsuki threatens, slamming the door after he steps into the hallway. “You lost control of your quirk or something?”

“Or something.”

“Very specific, Half-and-Half.”

“Thank you. Many teachers commend my terseness in writing.”

Katuski rolls his eyes, and startles at the presence of a fourth occupant in the house when he gets to the kitchen. “Can someone please let me know why the entire school decided to assemble at this shabby house?”

Hitoshi looks unamused.

Cargo pants and a black long-sleeve hit Katsuki square in the face.

“We’re going to have a discussion, and all of you need to speak,” Aizawa states in a manner that leaves no room for argument.

Katsuki digs into his vanilla yogurt, nodding vehemently.

Shouto and Hitoshi exchange glances, leaving their snacks untouched.

These kids are going to be the death of him.

“First things first, do any of you need me to contact your parental units?”

“I don’t think Endeavor would appreciate it,” Shouto says, and he almost sounds worried.

Aizawa has a feeling that Shouto’s concern isn’t for himself, but rather for Aizawa, and it makes him feel sick. If the kid knows his father well enough to want to keep others away, there’s something horribly wrong, and Aizawa hates that he hasn’t been able to do a single thing about it. He’s wanted to, ever since the beginning of the school year, back in the spring season. Shouto’s behavior was the most erratic during the sports festival, and it was only then that Aizawa knew that the Endeavor at home isn’t the same hero he is on the news.

It’s one of the reasons he vouched for the establishment of dorms.

“I’m going to speak to him either way,” Aizawa says. It’s going to take more than a simple one-on-one talk, so he’ll need to address Shouto’s situation last to prevent himself from doing anything impulsive. “Shinsou? Bakugou?”

Hitoshi shrugs, and Katsuki stares at his spoon, deliberating.

“I left my phone,” He tells Aizawa.

The man sighs. The fact that his student managed to find his way here is incredible. “I’ll lend you mine, if you wish to contact your family.”

The boy frowns. “Only my dad.”

So that’s what it is.

“Okay.”

He fishes his cellular device out from his pocket and hands it over. Katsuki promptly stomps over to the bathroom and locks the door to have privacy.

Even so, his shouted greeting is audible through the walls.

Shouto laughs, and Hitoshi smiles, picking the label of his unopened strawberry yogurt.

Aizawa has a feeling they’ll all be okay.

Chapter Text

“That’s screwed up,” Katsuki says, as if the three people around him aren’t aware at all. “Like, real bad, Icyhot.”

Shouto stares down at his left hand. It’s a power he has control over, and he knows it. He doesn’t know why he can’t get it out of his mind, though, if he’s so sure in his resolve. Unlike his father, he knows what restraint is and he knows how to do things the right way, the way quirks should always be used—for good.

He’s aware of the reason why he’s striving to become a hero, and a true one, at that. A genuine, indiscriminate hero. The person he dreams of being one day is nothing like what his father is.

“Hm,” Shouto mumbles, deliberating. “I’ll be fine, Bakugou. Don’t put too much thought into it.”

Katuski bristles at that, losing his somewhat calm demeanor he’s kept for a good few minutes whilst listening to Shouto explain. “How the hell do you expect me not to care about this, you idiot? That’s not okay in any way, and you know it. Don’t act so nonchalant about things you are entitled to be upset over.”

“What is there to say?” Shouto replies, impassively. “What do you want me to say? It’s nothing I haven’t previously dealt with.”

Aizawa narrows his eyes, and Hitoshi tilts his head. Katsuki reacts, openly.

“And that is exactly the issue here, you dumbass,” Katuski declares, slamming his palm down on the table. “Do you not see it? It’s been going on for so long that you aren’t able to distinguish normalcy from irregularity, and this is most definitely not normal. Endeavor is not normal; your family is so damn far from normal. Even I know that, although my mom doesn’t pull half the crap your sorry excuse of a father does. He’s abusive, hot-headed, and a colossal asshole whom you don’t deserve to be related to in the slightest.”

Shouto balks at the gratuitous spiel he received from the (self-declared) most hostile student of class 1-A. There has to be some value in that. If Katsuki’s saying it, then there’s obviously something Shouto’s supposed to be paying attention to and taking away from his words, but for some reason, Shouto doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to be interpreting. Everything the blond is telling him are things that Shouto has heard hundreds upon hundreds of times before; when he’s been sent to the nurse’s office during middle school, when his siblings caught glimpses and fragments of moments where he has just gotten out of training, when he spent time with his mother while Endeavor was out completing his hero duties—work the man has always considered to be more pressing than staying for meals with his children and wife.

“I—I know that—”

“I’m not done yet!” Katuski yells, prompting a stern look from Aizawa. It’s late at night, and being loud isn’t necessary to be heard.

Katsuki regulates his tone. “What I just said wasn’t my point, not exactly. What I’m really trying to convey is that you need to quit going back to someone whom you know isn’t going to bring you any good. You’re walking back to the enemy. Is that what you want, huh? To work against yourself?”

“No,” Shouto states. He’s certain of that. “But you’re not me, Bakugou, you’ll never know what it’s like to be—”

“Shut up! Don’t you dare try tell me what I know and what I don’t, because that’s just disregarding everything I’ve gone through, even if it’s incomparable to you—”

“That’s not what I’m doing!”

“Are you sure about that? Because you’re acting like you always do in class. You pretend you’ve got everything under control when you don’t, and you never speak, you never participate unless you’re called on and you refuse to let anyone in except for that stupid nerd, and even then, he doesn’t know much, does he? You think nobody understands you, so you don’t talk about it.”

“You’re saying it as if I have an obligation to.” Shouto narrows his eyes. “You’re crossing a line here. That’s a warning.”

Shouto has boundaries, and Katuski’s attempting to intrude and step past them like they’re nonexistent. He does that all the time, on a smaller scale, to everyone who has the misfortune of speaking to him, except Shouto hadn’t minded all of those teases and taunts. He doesn’t care about those shallow remarks Katsuki likes to toss around wherever he goes, because they’re meaningless and general and not worth giving any thought to. Back then, he wasn’t prying into Shouto’s personal space.

But now, Shouto can’t say the same.

Katuski looks annoyed, although the anger is directed at something far away, someone not inside this room. “If you think I’m going to stop now, then you’ve got something else coming your way.”

“Excuse me?” Shouto retorts, exasperated.

“Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said?” Katsuki inquires, sharp gaze piercing through Shouto. “The problem here is that you refuse to voice your thoughts and let people help you.”

“As if you’re not doing the same, Bakugou.”

“What?” Katuski asks, taken aback. “Stop trying to flip the conversation.”

“You—you’re a hypocrite. You act like you’re not doing the exact same thing I am.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“You’re constantly keeping up your antagonistic exterior to prevent people from getting too close to you.”

Katsuki kicks Shouto’s leg from under the table, not nearly hard enough to be taken as a serious attack, but enough that Shouto knows it’s supposed to be a warning. “Shut it! That’s nothing like your situation! You talk like you know everything, you goddamn—”

“Cut it out, you two.” Aizawa stands from where he is sitting. “That’s enough. We’re not here to argue.”

Aizawa can’t say he’s surprised that the conversation had spiralled into a disagreement, as most things that involve Katsuki follow the same path, but it’s not helping the situation. They’re not going to be able to get anywhere like this.

Katsuki crosses his arms and sinks down in his chair, glaring at the edge of the table as if it had personally offended him.

Aizawa had fixed his hair into a ponytail in the time it’s taken them to converse. With his face less obstructed, his expressions are clearer, sharper. He almost looks more intimidating this way, and the three kids would be afraid if not for the fact that they know him well.

“Alright,” the raven-haired man says, bracing himself against the table. “Okay. Todoroki has a point.”

“What?” The blond utters, scowling.

“He’s right, but you aren’t wrong, either.”

“What?” Katsuki reiterates, his words softening, molded by confusion.

“You two are not the same, but similar, in a sense. Both of you are adamant on keeping things to yourselves until it’s too late.”

Shouto huffs, looking over at Katsuki, who returns a sneer.

“That’s stupid,” Katsuki states.

Hitoshi, who hasn’t spoken a word for the longest, finally joins in. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“You’re stupid,” Katsuki says, modifying his previous comment. He leans forward on his elbows to glower at the purple-haired boy. “Did you open your mouth just to say that?”

Hitoshi looks unfazed. “Yes.”

“Bakugou,” Aizawa warns.

Katsuki rolls his eyes.

“I know I have made this clear already, but I’m going to say it once more,” Aizawa preambles, catching the eyes of all three UA students. “Any problem, major or minor, should never be kept to oneself, especially if it is something you’re not equipped to deal with.”

Shouto, Hitoshi, and Katsuki all nod in awkward solidarity. It seems to be affirmative enough, because Aizawa continues.

“Now, is there something you would like to share, Bakugou?” he prompts, cutting directly to the chase.

Katsuki reverts to being defensive at the sudden non-sequitur. “No.”

“Why are you here, Bakugou?” Hitoshi inquires, simplifying the question, as if the blond didn’t already immediately understand what it was that Aizawa wanted to hear.

“Does that matter?” Katsuki asks, voice at a dangerous inflection.

Hitoshi doesn’t reply verbally, but gazes at him steadfastly, causing Katsuki to flick his view to the ground, away from studious eyes. A lifetime of praise and acknowledgement, support and admiration, and Katsuki still isn’t comfortable when all the attention is directed at him.

Although this feels different. Scrutinous and analyzing, as if Hitoshi can see through his brash behavior and formidable quirk. As if he can see where they connect, even at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Katsuki doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He doesn’t need to say anything further, because in the following moment, Shouto looks up at Hitoshi, soft voice piercing through the silence. “And you?”

Katsuki doesn’t miss the way Hitoshi frowns a bit before responding with “foster care.”

“Oh,” Shouto says simply. “What do… they do?”

“Not much. It’s not likewise to your case, no, but… the idea that I have a ‘villain’s’ quirk, it makes people wary of me.”

“Oh,” Shouto reiterates, looking lost. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a hint of guilt in his words, as if he’s afraid that his own quirk is something offensive.

Hitoshi smiles a bit and shakes his head. “It’s alright. No way of changing the world’s mind.”

“It’s a powerful quirk.”

Hitoshi bites his lip. “It is.”

“Quirks aren’t everything.”

“They’re not. But to be a hero, they matter.”

“So,” Shouto states, flexing the fingers on his left hand. “You can set the standard.”

Hitoshi furrows his brows, but doesn’t say anything.

“A quirk is what you make of it. There are villains who wield fire, just like me, but there’s also… my father. What I have isn’t inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’, but the guidelines have already been made for me. This is a ‘hero’s quirk’, because of somebody before me.”

“And I could be the first of my kind,” Hitoshi finishes, voicing the implicit.

“That’s right, kid,” Aizawa attests. “You have potential.”

He reaches down to ruffle the mess of indigo hair, and Hitoshi grins. Then, he decidedly offers the gesture to the other two boys as well.

Katsuki grumbles in faux irritation and Shouto looks perplexed.

Aizawa smirks in amusement. “If any of you want to do anything, you can check the living room. I don’t have much, but feel free.”

Katsuki takes that as his cue to get up and claim the couch for himself before anyone else can do so, but not before swiping Shouto’s untouched chocolate pudding from the table.

Hitoshi looks at Shouto with questioning eyes, and Shouto shrugs, having practically forgotten about his snack anyway. The two of them follow after Katsuki, stepping into the dark area, lit only by moonlight filtering through the windows.

“There are no games,” Katsuki mutters, eyes roaming around. “Not even board games. What kind of place is this?”

“There are books,” Shouto informs him, pointing at the shelf.

“Tch. Do you think I care about those, Icyhot? It’s too dark in here to read, anyway. You’re going to end up bespectacled, just like Four-eyes, if you try that.”

Hitoshi fumbles with a lamp placed by the corner. He manages to flick it on, and light spills past the walls and floor. “It’s called turning on the lights, genius.”

Katsuki huffs, peeling the label off his newly-obtained pudding. “Whatever.”

Shouto kneels down by the bookshelf and peruses the titles, searching for anything that looks particularly familiar or interesting.

Hitoshi sits down on the armrest of the couch, at the end beside where Katsuki’s head is, not willing to take any chances and risk getting kicked.

The blond looks annoyed, but doesn’t comment as he tips the pudding container into his mouth.

“Is that Harry Potter?” Hitoshi asks as Shouto slides a novel out from its respective slot.

“Prisoner of Azkaban, yes.”

Katsuki laughs. “Pfft. Get the second book. We all know that one’s the best.”

“No,” Hitoshi declares, looking mildly offended. “That one was terrible, and the movie was worse.”

“Aw, but the scene where Ron puked slugs was comedy gold,” Katsuki says.

Hitoshi makes a face. “Morbid.”

“What can I say? It’s funny to watch people suffer,” Katsuki muses.

“But it’s not funny when you’re the one being watched, is it?” Aizawa interrupts, materializing from the kitchen, holding several mugs. Three, to be precise.

“It’s hot,” he warns as he sets them down on the coffee table.

Katsuki abandons his food in favor of the cups. He scrambles forward and peers into one of them.

To say that it’s a pleasant surprise would be an understatement.

“Hell yeah,” he grins, picking it up. “Hot chocolate.”

Hitoshi looks dumbfounded. “Thank you, Aizawa-sensei.”

“Don’t mention it,” Aizawa dismisses, looking over at Shouto. “That one’s my favorite, out of the series.”

“That’s two people with poor taste in books,” Katsuki mutters into his mug.

“I bet you read Twilight and thought it was amazing, Bakugou,” Shouto quips, walking over to the couch, hardcover in hand.

“Romeo and Juliet had a better love story.”

“That play was more infatuation than love,” Hitoshi corrects.

“Same difference.”

Shouto deposits the book on the table and claims the last mug, inhaling the sweet aroma. He presses his right palm against the ceramic, cooling the drink down marginally to be able to drink it easily.

Katsuki scoffs in between small sips. “Lucky bastard.”

“He can turn yours into a popsicle, if you’d like,” Hitoshi offers.

“Hell no,” Katsuki grimaces. “That’s nasty.”

“Chocolate popsicles are not nasty,” Shouto says. “They’re quite delicious.”

“They’re cold. I like my food hot and spicy.”

“Now that is nasty,” Hitoshi comments.

“Shut up. Books aren’t the only thing you have no taste in.”

Hitoshi ignores him and returns to drinking his hot chocolate.

They all sit there in silence, taking comfort in the calm, soothing atmosphere. None of them are familiar with such peacefulness in their own homes.

Notwithstanding their contrasting opinions on many trivial, petty things, the three are painfully similar on a deeper, more personal level. There’s a keen sense of understanding and kinship that can only be developed due to comparable pasts and linked mindsets. They all know what it feels like to be afraid in a place where they’re meant to feel secure.

It’s oddly liberating to share those emotions with someone else, especially someone who can empathize.

In the end, Katsuki surmises that’s what changed his mind, because the next thing he knows, he’s disclosing what he’d planned on keeping to himself.

“My mom,” he states, apropos of nothing.

“Hm?” Hitoshi questions.

Aizawa is leaning against the wall and looking at the ground, but Katsuki knows fully well that he’s listening in.

Shouto takes a seat and gazes at him with an inquisitive look.

“The first thing she told me when I got back home after Kamino Ward was that it was my fault,” Katsuki elaborates. “She said I could’ve avoided it, had I been stronger.”

Hitoshi only found out about the event after it happened. It was something that people caught wind of pretty quickly, having been live streamed on every news outlet and written about on every article possible. But in each and every scenario, All Might was the focus, not Katsuki. The blond was only mentioned in passing, as a subsidiary point, something not to think about too deeply. Unlike Shouto, who was there, and Aizawa, who helped come up with the rescue plans, Hitoshi doesn’t know much about what happened behind the scenes.

But he knows that it was definitely, indisputably not Katsuki’s fault. Anybody who says so isn’t right, and if that person happens to be Katsuki’s mother, then… well.

“That is straight up disrespectful and wrong,” Hitoshi says, stressing the last word. “She has no right.”

Katsuki tenses at that. “Did you see All Might? Who the hell do you think is responsible for him being there?”

“He came on his own volition, Bakugou,” Shouto asserts. “You didn’t make him do anything.”

“That’s a load of crap. The heroes only came because I allowed myself to be taken by the League,” Katsuki contends. “Maybe I affect anything directly, but it sure as hell wasn’t anyone else that caused it.”

“Blame doesn’t need to be assigned in every case,” Hitoshi adds. “It’s not your fault.”

“Why would she say that, then?” Katsuki asks, an undertone of hurt in his voice. “Why would my own mother say that to me?”

“Because she’s an asshole who doesn’t know how to tell her son she cares,” Hitoshi responds. “She’s someone who doesn’t know the consequences of her actions.”

“She’s supposed to care,” Katsuki argues, although it seems more like a lament. “That’s not fair. If she really does love me, she has to show it.”

And something clicks in Shouto. He’s always known that Katsuki’s personality and behavior didn’t stem from nowhere, but the origin wasn’t clear until right now. If he’d grown up with the same parents all his life, it’d be a surprise if he didn’t turn out to be the person he is today. If he had a better role model—if he had anyone else to look up to—things could’ve been different.

But it all makes sense.

“If that’s what she’s going to be like, then she’s not your mother. Nobody deserves that,” Shouto tells him, setting his mug down. “You don’t deserve to be associated with someone like that.”

“She’s my mother.”

“And Endeavor’s my father. It doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

“But you’re still related to him. The whole world knows you through his title.”

“Do you know why I chose my hero name to be what it is?”

“Didn’t you just put your first name?”

“Yes.”

And Katsuki realizes. “Oh.”

“When I make my way to the top, I don’t want anyone to see me as anything other than myself. I don’t want to be called by a pseudonym.”

“You want them to recognize you as you are,” Katsuki states, and he now understands why Shouto’s hero costume is as modest as it is.

He doesn’t want anyone to look at anything but him; he doesn’t want them to see him as anyone but his truest self.

“We’re our own people, regardless of where we come from.”

By the time everything mellows out and everyone settles down for the night (or morning), there’s barely two hours left until sunrise.

Aizawa grabs some pillows and spare blankets, and he even offers his sleeping bag to them, which ends up getting claimed by Hitoshi, and is followed by a low mutter of “Aizawa’s secret love child” from Shouto, which isn’t heard by anyone but Bakugou, who snorts and shakes his head.

“No way. He can’t be.”

Shouto shrugs, still looking between the boy and his sensei to see if he can spot any similarities.

“I’m taking the couch,” Bakugou announces, loud enough to make sure everyone can hear him and understand that it’s now his territory.

When no one attempts to argue to negotiate, he promptly nabs a pillow and lies face down, satisfied with his acquired spot.

“You can take the guest bedroom, if you’d like, Todoroki,” Aizawa tells the duo-haired teen when he sees that the other two boys have already made themselves comfortable in the living room. “It should be much better than the floor.”

Shouto looks at the two people whom he’s grown closer with than he ever could’ve anticipated. Out of all the students in UA, the both of them have managed to make their way past his cold exterior and into his heart. They’ve pushed themselves through, and Shouto has relented, allowing them. What he received in return was a new outlook and life and the stories of two uncovered pasts. He received company and comfort, bonds and friendship.

And he doesn’t regret it. Even with Aizawa’s given presence, their unexpected show is something he’s infinitely grateful for, in the long run. The most unexpected, randomest things are what changes him the most. It’s only been a few months into the current school year, but there have been so many things he’s learned not just from his classes and teachers, but also from his peers. There’s always more to discover; he’s known since the day he met Izuku that everyone has something to offer, some advice to give.

So even if the idea of a bed does sound quite pleasing, he turns down the suggestion from Aizawa. He’s spent enough nights alone in a dark, massive room, his siblings several halls down and his father not even home half the time, that he can use all the companionship he can get.

“Thank you, but I think I’m good here,” Shouto says. He has ample fluffy blankets and pillows to stay comfortable.

“Alright. Suit yourself,” Aizawa tells him before stepping out of the room.

Shouto doesn’t know what’ll happen tomorrow—neither do his friends—but as long as he’s not alone, he can face it head-on.