Chapter Text
Shouto did not know what a birthday was until he was eight. He learned its significance, ironically, on his birthday, during his first trip to a hospital since age four. Before that, he thought it referred to his place in the family. Four. 4th child. If the number changed to five, or seven, he reckoned that he was being demoted. Maybe he had failed to use Endeavor’s fire. Maybe he had gotten a B on a test his tutor assigned. Maybe he simply wasn’t good enough.
Whatever the reason, he learned the truth about the numbers after emerging from surgery for his shattered clavicle. They haven’t changed anything.
He still doesn’t care about them, which is why on his 14th birthday, he can’t be bothered that he’s at a hero gala. January 11th. A winter baby, yet another sign that he was never meant to have fire.
The dress annoys him. The heels do even more. But at least he’s not training. He wears long sleeves and a high neck to cover the bruises purpling his body. They complain every time he shifts, which is often, due to those damn heels.
He feels like a doll. Concealer covers his porcelain mask. An invisible string draws his spine straight. His long hair feels plasticky from the product in it. Red fabric, stitched into an instrument of torture by a careful puppeteer's hand, is imposed on his body in the form of a dress. His limbs are his tutors’ to position. His expression, theirs to critique.
He accepts all the other conditions, but he rebels on the last, and perhaps most important one. He may have a hard time expressing emotions, not that there’s been much but anger and fear lately, but he can smile. He can, but he doesn’t. Let that be the first thing people note when they see him, past the golden jewelry, past the scar.
“Hanabi,” Endeavor says. He holds a glass of red wine. He scans the crowd for his next conversation partner (more like victim), and it appears he finds one. “Pay attention. And hold this.” He shoves the glass towards Shouto.
Shouto takes it and lets his gaze roam the ceiling, skipping from arched white roofs to the painting of Mount Fuji that takes up an entire wall. What… a fascinating choice.
Endeavor straightens his tie and refolds one of the cuffs of his white suit. He forgets to take the wine back from Shouto before marching towards the center of the floor.
Shouto follows at a sedate pace, enjoying the path his father has cleared for him. He isn’t tall enough to see Endeavor’s target over the heads of those in the crowd, but he pities them. This gala is the auctioning type, which translates into who can flaunt their money the most while pretending it’s for charity’s benefit. The auction hasn’t happened yet, but once it does, Shouto plans to steal away to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to sit through his father’s aggressive betting.
He takes a sip of the wine before stepping beside a stationary Endeavor. Hmm. Dry, but not bad. Reminds him of an apple. Shouto would like an apple right now. Green, not red. The texture of a red, or god forbid a pink, is too unpredictable. He’ll stick with crisp certainty, please and thank you.
He almost smiles at the situation Endeavor has found himself in. Gang Orca is wearing the same suit as him, down to the golden tie pin. And he wears it better. Endeavor, predictably, has taken insult to this and is now posturing.
Shouto has to admit, it is a brave move to pick a fight about outfit choice with Best Jeanist standing next to Gang Orca, but Endeavor does anyway.
Shouto takes another sip of the wine. Best Jeanist, he notices, is wearing a suit that covers the lower half of his face. He’s hiding something, Shouto can sense it. Unfortunately, while Shouto’s watching him, he sees Shouto drink. His eyebrow crinkles and Shouto gets the sense he’s about to say something.
An icy jolt of fear sharpens Shouto’s surroundings. No matter how many times he feels the sensation, it’s still disorienting. Shouto’s on a diet. A strict one that allows for maximum muscle growth and no cheat days. No food is allowed in the house that will not benefit this diet. Wine, while calorically insignificant, is enough to violate it. Shouto learned his lesson the first time, after the consumption of his ninth birthday cake. What will happen now, with a much more illicit substance and five years of difference, will make that punishment pale in comparison.
So, piloted by the pounding of his heart, Shouto makes a bad decision. He never claimed he was smart. He’s rather stupid, actually. He should have just taken the hit. Dumbass.
He lifts the wineglass, and with a motion that feels governed by something outside his body, dumps its contents down the side of Endeavor’s suit. The red cuts through the white like a bloodstain. Time slows.
Shouto watches himself draw the glass back towards his chest. “Now you won’t have to change,” he says in a glacially calm voice. He walks away, feeling like he’s moving through a dream. He makes it to the bathroom before vomiting.
He leans over the toilet and gasps for breath. He hears a distant shattering noise as if through a fog. Pain blossoms in his hand. He looks down to see the wine glass crushed between his fingers, blood flowing between the gaps in his clenched fist. Strands of white hair block his peripheral vision.
He needs his hair gone. The thought hits him like a fist to the stomach. He needs it off, and he needs it off now, before he loses it. He may be having a mental breakdown, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needs it off, now, now, now.
He unclenches his fist and lets the shards drop to the ground along with a stream of red. He picks out a medium-sized piece still in his hand then covers the cuts with a thin film of ice.
He wants to be a boy. A real one, one that doesn’t have to wear dresses or makeup or go to a hero gala he doesn’t want to be at. One that can stand up to his father. He has considered himself one for quite a while, but that’s not the same as living as one. He wants to be Shouto, his way.
He chops through his hair before he can think better of it. He’s dug his grave. Might as well lie in it. His one functional, trembling hand and the dull edge of the glass make it slow work, but he finds a way to grip the strands with his right hand in a way that does not jostle it. Every clump of hair that drifts to the ground is a weight off his shoulders.
He starts on the red side, cropping it to above his ears. There will be no mistaking it for a bob. If he’s doing this, he’s doing this.
The white side won’t let go. He hikes back one of the dress sleeves and lets frost gather on his forearm. It shapes into an icicle with a thought. Its edge slices the top layer of his skin when he tests it on the back of his hand.
He goes to the mirror to finish the job. The doll’s face has been ruined. Mascara smeared around his eyes. Lipstick rubbed off. One of the dangling silver earrings is missing. Good riddance.
He lets his eyes focus on the whole of his face, and his breath catches. He looks more like his father than ever with short hair. But he also looks more like Natsuo, and Touya in the pictures. The red and the white, fire and ice, son and daughter, tormenter and victim. Two separate paths stretch before him. He cannot continue this cycle of terrible things. He may inherit the prospect of masculinity, and the power that comes with it, but he has to remain responsible. He cannot let his goals slip from his view.
He takes a fortifying breath before letting the rest of his hair fall into the sink.
All of this is true. All of these things he needs to watch for. But. He looks good. No, not that. He looks right. Looking like this, he can ignore the dress. He can ignore the chest, if only for a moment. Now, part of him matches, inside and out. He feels powerful. Like he’s in control.
He drops the ice in the sink to melt. He goes back to the stall and sweeps glass into his iced hand. He puts that into the sink as well, where no one can step on it. The plumbing will survive.
He splashes water on his face and rinses the rest of the makeup off. The sleeve he pulls back up to cover his wrist. He takes off the other earring so it can join the condemned pile of broken things. He sublimates the ice from his palm and plucks the rest of the shards out, just to kill time. Still, no one comes for him. He takes a wad of paper towels to wrap around his hand.
Endeavor chose his birth name. He chose Touya’s too, but not Fuyumi’s or Natsuo’s. The red-haired ones. The ones with potential. Ironic, because Fuyumi has come the closest to fulfilling his dream. Natsuo turned out quirkless, and that was the end of what little attention Endeavor showed him. But Fuyumi?
Fuyumi graduated high school, and Shouto hasn’t heard from her since. He knows how she’s doing though, because he sees her merch deals, her takedowns, her meteoric climb in the rankings. The Hoarfrost hero: Lynx. Ranked at sixteen as of the last Billboard. Her home city is Sapporo, but she travels around every prefecture except Tokyo. If she ever stopped by, he would go see her. Right now, the whole-day commute makes it impossible to reach. He wonders if she chose that far away on purpose, and if the radius she’s formed around the Todoroki home is so she doesn’t have to remember him.
Not a letter. Not an email. The divide between them is as cold as one of her ice walls.
He’s that repulsive. He’s so undeserving of love that even his own siblings can’t look at him. He hasn’t seen Natsuo in two years, Fuyumi in five. He’s all alone in a big, empty house, full of sadness and shadows and silence. He misses them. But they don’t miss him.
He misses Mom. This is his own fault. He could visit, but every time he looks in the mirror, he remembers that would only bring more pain to her. He looks like his father, after all.
The paper towels are soaked through. He drops them into a trash can and replaces them with a new wad. The glass didn’t hit an artery, so it’s unlikely he’ll bleed out.
His real name came from the pages of a book his mother read to him. Shouto, with the kanjis for ‘to fly’ and ‘blooming’. He thought Endeavor had ripped any traces of Rei from the house, but two years ago he found the book lodged in between her old wardrobe and the wall. The Little Yeti’s Adventure, cover waterstained and obscuring the word Yeti. Oh, but he remembered.
There are no clocks in this room. It feels like seconds yet decades have passed. Enough time for his bones to turn to fine powder and nature to reclaim his grave all in the flap of a butterfly’s wings.
Shouto cannot wait any longer. He will have to go home eventually, and waiting will only make it worse. However, as he goes to open the door, it swings open and a green-haired boy steps through. Shouto freezes, because he recognizes him on sight, even though he’s never met him. “This is the women’s,” he says in a wavering voice.
“Uh, no, sorry.” Midoriya Izuku, Sir Nighteye’s nephew and All Might’s protege, Shouto’s standard for excellence, pushes the door further in so Shouto can see the sign on the door. Men’s. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Shouto snaps. “Leave me alone.” He looks back towards the mirrors and sees the row of urinals behind him. Dammnit. Sloppy, unobservant.
“Do you need help? Can I do anything for you?” His eyes hold a mocking concern. He looks more like a boy than Shouto ever will in his tailored suit and shirt. He’s handsome, but what draws Shouto’s eyes is the tattered friendship bracelet clinging to his wrist. Yellow, blue, and red. All Might colors. It somehow adds to his appearance rather than subtracting from it. “Your hand looks hurt.”
Shouto feels a horrendous, traitorous, pang of envy. He grits his teeth. He doesn’t need anything from this perfect boy. Do his relatives hurt him? Does his mother hate him? Somehow Shouto doubts it. “I’m okay. You can go away.”
“Okay, sorry.” He turns, then pauses. “I think your dad’s looking for you, by the way.”
So Midoriya does know who he is. Great. Every interaction, touched by his father’s influence. He realizes, unpleasantly, that Midoriya may feel the same way. Shouto’s been treating him based on that, after all. It puts a sour taste in his mouth.
“I’m Todoroki,” he says, an idea forming in his mind. He may dislike this boy, but he dislikes his father more. He’s heard his father’s rants about All Might, about him raising his daughter in order to contest All Might’s intended successor. This would be a great fuck-you, and Shouto can manipulate Midoriya into not telling about his moment of weakness.
“I know. I’m Midoriya.”
“I know.”
Midoriya huffs out a heavy breath. “So… why did… what… haircut?” He gestures towards the sink, then Shouto’s head, then back to the sink. He looks flustered.
Shouto shrugs. “Just felt like it.” That’s right. He has short hair. He did something of his own will, something that made him feel better, rather than his father. Despite himself, a smile creeps onto his face. “How mad is Endeavor?”
Midoriya jumps, then smiles nervously. “Uh, he didn’t look happy if that’s what you’re asking. Uncle Might tried to cheer him up, but it didn’t go so well.”
And Shouto thought this night couldn’t get any worse. “All Might’s here.” He doesn’t hear Midoriya’s response. A ringing has started in his ears, one that he’s familiar with. Fear, he observes as he catalogs his shaking limbs and dry mouth. “I have to go.” He’s waited long enough. It will only get worse from here.
He pushes past Midroiya only for a hand to close around his wrist. He reacts instantly, returning the grip and preparing to summon ice. He hisses as it puts pressure on his wounds, but keeps his grip strong. He looks up, prepared to rebuke Midoriya, then stops.
Viridian eyes meet his gaze with shocking intensity. The meek boy from before is gone, replaced with a single-minded focus. Midoriya gently pries Shouto’s fingers open and breaks eye contacts to examine his wounds.
Not for the first time, Shouto wonders what his quirk is. An oracle quirk like his uncle’s? No, he doesn’t have the white pupils that indicate a mental quirk. Still, it must be earth-shatteringly powerful if it caught All Might’s attention. To heroes, quirks are everything.
“Are you okay?” Midoriya asks again. His hands are warm, calloused.
The question should mean nothing. But for some reason, Shouto’s eyes start to sting. “Fine. I’m fine.” His voice stays steady, but he can’t meet Midoriya’s eyes.
“Okay. Um, can I give you my phone number?”
“I don’t have a phone.” Why? Why would he want to message Shouto? It has to be some sort of information gathering tactic.
“Okay, this might work…” He removes a notebook from a school jacket, scribbles on a sheet of paper, and tears it out. “Here’s my QuirksOnline account. Message me if you can?” He presses the paper into Shouto’s uninjured hand. He gives Shouto a wide smile and a little wave before opening the door for Shouto.
A gentleman, Shouto thinks dryly. Suddenly, he misses Natsuo. Natuso had the same quiet kindness underneath his harsh exterior. Fuyumi too, though not in the same way.
Endeavor waits in the lobby. He’s shaking with anger. Shouto notices with satisfaction and not a small amount of fear that the wine spill has definitely ruined that suit. “Hanabi.” His face goes red. “What happened to your hair?”