#so that conversation with ochako symbolizes to him his duty as a hero to stop shigaraki remembering he is a human

[angy-grrr]

dont mind me. Im just here, thinking about the beginning of the manga with izuku being rude for example in the sports festival for insulting one of his classmates to create a parallel with katsuki, showing a complicated rivalry thru a similar attitude he would also get quite easily when he needs to defend others vs towards the end where its clear theres a separation between the anger he feels for others’ pain and the rage he has when its katsuki. And its not even about making him less or more angry -when he is pissed off, he is always really… animalistic? He “wants” to act in that kind of way, and we know about the difference because of him not being able to hold back.

Theres anger and pain and rage when shigAFO stabbed and hurt Gran Torino, Aizawa-sensei, and others. He barely is able to hold back. And then Kacchan gets both stabbed AND insulted as a worthless sacrifice?? Thats it, he is a wounded dog.

ppl will say bkdk it’s just another sns and that they would end with girls but have you thought about:

They are different mangas with different authors. They don’t have to end the same way at all -and knowing horikoshi disliked the ending, it makes even less sense.

It’s canon that Katsuki really, really dislikes attention from girls and doesn’t pay them any mind at all, to the point of not having even moments with any that could count as lazy romance. Who tf is he picking?

The popular ships in Japan according to polls when n*ruto was going on were exactly the ones that became canon as far as I know so even if in the west it made little sense for many, they were justified and liked my at least a big part of the Japanese audience.

All of the “you hurt my loved one and now I need to kill you” moments were exclusively with Katsuki being targeted (with this I mean he loses the ability to hold this back. With others he is able to at least maintain some sanity even if it hurts him personally); in n*ruto, as far as I know, there are moments like that with Sas*ke and Hin*ta being the targets making the protagonist lose control. The most similar situation was when Himiko stabbed Ochako in front of him and he was worried about leaving when there’s such an unpredictable character, but it was more about wanting to make sure she is okay. In Katsuki’s case, it always make him more rude and impatient + lose self control when things get too serious, going against his own ideals.

[tiang0u]

you left a handprint on my heart (ch. 3)

“You—you trust me,” Midoriya says. The surprise is tangible. 

Caught in his throat, a desperate-quiet yes strangles him. He swallows it down and locks it in his chest.

To protect himself, Shōto says, “I don’t know.” To protect himself, he adds, “Please…don’t give me any reasons not to.”

bnha; tododeku; crossposted on ao3

The silence is like someone has died.

Iida bade him goodnight with a soft apology. Shōto didn’t respond.

He wasn’t sure how to.

He lowers his phone to his lap, grip slackening, and the screen dies as he massages the bridge of his nose with trembling fingers and wills the slow-coming headache away.

He knows what a supervillain looks like. All he has to do is step outside and look at the crack in the wall where he was blasted back. And before he had arrived, Midoriya would have been standing only a few feet away, a barefooted boy in barren winter, with black flames licking at his heels and a sixty feet drop beneath, shoulders soldier-straight, arms flung out to shield.

A guy who worships All Might couldn’t possibly be. How could someone who loves the Symbol of Peace crave the destruction of a society that he protected?

No—he can’t think like that.

He’s actually dropped his guard so low that it’s down six stories of a ratty apartment complex. This must be what Iida’s worried about, the fact that already, to him, his neighbor could be anything but a supervillain, the fact that Iida might not even actually be implying that Midoriya is, but Shōto is already up at arms.

He understands why Iida is concerned. Iida isn’t irrational, yet he called at midnight to deliver omens, because he does not trust Midoriya—and Shōto can’t be sure that he would place his life in Midoriya’s hands either, but right now, Shōto is the only one with the knowledge of what Midoriya is like.

Things like the way he can’t get the right printer, the way he makes people worry beyond reason, the way he’s bleeding heart and lets strangers into his apartment, the way he’s reckless but heroic, the way he is bathed in unspoken sadness, the way his eyes take on a strange gratitude when he is acknowledged, the way he earnestly looks at a person, the way he tries to come in and…blow away all of Shōto’s problems—and Shōto just can’t even comprehend it, because if Iida could just meet him once, he’d understand. All of his suspicions would be dispelled the moment Midoriya bows so low that he pitches forward clumsily.

But it dawns on Shōto that it’s not that Iida doesn’t want to meet him.

If Iida really wanted to force Midoriya’s hand, he wouldn’t be waiting on Shōto.

Then Midoriya has somehow actively escaped questioning. Iida could have tried in the midst of their larger investigation but still ended up empty-handed, and that can’t be helped when they’re all tied up—but this bothers him now.

Midoriya is avoiding him.

And if he didn’t have anything to hide, Shōto doesn’t know why he would.

/

Not all villains have simple-minded shortsighted ambitions, Eraserhead, with a new scar underneath his eye, told them after the USJ incident. Supervillains especially never do, and they’re almost always disgustingly complex, and the reform, the society, the future they want all come at the ugliest price. Don’t forget that.

/

Even after thinking about it all night, Shōto’s still not entirely sold on the idea. But he still owes Iida an apology.

And he submitted his report anyway. It still has valuable information, regardless of the circumstances it was obtained under. They need to know as much as they can about all the players on the board, especially that purple-skinned man (you’re not the one I’m after). And Shōto isn’t that biased. Midoriya’s testimony does corroborate the account of the events Shōto reported when he arrived on the scene.

These are all things that he thought of saying while he was on patrol. These are all of the things he’s going to tell Iida the moment he steps into the breakroom, but he’ll start with the apology.

He opens the door carefully. “Ii—”

“Todoroki-kun!”

Uraraka Ochako, in full glory, stands in the doorframe. She opens the door the rest of the way, and Shōto’s hand falls to his side, bereft.

“Uraraka,” he greets, stepping in. It’s phrased more like a question, and he regrets the uncertainty that filters through.

In the years after U.A., Uraraka’s form has still retained a soft kindness, even as she gained height. Yaoyorozu will forever be the tallest girl in class 1-A, but Uraraka’s confidence towers as she reads Shōto easily and smiles.

“I’m visiting Hosu for a few days,” she explains, gesturing at large. Her voice grows solemn. “Since the tribute…is in a few days, and Shizuoka is nearby, I figured it would be a good chance to catch up with old friends.” She peers up at him. “You got taller!”

He broke past the 180 mark, and that was the year after graduation, after they all parted ways. Or, after he parted ways. A lot of them ended up working with familiar faces at the same agencies. And this—whatever this is—it’s not unwelcome, but he glances over to Iida. (Not for help.) Iida simply nods at him, and at a loss, Shōto mirrors the action in Uraraka’s direction.

“How are those two?” Iida asks when Shōto doesn’t fill the silence. He must mean Bakugō and Kirishima.

“Lively,” Uraraka huffs, turning back to him. “Bakugō-kun has been especially riled up lately. Our supervisor almost docked his pay for some recent property damages while he was on duty, but they realized that he didn’t care. So he’s on leave right now.”

“He took that lying down,” Shōto asks curiously.

“He endured it because Kirishima-kun is a good influence,” Uraraka replies.

“Still causing trouble after graduation then,” Iida sighs.

Uraraka shrugs with a soft laugh. “There really is nothing to be done. But even though he’s really prickly about it, I think he likes being a hero too much to jeopardize it.” She waves a hand in the air to clear the conversation. “Either way, enough about work! I’m having lunch with Mina-chan today, but we should have dinner together.”

Iida agrees fairly easily; Uraraka has suggested a restaurant in the western corner of Hosu. She turns to Shōto.

Hah. Uraraka has proposed going out rather than cooking herself because she knows Shōto will decline. She even scouted out a quiet area.

The curious, hopeful light in her eyes only confirms his suspicions.

He declines anyway.

“Sorry,” he says, bowing.

Uraraka sighs but doesn’t fault him for it. Iida looks over—and it doesn’t mean anything, it’s a simple look—but Shōto remembers, like a brand, the way his neck had burned when he walked with Midoriya to that yatai. It’s burning again. God, he had agreed so easily.

“I’ll be going home earlier,” he finally says.

“Oh,” Iida says, taking a moment to recall. “You switched with Tokoyami for the second shift. Night patrol now, right?”

“Right,” Shōto says quietly.

He makes for the door. For him, the conversation has ended.

“I forwarded more files,” Iida says. “I think you were onto something in our last meeting. Be safe tonight, Todoroki-kun. You and Tokoyami-kun will be speaking with victims tomorrow.”

“And Bakugō-kun is visiting soon!” Uraraka adds helpfully as Shōto closes the door behind him.

/

He didn’t get to apologize.

That’s fine.

He also won’t trouble himself over what’s starting to look like a mini class reunion in Hosu City, because he needs to concentrate.

He concentrates his gaze on Midoriya’s closed door as he makes his way up the last few steps. It’s still early afternoon, and Shōto has come home to eat an early dinner and prepare for night patrol. Midoriya shouldn’t be home, if he has a job.

Even having semi-rationalized this, Shōto has no idea what he was trying to accomplish anyway. The sooner he tells Midoriya to go in for proper questioning, the better. The less he thinks about Midoriya, the better.

Yet still, he pauses before Midoriya’s door.

There are no answers written in the chipped paint or the red-rusted eyehole. Shōto isn’t looking for answers anyway—and shit—

The door opens.

He hesitated for too long, and he can’t walk away naturally now; his feet have failed him.

Midoriya is half-dressing himself in the open doorway, tucking a collared shirt into slim black slacks, then straightening his vest and blazer. He doesn’t have his glasses on, but there’s a sharp quality to his figure as he looks up to his bangs, focused and determined, and brushes his hair back with a half-hearted hand.

(His tie could be a work of modern art. The interpretation of its form is truly to the beholder.)

This is a first, considering the various states of informality that Midoriya has donned before him. Shōto wonders if it’s for an interview, or maybe Midoriya’s returning to work from a lunch break—and then he quickly shuts those thoughts down.

He isn’t going to think about it. Or ask. And to make sure, he presses his tongue between his teeth and bites.

Midoriya catches his gaze.

“Good afternoon, Todoroki-kun,” he greets, an abashed smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “You’re back early.”

“Yes,” Shōto says, responding before he can stop. “I have night patrol.”

Midoriya blinks at him. “Oh. I hope you were able to rest well last night then!”

Considering the conclusion that Shōto couldn’t come to last night, that’s out of the question.

“Ah—did you have night patrol yesterday too?” Midoriya asks. “Did I keep you out for too long?”

His worry is completely transparent. Can a guy like this really be a supervillain? Shōto finds himself wondering as he stares wordlessly.

It’s because he can’t come to a decision, frustrated with himself, that he responds curtly, “No. You should fix your tie.” Then he walks away.

“Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya’s voice follows.

Shōto realizes this is because Midoriya is trailing after him hesitantly. The laces of his dress shoes are untied. Shōto wants to say something about that too, but doesn’t.

Nothing’s changed for Midoriya, no earth-shattering revelations that have made him doubt his immediate surroundings. How fickle, Shōto wonders, that the understanding between two people can be one-sidedly polluted by a singular thought. To a supervillain, everything and everyone is fair game. How foolish that he let it become like this.

“Todoroki-kun, is everything okay?” Midoriya asks when Shōto turns his key into the lock.

Nothing’s changed. And yet, it feels as if everything’s different.

“I’m sorry. Not right now,” Shōto says.

The afternoon sun carves a slab of light into the floor of his dark apartment, and when he closes the door on Midoriya, the light strains into nothingness.

/

So he handled that pretty well, if well means rudely shut the door without properly indicating the end of a conversation.

He’s fully aware that he could’ve handled it better—it’s not even that he’s usually so wrong-footed like this, but Midoriya just has him off-kilter.

Maybe it’s better this way. Midoriya will eventually see Shōto for what he really is and then he’ll try to stop approaching him. Honestly, Shōto doesn’t need to fuck up any more than he already has.

And he didn’t tell Midoriya to go in properly for questioning, fuck.

The moment their eyes met, he crushed his warring emotions and forced his mind to a blank slate. He runs his hand through his hair with a stressed sigh.

His appetite has forfeited to stress, but he has to eat to keep his energy up for tonight. He forces himself into the kitchen to boil water, and while waiting for the bubbling, meanders over to his desk and pulls up the articles Iida forwarded on his computer.

/

Though the bastard is informally called a copycat of the Hero Killer at the agency, with twenty-seven marks attributed to his five week career, what bothers Shōto is that there have been only four real casualties.

The files Iida forwarded over are medical reports of the three most recent victims. Their injuries match the usual modus operandi—a lumbar vertebra compressing the spinal cord and crushing the spinal nerve root, rendering paralysis. Shōto does not read the follow-up examinations, because he knows that they will indicate permanent paralysis, no sign of motor function after the first week. Twenty-seven heroes. Twenty-seven careers ended. And he will be talking to the survivors tomorrow.

Severing the connective tissue between adjacent vertebrae so cleanly, like the write-ups report, requires either extreme surgical precision to a struggling victim, or as the doctors have keenly identified, something like spinal anesthesia. This is where the bastard gets the moniker Hero Killer copycat. Immobilizing the victim and moving in for the spine, in the familiar haunts of abandoned back alleys.

But something doesn’t add up.

Those four casualties.

Shōto suggested it last week at the debriefing with the surgeons from Hosu’s trauma center. The meeting itself had been a fiasco, since that week the amount of victims had tripled, and the harrowed medical team demanded to know when the copycat would be detained, and that just because the bastard wasn’t killing anyone didn’t mean the agency could let him run free—and through the yelling and mediating, the one doctor who had accused them of negligence led Shōto to the conclusion that those four casualties were unrelated.

The room had silenced within seconds, and their supervisor had said, in a low, hysterical voice, what are you saying, Todoroki?

The investigation started with the first casualty, a hero in Hiyashi ward. He had been found in an abandoned alley, and when the medical team showed up to administer aid from an anonymous tip-off, they realized he had been dead for a while. Cause of death was circulatory shock. If that hadn’t set in first, it would have been kidney failure.

The entire lower half of his body had been crushed beyond repair. The coroner examined the bone shards and concluded that with the force of the attack, it was like the entire Tokyo Tower had dropped onto his legs and pelvis in a nanosecond.

Two weeks after, the next heroes had only been incapacitated, and doctors quickly identified that they were paralyzed first (copycat)—and then made permanently so via trauma to the lumbar. Investigators assumed then that the first casualty had been a message, giving that bastard the title killer, but the other three casualties followed the same grisly death—like either the supervillain had strayed from his usual ways or that it was a different force entirely.

Shōto leans back in his chair. His noodles remain untouched, his appetite completely lost as he massages the bridge of his nose with a groan. Doing detective work has given him the headache that he has been trying to avoid all day, and on top of sleep deprivation, it’s exactly what they need to find out now, that they might actually be dealing with two different lethal enemies.

If his theory has Iida convinced, he doesn’t know if he actually wants to be right. Two bastards dishing out divine judgment in the same cities is just a nightmare to think about dealing with. And it’s been five fucking weeks, and it seems like they’ve barely made any progress.

Twenty-seven. Four dead. There could be more out there, and in this moment, Shōto wonders, if it would be different with All Might—

A knock at the door punches through the bloody haze. It takes him a moment to refocus—he glances at the time.

It’s almost time for him to head out for patrol.

Rubbing his temples, he gets up to answer the door, and when he opens it, Midoriya is there.

Somehow—pathetically—the earlier dark mood Shōto was in is lifted.

“Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya greets him. He holds out a hand pre-emptively to stop Shōto from closing the door on him a second time, and the action catches Shōto low in his heart, a contrite ache.

“Midoriya,” Shōto replies, and then sighs. “You need to go in for formal questioning.” Reluctantly, because he remembers the way Midoriya’s face changed when he mentioned Iida, he adds—like a warning, because he can’t stop…needlessly caring, “If you don’t go in voluntarily, I will be forced to refer you to Iida.”

Even at the bleakness of Shōto’s words, there is gratitude in the way Midoriya looks at him understandingly. Midoriya looks like he wants to say something.

Instead, he asks, “Can I come in?”

“I have patrol now,” Shōto says, only a little regretful—and then even more so when Midoriya nods, deflating a little but not upset.

“Okay,” Midoriya says quickly. “In that case, it wasn’t really anything important. Be safe, Todoroki-kun.”

He retreats to his own apartment, and Shōto, against his better judgment, genuinely wanted to know.

/

The night is eerily quiet when he makes the rounds. Tokoyami’s route takes him through the lonelier streets of Hosu, where the back alleys do not find light even in the full moon. Tonight, there is no moon, and the lamplights flicker ominously, once, when he walks past.

When he had been approached by Tokoyami, he didn’t think twice about agreeing, but now, he wonders why. The switch is a temporary one, for a few days—and Tokoyami didn’t cite any family emergencies. Shōto wouldn’t know if this is characteristic for him, but the way Tokoyami had asked him made him oblige without hesitation.

Restlessly—his mind wanders back to Midoriya.

Can I come in? It wasn’t really anything important.

It had to have been something important, but he couldn’t tell from Midoriya’s expression the nature of what he wanted to divulge.

He’s undeniably curious. He’ll ask. He’ll ask, and then he’ll stop asking—he’ll never ask again.

The street that he traces has a tangled web of alleys behind old buildings, some of these abandoned. Shōto muses that it’s awfully quiet once more, but he muses too soon.

A high-pitched shriek pierces the air, and he breaks into a fast sprint right into the dark, high-walled path.

It didn’t sound human, and he can’t quite characterize if there was the inflection of pain, but then the shriek echoes again, letting him know that he’s going in the right direction, and when Shōto rounds the corner, he—

—freezes.

It has to be at least three meters in stature, shoulders broad enough that the meager width of the alley has boxed it in. A grotesquely muscled torso at least thrice the diameter of an average human, barefoot, low hemmed and dirtied trousers, navy blue skin, thick cords shifting in its biceps, a hand span that could crush two skulls effortlessly, a beak and two beaded eyes, an opened cranium revealing the braids of brain mass beneath—god.

Whatever this thing is, it’s not human. In fact, it resembles that monster from the USJ incident—the way its brain is half-open to the outside world. It doesn’t seem nearly as stockily built as that one, but Shōto knows not to underestimate his enemies.

It hasn’t noticed him yet, ominously docile, so Shōto takes a quiet step back—and steps on what vaguely resembles dog tags.

He moves out of view and picks it up, careful not to rattle the chains. When he finally makes out the engravings with help from the scant starlight—a name (Jammer), a quirk, a hero agency, a blood type—his eyes widen in horror, and he looks around the corner again and finally makes out the spread-eagled human form that he missed the first time in the wake of the large creature. He’s only a few feet from where Shōto kneels.

Jammer’s eyes are closed, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. If the morbid way his lower half is concave relative to the rest of him indicates anything, it’s that he has been crushed from the waist down, like that thing executed a single stomp atop his torso.

The first thing Shōto needs to do is get this guy medical attention before crush injury and renal failure set in. He wants to grab Jammer and hightail it out of there, but even if he could slip away without being noticed, the idea of leaving that monster here in the alley without detaining it cancels any immediate retreats.

And it begs the question—how did it even get in here? There’s no sign of damaged walls, no sign that it had to force its way through the narrow space—unless it maneuvered through sideways—but even then, it’s unlikely. There are uncrushed glass bottles littering the alleyways; Shōto should have at least seen some shards.

He slips his phone out from his back pocket and angles it to the ground to keep the light from catching attention. Backup and getting Jammer out of there are priority. He needs to call for backup—

—and there’s no signal.

Fuck.

It’s the quirk. Jamming signals. He assumes by the name that there is some kind of effective radius—that of which he can’t gauge, not when he wasn’t even looking at his phone when he hauled ass into the alley. And he sure as hell can’t wait for the signal jam to stop—and if he runs out into the alley, he’ll be delaying medical attention and—

And he could probably take the bastard. The larger the thing is, the less precise its attacks can be, and for now, it looks like it has entered a state of dormancy. Judging by the damage it dealt to Jammer, it looks like it can only deal moves of brute strength, and Shōto, trained in hand-to-hand combat, can counter and dodge—and then trap it.

He curls his fingers, ready to draw ice, and readies himself to charge in.

His shoes crunch against the crumbling cement, and he steps out from behind the corner, raising a hand to send ice shards into its eyes before it can react.

The monster howls and clutches at its eyes and Shōto smacks his hand to the ground, erecting ice that sheets up its legs, catching its lower half. It almost topples forward, but the width of its shoulders trapped against the alley walls stops the movement.

He keeps an eye on it as he bends down to gather the unconscious hero into his arms, but then—

Ice shoots up his leg, halting him mid-movement. When he realizes what’s happened—the monster has broken free from the ice, the skin of its soles ripped from its feet, but the skin is regenerating and its eyes are no longer bloody and punctured—and it somehow sent Shōto’s ice right back at him, and Shōto quickly realizes—

The jamming wasn’t from the wounded hero. It was from this creature—it had to have activated Jammer’s quirk itself, just like it has with Shōto’s. The output of ice is almost exactly the same—when Shōto compensated for the monster’s size—and the muscle cells in his encased legs contract painfully from the subzero temperatures.

The monster shoves its way through, shoulders scraping the brick alley walls, almost within arm’s grasp of Shōto’s face, and Shōto—gritting his teeth—reaches down with his left hand to melt the ice keeping him.

He almost breaks his ankles with the speed at which he jumps away from the incoming swipe—he hisses in pain once he realizes that he’s singed himself across the shin.

The monster’s quirk must be that it can regurgitate quirk-based attacks then. Fuck.

The plan has suddenly changed from detain to retreat. Catching his balance, he erects an ice wall at least six feet thick and hopes that the monster doesn’t break through within seconds. He puts his hands under Jammer’s arms and pulls him up to run—but the ice shatters before he can make it even three feet with Jammer slouched against him.

He lowers Jammer to the ground as carefully as he possibly can and whirls around on his heel, barely dodging the trembling fist that swings his way.

The monster is shaking and shivering all over. Considering that Shōto’s conditioned against the low temperatures, it must be unbearable.

He chilled it beyond even inhuman tolerance. If he uses that, the drastic difference in temperature will carbonize those cells—and carbonized cells can’t regenerate.

Endeavor’s quirk, a pain in the ass, and infuriatingly necessary for this plan—Shōto scowls as the monster roars, curling the fingers in his left hand.

The flame is hottest at the source. If he makes physical contact, he’s sure that he’ll inflict third degree, enough to debilitate, so he readies his fist, steeling himself and closing the distance between them with a sudden sprint.

And then a black mist permeates into the air around him, and he jerks back, fighting his own momentum. From the vortex, a scarred face emerges and surges forward, and a hard fist socks him in the gut.

The air leaves his lungs in the single hit, and he doubles over, gasping as the oxygen exits his windpipe explosively. Let alone breathing in—his diaphragm physically resists the action, and he can’t breathe, choking on the vacuum in his body cavity—

Just what he needed. Getting doubled teamed in a back alley without backup.

He always knew he’d go down fighting anyway, and through his blurring vision, he makes out that it’s the same bastard from the apartment complex attack. His untrained flames will pale in comparison to the likes of black hellfire.

Good thing he didn’t have to live his last moments with the shame of submitting to Endeavor’s mark.

“Fuck off,” a soft voice drawls.

The villain grabs Shōto’s right arm hard enough to bruise, short-circuiting the self-defensive ice with fingers digging into his muscle. He pulls Shōto roughly to the side, a violent swing that almost sends him careening into the brick and plaster.

Shōto rights his balance before he concusses himself—but he couldn’t have fallen regardless with the villain’s tight grip. A finger presses hard into a pressure point, making him catch his breath haltingly in pain as a pinched nerve sends searing pulses down his arm. The hand wrapped around his bicep, he knows, could just as easily char his whole limb.

Just feet away from the two of them, the creature has stopped in its tracks, howling, clawing at the fading black mist. The villain standing between it and Shōto has his eyes trained on it.

Shōto realizes what this is.

He’s being held still so the monster can finish the job.

Strangely, he is not panicking. He wasn’t able to save them both then—and though the fight is still in him, it’s obvious at this point. Against a freak of nature and a villain with a quirk-natured advantage, with an injured and incapacitated hero on the side…

His abdomen aches with a hurting heat where the punch landed. Soon enough, if the creature gets him in its clutches, he will lose feeling there, and everywhere beneath the chest, and then, if he’s lucky, he’ll be dead. Less luckily, he’ll wake up in a hospital as a message and with a dead hero on his hands and be paralyzed forev—

The villain releases his arm.

“What—”

“You’re in the way,” the villain answers coolly.

Before Shōto can reply, he raises his palm, and the mist immediately clears.

Eerily, the creature snaps to attention. The beak drops open, letting down a pool of opaque drool, and as disgusted as Shōto is, he recognizes the opportunity as an opening. If he can just muster enough force to knock out the man in front of him—or if need be, drive a stalactite through his unguarded back—and then encapsulate the creature in fire, then he can grab Jammer and escape.

A spike of white agony sheets up his arm when he experimentally curls his fingers to summon ice.

Fuck—the bastard did something. It must have been when the finger pressed against the underside of his bicep, a sealing point.

The creature suddenly shrieks when the villain moves, an exasperated tch from him underscoring the cacophony, and when its eyes refocus, Shōto realizes that he’s not the target anymore.

“Fucking artificial bastards,” he hears the villain mutter, and he watches as the villain extends a long arm forward, palm facing out.

The creature stops again, and the villain walks closer until his palm hits the muscled chest.

“Freak,” he croons, and then, without warning, releases scorching fire onto its dark blue skin.

The black flames spread like a conflagration, enveloping like a plague, a swarm, and the scarred man steps back with a low, impressed whistle as the creature shrieks and shrieks, thrashing in the narrow alley. The heavy saliva from its mouth evaporates from the sheer heat, its skin charring and blackening and splitting and oxidizing—

All Shōto can smell is the putrid stench of burning flesh, the smell of rubbered skin melting and breaking down in the damp air. It’s enough to make him gag—and though he was prepared to defeat the monster by any means necessary, he knows that a higher temperature would’ve ended it quickly or that a lower one would incapacitate it, that the level that this villain has outputted is just enough to torture.

At least to put it out of its misery, he involuntarily shifts.

The villain, without missing a beat, without turning around, flings out an arm, carpal to fingertips wreathed in flame. He directs his palm in the general direction of Shōto’s face, and Shōto stills.

“I’ll cremate you too,” he warns. “Stay the hell out of this.”

“Don’t you think this is enough,” Shōto snarls back over the screaming creature.

A pregnant pause—and then the villain gives an irritated sigh and steps back toward the inhuman torch, hand outstretched. Shōto assumes it’s to finally put out the fire—the monster’s burns are debilitatingly severe—maybe even fourth degree, which would require a legion amount of skin grafts, but then—the fire flares up abruptly.

A single high frequency screech shrivels into a choked, dying sound, and the body—he never knew a body could—do that.

Shōto’s eyes widen.

When the fire dies out, a stitched hand waves away the smoke with a lazy motion. The villain steps forward to examine his handiwork, and the stench of ashes and ruined flesh rushes to fill the displaced air in his wake. This must be the smell of a rotting and burning underworld.

Pleased, the man straightens up to full, towering height and turns around to give Shōto an unreadable look.

Then, a tight sealed smile spreads across his lips, careful not to pull at the stitches.

“Good fight,” he says. “Good to see you’re still piss weak.”

Bastard, Shōto wants to reply. He drew first blood last time. But this man just burned a three foot monster into a puddle of flesh and bones.

Instead, he settles for a glare, slowly letting his hand fall from his useless arm, and wishes looks could kill. Or seriously maim. From the way the villain crosses his arms over his chest, self-satisfied, and the way he scoffs when Shōto subconsciously glances at Jammer’s prone form, he doesn’t intend to finish them off.

Shōto doesn’t break the glare as he kneels down and maneuvers Jammer onto his back.

This prompts a mocking response. “What?”

“…You,” he reluctantly grounds out as he gets to his feet. The eye contact between them doesn’t waver, and because it needs to be said, even to this bastard, he grumbles, “Thanks.” And because this also needs to be said, he adds sourly and clearly, “I don’t know where a villain gets off on helping heroes.”

To his surprise, the man starts walking away.

“You didn’t need that last sentence, shithead,” comes the lazy response, followed by an amused chortle. “And what kind of hero needs a villain’s help anyway.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Shōto retorts. He had it under control. He would have ended it the same fucking way—and without killing.

“Just because you didn’t ask doesn’t mean you didn’t need it,” the man replies smugly, side-stepping the charred and melted mess of remains. “Looks like you burned yourself too. Maybe you should work on that.”

Shōto barely holds back an irritated snarl. He settles for glaring daggers and watching the black mist bleed into the air, regretting that he can’t send ice spikes to follow the bastard into the swallowing shadow.

When he’s sure the guy’s gone, the mist dissipating from the air, he turns the other direction, exits the back alley labyrinth, and heads for the trauma center.

Bitterly, he discerns from experience that the burn on his leg is second-degree. The skin is tight when he walks, like if he goes too quickly, it’ll tear, breaking the burnt layer to expose raw meat to the night air. It shines angrily red under lamplights, and the cloth of his pants sticks to the wetted flesh.

Maybe you should work on that.

Pathetic—pathetic—pathetic—

/

The scowl that has settled on his face is undeterred even as he steps into the hospital through the automatic doors. A gasp sweeps through the waiting area at the sight of them; nurses rush forward with a gurney to collect Jammer from his back. He steps back from the commotion, but an older nurse—too observant—pulls him aside and insists on treating his burn.

He broods as she sequesters an examination room. I burned myself. I burned myself.

The blisters are closed on the raw patch—it’s not the worst burn he’s ever gotten.

She has to cut the cloth from his leg. It’s nothing he isn’t used to when she slowly peels the fabric from his abused skin, and he leans back with a grimace into the examination platform, wondering if she’s removed enough to see the old burns spattered on the underside of his lower thigh, behind his knee.

“How did this happen?” she asks.

She doesn’t look up—all she would find anyway is Shōto’s large burn scar looming over her.

She presses a cool moist cloth to his leg, but it warms within seconds from the scorched skin, forcing her to replace it swiftly.

“Accident,” he responds vaguely. This time, it was himself. I burned myself, I burned myself—

He lost control. Or maybe he lacked it in the first place. He wouldn’t know the difference.

How could he have gotten so sloppy? Only amateurs injure themselves with their own quirks. And that’s not even the most concerning thing—that fight probably lasted ten minutes, and it’s only been one hour into his three hour patrol. More things like that monster could be out there lying in wait, disturbingly he was helped by a supervillain, and most pressingly—how the hell did that giant creature even get into that small alley?

“Todoroki-san,” the nurse calls him.

He sits up.

“It’s fortunately not severe.” She runs through the recovery procedure. Shōto’s already familiar.

I’ll give you a paper detailing the instructions, but I’ll also tell you. You’ll need to take antibiotics. Don’t cover or wrap the area and minimize usage of the limb. You should go home and elevate the wound and stay hydrated. Wash it with mild soap and warm water. If it gets worse, you should call the center. I can prescribe you painkillers—

“No need,” Shōto interjects politely, bowing his head. “Thank you.”

She bows her head in return, placing the paper in his hands and getting to her feet.

“If you’re concerned about scarring,” she says hesitantly, finally looking him in the eye, “skin grafts are an option that many patients choose.”

“I’m not concerned,” he answers, more coldly than he intends, because what’s one more. He clears his throat. “That man. Will he be okay?”

The nurse’s brow furrows. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I assume he is under operation right now.”

Shōto gets to his feet. “I’ll take my leave then. Thank you.”

When he steps outside, the cool air brushes his burn, first soothingly, then irritatingly. It’s nothing to him—he has continued with far worse, and he can still walk, so he will continue his patrol.

Concerned about the scarring. It’s never been about the scarring—

He massages his arm slowly to work out the kink in his arm—undoing the nerve that has sealed his ice, and when he curls his fingers, the crystals come.

That villain.

He trembles as he walks, fists curled, and when he is far away from the hospital, he realizes, sickly, that he is excited.

/

Now that he has the firsthand knowledge of last night—now that he has witnessed firsthand the violation of nature that was in that back alley, he knows now. A monster like that couldn’t have the surgical precision to sever the ligaments in the spine; that must have been the monster that crushed the other four to death. And almost took a fifth.

There are two forces in Tokyo, and he has the proof now.

The report he files will definitely call for a debriefing later, but for now, he takes notes down quietly as Tokoyami gently maneuvers with the victims. (Shōto cannot muster the tact within him anyway.)

He wanted to speak with Jammer too, but the hero is in critical condition and has been sequestered in intensive care. Mainly, he is thankful that Jammer will survive. But his pelvis was irreparably crushed; it’s optimistic that he could ever sit up again. Let alone being a hero—he will never have the life he lived before.

Many of the victims think so too. The villain might as well have ended my life, one hero told Tokoyami flatly. All of them will never walk again. They will never have children, their lives have been uprooted with a single severed spinal nerve—and Shōto finds himself wondering if there are worse things than dying after all.

The description of their attacker is unpromising, because when they were attacked, all aspects of the body are paralyzed without discrimination, including the extraocular muscles. With their gazes fixed in one direction, and their irises unable to readjust, forcing a singular focus—periphery could make out only a vague, towering figure with a bandage half-mask, chin-length dark hair, and a heavy odor.

Like death.

/

He couldn’t keep his burn wound a secret from his supervisors, not when they checked the hospital logs and saw that he received treatment. The route that he and Tokoyami take back is not to the office; Tokoyami is dropping him off at his apartment complex, to make sure that he goes home and stays home to let the injury recover, at least a little.

They don’t understand that he doesn’t need it. (They’ll never understand.)

“Todoroki,” Tokoyami says. “Are you good? You haven’t been so hot lately.”

Ironically, he’s used his flames more in the past month than he has his entire time at U.A. He turns his gaze to the side to look at Tokoyami.

“Of course,” he replies. If he responds flippantly, maybe Tokoyami won’t ask further. “I dislike using fire.”

Tokoyami pauses and snorts wryly. “How’s your friend,” he inquires instead.

“We’re not friends,” Shōto says automatically. Even as the words leave his mouth, his mood sours at the residual bitterness that remains on the tip of his tongue.

Tokoyami gives him a look but humors the conviction in his words. “I may be completely off the mark,” he begins. “But you should follow your heart.”

When Shōto doesn’t say anything, he continues.

“You’ve always been a good judge of character, Todoroki. This thing with Iida is probably because he’s worried since this is the first time someone’s earned your trust so quickly, and the case has us all on edge. But you don’t have to think too deeply about what you think you have to do.” Tokoyami shrugs. “If that makes sense.”

It does. It sounds like Tokoyami is giving him permission to trust.

It sounds like Tokoyami is trying to tell him that it’s okay.

Shōto swallows.

It took him a whole year to open up to his classmates, not completely, and even now, he can’t imagine telling them about Endeavor, about the way he stands before the mirror and can’t stand half of who he is. With Midoriya, it took a single week. It took a single cup of tea and an All Might throw wrapped around his shoulders.

“Sorry,” Shōto says, feeling like a fuck-up.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tokoyami replies, not unkindly. “I think it’s worth earning a person’s trust. And it’s worth having friends who worked hard to be with you.”

When Shōto opens his mouth to respond, to give a name to what Tokoyami has given him, embarrassingly his breath stutters in place of words, and unbearably his lungs lock, clearing the air in his chest cavity to a void.

Tokoyami waves it off, rescuing him. And he murmurs, “And sorry for last night. You got attacked. And that burn…”

“Amateur mistake,” Shōto replies, finding his voice again.

He muses that Tokoyami, whose quirk is most powerful in the new moon, asked him to switch shifts. And then he thinks that maybe he can understand others after all.

“Thanks,” Tokoyami says quietly, eyes trained on the pavement cracks, not quite convinced.

“You wanted to be in control,” Shōto says. I know. I understand.

Tokoyami looks up in surprise, and meets his eyes, and sighs. “Always.”

/

He wants to be in control too.

He wonders to himself why his control has become fucked with time—he wonders this as he kneels over his bathroom toilet and dry-heaves into the porcelain bowl, consigning yellow bile to mingle with the clear water.

When he’s finally upchucked enough to potentially cause chemical damage to his esophageal lining, he leans back against the wall and musters the strength to wipe his mouth.

After filing the report for last night’s patrol, nausea hit like a speeding truck. He barely made it to the bathroom after submitting it before the bitter fluid spilled from his mouth.

He hasn’t thrown up like this since when he failed the provisional license exam.

He lost his cool around that bastard Yoarashi—and though they both tanked their scores with conduct (along with Bakugō)—it was afterwards, when Endeavor decidedly rewarded his failure in the shape of a scorching clout to his abdomen, that he threw up enough to taste the bitterness on his tongue for months. The shape of his fisted hand is still red against Shōto’s torso.

It’s the same place that villain had punched. He wonders at how the area aches with the force of two fists as he wipes his face with a wet towel and rinses out his mouth, and then finds himself wondering—again—what it was Midoriya had wanted to say.

Or maybe—less about what Midoriya wanted to say—he just wants to talk. To Midoriya.

Or just see him.

He glances out the bathroom window with a heavy sigh, but that’s when he notices the black mist slowly bleeding away against the reddened sky. It looks like it’s coming from the roof, and as far as he knows, roof access is limited to the landlord only—and that mist. He couldn’t possibly miss it, even a mile away.

As quickly as he can, he races out of his apartment and up the single flight of stairs to the roof. With ice, he picks the lock, and counting under his breath to rush in, he reaches three and flings open the door.

When the roof opens into sight, so does the man standing in the doorframe.

It’s him.

/

He catches the way Shōto’s mouth moves to mold the sounds and raises a hand to stop him. The hand span of those spindly fingers envelops Shōto’s face, a smoke-stenched palm presses against his lips, and distantly, Shōto realizes he could die.

Shōto jerks away, spitting, as he shuts his eyes and hisses venomously, “Don’t. It’s Dabi.”

Shōto presses the back of his hand to his mouth and wipes as hard as he can.

There is a brief exchange where shockingly blue eyes find his. The color is familiar, but the gaze is not, and he gets the unpleasant feeling that his expression is being probed for recognition. Spindly fingers are still uncomfortably close to his face.

When those eyes shift away, the scarred arm lowers, and Dabi saunters away lazily to the end of the roof, lowering himself down to the ground to swing his long legs over the edge. Even sitting down, his bent body cannot mask his height.

“You’re trespassing on private property,” Shōto spits out, following, stopping two feet away. “Why are you here?”

The ranking system for villains is still a crippling mess, but Shōto knows by now that Dabi outranks proficient villains by leagues, maybe even most of the League of Villains. He grasps the absurdity and precariousness of how Dabi is reclining freely six stories above the earth, palming at the roof with his hell-making hands. The entire complex could probably be burnt to a crisp, if what he did to that monster is any indication. And Shōto—with the faintest of a limp in his leg and having just thrown up everything—isn’t in the condition to fight him.

With reluctance, he realizes he has to stay his hand.

“I came, I’m seeing,” Dabi responds in a conversational whisper, his earlier vehemence gone. His timbre is disgustingly and uncharacteristically soft, and his laugh is a low rumble that shakes his lanky frame more than his voice. He raises a spindly finger to his half-scarred mouth to shush Shōto and concludes, “I’ll be conquering next.”

Shōto’s fingers twitch, briefly, an aborted action to draw killing ice. Dabi pretends not to catch the action in his peripheral vision, to Shōto’s annoyance, and the amused twinkle in his faraway gaze is only even more so maddening. Shōto scowls.

“I’m not here to fight,” Dabi says calmly. “And like I said, you’re not the one I’m after. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t draw your own conclusions.”

“Jealous?” Dabi murmurs, turning around to peer at Shōto’s face.

The sun is setting.

On his own face, the purple scars are delved parallels, the shadows pillowed between them like old weeping wounds, and he is an absolute lunatic. He shapes his fingers into lenses, pressing them to his face like binoculars, to the scars underneath his eyes and circumscribing the sharp gaze he fixes on Shōto. He looks stupidly young and unfairly unburdened.

“You should smile more, you know,” he says without preamble. He pushes up the corners of his mouth into a grin with his fingers. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you keep frowning like that, you’ll really put yourself in a bad mood.”

“I’m not taking notes from a villain.”

“That’s prejudiced.”

“You’re insane,” Shōto points out.

“Chaotic neutral,” Dabi corrects matter-of-factly. “My mental faculties are perfectly fine.”

When Shōto refuses to dignify him with a response, he turns his attention back to the world beneath them, searching. And when he finds what he was looking for, he flings an arm out cheerily and glances over his shoulder to Shōto again.

“You were curious, right?” Dabi asks. “There.”

Shōto follows the line of his fingers to the faraway streets and then trails his gaze down, scanning down the streets, closer and closer to the apartment complex until his eyes find Midoriya. Just in time, he sees him vanish under the brick, entering the first stairwell.

You’re not the one I’m after.

Without betraying the turmoil, the way his blood runs cold, he turns back to Dabi and forces himself to breathe through his nose.

He’s after Midoriya.

“You’re after him,” Shōto says, carefully blank, mouth dry.

Dabi meets his irritated glower. “It’s nothing that concerns you,” he says, “but yes.” His eyes take on a curious gleam. “Mysterious, isn’t he?”

Shōto remains impassive, desperately trying to school his expression, but Dabi’s eyebrows rise as if in comprehension—certainly in amusement. He’s the one with the upper hand right now, but the advantage gap between them has rapidly widened into an unfordable chasm. He isn’t sure what exactly Dabi has realized from his face, but it definitely isn’t good. (Rock-bottom at six stories, making small talk with a supervillain.)

“I didn’t think I was gonna get anything from just sitting here,” Dabi muses to himself. He gets to his feet, dusting off his pants, righting his beaten windbreaker. “That’s all I had as a plan, but this wasn’t as worthless as I thought.” He smirks. “You gave me something interesting.”

His posture is abjectly abysmal even when he straightens up, but he’s still taller than Shōto by half a head. Shōto eyes him warily, but Dabi’s expression is unreadable save for the sinister amusement in his smile. His hands are now in his pockets—and if Shōto acts quickly enough, he could freeze this bastard to death with his maximum output.

And Dabi’s fire could probably raze the entire building to the ground before he succeeds. He would need to immobilize or isolate Dabi via ice, but also risk sending this entire complex to subarctic temperatures. And with the level of heat he’s sure Dabi can reach, his ice would shatter upon contact. He isn’t going to let that bastard or himself take more than a hundred lives as collateral damage.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and the temptation fades.

“Good talk,” Dabi tells him. “You didn’t try to start a fight. Even though you obviously wanted to. I was pleasantly surprised.”

“We’re on top of a residential building,” Shōto says. “Why would I have?”

“Not even to get me?” he asks, surprised. And he’s genuinely looking at Shōto now.

Shōto returns the scrutiny with a scowl. Maintain eye contact. Don’t answer. Don’t play into his mind games.

“Interesting,” Dabi hums, taking a step forward, breaking the visual bridge between them.

Shōto does not want to be any nearer than he already is, but he refuses to step back—and the moment the sole of Dabi’s foot seals against the surface, the black mist expels radially, clingingly, like formless hands reaching from a wet shadow to pull him into the floor of the roof.

His voice fades as his body wisps away, a decrescendo, a ”See you around, Todoroki Shōto.”

He has just warped into the floor.

Into the floor.

If it’s what Shōto thinks—

He doesn’t give himself time anyway. He bolts for the rooftop door and throws it open hard enough to ricochet, practically flying down the stairs. He hopes that Midoriya hasn’t already made it into his apartment—surely there would be some kind of yelling or sign—but then Shōto catches sight of Midoriya making his way up the last staircase, and Shōto meets him halfway, barreling down the steps.

“Midoriya—”

His hands come up to Midoriya’s shoulders; he’s stumbling forward, and Midoriya stumbles back, and the momentum between them will cancel into an inevitable collision. But Midoriya slips down, catching Shōto, holding him and succumbing to the gravity, a flinch passing over his face as he braces himself for the fall. Shōto flings an arm out to grip the metal rail, pulling Midoriya pack over the misstep with his other.

What an entrance.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, helping Midoriya find his balance. He didn’t miss the flinch.

“Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya greets, confused. His warm hand is still resting in the curve of Shōto’s elbow, and Shōto’s hand is still curled around his bicep, arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“I need to enter your apartment,” Shōto says, quickly releasing him.

Midoriya’s face gives nothing away—in fact, his reaction time seems delayed. His eyes flutter shut briefly before opening again.

“That’s fine, but…” Midoriya’s gaze travels from Shōto’s eyes to his own feet. “It’s a little…messy… Ah, if I’d known, I would’ve tidied up—”

“No,” Shōto says. “I think someone entered.”

“Someone entered?”

“Potentially. He warped,” Shōto supplies. He wills Midoriya, who blinks slowly, to trust him and go along with it. Even if Dabi simply warped away, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

“Warped,” Midoriya repeats carefully.

“Midoriya,” Shōto says. “I don’t know for sure. But there’s a possibility that a dangerous villain is waiting inside your apartment.”

“If he warped,” Midoriya says, “can you be sure no one else was the target?”

Shōto swallows. You’re not the one I’m after. You were curious, right? There. If that bastard wanted to pull a move with other tenants, the hero agencies would be over him in a second. He could already tell from the unmotivated slouch of Dabi’s shoulders that the man isn’t the type to invite more trouble for himself. But even with this understanding, he can’t bring himself to explain to Midoriya exactly why he’s so sure.

“Yes,” Shōto says. “I’m sure.”

“Then,” Midoriya says, pulling his keys from his pocket. He swallows, looking into Shōto’s eyes, and places the keys in Shōto’s hand, knuckles brushing against the flesh of his palm. “Then, by all means.”

His lungs constrict in the cavity, but he nods curtly, and they carefully approach the apartment together. When he turns the key in the lock, he exchanges a single look with Midoriya who stands behind him, whose eyes are clear and unfazed. Those eyes do not betray fear or timidity, and Midoriya simply nods at him with determination lighting his eyes.

With the ice ready to erupt from his fingertips, Shōto opens the door.

Nothing.

The apartment is completely empty.

“Todoroki-kun?”

“Living room is clear,” Shōto replies lowly.

They check the bedroom too—characteristically plastered in All Might posters, with the full All Might bed set, and then the bathroom, where an All Might towel and toothbrush live—even the closets and the cabinets, and there is no sign of Dabi.

He really did warp away.

Shōto returns Midoriya’s keys to him after they’ve scanned the apartment thoroughly.

“I apologize,” he says, “for the impromptu search.” But better safe than sorry.

Midoriya shakes his head at the apology. “Not at all, Todoroki-kun. Did you…know who it was?”

“The man that you suspected had a warping quirk,” Shōto answers tonelessly. “He does have one.”

“A warping quirk sounds troublesome,” Midoriya says jokingly, giving him a reassuring smile, but it does little to alleviate the heavy mood. “Did you have to fight him?”

“No,” Shōto murmurs. “The entire complex was a liability.”

He does not add that he might not have won in his current condition and averts his gaze to the empty space above Midoriya’s head.

Midoriya’s gaze softens when taking in Shōto’s tense profile. “Thank you, Todoroki-kun.”

“For what?”

“You were worried for me.”

“I’m a hero,” Shōto replies, making eye contact again, and Midoriya grins at the answer. This grin turns into an abashed mouth-drop when Shōto continues, “What was it you wanted to tell me earlier?”

Midoriya shakes his head with a shy smile. “It, it really wasn’t important,” he says.

Don’t give me that, Shōto thinks. “It must have been if you came to my door.”

“Todoroki-kun…really…” Midoriya groans.

There is pink in his cheeks. He is embarrassed. Fascinating.

“I was,” Midoriya begins, and then falters. And then starts again. “I was just going to tell you that…”

Mercilessly, Shōto prompts him to go on. “That?”

“That you’ve really helped me lately,” Midoriya finishes, his voice wavering slightly. “And that I’m very thankful. And that I wish I could help you more too.”

For some reason, it feels as if Midoriya is always thanking him even though he hasn’t even done anything. He never even properly thanked Midoriya for—for whatever it was that he did, that day that Shōto entered his apartment for the first time.

“I haven’t helped you at all,” Shōto sighs. He decides not to address that last sentence, because he doesn’t need help.

Midoriya simply laughs. His voice takes on an almost pleading quality. “You’re good for my health, Todoroki-kun,” he insists and bids Shōto good night with a quick bow, making to turn towards his apartment.

And before Shōto can stop, he says, “Stay out of trouble, Midoriya.”

A flush flares across Midoriya’s cheeks. Shōto, with distant alarm, finds it a magnetizing sight.

Why is he so worried anyway? Dabi warped away—but maybe the moment he lets Midoriya out of his sight…no, he can’t think like that. It’s not like he has any right or reason to keep Midoriya.

“I’ll try,” Midoriya murmurs.

“And about the questioning,” he says still.

A soft exhale reaches him. “My answers weren’t satisfactory,” Midoriya guesses with a furrowed brow. “You need more information.”

“No. It’s not that,” he says through gritted teeth. “Interrogations are conducted on the basis of impartiality. I was…recently made aware that I didn’t meet that condition.”

The silence between them is tentative and unknown as the night breeze, a divisive force, blows past them. An abyss of uncertainty births a whirlpool of breathlessness in his lungs.

“You—you trust me,” Midoriya says. The surprise is tangible.

Caught in his throat, a desperate-quiet yes strangles him. He swallows it down and locks it in his chest.

To protect himself, Shōto says, “I don’t know.” To protect himself, he adds, “Please…don’t give me any reasons not to.”

Midoriya gives him a look that longs to spill over with heavy purpose, and Shōto dares to match his gaze.

“I trust you too, Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya confesses back to him. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach forward, like he wants to touch, and he almost does, but lets his hand fall back like it’s been burned. Shōto is only slightly disappointed.

Mostly, he’s relieved. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

It’s so loud that it makes the both of them jump—Midoriya, because it sounded like Shōto’s soul was trying bodily to depart from him—and Shōto, because he hadn’t realized how brittle his composure was until he finally laid down the heavy mantle.

It must be uncharacteristic of him in Midoriya’s eyes, because Midoriya is startled to laughter in bright peals, like clear morning bells.

Shōto doesn’t join in, but the tension is siphoned from his shoulders, his lungs, his chest, his muscles. He closes his eyes briefly to enjoy the sound, and when he opens them again, Midoriya has quieted, face morphing in wonder, wide green eyes roaming over Shōto’s face.

For a moment, Shōto forgets that he has a scar.

“Midoriya?”

Midoriya catches himself.

“It’s nothing!” he quickly exclaims, quickly whirling around to shuffle into his apartment. “Goodnight, then!”

The confusion that Shōto feels—especially after the moment he’s sure they just shared—morphs into shock and horror when he comprehends what exactly he is seeing.

Midoriya turns around one more time before he closes the door behind him. He peeks around the frame to grin shyly.

“Your smile is nice, Todoroki-kun,” he says, hushed and hurried, and then seals himself from sight before Shōto can respond. He hears the door lock.

“…Thank you,” Shōto croaks out to empty air, still replaying the sight.

A thin, freshly gaping cut crawling up past the neckline of Midoriya’s shirt, with a spattering of bruises across his nape where his unruly green hair failed to cover the broken skin.

/

“Good news and bad news,” Tokoyami says, first thing when Shōto enters the breakroom.

Iida looks white as a ghost, knuckles bloodless and tight.

“I’ve also got some news,” Shōto replies. “And it’s bad. You first.”

Tokoyami grimaces. “The good news is that the Tartarus guards are in the hospital.”

That’s good news?

“And bad news,” Tokoyami continues. “Stain has been out of his cell since, according to authorities, a month ago. And word just reached us because he reportedly slaughtered enough levels in the hierarchy that it was a clusterfuck to get the information out.”

“Shit,” Shōto says first. And then, second, “He’s been out of his cell for a month.”

“Right,” Tokoyami says. “We have no idea if he’s still affiliated with the League of Villains. It doesn’t look like he’s out to finish off his old victims, but we sent out a notice today telling all heroes who’ve had a run in with him to lay low. But if these attacks are linked to him, then your theory about the four casualties might be right, Todoroki.”

Shōto briefly slides his gaze over to Iida, whose teeth have ground together in anger, and he knows, without a doubt, why. He knows, at a single word—Ingenium.

“Your news?” Tokoyami prompts.

“I think,” Shōto says, “that my neighbor is in troub—”

A familiarly loud and abrasive voice cuts through, muffled by the walls that, evidently, aren’t thin enough. “Tell that shitty bastard to get himself together!”

An admonished, softer voice replies, “He’s having a rough time!”

“Only fucking losers mope for this long—” and the door opens with a crash.

“Todoroki,” Bakugō calls, before Uraraka can scold him again. “That monster you fought. We need to talk.”