Work Text:
January 11, 3:26 AM
Why is he even alive?
The pillow is wet, cold. Disgusting. Covered in sweat and snot. Shoto tosses it away, but gets up and retrieves it again.
His legs are covered in purple blotches. They look worse than they feel in his dark, moonlit bedroom.
Why is he alive?
The question rings in his head, buzzing through his ears. An irritating fly called existential dread that never leaves him be. Why is he alive? Why is he here, why him? Why should he?
Shoto rubs his eyes. He breathes, a cold puff of air escaping parted lips. The side of his mouth is busted, caked by a dark splotch of maroon.
A flashing image causes him to grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as a strangled gasp makes its way out from his throat. His chest aches. What time is it?
3:28 AM, the 11th day of January. The second week of the new year. Except nothing feels particularly new. Every recycled day of repetitive routines, repetitive thoughts— just louder, more demanding.
Just all in his head, as always.
January 11, 3:50 AM
Maybe no one would even notice.
If he slips past through the shadows, if he finds an opened window. Whether he makes it or not.
Maybe he won’t. Maybe not where Sis would find him—
No.
What is he even thinking? He hits his head, fist knocking against it. Hits it again, and again, and again. It’s late, so nothing clearly makes sense for him. How foolish is he?
Shoto looks at the time. Meticulously, he strains his eyes through the bright screen of his phone.
3:50 AM. January 11.
Still today. It would be funny, he thinks. It would be ironic.
He grips the pillow. A minute passes. The day hasn’t even started.
He closes his eyes. Hopes he never opens them again, by some miracle.
January 11, 6:15AM
The alarm goes off at last. Shoto checks the date.
January 11. Immediately, his stomach churns.
Getting up has always been the worst part of his day. Some days come easier, but in that case earlier, where Shoto would slip out of the blankets at the first rooster, shower and put on his uniform, grab a piece of toast and be out of the door.
Those mornings are peaceful, though by extension, makes the days longer. More unbearable.
Some days feel impossible, weights tying his body down against his futon. His legs feel tangled into one another, his head too heavy to lift up. The alarm is too loud. His head is too loud.
January 11.
Today is that day. The day he was born. The day of chaos, and a never-ending coldness.
He feels sick on these days, though it usually passes after a while. The sickness persists, however, as he pushes off the blankets, suddenly a dozen pounds heavier. Shoto, oftentimes, wishes that sleep is forever. He’d rather drift away into whatever dream takes over his mind than start the day, just like any other day.
His aching arms, wrapped and squeezed by scars of all sizes, push him up from his mattress as a grunt escapes his lips— chewed up at some point in the middle of the night, the subtle taste of metal lingering in his tongue.
He makes it on his two feet, before his knees threaten to crash at the first pang of nausea. He rushes into the bathroom, the hallway suddenly acres long, slumping before the sink as bile splatters down from his lips. He brushes his hair back in desperation as a gag rips from his throat, almost as though holding his head back from slamming into the porcelain.
His stomach feels torn apart by the time he finishes, vision blacking out for a split second. He almost faints, body swaying back as he grabs ahold of the sink. The day’s just barely started. That’s not good.
Shoto’s used to nausea, however, a near-constant feeling burnt into his throat. It’s not rare, but not common either that he actually acts on it.
At least he won’t have to carry it with him to school, he thinks idly, washing his face and mouth. Gurgle, spit. He stares at his collarbone while he brushes his teeth, eyes wandering everywhere but at themselves. The fresh taste of mint overlaps the vomit on his tongue.
He steps in his shower, the hot steam and water consuming him, where his mind drifts off within the heated fog.
Shoto doesn’t quite remember the next couple steps, or at least his mind floats and lightly bounces off the edges of his head until he’s finished changing. He passes by the kitchen, the sweet, warm aroma of food only worsening the headache having creeped up at some point.
His stomach churns, though from anything but hunger. The smell of breakfast nauseates him.
Shoto meets his sister by the table, a bright smile plastered on her face as she pulls a chair for him. Fuyumi works hard for the family, presented by the dining table neatly organized with an assortment of plates and bowls, curries, spices and rice galore.
“Happy birthday, Shoto,” Kindly as ever, his sister greets him with a short but tender hug. His stomach twists at her words, poisonous but well-meaning. Fuyumi always means well.
“Thanks.” Is all Shoto responds with, because they never talk about birthdays. They never normally talk, or at least it’s one-sided. But especially not about birthdays. Not about Shoto’s.
Fuyumi tries, despite everything. She tries to cook a big breakfast that he can’t finish. She slips a gift box in his hands, a soft thumb brushing against his bitten, torn-up nails. The gift is, but so precious, wrapped in bright glittery paper with a little golden ribbon. Shoto knows she’s trying.
Shoto knows he can’t stomach any of the food, but he sits anyway, the gift resting on his lap. His mind drifts. His sister talks of lunch, last night’s soap operas and the grand cliffhangers that stopped making sense a while ago.
She talks about what to have for dinner, whatever Shoto wants. It’s his birthday after all. He’s 15 now. Big responsibilities will come later, but for now, it’s his big day.
Fuyumi recommends him good lotions she’s come across at the store. She doesn’t comment on the new bandage on his neck, what appears to be a fresh burn blooming from beneath the newly plastered white. She talks about her kids at her school, the funny little moments she’s had with them. The gossip between the parents and the teachers.
None of these things matter to Shoto. Something so small, so insignificant. Just irrelevant fillers in a day.
Every now and then, a pause in her words would indicate her waiting for a response. She receives none. She puts a spoonful of rice and omelette in her mouth. Shoto copies her.
They don’t talk about their father.
Fuyumi greets him with a good day. He doesn't look back when he leaves the house.
He knows what she really means though— good luck. Behave, get along with his peers (make some friends for once while he’s at it). Finish his lunch. Keep his head up. Just for another day, look forward to being alive. Look alive, act alive.
Be patient with the crowds, listen to the teachers, cooperate.
Don’t give Father another reason to be angry today. Fuyumi doesn’t need to say any of these things for it to be a repetitive mantra in his head. Rules to live by if he wants to live, but there really is no other punishment like it.
Happy birthday, Shoto.
He drifts.
—
January 11, 9:32AM
“Happy birthday, Todoroki!” A loud, grating voice in his ear is the first thing he hears when he zones back in. The color returns to the vast classroom, rays of sunlight peeping from the window glass as the sky brightens, the day beginning. The bell must’ve rang at some point. The teacher collects her books and leaves as the homeroom teacher returns to her desk.
It’s not uncommon for this to happen. Many school days have gone by where he barely remembers a thing.
“Happy birthday, man!”
Shoto doesn’t need to look to know who says it.
He doesn’t need to know that face nor that name. Not only because he’s gotten used to it, but because that face and that name have never actually mattered to him. A friend, he would call himself, the words spoken pridefully and full of teeth.
“Takemitsu,” Shoto murmurs, though he wants to say a million other things. Don’t make such a scene. Who’s forcing you to do this? Leave me alone. Leave me alone.
Takemitsu is a great force, hands abruptly kneading into Shoto’s shoulders, shaking him with bouts of vigor that almost make him feel nauseous. Takemitsu speaks in a constant outside voice, the volume attracting the rest of their classmates to the scene before them.
Endeavor’s son’s birthday. A big day for such a big name.
The classroom erupts with claps to the rhythm of Takemitsu’s singing, a choir that only succeeds in mocking Shoto, putting him on the spot as they parade around the class. It’s a joyous scene, so painfully sweet and considerate. So full of passion, his classmates clap loudly.
Fuyumi would’ve clapped along, encouraging Shoto to join in. Father would’ve sneered. These fools, he would’ve gripped Shoto’s shoulder, don’t associate yourself with these fools. Shoto stares at his pen, a dot of ink where he’d at some point pressed it hard into his notebook, fist tightened.
If he jams this through his neck, what then?
He’s been nothing but an attraction to these people since he started attending. An animal behind a cage. Everywhere he looked, someone was always watching. Always observing, eyes tracing every movement he would make. Ears perking up at every word he utters. He’s sick of it.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Shoto’s so sick of it.
But it’s exactly what Father wants. The build-up of pressure creeping behind his neck like a hot, uncomfortable breath. The chanting grows thunderous. The eyes staring at him like he’s under an open spotlight, a show and tell with a grand audience— They don’t matter, boy, but their opinions do. Your reputation is what carries your weight.
He grips the pen.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Father’s words echo in his mind. Their opinions. His reputation. This perfect image of the ferocious, Number Two’s son, standing tall and prideful.
The pen folds into his palm, forcing in a red mark.
“Make a wish, man!”
Stab it. Stab it. Stab his neck and just drop dead—
The pen falls from his hand when Shoto slams the desk with force. The chanting stops. The thoughts in his head stop too. It’s silent, but still not peaceful.
Takemitsu looks perplexed, shocked as though he hadn’t expected it. Of course he expected it, yet he still tries. He still pushes all of Shoto’s buttons, no matter what he says. The disappointment painted on the guy’s face makes Shoto feel little to no remorse for stopping the parade. The rest of their classmates just stare, waiting for someone to say something, like a single file behind Takemitsu.
But the words just die in Shoto’s mouth, as if they were never there. He makes no noise, eyes blown wide as he stares back. They’re all watching you, Shoto, Father had said once, the nail of his large thumb piercing into Shoto’s nape. Like holding up an animal, forcing it to become lax in his grasp. Let them. Let this be a lesson on how you should behave.
“Todoroki?”
Shoto dashes.
The trip down the hallways is straight-forward, not a single glance spared onto his surroundings. Neither the passing students staring back, or the teachers holding their tongues, a syllable away from telling him to slow his feet down. Shoto doesn’t care. His vision blurs. His stomach aches, throat burns.
He coughs out the sputtering breaths stuck in his chest as he slams the bathroom stall door shut from the first unoccupied one he walked right into. Shoto gags, a hot stream of acid shooting up his throat, throwing it up into the toilet. The second time this morning, barely hours apart. He hates this.
Do they think he’s supposed to be happy? Do they really think he wants to live- no, keep living like this?
His phone buzzes through the gags tearing from his throat, vibrating in his pocket as he slams back against the stall and wipes his mouth with a gasp. It buzzes through the haze in Shoto’s mind, almost deafening. Shoto knows it can’t be Takemitsu. He never gave him his number. Lied about his battery dying, then lied about dropping it into a pond.
Fuyumi should be teaching now. He doesn’t have any other number saved apart from her and… he knows the answer now, and he dreads it.
Endeavor: Happy birthday.
Endeavor: This does not exempt you from your training.
The phone slams into the floor, but by now, Shoto has no energy to vomit. He sits there, staring at the cracked edge of his phone, lying down against the tile. He sits there in silence as the janitor walks in, a dirty mop sloshing against the floor from beneath the stall door. The sound of humming, the smell of cleaning products, the wheels of the supply trolley squeaking with every turn and push.
Shoto drifts.
—
January 11, 12:13PM
The rooftop is where Shoto finds the most peace. At least, an isolated spot at the very corner of the school. He has his back pressed against the wall behind him, his bento on his lap. The food has gone cold, but the warm effort of his sister is still there. Rice balls shaped into bears, fruits sliced into cubes at the corner. A carton of yogurt sits by his foot, opened.
Despite the peace, his thoughts are far from it, fueled by the same urgency as before. The same loudness, as they demand from him all these horrible ideas. These urges—
Shoto takes a bite of a rice ball. It tastes like food, just feels like food. Eating is a necessity, as well as drinking water. Sleeping. Breathing. All obligations to survive, doing what he must do. An obligation as well. He could laugh at the idea of finding joy in any of these things— in the way Fuyumi smiles when she makes food that Shoto has to eat to grow stronger.
Or the way his classmates yawn in the first period, desperately wishing to sleep for the energy that Shoto needs to have to keep his head up in training.
In other words, Shoto needs to keep living, keep having these birthdays, to live up to the day he surpasses All Might.
Obligations.
There’s no choice for him in this world, nothing to want. Always to need. If Shoto doesn’t want to eat, then he starves. If he doesn’t sleep, he collapses. These, to him, have become luxuries. A privilege he can’t have. Something so close with just a little bit of effort.
“Hey, Todoroki?”
Shoto slumps back against the wall, the thought interrupted by the same, grating voice. He doesn’t respond, eyes fixed on the line of clouds in the blue sky behind the roof fences. Takemitsu approaches without waiting for an answer, sitting himself behind Shoto with his own bento on his lap.
Shoto doesn’t say anything.
“You okay, man? You just ran out without any warning..” Takemitsu pushes. Shoto doesn’t give him anything, doesn’t give him the luxury of opening up to him. He doesn’t.
“Y’know.. The others weren’t just joking around. They were gonna plan something nice. Probably take you to the arcade after school.. Or buy you a cake, y’know?”
Because at the end of the day, Shoto’s the one who’s a downer. The one who’s always ruining everything good.
“How much?” Shoto replies coldly, closing his bento and grabbing his yogurt.
“.. How much?”
“How much did he pay you to do this?” Shoto returns his gaze for the first time, eyes intense onto Takemitsu’s face. He observes the way it drains of color, the way Takemitsu’s awkward smile drops, lips parting as a speechless gasp makes its way out.
Because Shoto knows. He knows it isn’t just to gain a single friend, all these numerous fruitless attempts. He knows all of it isn’t for someone who considers him as less than a piece of gum under his shoe. Takemitsu has friends. About four other fools that act exactly like him, all playing follow the leader.
Shoto knows.
Because Takemitsu is poor. His family isn’t well-off, and it’s only Endeavor in this entire world that views people as assets. Views this as an opportunity to his goal. Only Endeavor, who could see someone who is struggling and think to make it all about himself. About Shoto, because all the cruel, horrible things he does to others is for Shoto’s own good. It’s something he has to be proud of.
It’s Takemitsu’s turn to go silent, face pale. Lips wobbling, desperately fighting himself for an answer to give. Trying not to cry, even. A deer caught in headlights.
Yet Shoto shows indifference, eyes coolly scanning Takemitsu with a look one would struggle to discern. He’s not angry, not really. How can he waste his time feeling angry now, when he’s known for ages? He isn’t to be taken for a fool. It’s one of the things Father should’ve mentioned to Takemitsu before setting him up for humiliation.
Shoto just wants to know how much Endeavor offered. He wants to know how much lending his father control over him is worth. Must be a lot for him. Hell, the guy didn’t even question it. Why would anyone question the Number Two hero?
He takes out his wallet, then, pulling out a couple sheets of money. Without a word, he places it in Takemitsu’s trembling hand. He looks over at him, eyes narrowing, I’ll pay you to stop.
I’ll pay you to leave me alone.
He walks away, leaving Takemitsu’s still form on the roof.
—
January 11, 5:29PM
Shoto drifts throughout the afternoon, and the evening back home. The faint stars are blinking in the sky by the time he reaches for the door, only for it to open to his sister’s presence. She almost wraps her arms around him, but for some reason stops herself as he takes his shoes off.
“Welcome home, birthday boy! How was your day?”
Shoto chews his lip. They have their ways of talking without actually talking. Giving no response usually means there’s nothing good to say, nor just anything worth saying. Fuyumi has questioned this logic at some point, but she eventually connected the dots when Shoto shows that he is a silent person.
No response. Fuyumi doesn’t press further, a soft but sad smile on her face.
“Are you in the mood for dinner? I made all your favorites.”
Shoto nods. Just a dinner, nothing special. He can get around that.
He’s never once verbally expressed how much he hates making birthdays into this huge deal, but he knows that Fuyumi knows. She can see how he often cringes at the presents she’d give him, or the way his shoulders tense and his form shrinks at the thought of celebrating it. So far, birthday dinners have always been a pass. Anything else would make Shoto too antsy.
And anything else wouldn’t be a pass in Father’s opinion.
Shoto makes his way up to shower and change as the fresh, warm aroma of food slowly fills up the air downstairs. A variety of curries and even a huge platter of cold soba is organized around the table. Three plates, three pairs of utensils.
Natsuo won’t be making it, according to Fuyumi, as Shoto comes down with cleaner clothes and stares blankly at the neatly prepared meals. Natsuo really wanted to say sorry. He’s just been so busy.
His trance is broken by the small jolt in Fuyumi’s shoulders at the opening of the entrance door. Shoto tenses, fists tightening, despite having grown accustomed to his presence in this house.
Father walks in, face and neck greased with sweat and the smell of ashes, with an impassive look on his face, eyes observing the dinner. His eyes trace back to Shoto. His eyes, pupils darting slightly for a second.
“Your form is still disappointing. I’ll see that you finish your meal tonight.”
Shoto bites back his tongue until he tastes metal, only for the sake of the grimace on Fuyumi’s face. But his heart thumps wildly, the temperature dropping. His eye twitches. Father’s eyes show pure imprudence, walking past the two with no care in the world. Simply two rabbits living around a wolf. That’s their life.
Father joins them in the dining room in less than an hour, sitting at the head of the table.
“Let’s eat.”
No comment is made on the food. No questions are exchanged. They consume what is made in pure silence, only the sound of utensils clinking and food being passed heard in the room. Fuyumi still tries, despite herself. She lightly pesters Father about work, trying to dig for anything apart from a dismissive huff or a short answer.
She tries to do the same for Shoto. Tries, because she doesn’t succeed.
“Shoto.”
The deep voice growls through Father’s chewing. It immediately shuts down Fuyumi’s light talking, her attention shifting onto Shoto, whose chopsticks freeze in the air. The hairs behind his neck stand. His body’s temperature drops. It’s not dread, but still a sense of alarm.
“Endeavor.” Shoto responds. Bastard, he wishes to spit out.
“You’re 15 years old today.”
Shoto shrugs in response.
Last month, Father had an awkward moment during dinner. He’d failed to remember Fuyumi’s age, and then revealed his failure to remember her birthday altogether. Fuyumi had laughed it off back then, a tense smile on her face as her shoulders rose. That moment compared to this moment gives Shoto a cold feeling.
Father only remembers Shoto’s age because he’s been observing him only. That’s the truth.
“The older you are, the more responsibility you’re expected to uphold. You understand this, yes?”
“Sure.” Short, non-provocative.
“Sure?”
“Yes, Father.”
“What kind of responsibility, Shoto?”
It’s one of these teaching moments. These conversations always expect Shoto to learn something. Shoto gives in every time, because he has to.
“Become a hero. Go to U.A.”
“And?"
“.. Become better in training. And in studies.”
“And?”
Shoto grips his fork. His words interrupt a thought that almost passes in his mind.
“Surpass everyone.” He spits out.
“Go on, Shoto.” Father’s voice is cool. Calculated. Short, but provocative.
“What do you want me to say?” Shoto tries to keep calm as best as he can, but he raises his tone regardless. He stares at Father, so full of frustration, his hand freezing midway from slamming down the table. “Huh?”
The room goes quiet, even more than it has.
“You’re no longer a child. There should be no reason for you to keep behaving as such. That means I expect you to put an end to this childish display. Your fire, Shoto,”
Father becomes Endeavor in less than a second, the flames on his face lighting up with such intensity that heats up the room.
“Use it. You weren’t born for anything else.”
Shoto tastes even more blood at the words, and before Fuyumi can even interject, he shoots up from his chair. “Fuck you.”
Father scans him as intensely as before, the flames still glowing on his face. The man almost turns red, something, anything but good, filling up within him. A hot substance of pure anger in reaction to Shoto’s defiance.
It’s always so quick how it happens, because one second, he’s completely still, and the next, a cup is smashed against the wall behind Shoto, only narrowly dodging him.The porcelain cracks and explodes, dropping onto the floor. Fuyumi flinches violently, eyes growing wet as Father storms out of the room.
She rushes to where the cup is broken, her lips wobbling, hands fumbling.
“Don’t say anything.” Shoto finds his mouth moving to his own words. “Just don’t. Let the bastard walk away.” He doesn’t stop himself from saying it, either. Fuyumi looks at him with so much pain in her eyes. It almost makes Shoto dizzy, the intensity of emotions threatening to spill out, only held back by the attempt at being the strong, older sister.
“Sho..”
“Goodnight, sis.”
It takes about an hour for him to snap out of his trance, and another hour for him to register the sharp, burning pain on his arm. Shoto’s now sitting in the dark, back leaning against the door to his bedroom as he stares into the murky absence of light. A thick, dark substance drips from a fresh cut from the broken cup earlier.
Must’ve grazed him at some point, but his mind was probably occupied from the adrenaline back there.
Shoto almost goes back to doing nothing, but he turns on the light and fishes for alcohol spray and a bandaid in his drawer. He doesn’t react to the sting, slipping on the bandaid after disinfecting the wound. Doesn’t wipe the blood having trickled down his arm and onto his shirt either. He doesn’t care.
Thankfully to the lights being turned on, he notices from his book bag a faint glint of gold. His present from earlier, the one Fuyumi had handed him before school. Shoto crawls over to take it out, back against the door once more as he stares down at it.
He’s received a variety of small presents from his sister throughout the years, ones that he had to hide. Ones that he didn’t have to, such as a diary or a keychain. Ones that Father had confiscated back when he was little.
Shoto rips off the wrapping, tossing the bow as he opens the box inside. The gift box reveals what appears to be another keychain, but of All Might. His TV smile, his muscles flexing despite his small, chibi shape. The pointy, blonde hair. All of it.
The box contains a small letter.
Just like the old days, where I would notice you staring at these little toys. I know you’re a lot older now and might think a little less of me for buying you this, haha, oops!! Happy birthday, Sho! I know this day isn’t the best, but you deserve to celebrate! :)
Without a word, Shoto walks over to his drawer, tucking the keychain where it won’t see the light again. The torn wrapping and box are placed into the bin next to his desk. Any trace of the gift’s existence is gone, hidden away from the human eye.
Shoto looks at his phone.
January 11, 9:46PM
He doesn’t think he wants to keep living.