Chapter Text
At first, it was just Quirk suppressants and heavy metal chains.
They snapped shackles around Shouto’s wrists, bolted the end of the chain into the floor, and plunged syringes into his forearms. Shouto clenched his teeth against the urge to curse, the back of his head still stinging from the blow to the head. The temporary suppressants they nicked him with had been nearly up, damn it, and he was just feeling the prickle of his Quirk at his nerves only to be shunted back by suppressants all over again. It was a stronger dose, overwhelming his blood until he was nauseous with it, and his Quirk sank under the weight of the drugs.
They left him, heavy door slamming at their back, and he was left in chains.
He exists in that space now, full of muddy thoughts that feel like they belong to someone else. He thinks in vague blocks of color and half-worded concepts, with nothing to tie them together. When his captors come to refresh the suppressants, he fights, manages to clip one in the jaw with his fist. They don’t like that.
“Damn it!” He doesn’t recognize the voice. “I’m gonna make you regret that, fucking brat.”
“Don’t lay a hand on him.”
“But he—”
“Not yet. If Endeavor doesn’t come for him soon, we’ll give him a reason to try harder.”
There are only two of them. He remembers that.
Shouto is given an extra dose of suppressants and left on the brick floor of his cell. Cell—it’s a small, cramped basement at the end of a monstrous stretch of hallway that lies beneath an unassuming apartment complex. The police are going to have to evacuate and excavate the entire premises after this, when the heroes find him. This sort of space can’t exist in this sort of world.
Shouto gets some clarity, later, enough to push himself onto his elbows and look around. His Quirk thrashes beneath the suppressants, afraid and angry. The basement is empty except for him, and his chains are bolted into the floor. He pulls. They don’t budge.
His captors come back with more.
“—guess the letter wasn’t enough. We’ll try something harder to ignore this time.”
They have a video camera.
Shouto stays still until they’re close enough. When the needle is inches away, he throws back his elbow and knocks the camera out of his captor’s hands. It cracks when it hits the floor.
“Ow— what the fuck!”
“Don’t touch him.”
“Someone has to teach him a lesson!” The needle slams into the back of Shouto’s neck. When he comes to, made of lead while the world swims, one captor is inspecting the camera and the other is very, very close to Shouto’s face.
“Why won’t your dad come for you, huh?” the guy asks, rhetorical. “He’s the number one hero… you’d think he’d leap to save anyone, that’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it? Now it’s his son and he isn’t coming. What is that?”
It’s a threat. The tip of a knife traces over Shouto’s face without drawing blood.
“What do you think you’re worth?” his captor asks.
“Damn it, the lens cracked!” shouts the other. “We’re gonna have to replace it, fuck.”
Good. If they try to send a video to the police they might be able to trace it back to the camera. Better yet, if the villains don’t order the lens from online, the police will ask local businesses and tech shops and someone will have seen something. It isn’t much, but heroes have found missing people with less.
“It’s fine,” says the one with the knife in a tone that doesn’t sound ‘fine’ at all. “We’ll record with the broken lens, get it replaced tomorrow. You,” the tip is pressed into his cheek just beneath his scar, “never answered my question. A million yen? Ten million? Thirty? What’s daddy willing to pay to get you back?”
Now isn’t the time to be a smartass. Shouto’s job right now, as a minor and as a hostage, is to stay alive. As a hero, it’s frustrating, but true.
“It doesn’t matter,” Shouto finds his voice. “Ask for whatever the hell you want.”
“I tried that, but the police ignored my first and second letter… I’ve already told them about the Quirk suppressants, they’re dangerous if you use them long-term in high dosages. But I haven’t heard back. Why haven’t I heard back? I’d like your perspective.”
“How should I know?”
“This is your father we’re talking about.”
Shouto coughs out a laugh. “You’re better off bargaining with the police and leaving his name out of it,” he says. “Who I am doesn’t matter as much as you think it does. Just treat me like some random person you grabbed off the streets and maybe you’ll get what you want.”
“Hm. Are you sure? I find it strange… you’re Endeavor’s kid, right, that’s all you are to the world. Why would I separate you from him? You’re a big shot, aren’t you? You matter?”
Shouto shuts his mouth. He’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t bide his time. They don’t want him dead, but one of them definitely wants to hurt him and the other, he isn’t sure. He has to be smart. He has to be calm.
“Ah, wait, I get it now.” The man snaps his fingers around the hilt of the knife, and Shouto hears the click of the camera, lens cranking as it adjusts. “Urgency matters, doesn’t it? That’s what it is. I haven’t given them a reason to be urgent.” The red LED of the video camera begins to blink. “I was hoping Quirk suppressants would do it, but it looks like I haven’t applied enough pressure.”
“I’m recording,” says the second.
“It was rotten of you to damage our equipment,” he says to Shouto. “I think I’ll have fun damaging Endeavor’s.”
The knife is back.
“Do you want to know what my Quirk is, Todoroki-kun? I think you’ll like it.”
The blade of the knife sinks into Shouto’s forearm.
Shouto heaves for air, surrounded by cool and drying blood as he grapples at his chest. The gaping wound in his forearm is gone—gone from the moment his captor slammed his palm into it—but he’s covered in blood and weak with the loss of it, choking around the acid in his throat and the stinging stench of metal.
His captors come back with more suppressants. He’s too weak to do anything other than breathe. The bite of the needle is sharper. The suppressants drown him.
Then they have the camera out again.
“You aren’t responding, heroes!” The captor doesn’t face him, addressing the camera. “After I sent you the video and the knife and everything… why? What more proof do you want? I thought heroes were supposed to save people, and look where this one’s at. Is this how the number one hero chooses to let his own family suffer? Perhaps it is— that scar on his face isn’t natural. Don’t you ever wonder how he got it?”
Shouto manages just enough rage to swing his heel into the back of the guy’s knee. His captor buckles with a satisfying shout, and the man operating the camera leaps to see if he’s alright. He’s stopped by a hand. Shouto gasps for air.
“What, you want them to see your pathetic attempts to fight back? I’ll put an end to that real fast, just you wait.”
He lurches forward with a new knife—longer, but thinner—but Shouto’s got the adrenaline to react. Shouto twists onto his back, and the ball of his foot connects with the man’s chest. He makes a strangled sound as the force hurls him back.
“Damn you—!”
Shouto gets in two more good hits before he’s pinned, and that second guy sets down the camera (still recording) and pumps another syringe into Shouto’s arm. It takes both of them to restrain him. Shouto’s mind fills with clouds and it isn’t until he’s completely still that he’s released. Then the second takes the camera again and the first grabs the knife.
“You’ve got a strong roundhouse kick,” he says, breathing hard. He grabs both of Shouto’s chains in one hand and pins Shouto’s wrists above his head. “Well, we’ll take care of that.”
He slams the knife into Shouto’s thigh.
Then he yanks it out and he does it again.
All Shouto can hear is the roar of his heartbeat and the grate of his screams.
He blacks out.
Coming to, his chest is up against bloody brick, and the wounds in his leg are sealed. As he shifts, pain ricochets between muscle and bones, vibrant enough that white explodes over his sight and his stomach wrenches. He’s covered in blood again, old and new.
“Hey.” He’s kicked in the ribs. He didn’t even hear the door open. “You still alive?”
Shouto can’t pretend he isn’t, he’s breathing too hard.
“I really didn’t wanna go this far,” he says. Shouto doubts that, but doesn’t say so. “My Quirk’s not that suited for healing. Your insides’ve still gotta heal and these suppressants aren’t doing anything for your immune system.”
Shouto scrapes his fingernails into the brick. He reaches for his Quirk with all his might, yanking at it, pulling at it, begging it. It stays buried.
“Speaking of, this dose is a little early, but I’ve gotta go out and replace that damn lens you broke. It’s a bigger dose than you’re used to, so it might be a while before you can see again.”
The needle doesn’t feel like anything.
Shouto wakes up with a feeling like he’s being frozen alive.
“Endeavor!” The bastards are recording again. “Why are you ignoring your son? Is it something he said, or is it something I said? Or are we simply too clever despite being low-life villains to your number one status? How rich it is. And laughable!”
The sensation doesn’t hurt. It’s— It’s his Quirk. Shouto can feel his Quirk. How? How can he feel his Quirk? It’s just his right side, but—
“This boy means nothing to you, does he? Does he?” Through blurry vision, Shouto sees the back of his captor and the blinking REC light. It’s a new camera. They replaced the entire thing. “Or does he, and you think you can find him without going through the ransom? Without revealing yourself? Laughable! And you call yourselves heroes…”
It’s been a while since they injected him, but not long enough for it to have completely worn off. Did—Did his left side burn off the suppressants?
“Save him! Save him! Why won’t anyone save him?”
Fire kindles in Shouto’s chest, frothing from between his ribs until it teaches his heart to pound. The guy might not be trying to kill him, but there's a lot of blood on the floor. He has to live. He has to live.
Ironic. He’s their hostage because of Endeavor, but now it’s Endeavor’s blood in him that’s going to make them hurt.
Shouto digs his palm into the brick and twists it like he’s starting a car. Ice explodes forward.
It catches the villain by the ankles, and he shrieks as his center of gravity shifts. The guy with the camera makes an indignant noise, evading the ice by an instant. Shouto tastes blood in the back of his throat.
“You shouldn’t be able to use your Quirk!” the first howls. “The suppressants couldn’t have worn off!”
Shouto refuses to die here.
He twists again, dragging his finger through his own blood and over the surface of the ice. It’ll be sloppy—it has to be, or else they’ll know— but, for the detectives, he has to— sh in ju k
The first guy breaks free from Shouto’s ice and lunges for him. Shouto smears the blood beyond recognition as he throws up his hand. His fingers clamp down on the guy’s wrist. He channels his Quirk through. Through. Through.
“Stop it!” The anger has melted off the man’s voice. “Let go of me, let go of me!”
Shouto doesn’t let go. He grips tighter, until his hand turns white with ice crystals and the man is screaming.
The man twists, bearing Shouto’s arm toward the floor. Shouto’s vision is spotty. His hand is so cold that it feels like it’s burning. Shouto’s wrist bends back. It snaps. Shouto cries out but doesn’t let go.
“Get the fuck off me! Get off me! Get the fuck—!”
A syringe plunges into his shoulder. His Quirk shrivels under the mass of suppressants and fading adrenaline. The man manages to wrench his wrist from Shouto’s blue fingers, tripping back with his partner. His skin is chipping, ice clinging to muscle and tendons. Shouto gets a picture of what looks like blood, but it’s solid. Frozen.
Shouto watches the pain in the man’s eyes warp into wrath. He lunges, grabbing Shouto by the throat, and cracks his head into the brick.
The bleeding stops only after his hair has been drenched in blood and he’s too lightheaded to see beyond the dizzying spirals and inky splotches. Hands continue to squeeze around his throat.
“Send it, send it now!” the man screams. His subordinate scrambles, flailing with the camera until the door slams behind him. “Fuck, I’m going to kill you, I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Shouto’s head rebounds against the brick, and then he’s gone.
Shouto wakes up blissfully alone.
His swollen wrist throbs. His thigh throbs. His—His chest throbs, for some reason. He feels his heart skip around, bouncing up against the walls of his throat and bringing bile with it. He swallows reflexively around his raw throat, but his mouth is dry and the rancid taste gets worse as he becomes more aware. His head is full of hot air.
There are—four, five—no, six—seven? is it a broken one? seve—no, si—six, he was seeing double—six empty syringes around him. was that all at once? Usually they’re better about— about taking the syringes back with them…
Pick
Shouto reaches for one of them. The chain at his wrist feels heavier than him. He reaches.
Pick. Pick.
If he can get the syringe, maybe—maybe the needle would be strong enough to pick the locks. He doesn’t— he doesn’t know how to pick locks but, if he fiddled around with it, if he… He could. He can get out.
The door bangs the wall.
Feral desperation lights up in Shouto’s chest and turns his vision red. He wraps his hand around the syringe. He’s going to live. He’s going to live.
He’s grabbed. He swings the syringe around. His wrist is caught. The syringe is pried out of his hand. He kicks. His knee connects with something solid. He kicks again. He’s going to live. He’s going to live, he c—he can’t die here, he won’t, he— he…
Midoriya tears Shouto’s chains apart.
Shouto’s heart stops.
“It’s okay,” Midoriya says in a rush, rubbing his hands up and down Shouto’s forearms. “Shhh, Todoroki, breathe. Breathe. You’re okay.”
“Mi—“ Shouto can’t. “M-Mi, Midoriya—“
Midoriya sobs, once, and then Shouto is drawn into his trembling arms.
“It’s you,” Shouto chokes. “It’s— you, it’s you, Midoriya—“
Midoriya squeezes him, tucking him into his chest and pressing his forehead against Shouto’s. “I have you,” Midoriya whispers. He says it like he can’t believe it himself, like he’s trying to promise. “I have you, I have you, I have you.”
He keeps saying so, rocking them gently. The dry sob in Shouto’s throat is throttling. His temperature feels—it’s wrong, wrong, he tries to use his Quirk just to balance it but he can’t, stifled with a weight in his chest whenever he tries. Panic distills his lungs.
“Your Quirk’s still under suppressants,” Midoriya says quickly. His voice shakes, but it’s reassuring all the same. “It’s there, you just won’t be able to use it for a while. It’s okay.”
Shouto slumps into Midoriya’s shoulder, out of breath and out of fight. He’s so tired, and his friend is so warm.
Midoriya shifts against him, arms coming around Shouto’s back. Shouto seizes at the touch until he remembers who it’s from and feels how gentle it is. “Try, try not to fall asleep yet, Todoroki, we need to get you to the ambulance.”
“Midoriya!”
Kirishima and Jirou burst through the doorway behind him.
“You got him!” Kirishima’s knees hit the brick. Jirou’s right behind him. “Hey dude, are you— Holy shit that’s a lot of blood.”
“His heart is skipping around,” Jirou says, yanking her earjack from the floor. “We need to get him out of here.”
Out of here. Out of here.
Kirishima stands. “We’ve got a faster route that way, the police are gonna tear this place apart. You got him, Midoriya?”
“Yeah.” Midoriya presses Shouto closer and gets one leg underneath him. Tendrils of electric green bounce off his skin. “I’ve got him, let’s go.”
Jirou goes first, then Midoriya, with Kirishima taking up the rear. Shouto blinks up into Midoriya’s face, feeling his heartbeat against his ear. Midoriya’s heart is fast, but steady, and easy to follow. Shouto counts it, the blurry sight of brick and grime passing high over Midoriya’s head. The hallway that once seemed so big is now laughably small.
“What happened?” Shouto rasps.
Midoriya’s arms tighten under him. His expression is stone, eyes red and set forward. “The police put the pieces together,” he says. It’s hard to hear over the crackling of Midoriya’s Quirk and the pounding of Midoriya’s heart against his ear.
“S’ everyone okay…?”
“Everyone else,” Kirishima says. He doesn’t sound like himself. “Bakugou’s getting written up for excessive force.” That makes sense. “So is Aizawa.” That… okay.
“I’m sorry it took so long to find you,” Jirou says. He can’t see her at all, but it sounds like she’s talking through her teeth. “I’m so sorry.”
Shouto gives Midoriya more of his weight, closing his eyes. The light is starting to give him a headache and his Quirk prickles beneath his skin. “They didn’t want me to be found,” Shouto manages. “It’s not your fault.”
He feels Midoriya’s breath hitch. He’ll have to talk to them all about it later, especially Midoriya. Thinking how he’d react if any of his classmates were in his shoes and he in theirs, he understands the weight. They’ll have to talk about it.
“Todoroki?”
“M’ not sleeping,” Shouto breathes. Without the distraction of things to look at, his lungs feel abruptly tight.
“Midoriya, stop for a second.” Midoriya stills. Jirou’s shadow draws over him and he hears the sound of her jack sinking between the cracks of the brick. “... His heart’s faster. We have to go. Kirishima, the wall.”
“Got it.”
Brick shatters, and they pick up the pace. Shouto keeps his eyes closed. The temperature is wrong. His Quirk feels wrong.
Midoriya hasn’t said anything in a while, but his heart is pounding fast enough and hard enough to burst out of his chest. Shouto is too high on relief and whatever the hell else was thrust into his system with the Quirk suppressants to feel guilty, but he wants to say something, reassure him…
“You’re okay,” Midoriya promises. “You’re gonna be okay.”
… They’ll have to talk about it later. Shouto rests in Midoriya’s assurance and the warmth of his hold.
It’s humid when they hit open air. Shouto takes a deep breath for what feels like the first time. It’s bright, but overcast, and gentler on his senses than he expected. How many days has it been since he last saw the sun?
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”
The sirens are loud. Shouto’s ears fill with unfamiliar but compassionately professional voices, and feels the prod of latex gloves against his swollen wrist. It hurts, and he yelps. An apology. Midoriya lowers him gently onto a solid but soft surface, and an oxygen mask is secured over Shouto’s mouth and nose.
Midoriya lets go of him.
In a roiling rush of panic, Shouto claws for Midoriya’s wrist.
Poor Midoriya nearly jumps out of his skin, reacting just in time to not pull away. He brings his other hand over Shouto’s and guides Shouto’s fingers until their hands can wrap together. Midoriya’s hand is so familiar, distinct in its scars and off-jointed knuckles. Shouto could close his eyes and still know it’s his.
“Sorry,” Midoriya says to a medic. “Am I in the way?”
“It’s alright for now, but we’ll have to get him into the ambulance soon.”
“Okay.” Midoriya thumbs the pulse point at Shouto’s wrist. The medic turns toward her team and Midoriya bends closer. “Todoroki,” he murmurs, “Aizawa’s going to ride in the ambulance with you, okay? The rest of us will meet you at the hospital. You won’t be alone.”
He slipped into his professional voice—it’s more formal, even if it shakes—but his eyes haven’t changed. He— He just looks so sad.
“Midoriya,” Shouto tries.
Midoriya leans in, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against Shouto’s temple. “You’re gonna be okay,” he promises. “It’ll be okay. You’re safe now.”
That’s not what Shouto was worried about. His throat aches and nausea swirls from his head to his gut. “Mido—”
“Midoriya.” Aizawa steps in, just far enough out of Shouto’s sight that he can’t see his face. Midoriya turns. “I’ll take care of him from here. Go with your classmates.”
Shouto sees the argument spring into Midoriya’s face. He watches it drop just as quickly, and he squeezes Shouto’s hand with one final promise before letting go. He disappears and Aizawa takes up Shouto’s side, resting his hand on Shouto’s forearm.
“Sensei,” Shouto gulps.
Aizawa’s hand presses heavily over Shouto’s forehead. “Rest, Todoroki,” he tells him. “You’ve fought harder than any of us.”
Shouto’s eyes burn. He closes them, feels a single tear run into the crevice of the oxygen mask, and then it’s over.
Shouto wakes up on a gurney with a ceiling above him and a squad of nurses around him, wheeling forward. The lights above him zip by, even though it doesn’t feel like he’s moving. There's still a mask over his mouth and nose and his shirt is torn open. His right wrist is in a splint.
“Todoroki-kun,” a doctor says, “can you hear me?”
Shouto finds it in him to nod.
“I know you’re in pain, but I want to explain what we’re going to do. Your heart is experiencing a rhythm called V-tach. It isn’t especially common on its own, but we see it in Quirk suppressant overdose cases. We’ll be performing a cardioversion to shock it back into a healthy rhythm, and we’re going to start sedating you now. You’ll feel tired—”
His vision turns black.
When he wakes up, he feels better in some ways and worse in others. It’s dark, and the surface beneath him is firm but soft, and he’s surrounded by chirping monitors and cool tubes. He can’t determine the temperature of the room. His right arm is wrapped in a sling against his chest.
“Shouto?”
That’s— oh.
“Nee-san,” Shouto wheezes, groggy. He coughs into the oxygen mask, but it doesn’t clear his throat. Fuyumi smiles, her gray eyes full of tears as she strokes his hair. “When…”
“Shou!” Natsuo folds into his line of sight, his gray eyes filled with worry and relief like Fuyumi’s. He grasps at Shouto’s hand, pulling it between his palms. “I’m so glad… how are you feeling? Are you okay?”
Fuyumi reaches up to touch his face and he instinctively leans into her cool palm. “I don’t kn—” He coughs again, hard. There's gravel in his throat, glass in his vocal chords.
“Sorry,” Natsuo says in a rush, “sorry, sorry, they said it’d hurt to talk—you don’t have to say anything, Shou, it’s alright. You’re alright.”
Clearly not if his family is allowed to be here, if they’re this worried, but those thoughts are for another day. Fuyumi strokes his face around the oxygen mask and smooths his sweaty hair off his forehead.
“Dad was here earlier,” Fuyumi tells him. “He wasn’t sure if you’d… want to see him, though, so he’s giving you space.”
Hearing that doesn’t make Shouto feel anything, but it’s better than the seething hatred that would’ve consumed him months ago. Neutrality is good, he thinks. He’s too tired to be angry or linger on Endeavor anyway. He wants to rest.
“You blew out your vocal chords,” Natsuo says, “and they ended up having to use a breathing tube during the cardioversion, they didn’t think you were stable enough to—”
“Natsu.”
“He deserves to know,” Natsuo says, defiant. It’s not nearly a clap-back, because it isn’t anger as much as it is sadness, but it shuts Fuyumi up. “Remember when we were kids? He woke up in the hospital, he didn’t know what was going on—”
Shouto grips Natsuo’s hand, and his brother quiets.
He can’t speak, but apparently he can cry, if silently, and Fuyumi keeps stroking his hair while Natsuo envelops his hand completely and draws it toward his face. They’re crying too, he thinks, his brother and sister—his brother and sister who have been given so many reasons to cry already, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for being one of them.
“You’re okay,” Natsuo weeps. Shouto can feel Natsuo’s pulse between his hands, faint and fast. “I’m so happy you’re okay.”
Fuyumi rests her head near Shouto’s, and her loose hair tickles his face. Shouto shuts his eyes and breathes through his tears. In sick irony, breathing makes him dizzier instead of the other way around. He focuses on Natsuo’s hands and heartbeat and the sound of Fuyumi’s breathing.
“Your lungs sound better,” the doctor says, easing back. Shouto’s managed to sit up with the help of the inclined hospital bed and mounds of pillows. “And your temperature is steadily dropping back to normal… how are you feeling, Todoroki-kun, overall?”
Shouto has to think about it. He hasn’t been awake long enough to re-acclimate. “Sick,” he says, because it’s the first word that comes to mind after too much silence. The doctor hangs the stethoscope around his neck and leans forward, patient. “My throat hurts.”
“Sorry about that,” the doctor says. The ID clipped to the front of his coat dubs him “Tsukahara”. “When we brought you in, you were running a fever and your vitals were alarmingly unstable, and we decided it’d be in your best interest to intubate you while we performed the cardioversion. Thankfully, the cardioversion was a success. It’s entirely normal to experience chest pain following the procedure, but if it’s more than you can cope with, let us know and we can get you on some stronger meds. This is not something to suffer in silence about.”
Shouto nods.
“As for the rest of your injuries…” Here it comes. “We brought Recovery Girl in for your concussion,” the doctor says, “and got you on fluids as soon as possible to start flushing out those suppressants. How has your Quirk felt since you were brought in? A one word answer is enough.”
“Better.”
“That’s good! It’ll take some time before it’s back to normal, but that’s to be expected. You’ll be leaving with a detailed summary of all that was done by us; that might be a bit easier to take in than me giving you the run-down while you’re worn out and in pain.”
Shouto nods. Worn out and in pain is putting it lightly, but he can’t argue when he’s this out of his head.
“For now,” Tsukahara goes on, “I’d like you to avoid screens, and don’t try to read anything. Nothing in your ears—no headphones, no phone calls. We’ll be nagging you about food soon, but rest is going to be the most important thing for you.”
Shouto nods.
“Do you have any more questions for me?”
“Not right now.”
“Alright.” The doctor stands, taking his clipboard and pen with him. “Well, call a nurse if you need anything or if you have any questions. Eraserhead is in the hall, should I send him in for you or would you like to rest?”
Aizawa? No, actually, that makes sense.
“It’s fine,” Shouto says.
The doctor nods and leaves him be. He’s alone for all of ten seconds before it swings open again, and there's Aizawa. He normally has an exhausted look about him, but today it’s gone from exhausted to drained. Nuanced relief couples with it and paints every year he’s lived clearly in the lines of his face.
“Sensei,” Shouto says. He immediately coughs, ducking into his elbow, but it doesn’t hurt as horrifically as he feared.
“Take it easy,” Aizawa chides with none of the heat. He pulls up the doctor’s stool and takes a seat. “How’re you feeling, Todoroki?”
“A little better,” Shouto says softly. It’s easier to talk to Aizawa than a doctor he only just met, and his voice is clearer now that he’s used it some, though the pain hasn’t changed. His brain chooses now to think about what Fuyumi said, and it ties into words. “I haven’t heard from Endeavor.”
“Endeavor was never put on the case,” Aizawa says. “He understood the situation, but the police prohibited him from acting when they received the first letter from the villains. At first, he was removed simply because his role in the situation had changed from the number one hero to the father of the victim, but we later determined that the plea-deal was an assassination attempt.”
“So the villains would kill Endeavor at the place they said to bring the ransom money,” Shouto says.
“They’d try to, anyway. I don’t think anything could have gotten in that man’s way by the time we figured that out, but that’s beside the point. We were able to find you after interrogating a tech shop employee. You broke that camera on purpose, didn’t you?”
Shouto nods. Aizawa squeezes his shoulder.
“Then there was the message you tried to write against your ice,” Aizawa says. “The police weren’t sure what you were doing at first, but they realized you were writing characters and went from there, filled in the blanks. They tied Shinjuku back to where the employee said the suspects bought the camera and put together a search party.”
Shouto can’t help his sigh of relief. His efforts did matter—he likes to believe the heroes would have found him either way, but realistically he may still be trapped in that labrynth soaked in his own blood if he hadn’t acted.
“How long am I going to be in the hospital?” Shouto asks.
Aizawa drags a hand over his scalp. “Your injuries need time to heal and you need time to rest,” he says. “The biggest issue is going to be the Quirk suppressants. The doctors couldn’t believe the amount they found in your blood, so they want to keep you here and monitor you until the drugs are out of your system.”
“Quirk suppressants…” Shouto slants. Everything hurts and he feels so, so weak. “I… didn’t think they were dangerous…”
“As a rule of thumb and in small doses, no,” Aizawa says. “But they aren’t safe for everyone. In your case, Todoroki, you need your Quirk. It’s a mutation—it helps your body process sensations and plays an integral part of your immune system. Your body can’t manage on its own without your Quirk, and they flooded your system with suppressants. Regardless of the kind of Quirk you have, the amount they were giving you could have killed anyone if it’d gone on much longer.”
Oh.
“Oh,” he says out loud. “That would explain— okay.”
“It would explain what?”
“Why everyone is so upset.”
Aizawa sits beside him. His hand falls heavily on Todoroki’s unbraced shoulder. “We’re upset because you were taken, held hostage, injured and afraid,” Aizawa says. “Midoriya told me you tried to fight him when he found you. We know about the villain’s Quirks. You did not have to nearly die for it to matter, and we cared from the start.”
Shouto doesn’t have the emotional capacity to unpack that right now.
“Thanks,” Shouto says, small. “Did… Did my family see the videos?”
Aizawa shakes his head. “Not even your father. They were informed as to what happened in the videos, but we didn’t keep in every detail. They know the gist.”
There's relief in that. If it’s already been explained to them then it means Shouto will never have to do it himself. But up against the magnitude of what’s happened, it’s only a small comfort.
“Did you see the videos?” Shouto asks.
“I did.”
Oh.
“The only people who have seen the videos are me, Detective Tsukauchi and Sansa, and one other Underground hero,” Aizawa says, ressuring. “None of your classmates or U.A. faculty outside of myself watched the videos. They won’t get out to the public.”
Shouto nods. That’s half of what he was worried about. The thought of Natsuo or Fuyumi seeing them, or his friends, or—god, his mom—
“Sorry,” Shouto says. He looks down at his hands—one splinted up, IV in the other. “I should have been stronger.”
“Todoroki. Saving yourself was not your job.”
“But if I can’t save myself—”
Aizawa squeezes his shoulders and makes Shouto look him in the eye. Guilt doesn’t suit his teacher at all. “You,” he says, “should never have been in that position. What happened to you here is incomparable to what happens to you as a hero on the field. This was not a situation you had any control in. You were a hostage, and you did what you had to do to stay alive. Do you understand?”
“I—I do.”
“This is important.”
“I do.”
Aizawa keeps hold of his gaze and his shoulders, then lowers his head. “This should have never happened to you. I’m sorry, Todoroki.”
Shouto instinctively wants to say it’s fine, but it isn’t fine, and he can’t roll with instinctive responses at a time like this. He doesn’t know what else he could possibly say, though, so he just nods. Aizawa draws him into a short but tight embrace.
“I’m sorry,” Aizawa says again.
Shouto keeps nodding. Aizawa pulls away too soon.
“You did what you could,” Aizawa says. “I’m proud of you.”
Shouto’s right hand prickles in its cast, nerves lighting up in the memory of ice. He’d frozen one of his captor’s hands—sealed his bone to his blood, tendons and muscles caught in the freeze. That would’ve cut off blood flow. He just realized what sort of damage—
“I froze one of the villain’s hands,” Shouto breathes. “Froze it. I froze his blood.”
“It was in the report. I know.”
The passiveness in Aizawa’s voice surprises him.
“Self-defense is not excessive force, nor is it wrong,” Aizawa answers before Shouto can say anything. “What you did was not brutal. They got off easy.”
Shouto remembers what Kirishima said about Aizawa getting written up for excessive force. He wonders what excessive force looks like— what amount of force does a renowned pro hero in a life or death hostage scenario eight days in the making have to execute to constitute excessive?
He decides now is the wrong time to ask.
“I’m sure you’re overwhelmed,” Aizawa says gently. “Midoriya, Kirishima, Bakugou and Jirou have been waiting to see you. They’re here if you’re up for it, but I can tell them to go home and rest if it isn’t the right time.”
“They—?” Shouto’s voice chooses now to waver. He hadn’t seen Bakugou like he’d seen the others, but he remembers Kirishima mentioning him. Something about excessive force. “How long have they been here?”
“They’ve had to go home every night,” Aizawa says, “but they’ve been here in the daytime ever since you were brought in. I caught them trying to sleep on the vending machine after they were told that being on the floor was in the way.”
Shouto can picture that, actually. He hates that they were so worried, but the image of them getting caught red-handed by Aizawa halfway through scaling a hospital vending machine makes him inexpressibly happy.
“I’d like to see them,” Shouto says.
“Alright. I’ll see if they’ve talked to the police yet; Tsukauchi wanted their statements, but if they’re free I’ll go ahead and send them in. Will you be alright by yourself while I’m gone?”
Shouto nods and listens to Aizawa’s retreating footsteps until they fade down the hall behind the closed door.
Five minutes later, there's a stampede of fast-approaching footsteps down the hall, getting louder, and his door swings in.
Midoriya, Kirishima, Jirou, Bakugou. Kirishima’s been smiling since he banged open the door; Midoriya’s smile comes slowly, and once it sticks it lands like a firework and Shouto’s chest lights up; Jirou’s is wide, her eyes bright with life; Bakugou looks like he’s just killed a man, but Shouto swears he sees the rigidness fall from his shoulders.
“Hi,” Shouto says.
The silence bursts, and he finds himself in Kirishima’s arms. Then Jirou joins in, and Midoriya, and Jirou yanks Bakugou in too.
They draw up chairs once the small talk is out of the way, Kirishima and Bakugou on one side of the bed and Midoriya and Jirou on the other. Presently, Jirou unzips her shoulder bag and digs through it.
“This is from everyone,” Jirou says, passing a blue envelope to Shouto. Shouto takes it from her, flipping it over. It’s sealed with a Hello Kitty sticker he recognizes from Eri, and on the front of the envelope are all the variations of his name and nicknames in all sorts of handwriting. “You don’t have to read it now unless you want to,” Jirou says, “but…”
Shouto’s curiosity gets the better of him, so he carefully undoes the seal. The card itself is simple, with a cheesy hero pun that’d at least make him exhale through his nose if he weren’t on oxygen. He flips it open.
He understands what Jirou meant now. Both sides of the card are slathered in names, messages, doodles, encouraging words, everything. He recognizes Yaoyorozu’s penmanship and Iida’s prose, Aoyama’s glitter and Ashido’s smiley faces, Kaminari’s dialect and Hagakure’s gel pens… everyone’s contributed something. He even recognizes Bakugou’s single character for “die” that Ashido and Kouda have accentuated with angry eyebrows and burst veins.
There's a part of Shouto’s soul carved out exclusively for his classmates that nobody else in the world will ever touch.
“Thank you,” Shouto says. “I’m… not supposed to read anything yet, but I will when I can. Thank you.”
“It’s just a damn card,” Bakugou says stiffly.
“A damn card that you signed,” says Jirou, leaning over.
Maybe they shouldn’t poke the bear as much as they do, but Bakugou makes it so easy.
“Everyone’s been worried about you,” Kirishima says. “Do you have any idea when you’re gonna be able to come back to the dorms?”
“Whenever the Quirk suppressants are out of my system,” Shouto says. “Though, I assume if anything else goes wrong they’ll want to keep me longer.”
“How’s your Quirk feel now?” Jirou asks. “Are you able to use it at all?”
Shouto holds up his left hand. “A little.” He draws a flame to his palm and lets it flicker. It’s small and more saturated than he’s used to, but warm and alive all the same. “I can’t manage very much, but it’s coming back slowly.”
“Ahh, that’s good! Man, Quirk suppressants sound terrible, I can’t believe they’re still legal in some prefectures.”
Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Not everyone uses them to be a disgusting asshole. Some people need ‘em.”
“I know, but those are, like, prescribed, and not raw…”
Midoriya has surprisingly little to say about it, even though this is right up his alley and he could probably school them all on the history of Quirk suppressants and why they’re a vital aspect in much of superhuman life. He has surprisingly little to say about anything, actually.
“You’re quiet,” Shouto says.
Midoriya’s eyes snap up to meet his before falling toward his lap. His smile is fragile. “Sorry,” he says, squeezing his hands together. “It’s not on purpose, I just don’t know what to say…”
There's a knock at the door before it opens.
“Police is here,” Aizawa says. “Bakugou, you’re up.”
“What?” Shouto says.
“Statements,” Jirou answers. “They’ve been so busy digging up the basement that they haven’t had the chance to talk to us yet.”
“Good luck with the excessive force!” Kirishima calls after Bakugou, giving him two thumbs-up. Bakugou follows Aizawa out without response and the door closes behind them.
“We’re going one at a time,” Midoriya murmurs. It’s nice to hear him say something.
“Probably for continuity’s sake, I guess?” Kirishima offers. “Bakugou was just with the ground team.”
“Why were you allowed to help?” Shouto asks now that he thinks about it. Not even Endeavor was allowed on the case—for different reasons, but even so.
“Well,” Kirishima leans back, “me and Midoriya have experience with this sort of high-stakes rescue mission, and they needed Jirou’s Quirk to scope out what was going on underground, since the police figured that’s what was happening. Bakugou got involved because he’d interned with Endeavor and they needed the extra manpower with all the pro heroes who are down for the count.”
Shouto doesn’t want to think about what this will do to the public’s opinion of heroes. It won’t be on U.A.’s shoulders; this happened while he was with one of Endeavor’s interns, who… Shouto really doesn’t want to think about his future, either, but…
“It was nerve-wracking,” Jirou says, rubbing the back of her neck. “I never did that sort of work before and I wasn’t sure what I was even listening for, but it helped that the basement was basically a massive echo chamber. I could pick up their footsteps.”
That’s good. Shouto could only be so specific with his cryptic blood message and the cracked camera. The police couldn’t have pinned down specifically where he was without someone like Jirou.
“You did good!” Kirishima says, reaching across the bed to knock Jirou on the shoulder. She smiles but glances away, nervous.
… Oh.
Jirou might’ve heard him screaming.
Is— Is that even something he wants to ask?
“Thanks,” Jirou says as Kirishima leans away. “I wish I would’ve been faster, though. Something to work on.”
Shouto shakes the thought away and asks about school. Jirou and Kirishima leap to the subject change until the door swings in again.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa says, “come with me.”
Midoriya gets his feet under him. Jirou and Kirishima wish him good luck as Bakugou takes his seat and the door swings shut.
“Is he okay?” Shouto asks.
Kirishima and Jirou look at each other across the bed.
“He took it harder than any of us,” Kirishima says. “I’ve never seen him so… quiet.”
“We tried talking to him,” Jirou says, “but it's not like he's been avoiding us, he's just up in his head, or going for a run when he should’ve been sleeping, or…” She pauses, turns to Bakugou. “You’ve known him since you guys were kids, what do you think?”
Bakugou huffs. “I think he’s a damn wreck. The last time I saw him get like this was when he found out he didn’t have a Quirk.”
“I keep forgetting his Quirk showed up later,” Kirishima murmurs. “Aizawa and some of the teachers talked to him already, I think," he continues, "but I don’t know how it went. He started acting a little more like himself when he got put on the mission to save you. You know, that determined unstoppable-force energy.”
That sounds like Midoriya. Shouto nods.
“He’ll be alright,” Jirou says. “It’s not like he’s alone or anything, we’ll look after him.”
They keep up with the small talk until the door opens again.
“Kirishima,” Aizawa beckons, letting Midoriya back into the room and holding the door. Kirishima hops to his feet and follows Aizawa into the hall. Midoriya takes back his seat.
He doesn’t say another word for the rest of the visit.
Shouto wakes up in the middle of the night, overheated, and he heaves a frustrated sigh. Of course he couldn’t be too cold, he had to be too hot. That’s one of the problems that came with having neglected his left side for so many years: whenever his Quirk decides to go against him, it’s always the left.
He sighs. At least his Quirk is trying, but it’s probably overcompensating now, or panicked, or just broiling over after being kept down so long. He drapes his right arm across his eyes, mindful of the cast and sighing at the coolness of his skin. He’s feverish again, and tipsy, with the barest hint of nausea. His throat is scratchy again after sleeping, too.
When he closes his eyes for too long, he sees the image of his captor’s face branded behind his lids. He opens his eyes again and tries to find something different to think about. Midoriya is folded over in a chair, half-draped over the edge of Shouto’s hospital bed. He’s wearing Kirishima’s red hoodie and is sound asleep.
Do the nurses know he’s here? It looks like something that happened by mistake, but he does have Kirishima’s hoodie, and the room’s cold enough that Shouto can feel it. In any case, Midoriya looks exhausted even while he sleeps.
Shouto shifts, but it turns into a jerk when a sharp pain shimmies up his broken wrist. Midoriya snaps awake like someone dumped ice water over his head.
“Oh,” Midoriya says, looking at him. Whatever hadn’t registered before registers now. “O-Oh, sorry,” Midoriya repeats, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry, have you been awake long? Did I wake you up?”
“No,” Shouto says. “If anything I woke you up. Where’s everyone? Did they go home?”
“Mmn. They didn’t want to, but Aizawa couldn’t let all of us stay and the police needed more from Bakugou and Jirou, since he was with the ground team and she led the way to you, and… are, are you okay? You look sick.” Midoriya stands from his seat, and the back of his fingers brush Shouto’s cheek under his scar. “Oh, you’re burning up,” Midoriya says, pulling back too soon. “I’ll go get a nurse.”
Shouto seizes his wrist again with his unbroken hand and Midoriya jumps and swivels to meet his eyes. The deja vu brings him back to the ambulance, when Midoriya first carried him to safety, and punch to the gut couldn’t have knocked the air from Shouto’s lungs faster.
“Don’t,” Shouto says. “It means my Quirk is working subconsciously again, it’s a good thing.”
Midoriya looks unsure.
“Don’t,” Shouto stresses. “I—” He swallows the dryness in his throat. “I want to talk to you. Please.”
It’s more earnest than he normally allows himself, and unintentionally cruel because Midoriya’s heart is so, so gentle, but he needs Midoriya to stay. They need to talk. Midoriya looks between him and the door, biting his lip. Just when Shouto thinks he’s going to tear away and bolt, he takes his seat again and rolls the chair closer. He brings his other hand over Shouto’s knuckles.
“Okay,” Midoriya whispers. He takes a shallow breath. “But if your fever goes up or if it looks like you’re in pain I’m getting someone.”
“Okay,” Shouto agrees, because he has to. Midoriya’s hands are cold, and it’s hard to tell, but it feels like he’s trembling. Shouto has never been the best with words, less when emotions are involved, but he trusts that Midoriya knows him and will understand if he needs to backtrack.
“What’s wrong?” Shouto asks.
Midoriya stares at him. “What’s wrong?” he echoes, disbelieving. “Todoroki, you—you were kidnapped, you’re hurt, and the way we found you, I…”
The memories that Shouto’s been trying to push away flood back. He grits his teeth. “I know,” Shouto grates, “I was there.”
Midoriya looks like he got slapped in the face. Shit.
“I mean you,” Shouto backpedals. “You aren’t—you aren't you, Midoriya.”
Midoriya fumbles. “I don’t—” It sounds like he can’t breathe. “I don’t know what you… expect me to be, Todoroki. ”
“I know,” Shouto says. “I don’t expect you to carry on like nothing happened, but I don’t think that’s all there is to it. And Jirou said you won’t talk to anyone. You won’t talk to me, and you’re always talking, but now you won’t, and—”
And then it hits him why Midoriya’s disposition is bothering him. It’s because Midoriya reminds him of himself before they fought at the Sports Festival: far off, distant, holding the world an arm away and his emotions twice as far.
“I know you’re upset,” Shouto says. “I know you’re upset because I know you, but you want to pretend that you—I don’t know what you want to pretend. I want to know what’s going on.”
“You need to focus on yourself,” Midoriya says, completely dodging it. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“But I do worry about you. I worry—I’m worried because you aren’t you and for once I can’t tell what’s going through your head when it matters to me the most.”
Midoriya gapes at him. Shouto sees a crack in the facade, and it’s again like that moment before Shouto was brought into the ambulance—a moment where Midoriya looks unequivocally wrenched, like someone snarled a dagger through his soul.
And that’s just it. Shouto understands.
“Todoroki,” Midoriya says slowly with that unmended crack holding fast, “I—you, you went through so much—”
“You did, too.”
Midoriya bites, “No I didn’t.”
“Is this your way of trying to be strong for me?” Shouto says. This is cruel, too, and almost intentionally so, only because Midoriya has to understand. “Because if it is then you’re an enormous hypocrite.”
Midoriya shakes his head. “That isn’t it,” he says, and another wall loses a brick. “It’s—Todoroki, it already takes everything I have to not—” He stops himself, breathes deep, and releases Shouto’s hand to scrub his eyes. “I can’t—”
“Midoriya…”
“I can’t talk, Todoroki,” Midoriya grits, “I can’t, not without—not—I’m so selfish, and I, I—if I talk, I won’t be able to—to keep it together.”
It is a front, then. Midoriya isn’t processing—he’s making an empty slate of himself so he can take on everyone else’s burdens. Except, that isn’t how it works.
“I can’t talk,” Midoriya says one more time, helplessly.
“But I want you to talk to me.”
And Midoriya finally sobs.
“But I—” Midoriya rubs his eyes, angry at himself, and Shouto’s chest tightens up. “I want to take care of you, I have to take care of you, Todoroki, but I can’t—I can’t do that if I’m a mess, o-or if I’m selfish, and—oh, Todoroki, you’re crying.” Shouto didn’t realize he was crying until Midoriya said so. Midoriya reaches out but stops himself like he’d been smacked, shrinking back. “I’m sorry,” he blubbers, pleading, “I’m sorry, I—”
“I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” Shouto whispers.
He only just realized it. He had determined not to die in that place but never wholly believed he wouldn’t.
Midoriya freezes like he’d been yanked around by a chord. Shouto can feel tears running down his face, hot and thin. He doesn’t cry like Midoriya cries; Midoriya cries with his entire body, and Shouto… cries like someone who never learned how to.
“I’m not like you,” Shouto gasps, shaken by the even-keel of his words when his heart feels so fast. “I can’t wear my heart on my sleeve, I—I don’t know how, but you do, and it’s, it’s special, and… I don’t know what to say, I— I know you need time but if you mean what you say and you’re really hiding your feelings because you’re concerned about my feelings, then— don’t. Please don’t.”
“Todoroki—”
“I missed you,” Shouto snaps. “I missed you, Midoriya.”
Midoriya sobs. “I missed you too.”
“You’re one of the most important people to me,” Shouto says, “and I missed you, and I—I’m still missing you. This isn’t your fault. You don’t have to fix this. I just need you.”
His voice breaks on the last syllable. Midoriya starts to move, but stops, and then starts, and—
“You can touch me,” Shouto says, hoarse.
And Midoriya dives into him. It hurts, just because all of him hurts right now, but Shouto throws it to the wind and hugs Midoriya with everything he has. Midoriya holds him fiercely and cries. Shouto buries his tears in Midoriya’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Midoriya keeps saying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry I wasn’t there—”
“I wouldn’t have wanted you there,” Shouto croaks. Now he’s trembling. Midoriya trembles, too. “And you aren’t selfish.”
Midoriya clutches him, and Shouto clutches the back of his hoodie and cries. He cries, and cries, and Midoriya cries, and Shouto wishes he had his other hand, or more strength in his left, because he can’t hold Midoriya tight enough. He wishes he had more of a voice. Wishes he had the words to say. But it’s Midoriya, and Midoriya has never minded Shouto for being who he is, and so it’s fine. Shouto cries, and Midoriya cries, and it’s fine.
Later, in the quiet while Shouto tries to blink moisture back into his dry, dry eyes and Midoriya’s chest rises and falls steadily against his, Shouto sniffles with a groan and sinks against Midoriya’s shoulder to hide his face. His head pounds. “Crying is so disgusting,” Shouto rasps. “How do you keep up with it?”
Midoriya laughs. It’s a sound full of holes and broken tears and it’s the gentlest thing Shouto has ever heard. “I have no dignity,” Midoriya says.
“This is obvious.”
Midoriya giggles again, quieter. He rests his cheek against Shouto’s hair. “It’s nice, though, isn’t it?”
Shouto hums. Midoriya traces tiny shapes between Shouto’s shoulder blades with his fingertips.
“Feel better?” Shouto whispers.
“Yeah,” Midoriya answers, matching his tone. “Yeah, I do. Do you?”
Shouto hums again. “Are you allowed to stay?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything about visiting hours, so I’m assuming they’ll kick me out when I need to go home… but I’ll stay until then. Unless you want me to go? I don’t think you do, but if you do I don’t mind.”
Shouto is so, so happy he’s talking again. His own voice is shot, though, so he grips the back of Midoriya’s hoodie instead of answering directly. Midoriya gets it.
“Can I move us?” Midoriya asks.
Shouto nods and Midoriya shifts, never easing up on his hold. They lean back together against the partially reclined bed, Shouto along Midoriya’s side while he frets under his breath about the IV and monitoring wires and not getting tangled in them. It’s somehow familiar even now of all times. He understands what Bakugou meant about normalcy: Shouto appreciates it more than anything.
“There—are you cold? Your fever’s kind of high…” Midoriya’s calloused hand settles over his forehead. “The doctors said you’d have fevers until the Quirk suppressants wear off, but still."
“It’s fine,” Shouto assures. “I… just want to sleep now, sorry.”
“Okay. But I’m going to keep an eye on it.” Midoriya gets comfortable beside him before drawing Shouto closer with an arm around his shoulders. Shouto leans his ear into the side of Midoriya’s chest and shuts his eyes.
He hears Midoriya’s heartbeat—fixed, solid, anchoring. Shouto uses it to guide his breathing, inhaling through the pain in his chest and exhaling while Midoriya idly plays with his hair. In the dark and at this angle he can’t see Midoriya’s face, but he can picture it, and it gives him hope.
Wrapped in Midoriya’s arms and heartbeat, Shouto falls asleep.