Chapter Text
Shouto’s eyes snap open, his breath hitching in his throat as the sharp, acrid scent of burnt flesh and the metallic tang of blood invade his senses, raw and unrelenting.
For one disorienting, terrible heartbeat, he isn’t in his bed at all—he’s somewhere else, somewhere charred and cruel, trapped in that same searing moment where fire licked at his skin and his brother’s voice echoed in his ears like a curse, where Touya’s arms were wrapped around him not in an embrace but in a final, furious collapse of everything they once were.
The phantom heat is so convincing he almost reaches for his side, expecting to find his uniform smoldering, his flesh blistering beneath it. A scream coils in his chest, sharp and soundless.
But then he blinks, once, then again, and the illusion begins to fracture, as if the nightmare clings desperately to his consciousness but can no longer hold its shape.
The sterile white ceiling of his dorm room comes into view, at first hazy, then snapping into jarring clarity under the pale morning light. The overwhelming stench of blood and burning morphs, almost absurdly, into the smell of burnt toast, wafting up from downstairs.
A tremor runs through him, subtle but consuming, the lingering aftershock of the dream refusing to release him completely.
He inhales carefully, as if reorienting his lungs to the present, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet sink into the soft lining of his slippers, a faint grounding comfort against the numb fog that has settled over his limbs.
He steps out of his room, slowly, each footfall almost silent on the dormitory floor, and makes his way down the stairs toward the common area.
The muffled hum of voices drifts up to meet him, growing louder as he descends: the clatter of metal on ceramic, the low thrum of conversation punctuated by the unmistakable, grating bark of a familiar voice.
“You Dunce Face!”
Bakugou.
Shouto marvels at how someone whose heart was literally torn in two and then somehow stitched back together still has the sheer audacity—and energy—to shout as if nothing inside him ever broke.
Shouto, in contrast, often struggles to will his own body out of bed, every movement hindered by some invisible force that no doctor can diagnose. His exhaustion doesn’t come from lack of sleep, though that too haunts him. It’s something deeper, something that exhaustion can only skim the surface of.
“Kacchan, calm down, it was an accident!” Midoriya’s voice follows, as anxious and oversaturated with apology as ever, floating through the air just as Shouto steps into the kitchen.
The scene awaiting him is, for an instant, almost normal.
Kaminari stands on one side of the island, Bakugou on the other, their positions evidence of some chaotic pursuit just moments prior. Midoriya, Kirishima, and Ashido linger nearby, caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
But the moment their eyes find him, the atmosphere shifts. The room stills with such intensity it’s almost violent, voices faltering and expressions falling...
The hum of life that just filled the air drains away, freezing in a way that has nothing to do with his quirk.
Shouto has never been the most socially adept person; he’s long made peace with the fact that subtle cues and emotional undercurrents often slip by him.
But even he can recognize the way the energy changes around him.
There’s a softness to the way they speak to him now, a caution, as if he’s made of glass and might crack with the wrong word.
Bakugou doesn’t even yell anymore, not at him, at least. His fury is muted in Shouto’s presence, filtered through clenched jaws and sharp glares cast sideways, never directly at him.
It’s not kindness. It’s reverence. Or worse—pity.
They don’t say it out loud, but he hears it all the same in the silence that follows him into every room, in the sympathetic glances and hushed tones.
Poor Shouto Todoroki.
Poor Shouto, with his abusive father, and his psychotic mother, and his brother who tried to burn him and his family alive.
Poor Shouto, who flinches at the flicker of a flame and wakes up choking on phantom smoke. Who can’t sleep, can’t eat.
But he isn’t the only one carrying these things. Midoriya lost his quirk, or at least some version of it—though Shouto still sometimes wonders if One For All ever truly belonged to him. Bakugou died , if only for a few harrowing minutes. Ochako still feels like she killed Toga with her own hands. Ashido cries for Midnight when she thinks no one’s listening. Jirou lost one of her earphone jacks.
Everyone in this dorm has bled and broken in ways no one outside their circle can ever understand. And still, they reserve their gentleness for him, as if his pain is somehow more precious, more dangerous.
“Todoroki!” Midoriya blurts out, his voice too bright, too sharp against the quiet, betraying the nervousness he’s trying to suppress. “Did we wake you? Sorry—sorry about the noise!”
He turns to Kaminari and Bakugou, scolding them with a look that tries too hard to cover his own discomfort.
Shouto shakes his head, a small, practiced movement that’s more habit than communication. “I was awake.” He says, and his voice comes out rough, his throat rasping from disuse, or from lingering smoke that doesn’t really exist. It’s always there, a rawness he can’t quite soothe.
His eyes drift toward the counter, where a scorched toaster still smolders faintly, the source of the smell that dragged him out of his nightmare.
“What happened?” He asks, not because he doesn’t know, but because speaking feels like the only way to reclaim a sense of control in a room suddenly too quiet.
Bakugou grits his teeth, the sound low and almost amused in its bitterness. “Pikachu here thought it’d be genius to zap the toaster with his quirk.”
Kaminari winces, visibly shrinking under Bakugou’s glare. “In my defense, it was taking forever!” He offers weakly, hands raised in mock surrender.
Ashido snorts from across the room, her voice edged with incredulity. “And you thought a thousand volts would fix that?”
Kirishima chuckles beside her.
Shouto’s gaze lingers on the toaster, watching the thin trail of smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling, dissipating into the air like the remnants of a memory.
"I think we need a new toaster," Shouto deadpans.
***
Today is Saturday.
Two months have passed since the war ended in fire, rubble, and blood, a collective tragedy that tore through hero society and left behind an open wound still struggling to scar over.
The world shifted in that single, brutal event, its tremors reverberating far beyond the battlefield. In that silence after, in the lull of peace, recovery began.
His memories of the war’s final moments are a scattered mosaic, fragmented by adrenaline and pain.
He remembers the heat most of all—unrelenting, suffocating—as he faced down Touya one last time, not as brothers, not even as enemies, but as two ghosts clinging to the idea of something they might’ve been.
After that confrontation, everything dissolved into black. He remembers nothing of the medics or the helicopter or the debris-littered ground. Only that when he opened his eyes again, he was in a hospital bed, blanketed in white, his body burning in a way no ice could soothe. Every breath felt sharp-edged. Every shift of his limbs a punishment. It was agony merely to exist.
But he was not alone for long. His classmates came, trailing behind them the smell of antiseptic, voices quieter than he remembered them ever being.
Bakugou was wheeled in beside him, attached to machines that beeped in slow rhythm, and Shouto found some strange comfort in their mirrored frailty. Midoriya was quieter still, pale and still healing, his smile a dim echo of what it used to be.
It was from them that he learned of the aftermath, the confirmed deaths of Shigaraki and All For One, the fall of Toga, and the brutal cost they had paid for that victory.
The greatest threats to hero society had been eliminated in one cataclysmic sweep, but the price was something they would carry forever, silent and bone-deep.
Recovery, as it turned out, didn’t wait for grief. The return to normalcy, if such a thing was still possible, began almost immediately.
Cementoss and Power Loader, with help from the support course students, accomplished the impossible: U.A. was rebuilt in less than a month.
The dormitories were repaired, reinforced, polished into something newer, more sterile, more secure.
The third-years graduated on schedule, their ceremony subdued and sparsely attended. There were no fireworks, no cheering parents, only folded hands and strained smiles.
More of a formality than a celebration.
The new U.A., for all its polished surfaces and gleaming technology, doesn’t feel like a school anymore. It feels like a stronghold—its walls thicker, its corridors shadowed by cameras, its perimeters guarded by advanced security drones and motion sensors.
Shouto can’t decide if it’s meant to protect them or contain them. He supposes, in the current climate, that “better safe than sorry” is the only answer anyone is willing to give.
There were some silver linings—unexpected shifts in policy born from the ashes: the dormitory system is no longer mandatory.
Students are free to commute from home, stay in the dorms, or alternate between the two, provided they keep Aizawa informed. For some, the chance to return to their families is a balm. For others, it’s just a reminder of how much things have changed.
And so, most of them remain. The dorms, despite everything, are where they feel most understood.
No parent, no sibling, no counselor can match the quiet solidarity of someone who stood beside you while the world burned. They speak a language that only survivors know.
They don’t have to explain the nightmares or the panic attacks or the sudden silences. It’s simply understood. The weekends are when some visit home. But many stay behind, finding comfort not in blood ties, but in the bond they forged through battle.
Shouto is one of those who remain.
He walks through the dormitory gates alongside Midoriya, Bakugou, Kaminari, Kirishima, and Ashido, the six of them forming a loosely assembled group headed toward the local mall with a singular, slightly absurd purpose: to buy a new toaster.
Asui and Sero, both current residents at the dorms, had opted for sleep over shopping and stayed behind, bundled up in the warmth of blankets and weekend inertia.
The city greets them with a strange stillness. The mall, once vibrant with weekend traffic, is filled now with hushed footsteps and the distant murmur of half-full cafes.
People pass by cautiously, their eyes scanning exits out of habit, their shoulders tense. Even leisure has become a performance, something done carefully, as if joy might be mistaken for carelessness.
The group gathers around a central fountain, its cascading spray catching the light like glass threads. The soft splash of water provides a small, steady rhythm beneath their conversation.
“The appliance store’s on the third floor.” Midoriya says quietly, scanning the electronic directory with a furrowed brow.
Ashido groans in exaggerated protest, folding her arms and pouting. “That sounds boring. Why don’t we shop for ourselves first? We deserve it!”
Kirishima grins immediately, clasping his hands behind his head. “I’m down! Come on, let’s enjoy ourselves a bit.”
Midoriya hesitates, caught off guard by the suggestion, before glancing around at the rest of them. “What do you guys think?” He asks, tone light but uncertain.
Kaminari throws up a thumbs-up without missing a beat. “I actually need a new jacket anyway. My last one didn’t survive my experimental discharge.”
Bakugou lets out a grunt and shrugs, clearly indifferent. “Whatever.”
Midoriya gives a small smile, glancing back at Shouto. “And you, Todoroki?”
Shouto blinks. He had forgotten he was part of this group, part of this errand. His mind had wandered, drifting away into some quiet place where he didn’t need to think about being present. But now all eyes turn to him, expectant, patient.
“Uhm…” He starts, caught off guard. Spring is approaching, and maybe a new hoodie wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps a quick stop by the bookstore, a quiet browse through the manga section. He could pick up something to read with Sero, they haven’t had their weekly meeting since before the war.
He must hesitate too long, because Bakugou, never one for silence, claps a hand on his shoulder with a huff. “Come with me. I need new cotton shirts.” He mutters, not waiting for protest.
Shouto gives a small nod in reply, grateful for the anchor Bakugou so often pretends not to offer.
Midoriya checks his phone, his brow lifting slightly. “Alright, let’s meet back here at noon. We’ll grab lunch after.”
***
Bakugou pulls Shouto into a clothing store, a chaotic sprawl of racks and shelves that seems to stretch on forever, each section a collage of textures and colors: from sleek streetwear to elegant dresses, to athletic wear folded into careless, towering piles.
The sheer sensory overload of it all makes Shouto pause just past the entrance, blinking under the bright lights.
Bakugou, however, wastes no time.
He beelines toward the men’s section and immediately begins rummaging through a display table overflowing with T-shirts.
His hands move quickly, flipping through fabric tags with practiced impatience, muttering half-formed curses under his breath every time something fails to meet his unspoken criteria.
Shouto stands beside him, a little stiff, uncertain where to place himself in this choreography. Shopping was never his thing. It’s still not.
“What are you looking for?” He asks eventually, his voice low, careful not to interrupt whatever process Bakugou is locked into. He just wants to help.
Bakugou exhales hard and lets the shirts in his hands drop with a dull, frustrated thud onto the table. He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, his eyes narrowing, not in anger, but something closer to exasperation.
Shouto braces instinctively for a sharp retort, but when Bakugou looks at him, the red of his eyes is tired, not furious.
“I need cotton shirts. Real cotton. Not that fake-ass stretchy crap mixed with polyester.” He mutters, scratching absently at the center of his chest, just above the thick scar hidden beneath his shirt.
“Everything else feels itchy as hell. Some of it rubs and sticks, especially when I start sweating. Can’t stand it.”
Shouto nods slowly, glancing at the pile Bakugou had already gone through. “And those aren’t okay?”
“No.” Bakugou growls, crossing his arms. “They’re either cheap or too thin or they’ve got those stupid giant necklines that show the scar. Or they’re tight enough to rub over it, and that just…” He cuts himself off with a frustrated shake of his head.
Shouto considers this, remembering the early days after his own burns, his own fresh injuries. The feeling of raw skin meeting fabric is something he hasn’t forgotten.
He wants to be useful, but his own experience doesn’t map cleanly onto Bakugou’s, whose chest was literally torn apart.
“I’m sorry.” He says softly, wishing he had something more helpful to offer.
But then, something flickers in his mind. “Have you looked into that line from Sensicore ?” He asks after a pause, his voice cautious. “They make stuff specifically for damaged skin. I think I read they use medical-grade cotton or something, moisture-wicking, hypoallergenic, no seams over pressure points...”
Bakugou stops mid-rant and squints at him. “The hell is Sensicore?”
“It’s a medical wear brand. Hospitals use it for patients with skin grafts and scar tissue. My sister mentioned it once.” His voice trails off at the end, unsure whether Bakugou will brush it off or take him seriously.
To his surprise, Bakugou doesn’t mock him or scoff. He just raises an eyebrow. “Huh. Never heard of it.”
Then, after a beat, he adds, “Sounds legit, though. Better than this trash.”
Without another word, he turns and begins stalking through the racks again, more methodically now, apparently searching for the brand.
Shouto follows quietly. The question about how he knows about such a specific brand never comes.
So he doesn’t offer the real reason.
He doesn’t tell him that he overheard his mother talking about it, her voice low and tight with concern as she stood in the hallway of their home, speaking softly with Fuyumi.
“The nurses keep mentioning this brand—Sensicore or something. They say it won’t irritate Touya’s skin. Even classic cotton’s too harsh right now.
Fuyumi had nodded in quiet agreement. “Maybe we should bring a few next time we visit.”
Because they visit. Regularly. Fuyumi. Their mother. Their father. Even Natsuo, in rare, tense occasions.
But not Shouto.
Shouto—cowardly, bitter, and too ashamed to speak it aloud—still refuses to go.
“Earth to Shouto?”
The voice snaps him back. Bakugou is standing in front of him now, holding a bundle of what look like plain T-shirts and henleys. His expression is unreadable, but there’s no trace of impatience in it, just a mild curiosity.
“I found the shirts.” He says flatly. “What were you zoning out about?”
“Nothing.” Shouto replies, too quickly.
Bakugou pauses, eyeing him for a beat longer than necessary, before letting it go. He shrugs and takes a step back. “Well, I’m trying these on. You want to look for something too? Might as well get it over with.”
“I don’t think I need anything.” Shouto murmurs, hands loosely tucked into his pockets. It’s not exactly a lie, he doesn’t feel like buying anything.
Bakugou hums in a way that suggests he doesn’t buy that for a second. “Fine. But go find yourself a damn belt or some pants that actually fit. I’m sick of watching your jeans fall off your bony-ass hips every time you walk.”
Shouto blinks, caught off guard, and instinctively glances down.
His jeans are low on his waist, the waistband gapping at the sides. They used to fit perfectly. His fingers ghost over the button, and suddenly he’s very aware of how loosely the denim clings to his frame. It feels like the fabric could slip just from gravity alone.
He’s lost weight. Enough for his clothes to sag.
It shouldn’t be surprising. His appetite has been inconsistent at best. Most days, he picks at his meals without realizing it. Food lost its taste sometime after the war. Some days he forgets to eat entirely.
“I’ll look for a belt.” He says, a little too quietly, a little too late.
Bakugou nods, as if he expected that response. “Good. I’ll be at the registers once I’m done trying these on.”
And with that, he turns and walks away toward the fitting rooms, leaving Shouto standing amid racks of jackets and joggers, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach that isn’t hunger, but feels an awful lot like it.
***
They exit the store, the automatic doors sliding shut behind them with a soft mechanical hiss.
Bakugou’s arms are weighed down with bags, several plastic handles looped around each forearm, the weight of half a wardrobe swinging with every step he takes.
Shouto’s new belt is tucked somewhere in one of those bags, a single addition barely noticeable among Bakugou’s pile. The blond mutters under his breath as he awkwardly tries to check his phone without dropping everything.
“Do you want me to hold something?” Shouto offers, glancing at the way Bakugou is contorting his arms to free a hand.
“I don’t need your help!” Bakugou grumbles, but not harshly, just habitually.
He unlocks his phone with a flick of his thumb, checking the time before raising his eyes back to Shouto. “We’ve still got time before we have to meet the others. Anything you want to do?”
Shouto pauses. The question shouldn’t catch him off guard, but it does. He thinks about it, about the small, persistent desire that’s been quietly curling inside him for weeks.
He hasn’t read anything new since the war. No manga. No novels. His shelves remain untouched, thick layers of dust forming where once his curiosity had been insatiable. He used to find comfort in fictional worlds. Now, he can’t remember the last time he lost himself in a story.
“…Do you want to go look at some manga?” He asks, and the words leave him hesitantly, almost shy. He feels foolish, somehow. Small. Self-indulgent.
Weak, whispers something sharp in the back of his mind. Weak, weak, weak.
Bakugou shrugs, casual. “Sure. Let’s go.”
The comic store is only a few steps away, wedged between a tech outlet and a stationery shop.
It’s larger than it looks from the outside, with bright displays and backlit shelves showcasing limited-edition figures, game consoles, manga box sets, and collector’s items behind glass cases.
The store is alive with color, LED lights pulsing faintly overhead, music playing low over the speakers—a theme song from some recent anime. The scent of plastic wrap, cardboard, and faint electronics clings to the air.
While Shouto gravitates toward the manga section, running his fingers across the spines of neatly arranged volumes, Bakugou veers off toward the video game display, inspecting the newest releases with narrowed eyes.
Shouto moves slowly, absorbing the covers, familiar characters, new titles. There’s something quietly comforting about the symmetry of the shelves, the way the stories are lined up like soldiers at rest.
He turns a corner behind one of the display stands, and his breath catches.
At the end of the aisle, within a tall, glass display case, stands a lineup of hyper-detailed hero figures.
His eyes immediately latch onto All Might, rendered mid-pose, smile bright and indomitable.
Below him, Endeavor, fire swirling around his clenched fists, frozen in the powerful stance he had used countless times in battle.
There are figures of other pro-heroes, and even a few of the U.A. students. He spots his own likeness—ice climbing up his arm in a stylized arc—and Bakugou too, crackling with translucent resin explosions.
But none of that holds his attention for long.
Because near the bottom shelf, surrounded by flickers of blue flame sculpted with unsettling accuracy, stands Dabi.
Touya.
The figure is disturbingly lifelike. The hair, too spiky. The eyes, too turquoise, leaning toward neon. The scars, rendered in glossy, unnatural purple, darker than they should be.
He’s frozen mid-step, walking forward as if summoned from the exact memory Shouto has of him, his long white coat swirling with invisible wind, his arms outstretched in slow, inevitable destruction.
Beneath the figure, a bold label reads: 5000 yen.
Shouto can’t look away.
His eyes trace every inaccuracy, every imperfection in the sculpt, but they only serve to sharpen the parts that are right. The stance. The angle of the mouth. The way his scarred hands curl like claws, flames licking the air around them.
It’s wrong and real at the same time, like a funhouse mirror of a nightmare he can’t stop reliving. His pulse quickens, thudding violently in his ears, but he remains rooted in place, unable to move. His chest tightens. His throat closes.
He squeezes his eyes shut, hard.
But behind his lids, it’s worse, because the figure disappears and in its place stands the real Touya, surrounded by scorching blue flames.
Shouto’s breath catches, jagged and shallow, then shorter, shorter.
His limbs feel distant, disconnected. His heartbeat surges into his skull, too fast, too loud. His vision tilts. The edges of his awareness begin to shrink inward, tunneling toward a single, unbearable moment—
“Icy-Hot, you need to fucking breathe.”
Bakugou’s voice punches through the fog.
Shouto’s eyes snap open, and he realizes he’s no longer standing. The ground is cool beneath him, tiles pressing into his palms. He doesn’t remember falling.
His body is shaking, his vision spotted at the corners. Bakugou looms over him, crouched low, glaring with something like alarm poorly disguised as annoyance.
“Shit.” Bakugou mutters under his breath. “You’re full-on hyperventilating.”
Shouto drags in a breath, too fast, and it turns into a violent coughing fit. His throat burns, but it’s not from effort. It’s the memory of those blue flames. Always the flames. He can still feel them crawling up his lungs.
“Fucking—come on.”
Bakugou doesn’t wait. He hauls him up by the elbow, not rough, but not gentle either, and drags him out of the store. They settle on a bench just outside, away from the store windows.
Shouto hunches over, elbows on his knees, breath still ragged. Bakugou crouches down in front of him, bags piled beside him, red eyes narrowed but focused.
Shouto’s cheeks are flushed with shame, his hands trembling faintly in his lap. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers, the words barely audible.
Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Tch. Acting like you’re the first piece of shit in history to get a panic attack.”
There’s no venom in the words, only an exasperated kind of bluntness. A gruff acknowledgment that he’s not judging, just stating facts. And then, without ceremony, he reaches out and presses a hand to Shouto’s knee. It’s a grounding touch.
“A what?” Shouto croaks, lifting his eyes, confused.
Bakugou gives him a look like he’s speaking another language. “A panic attack, dumbass.”
Shouto stares, stunned by the term. He’s heard it before. His mother, after certain triggers. Touya, according to Fuyumi. Even Endeavor, after the public reveal of Dabi’s identity, had what could be classified as a panic attack.
But him ? No. That couldn’t be right. He doesn’t panic.
“I don’t—” He begins, but Bakugou cuts him off with a dramatic eye roll.
“Never mind. Just focus on breathing. In. Out. Like this.” Bakugou inhales deeply, demonstratively, exaggerating it like Shouto’s too dense to figure it out.
Shouto, dazed and still trembling, obeys. One breath. Then another. Then another. His lungs stretch. The air comes easier and the pressure in his chest begins to ease. The shaking stops being constant.
Neither of them speaks for a while. The mall continues to move around them, people walking by, oblivious. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughs. A couple exits the food court, sharing fries.
Eventually, Bakugou stands, brushing his hands on his pants. “We still have ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet up.” He mutters. “You good to walk?”
Shouto nods. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t look at the comic store again as they head back toward the fountain.