Disclaimer: I own nothing!
It was the third day of their first week at U.A., and they were, of all things, choosing a class representative.
Around him, the class broke out in loud exclamations about getting to do, 'finally, something normal!' Following that, practically every student tried their best to out-shout the others, each topic featuring some form of 'if I were representative' or, 'if you pick me'.
Shoto slowly lowered his chin to rest against the heel of his palm, poked out his index finger, and set about absently tapping it against his chin in thought.
Class Representative: a position of authority, or (mild, at this point) prestige. Potentially a lot of work, of course, but the benefits should far outweigh the downsides.
Once the time for interning came around, Hero Agencies would be looking to snag the students with certain characteristics, such as the expected good grades and useful quirks; but they would be also be looking for signs of leadership ability—a very important quality in a hero. Extra-curricular classes, good marks in teamwork and being the class representative were some of the easiest ways to get your profile noticed by the good agencies that would really pave your way into the world of heroes.
There were practically only upsides, actually. While being in the public eye had never been something Shoto enjoyed (and was one of the aspects of being a pro-hero Shoto dreaded the most), it didn't make him imagine he was breaking out in hives the way physical and social interaction could occasionally manage, and he had enough practice following orders and completing tasks to think he would be rather good at the job.
All that being said...
Shoto sighed, quietly, as Iida jumped to his feet and began scolding the students for their lack of forward-thinking (something rather spoiled by the way his own hand was raised in the air as high as it could go). Kicking his chair back, he tilted his head up to look at the ceiling.
...All that being said, Father would want him to do it, and the fact that Father wanted him to do it made Shoto very much want to do the exact opposite.
What was the term, cutting off your nose to spite your face?
Shoto lightly rocked his chair as it was decided that everyone would vote for their preferred candidate, and whoever ended up with the most votes (assuming anyone didn't vote for themselves, which seemed unlikely in a classroom full of potential heroes) would be elected Representative of Class 1-A. Slips of paper were passed around, pencils scraped softly against paper, suspicious and speculative eyes cast covert glances about the room and gave it all an air of terrible suspense.
Not ready to commit to anything just yet, Shoto gave himself one last second to think it through. He tap-tap-tapped his pencil on against his chin, giving in to the urge to nibble on the end absently after a half-second's struggle.
A sequence of taps later, and another scribbling sound joined the chorus.
Whether sabotaging a very important step in his goal to becoming Number One, on his own power, was worth thumbing his nose at his father was a difficult thing to decide. But at the end of the day, he figured, it couldn't be that terrible, could it, living without your nose?
When the voting was finally announced, Yaoyorozu Momo had 2 votes instead of 1, and Todoroki Shoto had zero.
The bell had rung, first period had ended, and it was now time for lunch.
Shoto moved robotically forwards as another person received their lunch and tray from the famous lunch hero, Lunch Rush. Loud voices echoed throughout the large cafeteria, careening off the large windows and traveling over and under the numerous tables spread out for the students' use, contributing to the cheerful cacophony of countless hungry students socializing within the same space.
The line had been long at the start, but only a minute in and Shoto was nearly at the front. Another person moved forward, and he barely stopped himself from ramming into the student in front of him: a tall student with a Mutant Quirk that gave him, upon closer inspection, orange, finger-like appendages for hair.
Sweat trickled down his right arm, quickly turning to ice before it could roll down to his hand. His left felt hot and swollen, like a carton of milk that had been left out in a warm room.
This had been a terrible idea.
The line moved forward again, and it was finally only one person left before Shoto.
What had he been thinking? Spiting Father was all well and good, but what had possessed him to think this was in any way an intelligent decision?
His eyes darted to the right as a group of students (support students, from the look of their quirks and the bits and pieces of random materials they seemed to be arguing over) brushed past him, a piece of unidentifiable metal being waved about nearly catching on his shoulder.
Shoto felt his own breath catch, and he was incredibly relieved to see that it was finally his turn in the line.
His arm itched, and he absently scratched at it as he stepped forward.
"Welcome to U.A. High's cafeteria! Anything you order will be put on your student ID card, to be paid for at the end of the month! If you have any questions, the staff member at the end of the line can answer them for you. My name is Lunch Rush, and you can order lunch A, B, or C, which is either Vegan Curry, Katsudon, or today's special, which is poached swordfish steak with barley rice, assorted pickled vegetables and miso soup with tofu, in that order. Do you have any allergies, dietary or religious requirements I need to be aware of?"
All of this had been said in a single rushed breath, somehow understandable despite the speed and the way Lunch Rush hadn't stopped the movement of his Quirk that allowed for incredibly fast multitasking. Shoto felt dizzy just thinking about it, and also slightly ill.
"I…" the words stuck in his throat. He coughed once, hoping to clear it, and rubbed his arm. "I would like… the. B lunch, please. And no allergies or anything to speak of."
A beat, then: "…Thank you."
"Happy to be of service! Have a fulfilling meal and a wonderful day!"
So saying, the famous Lunch Hero handed Shoto a tray with miso soup, a small plate of pickles and a large bowl of katsudon, which he had somehow managed to produce in the second between blinks of his eyes. Shoto was then gently nudged along by the back of one of the hero's gloved hands, and he obediently carried his tray towards the staff at the register.
"I would like to pay in cash," he said, before the staff member could do more than open her mouth. The woman (laugh lines around her eyes, comfortably rounded face, about the age of his next-door neighbor's Aunt) looked briefly ruffled, but was quick to smile at him and say, "Are you sure dear? As a student at this school, it is simply much easier to create a tab and pay it all off in one go. It's so much harder for your parents to keep track of your spending if it's all over the place."
That's the whole point, Shoto didn't say. His side itched in a long fiery line from his hip to his underarm, and he longed to scratch at it.
"That's all right, thank you," he said politely instead. "I'm sure they won't mind." The hands holding his tray tightened so they didn't waver, and he kept his eyes on the gentling swaying surface of his miso-soup as the staff lady gave a little sigh.
"Well, it's up to you, I suppose," she said. "That will be 350 yen, please."
Shoto removed the 500 yen coin tucked into his blazer pocket for this very purpose and accepted the change without overly jostling his tray.
"Enjoy your lunch!"
He gave a quick little bow of his head and turned, intending to find a seat and eat as quickly as he could. The room was getting fuller by the moment, and rowdier too. The noise was tiny little hammers hitting the base of his skull, like his head was a giant nail for his errant thoughts to vengefully hammer into place. The sooner he ate and left, the better.
He made it one, two, three steps before faltering.
Everywhere he turned, the only spaces were between groups of anywhere from two to six, long tables already falling into zones of friendship, with no spaces left for the odd one out.
Shoto forced himself to start walking again, calmly, like nothing was wrong, even as his eyes skittered from table to table, seeing spaces become smaller and smaller as groups of twos and threes and fours squeezed together to make room for more groups of threes. One by one, the available spaces were disappearing, and though he knew it was irrational, Shoto could feel a swell of sickening panic begin to wind through his organs, pulling at all the carefully controlled parts of him and trying to tear it all down and apart.
Would it be strange if he at his lunch outside? Was that even allowed? A space at the table he was walking past opened and Shoto paused, mid-step, only to jerkily put down his foot and move on in the next instant as the space was immediately filled.
Panic tasted of iron in his mouth—iron and ash, iron and ash.
Not this script, Shoto thought faintly, as the world started to get blurry around the edges, sound fracturing in random places and leaving only snatches of unintelligible sound. Not here, not like this.
"—roki! Todoroki, hey, over here!"
The pieces to the puzzles flew together, synapses finally connecting as sound traveled clearly into his ear, through his ear canal, and into his brain.
He snapped his head in the direction of the call, his labored breathing catching in his chest as blond hair with a streak of black—carefully styled today, so that it would lie down flat—bobbed up in down in time with the raised hand waving in his direction. Two eyes—one blue, one gray—traveled from that arm to the sides of it, marking fluffy pink, spiked-red hair and shark teeth, squinted-red eyes under a fringe of blond hair, a female uniform worn by an invisible person, and a toothy smile and a head of slick black hair.
His feet moved without his permission, taking him around a line of healthy potted plants, between tables of chattering third years and over to the back of the cafeteria, where the end of one table was mostly taken up by 1-A students.
"Yo!" Kaminari said, flopping his hand weirdly in greeting. He grinned at Shoto, though that grin slowly slipped off his face when Shoto didn't respond, or even do more than continue to stand blankly in front of the table.
"Uh… I mean… hi. Um. Todoroki. Do you, uh, want to—"
"Oi, idiot, if you've got something to say, fucking say it! Your stuttering is getting on my fucking nerves!" Explosions shouted suddenly, and banged his fist down on the table for emphasis. Everyone flinched, though they recovered quickly, most of them shooting Explosions annoyed looks and exasperated rolling of their eyes.
Shoto had taken a step back at the sudden noise, shoulders and legs tensing for a quick escape. When he recognized what had happened a second later, he did his best to straighten out his body and rid it of tension, annoyed at the display of weakness.
"Come on Bakugo, there's no need for that, is there? Take a chill pill!" Shark Teeth stepped in, waving his chopsticks under the boy's nose teasingly.
Explosions only snarled and swiped at the offending chopsticks with his own, and an impromptu battle commenced, two fierce fighters determined take the other's chopsticks down. The others at the table began cheering immediately, the one with the black hair (Elbows, from the changing room) taking up a chant and starting to bang his fists on the table.
The noise quickly escalated, to the point where the lunch monitoring staff showed up at their table to ask them to quiet down. The students dutifully apologized and promised to keep the noise down, but the second the staff member left, the duel commenced once more—though quietly this time, and with less cheering and swearing.
Through it all, Shoto continued to stand, his feet nailed to the spot. His left side ached like an old wound, and his right began to faintly mist as his control started to slip.
This had been a terrible idea.
"Thank you, Saito-san," Shoto said quietly, taking the offered lunch box, delicately folded in a dark blue handkerchief.
Saito-san smiled in that way she had where it didn't quite meet her eyes, bowed shallowly, and quickly turned back to the kitchen. Shoto held the lunch for a moment longer, eyeing it with unexpected weariness.
He knew what it contained without having to look:
Fish, broiled and unsalted, with poached or steamed vegetables in three different colors. Brown rice, with a small side of pickled radish or cucumbers, a portion of sautéed burdock root and carrots. A slice of apple, or part of an orange.
All of it purportedly calculated to fit in with the food schedule he was required to religiously stick to, or face the consequences come his next physical.
He had been eating slightly different versions of this particular lunch for as long as he could remember. In recent years, as Shoto grew older and became more comfortable fighting back and making demands, Father had loosened up the reigns with breakfast, allowing him to eat what he wanted for the most part, as 'he was the one who would feel the consequences of a lack of energy from his lack of forward-thinking, and from indulging in his childish impulses.' Father hadn't been wrong, really, but Shoto had relished the chance to do anything outside of the rigid structure Father had set for him.
Dinner, too, would sometimes change. If Fuyumi was able to catch Father in a good mood, sometimes he would allow her to cook something different, accepting the excuse that she wasn't able to replicate Saito-san's amazing cooking, and could he perhaps let it go just this once?
Father could easily have his attention sidetracked to the news with a well-placed comment on those nights, when his mood was mellow and there was no oppressive cloud above their heads, there to rain thunder and lightning down on the meal at the slightest hint of rebellion. Once he was caught up monologuing about something that had caught his attention, Shoto and Fuyumi were able to enjoy the peace of the other's presence, the delight of unfamiliar food (soba was his favorite, because Saito-san never made the noodles right, but Fuyumi's shrimp gratin was easily his second) and the knowledge that they had to take advantage of this peace while they could, however long they could.
Sometimes those nights would end badly; still, what time they were allowed always lingered fondly in his memory.
Now, with the sense-memory of his first two, relatively-successful days of high school lingering in his veins—with all their good and bad, all of it different and overwhelming but necessary, the first step in the rest of his life—Shoto found himself surprisingly reluctant to bring along any more of the old him.
"Shoto, do you have a minute?"
Shoto jerked his attention away from his contemplation, tensing only long enough for his brain to recognize the voice as Fuyumi's, before expelling the tension in one long breath.
Breakfast was over; Father had left to answer a phone call; Saito-san was in the kitchen, the door left open, letting the clatter of dishes cover any words they might exchange. Otherwise, Shoto imagined Fuyumi wouldn't have risked speaking at all.
"I have something for you," she said, her voice a low rumble, barely above a whisper.
He instinctively shifted his body to hide the passing of an envelope, both of their eyes darting in different directions, just in case.
"What's this?" Shoto asked, just as quiet. He was pretty sure he knew the answer from the feel and sound of the envelope, but he wasn't sure of the reason for it.
"The pro-hero Lunch Rush has been at U.A. for years now, did you know?" She asked, apropos of nothing.
Shoto blinked at her in confusion. "No? I mean, I didn't know that. Is there a reason you're bringing him up now?"
Fuyumi gently brushed at the hand holding the envelope in his pocket, tilting her head meaningfully. "Lunch Rush makes tasty, affordable lunches for all staff and students at the UA. I've talked to an acquaintance of mine who has a sibling in UA, and she said that they're just as good as any restaurant, and healthy too."
Shoto was starting to see where this was going. His fingers clenched around the envelope, feeling the indentations from the few coins within it digging into his skin.
"Nee-san," he began, uncomfortable, but she was quick to interrupt him, everything from her voice to her body language radiating sincerity.
"Take the money, Shoto. I make decent money from my part-time job at the nursery, and I don't have anything to really spend it on other than clothes and the occasional trip with friends, so this isn't going to hurt my savings. I want you to try something different than those bland, cookie-cutter meals Father always makes us eat. I get the chance to eat something different every once in a while, but you don't. Let me do this for you, please."
The sound of running water stopped, and Shoto flicked his gaze to the paper doors and strained to hear for any other noises, aware they were running out of time.
The coins gently clicked together as he shifted, unsure; but her eyes urged him to agree, the hand that had moved up to his arm squeezing gently, always gently, and that was enough to persuade him.
Feeling a sudden burst of warmth that had him blinking his eyes to take away the sting, Shoto nodded jerkily, once. They both turned away when footsteps began heading in their direction, and by the time Father had entered the room, Fuyumi was quietly sitting, and Shoto was gone.
He appreciated what Fuyumi had been trying to do: she knew that she had a lot more chances to do different things than he did, and she had tried the best she knew how to let him try out the parts of life that he was missing. The thought of doing something Father had expressively forbidden, even behind his back, had been very compelling when he'd had time to consider it. It had helped give him that last nudge he needed to get up when the bell rang for lunch, his lunch box (still wrapped neatly in its blue handkerchief) tucked inside his desk.
Shoto shifted his gaze to Kaminari—who sat nearest to him at the end of the table—when he broke into loud guffaws as Shark Teeth managed to yank one of Explosions's chopsticks out of his hand with his own, and Explosions's face turned bright red in response.
With the way his stomach was snarling at even the thought of eating, whether he got a seat or not wouldn't matter anyway.
Sorry, Nee-san, he thought tiredly, and turned away to leave. I tried my best.
"Eh, Todoroki? Where you going, man?"
Shoto ignored the voice calling after him, mind set on mechanically retracing his steps towards the front of the room, already trying to think of excuses for why his lunch was untouched.
"Hey, what did you say to him, dumdum?"
"I dunno, he just walked off—"
A loud ringing cut through whatever Kaminari had been about to say. Shoto looked up sharply as the speakers announced a Level 3 Security Breach ("That's the intruder alert! Fuck, we gotta get out of here—"). Around him, students everywhere were dropping whatever they had been doing and getting to their feet, a feeling of panic slowly rising with each person that pushed their way to the back and towards the doors.
Feeling inexplicably calm for the first time since entering the cafeteria, Shoto placed his full lunch tray onto the table nearest to him and began to move slowly towards the doors, unable to stop the guilty thought that flittered through his mind:
Saved by the bell.
Later, after they'd all made their way to the classroom (Shoto had been moving slow enough that by the time most of the students had gotten shoved together in a tightly panicked ball in the hallways, he had been able to slip out, find an available chair, and patiently wait out the rush), Kaminari approached him, his face apologetic, body language wary.
"Hey, so… about lunch—"
"Everyone, sit down, please! We need to-there are things to talk about, um, so please sit down and b-be quiet!"
Shoto took the chance to escape what would doubtless be a tedious conversation. He turned to pull back his chair to sit, paused, and glanced up at Kaminari with a deliberately flat look of disinterest.
"Was there something you needed? Class is about to start."
Kaminari winced, looked at the front of the room despairingly, and reluctantly shook his head.
"Nevermind, no biggie."
"Well, then." Shoto sat down while continuing to maintain eye contact, making sure to keep the disinterest blatantly obvious. After a moment, Kaminari reluctantly turned and headed back to his desk.
As Freckles began a stuttering speech about deciding on the class officers, Shoto quietly reached into his desk and felt around till his fingers came across the edges of the cloth still holding his lunch.
They would have a ten-minute break after their next lesson, which would be Foundational Hero Training, according to the schedule. He would have a chance to eat then, if he wanted to.
He should eat it.
Shoto leaned absently back in his chair as Iida sprang out of his own and started harping on something about 'doing my best as the representative of this class'.
(He tucked the unexpected change in representatives in the back of his mind, to be dissected down to its very essence at a later date).
It was a perfectly decent lunch, one many children from low-income families with two working parents would kill to have every day. He was hungry, past the ever-present nausea, and would be even more so by the end of the next lesson. That he was even hungry in the first place, he could only blame on himself, and taking it out on a perfectly decent meal (by tossing the entire thing into the trash, like he desperately wanted to) was below him.
His fingers stopped their rhythmic stroking as Shoto hesitated, torn. In the end, he let his hand slip away and onto his lap.
He was conscious of how very petty he could be, when given the opportunity to actually act on it; but in this particular instance, Shoto wasn't quite able to justify that pettiness the way he normally would, so the food would not be going into the garbage. It would not, however, be going into his stomach, because he'd promised Fuyumi that he would try, and eating it seemed like conceding defeat.
There would be other days, to try again.
As Aizawa-sensei finally dragged himself out of his sleeping bag to announce that they would be doing rescue training with the Pro-Hero 13 and All Might, Shoto pressed his fingers into lingering bruises and used the tingling pain to bring his focus to the present.