Fire is a primitive resource. It is one of the first things humans learned to harness in their infancy, something that has been used for millennia to control and create. Fire quirks are, in turn, some of the most common types of quirks.

Shoto has always hated that idea. Hated the idea that there are children in the world who may have suffered the same way he had, that there were other children who were burned and branded as he was. For as long as he can remember, Shoto has chosen to hide his fire. Partially because his father is a controlling, manipulative and abusive narcissist -

But partly, in turn, because he has never wanted to be the poster child for fire quirks.

Children deserve better than to look up to someone like him.

Children deserve a role model that is whole and complete, someone who is not burnt or scarred or otherwise wicked.

Shoto Todoroki has never wanted to be a role model. In fact, he has wanted to fade into obscurity for as long as he can remember, but Shoto is burdened with glorious purpose.

For all of his self-confidence and skill, Shoto doubts himself. Doubts his ability to be a hero, a role model, or even a good person. He has been taught that all that matters is power, is strength. The grandiose nature of his quirk has been his only redeeming feature for his entire life, and until now he has been okay with it.

All of this is to say that Shoto cannot understand why he has become so consumed with the red haired girl who has been plaguing his dreams for weeks.

He can remember the first time he met Emiko - both as a child and as a teenager. Though their meeting as children can barely count as a meeting, seeing as both of them were unable to actually speak to one another. He was 5, or maybe 6? Either way, that doesn't matter. He'd been sitting in the lobby of his fathers agency, swinging his legs underneath him as he stared at the monstrous clock. Everything that was in that building seemed so huge to him back then, as if it had been made larger with the sole purpose of intimidating whoever entered.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

As a child, he had no concept as to the passing of time. He didn't know whether he'd been sitting there for hours or minutes, but it didn't matter because he was bored.

He'd begun counting the people who walked past him, and had hit 34 twice now, even though it was more likely that 15 people had passed twice. Shoto was never good at counting as a child, something that irked his father to no end. So, he practiced. Each tick of the clock was 1, and he would make it to one hundred before starting again.

He was at 64 ticks and 34 people when he saw her walk in.

Her hair was longer than he'd ever seen before, and the way it caught the light looked like it was on fire. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut in laughter, and she hung from the arm of a dark haired woman in a suit.

The woman was person 35, and she settled the fire haired girl into the seat across from him.

He repeated 36 in his mind until 35 left, and then he just stared at the girl in front of him.

Even as a child, he knew she was pretty. He'd never had much contact with other children, but he was enamored by her. The way the overhead lights caught her hair lit up a blazing halo around her face. Her hair swirled around her and rested over her shoulders, puddling across the seat and over her knees. Her skin was pale and her cheeks were flushed, blush pink spreading across every uncovered expanse of skin.

He lost count of how many ticks he sat there, just watching her. It could have been 10 or it could have been a million and he wouldn't have been able to say otherwise.

The girl in front of him was unlike any child he'd seen before. Her eyes were sad, but she'd seemed so happy walking into the building hanging from 35. He wanted to talk to her, but he knew he wasn't allowed. His father had banned him from speaking to anyone other than a select few people in the entire agency, and even though he was barely 5 years old, he knew better than to disobey his father.

Perhaps a part of the reason he was so enamored with the girl was because of the scar she had. It sat across her left eye just as his did, though hers was much smaller and more tame. Either way, as a child, he'd never seen someone who had something so similar to him. He'd never seen a child with a mark across their face that shouldn't have been there, and despite the burning feeling that still plagued him - he found he didn't mind having a scar when it was a part of a match set.

A decade later she'd taken his breath away in much the same way she had as a child.

Her hair still hung loose to her waist, curls floating around her in a fiery crown. Her eyes were still as blue as they were in his memories, though less lined by the sadness he'd seen back then. She was taller, of course, and she carried herself with a confidence few their age did.

He knew she didn't remember him.

She hadn't looked in his direction as a child and she still didn't look at him now. In fact, she seemed to avoid him. She rarely smiled when he was around, her face always set with a sort of grim determination. He couldn't fault her for that, though, since he himself rarely smiled.

The first time she did smile at him, though, it felt as if the world shifted. The bright sound of her laughter during the attack on the USJ was a stark contrast to what everyone else was feeling, but it was a welcome distraction. She made light of their situation, kept him calm and found humor in the darkness they were facing.

Suddenly, his strength didn't matter nearly as much as it once had. Or, maybe it did, but in a different sense. No longer was his strength reserved for himself and proving his worth as a hero - it was used to keep her safe. His strength was no longer his own, but hers too.

It was almost funny how quickly the change took hold. She'd asked him to train with her, and to his surprise, he had agreed. He'd stayed for dinner and gotten to know her aunt, and he'd wanted to tell them the story of the first time he ever saw them, but for all his newfound confidence, Shoto couldn't quite find the words he was looking for.

His hands shook as he sat in the hallway outside her bedroom door as he'd taken to doing in the weeks since she'd returned to him.

His back was pressed against the wall and his eyes were closed, but he could tell in excruciating detail where every piece of art, each faux flower, each line on the carpet was for he had memorized it the first 3 days he found himself outside her door.

This routine of his had started almost accidentally. He'd gone to her room a few days after she returned to school, hoping to talk or catch a glimpse or make sure she was okay. If he was honest with himself, he just needed to be near her.

When he heard the screams bursting from the room, he almost smashed the door to the ground to get to her, but fear kept him rooted in place. As soon as the noise started it finished and he stood there staring at her door like a lovesick fool for what must have been hours.

He remembered the frustration and the powerlessness that enveloped him, then. He'd never truly known what loving another person was like, what putting their wants and needs above your own could do to a person, and the feeling of emptiness was something that frustrated him.

Shoto didn't know whether it was actually love he felt or just fear for someone he considered a friend - one of the only true friends he'd ever had. All he knew was that he wanted to protect her, to be near her. He wanted to see her hair lit up by the streetlights and laugh with her late into the night.

So, because he couldn't bring himself to knock on her bedroom door, he sat. He waited. He slept in the hall and looked like a fool, but at least she wasn't alone.

And now, nearly 3 weeks out, Shoto wasn't surprised when a spiky head of blonde hair started down the hallway in the wee hours of the morning. Bakugo had started coming around 2 and 3 am a week or so ago. Shoto didn't know why or what spurred the decision on, but he didn't mind. Whenever his classmate showed up he felt comfortable enough to leave, to get some sleep in his own bed. A few hours of sleep in his own space and not on the hallway floor did wonders for his aching muscles and tired mind.

"Get out of here, icyhot."

The blonde growled at him, before plopping down with crossed legs on the other side of the door from him.

"Right. Thanks, Bakugo."

Katsuki scoffed, rolling his eyes in response.

"Whatever."

Hiding the soft smile that played on his lips, Shoto stood. He stretched his arms above his head, adjusted his pants and moved quickly down the hall towards his own dorm.

The hallways were quiet at this time, no laughter or yelling or music playing, and Shoto found himself missing the cacophony that normally surrounded him as he walked.

He'd grown up in a silent household. His father never laughed and his brother and sister never spoke to him, so as a child Shoto in turn had become a silent child. He didn't speak until he was almost 2, and even then his words were broken and garbled. It wasn't until he was almost 4 that he was able to speak in sentences. He didn't know how to discern people's emotions from their tone, so he always assumed everyone was angry with him. His siblings were much older than he was, so he never learned how to play with other children. Silence was his default state, and he was content with that for the entirety of his life.

That is, until he walked into the Komatsu household.

Sakura was in the kitchen scream-singing at the top of her lungs cooking dinner and music flowed through almost every room of the house. Living room, kitchen and dining room, the music blended and swelled and Shoto could have died right there and been happy.

While his home served its purpose, it never truly felt like his own. He had no art on the walls, no mementos to remind him of a childhood filled with friends and lessons, because that was not the childhood he'd been given. His bedding was plain and the floors were well kept and properly waxed. His home felt like a hotel - a place he went to rest his head and catch a few hours of sleep before making his way into the world again.

The Komatsu home, though, was full of pictures. They littered every wall and surface available and if it wasn't so charming and cozy it probably would have been overwhelming. Emiko as a child, through each year of school and all of her accomplishments were on full display for every guest to see. Sakura and Emiko smiled out at him from what felt like every angle, and he saw photos of people he'd never seen before and maybe never would again - but he didn't care. He didn't care that the walls he was surrounded by were not his to enjoy or relish in because it felt like getting a hug. The warm lights and the music and the pictures.

Shoto had never felt like that before, and didn't think he ever would again. He was not born to feel as he did then, he was created to be a weapon. A figurehead of something he didn't fully understand then and still didn't now.

It didn't matter, though, he realized as he walked through the hall back to his room. So long as he had people he cared for by his side, he would do whatever it took to keep them safe. If that meant becoming a pro hero, then so be it. It didn't matter what his life became, so long as his friends stayed with him.