"You're our Fathers son, Shouto," Fuyumi had said. The look on her face was guilty when the words left her lips, but she'd said it anyway in a flash of lost composure or sibling spitefulness.
She was ten and Shouto was five. He looked up with confusion, trying to understand why her face said 'guilt' but her posture said 'anger'.
He'd reached to take her hand, to ask her a question, but his quirk had slipped in his youthful excitement and now her hand was pink and blistering.
Father was going to be mad. He'd made a mistake, hero's don't make mistakes.
"And what do you have to say for yourself?" She'd calmed down slightly, her voice softening. But Shouto still trembled, thoughts of women and white hair and burning.
"Sorry," he said, eyes losing focus. Fuymi patted him on the head and he didn't flinch.
"Look at that fire! He's his Father's son, for sure." Mumbled from the crowd, not for him yet he couldn't help but hear it.
Sports festival. He promised himself he'd never use it, but the world had pushed and pushed and Shouto pushed back, twice as hard and oh so fiery. It was agony, letting it loose. Yet no looming figures or white hair or spilled water could quite rival the adrenaline rush, the feeling of anger escaping like a kettle screaming. Shouto screamed, emotion let loose before he could catch himself. His body in the moment and his mind far away. He floated, watching that rage as if in the crowd, watching that fire swallow Midoriya up, tearing his body apart like boiling water on tender flesh.
It's your power, not his.
Midoriya was looking at him from his crumpled spot on the floor. Broken, bleeding; his grin was missing teeth. Shouto thought he was insane, he had to be, because no one played so close to fire, no one smiled when they got burned.
"I did it," Midoriya breathed in disbelief, the words coming out in one tired exhale,"I-I fucking did it."
Shoutos win didn't feel like one. Not at all.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
"You're your Fathers son, through and through."
Endeavor had clapped him on the shoulder, hard. Shouto felt his body jolt at the impact.
He'd, somehow, done something to please the old man. And now Endeavor had conjured this foolish idea that everything was repaired and good and fine. Shouto didn't like it when he touched him.
"I don't think so," he said. It was flat but quiet, quieter than usual. Shouto felt small, like his emotions were burning him up, hot as fire, and leaving nothing but ashes to be spread. The fire made Shouto feel enslaved, out of control, made his eyes lose focus and his mind checked out in self defense. His body wasn't his to have.
Endeavor placed both hands on his shoulders and spun him so they were face to face. Shouto felt his heart drop, his brain go foggy like hot hair on cold glass as he tried to calm his breathing. He placed his own hands on top of his Father's, feeling that natural warmth Endeavor carried everywhere, and just rested them there, unsure of his own intentions or of anything anymore.
His Father spoke in this booming voice. A voice that reminded him of times long ago, of times his brain had blocked out, times that were hardly memories and more so traces of things he'd rather forget entirely.
"You have a fire inside. You and I are much more alike than you think."
Then he walked away, pulling his hands from Shoutos weak grasp, leaving him trembling, heart and lungs crumbled to dust and thrown away.
Shouto walked to the nearest bathroom in their home. Washed his hands. And they didn't feel clean enough so he washed them again. And again. And again.
"Daddy's boy, eh?" Bakugou grumbled in his usual gritty tone. They'd just finished a training exercise, one on one, and now Shouto leaned sweating against a railing as he watched the next two combatants. Shouto had used his flames because he had to, now, or Aizawa would start asking questions and things would get messy. Messier than a couple hand washes or a quick burn could fix.
Bakugou confused Shouto because he never quite said what he meant. Happiness was anger and sadness was anger and Shouto felt as if he was the only one in the world who couldn't distinguish.
"Hey! Don't ignore me, fuckface!"
Shouto blinked at the insult. Or was it an insult? Shouto would never call his friends such a crude name but he supposed Bakugou had more experience with friendship as a whole. No one else seemed to be upset by the names so maybe it was fine. Just the way Bakugou showed he cared.
"Mhm," he responded after a time, trying not to focus on the question or what exactly Bakugou meant by it. He'd done his work, summoned the flames, and now he wanted to float away.
Bakugou didn't leave, though. Ever unpredictable.
"Didn't realise that comment would upset you, IcyHot."
Was that an apology? How strange. "I'm not upset."
"Happy people don't burn themselves, heh, can't say I haven't been there."
Shouto looked down. His left palm was pink and blistering. Oh.
Shouto quickly clapped his hands, without thinking or feeling, burning the other side to match. Controlled and symmetrical. Control was something he didn't quite have and now, in this moment and for a few weeks before, he'd found this one outlet that allowed him control. Shouto. Me. Mine.
It's your power, not his .
Nothing was ever his.
"Hey! Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" Bakugou grabbed his wrists and held them tight, the first syllables of 'Kirishima' on his lips because Shoutos' skin was too hot to hold. Shouto fought for a moment before giving up, standing still and letting the heat recede. As the pain settled in he let his eyes unfocus, staring off past Bakugou's wide eyes as if nothing happened.
Bakugou breathed hard. Maybe angry or scared or confused. Before letting go of Shouto and leaning on the railing again. Shouto was cursed with quick glances from then on.
"I'm my Fathers son."
Midoriya had asked him to do it. Honestly. Truly.
It had been a bad day. A day where Shoutos head felt like a minefield, and he was a lone soldier tasked with navigating the frightening images of white hair and hot water.
Midoriya was perceptive, kind, he'd asked if Shouto was ok and Shouto had said yes.
He'd made a mistake, hero's don't make mistakes.
The training had started and his flames were burning and he'd floated. Far off somewhere where heat was non-existent, or perhaps a strange phenomenon that only appeared in the throes of warm embraces.
Midoriya had prompted him to swing, had told him he would dodge it. Shouto missed his partner's instructions, too caught up in his head, and had swung too early, hitting the other boy with a fist hot and deadly.
Despite all his muscle mass and bulk, Midoriya had crumpled under his fist, falling hard into the dirt and blinking hard to orient himself, bloody face and bloody hands. He winced, touched his face, before looking up at Shoutos' looming figure.
His nose was bleeding, the area around his left eye an angry red. The light from behind Shouto cast a shadow across Midoriya in a way all too familiar.
No.
It couldn't be. Not now. Not after all this.
It's your power, not his.
Shouto gasped, heavy and broken, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep in the scream. He fell to his knees.
The class had come to check on Midoriya, pulling him up. Shouto distantly heard him confirm he was fine and it looks worse than it is.
It didn't matter now, never did. Shouto had spent so long pretending, lying. He moved his hand from his mouth and pressed them over his ears, then through his hair hard enough that stands came loose. Screaming thoughts told him he was confused, a confused pathetic kid. Cracking, crumbling, he was tearing in half and burning up.
Someone held him, a flash of green hair and bloody lips, told him to breathe and held him close. He didn't deserve that contact, he should be locked up, alone.
"That's not true and you know it," Shouto had no clue how much he'd spoken aloud. He crumpled in Midoriya's embrace, clinging like a child to a parent, sinking down until his face was pressed to the other boy's sternum and Midoriya's chin rested on his head. Gasping loud. This show of emotion was never allowed, the one rule Shouto agreed with. But now it had built like a volcanic eruption and Shouto was drowning in the ash.
"I'm him," a ragged gasp, the air was hot,"I'm him, I'm him, I'm-"
Midoriya rocked because he didn't know what else to do, how to save. He held him and rocked untill Shouto stared off into the distance, far away and broken.
"You're you. Don't let yourself be stolen. You're Shouto."
Todoroki didn't believe him.