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The Hero course is everything Hitoshi hoped for and more.
Lately, he wakes up and can’t believe this is his life. That day Aizawa-sensei dragged him out of Modern Hero History to offer him—him, imagine that—an apprenticeship is still what Hitoshi considers the best day of his life. Now he gets to live in the dorms, and he gets to train with the best of the best because Hitoshi is in the Hero course. All his troubles solved and all his wishes fulfilled, all of it tied up with a neat little bow. And it only took him half a year.
It’s remarkable, if he does say so himself. Mom and Dad are a whole different issue, but… wanting that solved too is asking for way too much. Hitoshi won’t even have to see them again until summer break. Granted, summer break is in a couple of weeks, but… Hitoshi’ll figure it out.
He sighs into his homework. He’s been staring at this math problem for ages, and it’s already incredibly late. It’s probably time to call it a day. He’ll go get a glass of water and then go the hell to sleep. Or, well, try to, at least. Mind made up, he begins his trip down the stairs.
Todoroki is already in the kitchen when Hitoshi walks in.
Hitoshi stops in the doorway. This late, he wasn’t expecting anyone else to still be up. Todoroki has just put something in the microwave and set a time, and he seems completely willing to just stare at whatever is spinning in there until it finishes. Maybe he should come back later…?
No, fuck that. It’s Hitoshi’s kitchen too; he lives here. He steels himself and enters the kitchen.
Todoroki barely looks up, arms crossed in front of his chest. Typical, Hitoshi scoffs silently to himself. The guy lives on a different planet than the rest of them peasants. But for some reason, the class as a whole seems fiercely protective of him. Not that the guy needs it—Hitoshi hasn’t ever even seen him look like he appreciates it.
Hitoshi’s man enough to admit it makes him uneasy. The way everyone else seems to see a side to this guy that Hitoshi just isn’t privy to. Lately, he’s been wondering who’s really in the wrong. Frankly, all Hitoshi sees is a stuck-up, selfish asshole, born into everything someone could ever possibly want and intent on squandering it for fun.
It makes Hitoshi’s teeth ache. So much power wasted on a guy that didn’t even use half of his Quirk until months into the school year. While people like Hitoshi have to scrape and claw at every hard-earned opportunity.
He fills up his glass with water and is on his way out—clean, fast, efficient, nice one, Hitoshi—when he actually looks at the microwave.
To go or to stay, that is the question. Hitoshi’s curiosity will be the death of him. God, is he turning into Midoriya? He sighs quietly. He’s definitely turning into Midoriya.
“You, uh,” he starts awkwardly from the doorway. Todoroki seems to—startle? He turns his entire head to look at Hitoshi, the red of his hair falling away from his scar. “You making popcorn?”
Todoroki doesn’t respond. Hitoshi lets the silence stretch for way too many long, uncomfortable seconds. This fucking dick. Like Hitoshi just goes around brainwashing people for the fuck of it. Well, fuck him for trying to be nice.
He’s sure all of his blood has rushed to his head by now. Hitoshi clenches his jaw and prepares to walk away before Todoroki can step on his pride further.
“No,” Todoroki says before Hitoshi can leave.
Hitoshi stops. Todoroki’s voice is thin and raspy with disuse. His face is as dead as always.
Huh. Hm.
Hitoshi manually erases the very impolite things he was thinking from his brain, lest one of them slip out now that Todoroki is being—well, his own brand of cordial. Back to the matter at hand:
“What the hell have you got in the microwave for five minutes, then?”
Todoroki slowly turns to look at the microwave. He moves like a rusty robot, or maybe a particularly tall slug. Like every micromovement is being made through sheer force of will rather than being the automatic result of his brain ordering his body around.
“Um,” Todoroki says, and then nothing else. It’s the first time Hitoshi has heard him hesitate in any aspect. Then again, Hitoshi has heard the guy speak maybe a dozen words in the couple of weeks he’s been in the Hero course.
“Todoroki?” Hitoshi hazards, because Todoroki has gone back to just staring at the microwave.
“Just—water,” Todoroki says at last. “For tea,” he clarifies after a moment.
Hitoshi gapes. “Water? Dude, no way.”
Maybe Todoroki will vaporize him for this, but Hitoshi can’t let this stand. He walks past Todoroki and pushes the microwave door open. Steam pours out. The microwave’s display cheerily announces that Hitoshi has stopped it with two minutes and twenty-seven seconds left.
“Oh,” Todoroki says faintly behind him.
Yeah, oh.
Hitoshi takes the mug out and closes the microwave door. “Here,” he says.
Todoroki grabs it carefully with his left hand. What’s with this weirdo? He’s fireproof. But he takes the mug like he’s expecting to get burned. Hitoshi watches him tear open a tea bag, put it in the mug, and bounce it a couple times, the water tinting gold. Slowly, like he’s been doing everything else. Almost… gingerly.
“Want the sugar?” Hitoshi asks, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder to the pantry.
Todoroki shakes his head. He stares at the tea, and Hitoshi stares at him. He’s kind of stuck on Todoroki shaking the tea bag as if to get the tea to steep faster; mostly because… that’s something Hitoshi himself has done a million times. On Todoroki, the action seems a little silly. Beneath him. But it fits him now, with his light blue pajamas and his hair all messed up, red and white strands mixing in the middle.
Hitoshi should grab his water and leave. Go back up to his room. Todoroki clearly doesn’t want to talk to him, didn’t even thank him for saving his water from becoming purely steam. But there’s something so… peculiar about him. Outside the obvious. It makes Hitoshi wonder.
He really is becoming as nosy as Midoriya.
The steeping time apparently done, Todoroki takes the tea bag out of the water and tosses it in the trash can. Then, in a manner Hitoshi would dare call hesitant if he were speaking about anyone other than Todoroki, he pushes the tea Hitoshi’s way.
For a few moments, Hitoshi just stares at it. The mug is a slightly darker blue than Todoroki’s pajamas. There’s not much else to be said about it, really. It doesn’t look like the mugs that were in the leftmost side cabinet when Hitoshi arrived, the ones he’s been told came with the dorms. So Todoroki must have brought it from home. Somehow, it fits with the rapidly shifting picture of him in Hitoshi’s mind.
When he looks up, Todoroki is staring at him blank-faced. He’s turned his head to the left a little, as if to hide the scar. Or maybe…
Hitoshi wonders about the eye, the left one. Is it him, or does it look a little cloudy? Maybe he’s imagining it. He takes a sip of the tea. A pleased hum escapes him, and his eyes widen in surprise. Todoroki tilts his head, and Hitoshi feels himself reddening a little.
“It’s really good,” he says, and pushes the mug towards Todoroki.
It is good. Warm and earthy, a little sweet despite there being no sugar in it. Hitoshi wonders if Todoroki’s a tea purist, one of those people who think sugar and milk ruin the authentic taste. He can’t be that much of a purist if he’s drinking bagged tea.
Todoroki hums. He brings his right hand to the mug and… cools it? Then takes a sip. If it were any other day, Hitoshi would have probably missed how Todoroki’s expression changes. As it is, he’s watching him closely, so he sees the slight satisfied quirk of Todoroki’s mouth, the subtle widening of his right eye. The left one, interestingly, doesn’t move much at all.
“It is really good,” Todoroki says softly. He takes another sip. This is maybe the most animated Hitoshi has ever seen him outside of combat.
Hitoshi finishes his water.
“So,” Todoroki starts, halfway through his tea. “Five minutes is too much for water…?”
This is another new one for Hitoshi. He doesn’t think he’s ever had to explain a microwave to anyone.
“Yeah,” he says. “A bit much for anything, really. For most things, a minute or so will do. Two or three at most.”
Todoroki nods slowly and goes back to sipping his tea. It’s Hitoshi’s turn to ask a question. That’s how conversations work. He wonders, out of the two of them, who’s more poorly socialized? Hitoshi grew up a weirdo, but this guy almost has him beat.
“No microwaves in the Todoroki McMansion?” he settles on.
He means it as a dig, and it comes out perhaps a bit too bitter, but if Todoroki notices, he says nothing about it. Only shakes his head the same way he’s done everything: mechanically, gingerly.
Like it hurts. That’s what Hitoshi struggled to put his finger on. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it. Todoroki moves like it hurts to move. The more he stares, the more certain Hitoshi is. He’s seen that kind of movement enough in the mirror to recognize it anywhere.
“Why not use the kettle, then?” Hitoshi asks distractedly.
Todoroki glances at the kettle on the stove, but only for a moment. Then those mismatched eyes are back on Hitoshi.
“I don’t like the kettle,” he says simply.
Whatever, weirdo.
Hitoshi thinks back to what they’ve done lately in practical classes. Last Tuesday they did a mock battle. Thursday was for basic conditioning, and Friday and Saturday for Quirk training. UA is very serious about not overworking them. Even Hitoshi, who is far behind the rest of the class and has to work overtime to catch up, has plenty of time to rest. Aizawa-sensei has really hammered home that a tired Hero is a sloppy Hero, and a sloppy Hero is a dead Hero. The hypocrite, because he barely sleeps more than Hitoshi does.
Yesterday was Sunday, their only day off, and Todoroki left early in the morning and reappeared almost at dinnertime. Hitoshi had asked about him, weirded out by the lack of Todoroki’s dead fish eyes following him in the common room, and Midoriya had said that he was out to see his mother.
“He goes to visit her every Sunday,” Midoriya had said, and Hitoshi had hummed and gone back to his homework, and that had been the end of that.
He’d actually been in the common room when Todoroki returned, getting some pointers on English from Kirishima. Todoroki had walked in and taken his coat off at the door, hanging it neatly in the coat closet. He’d gone up to his room, and Hitoshi hadn’t seen him again until class this morning. But he’d looked perfectly normal. Maybe a little worn out, but after a week of UA’s training schedule, who wouldn’t be?
Today he looks like he can barely move.
Todoroki finishes his tea and drops the mug in the sink. Uncharacteristically, he just leaves it there. Usually, Todoroki is in and out of the kitchen like a ghost, leaving no trace of himself.
Actually, that seems to be how Todoroki moves through life in general. No one would know he was there unless they looked very closely. Hitoshi doesn’t know why, but he wants to look. No, not only that, he wants to see. Comprehend.
There’s something off about Todoroki. Something about Hitoshi’s initial assessment was mistaken. He just doesn’t know exactly how yet. But he’ll find out.
Hitoshi always finds out in the end.
They’re in Hitoshi’s room when he finally thinks about it again.
It’s been months since that night in the kitchen, and in the time since Hitoshi’s life has been turned upside down yet again. Now Aizawa-sensei is not only his teacher, but also his guardian. Rounding out the occupants of the house are Yamada-sensei, of all people, Sensei’s husband (Hitoshi fucking knew it), and a pair of cats that took an instant liking to Hitoshi.
“This is Honey,” he says, pointing to the white and orange cat in the photo he’s showing Shoto. “And that’s Bear.” He points to the all-black cat.
Shoto smiles as wide as Hitoshi’s ever seen him. “They look like they run the house,” he says.
“Are you kidding?” Hitoshi laughs. “They live better than me, one thousand percent. Ten naps a day and no responsibilities.”
“Wish that were me,” Shoto says wistfully.
Who doesn’t. They go back to the eternal burden that is homework for about an hour or so, until Hitoshi’s eyes start warning him that he’s headed straight for a migraine if he doesn’t take a break right this second. He groans, pushing his books aside, and lays flat on his back on the bed. Shoto looks up from where he’s sitting criss-cross on the floor.
“Giving up already?”
“Ugh,” Hitoshi groans again. “Yeah, for sure. I don’t know how much more English vocab I got left in me.”
“Hopefully still enough for the exam.”
“UGH,” Hitoshi groans a third time, throwing an arm across his face. “Shut up, shut up. Don’t remind me. I’m done for.”
Shoto’s resulting laughter is light and unhurried. Hitoshi’s glad to hear it. Shoto’s been… weird lately. Tired. Well, he’s always tired. Now Hitoshi knows that, after visiting his mom on Sundays, Shoto trains with his father. One-on-one training with Endeavor. Once, Hitoshi might have been jealous. After seeing how Shoto comes back every Sunday, more dead than alive, he’s not so sure.
Hitoshi’s tried to hold back his curiosity; he really has. He’s tried telling himself that it’s not his business, that if Shoto wanted him to know, he’d probably already know. But Hitoshi can’t help himself.
There are certain things about Shoto that just… bug him.
Shoto doesn’t eat sugar, ever. He sticks to a bland-ass meal plan that is basically the same foods every day and turns down any offers of sweets from any classmate, even Deku. Shoto’s complete lack of facial expression is not so complete when you’re actually looking at him, but sometimes Hitoshi stares when Shoto thinks no one’s looking at him, and it’s like he’s looking at other people specifically to mimic them.
No judgement, to be clear; god knows Hitoshi’s done the same—but he remembers doing it back in middle school when he started to realize how weird he was compared to his classmates. It doesn’t make sense to him that Shoto, usually so quick on the uptake, hadn’t noticed until now that he needed to do that.
And his eye—Hitoshi is almost entirely certain that Shoto’s left eye barely works, if at all. Whatever gave him that scar (the scar that looks so much like a burn scar, but Hitoshi doesn’t dare go there even in his mind) ruined his vision and hearing at least partially on that side. He never has a conversation where he’s not looking at whoever’s speaking. At first, even though it didn’t really fit with Shoto’s sometimes abrasive personality, Hitoshi thought it was a respect thing. Look at me when I’m talking to you is his mom’s favorite command, so maybe Shoto’s parents are like that too. Mom, Hitoshi thinks, particularly enjoys the way his head snaps up when she says that. Shoto’s mom probably doesn’t have a brainwashing Quirk.
But no. After close observation—and Hitoshi is always staring at Shoto these days, growing more worried by the minute—the only conclusion he could draw was that Shoto is never not reading people’s lips. Sometimes, he seems to rely on that even more than his hearing.
There’s one other thing, though, that Hitoshi just can’t seem to stop thinking about. Compared to everything else, it’s probably not even that important, but…
Shoto doesn’t drink anything hot. Ever.
Mostly, Hitoshi notices because they drink so much tea together. After that first time in the kitchen before summer break, it became a little ritual between the two of them and Yaoyorozu, who, it turns out, was the one to give him that tea bag. Hitoshi had wondered if Shoto was a tea purist (he’s not), but that’s just because he didn’t yet know Yaomomo (she definitely is).
Every time, they sit at the kitchen island and microwave their water before trying a new one of her exotic teas. And every time, Shoto cools the tea down with his Quirk before taking the first sip—every time without fail. Yaomomo, who is constantly on Hitoshi’s ass making sure he’s appreciating the tea correctly, lets both things slide without comment. Why?
She knows something that Hitoshi doesn’t, he’s sure of it. Growing up, Yaomomo ran in the same circles as Shoto. What has she heard that Hitoshi never has?
Hitoshi sits up on his elbow. It’s been long enough. He might as well be nosy openly.
“How come you don’t like the kettle?” he asks.
Shoto looks up from his homework and blinks at him.
“When we were in the kitchen,” Hitoshi explains, feeling sillier by the second. He’s starting to regret saying anything, but they’re already here, so he might as well. “Like, way back before summer break, that first time with the tea. You said you didn’t like the kettle.”
“Oh,” Shoto says. “Yeah. My mom poured one on me.”
Oh, okay then.
What?
Hitoshi short-circuits for a minute or two. Shoto goes back to his vocab words.
The scar. It has to be. But can water really do that much damage? And why would Shoto’s mom…? Well, that’s not really a very difficult question; moms do shit like that. But… well.
Hitoshi hasn’t talked to his own mom in months. He ran the second he got the chance and never looked back. Shoto visits his mom every Sunday. He gets her flowers. He writes her letters.
Shoto talks about his mom like she hung the stars in the sky. Does he know he doesn’t have to? Hitoshi didn’t. He stares as Shoto writes and erases and writes again. Shoto cross-checks his spelling with the textbook. Hitoshi wonders.
“You visit her every Sunday,” he can’t help but point out.
“Yeah,” Shoto says. “She’s at the psych ward in Musutafu General. Long-term care.”
Fuck. Hitoshi should’ve kept his mouth shut. He gnaws at his lower lip.
“Sorry,” he says. Shoto doesn’t look like he minds. But Shoto poker-faces with the best of them. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
Shoto looks up, eyes wide and unbothered. “I don’t mind,” he says. Then he hesitates before saying, a little more quietly, “We’re friends.”
“We are,” Hitoshi says quickly. He doesn’t want Shoto getting the wrong idea. “Just, that must’ve sucked. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
He’s out of practice giving condolences. Shoto, it looks like, is out of practice receiving them. He tucks white hair behind his ear.
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago, and—it wasn’t her fault.”
Hitoshi used to say that too. Mostly because that’s what Mom said to him. You twist my arm, Hitoshi. Aizawa-sensei had a lot to say about that. Anger slices through Hitoshi’s chest like a knife. He tries not to let it show. He doesn’t know anything, after all. Family business.
Still. A Hero’s job is to meddle. Hitoshi takes a deep breath and steels himself. Even if Shoto might not want to hear this—Hitoshi didn’t either, at first—maybe he needs to.
So Hitoshi says, “It wasn’t your fault, either.”
They’re barely sixteen. For it to have been ‘a long time ago’—he must’ve been a kid. Hitoshi pictures Shoto, nine years old. Seven. Five. What he might’ve looked like without the scar.
Unbidden, Hitoshi’s own face pops up in his mind. Chubby cheeks and wide eyes. What can a kid do to deserve something like that?
He can’t think of a single thing.
Shoto tilts his head and frowns a little. Then his frown smooths out into something calmer than his usual resting face. He dips his head once in acknowledgement. That’s enough for Hitoshi. He picks his book back up.
They study in silence for a few more minutes. Then, out of nowhere—
“She’d like you,” Shoto says quietly. Hitoshi’s eyes snap to him, but Shoto doesn’t look up. Hitoshi waits to see if he’ll say anything else. Indeed, after a few seconds, Shoto adds, “You could come with me, if you wanted. To visit.”
Hitoshi thinks of the kind of person that could do that to a kid. To Shoto. Then he thinks of the kind of person Shoto admires. How fiercely he hates his father. How he speaks of his mother. She’d like you. He doesn’t know about that. And the other way around—he doesn’t know about that, either.
“Sure,” he says anyway. “We can go get boba, after.”
Don’t go home, he thinks. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s something. Don’t go home.
Shoto smiles at him. His right eye crinkles almost shut. “That’d be nice,” he says.
They go back to their homework. Something in Hitoshi’s chest has loosened, relieving a pain he hadn’t noticed until it was gone. He doesn’t need to know the whole story just yet. Shoto’s going to be fine. Hitoshi will make sure of it.