Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tomura Shigaraki never liked his name. It was always stained with his past—the one he tries to run from but always comes back to bite him. All because of this cursed file, glaring back at him with his name in big, bold letters.

First name: T-E-N-K-O
Last name: S-H-I-M-U-R-A
Age: 15
DOB: April 4th XXXX

He scratches lightly at his neck, staring at the name before grabbing a pen and crossing it out. Rewriting his preferred name next to it, he carefully mimics the bold lettering.

First name: T-O-M-U-R-A
Last name: S-H-I-G-A-R-A-K-I

A slight twitch of his lips forms into a smile, but it quickly drops when the door behind him opens and shuts aggressively.

“Yes, he’s very excited to be meeting you! You have no idea how much this means,” the social worker exclaims, his voice far too cheerful as he speaks to Tomura’s new foster parents. (The sixth set of foster parents in the past two years.) “Especially to a young boy with big dreams.” The worker’s smile is almost palpable, perfect and plastic. “Here he is!”

The man takes a seat in front of Tomura on the ugly blue couch. The leather groans under his weight, and the sound almost makes Tomura flinch. He hunches over slightly, rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the buzzing in his ears.

Tomura doesn’t respond to the enthusiasm. He doesn’t even glance up to meet his new foster parents’ eyes, his gaze fixed on his gloves. Most of his fingers are covered in the warm material, but his pinky and ring fingers are exposed, free from the restrictive wool. Lifting a hand, he scratches at his neck again, only to feel the harsh glare of the social worker burning into him.

“Hello, Tenki,” the woman says as she sits next to him, her tone syrupy and overly sweet. “We’ve heard so many wonderful things about you!”

Curious, he sneaks a glance at her. She has curly brown hair that outshines her otherwise plain features, wearing an ugly red sweater with square patterns and a pair of funky purple jeans. Beside her sits a man—her husband, Tomura assumes—with a stern look and short-cropped hair. He’s dressed neatly in a white button-up shirt and slacks.

A quick glance at her left hand confirms it. The massive diamond ring seems to mock him while he sits in a donated hoodie with a Minecraft block on the chest and baggy cargo jeans, the tear near the hem stitched up in blue thread. His hands drift to the loose threads at the tear, playing with them before looking away.

The social worker falls silent, letting the foster parents try to coax Tomura into talking. After a beat, he cuts in. “He’s a bit shy. Let’s go over the paperwork while he grabs his bag.”

Tomura doesn’t need to be asked twice. He gets up and leaves, feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes following him out of the room.
My health bar almost took a hit.

Their house isn’t anything special. It’s a modern home with four rooms—one for them, an office, and then his room. He assumes it’s the smallest, judging by the size of the other rooms during the tour. He doesn’t mind. As long as he has a place to hide, he’ll make do.

His new room isn’t fancy. A single bed with plain white-and-grey checkered covers, two pillows stacked near the headboard, a small desk with a white lamp, and a closet on the opposite wall. He drags his two bags over to the closet and leaves them there.

Digging through his bag, he pulls out his old model phone and a pair of wired headphones. Society might think wired headphones are bizarre and outdated these days, but they’re within his budget and work just fine. The same goes for his phone—a saved-up allowance from his last foster home helped him afford an older iPhone model.

He gets comfortable near his suitcases, legs pulled up to his chest, and pulls his hood over his head. The colourful falling-blocks game on his screen and its familiar background music help quiet the noise in his mind.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been staring at the bright screen until a sharp knock at his door startles him. He quickly turns his phone off, pulls out the headphones, and shoves them into his pocket before shuffling toward the door.

When he opens it, he’s met with the impassive face of his foster father.

“Dinner’s ready. Clean up and come join us. We’ll go over the house rules.” The man walks away before Tomura can respond.

Reluctantly, he makes his way to the bathroom before heading to the dining table. His plate is set slightly apart from theirs—not far enough to feel like outright rejection, but just distant enough to leave him isolated.

His red eyes fix on the plastic spoon beside his plastic plate, next to a bright orange plastic cup.

They read his file.

An uncomfortable itch pulls at his neck, his already dry eyes beginning to sting. He doesn’t react. He pulls his chair out and sits down, the hard wood digging into him despite the thin excuse of a cushion.

Rich people and their poor taste in comfort. He grumbles inwardly and grabs the plastic spoon.

Before he can start, the woman’s voice interrupts him.

“Oh, no. We start with a blessing first, Tenki.” She reaches for her husband’s hand, flashing Tomura a forced smile.

Tomura looks up at their joined hands, noticing they make no effort to include him. The woman flashes a forced smile, while the man barely spares him a glance. With a resigned sigh, he sets the spoon down and waits, letting them take their bites before cautiously reaching for what looks like fried rice. Instead, the bland texture of tofu assaults his taste buds.

The woman takes a couple more bites, seemingly oblivious to Tomura’s dilemma. “So, house rules,” she starts, her tone firm but attempting to remain cheerful. “We expect you to follow these closely, especially since we’ve been tasked with helping you manage…” She waves her hand vaguely in his direction, her forced smile slipping. “Your problem.”

Tomura’s red eyes narrow on her as her voice trails off. Her smile tightens under his gaze.

“You keep your eyes down, boy,” the man snaps sharply.

Tomura’s throat tightens at the familiar sting of rejection. He’s heard it countless times from foster siblings and adults alike, but the reminder doesn’t make it hurt any less. Gritting his teeth, he drops his gaze back to his plate.

“Love, it’s okay,” the woman- he should really try remembering their name- murmurs, though she doesn’t sound convinced. Clearing her throat, she begins again. “Now, these are the rules, and we expect you to follow them. If you forget, they’re on the fridge, and we’ll give you a copy for your room.” She picks up a folder and slides a neatly printed sheet across the table toward him.

Tomura hesitates before taking the paper, scanning the list quickly.

Miyako & Renji Kawamura House Rules:

1. Keep gloves on at all times.
2. Not surprising.
3. Bedtime is 8 PM. Wake up by 6 AM.
4. Homework will be checked upon completion.
5. Room inspections will occur weekly or as needed.
6. Meals are to be eaten at the table. No food in your room.
7. You are responsible for cleaning your own space and doing your own laundry.
8. Always show respect to others.
9. Never use your quirk without permission.

Tomura stops at the last rule before narrowing his eyes at the top where their names are clearly printed, his lips pressing into a thin line as his hand reaches instinctively to scratch at his neck. Miyako flinches slightly at the motion, though she tries to mask it.

“And keep your hands down,” Renji barks, his voice cutting through the tense silence. Tomura drops his hands to his lap immediately.

“U.A.’s entrance exam is in a week,” Renji continues, his tone firm and unyielding. “You’ll prepare for it properly, and you will attend. The heroes there can monitor you and that quirk of yours. It’ll be better for all of us.”

Tomura nods mutely, but the loud bang of a hand slamming on the table makes him flinch.

“Answer with words, boy,” Renji growls.

He licks his chapped lips. “Yes,” Tomura rasps, his voice dry and hoarse.

Military types. Wonderful. His anxiety makes it hard to breathe, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. I think my health bar just took a hit.

Chapter Text

The week leading up to the exam is miserable—or whatever other synonym Tomura can come up with for "bad." The Kawamura family is rich—still is, probably. They have so much money to throw away on useless things. Tomura knows that Mr. Kawamura works in a business that provides support gear for top-tier heroes, while his wife runs a fashion business. Their money gets spent on lavish parties and random trinkets for the house, like the chandelier they’ve installed above the dining table.

It doesn’t make sense. Their house is only four bedrooms. A chandelier? Really? But who is Tomura to judge? If he has that kind of money, he’d buy the latest Nintendo Switch with all the games. Maybe even the world's best PC setup, so he can play every game online. Oh, the dream... But that dream is currently being crushed by all this studying.

The Kawamuras have books—book after book—on everything that might show up on the entrance exam. Tomura flips through them mindlessly, occasionally zoning out, staring at a wall or a lamp, or fixating on a single word until it blurs into nothing.

He’s not dumb. In school, topics come easily to him—he understands things as soon as they’re explained. However, there’s always a weakness in every playable character. His arch-nemesis is writing. His hand cramps up, leaving him with his head on the desk, staring blankly at his fingers. It’s hard to write when half of your fingers are covered and your grip on the pen keeps slipping. He tries not to stress about that. After all, the exam is tomorrow, and he feels nervous—not unusual for him. He’s always anxious. He just doesn’t want to face whatever punishment this foster family might come up with.

Tomura learns to find patterns in every foster place, each with its own set of rules for "villainous" kids and punishments on a scale. He learns to turn his mind off when he discovers what those punishments might be. Something about this particular family tells him he doesn’t want to find out. Ever.

-

Standing outside the gates of the exam hall, Tomura stares at a massive building that looks like it’s made of glass, though no matter how hard he squints, he can’t see inside. He doesn’t linger on it too long. The bag slung over his shoulder feels heavier than usual as he walks through dark halls, passes checkpoints, and grabs his paper. It lists his name, age, seat number, and ID number. The photo they took stares back at him—his white hair a mess, covering his eyes, his expression aimed more at the person behind the camera than the camera itself. His lips are pulled tight—not even a smile.

He snorts at the photo. “Not the best, not the worst,” he mutters, chuckling to himself as he makes his way to his seat, chewing on his lip. By the time he reaches the back of the room, he almost lets out a huff. This is exactly why he won’t be joining the hero course. You’d have to fry him before you’d catch him running around like a maniac or punching through walls.

The chatter around him grows louder, and he notices some students sitting next to middle school classmates. Glancing to his side, he realizes he’s seated next to some old classmates as well. Just great. Just what he needs.

"HELLOOOOO!" A man with long hair pulled into a strange style, flashy orange glasses, and an ugly leather jacket screams, effectively getting everyone’s attention.

Tomura’s eyes widen. His head tilts slightly to the side, and he scratches his neck. Level 4 boss: Present Mic.

"Now that you’re tuned in," Present Mic continues, grabbing the microphone from its stand. "Let me hear ya'!"

The hall stays silent, the stress of the room louder than any voice.

"Staying casual? Hmm? Well, I'll get to the point then. This is how the practical exam goes down. YOU GUYS READY!?" he shouts. Silence again. "Tough crowd," he mutters, adjusting his glasses before the screen behind him switches slides.

All Tomura understands is that there are three bots, ranging from level 1 to level 3, and an arena trap that gives you no points. The game sounds fun. He leans forward, eyeing the map, but then sits up straight, feeling the weight of his gloves.

Right. His red eyes narrow as he stares at the tips of his fingers, placing them carefully on his lap and pressing them into the fabric of his pants. The gloves almost mock him.

Level rank: Impossible.

“You’ll head to your specified battle center. Good luck!”

Tomura glances at his paper, snatching it up and looking closely at the battle center.

"Oh, cool. We’re on the same fighting grounds." A guy sitting to his left glances over at Tomura's paper.

Slowly, Tomura turns to look at him, meeting golden bird-like eyes. He traces the guy’s smudged eyeliner, pushed-back golden hair, and massive red wings.

He scoffs. "What? You want to be a hero but can’t seem to keep your bug eyes out of other people's papers?" Without hesitation, he grabs his bag and stands up.

"Oh, come on, man. I’m just trying to make friends here." The guy follows him with a grin.

"Friends? This is an exam. The chances of us seeing each other again are closer to 0%, so why not go make friends with—" Tomura’s eyes scan the room, landing on a girl with bunny ears. "Oh, another zoo freak." He looks back at the bird-man.

The bird-man tilts his head, his smile faltering. "That was kind of mean..." he trails off. Tomura almost feels bad. Almost.

He blinks at him, then scoffs. "Oh no, the future hero’s feelings are hurt. My bad."

Tomura doesn’t hear anything else from bird-brain as he walks ahead, focusing on his path.

Here's the text edited to maintain present tense throughout, with some minor adjustments for flow and clarity:

-

The 10-minute timer broadcasts loudly for everyone to see. Tomura stares at it from his spot, unaware of the camera pointed down at him. His red eyes narrow at the seconds ticking down ever so slowly.
"Are you serious?" he mutters to himself, almost snarling. "When it’s a test, those 10 minutes fly by fast. But when I don’t care, it feels like an hour." He grumbles angrily.

He scans the area and settles onto a random piece of equipment. Shrugging off his sleeves, his phone slips out of his pocket, and he opens his favorite game. Glancing up at the timer, he sees it already ticking down to 9 minutes.

"Whatever," he mutters.

He returns to his game, his eyes glued to the screen and fingers tapping away. Just as the block he places locks into position, a shadow falls over him.

With a precise tap, the block falls perfectly between the blue and pink pieces, locking into place. His high score flashes across the screen, and he allows himself a fleeting moment of triumph.

A low whistle breaks his focus. He turns to find sharp blue eyes staring down at him.

"Didn’t know people still played the classics." The black-haired guy grins, his tone casual, as if they’re old friends. "Why aren’t you out there fighting the big robots or something?" Without waiting for permission, he plops down beside Tomura.

"Who said you could sit there, dumbass?" Tomura snarls, irritation flaring up.

The guy rolls his eyes and leans back as if he owns the place. "I don’t need your permission," he scoffs, a smirk tugging at his lips. "How’d you even sneak that in? They took our devices at the checkpoints."

Tomura rolls his eyes, unfazed, and goes back to his game.

"Ay, put the yellow between the green and blue—corner," the guy says, pointing to the edge.

Tomura refuses. "Fuck off." He places the block anywhere but there.

"Your loss," the guy shrugs, flopping back next to him and stretching out. Silence falls between them.

Tomura’s leg taps rapidly on the ground as his eyes flick up from his game every so often, wary of being targeted by the stupid robots.

"Would you stop that?" the guy grumbles, tilting his head to the side as he watches Tomura. "You’re making me anxious."

Tomura shoots him a glare. "I’m sorry, did my discomfort ruin your zen?"

The guy shrugs. "You said it, not me." Another moment of silence. "Name’s Dabi," the guy speaks again. Oh my gosh. This guy-

Irritated Tomura mockingly looks around.

"What are you looking for?"

Tomura looks back at him, shrugging in mockery. "Who asked."

Dabi’s eyes flash with irritation, but before he can respond, he shoots up abruptly. "Shit, he’s good."

Tomura follows his gaze and sees the bird guy using his feathers as swords—quick, efficient, taking down the three-pointers as if they’re one-pointers. The bunny girl matches his flow effortlessly.

Tomura runs a hand through his white hair, watching them from afar as he holds the strands back. "Since when were pros allowed to try for the exam?" he grumbles. "So unfair."

Dabi laughs. "Woah, as if you’re trying right now—" He pauses, looking at Tomura. "Wait, is that your quirk? Sit and take down robots without moving?"

Tomura rolls his eyes, cutting off the ridiculous accusation. "I’m not overpowered like that, dipshit."

"Wow, aren’t you a ray of sunshine," Dabi scowls.

Red eyes meet blue eyes. Tomura’s scowl deepens. "You’re more than welcome to move."

Dabi grins. "Nuh." He flops back again, getting comfy. Tomura notices the stack of bracelets and black-painted nails as Dabi puts his hands behind his head, before looking back at his phone, looking at his nail beds all ripped and scarred. 

Tomura’s eye twitches. "What kind of stupid name is Dabi?" he mutters.

Dabi rolls his eyes. "It’s what I go by."

Tomura snorts. "So, you’re just an angsty teen."

“As I said before, ray of fucking sunshine,” sarcasm coating his words. "Well, then what’s your name?"

"Tomura Shigaraki."

Dabi stares at him, unamused. "Lame."

Tomura’s scowl deepens. "Having a normal name? Want me to go by some stupid nickname?"

"It’s not stupid." Tomura side-eyes him. "Whatever. You don’t want to be a hero, or are you just scrawny and weak?" Dabi rolls his eyes. 

"No. The idea of heroism is stupid—" He cuts himself off, unwilling to rant about society’s warped ideals. "Plus, it’s only a matter of time before hybrids take over."

Dabi arches a brow, watching two kids effortlessly take down robots. "Huh, that’s a thought…wait, you’ve met them?"

Tomura whips his head around, almost offended. "No." His denial is sharp, final. "I…talked to the bird for two minutes. He skimmed my paper and said we’re in the same area or whatever."

Dabi hums, sitting up straighter to get a better view of the red-winged guy. "He’s got the looks, speed, strength…strategy…"

Tomura watches too, caught in the smooth precision of his movements. "His XP is high."

Dabi snorts. "Oh, so you’re a game freak." Tomura scowls but doesn’t deny it.

"But you’re right," Dabi mutters, eyes glued to the guy. "So…the phone?"

Tomura exhales, clearly more annoyed now. "I said it’s support gear for my quirk." A beat of silence stretches before Tomura adds, almost reluctantly, "It isn’t support gear for my quirk."

Dabi bursts out laughing, the sound loud and rough. Tomura flinches, his shoulders hiking up defensively, almost covering his ears, his hair hiding most of his face as he watches Dabi slap his knee, doubling over.

"Fuck, you’re a genius! Why didn’t I think of that?" Dabi says, struggling to catch his breath.

"Because you’re a dumbass," Tomura says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Dabi stops laughing, his grin fading as he glares at Tomura.

"And—" Tomura starts, but cuts himself off as a large shadow looms over them both.

"I guess someone else is interested in your game…" Dabi mumbles, his voice low as he turns around.

Tomura’s eyes widen, his breath catching at the sight of the massive robot towering over them. "Oh."

“That sit-and-do-nothing quirk would be useful right now…” Dabi mumbles, grabbing Tomura as he gets up slowly.

Chapter Text

Two things run through Tomura's mind.

First, Dabi grabbing his hand without hesitation. Second, are they seriously putting students in danger right now as an exam?

He didn't even do anything and yet feels targeted. Someone probably has something against him- an adult or just a bored hero. Or maybe the examinees need to see him use his villainous quirk- which he won’t use, at all.

He snaps out of his dilemma, feeling his glove slip slightly, and yanks his hand back. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, teeth almost bared at the dark-haired teen, fingers pulling the glove down.

Dabi nearly shouts, panic lacing his voice. “That shouldn’t be your biggest problem right now.” His eyes dart back at the giant metal box as he steps back.

Tomura refuses to agree, already turning away and breaking into a run, with Dabi hot on his heels. The giant robot’s leg crashes down nearby, sending shockwaves through the ground. Dabi’s laughter erupts behind him, loud and unhinged.

Insane. He’s insane.

Ahead, Tomura sees other students chasing after points, barely glancing back before also breaking into a sprint, getting away from the giant metal box, while he and Dabi focus solely on escaping. The air turns icy before a sudden lick of heat flares to his left. He turns his head just in time to see blue flames burst from Dabi’s palms, leaving him momentarily stunned.

“Now? Now you want to do something?!” Tomura’s voice cracks, his breath ragged.

Dabi doesn’t answer, only laughs and turns to face the massive metal machine, his hands glowing with blue fire, Tomura eyes widens, pausing his escape plan - not because he ran out of breath and accepted fate .

A streak of red feathers shoots past them, then a whirlwind of crimson slicing through the air above their heads. The 0-pointer creaks, frozen in its spot and swaying gently before tilting back away from them. Bird-face hovers above, hardly breaking a sweat, before standing in front of them, back facing the bot as he rolls his shoulders.

“TIME’S UP!” a voice booms over the speakers, followed by a loud buzz.

Tomura drops to his knees as his body tries to get rid of any anxiety left, he gasps for air as he looks at the robot before looking up at the bird, while Dabi stands frozen, staring in disbelief at the robot’s fallen form. The ground trembles as the metal colossus hits the earth, leaving behind an eerie stillness.

Dabi snaps out of it first, muttering a curse under his breath, the blue flames dying down around his arms, his long sleeve burnt but he doesn't seem to mind, patting out some flames crawling up his arms. But Tomura’s sharp eyes catch the faint scorch marks along his hand.

“You guys okay?” Bird-brain lands beside them with a soft thud, breaking the silence.

…

“Do you need to see the medic?” he asks again, his golden eyes shifting from Dabi’s wide-eyed stare to Tomura’s hunched figure.

Dabi ignores him, his gaze fixed on the wreckage behind. Tomura stands up slowly, adjusting his gloves and licking his cracked lips.

“All that for zero points? A bit dramatic, Birdie.” Dabi mutters, earning a flat look from bird-brain.

Tomura scoffs. “Rescue points, dumbass.” He mutters something under his breath, but the other two hear it clearly: “Gains more XP… stupid bird for brains.”

“Hawks.” His wings twitch a bit as feathers return back to him, organising themself carefully, he then stretches them out, glances towards them before shaking them and letting his wing sit back comfortably.

Dabi and Tomura exchange glances, both visibly annoyed rather than grateful for the intervention. Mutual dislike for bird-brain flickers between them.Dabi’s lips curve into a grin before falling flat, while Tomura’s scowl deepens. They turn back to him, their irritation barely masked before they look up at the sky, both having the same idea. 

Dabi gestures lazily toward the sky. “That one?”

Tomura frowns. “That’s a crow, dumbass.”

“As if you know what a hawk looks like.”

Tomura scoffs, his throat dry from the run. “I know they’re not crows.”

A rustling of feathers cuts through their bickering. Hawks tilts his head, his golden gaze narrowing slightly. “That’s my name. Not bird-brain.” A flash of irritation painting his face.

Tomura notes that his eyes have some sort of eyeliner around them, a bold choice for- wait, are those just his natural eye-shape? Is that even eyeliner? Wait…his parents named him Hawks?

Red and blue eyes lock with golden eyes before flicking back to each other. Dabi’s grin returns, lazy and sharp, while Tomura’s expression sours even further.

“Great. Another nickname,” Tomura mutters, throwing up his hands in frustration.

“I’m Dabi,” Dabi offers casually, nodding toward Tomura. “And this idiot’s Shigaraki.”

Tomura turns on his heel, muttering curses under his breath as he walks toward the exit. The other two follow, Dabi chatting idly with Hawks about who-knows-what while Tomura hunches over, hands buried in his pockets.

-

The sound of spoons scraping ceramic plates fills the room. The aroma of roasted vegetables and seitan, some sort of substitute for meat that he didn't mind, wafts from the table. A plate of warm rice sits untouched while he focuses on finishing the vegetables first. Something that he notices is that apparently, stupid rich people want to mimic European etiquette. Chopsticks are rare here, and meat seems to be a sin, which is stupid but he isn't going to complain about organic and non-GMO plant based-diet .

“Cake will be served after dinner, Tenki,” Ms. Kawamura’s cheerful voice breaks through Tomura’s thoughts. “You deserve a sweet treat after getting accepted into UA! I hope you like strawberry cake.”

Right. UA. He’s made it into the department of General Education, Class 1-E.

Tomura was genuinely surprised when he woke up to find an envelope waiting for him, inside a projection of some sort that startled even Mrs. Kawamura, however, quickly melted into a pleasant smile while she watched a teacher congratulating him on his acceptance into UA General Education. The bright "CONGRATULATIONS" with his scores felt almost mocking as he watched the video once... twice... okay, maybe a few times in private. He wasn’t shocked to see he scored a 0 in the practical exam, but his written exam scores hover just shy of the 80s.

His theory for getting into General Education? They’ve probably read his file and noted his quirk. Everyone knows students in General Education have a slim chance of transferring into the Hero Course, especially if they catch the teachers’ attention.

But in Tomura’s case, it doesn’t feel like they’re giving him a shot at the Hero Course. No, it feels more like they want to keep a close eye on someone with a quirk as dangerous as his.

Tomura blinks, mumbling softly, “Thank you. Cake sounds nice.”

His words seem to ease Mr. Kawamura slightly.

Ms. Kawamura’s smile brightens. “Good! Now finish your dinner, and I’ll bring you a slice-”

“Why aren’t you in the Hero Course?” Mr. Kawamura’s sharp voice cuts through the room like a knife.

Tomura freezes, his gaze dropping to his plate. “Not enough po-”

“There wasn’t a single point.” Mr. Kawamura’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “I’ll ask again: Why didn’t you get into the Hero Course? Are you planning to be a villain? Is that what this is?”

Tomura’s breath hitches. His fingers dig into his thighs as he stammers, “No, that’s not it. I-”

He can’t finish. There’s no reasonable excuse. Running isn’t his passion. The physical demands aren’t either. And there was no way he could score enough, if any, points with his quirk. It was too risky to use, especially with so many students around.

Mr. Kawamura’s voice is cold. “Answer. Honestly.”

Ms. Kawamura places a hand over her husband’s. “I’m sure it’s better this way, love.”

Better this way.

A double meaning.

It’s better he doesn’t learn about heroes, better he doesn’t associate with them—doesn’t disgrace the title. Better he doesn’t even bother. Of course, he couldn’t get into the Hero Course. The thought alone is ridiculous. A murderer in the Hero Course? Someone with a quirk that kills? He can’t even hold his own belongings without subconsciously lifting a pinky. What would happen if he held someone’s hand? If he held someone? He can’t. He can’t hold anything. Nothing-

His fingers itch, scratching at his throat, his eyes welling up before he’s roughly yanked to his feet and dragged to the basement. Darkness swallows him, but the scratching doesn’t stop. His hands are torn from his neck, and something heavy is forced onto his wrists. His gaze locks onto the quirk-suppressing cuffs, his mouth growing even drier. Mr. Kawamura looms over him, his lips drawn in a tight line.

“You’ll cool off, and then we’ll continue this talk,” is all Tomura hears before the door slams shut.

He huddles in a corner of the basement, the cold concrete floor leeching what little warmth he has. His eyes adjust to the darkness, revealing nothing in the room except a water bottle and a loop bolted into the wall. He doesn’t know why the loop is there, and he doesn’t want to think about it.

By the time he’s let out, he can’t remember the conversation that followed. He barely recalls stumbling out of the bathroom, the sun peeking through the curtains as he collapses onto his bed, passing out for the day. He doesn’t remember hearing the door open or who dropped the bags near his door, filled with school supplies. He doesn’t even remember what dinner tasted like.

Everything blurs together, but one thing is clear: This is the Kawamura’s house punishment.

-

Tomura tries hard to look presentable for his first day of high school. He even brushes his hair, with his fingers,  working out the knots before heading to school. His neck is covered by a turtleneck, and his half-fingerless red gloves match his tie. He doesn’t bother tying his hair back, letting the shoulder-length, white strands form a small curtain around his face.

Before leaving, he crouches to double-check his bag- everything, who he assumes was Ms. Kawamura has bought neatly packed: notebooks, pens, and the required textbooks. Satisfied, he slings the bag over his shoulder and makes his way out.

The station is only a ten-minute walk from his foster parents’ house, followed by a thirty-minute train ride to UA. He arrives at the station early, with another twenty minutes to kill, not that he minds. He keeps himself occupied with a game on his phone, his eyes unblinking as he plays.

To be honest, the game is starting to lose its appeal, but the repetitive motion keeps his mind from wandering.

Pick up, drop. Pick up, drop. Pick up, drop.

He exhales, glancing up at the station’s display board, only to freeze. His eyes land on crisp black hair and a familiar figure holding a grocery bag in one hand and a school bag slung across his body.

Dabi.

Tomura almost drops his phone but quickly glances around and ducks behind a group of students from another school.

His fingers twitch, moving instinctively toward his neck to scratch, but he stops himself and fiddles with the top of his turtleneck instead, irritation buzzing through him. He sneaks another glance at Dabi, who is now leaning dangerously close to the yellow safety line, a lollipop in his mouth.

“What… an idiot,” Tomura mumbles under his breath.

As if on cue, Dabi’s eyes flick away from his grocery bag and lock onto Tomura’s.

Tomura immediately diverts his gaze back to his phone, pretending the moment hasn’t happened. Unfortunately, Dabi doesn’t seem to take the hint.

“Hey, Shigaraki,” Dabi calls, casually walking over and standing beside him like they’re friends- or like Tomura isn’t capable of reducing him to ash. “Didn’t know you lived around here. What a coincidence.”

Tomura’s scowl deepens as he hunches over, keeping his eyes glued to his phone. “I don’t live around here,” he lies.

“Same here. What a real coincidence ,” Dabi says with a low chuckle that only irritates Tomura more, “store here is the only place that sells the good shit. Why are you here?”

“I don’t care. Go away.” Ignoring the question.

“I’d love to, but we’re heading to the same place,” Dabi says, fishing out a pack of spicy mint gum. The packet is sealed, but the scent still wafts out. “And I don’t know where the classes are.”

Tomura rolls his eyes, finally looking at him. “And why do you think I know where they are?”

Dabi’s eyes lazily move from the gum packet to Tomura before returning to the task of opening it. “ ’Cause you seem like the nerd type.”

Tomura falls silent, not bothering to reply. Dabi will just have to figure out the hard way that Tomura has no clue where anything is either.

Chapter Text

Neither of them speaks during the entire train ride, giving Tomura the perfect opportunity to study Dabi in silence.

There are red patches around Dabi's neck and mouth, almost like burns. His palms bear the same blistering, but Dabi doesn't seem to care at all. Instead, he wears headphones over his head, music blaring loudly as he nods to the beat of heavy drumming. His black-painted nails tap against his thighs. Tomura almost feels embarrassed as passengers glance over, some elders clicking their tongues and shaking their heads. What's even worse is Dabi's incomplete uniform- his tie is missing, his jacket is open, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing pale skin.

Not that Tomura is any better. His turtleneck feels suffocating around his neck. He looks down at his hands, picking at the skin around his nails while his eyes dart around nervously, unsure why he’s feeling so much anxiety. It’s just the first day of high-school, not a kidnapping.

The walk to high school is uneventful, at least until they reach the obnoxious gates of the UA building. Tomura stops, looking up at the oddly shaped glass "U" that forms part of the school’s facade. Dabi stops next to him, his lips pressed tightly together before glancing at Tomura. His bright blue eyes almost smirk.

Scared? they seem to ask, as if daring Tomura to explain his hesitation.

Tomura narrows his eyes, says nothing, and strides ahead, walking mindlessly toward his class.

Not long into their walk, Dabi removes his headphones, the plastic bag around his wrist rustling and disrupting the relative quiet Tomura enjoys.

"Where the fuck are we?" Dabi asks, staring at some concrete building and the open field ahead.

Tomura shrugs, still picking at the skin near his eyes. "Seems to be a field. A sports field," he answers flatly.

Dabi whips his head toward Tomura. "No shit. You-" He pauses. "You don’t know where we’re going?!"

Tomura’s lips twitch slightly as he glances at Dabi.

"Are you fuckin’-why didn’t you just say you didn’t know?!" Dabi’s eyes flare, a vibrant, irritated blue.

Tomura didn’t expect him to pick up on the truth so quickly. Sure, they haven’t made it to the right building yet, but it’s not entirely his fault. He had plenty of opportunities to ask for help from the third-years stationed around campus to guide new students. The thought of talking to them, however, makes his throat tighten and his mind go blank.

He stops picking at the skin near his eyes and starts tugging at the edge of his turtleneck instead. Dabi’s eyes follow the movement before his annoyed expression deepens.

"First," Tomura says, glancing between the field and the buildings, "there’s a chance you and I aren’t even in the same class-"

"The classes are in the same area, dipshit," Dabi cuts in.

"And second," Tomura continues, ignoring him, "you assumed I’d know where to go. Learn your lesson and don’t follow me next time."

Dabi stares at Tomura a moment longer before opening his bag, shoving the grocery bag inside, and pulling out some scrunched-up paper.

"Class 1-E," he announces smugly. Tomura’s amusement evaporates. "And judging by that sweet expression of yours, we’re in the same class." He smirks before cramming the paper back into his bag.

Great. Just great. Exactly what Tomura needs.

Right on cue, the bell rings. Tomura freezes. Dabi groans loudly.

"Fuck, okay," Dabi mutters, scanning the now-emptying area. "Let’s just find someone."

Tomura stares at him. "You’re really eager to get to class on time."

Dabi scoffs, striding ahead without a response. Tomura smirks faintly, satisfied to win at least one round in their unspoken argument.

The area was vast, each building spaced far enough apart that it took a while to pass from one to the next. The longer he followed Dabi, the more he began to realise that the structure in the center of their path was likely the classroom building. Each building featured massive, one-way windows- some entirely glass, others constructed with concrete- yet the one at the center stood out. It was a colossal glass structure, easily the largest building on the entire campus.

He didn’t want to go to class.

In fact, he could pretend for a little longer not to recognise the obvious. Surely their homeroom teacher wouldn’t dole out a harsh punishment for first years. They were new, after all, completely unfamiliar with the grounds. A bit more wandering couldn’t hurt.

Tomura doesn’t want to go to class. Not yet. He can pretend not to recognise the building, giving himself more time to explore the grounds. Surely, their homeroom teacher won’t hand out a harsh punishment—they’re first-years, after all.

So, he says nothing as they stumble across another field. This one has students actively training on it.

"I thought assembly was mandatory," Tomura mumbles, hunching slightly forward as his eyes narrow on a student standing apart from the rest, holding some sort of ball.

Dabi hums, leaning back with his hands in his pockets. "Guess not. Thank God we’re ditching," he chuckles, mostly to himself. "Maybe their homeroom teacher just wanted to get to know them."

Tomura doesn’t reply. Instead, a surprised sound escapes him as Dabi lets out a low whistle. A girl in the UA gym uniform with fiery red hair throws the ball, which vanishes into a cloud of smoke before reappearing far across the field. It lands gently on the ground.

A dark-haired man, dressed entirely in black save for a white scarf, glances down at the device in his hand. The other students seem excited, their chatter drifting faintly toward Tomura and Dabi.

"A teleportation quirk," Tomura notes, scratching around his eyes absentmindedly.

Dabi doesn’t immediately respond, leaning forward with his eyes trained on something else. Tomura follows his gaze and freezes, his mouth opening and closing in surprise.

"So that's the hero course," Dabi concludes, watching some students.

Tomura’s eye twitches. How could Dabi possibly know that? Before he can correct him, his mind snaps into focus. Of course, it’s the hero course. The students are freely using their quirks, their teacher diligently recording scores. This is the next generation of heroes training right in front of him.

And it hits him. This is the same hero course at UA that All Might graduated from. All Might, the number one hero. He walked these grounds, sat in these classrooms, and learned from these teachers. Now, Tomura might attend school alongside the next number one hero.

Lost in thought, Tomura doesn’t realise he’s been scratching his neck aggressively until Dabi’s foot meets the back of his calf, sending him tumbling forward.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Tomura shouts, scrambling to his feet and glaring.

"You weren’t listening," Dabi shrugs, unaffected by Tomura’s outburst.

"SO YOU KICK ME?!" Tomura’s voice cracks.

Dabi smirks. "Yes."

"You little—" Tomura cuts himself off, hands gripping his hair as he takes a deep breath.

Dabi doesn’t say a word, a smirk ghosting over his face as his eyes flick back to the field. His usual air of casual mockery is more present than ever. Meanwhile, Tomura’s mind spins in chaotic loops, a storm of thoughts about whether he should disintegrate this idiot’s entire body or settle for something less drastic, like shattering his knee backward.

His crimson eyes narrow, frustration brewing beneath the surface. He remembers  a day spent aimlessly scrolling through public computers, landing on a website about disposing of bodies. The page was laughable, full of amateurish suggestions that made his lip curl in disdain. Bleach the crime scene? Dispose of the body in acid? Childish. He’d thought of far more creative ways to erase evidence without leaving so much as a whisper behind, like taking his gloves off and wrapping all five fingers around someone's wrist and watching as their body becomes nothing but small debris. 

Still, the irritation gnaws at him. How satisfying it would be to test one of those methods now, to turn irritation into action. His fingers twitch involuntarily, itching for the familiar dry crackle of decay before his thoughts halt. 

He turns back to Dabi. "What," Tomura finally demands rather than asks. 

Dabi rolls his head lazily to meet Tomura’s glare. "What?"

"You kicked me. There better be a logical explanation."

Dabi nods toward the field. "Birdie’s on the field. Guess he made it into the hero course."

Tomura’s eyes follow the direction. It doesn’t take long to spot the crimson wings. They’re large enough to create space around Hawks, who casually chats with his classmates. His head tilts back as he laughs, his warm smile frozen in place.

Tch. Tomura will never understand people like that- people who laugh so easily and make friends without effort. At any moment, those "friends" could stab you in the back. He would know.

Tomura diverts his gaze, only to meet the dark eyes of a teacher watching them from the field. He stiffens.

Tomura steps back. “We got caught,” he mutters before turning away, hurriedly walking off.

He hears Dabi stammering out a "What?" quickly followed by a " Shit ," and the rushed steps behind him.

They don’t say anything as they walk into the building. Neither acknowledges how they both somehow knew the massive center building was where the classes were held. Their eyes scan every classroom sign until they stop outside the doors to 1-E.

Tomura licks his lips, adjusting his gloves as Dabi pushes the door open, immediately drawing the attention of their homeroom teacher and fellow students.

“Ah, you must be Touya Todoroki and Tenko Shimura,” their homeroom teacher greets them with a chuckle. “I guess you both got a little lost. Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to you two later. We were just going over the timetable- go ahead and take a seat.”

Tomura doesn’t respond, his focus narrowing on Touya Todoroki . His gaze lingers for a moment too long, the vibrant-blue eyes not leaving his eyes.

Chapter Text

Enji Todoroki is the number two hero for a reason. His quirk is a powerful inferno-like fire- controlled blasts, quick reflexes, and strategies executed with precision. His media presence is no joke either, climbing high in the ranks of popularity. But no matter how high, it’s never enough to surpass All Might. Unlike All Might’s friendly, ever-smiling demeanor, Enji’s strong and strict presence is reassuring in its own way, earning people’s trust. After all, he’s undeniably strong.

So why is his son sitting behind Tomura in a general studies course instead of the hero course?

Not that Tomura cares all that much. His fingers lightly scratch at his neck as another student sneaks a glance his way-no, not at him, but at Dabi, sitting behind him. That’s what grates on his nerves, why did he have to be seated in front of someone who can easily gather this much interest. The fact that students keep looking past him to gawk at that ugly, blue-eyed freak.

His fingers dig harder into his neck before he redirects his attention to the board, forcing himself to scribble down the timetable in his notebook. Some simple math equations, their teacher being another hero- a slightly tall man wearing a white cape of some sort, short hair, and black eyes. He walks sometimes between the tables, explaining basic math concepts as a first-day class, the prosthetic pegs of his legs making quiet echoes. He remembers reading about how Ectoplasm lost his legs during a mission, but he never really went too deep into it, having to close off the computer at the internet café, his time having run out, and he never picked up on the article ever again- which he regrets as curiosity itches his brain.

Another glance shoots his way, and his jaw tightens. His eyes narrow as he looks back at Dabi, only to find the infuriating teen leaned back in his seat, looking at the ceiling. Sensing Tomura’s glare, Dabi flicks his eyes down and grins at him, raising an eyebrow, efficiently pissing Tomura off more.

The bell cuts through the staring contest, and Ectoplasm goes back to the front of the room.

“Right, that’s all for today. I won’t assign too much homework, but do familiarise yourselves with the equations. Next class, we’ll apply them,” their instructor announces, already gathering his things. “That’s all.”

Tomura watches as the teacher leaves, the room buzzing with quiet chatter in his absence. He begins to clean up his desk, aware of the faint whispers of students around him. Their late arrival earlier hadn’t left much time for introductions- just a quick rundown of their timetable and an outline of expectations for UA students before the bell rang and Ectoplasm took over the class.

Now, with more time to linger, students are starting to get to know one another. Not that Tomura cares. He makes a beeline for the changing rooms, determined to change and leave before anyone else shows up.

Sliding his locker open, he grabs the uniform- a pair of dark blue pants with white vertical stripes running along the legs. He tugs off his turtleneck and pauses to glance in the mirror. His skin is raw, irritated from all the scratching. He runs his fingers over the red streaks, sighing. He’s tried countless ways to stop the itching, but nothing seems to help. He’ll have to stop by the pharmacy for ointment later.

After pulling on the short-sleeved shirt, its white lines forming the distinct “U” and “A” pattern across the chest, he adjusts the gloves on his hands, securing them tightly. Just as he closes his locker, a group of boys from his class bursts in, their conversation immediately dominated by talk of the hero course and how they’re all planning to transfer into it.

Tomura doesn’t stick around to listen. Without a word, he pushes past them and heads for the exit, passing Dabi on the way.

-

Physical Education is Tomura’s weakness. He tries hard to listen to their beginner class workout- a 50-meter run, followed by a sit-up test, a vertical jump, and whatever else that he didn’t take note of. It seems like it’s the same design of workout he watched the hero course take that morning, and here he is, trying to do the stupid 50-meter run.

Not even ten meters into the run, Tomura is already out of breath. His lungs burn as he veers off the track, his steps unsteady as he makes his way toward their P.E. teacher, the Space Hero: Thirteen. She introduced herself as their P.E. teacher, but something tells him she’s just substituting. She doesn’t seem like she belongs here- maybe just unaware of how long she’ll need to fill in. That seems like the safer bet, he assumes.

She doesn’t say anything, just extends a hand holding his water bottle. He takes it and slumps onto the ground, gulping down water between deep, gasping breaths.

“You did really well!” She cheers, her round white eyes (are those even eyes?) curving into crescents as she smiles.

Tomura doesn’t respond. He stares at his shoes, his white hair falling into his face as he tries to catch his breath. But his silence quickly turns into simmering rage. It’s not like he’s weak- he just hasn’t trained. And even if he had, what’s the point? War? He’s not about to wake up at 5 a.m. for some ridiculous exercise routine. Those early- morning fitness freaks have always baffled him. He had considered working out later in the day once, but any motivation to follow through had disappeared after countless hours spent in internet cafés playing video games.

Now, watching the rest of the students finish their laps- even the ones walking most of the way- he regrets it.

And, of course, Dabi makes it look effortless. His back straight, strides even, jogging like some professional athlete.

Tomura clenches his fists, teeth grinding. No, he’s not jealous. Or envious. He just doesn’t like the guy.

Thirteen glances down at Tomura, noticing his silent fury. She shifts slightly, her space-themed suit glinting under the light, and grabs a clipboard.

“Shimura, can you do me a favor?” she asks, her tone light. Tomura gives her a sidelong glare, which she takes as a yes. “Take this to the teacher’s lounge for me, will you?” she asks, holding out some clipboard. “I guess he misplaced it this morning,” she mumbles more to herself than to Tomura.

He gets up, dusting himself off and fixing his shirt before grabbing the clipboard, walking off to the teacher’s lounge. The walk from the P.E. grounds to the teacher’s lounge is fairly long, considering it's also up a few steps, but he isn’t complaining if it means skipping out on the activities. And he also has his phone. He takes the phone out and goes on Hero News, interested to see what’s new.

Going further down the rabbit hole, he reads up on the top news today. Just the usual robbery, villainous work, vigilante work on the side. Tomura doesn’t really keep up with the rise in criminal activity, mostly just who’s seen on the scene. Lately, it’s been some hero who’s part whale or something. Reading a bit more, he realises it’s Gang Orca, the whale with some sort of whale mutation. Tomura is mostly interested in the paralyzing effect he can do with his quirk. It’s fairly interesting to see someone like Gang Orca able to do any of this, since he looks like a villain.

Would I be a villain? The thought comes back to Tomura as he scrolls, one hand on his neck, scratching lightly.

Being a villain wouldn't be bad; it wouldn't be good. It's just that with all odds against him, it seems like a logical and easy route. Or he'll end up behind some grocery counter, ringing up people's shit while he rots more and more in this dehumanizing state. He has killed his family- he's already on the route of villainy. So what's stopping him?

He sighs, shaking his head, the scratching becoming deeper. Continuing his walk down the halls, he skims past side-heroes, mostly focusing on All Might, fueling his hatred for all these heroes even more. If they were so strong, if all these young heroes were actually as strong as they claimed, they would have helped people who truly needed someone. But instead, here they were, fighting for popularity ranks. All these stupid, stupid heroes.

His eyes catch on another article:

All Might does it again: Saves 92 innocent civilians from a collapsing building. Read more.

ALL MIGHT AT IT AGAIN!! 92 SAVED!!! Read more…

Collapsing building, 92 saved by All Might. MORE UPDATES SOON. Read more…

The more he reads, the more fury builds up in him. All Might this, All Might that.

A scoff leaves his lips. Maybe I should be a villain. I really hate that stupid smile of his.

When he gets to the office, he knocks. Hearing no reply, he hesitates before sliding the door open, looking around before stepping inside. He looks down at the clipboard and moves the blank paper to the front of the others, his eyes drifting along the name of a student all the way down to their scores from the session the hero course had this morning.

And it clicks. The teacher from this morning never took the papers- he is holding the papers of the current heroes in training. He glances down at the high scores, eyebrows slowly lifting. His quirk wouldn't have been any good in any of these tests, probably scoring the same as a quirkless kid if anything. But he could just disintegrate a ball and pretend that's how far it was thrown- surely, that's a high score.

He glances around, noting a vibrant yellow sleeping bag poking out from the couches. Slowly, he inches toward the couch, only to find some older man asleep- then, vibrant red eyes meet him.

The man’s eyes return to normal, dark irises meeting Tomura’s still-red ones. He recognises him- the same man from the field this morning. Tomura reflects on how he must appear, with his sharp features and unsettling eyes, knowing that people rarely want to look at him so he does the teacher a favour as he quickly looks away, letting his hair fall to hide his face.

"Thirteen told me to give this to you." He holds out the clipboard, stepping back as the man sits up.

He glances back, and that’s when it catches his eye- the yellow pair of goggles, the iconic glasses that The Earserhead wears, they never changed from the first time Tomura saw them. His eyes widen, almost giving himself whiplash as he looks back up at the man.

The older man doesn’t move, running a hand through his hair before taking the folder. "Ah, right," he trails off, flipping through the papers before concluding everything is there. "You were there, right?"

He feels his body freeze for a bit before forcing himself to relax. "Where?" Playing dumb seems to be the easiest option right now.

Eraserhead raises an eyebrow. "This morning. With your friend."

He rolls his eyes, white strands covering them slightly. "He isn't my friend," he scoffs—before realizing he's slipped up.

"Well?" the pro mumbles, walking over to his desk and placing the folder down.

Tomura doesn’t have an answer, watching as the teacher lazily drapes the scrap pile back around his neck. "We… were lost?" Truth prevails, or whatever the saying is.

In return, he gets a nod and a hum of acknowledgment. "Don't let it happen again. You're free to go now, thank you."

That’s all he needs to hear before leaving, making his way back down to the P.E. area, dreading whatever other activity he's about to be forced into. He takes the same route back, moving at a much slower pace than he needs to.

If you asked Tomura if he ever liked any hero in the world, he'd simply say they all suck and should be rotting corpses. But if it was between himself and his thoughts, Eraserhead would always be in his mind.

The fact that he was face to face with the stealth hero has him feeling giddy. His only regret is not asking for an autograph. But the walk back to class has him replaying the moment, coming to the conclusion that the stealth hero wouldn’t sign some stupid teenager’s page. His second option is to permanently tattoo the memory of meeting his idol- who isn’t his idol, because heroes suck and he doesn’t support anything they do.

Eraserhead would have debuted a while ago, but having met him when he was training, the young teen looks nothing like the adult pro hero he saw in the teacher’s office. But that is him.

Touya, being the annoying shit he is, locks eyes with Tomura. "Took your sweet time."

"Didn't realize you're the desperate type," Tomura replies smoothly, taking a seat away from Touya. He notes the other students slowly wrapping up whatever hell Thirteen is having them do, while Touya is sitting near the water bottles.

"Well, where were you?" This time, he demands an answer.

Tomura clicks his tongue, irritation clear on his face. "Having fucking tea with your dad," he claps back.

Touya’s eyes flash with fury before he sighs.

Tomura doesn’t say anything for a bit before mumbling, "Eraserhead. Had to give him the papers from this morning. Thirteen found them and told me to just give them to him."

Touya’s questioning eyes glance at him. "Eraserhead?"

Of course, he wouldn’t know the best of the best heroes. "Yeah, the pro-hero from this morning."

"I heard he expelled his first class or something," Touya thinks for a second. "Like, the whole class."

This surprises Tomura, because what sane teacher would just do that? And someone as young as Eraserhead had the power to do that? 

"Isn’t he fairly new to teaching?" Tomura asks.

"I don’t know, probably? It’s the first I’ve heard about this ‘Eraserhead,’ if I’m being honest." He air quotes the name, taking his phone out. "But yeah, probably a rumor or something."

Tomura looks to the side, not fully convinced it’s just a rumor.

Touya continues tapping away on his phone before letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Eraserhead doesn’t exist."

"Of course he doesn’t, he's a stealth hero," Tomura looks over at him, annoyed.

"Stealth hero, but some random 15-year-old found him? Not very good at his job, is he now?" he taunts.

Tomura starts scratching at his neck, feeling irritated that Touya doesn’t get it. Eraserhead is so cool. So fucking cool. And yet some other random teenager is dragging him down. But he can’t just tell him that he knows Eraserhead from a couple of years ago-that’s ridiculous. How would he even explain himself? Where would he even start? So instead, he settles for a glare.

“Sorry, not everyone is so infatuated with the number 2 hero.” he taunts back.

Touya glares back. Neither of them says anything before they turn away from one another as the class gathers back together.

Chapter Text

Touya's POV

“The stupid, fucking roots,” Dabi grumbles, staring closer in the school bathroom mirror, shifting his hair side to side as he assesses the damage from the cheap black box dye.

He slams a hand down, fingers gripping the sink as he glares at his reflection. “Not much to do but get another box and cover the roots. And I don’t give two flying fucks if I can’t let the stupid dye seep into my scalp,” he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking out.

Sure, he could buy the expensive brands. His dad’s loaded. But how was he supposed to know there was a difference? He saw black dye, he took it, and it became his go-to.

He makes his way to the nearest store, headphones in, the volume blaring- loud enough that even the person next to him can feel it. The sports festival weighs heavily on his mind as he grabs two boxes of dye.

The sports festival, the one time all eyes are on him. Well, on all of U.A. If you're good enough, you can prove your worth and move up from the 'lower' classes into the hero course. Dabi thought it’d be a good idea to go all out... but realistically, he’d stopped training after his mother was hospitalized for burning Shoto’s eye.

He lost all interest in being the greatest hero, or in getting his father’s attention, especially since his power isn’t suited to his body. And hearing his brothers and dad train every day to suppress Shoto’s limits? He couldn’t care less about his own. He’s behind. Way behind. And it’s too risky now.

By the time he’s back home, shoes off and heading past the training room, he can't help but take a peek inside. He doesn’t know if he’s hoping to see one of Shoto’s new tricks. What he doesn't expect is an empty room, the sour smell of vomit hitting him almost instantly, soon to be overpowered by the cleaning detergent used by the lady scrubbing the far side.

“Touya?” A timid voice startles him.

He plays it cool, he’s been caught, but he can still salvage some dignity. “What.”

“What are you doing here…” Shoto’s voice is nearly emotionless, but curiosity leaks through.

Dabi looks at his little brother, really looks at him. The mysterious prodigy. Hair split perfectly down the middle, right eye marked by a deep red scar. The same kind that litters Dabi's own body. He’s scrawny, too scrawny for a six-year-old, but he knows Endeavour would adjust his diet to gain more weight and build muscle. His face, blank. Empty. No sign of emotion. 

Creepy.

“Can’t even walk around the house I live in anymore,” Dabi snaps, turning to leave. “Whatever. See ya.”

Shoto’s hand is small. Cold. It barely grips his pants, but the pressure is enough to anchor Dabi in place. For a moment, he thinks about brushing it off, literally and figuratively, but something about the touch reminds him of Natsuo when they were younger. Clinging to him after a nightmare. Asking for Mum. 

“Where’s Mum?”

The mood shifts. Dabi raises a hand, but stops cold when Shoto flinches and lets go instantly. He continues to adjust the headphones around his neck, caught off guard by Shoto's reaction.

He’s not sure what offends him more, that someone thinks he’d hit a snotty kid like Shoto, or that he’s being compared to Endeavor, indirectly.

A spark runs down his spine. The image of his father’s hands, not kind, not gentle, not ever, comes uninvited. The kind of man who barked out compliments like orders and delivered pain like discipline. The kind of man who made your breath catch before he even entered the room.

Dabi breathes out. In. Out. It doesn’t help.

“You think I’d hit you? Like that piece-of-shit sperm donor?” he growls, voice low and cracked with frustration. He’s exhausted, from today, from everything. In. Out. “And Mum’s gone,” he snaps. “Remember? She’s sick, idiot.”

His bi-colour eyes drop to the floor. He subtly shifts to hide his left side, Endeavor’s side. “Because of him,” Shoto mumbles, brushing past Dabi to enter the room, his expression tight with disgust.

And something in Dabi snaps. A small chuckle slips out, his eyes widening with realisation. A new goal, right in front of him. Shoto. The prodigy hates Endeavor.

Maybe ‘hate’ is too strong. But there’s clearly some dislike. And Dabi can use that.

“Shoto,” Dabi chuckles, leaning against the doorframe, “do you hate the old man?”

Wary eyes meet his, guarded but curious. Dabi knows that look. He doesn’t like the kid. Never really did. But at the moment, he likes this Shoto, the one he can use.

“We might not be so different, little brother,” he says with a grin, patting the doorframe in a gentle rhythm, almost endearingly, before turning to walk away.

“What are you doing here, Touya?” The old man’s voice cuts in, cold and commanding, his name sending hot flashes down his back.

“Just seeing my little brother. Is that so wrong?” Dabi replies, eyes sharp, crescent with a smirk. “Isn’t he just cute ? Be a shame if he gets contaminated by a failure.”

Endeavor scoffs, stepping into the room. “Watch that mouth of yours, Touya.”

Dabi glances back, eyes meeting Shoto’s, barely. He smiles, lifting a hand in a small wave.

Shoto only stares back, confusion shadowing his face.

In the morning, Dabi got up with a strange lightness in his limbs,  not quite joy, but something sharper than numbness. There was a spring in his step, subtle but real, like his body was moving ahead of his mind. That didn’t usually happen. Usually, mornings were a battle: his joints stiff, his muscles aching from a mix of poor sleep and worse habits. But today? Today he didn’t feel like he was dragging himself through wet cement.

He still kept his routine, cold splash of water to the face, half-assed stretches so his legs didn’t lock up walking up those godforsaken, endless stairs. U.A. was built like a vertical prison, each level stacked on the last, and if you didn’t have a stamina-type quirk or legs like a pro athlete, the climb could knock the wind out of you before you even reached class. Dabi wasn’t exactly dying to impress anyone, but he wasn’t about to keel over in front of all the future top heroes either.

His mind goes back to the festival, he doesn't have an issue with the first two courses themself (even though he isn't sure what they could be), but fighting, that’s another problem. He can’t rely on wits alone. Everyone has a unique quirk, and he can’t just guess and counter them on the fly. But he can work on his conditioning, get faster, sharper, stay light on his feet. And if he's lucky enough to reach the one vs one component, that's where he really needs to stand out. But how will he get through all the others by himself?

His mind goes silent as a certain someone comes to mind and he knows exactly where to corner him.

Chapter Text

Tomura sighs, hands stuffed in his pockets as he stares blankly at the other side of the platform, waiting for his train to arrive. School hasn’t been much different after all that. Touya has spent his time outshining even the hero course, the moment he was outed as the second-best hero of Japan’s son, it did wonders for that idiot. Fortunately, it’s dying down, his classroom always having a small crowd outside of people trying to peek in to watch Todoroki. But over time, it’s become a smaller and smaller crowd. He’s grateful, because it was a pain to practically swim out of that, and trying to keep his hands to himself became even more of a challenge when all he wanted to do was reduce them to ashes.

After school, he’d go to the internet cafes, logging in to play League of Legends, letting himself escape into the battle RPG. His teammates were always stupid, but he loved carrying. The rush of adrenaline when his plans worked, when he was focused on the bright, color-flashing screen and saw another win, it was almost as good as stalking heroes. Which he did after the games. Until he had to go back to his foster parents’ place, finish his homework, and have it checked, while they pronounced all his mistakes, circling them aggressively and making him redo everything until it was correct.

It seemed like whatever he did, it was never enough to get approval. But he clung to those small wins during his gaming sessions.  

He sighs again, tilting his head back, and closes his eyes, slowly putting his hands back in his pockets and away from his neck. 

“Wanna ditch?” he hears Touya’s hoarse voice next to him. 

His eyebrows twitch and he opens his eyes, glancing left at Touya, who’s standing there holding that stupid plastic bag. 

He rolls his eyes. “What do you want?” he grumbles, tilting his head away. Why the hell is he even talking to him right now? What happened to the mutual agreement to never talk to one another?

Touya groans. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Plus, it’s better than having to deal with class today.” 

Tomura looks over, just noticing the bandages around Touya’s neck and the slight burns up his arms, but he chooses not to comment, even though he wants to say he looks gross and should go home instead of plotting to ditch. 

Tomura hears the train getting closer, the slight bell sound echoing loudly. “Come on, live a little,” the blue-eyed freak continues. “I’m not going to force you, but if you want to join, I’ll wait here. Don’t keep me waiting though.” 

His red eyes flicker from Touya to the train pulling up. He adjusts his bag strap and tightens his gloves, making his way to the train’s doors. Touya says nothing. 

Usually, high schoolers ditch to do some boring activity that  would’ve wasted their time and day. Tomura never saw the appeal, not with the number two hero’s son wanting to ditch school with Tomura of all people. It makes him curious. If anything, Touya should be asking his friends to join him, not someone half-dead from lack of sleep, rotting in a gaming chair, and developing back pain at 15. Yet when he looks back, he still sees Touya standing there, hands in his pockets, gazing off to the side, his piercings glinting under the harsh morning sun.

What’s there to even do when you ditch? Walk around aimlessly? He’d rather stay in class, in a well-air-conditioned room, while the teacher drones on about some boring lesson in English or maths. Probably run into Eraserhead somewhere or even see Present Mic in English class. The food there isn’t bad, if anything, the school hired Lunch Rush, known for top-quality, protein-packed meals. All things considered, hanging out with the striking blue-eyed, black-haired teen he’s talked to for two days doesn’t even sound appealing. He despises the guy and will never forget how he kicked him or introduced himself with such an emo name.

So why did he pause at the train doors and let them shut before going in? And why did he step back to go join Touya, who’s grinning mischievously, earning another eye roll?

He stops in front of Touya, his bag secured over his shoulder as he tightens his gloves. “You could be asking one of your other friends to ditch,” he sighs, his eyes sharp as he watches Touya shrug. “So why’d you ask me? I was under the impression we weren’t talking.”

Touya tilts his head down slightly, a smile stretching slowly across his face. “Well, you’re not much of a nerd like I assumed. So maybe you’re a ditcher.” 

Did he just call me stupid? Tomura raises an eyebrow, the itch at his neck flaring. “The son of the number two hero wants to ditch,” he echoes, tone flat. 

Instantly, the smile drops from Touya’s face, his eyes flaring with fury. “Whatever.” He shoves past Tomura. 

Tomura keeps his eyes trained on Touya’s back. He can almost feel the thrill bubbling in his stomach at the mess he’s stirred up in him. “You don’t like him,” he states. 

Touya pauses, his head tilting slightly back. He says nothing. Tomura presses on, unsure why. But something urges him.

“You… don’t like your dad being the number two hero.”

“Of course I don’t. He’s abusive.” 

Tomura’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping as he stares at him. “What,” he hisses, glancing around in case anyone heard. “You can’t go around throwing accusations like that.” 

Touya glares, his face twisting with distaste. “What do you mean, accusations?” He steps closer, uncomfortably close. “I live with the piece of shit.” 

Tomura blinks owlishly. This is new. “Is this some teenage rage I’m not aware of?” He scans him up and down. “Oh. Is this the rich kid emo act?” 

“Don’t you want to be better than All Might?”

Silence stretches between them. Touya’s cocky smile returns. “Okay? And? Every character has a downfall. His will come. And I won’t have to run laps.” He huffs, looking away from those blazing eyes. 

Touya adjusts his bag strap, tone more serious. “Consider this: you could intern under him and find the flaw. Or you can just expose the hero course when you get recognised.” 

“…For once, I have to applaud you for using your brain.” 

“So you’re in?” 

Tomura fidgets with his gloves. If he does get into the hero course, he might end up in Class B, which is as bad as being second place in anything. But the look in Touya’s eyes is the same as a hero who wants to be number one. He won’t give up. 

“Fine.” Before Touya can celebrate, Tomura adds, “And my name’s Shigaraki, not Tomura.” 

“Then you call me Dabi.” 

Shigaraki scoffs. “At least choose a proper name.” 

“It is proper.” 

"Stupid rich emo kid." Shigaraki comments, walking away from the train platform. “Where do we start?” 

“Your stamina.” 

Shigaraki turns around, heading back to the train platform, waiting for the next train. Dabi laughs, throws an arm around his shoulder, and pulls him back.