Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pain was the first thing he remembered.

Not the fire itself, though his skin still carried the memory in twisted, angry scars, but the aftermath. The way his body had screamed even after the flames had died, the way his lungs had burned with every shallow breath.

Dad had found him.

That was the cruelest part.

Touya had wanted to die there, on that mountain, but his father had dragged him back, like something worth saving, as if he wasn’t a complete failure of a son, of a creation.

After that, there was silence.

No hospital, no reporters, no tearful reunions with his siblings, just the Himura estate, tucked away in the mountains.

His grandparents had taken him in without question. They were stern, quiet people, their faces lined with age and disappointment, or grief. They had never liked Enji, despite needing his dowry to secure their own future. They’d never really celebrated the marriage that had produced Touya and his siblings. However, here he was, dumped on their doorstep like damaged goods.

The estate was beautiful in the way old, wealthy homes were—polished wood, immaculate gardens, a stillness that felt more like a tomb than a house.

Touya hated it.

He wasn’t allowed outside much. His skin was too sensitive now, prone to infection, prone to splitting if he moved too suddenly. The doctors had been clear—his body would never fully recover. His quirk had ruined him.

So he sat, and he healed. His grandparents weren’t cruel, but their kindness was suffocating to Touya, who hadn’t experienced much kindness from anyone, not even himself, really.

"You must rest, Touya," his grandmother would say, her voice firm but not unkind.

"Patience," his grandfather would murmur when Touya’s hands shook with frustration.

But patience for what?

There were no letters from home, no phone calls or news from his siblings.

The world had moved on without him. His own family, too. Endeavor was still a hero. The Todoroki name was still untarnished.

And Touya?

He was a memory to them now.

It was raining the night he ran.

Not a storm, just a quiet, relentless drizzle, the kind that seeped into bones and made the world feel heavier.

He didn’t plan it. Not really.

But the walls of the estate had started to feel like a prison, the absence of everything he had once been felt worse than the pain.

He took only what he could carry: a bag with some spare clothes and the cash he’d stolen from his grandfather’s desk. 

He didn’t leave a note.

What would he even say?

They wouldn’t miss him anyways.

The neon lights of Kabukicho pulsed like a heartbeat as Touya stepped off the train, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.  The hostel was a cramped, dingy building tucked between a pachinko parlor and a love hotel. The man at the front desk barely glanced up when Touya slid cash across the counter. 

"Room 304. No noise after midnight."

The room was exactly what ¥4000 a night bought you: barely bigger than a closet, with a narrow bed, a flickering overhead light, a window that overlooked the alley below. The mattress sagged in the middle, the sheets thin and smelling faintly of bleach.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the raised scars along his collarbone. The city’s chaos should’ve felt overwhelming after years of mountain silence, but the noise was… freeing. Here, no one cared about Todoroki Touya. No one even knew he existed.

He had no plan, b ut for the first time in years, he wasn’t alone, not really.

That first couple weeks, he wandered Shinjuku’s backstreets like a ghost, learning where the conbini clerks wouldn’t chase him out for loitering and which alleys the cops rarely patrolled. He stole when he had to, protein bars from convenience stores, a hoodie left unattended at a laundromat. 

He found himself in a dimly lit izakaya, tucked into a corner booth with a cheap beer in front of him. He wasn’t old enough to drink, but the bartender hadn’t asked for ID.

That was when he showed up.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Touya glanced up. The man was in his mid-twenties, with sharp features and dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail. 

Touya shrugged.

The man slid into the booth across from him. "Name’s Ryou."

"Touya."

"First time in Shinjuku?"

"Something like that."

Ryou chuckled, flagging down the bartender for another beer. "You’ve got the look. Wide-eyed and lost."

Touya scowled. "I’m not lost."

"Sure you’re not." Ryou took a swig of his drink. "So what’s your deal? Runaway?"

Touya’s fingers tightened around his glass.

Ryou’s smirk softened. "Relax. I’m not judging. I was one too."

Ryou became a fixture after that.

He wasn’t a good person, Touya could tell that much. But he was there, in a way no one had been in years. He showed Touya the city, the hidden ramen shops, the back-alley arcades, the places where no one asked questions. Most importantly, though, he didn’t treat Touya like he was broken.

"Those scars hurt?" Ryou asked one night, nodding at the warped skin peeking out from under Touya’s sleeve.

Touya stiffened. "Sometimes."

"Yeah, burns are a bitch." Ryou rolled up his own sleeve, revealing a twisted patch of skin along his forearm. "Got this from some asshole with an electricity quirk a while back. Took months to stop feeling like my arm was on fire."

Touya stared.

It happened two weeks later.

Touya’s scars had been worse than usual with the changing seasons, throbbing, tight, like his skin was trying to split apart. He’d been gritting his teeth all day, his hands shaking as he lit cigarette after cigarette with the tip of his finger, the nicotine doing nothing to dull the pain.

Ryou noticed.

"You look like shit."

"Feel like it," Touya muttered.

Ryou studied him for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle. "Here."

Touya eyed it warily. "What is it?"

"Painkillers. The good shit." Ryou shook out a single white pill. "See if it helps."

Touya hesitated, but the pain was bad, so he took it. The relief was instant.

The tension in his shoulders melted away. The ache in his scars dulled to a distant hum. For the first time in months, he could breathe.

"Better?" Ryou asked.

Touya exhaled. "Yeah."

Ryou grinned. "Told you."

It didn’t stop at one pill.

Soon, Touya was taking them daily. Then twice a day. Then three times.

And when the pills stopped working- 

"Try this," Ryou said, pressing a small bag of powder into his hand.

Touya knew what it was.

He took it anyway. He needed it.

  On the second-to-last day of his childhood, the world had been narrowing for hours.

Touya wasn’t sure when the coughing had turned wet, when each breath had started feeling like dragging broken glass through his ribs. His skin burned, not the clean, sharp pain of fresh burns, but the deep, sick heat of infection. The heroin had taken the edge off at first, but now his body was fighting back, shaking violently even as his mind floated somewhere far away.

The first hit had barely taken the edge off.

The second made the world tilt.

By the third, his vision was swimming, his pulse sluggish in his ears. He slumped against the brick wall, the cold seeping through his jacket.

Shit.

His lungs spasmed. A cough tore through him, wet and ragged, leaving his mouth tasting like iron. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand—streaks of red smeared across his knuckles.

Not good.

He’d taken too much.

He knew that.

But the alternative, sobering up, and feeling everything, was worse.

The alley behind the bar was dim, the only light a flickering neon sign casting sickly pink shadows over the damp concrete. He’d slumped against the wall at some point, his legs numb beneath him. His fingers fumbled with the lighter, sparks catching but no flame staying. His quirk flickered uselessly under his skin, his body too wrecked to even summon a wisp of blue.

Pathetic.

A wet cough tore through him, and this time, something warm and metallic filled his mouth. He spat, and the splatter on the ground was too dark to just be spit.

His vision pulsed.

The last thing he registered was the sound of footsteps, someone swearing, a voice shouting for help.

The world tilted. Bright lights flashed behind his eyelids.

"Kid, can you hear me?"

"—pulse is thready—"

"—respiratory distress, probable pneumonia—"

"—track marks on his arms, possible OD—"

Cold plastic under his back. Straps across his chest. Something sharp in his arm.

Touya tried to open his eyes, but the light was a knife. A hand pressed against his forehead, then jerked back.

"Shit, he’s burning up—"

Something clamped over his nose and mouth, forcing air into his lungs. He gagged, tried to twist away, but his body wasn’t his anymore.

"Hold him still—"

He woke in stages.

First, the ache. His whole body felt like it had been run over by a truck. His throat was raw, his lungs heavy, his skin fever-hot even under the thin hospital gown.

Second, the beeping: steady, insistent, the heart monitor keeping time with his pulse.

Third, the woman sitting beside his bed.

She was in her late twenties, maybe, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun and a clipboard balanced on her lap. Her expression was unreadable. 

Touya tried to speak, but his throat was sandpaper.

She handed him a cup of water without a word. He drank greedily, the cool liquid a relief against the fire in his chest.

"Do you know where you are?" she asked.

"Hospital," he croaked.

"Good." She set the clipboard aside. "I’m Akane Mori. I’m a social worker assigned to your case."

Touya closed his eyes. Of course.

"What’s your name?"

He almost said Todoroki. Almost.

But that name was ashes now.

"Himura," he rasped. "Himura Touya."

Akane nodded, jotting something down. "How old are you, Himura-san?"

The question caught him off guard. He had to think.

"Seventeen," he muttered.

Her pen paused. "Your birthday?"

“What’s today?” 

“January seventeenth.” 

"It’s tomorrow."

A beat of silence.

Akane exhaled, long and slow. "So you turn eighteen tomorrow."

"Yeah."

Something in her voice made his stomach twist.

He knew what that meant.

Adults didn’t get the same resources. Adults could walk out of here with no one stopping them.

Adults were on their own.

Akane studied him for a long moment, then sighed, setting the clipboard aside. "You’re in bad shape, Himura-san. Your lungs are infected. You’re malnourished. And whatever you took last night nearly stopped your heart."

Touya didn’t answer.

"Do you have anywhere to go?"

No.

"Family?"

No.

"Friends?"

No.

The silence stretched.

Akane leaned forward slightly, her voice quieter now. "You’re technically an adult tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean you have to do this alone."

Touya’s chest ached.

Not from the pneumonia.

"I can help you," she said. "If you let me."

He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or something.

But he was so tired.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t want to die.

His fingers curled weakly into the thin hospital blanket.

"Okay," he whispered.

Akane’s expression softened.

"Okay," she echoed.

One more day, and he’d be eighteen.

Two years since he left the Himura’s.

Five years since Sekoto Peak.

And now,  maybe, something else.

He closed his eyes.

And breathed.

Chapter Text

The hospital released him two weeks later, but not before Akane Mori had already mapped out his next steps like a general preparing for battle.

Touya sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in donated clothes: a gray hoodie too big for his frame, sweatpants with a fraying hem. His discharge papers listed chronic pain management, pneumonia follow-up, substance abuse counseling in neat, impersonal print.

Akane handed him a folder.

"Housing first," she said. "There’s a transitional living program in Suginami- single-occupancy rooms, on-site counseling, job assistance. You’ll have a case manager."

Touya flipped through the papers. Rules. Curfews. Mandatory drug testing.

"It’s not forever," she added, watching his expression. "Six months, if you follow the program. After that, we look at next steps."

He exhaled through his nose. "And if I don’t?"

"Then you’re on your own."

He met her eyes. She didn’t blink.

"Fine," he muttered.

The facility was clean, at least. Small room, narrow bed, a desk bolted to the wall. The window overlooked a concrete courtyard where other residents smoked under a flickering fluorescent light.

Touya set his meager belongings: a plastic bag of toiletries, the hoodie, a prepaid phone Akane had given him, on the bed.

His case manager, a tired-looking man named Sato, handed him a schedule.

"Group therapy Mondays and Thursdays. Medical check-ins every Wednesday. Job training starts next week."

Touya stared at the paper. "Job training?"

"You’ll work with vocational rehab. Figure out skills, interests, that kind of thing." Sato eyed his scars. "Assuming you’re not planning to go back to… whatever you were doing before."

Touya’s fingers twitched. "No."

"Good. Dinner’s at six. Don’t be late."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Touya sat on the bed, his spine rigid, and stared at the ceiling.

Six months.

Six months clean, Touya stood outside the Himura estate for the first time in years.

The gate was just as imposing as he remembered. The gravel path, the perfectly pruned trees… all of it was unchanged, frozen since the moment he’d left.

His grandmother opened the door.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

"You look terrible," she finally  said.

Touya barked a laugh, which turned into a cough, rough and startled. "Yeah."

She stepped aside. "Come in."

The tea was bitter. His grandfather didn’t look at him.

"I’m sorry," Touya said, the words ash in his mouth. He bowed low. "For running, and for… for everything."

His grandmother set her cup down. "We knew you would leave eventually. You were miserable."

"You didn’t try to stop me."

"No," she admitted. "We should have though."

Silence.

Then his grandfather slid an envelope across the table.

"For your studies," he said gruffly.

Touya opened it. A bank statement. A generous one.

His throat tightened.

"I can’t-"

"Take it," his grandmother interrupted. "And call us, occasionally."

He nodded, suddenly unable to speak. 

Akane Mori did not give up.

After his stint in the halfway house, she visited him at his shitty studio apartment every week without fail, always with new paperwork, new resources, new options.

"Disability services can fast-track your GED if we get the paperwork in now," she said during their third meeting, sliding a form across the table.

Touya eyed it. "Why?"

"Because you’re smart," she said simply. "And I’m not letting you waste it."

He scoffed. "I dropped out at sixteen."

"And yet, you’re still here, considering my offer." She tapped the paper. "Sign it."

He did.

Passing the test itself, though, felt anticlimactic.

Akane handed him the results with a satisfied smirk. "Told you you were smart."

Touya rolled his eyes. "Barely."

"It’s enough for this." She dropped a university brochure on the table. "Scholarship applications are due next month."

He stared at it. "You’re kidding."

"You want to rot in a dead-end job forever?"

"I don’t even know what I’d study."

Akane leaned back. "What do you wish someone had taught you?"

The answer came instantly.

"How not to char myself into a crisp."

She nodded. "Then start there."

The university’s financial aid office was a cramped, fluorescent-lit room that smelled of stale coffee and printer ink. Touya sat across from a harried-looking advisor, his hands clenched in his lap to hide the tremor in his fingers.

"Your test scores are impressive," the advisor said, flipping through his file. "Especially considering your… gaps in formal education."

Touya gritted his teeth. "Yeah."

The advisor, a middle-aged woman with a slicked-back bun, eyed him over her glasses. "You’re applying for the Tanaka Memorial Scholarship. It’s for students with… non-traditional backgrounds." She paused, glancing at the medical notes Akane had submitted. "And significant physical challenges."

Touya’s skin prickled. He hated that word. Challenges . Like his body was some kind of obstacle course.

"It’s a full ride," the advisor continued. "Covers tuition, housing stipend, even books. But it’s competitive."

"What’s the catch?"

*"You maintain a 3.5 GPA. Attend monthly check-ins with disability services. And," She hesitated. "There’s a volunteering component, within your field of study."

Touya exhaled. He could do that.

The scholarship committee was a panel of three: a stern-looking professor, a woman in a sleek suit who smelled faintly of lavender, and a man with a prosthetic arm who hadn’t said a word yet.

"Why quirk counseling?" the professor asked, steepling his fingers.

Touya forced himself not to fidget. "Because no one helped me when I needed it."

The woman leaned forward. "Your file mentions self-immolation. That’s… extreme, even for destructive quirks, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," Touya said flatly. "And if someone had counseled me , maybe I wouldn’t look like this." He gestured to his scars.

The man with the prosthetic arm finally spoke. "You’d be working with difficult kids. You think you can handle that? The frustration? The setbacks?"

Touya met his eyes. "I’ve had worse."

Akane was the one who connected him to Kenji.

"He’s a third-year journalism student," she said, handing Touya a slip of paper with an address. "Lost his leg in a villain attack when he was a kid. Has some… other complications. Like you."

"What kind of complications?"

"Phantom pain. Nerve damage. PTSD." Akane gave him a look. "Play nice. He’s softer than you are."

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a weathered but clean building in a quieter part of Tokyo. Kenji answered the door on crutches, his right leg ending just above the knee. His left sleeve was rolled up, revealing a lattice of shiny scar tissue that twisted from wrist to elbow.

"You’re the fire guy," Kenji said, grinning.

Touya eyed the scars. "You’re the ‘got too close to a villain’ guy."

Kenji barked a laugh. "Akane was right, you’re funny. Come in!"

The apartment was cluttered but lived-in, with textbooks piled on the coffee table, a half-assembled prosthetic leg on the kitchen counter, and a tacky All Might poster tacked crookedly to the wall.

"So," Kenji said, moving towards the fridge. "Akane also told me you’re a mess."

"Akane talks too much."

"She also says you want to work with kids." Kenji tossed him an iced tea bottle. "Which, honestly, is terrifying."

Touya caught it, fumbling. "Why?"

"Children are scary!" Kenji insisted. "I’d rather lose my other leg than face a kindergarten class, swear to God."

Touya choked on his tea. Maybe Kenji wasn’t so soft after all. 

They weren't friends.

But they did understand each other.

The first time Touya got a firsthand look at Kenji’s complications , he woke to a crash from Kenji's room. He'd stumbled out of bed, half-expecting a break-in, only to find Kenji on the floor, tangled in his sheets, his prosthetic leg discarded by the bed. His eyes were wild, unfocused, somewhere else entirely.

Touya knew that look.

"Hey," he said, voice rough with sleep. "You're in Tokyo. You're fine."

Kenji didn't respond, just curled tighter into himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Touya hesitated, then sat on the floor beside him, close but not touching.

"You're in your apartment," he tried again, quieter. "You're safe. No one's hurting you."

Kenji shuddered, his fingers clawing at his own arms. "It's… it's still…"

"Gone," Touya said firmly. "It's gone."

It took another twenty minutes before Kenji's breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his shoulders. He didn't speak, just slumped against the bedframe, exhausted.

Touya didn't either. Just handed him a glass of water and left the room.

They didn't talk about it in the morning.

Winter hit Tokyo hard that year.

The cold seeped into Touya's bones, made his scars ache and his lungs tighten. He caught a cold within the first week, nothing serious, just enough to make his head pound and his throat raw. But combined with the chronic pain, it was unbearable.

He spent days curled under a blanket on the couch, sipping tea that did nothing, trying to ignore the itch under his skin, the one that whispered just one hit, just one pill, just enough to make it stop… 

Kenji found him staring blankly at the TV, his fingers digging into his own arms hard enough to bruise.

"You good?"

"Peachy," Touya gritted out.

Kenji studied him for a long moment, then limped to the kitchen. He returned with two mugs: one tea, one coffee spiked with whiskey.

"Drink," he ordered, shoving the coffee into Touya's hands.

Touya glared. "I'm sober."

"And I'm supposed to be in physical therapy twice a week," Kenji said, dropping onto the couch beside him. "We pick our battles."

The whiskey burned. The pain didn't go away.

But the itch faded, just a little.

The quirk counseling center was small, tucked into a nondescript office building near the university. His volunteer program supervisor, Dr. Ishikawa, had a mutation quirk: scales along her arms, serpentine eyes that missed nothing.

"Most of our cases are kids whose quirks hurt them," she explained, leading him past a row of treatment rooms. "Burns, frostbite, electrical surges. They come in scared. Our job is to teach them control."

The first patient was a boy no older than eight, with sparks jumping between his fingers every time he sneezed.

"It stings," the kid mumbled, rubbing his reddened palms.

Touya rolled up his sleeves, letting the boy see the scars. "Mine used to do that too."

The kid's eyes widened. "Did it… did it get better?"

"Yeah," Touya said. "But it takes work."

Dr. Ishikawa smiled.

Three and a half years passed in a blur of classes, appointments, and the mundane routines of life.

His graduation ceremony was held in one of the university’s older auditoriums, the kind with high ceilings and stained-glass windows that cast fractured light across the graduates’ faces. Touya sat stiffly in his chair, the heavy graduation robes scratching against his scars, his cap slightly askew. He hadn’t expected to feel anything about this, just another step, another box checked, but when his name was called (Himura Touya, Quirk Counseling and Analysis, with honors), something tight in his chest loosened.

Akane was in the front row, clapping louder than anyone else, her dark eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to pride. Kenji, seated beside her, had his arms crossed, smirking like he’d won a bet.

After the ceremony, Touya found them waiting for him outside, the late afternoon sun warm on his back.

"Look at you," Akane said, reaching up to adjust his tassel. "Quirk counselor and analytic specialist. Who knew you had brains under all that angst? Oh right! Me."

"Shut up," Touya muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Kenji snorted. "Yeah, yeah, we’re all real impressed. Now can we please go eat? I’ve been sitting for three hours, my leg is killing me."

Touya rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Unknown Number:
[Image attachment: A blurry photo of the graduation stage, taken from the very back of the auditorium.]
Congrats, hot stuff. Sorry I couldn’t stick around—work thing. Drinks later?

Touya stared at the message, then at the number. He didn’t have it saved, but he knew exactly who it was.

"Who’s that from?" Akane asked, peering over his shoulder.

"No one," Touya said, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Kenji’s grin widened. "Ohhh, is it your mystery friend again?"

"I don’t have a mystery friend."

"The one who keeps texting you at weird hours?" Akane added, eyebrows raised. "The one you definitely don’t smile at your phone about?"

"I don’t-" Touya cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It’s just Keigo. He’s..." An acquaintance? Someone who had somehow weaseled his way into Touya’s life and refused to leave? "... someone I know."

"Uh-huh," Kenji said, elbowing Akane. "Someone special."

"Fuck both of you," Touya said, but there was no heat behind it.

Akane laughed, looping her arm through his. "Come on, genius. Let’s go celebrate."

And for once, Touya didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

It was early September, around 8:30 pm. Toyua was sprawled across his couch, phone in hand, squinting at the bright screen in the dim light of his apartment. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to send the text he’d just typed, something stupid and sappy, the kind of thing he’d never say out loud.

He deleted the entire message, and typed something else.

you’re annoying. when are you coming over

A second later, his phone buzzed.

KEIGO 🦅: miss me that much?
KEIGO 🦅: can’t tonight, patrol ran late. tomorrow? i’ll bring food

Touya exhaled through his nose, thumbing out a reply.

whatever. don’t forget the spicy stuff this time

He tossed his phone onto the coffee table, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where his glasses usually sat. He’d given up wearing them an hour ago; the frames irritated the scar tissue along his temples, and he wasn’t in the mood for a headache.

The apartment was quiet. The only sound was the hum of the fridge and the distant murmur of the city outside. It was a small space, cluttered but clean, the walls lined with textbooks on quirk genetics and a few framed certifications. Himura Touya, Licensed Quirk Counselor.

He’d come a long way from back alleys and hospital beds.

The knock on the door made him freeze. 

Three sharp raps against the door. Too deliberate to be a neighbor, too firm to be a delivery.

Touya frowned. Keigo would’ve texted. Akane had sworn off surprise visits after the last one ended with her walking in on things no social worker should ever see. 

He pushed himself off the couch, wincing as his knees popped. His lungs ached, as the weather was shifting, and his body always knew before the forecast did.

Another knock.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, padding barefoot across the floor.

He yanked the door open and stopped.

A woman stood in the hallway, her posture professional, her expression carefully neutral. Behind her, three figures hovered: two taller, one small, all of them staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

Touya’s stomach dropped.

No.

The woman cleared her throat. “Himura Touya?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His gaze was locked on the trio behind her: on the white-and-red hair, on the too-familiar features.

Fuyumi. Natsuo. Shouto.

His siblings.

Touya stared at the four figures in his doorway, which included the social worker with her clipboard, Fuyumi with her too-tight smile, Natsuo slouched and scowling, and Shouto, small and silent, chewing methodically on the sleeve of his shirt.

For a moment, no one moved.

Running on autopilot, Touya stepped aside, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. "Uh. Come in, I guess."

The social worker, her badge read Takada, nodded briskly and entered, her heels clicking against the hardwood. Fuyumi followed, herding Shouto gently by the shoulders while Natsuo trailed behind, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

The apartment felt smaller with them in it, the air thicker with tension. He could see Fuyumi’s eyes flickering around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the textbooks stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, the half-empty mug of tea gone cold.

“Sit, please,” he said, gesturing to the couch.

Fuyumi guided Shouto down, her voice soft. “It’s okay, Sho. Just for a little bit.”

Shouto didn't respond. His mismatched eyes darted around the room before settling on his own hands, which twisted into the fabric of his sleeve. After a moment, he brought the cuff to his mouth, chewing absently. 

Touya's gaze caught on the scar, a brutal, jagged thing that split Shouto's face from eyebrow to cheekbone, the skin still pink at the edges. His breath hitched.

What the hell did he do to you?

Takada folded her hands in her lap. "I’m sure you have questions."

Understatement of the fucking century.

"CPS was called to the Todoroki residence last night," Takada began, her voice carefully neutral.

Touya’s fingers twitched.

"A neighbor reported hearing shouting. When authorities arrived, they found Endeavor in the middle of what he called training."

Touya’s breath caught.

Training.

He knew what that meant.

"Shouto had been struck hard enough to vomit," Takada continued. "When questioned, Endeavor admitted this wasn’t unusual."

Natsuo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Bullshit.”

Fuyumi shot him a warning look, but her hands were shaking. “Natsu—”

“No, Yumi. He knew. He always knows.” Natsuo’s voice cracked. “And you let him—”

“I didn’t let him do anything!” Fuyumi’s voice rose, then immediately dropped again, her eyes darting to Shouto, who had started rocking slightly, his fingers now twisting in his shirt. “I—I wasn’t even there. I moved out three years ago, you know that—”

“Yeah, and left us with him—”

Takada cleared her throat, interrupting Natsuo and pressing on.

"Rei Todoroki was not present at the time of the incident. She’s been in inpatient care for the past five years."

Touya froze.

Five years?

His chest tightened. The last time he’d seen Rei, she’d been fragile, her hands shaking around a teacup, but she’d been there.

"What… what happened?"

Fuyumi’s expression tightened. "She… had an episode. With Shouto."

Touya’s gaze flicked back to Shouto’s scar.

Oh. Rei did that?

Takada cleared her throat. "Given the circumstances, we’re aiming for not separating the siblings. You’re the next of kin, and so they first go to you."

Touya blinked. "What?"

Fuyumi leaned forward. "Touya, please. I can’t take them, my dorm doesn’t allow it, and I’m still in school-"

Touya opened his mouth to argue, to protest, anything , but then Shouto made a small, distressed noise, his fingers tightening around his sleeve.

Fuyumi sighed. "Shouto, stop it-"

Touya stood abruptly. "Hold on."

He crossed to his bag, digging through the side pocket until his fingers closed around a small, squishy silicone toy, a stim chew he’d bought for a client but never used.

He crouched in front of Shouto, holding it out. "Here."

Shouto’s mismatched eyes flicked to it, then to Touya’s face.

Touya squeezed the toy once, demonstrating. "You can chew on this instead."

A beat of hesitation. Then Shouto snatched it, shoving it into his mouth with a relieved intensity. His rocking slowed.

Fuyumi stared. "What… what is that?"

"A stim toy?" Touya said, frowning. "You didn’t grab any of his before leaving?"

"His what?"

"His…" Touya gestured vaguely. "For the chewing. Did his OT not recommend these?"

Fuyumi’s brow furrowed. "An OT?"

Touya froze.

Takada’s expression darkened.

Touya’s stomach twisted. "You’re telling me no one’s ever evaluated him?"

Fuyumi shifted uncomfortably. "He doesn’t… he’s not one of those. He’s just… Shouto."

Takada and Touya shared a look.

"The hospital diagnosed him with a concussion," Takada said slowly, "but they recommended further testing. His behavior-"

"He’s always been like this," Natsuo interrupted.

Fuyumi nodded quickly. "It’s normal for him."

Takada cleared her throat. "Regardless, the situation is what it is. The boys stay with you."

Touya exhaled sharply. "I can’t."

"Please," Fuyumi whispered.

"I have health issues," Touya snapped. "I can barely take care of myself. I’ve got a history of…" He cut himself off, glancing at Shouto. "Problems. And I just started a new job."

Takada stood, smoothing her skirt. "Let me rephrase. I’m not asking."

She dropped a folder on the coffee table. "Paperwork. Stipend details. Emergency contacts. You’ll figure it out."

And with that, she walked out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Four siblings.

One apartment.

The apartment felt smaller with four people in it.

Touya stood in the center of the living room, arms crossed, surveying the space like a general assessing a battlefield.

"Okay," Touya said, rubbing at his temples. The nerve blockers were wearing off, and the beginnings of a headache pulsed behind his eyes. "Rooms. Fuyumi, you’re not staying, right?"

Fuyumi shook her head. "I’ve got my dorm. I’ll visit, but…" She hesitated, glancing at Natsuo and Shouto. "Technically, you’re only responsible for these two."

Great.

Touya exhaled. "Right. So. Natsuo, you take the spare room. It’s got a bed, a desk… Kenji left most of his furniture so you should be good."

Natsuo’s eyebrows rose. "Who’s Kenji?"

"My old roommate."

"Cool," Natsuo said, though his tone suggested he didn’t actually care. He pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed his duffel bag. "I’m gonna go unpack."

He disappeared down the hall without another word.

Touya turned to Shouto. "You’re with me for now. My room’s got space for a futon."

Shouto didn’t react. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his knee, his gaze fixed on the far wall.

Fuyumi bit her lip. "He… he doesn’t always respond to direct instructions. You might have to-"

"I got it," Touya interrupted. He crouched in front of Shouto, keeping his movements slow. "Hey. You’re gonna sleep in my room tonight. Okay?"

Shouto’s eyes flicked to him, then away. But after a moment, he gave a tiny nod.

“Okay, so. Natsuo first,” Fuyumi suddenly said, smoothing down the sleeves of her sweater. 

Touya slowly stood, bracing his hands on his thighs, and going over to sit on the couch. His evening meds were wearing off, and the dull ache in his bones was creeping back in.

From down the hall, a loud thump sounded, probably Natsuo throwing his bag onto the bed. A second later, the muffled sound of a playlist started up, bass heavy enough to make the walls vibrate.

Fuyumi winced.

"Yeah," Touya said dryly. "I'm getting the impression there’s stuff I should know."

Fuyumi lowered her voice, though with the music blaring, it was hardly necessary. "He's... complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"He's got Dad's temper," she admitted, her gaze dropping to her hands. "Like, really has it. But his quirk's weak, so it's not-" She cut herself off, biting her lip.

Touya studied her. The way her shoulders hunched slightly when she mentioned Natsuo's temper, the nervous tap of her foot against the floor.

She's scared of him.

Not scared for him. 

"Snowflakes, right?" Touya asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Fuyumi nodded. "His body temperature runs too high to sustain it for long. Mostly he just makes little flurries when he's upset." She hesitated, then added, "But when he gets really mad... he breaks things. Yells. Slams doors. One time he put his fist through his bedroom wall."

 So the temper's there, but without the firepower to back it up. 

Touya raised an eyebrow. "And Endeavor just... let that slide?"

A bitter laugh escaped Fuyumi. "Oh no. Dad punished him for it. But that just made it worse. Natsuo's not…" She glanced toward the hallway, where the bass still thumped. "He's not violent violent. He's never hit anyone. But when he loses it... it's scary."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I think it scares him too, sometimes."

Touya exhaled through his nose.

From the floor, Shouto made a small noise around the new stim toy between his teeth, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knees.

Fuyumi's expression softened as she turned to him. "And then there's Shouto."

Touya followed her gaze.

"He doesn't talk," Fuyumi said quietly.

"At all?"

"Not since he was six."

Touya's stomach turned. "What happened when he was six?"

Fuyumi's fingers tightened around the hem of her skirt. "He took a bad hit to the head during training. Knocked him out cold. When he woke up, he just... never spoke again."

Brain damage. The words sat heavy in Touya's chest.

"You didn't take him to a doctor?"

Fuyumi flinched. "I wanted to. I tried, really, but Dad said no. Said if he was awake, and walking, the he was fine." Her voice cracked slightly. "I got in trouble for crying about it."

Touya's quirk flared under his skin, heat prickling along his scars. He forced it down, taking slow, measured breaths.

Not now. Not here.

"So what does he like?" Touya asked instead.

Fuyumi hesitated. "I... don't really know?"

What?

Touya stared at her. "You don't know?"

"Dad didn't… we weren't really allowed to-" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "He likes cold soba. And he doesn't like loud noises. Or being touched without warning."

"That's it?"

Fuyumi's cheeks flushed. "He's... particular.” 

Touya opened his mouth, then closed it again. What was the point? Fuyumi had grown up in the same house of horrors he had. She didn't know any better.

Fuyumi left around 10 PM, after extracting promises from Touya to text her updates and pressing quick kisses to her brothers' foreheads. Natsuo endured it with a scowl; Shouto didn't react at all.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Shouto's breathing intensified. His fingers dug into his thighs, blinking rapidly at the door.

He doesn't understand why she left.

Touya crouched in front of him. "Hey."

No response.

Slowly, giving Shouto plenty of time to pull away, Touya took his hand.

Shouto froze.

Touya squeezed gently.

For a long moment, nothing. Then Shouto's fingers twitched. His breathing evened out, just slightly.

Touya smiled. "You're okay."

Shouto didn't look at him, but the frantic breathing slowed.

He kept hold of Shouto's hand as he turned toward Natsuo, who was hovering in the hallway with his arms crossed. The kid looked like a storm cloud in human form: all scowling brows and hunched shoulders.

"Alright," Touya said, his voice steady despite the ache creeping through his bones. "Ground rules."

Natsuo rolled his eyes. "We're not five."

"Yeah? Then act like it."

Shouto's fingers twitched in Touya's grip, and when Touya glanced down, he saw the kid staring at their joined hands with something like fascination. Slowly, Shouto pressed his palm harder against Touya's, as if testing the pressure. Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his free hand coming up to grip Touya's sleeve.

Oh.

Touya hesitated, then carefully shifted, wrapping an arm around Shouto's shoulders. The kid went rigid for a second, then melted into it, his forehead bumping against Touya's collarbone.

Natsuo made a disgusted noise. "You know he's not a baby, right?"

Touya didn't look up. "Yeah, I know."

"Then why are you-"

"Because he likes it," Touya said flatly. “He seems relaxed.” 

Natsuo blinked.

Touya exhaled through his nose. Christ, they really don't know anything about him.

"Never mind. Rules." He held up his free hand, counting off on his fingers. "One. My meds are in the bathroom cabinet. Don't touch them. Don't look at them. If you so much as think about stealing a painkiller, I will know, and you will regret it."

Natsuo's scowl deepened. "I'm not a fucking theif."

"Didn't say you were. But they're strong shit, and I need them to function. So hands off."

Natsuo muttered something under his breath but didn't argue.

"Two," Touya continued, "you don't leave this apartment without telling me first. Not to go to the corner store, not to take a piss outside, nothing. If you walk out that door without a heads-up, I call the cops and report you missing. Got it?"

"That's bullshit-"

"Got it?"

Natsuo's jaw clenched, but he gave a sharp nod.

"Three. You respect each other and the neighbors. No screaming, no punching walls, no setting shit on fire."

Natsuo scoffed.

Touya leveled him with a look. "Try me."

For a second, they just stared at each other: Natsuo bristling, Touya unimpressed. Then Natsuo looked away first, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Whatever."

Touya squeezed Shouto’s hand once. "That goes for you too, kid."

Shouto didn't respond, but his fingers tightened slightly around Touya's.

Natsuo watched them, his expression unreadable. Then, with a scoff, he turned and stalked back to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Touya sighed, rubbing at his temples with his free hand.

This is going to be a nightmare.

Chapter Text

Touya woke to the sensation of being watched.

Blinking against the morning light filtering through his cheap blinds, he turned his head to find Shouto sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, staring at him with unblinking heterochromatic eyes. The kid had clearly been awake for a while—his hair was damp at the ends like he'd washed his face, and he was already dressed in the same clothes from yesterday, though they looked freshly shaken out.

"Christ," Touya croaked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You're like a creepy little owl."

Shouto didn't respond, but his fingers twitched against his knees where they rested.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

KEIGO 🦅: you alive?
KEIGO 🦅: was gonna head over around 11

Touya winced. Right. Their plans.

TOUYA: family emergency. can't today
TOUYA: sorry. still want to see you once shit settles

The reply came instantly.

KEIGO 🦅: everything ok?
KEIGO 🦅: need me to bring anything?

Touya's chest tightened. Three years ago, he would have snarled at the offer. Now… 

TOUYA: might need help with groceries later, but ill let u know
TOUYA: thanks

He set the phone down and stretched, his scars pulling uncomfortably. His morning meds sat in the organizer on the nightstand:nerve blockers, quirk suppressants, a corticosteroid inhaler for his lungs. He dry-swallowed them with practiced ease.

Shouto watched the entire process with unsettling focus.

"Morning routine," Touya explained gruffly. "You'll get used to it."

When Touya shuffled to the bathroom, bleary-eyed and stiff-limbed, he turned to find Shouto already standing in the doorway, watching. The kid didn't ask to join, just hovered at the threshold until Touya sighed.

"Fine. But no staring while I piss."

Shouto obediently turned to face the wall, but the moment Touya finished, those mismatched eyes were back on him, tracking every movement as he started the shower.

The kid perched on the closed toilet lid while Touya showered, his small hands folded neatly in his lap, his gaze never wavering. When steam fogged the mirror, Shouto reached out to trace patterns in the condensation with one finger, his movements precise, almost clinical.

Touya turned off the water with a sigh. "You next, kid."

Shouto didn't protest, but his fingers clenched slightly in the hem of his shirt.

"It's just water," Touya said, grabbing a fresh towel. "You're not scared of water, are you?"

A tiny shake of the head. Touya watched as Shouto mechanically removed his clothes, his movements stiff like he was following a memorized routine. The scars weren't just on his face - thin lines, burns, crisscrossed his shoulders and back, old marks from training sessions gone wrong.

The shower spray startled him at first- he flinched when it hit his shoulders - but within seconds he was standing perfectly still under the water, letting it run over him without moving, without reacting, like he'd been trained to endure rather than enjoy.

From outside the shower, Touya cleared his throat. "Don’t forget soap."

Shouto blinked, like the concept was foreign. 

The bathroom was still thick with steam when Touya opened the medicine cabinet. The scar cream sat between the bottles of painkillers and quirk suppressants, its plain white label worn at the edges from constant use.

Shouto, now dressed in clean clothes, watched from the doorway as Touya scooped out a dollop of the pale green ointment. The scent of aloe and something faintly medicinal filled the space between them.

"Gotta do this every morning," Touya muttered, working the cream into the worst of the scars along his collarbone first. "Keeps the skin from getting too tight."

Shouto inched closer, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. His eyes tracked the movement of Touya's fingers with an intensity that should have been unnerving.

"You wanna try?"

For a moment, Touya thought Shouto would refuse. Then, his hands shot out, grabbing Touya's wrist with startling strength. Shouto yanked his arm forward, pressing Touya's cream-slick fingers directly into the skin of his scarred cheek. The motion was rough, ike he thought Touya would pull away if he didn't force him to comply.

"Hey, easy!" Touya hissed, trying to gentle his grip. Shouto's fingers were like iron around his wrist. "You don't gotta manhandle me, kid. I was the one who offered."

Shouto didn't let go.

Touya recognized the look. 

This is how they've always touched me. This is all I know.

Touya stopped pulling away, and Shouto’s grip loosened.

"Okay," he said softly. "We gotta be gentle, yeah? Scars are tender. People are tender." He turned his hand slowly, letting Shouto feel the movement without breaking contact. "Like this. See?"

Shouto's grip continued to loosen incrementally as Touya smoothed the cream along his scar, his touch feather-light. The kid's breath hitched at the first proper stroke: not rough, not demanding, just careful.

Touya's throat tightened.

No one had ever touched him like he was something fragile, instead of someone to be pushed and pulled around.

The cream glistened on Shouto's cheek as Touya worked it in, the skin pink and angry under his fingertips. Shouto leaned into the touch, his eyes slipping shut, his entire body swaying forward like a flower toward sunlight.

Touya's vision blurred.

Christ.

He blinked hard, his breath shuddering in his chest. The bathroom was too hot, the air too thick. Shouto's scar under his fingers… 

Rei did that. Rei, who used to sing them lullabies, who tucked blankets around their shoulders when they were sick … 

A drop of water hit Shouto's forehead.

The kid's eyes flew open, his brow furrowing as he looked up at Touya's face.

"Steam," Touya lied hoarsely, swiping at his own cheeks. "C'mon, let's eat."

Shouto didn't move. Just stared at the wetness on Touya's fingers, his head tilted like he was solving a puzzle. Then, slowly, he reached up and pressed his palm to Touya's damp cheek.

A mirror of the gesture.

You're crying.

Shouto leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Touya's sternum.

Touya exhaled shakily and let his arms come up around the kid. He wasn’t sure who it was helping more.

Shouto followed him to the living room, and Shouto darted ahead, scrambling onto the couch with single-minded purpose.

Touya barely had time to sit down before Shouto was on him.

The kid climbed into his lap with the same focused intensity he'd shown with the scar cream, pressing his entire body against Touya's chest like he was trying to mold himself into the shape of him. His arms wedged between them, his legs curled up, his head tucked under Touya's chin.

"Jesus-" Touya wheezed as Shouto's full weight settled on his ribs. The kid was dense, his body temperature perfectly regulated, cool where Touya ran hot, like holding a living, breathing ice pack.

Shouto didn't wiggle or adjust. He went utterly still, his breathing slowing almost immediately. Not asleep, but somewhere close, his body finally receiving the deep pressure input it had been craving for years.

Touya's arms hovered awkwardly for a moment before settling around him.

No one's held him like this.

The thought hit with unexpected force. Rei might have, once; Touya had vague memories of her cradling him as a child, her hands gentle in his hair, but Shouto? He had been raised by Endeavor alone, with Natsuo too young, and Fuyumi too scared to intervene.

Touya's throat tightened.

Fuyumi let herself in, her arms laden with grocery bags. She froze in the doorway at the sight before her: Touya wheezing slightly under Shouto's weight, his face a mix of resignation and something dangerously close to affection.

"I brought…" Fuyumi's voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I brought breakfast."

Touya lifted a hand in greeting, careful not to dislodge Shouto. 

“You’re so loud, jeez!” 

A door slammed down the hall as Natsuo retreated back into his room.

Shouto, meanwhile, had gone rigid at the interruption. But when Fuyumi approached, he reached for her with grabby hands that made Touya's chest tighten.

"He wants pressure," Touya explained as Fuyumi hesitated. 

Fuyumi's brow furrowed. "But he's never… he doesn't like being touched."

"I think he might," Touya corrected gently. "He just doesn't like being grabbed, maybe, or pulled around, but deep pressure's different: it's sensory, calms the nervous system."

Fuyumi looked lost. "How do you know that?"

"Because it's my job to know," Touya said, sharper than he intended. He took a breath. "Look, his quirk gives him perfect temperature regulation, right? His body's always at equilibrium. But pressure, that's something he's never had control over. I think it might feel nice to be squeezed, right Shouto?"

Fuyumi's face froze for a moment before she schooled it into something neutral. “I’d better get cooking.” 

Fuyumi cooked while Touya wheezed under Shouto's renewed assault, his body sprawled across Touya's chest like he was trying to fuse them together.

"You're gonna crush my lungs," Touya grumbled, but he didn't push him off.

Shouto didn't respond, his eyes half-lidded and distant. He wasn't asleep; Touya could feel the occasional twitch of his fingers, the slight shift of his weight, but he wasn't entirely present either. Somewhere between meditation and dissociation, floating in that hazy space where the world couldn't reach him.

Fuyumi moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, the rhythmic chop of vegetables and the hiss of oil in the pan filling the apartment with comforting noise. Every so often, she'd glance over at them, her expression unreadable.

"He's really... enjoying that?" she asked quietly, stirring a pot of miso.

Touya snorted. "You see him trying to crawl inside my ribcage? Yeah, I’d say he's okay."

"But he never-"

"Because no one ever let him," Touya interrupted, "or showed him how to ask, or even told him it was an option."

Fuyumi's hands stilled on the knife.

Touya sighed, adjusting Shouto's weight slightly.

She set the last dish on the coffee table with a quiet clink, steaming miso soup, rice, tamagoyaki still glistening from the pan. The savory aroma filled the small apartment, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal.

She settled onto the couch next to Touya, smoothing her skirt nervously. Shouto, who had been a dead weight across Touya’s chest, lifted his head at her presence.

"Hi, Shou," Fuyumi said softly, offering a hesitant smile. "You want breakfast?"

Shouto didn’t answer. Instead, he moved, clambering over Touya with all the grace of an overeager puppy, bony knees digging into ribs and thighs as he transitioned from one sibling to the other. Touya wheezed as an elbow jammed into his stomach.

"Ow, fuck, kid, watch the-"

Shouto paid no mind, already wedging himself between Fuyumi and the couch armrest, his back pressed flush against her side.

Fuyumi stiffened, chopsticks hovering over the food, but Shouto didn’t seem to notice, just leaned harder into her, his head tipping onto her shoulder. The movement was so deliberate it bordered on aggressive, less a request for affection than a demand for sensory input.

Touya watched, equal parts amused and gutted, as Fuyumi's hands fluttered uncertainly before settling stiffly around Shouto's shoulders. Her touch was hesitant, like she was handling something fragile, which was laughable given how Shouto was basically using her as a human backrest.

Natsuo shuffled in, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He took one look at the scene: Fuyumi frozen with Shouto glued to her side, Touya massaging his bruised ribs, and snorted.

"What the hell is this?"

"Family bonding," Touya deadpanned.

Natsuo opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and stalked past them to the kitchen instead. 

Touya rolled his eyes and reached for the paperwork Takada had left. "Alright. Let's figure this shit out."

Natsuo returned with a heaping plate of food, flopped into the armchair in the corner, and after eating, promptly fell back asleep, his long legs dangling over the armrest.

Natsuo's school records were a mess.

Touya flipped through the pages, his eyebrows climbing higher with each disciplinary note. "Refused quirk assessment." "Physical altercation with a classmate." "Excessive tardiness." 

Fuyumi traced a finger over one particularly damning report. "He kept getting suspended for fighting," she admitted quietly. “Or refusing to go to school.” 

Touya glanced at Natsuo's sleeping form in the armchair: all long limbs and defensive, even in rest. 

Shouto’s were somehow worse.

No school records past first grade. No doctor visits beyond mandatory quirk registration. The most recent entry was from a few days ago: "Patient non-verbal. Signs of repeated head trauma. Refer to neurology."

Touya’s fingers tightened around the paper.

Fuyumi fidgeted. "He could read before… before everything happened with Mom. Simple math too. But after…"

"Endeavor just kept him locked up training?" Touya finished flatly.

Fuyumi nodded, eyes fixed on Shouto where he slept against her. "Dad said… he said regular school would ‘make him soft.’"

Touya had to set the papers down before he burned holes in them.

Fuyumi shifted, making Shouto grumble in his sleep. "I'm sure once he's settled here, he'll catch up. Middle school will-"

"He's not going to middle school," Touya cut in, gentler than he felt.

Fuyumi blinked. "What?"

Touya tapped the most recent document: the hospital discharge papers. "They noted he's non-verbal. That he didn't respond to questions. That's not just shyness, Fuyumi."

"But he's always been quiet…"

"Not talking at all for five years isn't being quiet." Touya kept his voice low but firm. "And from what I’ve seen: the chewing, the rocking, the way he needs pressure… that's not just being sensitive or weird. It's..." He hesitated, searching for words she'd understand. "It's like his brain works differently. And that's okay, but it means he needs help he can’t get at a normal school. You get it?"

Touya pointed to the empty medical history section. "That head injury when he was six? That probably did damage. And instead of getting him help, Dad just locked him in a dojo and called it homeschooling."

A tear splashed onto the paper. Fuyumi wiped at her face hastily. "I tried…"

"I know." Touya didn't let her finish. "But now we do better. I've got contacts at the university; I'm still finishing my master's. There's programs for kids like Shouto. Special classes, therapists who know how to work with non-verbal students."

Fuyumi stared down at Shouto's sleeping face. "You really think he needs that?"

"I think we have to try it."

Chapter Text

Touya woke to the sound of his alarm and the immediate, bone-deep protest of his body. His scars ached from yesterday’s unexpected weight; Shouto had spent half the afternoon draped over him like a particularly stubborn cat, and his lungs burned from the effort of keeping up with two kids who had, until yesterday, been strangers.

He rolled over, expecting to find Shouto already awake and watching him, but the kid was still curled on his side of the bed, his face half-buried in the pillow. His scarred cheek was pressed into the fabric, his breathing slow and even.

Small mercies.

Touya dragged himself upright, wincing as his joints popped. His morning meds sat on the nightstand, and he dry-swallowed them before shuffling to the bathroom.

By the time he emerged, showered and dressed, Shouto was sitting up, blinking sleepily at the wall.

"Morning," Touya said, keeping his voice low. "You hungry?"

Shouto didn’t answer, but he slid off the bed and followed Touya to the kitchen, his steps quiet and precise.

Natsuo, predictably, was harder to rouse.

"Five more minutes," he grumbled, pulling the blanket over his head when Touya knocked on his door.

"It’s 6:30," Touya said. "School starts at 8."

"Don’t care."

Touya sighed. "I’m making eggs."

A pause. Then, muffled: "...With cheese?"

"Yeah, with cheese."

Natsuo’s door creaked open a minute later, the kid’s hair sticking up in every direction. He squinted at Touya like he was personally responsible for the sun rising.

"You look like shit," Natsuo informed him.

Touya snorted. "You’re one to talk."

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Shouto picked at his food, eating in slow, methodical bites, while Natsuo inhaled his portion and half of Shouto’s before deciding to shower.

Touya watched Shouto push his remaining rice around the plate. "You don’t like it?"

Shouto didn’t look up, but his fingers tightened around his chopsticks.

"Okay," Touya said, filing that away for later. "We’ll find something you do like."

By some miracle, they were all dressed, fed, and out the door by 8:15.

Natsuo’s new school was a short subway ride away, and Touya walked him to the station, Shouto trailing silently behind.

"You good?" Touya asked as they reached the turnstiles.

Natsuo shrugged, adjusting his backpack. "It’s school. Whatever."

Touya hesitated, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Text me if you need anything."

Natsuo blinked, clearly surprised by the gesture, but nodded before disappearing into the crowd.

Shouto stared after him, his expression unreadable.

"Come on," Touya said, nudging him toward the bus stop. "We’ve got work."

Shouto hated the bus. His breath hitched as the doors hissed shut behind them, his mismatched eyes darting between the fluorescent lights overhead and the sea of strangers pressed too close. The engine roared to life, and Shouto flinched hard enough to knock his knee against Touya’s. His fingers dug into the fabric of his own pants, his knuckles white.

"Hey," Touya murmured, leaning down so only Shouto could hear. "Eyes on me."

Shouto’s gaze snapped to Touya’s face, his breathing uneven.

"Breathe in," Touya said, exaggerating the motion. "Hold it. Now out."

He repeated it until Shouto’s shoulders loosened slightly, until his grip on his own thighs wasn’t quite so desperate.

By the time they reached their stop, Shouto was pale but calm, his free hand worrying at the chew toy around his neck.

Touya’s workplace was a modest clinic tucked between a ramen shop and a laundromat, its walls lined with posters explaining quirk safety and developmental milestones. The waiting room was already half-full when they arrived: parents with fidgeting children, teenagers with nervous expressions, all here for one reason: their quirks were hurting them.

Shouto froze in the doorway, his eyes darting between the patients. A girl no older than eight sat in the corner, her fingers sparking uncontrollably every few seconds. A boy across from her had skin that cracked like dry earth whenever he moved too quickly.

Dr. Ishikawa, Touya’s supervisor, glanced up from her clipboard. Her serpentine eyes flicked from Touya to Shouto, taking in the way the kid was practically glued to Touya’s side.

"He can stay in your office today," she said, her voice low. "But we’ll need a long-term solution."

Touya nodded, guiding Shouto down the hall.

His office was small, just a desk, two chairs, and a shelf overflowing with textbooks and case files. He nudged the second chair closer to the window, where the light was softer. "You can sit here."

Shouto sat, but his attention was fixed on the closed door, his body tense like he expected someone to burst in at any moment.

Touya’s first appointment was a twelve-year-old boy whose fire quirk kept igniting his own hair. 

"Alright, Haruto, let's see those control exercises."

The twelve-year-old scowled at the candle between them but obediently held out his palm. A small flame flickered to life: steady at first, then flaring abruptly as the boy's frustration spiked. The scent of singed hair filled the office as his bangs smoldered.

Touya didn't flinch. He'd smelled worse.

"Breathe," he reminded, tapping the laminated emotion wheel on the desk. "Name the feeling before it names you."

"Stupid," Haruto muttered, but his shoulders dropped slightly. "It's stupid that I have to-"

"Ah-ah." Touya nudged the biofeedback monitor closer. The screen displayed real-time quirk activity in pulsing orange waves. "What's the number one rule?"

Haruto sighed dramatically. "No value judgments during sessions."

"Good boy." Touya grinned when Haruto made a face at the praise. "Now, deep breath in, and slow the flame on the exhale. Like cooling soup."

As Haruto practiced, Touya adjusted the therapy plan in his notes:

Progress: 30 sec controlled burn (up from 15)

Next step: Introduce thermal gloves

The next, an extreme safety hazard. 

Mika's gravity quirk activated when she blinked. Literally.

"Third floor this time," she announced, plopping into the chair with her arm in a sling. The fifteen-year-old smiled, her cotton candy perfume following her into the room. "But! I remembered the parachute stance!"

Touya checked her chart: mild wrist fracture, no concussion. "That's my overachiever." He tossed her a stress ball shaped like All Might's face. "Now show me without breaking bones."

Mika grinned and stood, planting her feet in the wide stance Touya had drilled into her. She squeezed the ball once, twice, then deliberately blinked.

Instead of plummeting, she hovered six inches above the ground for a full three seconds before landing lightly.

"Yes!" She punched the air, then winced at the movement.

"Easy there, Space Girl." Touya noted the progress in her file. "Next week we'll work on directional falls."

Mika stuck out her tongue as a form of agreement. As she left, she waved at Shouto.

He had a soft spot for his next client.

The moment Touya opened the soundproofed therapy room, a familiar vibration hummed through the floorboards: three quick pulses, then two long ones. Ren's greeting.

"Hey, superstar," Touya smiled, stepping inside to find seventeen-year-old Ren sprawled on the crash mat, his tablet propped against his knees. His mother, Mrs. Shirogane, sat in the observation chair knitting what appeared to be the world's longest scarf. She waved with her needles.

Ren's entire body vibrated with barely-contained energy, making the mat's surface ripple like water. His quirk, echolocation turned inward, let him perceive the world through vibrations rather than sound, but it also meant he felt every footstep, every car engine, every refrigerator hum in a six-block radius.

Touya knelt beside the mat, pressing his palms flat against the surface. "Big day?"

Ren's fingers danced across his tablet's screen. The synthesized voice announced: "Bakery. New mixer. Earthquake. Earthquake. Earthquake."

Mrs. Shirogane sighed. "We had to leave halfway through his birthday."

"Ouch." Touya nudged the weighted blanket toward Ren. "Well, you know the drill: let's make our own music first."

Touya pulled out their "instrument box," objects that made predictable vibrations. The tuning fork came first, its 128Hz hum making Ren's eyes light up. Then the electric toothbrush taped to a wooden plank (Ren's favorite), and finally the mini subwoofer playing bass tones no one could hear but Ren could feel through his bones. Ren immediately rolled onto his stomach, pressing his cheek against the mat to feel the vibrations. His breathing slowed as he matched Touya's rhythm.

Shouto, watching silently from the corner, tilted his head as Ren began to "sing" along, his quirk modulating the vibrations into something suspiciously close to the chorus of "Y.M.C.A."

Next, the hardest part: the work part.

"Okay, superstar," he said, keeping his voice light but firm. "Time for quiet feet."

Ren's face immediately scrunched in displeasure, his fingers drumming rapidly against his tablet. The synthesized voice blurted out: "NO QUIET. LOUD IS GOOD."

Mrs. Shirogane set down her knitting. "Ren."

Just that, and Ren slumped slightly, though his lower lip jutted out.

Touya didn't push. He knew what this cost Ren. Feeling the world through vibrations was as natural to him as breathing, and asking him to dampen that was like asking someone to voluntarily mute half their senses. But it was necessary, unless they wanted a repeat of last month's incident where Ren had a meltdown in the grocery store and accidentally shattered every glass bottle in the dairy aisle.

"We'll go slow," Touya promised, setting the noise-canceling headphones on the mat between them. "Just five minutes today. Then we can do the blocks after, yeah?"

Ren vibrated the mat in protest, but reached for the headphones.

Touya pulled up the seismograph app on his phone, placing it on the floor. "Show me your normal."

Ren took a deep breath and let his quirk activate fully. The graph spiked wildly as his vibrations traveled through the floor: chaotic peaks and valleys mapping every frustrated tremor in his body.

"Good," Touya said, because it was. Because acknowledging the starting point mattered. "Now..."

He placed his hands palm-up on the mat. Ren hesitated, then pressed his own hands against them. Skin-to-skin contact always grounded him best.

"Match me," Touya instructed, deliberately making his breathing visible, in through the nose, out through pursed lips like blowing out a candle.

For the first thirty seconds, Ren's vibrations only intensified, his frustration mounting as he struggled to regulate. The seismograph lines jagged violently.

Then, a single steady pulse. Then another. Uneven, but there.

"That's it!" Mrs. Shirogane whispered.

Touya didn't speak, just kept breathing, and kept offering the anchor of his hands. Slowly, so slowly, Ren's vibrations began to sync—not perfectly, but closer. The seismograph smoothed from frantic scribbles into something approaching rhythm.

At three minutes, Ren whined high in his throat. His fingers twitched against Touya's palms.

"You're doing so well," Touya murmured. "Just a little longer."

The four-minute mark hit with Ren's entire body shaking from the effort of suppression, sweat beading at his temples. But the vibrations remained controlled, never gone, but managed.

When the timer finally beeped at five minutes, Ren collapsed backward onto the mat with a thud, his chest heaving. The moment the headphones came off, his tablet practically flew into his hands:

"HATE QUIET FEET."

"I know," Touya said, already marking the progress in his notes. Baseline variance had decreased by 18%, their best yet. "But you did it. Five whole minutes! That's new."

As promised, they ended with the foam blocks: building increasingly elaborate towers just to knock them down with precisely controlled vibration bursts.

By the end of the session, Ren was drained but calm, his vibrations settled into a steady, contented pulse. Mrs. Shirogane packed up his tablet and weighted blanket, smiling as her son lingered near the door, rocking slightly on his heels.

"Thank you again, Himura-san," she said warmly. "He's been practicing the breathing at home. It's helping."

Touya nodded. "He's doing great. Really."

As they turned to leave, Mrs. Shirogane's gaze flicked to Shouto, still sitting quietly in the corner. The boy had his sleeve in his mouth again, chewing absently as he watched Ren.

Touya caught the movement and gently redirected him, pressing the silicone chew toy into his hand instead. Shouto took it without protest, his eyes still fixed on Ren.

Mrs. Shirogane didn't comment, but her expression softened in quiet recognition. She touched Ren's shoulder, guiding him toward the door, but not before Ren sent one last pulse through the floor: a gentle, deliberate vibration aimed at Shouto.

A farewell. Shouto didn’t react.

The late afternoon sun painted the streets in gold as Touya and Shouto made their way to the subway station. Shouto’s grip on Touya’s sleeve hadn’t loosened since the bus ride, his fingers curled tightly in the fabric as if afraid Touya might vanish if he let go. The crowded sidewalks didn’t help; every brush against his shoulder made him flinch, every loud voice sent his free hand flying to his ear.

Touya kept his strides slow, his voice low. "Almost there, kid."

Natsuo was already waiting at the station entrance, slouched against the railing with his backpack dangling from one shoulder. His uniform was rumpled, his tie loose, and the scowl on his face could’ve curdled milk.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled, pushing off the railing.

Touya raised an eyebrow. "Long day?"

Natsuo’s glare could’ve melted steel. "They put me in the remedial class."

Ah. That explained it.

"They’ll bump you up once your records transfer," Touya said, steering them toward the quieter side streets. "Till then, enjoy the easy A."

Natsuo muttered something under his breath but fell into step beside them. Shouto walked between them, his steps measured, his gaze fixed ahead like he was navigating a minefield.

By the time they got home, Touya’s lungs ached, and his head throbbed from the day’s sensory overload (both his and Shouto’s). But the boys needed to eat, so he shoved it down and set to work in the kitchen.

Natsuo collapsed onto the couch, flipping through channels with aggressive button presses. Shouto hovered near the doorway, his fingers twisting in his sleeves.

"You okay?" Touya asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Shouto didn’t answer, but his eyes flicked to the stove.

"Not hungry?"

A tiny shake of his head.

Touya sighed. "Sorry, Sho. But you’re eating something tonight."

He made curry: simple, filling, and impossible to mess up. Natsuo inhaled three servings without pause, barely coming up for air between bites. Shouto, predictably, pushed his around the plate, eating only the carrots and rice before setting his chopsticks down with finality.

Touya didn’t push. He’d learned that much already.

Natsuo sprawled across the living room floor with his textbooks, grumbling under his breath about "pointless busywork." Shouto sat at the table, staring blankly at a children’s workbook Fuyumi had dropped off with his stuff.

Touya left them to it, retreating to the couch with his own stack of grad school materials. His master’s program didn’t pause just because his life had imploded.

At some point, his phone buzzed.

KEIGO 🦅: how’s the fam?

Touya glanced at Natsuo, now dramatically sighing over his homework, and Shouto, methodically tearing the corner of his workbook page into tiny shreds.

TOUYA: alive

Keigo sent back a laughing emoji, and Touya’s chest warmed despite himself.

At 11:30, Touya realized with a start that he’d lost track of time.

"Natsuo, bed," he called, rubbing his eyes.

"Almost done," Natsuo grumbled, but he closed his notebook with a snap.

Shouto was still at the table, his workbook replaced with a pile of shredded paper. His eyes were glazed over, his movements sluggish with exhaustion.

Touya crouched in front of him. "Time for bed, kid."

Shouto blinked slowly, then reached for him.

Touya exhaled but let Shouto lean into him as they walked to the bedroom. He helped him change, brushed his teeth for him when Shouto just stared blankly at the toothbrush, and tucked him in with more care than he’d ever admit to.

Natsuo’s door clicked shut down the hall.

What a fucking day.

But as he listened to Shouto’s steady breathing beside him, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

The clinic’s break room smelled of stale coffee and microwave popcorn. Touya leaned against the counter, cradling his phone between his shoulder and ear as he stirred sugar into his coffee with one hand. The other hand absently massaged the tight scar tissue along his ribs: four days of Shouto’s weight against his chest had left him aching more than usual.

The line rang twice before his grandmother picked up.

“Touya,” she said, her voice warm but measured. “You’re calling early.”

“Morning, Obaasan,” he said, blowing steam off his coffee. “Just had a break between clients. How are you?”

A pause. The familiar rustle of her setting down her knitting. “The gardenias are blooming.Your grandfather just finished repotting the bonsai; nearly threw out his back doing it, stubborn old man.”

A gruff voice muttered in the background. “I did not throw out my back.”

Touya smirked. “Sounds like you’re both in top form.”

“And you?” His grandmother’s tone shifted, the way it always did when she was probing for information. “How’s work? Are you eating properly?”

“Work’s fine. Eating’s… happening.” He glanced at his half-finished coffee: his nutritious breakfast. “Listen, I’ve got some news.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. So, uh. The boys are staying with me for a while.”

A beat of silence.

“What boys?”

Touya winced. 

“My brothers,” he said, bracing himself. “Natsuo and Shouto.”

A sharp inhale. “What?”

And then, distantly, his grandfather’s voice in the background: “What’s happening?”

His grandmother’s tone was clipped. “Touya says he has his brothers.”

“What?”

Touya pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a distant rustling, and then, his grandfather’s deeper voice cut in. “Explain.”

So he did.

The condensed version, anyway: Endeavor’s arrest, the social worker’s visit, the fact that he was now, somehow, responsible for two kids he barely knew.

His grandmother took the phone back, her voice tight. “That man. I told our daughter not to marry him.”

“Obaa-san-”

“No. He was always too angry. Too loud.” Her words were clipped, decades of bitterness simmering under each syllable.

His grandfather muttered something in the background.”Should’ve sent the boys here years ago,” but his grandmother scoffed.

“And do what with them? We could hardly care for Touya.”

Touya winced. That stung, even if it was true.

His grandfather’s voice grew closer. “You need to tell that social worker… Akane?- to take them. This isn’t sustainable.”

“It’s temporary,” Touya said automatically.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Shouto’s got a neuro eval today. He’s… something’s not right. I think it’s brain damage.”

A beat of silence. His grandmother’s voice softened. “From…?”

“From everything. Did you know my mom is in a mental hospital?”

Another pause. Then, reluctantly, glossing over his question: “...And Natsuo? He’s okay?”

Touya exhaled. “Angry. Like him. But his quirk’s weak, so at least he can’t set the apartment on fire.”

His grandfather grunted. “Small mercies.”

“Touya,” his grandmother cut in, her tone shifting to something painfully gentle, “you take such good care of yourself. But your health… it’s fickle.”

He knew what she meant. The hospitalizations. The days he couldn’t get out of bed. The way his lungs sometimes gave up without warning.

“I’ve got it under control,” he said, though the words tasted hollow.

“Do you?”

Touya watched a sparrow land on the railing, tilting its head at him. “For now.”

A long silence. Then his grandmother sighed. “Call us after the evaluation.”

“I will.”

“And Touya,” His grandfather’s voice was gruff but unmistakably worried. “If it becomes too much…”

“I know.”

But they all knew that even if it came to it... he wouldn’t ask.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and artificial lemon. Shouto sat rigid in his chair, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knees, his gaze darting between the door and the fish tank in the corner. Every time it swung open, his shoulders tensed, waiting.

Then Fuyumi arrived, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her glasses slightly askew from rushing.

"Sho!"

Shouto was on his feet before Touya could blink, crossing the room in quick, stiff strides before pressing himself against her side. Fuyumi stumbled slightly at the impact but recovered, her arms coming up automatically, still awkward, but less hesitant than before.

"Hey," she murmured, smoothing a hand over his hair. "You okay?"

Shouto didn’t answer, just leaned harder into her, his face half-buried in her sweater.

Touya watched from his seat, exhaustion already creeping into his bones. He hadn’t slept much: between Shouto’s restlessness and his own chronic pain, nights were rarely kind.

"You ready for this?" Fuyumi asked, looking at Touya over Shouto’s head.

"No," he admitted, standing. "But it’s happening anyway."

The neurologist, Dr. Kobayashi, was a no-nonsense woman with sharp eyes and a voice that never rose above a calm, even tone, something Shouto seemed to appreciate. She ran him through a battery of assessments, and Shouto tolerated most of them with blank-faced compliance, though he balked at the MRI, his breath hitching the moment the machine hummed to life. It took both Touya and Fuyumi standing within his line of sight, their hands pressed flat against the glass, before he finally lay still.

Then came the history.

Fuyumi answered most of the questions: about Shouto’s developmental milestones, the incident at six years old, the years of "homeschooling" that amounted to little more than quirk training.

"And his speech?" Dr. Kobayashi asked, typing notes.

Fuyumi hesitated. "He... stopped. After the injury."

"Completely?"

"Yes."

"Any attempts since?"

"Not words. Sometimes sounds. Or…" She glanced at Shouto, who was now methodically stacking blocks on the floor. "He hums. When he’s upset."

Dr. Kobayashi nodded, her expression unreadable.

Two hours later, they sat in her office, the late afternoon light slanting across the desk.

"Shouto meets the criteria for Autism Spectrum Disorder," Dr. Kobayashi said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Given the traumatic brain injury at age six, though, it’s impossible to say how much of his current presentation is innate neurodivergence versus acquired symptoms. They’re... intertwined."

Fuyumi’s breath hitched. "But… he could still improve, right?"

"With the right support, absolutely." Dr. Kobayashi slid a pamphlet across the desk. "The Shinjuku Special Education Center has experience with cases like his. Small classes, sensory accommodations-"

"But he’s smart," Fuyumi interrupted, her voice cracking. "He used to talk. If we just… if we help him enough-"

Touya’s stomach turned.

Dr. Kobayashi’s expression softened. "Miss Todoroki, I understand this is difficult to hear. But Shouto’s needs aren’t a reflection of his intelligence. He is smart. That’s not the issue."

Fuyumi’s hands twisted in her lap. "I just... I thought maybe, if he was somewhere safe, he’d start talking again. That it was just... fear, or-"

No.

Touya’s vision blurred at the edges.

It wasn’t just the words, it was the hope in Fuyumi’s voice. The desperate, clawing denial that after everything, Shouto might still be different. That the damage wasn’t something love alone could fix.

And beneath that, the unspoken truth: This is Endeavor’s fault.

Touya’s quirk surged under his skin like a live wire.

The high dose of carefully calibrated suppressants in his system fought to contain it, but his body had limits. Nausea rolled through him in waves, sharp and acidic. He’d built up a tolerance over the years, could usually push through it, but this… This was too much.

His throat burned. His pulse roared in his ears.

"Bathroom," he gritted out, standing so abruptly his chair screeched.

Shouto startled, Fuyumi reached for him. "Touya?"

He was already out the door.

He barely made it to the stall before his knees hit the tile.

Vomit burned up his throat, bitter with bile and the metallic aftertaste of quirk suppressants. His body was rejecting them- his fire too strong, his emotions too raw.

Fuyumi’s face. That fucking hope.

Like Shouto was a puzzle to solve. Like if they just tried hard enough, he’d magically become normal.

Touya retched again, his fingers trembling against the toilet seat.

And Endeavor… Endeavor did this.

Touya’s fire flared again, and this time, a wisp of smoke escaped his lips.

Shit.

He forced himself to breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The suppressants would stabilize if he just calmed down, if he just– 

Another heave, another wave of heat crawling up his throat.

Five minutes. Ten. Until his breathing steadied, until the fire receded to a smolder.

When he finally stood, he splashed water on his face, the cold a temporary balm.

Get it together.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement as they left the clinic. Shouto walked between them, his fingers knotted in the strap of Fuyumi’s bag, his steps slow with exhaustion. The evaluation had drained him: hours of tests, bright lights, unfamiliar hands prodding and measuring.

Fuyumi checked her phone. “Natsuo’s last class ends in twenty minutes. We could meet him at that café near the station?”

Touya’s stomach turned at the thought of food, of noise, of people. The nausea had faded, but his head still throbbed, his body wrung out from the surge of his quirk.

“No,” he said, too sharp. He softened his voice when Fuyumi blinked at him. “Sorry. I just… I need to lie down. Still feeling a little off.”

Fuyumi studied him for a second and nodded. “Okay. Home, then.”

The bus was crowded, the air thick with the scent of sweat and stale perfume. Shouto stiffened the moment they stepped on, his fingers digging into Touya’s sleeve. Touya didn’t hesitate. He guided Shouto to the least cramped corner and pulled him close, one hand cupped over the kid’s ear, the other bracing them both against the lurch of the vehicle.

Shouto melted into the contact, his forehead pressed against Touya’s collarbone, his breathing steadying by degrees.

Fuyumi watched them, her expression unreadable. Then, softly: “You’re really good with him.”

Touya kept his gaze fixed on the window. “Thanks.” 

The apartment was quiet when they returned, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chatter of neighbors through the walls. Touya barely made it to the couch before collapsing onto it, his body leaden with fatigue.

Fuyumi busied herself in the kitchen, filling the kettle for tea, while Shouto wandered to the middle of the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor. He pulled a coloring book and crayons from the shelf beneath the coffee table, Touya had bought them days ago, after noticing how Shouto’s fingers twitched for something to do during quiet moments.

Touya closed his eyes, just for a second. 

The front door slammed open.

“I’m never taking that fucking train again,” Natsuo announced, kicking off his shoes with unnecessary force. He froze when he saw the three of them. “...What happened?”

“Evaluation,” Fuyumi said, pouring hot water into mugs.

Natsuo’s gaze flicked to Shouto, then to Touya’s prone form on the couch. “And?”

“And we’ll talk about it later,” Fuyumi said firmly, handing Natsuo a mug. “Help me with dinner.”

Natsuo scowled but obeyed, grumbling under his breath about “stupid cryptic family meetings.”

Touya drifted in and out of awareness as the sounds of cooking filled the apartment—the sizzle of oil, the chop of vegetables, Fuyumi’s gentle scolding when Natsuo nearly burned the rice. At some point, Shouto abandoned his coloring and stretched out on the floor beside the couch, his cheek pressed to the cool wood, his fingers idly tracing the grain.

When Touya opened his eyes again, the table was set, and Natsuo was poking Shouto’s side with his foot.

“Hey. Food.”

Shouto didn’t react.

Natsuo rolled his eyes. “Whatever. More for me.”

Dinner was quiet, the clink of chopsticks against bowls the only conversation. Shouto ate half his rice and none of the vegetables. Natsuo devoured three servings without pause. Fuyumi picked at her food, her gaze distant.

Touya managed a few bites before pushing his plate away.

Afterward, Natsuo disappeared into his room with a mumbled excuse about homework, while Fuyumi washed the dishes. Shouto returned to his spot on the floor. 

Family.

Not the one Endeavor had tried to force into existence. Not the one built on quirk marriages and scorched dojo floors.

Just this.

A too-small apartment. A quiet evening. A brother coloring on the floor, another grumbling over homework, a sister humming as she dried the dishes.

Touya closed his eyes again, and let himself rest.

Chapter Text

Touya woke to his phone buzzing violently against the nightstand. He fumbled for it, squinting at the screen: three missed calls from Fuyumi and a news alert that made his stomach drop.

BREAKING: #2 Hero Endeavor Arrested – Child Abuse Charges Confirmed

The article was brutal. Details of Shouto’s training, the hospital records of his concussion, even a grainy security photo of Endeavor dragging a much smaller Shouto by the arm. The comments section was worse.

Touya tossed his phone aside before he could read further.

Shouto, already awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, didn’t react to the noise. His fingers traced the edge of his scar absently, his gaze fixed on the wall.

“Morning,” Touya muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Shouto didn’t respond, but he followed Touya to the kitchen, his steps quiet.

Natsuo was already there, hunched over his phone at the table, his jaw clenched so tight Touya could see the muscle twitching.

“You seen this shit?” Natsuo growled, shoving the screen toward Touya.

Touya didn’t need to look. “Yeah.”

“They’re calling him a monster.” Natsuo’s voice wavered between satisfaction and something darker. “Good.” 

Touya said nothing. He just set a cup of coffee in front of Natsuo and turned to the fridge.

Breakfast was silent. 

Touya’s phone rang halfway through his lunch break.

“Mr. Himura? This is Principal Ito from Tokyo East High. There’s been an incident involving your brother.”

Touya exhaled through his nose. “What kind of incident?”

“A physical altercation. We need you to come in.”

Shouto, sitting across from him at the clinic’s break room table, paused mid-bite of his onigiri. His mismatched eyes flicked to Touya’s face.

“We’re on our way,” Touya said, and hung up.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Touya guided Shouto into the cramped office. Natsuo was already there, slouched in a chair with his arms crossed, his jaw clenched tight enough that Touya could see the muscle twitching. Across from him sat a well-dressed couple and their son, a wiry teenager with a split lip and a smirk that made Touya’s insides itch.

Principal Ito, a balding man with the exhausted air of someone who’d dealt with one too many unruly teenage boys, looked up from his paperwork. “Ah, Mr. Himura. Thank you for coming.” His gaze flicked to Shouto, who had immediately tucked himself half behind Touya, fingers twisting in his sweater sleeve. “And… this is?”

“Our little brother,” Touya said, nudging Shouto further into the room. “Couldn’t leave him alone, sorry.”

The principal frowned. “Perhaps he could wait outside?This is a rather... sensitive discussion."

Touya didn’t blink. “I literally just said he can’t be alone.”

A beat of silence. Shouto, oblivious to the tension, chewed absently on his sleeve, the fabric visibly damp. A beat of silence. Then the principal sighed and gestured to the small couch against the wall. “He can sit there, then.”

Touya nudged Shouto toward it, then dug through the kid’s backpack until he found the fidget cube he’d packed that morning. He pressed it into Shouto’s hands. “Here. Play with this.”

Shouto took it without protest, his attention immediately locking onto the switches and dials.

The parents, Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe. watched the exchange with poorly concealed curiosity, their eyes lingering on Shouto’s scar, his silence, the way his fingers worked the fidget with rhythmic intensity. Their son, Haruto, barely glanced at him, too busy smirking at Natsuo.

Principal Ito cleared his throat. “Right. Well. Let’s begin.” He shuffled some papers. “As I was explaining before you arrived, Mr. Himura, there was an altercation during lunch today between your brother and Haruto here.”

The smirk on Haruto’s face widened.

Natsuo’s knuckles whitened where they gripped his knees.

“According to witnesses,” the principal continued, “Haruto made some… comments regarding the recent news about your family. Natsuo took offense.”

Touya leaned forward. “What kind of comments?”

Haruto didn’t wait for the principal to answer.  "I said Endeavor’s a piece of shit who shouldn’t be allowed near kids. And this guy," he jerked his chin at Natsuo, "lost his shit over it."

Natsuo’s hands clenched into fists. "You said a hell of a lot more than that."

Haruto shrugged. "So? It’s true. Everyone’s thinking it."

"Haruto," his mother hissed, but the damage was done.

Natsuo shot out of his chair. "You wanna say that again? Say it again!"

Haruto grinned, leaning back like he’d won something. “Yeah, actually. Endeavor’s a piece of shit. And you’re just like him.”

Natsuo lunged.

The room erupted.

The principal grabbed Natsuo around the waist, hauling him away as the boy snarled, “I’ll fucking end you!” as Haruto’s parents shrieked, their chairs scraping against the floor as Mr. Wanatabe stepped between the boys.

"Enough!" the principal barked.

Touya was on his feet, stepping between them, hands raised. "Natsuo, calm down-"

Shouto had gone rigid on the couch, his fingers frozen around the fidget toy. His breath hitched before his hands flew up to clamp over his ears. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts, his eyes wide open, unwilling to close them, afraid of what would happen. Silent tears streaked down his face, but he made no sound. No wailing, no screaming. Just quiet.

Touya was at his side in an instant, blocking Shouto’s view of the chaos with his body. He didn’t coddle, didn’t baby him, just pressed his own hands over Shouto’s, adding pressure to the kid’s already-covered ears.

"Breathe," he murmured, low enough that only Shouto could hear. "In. Hold. Out."

Shouto’s nails dug into his own scalp, but after a few seconds, his breathing slowed.

The room had gone quiet.

Principal Ito still had a firm grip on Natsuo’s collar, but his attention was on Shouto. "Is he... alright?"

Touya didn’t look up. "Don’t worry about it. Can we please finish this?"

The Watanabes were staring, their expressions a mix of discomfort and something uncomfortably close to pity. Haruto looked vaguely guilty, but mostly just awkward.

Mrs. Watanabe recovered first. "Well. Clearly, there are... issues here beyond what happened today."

Touya shot her a look that could’ve melted steel. "Let’s stay on topic."

“Right,” Principal Ito said, clearing his throat. “As I was saying…”

Shouto’s fingers twitched under Touya’s palms. Then, with surprising force, he grabbed Touya’s wrists and yanked, pulling Touya’s hands down to press flat against his own chest.

Touya didn’t resist. He adjusted his grip, applying steady, firm pressure, the kind Shouto had clearly been craving but didn’t know how to ask for gently.

Natsuo, still standing stiffly beside the principal’s desk, flushed with secondhand embarrassment. His eyes darted to Haruto, who was watching with a smirk, and his fists clenched.

“The hell are you looking at?” Natsuo muttered.

Haruto opened his mouth, but he was swiftly interrupted

“Enough,” Principal Ito snapped. “We are not starting this again.”

Touya ignored them all, keeping his focus on Shouto. The kid’s breathing had slowed, his shoulders losing some of their tension, but his fingers remained locked around Touya’s wrists like he was afraid the contact would disappear.

Touya straightened but didn’t pull away entirely. He kept one hand resting on Shouto’s shoulder, grounding him, as he turned back to the adults.

“Let’s wrap this up.”

The principal sighed. "Both of you will serve in-school suspension next week. Any further incidents, and we’re looking at expulsion. Understood?"

Natsuo muttered something under his breath but nodded. Haruto just rolled his eyes.

Touya didn’t relax until they were out of the office, Shouto’s hand clutched in his, Natsuo stomping ahead of them like a storm cloud.

The walk to the train, and the journey home, were silent.

Shouto barely made it through the door before he crumpled.

One second, he was standing there, swaying on his feet, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and the next, he was face-first on the couch, limbs loose like a puppet with its strings cut. His breathing was already deep and slow, his fingers twitching faintly against the fabric.

Natsuo, meanwhile, had beelined for the kitchen, moving like if he stopped, something would catch up to him. His shoulders were stiff, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Touya followed.

Natsuo was at the sink, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The second Touya stepped into the room, his spine went rigid.

Touya leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me what’s really eating at you, or do I have to guess?”

Natsuo’s jaw clenched. “Not in the mood.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Touya tilted his head. “But you don’t get to fight someone in the principal’s office and then just walk away.”

Natsuo’s knuckles whitened. For a second, Touya thought he might snap, that Natsuo might whirl around and shout, might slam his fist into the wall. But instead, his breath hitched, just slightly, like he was holding something back.

Not just anger. Something else.

Touya exhaled, softening his voice. “Talk to me.”

Natsuo’s shoulders hunched. “I don’t—fuck—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his voice. “It’s like—one second I’m fine, and the next, it’s too much, and I can’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Touya watched him carefully. The way his breathing was too quick, the way his fingers tapped against the counter like he was counting seconds in his head.

Familiar.

“You ever feel like you’re gonna burn alive from the inside out?” Touya asked, quiet.

Natsuo stilled.

“Not literally,” Touya continued. “Just—like if you don’t do something, you’ll explode.”

Natsuo’s throat worked. After a beat, he nodded.

Touya pushed off the counter. “Yeah. I know that.”

Natsuo finally turned to look at him, eyes searching. “You…?”

Touya tapped his chest. “Quirk suppressants aren’t just for the fire. They help a lot with this.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “The anger. The… whatever the hell this is.”

Natsuo frowned. “But you don’t-”

“Lose my shit?” Touya smirked, humorless. “I can’t anymore… Learned my lesson the hard way.” He rolled up his sleeve just enough to show the edge of a scar. Natsuo’s gaze flickered down, then away.

Touya let the silence sit for a moment before adding, “Therapy helped. Meds help, although I don’t think you’re in danger of combusting. But mostly? You gotta remember it’s not you. It’s just… something you’re carrying, and you’re in control.”

Natsuo swallowed hard. “Feels like I’m not.”

“You are in control,” Touya answered earnestly. “And you’re not alone in it.”

Natsuo let out a shaky breath. 

Touya nudged Natsuo’s arm with his elbow. “C’mon. Let’s make some dinner.”

The weekend arrived like a slow exhale after days of held breath.

Touya woke to sunlight streaming through the thin curtains of the apartment, the faint sound of cartoons already playing in the living room. For the first time in a week, a crazy week, at that, there was nowhere to be, nothing pressing to do… 

Fuyumi was already in the kitchen, her textbooks spread across the table, a half-finished cup of tea steaming beside her. She glanced up when he walked in.

“Morning.”

“Mm.” Touya grabbed the coffee and a filter, setting up the machine and brewing himself a nice, strong coffee.

Fuyumi watched him over the rim of her glasses. “You should go out today.”

Touya blinked. “What?”

“Out.” She gestured vaguely toward the window. “You’ve been dealing with everything all week. You need a break.”

Touya scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Fuyumi said, softer now. “And it’s okay to admit that.”

Touya checked on the progress of the coffee, avoiding her gaze.

Fuyumi nudged his arm. “Seriously. Go see a friend. Walk around. Breathe. I’ve got things covered here.”

Touya hesitated.

“Shouto will be fine,” Fuyumi said, reading his silence. “Natsuo’s still asleep, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Touya exhaled. “...Thank you. Okay.”

So he texted Keigo.

Keigo was already at the café when Touya arrived, wings tucked carefully behind him to avoid knocking over chairs. He grinned when he spotted Touya, waving him over. Keigo slid out of the booth to meet him halfway.

Touya let himself be pulled into a brief hug, Keigo’s wings curling around them for just a second.

"Missed you," Keigo murmured, pulling back just enough to press a quick kiss to Touya’s temple before letting go.

Touya huffed, but his chest felt lighter already. 

“You look like hell,” Keigo said cheerfully, sitting back down.

Touya flipped him off before sliding into the seat across from him. “Long week.”

“No kidding.” Keigo pushed a coffee toward him: black, no sugar, exactly how Touya liked it. “So. You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

Touya wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into his fingers. He’d been dreading this conversation. Not because he thought Keigo would judge him, but because once he said it, it would be real.

“You heard about Endeavor’s scandal?” Touya started.

Keigo’s eyebrows shot up. “The child abuse thing? Yeah, it’s all over the news.” 

“He’s my dad.”

The words landed like a bomb.

Keigo went perfectly still.

Touya didn’t look at him, focusing instead on the steam curling from his cup. “I left when I was thirteen. After the… my accident.” He gestured vaguely at his scars. “Haven’t spoken to him since. But my youngest two siblings… they were still there.”

Keigo’s voice was careful. “The ones taken away.”

“Yeah.” Touya finally met his gaze. “Shouto and Natsuo. They’re with me now.”

Keigo’s wings twitched, a telltale sign of his shock. “Holy shit.”

Touya braced himself. This was the moment he was dreading, the part where Keigo realized what a mess he was tangled up in. The part where he made some polite excuse and vanished.

But Keigo just leaned forward, his voice low. “Are they okay?”

Touya blinked. “What?”

“Your brothers.” Keigo’s eyes were sharp, searching. “Are they alright?”

Something in Touya’s chest loosened. “They’re… adjusting.”

Keigo nodded slowly, processing. 

“Okay.”

Touya stared at him. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Keigo took a sip of his coffee.

Touya couldn’t help it. He snorted- not in a cute way. “You’re seriously not freaking out?”

“Oh, I’m freaking out,” Keigo admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Endeavor’s your dad. That’s… wow. But…” 

"I know." Touya met his eyes. "So if this is too much, I get it. No hard feelings."

Keigo’s brow furrowed. "What? No." He reached across the table, catching Touya’s wrist. "I’m not… Babe..."

Touya stilled.

"Yeah, it’s a lot," Keigo admitted. "But that doesn’t change how I feel about you."

He reached across the table, brushing his fingers against Touya’s wrist. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Touya’s breath caught. 

Keigo smirked. “Unless you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“Shut up,” Touya muttered, but he couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through his chest.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the weight of the confession settling between them. 

“So,” Keigo said lightly. “You’re a dad now.”

Touya choked on his coffee. “What?”

“You’ve got custody! That’s basically parenthood.”

“They’re teenagers, you idiot-”

Keigo grinned, unrepentant. “Still counts.”

Touya kicked him under the table.

Touya slipped back into the apartment just as the late afternoon light was fading. The air smelled faintly of tea and takeout Fuyumi must have ordered.

Fuyumi glanced up from her notes at the kitchen table, a pencil tucked behind her ear. "You look refreshed," she remarked, studying him.

Touya shrugged, toeing off his shoes. "Got some air."

Shouto was curled on the couch now, half-buried under a blanket, his eyes fixed on some low-volume nature documentary. He didn’t react when Touya passed by, but that wasn’t unusual. 

Natsuo’s door was cracked open for once, though no sound came from inside. Progress, maybe.

"You eat yet?"

Fuyumi shook her head. "Was waiting for you."

Touya rubbed at his temple, where the beginnings of a headache pulsed dully. He grabbed his glasses off the counter: ugly, practical things. Although his skin felt a tug, the pressure behind his eyes eased almost immediately.

Touya rummaged through the fridge, pulling out leftovers. "Shouto?"

"Had a snack an hour ago. He'll eat when he's hungry."

They worked in silence for a few minutes, reheating rice and soup. It should've been awkward; they were strangers, really, but there was something familiar in the rhythm of it. Maybe some long-buried memory of doing this as kids, before everything went to hell.

Fuyumi didn’t comment, just nudged a cup of tea toward him. "I called Shinjuku Special Education Center yesterday."

Touya stilled. "And?"

"They're expecting him Monday.” 

"We should take him tomorrow. Let him see the place before he's stuck there."

Fuyumi nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."

A thud came from down the hall, from Natsuo's room. 

Fuyumi's shoulders tensed. "He hasn't come out all morning."

Touya grunted. "Give him time."

After a minute, Fuyumi spoke again, softer this time. "Do you remember that snowstorm when we were kids?"

Touya blinked. "Which one?"

"The really bad one. The power went out, and Mom made hot chocolate on the stove." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "You kept stealing my marshmallows."

A flicker of memory: the sharp bite of winter air, the warm press of siblings huddled together, the way Fuyumi had pouted when he'd swiped the last marshmallow from her cup.

Touya huffed a quiet laugh. "You cried so hard Mom gave you hers."

"You were such a little shit."

"Yeah, well." He nudged her shoulder with his own. "Some things never change."

Chapter Text

The alarm blared at 5:30 AM.

Touya groaned, slamming his palm down on the clock before the noise could wake the entire apartment. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day settling over him like a second skin. Shouto’s first day.

He dragged himself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The apartment was silent: Natsuo’s door still shut, Shouto still sleeping in Touya’s bed.

The kitchen light flickered when he flipped it on. Touya squinted against the sudden brightness, reaching for his glasses on the counter, where they’d been abandoned at some point last night.

He pulled out the bento boxes Fuyumi had bought for them, one for Shouto, one for Natsuo, and started to cook. It was simple stuff: rice, tamagoyaki, some steamed vegetables, but hopefully good enough.  

As he worked, the apartment slowly woke around him. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside, the creak of floorboards as one of his brothers shifted in their sleep.

By the time he finished packing the lunches, the sky outside had lightened to a soft gray. He moved on to Shouto’s school bag. A change of clothes (just in case), the noise-canceling headphones (a godsend for the bus ride), the chewy toy Shouto had latched onto last week. The school had sent a list of supplies, so he added folders, crayons, pencils.

He paused, running his fingers over the straps of the backpack, feeling nervous on Shouto’s behalf. 

Fuyumi arrived at 8 AM sharp, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, her expression calm but tight around the edges.

“Morning,” she said, stepping inside. “How’s he doing?”

Touya nodded toward the couch, where Shouto sat, dressed in his new uniform, staring blankly at the wall. He hadn’t fought him on getting ready, but his fingers kept twisting in the fabric of his pants, restless.

“Quiet,” Touya muttered.

Fuyumi crouched in front of Shouto, offering a small smile. “Ready to go?”

Shouto blinked at her, then nodded once.

Natsuo emerged from his room just as they were leaving, his uniform rumpled, his expression sour. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed his lunch and school bag before brushing past them.

“See you later,” Touya called after him.

Natsuo flipped him off over his shoulder.

Teenagers.

The school was a low, sprawling building tucked behind a gated courtyard. The walls were painted a soft blue, the windows wide and letting in plenty of light. A few kids milled around outside, some chatting, others sitting alone under trees or on benches.

Touya’s chest tightened as they approached.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, greeted them warmly. “You must be Todoroki Shouto’s family.”

Fuyumi nodded. “Yes. We’re his siblings.”

“Wonderful. Principal Saito and Shouto’s homeroom teacher are waiting for you in the office.”

Shouto stayed close to Touya as they walked, his fingers brushing against Touya’s sleeve every few steps, like he was checking he was still there.

The principal’s office was spacious but cozy, filled with plants and framed artwork done by students. A man in his fifties stood as they entered, his smile warm.

“Ah, Todoroki-san. Welcome.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “This is Hayashi-sensei, Shouto’s homeroom teacher.”

Hayashi-sensei was younger than Touya expected, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun, her eyes sharp but kind. She bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

Shouto didn’t react, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder.

Principal Saito gestured for them to sit. “We’re very glad to have Shouto with us. I understand this is a big transition for him.”

Touya’s jaw clenched. Understatement.

Hayashi-sensei folded her hands on the desk. “Our goal today is simply to help Shouto acclimate. We’ll introduce him to the classroom, let him explore at his own pace. There’s no pressure to participate right away.”

Fuyumi leaned forward. “And his… education?”

“We’ll assess where he is academically, but our focus is on life skills first.” Hayashi-sensei’s voice was gentle but firm. “Communication, self-regulation, independence where possible. We’ll tailor his IEP as we get to know him better.”

Touya exhaled slowly. That sounded… good. Better than he’d hoped.

Principal Saito added, “We also have strict quirk regulations. Many of our students struggle with control, so we have measures in place to ensure safety.”

The one thing Shouto doesn’t struggle with.

But Touya and Fuyumi just nodded.

Hayashi-sensei led them down a quiet hallway, the walls lined with colorful student artwork and laminated schedules. The school was calm—no shouting, no chaotic energy—just the soft murmur of voices and the occasional hum of an aide guiding a student.

"Your brother will be in Class 6-B," Hayashi-sensei explained. "We have two sixth-grade classes here. Class 6-A follows a more traditional curriculum—those students mostly need support with focus, the classroom setting, or social skills. Class 6-B, where Shouto will be, focuses on life skills, communication, and foundational academics."

Touya nodded. He’d worked in enough schools as a quirk counselor to know what that meant. Shouto’s class would be for kids who needed more than just accommodations. 

Hayashi-sensei added, “We group students based on their current support needs, not ability. Shouto may transition to 6-A later if he’s ready for more academic focus. But for now, we want him to feel safe.”

Safe.

Touya exhaled.

The classroom door was propped open, revealing a bright, spacious room with low tables, sensory corners, and a small kitchenette in the back. A few students were already inside: one boy stacking blocks with intense focus, a girl tracing shapes on a tablet with an aide, another rocking slightly in a beanbag chair while flipping through a picture book.

Shouto’s grip on Touya’s sleeve tightened.

Hayashi-sensei crouched to his level. "Shouto, this is your new classroom. You can explore, or you can sit and watch! Whatever you’re comfortable with."

Shouto didn’t move, his mismatched eyes scanning the room.

Touya squeezed his shoulder. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," he murmured. "Just see how it feels."

A long pause. Then, slowly, Shouto stepped forward.

Hayashi-sensei smiled. "We’ll take it slow."

Fuyumi handed Shouto his backpack, adjusting the straps carefully. "You’re going to do great."

Touya forced himself to let go.

Touya’s job usually required his full attention.

Today, it didn’t stand a chance.

His first appointment was a nine-year-old girl with a mutation quirk that made her skin secrete a mild acid when stressed. Normally, he’d be fully present, walking her through breathing exercises, discussing coping strategies, adjusting her desensitization training.

Instead, his mind kept drifting.

Was Shouto eating his lunch? Had the noise been too much? What if he panicked and froze the whole classroom?

“Himura-san?” The girl tilted her head. “You spaced out.”

Touya blinked. “Sorry. Let’s try that again.”

He refocused… or tried to.

By his third session, his notes were a mess, his thoughts even worse.

Did they have the right chew toy for him? Should he have packed an extra sweater? What if-

“You’re distracted today.”

Touya jerked his head up. His supervisor, Dr. Ishikawa, stood in the doorway of his office, arms crossed.

Touya grimaced. “Yeah.”

“First day?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Ishikawa sighed. “Go home.”

Touya opened his mouth to argue.

“Go home, Himura. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

Touya arrived at the school an hour early.

He paced the front office, ignoring the receptionist’s amused look, until the bell finally rang.

Shouto was one of the last students out, his backpack strapped tightly to his shoulders, his expression as blank as it had been that morning. But his steps were steady, and when he spotted Touya, he didn’t hesitate before walking over.

Touya crouched down. “How was it?”

Shouto didn’t answer, but he didn’t flinch away either.

Hayashi-sensei handed Touya a report. “He did well!”

Touya skimmed the note before tucking it into his pocket.

“Thanks.”

Shouto’s fingers brushed his sleeve again.

Touya took that as a win.

Fuyumi had outdone herself with dinner. 

Natsuo, fresh off his in-school suspension, slouched at the table, stabbing at his food like it had personally offended him.

Touya set the school report next to his plate and read aloud:

“Shouto adjusted well to the classroom environment. He did not engage in structured activities but showed curiosity during free exploration. No signs of distress. Recommended focus: gradual participation in sensory and art-based tasks.”

Fuyumi smiled. “That’s really good.”

Natsuo grunted. “Sounds boring.”

Touya sighed. 

Shouto, for his part, was methodically separating his rice from his chicken, but he paused when Touya mentioned the art station.

A flicker of interest.

Touya filed that away for later.

Touya’s phone buzzed against the clinic’s break room table, the screen lighting up with Obaasan and Ojiisan. He exhaled through his nose, swiping to answer as he leaned back in his chair.

“You’re late,” came his grandfather’s gruff voice.

Touya rolled his eyes, even though the old man couldn’t see it. “By two minutes.”

“Still late.”

A shuffling sound, then his grandmother’s drier tone: “Is he eating?”

“Who, me or the kids?”

“Don’t be smart.”

Touya smirked, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where his glasses dug into scar tissue. He’d taken them off the second his last client left, but the indentations lingered. “Yeah, we’re eating. Fuyumi cooks most nights.”

A hum. “And the youngest?”

“Shouto’s fine. School’s… school.” He didn’t elaborate. They wouldn’t ask for details, not because they didn’t care, but because they’d spent a lifetime learning not to pry.

His grandfather cleared his throat. “Court date’s next month.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready?”

Touya’s fingers tapped against the table. “No. There’s no way they’ll go back to Enji. They’re not going back, so any outcome is good.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Good.”

That was as close to we’re proud of you as he’d ever get from them.

His grandmother switched topics. “Ojiisan wants to know if you need money.”

“We’re fine. Enji’s paying.”

“Hmph.”

He huffed a laugh. “Gotta go. I have to prepare for my next client.”

“Take your supplements.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The call ended as abruptly as it started.

Touya sat there for a moment, phone still in hand, before shoving it into his pocket and reaching for the ibuprofen he kept stashed in his desk.

Keigo’s wings were a flash of crimson against the gray city skyline as he dropped onto the café’s rooftop patio, grinning. “Miss me?”

Touya didn’t smile, but his shoulders loosened just slightly. “You’re late.”

“Hero work.” Keigo flopped into the chair across from him, already stealing a fry from Touya’s plate. “Some idiot tried to rob a convenience store with a butter knife.”

Touya snorted. “Scary.”

Keigo waggled his eyebrows. “I am pretty intimidating.”

“Shut up.”

They lapsed into easy silence, Keigo demolishing half of Touya’s food before sliding his own bento across the table in silent trade. Touya didn’t complain.

“How’s the kid?” Keigo asked around a mouthful of rice.

“Shouto’s fine. School’s… working, I guess.” Touya poked at his food. “Natsuo’s still pissed at the world, but he hasn’t punched anyone this week.”

“Progress.”

“Yeah.”

Keigo’s foot nudged his under the table. “And you?”

Touya scowled. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

“Fuck off.”

Keigo just grinned, unbothered.

Touya exhaled, rubbing at the scarred skin around his left eye. The glasses were back: he’d pay for it later with raw, irritated skin, but the alternative was a migraine, and he couldn’t afford one today.

Keigo’s smile softened. “You’re doing good, you know.”

Touya’s chest tightened. He looked away. “Whatever.”

Keigo let it drop.

Life had settled into something like a rhythm.

Mornings were a blur of packed lunches, half-awake arguments with Natsuo about forgotten homework, and making sure Shouto had his headphones before the bus came. Afternoons were work—clients, paperwork, the occasional lunch break stolen with Keigo when Hawks’ patrol route lined up with Touya’s schedule. Evenings were dinner, reports from Shouto’s teachers, and the delicate dance of not setting Natsuo off when he was in one of his moods.

It wasn’t easy. But it was theirs.

Tonight, though, the apartment was quiet. Natsuo was holed up in his room, and Shouto was curled on the couch, absently watching some cartoon.

Touya collapsed into the kitchen chair, rolling his stiff shoulders. His scars ached—a dull, ever-present throb that flared when he pushed himself too hard. He’d forgotten his pain meds this morning, too busy making sure Shouto’s bento was packed right, and now he was paying for it.

His phone buzzed.

KEIGO 🦅 : miss u

A stupid, fluttery feeling curled in his chest. 

He typed back: 

TOUYA: shut up

KEIGO 🦅 : mean 😔 whens ur next day off

Touya grimaced. Dunno. Court stuff coming up.

KEIGO 🦅 : still miss u 

Touya: yeah, u too 

He locked his phone before he could say something embarrassingly sentimental.

Fuyumi arrived at the apartment with a stack of folders under one arm and a frazzled expression. She dumped them onto the kitchen table with a heavy sigh, sending a few loose papers fluttering to the floor.

“Okay,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I think I have everything.”

Touya arched an eyebrow, picking up one of the folders and flipping through it. “You think?”

Fuyumi winced. “It’s a lot.”

That was an understatement. The paperwork was a labyrinth of legal jargon, financial disclosures, and character references: all of which needed to be meticulously organized before the hearing. And while Fuyumi had been the one to initiate the custody petition, it was becoming painfully clear that she was in over her head.

Touya exhaled through his nose and started sorting through the mess. “We need to separate the school records from the medical files. And where’s the housing affidavit?”

Fuyumi bit her lip. “I… I might have left it at my dorm.”

Natsuo, who had been lurking in the doorway with a bag of chips, snorted. “Smooth.”

Touya shot him a look before turning back to Fuyumi. “We have two weeks. If we’re missing anything, we need to get it now.”

Fuyumi nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I know. I just… I didn’t realize how much there was.”

Touya softened, just a fraction. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

And they would. Because as much as he hadn’t asked for this, somewhere along the way, he’d started needing this to work.

The realization settled in his chest like a weight.

The court had called all three of them to testify.

Fuyumi, as the primary petitioner, would go first: her earnestness and stability making her the ideal face of their case. Natsuo would speak to the conditions they’d lived under, the reality of Endeavor’s neglect. And Touya?

Touya was the wild card.

His history wasn’t exactly pristine: runaway teen, former drug use, a past littered with instability. But he was also the one who’d taken the boys in without hesitation, the one with a steady job, the one who could prove he was capable of this.

At least, he hoped so.

“What if they say no?” Natsuo muttered, sprawled on the couch while Touya double-checked their documents.

Touya didn’t look up. “They won’t.”

“But what if they do?”

The question, despite the absurdity of the prospect of it, hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.

What if, after all this, Endeavor still won?

What if Shouto and Natsuo were sent back?

Touya’s grip on the papers tightened. “They won’t.”

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like miso soup and laundry detergent, the faint hum of the washing machine blending with the sound of Shouto playing with his food at the kitchen table. Touya leaned against the counter, rubbing at the tight scar tissue along his ribs as he watched Natsuo shove his feet into his shoes by the door.

"You got your gym clothes?"

Natsuo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"Water bottle?"

"Jesus, yes."

Touya didn’t push further, just nodded and tossed him a protein bar from the cupboard. Natsuo caught it with a grunt, shoving it into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder.

"I’ll be home late," he muttered, already halfway out the door.

Touya didn’t bother asking where he was going. Natsuo had started staying late at school twice a week: sometimes for soccer, sometimes just holed up in the library with a couple of guys from his biology class. He never talked about it, but he wasn’t storming out the way he used to, either. 

Touya exhaled, rolling his stiff shoulders. His scars ached, the skin tight and angry where he’d neglected his stretches the last few nights. He should do them now, slather on the medicated cream gathering dust on his dresser, and dig out the heating pad for the deep muscle pain under his ribs.

But the dishes needed washing. And Shouto’s school bag wasn’t packed for tomorrow. The thought of sitting still long enough to tend to his own body felt impossible.

Touya had always been meticulous about his own care when he was alone.

Now, with two kids depending on him, his priorities had shifted.

He never forgot Shouto’s school reports. Never skipped packing Natsuo’s lunch, and made sure the apartment was stocked with the right snacks, the right soaps, the right everything to keep them comfortable.

But his own routines?

They slipped.

The stretches got skipped. The creams went unused. The heating pad stayed buried under his bed.

It wasn’t that he felt bad, just not as good as he knew he could. A constant, low-grade discomfort, like an itch under his skin he couldn’t quite scratch.

But it was fine.

He was fine.

The first week of November arrived with a biting wind that rattled the apartment windows. Touya woke to the sound of rain tapping against glass and the distant clatter of Natsuo rummaging through the fridge. He lay still for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the apartment.

Touya dragged himself out of bed, his scars pulling tight. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of lotion from his nightstand, absently rubbing it into the worst of the scarring along his arms. He’d skipped it yesterday. And the day before. The skin was angry and tight, but he didn’t have time to deal with it properly, not with Shouto’s school meeting this morning.

He pulled on a long-sleeve shirt and grabbed a mask from the box on his dresser before stepping into the hallway.

The apartment was quiet when he shuffled into the kitchen, save for the hum of the fridge. He started the coffee, then dug through the cupboard for the thermos Fuyumi had bought him.

By the time the coffee was ready, Natsuo had emerged from his room, hair sticking up in every direction, uniform wrinkled. He slumped into a chair at the table, rubbing his eyes.

"Test today, right?" Touya said, sliding a mug toward him.

Natsuo grunted, wrapping his hands around the warmth. "Mm."

"You study?"

"Some."

Touya didn’t push. Natsuo’s grades had stabilized since starting at his new school, hovering somewhere between passing and I could try harder, but why bother . Shouto appeared next, silent as always, already dressed in his school uniform. He climbed onto his usual chair, staring blankly at the table while Touya set a bowl of rice in front of him.

It had been two months since they’d moved in, since Touya had become a guardian, a brother again. Some days, it felt like they’d been doing this forever. Other days, it felt like they were still strangers.

The November wind cut through Touya’s jacket as he walked Shouto up the path to Shinjuku Special Education Center, his little brother’s hand tucked loosely in his. Shouto didn’t pull away, but he didn’t grip back either, just let his fingers rest there, passive and warm.

Fuyumi was already waiting in the front office when they arrived, her cheeks pink from the cold.

Shouto moved faster than Touya expected, grabbing fistfuls of Fuyumi’s coat and pressing into her with enough force that she rocked back slightly on her heels.

“Gentle,” Touya reminded, resting a hand on Shouto’s back.

Fuyumi just laughed, hugging him tight. “It’s okay! I missed you too.”

Shouto didn’t respond, but he didn’t let go either.

Hayashi-sensei appeared a moment later, smiling warmly. “Good morning. We’re all set up in the conference room.”

The room was small but bright, a round table in the center and shelves of colorful teaching materials lining the walls. A woman in a navy blazer stood as they entered.

“Todoroki-san, Himura-san,” she greeted, bowing slightly. “I’m Dr. Shimizu, the school’s speech and communication specialist.”

Touya nodded, guiding Shouto to a chair. His little brother sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, gaze fixed somewhere past Dr. Shimizu’s shoulder.

Hayashi-sensei began, “As you know, we’ve been working on finding ways for Shouto to communicate with us. While he’s made wonderful progress in other areas-” she slid a folder across the table, filled with photos of Shouto’s artwork: vibrant swirls of color, layered blues and reds blending into purples, bold strokes overlapping in abstract patterns- “he hasn’t engaged with any of our attempts at direct communication.”

Dr. Shimizu nodded. “We’ve tried picture cards, AAC devices, even basic sign language. He follows instructions when spoken to, but he won’t point to responses, won’t indicate yes or no, won’t look at materials placed in front of him.” She hesitated. “We’ve also observed very little vocalization. No babbling, no attempts at speech. Just occasional sighs or hums.”

Fuyumi’s fingers tightened around her pen. “At home, he’s the same. But… but he understands us. I know he does.”

“We don’t doubt his comprehension,” Dr. Shimizu assured. “But given his history of trauma and possible neurological factors, his brain may not associate communication with speech or traditional methods.”

A polite way of saying brain damage.

“So what’s the plan?” Touya asked, voice tighter than he intended.

Dr. Shimizu folded her hands. “We’d like to continue exploring. We won’t push speech if it’s distressing for him, but we do want to give him tools to express his needs.”

Fuyumi bit her lip. “Do you think he’ll ever…?”

“It’s hard to say,” Hayashi-sensei admitted. “But forcing him won’t help. We need to meet him where he is.”

Touya exhaled, watching Shouto out of the corner of his eye. His little brother was tracing the edge of the table with one finger, seemingly uninterested in the conversation.

“Okay,” Touya said finally. “No forcing. But keep trying.”

Dr. Shimizu smiled. “That’s the goal.”

Fuyumi reached over, brushing Shouto’s bangs from his eyes. “We just want you to be able to tell us what you need, okay?”

Shouto didn’t react.

The morning air was sharp with the first real bite of winter as Touya stepped onto the bus after dropping off Shouto, adjusting the black mask over his nose. Around him, half the passengers wore their own, some against the cold, some against germs, none of them looking twice at him. It shouldn’t have felt like a big deal.

And yet.

The clinic was quiet when he arrived, the receptionist nodding at him from behind her own mask. "Morning, Himura-san. You’re early."

"Paperwork," he muttered, though that wasn’t entirely true. 

He lasted two hours before his phone buzzed.

FUYUMI: Natsuo’s school called. His quirk flared in class again. I can’t leave my class to pick him up!

Touya exhaled through his nose, asking the receptionist to cancel his next session and grabbing his coat.

Natsuo was waiting in the principal’s office when Touya arrived, slouched so low in his chair he might as well have been melting into it. The air around him shimmered faintly with residual heat, the sleeves of his uniform damp with half-melted frost.

The principal, a tired-looking man in his fifties, gestured for Touya to sit. "We’ve spoken before about control."

Touya didn’t bother with pleasantries. "What happened?"

Natsuo’s jaw clenched. "Nothing."

"Nothing left the chemistry lab looking like a snow globe," the principal said dryly.

A muscle twitched in Natsuo’s temple. "I said I was sorry."

Touya watched the way his brother’s fingers dug into his knees, the way his breath came just a little too fast. The kid was trying, Touya knew he was, but his quirk seemed to be tied to his emotions, and with the trial looming, his moods swung like a pendulum.

Touya turned to the principal. "He’ll clean it up."

Natsuo’s head snapped up.

"And?" the principal prompted.

"And it won’t happen again," Touya said, though they all knew that was a lie.

Touya dug through his drawer for a fresh mask before leaving the apartment, the crisp November air already making his lungs ache. He’d learned the hard way that cold weather and his scarred respiratory system didn’t mix.

Natsuo, shrugging on his jacket by the door, eyed him. “You’re wearing that again?”

Touya adjusted the straps, careful not to let them tug on the worst of his scarring. “Yeah. Flu season.”

Natsuo rolled his eyes. “You’re such a germaphobe.”

It wasn’t about germs. But explaining that would mean admitting how fragile his body really was, how even a common cold could knock him out for weeks, and how his immune system had never fully recovered after Sekoto Peak.

He could’ve asked Natsuo to wear one too. Could’ve asked Fuyumi. But the thought of making it a thing, of watching them tiptoe around him like he was made of glass, made his skin crawl.

So he just shrugged. “Better than snotting all over my clients.”

Natsuo snorted and headed out, his breath still fogging slightly in the air despite the morning sun.

Fuyumi arrived that evening with takeout and a stack of court documents, her fingers drumming restlessly against the table as they ate.

“The lawyer confirmed we’re all testifying,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Natsuo, you’ll go after me.”

Natsuo stabbed at his rice. “What’s the point? They’re just gonna side with him anyway.”

Fuyumi’s chopsticks paused mid-air. “They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

The temperature in the room dropped sharply. Shouto, sitting beside Touya, blinked as a snowflake drifted onto his sleeve.

Fuyumi exhaled, slow and deliberate, her breath frosting the air. “Because we have evidence. Because Shouto’s school reports show he’s thriving. Because-”

“Because nothing,” Natsuo snapped. “You think some judge cares about school reports when-”

“Both of you.” Touya cleared his throat. “No need to give us all frostbite. Relax.”

Natsuo’s jaw clenched, but the frost receded, melting into damp patches on the table.

Fuyumi’s hands shook as she picked up her tea. “We have to try, Natsu.”

A week later, the wind howled against the apartment windows all night, rattling the glass in its frames. Touya lay awake, listening to it scream through the streets of Tokyo, his body tense beneath the blankets. Beside him, Shouto shifted in his sleep, his breath slightly congested, his forehead warm where it pressed against Touya’s arm.

He hadn’t meant to let the kid sleep in his bed again. But after another failed attempt at using the picture cards earlier that evening: another meltdown, another hour of Shouto sobbing into his chest, small hands fisted in Touya’s shirt like he was afraid to let go, Touya hadn’t had the heart to move him.

Now, with dawn creeping through the curtains, his arm was numb from Shouto’s weight, his throat dry, his head throbbing from lack of sleep. Beside him, Shouto shifted in his sleep, his breath hitching slightly, the tail end of the cold that had clung to him for days.

He should’ve kept his distance when Shouto first got sick, should’ve been more careful… but the kid had been so miserable, so desperate for comfort, that Touya hadn’t had the heart to push him away. Now, he could feel the telltale tickle in his own throat, the faint ache behind his eyes. Great.

The clock on the nightstand read 5:17 AM. No point trying to sleep now.

Gently, he disentangled himself from Shouto, tucking the blankets back around him before padding to the bathroom. The mirror showed the damage: dark circles under his eyes, his scars standing out starkly against his pale skin. He splashed cold water on his face, ran a hand through his hair, and told his reflection to get its shit together.

By the time Natsuo stumbled out of his room, bleary-eyed and scowling, Touya had already showered, dressed, and made breakfast: rice, miso soup, tamagoyaki. Simple, comforting.

Natsuo blinked at the spread. “You cooked?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Touya muttered, nudging a plate toward him.

Shouto, still in his pajamas, padded into the kitchen and climbed onto his usual chair. His nose was red from wiping it too much, his bangs sticking up in every direction. Touya handed him a tissue without a word, and Shouto blew his nose with a wet, unhappy sound.

“You feeling okay?” Touya asked, brushing Shouto’s hair back from his forehead again.

Shouto didn’t answer, but he leaned into the touch, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Natsuo shoveled rice into his mouth. “He’ll live.”

Touya shot him a look.

“What? He’s fine. It’s just a cold.”

Touya didn’t argue. His own appetite was nonexistent, his stomach churning with nerves, but he forced himself to sip at the miso soup. The warmth did little to settle him.

Fuyumi arrived at 8 AM sharp, her hair neatly pinned back, her blazer pressed and professional. She took one look at Shouto and immediately crouched in front of him, adjusting his collar. “You ready?”

Shouto blinked at her.

“That’s okay,” Fuyumi said softly.

Touya wasn’t ready either.

The wind screamed against the courthouse steps, tearing at their coats as they climbed. Shouto stumbled once, his small fingers tightening around Touya's sleeve, whether from the force of the gale or the weight of what lay ahead, it was impossible to say.

Touya glanced back at Natsuo, whose face had gone unnaturally pale beneath the November grey. Frost crackled along the railing where his hand had briefly touched it.

"Breathe," Touya muttered.

Natsuo's jaw worked. "I am."

Inside, the air was too warm, thick with the scent of industrial cleaner and old paper. The bailiffs moved with quiet efficiency, their polished shoes clicking against marble floors. One approached, her voice professionally neutral.

"Todoroki family? This way, please."

They were led to a small waiting room where a social worker waited to stay with Shouto.

Fuyumi knelt, adjusting Shouto's scarf. "You'll stay here with Ms. Aihara, okay? We'll come get you when-"

Shouto grabbed her wrist, his grip too tight, his nails biting into her skin.

"Gentle," Touya reminded, prying his fingers loose.

Shouto's breath hitched. His mismatched eyes darted toward the hallway where the courtroom waited.

"You're not going in there," Touya said firmly. "That's the rule."

A beat. Then, with agonizing slowness, Shouto released Fuyumi and sat in the chair Ms. Aihara indicated.

Natsuo hovered near the door, shoulders tense. "Let’s just get this over with."

The courtroom was smaller than Touya had imagined, with high ceilings and dark wood paneling. The benches were sparsely filled: a few court officials, a reporter in the back, and at the defendant’s table, Endeavor.

He hadn’t seen his father in person since Sekoto Peak. The man looked older, his massive frame somehow diminished in a suit instead of his hero uniform. But his presence was the same: sharp, burning, and unbearably intense. He didn’t look over at his children as they walked in.

Touya’s scars ached.

The judge called the court to order.

After opening statements from the attorneys, it was time to begin.

"First witness: Todoroki Fuyumi."

Fuyumi's hands shook as she took the stand, but her voice was clear.

"Growing up, my role was to keep the peace," she began. "When Touya left and Natsuo acted out, I was the one who smoothed things over. When Shouto-" Her breath hitched. "When Shouto cried, I was told to quiet him before Father heard."

The prosecutor nodded. "Can you elaborate on why?"

"Because Father didn't tolerate disruptions. If Shouto made noise during training, or if Natsuo complained about being ignored, it just... made things worse." She adjusted her glasses. "I thought if I could be perfect enough, if I could fix enough arguments, maybe he'd see us. But he never did."

Endeavor's fingers twitched.

"And your mother?"

Fuyumi's composure cracked. "She tried. But after Shouto's... after what happened, she couldn't…" A tear slipped free. "She couldn't protect us anymore."

The judge's pen scratched against paper.

Natsuo stood from his seat with enough force to make the chair legs screech against the courtroom floor. His breath fogged in the air as he approached the stand, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees.

The bailiff shot him a wary glance as frost began creeping across the witness stand railing.

"State your name for the record," the prosecutor said.

"Todoroki Natsuo." His voice came out sharper than intended. He flexed his fingers, willing the ice to stop spreading. It didn't.

"Can you describe your relationship with your father?"

Natsuo's laugh was bitter. "What relationship?" He gripped the railing tighter, the frost thickening under his palms. "Let me tell you about the great hero Endeavor as a father. When I was ten, my mother had a breakdown and poured boiling water on my baby brother's face."

The courtroom went dead silent.

Natsuo continued, voice shaking. "My father came home three days later. And when he did," his voice shook, the frost now climbing up the sides of the witness box, "he looked at Shouto's bandages and said, 'At least it didn't damage his quirk.'"

"That's what mattered to him. Not that his wife was in the mental hospital, or that his five-year-old son would be scarred for life. Just the damn quirk." Natsuo's throat burned. "And me? I was just... there. The useless child with no fire, an afterthought."

The defense attorney stood. "Objection, this is-"

"Let him finish," the judge said quietly.

Natsuo didn't even look at Endeavor. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to keep speaking.

"He kept training him. A toddler who couldn't even say 'stop.'"

The frost had spread to the floor now, delicate crystalline patterns blooming outward. Natsuo finally lifted his head, meeting the judge's gaze.

"That's the man you're considering giving custody back to. Someone who looked at a traumatized child and saw a tool. Someone who drove my mother to insanity and called it collateral damage."

For the first time, Natsuo turned to look at Endeavor. The man's face was ashen.

"I don't care about what he did to me," Natsuo said, his breath coming in visible puffs. "But what he did to them? That's unforgivable."

Touya rose from his seat with deliberate slowness, the scars along his arms pulling tight as he straightened. The courtroom air smelled of wood polish and something faintly antiseptic. He didn't look at Endeavor as he approached the stand - couldn't, if he wanted to keep his voice steady.

"State your full name for the record."

"Himura Touya."

The name landed like a challenge. His grandmother's name. Not Todoroki. Never again.

The prosecutor adjusted her glasses. "Can you describe your childhood relationship with the respondent?"

Touya's fingers twitched against the railing. "For the first eight years of my life, I was his masterpiece." His voice came out flatter than he intended. "His perfect heir. Then my body started failing."

A juror shifted in their seat.

"My quirk burned hotter than I could handle. The doctors warned him - one more major injury could kill me." Touya's thumb traced a particularly jagged scar along his wrist. "So he stopped training me. Just... walked away. Like I was a broken toy he couldn't play with anymore."

The prosecutor nodded. "And how did you respond?"

"I was thirteen." Touya's mouth twisted. "All I knew was that if I could just be stronger, just prove I could handle it, he'd-" His breath hitched. "I went to Sekoto Peak. Used my quirk until I lost control. Nearly burned myself alive."

The courtroom was silent save for the scratch of the court reporter's pen. Touya finally looked at Endeavor. The man's face was ashen, his massive frame rigid.

"You know what's funny?" Touya continued, voice hollow. "I woke up three weeks later in a hospital. I’ve been told he never visited. Not once."

The prosecutor stepped closer. "And your younger brothers?"

Touya's chest tightened. "Natsuo was six when I left. Shouto was barely walking. Now?" His gaze flicked to where Fuyumi sat clutching Natsuo's hand. "One's got ice he can't control from the stress of living with that man. The other doesn't speak at all because he got hit in the head too hard."

He leaned forward, scars pulling taut. "That's what Endeavor does to children. He either breaks them or makes them break themselves. And now you're asking if he should get another chance?"

The judge's pen stilled.

Touya sat back, exhaustion crashing over him. "I set myself on fire trying to get his attention. Shouto is eleven and can’t string a sentence together. Tell me - which of us got out luckier?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.

The neighbors spoke of hearing shouts through the walls, of seeing a small, dual-haired boy with bruises on his arms. The doctor described Shouto’s untreated head injury, the concussion that should have been monitored, the speech issues that could have been mitigated with early intervention.

Rei’s testimony played on a screen, her face gaunt but composed as she spoke from the hospital. "I failed them," she said softly. "But he broke me first."

The air in the courtroom grew heavier when Enji Todoroki stood. His massive frame seemed to shrink the witness stand as he took his place, the wood creaking under his weight. For the first time since proceedings began, the Number Two Hero looked every one of his forty-eight years.

"State your name for the record."

"Todoroki Enji."

His voice was gravel, the deep rumble that had once commanded battlefields now subdued before the family court. The prosecutor didn't soften her approach.

"Mr. Todoroki, do you dispute the allegations of abuse against your children?"

A pause. The courtroom's antique clock ticked three times before he answered.

"No."

"Neglect?"

Another pause. The ice along the railing from Natsuo's testimony hadn't fully melted. Endeavor's eyes tracked a droplet of water as it fell.

"No."

The prosecutor consulted her notes. "Your eldest son nearly died at thirteen by his own quirk. Your youngest hasn't spoken a word in seven years. As a father and a hero, how do you explain this?"

Endeavor's hands, large enough to crush concrete, flexed against the railing. When he spoke, each word came slowly, as if being dragged from some deep, shameful place.

"I... believed strength was everything. That if they were strong enough, nothing else would matter." His jaw worked. "I was wrong."

The prosecutor let the admission hang in the air before continuing. "Do you believe your children are better off in their current living situation?"

Every eye in the courtroom turned to where Touya sat between his siblings, his scarred arm resting protectively around Shouto's shoulders. Endeavor followed their gaze, his expression doing something complicated.

"Yes."

The single word seemed to cost him. His shoulders slumped minutely, the flames of his beard flickering as if dampened.

Judge Tanaka's chambers smelled of aged paper and strong tea. The three eldest siblings sat in stiff-backed chairs while she reviewed the final documents, her reading glasses catching the afternoon light.

"The court finds in favor of the petitioners," she said at last, removing her glasses. "Permanent custody of Todoroki Natsuo and Todoroki Shouto is granted to Himura Touya and Todoroki Fuyumi, effective immediately."

Fuyumi released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in. Natsuo's fingers dug into his knees.

"The respondent's visitation rights are hereby revoked." Judge Tanaka's pen scratched across the final order. "This will be reassessed in no less than three years, contingent on completion of mandatory parenting courses and psychological evaluation."

She fixed Endeavor with a look that had made lesser heroes quail. "Mr. Todoroki, you will have no contact with these children outside of court-approved supervision until such time as this order is amended. Do you understand?"

Endeavor stood ramrod straight, his voice barely above a growl. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Furthermore," the judge continued, turning to Touya, "the court will require quarterly home inspections by Child Protective Services and random drug screenings for Himura Touya for the next eighteen months." Her expression softened slightly. "Your former caseworker spoke highly of your rehabilitation. Don't make her regret it."

Touya nodded once. 

It was over.

The fluorescent lights of the courthouse hallway buzzed overhead as Touya leaned against the wall, waiting for Fuyumi to collect Shouto from the children's waiting area. His throat burned with the first telltale scratch of illness, his nose already beginning to run beneath the mask. He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the way his head throbbed in time with his pulse.

Natsuo stood beside him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his earlier courtroom intensity giving way to restless energy. "We should go out to eat," he announced, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Like, somewhere fancy. To celebrate."

Fuyumi emerged from the waiting room, Shouto's small hand clutched in hers. The boy's nose was red from being wiped too many times, his eyes glassy, but he seemed otherwise fine, just the lingering sniffles of a cold nearly kicked.

"I don't know," Fuyumi said hesitantly, glancing at the lawyer, who lingered nearby. "The press is probably already swarming outside."

The lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Ms. Aihara, nodded. "I'd recommend laying low for a few days. The verdict will hit the news any second now, and they'll be looking for reactions."

Touya exhaled, relieved. The thought of sitting in a crowded restaurant, forcing conversation through the fog of his incoming cold, made his skin crawl. "Takeout," he rasped, then cleared his throat. "We can order in."

The apartment was blessedly quiet when they returned. Shouto immediately beelined for the couch, curling up under the blanket Touya kept draped over the back. Natsuo flopped down beside him, already scrolling through his phone for food options.

Touya peeled off his mask with a wince, the fabric damp from his breath. He could feel the congestion settling in now, his sinuses heavy and aching. "I'm gonna change," he muttered, disappearing into the bedroom before anyone could respond.

He emerged minutes later in sweatpants and an old hoodie, his hair still damp from splashing water on his face. The others were debating between ramen and sushi when Touya's phone buzzed.

KEIGO 🦅: how'd it go?

Touya typed back with one hand while reaching for the ibuprofen with the other. won. exhausted.

KEIGO 🦅: celebratory dinner?

TOUYA: takeout. im dead.

KEIGO 🦅: that bad?

Touya hesitated, then sent:

TOUYA: getting sick. dont wanna scare the kids.

Keigo's response was immediate. 

KEIGO 🦅:want me to come over?

TOUYA: no. fuyumi's here. ill live.

He shoved his phone in his pocket before Keigo could argue.

They settled on ramen. Touya placed the order, then sank onto the couch beside Shouto, who immediately leaned into his side. The warmth of him was comforting, even if Touya could feel the exhaustion dragging at his bones.

He didn't remember falling asleep.

Touya woke to the sharp sting of his alarm, his throat on fire, his head pounding. For a disorienting second, he didn't remember moving to his bed, then recalled Fuyumi shaking him awake late last night, her voice soft as she told him she was heading home.

He groaned, rolling onto his back. Every muscle ached.

Across the room, Shouto was already sitting up in his futon, blinking sleepily. His nose was still stuffy, his breaths slightly wheezy, but he looked better than Touya felt.

"Morning," Touya croaked, then winced at the sound of his own voice.

Shouto just stared at him.

Right. 

Touya forced himself upright, ignoring the way the room tilted slightly. He had work. The kids had school. He couldn't afford to collapse now.

The medicine cabinet was a mess of pill bottles: painkillers, quirk suppressants, the occasional sedative for nights when his scars burned too badly to sleep. He dug out the cold medicine, swallowing two pills dry before splashing water on his face.

His reflection in the mirror was ghastly: pale, dark circles under his eyes, the scars along his cheeks standing out more prominently than usual. He tugged on his mask, hiding the worst of it.

Natsuo was already in the kitchen, shoveling cereal into his mouth. He eyed Touya as he entered. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Touya muttered, reaching for the coffee.

The clinic’s automatic doors hissed open, and Touya stepped inside, the sterile scent of antiseptic and floor cleaner hitting him like a physical force. He kept his mask firmly in place, his hood pulled up just enough to shadow his eyes. The receptionist, a woman with a moth-like quirk that left her fingers dusted with fine powder, glanced up from her computer.

“Morning, Himura-san,” she said, her antennae twitching slightly. “Rough night?”

Touya grunted, swiping his badge over the scanner. “Something like that.”

She didn’t press. The staff here had seen him in worse states, days when his scars burned too badly to lift his arms, mornings when his voice came out in a rasp from lung damage, afternoons when he popped painkillers like candy just to get through his sessions. He was always professional. Always got the job done. That was all that mattered.

Dr. Ishikawa was already in her office when he passed, her serpentine eyes flicking up from her paperwork. The scales along her forearms gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“You look like death,” she said bluntly.

Touya leaned against her doorframe. “You say that like it’s new.”

She snorted, setting down her pen. “Court went well?”

“We won.”

“Good.” She studied him for a moment, her slitted pupils narrowing. “You’re sick.”

It wasn’t a question.

Touya shrugged. “It’s just a cold.”

Dr. Ishikawa exhaled through her nose, the way she always did when she wanted to press further but knew better. She’d known Touya since his internship—had been the one to push for his certification despite his spotty history. She understood his limits better than most.

"You’re not contagious, are you?"

Touya shook his head. "Just a cold. I’m fine."

She studied him for another beat before sighing. "Take the afternoon if you need it."

"I don’t."

Dr. Ishikawa’s lips quirked. "Stubborn as ever." She tapped his desk once with a scaled fingertip before walking away, leaving Touya to his files.

The morning passed in a blur of client notes and half-focused therapy sessions. His coworkers gave him a wide berth, not out of discomfort, but familiarity. They were used to Touya working through migraines, through bad pain days, through the occasional flare-up of his scars. He never complained, never asked for help. It was just how he was.

By lunch, his throat felt like he’d swallowed glass. He ducked into the break room to swallow more medicine dry, chasing it with tepid coffee. One of the interns, a bright-eyed girl fresh out of university, hovered near the sink.

"You okay, Himura-san?"

Touya waved her off. "Peachy."

She hesitated, then blessedly, left him alone.

The apartment was warm when Touya stumbled inside, the scent of simmering broth cutting through the haze of his congestion. Fuyumi stood at the stove, stirring a pot with one hand while texting with the other. Natsuo hunched over the coffee table, scowling at a textbook.

Shouto sat beside him, methodically stacking crayons into a tower.

"I’m home," Touya croaked, toeing off his shoes.

Fuyumi glanced up, her smile fading slightly as she took in his appearance. "You look exhausted."

"Long day." He shrugged out of his jacket, wincing as the motion tugged at his stiff shoulders. "Caught Shouto’s cold."

Natsuo snorted without looking up. "Knew it."

"Thanks for the concern."

Fuyumi pressed a mug of tea into his hands. "Sit down before you fall over."

Touya sank onto the couch, the heat of the mug seeping into his aching fingers. He sipped slowly, letting the steam soothe his raw throat.

For a while, he just watched: Fuyumi moving between the stove and the table, Natsuo muttering equations under his breath, Shouto abandoning his crayons to press against Touya’s side. The normalcy of it was almost enough to make him forget how awful he felt.

Until Natsuo shoved his textbook toward him.

"Can you explain this," he demanded, jabbing at a diagram.

Touya blinked at the blur of numbers. "What?"

"This formula. I don’t get it."

Of all the days. Touya dragged a hand down his face. "Give me five minutes to change."

He hauled himself upright, the room tilting dangerously for a second before righting itself. The short hallway seemed impossibly long, his bedroom impossibly far.

He didn’t remember lying down.

​​The soft click of the bedroom door echoed in the quiet apartment as Fuyumi guided Shouto inside. Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting silvery streaks across the floorboards and illuminating the scene before her.

Touya lay sprawled on top of the blankets, one arm was flung over his eyes, blocking out what little light there was, while the other rested limply at his side. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his breathing had a thick, congested quality to it, each inhale slightly labored.

Fuyumi paused in the doorway, watching for a moment. He didn’t look ill, just deeply asleep, the kind of exhausted slumber that came after days of stress finally catching up to him. His face was relaxed, free of the usual tension that pinched his features when he was awake. If not for the congested sound of his breathing, she might have thought he was just sleeping off fatigue.

Shouto shuffled past her, already tugging at his shirt in silent request for pajamas. Fuyumi moved quietly to the dresser, careful not to let the drawers creak as she opened them. She selected a set of sleepwear and handed them to Shouto before turning her attention back to Touya.

She considered for a brief moment whether to wake him, to at least tell him to get under the covers properly, but dismissed the thought just as quickly. Touya was a light sleeper on a good day, and if he’d crashed this hard, he clearly needed the rest. The last thing she wanted was to disturb him over something as trivial as blankets.

Instead, she focused on Shouto, helping him into his pajamas with practiced efficiency. The boy moved drowsily, his limbs heavy with sleep, but he cooperated without protest. Once he was dressed, Fuyumi guided him to his futon, tucking the blankets snugly around his shoulders.

"Goodnight," she whispered, brushing his bangs away from his forehead.

Shouto blinked up at her once, then burrowed deeper into the bedding, his eyes already closing.

Fuyumi cast one last glance at Touya. His breathing had evened out slightly, the congestion less noticeable now that he’d settled deeper into sleep. She hesitated, then reached for the spare blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Without waking him, she draped it loosely over his legs, enough to ward off the nighttime chill, but not enough to risk disturbing him.

Satisfied, she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.

The clinic’s back stairwell was quiet at midday, the concrete walls muffling the sounds of the bustling floors below. Touya leaned against the railing, the cold metal biting through the thin fabric of his scrubs as he dialed the familiar number. The phone rang twice before his grandmother’s voice, warm but firm, crackled through the receiver.

“Touya.”

“Obaasan,” he greeted, forcing lightness into his voice.

“You sound tired.”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where his glasses had left angry red marks. “Long week.”

“And the trial?”

“We won.” The words still felt surreal. “Full custody. No visitation.”

A pause. Then, softer: “Good.”

His grandfather’s voice rumbled in the background before the phone was passed over. “Ojiisan here. How are the boys?”

Touya exhaled, leaning his head back against the wall. “Shouto’s been a little sick, but he’s feeling better now.”

“And you?”

The question was pointed. It always was.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically. “Health’s been good. Quirk’s stable. No flare-ups.”

Another pause. 

“Touya?”

“Yes?,” he replied, wincing at the rasp in his own voice.

A beat of silence. Then: “You’re sick.”

Touya cleared his throat, which only made the congestion more obvious. “Just a little cold.” 

Another pause. Then, his ojiisan sighed. “You sound like you did that winter in university.”

Touya stiffened.

That winter.

The one where he’d ignored a cold until it turned into pneumonia, until he’d woken up in the hospital with an oxygen mask strapped to his face and Akane Mori standing at the foot of his bed, her arms crossed. “I called your grandparents,” she’d said, blunt as always. “They’re coming.”

After years of distance, after his running away, after the drugs and the burns and the anger, they’d shown up. His obaasan had taken one look at the IV in his arm, the way his ribs jutted under the hospital gown, and her face had done something complicated. His ojiisan had sat in the chair by his bed for three days straight, listening silently as the doctors listed all the ways Touya’s body was failing him.

Chronic lung damage. Scar tissue complications. High risk of infection.

And Touya, stubborn to the bone, had refused opioids for the pain, refused anything stronger than ibuprofen. “I’m not going back to that,” he’d muttered, teeth gritted. “I can handle it.”

Now, on the phone, his obaasan’s voice was firm. “You remember what happened last time you ignored being sick?”

Touya closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“And you promised,” she continued, relentless, “that if it ever got that bad again, you’d tell someone.”

Touya exhaled through his nose. “If I feel worse, I’ll tell Fuyumi, so she can take Shouto for a few days. I promise.”

His ojiisan took the phone back. “What are you taking for it?”

“Cold medicine. Tea. The usual.”

Touya’s fingers tightened around the phone.

They knew. Of course they knew.

“Don’t wait until you’re coughing blood.”

“I won’t,” he said quietly.

His obaasan’s voice softened, just a fraction. “Rest.”

“I will.”

Another lie.

But this one, at least, was familiar.

Touya leaned against the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection under the harsh fluorescent light. His skin was paler than usual, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. The congestion had settled deep in his sinuses, making his head feel stuffed with cotton, and his throat burned with every swallow. It wasn’t bad, not like the times he’d ended up in the hospital, but his body didn’t handle illness like a normal person’s. His lungs were already compromised, his scars didn’t take well to fever, and even a mild cold left him feeling like he’d been run over.

He splashed cold water on his face, then pressed a damp towel to the back of his neck. The fever was low-grade, just enough to make his skin feel too tight, his thoughts sluggish. He could push through. He had to.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

KEIGO 🦅: Hey, hot stuff. You alive?

Touya exhaled, wiping his hands before typing back. 

TOUYA: Barely. Work’s kicking my ass.

KEIGO 🦅: You sounded like shit on the phone earlier. 

TOUYA: Just a cold. It’s whatever.

KEIGO 🦅: You taking care of yourself?

Touya rolled his eyes, though the concern warmed him in a way he’d never admit. 

TOUYA: Yeah, mom. I’m fine.

KEIGO 🦅: You sure? I can swing by. Bring soup. Annoy you until your cold leaves your body.

Touya’s chest tightened, but not from the congestion. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to let Keigo fuss over him, to sink into the comfort of his presence. But—

TOUYA: Can’t. Got grad school work to finish, and I still need to figure out when I have to go in for those drug tests >:/.

Another pause. Longer this time.

KEIGO 🦅: ok babe…You’re really okay?

TOUYA: I’m good. Just busy. I’ll hit you up when things settle.

He locked his phone and put it down before he was tempted to say more.

Touya woke to the sound of his own coughing, his body jerking with each ragged hack. His throat burned, his ribs ached, and his lungs felt like they were lined with broken glass. He rolled onto his side, pressing a fist to his mouth to muffle the worst of it, but the fit didn’t stop.

From his futon, Shouto sat up, his mismatched eyes wide and alert. 

Touya waved a hand weakly. “M’fine,” he rasped, though the words came out more like a wheeze.

Shouto didn’t look convinced.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand: his alarm. 6:30 AM.

Touya groaned, dragging himself upright. The room spun violently, his head pounding in time with his pulse. He fumbled for his phone, then hesitated.

No way in hell I can work like this.

He dialed the clinic before he could second-guess himself.

The line rang twice before the voicemail picked up.

"You've reached Shinjuku Pediatric Quirk Clinic. Our office hours…"

Touya waited for the message to end, then cleared his throat, fighting to keep his voice steady. "This is Himura. I need to call out today-"

Suddenly, Shouto was at his side, his hands pressing insistently against Touya’s face, his right palm cool against Touya’s fevered skin. Normally, Touya would let him. Today, the touch was too much, too rough, the contrast between hot and cold making his head throb harder.

“Shouto- stop,” he gritted out, batting his hand away.

Shouto flinched, his expression unreadable.

Touya immediately felt like shit. He reached out, squeezing Shouto’s shoulder in silent apology before lifting the phone back to his ear.

“Sorry,” he croaked, before continuing his phone message. “I am feeling… not good.” He hung up before the coughing could start again.

Shouto was still staring at him, his expression unreadable but his posture tense. Touya sighed, reaching out to ruffle his hair in apology.

"Sorry Sho. Didn't mean to snap."

Natsuo appeared in the doorway in his pajamas. "You sound like shit."

Touya huffed a laugh, then winced as it tugged at his throat. "Yeah, well. You're not wrong."

“Do you need…” Natsuo cut himself off, shrugging. “Like. Medicine or whatever?”

Touya blinked. 

“I’m good,” he said, softer now. “Just take care of your own lunch, and maybe Shouto’s today, please?”

Natsuo shrugged, but there was no bite to it. “Whatever.”

The mask made it harder to breathe.

Touya kept it on anyway, the fabric damp against his mouth as he guided Shouto through the morning crowds. Every inhale felt like dragging air through a clogged straw, his lungs protesting the strain. His head throbbed in time with his footsteps, the cold November wind biting at his exposed skin.

Shouto kept glancing up at him, his steps slowing whenever Touya's did.

"I'm fine," Touya muttered, though the words were muffled behind the mask.

Shouto didn't look convinced.

By the time they reached the school gates, Touya's vision was swimming. He crouched and adjusted Shouto's scarf.

"Fuyumi's picking you up today," he said, forcing lightness into his voice. "I've got some stuff to take care of."

Shouto's fingers curled into his sleeve, tight enough to wrinkle the fabric.

Touya pried them loose gently. "I'll see you at home, okay?"

Shouto stared at him for a long moment before finally nodding and turning toward the school entrance.

Touya waited until he was inside before sagging against the wall, coughing harshly into his elbow.

The apartment was blessedly quiet when he returned. Touya didn't even bother changing back into pajamas, just collapsed onto the couch, his body aching too much to make it to the bedroom.

He pulled out his phone, texting Fuyumi with clumsy fingers.

TOUYA: Can you get Shouto today? Not feeling great.

Her reply was immediate. 

FUYUMI: Of course. Do you need anything?

TOUYA: Just sleep.

FUYUMI: Okay. Rest- I’ll see you later! 

He let the phone drop onto his chest, his eyes already closing, hoping to get some rest. 

His body, however, had other plans, as it usually did. 

Touya didn’t sleep.

He’d tried, curled under the blankets, medicine in his system, the apartment silent except for the hum of the heater. But between the fever and the congestion, every breath felt like dragging in fire, and every time he closed his eyes, his head pounded worse. Eventually, he gave up, dragging himself into the shower instead.

The water was too hot, steaming up the bathroom instantly, but the heat helped loosen the vice grip around his lungs. He coughed violently into his hand, spitting phlegm down the drain, his skin flushing an angry red under the spray. His scars burned as they always did when his temperature spiked, but he gritted his teeth and endured it. The relief in his chest was worth the sting.

By the time he stepped out, his legs were shaky with exhaustion, his skin tight and oversensitive. He dressed mechanically in loose sweats, and a thin long-sleeve shirt, and forced himself to at least look presentable before Fuyumi arrived. 

He was slumped on the couch when the door opened, Natsuo first, then Shouto trailing behind Fuyumi, schoolbags slung over their shoulders.

 “Oh my god, Touya.”

Touya shook his head dismissively, then immediately regretted it when the motion made his vision swim. “It’s not that bad.”

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Flattering.”

Shouto padded over, his small fingers pressing insistently against Touya’s cheek, his right hand freezing. Touya flinched, brushing him away. 

Fuyumi dumped her bag on the table and marched over, pressing the back of her hand to Touya’s forehead before he could stop her. Her eyes widened. “Touya, you’re burning up.”

“It’s just my quirk,” he said smoothly, rolling his shoulders in a practiced shrug. “You know how it is. Body runs hot.”

Fuyumi didn’t look convinced. “You sound like you’re dying.”

“Shitty lungs,” he rasped, waving her off. “I’ll be fine.”

A cough wracked him then, deep and wet, his ribs protesting. Fuyumi’s frown deepened.

“Have you taken anything?”

“Yeah.”

“Properly?”

He rolled his eyes. 

Shouto, who had been silently observing, swiftly stepped forward and pressed an icy hand against Touya’s cheek again. The shock of the cold made him jerk back.

“Kid-”

Shouto blinked up at him, unrepentant.

Touya sighed, too tired to argue. “Look, I’m just gonna take it easy the rest of the day. Maybe… keep Shouto out of our room, for a bit?”

Shouto’s nose wrinkled, the closest he ever got to looking offended.

Fuyumi hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

Touya nodded, pushing himself upright. The room swayed, but he steadied himself before anyone could notice.

The bedroom was dark when he stumbled in, the blinds still drawn from that morning. He didn’t bother turning on the light, just dug through the nightstand drawer, his fingers closing around the pill bottles.

He knew he shouldn’t. Knew better than to double-dose his suppressants, knew better than to mix them with NyQuil. But his skin was on fire, his lungs felt like they were lined with glass, and the thought of another minute of this misery was unbearable.

Just this once.

The pills went down dry. A swig of NyQuil straight from the bottle.

Just enough to knock him out.

He barely managed to crawl under the covers before the drowsiness hit, heavy and suffocating. The last thing he registered was the distant sound of Fuyumi’s voice in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the hum of the apartment settling around him.

Chapter Text

Fuyumi woke to small, insistent hands shaking her shoulder.

She blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented. 

Right, she’d slept on the couch. 

Shouto stood over her, his mismatched eyes wide, his fingers gripping her sleeve too tight.

“Shouto?” she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer, just tugged at her arm until she sat up. Then he turned and walked stiffly toward the hallway, glancing back to make sure she followed.

Fuyumi stumbled after him, her socked feet slipping on the hardwood. The apartment was quiet, the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. Natsuo’s door was still shut, the faint sound of snoring coming from inside.

Shouto stopped in front of Touya’s bedroom door, hesitating for a fraction of a second before pushing it open.

The room was hot.

Not just warm, but steaming, the air thick and damp like a sauna. Touya lay sprawled across the bed, his cheeks flushed, his breathing ragged. The sheets beneath him were soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.

Fuyumi’s stomach dropped.

“Touya?”

No response.

Shouto climbed onto the bed, his small hands pressing against Touya’s chest. Ice spread from his fingertips, crystallizing across Touya’s skin, but it melted almost instantly, water pooling in the hollow of his collarbone.

Fuyumi swallowed hard. She’d seen Touya sick before, back when they were kids, vague memories of him curled under blankets, his temperature spiking unpredictably. But she didn’t remember what her mom ever did about it. 

“Okay,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “Okay, let’s… let’s check his medicines.”

She turned toward the bathroom, Shouto trailing silently behind her. The medicine cabinet was a disaster: rows of pill bottles, some labeled, some not, all crammed haphazardly onto the shelves. Fuyumi’s hands shook as she scanned them. Painkillers. Quirk suppressants. Something for nerve damage.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

A clatter from behind her made her jump. Natsuo stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, his hair sticking up in every direction.

“What’re you doing?” he mumbled, rubbing his face.

“Touya’s sick,” Fuyumi said, pulling bottles down one by one.

Natsuo frowned, stepping closer. “How bad?”

She didn’t answer. 

Natsuo peered over her shoulder, his breath frosting slightly in the air. “Shit. That’s a lot of meds.”

Fuyumi bit her lip. “Maybe we should wake him up? Ask him what he needs?”

They returned to the bedroom. Touya hadn’t moved, his breathing still uneven. Shouto had resumed his attempts to cool him down, his small face pinched in concentration as he pressed ice to Touya’s wrists, his neck, anywhere he could reach.

Natsuo leaned over the bed, shaking Touya’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey! Wake up.”

Nothing.

Natsuo’s breath fogged in the air as his quirk reacted to his nerves. “This is bad.”

Fuyumi’s gaze landed on the nightstand- the uncapped NyQuil bottle, the spilled pills scattered across the surface. Her stomach dropped. “Oh my god.”

Natsuo followed her stare. “Did he…?”

“I don’t know,” Fuyumi said, voice tight. She grabbed the NyQuil, shaking it. It wasn’t empty, but… “How much did he take?”

Natsuo’s hands were shaking. Frost crept up his sleeves. “We should call someone-”

A sharp knock at the front door cut him off.

All three of them froze.

Shouto was the first to move, slipping out of the room before Fuyumi could stop him.

The door swung open before Keigo could knock a second time.

Standing in the doorway was a kid… the kid . Todoroki Shouto, with his unmistakable red-and-white hair and wide, mismatched eyes. He stared up at Keigo blankly for a second before grabbing his wrist and yanking him inside without a word.

Keigo barely had time to process before he was being dragged down the hall, where two more stunned faces: a tall, broad-shouldered teenager with white hair and a young woman with glasses, whipped around to stare at him.

For a beat, no one spoke.

"Hawks?" the white-haired boy suddenly blurted out.

Keigo blinked. "Uh. Yeah. You're the Todorokis?"

The girl nodded slowly. 

Fuyumi, that's Fuyumi .

"You can call me Keigo," he added, because Hawks felt weirdly formal when he was standing in his boyfriend's apartment at seven in the morning.

Natsuo's eyes flicked to Keigo's wings, then back to his face. "Why are you here?"

Keigo opened his mouth, then closed it. A beat passed.

"...I'm actually here for Touya?"

Fuyumi's expression shifted to something alarmed. "Is he in trouble?"

Keigo's eyebrows shot up. "What? No-"

Natsuo gestured wildly toward the bedroom. "Because we just found like, twenty different pill bottles in his bathroom, and if this is some kind of drug bust-"

Keigo's stomach dropped. "What? No, Jesus, I'm not… " He ran a hand through his hair, realization dawning. "Oh. You guys don't… he didn't tell you?"

"Tell us what?" Fuyumi asked, voice pitching higher.

Keigo exhaled. "Okay. Uh. Sorry to break it to you this way, but I'm your brother's boyfriend."

Silence.

Natsuo's mouth actually fell open. Fuyumi's glasses slid down her nose.

Keigo winced. "Yeah. So. Anyway… can I come in?"

Fuyumi made a strangled noise. "Right, yes, sorry, please…" She stepped aside, still staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Keigo moved past them, heading straight for the bedroom. The second he crossed the threshold, the heat hit him like a wall. The room was sweltering, the air thick with the scent of sweat and melted ice. And there, in the center of it all, Touya.

Pale, fever-flushed, his scarred skin glistening with sweat. His breathing was too fast, his fingers twitching against the damp sheets.

Keigo was at his side in an instant, pressing two fingers to the pulse point in Touya's wrist. The rhythm was rapid but steady.

"Touya," he murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

Touya's eyelids fluttered. "Kei?" His voice was wrecked, barely audible.

"Yeah, it's me." Keigo's hand slid to his cheek, gauging the fever. "Fuck, you're burning up."

Fuyumi hovered in the doorway, wringing her hands. "He… he won't wake up properly. We didn't know what to do."

Keigo's eyes darted between the uncapped NyQuil and the scattered pills on the nightstand. He picked up the bottle, examining it with a trained eye before noticing something off. His fingers closed around a different prescription bottle that had rolled nearby - one with similar-looking pills but completely different labeling.

"Oh shit," Keigo muttered, comparing the two bottles. "That explains it."

Fuyumi hovered anxiously. "What's wrong?"

Keigo held up both containers. "These are his quirk suppressants," he pointed to the orange bottle, then gestured to the white one, "and these are his nighttime muscle relaxers. The pills look almost identical." He shook his head. "No wonder he's completely out of it - he probably took the wrong meds last night.” 

Natsuo's frost spread further up his arms as he processed this. "So he's not...?"

"Not overdosing, no," Keigo confirmed, already digging through the nightstand for the correct medication. "Just really fucking medicated on the wrong combination. His body's already running hot from the fever and now his system's flooded with depressants."

Fuyumi's brow furrowed. "How do you know all this?"

Keigo smirked, though it lacked its usual brightness. "Because this happens. Your brother's stubborn as hell, and his body hates him." He shook out two pills, then nudged Touya's shoulder. "Hey. Hotstuff. You gotta swallow these."

Touya groaned, turning his face away.

"Yeah, I know, you're miserable." Keigo hooked an arm under his shoulders, hauling him upright. "But if you don't take these, I'm dumping you in an ice bath."

Touya cracked one eye open, glaring weakly. "Asshole."

"There he is." Keigo pressed the correct pills to his lips, then held a glass of water to his mouth. "Swallow."

Touya did, with a grimace.

Natsuo and Fuyumi exchanged a look.

Keigo ignored them, focusing on Touya. "Alright. Next step, shower. You're fucking boiling."

Touya's head lolled against his shoulder. "No."

"Yes."

"Too cold."

Keigo snorted. "It's going to be lukewarm and you know it."

Touya muttered something unintelligible but didn't fight as Keigo hauled him to his feet, slinging one of Touya's arms over his shoulders. He was alarmingly light, he usually was, but the heat radiating off him was intense even for someone with a fire quirk.

Fuyumi stepped forward. "Do you need…?"

"I got him," Keigo said, already steering Touya toward the bathroom. "Maybe grab some clean sheets?"

She nodded, still shell-shocked.

Keigo had settled Touya back into bed, tucking the blankets around him with a quiet, "Stay put, idiot," before padding out to the kitchen. 

Fuyumi stood at the stove, stirring a pot of miso soup with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other. She looked up when Keigo entered, her expression caught somewhere between wary and curious.

Natsuo and Shouto were in the living room, Natsuo sprawled on the couch with a video game controller in hand, Shouto sitting cross-legged on the floor, methodically stacking and unstacking a tower of coasters. The TV played some anime at low volume, filling the apartment with background noise.

Keigo leaned against the counter, wings rustling slightly. "He’s asleep. Fever’s down, but his breathing sounds like shit."

Fuyumi nodded, pushing her glasses up her nose. "That’s… normal for him though, right?"

"Unfortunately." Keigo eyed the soup. "Need help?"

Fuyumi hesitated, then handed him a knife and a bundle of green onions. "If you don’t mind."

They worked in silence for a minute, Keigo chopping, Fuyumi stirring, before she cleared her throat.

"So. You and Touya."

Keigo smirked. "Yeah. Me and Touya."

"How did you…?"

"Met at a networking event for quirk analysis students," Keigo said, scraping the onions into the pot. "I was there as a ‘guest hero,’ he was there as the grumpiest student in the room. I flirted, he told me to fuck off. Standard romance."

Fuyumi huffed a laugh. "That sounds like him."

Keigo’s grin softened. "Yeah. Took me six months to wear him down enough for a date."

"And now you’re…?"

"Coming up on a year and a half." Keigo tapped the spoon against the pot’s rim. "He, uh. Didn't tell you about me, huh?"

Fuyumi's stirring slowed. "No. But Touya's never been big on sharing personal stuff."

Keigo hummed, leaning against the counter. 

"I knew he had health problems,” Fuyumi casually began, “but I didn’t know it was this bad."

Keigo exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. His quirk’s a bitch on his body. The scarring from Sekoto Peak didn’t help, but even before that-" He paused, studying her face. "You know about the genetic stuff, right?"

Fuyumi’s expression didn’t waver. "Of course."

Lie.

Keigo relaxed slightly, assuming she meant it. "Right. So the genes for your mom’s ice quirk left him with a body that tolerates cold better than heat, but his own quirk runs hot. Like, Cremation-level hot. His system’s basically fighting itself all the time."

Fuyumi’s stirring slowed. "That’s why the suppressants, right."

"Yeah. And the lung damage from when he got pneumonia while he was…" Keigo hesitated, then shrugged. "You know. Living rough."

Fuyumi’s throat tightened. She didn’t know. Not really. Touya had never talked about those years, or the things that had happened between Sekoto Peak and where he was now. But Keigo was looking at her like she did, so she just nodded.

"He’d never tell you, but it’s worse when he’s sick," Keigo continued, oblivious. "His immune system’s shot from the internal scarring, so any little cold turns into this mess. And he hates doing his breathing treatments-"

"Wait," Fuyumi interrupted, frowning. "Breathing treatments?"

Keigo blinked. "The nebulizer? The inhaler? He’s supposed to use them twice a day, especially when his lungs are acting up."

Fuyumi’s stomach dropped. She’d never seen Touya use anything like that.

Keigo, misreading her silence, winced. "Shit, sorry. I know he doesn’t like talking about it. But yeah, he’s probably been skipping them since the boys moved in… he gets distracted."

Fuyumi forced a smile. "That sounds like him."

The conversation shifted after that, easing into safer territory.

Natsuo wandered in after a bit, Shouto trailing behind him. "Food ready?"

"Just about," Fuyumi said, plating the tamagoyaki.

Breakfast was… oddly normal. Shouto sat silently, methodically separating the green onions from his soup, while Natsuo and Keigo debated the best convenience store snacks (Keigo was a fried chicken purist; Natsuo swore by the egg salad sandwiches). Fuyumi listened, interjecting occasionally, but her mind kept circling back to what Keigo had said: breathing treatments, lung damage, genetic incompatibility.

The conversation had drifted to some ridiculous hero gossip, Keigo was mid-sentence about a sidekick who'd gotten caught using their quirk to cheat at poker, when a shuffling noise came from the hallway.

Touya stood there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were still flushed, his breathing audible, a thick, congested wheeze, but his eyes were clearer than before. He blinked at them, looking vaguely embarrassed to be caught wandering around in just an old t-shirt and sweatpants, his feet bare against the cold floor.

Keigo was on his feet before Fuyumi could even react.

"Hey," he said, crossing the room in two strides. His voice was softer than Fuyumi had heard it all morning. "What’re you doing up?"

Touya scowled, but it lacked its usual heat. "I wanted water," he rasped, voice thick with congestion.

"You have a water bottle right next to you."

"Ran out."

Keigo rolled his eyes but was already crossing the room. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Touya opened his mouth to argue, but a cough cut him off, his shoulders hunching as his body protested. Keigo didn’t hesitate. He slid an arm around Touya’s waist, steadying him before he could sway. Touya stiffened for half a second, then sagged into the contact, too exhausted to pretend otherwise.

Keigo softened instantly. “C’mon, hotstuff. Back to bed.”

Touya grumbled something under his breath but let Keigo guide him back down the hall, his steps unsteady.

Fuyumi watched them go, catching snippets of their conversation. 

“...your inhaler-” Keigo was saying, voice low but insistent.

“Forgot,” Touya muttered.

“You forgot? You’ve had that thing glued to your pocket for years-”

“Brain fog.”

Keigo huffed. “That’s not an excuse and you know it.”

“Is when I’m sick.”

“It’s literally the opposite of an excuse, babe.”

Their voices faded as they turned into the bedroom. Fuyumi hesitated, then grabbed a sleeve of crackers from the pantry and a fresh glass of water before following.

She paused in the doorway.

Keigo had already maneuvered Touya back into bed, propping him up with pillows before pressing a hand to his forehead. “Still too warm,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.

Touya batted his hand away half-heartedly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re steaming.”

“Quirk thing.”

“Bullshit.”

Fuyumi cleared her throat, holding up the crackers and water. “Thought you might want these.”

Keigo glanced over, his expression shifting from exasperated to grateful in an instant. “Thanks.”

Touya, meanwhile, looked vaguely mortified at being caught in such a compromised state, but he didn’t protest as Keigo took the offerings and set them on the nightstand.

“Eat something,” Keigo ordered, nudging the crackers toward him. “Then sleep.”

Touya grimaced but obediently took a cracker, nibbling at it like even that small effort was taxing.

Fuyumi lingered, struck by the quiet intimacy of the moment—the way Keigo’s fingers lingered on Touya’s wrist, checking his pulse without thinking; the way Touya, despite his grumbling, let himself be fussed over in a way he’d never tolerate from anyone else.

Keigo caught her staring and smirked. “He’s cute when he’s sick, right?”

Touya choked on his cracker. “Fuck you.”

“See? Adorable.”

Fuyumi bit back a smile. “I’ll, uh… leave you to it.”

She backed out of the room, but not before hearing Keigo’s voice drop into something softer—

“Seriously, though. You gotta take better care of yourself.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“...I know.”

Fuyumi closed the door gently behind her.

Touya hated being sick.

Not just because it made him feel like shit, though it did, spectacularly, but because it forced him to acknowledge the inconvenient truth that his body had limits. Limits he couldn't power through, no matter how stubborn he was.

The first few days after his fever broke were the worst. His lungs still ached, his throat raw from coughing, and his energy levels hovered somewhere between exhausted and comatose. He spent most of that first week propped up on the couch, buried under blankets, while his siblings tiptoed around him like he might shatter if they breathed too hard.

Natsuo, surprisingly, had taken to wiping down every surface with disinfectant wipes, a habit Fuyumi had started and which Natsuo now performed with the intensity of a man possessed.

"You're gonna rub the finish off the table," Touya croaked on day three, watching Natsuo aggressively scrub the coffee table for the fifth time that day.

Natsuo didn't look up. "Don't care."

Shouto, meanwhile, had resumed his usual routine of clinging to Touya like a limpet the second he was well enough to sit upright. He'd press his icy left hand to Touya's forehead at random intervals, as if checking for fever, and refused to eat unless Touya was at the table too.

It was... sweet. In a weird, mildly suffocating way.

By the second week, Touya was back on his feet, mostly. His energy was still lagging, and his cough lingered like an unwelcome guest, but he could at least function like a semi-competent adult again.

Work was a nightmare of catch-up. His inbox was overflowing, his clients had been reassigned during his absence, and Dr. Ishikawa had looked at him the first day back with that particular blend of disappointment and concern that made him want to melt into the floor.

"You're on light duty," she said, her serpentine eyes unblinking. "No new assessments, no overtime."

Touya scowled but didn't argue. Things would be back to normal soon. 

However at home, things were getting bumpy.

The signs were subtle at first.

Shouto stopped brushing his teeth unless someone stood in the bathroom and handed him the toothbrush. He’d hold it limply, staring at it like he’d forgotten what to do with it, until Touya guided his hand through the motions.

He stopped showering, or changing his clothes without being prompted. Weekend mornings, Touya would find him still in his pajamas at noon, sitting on the floor of their bedroom, chewing absently on the collar of his shirt. The fabric was always damp by the time Touya noticed, stretched out from the constant gnawing.

Worst of all were the meltdowns: not violent, never violent, but devastating in their quiet intensity. Shouto would crumple to the floor, his breath hitching in silent sobs, his fingers clawing at his own arms like he was trying to peel his skin off. The first time it happened, Touya had panicked, unsure whether to touch him or give him space. In the end, he’d gathered Shouto into his lap, pressing his brother’s face against his chest and holding him tight until the tremors stopped.

The school reports painted a similar picture.

"Refused to participate in speech therapy today. Sat under the table for the entire session."

"Would not touch the picture cards. Turned his head away when presented with choices."

"After therapy, he crawled into the reading nook and would not move for forty minutes."

Touya rubbed his temples, his phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as Hayashi-sensei’s voice crackled through the receiver.

“We’re concerned,” she said gently. “He’s regressing in other areas too: fine motor skills, self-care. Have you noticed anything at home?”

Touya’s gaze drifted to where Shouto sat on the living room floor, methodically tearing a napkin into tiny shreds. “Yeah. We’ve noticed.”

On the bright side, though, Keigo came over more often. Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, he was there to share the weight of Touya’s load. On days Fuyumi couldn’t come, he’d sit with Shouto so that Touya could get through his never ending assignments and take-home work from the clinic. Keigo never demanded words, never forced interaction, and so Shouto, in turn, seemed to tolerate him, which was as close to acceptance as anyone got these days.

All in all... things were looking up. 

Chapter Text

December arrived with biting winds and the first real snowfall of the season. Fuyumi’s lease was up at the end of the month, and Touya’s building had sent notice of a steep rent increase, forcing them into a flurry of apartment viewings between work, school, and Shouto’s escalating distress.

“This one’s close to Shouto’s school,” Fuyumi said, scrolling through listings on her phone as they rode the train to another viewing. “Three bedrooms, accessible building. A little over budget, but-”

“We can make it work,” Touya finished, rubbing at the lingering ache in his chest. His lungs hadn’t fully recovered from the November illness, and the cold air made every breath feel like inhaling glass.

Fuyumi eyed him sideways. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

She didn’t press.

The apartment was decent, spacious enough, with a kitchen big enough for all of them to crowd into, and a living room that could accommodate Shouto’s need for floor space. The realtor droned on about square footage while Touya mentally calculated the distance to the kids’ schools, the clinic, Fuyumi’s university.

“We’ll take it,” he said abruptly.

Fuyumi blinked. “We haven’t even seen the bathrooms yet…”

“I said we’ll take it.” 

Fuyumi sighed but didn’t argue.

The waiting room of Dr. Saito’s office smelled like antiseptic and the faint, stale sweetness of old magazines. Touya sat stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, his knee bouncing as he flipped through his phone, halfheartedly scrolling through emails, then his messages (one from Keigo: good luck at the appt, don’t lie to the doctor pls ), then the latest research on quirk-related pulmonary complications.

“Himura Touya?”

A nurse stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand.

Touya stood, wincing as his ribs twinged, a remnant of the coughing fits that still woke him some nights. He followed her down the hall, past framed diagrams of the respiratory system and a poster detailing the risks of quirk overuse.

The exam room was cold. Standard, though at this point, his temperature regulation was so shot it barely mattered. It was either overheating or shivering, no in between.

“Weight first,” the nurse said, gesturing to the scale.

Touya stepped on, keeping his expression neutral as the number flashed: a little higher than last time. Not by much, but enough to notice. That was probably good. The nurse made a note without comment, then guided him to take a seat.

“Blood pressure.” The cuff tightened around his arm.

A pause. Then, with slight hesitation: “It’s a little elevated today.”

Touya shrugged. “Parking was stressful.”

She didn’t laugh. Just noted it down and moved on.

Dr. Saito entered with her usual no-nonsense demeanor, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun, her tablet already open to his chart. She didn’t bother with small talk, just flipped open his chart and skimmed the latest notes before fixing him with a sharp look.

“Let’s start with the basics. How’s your breathing been?”

“Fine.”

“Scale of one to ten.”

“...Six.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That’s ‘fine’ to you?”

Touya scowled but didn’t argue.

Dr. Saito sighed and reached for her stethoscope. “Shirt off.”

The exam was thorough: listening to his lungs (wheezing, crackling in the lower lobes), checking his scars (no new breakdowns, but the old ones were tight and inflamed), pressing along his ribs (he hissed when she hit a particularly tender spot near his diaphragm).

“Pulmonary function tests now,” she said, handing him a sterile mouthpiece. “Deep breath in, hold it… now exhale, hard.”

Touya obeyed, his lungs burning as he forced air through the tube. The machine wheezed and clicked, spitting out a series of numbers that made Dr. Saito’s frown deepen.

“Again.”

He did it three more times before she was satisfied.

Next came the bloodwork, the needle sliding into the crook of his elbow with practiced ease.

Then, X-rays, standing stiffly in the cold imaging room, holding his breath as the machine whirred. The X-ray tech, a guy Touya had seen at least a dozen times over the years, winced when the images popped up on the screen.

“That’s… not great.”

Touya didn’t need a medical degree to see what he meant. The scarring from Sekoto Peak had spread, tendrils of damaged tissue creeping further into his lungs than before. The infection from November had left its own marks: hazy patches where the inflammation hadn’t fully resolved.

Dr. Saito didn’t sugarcoat it when she called him back in. “You should have gone to the hospital.”

Touya stared at the X-rays, his throat tight. “Would it have changed anything?”

“It might have prevented this.” She pointed to a particularly nasty-looking patch near the base of his left lung. “That’s necrotic tissue. If it spreads much further, we’re talking about permanent oxygen dependency.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, which swiftly turned into a choke-on-his-spit situation. Dr. Saito watched him cough into a tissue, her expression unreadable.

Touya wiped his mouth. “I was busy.”

“Busy.” Her voice was flat. “Mr. Himura, your FEV1 is down to 58%. Your oxygen saturation drops to 89% with mild exertion. You have bronchiectasis forming in your left lower lobe—”

“I know.”

A beat of silence.

Dr. Saito exhaled, setting the tablet aside. “This isn’t just from pneumonia. You’ve been skipping treatments, haven’t you?”

Touya’s jaw tightened.

“The nebulizer, the airway clearance, the suppressants.” She leaned forward. “I can see the flare patterns in your imaging. Your quirk’s been more active, your lungs seem more irritated.”

He didn’t answer.

She sighed. “I’m increasing your steroid dosage. Adding another bronchodilator. And I want you back on daily airway clearance. No skipping.”

Touya nodded stiffly.

“And Touya.” Dr. Saito’s voice softened, just slightly. “This condition isn’t stagnant. You know that.”

He did.

The damage from Sekoto Peak had never been just burns. It was the way his quirk had rewritten his physiology, the way his mother’s ice-resistant genetics clashed with his father’s fire, leaving him with a body that couldn’t regulate its own temperature, with lungs that scarred at the slightest provocation.

Add in the years of drug use, the homelessness, the pneumonia he’d barely survived… 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

Dr. Saito studied him for a long moment before standing. “I’ll see you in three months. No cancellations.”

Touya waited until the door closed behind her before sagging back against the exam table, his ribs aching with every breath.

On the counter, his phone buzzed.

KEIGO 🦅: so how badly did she yell at u

Touya huffed a laugh, then immediately regretted it as his lungs spasmed.

TOUYA: Worse than you did. Send in reinforcements.

It started like every other failed attempt.

Fuyumi knelt on the living room floor, holding up a laminated picture card with exaggerated patience. "Shouto, look. This is a cup. Can you point to the cup?"

Shouto sat perfectly still, his mismatched eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his sweatpants, the repetitive motion the only sign he'd even registered her words.

Fuyumi tried again. "Just one try. Please?"

Nothing.

From the kitchen table, Touya watched over the top of his laptop, his grading forgotten. He could see the tension building in Shouto's shoulders, the way his breathing had gone shallow. They'd been at this for weeks - the school's insistence, Fuyumi's hopeful attempts, Shouto's silent resistance.

Then Fuyumi made the mistake of reaching out.

Her fingers barely grazed Shouto's chin, just enough to gently redirect his gaze toward the card. "Look at-"

Fire erupted.

Not the controlled flames of training, but wild, panicked bursts that erupted from Shouto's left side. His sleeve caught first, then the collar of his shirt, the fabric blackening at the edges as blue-tinged flames licked upward.

Shouto's eyes widened in pure terror.

"Fuyumi, back!" Touya was moving before he could think, his chair clattering to the floor.

Fuyumi scrambled backward, her own ice quirk flaring instinctively, a frost spreading across her fingertips before she clenched her fists to stop it. Natsuo appeared in the doorway, his breath fogging in the suddenly superheated air.

The fire wasn't spreading; Shouto's right side remained stubbornly cold, keeping the flames contained to his left arm and chest, but that was almost worse. The heat had nowhere to go, intensifying as Shouto panicked, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Touya approached slowly, keeping his movements deliberate. "Shouto. Look at me."

Shouto's gaze darted to him, wild and uncomprehending. The flames climbed higher.

"You're okay," Touya said, his voice steady despite the heat searing his face. "This is just your quirk. You can control this."

A shake of Shouto's head, violent enough to send droplets of sweat flying. His left hand clutched at his burning sleeve like he could somehow smother the flames that way.

Touya crouched just outside the radius of the heat, close enough to be heard but not so close he'd get burned. "Breathe with me, kid. In... and out." He demonstrated, exaggerating the motion of his chest.

For a terrible moment, nothing changed. Then Shouto's breath caught, then stuttered into something approximating Touya's rhythm. The flames flickered.

"That's it," Touya encouraged. "Now, remember what your body knows. The fire comes from here-" He tapped his own sternum, "-and you can pull it back the same way."

Shouto shook his head again, more weakly this time. Tears mixed with the sweat on his face, evaporating instantly in the heat.

"You can," Touya insisted. "You’ve done it a thousand times. Just-" He mimed the motion with his hands, pulling inward, "bring it home."

A shudder ran through Shouto's frame. The flames wavered, dimmed, then flared again as another wave of panic hit.

Touya didn't flinch. "Hey. Look at me. Only me." He waited until Shouto's glassy eyes focused on his face. "You're not in trouble. You're safe. The fire can't hurt you unless you let it."

Something in his words must have gotten through. Shouto's breathing evened slightly, and this time when the flames flickered, they didn't return. Slowly, inch by inch, the fire receded: first from his clothes (now charred but not burning), then from his skin, until only faint tendrils of smoke rose from his fingertips.

The moment the last flame died, Touya reached forward and pulled Shouto into a tight hug, ignoring the residual heat. "Good job. You did good."

Touya exhaled, then shifted his grip. "Natsuo. Take him."

Natsuo blinked. "What?"

"He's still too hot for me." Touya nodded to Shouto's left side, where the skin still radiated enough heat to make the air waver. "You can handle it."

A beat of hesitation, but he stepped in quickly. Natsuo replaced Touya, and just sank to the floor right where he was, the scorched wood creaking under his weight, and pulled Shouto against his chest.

Shouto went willingly, his body still radiating heat like a furnace, his left arm twitching with residual embers. Natsuo didn’t flinch. His quirk was snowflakes and frost, but his body had been built to withstand heat. Thanks, Endeavor . So he just held on, his arms locked around Shouto’s shoulders, his chin resting on top of his little brother’s head.

“Breathe,” Natsuo muttered, his voice rough but steady. “Just breathe.”

Shouto shuddered, his fingers digging into Natsuo’s sleeves, but his pulse was already slowing, his temperature dropping by degrees.

Across the room, Touya watched them for a moment before turning to Fuyumi.

She looked wrecked. Her hands were shaking, her glasses slightly askew, and there was a frostbitten streak in the floorboards where her quirk had reacted without thinking.

“I didn’t… ” she started to say, then stopped.

Touya opened his mouth, then closed it. His first instinct was anger. 

Why did you push him, why didn’t you stop, what were you thinking ?

But then a rough cough tore through him and suddenly he was too tired to be mad.

“I know,” he said instead, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Just… no more practicing at home.”

Fuyumi nodded immediately. “No more. I… God, Touya, I didn’t realize-”

“It’s fine.”

Silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of cooling wood and Shouto’s uneven breaths.

Fuyumi adjusted her glasses, her voice small. “What do we tell the school?”

Touya exhaled. “The truth. That he’s not ready.”

She hesitated. “They’re not going to like that.”

“They don’t have to like it.”

Another beat. Then Fuyumi squared her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

Touya nodded, his gaze drifting back to Natsuo and Shouto. The two of them were still tangled together on the floor, Shouto’s face pressed into Natsuo’s shoulder, Natsuo’s fingers absently carding through his hair.

Four months ago, Natsuo would’ve scoffed at the idea of holding Shouto like this.

He’s not a baby , he’d snapped, the first day they’d met. 

Now, though?

Now, Natsuo held on like he needed it just as much as Shouto did.

The morning of the move dawned crisp and bright, the last day of December stretching before them with the promise of a fresh start. Touya woke to the sound of Fuyumi already bustling around their soon-to-be-former apartment, her voice carrying down the hall as she directed Natsuo on which boxes needed to be sealed.

Touya rolled onto his side, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the scar tissue along his ribs. He wasn’t frail, not by any stretch, but his lungs ached in the winter air, and the strain of lifting heavy furniture wasn’t something he could manage without consequence. Still, he wasn’t about to let his siblings do all the work.

He dragged himself out of bed, pulling on a hoodie and running a hand through his disheveled white hair. When he stepped into the living room, he found Natsuo wrestling with a roll of packing tape while Fuyumi folded blankets into a box.

“Morning,” Touya muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

“Finally,” Natsuo huffed, though there was no real bite to it. “Thought you were gonna sleep through the whole move.”

“Would’ve been nice,” Touya admitted, stretching his arms over his head. “Where’s Sho?”

Fuyumi nodded toward the kitchen. “Eating breakfast. Or, well, poking at it.”

Touya wandered over to find Shouto sitting at the table, methodically picking apart an onigiri with his fingers instead of eating it. He glanced up when Touya entered, his mismatched eyes tracking him silently.

“You good?” Touya asked, nudging the plate closer to him.

Shouto blinked, then pushed the onigiri back toward Touya, a peace offering.

Touya snorted. “I’m not eating your leftovers.”

Shouto’s expression didn’t change, but he picked up a single grain of rice and placed it delicately on the edge of the plate, as if marking territory.

Fuyumi sighed from the doorway. “He’s been like that all morning. I think he’s nervous.”

Touya sighed. "You should eat. Big day."

Shouto’s expression remained blank, but he picked up a single grain of rice with his fingers and ate it with exaggerated slowness.

Touya rolled his eyes. "Dramatic."

By midmorning, the door burst open without warning, and Keigo strolled in like he owned the place, wings slightly flared to avoid knocking anything over.

“Happy moving day!” he announced, tossing a thermos of coffee directly at Touya’s face.

Touya caught it, fumbling only slightly. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Keigo corrected, grinning. Then, with a flick of his wrist, several of his primary feathers detached, flitting around the room to lift boxes with eerie precision.

Natsuo stared. “That’s cheating.”

“Efficiency,” Keigo said, winking. “You’re welcome.”

Touya took a long sip of the coffee, which was still hot, just the way he liked it, and exhaled. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” Keigo corrected, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his temple before darting off to help Fuyumi with a stack of dishes.

Natsuo made a face. “Do you two have to do that in front of me?”

“Yes,” Touya said flatly. “Don’t be homophobic.” 

“It’s not homophobia, it’s Touya-phobia.” 

Shouto, who had been watching the exchange silently, tilted his head, then reached out and poked one of Keigo’s floating feathers. It twitched in response, and Shouto’s eyes widened slightly.

Keigo laughed. “You can hold one if you want, kiddo.”

Shouto considered this, then carefully plucked a feather out of the air, holding it between his fingers like it might dissolve.

Touya smirked. “It’s molting season all over again.”

Keigo gasped in mock offense. “Are you implying I shed? Rude.”

Touya rolled his eyes. “Babe, I know you do.”

The new apartment was brighter than the last, with wider hallways and, most importantly, an elevator. Touya hadn’t argued when Fuyumi suggested the upgrade. His pride could handle the implication; his lungs couldn’t handle five flights of stairs every day.

Once the bulk of the furniture was in place, Fuyumi clapped her hands together. “Alright, room assignments!”

Natsuo, who had already claimed the smallest bedroom (“I don’t need space, I need privacy”), was sprawled across his new floor like a starfish.

Touya leaned against the doorframe of what would soon be his room, watching as Fuyumi carefully smoothed out the sheets on Shouto’s new futon in the adjacent bedroom.

They’d talked about this. Multiple times.

Fuyumi had explained it gently, Touya had grunted his agreement, and Shouto had listened with that unreadable stare of his. It was simple: Shouto would share the bigger room with Fuyumi, and Touya would be in the middle one, close enough to everyone, but not so close that a stray cough or fever would knock him flat for a week again.

But knowing something and accepting it were two different things.

Fuyumi, ever the diplomat, crouched down in front of Shouto as they stood in the half-empty new apartment. “Remember what we talked about, Sho? You and me in the big room?”

Shouto’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head. Just stared at the floor like it held answers.

Touya sighed and nudged him with his knee. “Hey. Look at me.”

Shouto did, slowly. His mismatched eyes were wide, unblinking.

“This isn’t because I don’t want you around,” Touya said, voice rough. “You know that, right?”

A tiny, hesitant shake of his head. No, I don’t know.

Touya winced. Right. Of course Shouto wouldn’t get it. To him, this probably felt like being pushed away, like punishment for something he didn’t even realize he’d done.

Fuyumi bit her lip. “Sho, remember when you got sick last month? And then Touya got sick right after?”

Shouto’s brow furrowed.

“It’s because you two were sharing a room,” Fuyumi continued gently. “And when you’re sick, it’s really easy for Touya to catch it too. His lungs aren’t… great.”

Shouto’s gaze flicked to Touya’s chest, where the worst of the scarring disappeared under his shirt. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture tightened.

Touya could practically see the gears turning in his head. My fault.

“Not your fault,” Touya said immediately. “Just how it is.”

Shouto didn’t look convinced.

Keigo, who had been hovering nearby pretending not to eavesdrop, chose that moment to chime in. “Plus, this way I can visit more.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Think of it as a trade. You get Fuyumi’s room, Touya gets me sometimes. Everybody wins.”

Shouto blinked at him. 

“Fuyumi's way better at bedtime stories than Touya anyway, right Sho?"

Shouto blinked at Keigo, then looked back at Touya. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out but wasn't sure if he should.

Touya exhaled and opened his arms. "C'mere."

Shouto didn't hesitate. He pressed his face into Touya's shoulder, small hands fisting in the back of his shirt.

"It's just a room, just to sleep in," Touya murmured into his hair. "Doesn't change anything else."

Shouto didn't answer, but his grip tightened.

Fuyumi smiled softly. "We'll make it nice for you, Sho.” 

After a long moment, Shouto nodded against Touya's chest. It wasn't happy acceptance, but he’d be ok with it soon enough.

Touya squeezed him once before letting go. "Alright. Let's finish unpacking before Fuyumi loses her mind from the mess.”

By evening, the worst of the move was over. The furniture was in place, the boxes were (mostly) unpacked, and Keigo had somehow sweet-talked the local market into selling him osechi ryori last-minute, despite it being New Year’s Eve.

“How much did this cost?” Touya asked, eyeing the stacked lacquer boxes.

Keigo waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That means ‘too much,’” Natsuo translated.

Fuyumi gasped as she lifted the lid. “Kuromame! And kazunoko! Keigo, this is-”

“A bribe,” Keigo said cheerfully. “So you don’t kick me out at midnight.”

Touya rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Shouto, intrigued by the colorful arrangement, poked at a slice of kamaboko.

“It’s sweet,” Fuyumi encouraged.

Shouto took a tiny bite, chewed thoughtfully, then stole another piece when he thought no one was looking.

Somewhere between the third box of osechi and the fifth round of amazake (watered down for Shouto, much to his displeasure), exhaustion caught up with them.

It started with Natsuo slumping against the kotatsu, muttering about “never lifting another box again.” Then Fuyumi yawned mid-sentence, blinking like she’d forgotten what she was saying. Keigo’s wings drooped, feathers fluffing up in a way that meant he was seconds from passing out.

Touya, who had been leaning against the couch, felt a weight settle against his side. Shouto, half-asleep, had curled into him like a cat seeking warmth.

“Nap time?” Keigo suggested, voice already slurring.

Somehow, they all ended up in a heap on the living room floor, blankets strewn haphazardly over limbs and wings. Shouto, now fully asleep, had latched onto Touya’s arm like a lifeline.

Touya didn’t mind.

The countdown played softly on the TV, the familiar voices of the annual New Year’s program filling the room.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

Keigo’s hand found Touya’s under the blanket.

Seven. Six. Five.

Natsuo mumbled something incoherent into Fuyumi’s shoulder.

Four. Three. Two.

Shouto’s grip tightened in his sleep.

One.

“Akemashite omedetou, ” Fuyumi whispered, smiling.

Outside, the city erupted in cheers.

Chapter Text

The new year had settled in with a quiet determination, much like Shouto himself.

January was always the coldest month, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and clung there, stubborn as a shadow. But the apartment, their apartment, all four of them together, was warm.

Touya had spent the first week of January assembling furniture that came with instructions written in indecipherable diagrams, and arguing with Fuyumi over where the kotatsu should go. Natsuo, for once, wasn’t hovering in the background with his usual restlessness. Instead, he was hunched over the dining table, a science textbook cracked open in front of him, a highlighter clamped between his teeth.

“You’re studying,” Touya had observed, leaning against the doorframe.

Natsuo had glanced up, blinking like he’d forgotten anyone else was there. “Yeah. I mean. Might as well.”

“Might as well?”

“College entrance exams.”

Touya stared at him. 

“What?” Natsuo had bristled. “You think I can’t?”

“No,” Touya said, and meant it. “Just didn’t think you cared.”

Natsuo had looked back at his book, shoulders tense. “Things change.”

Things had changed.

Shouto’s birthday passed quietly. Twelve years old. He didn’t react when Fuyumi set a small strawberry cake in front of him, didn’t flinch when Natsuo ruffled his hair, didn’t make a sound when Touya handed him a new All Might figurine, one he’d heard that many of the younger clients in the clinic thought was very cool.

Touya’s own birthday came and went with even less fanfare. Twenty-five. He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that finally, things were calming down, and no one could take that away.

Work kept him busy.

Quirk counseling wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills, and more importantly, it was something he could do without setting himself on fire. Most of his cases were kids: scared, confused, angry kids who didn’t understand why their bodies betrayed them. He knew the feeling.

Still, it meant he’d been unable to pick up Shouto more than once. Fuyumi had taken over for a few days while he caught up, and he hated the guilt that gnawed at him every time he had to text her.

But today, he was on time.

He leaned against the fence, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging in the air. Parents milled around, waiting for their children to be dismissed. He recognized a few faces by now, though he’d never spoken to any of them.

Then: 

“Excuse me?”

A woman’s voice, soft but deliberate. He turned.

She was petite, with long green hair pulled into a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes that spoke of long shifts and little sleep. Her scrubs were rumpled, a coat thrown over them like an afterthought.

“You’re Shouto’s brother, right?” she asked.

Touya blinked. “Yeah.”

She smiled, warm and a little tired. “I’m Inko Midoriya. My son, Izuku, he’s in Shouto’s grade, but in class A.”

Touya straightened slightly. Shouto hadn’t mentioned anyone. Then again, Shouto didn’t mention anything.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh. Nice to meet you.”

Inko’s gaze flickered to his scars, but she didn’t stare. Instead, she tilted her head toward the school doors. “Izuku won’t stop talking about him. I mean, literally won’t stop.” She laughed, a little helpless.

Touya raised an eyebrow. “Shouto? My Shouto?”

Inko laughed. “Yes! He came home saying, Mom, there’s this boy in class B who doesn’t talk at all, but he listens so well and he also loves All Might!” She mimicked her son’s earnest tone perfectly.

Touya snorted.

Before he could respond, the doors opened, and kids began filing out.

And then, there was Shouto, walking in his usual measured steps, face blank, eyes forward. But next to him, a boy, green-haired, freckled, hands flapping wildly as he talked a mile a minute, words tumbling over each other in an excited rush. His entire body was alight with energy, bouncing on his toes, gesturing wildly about… heroes, probably, given the way he kept miming punches.

Shouto wasn’t looking at him.

But he wasn’t walking away, either.

“How’d they even meet?” Touya asked.

“The playground, apparently. Izuku said Shouto was sitting alone, and he just… started talking to him.” Inko’s voice softened. “Izuku doesn’t make friends easily. Other kids find him ‘too much.’”

Touya understood that.

Mid-ramble, the green-haired boy, Izuku, grabbed Shouto’s hand. Not yanking, not demanding, just holding.

And Shouto let him.

Touya’s breath caught.

Inko made a small, wet noise beside him. He glanced over. She had a hand pressed to her mouth, eyes shining.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, he…”

Touya understood. He didn’t think Shouto ever had a friend before either.

Izuku was still talking, swinging their joined hands slightly as they walked. Shouto’s face was as blank as ever, but he wasn’t pulling away.

Inko wiped her eyes quickly. “Would… would you like to exchange numbers? In case they want to meet up outside of school?”

Touya nodded before he could second-guess it. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”

They traded contacts, and when he looked up again, the boys were nearly upon them. Izuku’s gaze flickered to Touya, but there was no recognition, just curiosity before he zeroed back in on Shouto.

“-and All Might’s new takedown record is even faster than last year’s, did you see the news? It was so cool, he-”

Shouto wasn’t responding, but he wasn’t shutting Izuku out either. And that, Touya thought, was enough.

Inko sniffled again, smiling. Touya didn’t cry, he actually couldn’t, but something warm settled in his ribs.

The knock at the door came precisely at two in the afternoon.

Touya wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, given how Inko had fretted over the phone about Izuku being "a lot."

What he got was a small, green-haired hurricane.

"Hi!" Izuku chirped the second the door opened, already vibrating in place, his All Might-themed backpack nearly bursting at the seams. "I brought so many things! Shouto said he didn’t have action figures, well, he didn’t say it, but he nodded when I asked, so I brought three All Might ones, well, one’s actually a knockoff, but it’s still cool, and also some cars because everyone likes cars, right? And-"

Inko, standing behind him, looked equal parts fond and mortified. "Izuku, breathe."

Izuku did not, in fact, breathe.

Fuyumi, ever the saint, stepped forward with a warm smile. "You must be Inko! It’s so nice to finally meet you properly."

Inko wrung her hands. "Thank you for having him. Please call me if he’s too much…"

"Nonsense!" Fuyumi waved her off. "He’ll be fine."

Izuku, meanwhile, had already spotted Shouto lingering near the couch and beamed. "Shouto! Look what I brought!"

Shouto didn’t respond, but he didn’t retreat either. His mismatched eyes flicked to the bag Izuku was now aggressively unpacking onto the living room floor.

Touya leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

“Look what I brought!”

Action figures, toy cars, a small pile of hero trading cards, a squishy sensory ball, and what looked like half a dozen fidget toys spilled out. Shouto’s gaze flickered over them, lingering on a small All Might figurine.

Izuku didn’t wait for a response, not that Shouto would have given one. He just launched into an explanation, holding up each item with reverence. “This one’s from the Silver Age collection, see the detailing on the costume? And this car transforms if you press the button here- oh! And this one lights up when you roll it-”

Shouto reached out, fingers brushing the All Might figure. Izuku beamed and immediately shoved it into his hands. “You can hold him! He’s my favorite, but you can definitely hold him!”

Touya exhaled, something in his chest loosening.

Fuyumi, meanwhile, had already dragged Inko into the kitchen under the guise of tea, though Touya could hear her rapid-fire whispering: “Oh my god, he’s adorable! Shouto never does anything new-”

Izuku, oblivious, was now demonstrating how to make the toy car “drift” across the coffee table. Shouto watched, then slowly, carefully, mimicked the motion with his own hand. Izuku gasped like it was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re good at that! Do it again!”

Shouto did. Then again. And again.

Izuku’s energy was relentless.

He talked. He moved. He stimmed, hands flapping when he got excited, rocking slightly when he focused, occasionally jumping in place when a thought overwhelmed him. It was like watching a live wire, sparking and bright.

And then, halfway through an impassioned rant about hero statistics, something unexpected happened.

Shouto, still silent, lifted his hands.

And flapped them.

Just once. A small, experimental motion.

Izuku didn’t even pause in his rambling, but his eyes lit up. "Yeah! Like that! You can do it more if you want- it feels really good!"

Shouto tilted his head. Then, hesitantly, he did it again. A little bigger this time.

Touya, pretending not to watch from the couch, felt something tighten in his chest.

Izuku beamed. "Sometimes I do this too-" He rocked forward, then back on his heels, humming under his breath.

Shouto watched. Then, slowly, he mirrored the motion.

And then, he did it again.

And again.

His expression didn’t change, but there was something lighter in the way he moved. Like he’d discovered something new.

Shouto had reached his limit.

It wasn’t anything obvious, no meltdown, no visible distress. just a slow, deliberate retreat to the corner of the living room where a weighted pillow lay draped over the armchair. It was long and cylindrical, filled with just enough sand to provide deep pressure without feeling restrictive. Touya had brought it home months ago, pilfered from the sensory equipment at his workplace, just to see if Shouto would like it.

He did.

Touya never brought it back.

Shouto pulled it into his lap first, then, after a moment of consideration, laid down on the floor and settled it across his chest like an anchor.

Izuku, mid-explanation about the aerodynamics of Gran Torino’s cape, blinked at the sudden absence of his audience. But instead of being offended, he just nodded, like this was a perfectly normal part of the conversation.

"Oh! Quiet time?" he asked, though he didn’t expect an answer. Shouto didn’t give one, but his fingers flexed slightly against the pillow, his breathing already slowing.

Izuku grinned. "Okay! I’ll just…" He trailed off, looking around at the battlefield of toys and books scattered across the living room floor. Then, with the boundless energy of a child who had just remembered he was in a new place, he abandoned the heroes and started wandering.

Touya walked back into the living room, a mug of tea in hand. He’d expected to find the boys still knee-deep in whatever game they’d invented, but instead, Shouto was burrowed under his weighted pillow in the corner, and Izuku was standing in front of the bookshelf, one small finger tracing the spines of Touya’s textbooks.

Most of them were thick volumes on Quirk theory, case studies, psychology texts. A few were Fuyumi’s, mostly teaching manuals and children’s literature.

Izuku’s eyes were wide, his mouth moving silently as he read the titles. When he noticed Touya watching, he startled slightly, then pointed at one of the books.

"You have Hosu’s Compendium of Quirk Mutations," he said, voice hushed with awe. "That’s… that’s so cool."

Touya raised an eyebrow. "You know it?"

Izuku nodded rapidly. "It’s got this whole chapter on how emitter-types can sometimes mimic transformation quirks if the conditions are right, and…" He cut himself off, suddenly self-conscious. "S-sorry. I talk a lot."

Touya shrugged. "I don’t mind." He set his tea down on the coffee table and nodded at the book. 

“It’s fine. You into Quirk stuff?”

Izuku’s entire face lit up. “Yes.”

Touya snorted. “Yeah, figured.” He nodded at the coffee table, where a few more of his reference books were strewn. “Go nuts.”

Izuku didn’t need to be told twice. He practically lunged for the nearest one, Quirk Mutations and Evolutionary Patterns , flipping through it with the kind of speed that suggested he wasn’t just skimming. He was absorbing.

Touya raised an eyebrow. “You actually read this stuff?”

Izuku nodded rapidly. “Mhm! The- the library near my house has some, but not all of them, and sometimes the newer editions have way more information, like, did you know there’s been a huge increase in Quirk singularity cases in the last decade? It’s because of-”

And then he was off.

Touya had expected a kid regurgitating trivia. What he got was a breakdown of Quirk genetics, mutation rates, and statistical anomalies, delivered at breakneck speed with the kind of precision that made his own analyst instincts perk up.

Izuku wasn’t just reciting. He was analyzing.

Touya found himself sitting down.

“-and that’s why I think some Quirks look like they’re weakening generationally, but they’re actually just specializing,” Izuku finished, breathless.

Touya stared at him. Then, slowly: “...You’re twelve?”

Izuku flushed. “Uh. Yeah?”

Touya exhaled through his nose. Damn.

“You ever think about working for a hero agency?” he asked. “Or the Commission’s research division? That kind of analysis is…”

Izuku’s face shut down.

It was subtle, a tightening around his eyes, but Touya caught it.

And then, quieter: “...I’m Quirkless.”

Ah.

There it was.

Touya leaned back, studying him. Izuku had hunched in on himself slightly, like he was bracing for dismissal. Or worse, pity.

Instead, Touya shrugged. “So?”

Izuku blinked. “...So?”

“I can’t use my Quirk either,” Touya said.

Izuku’s eyes flicked to his scars.

“Not quirkless,” Touya clarified. “But close enough. Burns me if I try.” He tapped his temple. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how they work.”

Izuku’s mouth opened. Closed.

“If anything,” Touya continued, “being Quirkless is probably an advantage for this kind of thing. You don’t have your own Quirk biasing your observations. You get to learn all of them.”

Izuku’s breath hitched.

And then, his face crumpled.

Not in sadness. In relief.

Touya had seen that expression before, on kids in his office, the ones who’d been told their whole lives that their Quirks were villainous, only to hear for the first time that they weren’t. That they were understood.

Izuku scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, laughing wetly. “S-Sorry, I just- no one ever-”

“Yeah,” Touya said. “I know.”

Izuku sniffled, then took a shaky breath. The emotions were clearly overwhelming him. His hands flapped once, twice, before he stilled them, glancing toward the corner where Shouto lay.

“Can I…?” he started.

Touya nodded.

Izuku didn’t need more permission than that. He crossed the room, stepping carefully over toys, before hesitating at Shouto’s side.

“Shouto?” he whispered. “Can I also come to quiet time?”

Shouto didn’t open his eyes.

But he scooched over.

Izuku beamed. He lay down beside him, wriggling halfway under the weighted pillow.

And just like that, the two of them were still.

Touya watched them for a moment. Then, quietly, he grabbed his notebook from the coffee table and scribbled a reminder to himself:

Get Izuku more books.

The weighted pillow was long enough to cover both boys from the chest up, their legs sticking out from beneath it like mismatched bookends. Izuku’s socks were striped- one green, one yellow, slightly rumpled where they’d slipped down his ankles. Shouto’s bare feet were pale against the floorboards, toes curling idly every so often.

Izuku was whispering.

Not stopping, because Izuku Midoriya, Touya was learning, did not stop, but softer now, his voice a hushed stream of consciousness.

“-and then All Might jumped from, like, three buildings away, and the wind pressure alone was enough to-”

Shouto’s eyes were closed, his breathing slow. But his fingers were moving, thumb brushing over Izuku’s knuckles, tracing the lines of his small, freckled hand. Not holding, not gripping. Just feeling.

Izuku didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed to lean into it, his whisper stuttering for half a second before picking back up.

“-and that’s why I think his Quirk has to be strength-based, even though some people say it’s wind manipulation, because-”

Fuyumi, hovering in the kitchen doorway, had one hand pressed over her mouth. The other clutched a dish towel like a lifeline.

Touya knew why.

Shouto never initiated soft touch like this. Not without prompting. Not without someone guiding his hands first.

And yet here he was, mapping the shape of Izuku’s fingers like they were something fascinating.

Izuku, for his part, seemed to take it in stride. He didn’t pause his rambling, didn’t comment, just let Shouto explore, his own fingers twitching occasionally in response.

An hour later, the front door clicked as Fuyumi opened it up for Inko. She stepped in, her bag slung over one shoulder. She opened her mouth, probably to ask how it went, then froze at the sight before her.

On the floor, Izuku finally trailed off mid-sentence, yawning. His head lolled toward Shouto’s shoulder.

Shouto didn’t move away.

Inko’s breath caught.

Fuyumi, wiping her eyes, whispered, "We’re going to be the best of friends, aren’t we?"

Inko, equally teary, nodded.

And Touya?

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t.

Chapter Text

April arrived with the scent of cherry blossoms and the sharp, metallic tang of new textbooks.

The Himura-Todoroki apartment had settled into something resembling a routine, or as close to one as they could manage with four siblings, three different schedules, and one pro-hero flitting in and out. 

Fuyumi’s first official year as a teacher had begun, and with it came the kind of exhaustion that was equal parts draining and fulfilling. She left early in the morning, her bag stuffed with lesson plans and brightly colored markers, and returned in the evenings with papers to grade and stories about her students. She was happy, Touya could tell, the kind of happy that came with doing something that mattered.

But it also meant she was rarely still. Even at home, she was cutting out laminated shapes for her classroom or scribbling notes in the margins of worksheets.

“You’re gonna burn out,” Touya told her one evening, watching as she meticulously colored the edges of flashcards.

Fuyumi didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been hunched over that table for two hours.”

“It’s important.”

Touya didn’t argue. He was learning just how stubborn she could be.

Natsuo had fallen into a stubborn new rhythm as well. 

The first sign that something was off wasn’t the missed meals or the late nights, it was the coffee cups.

Touya started finding them everywhere. Half-finished, gone cold, abandoned on the kitchen counter, the bathroom sink, the windowsill in the hallway. Natsuo had never been a coffee drinker before, preferring canned tea or sports drinks, but now it seemed like he was running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower.

Fuyumi noticed too.

“Natsu,” she said one morning, catching him by the sleeve as he tried to slip out the door before sunrise, “you’re shaking.”

Natsuo blinked at her, slow and bleary, his free hand gripping his thermos like a lifeline. His uniform was immaculate, he’d always been particular about that, too prideful to let himself look anything less than put together, but his knuckles were white around the strap of his bag, his shoulders tense with something that wasn’t just exhaustion.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, pulling away. “Just tired.”

Fuyumi’s frown deepened. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

A pause. Then, too quickly: “Yeah.”

He was lying.

Natsuo wasn’t neglecting himself, not in the obvious ways, at least.

He still showered every morning, still ironed his shirts, still remembered to brush his teeth. But there were other things that slipped through the cracks.

Like the way he’d forget to eat until his hands trembled too badly to hold a pen, or the way he’d rub at his temples like he was fighting off a headache that never quite went away, or the way he’d snap at Shouto if the noise from the TV bled through his bedroom door, then immediately apologize, guilt sharp in his voice.

Touya caught him one evening, standing in front of the open fridge, staring blankly at the contents like he couldn’t remember what he was looking for.

“You good?” Touya asked, leaning against the doorway.

Natsuo startled, then scowled. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been standing there for five minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what? The meaning of life?”

Natsuo slammed the fridge door shut hard enough to rattle the shelves. “Back off.”

Touya raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna burn out before exams even start.”

“I won’t.” Natsuo’s voice was sharp, defensive. “I can’t.”

And there it was: the quiet, desperate edge beneath the irritation.

Touya exhaled. “You’re not gonna magically fail just because you slept for more than three hours, you know.”

“You’re not my dad, leave me the fuck alone.” He grabbed an energy drink from the counter and stalked back to his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

It all came to a head one rainy Thursday night.

Fuyumi had stayed late at school for a parent-teacher conference, and Touya had been out picking up Shouto from the Midoriya’s. When they got home, the apartment was dark, except for the sliver of light under Natsuo’s door.

Shouto, sensing something was off, hovered near the genkan, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt.

Touya nudged him toward the living room. “Go put on a movie or something. I’ll check on Natsu.”

Shouto hesitated, then nodded, padding silently away.

Touya knocked on Natsuo’s door. No answer.

He knocked again. “Natsu. Open up.”

Still nothing.

Touya tried the handle. Unlocked.

The sight that greeted him was… Well, concerning.

Natsuo was slumped over his desk, forehead pressed against an open textbook, his breathing slow and heavy. Asleep, finally, but not in bed. Empty energy drink cans littered the floor beneath the desk. A half-eaten protein bar sat abandoned next to his elbow.

And his notes… God.

Pages and pages of them, scrawled in handwriting that got progressively messier, the ink smudged in places where he’d clearly dozed off mid-word.

Touya sighed. Then, gently, he shook Natsuo’s shoulder.

“Hey. Bed. Now.”

Natsuo jerked awake with a gasp, his eyes wild for a split second before they focused. “Wha…”

“You’re done for tonight,” Touya said, cutting him off.

Natsuo blinked, disoriented. Then, groggily: “...’M not finished.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I have to-”

“You have to sleep.” Touya grabbed him by the arm, hauling him upright. “You’re gonna kill yourself before you even get to college at this rate.”

Natsuo swayed on his feet, too exhausted to argue.

Touya steered him toward the bed. “Sit.”

Natsuo sat.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quietly:

“...I can’t fuck this up,” Natsuo muttered, staring at his hands.

Touya exhaled. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Touya flicked his forehead. “Because you’re you. And you’re smart as hell.”

Natsuo didn’t answer. Just rubbed at his eyes, his shoulders slumping.

Touya tossed him a hoodie from the floor. “Change. Then sleep. Actual sleep.”

Natsuo hesitated. Then, finally, he nodded.

The next morning, Natsuo emerged from his room looking alive, at least. That was the kindest way to describe him. 

He still reached for the coffee pot first thing, but this time, Fuyumi intercepted him, sliding a plate of tamagoyaki in front of him instead.

“Eat,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Natsuo scowled. But he ate.

Shouto, watching silently from the corner, nudged his own plate toward Natsuo, an offering.

Natsuo blinked. Then, slowly, he reached out and ruffled Shouto’s hair, before eating a slice off his plate.

The appointment had taken months to secure.

Specialists didn’t come cheap, and even with Endeavor’s money (which Touya accepted gladly as reparations), the waiting lists were long. But finally, in mid-April, they’d gotten the call.

Shouto sat between Touya and Fuyumi, his feet dangling just above the floor, hands folded neatly in his lap. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t look around. Just stared at the wall across from them, his expression as blank as ever. The only sign of tension was the way his fingers occasionally pressed into his own wrists: small, rhythmic pulses of pressure, like he was grounding himself.

Fuyumi reached over and smoothed a hand over his hair. "It’s okay," she murmured, though she wasn’t sure if she was reassuring him or herself.

Touya slouched in his chair, arms crossed, one knee bouncing. He hated hospitals. Hated the sterile white walls, the too-bright lights, the way everything smelled like failure. But he’d sat through worse.

When the nurse finally called them in, Dr. Kinoshita was already waiting, Shouto’s file open in front of her. She was sharp-eyed and no-nonsense, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

"Let’s talk about what’s actually going on," she said, tapping the MRI scans spread across her desk.

The images were a mess of grayscale swirls, but the damage was clear once she pointed it out: tiny, scattered disruptions in the white matter of Shouto’s brain, like frayed wires in a machine.

"Diffuse axonal injury," she explained. "When the brain moves violently enough, like during a traumatic impact, the long connecting fibers between neurons can shear apart. It’s not like a stroke, where you see one big dead spot. This is… subtler. But just as debilitating."

Fuyumi’s breath caught. "So… his speech. That’s why he can’t…?"

Dr. Kinoshita nodded. "The pathways between his Broca’s area, where language is formed, and the motor cortex that controls his mouth and throat are damaged. Think of it like a phone line with bad reception. The call can still go through, but the words come out garbled. Or not at all."

Touya’s jaw tightened. "But he can make noise. We’ve heard him."

"Exactly." Dr. Kinoshita turned to Shouto, studying him with clinical curiosity. "Which means the hardware isn’t completely broken. The signals are just… unreliable. Sometimes they get through. Sometimes they don’t."

Shouto, for his part, didn’t react. But his fingers had stilled in his lap.

Fuyumi wiped at her eyes. "All those speech therapy sessions… we kept pushing him to try harder…"

"And that was the problem." Dr. Kinoshita closed the file with a snap. "You were asking him to use a system that doesn’t work for him. Imagine trying to write with your non-dominant hand while someone shouts at you to go faster. Must be so frustrating, right Shouto-kun? That’s what speech has been like for him."

The room went quiet.

Dr. Kinoshita softened slightly. "This isn’t about giving up on speech entirely. It’s about adapting. His brain has already found workarounds, the humming, the gestures. We just need to meet him where he is."

The train rattled beneath them, the rhythmic clatter of tracks filling the silence between Touya’s thoughts. Shouto sat pressed against his side, noise-canceling headphones swallowing the world around him, his fingers tapping a slow, absent rhythm against his own knee. The faint hum of the train’s overhead lights reflected in the glass of the window, casting a pale sheen over Shouto’s scar.

Touya stared at it.

Diffuse axonal injury.

The words sat like a stone in his gut. He’d known, of course. Known from the moment the social worker dumped his siblings in the living room. But hearing it laid out like that was different.

Fuyumi hadn’t spoken since they left the neurologist’s office. She sat stiffly across from them, her hands clenched around the strap of her bag, knuckles white. Her gaze was fixed on the passing cityscape outside, but Touya could see the tension in her jaw, the way her throat worked like she was swallowing something bitter.

“That bastard.”

Her voice was low, shaking with something Touya hadn’t heard from her in years. Not grief. Not exhaustion.

Rage.

Touya blinked. Fuyumi never swore. Never raised her voice. Never called Endeavor anything but Dad, even when she was furious with him.

But now… 

“He knew,” she hissed, fingers twisting tighter in Touya’s sleeve. “He knew Shouto wasn’t just being difficult, and he still… still pushed him, still acted like it was some kind of failure…”

Her nails bit into Touya’s arm through the fabric. He didn’t pull away.

Shouto, oblivious behind his headphones, leaned against Fuyumi’s side, his temple resting against her shoulder. Fuyumi’s breath hitched. She curled her free hand around Shouto’s, squeezing gently.

Touya said nothing. What was there to say?

He’d been angry at Endeavor for years. Furious in a way that burned so deep it had become part of his bones. But Fuyumi had always hoped, always believed, somewhere deep down, that their father could change. That he could apologize.

Now, watching her press her cheek to the top of Shouto’s head, her shoulders trembling, Touya wondered if that hope was finally dead.

The train screeched to a stop.

Shouto lifted his head, blinking slowly. Fuyumi wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand and forced a smile.

“Home,” she said, soft as ever.

And just like that, her moment passed.

But the anger?

That, Touya knew, wasn’t going anywhere.

The first week of May brought with it the kind of warm, golden sunlight that made the city feel alive.

Keigo arrived at the apartment on a Saturday morning, wings rustling as he came in through the balcony. He had a bakery box tucked under one arm and a smirk on his face.

“Guess what day it is,” he sing-songed, dropping the box onto the kitchen counter with a flourish.

Touya, who had been elbow-deep in dishwater, flicked soap suds at him. “The day you finally learn how to use a door like a normal person?”

Keigo dodged, grinning. “Nope. Two years, firefly. Two years of putting up with your grumpy ass.”

Fuyumi, perched at the table with a stack of graded papers, looked up. “Wait… two years together?”

“Yep,” Keigo said, popping the ‘p’. “And this loser,” he jabbed a thumb at Touya, “was gonna celebrate by eating cake at home like some kind of antisocial hermit.”

Touya rolled his eyes, although his cheeks were quickly turning pink. “It’s just a date.”

“Just a date,” Keigo repeated, mock-horrified. He turned to Fuyumi and Natsuo, who had wandered in at the commotion. “You hear this? He’s trying to make me look crazy for wanting to celebrate!”

Natsuo, still half-asleep, squinted at them. “You are the crazy one.”

Keigo gasped, clutching his chest. “Betrayal!”

Fuyumi laughed, setting her pen down. “You should go out,” she said, nudging Touya’s shoulder. “You never do anything nice for yourselves.”

Touya scowled. “We go out.”

“To the convenience store at 2 AM for snacks doesn’t count,” Natsuo deadpanned.

Keigo pointed at him. “Thank you.”

Touya exhaled, long-suffering, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go out.”

Keigo’s grin turned triumphant. “Good. Because I already made reservations.”

Touya had expected something flashy, some rooftop bar or hero hotspot, the kind of place Keigo usually dragged him to.

Instead, Keigo took him to a tiny izakaya tucked into a back alley, the kind of place that didn’t bother with a sign. The owner knew Keigo by name, ushering them to a corner booth with a gruff nod.

“You come here often?” Touya muttered as they slid into their seats.

Keigo shrugged, wings rustling against the booth. “Sometimes. It’s quiet.”

And it was. No cameras, no fans, no Commission handlers lurking in the shadows. Just the hum of conversation, the sizzle of meat on the grill, the occasional clink of glasses.

Touya relaxed, just a little.

They ordered too much food: yakitori, grilled fish, a plate of gyoza Keigo immediately stole half of, and split a bottle of sake. Touya didn’t drink much these days, but one glass wouldn’t hurt.

Keigo watched him over the rim of his cup, golden eyes warm in the dim light. “You’re staring,” Touya said.

“Yeah,” Keigo agreed, unrepentant. “Two years, and you still haven’t gotten sick of me. That’s gotta be a record.”

Touya snorted. “Don’t push it.”

Keigo’s foot nudged his under the table. “Love you too, grumpy.”

Touya didn’t answer. Just hooked their ankles together and let it linger.

Natsuo’s study habits had not improved.

If anything, they’d gotten worse.

His room was a disaster zone of energy drink cans, half-finished protein bars, and textbooks stacked in precarious towers. Fuyumi had taken to barging in every few hours with a plate of food, refusing to leave until he ate at least half of it. Touya, meanwhile, had instituted a strict “no sleeping at your desk” policy after the third time he’d found Natsuo passed out mid-equation.

But for all their nagging, it was working.

The email from the principal had been a shock:

Despite last year’s incidents, Natsuo has risen to the top three in his class. We’re impressed with his dedication.

Fuyumi had cried. Natsuo had scowled and immediately gone back to studying.

Now, with university applications on the horizon, he’d started compiling a list of schools, mostly ones with strong science programs, all far enough from home that he would get to live in a dorm.

“We should visit a few,” Fuyumi said one evening, flipping through the brochures he’d left on the table. 

Natsuo hummed, noncommittal, his nose buried in a practice exam.

“Take a break,” Touya snatched the paper out of his hands. “Now, Natsu. Before you turn into a fucking gremlin.”

Natsuo glared, and a chill went through the air, but he didn’t argue. 

The knock came at precisely 9:03 AM: three minutes late, which meant it was definitely Akane.

Touya yanked the door open before she could knock again. "You’re losing your touch. Used to be right on the dot."

Akane Tanaka, social worker, paperwork tyrant, and the closest thing Touya had to an overbearing older sister, stood on the threshold in her usual pressed slacks and sensible blazer, her dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. She didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Traffic. And you’re looking less like a stray cat these days." She reached out and patted his side, just above the hip. "Actual meat on your bones. Your sister’s cooking, or the boyfriend?"

Touya swatted her hand away, heat prickling at the back of his neck. He hadn’t noticed, but now that she mentioned it, his ribs didn’t jut as sharply as they used to. "Mind your business."

"You are my business," she said breezily, stepping past him into the apartment. Her sharp eyes scanned the living room: the mismatched furniture, the dishes drying on the rack, the pile of Fuyumi’s lesson plans spread across the coffee table. "Hm. Lived-in. I like it."

Fuyumi, who had been hovering near the couch, straightened like she was facing an inspector. "Ah, good morning! I’m Fuyumi. Would you like tea?"

Akane waved a hand. "Don’t bother. I’m not staying long." Her gaze landed on Shouto, who was sitting very still in the corner, watching her with blank, unblinking eyes. Her expression softened, just a fraction. "You must be Shouto."

Shouto didn’t react.

Akane didn’t seem to expect him to. She crouched slightly, putting herself at his eye level. "Your brother says you really like drawing."

A beat. Then, slowly, Shouto nodded.

Akane’s smile was small but genuine. "Cool. Maybe you can show me one later."

Touya rolled his eyes. "Stop interrogating the kid. You wanna check the place or not?"

Akane straightened, shooting him a look. "So impatient. Where’s the other one?"

"Natsuo’s asleep," Fuyumi said quickly. "He’s been studying really hard-"

"Wake him up," Akane said, not unkindly. "Gotta see the whole nest if I’m signing off on it."

Natsuo’s room was a disaster.

Akane took one look at the mountain of energy drink cans and raised an eyebrow. "You running a recycling center in here?"

Natsuo, who had been dragged out of bed with all the grace of a disgruntled bear, scowled. "It’s called dedication."

"Mm. Smells more like teenage boy." She nudged a discarded protein bar wrapper with her shoe. "You eat anything that isn’t pre-packaged?"

"Fuyumi and Touya shove actual food down my throat at least twice a day," Natsuo muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Akane snorted. "Good." She glanced at the textbooks strewn across his desk, the university brochures pinned to the wall. "I heard you’re top three in your class, huh?"

Natsuo blinked, surprised. "Touya told you?"

"Nope. Your principal did." Akane smirked at his expression. "What, you think I don’t do my homework? You’re part of the package now, kid."

Natsuo looked vaguely horrified at the idea of being part of the package.

The medication check was next. Touya led her to the bathroom, where his prescriptions were lined up in the cabinet: painkillers, nerve blockers, a small pharmacy’s worth of pills to manage the damage his own Quirk had done to him.

Akane picked up each bottle, comparing them to the list on her clipboard. "No extras? No fun little side trips to the back-alley dealers?"

Touya leaned against the tile wall, arms crossed. "Been clean five and a half years. You really think I’d risk it now?"

Akane gave him a long look. Then, quietly: "No. I don’t." She closed the cabinet with a click. "Place looks good. Kids seem good. You’re…" She gestured at him. "Good."

Touya exhaled. "So?"

"So I’ll be back in three months." She tucked her clipboard under her arm. "Try not to turn back into a scarecrow before then." 

Chapter Text

The last week of May arrived like a slow-motion train wreck.

Fuyumi stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, staring at the calendar with dawning horror. "Oh no."

Touya didn't even look up from his coffee. "What?"

"Parent-teacher conferences start Wednesday," she said, voice climbing an octave. "And your recertification exams are…"

"Tuesday through Friday." Touya's grip tightened on his mug. "Sounds like we’re in for a fun time, huh?"

Across the table, Natsuo shoveled rice into his mouth with single-minded focus, already mentally reviewing chemical equations. Shouto sat perfectly still beside him, methodically separating his breakfast into neat piles.

A stellar start to a shitty week. 

Fuyumi’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse Tuesday morning as she rushed through her routine. Parent-teacher conferences started today, which meant fourteen-hour days of back-to-back meetings, fake smiles, and carefully phrased feedback. She’d prepped extra worksheets for her students to work on independently so she could prepare materials for the meetings.

The coffee machine gurgled, filling the kitchen with the sharp, burnt scent of cheap grounds. She poured a travel mug, black, no sugar; she’d need the caffeine.

She knocked twice on Natsuo’s door. No response.

Fuyumi pushed it open to find him still curled under his blankets, his alarm blaring some pop song she didn’t recognize. His desk was a disaster zone: energy drink cans, half-finished protein bar wrappers, and a precarious stack of practice exams teetering near the edge.

"Natsu," she called, shaking his shoulder. "You’re going to be late."

He groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago."

A muffled, unintelligible grumble.

Fuyumi sighed and left him to it.

Touya’s testing center was a sterile, windowless room in the Musutafu Licensing Bureau, the kind of place designed to make you feel like a criminal even if you weren’t. The proctor, a tired-looking woman with a minor telekinesis Quirk, handed him a tablet and a stack of scratch paper.

"Six hours," she said. "No breaks unless medically necessary."

Touya barely heard her. His head already felt too full, like his thoughts were slogging through wet cement. He’d taken his morning pills on autopilot: white one for nerve pain, blue for inflammation, round yellow one he couldn’t remember the purpose of but knew he was supposed to take.

The first case study loaded onto the tablet:

*Client is a 14-year-old with a pyrokinetic Quirk that activates during emotional distress. Parents report uncontrolled flare-ups during arguments. How do you proceed?*

Touya stared at the words. They blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again.

Focus.

He started typing.

Fuyumi’s third parent meeting of the day was interrupted by her phone buzzing in her pocket. A text from Touya:

TOUYA: Just got a phone call- did Natsu go to school?

She frowned. 

FUYUMI: Not sure. Still asleep when I left.

Three dots appeared, then vanished. No reply.

Early Wednesday morning, the pain came first: a dull, insistent throb radiating from the scar tissue along his arms and chest. Touya gritted his teeth, rolling onto his back as he blinked into the darkness of his bedroom. The doctors had told him it was fine to take something extra if the pain got bad, so he fumbled for the bottle of ibuprofen on his nightstand, dry-swallowing two before his brain caught up with the rest of his body.

Something was wrong.

Not just the pain; that was familiar, and manageable. But the cold.

It wasn’t the usual chill of early morning. It was deeper, internal, like his body had forgotten how to regulate its own temperature. His fingers trembled as he pulled the blanket tighter, but no amount of layers seemed to help. He pressed a hand to his forehead. Was he feverish? He couldn’t tell. His skin felt clammy, but he was freezing.

He needed to check.

Groaning, he pushed himself up, wincing as another sharp twinge shot through his ribs. The ibuprofen wasn’t touching this.

The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.

Touya shuffled into the living room, intending to grab his glasses from the kitchen drawer- maybe the labels on his pill case would make more sense if he could actually see them- when he stopped short.

Shouto was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp. His noise-canceling headphones were on, but he wasn’t wearing them properly, just resting them around his neck like a collar. In front of him, a coloring book lay open, the page a mess of overlapping reds and blues, the colors smeared together in thick, waxy puddles. His fingers moved methodically, pressing down hard with a green crayon until the tip snapped.

Touya exhaled. "The hell are you doing up?"

Shouto didn’t react, still focused on his coloring.

Touya crouched beside him, hissing as his knees protested. "You’re supposed to be in bed."

Shouto ignored him, dragging the side of the broken crayon across the page in broad, uneven strokes.

Touya sighed. He should put him back to bed. 

Instead, he sat on the couch behind Shouto, rubbing his arms against the chill still clinging to him.

"Move up here," he muttered.

Shouto didn’t, but he didn’t resist when Touya hauled him up onto the couch beside him. Touya pulled him close, tucking Shouto against his side, partly to keep him from wandering off, partly because the kid’s left side radiated heat like a furnace.

Shouto stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his head tipping slightly against Touya’s shoulder.

Touya closed his eyes, letting the warmth from Shouto’s right side seep into him. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, gray morning light was filtering through the curtains, and Fuyumi was standing over him, already dressed, her brow furrowed.

"You look like hell," she said.

Touya groaned, shifting just enough to dislodge Shouto, who had somehow ended up half-sprawled across his lap, still clutching the broken green crayon. "Do I have a fever?"

Fuyumi pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, then his cheek. "No. You’re cold."

Touya grimaced. That wasn’t right. He was always warm. Even with his Quirk suppressed, his body temperature ran higher than average.

Fuyumi frowned. "Did you take your meds?"

"Not yet this morning," he told her. “I’ll do it now.” 

Shouto, now fully awake, wriggled free and slid off the couch, abandoning the crayon on the cushion. “Shouto, get dressed for school, please!” He wandered off. Fuyumi’s attention went back to Touya. 

"You have another exam today, right?"

Touya exhaled, rubbing his face. The exam. Right.

He was so screwed. Instead of lingering on it, he padded silently toward the kitchen, his socks scuffing against the floor.

“Did you sleep at all?” Touya asked her, leaning against the counter. The one good thing about the exam week, for him, was that he had no morning meetings.

Fuyumi ignored him, heading straight for the coffee maker. “I have the Nakayama conference today. Their kid’s struggling with reading comprehension, and the mother hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She called my lesson plans ‘uninspired’ when I met her to discuss her child’s grades the first time.” Fuyumi’s voice pitched higher. “As if that’s why her child can’t focus on the readings. Nothing to do at all with her being an iPad kid.”

Touya let it go. Arguing with Fuyumi when she was like this was pointless.

Fuyumi set her coffee mug down too hard on the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. She’d been moving on autopilot, brewing coffee, packing her conference notes, triple-checking the schedule for today’s parent meetings, but the silence from Natsuo’s room was gnawing at her.

Sure, he’d skipped all the time last year, but he’d been on such a school-kick lately. 

“I’m gonna check on Natsuo- I don’t remember if I saw him have dinner yesterday.” 

Touya nodded. “I think I did… but I have to shower now or I’ll be late. Good luck in there.” 

She hesitated, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water before heading down the hall.

Natsuo’s door was still shut.

She knocked, twice. “Natsu?”

No answer.

Fuyumi pushed the door open. The room smelled stale. Natsuo was a lump under the blankets, only the top of his white hair visible.

“You’re going to be late,” she said, stepping inside.

A muffled groan. The blankets shifted slightly.

Fuyumi set the water on his nightstand, nudging aside an empty can. “Come on. Up.”

Natsuo finally surfaced, blinking blearily at her. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. “I’m not going.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw with something that wasn’t just sleep.

Fuyumi faltered. She’d expected defiance, not this hollow exhaustion.

“Are you sick?” she asked, softer now.

Natsuo dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like shit.”

A flicker of unease. Touya had said he felt the same almost the same thing barely twenty minutes ago. 

Do I have a fever?

“Is it like… body aches?” she tried. “Chills?”

Natsuo shrugged, the motion sluggish. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Fuyumi bit her lip. If it was the same thing Touya had…

“Okay,” she said finally. “One more day. But if you’re not feeling better tomorrow, we’re figuring this out.”

Natsuo didn’t argue. Just nodded and slumped back against the pillows.

Fuyumi hovered for a second longer. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

She exhaled. “Okay.”

On her way out, she grabbed a sleeve of crackers from the kitchen and left them on his nightstand, next to the water. Just in case.

Touya’s second day of recertification exams started with a headache.

The testing center was the same as yesterday: sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lights, a proctor with a minor telekinesis Quirk who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. The air conditioning hummed too loudly, the vents blasting cold air directly onto the back of his neck. He shivered, rubbing his arms as he took his seat.

His tablet screen flickered to life with the first case study:

*Client is a 16-year-old with a sound-based Quirk causing chronic migraines. Propose a desensitization plan.*

Touya stared at the words. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, the letters swimming before snapping back into focus. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his thoughts moved sluggishly, like wading through syrup.

He flexed his left hand under the desk. A sharp jolt of pain shot up his arm and he barely suppressed a flinch.

Focus.

He started typing, forcing himself through the motions.

During his first break, his phone buzzed in his pocket. 

KEIGO 🦅: How’s the test going?

Touya stared at the screen. Keigo was in Osaka this week, running some PR event for the Commission. He wouldn’t be back until Friday.

TOUYA: fine

He typed back, one-handed. His fingers trembled slightly.

A lie. But what was he supposed to say? I feel like my nerves are trying to crawl out of my skin, and I can’t stop shivering? Keigo couldn’t do anything from across the country, and the last thing Touya wanted was to drag him into this mess.

He silenced his phone and shoved it back into his pocket.

The test continued, but the  chill wasn’t lifting.

If anything, it was getting worse.

Touya rubbed his arms under the desk, his skin pebbled with goosebumps. His breath fogged slightly in front of him, just a whisper, just enough to notice.

This isn’t normal.

His Quirk had always run hot. Even suppressed, his baseline temperature was higher than average. This… was wrong.

He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. The proctor glanced up, eyebrows raised.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "Just cold."

She frowned but didn’t press.

Touya flexed his fingers, willing the numbness away. He had three more hours of this.

He could make it.

The apartment smelled like garlic and burnt rice when Touya finally stumbled through the door. He barely managed to toe off his shoes before collapsing against the wall, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. The exam had dragged on forever, and by the end, he’d been shaking so badly he could barely type.

Fuyumi’s voice carried from the kitchen, sharp with frustration.

"-and then Mrs. Suzuki had the nerve to say her son’s handwriting is fine, even though he writes like a drunk pigeon… oh my gods, Touya. Miki, I’m gonna call you back." She turned, wooden spoon in hand, and took one look at him. "You look like shit."

"Feel like it," he muttered. 

Fuyumi’s irritation flickered into concern. "Is it the same thing as this morning?"

"Yeah. Worse." He dug his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his contacts. "Gonna call Dr. Saito."

Fuyumi nodded, turning back to the stove. "Good. Because if whatever you have is contagious, and Natsu’s got it too…"

Touya tuned her out as the line rang. Voicemail.

"You’ve reached Dr. Saito’s office. Our hours are…"

He hung up and redialed her after-hours line. Another voicemail.

"Damn it," he muttered, leaving a clipped message. "It’s Touya Himura. I think I messed up my meds or… I don’t know. I’m freezing, and my nerves are going haywire. Call me back."

The thought of going to the ER crossed his mind, but he dismissed it just as quickly. Last time he’d gone for something like this, he’d left with a chest infection that lingered for two months from some idiot coughing open-mouthed in the waiting room. No thanks.

Fuyumi set a bowl of rice and stir-fry in front of him. "Eat."

Touya poked at it. His stomach churned.

"Natsu still in bed?" he asked, if only to distract her from the fact that he wasn’t touching the food.

Fuyumi sighed, rubbing her temples. "Yeah. I tried to get him up for dinner, but he just…" She mimed a collapse. "It’s weird. He’s not even arguing."

That was weird. Natsuo, who’d spent the last month surviving on spite and energy drinks, who’d called Touya a hag-faced bastard just last week for suggesting he take a break, was now too exhausted to snap back.

Touya pushed his chair back. "I’ll try."

The door was cracked open, the room dark except for the dim glow from that solitary strip of light. Natsuo himself was a lump under the blankets, face half-buried in his pillow.

Touya flicked the light on. "Dinner’s ready."

A groan. "Not hungry."

"Sucks. It’s still dinner time."

Natsuo didn’t move.

Touya stepped closer, nudging the bed with his knee. "You’ve been in bed all day. Up."

"Fuck off." The words lacked their usual bite.

Touya pulled the blanket off his head. Natsuo squinted up at him, his face pale, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked… young. Tired. Not sick, exactly, but wrong, like his usual fire had been smothered.

Fuyumi appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "Natsu, come on."

Natsuo dragged a hand over his face. "I can’t."

There it was again, that cracked, raw edge. Fuyumi’s expression softened. She sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush Natsuo’s hair back from his forehead. "What’s wrong?"

Natsuo didn’t pull away. Just closed his eyes. "I don’t know."

A beat of silence.

Fuyumi’s fingers carded gently through his hair. 

"Okay," she murmured. "Okay. Just… try to eat something later, alright?"

Natsuo didn’t answer. Just curled tighter into himself.

Fuyumi stood, flicking the light off on her way out.

Touya lingered for a second longer, staring down at his brother. Something uneasy settled in his chest.

Thursday morning, Fuyumi woke with a jolt, her heart already racing before she was fully conscious. The principal was sitting in on her conferences today. The principal. She’d spent all night rehearsing responses to potential criticisms, her dreams a chaotic swirl of lesson plans and disapproving frowns.

She dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. The apartment was quiet—too quiet. No sound of Natsuo’s alarm, no clatter of Touya making coffee. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of…

Fuyumi froze in the hallway.

The kitchen light was on.

Touya sat at the table, his pill organizer splayed open in front of him, an array of orange prescription bottles scattered across the surface. His glasses, which he never wore unless absolutely necessary, were perched on his nose, the frames digging into the scarred skin at his temples. His hands trembled violently as he tried to pick up a small white pill, his fingers spasming before he dropped it with a frustrated hiss.

Shouto sat across from him, methodically eating dry crackers from the box he’d somehow retrieved from the top shelf of the pantry. He watched Touya with detached interest, as if this were a mildly entertaining morning show.

Fuyumi blinked. “What’s…?”

Touya’s head snapped up. His pupils were dilated, his breathing uneven. “Hey. Good morning. Do you think you can help me?”

His voice was too calm. Too measured. It set off every alarm in Fuyumi’s head.

Fuyumi pulled out a chair and sat. “Okay. What do you need?”

Touya exhaled. “I can’t- my hands won’t stop.” He flexed his fingers, the tremors making his knuckles jump. “I think I messed up the sorting on Sunday and something is wrong.”

Fuyumi nodded and reached for the bottles one by one, reading the labels aloud:

• Nerve blockers (oval, white, 10mg) – For chronic pain from nerve damage

• Quirk suppressants (round, white, 50mg) – To regulate body temperature and prevent unintentional Quirk activation

• Anti-inflammatories (yellow capsule)

• Muscle relaxants (white, scored)

• Vitamins (large orange tablet)

The nerve blockers and suppressants were nearly identical: small, white, easy to mix up if you weren’t paying attention.

Fuyumi picked up the organizer, dumping them all out. “Let me count these out for you.”

She sorted out all the nerve blocker pills first, spreading them on the table. They worked methodically, comparing each pill to the ones in the bottles, counting and recounting. Fuyumi took over the fine work, her fingers deft as she slotted pills into the remaining places for the rest of the week.

By the time they’d tipped them all out, the mistake was clear: three extra nerve blockers, three missing suppressants.

Fuyumi sat back. “You’ve been taking double the quirk suppressants all week.”

Touya dragged a hand over his face. “No wonder I feel like shit.”

His voice was rough, fraying at the edges. Fuyumi hesitated, then reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. “You should call your doctor.”

“I did. Voicemail.”

"You’ll run out of suppressants before your refill," Fuyumi said quietly.

Touya exhaled through his nose, his shoulders slumping. "I’ll skip Sundays for the next few weeks."

“What about the exam?”

Touya’s jaw tightened. “I’ll manage.”

Fuyumi wanted to argue, but the stubborn set of his shoulders told her it was pointless.

Shouto crunched another cracker.

Fuyumi stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "I’ll check on Natsuo. It’s about time he gets up"

Touya followed her, though he didn’t mean to. His legs carried him on autopilot, his body moving while his mind lagged two steps behind. He hovered just outside Natsuo’s door as Fuyumi knocked: once, twice, no answer.

She pushed the door open gently.

Natsuo was a lump under the blankets, his white hair the only thing visible in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Fuyumi stepped inside. "Natsu?"

No response.

Touya lingered in the doorway, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Fuyumi sat on the edge of the bed, her voice softening. "Natsu, come on. You have to get up."

The blankets shifted. A groan. Then, hoarse and raw: "Go away."

Fuyumi’s hand hovered over his shoulder before she pulled back. "You can’t just-"

"I can’t," Natsuo snapped, the words cracking mid-syllable. He finally turned his head, his eyes bloodshot, his face pale. "I don’t… I don’t feel right."

Fuyumi’s fingers curled into the fabric of her slacks. "Is it like… a cold? A fever?"

"I don’t know," Natsuo muttered, dragging a hand over his face. "I just… I can’t think."

A beat of silence.

Fuyumi exhaled, her shoulders slumping. "Okay. One more day. I know I said this yesterday, but if you’re not better tomorrow-"

"Yeah, yeah." Natsuo rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head.

Touya didn’t realize Shouto was still in pajamas until they reached the school gates.

Shouto, for his part, didn’t seem to care. He adjusted his noise-canceling headphones and marched inside, his All Might-patterned sleep pants on full display.

Touya stared after him, too exhausted to even curse.

Somewhere, deep down, he wondered if he’d make it through the exam.

But right now, all he could do was cross his fingers.

Saturday morning, Touya woke up with Keigo drooling on his pillow, despite having gone to bed without Keigo there. He closed his eyes again, but there was a buzz from his phone on the nightstand. 

He groaned, and reached out for it, squinting at the message on the screen. 

INKO: Izuku's begging for a playdate. Any chance Shouto's free today?

Touya responded before fully processing the words. 

TOUYA: When can I drop him off?

A few hours later, Keigo stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Touya outside the Midoriyas' apartment door, Shouto sandwiched between them with his backpack clutched tight.

"You sure you're good to do groceries after this?" Keigo murmured, eyeing the way Touya's fingers still trembled slightly around the list he'd scribbled.

"Better than staring at the ceiling all day," Touya muttered, pressing the doorbell.

The door flew open before the chime had finished. Izuku vibrated on the spot, his green curls bouncing as he practically shouted, "Shouto! I got the new All Might limited edition cards and we can watch the documentary and-"

"Inside voice, sweetheart," Inko chided gently, appearing behind her son. Her eyes widened slightly when she spotted Keigo. "Oh! You must be…"

"Keigo is fine," he said with an easy grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nice to meet you."

Izuku's entire body locked up. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Touya watched with grim amusement as the kid's brain visibly short-circuited, his face cycling through approximately twelve emotions in three seconds.

"Mr. Hawks I have so many questions about your feather kinematics and the maximum load capacity and-"

"Izuku," Inko said firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Let Mr. Hawks."

Shouto, utterly unfazed by the hero revelation, nudged Izuku's elbow. Izuku grabbed Shouto's wrist and yanked him inside, already babbling about attack statistics.

"Text if anything comes up," Touya said, already backing away.

Inko waved them off. "Go. He'll be fine."

The grocery store was blessedly quiet at this hour. Touya leaned heavily against the cart while Keigo tossed in essentials: rice, vegetables, instant noodles, eggs, the cheap brand of coffee Fuyumi liked.

"You're swaying," Keigo observed, adding a bag of oranges.

"I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar." Keigo bumped their shoulders together. "But hey, at least you're upright. There’s your win for the day."

Touya grunted. His medications were back on track, but his nerves still fired randomly, making his hands jerk when he reached for a carton of milk. Keigo caught it before it could slip, his feathers twitching like they wanted to help more.

Laundry was worse. The laundromat's fluorescent lights drilled into Touya's skull as he sorted colors with exaggerated care, his movements slow and deliberate. Keigo watched for a moment before wordlessly taking over, his fingers making quick work of the piles. Although feathers would’ve been more efficient, he was trying to stay incognito.

When they returned to the Midoriyas', the apartment smelled like crayons and curry.

Izuku and Shouto sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by hero cards and colored pencils. Shouto was meticulously shading a drawing: crude but recognizable outlines of two figures, one with wild green hair, while Izuku talked at approximately a million words per minute.

"-and then All Might used the Detroit Smash but the wind shear calculations don't actually match what we saw in the Kamino incident unless you account for- oh! Mr. Hawks! Did you know your top recorded speed is-"

"Izuku," Inko sighed, but she was smiling.

Keigo crouched to examine Shouto's drawing. "Hey, that's pretty good, little man."

Shouto nodded swiftly in thanks.

Izuku practically vibrated out of his skin as Keigo answered a few rapid-fire questions about his quirk, his wings fluffing up in amusement.

"Alright, Sho," Touya said, ruffling Shouto's hair. "Time to go home."

Shouto stood, but not before carefully tearing his drawing in half: keeping one piece and pressing the other into Izuku's hands.

Izuku beamed like he'd been given a trophy.

Inko pressed leftovers into Touya's arms as they left, her eyes suspiciously bright. "Any time," she said softly. "Really."

On the walk home, Shouto walked between them, his fingers twisted in Touya's sleeve. 

Keigo bumped their shoulders together again. It was gonna be ok. 

Chapter Text

By June, the pattern had solidified: Izuku and Shouto were inseparable, and by extension, so were their families.

It had started small. A few afternoons after school, when Inko’s shifts at the hospital ran late and Fuyumi was already picking Shouto up anyway. Then weekends, when Inko pulled double shifts and Izuku, left to his own devices, would vibrate through the walls of their tiny apartment until she caved and texted Touya something along the lines of: Is it okay if Izuku comes over for a few hours?

The answer was always yes.

Because the truth was, Shouto had never played before. And Izuku had never had a friend who listened the way Shouto did, who didn’t interrupt, didn’t tell him to shut up, didn’t get bored halfway through his rants about hero stats and Quirk theory.

So they orbited each other, and their families orbited with them.

Fuyumi and Inko had become fast friends, despite the decade between them.

It helped that Inko didn’t treat Fuyumi like a kid, which was refreshing, given how often people assumed she was younger than she actually was. And Fuyumi, in turn, didn’t treat Inko like a mom, which was also refreshing, given how often people expected her to be one to everyone.

They bonded over shared exhaustion, Fuyumi from wrangling third graders and her brothers, Inko from overnight shifts in the hospital’s ER. Over bad coffee and store-bought cookies, they traded stories about impossible workloads and the absurdity of bureaucracy.

"I swear, if one more parent tells me their child is ‘gifted’ and ‘bored’ in my class," Fuyumi muttered, stirring her tea with more force than necessary.

Inko snorted. "Try telling a parent their precious baby gave half the ward conjunctivitis because they wouldn’t stop rubbing their eyes and touching things."

"Ugh, no thanks. I’ll take my tiny literary critics over tiny plague vectors any day."

Touya watched them, something warm unfurling in his chest. Fuyumi had always been the glue of their fractured family, but seeing her like this: relaxed, normal, trading complaints with a friend over tea, was new.

Keigo, the opportunist, stole a cookie from Inko’s plate when she wasn’t looking.

Touya mostly listened, content to let them talk while he sipped his tea and pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping.

Natsuo, for his part, seemed to have bounced back from his mysterious week-long crash at the end of May. He was back to his usual routine: studying, grumbling about studying, and occasionally emerging from his room to steal food before vanishing again.

But Touya and Fuyumi had quietly adjusted their orbits to keep him in sight more often.

Today, Natsuo had surfaced long enough to grab a cookie before retreating to his room, but not before Fuyumi caught his wrist.

“You good?” she asked, quiet.

Natsuo rolled his eyes. 

Fuyumi flicked his forehead but let him go. 

The topic came up organically, as things often did with Inko.

She was watching Shouto scribble, her expression soft. “He’s really taken to colors, hasn’t he?”

Fuyumi nodded. “It’s new. He’s never really… engaged with stuff like this before.”

“It’s good,” Inko said warmly. “He’s exploring.”

Fuyumi exhaled through his nose. “I wish he’d explore communicating.”

The words came out sharper than she meant them to. Inko blinked, but Touya just sighed, used to her frustration by now.

“We saw a neurologist in April,” he explained. “He’s got a… what was it? A diffuse axonal injury, I think is the exact term. She said the pathways for speech are disrupted. Not gone, just… unreliable.”

Inko’s nurse-brain kicked in instantly. “Like a phone line with bad reception.”

“Exactly,” Fuyumi said, relieved to not have to explain further.

“They said not to give up,” she continued, twisting her hands in her lap. “But he hates speech therapy. He just shuts down, and we’re worried he’ll feel alone this way.”

A beat of silence. Then… 

“You know,” Inko said slowly, “I might know of something that could help him at least open up a little.”

Touya raised an eyebrow.

Inko hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “A friend of mine, her son deafened himself accidentally when his Quirk manifested. It was… traumatic. He didn’t want to communicate at all after that. No speaking, no interest in signing, nothing.”

Fuyumi leaned forward. “What changed?”

“They found this group,” Inko said. “It’s not just for signing, more like… alternative communication? Kids who don’t or can’t speak, kids who are deaf or hard of hearing and don’t like speaking verbally… they all meet up. No pressure, no therapy, just… being around other kids who get it.”

Keigo tilted his head. “Did it work?”

Inko smiled. “I think it worked too well… he’s a firecracker. And my friend said it helped her too. She met deaf adults who could mentor him, learned how to sign herself…”

Touya and Fuyumi exchanged glances.

Fuyumi bit her lip. “I don’t know if Shouto would go for it. I don’t think sign language is really in the cards…”

“It might be nice to expose him to other kids who are using alternate communication, though,” Inko added. “So he can see them using other ways of communicating; maybe he gets inspired!” 

Touya’s fingers twitched. “It could be worth a shot,” he muttered.

Inko nodded. “I can get the details for you.”

Fuyumi’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yeah. That’d be… good.”

The envelope was thick, official-looking, tucked into Shouto’s backpack between his lunchbox and a crumpled worksheet he’d never touched. Fuyumi found it when she was emptying his bag that evening, her fingers brushing against the stiff paper as she pulled out his untouched sandwich.

"To the guardians of Shouto Todoroki," it began.

By the time she finished reading, her nails had left half-moon indents in her palms.

Touya looked up from the couch, where he was attempting to fix his glasses with one of those teeny-tiny screwdrivers: "What’s that?"

Fuyumi exhaled. "They want to evaluate Shouto further. Since he’s not responding to any of their communication attempts."

Touya’s fingers stilled on the broken frame. "What, like… tests?"

"I guess?" Fuyumi rubbed her temple. "They’re saying he’s clearly unhappy, and they want to figure out if there’s another way to reach him."

A beat of silence. 

"Okay," Touya said, shrugging. "Let them."

Fuyumi blinked. 

"He’s miserable the way they’re trying to handle it. If they’re finally admitting their way isn’t working, why not let them try something else?" He adjusted the glasses on his face, scowling when they immediately slid crooked again. "Worst case, nothing changes."

Fuyumi folded the letter carefully. "Okay," she echoed. "Okay, we’ll sign the forms."

It started innocently enough, just an offhand comment over dinner, tossed out between bites of curry.

"Mr. Okada stayed late to help me reorganize the classroom library today," Fuyumi mused, stirring her rice absently. "He said my system was ‘logical but impractical.’"

Touya glanced up from where he was picking scallions out of his dish. "Who?"

"Mr. Okada. The new fifth-grade teacher." Fuyumi’s chopsticks paused mid-air. "He transferred from a school in Shizuoka last month to be closer to his parents."

Keigo, who had been stealing bites off Touya’s plate, perked up. "Oh? What’s he like?"

Fuyumi shrugged, a little too casually. "I don’t know. Quiet. Organized. He has this way of stacking papers so the corners line up perfectly."

Inko’s eyes lit up. She set her tea down with a soft clink. "Fuyumi. Are you…?"

"No!" Fuyumi’s ears turned pink. "I just appreciate his work ethic!"

Keigo grinned, wings rustling. "Uh-huh. What’s his Quirk?"

"Why would I know that?"

"You totally know."

Fuyumi stabbed at her food. "It’s something to do with plants, and smells? I think it's registered as Botanical Essence.” 

Inko clasped her hands together, leaning forward. "That’s adorable."

"It’s pleasant," Fuyumi corrected, but the flush creeping down her neck betrayed her.

“Eww, that’s disgusting Yumi,”  Natsuo called over his shoulder. Home from the library for approximately five minutes, he had already retreated to his room with a protein bar and zero interest in his sister’s love life.

Inko sighed dreamily. "Oh, I remember my first crush. He was a pre-med student, and he wore these glasses…"

Touya snorted. 

Keigo, undeterred, flicked a grain of rice at Fuyumi. "So. When’s the wedding?"

Fuyumi threw a napkin at him.

At first, it was subtle.

Shouto came home from school a little quieter than usual, his movements slower. He’d sit at the kitchen table and press the heels of his hands into his eyes for a few seconds too long before reaching for his crayons. But when Fuyumi asked if he was okay, he’d just blink at her, blank-faced, and go back to smearing colors across paper.

Izuku didn’t notice at first. He’d still chatter away during their playdates, bouncing from one hero fact to the next while Shouto sat beside him, blending red and blue into purple puddles. 

The change happened gradually, then all at once.

One day, Shouto came home and went straight to the couch, curling into a ball with his face pressed into the cushions. When Izuku arrived, chattering excitedly about a new hero documentary, Shouto didn’t even lift his head.

Izuku hesitated, then sat beside him, still talking, but slower now. “... and All Might’s punch in the Kamino fight was so strong, it changed the weather, which is crazy, because-”

Shouto flinched.

Not much, just a tiny, full-body twitch. But Izuku noticed. He stopped mid-sentence, his hands freezing in the air. “Shouto?”

Shouto didn’t answer. Just burrowed deeper into the couch, his fingers gripping the fabric like he was trying to anchor himself.

Izuku’s smile faltered. “Do you… wanna watch it with me?”

Silence.

Izuku swallowed hard and kept going.

The first time Shouto covered his ears, Izuku thought he’d done something wrong.

They were in Shouto’s room, the door half-closed, no adults around. Izuku was mid-explanation about Quirk evolution when Shouto suddenly hunched over, his hands slapping over his ears, his face twisting like he’d been hit.

Izuku’s voice died in his throat. “Sh-Shouto?”

Shouto squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming too fast.

Izuku reached out, then pulled back, his hands fluttering nervously. “I… I’ll stop talking! It’s okay! I’ll…”

Shouto didn’t move.

Izuku sat there, frozen, until Fuyumi called them for dinner.

The next time Izuku came over after school, he tried really hard to be quiet.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of Shouto’s room, his All Might notebook open in his lap, but instead of talking like he usually did, he just pointed at the pages and whispered the words under his breath like a secret.

Shouto wasn’t coloring today. He was lying on his stomach on the futon, his face half-buried in the pillow, his fingers curled tight around the edges. He didn’t look at Izuku’s notebook.

Izuku’s chest felt too tight.

“D-Do you want me to leave?” he asked, his voice small.

Shouto didn’t answer. Just squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead harder into the pillow.

Izuku’s hands fluttered in his lap. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Shouto always listened, even if he didn’t talk back. He always let Izuku ramble, even if he didn’t seem interested. This was all wrong.

“I can- I can talk about something else!” Izuku blurted, desperate to fix it. “Or we can just- just sit! Or…”

Shouto flinched.

Not like he was scared. Like something hurt.

Izuku’s breath hitched. “Shouto?”

A tiny, miserable noise escaped Shouto’s throat, and then, 

He covered his ears.

Izuku’s vision blurred.

Fuyumi was grading papers at the kitchen table when she heard the first sob.

It wasn’t Shouto; Shouto never made noise like that. This was high-pitched, hiccuping, the kind of cry that came from deep in the chest and couldn’t be stifled.

She dropped her pen and bolted down the hall.

The door to her shared bedroom was half-open. Inside, Izuku sat crumpled against the wall, his knees pulled tight to his chest, his hands flapping erratically at his sides. His All Might notebook lay abandoned on the floor, pages crumpled under his grip. Across the room, Shouto was curled into a ball on his futon, his face buried in his arms, his entire body rigid.

“Izuku?” Fuyumi knelt beside him, her voice soft.

“H-He’s not- he’s not listening,” Izuku choked out between gasps. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his pants. “I did- did all the- the breathing things but it’s wrong, he’s s’posed to- to listen-”

Fuyumi’s heart cracked. Izuku wasn’t just upset, he was unmoored. Shouto’s reactions had shattered their predictable friendship, and no amount of grounding exercises could patch that hole.

Behind her, the floor creaked. Touya stood in the doorway, his glasses askew.  He took in the scene with a single glance before moving quietly to Shouto's side.

"C'mon," he murmured, easing the pillow away just enough to reveal Shouto's pale, pinched face. "Let's get you some quiet."

Shouto didn't resist as Touya guided him upright, his movements sluggish. He couldn't carry him, but he steadied him with an arm around his shoulders, walking him step by step down the hall to his own room.

Fuyumi waited until the door closed before turning back to Izuku. "Okay," she breathed, sitting cross-legged beside him. "You're okay. Just breathe with me, alright? In for four," She demonstrated, exaggerating the motion.

Izuku's fingers dug into his scalp. "H-he h-hates me!"

"No. No, he doesn't." Fuyumi kept her voice firm, rhythmic. "He's just not feeling well right now. It's not about you."

"But it's wrong-" Izuku's voice cracked. "H-he's s'posed to listen-"

"I know." Fuyumi's heart ached. She pulled the weighted blanket from Shouto's futon and draped it carefully over Izuku's shoulders. "It's hard when things change."

Izuku shuddered, his fists clenching and unclenching in the fabric. He'd clearly tried his usual coping strategies, the patterned breathing, the pressure points she'd seen him use before, but sometimes, when the world tilted too far off-axis, no exercise could anchor him.

Fuyumi stayed with him, counting breaths, until Inko arrived.

Fuyumi spotted Inko standing near the chain-link fence, her fingers worrying the strap of her nurse's bag. The late afternoon sun slanted across the schoolyard, painting the grass in gold. A group of mothers chatted nearby, their laughter too bright against the quiet tension coiling in Fuyumi's chest.

She forced her feet forward, adjusting the strap of her own bag. "Hey," she called, voice carefully light. "I thought Izuku was coming over today?"

Inko turned, her smile already fraying at the edges. "Oh! Fuyumi. Yes, well…" She smoothed a hand over her scrubs, though there were no wrinkles to fix. "He's... not quite up to it today."

Fuyumi's stomach dropped. This was the third time this week.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

Inko's fingers tightened around the strap. The shadows under her eyes looked deeper in this light. "It's just..." She exhaled, shoulders slumping. "He had a hard morning. Kept saying his stomach hurt when I mentioned coming over."

Fuyumi nodded, her throat tight. She knew what that meant. Knew the way anxiety curled in children's bellies before their mouths could shape the words.

"I'm sorry," she blurted. The guilt tasted like metal on her tongue. "We didn't mean to-"

"No, no!" Inko reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering between them. "It's not… it's not about you. Or Shouto. Not really." She glanced toward the school doors where the first children were beginning to spill out. "He just... he doesn't understand why things have changed. And not knowing what to expect when he comes over..."

Fuyumi swallowed hard. The implication hung between them: Izuku's world had rules, patterns, predictable rhythms. And Shouto, silent and withdrawn and different now, had broken them all.

"I get it," Fuyumi whispered. She did. That didn't stop the hot shame crawling up her neck.

Inko's face crumpled. "I feel terrible about this. You've been so good to us, and…"

"Don't." Fuyumi forced a smile. It felt like cracking ice. "Izuku comes first. I know that."

The dismissal bell rang, sharp and final.

Inko hesitated, then squeezed Fuyumi's wrist. "We'll try again soon. When he's ready."

Fuyumi nodded, watching as Inko hurried toward the school doors where Izuku was emerging, his green hair bright in the sunlight.

She stood there long after they'd disappeared around the corner, the weight of failure pressing against her ribs.

The sound was what woke her: a wet, hitching gasp that cut through the dark.

Fuyumi jerked upright, blinking against the gloom of their shared bedroom. For a disoriented moment, she thought she'd imagined it. Shouto didn't make noise when he cried. If he ever teared up at all, it was silent, the barest shine in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Then it came again: a shuddering, broken whimper.

"Shouto?" Fuyumi scrambled from her bed, her socked feet slipping on the floorboards. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting his hunched form in silver. He was curled into himself, his face buried in his hands, his entire body trembling with the force of his crying.

She dropped to her knees beside his futon, her hands hovering. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

Shouto didn't answer. A tear dripped between his fingers, then another. His breath came in ragged, uneven gulps.

Fuyumi reached out, then hesitated. Her hands were always cold, her Quirk saw to that, and she didn't want to startle him. But when she lightly touched his wrist, he didn't flinch away. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pressed her icy palm against his forehead with a desperate, wordless urgency.

"Does your head hurt?" she asked, her voice too loud in the quiet room.

Shouto whimpered, his fingers digging into her wrist.

Fuyumi waited, counting the minutes on their alarm clock. Ten passed, then twenty. His crying didn't ease, if anything, it grew more frantic, his breaths sharp and panicked.

"I'm getting Touya," she whispered.

Touya arrived barefoot and bleary-eyed, Keigo stumbling behind him with his wings half-puffed in alarm.

"What's-?" Touya started, then froze at the sight of Shouto.

Fuyumi shook her head helplessly. "He won't stop."

Touya crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside Shouto's futon. His face was bare, his expression unguarded in a way Fuyumi rarely saw. "Hey, kid," he murmured, reaching out. "Can you look at me?"

Shouto shook his head violently, his hands pressed to his temples.

Keigo hovered in the doorway, uncharacteristically quiet. "Should I…?"

"Tea," Fuyumi said. "Or-or water, or-"

Keigo vanished.

Touya tried again, his voice softer. "Is it pain? You hurting somewhere?"

Shouto let out a choked noise, his fingers twisting in his hair.

Fuyumi bit her lip. They were asking all the wrong questions. Shouto couldn't tell them what was wrong; that was the whole problem.

She pressed her other hand to his cheek, letting the chill of her Quirk seep into his too-warm skin. "Is this helping?"

Shouto leaned into the contact with a shuddering exhale, his tears slowing, just a fraction.

Keigo returned with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He handed the cloth to Touya, who dabbed carefully at Shouto's face, wiping away tears and snot with a gentleness Fuyumi hadn't known he possessed.

"Okay," Touya murmured, more to himself than anyone. "Okay."

Shouto's breathing hitched, his fingers uncurling slightly from his hair to clutch at Touya's sleeve. He looked impossibly young at that moment, not twelve, not with the weight of everything he carried, but small and scared and lost.

Keigo settled on the floor beside them, his wings draping over Shouto like a living blanket. "We got you," he said, uncharacteristically solemn.

Shouto didn't respond. Just pressed his face into Touya's shoulder and cried, quiet now, but no less devastating.

Fuyumi met Touya's eyes over Shouto's bowed head.

They didn't say it. They didn't need to.

Something's really wrong.

And they had no idea how to fix it.

Chapter Text

Summer break loomed on the horizon, the days stretching long and sluggish as the school year wound down. For most kids, it was a time of buzzing excitement: countdowns scratched into notebooks, plans shouted across playgrounds.

For Shouto, it seemed to only make things worse.

He came home every afternoon and collapsed onto the couch, his body limp with exhaustion. He didn't reach for his crayons. Didn't hum along to the radio when Fuyumi turned it on. Didn't even react when Touya deliberately put on the terrible daytime dramas he usually side-eyed with quiet judgment.

He just... existed. A silent, listless weight in the center of their apartment.

Fuyumi and Touya exchanged glances over his head, their silent conversations growing more frantic with each passing day.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old magazines. Shouto sat between Touya and Fuyumi, his shoulders hunched, fingers picking absently at the hem of his shirt. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, and every few minutes, Shouto would press the heels of his hands against his eyes like he was trying to push the light out.

Fuyumi had called the neurologist first, of course. Dr. Kobayashi’s office had been apologetic but firm: Next available appointment is in October.

October. Three months away.

So here they were, in the cramped office of Dr. Morita, a general pediatrician whose online reviews alternated between "Fine for checkups" and "Wouldn’t trust him with a goldfish."

The door opened, and Dr. Morita strode in, flipping through Shouto’s chart with the enthusiasm of someone reviewing a grocery list.

"Alright," he said, not looking up. "History of traumatic brain injury, some scarring, and now… mood swings? Fatigue?"

Fuyumi nodded. "He’s not himself. He’s been withdrawn, doesn’t want to do any of the things he usually likes-"

Dr. Morita waved a hand. "How’s his appetite?"

"Fine, I guess?"

"Sleep?"

"Mostly normal."

The doctor hummed, finally looking up to squint at Shouto. "How old is he again?"

"Twelve," Touya said flatly.

"Ah." Dr. Morita leaned back in his chair, nodding sagely. "Puberty."

Fuyumi blinked. "What?"

"Puberty," he repeated, as if that explained everything. "Kids get moody. Hormones, you know. Could be depression, could just be normal teenage stuff."

Shouto, who had been staring blankly at the wall, made a small noise in the back of his throat. 

Touya’s fingers twitched against his knee, but his voice stayed eerily calm. "So you’re saying there’s nothing wrong?"

Dr. Morita shrugged. "I mean, he’s got the TBI history, but unless he’s having seizures or something, there’s not much to do. Maybe try a therapist if you’re worried about depression."

Fuyumi opened her mouth, then closed it. What was there to say? 

No, it’s not just moodiness, he’s in pain, we can tell he’s in pain- 

But the doctor was already standing, snapping Shouto’s file shut. "Give it a few weeks. If he’s still like this, we’ll run some bloodwork."

Touya stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the linoleum. "Right. Thanks."

Fuyumi stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter with one hand as she watched Shouto through the doorway. He was sprawled on the couch, face pressed into the cushions. She had tried everything: offering his favorite foods, turning the lights down low, even dragging out the weighted blanket he usually loved. Nothing worked. 

Touya leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression grim. "We can’t keep doing this."

Fuyumi swallowed hard. She knew what he meant. Knew they were both thinking the same thing.

Fuyumi grabbed her phone before she could second-guess herself.

Inko answered on the third ring. "Fuyumi?" Her voice was warm but tired, the way it always was after a long shift.

"Hey," Fuyumi said, forcing lightness into her tone. "I know Izuku’s been needing space, but…" She glanced at Shouto, his small frame curled into the couch, and her voice cracked. "I think Shouto’s really missing him."

A pause. Then, gently: "Fuyumi… Izuku’s still pretty anxious. I don’t know if-"

"Yeah," Fuyumi cut in, her throat tight. "No, I get it. I just…" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Never mind. Sorry to bother you."

She hung up before the tears could spill over.

The phone rang less than ten minutes later.

Fuyumi snatched it up. "Hello?"

"Izuku says he’ll come," Inko said, her voice laced with quiet amusement. "He’s currently packing every All Might figure he owns, and explaining to me, in great detail, why Shouto needs to see the new limited-edition Silver Age card. I think he’s missed him too."

Fuyumi nearly dropped the phone.

Touya and Fuyumi hovered around Shouto like nervous birds, their excitement barely contained.

"Izuku's coming over," Fuyumi said, smoothing Shouto's hair back. "Isn't that great?"

Shouto blinked at her, slow and uncomprehending.

Touya crouched in front of him. "You excited to see him?"

No response. Just the rhythmic chewing of Shouto's stim toy, a textured silicone pendant he hadn't touched in months, now clamped between his teeth like a lifeline.

Fuyumi and Touya exchanged a glance.

This was... something. Not good, not bad, but something.

Izuku arrived with his backpack bulging at the seams, the zipper straining against the weight of All Might figures and hero cards stuffed inside. He paused in the genkan, fingers tightening around the straps as his eyes found Shouto on the couch.

"Hi," he said, quieter than usual, but with a determined set to his jaw.

Shouto didn't move, but his fingers twitched where they lay against the couch cushion.

Fuyumi held her breath.

Then Izuku marched forward and dumped his bag onto the floor with a thud. Action figures spilled out, along with a well-worn All Might blanket and at least three different hero analysis notebooks. "I brought the holographic Silver Age cards," he announced, holding one up carefully between two fingers. "And-and we don't have to talk if you don't want! We can just look at them!"

Shouto blinked slowly. Then, with what seemed like tremendous effort, he pushed himself upright.

Fuyumi and Inko lingered in the kitchen, the murmur of Izuku’s voice drifting in from the living room. They weren’t hovering, but neither of them had wandered far since the boys settled in. Just in case.

Fuyumi refilled Inko’s tea, her shoulders looser than they’d been in weeks. "I swear, if Mr. Okada asks me about coffee one more time-"

Inko grinned into her cup. "You’ll say yes?"

"I’ll throw a whiteboard eraser at his head."

Inko’s laugh was cut short by a sound from the living room, Izuku’s voice, bright and eager. "Look, Shouto! This one’s from All Might’s debut year!"

Inko peeked around the doorway, glad to hear her son having a good time.

Shouto sat cross-legged on the floor, a hero card held close to his face. His left hand covered his scarred eye completely, his right squinting at the image like he was trying to decipher fine print. It wasn’t dramatic, just... habitual.

Inko hummed. "Has he been doing that?"

Fuyumi frowned. "Doing what?"

"Covering his eye like that to look at things up close."

Fuyumi appeared at her shoulder, silent. His gaze locked onto Shouto, his expression unreadable.

Fuyumi’s stomach dropped. "I... don’t know. Maybe?"

Inko hesitated, then softened her voice. "Light sensitivity is pretty common with ASD. He could just be feeling super overstimulated lately, and that’s why he’s cranky. When Izuku was little, he used to be like that all the time, before he started talking and now I know way too much about the physical sensations he feels."

Fuyumi’s hands twisted in her sweater. "We thought he was overwhelmed with school. All the new stuff they’ve been trying… the picture cards, the writing..."

“Or…” Inko’s brow furrowed, not looking away from the boys. "Fuyumi, did he ever see an eye doctor after the burn?"

The question landed like a stone.

Fuyumi’s mouth went dry. "I... don’t remember." The confession made her sweat. "It was right when Mom got sent away... Everything was…" She swallowed. "Dad didn’t want extra doctors involved."

A beat of silence.

Inko exhaled. "Has he been getting headaches?"

Touya’s fingers twitched.

Fuyumi’s voice was small. "...Maybe?"

The pieces clicked with horrible clarity. The squinting. The eye-covering. The way Shouto came home from school and pressed his face into the couch, the way he flinched from bright lights… not just overwhelmed. In pain.

Inko reached out, squeezing Fuyumi’s hand. 

"I wish he could just tell us these things!"

Fuyumi’s vision blurred. 

Inko’s voice was gentle. "We’ll figure this out together, okay?"

Fuyumi blinked. "We?"

Inko smiled, warm and sure. "Of course. Izuku’s been miserable without Shouto too. We’re family now."

Tokyo Children's Medical Center hummed with activity, the waiting room a kaleidoscope of colorful murals and the occasional flicker of a child's Quirk: a girl with frog-like fingers sticking to the ceiling, a boy with miniature clouds drifting above his head. Shouto sat stiffly between Touya and Fuyumi, his hands folded in his lap, his mismatched eyes fixed on the fish tank across the room.

Touya shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders. His scars ached today, a dull throb that no amount of nerve blockers could fully mute. He'd taken an ibuprofen this morning along with the normal meds, but something about the combination of side effects left him feeling vaguely nauseous today, his fingers tingling at the tips.

"Todoroki Shouto?"

Dr. Kato herself was a compact woman with sharp, gold eyes and hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun. The exam room was smaller than expected, but thoughtfully arranged. Instead of sterile white walls, the space was painted a soft blue, with tactile panels at child-height featuring different textures. A mobile of cartoon eyes rotated slowly from the ceiling, each pupil shaped like a different animal.

"Alright, Shouto," Dr. Kato said, crouching to his level. Her voice was warm but no-nonsense. "I know you've had a lot of doctors poke at you. Today, we're going to play some games that might feel silly, but they'll help me understand how your eyes work. Sound okay?"

Shouto blinked at her.

She didn't wait for a response he couldn't give. "First up: the flashlight game."
Her Quirk activated as she tracked every micro-movement as she swept a penlight across his field of vision.

"Left pupil reacts at 60% latency," she murmured to her tablet. "Right is normal but shows slight nystagmus on lateral tracking."

Shouto flinched when the light hit his scarred side.

"Now, keep looking at my nose. Tell me if you see any of these dots."

She activated a holographic display that projected colored dots around his periphery. Shouto's right hand twitched toward dots on the right side but didn't react at all to the left until they were nearly centered.

"Consistent left-side neglect," Dr. Kato noted. "But look at this:" She moved a dot slowly from left to right. "His brain compensates once the stimulus crosses midline. Remarkable neuroplasticity."
Shouto rubbed at his eyes, frustration evident in the tight line of his shoulders.

"Hey," Dr. Kato said gently, producing a small stress ball shaped like an eyeball. "Squeeze this when it gets hard. We're almost done."

She set up a miniature obstacle course with toy cars and bridges. "Which car is closer?"

Shouto studied them for a long moment before pointing correctly, but when asked to guide a car through the course, his hand overshot the distance by two centimeters.

"Compensated depth perception," Dr. Kato explained. "His brain's recalculated spatial awareness based on monocular cues. Probably uses shadows and object sizing instinctively."
The contrast sensitivity test revealed more: images projected onto a special screen that adjusted opacity based on retinal response. Shouto squinted at the faint shapes, his right eye identifying about 60% correctly, his left only catching the barest movements.

As Dr. Kato reviewed the results, Touya noticed how Shouto kept tilting his head at odd angles: a habit he'd developed to maximize his functional field of view. The doctor noticed too.

"You're very clever, Shouto-kun," she murmured, adjusting a dial on her diagnostic goggles. "You've been using your right eye like a spotlight and your left like... hmm, like peripheral radar, yes? But it's been tiring, hasn't it?"

Shouto's shoulders slumped slightly, the closest he'd come to admitting exhaustion all day.

Dr. Kato turned the monitor toward them, displaying the scan results. The image of Shouto's left eye showed cloudy streaks across the cornea, jagged lines of scar tissue where boiling water and immediate ice had created microscopic fractures in the delicate surface.

"The thermal shock created permanent opacities," she explained, tracing the damage with a stylus. "His brain has been essentially ignoring input from this eye for years, a condition called cortical visual impairment. What little light gets through is distorted, like looking through frosted glass."

She switched to the right eye's scan. "This one is more interesting. The optic nerve is intact, but the occipital lobe, where visual signals are processed, shows disrupted neural pathways from his TBI. It's not blindness, but a form of visual agnosia. He sees shapes and movement just fine, but his brain struggles with details, especially in low contrast."

Fuyumi's hands trembled around her notebook. "All those picture cards... the worksheets..."

"Would have been incredibly frustrating, yes." Dr. Kato wiggled a bit in her seat, getting comfortable as she continued to explain. "Think of it like watching a scrambled television broadcast. You know there's an image there, but you can't quite make it out."

Shouto, sensing the attention, rubbed at his left eye with the heel of his palm, a habitual gesture they'd mistaken for tiredness.

Fuyumi’s hands tightened around the straps of her bag. "So what do we do?"

Dr. Kato smiled. "We give him the right tools.” She clicked the screen off. “Why don’t you all head down the hall? I’ll send the prescription down that way.”

The optician’s workshop looked like something out of a mad scientist’s lab, and the specialist, a man with four rotating eyes (two of which were magnified like jeweler’s loupes), took one look at Shouto’s scans and clapped his hands.

"Ah! Neural misfires in the right eye, light sensitivity in the left… classic post-trauma overload. We’ll need a prismatic filter for the right lens to stabilize the signal disruption, and a light-diffusing tint for the left to reduce strain." His voice was rapid-fire, almost giddy, as he spun toward a wall of drawers.

Shouto stood perfectly still, his mismatched eyes tracking the man’s movements with wary curiosity. Fuyumi hovered close, fingers twisting in the hem of her sweater, while Touya leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying (and failing) to look unaffected.

The optician yanked open a drawer, rummaging through it with terrifying speed. His hands moved like a stop-motion film: one second empty, the next clutching a sleek pair of frames that looked like they belonged to a sci-fi protagonist. Thick, slightly asymmetrical, with a faint blue sheen to the left lens.

"Here we go!" he chirped, and before anyone could blink, he was already adjusting the glasses onto Shouto’s face. His fingers moved with inhuman precision, tweaking the nose pads, tightening the hinges, all in the span of a single breath.

Shouto didn’t even have time to flinch.

The lenses auto-tinted in the light, shifting from clear to a soft gradient as the optician hummed approvingly. "There! Now, let’s test…"

He flicked on a wall-mounted screen, displaying a rapid-moving pattern of shapes and colors. Shouto’s entire body locked up, his right eye (the good one, relatively speaking) widening behind the lens. His breath hitched, barely audible, as his gaze darted across the screen.

Then, slowly, disbelievingly, he turned his head, taking in the room like he was seeing it for the first time. The harsh fluorescent lights no longer stabbed into his vision. The edges of objects didn’t blur or warp unpredictably. The world was stable.

Fuyumi held her breath. "Shouto?"

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even seem to hear her. Instead, he lifted a hand, touching the frames with tentative fingers, as if checking they were real. His throat worked silently.

The optician grinned, his magnified eyes crinkling at the corners. "That’s the look of someone who didn’t realize how bad things were until they got better."

​​Touya noticed it first in the way Shouto watched things now.

Before, the TV had been background noise, something to fill the silence while Shouto lay on the floor, eyes half-lidded, not so much seeing as enduring the flicker of light and sound. But now, three weeks after the glasses, Touya caught him sitting upright, his gaze fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on unfamiliar. A nature documentary played, vivid blues and greens spilling across the room, and Shouto’s fingers twitched against his knee like he wanted to reach out and touch.

The drawings came next.

Shouto had always scribbled, angry, chaotic lines that gouged the paper, more frustration than art. But now, when Touya passed his room late at night, the light still on, he saw something different: shapes. Actual, deliberate shapes. A wobbly circle, a triangle with uneven sides, a row of squares that almost looked like buildings.

Touya leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Trying to draw the skyline?”

Shouto didn’t look up, but his pencil slowed.

“You’re getting better at straight lines,” Touya offered, because it was true, and because Shouto had always responded better to bluntness than sugarcoating.

A pause. Then, Shouto lifted the paper, a hesitant tilt of his wrist, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to show it but couldn’t stop himself.

It was the view from his window. The apartment buildings across the street, the telephone wires cutting through the dusk. The lines weren’t perfect, but they were there, and for the first time, they didn’t look like they’d been drawn by someone with their eyes closed.

The affection he gave came back like a tide: slow, then all at once.

Shouto had always been aggressively tactile when he was feeling okay. Shoulder-checking Touya in the hallway, leaning his full weight against Fuyumi while she cooked, pressing his forehead into Natsuo’s back like a cat demanding attention. But the last month had sanded him down to someone brittle and distant, recoiling from touch like it burned.

Now, when Fuyumi reached to adjust his glasses, Shouto didn’t stiffen. He let her, his good eye blinking up at her with quiet focus, and then, like it was nothing, he hooked two fingers into the sleeve of her sweater and tugged, like he used to. 

It made sense now, that letter they'd sent home in June.

Touya hadn't understood at the time, just saw the way Shouto had crumpled the envelope in his fist, the way he'd gone stiff and quiet for days after. The school's special education team had been "concerned." They weren't sure how much Shouto was comprehending. He refused to use communication cards, wouldn't point to pictures when asked, sometimes stared blankly at worksheets like the words might bite him.

Does he even recognize letters? one teacher had written. We need to assess his literacy level.

Touya kicked himself now for not seeing it sooner. All those "identification exercises," all those times they'd held up flashcards and waited for Shouto to point… of course he'd frozen. Of course he'd shut down. 

Now when Touya left his schoolbag on the floor, Shouto didn't tense at the sight of it. Now he sometimes flipped through Touya's manga without that pinched look between his eyebrows, tracing the crisp black lines with one finger. Now when Fuyumi wrote the grocery list on the whiteboard, Shouto would stand close enough to read it, his head tilting as his eyes tracked right to left.

Yeah. It would be different come September.

He didn't test it, didn't pull out worksheets or flashcards. Summer break meant summer break. But the knowledge sat warm in Touya's chest:  next time some teacher tried to make Shouto prove he could read, the kid would actually be able to see the damn words.

Shouto caught him staring and raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing," Touya said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “You hungry?”

The Midoriya apartment smelled like sugar and soy sauce when they arrived, the sound of overlapping voices spilling into the hallway before Touya even knocked. He adjusted the gift bag in his grip; Fuyumi had wrapped it, because left to his own devices he would’ve just shoved the present into a convenience store bag, and glanced down at Shouto.

"You good?"

Shouto blinked up at him, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. His glasses caught the fluorescent hallway light, tinting just slightly against the brightness. He didn’t nod, but he didn’t step back either, which Touya took as a win.

The door swung open before he could knock.

"Inko-san," Touya greeted, dipping his head. Behind him, Fuyumi beamed, already holding out a container of homemade dorayaki, Natsuo and Keigo waved. "Thanks for having us."

Inko’s smile was warm, if a little teary. "We’re so glad you could come! Izuku’s been… oh, Izuku! They’re here!"

A crash. A thud. 

"Shouto!"

Izuku skidded into view, socks slipping on hardwood, his All Might t-shirt rumpled and his hair even more of a disaster than usual. He looked genuinely, disarmingly thrilled, like Shouto showing up was some kind of miracle.

Izuku bounced on his toes. "You came! I mean, of course you came, you said you would, but" He cut himself off, grinning. "Do you want to see the cake? Mom made it All Might-shaped!"

Shouto stared. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, clumsily wrapped box.

Izuku’s breath audibly hitched. "For me?"

A nod.

Shouto tilted his head, which Touya knew meant yes, obviously, who else would have?

Izuku’s eyes welled up. He clutched the box to his chest like it was something precious. "Thank you."

Shouto’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

The highlight of the evening came when Inko brought out the cake, the candles flickering brightly. Izuku’s face lit up as everyone sang off-key and slightly out of sync, but enthusiastically.

Shouto didn’t sing, but when Izuku blew out the candles, he reached over and squeezed his friend’s wrist, a silent happy birthday.

Izuku beamed like it was the best gift he’d ever received.

And for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

Chapter Text

Touya knew school was going better before the first letter even arrived.

He could see it in the way Shouto didn’t dig his heels in when it was time to leave the house, in how he’d started packing his own bag some days: pencils, a half-chewed eraser, and that increasingly battered sketchbook he’d been filling with jagged cityscapes and misshapen cats. The kid still moved like he was half in a dream, but there was a new deliberateness to it now, like he was finally noticing things.

The first progress report came home in a bright yellow envelope, the kind teachers used when they didn’t want parents assuming the worst. Touya slit it open with a thumb while Shouto sprawled on the living room floor, adding lopsided wings to what might have been a bird or might have been a very ambitious dust bunny.

Shouto has made significant strides in engagement, the note read. While he continues to communicate nonverbally, he’s begun using picture cards when prompted, particularly for basic needs (bathroom, break, hungry). We’re working on expanding this system.

Touya snorted. Translation: We finally figured out he’s not ignoring us on purpose.

The next paragraph made his eyebrows climb. His homeroom teacher reports he’s started attempting written responses (single words and short phrases). We believe he may have retained some literacy from early elementary education; attached are samples.

The included worksheet showed shaky but legible hiragana—はい circled under a yes/no question, わからない (don’t know) scribbled beside a math problem. The strokes were uneven, the sizing inconsistent, but they were there.

"Hey," Touya called, waving the paper. "Since when do you write so well?"

Shouto didn’t look up from his drawing, but his shoulders tensed, not the old panic, just the usual I heard you and I’m ignoring you vibe. After a beat, he flipped his sketchbook around. A crude but recognizable All Might grinned up at Touya, the speech bubble above his head containing a single, painstakingly copied kanji: 強 (strong).

A shrug. 

Message received.

The teachers weren’t calling it a miracle, Touya could read between the lines of their carefully worded notes, but the change was undeniable. Where before Shouto would sit blank-faced through entire lessons, now he’d sometimes tap his pencil against the desk when interested, or tilt his head at certain diagrams. His art teacher had started slipping him extra supplies, and the resulting drawings (while still rough) showed something Touya hadn’t seen before: intent.

Not just scribbles. Not just frustration.

A cat with triangle ears. A building with actual windows. Izuku’s hair rendered as a green scribble-cloud with two dots for eyes.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect.

Shouto still refused the communication cards unless directly asked a question, and he’d shut down if too many people asked him to do things, but it was leaps and bounds better than it had been in June. Everyone, including Shouto, seemed pleased with the turn of events. 

The knock came just as Touya was dumping a pot of udon into a pan full of sauce, steam billowing up into his face. He swore, shaking some of the splash off his fingers.

"That better not be Hawks again," Natsuo called from the living room, where he was sprawled across the couch with a biology textbook balanced on his stomach. "Last time he showed up unannounced, he ate all the onigiri."

Fuyumi, setting the table, shot him a look. "Be nice."

Touya turned off the stove and stalked to the entryway, wiping his hands on his jeans. Through the peephole, Akane’s familiar frown greeted him, her dark hair pulled into its usual severe bun, a clipboard tucked under one arm.

He yanked the door open. "You’re early."

Akane didn’t blink. "I texted."

“I didn’t check- I’m kinda in the middle of something here.” 

"Which makes me on time," she said, stepping past him into the genkan. Her sharp eyes scanned the apartment in one practiced sweep: clean-ish floors, no visible drug paraphernalia, Shouto’s schoolbag hung neatly on its hook. "Smells like you’re burning dinner."

"I’m not-" The distinct scent of charred noodles hit him. "Shit."

The apartment smelled like food, the overhead lights warm against the evening gloom. Shouto sat at the low table, carefully arranging slices of fish cake into a lopsided star shape on his udon. He glanced up when Akane entered, his new glasses glinting under the light: thick-framed, one lens slightly tinted.

"Well, look at you!" Akane crouched to his eye level, smiling. "Those are very stylish, Shouto."

Shouto blinked. Then, after a beat, he reached for the small stack of communication cards abandoned under the kotatsu. He flipped through them slowly before selecting one: [Thank you.]

Akane’s eyebrows shot up. "Since when does he-?"

"Three weeks," Fuyumi supplied, setting down a tray of tea. "His teachers have been working with him on it."

Touya watched Akane’s face soften, just slightly, before she straightened and turned to him. "And your glasses?"

"Lost ‘em."

"Touya."

"What? They’ll turn up." (They were in his nightstand drawer, right where he’d shoved them.)

Akane sighed but let it drop, moving to inspect the kitchen instead. She checked the fridge (stocked), the trash (no empty bottles), the medicine cabinet (just painkillers and scar creams). Touya leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as she scribbled notes on her tablet.

"Work’s good?" she asked, casual.

"Same as last month." He stirred the udon absently. 

“Nothing new?” 

“Nothing new.”

Dinner passed in comfortable chaos. Natsuo inhaled three bowls of udon while explaining his latest soccer match, Fuyumi fretted over everyone’s vegetable intake, and Shouto used his [More] card without prompting when he wanted seconds.

Akane watched it all with sharp eyes, asking careful questions between bites:

"Still seeing Dr. Saito, Touya?"

"Next Thursday."

"Any new meds?"

"Just the usual."

"You look flushed."

Touya stiffened. "It’s hot."

Akane didn’t push, but later, when Fuyumi was clearing dishes and Natsuo had retreated to his homework, she cornered him by the balcony door.

"Your scars are irritated," she murmured, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear. “You’re looking a little scruffy, Himura.” 

Touya shrugged. "Forgot the cream a few days. Work’s been…"

"Overwhelming. Yeah, you said." Her gaze flicked to his hands, no tremors, then back to his face. "You sleeping?"

"Like a baby."

"Liar."

He grinned, all teeth. "Prove it."

Akane exhaled through her nose but let it go, moving to chat with Shouto instead. Touya watched as she knelt beside him, her voice gentle.

"You can tell me, okay? If something feels funny at home. Or if you’re happy. Either one."

Shouto considered this. Then, slowly, he flipped through his cards:

[Happy.]

Later, after Akane had grilled Natsuo ("He’s fine- no, he hasn’t been acting weird, unless you count hogging the shower"), after she’d double-checked the medicine cabinet (lingering on the untouched prescription painkillers), after she’d confirmed Touya’s work schedule and upcoming doctor’s appointment, she lingered by the genkan, slipping her shoes back on.

"You’re doing good," she said quietly, nodding toward the living room where Fuyumi was helping Shouto with his communication cards. "He’s more present. Natsuo seems settled."

Touya leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Yeah, well. Don’t sound so surprised."

Akane smirked. "Update me after your appointment. And find your damn glasses."

The door clicked shut behind her.

Touya exhaled, long and slow. Then he turned back to the apartment, to Fuyumi’s quiet laughter, to Natsuo’s dramatic groaning over homework, to Shouto’s focused scribbling. 

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and the faint, metallic tang of X-ray developer fluid. Touya slumped in the exam room chair, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against his thigh as he waited. The paper gown crinkled every time he shifted, the thin material doing nothing to ward off the chill.

Dr. Saito entered with a clipboard, her silver-streaked bob swaying as she flipped through the latest test results. "Alright," she said, settling onto her stool. "Let's talk."

Touya already knew it wasn't good.

The spirometry test had been harder this time; his lungs burning halfway through, his exhales cutting off sharper than usual. The X-rays sat illuminated on the lightboard behind her, the ghostly white of his ribs framing the telltale shadows of scar tissue spiderwebbing through his chest.

"Your lung capacity's down about eight percent from last quarter," Dr. Saito said, tapping the numbers with her pen. "And your core temperature readings are elevated. Have you been pushing yourself more than usual?"

Touya frowned. "Not that I've noticed."

She raised an eyebrow. "No extra workouts? No quirk usage?"

"I don't use my quirk." The words came out sharper than intended. He forced his shoulders to relax. "Work's been busy, but nothing crazy."

Dr. Saito hummed, adjusting her glasses. "Stress?"

"Same as always."

"Family?"

He hesitated. "Shouto's school stuff, but-"

"-but that's been good stress, right? Progress?" Dr. Saito crossed her arms. "Your body doesn't care if it's good or bad. Stress is stress, and your system treats it like kindling."

Touya stared at the X-rays. The damage had always been there, the slow creep of scar tissue as inevitable as tide against shore. But now…

"You're flushed," Dr. Saito noted, pressing two fingers to his wrist. "More than usual. When did that start?"

"Dunno."

"Have you been wheezing?"

"Not that I noticed."

She gave him a look that said bullshit louder than any actual word could. "We can't increase your suppressants. You're already at the max dose without risking liver damage."

Touya rolled his shoulders, the motion pulling at old grafts. "So what's the play?"

"Rest. Actual rest, not 'I-slept-four-hours-between-shifts' rest. Hydrate. Use your damn creams." Dr. Saito sighed. "And for god's sake, stop pretending you're not winded after one flight of stairs."

Touya opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Because yeah, okay, maybe the walk from the train station had been harder lately. Maybe he'd been blaming the summer humidity when his breath caught. Maybe Inko's concerned glances when he talked too fast weren't just her nurse's habit of diagnosing everyone in a five-meter radius.

"Fine," he muttered.

Dr. Saito arched a brow.

"Fine, I'll take it easy."

She snorted. "I'll believe it when I see it." 

Keigo was waiting at their usual izakaya, wings tucked carefully behind him in the cramped booth. He'd already ordered, yakitori, edamame, a beer for himself and iced oolong for Touya, and was scrolling through his phone when Touya slid in across from him.

"Hey," Keigo said, grinning. "You look like shit."

"Love you too."

Keigo's smile faded as he really looked at him. "Wait, actually. You okay?"

Touya hesitated. Then, quietly: "Lungs are worse."

The words hung between them, heavy. Keigo set down his phone. "How much worse?"

"Eight percent."

"Fuck." Keigo ran a hand through his hair, feathers ruffling. "What is it?"

"Stress, apparently." Touya poked at his untouched oolong. "Doc thinks I've been... I dunno. Running hot without noticing."

Keigo's eyes narrowed. "Have you?"

"I mean, I guess?" Touya rubbed his sternum absently. "Inko's been on my case about sounding wheezy. Didn't think it was that bad."

"You never do."

"Hah."

Keigo reached across the table, his fingers brushing Touya's wrist. "You gonna tell Fuyumi?"

"No."

"Natsuo?"

"No."

"Your grandparents?"

"Absolutely not." Touya grimaced. "They'll start in about how I'm 'overwhelmed,' like I'm not twenty five and have been handling my shit for years."

Keigo sighed. "Babe..."

Touya looked away. Outside, the neon signs flickered to life against the dusk, painting the sidewalk in garish reds and blues. He thought of Fuyumi's anxious pacing, of Natsuo's guilty face when he thought he was burdening them, of Shouto's fingers tapping [Help] on his communication cards…

"I'll figure it out," he muttered.

Keigo squeezed his wrist. "You will."

Touya set his alarm for 6:00 AM instead of 6:30.

It was a small thing, theoretically, thirty extra minutes to choke down his morning suppressants with something other than black coffee, to actually do the breathing exercises Dr. Saito had nagged him about for years. But when the alarm blared in the gray pre-dawn, his body protested like he’d asked it to run a marathon. He dragged himself upright, ribs creaking, and reached for the inhaler on his nightstand.

Two puffs. Hold for ten seconds. Exhale slow.

The meds tasted like chemical mint, bitter and cold down his throat. He grimaced, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and reached for the second inhaler, the emergency one, the one he hadn’t needed in months. Just in case.

By the time Fuyumi shuffled into the kitchen at 7:00, he was already dressed, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other pressed a steaming mug of herbal tea against his sternum. The smell of it, some ginger-lemon concoction Inko had foisted on them, made his nose wrinkle.

Fuyumi blinked at him, her sleep-mussed bangs sticking up in odd directions. “You’re… awake.”

“Astute observation.”

“And drinking tea. Where’s the coffee?”

Touya sipped it pointedly. “Don’t start with me.”

The effort was, admittedly, pathetic.

He’d been good at this once, back when his health was the only thing he had to worry about, back when his biggest daily challenge was remembering to take his meds and not setting anything on fire with his own breath. But that was before CPS dumped two traumatized siblings on his doorstep, before Fuyumi moved in, before his life became a revolving door of school meetings and therapists and grocery runs and where the hell did Shouto leave his glasses this time?

Now, trying to claw back some semblance of routine felt like rebuilding a sandcastle during high tide.

He packed lunches for himself with actual vegetables. He set reminders on his phone for his afternoon meds. He even dug out the ancient yoga mat Keigo had gifted him as a joke last year and spent exactly eleven minutes attempting the stretches that used to feel easy before his scar tissue pulled too tight and he gave up in favor of glaring at the ceiling.

The effort was methodical, almost obsessive. He meal-prepped on Sundays instead of grabbing convenience store bentos between work and picking up Shouto. He went to bed before midnight, even if it meant leaving laundry unfolded or emails unanswered. 

Natsuo, of course, had opinions.

"Since when do you eat steamed vegetables?" he asked one evening, poking at the green pile on Touya’s plate with his chopsticks.

"Since it’s good for you," Touya muttered, swatting his hand away.

Natsuo grinned. "You worried you’re getting fat?"

Touya paused, a bite of salmon halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"You’ve put on, like, five kilos since last year." Natsuo leaned back, assessing. "Not that it’s a bad thing… you were way too shrimpy before. But, like… you think Keigo’s gonna dump you if you get too chunky?"

Touya stared at him. Then down at himself. He had filled out a little, his ribs weren’t as stark under his skin, his collarbones less pronounced. He hadn’t even noticed.

"Shut up, you piece of shit," he said finally, stabbing a piece of broccoli.

Natsuo cackled.

The changes were small, but they added up. His morning cough loosened. The tightness in his chest eased. He still got winded faster than he’d like, but the wheezing after climbing stairs was a little less pronounced.

One evening, as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying scar cream (another habit he’d let slide), he realized his reflection looked less gaunt. Less like a man held together by caffeine and spite.

Huh.

Keigo noticed too.

"You look good, babe," he said during one of their sleepovers, his fingers tracing the newly softened line of Touya’s waist where his shirt had ridden up.

"Feel good too," Touya admitted, and it wasn’t even a lie.

The community center’s multipurpose room was a symphony of controlled pandemonium.

Touya stood frozen in the doorway, Fuyumi hovering just behind him with a white-knuckled grip on Shouto’s shoulder. 

"This is… lively."

Touya grunted. He’d known, intellectually, that Inko’s "parent group" was more of a support network for families with nonverbal or minimally verbal kids. But seeing it in person was different.

The space was massive—high ceilings, fluorescent lights, scuffed linoleum floors—and absolutely packed with kids in motion. A group near the far wall was engaged in what looked like an elaborate game of tag, except half of them were using quirks to dodge (a girl with vine-like hair swung from a support beam, shrieking laughter). Closer to the entrance, a cluster of parents huddled around coffee cups, their expressions hovering between exhaustion and fond resignation.

And the noise… 

Shouto, for his part, didn’t flinch. His noise-canceling headphones were firmly in place, his communication cards clutched in one hand, but his eyes, wide behind his glasses, tracked the chaos with something dangerously close to interest.

Then they spotted her.

A blonde woman in immaculate athleisure-wear, hands moving in sharp, exaggerated signs as she faced off against a spiky-haired kid who was signing back at twice her speed, his fingers a furious blur. Even from across the room, Touya could see the resemblance: same sharp features, same scowl, and the way the kid punctuated his signs with explosive little tch sounds, sparks popping from his palms. Between them, a brown-haired man with glasses rubbed his temples, signing something slower and calmer that neither seemed to be paying attention to.

Ah. The Bakugous.

The kid, Katsuki, presumably, suddenly snarled, sparks popping from his palms, before whirling and stomping off into the fray, nearly bowling over a wheelchair user in his haste. Mitsuki sighed, rolling her shoulders, before her gaze landed on them.

Fuyumi leaned close to Touya. “What… exactly are we getting into here?”

Touya opened his mouth to reply when the blonde woman spotted them and immediately brightened, striding over with the energy of a hurricane shifting course.

“You must be the Todorokis!” she announced, voice carrying over the din. “Inko said you might come. I’m Mitsuki.” She jerked a thumb at the man trailing behind her. “This is Masaru.”

Masaru offered a weary smile. “Welcome.”

Touya nodded. “Himura Touya. This is Fuyumi, and-”

“Shouto, right?” Mitsuki crouched slightly to meet Shouto’s eyes, her movements deliberately slower now. “You can go play if you want. No pressure.”

Shouto blinked at her, then glanced at the sea of kids shrieking and tackling each other. His fingers twitched toward his [No] card.

Touya couldn’t blame him. Most of these kids were running, yelling, roughhousing in ways that would overwhelm anyone with half a sense of self-preservation.

Mitsuki followed their gaze and snorted. “Yeah, most of ‘em are little shits, but usually harmless.” She scanned the room, then pointed. “See Hitoshi over there? Purple hair? He’s not big on the chaos either.”

Touya spotted the kid in question: lanky, slumped against the wall with his knees drawn up, watching the madness with the detached air of a scientist observing lab rats.

Shouto tilted his head. Then, after a beat, he squeezed Fuyumi’s wrist.

Fuyumi bit her lip. “You want to go sit with him?”

A nod.

Mitsuki grinned. “Go for it. Hitoshi doesn’t bite.”

Shouto hesitated, then shuffled off, his headphones firmly in place, his cards clutched like a lifeline.

Touya watched him go, half-expecting him to bolt back at any second. Instead, Shouto paused a few feet from the purple-haired kid, waiting.

Hitoshi glanced up. Blinked. Shifted slightly to the side.

Shouto sat down.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them signed. They just… existed, side by side, two quiet islands in a storm of noise.

Across the room, foam blocks flew through the air as a group of preteens engaged in what appeared to be a highly competitive game of... something. Definitely not anything with established rules.

Fuyumi leaned closer, her shoulder brushing Touya's arm. "Do you think he's actually enjoying this?" she murmured, voice barely audible over the din. "He hasn't moved in fifteen minutes." She nodded toward the far corner where Shouto sat cross-legged beside a purple-haired boy, both of them observing the chaos with identical expressions of detached interest.

Before Touya could answer, Mitsuki Bakugou materialized beside them, her designer perfume cutting through the gymnasium smells. "Quit worrying," she said. "Kids like ours? They'll let you know when they're not having fun - usually by making your life hell."

As if to prove her point, Shouto picked up a blue foam block and placed it carefully atop a small tower. The other boy - Hitoshi, Touya remembered - gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval.

Mitsuki smirked. "Told you. Now come meet the parents."

She led them toward a mismatched pair of men near the snack table. The taller one had his blond hair pulled into a messy bun, orange hearing aids gleaming against his tanned skin. Even in casual jeans and a faded band t-shirt, there was no mistaking Pro Hero Present Mic. His companion was all sharp angles and perpetual exhaustion, dark hair falling into his face as he leaned against the wall with the air of someone who'd rather be sleeping.

"New recruits," Mitsuki announced, waving between the groups. "Yamada Hizashi, Aizawa Shouta - meet Himura Touya and Todoroki Fuyumi."

Yamada's face lit up with a smile that could power small electronics. "Hey hey!" His voice carried that distinctive Present Mic enthusiasm, though slightly softer around the edges. "Always good to see fresh faces in the madhouse."

Aizawa offered a tired nod. "They're the ones with the quiet kid sitting with Hitoshi?"

Fuyumi nodded. "Shouto's never been to anything like this before. We weren't sure how he'd react."

"Looks like they're getting along," Yamada observed, "Hitoshi doesn't usually engage with new people that fast."

Aizawa snorted. "By which he means ever."

The conversation flowed easily from there - Fuyumi and Yamada comparing teaching experiences (he and Aizawa both taught at UA), and Touya and Aizawa exchanging the universal look of people who'd rather be anywhere else at a social gathering. At one point, Yamada pulled out his phone to show pictures of his cats, which Fuyumi cooed over while Aizawa pretended not to be pleased by the attention they were getting.

The peace was shattered when Mitsuki checked her phone, then waved both arms in a broad, sweeping motion. Across the gym, Katsuki's head snapped up like a predator catching a scent.

He scowled but stalked toward them, his gait aggressive despite the lack of actual anger. His hands flew in sharp, staccato signs as he approached, accompanied by a stream of wordless vocalizations: grunts, clicks, the occasional explosive exhale through his nose.

Mitsuki signed back at half his speed, her motions broader but no less emphatic.

"Watch the attitude, brat," she spoke and signed back

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard Touya worried they might get stuck, but he snatched the water bottle Masaru offered and chugged it with the desperation of a man crossing a desert.

Yamada jumped into the conversation, his fingers flying through signs too fast for Touya to follow. Katsuki responded in kind, his scowl softening slightly as the exchange continued. Aizawa watched with the air of someone who understood, but had nothing to add.

Masaru sighed. "His quirk's nitroglycerin sweat. Dehydrates him faster than you'd think."

Touya's professional curiosity prickled. "Interesting. Inko mentioned his hearing loss was quirk-related, but I wouldn’t think that would be… Sorry, I’m a quirk counselor, I can get pretty nerdy about these things."

“It’s not exactly quirk-related,” Mitsuki said, suddenly a lot quieter, turning her body away from Katsuki. 

The air shifted. Masaru's smile didn't fade so much as... fossilize. "He was four," he said carefully. "Playing hide-and-seek. Crawled into the dryer, and that happened to be the day his quirk manifested."

A muscle in Mitsuki's jaw twitched, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup.

"Small space," Masaru continued, voice steady but eyes distant. "The blast reflected back. Tympanic membranes ruptured, ossicles shattered…"

"Fucking nightmare," Mitsuki cut in, her voice rough. "Kid wouldn't communicate with anyone for a year. Just screamed. Threw things. Got himself expelled from three kindergartens."

Yamada, sensing the shift in mood, nudged Katsuki's shoulder and signed something that made the boy flip him off before stomping away. "Enter Present Mic," he said, forcing lightness into his tone. "Hero appearance at his school. Saw a little blond demon glaring at the interpreter and thought, 'Hey, new buddy!'"

Aizawa snorted. "You cried for a week after meeting him."

"Shut up, I did not…"

Touya let the bickering wash over him, turning the medical implications over in his mind. "The dehydration makes sense: nitroglycerin's hygroscopic. Does he have issues with vasodilation? Hypotension?"

Masaru blinked, visibly relieved by the clinical tangent. "Not since he was six. His body adapted; sweat glands regulate output better now. But the hearing thing was..."

"It’s permanent," Mitsuki said bluntly.

Aizawa, who'd been silent through most of this, finally spoke up. "Quirks that damage their users are more common than people think." His dark eyes flicked to the scars crawling up the sides of Touya's face, then away. "UA's infirmary stays busy."

The unspoken question hung in the air- what happened to you? -but thankfully no one asked. Just as no one asked why Shouto was nonverbal, or why a twenty-something quirk counselor and his sister had custody of a teenager. The understanding was refreshing.

Their quirk analysis tangent spiraled from there, Touya geeking out over Katsuki's biochemical adaptations, Aizawa offering dry commentary about "ill-considered mutations," Yamada interjecting with increasingly ridiculous hypotheticals. At some point, Fuyumi gently asked, "And Hitoshi's quirk?"

The temperature dropped again.

"Brainwashing," Aizawa said flatly. "Verbal activation."

Yamada's smile didn't waver, but his shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. 

The pieces clicked: why Hitoshi didn't speak, why he lingered on the fringes, why his parents tensed at the question. Touya nodded and let the subject die.

A shadow fell across their circle. Hitoshi and Shouto had materialized like ghosts, the former slouching with his hands in his pockets, the latter holding up his communication cards with the solemnity of a judge delivering a verdict:

[Hungry.] [Food.] [Hungry.]

Fuyumi sighed. "I guess we're getting food."

Mitsuki cackled, pulling out her phone. "Give me your digits. I'll add you to the group chat from hell."

As they gathered their things, Touya watched Katsuki body-slam a kid twice his size (playfully? maybe?), Hitoshi melt back into the shadows, and Shouto, who usually flinched at loud noises, standing perfectly still as a girl with glittering scales sang off-key at the top of her lungs.

Yeah. They'd be back.

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, Touya almost dropped his coffee.

They were in the kitchen, Shouto sitting at the table with his sketchbook, Touya half-asleep and fumbling with the coffee machine, when Fuyumi set a plate of tamagoyaki in front of their brother. Normally, Shouto would just nod or tap his [Thank you] card. This time, his lips parted, and a soft, rasping noise slipped out, something between a hum and an exhale, barely audible over the hiss of the coffee maker.

Touya froze.

Fuyumi’s hands flew to her mouth.

Shouto, oblivious, picked up his chopsticks and began eating, as if he hadn’t just shattered their understanding of what he was capable of.

It wasn’t speech. Not even close. But it was a sound, a deliberate, communicative sound, something Shouto hadn’t used since he was a toddler.

At first, it was just little noises, a hum when Fuyumi handed him his favorite red pencil, a sharp tch when Natsuo stole the last piece of salmon from his plate. But then, during one of their weekly meetups at the community center, Touya watched as Shouto let out a quiet, frustrated grunt when Hitoshi accidentally knocked over his water bottle.

Hitoshi blinked at him. Shouto blinked back. Then, slowly, Shouto scrunched his nose, an attempt, Touya realized with startling clarity, at a glare. It was the most exaggerated expression he’d ever seen on his brother’s face, and it looked painfully unnatural, like he was trying to mimic something he’d only read about in theory.

Across the room, Bakugou Katsuki was in the middle of what appeared to be a heated debate with Yamada, his signs sharp and punctuated by explosive exhales, his face twisting into a dozen different expressions. Shouto was watching him carefully.

Oh, Touya thought. He’s trying to copy Katsuki.

Maybe not the best example to follow… but better than nothing. 

Izuku cried when it happened in front of him.

They were at the Midoriyas’ apartment, Shouto bent over a new All Might coloring book Inko had bought him, when Izuku pointed to a particularly dramatic panel. “Look, Shouto! It’s his Detroit Smash!”

Shouto tilted his head. Then: 

“Mm!”

A sound. A real, intentional, excited sound, paired with the barest twitch of his lips.

Izuku promptly burst into tears.

“Oh my god,” he sobbed, clutching Shouto’s shoulders. “That was… you… oh my god…”

Shouto, bewildered, patted Izuku’s arm awkwardly, then held up his [Confused] card.

Inko was fanning her own face, eyes shining. “He’s right, sweetheart. That was wonderful.”

The noises weren’t consistent. Some days, Shouto was silent again, retreating into his cards and sketches. Other times, he’d surprise them: a huff of annoyance when Touya changed the TV channel, a quiet ah when Fuyumi handed him a bowl of cold soba.

The faces were worse. Or funnier, depending on who you asked.

Natsuo nearly choked on his rice the first time Shouto attempted a smile, an awkward, lopsided thing that looked more like a grimace. “Dude,” he wheezed. “What the hell was that?”

Shouto’s brow furrowed. He flipped to his [Happy] card and pointed.

“Yeah, no, I got that,” Natsuo said, wiping his eyes. “But your face looked like it was short-circuiting.”

Shouto frowned, an expression he could do naturally, then deliberately bared his teeth in another terrifying attempt at a grin.

Touya lost it.

Shouto, bewildered by the reaction, held up his [Happy] card again, as if they needed clarification.

As if they could ever mistake this for anything less than a miracle.

The first true cold snap of autumn hit like a sucker punch.

Touya felt it in his lungs before he saw it on the thermometer, that familiar, creeping tightness, like his ribs were slowly being wrapped in barbed wire. His scars ached along the graft lines, the cold turning the tissue stiff and unyielding. He woke up wheezing three mornings in a row before he finally dug out the heavy-duty humidifier from storage and set it up next to his bed, the machine chugging out warm mist like a tiny, overworked locomotive.

He was trying. Really trying.

The morning inhaler routine was religious now: bronchodilator first, then the steroid, then ten minutes of the stupid breathing exercises Dr. Saito had prescribed. The steam mask went on next, hissing as it pumped warm moisture into his airways. Twenty minutes, twice a day. Doctor’s orders.

Keigo stirred beside him, one golden eye cracking open. “You sound like a broken ventilator,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Good morning to you too, asshole.” Touya’s retort was muffled by the mask.

Keigo stretched, his wings flaring before settling back against the sheets. “How bad?”

“Manageable.” Touya flexed his fingers, testing the stiffness in his knuckles.

He’d swapped his usual iced coffee for tea (begrudgingly), layered up under his hoodies even indoors, and started wearing a mask whenever he left the apartment, even though he usually waited until a little later in the fall to whip it out. 

Fuyumi noticed first. "You look like you're prepping for the apocalypse," she said one morning, watching as he adjusted the mask over his nose before heading out to take Shouto to school.

“Function over fashion,” Touya muttered, stirring a pot of ginger tea on the stove. He’d swapped to caffeine-free this week, another concession to his health.

Natsuo barreled into the kitchen like a tornado, his hair sticking up in every direction, dark circles under his eyes. He grabbed a protein shake from the fridge and chugged half of it in one go. “Morning.”

Touya raised an eyebrow. “You sleep at all?”

“Power nap.” Natsuo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Got through two practice exams last night. Gonna do three more today.”

Fuyumi frowned. “That’s not healthy…”

“I’m fine.” Natsuo’s grin was too wide, too sharp. “Never better. Gonna crush these entrance exams.” He ruffled Shouto’s hair as he passed him, who was carefully arranging slices of apple into a star shape on his plate. “You good, little man?”

Shouto made a soft hm noise, one of his new sounds, and held up his [Good] card.

Natsuo laughed, loud and bright, and vanished into his room like a hurricane passing through.

Touya and Fuyumi exchanged a glance.

“He’s been like that for weeks,” Fuyumi murmured.

Touya shrugged. “Better than the alternative.”

(Last year, Natsuo had been skipping classes, getting into fights, coming home with split knuckles and a snarl. This was... progress. Probably.)

Touya woke at 3 AM to use the bathroom and found Natsuo at the table instead of in his room, eraser shards strewn across quadratic equations, his eyes bloodshot but bright.

"The hell are you doing?"

Natsuo didn’t even look up. "Keio’s med program requires a 90th percentile on the science section. I’m at 87."

"You’ll be at zero if you pass out during the exam."

Natsuo waved him off. "I’m fine. Never better."

And that was the thing: he seemed fine. More than fine, even. His grades had skyrocketed this year, his disciplinary record this semester, spotless. He came home with bruises from soccer with friends, not fights. By all accounts, this was the best version of Natsuo they’d ever seen.

So why did it set Touya’s teeth on edge?

The fluorescent lights of the small meeting room buzzed faintly overhead as Touya shifted in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight. Across the table, Hayashi-sensei adjusted her glasses and slid a folder toward them.

"Shouto-kun has made significant strides since receiving his glasses," she began, tapping the top page. "His ability to engage with visual materials has improved dramatically."

Fuyumi leaned forward, her fingers laced together tightly. "How significant are we talking?"

Hayashi-sensei opened the folder, revealing a series of before-and-after worksheets. The early ones were nearly blank, Shouto's sparse scribbles barely filling the lines. The newer pages showed shaky but legible hiragana, a few simple math problems solved with wobbly numbers.

"His reading comprehension is approximately second-grade level," Hayashi-sensei explained. "He recognizes basic kanji and can sound out simple words, but complex sentences frustrate him. His writing is coming along—see here?" She pointed to a recent assignment where Shouto had painstakingly copied: わたしは しょうがっこうせいです (I am an elementary student).

Touya's chest tightened. It was baby steps, but steps.

"The frustration is understandable," Hayashi-sensei continued. "His brain knows the shapes of letters, but connecting them to sounds and meanings is still difficult. Speech is even harder; the motor planning just isn't there yet."

Fuyumi nodded. "But the noises he's been making-"

"Are excellent progress!" Hayashi-sensei's stern face broke into a rare smile. "Vocalizing wants and reactions is a huge leap. And his art," She flipped to another page, revealing a recent drawing: a lopsided but recognizable sketch of Izuku, his curly hair rendered as a cloud of frantic scribbles. "His detail work has improved tenfold now that he can actually see what he's drawing."

Touya studied the drawing. It wasn't masterful, the proportions were off, the lines uneven, but there was intent there. A spark of creativity that hadn't existed before.

"What's the long-term goal?" Touya asked quietly.

Hayashi-sensei folded her hands. "Independence. With continued support, we believe Shouto-kun could eventually manage simple employment… perhaps in a structured environment like a library shelving books or a café doing basic tasks. Living independently would require more time, but it's not out of the question."

Fuyumi's eyes shone. Touya swallowed hard.

It wasn't a guarantee. But it was hope.

That evening, Izuku came over for their Friday night hangout, his backpack stuffed with All Might DVDs and a half-finished quirk analysis notebook. Shouto, sprawled on the floor with his sketchpad, made a soft ah sound when Izuku walked in, a greeting that had Izuku beaming like the sun, but then... quiet.

Shouto tilted his head, studying his friend. Izuku was sitting too stiffly, his fingers picking at the edge of the notebook. His smile looked wrong, stretched thin at the edges, like the time he'd tried to pretend he wasn't upset about missing an All Might exhibit.

Shouto didn’t like this. Izuku was supposed to be loud.

Something was wrong.

Shouto reached out and tugged Izuku's sleeve, dragging him down to the floor next to him.

Izuku blinked. "Oh! Yeah, sorry, I was just…" He sat, still talking but not really saying anything, his words tumbling out in half-sentences. "This documentary is really cool, they talk about… well, not that it matters, but-"

Shouto frowned. He pushed himself up and grabbed the long blue pillow from the armchair, the weighted one Touya had brought home from work. 

Izuku let out a soft oof, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased. “Okay. Yeah. This is… nice.”

Shouto grunted in agreement. He liked the pressure, the way it made his body feel more there. He thought maybe Izuku needed that too.

Shouto lay down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. He waited.

Izuku's fingers twisted in the fabric of the pillow. "It's stupid," he muttered.

Shouto poked his arm. Not stupid.

"I just..." Izuku's voice was small in a way Shouto didn't like. "You have other friends now. At your group. And Kacchan, and…"

Shouto blinked. Kacchan? He didn't know a Kacchan. Did he? He ran through the list of people at the meetups… Hitoshi, the girl with scales, Katsuki who was terrifying, the boy who made origami… no Kacchans.

Izuku kept talking, not noticing Shouto's confusion. "-and I know I'm weird, everyone says so, and now that you're talking more and more people will see how nice you are, maybe you'll realize-"

Shouto reached over and grabbed Izuku's hand, cutting him off. He held it tight, then pressed their foreheads together like Touya sometimes did with Keigo when they thought nobody was looking.

“Oww,” Izuku's breath hitched. "Shouto...?"

Shouto squeezed Izuku’s hand tighter, cutting him off. Then, slowly, he brought their joined hands to Izuku’s chest, pressing their palms flat over his heartbeat. It was too fast, fluttering like a trapped bird. Shouto didn’t like that either.

He didn’t have words for this. Didn’t know how to say you’re important or I’m not leaving or I like your voice. But he could press closer, could hold on tighter, could hope Izuku felt it in the way their skin touched.

Izuku’s eyes were wet. “Oh,” he whispered.

Shouto bumped their foreheads together again, gentler this time. Duh.

Izuku laughed. “Okay. Okay.”

Shouto didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Touya stood at the bus stop, surgical mask clinging to his face with each labored exhale, his lungs burning as if someone had lined them with ground glass. The scarf around his neck, stolen back from Natsuo after a week-long battle, did little to stop the dry, cutting air from seeping in. He’d done everything right: humidifier blasting all night, inhalers on schedule, even choking down that vile ginger tea Keigo kept buying him, and yet…

By the time he made it home, his vision pulsed at the edges with each cough, his scar tissue pulled taut across his chest. The apartment was warm, at least. Fuyumi had left the kotatsu on, the low hum of the heater a welcome reprieve.

Shouto sat beneath it, sketching something in his notebook, a cat, maybe, or a very lumpy All Might, while Natsuo’s door remained firmly shut down the hall.

“Hey,” Touya rasped, toeing off his shoes.

Shouto glanced up, made a soft ah noise, then held up his [Tired] card.

Touya snorted. “Yeah. Me too, kid.”

He collapsed onto the couch, his ribs protesting as he leaned forward to tug the mask off. The rush of unfiltered air was a relief, even if it carried the faint metallic tang of the heater. He should get up. Should help with dinner, or laundry, or something. But his limbs felt leaden, his thoughts sluggish.

Keigo’s voice echoed in his head: “Let Fuyumi take the lead for once, hot stuff. You’re not gonna impress anyone by collapsing in a pile of your own lungs.”

Easier said than done.

Fuyumi returned an hour later, her arms laden with grocery bags. She took one look at Touya, still sprawled on the couch, now with a damp cloth over his forehead, and sighed. “How are you feeling?”

“M’fine,” Touya muttered, though the words dissolved into a cough.

Fuyumi set the bags down and pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. “You’re warm.”

“Scars always run hot.”

“Not like this.” She frowned, then turned toward the hall. “Natsu! Help me with-”

“I think he’s asleep,” Touya interrupted. “I haven’t seen him since I got home.”

Fuyumi’s frown deepened. “That’s… the third time this week.”

Touya shrugged, then immediately regretted it as his shoulders protested. “Kid’s probably just burnt out from exams.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer: “I thought I heard him crying last night.”

Touya lifted the cloth to squint at her. “Natsuo?”

Fuyumi nodded, biting her lip. “When I knocked, he didn’t answer. So maybe I imagined it.”

Touya let the cloth drop back over his eyes. “If something’s wrong, he’ll say so.”

(He wouldn’t. They both knew that. But acknowledging it would mean admitting they’d failed him somehow, and Touya didn’t have the energy for that particular guilt trip tonight.)

Dinner was a quiet affair, consisting of miso soup and some reheated leftovers, Shouto’s occasional hums of approval. Natsuo emerged briefly, his hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes bloodshot. He shoveled food into his mouth with single-minded focus, muttered something about “finishing an essay,” and vanished back into his room before anyone could ask questions.

Touya watched him go, something uneasy curling in his gut.

Later, as he sorted laundry, one of the few chores he could do sitting down, his phone buzzed.

KEIGO 🦅: miss u

Touya stared at the message, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with scar tissue. They hadn’t seen each other in over a week, unless you counted the five minutes Keigo had dropped by to leave more tea and steal a kiss.

He typed back, miss u 2, then deleted it. Too sappy.

TOUYA: come over then

KEIGO 🦅: if ur not feeling good i dont wanna bother u 

TOUYA: since when do u care

KEIGO 🦅: since always???? dumbass

Touya grinned, then immediately winced as the motion tugged at his scars.

TOUYA: just come over

KEIGO 🦅: fine but b nice to me 

Touya didn’t argue. He folded another shirt, badly, and tried to ignore the way his breath caught.

By midnight, the apartment was quiet save for the hum of the humidifier in Touya’s room, Keigo asleep in his bed. 

Somewhere down the hall, Natsuo’s door creaked open.

Touya held his breath, listening to the soft pad of footsteps heading to the kitchen. A cabinet opened. The faucet ran. Then a sniff, and a shuddering breath.

Touya’s stomach dropped.

But before he could move, the footsteps retreated, and Natsuo’s door clicked shut again.

Silence.

Touya exhaled, long and slow.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d ask.

Akane didn’t knock so much as announce her presence: three sharp raps against the doorframe early Saturday morning, the sound carrying through the apartment like a warning shot.

Fuyumi, who had been grading papers at the kotatsu, jumped up to answer it while Touya remained slumped on the couch, pretending he hadn't been counting down the minutes since he’d woken up. He heard the door open, heard Akane's familiar, "Fuyumi-san! Always a pleasure," in that crisp professional tone that somehow still managed to sound warm.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Please."

Shouto, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his sketchbook, glanced up at the sound. When Akane stepped into the living room, he gave her a small nod, which counted as progress, considering six months ago he would've completely ignored her.

"Shouto-kun!" Akane crouched down to his level, her sharp eyes taking in his new glasses, the communication cards spread out beside him. "I heard you've been using your cards more. That's fantastic."

Shouto blinked at her, then slowly flipped to his [Thank you] card.

Akane grinned. "You're welcome." She straightened, her gaze sweeping the apartment, lingering on the humidifier humming in the corner and the school forms and bills organized in tidy piles on the counter.

"Where's Natsuo?" she asked, pulling out her tablet to take notes.

"Sleeping," Fuyumi said, wringing her hands slightly. "He's been... tired lately. Exams."

"No behavioral issues?"

"None," Fuyumi said proudly. "He's been so focused lately."

She hummed, filing that away for later.

Fuyumi set a cup of tea on the table, and Akane took a sip before launching into her usual routine: checking the fridge (stocked), the medicine cabinet (organized), Shouto’s schoolwork (progressing). She asked Fuyumi about her teaching job, noted Natsuo’s upcoming university applications, and even managed to coax a soft hum out of Shouto when she complimented his drawing.

Touya trailed behind her, trying not to fidget. He knew this dance. Akane wasn’t just checking boxes, she was observing. The way the siblings interacted, the state of the apartment, the little details that might hint at instability.

And then there was him.

He could feel her eyes on him as they walked down the hall toward his room, the slight hitch in his breath, the way he leaned against the wall when she stopped to inspect this or that.

His room was, admittedly, a mess of medical supplies. The humidifier hummed in the corner, his inhalers lined up on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water and his abandoned glasses. His compression shirts were folded haphazardly on the top of the dresser, and a box of masks sat next to them.

Akane didn’t say anything at first. She just stood there, taking it all in. Then, quietly: "You’ve been following the regimen."

It wasn’t a question.

Touya shrugged. "Yeah."

She turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable. "Then why do you sound like you’re breathing through a straw?"

Touya stiffened. "I don’t…"

"Don’t lie to me," she cut in, voice low. "I’ve known you for seven years, Touya. I can hear it."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "It’s just the cold. You know how my lungs get."

Akane studied him, really studied him. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped, the faint tremor in his hands. He wasn’t dying, but he wasn’t okay either.

"You’re doing everything right," she said finally. "But it’s not enough, is it?"

Touya’s chest tightened. "What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

Akane’s expression softened, just a fraction. "I don’t know. But I can’t ignore this." She crossed her arms. "You’ve got until January. If you’re not doing better by then, I’m recommending a hospital stay be required for continued custody."

Touya’s stomach dropped. "You can’t-"

"I can," she said firmly. "And you know I’m right."

He opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. Because she was right.

Akane sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I’m not trying to punish you. But your siblings," She gestured toward the living room, "need you. And if you burn yourself out trying to take care of them, what happens to them then?"

Touya didn’t have an answer for that.

Akane reached out, squeezing his shoulder briefly before pulling away. "Figure it out, Touya. Before you do any serious damage."

The apartment was quiet when Keigo arrived, the only sound the faint hum of the humidifier in Touya’s bedroom. He let himself in with the key Touya had given him months ago and toed off his shoes in the genkan.

Fuyumi glanced up from the kotatsu, where she was grading papers. "Hey," she said softly. "He’s in his room."

Keigo nodded, already reading the tension in her shoulders. "Bad day?"

Fuyumi hesitated, then sighed. "Akane was here earlier."

Ah. That explained it.

Keigo knocked lightly on Touya’s door before pushing it open. The room was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, the air thick with the scent of eucalyptus. Touya lay sprawled on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

"Hey, hot stuff," Keigo murmured, shutting the door behind him.

Touya didn’t move. "Hey."

Keigo perched on the edge of the bed, his wings folding tight against his back. "Fuyumi said Akane came by."

Touya’s jaw tightened. "Yeah."

"And?"

"And nothing." Touya finally lowered his arm, his turquoise eyes burning with frustration. "She gave me some bullshit ultimatum. Get better by January or she’s recommending a hospital stay."

Keigo’s stomach twisted. He’d known Akane was worried, but this…

"What did you say?"

"What the fuck do you think I said?" Touya pushed himself upright, his movements stiff. "I told her I’m fine. That I’m doing everything I’m supposed to: the meds, the inhalers, the fucking humidity levels, and maybe this is just how I am now. Maybe my body’s just broken, Keigo. Ever think of that?"

Keigo reached for him, but Touya jerked away.

"I know I’m not at my best," Touya continued, his voice raw. "But who the hell is she to make conditions like that? I know my body. I know my limits. And I’m not… I’m not collapsing."

Keigo took a slow breath. "Babe," he said carefully, "she might be right."

Touya went very still.

"I’m not saying this to hurt you," Keigo continued, holding his gaze. "I love you. I trust you. But," He gestured to Touya’s chest, to the way his breath hitched with every other word, "you’re not just tired. You’re deteriorating. And I think… I think you might need to be a little more worried about that."

Touya’s expression shuttered. "Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t be worried about."

"I’m not!"

"You are." Touya stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. "You’re acting just like her. Like all of them. Acting like I’m some fucking time bomb-"

"Touya." Keigo stood, his wings flaring slightly. "That’s not what this is. I’m scared, okay? I’m scared because I see you. I see how hard you’re trying, and I see how much it’s costing you. And I…" His voice cracked. "I don’t want to lose you to your own stubbornness."

Touya laughed, sharp and brittle. "Fuck off."

Keigo’s feathers bristled. "What’s that for?"

"You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re on my side when all you’re doing is pushing me too!" Touya’s hands clenched at his sides, his scars pulling taut. "I’m handling it, Keigo. I don’t need you or Fuyumi or Akane or anyone telling me how to-"

"You’re not handling it!" Keigo snapped, his patience fraying. "You’re killing yourself, Touya. And you’re so fucking terrified of admitting it that you’d rather burn yourself out than ask for help!"

Something in Touya’s expression shifted.

And then, a spark.

Keigo’s eyes widened as a flicker of blue danced across Touya’s fingertips.

Touya froze, staring at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. “Oh.”

Another spark. Then another.

“Shit,” Keigo breathed.

The flames erupted all at once, blue and vicious, crawling up Touya’s arms, licking at his shoulders. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with terror.

“I- I can’t-”

Keigo didn’t think. He lunged forward, feathers detaching to form a barrier between the flames and the rest of the room.

Touya stumbled back, his entire body shaking. “I can’t- I shouldn’t be-”

“Touya.” Keigo grabbed his wrist, ignoring the burn of the flames against his skin. “Move.”

He half-dragged, half-carried Touya into the bathroom, feathers sacrificing themselves to smother the fire as they went. The shower door slammed open, and Keigo shoved Touya under the spray, turning the water on full blast.

The flames hissed and died, leaving behind angry red patches across Touya’s skin and the stench of burnt fabric. Touya collapsed against the tiles, his breath coming in short, wheezing gasps.

Keigo dropped to his knees beside him, his own hands trembling as he reached out. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

Touya didn’t. His shoulders shook, his face buried in his hands.

“Baby.”

A sob tore from Touya’s throat, raw and broken. “I can’t do this.”

Keigo pulled him close, ignoring the water soaking through his clothes, the way Touya’s nails dug into his arms. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

Touya clung to him, his tears lost in the spray. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“It’s not enough.”

Keigo pressed his forehead to Touya’s, his own vision blurring. “Then let me help you.”

Touya didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go either.

The first week of December arrived with a biting wind that cut through Tokyo like a blade. Touya stood at the bus stop after work, his surgical mask clinging to his face with each exhale, his gloved hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Around him, half the city seemed to be coughing, some into their elbows, some directly into the air, and he resisted the urge to edge further away from the sniffling salaryman beside him.

Just get home. Just get home and you can stop pretending you’re not exhausted.

His office had been a minefield this week. One of his younger patients, a kid with a combustion quirk that misfired when she sneezed, had shown up to their session with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. He’d kept his distance, sanitized everything twice, and prayed to whatever god might be listening that his immune system would hold.

The bus shuddered to a stop, and Touya climbed on, gripping the overhead rail as it lurched forward. His chest ached, a familiar tightness settling behind his ribs. He focused on his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, like he taught his patients.

It didn’t help much.

Keigo was already on the couch when Touya came through the door, his hero costume traded for sweatpants and one of Touya’s hoodies, which fit him like a crop. He had his wings draped over the back cushions like a blanket, his phone balanced on his knee.

“You look like shit,” he announced.

Touya kicked off his shoes with more force than necessary. “Flatterer.”

Keigo finally glanced over, his golden eyes sharp even through his exhaustion. “When’s the last time you slept more than four hours?”

“Dunno.” Touya collapsed onto the couch beside him, his joints protesting. “Tuesday?”

Keigo’s wing twitched. “It’s Friday, baby.”

Touya let his head fall back against the cushions, his eyes slipping shut. The apartment was warm, at least. Fuyumi must’ve cranked the heat. The steady hum of the humidifier in his room blended with the muffled sounds of Natsuo’s music through the wall.

A weight settled against his shoulder. Keigo, leaning into him, his feathers rustling softly.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Keigo murmured.

Touya didn’t answer. He just tilted his head to rest against Keigo’s, breathing in the faint scent of his shampoo, something stupidly expensive with a name like “Dragonfruit Mist” or whatever the hell Hawks’ PR team had picked out for him to promote this month.

Fuyumi emerged from the kitchen with three mugs balanced in her hands. She handed one to Keigo, then hesitated before offering the second to Touya.

“Tea,” she said simply.

Touya took it, his fingers brushing hers. The mug was almost too hot, the steam curling up in thin wisps. Chamomile, by the smell of it, Fuyumi’s go-to.

Keigo sniffed his own tea and made a face. “Is this the licorice root one?”

“It’s good for your liver,” Fuyumi said primly, settling into the armchair.

“My liver is fine-”

Touya tuned them out, focusing on the heat of the mug against his palms. 

Every public space had become a minefield.

Touya stood frozen in the grocery store aisle, hand hovering over a box of herbal tea as a woman two meters away let out a wet, rattling cough into her sleeve. His fingers twitched, the urge to abandon his cart warring with the knowledge that they were out of rice and Shouto would complain if he came home without it. He grabbed the tea with jerky movements, tossing it into the basket like it might bite him.

The cashier, a pimply teenager with a runny nose, sniffled as she rang him up. Touya held his breath the entire transaction.

The schoolyard was already filling with parents when he arrived. He leaned against the fence, pulling out his phone to check the time; three minutes until dismissal. His chest ached, a persistent tightness that had become as familiar as his scars. He tried to take slow, measured breaths, the way Dr. Saito had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Then the coughing hit.

It started as a tickle, a faint itch in his throat. Then his lungs seized, and suddenly he was doubled over, one hand braced against the fence as harsh, barking coughs tore from his chest. His vision blurred at the edges, his free hand fumbling blindly for his inhaler.

"Touya-san!"

A hand gripped his elbow, steadying him. He looked up through watering eyes to see Inko Midoriya's worried face hovering close. Behind her, Izuku stood frozen, his backpack slipping off one shoulder.

"Here, sit down-" Inko guided him to a nearby bench with surprising strength for someone so small. Her fingers were already pulling his mask down. "Just breathe, okay? Slow breaths."

Touya wanted to protest, I know how to fucking breathe, but another cough wracked him, stealing his voice. He fished out his inhaler with shaking hands and took a desperate puff.

Inko waited, her grip firm on his shoulder, until the coughing subsided. "Does this happen often?" she asked.

Touya nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Worse this year," he admitted hoarsely.

Izuku hovered nervously, his green eyes darting between them. 

"I'm fine," Touya rasped. "Sorry for scaring you, Izuku-kun."

Inko gave him that look, the one that said I'm a nurse and your friend, so don't bullshit me. But she didn't push. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching as other parents collected their children. Izuku shifted from foot to foot, clearly torn between staying and going to find Shouto.

"You're working too hard," Inko said softly.

Touya snorted. "Pot, kettle."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "At least I'm not coughing up a lung at school pickup."

"Fair point."

The tea warmed his hands through his gloves. He could feel Inko studying him, not prying, just observing. That was one of the things he liked about her. She never pushed, but she always saw.

"If it would help..." Inko hesitated, then plowed on. "Izuku loves having Shouto over. We could take him on weekends sometimes? Give you a chance to rest."

Touya opened his mouth to refuse automatically, then stopped. The truth was, he was tired. And Shouto had been quieter lately, more withdrawn. Maybe...

He glanced up just as Shouto emerged from the school building, his red-and-white hair unmistakable even in the crowd. The kid was walking slowly, his headphones on, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him.

"Yeah," Touya heard himself say. "That... that might be good."

Inko squeezed his arm. "Just text me when."

Izuku, sensing the conversation was over, brightened immediately. "I'll go get Shouto!" He darted off before either of them could respond.

Touya watched as Izuku skidded to a stop in front of Shouto, talking a mile a minute even though Shouto couldn't hear him through the headphones. Shouto blinked, then reached up and removed one earpiece, tilting his head in that way he did when he was listening carefully.

"You're doing a good job, Touya," Inko said quietly.

Touya swallowed another sip of tea to hide the sudden tightness in his throat. "Trying to."

Inko smiled, genuine this time. "That's all any of us can do."

The tickle started halfway through his lunch break, just a faint itch at the back of Touya's throat. He swallowed hard against it, fingers tightening around his phone as he paced the empty clinic break room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the linoleum floor.

Probably just dry air, he told himself. Or leftover irritation from yesterday's coughing fit.

His phone rang right on time.

Touya took a steadying breath before answering. "Hey, Obaasan."

"Touya." His grandmother's voice crackled through the line, sharp as ever. "Have you been taking the vitamin C I sent?"

He rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter. "Yes, Obaasan. Every morning."

"And the zinc? The echinacea?"

"The whole damn pharmacy, yes."

A disapproving tsk. "Language, boy."

Touya opened his mouth to respond when the tickle flared again, hot and sudden. He turned his face away from the phone, clamping his lips together as his chest convulsed. A single, choked cough slipped out.

Silence on the line.

Then: "Was that…?"

"I'm fine," Touya rasped, clearing his throat. "Just swallowed wrong."

"Liar," his grandfather's voice boomed in the background. "That was a full lung cough!"

"It was not a-" The protest triggered another cough, deeper this time. And another. And another.

Touya doubled over, one hand braced against the counter as the coughing fit wracked him. His eyes watered, his ribs protesting the violent motion. The phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the countertop.

"-ouya? Touya!" His grandmother's voice sounded tinny and distant.

He fumbled for the phone, his free hand digging in his pocket for his inhaler. "I'm- cough- fine, just-"

"Don’t lie!" His grandfather now. "That's the same damn cough you had when-"

"Jiji, I swear to god-" Another cough cut him off. He finally got the inhaler to his lips and took a desperate puff.

The silence on the line was deafening.

When his grandmother spoke again, her voice had gone frighteningly soft. "Touya."

Touya's fingers tightened around the phone. Before he could answer, a sharp knock at his office door saved him.

"Sorry, gotta go," he said, maybe too quickly. "Client just showed up early."

"Touya-"

"Love you. Tell Ojii-san I'll call again next week." He hung up before they could protest, then immediately slumped forward, his forehead thunking against the desk.

The knock came again.

"Yes?" Touya snapped, lifting his head.

The door creaked open to reveal Keigo, balancing two takeout coffees and a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like curry bread. "Wow. Rude way to greet your favorite client."

Touya groaned. "I hate you."

Keigo grinned, kicking the door shut behind him. "Liar." He set the coffee down, his golden eyes scanning Touya's face.

Touya flipped him off, but accepted the coffee anyway. The warmth seeped through the cup, grounding him. The tickle in his throat remained, but for now, with Keigo's stupid grin and the scent of cheap coffee filling the office, it felt manageable.

For now.

They’d taken Inko up on her offer, and the apartment felt unnaturally quiet without Shouto.

Touya lay sprawled across the couch, his head pillowed against Keigo's shoulder, the steam mask covering the lower half of his face. Some ridiculous reality show played on the TV, something about people getting married at first sight that Fuyumi had insisted on watching, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The eucalyptus-scented steam filled his lungs, loosening the ever-present tightness in his chest just enough to make him drowsy. He'd never do this in front of them before - never let himself be caught in the vulnerable machinery of his own maintenance. But the exhaustion had seeped too deep into his bones today to bother hiding.

Across the room, Fuyumi sat curled in the armchair, still in her penguin-print pajamas at two in the afternoon. She shoveled another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, her third bowl today, the milk carton left open on the table beside her.

Keigo's fingers moved through his hair with practiced ease, blunt nails scraping gently against his scalp in the way that always made Touya's eyelids flutter. The touch lingered longer than usual today, mapping the tension at his temples, the sharp jut of his cheekbones beneath thinning skin.

"It's weird without the little menace," Keigo murmured, his voice vibrating through his chest and into Touya's skull where it rested against him.

Fuyumi snorted around a mouthful of cereal, legs tucked beneath her in the armchair. "You're telling me. I actually got to put my laundry away today." She crunched loudly, milk dripping unheeded down her chin. "Nobody rearranging all my folded shirts into 'better piles.'"

The corner of Touya's mouth twitched beneath the mask. Shouto's particular brand of humor these days was the way he'd silently dismantle any attempt at organization with the solemn focus of a demonic interior designer.

Keigo chuckled, his thumb brushing the shell of Touya's ear. "I miss his judging stares."

"And the humming," Fuyumi added through another crunch. “At all hours.” 

“I thought I was the only one who noticed! Thank God I’m not going crazy!” 

They dissolved into laughter, the kind that came too easily in sleep-deprived, worry-worn afternoons. Touya felt the vibrations of Keigo's laughter more than heard them, a warm rumble against his cheekbone.

Fuyumi wiped milk from her lips with the back of her hand. "It's ridiculous that it feels quiet without him. He doesn't even talk."

"Mm," Touya managed through the mask, the sound thick with steam and sleepiness.

Keigo's fingers stilled for a moment. "Poor baby," he murmured, so soft it might have been meant only for himself. His palm cradled the back of Touya's head, holding the weight of it like something precious. "All tired and steamy."

The words should have sparked irritation, should have had Touya shoving him away with some half-assed insult. But the warmth of Keigo's thigh beneath his neck, the steady rhythm of those fingers in his hair, the blessed relief of the steam loosening the ever-present vise around his ribs - it all conspired to leave him pliant. He let out a slow, shuddering breath that fogged the mask further, his fingers curling loosely in the fabric of Keigo's sweatpants.

Keigo resisted the urge to go still. "You really haven't been feeling well, have you babe?"

The question hung in the air between them, too big for the quiet afternoon. Touya could lie. Could shrug it off. Could do any number of things he'd done a hundred times before.

Instead, he just sighed, a wet, ragged sound, and pressed his forehead harder against Keigo's chest.

"You'll feel better soon," Keigo whispered, but his voice cracked halfway through. His fingers trembled slightly where they carded through Touya's hair. "Don't worry."

Over Touya's head, Keigo's gaze locked with Fuyumi's. Her cereal spoon hovered forgotten halfway to her mouth. The silent conversation that passed between them was somehow clear: 

This is bad.

I know.

What do we do?

I don't know.

The television audience burst into applause for some inconsequential moment. The steam mask gurgled softly as Touya's breathing evened out into sleep, his body going heavy against Keigo's side.

Keigo turned off the machine, and pulled the mask off Touya’s face, rubbing lightly at the irritated indents it left on his cheeks. 

And in the too-quiet apartment, with the winter light stretching long across the floor, they let him rest.

Chapter Text

The café smelled like roasted coffee beans and cinnamon, warmth wrapping around them like a blanket as Fuyumi guided Shouto to their usual corner table. Outside, Tokyo glittered under a thin layer of December frost, holiday lights strung between lampposts casting red and green reflections on the icy pavement. Fuyumi unwound her scarf, cheeks still flushed from the cold, and set a plate of anpan in front of Shouto.

"Okay," she said, pulling out her phone. "Let's try the 'ah' sound again."

Shouto frowned but obediently opened his mouth, producing a soft, raspy ahhh, more breath than sound, but clearer than last week's attempt.

Fuyumi beamed. "Good! Now 'ee'." She demonstrated, exaggerating the stretch of her lips.

Shouto's brow furrowed in concentration. His tongue pressed awkwardly against his teeth, his lips trembling with the unfamiliar shape. A quiet, strained noise escaped, not quite the right vowel, but close.

"Almost!" Fuyumi tapped her phone to record the progress. "One more time?"

Shouto huffed, his breath fogging the café window beside them. He tried again, this time managing a shaky, but recognizable, ee.

Fuyumi clapped her hands together. "Yes! That's it!"

Shouto blinked, then tentatively poked at his anpan, as if rewarding himself. The café's overhead lights caught the edges of his glasses, hiding his expression, but Fuyumi didn't miss the slight tilt of his lips.

They'd been practicing for the past few weeks now, on the recommendation of the school speech therapist. His tongue and jaw muscles had lost the coordination for speech in the past six years, the neural pathways for complex oral motor control left dormant. But he was trying. And that was exciting enough, and merited a reward, in Fuyumi’s opinion.

Fuyumi was about to suggest they move on to the next sound when a familiar voice cut through the café's murmur.

"Todoroki-san?"

She turned to find Okada Haruki standing beside their table, his glasses slightly askew, a takeout cup in hand. Her stomach did a traitorous little flip.

"I-Okada-sensei!" She sat up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of her messy ponytail and the powdered sugar dusting her sweater from the pastry she’d eaten. "Hi!"

Shouto glanced between them, then deliberately bit into his anpan, his expression eerily similar to Touya's I'm judging you face.

Okada smiled, adjusting his glasses. "I didn't know you came here."

"Oh! Yes, we, um..." Fuyumi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Rewarding speech practice. For my brother."

Shouto held up his [Hello] card, then pointed to the anpan.

Okada blinked, then, to Fuyumi's relief, didn't infantilize him. He just nodded seriously. "Anpan's good motivation. I know I'd do anything your sister told me to do for one of these." He lifted his own. "Their melon bread is dangerous."

Shouto considered this, then flipped to another card: [Yes.]

Fuyumi bit back a laugh. "Shouto is developing some strong opinions about pastries."

"I respect that." Okada grinned, then hesitated. "Actually, I was going to ask, are you free next weekend? The elementary grade teachers were thinking about doing a holiday potluck. Nothing fancy, but-"

Fuyumi's face warmed. "Oh! I don’t…"

Shouto kicked her under the table.

"Yes! I'd love to."

Okada’s smile widened. "Great. I'll text you the details." He nodded to Shouto. "Nice to meet you."

Shouto gave a small wave as Okada walked away, then immediately turned his judging stare back on Fuyumi.

"What?" she hissed.

He flipped through his cards. They were multiplying by the day, she felt. 

[Red.] [You.] 

Fuyumi groaned, burying her face in her hands. Outside, the holiday lights twinkled brighter against the gathering dusk. 

The Christmas lights strung across their apartment window flickered weakly against the evening gloom. Touya stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at the stove where a pot of water had long since boiled over, his throat burning with every swallow.

Keigo’s arms slid around his waist from behind, chin hooking over his shoulder. “You look like you’re contemplating murdering that pot.”

Touya leaned back into him, the warmth of Keigo’s chest seeping through his sweater. “Just thinking.”

“About how we’re definitely having the most romantic Christmas ever by eating convenience store cake in our pajamas?”

Touya huffed a laugh, then winced as it tugged at his raw throat.

Keigo stilled. “...Your throat still hurts?”

“It’s fine.”

“Touya.” Keigo turned him around, his fingers brushing the dark circles under Touya’s eyes. “We don’t even have to watch the movie if you’re not up for it. We can just cuddle for a bit.”

Touya caught his wrist. “I want to though.”

And he did. Even if his head pounded. Even if his lungs ached. Even if every swallow felt like glass.

Because Shouto was sitting at the kotatsu, carefully arranging slices of strawberry shortcake onto three plates with the solemn focus of a Michelin chef. Because Fuyumi had texted twice to make sure they were okay with her going to the potluck. Because Natsuo had actually smiled when he left for his date, his shoulders lighter than they’d been in months.

Because Keigo had looked at him days ago, seen the exhaustion in his bones, and immediately canceled their reservations without a single complaint.

Touya pressed his forehead against Keigo’s. “Just don’t pick a shitty movie. And make sure it’s dubbed.” 

Touya woke hours later to the credits of Die Hard rolling, his face smushed into Keigo’s shoulder, a blanket draped over him. Shouto was gone, his empty plate left neatly on the kotatsu.

Keigo’s fingers carded gently through his hair. “Hey, sleeping beauty.”

Touya groaned. “Did I miss much?”

Keigo rolled his eyes. “Did I miss much? Mister slept through the whole movie.” 

Touya tilted his head up, meeting Keigo’s golden eyes in the dim light. “Love you.”

Keigo smiled at Touya’s uncharacteristic softness, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Love you too.”

A sharp rap at his door jolted Touya awake. Before he could even groan out a response, the door flew open, revealing Natsuo silhouetted in the hallway light, his entire body vibrating.

Touya squinted against the sudden brightness. "The hell-?"

Natsuo didn't speak. Just took two stumbling steps forward and shoved his phone into Touya's face.

Touya blinked hard, his sleep-addled brain struggling to process the glowing screen pressed inches from his nose. The university's crest. Bold text. His dry throat closed as he finally deciphered the words:

Congratulations, Todoroki Natsuo!
You have been accepted into-

A cough tore through him, sudden and violent, his lungs seizing as he doubled over. Natsuo jerked back, the phone slipping from his fingers onto the mattress.

"Shit, Touya?"

Touya waved him off, gasping as the fit subsided. He wiped his watering eyes with the back of his hand and grabbed the phone again, squinting at the screen.

"...Holy fuck."

Natsuo made a strangled noise. "Is this… am I reading this right? Is this real?"

Touya looked up at his little brother, at his wide, disbelieving eyes, at the way his hands trembled, and felt something crack open in his chest.

"Natsu." His voice came out rough. "You got in. 70% scholarship, plus room and board."

Natsuo's breath hitched. Then: 

"I GOT IN!"

The roar startled another cough out of Touya, but he didn't have time to recover before Natsuo was yanking him upright into a crushing hug.

Across the hall, Fuyumi's door slammed open. "What's wrong?"

"HE GOT IN!" Touya exclaimed over Natsuo's shoulder, his voice hoarse but triumphant.

Fuyumi appeared in the doorway, her sleep braid unraveling, Shouto hovering behind her, squinting without his glasses too. For a heartbeat, they just stared.

Then Fuyumi shrieked.

Shouto covered his ears at the noise but didn't retreat, his mismatched eyes darting between them as Fuyumi launched herself at Natsuo, her arms looping around both brothers.

"Which one?! Oh my god-"

Natsuo was laughing and crying at the same time, his words tumbling over each other as Fuyumi shook him by the shoulders. Shouto edged closer, his fingers plucking at Touya's sleeve in silent question.

Touya reached out, dragging him into the pile. Shouto stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his forehead bumping against Touya's arm as the others' excited chatter washed over them.

Natsuo's knees buckled suddenly, sending them all crashing onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Fuyumi's elbow dug into Touya's ribs, Natsuo was half-squashing Shouto, and someone's foot was definitely in his stomach… 

Touya closed his eyes against the morning light still streaming through the doorway, his throat burning, and let himself sink into the weight of them.

The hotpot pot bubbled violently in the center of the kotatsu, sending waves of fragrant steam curling toward the ceiling. Keigo had somehow procured a literal tower of premium wagyu- "Hero discount!" he'd crowed, winking, while Inko fussed over the vegetable platter, rearranging the enoki mushrooms into neat little rows.

"Keio University's pre-med program," Fuyumi sighed for the fifth time, stirring her cider with a dreamy expression. "Only a 3% acceptance rate last year. Natsu, you're basically a genius now."

Natsuo, crammed between Izuku and Keigo at the table, turned an impressive shade of scarlet. "It's not that…"

"It is!" Izuku interrupted, nearly knocking over his juice in his enthusiasm. "Keio's produced more top-ranked doctors and healers than any school in the country! Their quirk-integrated anatomy labs are revolutionary-"

Touya tuned out the chatter, focusing on keeping his breathing even. The spicy broth fumes stung his raw throat, and the press of bodies around the table made the room feel airless. He discreetly adjusted the collar of his sweater where it rubbed against his scar tissue, swallowing back another cough.

The apartment hummed with laughter and the clatter of chopsticks. Shouto sat wedged between Izuku and Touya, his usual reserve softened by the warmth of the room. 

A nudge at his elbow. Shouto wordlessly pushed a glass of water toward him, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.

Touya took it with a nod, the cool liquid a temporary balm.

He watched his brother, the way his shoulders had lost their hunch, the easy grin that hadn't graced his face since childhood, and let the warmth in his chest override the persistent ache in his lungs. He'd managed to hide how he was really feeling so far, switching between tea and cool water to soothe his throat, letting Keigo subtly refill his plate when his hands shook too badly to serve himself, leaning just slightly into the couch cushions to offset the dizziness.

But Keigo knew.

By the time Inko and Izuku left, Touya’s vision had started to blur at the edges. He managed to help Fuyumi clear the table, though she kept shooting him worried glances.

"Go to bed," she finally whispered, plucking the stack of bowls from his hands. "You look like you’re about to collapse."

Touya opened his mouth to argue, but a cough tore through him instead, harsh and wet. Fuyumi’s face fell.

"Yeah," he rasped when he could speak again. "G’night."

When the apartment was quiet, and the remnants of celebration packed away, the others long since retreated to their rooms, Touya stood at the bathroom sink, his reflection gaunt in the yellow light as he took out his nightly meds, the suppressants, the nerve blockers, and the rest of the prescribed regime. 

Keigo appeared in the corner of his mirror, leaning against the doorframe, his wings tight. "I can't believe you lasted the whole dinner." 

"It's Natsuo's night," he replied. "Didn't want to bring down the mood."

Keigo stepped closer, pressing the back of his hand to Touya’s forehead. "You’re super warm."

"Yeah," Touya admitted hoarsely. "I know."

A pause. 

Keigo sighed. "Okay. Let’s keep an eye on that."