Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once more, Todoroki Shoto finds himself in front of Fujitani Hospital with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

His weight shifts awkwardly from side to side, his hands reaching the door handle before retracting almost instantly. Shoto is unsure of himself, his palms becoming clammy as he cradles the flowers in his hands, mismatched hair damp with sweat. 

He can see his reflection in the crisp glass of the hospital window, his scarred skin contrasting the bright blue color of his left eye. Even though he’s seen this sight a hundred times before, Shoto doesn’t know how to feel when staring at his reflection. He doesn’t know which side he should focus on, which parent he belongs to. 

He doesn’t know where he belongs at all. 

Still, he enters. With a heavy heart and a handful of flowers, Shoto breathes in the scent of alcohol pads and familiarizes himself with the beeping of machines. This is where his mother has been for the past few years, and where he has found himself in a multitude of times. 

But Shoto never gets any farther than this. Usually, after a few minutes of loitering, he leaves with the same bouquet he brought in, never to mention how much time he spends picking them out (only to throw them away later). 

At this point, the receptionists have gotten used to Shoto’s antics. They’re aware that a patient with a similar appearance to him (his right side, at least), has a son she is expecting, yet never sees. They’re aware that Shoto is afraid, but they can’t do anything about it. Not with the look of utter dread and anxiety in his eyes.

Because Shoto is just a boy. A boy who yearns for his mother. A boy whose mismatched eyes reveal every terror he’s ever witnessed.

But this time, there’s a different glint in his eyes. This time, Shoto gets closer to the receptionist desk, his steps a little more confident. His hands are still clammy, yet he takes the time to wipe them against his pants before readjusting his grip around the flowers. 

He opens his mouth to speak, searching for his voice against the expectant—nearly shocked—expressions of the receptionists. 

“Could you please tell me the room number for Todoroki Rei?” he finally manages to ask, his voice a little quieter than intended. 

The receptionists smile, and Shoto hugs the flowers closer. In the bouquet he picked today, there are pearl white lilies of the valley and bright orange poppies. The colors stand out against his pale skin, contrasting his turquoise eyes in ways that resemble fire and ice.

Because Shoto is just a boy. He’s a boy who loves his mother, even after not seeing her for years. 

He’s a boy who wishes for her to heal, even if his scar will never.

Every week since then, Shoto takes time to visit his mother. 

He visits her with new flowers and stories, new aspirations and dreams. Shoto visits his mother with a childlike ambition that is reignited whenever he talks to her, whenever he tells her that he’s going to be a hero. One of the very best. 

Shoto visits his mother with his walls a little lower, his voice a little softer, and his smile a little kinder. 

“Oh, Shoto, there’s such a lovely child here…” Rei says, trailing off. Her hands are laced together as she sits on the bed of her humble room, her eyes drifting from the window to her son. “I think they’re about your age. Have you seen them?”

He shakes his head.

“If you do, you should say hi. It won’t hurt to make a new friend,” she chimes, a kind look in her eyes. Shoto’s heart warms as he takes her words carefully to his chest, burying it within himself as a request from his mother.

“Okay.”

His mother often talks about this “child that is around his age.” Shoto doesn’t know much about them, but if his mother is fond of them, then he supposes he is too. Whenever Shoto brings up the topic of releasing Rei from the psychiatric ward, she merely shakes her head before reassuring him that she never feels alone here. Because of that child.

Shoto would like to meet this child—even if it’s only once—to thank them for keeping his mother company. 

“But you should be careful around them,” Rei finally says, her gaze solemn. “They’re quite sickly.” 

“I will.” Shoto, once again, takes everything his mother says to heart. Shoto picks the words from his mother’s mouth and stores them in a treasure chest; he takes it like an oath, like a vow he will never go against. 

So it comes as no surprise when he bids his mother goodbye, but doesn’t leave the hospital. Rather, he wanders around a little, searching for someone his age, someone that matches his mother’s description. Shoto looks for his mother’s savior, his potential “friend.”
But he doesn’t have to look far, because down one of the many halls of the hospital, he finds himself in a lobby of sorts. In the center sits a piano that seems a little out of place—it’s a grand, sleek piano that stands out against the weathered walls of the hospital—and a person who looks to be about his age. 

Unlike Shoto, a hero-to-be, this person looks as if a slight breeze could be enough for them to collapse. Despite their frail frame and IV drip connected to their wrist, they sit on the piano bench with perfect posture.

They play the instrument with a grace that makes Shoto almost forget that their posture is undeniably poor. Their hands move fluidly across the keys, deft fingers finding themselves on the right notes at the right time, their eyes trailing over music sheets like the notes are their first language, their first love.

Somehow, they manage to gather the energy from their sickly body and turn it into art. Somehow, Shoto finds himself at peace with himself, with his most hated parts, in the midst of the melodies and the sounds. 

Shoto begins to understand why his mother loves this person so much. He begins to understand why it’s you.

And you take him across a story, you run through the world with the mere touch of a key and the harmony of a chord. You take him from Musutafu to Osaka, from Japan to the Americas. You take Shoto everywhere and anywhere on that piano of yours, playing him a tune that he doesn’t recognize but he wishes he would. 

And then it ends. You play your final note before lowering your hands from the keys. You glance up, eyes finally leaving your first love and language and meeting a boy with a mismatched existence. 

“My autographs are free,” you say. Shoto merely blinks. 

“Mine too.”

“Who even are you?” you ask, unimpressed.

“Todoroki Shoto.”

Although you still don’t know who he is (and why he feels the need to tell you that his autographs are free), you smile. 

“Kira [Name].”

Much to your chagrin, Todoroki still doesn’t ask for your autograph. Even after you told him your name. 

Todoroki Shoto comes in and out of the hospital as he pleases, his hands occupied with flowers each time. 

The boy never repeats patterns or combinations, even changing the colors of the bouquet each time. Shoto takes time to craft each meaning, to choose each flower. He does so even when he’s utterly exhausted from practice and training, even when he’s about to get shipped off to hero internships in a couple of days.

Lately, he’s been visiting his mother, who’s been visiting you. Instead of placing flowers in a vase in Rei’s room, Shoto ends up putting flowers in your room. Oftentimes, you feel like an intruder on Shoto and Rei’s conversations, your presence hindering their words as they struggle to talk about the important things in front of you. Words come and go but even aside from your presence, you feel a sense of estrangement between them, as if they are always hesitant with each other. 

It’s during these conversations that you learn that Shoto is actually somewhat of a celebrity. He’s a student at UA, the son of Endeavor, and the runner-up in the UA Sports Festival. You didn’t really expect much from him, especially with that deadpan look he always carries around, but you can kind of see it.

If Shoto looked at everyone like how he looked at his mother—with pure and utter adoration—then you would think he could dominate the world purely with his looks alone. And maybe steal your job while he’s at it.

Because Shoto is, undoubtedly, a captivating beauty. With his pearl white strands of hair lacing with ruby, he looks like a painting that gained sentience, that became human. 

Though, you would believe it if Shoto wasn’t human. There’s something about his eyes and his hairs—split perfectly in half—that gives him an unreal visual. You’re sure that if he wanted to, Shoto could be scouted as an idol instantly.

A part of you is glad that he chose to be a hero instead. 

“You know, Shoto, [Name] here is quite famous,” Rei says, suddenly putting the spotlight on you. You cough weakly in response. 

“Oh.” Shoto’s gaze fixates on your bedridden form.

“They’re going to be an idol,” Rei elaborates. You let out another cough.

A bitter taste rests on the tip of your tongue, your eyes averting from Rei’s as she looks at you with such unadulterated sincerity, you feel like crying. Your debut date as an idol has constantly been pushed back, because no matter how much you crave glory, your mortality comes first. 

Your agency has covered up your hospitalizations, claiming you’re simply going on hiatus for personal reasons. Oftentimes, as you lie in this hospital bed, you wonder if you’ll be a trainee forever. 

Rei doesn’t know that, though. And by the looks of it, neither does Shoto. 

“An idol?” Shoto repeats, nodding slowly. “Good luck.”

You force a smile, and yet another cough racks through your body.

“Thanks.”

If you weren’t so sick, you’d probably take the time to get offended by Shoto’s words that resemble that of a maiden wishing their soldier lover off to war. In this case, you’re the soldier, but there isn’t any love involved—just camaraderie.

Heroes and idols aren’t too far apart. They both revel in the public eye, scrutinized by people and followed by spotlights. In their own ways, heroes are idols and idols are heroes. 

Just like how Shoto is going to be a hero, you’re going to be an idol. You’re going to leave this damned hospital and you’re going to stand on a stage. There won’t be any IV drips, and everything will be right. Everything will be ahead, and it’ll be like a dream. 

Your dream.

Shoto and his mother sit at your bedside, their figures facing you yet their eyes fixated on each other. You feel like a witness to their relationship, a bystander as they mend broken bridges and find the words they’ve missed saying. 

It’s in moments like these where you find the resemblance in their habits. You find resemblance in Shoto’s right side, half his soul being a testament of his mother. You find resemblance in how he blinks owlishly at Rei, who often does the same in response. You find a son yearning for his mother, and a mother yearning for a son.

“How is school, Shoto?” Rei asks, a kind smile on her lips. Your gaze drifts, uninterested with the topic at hand.

“Good. Internships are coming up.”

Seasons change. Spring becomes summer, and the cycle of life repeats. For too long, are you a witness to the sights from the hospital, your body restrained to the cramped walls and pale bed. For too long, have you been stuck, far from your dreams, forced to watch all your friends move on.

Everyone is moving, and as a result, everyone is leaving. There’s an ache in your heart as your fellow trainee friends rise the music charts, as they perform on stage and at concerts in festivals. There’s an ache in your heart because even though you’re supposed to be happy for them, you’re scared. You’re scared you’ll be stuck within these walls forever, forced to watch the world change from your bed.

“I’m going to be an intern at Endeavor’s agency,” Shoto says, and your attention reels back in. 

Rei blinks a little, mouth hanging slightly agape. She regains her composure within a millisecond. 

“Is that so?” 

A suffocating silence fills the room, and you feel your chest constrict. Your vision becomes blurry, and the falling cherry blossoms from beyond the window blur into a mosaic of pinks, reds, and whites. You fade in and out, your breaths becoming heavier and heavier, your lungs struggling to get air.

“[Name]?” Rei yelps, attention fixating on you. You feel queasy with her and Shoto’s gazes on you. You’re supposed to be an idol, yet you shrink from the spotlight, your hand grasping nothing.

Somewhere around your bedside, a monitor beeps rapidly, and nurses begin swarming your room. As Rei and Shoto are ushered to the side, you notice Shoto standing protectively in front of his mother, separating her from the barrage of nurses and their hasty movements.

Your heart aches a little, and then you fade out. 

Todoroki Shoto says nothing as he watches the nurses yell orders, their code words too complex for him to understand. He says nothing as your bed is wheeled out of the room, the cacophony dwindling down the hall. He says nothing as his mother quivers behind him, goosebumps rippling throughout her skin even though she’s immune to the cold.

He says nothing, yet he feels the emptiness within him wholly. 

“Poor child…” Rei trails off, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re only your age, Shoto.”

“Yeah,” he replies. I know. 

“They have a weak body.” Rei shakes her head. “But a strong mind.”

Even though Shoto has seen you bedridden most of the time, he’s never once considered you weak. There’s a resolve in your eyes that matches the one he’s seen numerous times at UA. If you weren’t an idol to-be and instead, a hero to-be, Shoto wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you wandering down the UA halls.

Sometimes, when Shoto enters your room with his mother, he sees you fixated on the television, entranced with idol performances. Sometimes, he sees the stars from the night sky manifesting in your eyes, an inexplicable urge taking over your fingers, your hands gliding across your bed as if it was a piano.

Sometimes, when he passes by your room, he hears you humming a tune. Shoto doesn’t know anything about music, but he thinks it’s nice. Nice that you have a passion. 

(Your voice is the nicest part, though.)

“Yeah,” he says, again. Rei smiles at his response, yet it doesn’t meet her eyes.

The next day, Todoroki Shoto arrives at the hospital with two bouquets of flowers in his hands.

He stops in front of your room, listening in on the rhythmic beeping and faint chatter of nurses from within. Shoto glances down at the bouquet in his right hand, which is a collection of purple and pink petunias. The florist at the shop told him that petunias symbolize healing. 

As if it were planned, the door opens. A nurse steps out, a grin gracing their face as they notice the bouquet in Shoto’s hands. 

“Come in.”

The boy dips his head in appreciation before entering. He blinks owlishly, stunned by the scent of alcohol and medical supplies that remind him vaguely of Recovery Girl. Shoto sees you on your bed, your back propped up and gaze drifting to the window. 

He’s noticed that you have a habit of staring outside.

“Todoroki- kun,” you acknowledge. Shoto hums in response, sitting by your side with the bouquet awkwardly in his grip. He looks around, searching for a spot to put them. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

“For what?”
“Nevermind,” you reply, a hint of mirth to your eyes. “You need to work on your social awareness before I can thank you.”

“Hm.”

Shoto places the petunias in a nearby vase, his movements revealing how clumsy he is. He struggles to fill the vase with water afterwards. 

“I should’ve put the water in first,” Shoto comments. He doesn’t usually forget such a trivial part; he wonders what’s up with him today.

“And maybe remove the paper wrapping from the bouquet,” you add. He nods in response.

“You’re right.”
“When am I not?”

Shoto stares at you with utmost sincerity. 

“You were wrong when you said your autographs were free. I found them online selling for 14,000 yen. ”

Your jaw nearly drops. “Woah, capitalism is crazy.”

Another cough escapes your throat, your chapped lips becoming even more apparent as you wipe your mouth with a napkin.

“I’m not surprised, though.” You muster a grin. “I’m a hit.”

“You didn’t even debut yet,” Shoto points out. He hands you a glass of water.

“Oh, whatever.” You drink it gratefully.

Silence envelops the two of you, but surprisingly, your chest doesn’t constrict. 

Surprisingly, you feel alright.

“I want to go outside,” you tell a nurse. “And sit.”

They spare you a remorseful look. “Sorry, Kira -san. I’m afraid I can’t do that for you.”

You catch a glimpse of the falling cherry blossoms, your lips quivering. Even though you expected such a rejection, your heart can’t help but ache, the feeling of pins and needles stabbing the organ. 

With your bedridden state, your limbs have become clumsy, your movements not as precise as they were before. Amongst the trainees at your agency, you’re known for your dancing abilities, your stage presence.

But you think you’re losing it—the only thing you have going. You think you’re losing parts of yourself that are worthy of becoming an idol, that are capable. 

“Can I play the piano?” you ask. 

The nurse glances at you, a small sigh escaping their lips. A bittersweet expression forms on their face.

“Sure.”

With medical supervision, you are assisted out of your bed, your body forgetting how to walk. Waddling down the hall and into the lobby, you find yourself seated on the bench of a grand piano, your hands grazing across the keys.

The tips of your fingers are numb and cold, yet they find their position, rooted on top of the white and black ivories.

You play. 

Todoroki Shoto enters the hospital with two bouquets of flowers in his hands. Instead of entering his mother’s room first, as he usually does, he finds himself drifting towards the lobby down the hall, his legs moving on their own. He stops around the corner, his grip tightening around the flowers. 

With mismatched eyes, Shoto observes you under the hospital light. He observes the deftness of your movements in their element, he observes your serene expression—one that he much prefers, compared to your contorted looks whenever you struggle to breathe.

He watches you. Wholly.

Somewhere along the melody, he feels a part of himself return. The hospital lights seem to hone in on you, forming a spotlight on the spotless piano and its player. Everything in Shoto’s world shifts, his dreams molding and stars manifesting.

Your dream, he thinks. Of being an idol.

I want to see it. 

Chapter Text

The world passes by your window.

There’s a bittersweet ache in your limbs—a desperate urge to escape the hospital room—but accompanying the ache is an undeniable weight. Your limbs feel too heavy to move, too stiff, too tired. 

You’re exhausted. But of what? You away your days helplessly, confined to a hospital bed with no end in sight. You’re half a human, half a soul, with the way your life goes by from beyond the window, leaving you as a witness of what should’ve been yours.

If I weren’t like this, you think, turning away from the window, I would’ve debuted by now. The world goes on, leaving you desperate for a chance at what could’ve— should’ve— been yours. 

“[Name],” a familiar voice calls. Tearing your gaze from the window, you focus on the door to your hospital room.

“Come in,” you say. 

With a bouquet of flowers, Rei walks into your hospital room, a tender look on her face. She assembles the plants into a vase with a dexterity and gracefulness that her son lacks, her dainty fingers coming to wrap around yours as she takes a seat by your bed.

“[Name],” she calls, again. She calls your name as if it’s the only one in the world, as if you’re the first and only owner of such an endearment. But your name has been run through the dirt; on social media and in news articles, your name has been reduced to an attention grab, a mockery of what an idol should be.

Sometimes, you wish you could free yourself of such a wretched grasp. Of such a wretched identity. You wish you could flee this hospital bed and take on the life of someone beyond Kira [Name], of someone beyond the confines of Fujitani Hospital.

Sometimes.

Because of some heroic shit or whatever (read: internships), Shoto hasn’t been visiting the hospital as of late. Despite his absence, you still feel parts of Shoto lingering in the hospital. It’s in the flowers that sit proudly on your table—the flowers that Shoto usually brings you—and the delicate, pearl white hair of his mother that, for obvious reasons, resembles his.

“Todoroki- san, ” you respond, your voice hoarse. “Where did you get these flowers from?” 

You hope that Rei didn’t actually go out to buy flowers herself. You hope that she didn’t actually go out for you, because you’re not deserving of such gifts.

Rei smiles before squeezing your hand gently.

“Shoto sent them in. I don’t know how that boy finds the time…” she trails off with a chuckle. “But I’m glad. I’m glad that he thinks about you.”

But he thinks about you, not me, you think. To Shoto, you’re more like an additional factor that appears whenever he thinks of his mother, a sickly child his age that has futile dreams of becoming an idol. When he thinks of Rei, and when he picks out flowers for her, you know that he gets some for you out of courtesy. Because Rei would be upset if only she was receiving flowers.

When you look at Rei’s expression, however, you hold your tongue. You observe the way her eyebrows are relaxed, and her gaze is cast down. You observe how an enraptured, almost enchanted expression takes over her face as she thinks of her son. You observe the look in her grey eyes—that fond, heavenly look—before averting your gaze towards the window.

You observe the world outside, and wonder if anyone has ever thought of you like that: with a softened gaze and a lovely, lovely smile. You wonder if anyone will ever look like that with you, for you. 

An inexplicable feeling of loneliness devours your being whole, and you glance down at Rei’s hand covering yours. As a result of her Quirk, her touch is slightly cold.

“Yeah,” you finally find it in yourself to respond. “I’m glad.”

A few minutes pass in silence before the door to your room swings open, revealing a face you wish you’d see more often. With unruly hair and an exhausted expression, your manager, Kim Jiye barges into your room with a maddened look in her eyes. She locks the door behind her before coming to shut the blinds of your windows, sweat trickling down the side of her face before she eyes you with a frantic expression.

“[Name], you have to be moved somewhere else. The paparazzi are coming,” she says in Korean.
You blink owlishly. “How?” Subconsciously, you respond in Japanese. Jiye looks at you with confusion, whereas Rei awaits your translation.

You’re receiving treatment in Japan for a reason: to evade the paparazzi and recover smoothly. In South Korea, you would always have to move from hospital to hospital because of privacy concerns, but how is it possible for people to know where you are in Japan? How is it possible that people would find you in a hospital so far from where you’re supposed to be, from where your dream really is?

Rei’s hand momentarily tightens around yours before letting go. Her softened eyes are now wide, her expression overcome with fear as she quickly helps you out of bed. Although she can’t understand what Jiye tells you, she knows enough from the ruckus outside of what the situation is.

Even with the blinds shut, you still see the shutters of light that flash outside, wincing when some get too bright. You hear the cacophony of footsteps from beyond your door, your legs trembling as you struggle to stand after being bedridden for so long.

Amidst the footsteps and orders from various nurses to not let anyone into the hospital, you hear your name. Not fondly, nor softly, as you’ve grown accustomed to. Rather, you hear your name being trailed by conspiracies, by questions and demands of your condition and where you’ve been. 

“I want to get out,” you tell Jiye as she blocks you from exiting. “I want to leave.” Didn’t you tell me we had to leave? 

“Not now,” Jiye responds. “Just wait, [Name].”

But I’m always waiting, you think. The ground feels so unfamiliar under your feet, the feeling of standing now alien to you. I’m always waiting. But for what? You wait for your dream to finally be yours, for the day you finally leave this hospital—any hospital. You wait, and wait, and wait, until what?

When will it end? When will you be free from the smell of cleaning wipes and syringes, from IV drips and regret?

Your hospital room is engulfed with various shutters and lights from flashing cameras, barely blocked by the blinds.

“The company is waiting for your return,” Jiye tells you. The clock strikes eleven, and you stare at her with a blank, almost hazy expression as you struggle to focus. Due to recent events, the hospital staff have moved you to the farthest room in the corner of the building. The room lacks windows, and indirectly, camera shutters.

“I know,” you tell her. How could I not? It’s not like you want to be sick, like you want to postpone your debut. But here you are. In Japan, your home country, but not the country that has your dreams.

“[Name].” Jiye snaps her hand, reeling your attention back in. “Korean, please.”

“I know,” you respond in Korean.

She sighs. “[Name], bad publicity is still publicity. But one day, your absence is going to stop generating such a response, and you’re going to fall from relevancy, and the company may have no choice but to—”

“I know!” you snap. “Do you think I wanted this?!”

Jiye runs a hand through her hair. “[Name], I know you’re young, but maybe that’s a good thing. We can officially postpone your debut until you turn eighteen, or nineteen, so you can recover for three to four years. You don’t have to keep rushing.”

“I want to debut,” you tell her. “I will get better. I am getting better! Why don’t you tell the company that?”

The older woman looks away. “The company is thinking of debuting your group early.”

Your heart stutters. You stare at Jiye with your mouth hanging slightly agape, your eyes watering against your own will. Your numbing fingers come up to wipe the tears that have barely managed to escape.

“Why?” Despite the ache of your heart and the way you feel utterly betrayed, there’s an overwhelming feeling of guilt that engulfs your being. You hate how you’re being left alone, how your group mates are going to debut without you, but also, is this not your fault? Maybe if you weren’t sick, or if you were in Japan, you could debut too. You could debut as if nothing had ever happened, as if your dreams of becoming an idol were never threatened.

But the ache in your limbs says otherwise. 

“How early?” you finally manage to ask. Jiye shakes her head.

“Three months.”

So, I have three months to get better, is all you think, gaze drifting beyond the woman. But that’s not right—you have three months to get better, return to Korea, train with your group, and sharpen your skills enough to debut. Three months is not enough, you need more time, more chances.

“Can it be pushed back? Will they believe me if I can get better within five months?” you query, struggling to focus your attention on Jiye. She looks away.

“I’ll try my best, [Name].”

In this new room, you have no windows to watch the world, no warmth to keep you sane. There is nothing for you in a hospital room when you belong on a stage. There is nothing for you here, in Fujitani Hospital, when you dream of something grand. Something global.

“Okay,” you respond. “Thank you.”

“See you soon, kid,” Jiye says. She pats you gently on the back before exiting the room. Soon after she leaves, Rei steps in, her eyebrows contorted with worry. 

“[Name], dear, are you okay?” Once more, Rei takes your hands delicately in hers, an empathetic expression gracing her features as she gently rubs circles into your palm. It sends a slight chill down your spine that goes unnoticed by her.

You pause before answering, struggling to find the correct words in the correct language. There are so many things you want to say—and so many different ways you can say it—but all of your worries lead back to a simple, one-worded answer. One that brings more anxiety than comfort.

“Yeah,” is all you say, is all you have to offer. You don’t have much left in you, because exhaustion runs its course through you. 

Not buying your answer, Rei’s other hand comes to gently brush your face. Her touch is careful and lovely, her actions radiating a certain adoration that you’ve come to miss. Your entire being has been split into two, with two languages engraved on your tongue, your home is in both South Korea and Japan, and you’re not quite sure where your loyalties lie. 

Do you belong in your home country, or the country where your dreams will manifest? How do you choose between the past and the future, when the present you’re in feels as if you’re disconnected from both? How do you exist knowing that you’re more of a foreigner in your hometown when you grew up here? Lived here?

So many questions weigh on your being, threatening to collapse your already ruined body. Fifteen year olds like you shouldn’t be worrying about whether or not your dreams are still within reach, you should be worrying about whether or not you’ll pass Chemistry. Fifteen year olds shouldn’t worry about the possibility of anything ever happening, because when you’re young, anything is—should be—possible. 

Because when you’re young, the world is yours.

At least, it’s supposed to be.

Noticing your exhaustion, Rei gently cradles your head, ushering you into bed. 

“Sleep, my dear [Name]. All will be okay tomorrow.”

The adrenaline coursing through your veins and the fear ricocheting throughout your limbs say otherwise. You’re afraid. You’re afraid of the flashing lights of cameras, of the sound of your own name. You’re so afraid, but here, there are no windows, no footsteps. Only you and Rei, who hums softly under the dim, warm light.

With her hand still tightly holding onto yours, you drift off with a buzz. It doesn’t feel like the airiness of sleep, but more like a void. An emptiness. 

It devours you whole.

“What was that?” Endeavor asks, watching Shoto stare absentmindedly at his phone. Glaring up at the man made of fire, Shoto scoffs before returning his attention to the screen. 

“Give me your phone,” Endeavor demands. He holds his hand out, not even bothering to look, but Shoto doesn’t comply. A few moments pass before the older man finally looks down, wondering where the phone is.

“No,” Shoto responds simply before walking away. 

“Are you disobeying direct orders?”

“I’m off hours,” he says, rushing to the changing room. He leaves no room for elaboration, his gaze steeled over with a certain intensity. Endeavor is left speechless, his pride severely wounded as his own son leaves the building, now wearing normal clothes.

His phone, now opened to a GPS, guides him to the nearest train station. Shoto gets on the first train to Tokyo, his hands feeling clammy as he pats down his shirt, cringing at how wrinkled it is. In his momentary daze, he forgot his outer jacket, leaving his ugly, plain blue shirt bare to the world. 

Once more, Todoroki Shoto finds himself in front of Fujitani Hospital. This time, he has no bouquet of flowers. He only has himself to give.

The staff, although stricter than usual, let him in at a mere glance. Shoto knows of what happened just hours before, of how the paparazzi came and the hospital was in a frenzy. He knows of how his mother’s voice trembled from over the phone, her voice ridden with grief as she describes the flash of lights that engulfed your already weakened state.

His heart aches at the thought of his mother’s expression, of the image of her hands trembling as she holds the phone. If Shoto were there, his mother would never have to be afraid, and those paparazzi would have nothing on her. And you.

When he knocks on the door to his mother’s room, he isn’t surprised when he’s met with no response. Rather, he finds himself in front of your room, but a nurse is quick to redirect them.

“If you’re looking for Kira- san, ” the nurse tells him, “they’ve been moved to another room. Please follow me.”
He nods gratefully, and finds himself walking down unfamiliar halls. He stops in front of a room, much farther away from the others, before thanking the nurse with a ninety-degree bow.

Taking a deep breath, and trying his best to straighten the wrinkles in his shirt, Shoto knocks on your new door. He waits for a few seconds before his mother opens the door, her grey eyes lighting up instantly.

“Shoto,” Rei calls fondly, ushering the boy into the room. She gestures for him to be quiet, her affectionate look morphing into one of concern as she gazes at your sleeping form. Despite how he’s only been out for a couple days, Shoto notices the dryness of your lips and the dark circles under your closed eyes. Even in your sleep, your eyebrows are furrowed, your hands grasping onto anything they can find as beads of sweat trickle down the side of your face. 

“I think they will be returning to Korea soon,” Rei whispers. “This lovely child has been through so much.”

“Korea?” Shoto echoes, his eyes widening slightly. Although you want to become an idol, it has never occurred to Shoto that you’d be one abroad. For some odd reason, he always thought that you wanted to be an idol in Japan. That you’d always be with his mother.

The ache in his heart becomes more profound, and suddenly, Shoto doesn’t know what to make of himself. How is he supposed to help his mother feel happiness, if you’re one of the main sources? How is he supposed to leave the hospital with a sense of security if she’ll be alone once you’re gone?

He observes your frail form with pity, and he wonders if his mother ever looked like that. He wonders if his mother has ever had to bear the pain in this hospital alone, her delicate condition struggling even further with the additional weight of loneliness. 

Shoto quickly dismisses these thoughts. With him, his mother will never have to feel lonely again. Shoto will make sure that his mother will always feel loved, that she is always aware that she is loved, not only by him, but all of his siblings. 

Then, his thoughts come to you. Do you have someone like that? Who loves you, and makes you aware of it? Shoto has never once heard you speak of your own familial or personal relations, rather, you bask in the silence, opting to watch the world rather than take it. 

He wonders if there’s a reason why you’re so desperate to become an idol. He wonders why you’re fighting so hard, why you’re putting yourself through all these struggles.

“One day, [Name] is going to be an idol,” Rei says, a genuine smile carved onto her lips. Shoto notices the way his mother addresses you with utmost adoration and sincerity, and he feels parts of it rubbing off on him.

“Yeah,” Shoto responds.

Everything that Shoto says, he means it with pure and unadulterated faith. He trusts you to become an idol, to truly grasp your destiny. He sees it now: the bright lights, the microphones, the expression on your face. He hears the sound of your voice, the glow of your presence on stage. 

Shoto sees you, in all your glory, living in the midst of your dreams, of what you’ve always wanted.

Shoto sees you, amidst all the flashing lights. 

He sees you on stage, in another country, star-far away from him when you are so close now. Funnily enough, Shoto can’t help but wonder if you’ll remember him by then.

Chapter Text

You’re going to get better. 

You’re going to get better at dancing, at music, at recovering, at dreaming. You’re going to gather all the parts of your ruined body and piece them back together to fix yourself, to live for yourself. 

All you need is time. And a little hope. You have three months to get better, to return to Korea, to train with your group, to—

How am I going to get better? you think, fingers curling around the bedsheets, the stinging scent of antiseptic slicing through the air. How am I going to get better? 

There are so many things you want to do and not enough time; you want to return to the stage, you want to feel the rush of the crowd, to hear the chant of your name. You want to run! To dance, to sing, to perform! You want to be an idol, you want and want and want. You have always wanted. 

Someone knocks on the door once, twice, thrice. 

“Come in,” you say, wincing at the sound of your own voice, the hoarseness which, really, is unfitting for a trainee. It’s a nurse. 

She looks at you kindly before offering you a hand, her lips forming a wobbly line as she tells you, voice barely above a whisper, “Kira -san . It’s time for physical therapy.” 

You want to cry. There’s a lump in your throat that cannot be swallowed, and a glossiness to your eyes that feel as if you’re looking at the world through a glass pane, impenetrable. You want to cry. 

But you take her hand and you leave this forsaken bed, the piercing scent of antiseptic, hobbling out of your room, cursing your legs, aching in your arms. You want to run! To dance, to sing, to—

“Kira,” a familiar voice calls. You don’t glance over your shoulder—you can’t, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—but you can recognize the timbre, the low tone, the smoothness which you wish could be yours. You want to sing. You want to return to the studio, the stage, the practice. You don’t glance over your shoulder, but you don’t need to. A figure appears in your glassy vision. Shoto. 

“Todoroki,” you respond, unable to contain the cough which follows thereafter, the way your back hunches involuntarily, the nurse beside you having to hold you upright before you collapse in on yourself. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. But nothing can compare to the spasm of your chest, the weeping of your heart. It hurts. 

“Kira,” Shoto calls, again. “Are you alright?” 

Slouched forward, you spare Shoto an incredulous glance, having it in you to force a weak, exasperated smile, one brow raised as you remark, plainly, “Do I look alright?” 

“No,” he says, quicker than you’d like him to. 

“Get out.” 

“Okay.” Shoto steps aside, watching you wobble forward, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapped around the nurse’s shoulder. Despite accepting your command, Shoto doesn’t leave. He just stands there, menacingly, lips drawn into a thin line, brows slightly furrowed as he watches you stumble to and fro. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, head tilted slightly to the side. 

“The beach,” you respond, coughing again, ignoring the look of disbelief from the nurse. “Malaysia, I think. It’d be nice.” 

“What?” Shoto responds dumbly. “You have a flight?” 

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging casually. “It’s boarding in thirty minutes.” 

“You won’t make it,” Shoto states plainly. 

“Kira- san is going to physical therapy,” the nurse finally says, exasperated. Shoto just blinks. 

“Oh.” 

You’re learning how to walk. It’s more difficult than how you remember: the rhythmic movement of your steps, the rise of one leg for the sake of another, the shifting of your weight, forcing you forward. You’re learning how to walk. But you’re also learning how to live, how to stand, how to breathe. 

“Would you like to take a break now, Kira- san?” the therapist asks, one hand outstretched to steady your balance. You shake your head. 

“No.” 

You walk. One step, two steps, three steps. You’re walking. One step, two steps, three steps. You cross the room; you walk! It hurts, but you walked. 

“This is good progress,” the therapist says, feeling the muscles of your legs, the tenseness which comes with bedrest. “At this rate, you’ll be back to full mobility in four weeks.” 

Your heart twists. “Four weeks?” 

The therapist offers you a pained smile. “Four weeks. But that is quicker than most, Kira- san. Four weeks from bedrest to full mobility is no joke.” 

You have three months to debut. You have three months to return to get better, to return to Korea, to—

“Alright,” you say, unable to contain the furrow of your brows, the bottom lip which gets caught in between your teeth, gnawed. “Alright, thank you.” 

You walk, albeit slowly, out of the office, your gaze fixated on your feet, measuring the pace of your steps. 

“Kira.” 

You look up, and there he is: the boy with a mismatched existence, hair made of red and white, eyes made of blue and grey. He stares at you with an unreadable look, the redness of his scar glowing under the hospital lights, pale skin illuminated with an iridescent glow. You hope he never becomes an idol. 

“Todoroki,” you reply, your hand outstretched, palm meeting the nearest wall, your weight leaning into it. Shoto notices this. He also notices the way you’re walking alone, without any nurse to support you. 

“You’re walking,” he states simply. 

“I’m walking,” you affirm. 

“Physical therapy,” Shoto remarks. 

“Physical therapy,” you remark back. 

Satisfied with his communication skills—and yours, too—Shoto falls into place next to you, matching the slow pace of your steps, joining your eyes in fixating on your pace, the measured distance, the time you take to steady your heel. 

“You’re walking,” he states again, gaze never tearing from the ground. 

“Todoroki, are you lacking in companionship?” 

He just blinks, brows furrowed slightly as he mulls over the question, his eyes tearing from the ground in order to capture the side of your face, the bridge of your nose, the curl of your lips. Your bottom lip is jutted out slightly—chewed on, Shoto notices—your expression scrunched as you focus wholly on your feet.

“No,” Shoto responds, after much thought, “I’m not.” 

“Oh. You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Name one of your companions.” 

“Midoriya Izuku,” Shoto responds, giving you the whole government name. “He has green hair, and he was one of my opponents at the U.A. Sports Festival, the annual event which—”

“Okay, that’s enough. Thank you, Todoroki. I believe you.” 

“Okay.” 

Shoto follows you to your room, saying nothing as you stumble over to your bed, diving into the mattress as you heave wildly, exhausted from the long trek back. Despite having no invitation, Shoto finds his seat at your desk, arm resting on the back of the chair as he turns to face you, blank-faced and all. 

“Why’re you still here?” you ask, incredulous. 

“I have time,” Shoto responds simply. 

“Did you visit your mom?” 

“I visited her earlier.” 

“For how long?” 

“Two hours.” 

You blink. “Woah, that’s a lot of time.” 

At the mention of his mother, a subtle smile captures Shoto’s face, tugging at the thin line which his lips are usually strewn into. 

Shoto always becomes unlike himself—or, maybe, he becomes himself—whenever you mention Rei; his expressions soften, the defined lines stretching to give way to comfort, the faraway look in his eyes becoming prominent, his mind lost in memories which you’ve never bothered to uncover. Peace, you think. He’s peaceful when he thinks of Rei. 

You wonder what it’s like—your gaze, instinctively, trails out the window, the world which passes by your very eyes—to be so fulfilled. To be satisfied with your efforts, to make peace with the world which escapes you. You wonder. 

Your gaze returns to Shoto and there it is, you think. The boy made of wonder. He smiles and there it is, you think. Wonder.

“It is not as much time as I’d like,” Shoto says truthfully, gaze meeting yours. You stare at him, unfazed. He stares back. 

“Why don’t you go back to visit her, then?” 

“She told me to visit you.” 

“Oh.” 

“She said you were stressed.” 

“Oh.”

“Are you stressed, Kira?” 

You laugh, pausing only to clutch at your stomach, fingers grazing over the skin which encases your ribs, your chuckles turning into coughs. Shoto stands up, quick to hand you a glass of water, expression knitted with concern. 

“Are you alright, Kira?” 

“I’m fine,” you say, your fisted hand coming to bump lightly against your ribs. “That hurt.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shoto responds blandly, handing you the glass. 

“Huh? What for?” 

“For making you laugh. I won’t do it again.” 

Much to Shoto’s chagrin, you laugh. He stares at you, concerned, as you clutch your stomach, gasping in between every chuckle, continuing to do so even though it hurts you. You should stop that, Shoto thinks. You should stop laughing. 

(But you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Because when you laugh, your eyes crinkle, and your lips curl upwards, and your expression stretches to accompany the joy, irrevocable. Because when you laugh, Shoto can make out your teeth, the sharpness of your canines, the sound of your voice, like a wild tune, staying with him still, long after the sound is gone. Echoing.) 

“Hey, Todoroki,” you finally say, wiping at a tear which forms at the corner of your eye. “Why do you want to be a hero?” 

He sits back down. “It all started when I first got my Quirk. You see, Endeavor is my old man, and—”

Todoroki Shoto, contrary to popular belief, is a yapper. He’s a yapper the moment you mention the word “hero,” and when he gets the opportunity to tell you all about his past. Still, you listen. He tells you about a world you know nothing about and you listen. 

This way, the world doesn’t escape you. Heroism, U.A., all of it—for this brief moment, with Shoto sitting across from you, legs pivoted to the side while his gaze fixates on you—this world is yours. Shoto tells you about the internship he’s on right now, (“Then, why are you here?” you had asked, only for him to respond with, “I’m off hours.”) and the way he’s learning to use his left side again. 

“I was unsure of myself,” Shoto explains, glancing down at his palm, tracing over the callouses. “I didn’t know if it was right for me to use my fire. But then I talked to my mother, and she told me it was alright. It’s okay for me to be a hero. I’m not a prisoner of my blood.” 

After giving you an entire movie plot (which, by the way, you’ll be saving for later in case you ever need to enter the film industry!), Shoto glances back up at you, his eyes clear, devouring you within those crystalline waters. 

“And what about you?” Shoto asks. 

“What about me?” you reply, confused. 

“Why do you want to be an idol?” 

You tear your gaze from him, head craning slightly as your fingers tighten around the fabric of your blanket. Shoto notices this. Still, he doesn’t say a word. He just watches you stare out the window, your expression oddly solemn, devoid of any incredulousness or mischief that you usually wear. 

You look like this a lot whenever idols are mentioned, Shoto thinks. Even when you play piano, or when you stumble through the halls, gaze fixated on the floor. You look distant, desperate, even. You look sad and angered all at the same time; Shoto thinks that look is terribly familiar. He had it not too long ago.

“I want to perform,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to be on stage.” 

Shoto just stares at you, offering you the silence for you to occupy, watching your lips part and close, throat bobbing slightly as you swallow your grief, your dream distant. 

“I think idols are really cool,” you mutter. “They do so many things, and they make so many people happy, and,”—you choke up, Shoto says nothing—“I want to do many things, too.”

Heroes and idols aren’t too far apart. They both revel in the public eye, scrutinized by people and followed by spotlights. In their own ways, heroes are idols and idols are heroes.

Shoto stares at you, clear, crystalline, unwavering—he stares at you and he thinks, no, he knows that you will be an idol. Just like how he’s going to be a hero, you’re going to be an idol! You’re going to stand on that stage, you’re going to do all the things you want to do, you’re going to walk and run and dance and sing! 

“‘Cause you know,” you say, eyes suddenly growing wide, unable to contain the grin which tugs at your lips, the way your hands raise to gesture your excitement despite the slight wince of your expression. “Idols, like, they have to do a lot! They have to sing while dancing, and they have to perform a lot, and, and—”

You’re going to be an idol.