Threads of Silence

The apartment reeked of mildew and old blood. Pale light filtered through a grimy window, catching the dust drifting in the stagnant air. The walls were stained brown in patches, the wallpaper peeling like dead skin. A cheap mattress sat in the corner, sheets tangled and discolored. A broken chair leaned against the wall, its splintered leg sticking out like a fractured bone. The floor was a mess of shattered glass, dried crimson, and scattered trash.

Shoto Todoroki sat on the mattress, back pressed into the corner, knees drawn to his chest. He wore a white dress—simple, cotton, sleeveless—that hit just above his knees. It was stained with old coffee grounds and something darker, rusty brown that had soaked into the hem. His mismatched eyes, once sharp and calculating, were dull, unfocused, fixed on the far wall where a cockroach crawled lazily.

He didn't flinch when the door groaned open.

"Still sulking?"

Shigaraki Tomura stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Dark clothes, hands shoved in his pockets. The air around him crackled with that feral energy—a predator surveying his territory. His red eyes swept the room, landing on Shoto's curled form. A slow, hungry smile spread across his lips.

"I brought food." He held up a convenience store bag. "You should eat."

Shoto said nothing. His voice had become fragile over the past months—used only when necessary, and even then, it came out as a whisper. He'd learned that silence was safer. Words were weapons Shigaraki could twist.

Shigaraki dropped the bag on the floor near the mattress. It landed with a soft thud. The smell of cheap instant ramen wafted up. Shoto's stomach growled, but he didn't move.

"You're so beautiful when you're broken," Shigaraki murmured, crouching down in front of him. He reached out, and Shoto flinched—a barely perceptible jerk of his shoulders. Shigaraki's fingers, all five of them, brushed over Shoto's cheek. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you unless you make me."

The words were a lie. They both knew it.

---

The first ten days with Shigaraki had been a fever dream of passion and escape.

Shoto met him six months ago, in a narrow alley behind a convenience store. He'd been fifteen, suffocating under his father's shadow, drowning in the cold silence of the Todoroki household. His mother was in a hospital she didn't need to be in. His siblings were ghosts who passed in the hall. And Endeavor—Endeavor was a relentless forge, hammering Shoto into a perfect weapon.

Shigaraki had been a revelation. He talked about destruction, about freedom, about burning down the world that had burned them. He looked at Shoto not as a project or a tool, but as a kindred spirit. His hands were dangerous, but his words were more so—they carved a path through Shoto's carefully constructed walls and found the screaming child underneath.

"You don't have to be a hero," Shigaraki had said, his red eyes gleaming under the flickering streetlamp. "You don't have to be anything. You can just be."

And Shoto, desperate to be anything other than his father's creation, fell.

He left UA six months into his first year. No note, no explanation. He just disappeared into the night, into Shigaraki's arms. At first, it was wonderful. They spent hours talking about nothing and everything. Shigaraki held him gently, kissed his forehead, whispered promises of a world where they'd be together, untouchable.

Then the arguments started. Small things—Shoto forgetting to buy the right brand of cigarettes, Shigaraki's irritation at a misplaced book. The first slap came two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Shigaraki was drunk, his face twisted in a way that reminded Shoto of Endeavor. The second slap hit harder. The third came with a fist.

Shoto didn't cry. He'd learned not to.

But Shigaraki's cruelty was different from Endeavor's. His father's abuse had been cold, mechanical, a means to an end. Shigaraki's was intimate. He'd hit Shoto, then cradle him, whispering apologies and promises. He'd pull his hair until Shoto screamed, then kiss the tears away. He'd force himself on Shoto in the middle of the night, and in the morning, bring him breakfast in bed.

The cycle was maddening. Shoto clung to the good moments, hoping they'd become permanent. But the bad moments grew longer, more violent. The white dress had been a gift—Shigaraki's idea of romance. "You look like a bride," he'd said, smiling. Shoto wore it to please him. Now it was a shroud.

---

Four months. That's how long Endeavor had been searching.

The day Shoto vanished, Endeavor had stormed into UA, demanding answers. The teachers could offer none. The police opened a missing person case. Fuyumi cried. Natsuo cursed his father's name. Touya—Dabi, as he now called himself—appeared at the Todoroki estate three days later, his scars vivid in the harsh light.

"I know where he might be," Dabi said, his voice flat. "He's with Shigaraki. The League of Villains."

Endeavor wanted to shout, to burn, to tear apart the world until he found his son. But he had no leads. The League operated in shadows, and Shigaraki had no known addresses. So Endeavor did what he'd never done before—he asked for help. Dabi, using his underworld contacts, started tracing the villain's movements. Natsuo, fueled by guilt and rage, drove through every seedy district in the city. Fuyumi stayed home, answering the phone, hoping for a call.

For four months, they found nothing. Then a tip came from a burned-out drug dealer in Kamino Ward. He'd seen a man with pale hands and a collar of severed appendages enter a rundown building near the edge of the district.

Endeavor drove through the night, Dabi in the passenger seat, Natsuo in the back. The car was thick with silence. No one spoke. They didn't need to. The anger and the dread were loud enough.

---

The apartment door splintered under Endeavor's kick.

It flew open, slamming against the wall. The scene that greeted him would be seared into his memory for the rest of his life.

Shoto was on the floor, crumpled against the base of the mattress. His white dress was ruined—torn at the collar, dark stains blooming across the fabric. His lip split, blood dripping down his chin. One eye was swollen shut. His hair, that perfect split of red and white, was matted and tangled. He was trembling, arms wrapped around himself.

And Shigaraki stood over him, hand raised, fingers splayed, ready to strike.

"Don't you dare touch him again."

Dabi moved first. Flames erupted from his palms as he lunged forward, slamming into Shigaraki with the force of a freight train. They crashed into the wall, plaster cracking under the impact. Dabi's hand wrapped around Shigaraki's throat, blue fire licking at his skin.

"You fucking monster," Dabi snarled. "I'm going to kill you."

Shigaraki laughed, a rasping, dry sound. "He came to me willingly. He loved me. He still does."

Natsuo was already at Shoto's side, dropping to his knees, hands hovering over his brother's trembling form. "Shoto. Shoto, it's me. It's Natsuo. I'm here. You're safe."

Shoto didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on some point far away, unfocused, lost. His body shook with silent sobs, each breath a ragged, hitching thing.

Endeavor stepped forward, his massive frame blocking the dim light. His flames were restrained, banked down to a low, simmering heat. He'd seen Shoto injured before—during training, during battles. He'd inflicted some of those injuries himself. But this was different. This wasn't the bruise of a sparring match or the exhaustion of endurance. This was the brokenness of a person who'd been systematically dismantled.

He knelt down on Shoto's other side, his rough voice barely above a whisper. "Shoto."

Shoto's gaze slowly, painfully, focused. He looked at Endeavor—at the scarred face, the burning eyes, the familiar lines of his father's jaw. For a moment, there was only silence. Then a sound escaped Shoto's throat, a word he hadn't used since he was a child.

"Daddy…"

The word broke something in Endeavor. His chest tightened, his eyes burned. He reached out with trembling hands, cradling his son's ruined face. "I'm here. I'm here now. I've got you."

Shigaraki struggled against Dabi's grip, but Natsuo rose and delivered a brutal kick to his ribs. Shigaraki crumpled, gasping. Dabi pulled him up by his collar, slamming him against the wall again.

"You're done," Dabi hissed. "You're never going to touch him again."

Endeavor lifted Shoto into his arms, the boy limp and light, as if he'd been hollowed out. The white dress was cold and damp against Endeavor's hands. He carried Shoto out of the apartment, past the shattered door, down the narrow, graffiti-covered stairs, into the cool night air.

Behind them, the sounds of a struggle continued. Then a single gunshot—the police, arriving on Dabi's call. Shigaraki's scream was cut short.

Endeavor didn't look back.

---

The hospital room was white and sterile. The machines beeped softly, a steady, reassuring rhythm. Shoto lay in the bed, bandages wrapped around his wrists, his chest, his jaw. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. He'd been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, refusing to speak.

Endeavor sat in a chair beside the bed, his massive hands clasped in his lap. He hadn't moved in three hours. Natsuo stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the rain streak down the glass. Dabi was outside, pacing the hallway, his flames flickering in agitation.

The doctor had listed the injuries: multiple fractures, healed in various stages. Malnutrition. Dehydration. Internal bruising. Signs of repeated sexual assault. The words landed like a blow to each of them.

Endeavor remembered, with sickening clarity, the day he'd first raised his hand to his own wife. He remembered the way she flinched, the way she looked at him with terror and love and hatred all at once. He remembered the sound of her crying in the kitchen after he'd thrown her against the wall.

And he saw that same look in Shoto's eyes now.

"He's been trained," Endeavor said, his voice hoarse. "Trained to expect pain as love."

Natsuo turned from the window, his jaw tight. "Just like Mom."

The words hung in the air. Endeavor had no response. He deserved no absolution.

The first time Shoto spoke was on the third day. He was sitting up, a tray of untouched food in front of him. Fuyumi had come to visit, trying to coax him to eat. He'd been staring at the wall, unresponsive. Then, in a voice so small it barely carried, he said:

"He told me he loved me."

Fuyumi's hand froze on his arm. "Shoto…"

"He said I was special. That I was the only one who understood him." Shoto's eyes remained fixed on the wall. "I believed him. I wanted to believe him."

Endeavor stepped forward, his hand reaching out, then stopping. "Shoto, it's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

Slowly, painfully, Shoto turned to look at his father. His mismatched eyes—the same eyes that had stared at Endeavor with cold defiance for years—were filled with tears. "Why did you let me leave, Dad? Why didn't you stop me?"

The question was a knife, twisting in Endeavor's chest. He had no answer. He'd been so focused on training Shoto, on molding him into the perfect hero, that he'd ignored the cracks forming in his son's soul. He'd seen Shoto's growing distance, his increasing silence, and had chalked it up to teenage rebellion. He hadn't noticed the way Shoto flinched when he entered the room. He hadn't noticed the way Shoto avoided his gaze.

He'd been too busy building a weapon to see that the weapon was breaking.

"I'm sorry," Endeavor whispered. The words were inadequate, useless. But they were all he had. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I didn't see. I'm sorry for everything I did to you, to your mother, to this family. I'm sorry."

Shoto stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took his father's hand. His fingers were cold, trembling. But the grip was real.

"I don't forgive you yet," Shoto said. "But I think I want to."

---

The months that followed were slow and agonizing. Recovery wasn't a straight line; it was a labyrinth of setbacks and breakthroughs. There were nights when Shoto woke screaming, gasping for air, convinced he could still feel Shigaraki's hands on him. There were mornings when he couldn't bear to look in the mirror, seeing the bruises that had faded into yellow and green, the memory of the white dress still vivid.

Therapy helped. A woman with kind eyes and a patient voice helped him untangle the knots of trauma and dependency. She asked questions that were hard, that made him cry, that made him angry. But slowly, she helped him understand that what he'd felt for Shigaraki wasn't love—it was need. The desperate need to be seen, to be wanted, to be free from one cage only to be trapped in another.

Endeavor visited every day. He brought flowers, then books, then quiet companionship. He sat beside Shoto in silence, letting him set the pace. He never reached out without permission. He never raised his voice. He learned to listen.

Dabi came twice a week. He never said much, but he'd sit on the windowsill, flicking a lighter open and closed. On one visit, he pulled back his sleeve and showed Shoto the scars that covered his arms.

"I know what it's like to feel like you deserve it," Dabi said, his voice flat. "But you don't. Nobody does."

Natsuo became Shoto's anchor. He took him for walks in the hospital garden, talked about useless things—movies, music, the best vending machine snacks. He made Shoto laugh for the first time in months, a small, fragile sound that made everyone in the room stop and smile.

Fuyumi knitted. She made a blanket, soft and gray, and draped it over Shoto's shoulders. "It's okay to be cold," she said. "But you don't have to stay cold. We're here."

---

One evening, six months after the rescue, Shoto sat in his room at the family estate. It was his room, but it had been redecorated. The walls were warm cream, the bed soft, the curtains letting in light. Endeavor had asked him what color he wanted, and Shoto said "blue." Not the cold, icy blue of his mother's quirk, but the deep, calm blue of the ocean at twilight.

He was looking at a photograph. An old one, from his childhood—his mother holding him, his siblings gathered around, a rare moment of peace before everything fell apart. He traced his mother's face with his finger. She was still in the hospital, but she was getting better. They were all getting better.

A knock on the door. Endeavor's voice, soft. "Shoto? Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

Endeavor entered, carrying a steaming mug of tea. He set it on the nightstand, then sat in the chair by the window, the same chair he'd sat in every night for the past six months. He didn't speak right away; he'd learned that silence was sometimes the best gift.

"I wrote a letter," Shoto said, not looking up. "To Mom. Haven't sent it yet."

"Do you want me to give it to her?"

Shoto hesitated, then nodded. "I think so."

Endeavor stood and walked over, his footsteps heavy but careful. He knelt beside the chair, bringing himself to eye level with his son. "I'm proud of you, Shoto. Not because you're strong, or because you're a hero. I'm proud of you for surviving."

Shoto looked up, and for a moment, the ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "It's going to take a while."

"I know." Endeavor's voice was rough. "I'll be here as long as you need me. We all will."

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The apartment was a bad dream now, fading in the light of morning. Shoto leaned back against the pillows, his mother's photograph resting on his chest, and let the warmth of the tea seep through his hands.

He didn't know if he'd ever be whole. He didn't know if the scars would ever stop aching. But for the first time in a long time, he believed that he might be okay.

He was home.