Fractured Melody

Sunlight stretched through the empty hallway at UA. Most kids were already in their dorms or out training, but Shoto had hung back after class, trying to avoid the crowd—too many voices, too many people pressing close. He fiddled with the silver chain at his collar, touched the pearl earrings, smoothed the soft lavender cardigan over his shoulders. Makeup was subtle: concealer over the scar that still felt raw, a hint of shimmer on his cheekbones, pale pink gloss on his lips. Not much, but it felt like armor.

The classroom door clicked shut. Silence. He stood by the window for a minute, letting the heat soak through the glass, hands resting on the sill. Let out a small sigh. He'd been jumpy all day—flinching at laughter, trembling when someone brushed past him in the hall. The morning training exercise still prickled at his neck: Bakugo's explosive shouts, Midoriya's worried eyes lingering on him. He hated that. Hated being watched.

A footstep scraped behind him. Shoto turned, heart already racing.

Mineta stood just inside the door, hand hovering over the lock. He grinned—that slimy, knowing grin that made Shoto's stomach twist.

“Hey, Todoroki.” Mineta's voice was low, slippery. “You’re still here. Lucky me.”

Shoto stepped back, shoulders hitting the windowsill. “I was just leaving.”

“Don’t go so fast.” Mineta moved closer, eyes dragging over the cardigan's curve, the line of Shoto's neck, the soft gloss on his lips. “You know, I always thought you were kinda pretty. But today? You look really good. Like… a cute girl.”

Shoto's breath caught. His hand came up, fingers brushing his collarbone. “I'm not a girl.”

“I know, I know. Who cares? Still cute.” Mineta licked his lips. “Come on, don’t be shy. We’re alone, right?”

Shoto tried for the door, but Mineta blocked him. The room felt smaller. Walls closing in. His quirk flickered at the edge—ice on his left, fire on his right—but using it would just bring people. They'd find him cornered, makeup smeared, scared. Then they'd know. They'd know he was weak.

“Don't touch me,” he managed, barely a whisper.

Mineta's hand shot out, grabbed his wrist. Shoto gasped, yanked back, but Mineta's grip was stronger than it looked. He pulled Shoto closer, other hand sliding up his arm, fingers digging into the cardigan's soft fabric.

“Just a little kiss,” Mineta breathed. “You'll like it, I promise.”

Shoto's vision blurred. His whole body trembled, ice freezing his heart solid. Tears spilled over his cheeks, ruining the careful concealer. He couldn't breathe. The room spun. He was back in that house, under that light, a child cowering from a hand that burned too hot. Please, please don't—

The door slammed open.

Mineta was ripped away so fast Shoto stumbled, back hitting the window with a jarring thud. A flash of black and blue, a sickening crack, and Mineta crumpled on the floor, groaning, one arm bent at an unnatural angle.

Dabi stood over him, panting, turquoise eyes blazing with a fury that darkened the room. His hands smoked, staples along his jaw glinting. He looked from Mineta to Shoto, and something in his expression shifted—from cold rage to something almost vulnerable.

“Shoto,” he breathed.

Shoto didn't ask how Dabi knew his name. Didn't ask why a villain was at UA. He just slid down the wall, legs giving out, and pressed his face into his knees, sobbing.

Dabi crouched in front of him. His hand hovered, hesitated, then settled on Shoto's hair—featherlight, trembling. “It's okay. You're okay. I've got you.”

He stayed there, solid presence, until Shoto's cries quieted into hiccups. When Shoto finally lifted his head, Dabi was staring at Mineta's unconscious form with cold, distant hate.

“He's a student,” Shoto whispered, voice raw.

“He's trash.” Dabi looked back at him, rage softening into something almost tender. “Endeavor should've raised you better. Should've taught you to fight back. But he didn't, did he? I don't think he cares about his 'masterpiece' at all.”

Shoto flinched. Masterpiece. That's what Endeavor called him, when he bothered. A tool. A test subject. Not a son.

“You can't be here,” Shoto said, but he didn't push Dabi away. “They'll find you.”

Dabi smiled, dark and crooked. “Let them. I came for you, Shoto. I've been watching.” He stood, offered a hand. “Come with me.”

Shoto stared at the hand. Scars, staples, heat radiating from the palm. The same hand that had nearly killed him once, when Touya lost control. But now it was steady. Gentle.

He didn't take it. Not yet.

But when Dabi left, Shoto felt the absence like a physical ache.

---

Three days later, the world shattered again.

Shoto was walking back from the library, evening air cool on his cheeks, when a fine dust swirled in front of him. He coughed, blinked, and then the world crumbled—the path, the trees, the sky—all turning to gray ash. He fell, or was pulled, and then he was somewhere else. Dark. Damp. The smell of decay.

Shigaraki Tomura stood over him, head tilted, crusted hands twitching at his throat.

“Huh,” Shigaraki said, like examining a curious insect. “So this is the one Dabi's been fussing over. You don't look like much.”

Shoto tried to rise, but his limbs felt heavy. He was lying on cold concrete, stones biting into his back. His quirk sparked, but fear had already gripped him, freezing fire and ice alike.

“What do you want?” he managed.

“Want?” Shigaraki crouched down, red eyes boring into Shoto's mismatched gaze. “I want your father. I want to watch him burn. And you're going to help me.”

He grabbed a handful of Shoto's hair and yanked him upright. Shoto cried out, tears springing, but he didn't struggle. His body had learned long ago that fighting only made it worse.

The next hours blurred. Shoto was tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. Shigaraki stood beside him, phone pressed to his ear, speaker set up on a crate. The line rang. Rang again.

Then a voice, cold and clipped, answered.

“Todoroki.”

Shigaraki grinned. “Your son says hello.”

He shoved the phone toward Shoto. “Talk.”

Shoto's throat was dry. “Father—”

“Shoto.” Endeavor's voice was flat. Unimpressed. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

“They have me,” Shoto said, voice cracking. “The League of Villains. They want to trade me for—for something. Please, I need help.”

A long pause. Shigaraki's grin widened.

“A trade?” Endeavor said slowly. “And what would I gain from that?”

Shoto's heart stopped.

“He's your son,” Shigaraki snapped. “Your masterpiece. Or don't you remember?”

“I remember.” Endeavor's voice hardened. “I remember every failed experiment. Every quirk that didn't meet expectations. Shoto was my last hope, and look at him—weak, emotional, unable to even use his quirk when it matters. He is not worth a single bargaining chip. If you want to kill him, go ahead. It saves me the trouble.”

The line went dead.

Shoto's world collapsed.

He heard a sound, distant and broken, and realized it was himself. Sobbing. Screaming. He pulled against the ropes until they cut into his wrists, but there was no release. His father didn't care. Endeavor had never cared. He was not a son. He was a failure. A waste.

Shigaraki stared at the phone, then at Shoto. His expression shifted from triumph to something else—surprise, maybe, or disgust. He reached down and tilted Shoto's chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“He said that,” Shigaraki murmured. “Right to your face.”

Shoto couldn't speak. The tears kept coming, hot and unending.

Shigaraki's hand fell away. He turned, paced the room, ran his fingers through his pale hair. “I thought… I thought even Endeavor would care about his blood. But he's just another monster.” He stopped, looked back at Shoto. “You really are worth nothing to him.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Shoto curled in on himself, ropes digging into his skin, and let the darkness swallow him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer tied to a chair.

He was lying on a worn couch, thin blanket draped over him. The room was small, cluttered with old manga and empty cups, air thick with dust and ashes. A fire flickered in a rusted barrel in the corner.

Shigaraki sat on the floor across from him, watching.

“Why am I here?” Shoto whispered.

“Because I decided not to kill you.” Shigaraki's voice was flat, but his eyes—those red, bloodshot eyes—held something unfamiliar. Curiosity, maybe. Even pity. “You're more useful alive. And… honestly, I couldn't stand the thought of giving him what he wanted.”

Shoto pushed himself up, body aching. “Where's Dabi?”

“Out. He doesn't know I took you.” Shigaraki's lips twitched. “He'll probably be angry. But he'll get over it.”

A door creaked open, heavy footsteps. Dabi strode in, coat smoking, face a mask of fury.

“Tomura,” he growled. “What the hell did you do?”

“I rescued your little bird,” Shigaraki said lazily. “From his own father's rejection. You should thank me.”

Dabi's gaze fell on Shoto, and the anger dissolved. He crossed the room in three long strides, knelt beside the couch, and cupped Shoto's face with a trembling hand.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Shoto shook his head, fresh tears spilling. “He didn't. He just… showed me the truth.”

Dabi's jaw tightened. He turned to Shigaraki, a silent conversation passing between them. Then he sat on the edge of the couch, pulled Shoto into his arms, and held him as he wept.

“You're not alone anymore,” Dabi whispered. “I'll never let anyone hurt you again. Not him. Not anyone.”

Shoto clung to him, breathing in smoke and ash, and felt something crack inside his chest. Something old, something frozen, beginning to thaw.

---

Days passed. Then weeks.

The League's hideout became Shoto's new home. Nothing like UA—dirty, chaotic, smelling of decay and desperation. But it was safe. No one stared. No one mocked his makeup or his fear. They accepted him, scars and all.

Shigaraki was an odd puzzle. He kept his distance at first, watching Shoto from across the room, fingers twitching. But slowly, he began to approach. He'd sit beside Shoto during meals, not speaking, just present. One evening, when Shoto flinched at a loud noise—someone dropping a glass—Shigaraki's hand moved to cover his own, steadying him.

“You're jumpy,” Shigaraki murmured.

“I'm always jumpy,” Shoto replied, voice small.

“Then I'll be quieter.”

And he was. He softened his footsteps, lowered his voice, even asked the others to keep the noise down when Shoto was around. No one questioned him. They seemed to instinctively understand that this fragile, broken boy was now under their protection.

Dabi was the fiercest. He stayed close, always hovering, his hand often on Shoto's shoulder or back. He taught Shoto how to use his quirk without hesitation, drilling him in combat until the fear of fire and ice began to fade. But he also taught him how to laugh—how to find joy in small things, like stealing fresh bread from a bakery or painting his nails in the dark of the hideout.

“You're more than Endeavor ever made you,” Dabi told him one night, their fingers tangled together—Dabi's scarred, Shoto's smooth. “You're Touya's brother. My brother. And we don't abandon family.”

Shoto looked at him, at the scars that matched his own in a different way, and felt warmth bloom in his chest. “I never had a brother before.”

“Now you do.”

The night Shigaraki kissed him, it was soft and unexpected.

They were sitting on the roof of the hideout, watching the stars struggle to shine through the city's haze. Shigaraki had been quiet all evening, but his hand had found Shoto's, fingers interlaced. When Shoto turned to look at him, Shigaraki leaned in, lips brushing Shoto's forehead first, then his cheek, then his mouth.

A gentle kiss, tentative, as if Shigaraki was afraid of breaking him. Shoto's eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned into it, into the warmth of another person's care.

“Why?” Shoto whispered when they parted.

Shigaraki's eyes were dark, unreadable. “Because I see you. I see all the pain, all the scars. And I don't want to break you. I want to hold you together.”

Shoto's breath hitched. He reached up, fingers brushing Shigaraki's jaw, where dry, cracked skin met pale. “You're broken too.”

“I know.” Shigaraki smiled—a real smile, small and fragile. “But maybe we can be broken together.”

Shoto kissed him again, and this time it was fiercer, a promise sealed in the dark.

---

Winter came, and with it, the final step.

Shoto stood in front of a mirror in the hideout, staring at his reflection. Makeup was still there, carefully applied. But the accessories had changed—a silver chain now held a small, jagged shard of ice, a gift from Dabi. A black choker hid the bruises that occasionally bloomed on his throat from nightmares. His hair was longer, falling past his shoulders, and the red and white blended into something softer.

He no longer hid his scar. He'd stopped covering it weeks ago. It was a part of him, like all the other parts, and he was tired of pretending otherwise.

“Ready?” Shigaraki's voice came from the doorway.

Shoto turned. Shigaraki stood there, his usual tattered coat replaced with a clean black jacket. Dabi leaned against the wall beside him, a smirk on his face.

“Ready,” Shoto said.

They walked out together, three broken people moving toward the light of a new dawn. Shoto didn't know what awaited him—revenge, maybe, or simply a life free from his father's shadow. But for the first time, he wasn't afraid.

He was strong. He was loved. And he would never be alone again.