Frost and Decay

Shoto Todoroki’s patrol had become a ritual of anticipation. The streets of Musutafu blurred beneath his feet as ice and fire carried him through the city’s veins, but his mind was always elsewhere—on a derelict warehouse in the industrial district, or a shadowed alley where decay whispered against brick. He knew he should report the encounters, should tell his father or the police that the leader of the Paranormal Liberation Front was playing cat-and-mouse with a pro hero. But every time he opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat, tangled with the memory of cool, dry fingers tracing his jaw.

It had started three months ago. A routine interception gone sideways had left Shoto pinned against a wall, his left side flaring ice uselessly as Tomura Shigaraki’s four-fingered grip circled his wrist. The villain had leaned close, rotting breath ghosting over his cheek, and said, “You’re much prettier up close, little Todoroki. No wonder you’re the face of the hero course.” The absurdity of the compliment had startled Shoto more than any attack, and in that moment of confusion, Shigaraki had disappeared, leaving behind a faint scent of ozone and a seed of disquiet in Shoto’s chest.

Now, their meetings had become a secret dance. Shigaraki would appear at the edges of Shoto’s patrol routes, always alone, always with that same infuriating smirk. He’d lean against a wall, his long pale hair framing his scarred face, and talk—about the weather, about heroes, about how Shoto’s mismatched eyes reminded him of a winter sunset. Shoto would stand rigid, his training screaming at him to fight or flee, but his feet refused to move. The villain’s voice was hypnotic, a low rasp that stripped away the layers of duty and resentment until Shoto felt terrifyingly seen.

Tonight, the moon was a sliver of bone, and Shoto found himself on the rooftop of an abandoned shopping center, the same place Shigaraki had hinted at during their last conversation. He told himself it was to gather intelligence. He was lying.

“You’re early.” The voice came from behind him, and Shoto spun, flames licking at his left fingers before he forced them down. Shigaraki stood three feet away, hands in the pockets of his dark coat. He tilted his head, the hood shadowing his eyes. “Eager, are we?”

Shoto’s throat tightened. “I’m here to stop you from whatever you’re planning.”

“Planning? I’m just enjoying the view.” Shigaraki stepped closer, and Shoto’s muscles coiled, but he didn’t back away. The villain’s fingers, missing their destructive fifth, floated up to Shoto’s chin, lifting it gently. “You’ve been wearing makeup. That shimmer on your skin… it suits you. Makes your scar look like starlight on snow.”

Heat flooded Shoto’s face. He hadn’t meant for anyone to notice the subtle highlighter he’d started applying, the way he’d chosen a new hero uniform that bared more of his legs and left a slit down the front of his blue collar. He’d told himself it was tactical—easier movement, better temperature regulation—but the truth was a shiver of rebellion that pulsed whenever he thought of Shigaraki’s eyes on him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shoto said, but his voice cracked.

Shigaraki laughed softly. “Liar.” His thumb brushed the corner of Shoto’s mouth. “You’ve been leaving little gifts for me, haven’t you? Those love bites you let me put on your neck last week… you could’ve healed them. But you didn’t.”

Shoto’s hand flew to his collar, where the faint purple bruises were hidden by the high neck of his uniform. He had healed the worst of them, but the imprint lingered, a secret brand. “I—”

“You want this,” Shigaraki murmured, and his lips hovered just above Shoto’s. “You want me. Admit it.”

A tremor ran through Shoto’s body. This was wrong. This was the villain who wanted to destroy everything his family stood for. But the warmth spreading through his chest felt dangerously like hope, and when Shigaraki’s mouth finally met his, cold and surprisingly gentle, Shoto’s eyes closed on their own accord.

The kiss tasted like rust and something sweet—candy, maybe, or bubblegum, a childish contrast to the man’s destructive quirk. Shoto’s hands, frozen at his sides, slowly lifted to grip the front of Shigaraki’s coat. For a long, breathless moment, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.

Then a voice ripped through the night.

“Get the hell away from him!”

Blue flames erupted between them, and Shoto was yanked backward by a searing grip on his arm. Dabi—no, Touya—stood like an avenging angel of azure fire, his staples glinting and his expression murderous. Shigaraki barely flinched, stepping back with infuriating calm as the flames died.

“Touya, wait,” Shoto started, but his brother rounded on him.

“Shut up.” Touya’s voice was a snarl that cut deeper than any burn. He thrust Shoto behind him and faced Shigaraki. “I told you to stay away from him. He’s not one of your toys.”

Shigaraki spread his hands, the picture of innocence. “I’m not playing, Dabi. I genuinely like your little brother. Can’t you see he likes me back?”

“Like hell he does!” Touya’s flames crackled again. “Shoto’s been confused and vulnerable since the war, and you’re taking advantage of that. He’s the Todoroki princess, and I won’t let you treat him like some cheap whore you can use and discard.”

The crude words made Shoto flinch. He’d never heard such venom from Touya directed at something about him. “Touya, I’m not—”

“Shoto, go home,” Touya ordered, not looking at him. “Now.”

Shoto opened his mouth to protest, but the look in his brother’s eyes—fear, wrapped in fury—stopped him. He’d seen that look before, on the nights when their father’s training had been too much and Touya would sneak him extra ice packs. With a suffocating sense of shame, Shoto turned and fled, leaving his brother and the villain facing each other in the moonlight.

“You’re a fool if you think this ends here,” Shigaraki called after him, and his laugh followed Shoto down the fire escape.

---

The Todoroki household was ice-cold when Shoto crept through the back entrance. Not the physical cold of his quirk, but the emotional freeze that had settled over the estate since Endeavor’s public disgrace. Fuyumi was in the kitchen, her gentle hands kneading dough, but her eyes held worry when she saw him.

“Shoto, you’re back late. Are you hurt?” She reached for his collar, and he flinched, too late. Her fingers found the edge of a bruise. “What’s this?”

“Training accident,” he lied, pulling away.

Fuyumi’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t believe him, but she was too conflict-averse to push. “Touya was looking for you earlier. He seemed… agitated.”

Natsuo appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Agitated? He was ready to burn the house down. Said something about a villain sniffing around Shoto.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, little brother?”

Shoto’s stomach churned. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Natsuo said, his voice hard but not unkind. “You’ve been weird for weeks. New costume, makeup, coming home with marks on your neck. If some creep is bothering you, we need to know.”

“It’s not a creep!” The words burst out before Shoto could stop them. “He’s… it’s complicated.”

Natsuo’s expression darkened. “He? Who is he?”

Before Shoto could answer, the front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the windows. Endeavor strode in, his massive frame filling the entryway, and in his hand was a tablet screen glowing with security footage. The image, frozen, showed Shoto and Shigaraki on that rooftop, locked in their kiss.

“My office. Now.” Endeavor’s voice was a thunderclap.

Shoto felt the blood drain from his face. He followed mechanically, aware of Fuyumi’s gasp and Natsuo’s whispered curse. Touya appeared from the shadows of the hallway, his burns still faintly smoking, and fell into step beside him.

“I’ll kill him,” Touya muttered. “I’ll kill that decayed bastard for dragging you into this.”

“It’s not his fault,” Shoto whispered back, but Touya’s glare silenced him.

The office was a monument to Endeavor’s fallen reign. The man himself stood behind his desk, shoulders rigid with barely contained rage. “Explain this,” he demanded, pointing at the screen.

Shoto stared at the floor. “I can’t.”

“You are a pro hero. You are my son. And you are fraternizing with the most dangerous villain in Japan.” Each word was a lash. “Do you understand the disgrace this brings? The danger?”

“It’s not fraternizing,” Shoto said, though his voice was weak. “He’s… I don’t know what it is.”

Endeavor’s fist slammed the desk. “You are confined to this house. Your patrol duties are suspended indefinitely. You will train in the private gym until you come to your senses, and you will have no contact with the outside world. Am I clear?”

“You can’t do that,” Shoto breathed, but the words died under his father’s glare.

“He’s not a child anymore,” Touya spoke up, his tone sharp. “Locking him up won’t fix anything. It never did for us.”

Endeavor turned his fury on his eldest. “You knew about this?”

“I suspected,” Touya said flatly. “And I’m handling it my way. But your way—” he gestured around the office, “—is exactly what drove us all apart in the first place.”

A tense silence fell. Shoto’s heart hammered, and he felt tears prick at his eyes—tears he’d sworn never to shed again. He turned and fled the room, up the stairs to his bedroom, and slammed the door. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

---

For three days, Shoto was a ghost in his own home. He refused meals, ignored the soft knocks from Fuyumi and the gruff offers of conversation from Natsuo. His father’s orders were absolute; the house security systems alerted if he so much as opened a window. He was a prisoner.

On the fourth night, Touya slipped into his room. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I brought you some soba,” he said, holding out a bowl.

Shoto didn’t take it. “Why are you being nice? You hate this as much as he does.”

Touya set the bowl on the nightstand. “I don’t hate you. I hate that decay freak for putting you in this position. And I hate Dad for making it worse.” He ran a scarred hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve known Shigaraki for years. He’s a manipulative, destructive piece of work. But…” He paused, and his voice dropped. “I’ve also seen him when he’s not performing for the League. He’s damaged, Shoto. Like us. And I think… I think his feelings for you might be real. He’s never been this persistent about anyone.”

Shoto’s head lifted. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t trust him. But I trust you.” Touya’s eyes, so like their mother’s, held a painful sincerity. “If you want to see him, I’ll help you get out of this house. But I’ll be watching. One wrong move from him, and I’ll turn him to ash.”

Shoto’s throat tightened with emotion. “Touya…”

“Don’t make it weird.” Touya stood abruptly and walked to the door. “Eat your soba. And tomorrow night, be ready.”

---

True to his word, Touya disabled the security sensors on the east wing at midnight. Shoto slipped out, his heart pounding with terror and exhilaration. He wore his new uniform—the short skirt swishing around his thighs, the deep slit showing a sliver of his stomach, the makeup Touya had surprisingly helped him apply without comment. He felt exposed and powerful.

He found Shigaraki at their usual rooftop, staring at the stars. The villain turned, and his red eyes widened slightly. “You came.”

“I had help,” Shoto admitted.

Shigaraki’s gaze traveled down his body, and a slow smile spread across his scarred lips. “You dressed up for me. You’re braver than I thought, little hero.” He closed the distance, and this time, when he cupped Shoto’s face, all four fingers curled gently around his jaw. “I’ve missed you.”

“My father found out,” Shoto whispered. “He’s locked me in the house. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Then why are you here?” Shigaraki’s thumb traced the scar tissue around Shoto’s left eye.

“Because…” Shoto’s voice faltered. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because when you touch me, I feel like I’m not just a tool or a symbol. I feel real.”

Something shifted in Shigaraki’s expression—a crack in the mask of amusement. “I’m not a good person, Shoto. I’ve killed. I’ve destroyed. I’ll probably do it again.”

“I know.”

“And you still want this?”

In answer, Shoto leaned up and kissed him. This time, it was him initiating, his lips pressing urgently against the villain’s. Shigaraki made a sound—soft, surprised—and then his arms wrapped around Shoto’s waist, pulling him close. The kiss deepened, and Shoto’s hands tangled in the pale hair, feeling the texture of scars along the scalp.

When they broke apart, breathless, Shigaraki rested his forehead against Shoto’s. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Shoto said, and for the first time in days, he smiled.

From the shadows of the adjacent building, Touya watched, blue flames flickering faintly between his fingers. But he didn’t intervene. He saw the way his brother’s shoulders relaxed, the way Shigaraki’s usual mocking smirk had softened into something almost tender. And he remembered all the years of Shoto’s quiet suffering, the emptiness behind those mismatched eyes. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it would end in disaster. But for now, for this one moment, Shoto looked happy.

Touya turned away and melted into the darkness, leaving the improbable couple alone under the stars.

Back at the Todoroki estate, Endeavor would rage, Fuyumi would worry, and Natsuo would lecture. But Touya had learned long ago that some fires couldn’t be extinguished—they could only be directed. And if Shigaraki burned his brother again, well, Touya would be there to return the favor. For now, he’d let the frost and the decay have their fragile, strange peace.