A Beginning Wrapped in Smoke

The apartment smelled like mildew and something sour. Wine had dried in sticky red puddles on the linoleum, mixed with darker stains that had seeped into the cracks. The walls were the color of old bruises—brown patches where water had leaked through the ceiling and nobody ever fixed it. A single bulb hung from a frayed wire, throwing jaundiced light across everything.

Shoto sat with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. The white dress he wore used to be pretty. Soft cotton, lace at the collar. A gift from those early days. Now it was gray at the hem, stained with wine and dirt, torn at the shoulder where rough hands had grabbed him. His hair hung in tangled curtains around his face, white and red strands matted together, unwashed for weeks.

The key turned in the lock.

His body tensed before his mind caught up. That's how it worked now—his flesh remembered what his brain tried to forget. The door swung open, and Shigaraki Tomura stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim hallway light.

"You're still in that dress."

Shoto said nothing. He'd learned silence was safer than speech, though neither guaranteed safety.

Shigaraki kicked the door shut behind him. It echoed through the empty apartment. He crossed the room with that loose, predatory walk—the walk of someone who knew they couldn't be challenged. His hand, the one covered in severed hands, the one that disintegrated everything it touched, grabbed a fistful of Shoto's hair and yanked his head back.

"I asked you a question."

Pain radiated across Shoto's scalp. Sharp. Familiar. He'd stopped flinching months ago. "I didn't have anything else to wear."

"That's because you ruined the other ones." Shigaraki's voice was almost fond, like talking to a kid who'd misbehaved. "You're so careless, Shoto. I keep telling you. I keep trying to help you."

He let go and walked to the kitchen area—if a corner with a hot plate and a sink counted as a kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of cheap wine from a cabinet, uncorked it, drank straight from the neck.

Shoto watched him, hollow-eyed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded like Fuyumi whispered this wasn't right. None of this was right. But that voice had gotten quieter over the months, drowned out by Shigaraki's constant reassurances: this was love, this was what devotion looked like, Shoto had been broken long before he came here and Shigaraki was the only one patient enough to put the pieces back together.

"Do you remember what you said to me that first night? You said you felt like you'd been sleeping your whole life. You wanted to wake up."

Shoto remembered. He remembered a lot of things he wished he could forget.

He was fifteen, standing on the rooftop of UA after a training session gone wrong. His father's words still rang in his ears—you're wasting your potential, you're a disappointment, you're nothing but a failed experiment. He stared at the lights of the city and wondered what it would feel like to fall.

Shigaraki had found him there. Or maybe Shigaraki had been looking for him. The League of Villains had eyes everywhere, and a Todoroki—Endeavor's son, the perfect creation—was a target worth watching.

"You look like you're carrying the weight of the world," Shigaraki had said, stepping out of the shadows. "Or maybe just your father's expectations. They feel the same, don't they?"

Shoto didn't run. Didn't call for help. Just stood there, frozen, as this stranger spoke words that felt ripped out of his own chest.

"I know what it's like to be made into something you never asked for. To have someone else's vision carved into your flesh. To wake up every morning wondering if there's anything left of the person you were supposed to be."

That night, Shoto did something he'd never done before. He talked. He told this villain about his mother, the boiling water, the scar that covered half his face. About the training, the cold, the isolation. About how Endeavor looked at him like a tool to be honed, not a son to be loved.

Shigaraki listened. Nodded. And when Shoto finished, tears streaming down his face, Shigaraki reached out and, with infinite gentleness, brushed them away.

"I could show you what freedom looks like," he said. "If you want."

Shoto wanted.

He left UA three days later. No note. No explanation. Just slipped out of his dorm in the middle of the night and walked into Shigaraki's waiting arms.

The first month was a revelation. Shigaraki took him to a nicer apartment—actual furniture, working heat—and treated him like something precious. Cooked for him. Bought him clothes. Held him when he woke up screaming from nightmares about his father. Whispered promises of a future where no one would ever hurt him again.

"I'm going to protect you," Shigaraki said, pressing kisses to Shoto's knuckles. "From everyone. From your father, from the hero society that made you into a weapon, from anyone who ever tries to use you again."

Shoto believed him.

They got married in a dingy courthouse with a judge who didn't ask questions and a witness who smelled like stale cigarettes. Shigaraki bought him the white dress and smiled—actually smiled—when Shoto came out of the bathroom wearing it.

"You're beautiful," Shigaraki said. "You're mine."

The shift was gradual. Almost invisible. Like a pot of water coming to a boil—you don't notice the exact moment it changes, only that suddenly everything's too hot to touch.

Small criticisms at first. You're holding your chopsticks wrong. You talk too much. You don't talk enough. You're wasting food. You're letting yourself go.

Then isolation. Your family doesn't want you. They never did. Your friends were just using you for your quirk. I'm the only one who actually cares.

Then the hands.

First time Shigaraki hit him, Shoto was too shocked to react. They were arguing about something—he couldn't even remember what. Shigaraki had been drinking. Then, without warning, his hand connected with Shoto's cheek. Cracked through the apartment.

"I'm sorry," Shigaraki said immediately, pulling Shoto into his arms. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, you just—you made me so angry, and I couldn't control myself. It won't happen again."

Shoto believed him.

It happened again the next week.

And the week after that.

Now, sitting on the grimy floor of this condemned apartment, Shoto couldn't remember the last day without pain. His body was a roadmap of bruises—purple and yellow and green, layered like sediment. Ribs ached where Shigaraki kicked him three days ago. His wrist was sprained from being twisted behind his back. His split lip kept reopening because Shigaraki liked to press his thumb into it and ask why Shoto was crying, why was he always crying, didn't he know how lucky he was?

"You're the only one who would take me," Shigaraki said last night, voice soft and terrible. "You know that, right? After everything your father did, after the way he raised you, you're damaged goods. No one else wants you. Only me."

Shoto nodded, because what else could he do? Those words burrowed into his chest like parasites, feeding on the small, still-living parts of him. Maybe it was true. Maybe he was too broken to be loved by anyone else. Maybe this was all he deserved.

He'd stopped using his quirk months ago. Shigaraki said it was dangerous, that fire reminded him too much of Endeavor, that ice reminded him too much of Rei. Be normal. Just be Shoto. You don't need to be a weapon anymore.

So Shoto let the fire die. Let the ice melt. Became soft and pliant and helpless, dependent on Shigaraki for everything—food, shelter, touch, approval. Became exactly what Shigaraki wanted.

Now he watched Shigaraki drink, wine staining his lips red. The severed hands on his arm seemed to watch Shoto too, empty fingers reaching out like they wanted to pull him apart.

"Come here."

Shoto pushed himself to his feet. The world swayed—he hadn't eaten in two days. Shigaraki had taken the last of the money for alcohol, saying they could hit a food bank tomorrow, but tomorrow always came and went and the fridge stayed empty.

He walked toward his husband, bare feet cold against the linoleum. Stopped a few feet away, head bowed. The submissive posture he'd learned through bruises and broken bones.

Shigaraki grabbed his chin, forced his head up. Fingers digging into his jaw.

"You're so quiet lately. Like you're not even here."

"I'm here." Shoto's voice was hoarse from disuse.

"Are you?" Shigaraki searched his face, found nothing. "You used to talk to me. Used to tell me things. Now you just sit there like a doll."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix anything." He picked up the wine bottle again, took a long drink, then held it out. "Here. Drink."

Shoto hesitated. He'd never liked alcohol—made him feel fuzzy and slow, and he needed to stay sharp, needed to anticipate the next hit, the next outburst.

The bottle hit the floor. Wine splashed across his dress, soaking the white in red.

"I said drink." Shigaraki's hand was already moving, faster than Shoto could track. Caught him across the face, sent him sprawling backward.

His head cracked against the floor. The world went white, then faded back to the dim yellow bulb. He tasted blood, felt it trickling from his split lip, watched it drip onto the wet fabric of his dress.

He didn't cry. Didn't have the energy.

Shigaraki loomed over him, decay-ridden hand raised. His face twisted—not with anger, but with something that looked almost like hurt.

"Why do you make me do this?" His voice broke. "I don't want to hurt you, Shoto. I love you. But you keep—you keep pushing me. You keep making me angry."

Shoto stared up at him. Some distant part of his mind recognized the pattern. Blame-shifting. Guilt-tripping. How Shigaraki always made it Shoto's fault, always found a reason why the violence was justified.

But the rest of his mind was too tired to fight. Too broken to argue.

"I'm sorry," Shoto said again, because it was the only thing he knew how to say anymore.

Shigaraki's hand came down.

The door exploded inward.

Later, Shoto would piece together what happened through fragments—splinters of wood spinning through the air, the roar of blue flames, bodies colliding. But in that moment, all he registered was the sudden absence of pain, Shigaraki's hand stopping mid-swing as a figure tackled him from the side.

"GET OFF HIM!"

The voice was familiar. So familiar it took Shoto's broken brain a moment to place it.

Dabi stood over Shigaraki, blue flames dancing across his palms. His scarred face was contorted with rage, eyes wild and burning. Behind him, Natsuo was already advancing, fists clenched, his normally gentle face twisted into something terrible.

"Natsuo?" Shoto's voice came out as a croak. He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out, sending him crashing back to the floor.

Someone was screaming. It took him a moment to realize it was Shigaraki, his decay quirk activating, floorboards beneath him starting to crumble. Dabi grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall, blue fire singeing the wallpaper.

"You touch him," Dabi hissed, each word a separate blade, "and I will burn you to ash."

"Natsuo, get him out of here."

The voice was low, controlled, and utterly shattered. Shoto turned his head. There was Endeavor.

His father stood in the doorway, framed by the dim hallway light. He looked different—older, the flames around his head dimmer. His eyes were fixed on Shoto, and what Shoto saw in them made something crack inside his chest.

Horror. Guilt. Recognition.

Endeavor took a step forward. Shoto flinched.

The flinch seemed to break something in Endeavor too. He stopped, hands rising in a gesture of surrender that looked foreign on his broad shoulders.

"Shoto," he said, raw. "Shoto, I'm sorry."

Natsuo was already there, kneeling beside Shoto, hands hovering over his brother's body like he was afraid to touch him, afraid of what he might break.

"Shoto, it's me. It's Natsuo. I'm going to get you out of here, okay? Can you stand? Can you—" His voice cracked. "Fuck, Shoto, what did he do to you?"

Shoto looked down at himself. The white dress, stained with wine and blood. Bruises blooming across his arms and legs. His hands trembling, thin and weak from months of neglect.

He looked like a ghost. He looked like his mother.

"I'm fine," he said, because it was automatic, because he'd been saying it for years—to his father, to his teachers, to himself.

"You're not fine." Endeavor's voice was desperate. "You're not fine, and it's my fault. All of it. I did this. I—"

"I don't want to hear it." The words came out sharp, surprising even Shoto. But they were true. He couldn't deal with his father's guilt right now. Couldn't deal with anything.

Across the room, Dabi had Shigaraki pinned to the wall, one hand around his throat, the other pressed against his chest, blue flames licking at his skin.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" Dabi's voice was low and venomous. "I see my father. The same need to control. The same violence dressed up as love. The same fucking excuses about how it's for their own good."

"Touya." Endeavor's voice was barely a whisper.

Dabi ignored him. "I should kill you. I want to kill you. I want to burn you until there's nothing left but ash and regret."

"Then do it." Shigaraki rasped, lips curling into a bloody smile. "Prove you're just like him."

Dabi's flames flared brighter, hotter. The wallpaper behind Shigaraki blackened and curled. For a moment, Shoto was certain his brother was going to do it—reduce Shigaraki to nothing, become the monster their father had made him.

But then Natsuo shouted, "Touya! Don't!"

Dabi's hand trembled. Flames flickered. Slowly, agonizingly, they died down.

"He's not worth it," Natsuo said, voice shaking. "He's not worth becoming what he is."

Dabi stared at Shigaraki for a long moment. Then he released him, let him crumple to the floor. Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.

"You're going to rot in Tartarus," Dabi said. "And I hope every night, when you close your eyes, you see his face. I hope you remember exactly what you did. I hope it haunts you for the rest of your miserable life."

The next hours passed in a blur. Police swarmed the apartment, flashlights cutting through darkness. Medics wrapped Shoto in a blanket, hands gentle, questions soft. He answered mechanically—name, age, medical history.

When they cut the white dress off him, he felt something release in his chest. Like he'd been holding his breath for months and was finally allowed to exhale.

Natsuo rode with him in the ambulance. Dabi had vanished, but Endeavor was there, standing in the hospital waiting room like a man hollowed out from the inside.

"He didn't leave," Natsuo said, following Shoto's gaze. "Been here the whole time. Wouldn't sit down, wouldn't talk to anyone. Just stood there staring at the door."

Shoto said nothing. Too tired to process it.

The doctors stitched his split lip—three stitches. Wrapped his ribs, set his sprained wrist, treated the cuts and bruises that covered his body. Asked about internal injuries, about sexual assault, about things he didn't want to think about. He told them the truth: he didn't know, he'd stopped keeping track.

When they finally left him alone, he stared at the ceiling and tried to feel something.

Fear. Relief. Anger. Anything.

But there was only emptiness, vast and cold as the void between stars.

The door opened. For a moment, Shoto tensed, expecting Shigaraki's face, expecting the cycle to begin again.

But it was Endeavor.

"Can I sit with you?" His voice was hesitant, almost childlike.

Shoto didn't answer. Didn't say no.

Endeavor sat in the chair beside the bed. The plastic creaked under his weight. He stared at his hands—massive, scarred, the same hands that had trained Shoto until he couldn't stand.

"I failed you," Endeavor said. "I failed all of you. Touya. Fuyumi. Natsuo. You. And your mother. I failed her most of all."

Shoto turned his head away.

"When I saw you on that floor," Endeavor continued, his voice breaking, "you looked exactly like her. Like Rei. Same expression. Same bruises. Same... emptiness."

He was crying. The Number Two Hero, the man who'd terrorized his family for decades, was crying.

"I saw myself," Endeavor whispered. "In him. He was doing exactly what I did. Calling it love. Calling it discipline. Making you believe you deserved it."

Shoto closed his eyes.

"I can't undo what I did," Endeavor said. "I can't take back the years I stole from you. I can't unmake the monster I shaped you into. But I can promise you this—I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right. Not because I deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve to heal."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

"I don't know how to heal," Shoto said finally. His voice was so quiet he wasn't sure Endeavor heard him.

"I don't either," Endeavor admitted. "But I know we start by not hurting each other anymore. And we learn together. From here."

When Shoto opened his eyes again, the sun was rising through the hospital window. Golden light poured across the linoleum floor, warm and alive.

Endeavor was still there. Sitting in the chair. Head bowed, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

And for the first time in months, Shoto allowed himself to feel something other than numbness.

Pain. Grief. A thousand small wounds that never healed.

But it was something.

"I'm cold," Shoto said.

Endeavor looked up, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. For a moment, he seemed not to understand. Then he stood, pulled his coat from the back of the chair, and draped it over Shoto's shoulders.

It was warm. Smelled like smoke and ash.

Smelled like home.

"I'll find a way to earn this back," Endeavor said. "I'll find a way to be better."

Shoto pulled the coat tighter around himself and stared at the sunrise.

"Okay," he said.

It wasn't forgiveness. Wasn't even trust. But it was a beginning.

And for now, that was enough.