Chapter Text
Shoto wakes in a brightly lit room, clean and spacious, lined with cots like the one he is struggling to sit up in. He feels dizzy and weak. Often he feels this way after training with Father—actually, he usually feels worse—but he can’t remember what he did before going to sleep. His memories are heavy with a dark fog, which makes his heart thud against his chest.
This whole… forgetting things is a new development. There have been a couple instances where he trains with Father, and then can’t recall a single thing that happened during their session. It’s like his brain is shrouded with a weighted blanket, and when he finally emerges, he’s already battered and burned.
Did he get hurt so badly that he ended up in the hospital? No, that can’t be it—Father would not admit him to a hospital unless his life was truly in jeopardy, and though he feels utterly drained, he doesn’t feel like he’s dying. So, where is he?
“Todoroki?”
Shoto’s head snaps to the side. That’s another new thing: he can’t see out of his left eye anymore. Well, he can, but all he sees is a smudge of colors. Like there’s still boiling water in his eye. Like Mama is still holding his head back by the hair and—
He does not like having a limited field of vision. He needs to be able to catalog everything, always. That’s how he stays safe. (He’s never been safe.)
“Do you recognize me?”
The person talking is a scruffy man with greasy black hair, bloodshot eyes, and a scarf piled all the way up to his nose. It looks like a capture weapon—Father has taught Shoto about those. That means this person is likely a hero. He could be a villain, but Shoto highly doubts that a villain would detain him in what looks like a clean, cheery hospital.
But even if he’s a hero, Shoto doesn’t recognize this man. He shakes his head.
“I thought as much,” the man grumbles. “My name is Aizawa Shota, I’m an underground pro hero. I know that you’re probably scared, but you’re safe here. I need you to listen carefully, okay?”
Nowhere is safe for Shoto, but he nods again anyway. Aizawa must be satisfied by this, because he continues.
“You are in the infirmary of UA high school. Normally, you are sixteen years old, and you’re a student here. I am your teacher.” Aizawa pauses, probably waiting for an eruption of panic. Shoto stares at him. “You were recently involved in a quirk accident, which reversed your age. Can you tell me how old you are?”
Shoto holds up five fingers. Aizawa lets out a heavy sigh.
“Good, I’m glad that you can give me a concrete number.” Shoto doesn’t know what concrete has to do with this. “Since you don’t remember me, I’m assuming that you don’t have any memory of being older?” Shoto shakes his head. Aizawa’s eyes narrow. “You’re awfully quiet. Do you believe what I am telling you?”
Shoto takes a moment to contemplate. Sure, it’s shocking, but not wholly impossible. He’s read about quirks that can manipulate a person’s timeline or age—they’re pretty rare, but not unheard of. And given that his head feels foggier than usual and he has no idea what happened before this, it’s quite plausible. Even so…
“Proof?” Shoto says.
Aizawa seems to startle at his tiny voice, but he recovers quickly and pulls a smart phone out of his pocket. “I had a feeling you would ask.” He taps the screen a few times, then hands it over to Shoto. Shoto takes it, and despite mostly believing what Aizawa is saying, he feels his heart stutter in his little chest.
On the screen, there’s a photo of a group of teens surrounding what can only be his older self. There’s a silly birthday hat with the number 16 balanced on his head, a hot pink feather boa hanging from his neck, and a distinctly confused expression on his face. The boy on the screen is nearly a carbon copy of what Shoto sees in the mirror, just bigger.
Including the hideous burn mark that he was still holding out hope of fading.
A small, warm hand cups his left eye. It doesn’t feel like his hand. This doesn’t feel like his body.
“Is that enough for you to believe me? I have more pictures if you want to see, I think I even have some videos of you kids on there that I could show you.”
No. No more. Shoto shoves the phone towards Aizawa with his free hand. “Believe you,” Shoto says. Aizawa takes the phone back.
“Don’t worry, there is a way to reverse it,” Aizawa says. “The girl who accidentally reverted your age is my daughter. She can undo the rewind… but not right away. She needs time for her quirk to recuperate. If she tries again now, her power will be extremely volatile, and it could end up doing even more damage.” Shoto isn’t looking at him. He sits rigid with his head bowed, left hand still covering his ruined eye. But he is listening. “I know it’s scary and unfamiliar, but you’re gonna have to tough it out as a little kid for a few days.”
Tough it out? That’s no problem. Shoto has never known anything except toughing it out. None of what Aizawa is saying scares him per se, though it’s definitely not ideal. No, the thing that’s edging on fear is—
“Where is my father?”
Aizawa hums. “So you can speak in full sentences.” Of course he can. Was this scruffy man questioning that? “Your father isn’t here. Normally, you live in the UA dormitories, so he hasn’t seen you since before the accident.”
A dangerous flame of hope flickers in Shoto’s belly. I don’t have to live with him anymore? He snuffs it out as quickly as it lights. There must be a catch. There always is.
“When?” he asks.
“When what?” Aizawa says.
Shoto scowls. “When is father coming?”
Aizawa gazes at him in a way that makes Shoto’s insides feel squirmy. Like he’s sizing him up. He drops the scowl, blanking his face. There is nothing that this man has business reading through him. “He’s not coming unless you want him to.”
Shoto’s eyes go wide in shock. That’s absurd. Father is always around, Shoto wanting him there has never been a factor. Surely, even if he lives in dormitories as a teenager, that hasn’t changed. And even if it has…
“Where will I stay?” Shoto asks.
Aizawa raises an eyebrow, like Shoto is the one who isn’t making sense. Shoto resents that. “Here.”
Shoto grabs at the front of his shirt—a plain t-shirt, so much bigger than him that it’s falling off his shoulders—with his right hand, like his mother’s ice can extinguish the flame of hope that keeps appearing. Hope isn’t for people like Shoto. Shoto is meant to bear the burden. He has to. “Here?” he whispers.
“Yes, here. At UA. Unless there is somewhere else you would rather—”
“No.”
Shoto half expects to be slapped for cutting off the scruffy man, but nothing happens. Instead, Aizawa nods, like he knew that’s what Shoto would say. Shoto doesn’t like how much this man seems to know. “Good. You’ll be sleeping in my quarters so I can keep an eye on you.”
That makes an uncomfortable fusion of feelings wiggle in his tummy. Half of it feels warm and safe, having someone watch over him—the other half feels like curdling milk. It reminds Shoto of his quirk.
“I can tell that you’re exhausted. Why don’t you nap for a little while here—I have some stuff to take care of before taking you to the dorms anyway.”
Shoto can’t help the way his nose scrunches, confused. “Just woke up?”
Aizawa huffs. “Technically. But your body has been through… a lot. You weren’t exactly having restful sleep.” On cue, Shoto yawns; then he pouts when Aizawa smirks at him. “Go to sleep. I’ll come get you in a little while. If you need anything, Shuzenji-san is right around the corner. She’s the nurse here, she can help with anything that you need.” Aizawa stands, then gives Shoto an analyzing look. “Do you have any questions or requests for me before I go?”
Shoto shakes his head.
“Are you sure?”
Shoto scowls, curls his fingers in the blanket covering his legs, and nods. Aizawa doesn’t seem satisfied with this, but he leaves it there, much to Shoto’s relief. “I’ll be back in a little while. Seriously, call Shuzenji-san if you need anything. Now sleep.”
The underground hero turns on his heel and walks out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him.
Though Shoto feels like he should stay up and contemplate all of this, his eyelids are suddenly extraordinarily heavy, and he barely has time to snuggle back under the blankets of his cot before he’s dead asleep.