Chapter Text
Morning at Heights Alliance is never quiet.
Someone’s burning toast again, judging by the smell, and the blender is going at full speed while Mina shouts over it, trying to get Hanta’s attention. Upstairs, two voices argue about who used up the last of the hot water. The walls here aren’t thin, but noise finds its way through anyway when there are twenty teens living together.
Shoto sits at the far end of the dining table with his tea. He doesn’t mind the chaos, actually, sometimes he even likes it. The way it fills the room makes the dorms feel less like a converted school building and more like a home.
Across from him, Mina and Hanta are locked in a standoff. Mina balances the last pancake on her fork while Hanta stretches tape across the table, trying to snag it without getting caught.
“Don’t you dare!” Mina squeals, yanking her fork back.
“It’s fair game!” Hanta grins, pulling more tape.
Shoto drinks his tea, content to watch. This is his daily program at this point.
The chair beside him scrapes back. Katsuki drops into it with a plate stacked high, like he’s preparing for a week-long training session. Without asking, he reaches over, grabs Shoto’s mug, and takes a long swig.
“You don’t like tea,” Shoto says, not moving to stop him.
Katsuki smirks as he sets the mug down again. “I like your face when I do try it.”
From down the table, Hanta points a finger casually, apparently having lost the fight for the pancake. “You two are disgusting.”
“Shut it, Tape,” Katsuki snaps immediately. “Worry about your sad excuse for breakfast before I blow it off the table.”
“Man, I’m just saying—”
“Saying too much.”
Shoto hides the curve of his mouth against the rim of his cup. Beneath the table, Katsuki’s hand brushes his, then settles there. Shoto lets his fingers curl in reflex, then relax again, leaving them loosely linked. It’s casual, obvious enough that nobody at the table even comments anymore. Not since they made their relationship official about a month ago.
The noise shifts when Ochako pulls out her phone, gasping a little. “Hey, did you guys see this?” She slides it across the table. The headline of the news article she had been reading glares in bold black type:
Villains Raid Endeavor Agency Branch—Two Injured.
The room falls quiet. Shoto doesn’t react, his eyes stay on the steam rising from his tea, but the words land anyway.
Eijiro clears his throat. “That’s like… what? Third time this month?”
“Fourth,” Kyoka says softly.
No one looks directly at Shoto, but still, it's blatantly obvious that he is the focus of the conversation again.
Katsuki slams his chopsticks down, to distract from it. “Tch. Let them come. Endeavor’s got enough airheads to handle it. Idiots’ll get their asses kicked before they even—”
“Bakugou,” Iida interrupts, voice stiff yet gentle. “That is not a sensitive—”
“Shut it, Four-Eyes. I said what I said.”
The tension lingers anyway after that. Ochako looks guilty for showing the article at all, chewing her lip as she pulls her phone back.
Shoto swallows the last of his tea. The flavor’s gone bitter.
—————
Training that afternoon drags heavier than usual. Aizawa sets them on combat drills in pairs, his scarf hanging loose around his shoulders, tired eyes scanning every mistake, scolding them instantly.
“Bakugou, Todoroki,” he calls. “You’re up.”
Katsuki cracks his knuckles, grinning already. Shoto breathes in, rolls his shoulders. The first round is over fast. Steam fills the space between them, Katsuki barrels forward through it all, explosions lighting his path with sparks. He’s laughing under his breath, sharp teeth in his grin as usual.
Shoto almost loses himself in the rhythm—attack, counter, push forward. But then he hesitates, just a half-beat too long, and Katsuki slips past his guard. The blast that follows shoves him back hard enough to skid across the mat.
“Sloppy,” Aizawa calls flatly. “Focus, Todoroki.”
Shoto pushes himself up, nods once. “Yes, sensei.”
They reset. Katsuki grabs his wrist before he can pull away. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Shoto simply says. He doesn't know either.
Katsuki’s expression tightens. He doesn’t believe him, but they do continue their training.
The next clash is harder. Shoto pushes fire until sweat clings to his hairline, then drops cold in a sweeping wall of ice across the floor. Katsuki blasts through it, palms sparking, his grin wide and feral. By the time their teacher calls them off, both are panting, faces flushed.
“Better,” Aizawa nods.
Shoto feels tired eyes watching him carefully throughout the rest of the lessons.
—————
Back at the dorms, the common room buzzes with several study groups and video game noise. Most of the class piles onto couches, arguing over controllers. Shoto doesn’t join. His body is restless, his head heavy for some reason.
Katsuki follows him upstairs without asking.
They end up stretched out across Shoto’s bed. Shoto has a book open on his lap, though his eyes haven’t moved in minutes. Katsuki tosses a stress ball into the air, catching it again and again with a slap in his palm.
“You’re not even reading, dumbass,” he mutters after a while.
“I am.”
“Uh-huh.” Katsuki catches the ball, smirks. “What’s the last sentence?”
Shoto closes the book. “Something about a storm.”
“Liar.” Katsuki tosses the ball aside, leans in, and kisses him, quick and smug. “Guess you’d rather stare at me, hm?”
“You’re not much longer than a sentence,” Shoto hums, hiding his smile behind the book.
Katsuki growls, pushes him back into the pillows, and kisses him again, slower this time, until Shoto’s hand slides up against the side of his neck with a chuckle.
“Better even,” Katsuki mutters against his mouth.
They stay like that for a while, just teasing lightly while sharing kisses and soft caressing. The quiet here is different niw, but the unease Shoto’s been carrying since breakfast hasn’t gone anywhere. Even his boyfriend notices in the way his lips stop moving against him.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Katsuki says suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at him.
Shoto blinks, looking up. “What thing?”
“Getting that frozen face. Thinking yourself sick.” Katsuki’s hand traces his cheek, pushing hair back gently. “Spit it out.”
Shoto hesitates. The words feel heavy in his mouth as he tried to find them without sounding paranoid. “It’s just all these recent attacks. If they come after me or my family next… how would I even handle that?”
Katsuki scoffs, though the sound isn’t sharp, rather assuring. “If anyone’s dumb enough to lay a hand on you, I’ll blow them into next week. You’re not his shield. Got it?”
Shoto leans his forehead against Katsuki’s temple. The warmth there makes him loosen up immediately and he nods, not wanting to worry anymore about something that might just be a possibility. Katsuki presses a kiss to his hairline, happy about the reaction he got.
The door creaks open. “Curfew’s not optional,” Aizawa says from the frame. His scarf hangs loose, his eyes linger once again on Shoto a fraction too long.
“We’re in bed,” Katsuki shoots back immediately.
“You’re in someone else’s bed,” Aizawa mutters dryly.
“Details.”
Aizawa exhales, like he’s already too tired for this conversation. “Stay alert. The city’s restless. Especially you, Todoroki.” Then he’s gone, door shutting behind him.
Shoto stares after him. The weight of Aizawa’s words lingers even after he is gone, stirring unease once again. Katsuki mutters a curse, of course noticing intimately, then drags him down until Shoto is sprawled across his chest, and tilts his chin for another kiss, one meant to ground him before sleep.
The tension doesn’t vanish. But the steady beat of Katsuki’s heart under his ear is enough for now.
Later, just as they shut the big lights off, Shoto lets his eyes drift to the window. The glass reflects only their room: books stacked neatly, Katsuki’s hoodie tossed on the chair, but beyond that, across the dark campus—
—something moves.
At first it looks like nothing, just trees shifting in the wind. Then lightning cracks the sky open for a split second, and there, at the fence line, stands a figure. Too still and unmoving in the storm.
By the time thunder follows, the figure is gone.
Shoto blinks, unsure if he imagined it. His chest tightens anyway.
Katsuki shifts beneath him, muttering, already half-asleep. Shoto lowers his head back against his chest, listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and says nothing.
Outside, the storm moves closer.
——————————
Shoto wakes slowly. His body feels heavy, like the storm pressed its weight into his bones overnight. Rain still drips outside, lazy now, water sliding down the windows in uneven trails. The dorm is quiet. Almost calming after all the thunder and wind.
Katsuki is draped over him. One arm clamped around Shoto’s middle, leg thrown over his, face tucked so close into his neck that every exhale warms his skin, his mouth open just enough that Shoto can hear faint little noises with every breath.
He lies still a little longer, listening. His eyes wander to the window. For a moment, in the back of his mind, he sees the flash of lightning again—the fence, the shape he’d thought he saw. His chest tightens.
He blinks it away.
Katsuki shifts, mutters a curse and shoves at him weakly like even sleep can’t stop him from picking a fight. His hair is a disaster, flattened and spiked at odd angles. He squints at Shoto like waking up is a personal insult.
“You’re staring,” Katsuki rasps thick with sleep.
“You drool,” Shoto replies, without moving.
Katsuki wipes at his mouth lazily, finds nothing, and scowls anyway. “Liar.”
“Not a liar.” Shoto tilts his head down. “It was wet.”
“Bullshit.” Katsuki grabs Shoto’s hand, drags it to his face. “Here. Feel it. Dry.”
Shoto lets his palm rest there longer than necessary. Katsuki thinks he’s proving a point, but Shoto just brushes his thumb across the curve of his cheek, smiling lovingly at him.
Katsuki’s scowl falters, his ears flush a little. “Cheater,” he mumbles.
Shoto leans in, kisses the corner of his mouth. “Winner.”
Katsuki freezes for half a second, then huffs and drags Shoto in by the neck, kissing him properly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to make his point. By the time he lets go, Shoto has almost forgotten about the window. Almost.
Katsuki collapses back down, throwing the blanket over both of them. “Warm. Stay. Screw class.”
“You’d miss breakfast,” Shoto reminds him, though he doesn’t move either.
“Breakfast is for extras.” Katsuki buries his face against Shoto’s collarbone, muffling his voice and cuddling in a way only Shoto ever gets to see. “This is better.”
“You sound clingy.”
“Shut up. You love it.”
Shoto doesn’t deny it. He just strokes Katsuki’s back lazily, loving the way his boyfriend sinks into him so easily. The rhythm of Katsuki’s breathing settles him as well. Minutes pass. The rain drips. Katsuki’s grip loosens like he might drift off again, but then he cracks one eye open.
“What’s with your face?”
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re either thinking too much or constipated.”
Shoto hesitates, continuing to run his fingers through blond hair. He could mention the figure, the wrong way of how quiet everything feels lately, as if he was being watched. But if he says it, Katsuki will explode, literally and otherwise. Shoto isn’t sure he wants to see that first thing in the morning. He also doesn't want to worry him just because of a reflection.
“I’m fine,” he says instead.
Katsuki doesn’t believe him, his scowl makes that obvious, but he doesn’t push, not yet. He just hooks his arm tighter around Shoto, like pinning him down will keep whatever’s bothering him from making him worry more.
After a beat, Shoto murmurs, “We’ll be late.”
Katsuki groans. “You sound like a damn alarm clock.”
“You set me as one,” Shoto says.
“Yeah, well, you’re cuter than my phone’s standard jingle shit.” Katsuki smirks, though his cheeks are faintly pink.
Shoto kisses the smirk off his mouth before he can ruin the moment with more insults and curses. “You should go shower,” he says quietly when they part.
“Together?” Katsuki shoots back immediately, white teeth flashing.
“No. That would make us even later,” he chuckles, even though missing out on some early sex does sound like something he will regret later.
“Coward.” Katsuki flops down dramatically onto the mattress beside him, arm across his eyes. “Fine. But you’re carrying my bag.”
Shoto actually laughs softly at that, enough to make Katsuki peek at him like he’s just scored a win. Katsuki leans up to steal one more kiss before finally rolling off the bed with a groan.
Shoto stays sitting there a moment longer, watching the window. The glass is fogged at the edges, streaked with rain. His chest tightens again, but he ignores it.
When he turns back, Katsuki is halfway to the bathroom, hair a wreck, shoulders broad and relaxed like he hasn’t noticed a thing. Shoto lingers on the sight, lets himself breathe, then finally gets up to follow.
Screw a slow breakfast.
—and also his boyfriend.
—————
By the time Shoto and Katsuki do finally make it downstairs, the common room is already buzzing. The smell of miso soup and fried eggs lingers in the air, steam fogging up the windows even more after the storm that still hovers in the sky.
Mina and Denki are locked in mortal combat with the toaster. Denki insists the bread is “technically edible,” while Mina waves a blackened piece like it’s been cursed by dark magic.
Eijiro’s filming from a safe distance, narrating dramatically: “And here we see the apex predators of the kitchen, fighting for dominance—”
“Give me that!” Mina shouts, lunging for his phone.
“Over my dead body!” Eijiro cackles, bolting around the table with Mina hot on his heels.
At the same time, Iida rises to his feet, chopping the air with his hands, voice carrying above the ruckus. “CLASSMATES! THIS IS AN INAPPROPRIATE WAY TO BEGIN THE DAY—”
“Oi,” Katsuki cuts in, not yelling but sharp enough that the word cracks through the noise. He drops heavily into a chair near the end of the table, Shoto sitting down beside him. Katsuki fixes Iida with a smirk. “Tone it down, Four-Eyes. You’re gonna give everyone heartburn before they eat.”
Iida freezes mid-gesture, splutters, then sits back down with a huff. Around the room, laughter erupts. Even Shoto can't suppress a chuckle, watching as Iida can't quite hide his amusement either. A normal morning in the dorms again.
“Damn, Bakugou’s becoming the new class rep,” Denki calls, ducking as Mina swipes at him again with a piece of toast.
“Hell no!” Katsuki snaps, though there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s secretly entertained. He grabs two bowls, sets one in front of Shoto without a further comment than: “Eat.”
Shoto accepts the food with a small, thankful smile. Their knees brush under the table as Katsuki settles in again.
Eijiro, already halfway through his own breakfast, grins at them from across the table. “Morning! Took you long enough. Thought you might’ve slept in—together.” He wiggles his eyebrows for good measure, glancing at a dark spot that peaks above Shoto's collar that he can't be bothered to hide.
Katsuki nearly chokes on his miso. “Shut up, asshole!”
Shoto, still unbothered, just slides his rice bowl a little closer to Katsuki, their shoulders brushing again as if he’s not noticing the stares. “We weren’t late. You were early.”
“Burn,” Mina says through a laugh, abandoning her toaster war to flop into a chair nearby. “Shoto, you’re savage when you want to.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” Shoto takes another bite, a little confused.
“Exactly! That’s what makes it savage,” Mina insists, pointing her chopsticks at him like she’s found evidence. He takes it, she will probably know what she is talking about.
Teasing like this has been common for them since they openly started dating not too long ago. As the first couple of the class that seems natural, and Shoto can't say he minds. Katsuki does take the bait most of the time though.
Ochako leans forward, smiling knowingly. “They’re cute. Don’t you think they’re cute?” she stage-whispers to Kyoka, who only snorts but hides a grin behind her hand.
Katsuki slams his chopsticks down, cheeks going pink. “I swear to god—”
Shoto interrupts him smoothly, not even looking up. “You’ll break your chopsticks if you keep slamming them like that.”
Mina gasps. “Oh my god, he tames you.”
“He does not!” Katsuki explodes, shooting to his feet. “I’m not tamed, you extras—”
Half the table cracks up. Even Iida pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting laughter. Eijiro thumps Katsuki on the back, nearly sending him flying.
“Relax, man! They’re just jealous.”
Katsuki snarls, but Shoto nudges his leg under the table, squeezing lightly in apology. When Katsuki glances down at him, Shoto’s eyes are calming and a little amused. Katsuki exhales through his nose and sits back down, still glaring but quieter now.
The noise doesn't let up around them. Chopsticks clattering, jokes flying back and forth. It’s the usual Class A chaos. Shoto lets it wash over him, eating slowly. But his gaze drifts to the window again. The glass is still fogged as if the weather wouldn't change for the next few days. Beyond the fence, just for a second, he swears he sees something—a blur, a darker shadow against the grey morning.
He blinks, and it’s gone. Again.
Is he going crazy?
His fingers tighten on his chopsticks.
Katsuki notices immediately. He doesn’t call him out this time, though. Instead, he shifts closer, thigh pressed firmly against Shoto’s under the table. A warm weight, grounding him. Shoto lets out a breath. The room is loud, warm, alive. It should feel safe. And mostly, it does. But under all the noise, that image lingers in the back of Shoto’s mind—the storm, the fence, the shape waiting there.
The noise of breakfast is still going strong when the doors to the common room slide open. At first, no one notices, then a sharp yet tired voice cuts through the buzz.
“Sit down. Quiet.” It isn’t loud, but it doesn’t need to be when Aizawa is the one giving orders.
The room falls silent almost instantly. Their teacher steps in fully. He doesn’t look like he’s here for casual morning supervision. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all.
“Great,” Katsuki mutters under his breath. “This can’t be good.”
Shoto straightens in his seat without meaning to. His chopsticks rest in the bowl, forgotten. That feeling from the window—like something was wrong—twists tighter in his chest.
“Homeroom isn’t for another hour,” someone says. Yes, that's the issue. The air is different now. Heavy. The kind of quiet that settles just before bad news.
Aizawa’s gaze sweeps the room, lingering on each of them. When his eyes land on Shoto, Shoto feels it like a weight pressing down. He knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror. It's getting dangerous now, is it?
Beside him, Katsuki shifts closer when he can feel Shoto tense up. Their knees knock again.
“Eat if you haven’t already,” Aizawa says finally, voice flat. “We’ll talk in the lounge in ten minutes. All of you.”
A low murmur ripples through the class, hushed this time.
“What’s going on?” Someone whispers.
“Maybe it’s about training,” Kirishima offers, though he doesn’t sound convinced.
Izuku frowns, chopsticks forgotten in his hand. His eyes dart toward Shoto, worry already very clear. Shoto doesn’t return the look. He’s staring at the window again, but there’s nothing there now—just rain sliding down the glass.
“Ten minutes,” Aizawa repeats, and then he’s gone, scarf trailing after him.
The door slides shut with a final click.
The noise doesn’t come back. Not really. Class A is rarely quiet, but now the silence stretches, the rumble of thunder very loud again all of a sudden.
Katsuki is the first to break it, low enough that only Shoto catches it.
“Whatever this is, we’ll handle it. Got it?”
Shoto nods once, jaw tight. The uneasy feeling in his chest hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s worse.
—————
Ten minutes later, the lounge is packed. The couches are pulled close, chairs dragged over from the kitchen. Rain patters steadily against the tall windows, the world outside blurred in grey.
Aizawa stands at the front of the room, he doesn’t waste time.
“Last night, we received word about yet another coordinated attack. Not from the League, but from a newer group. They aren’t targeting the Hero system at large. Their grudge is personal.”
Izuku leans forward, brows pinched. “Personal with who?”
“Endeavor.”
The name lands heavy, even if it was expected. Heads turn instinctively, some toward the floor, some toward Shoto in worry. He doesn’t react outwardly. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t show the tight coil in his chest. He just keeps his eyes on their teacher.
“They’ve gone after patrol routes connected to him now. Even collaborating agencies. They’re calculated and moving extremely well. So far no casualties, but the intent is clear.” Aizawa’s voice drops lower. “And it would be foolish to assume they won’t look to pressure him through his family.”
That lands harder.
Aizawa doesn’t spell it out, but he doesn’t need to. Everyone knows what he means. Shoto feels the eyes on him again. He hates that they are worrying because of him.
Katsuki notices too. His arm drapes over the back of the couch behind Shoto in a way that isn’t subtle at all, pulling him a fraction closer. His glare dares anyone to keep staring.
“Let me make this clear,” Aizawa continues, eyes sweeping the room. “No one here is being treated like glass. You’re hero students. You’ve proven you can handle yourselves. But risk is not distributed evenly, as much as it sucks. Certain names, certain families, draw attention more than others.”
No one says Shoto’s name. They don’t need to. But everyone sharpens noticeably, training kicking in.
Aizawa continues. “Security at UA is being increased as we speak, nowhere will be safer than here, so everyone stays on school grounds for now. Patrols will be adjusted. You’ll notice staff presence in more places than usual. Don’t ignore it. And don’t get careless. The second you think you’re untouchable is the second you’ll be proven wrong.”
Shoto lets out a slow breath. He knows Aizawa isn’t telling him to be weak and stand on the sidelines. He’s reminding him the target isn’t about strength, it’s about blood. And blood doesn’t wash away unfortunately. He has tried.
“Do they think they can just—what? Grab someone and expect the Number One to bend?”
“That’s exactly what they think,” Aizawa nods flatly.
Then Katsuki mutters only for Shoto’s ears alone: “They can try. They won’t live long enough to regret it.”
Shoto glances at him. There’s no softness in Katsuki’s expression, only a promise. Fear. Care. The promise of teeth if anyone dares.
Shoto presses his knee against Katsuki’s. “I can fight,” he murmurs back.
“Damn right you can,” Katsuki says, not quite a whisper. “But I’m not letting you have fun alone. I like a good fight, ya know?” He grins.
Aizawa clears his throat, snapping their attention back. “Training resumes this afternoon. No exceptions. Treat today like any other day, but keep your eyes open. This isn’t a drill.”
And with that, he turns and leaves.
No one moves right away. The silence now is heavy, like fog. Everyone is thinking it but no one says it:
UA feels like a fortress, yes. But even fortresses can be breached.
—————
The storm hasn’t let up. By the time they start warm-ups in Gym Gamma, the sound of rain against the roof is louder than the shuffle of their shoes.
Shoto rolls his shoulders, stretching his body out slow. He feels the difference immediately, eyes on him again. Softer than in the lounge, but still there. He flexes his hands, fire blooming briefly across one palm, frost across the other. He keeps his voice under the drum of the storm.
“I can fight.”
Katsuki hears him, because of course he does. He always does. “No shit you can,” he mutters, tugging his gauntlets into place. Then, leaning in close, voice pitched just for Shoto’s ear: “Let ‘em keep staring. The assholes are worried about you, so let them worry. And if they get too much, just roast them a tiny bit.”
Shoto exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching a little. “Or freeze.”
“Tch. Show-off.” Katsuki knocks his shoulder into Shoto’s.
Aizawa gives the orders. Pair work, spar like usual, but cleaner today. “Stay sharp,” he says.
They scatter. Shoto doesn’t bother looking around. Katsuki is already at his side like it was decided before Aizawa even opened his mouth.
They start with a spar, movements familiar as breathing. Katsuki explodes forward, Shoto countering with ice across the floor, steam curling where heat meets water.
But it’s different.
Katsuki is closer than usual, circling him tighter, blocking angles, not attacking. It isn’t about strategy today—it’s about… guarding him?
And Shoto can feel the others noticing, not with laughter or whoops like they usually do, but with a watchful eye.
It grates on his nerves. His teeth grind together.
He launches a line of fire across the floor, forcing Katsuki to leap back.
“I don’t need babysitting.” He hisses, scowling at his boyfriend.
“I’m not babysitting!” Katsuki snaps, blasts crackling as he lunges forward again.
“You’re holding back.” Shoto shoves ice upward in a jagged wall, making Katsuki vault. He follows with heat, melting his own creation into steam that rolls out between them.
“I’m not—” Katsuki’s voice cuts off as Shoto slides in, heat in his right hand and frost in his left, shoving Katsuki into the fog. Their foreheads nearly bump, too close for either to swing.
“Then stop hovering.” Shoto’s voice is low, sharper than usual, his anger now bleeding through.
For half a second, Katsuki freezes. Then his mouth curves infuriatingly. “Ohhh. I get it.” Sparks snap across his palms. “You’re pissed. Cute.”
Shoto glares. “I’m serious!”
“I know.” Katsuki’s grin widens. “That’s why it’s cute.”
Before Shoto can respond, an explosion rips the steam apart. He barely throws up a wall of ice in time, shards flying. Katsuki rockets through the mist, faster than before.
Something in Shoto snaps. Good. He meets Katsuki’s next blast with a burst of fire, the two forces colliding in a thunderclap that shakes the walls more than the one outside.
The room comes alive around them. Steam thickens, air hisses, the floor slicks with melted ice and scorch marks. They’re moving faster now, hitting harder. For every blast Katsuki throws, Shoto answers with fire—for every burst, Shoto counters with frost underfoot, forcing Katsuki to skid or stumble.
It’s chaos, beautiful chaos. Punches and kicks land hard and precise.
From the sidelines, Denki whistles low. “Holy crap.”
Hanta elbows him. “That’s not even a fight. That’s—like—art. Angry, fiery art.”
Even Iida whispers with wonder. “Their coordination is… impressive.”
Izuku watches, wide-eyed, notebook forgotten at his side. He knows the truth. This isn’t coordination they practiced. This is instinct. Shoto and Katsuki don’t fight like partners, they fight like halves of the same.
Shoto pushes harder, heat pouring from his left side until sweat beads at his temple. Katsuki meets it with another explosion, their clash sparking white-hot, smoke swirling around them.
“You’re not pulling your hits anymore,” Shoto pants, breath fogging before him.
“Damn right,” Katsuki growls back, circling him like prey. “You wanted a real fight? You got it.”
Shoto lets out a slow exhale, frost leaving his lips. “Good.”
Then he surges forward again.
When Aizawa finally calls time, the gym reeks of steam and smoke, the floor slippery with water and scorched black at the edges.
Katsuki’s chest heaves, hair damp and wild, a grin cut sharp across his face. “That’s more like it.”
Shoto’s breathing heavy too, hair plastered to his forehead, but his lips quirk up. He leans in, low enough that only Katsuki can hear him. “I told you. I can fight.”
Katsuki’s grin softens, just for him. “Damn right you can, babe. Don't pretend I ever even doubted you.”
Shoto doesn’t kiss him there, not with the whole class staring, but the heat curling in his chest has nothing to do with his quirk anymore.
And for the first time since the briefing, the looks Shoto feels from the others aren’t pity or fear. They’re respect and believe.
Exactly what he wants.
—————
Shoto feels the weight of training still in his body as he follows Katsuki down the hall. His uniform clings damp to his skin, chilled where the ice was, hot where the fire burned. Every bruise throbs in rhythm with his pulse, but none of it feels bad.
It feels great actually. He needed that today.
Shoto sits on the bench in the locker room, dragging his shirt over his head. His chest rises and falls slow, trying to steady after the spar. His hands sting. Small burns blossom across his palms where heat got a bit too much.
Katsuki flops down next to him. He yanks at his gauntlets like they’ve offended him, then sets them aside with a metallic thunk.
“You overextended,” Katsuki mutters. Not mocking, just stating fact.
Shoto flexes his sore fingers. “So did you.”
Katsuki shoots him a look, but it doesn’t last. His shoulders loosen a little as he rolls them with a groan that would stir something in Shoto any other day.
He stares at his palms, at the raw pink skin. “It felt good,” he admits finally.
Katsuki nods with a grin. “Damn right it did.”
He digs into his bag, pulls out a crumpled tube of ointment. He uncaps it and holds out his hand. “Give.”
Shoto places his palms in Katsuki’s, letting his boyfriend work the ointment into the burns with his usual roughness. His thumb lingers too long at Shoto’s wrist, tracing the edge of a vein absentmindedly when he is done.
Shoto waits for him to gather his thoughts.
“You don’t need to prove yourself,” Katsuki says eventually, almost too quiet beneath the dripping water from the showers and outside. “Not to them. Not to me.” His mouth twists, like the words are heavier than he wants them to be. “You’re already—” He cuts himself off, scowling, sparks fizzing at his knuckles.
Shoto tilts his head. “Already what?”
Katsuki glares at the ointment tube as if it’s betrayed him. “Already strong as hell. Already mine. Take your pick.”
Shoto’s chest tightens, not with anger this time, but with warmth and love for his grumpy boyfriend. He leans in, closing the space, and kisses Katsuki, slow and unhurried while no one is nearby, their foreheads almost knocking as damp hair brushes together.
When they pull apart, Katsuki’s grin softens, crooked adorably and proud.
For a moment, the storm outside feels far away.
But then Shoto sees it. A flicker at the high window—something that shouldn’t move against the milky glass.
Gone when he blinks.
The fine hairs at his nape stand on end.
He doesn’t mention it. His heartbeat is already settling back into rhythm, and he doesn’t want to spoil the loving moment. He just drags his shirt back on, smoothing the fabric over his chest with only slightly trembling fingers.
Katsuki notices anyway. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, tracking every shift in Shoto’s expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” Shoto lies. His voice is calm and even as ever. He gets up, collecting his uniform jacket. “We should head back.”
Katsuki doesn’t push. He doesn’t buy it, either. His eyes stay on Shoto all the way out of the locker room.
The storm keeps drumming above them, not calm enough to assume they are the eye of it.
——————————
Shoto sits at the edge of the counter, a bowl of snacks balanced in one hand. Katsuki is beside him, legs stretched out, scowl in place as he stirs a pot with too much care to really be annoyed.
“You’re overdoing the seasoning,” Shoto says, tone flat but mouth twitching at the corner.
Katsuki snaps his head around. “Shut up, I know what I’m doing.”
“You said that about your curry last week.”
“And it was perfect.”
“Too spicy for most people.”
Katsuki glares at him. Shoto just raises an eyebrow, until Katsuki huffs and stirs harder. Mina catches the exchange, elbowing Denki with a grin. “Look at them, domestic already.”
Denki whistles. “I give it a week before they start calling each other ‘dear.’”
Shoto tilts his head, pretending to think it over. “Would you prefer ‘darling’, honey?”
The entire kitchen erupts instantly. Katsuki almost drops the spoon. His ears burn crimson as he snarls, “You little—” but Shoto only smirks into his bowl, entirely pleased with himself.
Dinner is noisy, exactly the kind of ordinary comfort Shoto doesn’t realize he craves until he’s in it. Katsuki’s knee bumps his under the table, it stays pressed there all through the meal.
Then the lights flicker.
Just once, enough to make conversation stutter. The glass in the windows rattles like something slammed against them, though the storm outside has calmed to a drizzle for now. A low alarm chirps through the hallway, before shutting off almost instantly.
Everyone freezes.
Iida is the first to move, straightening carefully, “Remain calm! Likely a system error.”
But the glance Yaoyorozu sends Aizawa, who appears in the doorway a heartbeat later, says it’s not just an error. His eyes are more aware than usual, scanning the room. “Stay inside. Don’t cluster at the windows. Finish your meal.”
The class obeys, but the mood is cracked. Conversation stumbles, laughter dimmed.
Shoto feels the weight of too many eyes on him. He sets his bowl down carefully. “I’m fine,” he says, even though no one has asked yet.
Katsuki leans in, voice low and harsh against his ear. “Bullshit.”
Shoto doesn’t argue, just keeps his gaze steady on the snacks he’s no longer eating.
Later, when the dorms are quiet, he slips to his room. Katsuki doesn’t follow immediately this time. Shoto crosses to the window, pushing the curtain aside. For a moment, all he sees is damp grass and rain-slick pavement.
Then—movement. A tall, thin shadow, vanishing when he blinks. As if it never existed. Maybe it didn't…
The back of his neck prickles. He doesn’t move until the glass fogs with his breath.
—————
Shoto sits on the edge of his bed, the dorm muted around him now. Everyone else has settled. He can hear the steady buzz of electricity through the walls, the soft rhythm of rain dripping from the gutters.
But outside his window, silence is heavy as if waiting for something to happen.
He tries not to watch the fence line. He tells himself it was nothing, just storm shadows. But then there’s a sound. A low scrape, like metal dragged across stone. Then the soft crunch of gravel under a weight heavier than rain.
His hand twitches toward the nightstand, where his phone rests. Before he can reach it, his door opens.
Katsuki slips inside without knocking, like always. His hair is damp from a too-fast shower, his scowl already aimed straight at Shoto. “You’re wound tighter than a damn wire.” Katsuki leans against the wall, crossing his arms, following Shoto's line of sight. “Don’t tell me you are seeing things outside.”
Shoto doesn’t look away from the window. The noise he just heard is taking up his mind, he even forgets to deny what Katsuki just said. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you say anything earlier?"
Shoto exhales, slow. “Because if I tell them every shadow looks wrong, they’ll stop listening when it matters. Every time I look closer there is nothing. I’m probably imagining things.”
Katsuki’s scowl deepens, but it is in worry, not anger. He crosses the room in two strides and grabs Shoto’s wrist gently as he sits down. “You’re not alone in this, idiot.”
Shoto opens his mouth to answer, but the sound cuts him off—
A thud against the fence. Heavy. Followed by the mechanical chirp of the alarm trying to trigger again before it dies.
A second—
Both of them are moving instantly, Shoto already at the door, Katsuki right behind him. The hallway outside is awake now, classmates’ doors cracking open, voices hushed and uneasy.
Aizawa is faster. He’s at the stairwell, scarf already uncoiling, eyes glowing. “Stay back!” The words snap across the hall, commanding and leaving no room to argue.
But Shoto still sees it. Through the pane of glass at the far end of the corridor: a figure slipping back into the dark outside, leaving behind the dimming glow of scorched metal on the fence.
It looks like fire.
It looks like his father’s.
Shoto’s stomach twists. Katsuki swears under his breath with wide eyes. Aizawa herds them back with a look that allows no argument, but Shoto doesn’t miss the tightness in their teacher’s jaw.
When they retreat to his room, the silence feels heavier than before. Katsuki doesn’t let go of his wrist until Shoto finally sits.
And the first time, Shoto wonders if the shadow outside isn’t just watching him. Maybe it’s calling him out.
—————
The dorm doesn’t sleep easily after the scorch mark. Even after Aizawa orders everyone back to their rooms. Shoto can feel it every time a floorboard creaks, every time the plumbing rattles like footsteps through the walls.
He tells himself the building is secure. Police are stationed on the grounds. Pro heroes cycle in shifts beyond and inside the gates. The dorms were built to withstand attacks. They’re safer here than anywhere else.
But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, none of that manages to calm him. The curtain is drawn, yet he can still picture the glow that burned against the fence. A message he can’t ignore. It was meant for him.
The door opens, Katsuki again, slipping inside before anyone notices him. His hair sticks up in sharper angles, his jaw tight. He doesn’t ask, just drops down beside Shoto.
“You think I’m letting you brood yourself into the floorboards?” Katsuki mutters upon noticing his raised brow, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “Not happening.”
Shoto almost manages a smile. Almost. “You can’t sleep either?”
“Hell no.” Katsuki lies back on the blankets, hands behind his head. His voice softens to almost a whisper. “Not when I know they’re after you.”
Shoto exhales, slow, and turns toward him. “They’re after my father.”
Katsuki tilts his head, catches Shoto’s eyes. “You think that makes a difference? They could try and kill you just to get to that bastard, Shou.”
Before Shoto can answer, a sharp and sudden crack against the dorm’s outer walls startles them, like something heavy hurled with force. The building shudders.
Both of them are on their feet in the same second.
Shouts rise in the hallway. Doors fly open, feet slapping against wood and carpet.
“What was that?”
The alarm blares this time—shrill and piercing. Red lights flash through the hall.
Shoto pushes toward the window, but Katsuki yanks him back before he can pull the curtain aside. “Don’t! If they’re aiming for you—”
Another impact rattles the glass. Closer to his room this time.
Aizawa’s voice booms over the alarm. “Everyone away from the windows! Gather in the lounge. Move!”
The students obey, herded down in a knot. They’re a blur of pajamas and hoodies, messy hair, bare feet shoved into slippers or even without. Some are wide-eyed with confusion, everyone is buzzing with adrenaline, fists clenched as if waiting for the command to fight. Ochako grips her sleeves so tightly her knuckles go white. Izuku mutters strategies under his breath, already analyzing.
Shoto feels every single glance flicking toward him, some subtle, some not. Hanta hovers closer like he wants to help. Even Kyoka’s earbuds dangle loose and close by, her eyes watching him more than the windows.
They are afraid for him. Shoto doesn't have the capacity to think about that as they make their way to the ground floors.
Katsuki notices too. His hand brushes against Shoto’s. “Don’t,” he mutters, low enough for only Shoto to hear. “Don’t carry their damn fear on top of yours.” He says it just to make sure, he knows.
Then Aizawa arrives. He’s still in full clothes, boots laced, coat on, as if he hadn’t even tried to rest tonight, as if he’s been waiting in the hallways for this moment.
“They’re probing,” he tells them flatly, scanning the room like he’s already counted heads twice. “Testing defenses. That’s all. They won’t get through. Not with the patrols outside.”
His tone is even, but his eyes cut toward Shoto, sharp enough to pin him in place. “Not tonight.”
The reassurance doesn’t land.
Shoto presses his hands together to still the faint tremor. Katsuki slips an arm behind him, not quite a hug but pulling him close. And for the first time, Shoto feels it sink into his bones. The realization that this right now isn’t about the school or about his father.
Right now—it's about him.
Then the lights overhead flicker. Once, twice. The steady hum of electricity wavers before coming back, weaker, like the building itself just shivered again.
Katsuki frowns immediately beside him. “That’s not nothing,” he mutters.
Several heads turn toward the windows, others toward the darkened hallway beyond the lounge. Nobody speaks, but every body tenses.
Aizawa moves first, stance widening in front of his students “Stay close. Don’t scatter.”
A metallic crash slams through the far doors, rattling them in their frames.
Katsuki lets go of him, leaving both of them room to move. Green lightning crackles close by as Izuku prepares as well.
Dead silence. Labored breathing.
Glass shatters, hallways rattle with steps.
The villains pour through the broken windows, smoke and grit following them in a tide. The lounge explodes into noise, and suddenly quirks start colliding.
Eijiro hardens and throws himself into it, Denki sparks controlled electricity to create space between the villains and the class. Katsuki roars and blasts one into the wall so hard plaster dust showers down on them.
Shoto takes the center at the far back, not voluntarily, but because the others shove in front of him protectively. Ice spreads along the sides, jagged, enclosing enemies into choke points. Heat curls from his other hand. He breathes evenly, calm. His classmates instinctively move around him as if they never did anything else.
He slams an ice wall up to block two attackers, flames scorching another back toward the center where he gets dealt with.
“Keep pushing them back!” Aizawa barks, neutralizing quirk after quirk. “Don’t let them box you in!”
He can feel Katsuki just beside him, explosions popping off like thunder, their teamwork seamless without a word spoken. “You don’t get him!” He snarls, sparks lighting his palms as he barrels into the nearest villain, slamming him against another wall. His voice cuts through the smoke with a hiss. “Over my dead body!”
The fight is desperate but not one-sided. The class holds their ground. For every step the villains take, they push them back two.
And then it happens.
Then Shoto hears it —a footstep that’s wrong. Too close.
A shift in the smoke. Too fast.
Before Shoto can try to duck or kick or literally do anything—
—an arm snakes around his chest, crushing tight. A blade presses cold and under his jaw, jerking his head back so his throat is bared. Fingers fist roughly in his hair, yanking until his eyes water. His balance is off, forced up onto his toes with a pained groan.
Gasps break out around the room. Then there is sudden dead silence. Everything stills.
“Got him,” the villain snarls, breath hot against Shoto’s ear. The knife digs deeper, a bead of blood sliding down his neck. “One wrong move and I open his throat.”
The class freezes. Every bit of motion halts, Katsuki stumbles to a stop mid-charge, explosions sputtering out as his face contorts — fury, fear…helplessness.
“You’re after me,” Shoto forces out, jaw tight as the grip in his hair wrenches harder. He can’t turn his head, can’t breathe properly with steel at his neck. His voice still cuts through. “So leave them alone.”
The hand tightens at the roots of his hair, making him hiss in pain. “Shut up, brat!”
The villain’s arm shifts, and before anyone can react, the blade flashes down across Shoto’s side. White-hot pain tears through his torso, shallow but long, slicing from ribs toward his hip. He gasps, choking back a cry as blood seeps warm through his shirt. His knees almost give out, only the fist in his hair keeping him upright.
A warning.
“Let. Him. Go.” Aizawa’s voice slams into the room dangerously calm. He hasn’t moved from his post by the wall since they managed to get to him, but his eyes burn red, wide with shock and the use of his quirk. He takes a single step forward. “You think you’ll make it three steps past me?”
The villain hesitates, grip twitching. But the knife at Shoto’s throat doesn’t move.
The students are shaking with restraint and focus, never leaving the other villains out of sight. Ochako floats objects around her, Izuku glows but is forced to stand still, Hanta has his tape half-poised but frozen. No one dares risk it.
“Katsuk—” Shoto chokes slightly as his hair is tugged again, scalp burning. His eyes lock on Katsuki’s, steady, even as his pulse hammers. “Don’t. Move.”
Shoto knows him too well. Wrong timing.
Katsuki freezes, looks ready to combust from the inside out, his whole body trembling. “I swear, if they hurt you—”
“They already are, no use getting reckless,” Shoto breathes.
The hold lets up slightly with his words.
That's it.
He moves.
He crashes his head back into a nose, slams his heel down simultaneously, ice bursting from the ground like spears, locking the villain’s legs. At the same time, fire flares in his left palm, searing the arm tangled in his hair. The tight grip jerks open with a curse, the knife slicing shallow across his throat as he twists free from it.
Pain flashes white — his side screaming, his neck stinging — but Shoto doesn’t stop. He whirls, blasting ice backward to shove the villain off-balance, while his fire scorches hot enough to drive the others in front of him stumbling away.
“NOW!” Aizawa’s voice cracks. Instantly, the class surges. Katsuki first, blasting the villain into the wall so hard the windows rattle. The others pile on, the knife clatters to the floor.
Shoto staggers, hand flying to his side. Blood is slick between his fingers, his shirt sticking. His throat burns where the shallow slice stings, the warmth of blood trailing down his skin and soaking his collar. He breathes fast, chest tight.
But he’s standing.
And the villains are suddenly at a disadvantage, their surprise gone. Shouts echo down the halls, reinforcements, pro heroes forcing their way through the barricades.
The attackers curse, retreating into smoke and shadow, slipping back the way they came. But not before one of them spits a promise, eyes locking on Shoto’s pale face.
“This isn’t over, Todoroki. Next time we will make you scream.”
Then they vanish.
————
The dorm is a wreck. Broken glass, scorched walls, water pooling from busted pipes. The air smells like smoke and ozone.
Shoto sits on the couch because his friends refuse to let him stand. His side is wrapped hastily with gauze one of the pro-heroes brought in, white bandages already blotched red where the knife grazed him. The sting burns worse now that the adrenaline is gone, but he stays still, though his eyes are heavy.
Recovery Girl fusses over him, clucking under her breath. “It’s shallow, but deep enough that you’ll be sore for a week. No hero training until I say so.” She taps his head with her cane for emphasis.
Shoto just nods. He doesn’t argue. He’s too tired after the treatment.
When she finally leaves to tend to others, the class closes in. Not in a rush, but one by one, like they can’t keep themselves from gravitating toward him. Eijiro perches on the couch arm, careful not to crowd. Tooru drops onto the rug at his feet, arms hugging her knees judging by the way her pajamas look. Ochako hovers nearby, her eyes flicking anxiously between his face and the bandage.
“You were incredible,” she says softly, almost like she’s afraid he’ll dismiss it.
“You didn’t let them take you,” Eijiro adds, voice firm. “That was—man, that was so tough.”
Shoto shakes his head slowly. “They shouldn’t have gotten that close in the first place.”
“Yeah, but they did,” Mina pipes up. “And you still kicked them halfway across the room. So don’t act like we didn’t see that.”
The others nod, murmuring in agreement.
And then there’s Katsuki. He’s sitting on the couch with him, arm looped behind Shoto like he’s daring anyone to try taking him again. Every time someone moves too close, Katsuki glares until they give space. But when it’s just the two of them, he presses tiny, quick kisses to Shoto’s temple, his hair, the corner of his jaw. Like he can’t stop checking he’s there.
Shoto leans into it, not fighting the comfort. His muscles tremble with leftover adrenaline, but the weight of Katsuki against him helps. He’s not weak, not breaking apart, but being held makes the exhaustion less sharp.
The others notice. Instead of teasing, they ease into it. Denki throws a blanket over both of them, muttering something about “keeping the ice cube warm.” Kyoka stretches out across the rug, head tipped toward his knee, casual but close. Iida rests a hand on the back of the couch for a second before stepping back. Just checking in.
Aizawa remains by the door. He hasn’t sat down once. His eyes sweep the room, checking every shadow, every sound outside. But when his gaze settles on Shoto, it softens. Only a little, but enough.
“You did well,” he says. “All of you. But this was just the first attempt. Stay sharp.”
That sobers them up. The weight of it settles like the blanket around Shoto’s shoulders. The villains aren’t done. This was only a warning. Maybe an attempt, yes, maybe just testing the waters.
Katsuki tightens his arm, lips brushing Shoto’s hair as if to say: “They’ll have to go through me first.”
For the first time since the glass shattered, Shoto gets to breathe deeply. He’s still shaken, still bleeding under the bandage, but surrounded by warmth. Held by the people who refuse to let him go.
And for tonight, that’s enough.