Chapter Text
The doors to U.A. High creaked open with a hiss of hydraulics and new beginnings.
You walked in step with your brother.
Left foot, right foot. Ice side, fire side.
Feathers rustled softly behind you, too big for hallways like this.
Shoto didn’t say anything. He never did, really.
But you could tell by the way his hand twitched near his pocket that he was tense. Watching. Ready.
The classroom was half-full already. A low buzz of conversation floated in the air.
You barely made it past the first row of desks when it happened.
“Whoa,” someone said behind you.
A little too loud, a little too close.
You felt it a second before it happened; the brush of fingers, light but definite, against your right wing.
Chirp.
It wasn’t delicate.
It wasn’t soft.
It was sharp and vibrating. Punched from the back of your throat.
A noise that echoed like flint against steel.
A sound that, to anyone who knew birds, screamed one thing: Predator.
Your wing flared wide. Instinctive. Furious.
At the same time, the temperature dropped.
A cold burst of air spread from the floor like frost on old glass.
A low, white mist crawled along the tile.
Both your left palm and your brother’s right one lit up in perfect synchronicity.
CRACK.
The boy; short, round, with weird grape-like balls on his head, was suddenly frozen from the knees down.
His fingers now encased in crystalline ice.
His mouth moved in slow horror. Like he hadn't processed it yet.
Shoto didn’t even blink.
You stepped forward.
Not to apologize.
Just to retrieve the feather that had fallen from the impact.
A single white one with the faintest shimmer of blue.
You tucked it back behind your belt loop. It had sixty minutes left.
Maybe you’d burn it later. Maybe not.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" a girl with brown hair hissed. Rushing over to the grape kid with a look of alarm.
“He touched my wing,” you said simply. Voice flat.
“I didn’t mean to!” the boy squeaked. “I thought— I didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem,” you murmured, already walking past him.
“You didn’t think.”
You slid into a seat near the back. Wings folded in tight.
Shoto took the seat beside you.
His hands were still faintly cold. His eyes were blank.
“You chirped,” he said after a moment.
You gave him a sideways glance. “You froze him.”
He nodded. Looked back at the front of the room. “Fair trade.”
The classroom door slammed open like it had something to prove.
A rush of wind swept through the room. Sharp. Warm.
Like the breath of something moving too fast to stop.
Then a blur.
Blonde hair. Amber-tinted lenses. Tan skin. Crimson wings flared open.
Everyone stopped talking.
The boy in the doorway blinked once. Golden eyes flicking across the room. Cataloguing. Sharp.
They landed on you.
On your feathers, half-flared.
On the ice-covered gremlin still whimpering by the front row.
On your brother, who hadn’t moved since the incident.
On the girl crouched beside the popsicle. Frantically waving her hands over him like that would help.
The new arrival sighed. Not annoyed. More like something between relief and well, okay then.
“False alarm,” he muttered, to no one in particular. Voice warm, lazy. Birdlike.
Then he looked directly at you.
“Sounded serious.”
You shrugged. “He touched my wing.”
That made him raise his eyebrows. A slight tilt of the head.
Not judgmental. Just curious.
Familiar, in a way that prickled under your skin. Like he understood.
You reached down to your belt loop and pulled the feather you’d tucked there earlier.
Held it between two fingers.
The blue shimmer was already fading.
You flicked it through the air. Slow. Casual. Letting it land at the frozen boy’s feet.
Then, without blinking, you set it ablaze.
The fire was yellow at first, soft like a flame inside a lantern. Then orange. Then molten.
The ice began to hiss.
The grape-haired kid squeaked again, louder this time.
Water pooled around his feet and steam curled upward in tendrils.
He wasn’t burned, but he looked very uncomfortable about the entire thing.
The boy was free. Sort of.
The blonde in the doorway let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s one way to melt tension.”
You didn’t smile. But your feathers twitched in something close to amusement.
The boy stepped fully into the classroom, like he belonged there. He didn’t.
“Out,” a low voice drawled from the hallway.
Everyone turned.
A man stood in the doorway now. Wrapped in yellow scarf and exhaustion. Hair wild, eyes half-lidded.
The blonde boy blinked. “Aw, come on, Eraser. I was just—”
“You’re not in this class, Takami,” the man interrupted, rubbing his temple. “Get out.”
“Rude,” the blonde said with a grin, but raised both hands in surrender.
“I heard a distress chirp. Instinct kicked in. You know how it is.”
Eraserhead didn’t even blink. “No. I don’t.”
“Right, right,” the boy muttered as he turned.
He paused at the door and glanced back at you once more.
His smile was softer now.
“You chirp good,” he said.
Then winked. “Nice wings.”
Then he was gone, a gust of air in his wake.
Silence lingered.
Your face didn’t change. But your feathers fluffed up a little at the compliment. Stupid trait.
Shoto didn’t look at you, but you saw his mouth twitch. Half a smile.
In front of you, someone whispered, “What the hell was that?”
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t sure either.
The training field was wide, sun-bleached, and smelled like dust and potential.
You squinted upward, wings shifting behind you in slow adjustment.
The light was too bright. Or maybe the day just felt too open.
“Time to see what you’re made of,” Aizawa said, voice dry like sandpaper. “No ceremony. No welcome tour. Just results.”
You resisted the urge to shift on your feet. Wings twitching.
You’d been bracing for this since the moment you stepped on campus.
Aizawa called names. One by one, students stepped forward.
You watched them.
Bakugou with his blasts, Midoriya with that strange hesitation, Uraraka and her gravity tricks, Iida with engines screaming from his calves.
Then it was your turn.
“Fifty-meter dash,” Aizawa said, clipboard in hand.
You nodded once. Took your place at the line beside another student.
Your wings twitched again.
You could fly this.
In theory.
But theory and practice didn’t always align. Especially when you’d never been allowed to train the practice part.
Not when wings were considered a distraction.
A mutation.
An afterthought in a house where power was measured in degrees and control.
So you ran.
You pushed off hard, wings pinned tight, arms pumping.
Your feathers didn’t drag. You’d trained for that.
Sprinting with weight. Moving with mass. Years of compensating. Making yourself small in a body that was never meant to be.
The wind howled past. Your breath caught in your throat.
You crossed the line, lungs burning, feathers vibrating with every heartbeat.
Aizawa didn’t comment. Just scribbled something down.
You turned back. Passed a few other students, most of whom kept their distance.
Their eyes flicking to your wings, then away. Mina, gave you a thumbs-up anyway.
You blinked, surprised, but nodded back.
The rest of the test was nothing special.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday noise.
You and Shoto sat in the far corner, by the window, backs to the wall.
Not for drama. Just habit.
Two bowls of cold soba. Steamless. Quiet.
Shoto ate with exact rhythm.
You mirrored him. Not deliberately. Just muscle memory.
Twins trained to move like gears in the same machine.
The noise in the cafeteria didn’t bother you.
The way people side-eyed your wings didn’t either.
The soba was good. Cold. Crisp. Comforting.
Then the alarm blared.
A sharp, metallic wail cut through the room like a blade.
Students jumped in their seats. Chopsticks clattered to trays. Someone screamed.
Red lights flashed from the walls, casting everything in stuttering crimson.
Emergency protocol. Security breach. Lockdown initiated.
The automated voice echoed above the din, calm and unbothered.
Panic surged.
A few students dove under tables.
Others crowded toward the hallway exit. There were too many bodies in too small a space.
Iida was already trying to shout instructions, but his voice was lost in the noise.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Shoto.
Your wings shifted slightly. Ice skimmed the edges of your fingertips, reflexive.
Shoto set his chopsticks down. Slowly.
You glanced at each other. A brief flick of the eyes.
A nod.
Assessment first.
What is the threat. Where is the breach. How many exits. Who is the target.
Endeavor’s training stamped itself across your bones.
Same drill. Different day.
The hallway was too full. Too chaotic.
Rushing into a bottleneck would help no one.
If it was real, that crowd would be the first casualty.
You stood. Shoto followed.
Both of you turned toward the nearest set of windows.
Your shoes echoed faintly against the tile.
Behind you, someone shouted, “Where are they going?!”
You didn’t answer.
The view outside was chaos.
Flashing lights. Campus staff scrambling. A sea of cameras and microphones pressed up against the fence like scavengers.
Media.
Not villains.
Just paparazzi with bad timing and worse ethics.
The gate had been breached. But not by anyone dangerous.
Well. Not in the way they expected.
You exhaled. Your feathers relaxed.
Shoto’s eyes tracked the crowd. Calculated the risk. Found none.
He glanced sideways at you.
You shrugged.
Both of you turned back to your table, sat down, and picked up your chopsticks.
Alarms still screamed.
But the soba was getting cold.
Again.
You slurped a noodle.
Shoto matched you a second later.
Twin silence in the middle of a storm.
Like nothing had happened at all.
The alarm hadn’t stopped.
It had changed tone once, but still droned on above your head, bleeding red into everything.
Your soba was almost finished.
Shoto was still chewing methodically, like the siren didn’t exist. You weren’t much better.
Maybe that said something about you. Maybe not.
You’d counted four possible exit routes. Five, if you used the upper balcony and shattered the glass.
Not necessary. Not today.
The hallway had mostly cleared.
Teachers probably redirected the stampede by now.
You imagined Aizawa was ten minutes into a migraine.
Footsteps.
Not rushed. Not panicked. Just the quiet rhythm of two people who already knew the fire wasn’t real.
You didn’t look up at first.
Not until you heard the voice.
“…I’m telling you,” the boy was saying. Easy. Bright, “the second that chirp hit, I booked it. Thought someone got eaten.”
“Please,” said a second voice. Rougher. Deeper.
“You’re such a bird sometimes.”
“Aren’t you literally a rabbit?”
“Yeah, but I don’t chirp at leaf blowers.”
Then the doors swung open.
You looked up.
Two students walked in. Third-years, probably.
The boy was tall, golden-eyed, amber lenses pushed up into messy blond hair.
His walk was just a little too loose, like he was either confident or sleep-deprived.
The girl beside him looked like she could punch a tank in half.
White hair, scar over one brow, muscle for days.
Rabbit ears. Real ones.
Both of them stopped mid-step.
The boy’s head tilted.
The girl blinked once.
You kept eating.
“Uh,” the boy said after a moment. “We sure we’re not hallucinating this?”
“They’re first-years,” the girl said, like it was a threat or a puzzle. “Why are they eating soba?”
“They’re still here,” he muttered.
You didn’t respond. Neither did Shoto.
The boy stepped a little closer, peering like you were some rare species behind glass.
“You two okay?”
Shoto swallowed a bite. “There’s no threat.”
You added, “Media broke the fence.”
A beat.
The rabbit girl crossed her arms. “So instead of leaving, you…?”
You shrugged. “The soba was getting cold.”
The boy laughed. Short. Surprised. Real. “Okay, I like them.”
He stepped forward fully now.
Drops his tray on a nearby table. Leans his elbows on the back of a chair.
“Name’s Keigo,” he said, grin lazy. “Takami. Third year. Hero course.”
You looked at him fully this time.
Same voice from a few days ago. The one who’d heard your chirp. The one who said “nice wings.”
You nodded once. “Todoroki.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
You gestured between yourself and Shoto. “Both.”
That made the girl laugh, loud and sharp, like breaking something on purpose.
“I’m Rumi,” she said, tapping her knuckles against her collarbone. “Usagiyama. You can call me Mirko if you want. Don’t get weird about it.”
You didn’t.
Keigo flopped into the seat across from you without asking. “So. You chirp.”
Shoto blinked.
You stilled. Your feathers twitched very slightly.
Keigo didn’t seem fazed.
“Sounded real. Strong. Little on the ‘oh-god-I’m-about-to-die’ end of the spectrum, but effective.”
“…Thanks?” you said slowly.
He grinned. “I’m not judging. Just saying. Not many people around here speak bird.”
Rumi reached over and stole a noodle from his tray. “You are a bird.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“You two know this is still an active alarm, right?” she added, looking back at you and Shoto.
You both nodded.
Then, like it had been waiting for her to mention it, the alarm cut out.
Silence dropped like a curtain.
Shoto calmly took another bite.
Keigo just laughed again, low and amused.
“This is gonna be fun,” he said under his breath.
You weren’t sure what that meant.
But for the first time, the chaos didn’t feel quite so loud.
Keigo leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat with wings.
And what wings they were.
Wide and crimson, feathers flexing as if they had minds of their own.
You weren’t sure if he knew they were doing that.
(You were very aware of what your own wings did when you weren’t paying attention. The fluff. The twitch. The feather-shed.)
Beside you, Shoto finished the last of his soba.
Beside Keigo, Rumi popped the final stolen noodle into her mouth. Stood like she had somewhere better to be.
Keigo tilted his head at both of you.
“Well,” he said, pushing his tray aside with the casual confidence of someone who had never once panicked, “it’s been dramatic.”
He stood. Gave a slow wave. Backing toward the doors with Rumi already disappearing down the hall.
“See you around,” he called.
Then, with a grin he adds,
“Wingless and Wings.”
Your brow lifted.
Shoto blinked.
You didn’t respond.
You didn’t need to.
The cafeteria doors swung shut behind him. Wings flicking once before vanishing from sight.
You and Shoto stood. Gathered your trays. Returned them.
Then headed back to class.
The hallway was quieter now.
Most students had filtered back already, muttering about the drill, the chaos, the embarrassment of it all.
But as soon as you stepped into the classroom a voice cuts through.
“TODOROKI TWINS!”
You barely had time to register the blur of blue and white before a hand was chopping through the air in front of your face.
Tenya Iida, engines humming faintly in his calves, was already launching into full Scolding Mode.
“During an emergency drill— especially during a suspected security breach— U.A. students are expected to follow proper evacuation procedures!”
“That includes vacating the cafeteria promptly and seeking shelter in the designated safe zones as outlined in the student handbook, page forty-seven, subsection three, paragraph B!”
You blinked.
Shoto stared blankly at him.
Iida did not slow down.
“While I understand that the breach turned out to be non-violent in nature, the protocols exist for a reason!”
“What if it had been villains? What if the media presence was a distraction?”
“You would have both been exposed and—”
“It wasn’t,” Shoto said flatly.
“I— well— yes, but that’s not the point—”
You tilted your head.
“The alarm was external. There were four escape routes from the cafeteria and around three-hundred students creating a stampede in a hallway that could handle eight. Exiting immediately would’ve increased the injury risk.”
Iida froze.
His hand was still frozen mid-karate-chop.
You stepped around him.
Shoto followed.
Behind you, Iida made a strangled noise, like a printer jam full of moral distress.
Someone at the back of the classroom whispered, “I think they broke him.”
You sat down.
Folded your wings.
Ignored the weight of curious glances still being thrown your way.
Wingless and Wings.
You weren’t sure if it was supposed to be a joke.
But it stuck.
Like a nickname you didn’t ask for, left behind in the wake of feathers and flame.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The house was quiet when you got back.
Not soft quiet. Not safe.
But the kind of quiet that hums in your bones, like the air before a storm.
You stepped through the door first, feathers brushing the frame.
Shoto followed a second later.
His eyes were already dulling the way they always did here. Controlled. Empty.
Your bag thumped softly to the floor.
The lights were already on.
He was waiting.
Endeavor sat in the living room, flame off, arms crossed.
No fire. Just heat simmering under the surface.
The news must’ve aired already. Of course it had. “Media Breach at U.A.” was probably plastered across half of Japan by now.
He didn’t look up from the file in his lap. Your daily report?
No doubt U.A. had sent updates to all hero guardians involved in the top-track classes.
When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.
“What did you do.”
Not a question.
An audit.
You and Shoto stood in silence for a moment.
You weren’t sure if he was asking both of you or just aiming at whoever answered first.
Shoto’s voice came out cool. “We stayed in the cafeteria.”
That got Endeavor to look up.
“You what.”
You didn’t blink. “Evacuating would’ve caused more harm. The hallway was packed.”
“There were procedures.” His voice cracked slightly. Not from emotion. From control.
“You follow orders. You evacuate when the alarm goes off. You don’t—”
“There was no threat,” you said. Calm. Controlled. “It was media. Not villains. Not an attack.”
“You don’t know that when the alarm sounds.”
Your feathers shifted behind you. Tight. Tense.
“We assessed first,” Shoto said, more quietly now.
“That’s what you trained us for.”
There was a pause.
And then he stood.
Not a lurch. Just a slow rise, like a wall going up in front of you.
His eyes burned with that same expectation they always did. Not disappointment, never pride.
Just a furnace looking for fuel.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he said finally.
“Just because it wasn’t an attack this time doesn’t mean it won’t be next.”
You nodded.
Shoto nodded.
Endeavor stepped past you. He didn’t brush against your wings. He never did.
As if they weren’t real.
As if they didn’t matter.
The flames flicked on again as he walked down the hallway.
You smelled smoke. Not the good kind. The kind that lingers in your hair and makes your feathers itch.
The door to his training room shut behind him.
You exhaled slowly. Let your wings relax.
They didn’t make sound. Of course not.
Not here.
Never here.
Shoto glanced at you. “We’re not in trouble.”
You nodded. “We’re just not useful enough.”
He didn’t argue.
You didn’t expect him to.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The bus was too small for your wings.
Not literally, but the seats were tight, the windows shallow, and the aisle narrow enough that you had to shuffle sideways to pass through it.
Someone’s backpack clipped your feathers on the way in.
You didn’t snap. But your wings twitched once, sharply.
You took the second-to-last row, window seat.
Shoto sat beside you.
You didn’t have to ask.
The rest of the class piled in like they’d never been on a school trip before.
“Hey! Hey, can I sit here— oh, wait, no.”
You turned your head slightly as Kaminari blinked at you.
Then slid into a different row when Shoto stared him down.
“Dude, they’re like matching boss fight NPCs,” you heard someone mutter from the front. Probably Sero.
Aizawa slumped into the teacher seat at the front of the bus, eye drops already in hand.
The bus started to move.
Almost immediately, conversations picked up.
You leaned your head against the window. Watched the scenery pass in streaks of grey and green. U.A. gave way to city. City to quieter roads.
One of your feathers itched. You plucked it carefully, turned it between your fingers.
Still alive.
You tucked it into your boot.
“Your wings hurt?” Shoto asked softly beside you.
You shook your head. “Just loose.”
He nodded.
“They’re talking about quirks again,” Shoto said after a beat.
You hummed. “They always do.”
He turned his head slightly. “You going to say anything?”
“No.”
He didn’t question it.
Behind you, Midoriya was nervously listing All Might trivia.
Iida kept trying to organize the discussion into “respectful, one-at-a-time sharing.”
Uraraka was smiling at something Tsuyu said.
It was loud.
But not bad.
Just full.
You kept your wings close. One feather fell loose and drifted toward the aisle. Someone almost stepped on it.
You snatched it back just in time.
Shoto leaned slightly in your direction.
“Do you think this will be a normal field trip?”
You paused.
“No.”
He nodded.
No sarcasm. No joke.
Just agreement.
The building loomed like a futuristic greenhouse.
Massive dome, smooth curves, impossible to fully take in all at once.
USJ. Unforeseen Simulation Joint.
Though you didn’t think anyone used the full name outside of the staff.
You stepped off the bus with your wings tucked tight.
The wind catching your hair and tugging it sideways. Red and white strands floating gently into your vision.
“Whoa,” someone muttered. “It’s like a disaster theme park.”
Shoto stood beside you, silent.
You scanned the layout automatically; emergency zones, terrain setups, water features.
Training grounds disguised as catastrophe.
Aizawa herded the class forward.
Thirteen waited near the central landing platform, helmet catching the sunlight in a muted glint.
“Welcome to the USJ,” Thirteen said, voice calm, robotic, warm.
“Today, you’ll be running through rescue scenarios.”
“Natural disasters. Accidents. Situations where your quirks can make the difference between life and death.”
Their hands folded gently together.
“I’m sure you’re all excited to show off. But today is not about combat.”
Bakugou scoffed behind you.
Thirteen continued, unbothered. “Quirks are incredible tools. They’ve changed the shape of society. But they can also be deadly. Even when used with good intentions.”
Your fingers curled slightly around the still-alive feather.
“I’ve seen what quirks can do when they’re out of control,” Thirteen said, voice dipping lower.
You glanced at Aizawa. He didn’t move. His scarf fluttered faintly in the breeze.
“Today, I want you to focus on control. Judgment. Restraint.”
Your wing twitched once. Shoto’s hand flexed near his side.
You looked at each other.
Twins who had never been allowed to not control.
The sky above was clear.
You felt it before you saw it.
A crackling hum in the air. Like the sound just before lightning hits a tree.
Then it split.
The space near the fountain shimmered, tore open like paper. A ripple of violet, warped light spiraling outward.
A portal.
Your stomach dropped.
And then they stepped through.
Figures in black. Faces masked or worse.
Villains.
Real ones.
The kind who didn’t flinch at classrooms or teachers or rules.
You didn’t have time to think.
You grabbed Shoto’s sleeve.
He grabbed your wrist at the same time.
The portal expanded. Swallowed light. Swallowed sound.
Swallowed you.
You hit the water hard.
Cold and immediate.
Your wings dragged you under.
They were already soaked by the time your feet kicked toward the surface.
The weight of your feathers turning your body into a dead weight.
Panic bloomed behind your ribs. Fast. Hot. Wild.
You broke the surface with a sharp gasp, coughing. Wings thrashing under the surface. You couldn’t even hover.
Someone was shouting.
You weren’t near them.
You were near the edge of the artificial bay, and on the bank?
Villains.
At least four. Shadows moving. One with blades for fingers. One lighting a cigarette.
Your feathers dragged you backward, heavy as anchors.
Then a splash. Ice burst across the surface in jagged spikes. A frozen bridge from the edge to the waterline.
Shoto.
He skidded into the shallows, arm already extended.
You reached.
He grabbed your forearm and hauled you up.
Not gentle. Just fast.
Your boots hit the ice and slid.
You barely found footing as he turned, eyes locked on the approaching villains.
His breath fogged.
You knew what was coming.
You yanked your wings in as tight as you could.
It wasn’t tight enough.
The frost exploded outward. Sharp. Bright. Instant.
The villains were frozen solid before they could react.
You didn’t have time to be impressed.
Because now?
Your wings were frozen too.
Not fully.
Some of your feathers, especially the long outer ones, were still dragging behind you, wet and splayed.
The blast had caught them. Frost crusted along the edges.
You moved and your balance gave out.
You hit the ice hard.
Wings sprawled.
One side thudding down, the other catching on the jagged frost, wrenching sideways.
You gasped. Not from the fall but from the snap.
Three feathers broke outright. You felt them go.
A few more bent wrong. One twisted at the shaft and fell free entirely, still frozen solid.
Your wings burned. Not with fire. With pressure. With ache.
You stayed down for a beat too long.
Shoto turned immediately, knee hitting the ice as he crouched beside you.
“You’re—”
“Fine,” you said, voice too sharp.
You weren’t.
But you couldn’t not move.
You shifted again, gritting your teeth, dragging your wings upward.
You couldn’t dry them.
You could, but not like this.
Not with him standing on a frozen platform.
Not with enemies encased beneath your feet.
If you used your full flame, you’d melt everything, bring the whole zone crashing into the bay.
So you lit the low fire.
Faint. Controlled. Barely a flicker across your wings.
A warm pulse. Slow.
Not enough to dry the soaked feathers. Not enough to restore flight.
But enough to keep them from freezing solid again.
Shoto’s mouth was tight.
“You should—”
“I know.”
He didn’t say sorry.
You didn’t ask him to.
You looked down at the ice. At the feathers scattered around you. Stiff. Limp. Useless now.
The pain was dull. Ache more than stab. But you felt it anyway.
One of the villains shifted in the ice.
Shoto stood. “We have to move.”
You nodded.
And stood too.
Wings dragging. Lighter now, but not in the right way.
You didn’t look back.
You and Shoto moved fast. Not because you wanted to.
Because you had to.
The training field was no longer a simulation.
Smoke rose in spirals from collapsed terrain zones.
Explosions echoed in the distance.
Your boots scraped against frozen concrete as you turned a corner, Shoto at your side.
Villains were everywhere now.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your wings dragged behind you. Still soaked, still heavy.
Every beat felt like punishment. Feathers snapped with each sharp movement, some of them falling off entirely, white and broken.
You stopped only when a group of villains rushed out of a storage tunnel ahead.
Shoto stepped forward.
You stepped with him.
His ice burst outward, cracking from the ground like jagged teeth.
It swept across the tunnel floor. Swallowing two of them instantly, freezing the weapons mid-swing.
You lit your wings. Low.
Not for warmth.
Not for power.
Just control.
The fire kissed your feathers in faint amber glow.
The third villain tried to leap over the frozen wave.
You flung a plume of burning feathers toward him.
They hit his arm and shoulder, searing through cloth and skin alike.
He dropped.
The fourth screamed something unintelligible and ran.
You let him go.
Shoto’s breath fogged beside you. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.
You kept moving.
You knew there was a fight at the plaza before you saw it.
Because you heard it.
Fist meeting flesh like stone smashing through mountains. Shockwaves. Screams.
All Might’s voice, thunderous and ragged.
When you and Shoto skidded to the edge of the plaza, you saw the... thing.
Bigger than you imagined. Fast. Brutal. Smiling, even as All Might slammed a punch into its side.
Only for it to heal.
Again.
And again.
Blood already coated the ground in flecks.
Shigaraki stood nearby, twitching. Watching. Kurogiri hovered like a shadow.
You looked at your brother. He nodded once.
No hesitation.
You moved together.
All Might was in mid-grapple, straining as Nomu tried to grab at his ribs again. Its hand dug in, fingers aiming for his weak spot.
A wave of ice. Controlled.
Shoto reached first, frost swallowing half of Nomu’s body from the waist down.
You followed instantly.
Snatch a still-warm feather from your belt and freezing it mid-throw.
Sending it flying like a blade toward the villain stalking behind Shigaraki.
Hit. Dropped.
The thing thrashed.
The frozen leg shattered.
All Might broke free.
You didn’t stop.
You flung two more ice-laced feathers toward Kurogiri’s warp gate, trying to force him back.
Bakugou appeared in a blast of smoke and fury. Pins Kurogiri. Yells something too loud to hear.
The thing was starting to move again.
You had seconds.
You yanked your fire back into your feathers. Let the water start to boil out.
Steam hissed around you as your wings finally began to dry.
All Might re-engaged.
You landed behind a collapsed beam. Feathers smoking. Muscles burning.
And watched the fight unfold.
Fist after fist. Blow after blow.
All Might roared with everything he had left.
“PLUS ULTRA!!!”
His fist shattered the air.
Nomu flew through the sky like a comet and vanished into the distance.
Silence followed. Thick. Crushing.
Then Shigaraki screamed.
Shoto was already moving again. You reached for a feather instinctively.
But you didn’t need to throw it.
Midoriya jumped in front of All Might.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
Teachers arrived in waves.
You collapsed to one knee beside Shoto, chest heaving.
Your wings were lighter.
But your arms were shaking.
One last broken feather floated down beside you.
Shoto picked it up. Wordless.
Tucked it into his coat.
You found the steps by the Central Plaza after it ended.
After the Nomu was gone.
After the villains were gone.
After the teachers arrived, too late to stop the worst of it, just in time to clean up the blood.
No one stopped you from sitting.
Maybe because your wings were dragging again, half-scorched and patchy.
Maybe because your boots left faint smears of ash and melted frost with every step.
Maybe because they all knew you had nothing left to give.
Shoto sat beside you, one knee up, the other stretched out.
You didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
The sky was starting to shift. Pale streaks of morning bleeding through the cracked dome above.
You felt cold. And not because of your Quirk.
Your wings were still wet at the tips.
Still heavy.
Still wrong.
Then Shoto reached into his jacket.
Pulled out the feather he’d kept.
It still shimmered faintly at the center. Not alive, not entirely, but still warm.
You didn’t look at him. Just opened your hand.
He placed it in your palm.
Then, quietly, his fingers flared with fire.
Not much. Just enough.
The feather glowed molten orange, soft like glass pulled from a kiln.
You brought it to your lips.
The first bite was warm and gooey. Like jelly with a bitter edge.
The second went down easier.
Your ribs stopped aching, just a little.
Your right shoulder stopped burning.
It wasn’t a full fix. But it helped.
You sat in silence, licking the last of the warmth off your fingertips.
You felt Shoto shift behind you.
His hand brushed the base of your left wing.
You flinched.
“Sorry,” he said.
You didn’t stop him.
He moved slowly.
Gentle.
One by one, he reached for the feathers that were clearly gone.
Snapped.
Bent too far to fix, slick with old water or crusted frost.
He tugged the broken ones free, smoothing others back into place with quiet precision.
He didn’t say anything about the damage. He didn’t need to.
His fingers moved like they’d done this before.
Because they had.
Since you were children.
Since the first time you molted mid-winter and panicked because the new ones didn’t come in fast enough.
Since the first time Endeavor told you wings were useless.
Shoto never told you that.
He kept working.
Until you turned slightly. Just enough.
And pressed your forehead to his.
He didn’t freeze.
Didn’t ask why.
Just let his eyes fall shut.
Your foreheads stayed pressed together. Wings drooping. Shoulders bowed.
A soft sound escaped your throat. Just a breath.
Shoto didn’t make a sound.
But you could feel his breathing syncing with yours.
You stayed like that for a long moment.
Not because it fixed anything.
But because it reminded you that some things were still yours.
The car ride back was silent.
Shoto sat beside you, eyes forward.
Your wings stayed pressed to your back, held in tight despite the way they twitched with every pothole.
The heating in the car dried the tips a little more.
It didn’t help.
The house came into view too quickly.
Too soon.
You stepped through the door like you were walking into a cage you built yourself.
He was there, of course.
Endeavor.
Not at the dinner table. Not in the training room.
Right at the entrance. Like he knew the exact second you’d arrive.
His arms were crossed. Flames low at his shoulders. He didn’t speak right away.
His eyes dropped to your wings.
Stopped.
You stood straighter without meaning to. Like hiding damage could undo it.
Shoto didn’t flinch. But he didn’t move, either.
Endeavor’s voice was low.
“What happened.”
Not concerned. Not gentle. Just... measuring.
You didn’t speak.
He stepped forward. Heat shimmered faintly around him.
His eyes scanned the damage now that you were close.
The patchiness.
The way your right wing dragged a little lower than your left.
The very obvious absence of three primaries.
His voice sharpened.
“Explain.”
You didn’t look away.
“Water zone,” you said simply. “I was dropped in it.”
Silence.
“And?” His jaw was tight. “You drowned?”
You didn’t answer.
Shoto’s voice came quiet. “Her wings were waterlogged. She couldn’t get out fast.”
“She got stuck.”
The flames around Endeavor pulsed higher for a moment. Not from worry.
From anger.
“You’re supposed to control that part of your Quirk.”
You clenched your jaw.
“It’s muscle and bone,” you said flatly.
“Not an engine. Wings soak. I did what I was trained to do.”
His eyes flicked to Shoto, then back to you. “And what was that? Freeze the zone so you could take flight?”
“No.”
You exhaled slowly.
“I used low flame to stop them from freezing. I couldn’t use high heat. Shoto was using ice.”
A long pause.
Then with quiet disgust,
“So the bird got in the way again.”
You froze.
The floor under your feet suddenly felt unsteady.
Your feathers burned, not from heat, but from shame you didn’t deserve.
Shoto stepped half a step closer.
“She fought,” he said evenly. “We both did. She helped freeze the Nomu.”
“She lost five primaries,” Endeavor snapped.
“I’ll grow them back,” you bit out. “Like I always do.”
His hand moved, Pointed, like he wanted to touch the damage and prove a point.
You took a step back.
He didn’t follow.
“Do you understand,” he said, voice like molten rock, “that when you allow this weakness to define you, it defines us?”
You stared at him.
At the man who trained your ice.
Ignored your flame.
Cut your wings without ever raising a blade.
“I am a Todoroki,” you said. “But I’m also not just one.”
He stared.
You turned away.
Shoto followed without being told.
You didn’t look back.
Not even when the heat in the room swelled again, like he was about to burn something just to burn it.
The light in Shoto’s room was dim.
One old lamp on the corner shelf, barely strong enough to cast full shadows.
Your wings were half-folded as you sat on the floor. Cross-legged.
Pulling loose feathers one by one from a small pile beside you.
Most were intact.
Some were bent.
One still had a faint line of frost clinging to the edge.
The container on your lap was already nearly full.
Another sat beside Shoto, who was going through the last of the feathers he’d picked off you earlier.
His were stacked by color.
Yours were not. You’d always been a little messier about it.
Neither of you spoke.
The silence was comfortable. Familiar.
It had always been like this after missions.
After burns.
After days you didn’t want to remember but had to live through anyway.
You finished sealing the box. Labeled it with a strip of tape.
April 17.
Wings: post-USJ.
Shoto was already cleaning up his own pile.
The futons were already laid out. Two, side by side.
The same way they’d been when you were kids, too small to be left alone in your rooms, too proud to admit you didn’t want to be.
You didn’t say anything as you stood. Lowered yourself onto the right one.
Your wing still ached. Dull. Low. Like bruises along the spine.
Shoto moved in quiet mirror. No questions. Just folded into the blanket, back to the wall, hands tucked beneath the edge of the pillow.
You stared at the ceiling for a while.
Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the windowpane.
The firelight in the hallway had long since faded. Endeavor hadn’t come back upstairs.
You didn’t care.
After a moment, you shifted.
Reached.
And draped your wing over Shoto’s side.
Not the whole thing. Just enough.
A protective curl, warm and soft despite the rough patches.
You felt him breathe in, just a little deeper.
His hand rested lightly on the edge of a feather.
He didn’t pull it closer.
Didn’t push it away.
You closed your eyes.
And for the first time all day,
you let yourself sleep.
The water is cold.
You’re standing at the edge of the pool.
The tiles are wet. The whistle’s around his neck.
The concrete smells like bleach.
Endeavor stands with arms crossed, casting a long, dark shadow across the surface.
“This is training,” he says. “Not a break.”
You’re seven.
Maybe eight.
Shoto is beside you. Smaller. Stiff.
His swimsuit is too big on him.
Yours sticks to your feathers.
You hate how it feels. The drag. The weight.
You can’t flap them here, the muscles don’t work right when they’re soaked.
“You go first,” Endeavor says, turning towards you.
You freeze.
“Now.”
So you jump.
The water swallows you whole.
It isn’t like the ocean. It isn’t like rain.
It’s everywhere.
Inside your ears, in your mouth, clinging to the base of your wings like chains.
You try to move. You kick your feet.
But your wings pull you down.
Down.
Down.
The wings drag behind you like dead weight.
They open instinctively, trying to keep you afloat.
But the moment they spread, they fill with water.
You drop.
Your head bursts back above the surface just long enough to hear—
“You’re not using your body properly.”
And then you’re under again.
The second time you break the surface, it’s because Shoto’s hand grabs your wrist.
He yanks you to the edge of the pool.
You cough, feathers sagging. You’re not sure when you started crying.
You try to climb out, but your wings slap against the tiles, too heavy to lift.
“You think a villain’s going to wait while you cry in the water?”
That’s what Endeavor says.
You remember this part.
You remember this part.
You look up. Dripping. Shivering. Wings hanging like broken sails.
And he looks down at you like you are nothing but a mistake.
You woke with a gasp in your throat.
Not loud.
Not panicked.
Just sharp. Sudden.
Like surfacing.
The futon was warm beneath you.
Feathers stuck to your cheek. Loose ones, soft and still-shed from the night before.
You reached up, brushing them off with trembling fingers.
The room was dim.
Morning hadn’t fully arrived yet. That strange blue-gray stretch of time where everything feels too still.
The window leaked soft light in pale lines across the floorboards.
The air smelled like the lingering heat of yesterday’s burn.
You sat up slowly. Your wing ached where you’d slept on it wrong.
The broken feathers still hadn’t come back.
Beside you, Shoto stirred.
He didn’t open his eyes right away, but you knew he was awake.
He shifted onto his back and exhaled once.
A long breath. Tired. Familiar.
You said nothing.
But your silence was different now.
And he heard it.
“Was it the pool?”
Your throat felt too dry to answer. You nodded instead.
A pause.
“You had that one a lot when we were younger.”
Another pause.
“You still do.”
You looked at him.
He hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, but you could see his fingers flexing like he was itching to do something.
Like tug broken feathers.
Or offer you a warm feather in return.
You dropped your gaze to your lap.
“They still drag,” you said quietly.
Shoto didn’t ask what you meant.
Because he already knew.
“They don’t,” he said eventually. “Not to me.”
You looked up.
He met your eyes. Turquoise to gray. Mirror-opposite.
You gave a quiet hum. Then lay back down.
Your wing shifted again, instinctive.
You draped it across him without asking.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t push it off.
Just let it rest there.
You closed your eyes.
Not to fall back asleep.
Just to breathe.