Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Denki Kaminari wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected when he dreamed of attending a school as famous as U.A. High School. Maybe somewhere deep down, he thought it would be like stepping into a hero manga—thrilling, electrifying, and filled with instant friendships and nonstop action. But the reality? That was still sinking in. Truthfully, he hadn’t even been sure he’d get accepted at all. The thought felt almost impossible, like a long shot thrown into the wind.

He kept telling himself it was partly luck. Pure dumb luck.

The written exam had been a disaster. Denki knew it the moment he saw the questions—he’d fumbled more than half of them, barely grasping the theory and concepts. Numbers and formulas blurred on the page. His heart had sunk, convinced he’d blown his chance before even starting.

But then came the practical test, and that was where his quirk had saved the day. Unlike the written exam, the practical portion played to his strengths. When those robotic targets started moving, his adrenaline kicked in. He zapped, sparked, and shocked his way through, subduing the robots with a mix of precision and raw power. Each successful strike sent a jolt of confidence through him. Somehow, he managed to score enough points in the practical test to make up for his less-than-stellar performance on paper.

Even now, with the acceptance letter stored like a keepsake in his binder and the U.A. campus sprawling before him, it still felt surreal—like some crazy dream he wasn’t sure he was awake for. Walking these halls, standing among the future heroes he’d only ever heard about on TV—it all felt bigger than anything he’d imagined.

Sometimes, when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a classroom window or a shiny trophy case, he had to remind himself that this was real. That he really belonged here. 

Somehow, the most shocking part for Denki wasn’t the campus, or the acceptance, or even the strength of his classmates. 

It was Shouto Todoroki. And not intensity in his gaze, or the quiet, almost impenetrable aura the boy carried—it was the fact that Denki was actually taller than Todoroki.

Now, Denki knew he wasn’t exactly tall. He’d never been. Standing a bit below average among his peers had been something he’d been aware of for years—nothing drastic, not enough to stunt his confidence completely, but enough to be a source of light teasing from classmates and friends. Enough that he’d learned to brace himself for the occasional joke or ribbing about his height.

But Todoroki? Todoroki was supposed to be one of those guys who naturally commanded attention just by his presence. The son of Endeavor, the Number Two Hero in Japan—Denki had imagined him towering over most of the class like a flame-wreathed colossus. Not just because of pedigree, but because power seemed to demand a physical stature to match.

And yet, standing there in the hallway, Denki realized Todoroki wasn’t even an inch taller than him—if anything, Denki had a slight edge. It caught him completely off guard.

It was a strange feeling, a flicker of surprise that buzzed through his veins almost as intensely as his quirk. For a moment, Denki’s usual easy confidence wavered. Here was this boy who radiated quiet authority and cold intensity, and he was, physically speaking, smaller than Denki by just a hair.

That tiny discrepancy shouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t like height defined strength or skill. But still, it rattled Denki more than the looming threat of expulsion had, or the intimidating aura of the top students. Somehow, that small, almost trivial fact punctured through all the nerves and pressure of being at U.A. High.

It made Todoroki seem more human, less like the untouchable legend Denki had imagined.

As soon as Denki stepped into the classroom that very first day, his eyes immediately caught on the unmistakable shock of hair. How could he not recognize it? There weren’t many pictures of Todoroki Shouto floating around online—his family was notoriously private—but the few that did make it out had gone viral more times than Denki could count. That split cascade of fiery red and stark white was practically iconic, a signature that stuck in the mind like a brand.

Even from across the room, that hair stood out like a beacon.

Denki had seen the pictures of Todoroki standing beside Endeavor—the blazing, hulking Number Two Pro Hero whose presence seemed to fill any frame. Todoroki had always looked kind of small next to his father, but honestly, everyone did, except maybe All Might. That was the family dynamic everyone talked about: the enormous, explosive hero overshadowing his son in every way imaginable.

So Denki hadn’t really thought much of it at first. He’d filed it away as “small in comparison,” a natural thing when standing next to a mountain like Endeavor.

But now, seeing Todoroki in person, there was no denying it—the kid really was just straight-up small. Not just in height, though that was part of it, but in the way he carried himself, the way his frame seemed compact and lean, almost fragile in contrast to the brash energy radiating from so many other students around them.

Denki blinked, surprised by the quiet gravity that smallness seemed to carry with it. There was more to this kid than the pictures and the rumors suggested. More complexity beneath that striking exterior.

It wasn’t just about inches on a measuring tape. It was the overall sense that Todoroki was contained, reserved, almost compressed. Like a flame caged inside a delicate glass vessel. 

At first, it had registered almost like a distant afterthought—something to file away in the back of his mind. A simple fact, like a footnote in a textbook. One of those details that might matter someday, somewhere down the line, but for now, felt almost irrelevant. Something barely worth pausing for.

At least… until today, their first Foundational Heroes Studies class. The whole class was buzzing with anticipation. By now, everyone knew the legendary All Might himself would be teaching them this year. The mere thought sent ripples of excitement and nervous energy through the halls. Rumors flew fast and thick—who would he be like? How strict? How inspiring? And yet, none of them had actually seen him in person yet. His presence was more of a promise than a reality, an electric undercurrent waiting to be unleashed.

Denki felt the excitement thrumming through the air like static, even before homeroom had officially started. It was contagious, and he couldn’t help but grin a little, caught up in the wave of anticipation sweeping through Class 1-A.

Since the start of the week, he’d already become fast friends with Kirishima and Ashido—two of the most approachable and genuine people in the class. So when he walked into the room, he headed straight toward their familiar huddle around Sero’s desk, eager to catch up and soak in some of the camaraderie. His bag was still slung over one shoulder, but he stopped briefly at his own desk just long enough to drop it off before joining the group.

The classroom buzzed with low chatter and laughter, punctuated by the occasional excited whisper about All Might. Denki felt a rush of belonging there, in the middle of the noise and friendship. 

“Oh man, dude—I mean, I heard rumors that All Might was gonna be teaching at UA,” Kirishima blurted, practically vibrating with energy. “But I honestly didn’t believe them! I figured even if it was true, he’d only teach, like, the third-years, or maybe the second-years at most. You know, the people who already have their provisional licenses or whatever.” He gestured wildly as he spoke, hands carving shapes in the air, his voice full of disbelief and excitement. “I can’t believe we’re actually about to meet him. Us! ”

Denki couldn’t help but grin. Kirishima’s enthusiasm was infectious, and honestly, a welcome distraction from the way Denki’s own nerves were starting to jitter under his skin.

Ashido was right next to him, nodding along to everything Kirishima said with an intensity that was almost absurd. Her pink hair bounced with the motion, and she folded her arms with exaggerated seriousness, twisting her mouth into a frown so theatrical it was clearly a joke. “We’re first-years , Kiri. Babies. Literal fresh-out-of-middle-school babies,” she said in a low, dramatic voice, as if narrating a documentary. “We’re not supposed to be in the same zip code as someone like All Might. I’m still not convinced this isn’t just some elaborate prank.”

Denki snorted, then clapped a hand over his mouth a second later when he realized how loud it was. A couple heads turned from other clusters of students, but no one seemed annoyed. Everyone was a little hyped up this morning.

“I mean, it is kind of insane,” Denki said, voice dropping into a half-whisper, half-squeak. “This guy basically built the modern era of heroics and now he’s gonna teach us ? Like, what if he makes us do some crazy, impossible endurance training on day one? What if he just… I don’t know, shows up and smiles and I short-circuit or something?”

He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as the tiniest spark snapped at his fingertips—harmless, but definitely noticeable. A tingle of electricity skated up his arms, not strong enough to discharge but enough to remind him that his quirk was never far from the surface when he was this worked up. He couldn’t even tell anymore whether it was his nerves causing his electricity to stir, or if the hum of his quirk was creating the anxiety like a self-feeding loop.

Ashido caught the spark and grinned. “Whoa there, Denki. Save the theatrics for the big guy, huh? Wouldn’t wanna meet your idol while mid-fry.”

“Yeah,” Kirishima chimed in with a grin, elbowing him playfully. “Try not to go full Pikachu before he even says hi.”

Denki groaned. “You know I hate that nickname.”

Which only made them laugh harder. But even as he laughed with them, something in his chest was tightening—not unpleasantly, just… a little too full. Anticipation, nerves, awe. The feeling that something big was about to happen, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was ready for it.

“I wonder what he’s gonna be like,” Ashido mused aloud, her tone casual, but her eyes were sparkling with genuine curiosity. “Do you think he’s gonna be just like he is on TV?”

She rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped on Sero’s desk, her fingers absently twirling a strand of pink hair. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried in the quiet buzz of pre-homeroom chatter, drawing the group’s attention back in. “You know, all ‘fear not, citizens!’ and giant thumbs-ups and stuff. Think he’ll do the voice?”

Denki laughed under his breath, but the question made something in his chest clench—not in a bad way, exactly. More like anticipation coiling tighter. Because yeah, he was wondering that too. All Might, the All Might , was kind of larger than life. Always had been. He wasn’t just a hero—he was the hero. Smiling in the face of danger, indestructible, untouchable. An unstoppable wall of positivity and power. Seeing him on TV was like watching a real-life comic book come to life.

Denki couldn’t imagine him being any other way. And honestly? He didn’t want to.

He blinked, dragging himself out of the thought just in time to catch Sero shaking his head slowly in response to Ashido’s question. The tape user’s expression was thoughtful, brows drawn slightly together as he leaned back in his chair with his arms folded tightly over his chest.

“I don’t know,” Sero said, shrugging a little, “but I can’t lie—I’m a little nervous.”

Ashido raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. “ Nervous ? You?”

Denki glanced at him too, surprised. Sero was one of the chillest people he’d met all week—laid-back, dry-humored, totally unshakable. If he was nervous, that was saying something.

Sero offered a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, even I’ve got limits. I mean…” he glanced around the room, voice lowering slightly, “there’s a reason people say you should never meet your heroes.”

That gave them all pause.

Denki frowned, the words settling a little heavy in the space between them. He shifted where he stood, his fingers twitching at his sides, that low static hum in his nerves coming back again.

“You think he’ll disappoint us?” Denki asked before he could stop himself. His voice came out a little too quiet, a little too earnest.

Sero was quick to answer. “Nah. Not disappoint exactly. Just… I think it’s hard, you know? When someone’s been a symbol your whole life. When you’ve built them up in your head so much that they stop being a person. That kind of pedestal? Nobody can stay on it forever.”

Denki swallowed. That made sense, he guessed. But he didn’t want it to. He liked believing that All Might was exactly who he appeared to be. Brave, unshakable, always smiling. The kind of person you could count on without question. The kind of person who made the world feel safe just by existing in it.

“I don’t know,” Ashido said eventually, softer now. “Maybe it’s true. But I think I’d rather know the real version of someone than just a pretty picture.”

Denki opened his mouth, sparks on the tip of his tongue—half a joke, half a nervous ramble, not even sure yet what he was going to say—but whatever thought had been forming fizzled out immediately when Iida Tenya’s voice rang out like a cannon blast over the low hum of conversation.

“Fellow students!” Iida declared, slicing the air with a karate-chop motion so forceful it made Ashido flinch. “The class bell rings in approximately thirty-five seconds! I implore you all to take your seats and direct your attention to the front where Mr. Aizawa is now present!”

He finished the announcement in a flurry of precise movement, all sharp angles and crisp efficiency, and promptly marched to his own desk like he was on some kind of mission, his back ramrod-straight. His chair scraped back with military punctuality, and he sat with the kind of discipline that made Denki wonder if the guy actually practiced sitting at home.

It took a second for the rest of the class to process the sudden shift in energy. There was a ripple of startled silence—then the sound of chairs scooting back, bags thudding lightly against desks, and a few muffled groans of reluctant compliance. Denki exchanged a glance with Kirishima, who shrugged and gave him a sheepish grin before moving toward his own seat. Ashido rolled her eyes with a smirk but didn’t argue either, hopping off Sero’s desk and stretching her arms high over her head as she sauntered back to her place.

Denki grabbed the strap of his bag, slinging it off the floor and onto his desk with a soft thump before sliding into his chair. The static running under his skin hadn’t gone away, not really—it still pulsed faintly through his fingers, tingling at the tips like a warning or a promise, he wasn’t sure which. His gaze flicked to the front of the room, half expecting to see All Might’s towering frame and shining grin.

But instead… there was just Mr. Aizawa. The man looked exactly as tired as he had every other morning, barely distinguishable from a sleep-deprived cryptid. His hair was even more of a tangled mess than usual, and his face was partially buried in the oversized collar of his capture weapon. He was hunched slightly behind his desk, a half-empty coffee mug in one hand and a tablet in the other, eyes skimming the screen like he couldn’t decide whether to be conscious or not.

Still, despite his utterly deadpan demeanor, the atmosphere had shifted. Everyone was watching. Everyone was waiting. The room went quiet in that strange, expectant way that only classrooms could manage—like the air itself had gone still, holding its breath. They were all thinking the same thing: Is it time? Is this it? Are we finally about to meet him?

“…Thank you, Iida,” Mr. Aizawa said dryly, the barest hint of exasperation leaking into his voice. He didn’t sigh, exactly, but the pause between words was heavy enough to imply it. His expression, half-hidden by the scarf looped around his neck, remained flat, though Denki could’ve sworn there was something vaguely pained in his eyes—as if Iida’s constant, booming enthusiasm had physically worn down his last nerve.

A moment passed. The class stilled.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware,” Aizawa continued, tone clipped but steady, “today marks your first Foundational Hero Studies class.”

The words landed with weight. Denki straightened unconsciously in his seat, a flicker of static dancing between his fingertips beneath the desk. Around him, he could feel the ripple of anticipation catch like kindling—subtle but growing. Even Bakugou, slouched aggressively in his seat near the window, tilted his head just slightly, his red eyes narrowing with interest.

“To participate in today’s class,” Aizawa said, “you’ll need to be wearing your hero costumes.”

Several students made audible noises—small gasps, a stifled whoop from Kirishima, a whispered “finally” from Ashido. Denki felt his pulse skip. He’d read the schedule, sure. Knew this was coming. But hearing it out loud , like this, made it real.

Aizawa’s gaze scanned the room. “I trust everyone submitted their costume request forms before the start of the school year.”

That comment seemed mostly rhetorical, but Denki saw a few people sit a little straighter as if suddenly uncertain about whether they'd done it right. A few nervous glances darted between classmates, and Sero muttered something under his breath that made Ojiro snort quietly beside him.

Just as the weight of that moment settled in, a soft whir echoed through the room.

Denki’s head turned toward the noise, and his eyes widened as narrow panels along the wall slid open with mechanical precision. One by one, twenty sleek, reinforced cases emerged, each bearing a glowing digital number that matched a student ID from the roster. The cases looked like something out of a sci-fi movie—black with silver accents, sealed tightly, some with visible cooling or locking mechanisms. His heart leapt into his throat.

“These contain your hero costumes,” Aizawa said, with all the emotion of someone announcing it was time for a dental cleaning. “The numbers correspond to the class number you were assigned. Collect your case, and make your way to Gym Gamma .”

He paused, letting the words settle in. There was a new energy now—excitement mixed with nerves. Chairs scraped against the floor as students began to rise in waves, chattering under their breath. Denki’s legs jittered with the effort of not leaping up immediately.

“There are locker rooms available there where you can change,” Aizawa added, already picking up his tablet again like he was done with them. Then, just as the first hand reached for a case—he spoke one last time.

“Oh,” he said, and for the first time that morning, his voice curved into something faintly amused. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, so brief Denki nearly missed it. “And don’t worry.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp and unreadable. “All Might will meet you there.”

The reaction was instant. Gasps. Shouts. A shocked laugh from someone in the back. Even Bakugou froze, his hand inches from his case, mouth parting just slightly in surprise. A literal, electric jolt shot through Denki’s arms, and he slapped his hands down on the desk to ground himself, sparks crackling faintly against the wood.

“All Might?! There?! Like—he’s really gonna be teaching us?! ” Kirishima half-shouted, already clutching his case with both hands like it was a trophy.

“Holy crap, this is really happening, ” Ashido breathed, eyes gleaming. “Okay, okay, let’s go! I wanna see everyone's costumes too!”

Denki grabbed his own case—number seven—and hugged it to his chest. It was heavier than expected, cool to the touch. Something about the weight made it feel important. Real.

They were going to meet All Might. In costume. In Gym Gamma. His stomach flipped. His palms tingled. This… this was what he’d dreamed of.

There’s a current of excited chatter rippling through the group as they spill out of the main building and head down the path toward Gym Gamma. It’s not quite a stampede—no one’s running—but there’s an energy to the way they move, like a pack of kids trying really hard not to sprint toward a pile of birthday presents. Most of them aren’t even aware of how fast they’re walking, their voices rising in overlapping bursts of speculation, laughter, and awe.

Denki sticks close to Kirishima and Sero as they go, caught up in the buzz of it all. There’s a high, electric kind of anticipation buzzing just under his skin, a tingling mix of nerves and excitement that keeps sparking up in little bursts across his fingers. No one says it outright, but he knows they’re all thinking the same thing: This is it. This is real. Their first real step into what it means to become heroes.

Gym Gamma looms ahead, sleek and massive, the wide steel doors already propped open. The interior hums with artificial light, polished floors gleaming beneath the overhead fixtures. The locker rooms are located just off the main corridor—split into two wings, one for boys and one for girls. Denki follows the others into the left wing, trying not to let his steps turn into a jog.

The locker room is—well, way nicer than he expected. Definitely cleaner than the musty, mildew-scented ones back at his old middle school. Everything here looks brand-new. The tiles are pristine, the lights are bright, and the lockers themselves are tall, metallic, and numbered with neat digital displays. They’re wide enough to fit armor sets, with adjustable shelving and hooks inside for accessories or gear. A row of pristine showers lines the back wall behind a privacy partition, their chrome fixtures gleaming under the white lights. The air smells faintly of industrial soap and ozone.

“Dude, this is way nicer than what we had at my old school,” Sero whistles, tossing his case down and popping open his locker with a grin.

“No kidding,” Kirishima adds, already unzipping his uniform top and tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. “Everything’s so— polished! Man, I feel like I’m in a pro gym or something.”

Denki laughs, his fingers dancing over the locking mechanism of his case. “Right? I was expecting like, cracked benches and broken stalls, not… I don’t know, hero-grade locker rooms.”

They claim a row of lockers beside each other near the center of the room, and it quickly becomes a flurry of movement. Zippers, rustling fabric, excited shouts of “ No way, that’s yours? ” and “Dude, that looks awesome!” bounce off the tiled walls. Everyone’s too hyped to feel awkward—there’s a shared sense of vulnerability and pride in this moment. These are their costumes. The first ones. The ones they designed themselves.

Denki opens his case carefully and inhales a quick breath at the sight of it—his suit laid out neatly, each piece slotted into its own compartment. The colors pop more in person than they did on paper. He runs a hand over the fabric briefly, feeling the texture, the little lightning-bolt accents stitched into the lining. It’s real. He’s going to put this on.

“Whoa, Kaminari, that’s sick!” Kirishima exclaims from beside him, already halfway into his own outfit—an armored crimson harness crossing his chest and back. “Love the lightning theme! Super flashy!”

Denki grins. “Thanks, man. Yours looks intense—definitely rock-solid.”

“Pun intended?” Sero deadpans, pulling on his mask with a lopsided smirk.

“Absolutely,” Denki says proudly, slipping one leg into his pants.

They keep chatting as they change, sharing quick commentary on each other’s choices—how Denki’s boots have grounding soles to help stabilize his discharge, how Sero’s gear enhances his tape-launching range, how Kirishima’s outfit allows for maximum mobility despite its armored look.

To be honest, Denki isn’t paying any attention to Todoroki at all.

He’s too busy trying to smooth down the stubborn crease in the collar of his jacket, which seems determined to pop out at a weird angle no matter how many times he fixes it. He’s also still buzzing a little from the excitement of getting into costume for the first time—his gloves feel just slightly too tight in the fingers, and there’s a faint hum of static clinging to his sleeves that he doesn’t entirely trust not to zap someone by accident.

Around him, the locker room is full of movement and chatter. Someone’s laughing loudly, and there’s the soft hiss of lockers swinging closed, the metallic click of latches snapping into place. Fabric rustles, boots thump against tile, and there’s a general background buzz of nervous excitement as everyone finishes changing and starts mentally preparing themselves for whatever All Might has in store.

He doesn’t even realize Todoroki’s undressed until a sharp, shrill whistle slices through the room like a blade. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. The sound is followed almost immediately by a familiar voice, rough and scornful and impossible to ignore.

“God damn , Halfie,” Bakugou calls across the room, loud enough to make a few people flinch. “You look like a fucking toothpick.”

Denki blinks, attention snapping toward the far side of the room where Bakugou stands—already fully suited up, arms crossed, a dangerous smirk curling at his lips. His gaze is fixed on Todoroki, who’s crowded himself against the far end of the room, shirt dangling between clenched fists. 

And it is kind of a surprising look.

Not in a bad way, necessarily—just unexpected.

It’s a crass thing to say, and Bakugou is undoubtedly a dick. Denki had figured that out by, like, day two. The guy didn’t so much introduce himself as explode at someone for breathing too loudly. But still… even if the way he says it is rude as hell, Denki can’t totally disagree.

Todoroki had only taken off his shirt—quietly, matter-of-factly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—but the sight of him had made Denki blink and do a bit of a double take. Because, honestly, the dude looks kind of… breakable.

Not weak, not exactly. There’s a kind of tension in the way he holds himself that feels dangerous, like something coiled up and waiting. But his body tells a different story. His ribs jut out in sharp, symmetrical lines beneath pale, almost papery skin. His collarbones form high ridges, and his shoulders—though squared—look almost too narrow for his height. When he moves, it’s clear he’s got muscle, but not the kind you get from lifting weights or bulking up. It’s lean, sinewy—ropey, even. Like cord pulled too tight. He looks less like a fighter and more like something starved into survival.

Denki doesn’t mean to stare, but there’s something eerie about it. Something not quite right.

Todoroki doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He pulls the upper half of his costume on slowly, methodically—sliding his arms into the sleeves like someone who’s done this a thousand times. The gesture is smooth, practiced, but not particularly expressive. There’s a precision to it that feels almost clinical.

He’s not built like Bakugou, with his compact, explosion-ready frame and sharp, aggressive posture. He doesn’t have Kirishima’s broad, brawler’s shoulders or Sero’s tall, gangly ease. Todoroki’s… narrow . Self-contained. Like everything important is happening somewhere deep beneath the surface, where no one can reach.

Almost delicate-looking, Denki thinks, and then immediately feels weird about thinking it.

But clearly, Bakugou has zero intention of letting anything about Todoroki go unnoticed.

“Just because you want to act like a prissy fucking princess,” Bakugou coos with a cruel kind of sarcasm, his voice practically echoing through the locker room, “doesn’t mean you have to be built like one too.”

There’s a ripple in the room. A few people snort quietly, not really laughing at Todoroki, just reacting to Bakugou being Bakugou. A few others glance around, clearly waiting to see if Todoroki is going to respond. A couple of students glance at Todoroki, then back to Bakugou, uncertain whether to laugh or brace for a fight. Denki shifts awkwardly, unsure what to do with his face. 

Todoroki, for his part, doesn’t even flinch. He finishes zipping up his vest in one smooth motion, then turns his head just slightly, just enough to look at Bakugou out of the corner of his eye. His face is blank. Expressionless. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just adjusts the strap at his side and turns away again, like Bakugou doesn’t exist. Like the insult didn’t even register.

Privately, Denki feels a little bad for the guy—though he keeps that to himself.

Todoroki hadn’t really done much to make friends since the term started. He was quiet, distant. Never rude exactly, just… hard to read. He kept his head down, spoke only when spoken to, and even then, it was usually just a clipped nod or a soft-spoken, flat reply. There was a kind of wall around him, tall and silent and cold—not outwardly hostile, but built high enough that no one seemed especially eager to try climbing over it.

So no one did.

No one was rushing to his defense, either. Not now. Not when Bakugou’s words landed with all the grace of a dropped sledgehammer. A few of the guys laughed—not meanly, exactly, just awkwardly. The way people do when they’re not sure what the right response is and don’t want to become the next target. The rest of the room mostly fell into a quiet, vaguely uncomfortable shuffle.

Todoroki still didn’t say anything. He barely even reacted. He just kept changing, mouth pressed into a hard line, eyes fixed straight ahead. There was a stiffness in his shoulders now, though—something clipped and quick in the way he moved, like he was trying to fold himself out of his own skin and vanish. The top half of his suit went on in jerky, mechanical motions, zipped halfway up with one sharp pull. He didn’t look at anyone. Not Bakugou. Not the rest of the class. Just gathered the rest of his gear and walked, fast and purposeful, toward the exit.

Denki blinked. The guy was fast . Like—startlingly so. Not with the exaggerated, showy swagger of someone trying to make a point. More like a shadow slipping past light. Smooth and quiet and almost unsettling in how quickly he was gone.

The locker room door shut behind him with a soft slam —not quite loud enough to be called aggressive, but firm. Final. It left a faint echo in its wake, and a little silence that no one seemed to know how to fill.

Shinsou turned away from his own locker with a slow, almost lazy pivot, his towel still slung around his neck and his eyes cutting toward Bakugou like a flick of a blade. His expression was hard to pin down. It wasn’t exactly angry—but it wasn’t amused either. Something dry simmered beneath his gaze, unreadable. Detached. Cool.

“You’re an asshole,” Shinsou said flatly, his voice calm but sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t wait for a response—just turned back around and kept changing, tugging his uniform top over his head with unbothered ease.

Denki let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and exchanged a glance with Kirishima, who looked a little like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite find the words.

And yeah. Denki definitely agreed.

Bakugou didn’t look fazed. He just snorted, low and dismissive, and pulled on the gauntlets of his costume like he hadn’t just chased a classmate out of the room with a single sentence. Like none of it meant anything at all.

The whole exchange makes it even more surreal when, not an hour later, Todoroki proceeds to wipe the floor with all of them in the training exercise.

There’s no flourish to it. No dramatic pause, no big flashy display. It’s quick— clinical —over in mere seconds before most of them even get the chance to properly assess the setup. He doesn’t yell or posture or gloat. He just moves like someone who’s done this a hundred times before, who doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone because he already knows what he’s capable of. And that—somehow—is worse than trash talk.

Todoroki stands there like a statue, frost still crackling faintly at his feet. He doesn’t even look winded. And he definitely doesn’t look interested in anyone else’s reaction. He barely glances their way. Doesn’t acknowledge the gaping stares or hushed mutters or even Bakugou’s second-string tirade. Just nods once at Aizawa’s signal and turns, walking off the field with that same unreadable detachment he wore in the locker room, like he’s already somewhere else entirely. Like none of it— none of them—matter at all.

After that day, Todoroki doesn’t change in front of them anymore. Not once.

At first, no one really notices. Maybe they assume he’s just shy. Or modest. But then it starts happening every time. They’re all stripping down, suiting up, trading banter or barking over gauntlet straps and boots—and Todoroki is nowhere to be seen. He always shows up to training fully dressed, hair still damp, skin a little flushed like he’s been changing in a rush somewhere else. And afterward, when they return to the locker room, he either lingers in the training space longer than necessary or ducks out before anyone else can move.

Denki clocks it the third time it happens. After that, it becomes routine.

Todoroki starts timing his arrivals and exits like a soldier dodging surveillance. Some days, it’s subtle. Other days, it’s obvious. He’ll hover just outside the locker room entrance with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, waiting silently, phone in hand, eyes trained on the floor like he’s willing time to pass faster. And if someone tries to speak to him—or even catches his eye—he just nods once, curt and unreadable, then vanishes the moment they cross the threshold.

More than once, he barely makes it to class before the bell.

Bakugou doesn’t call him on it. Denki doesn’t either. Neither does Kirishima or Sero. They just watch, occasionally glance at each other when it happens again and again, and then move on like nothing’s changed.

But it has changed. That much is clear.

After that, Denki starts paying a little more attention to Todoroki. Not in a weird way, or at least not that he’d call weird. More like… casual curiosity. Totally normal stuff. Observational, even. Like gathering intel on a mystery NPC in a video game.

He tells himself it’s not really a thing. Just—Todoroki stands out. Even in a class full of future heroes, half of whom have neon hair or are constantly exploding or turning invisible, the guy somehow manages to draw the eye. And not just because of the hair—though the red-and-white is basically a walking logo. It’s the way he carries himself. Like he’s in a different timezone from everyone else. Moving at some slower, quieter frequency.

But mostly, Denki pays attention because something just… doesn’t add up.

He’d figured that even if Todoroki hadn’t clicked with them , he’d have friends in other departments. Like maybe some upperclassmen who knew him from before UA. Or kids from Support or General who liked the broody loner vibe. Someone. Anyone.

But no.

The dude has zero friends. Denki watches him for a week straight at lunch just to be sure. And every day— every single day —Todoroki sits alone. Same spot. Same table, way over in the far corner of the cafeteria, like he’s exiled himself to the outskirts of society. Back straight, shoulders squared, like he’s posing for a picture no one’s taking.

It’s kind of unnerving, how quiet he is.

He doesn’t scroll through his phone like the rest of them. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t glance up. Just sits there, eating with this weird, careful precision like every bite’s being graded. He opens his bento—neatly packed, obviously homemade—and eats the same thing every day, or at least something incredibly similar: perfectly portioned rice, grilled chicken, a few pale vegetables arranged like a sad little garden.

It’s a far cry from the chaotic towers of curry rice and fried chicken piling up on Denki’s tray, or the monstrosity of meat Kirishima usually brings. Even Iida lets loose enough to grab a smoothie on Thursdays.

But Todoroki? No variation. No socializing. No expression. Just… eat, sit, stare into the void.

Denki finds himself weirdly unsettled by it. Not in a judgmental way, just in the way you start feeling cold when you realize someone’s been standing in the shade too long.

It’s not like he wants the guy to be sad or anything. But it is strange, watching someone be that alone by choice. Watching someone who could probably have anything—and anyone —he wanted, just… choose not to. Every day.

And he always comes with a book. Not in a casual, kill-some-time kind of way either—the guy reads like it’s his job. Like the pages are oxygen. Like if he doesn’t get through a chapter during lunch, something essential will be missing from his day. It’s oddly intense. Kind of impressive, really.

Denki starts to notice the rhythm of it. For a few days, it’ll be the same cover propped up against his water bottle or held loosely in one hand while he eats with the other, his eyes flicking down between bites. Then, without ceremony, a new one will appear. No fanfare, no discussion—just swapped out one day like clockwork. Rinse and repeat.

What catches Denki off guard isn’t the fact that Todoroki reads—it’s what he reads.

He’d half-expected textbooks, maybe some dry history stuff, or thick, hyper-technical books on strategy or physics—something fitting the whole brooding genius prodigy thing Todoroki had going. But that’s not what he finds. At all.

The variety is… weirdly eclectic.

One day it’s a hardback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo , thick as a brick and old enough that the pages look yellowed around the edges. A few days later it’s some kind of minimalist poetry collection in a soft blue paperback, the title in elegant cursive. Then a book on philosophy. Then sci-fi. Then a war memoir. Then something Denki’s pretty sure is a young adult fantasy novel with a dragon on the cover.

And then, one day, Denki walks past the table and does a double take. Todoroki is sitting exactly like always—upright posture, perfectly centered bento in front of him, water bottle on the right, book just to the side—but this time the title on the cover reads The Awakening by Kate Chopin.

And that’s the first time Denki actually blinks and goes, Wait, seriously?

He’s never read it himself, but his older brother had to for his high school English class last year, and Denki remembers listening to him rant about it for twenty straight minutes in the car. Something about women, repression, feelings, and the ocean. It was one of those “deep” books that teachers get really excited about and students mostly pretend to understand.

It’s… not the kind of thing Denki ever imagined someone like Shouto Todoroki reading.

He doesn’t say anything, obviously. But it’s enough to scramble the vague profile he’d been forming in his head. Todoroki, who hardly talks to anyone, who can freeze a waterfall solid and apparently beat half the class in ten seconds flat, is voluntarily reading 19th-century feminist literature over rice and chicken like it’s just another Tuesday.

“What are you looking at?” Jirou’s voice cuts through the idle noise of the cafeteria, sharp but not unkind.

Denki startles a bit. He must’ve been staring longer than he thought. He tears his eyes away from Todoroki—still sitting alone in the corner, still reading with monk-like stillness—and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Oh… just… Todoroki…?” he mumbles, not really sure how else to phrase it. It comes out more like a question than a statement. Jirou raises an eyebrow at him, one of those slow, skeptical looks that could mean anything from seriously? to are you okay?

But, miraculously, she doesn’t press. She just shifts her attention back to her food, one earbud dangling down from the collar of her shirt, as if she’s already decided it’s not worth the trouble.

Before the moment can settle, Ashido leans dramatically across the table, seizing the opening like it’s the hottest piece of gossip she’s heard all day. “Dude, he’s really freaking weird, right?” she says, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Like, not in a bad way, I guess—but also, maybe in a bad way?”

Denki blinks. “I mean… I don’t know if I’d say weird exactly—”

“No, no, she’s got a point,” Kirishima cuts in, gesturing vaguely with his chopsticks before popping something into his mouth. He keeps talking, voice muffled around what couldn’t possibly be a fully chewed bite. “The dude is definitely strange. He barely talks at all. Even Koda talks more than he does.”

Jirou lets out a quiet sigh and shakes her head. “That’s kind of a mean way to put it, don’t you think?” she says, nudging her tray forward a few inches and folding her arms. “I mean, Kaminari is a weirdo too, and he’s okay.”

Denki whips his head toward her, eyes wide. “What did I do?” he protests, clearly wounded. “I’m, like, fun-weird! Charming-weird!”

“You tried to see if you could charge your phone with your teeth yesterday,” she replies flatly, not even looking up.

“That was an experiment, ” he insists, jabbing a finger in the air. “For science! ”

Ashido bursts out laughing. “No, no! It’s totally not the same, Jirou,” she says between giggles. “Denki’s like… normal-weird. Harmless-weird. Todoroki is just—like, mystery cryptid weird.”

“I’m just saying,” Kirishima adds, swallowing this time before speaking (thankfully) , “he’s… intense. Like, he’s always thinking about something but never says what it is. It’s kind of hard to get a read on him. You never know what that guy’s gonna do.”

“Exactly!” Ashido says, thumping her palm against the table. “He’s like—one of those NPCs in a game that gives you cryptic advice and then disappears for three quests.”

Denki can’t help but laugh at that. “Okay, yeah, that’s kind of accurate.”

All of them—almost in sync—steal a glance toward the other boy seated across the cafeteria, as if pulled by the same thread of unspoken curiosity.

Todoroki doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t let on. He’s hunched slightly over the book in his hands, one elbow braced against the table, fingers poised delicately on the page like he’s memorizing the words instead of just reading them. His expression, as always, is unreadable—somewhere between calm and hyper-focused.

His bento box sits neatly in front of him, the compartments completely spotless. Not a single grain of rice, not a drop of sauce left clinging to the lacquered sides. Denki notes—not for the first time—how Todoroki always eats the same way: fast, but not messy. Precise. Efficient. Like he’s on a timer and no one told the rest of them.

There’s a strange tension to it, Denki thinks. A sort of... urgency wrapped in practiced grace. Every movement is carefully measured, performed with exacting etiquette—never talking with his mouth full, always chewing with his lips closed, his chopsticks held perfectly, like he was trained to pass inspection. But beneath that is something... tighter. Like maybe if he doesn’t finish quickly, someone will take it away.

“Maybe he just likes to be quiet?” Sero offers after a beat, his voice light and casual, even as he reaches for another carton of juice. “Not everyone’s gotta be a loudmouth like you, Kirishima.”

Kirishima lets out a theatrical gasp, clutching at his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “Dude! Rude!”

Sero only grins wider, leaning back in his seat as Kirishima throws a lazy swing at him. He ducks easily, laughing.

“I’m serious though,” Sero adds once the moment of dramatics fades. “Some people just vibe on their own, y’know? Doesn’t necessarily mean anything’s wrong with him.”

Ashido tilts her head, pouting thoughtfully. “Yeah, but like—he never talks. I don’t think I’ve even heard him laugh. Does he laugh?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” Denki admits, then immediately feels kind of bad for saying it.

“Maybe he just doesn’t laugh because he doesn’t find any of us funny. Ever considered that one?”

Shinsou’s voice cuts in from the far end of the table, dry as ash. He doesn’t look up as he speaks, still hunched over his phone with his elbows braced on the table. The screen is dark. He hasn’t touched it in a while, and his fingers aren’t moving. It’s obvious now that he’s been listening the whole time—probably from the beginning—but only decided to weigh in once the conversation hit a nerve. Or maybe he just couldn’t resist the opportunity to be cynical.

Ashido snorts. “Oof. Brutal.”

Denki leans forward slightly, resting his chin in one hand. “I mean… Shinsou might have a point.”

“Hey!” Kirishima protests, just as his latest swipe at Sero goes wide. The force of the swing overbalances him and he nearly falls off the bench, one leg flailing before he catches himself with a hand slapped to the table. “Woah! Okay, okay. I deserved that one.” He rights himself with an exaggerated wince and rubs the back of his neck, laughing a little sheepishly. “But, seriously—yeah. I guess I’m just a little disappointed, you know?”

There’s a softness to his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago, the humor fading into something more thoughtful.

“When I saw him in our class that first day, I was stoked. ” He flashes a grin, but it’s lopsided, half-hearted. “I mean—Todoroki? The Shouto Todoroki ? Son of the number two pro hero? He’s practically famous already. Of course I was curious.”

He pauses, poking half-heartedly at his tray of food. “I was actually excited to get to know him. I thought—hell, I dunno. That he’d be cool, or at least interested in being part of the class. But it’s like… he’s not even trying. Like we’re invisible.”

Denki nods slowly, fiddling with the end of a straw wrapper between his fingers. He definitely gets where Kirishima’s coming from. It’s not just about the name or the reputation—it’s the vibe. The sense that Todoroki doesn’t just keep to himself, but actively avoids making connections.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Denki admits. “He never really looks at people, y’know? Not for long. Not like he’s shy, more like... like he’s already decided there’s no point.”

Ashido hums thoughtfully. “That’s kinda sad when you think about it.”

Shinsou finally glances up from his phone, eyes sharp beneath the curtain of purple hair. “Or maybe it’s not that deep. Maybe he just doesn’t care.”

Sero shrugs, folding his arms behind his head. “Or maybe he cares too much and he’s just real bad at showing it.”

“Honestly, I think he seems pretty rude,” Jirou says, not mincing words. Her tone is flat, but there’s a subtle edge to it—just enough to hint at lingering irritation. She picks at her rice with her chopsticks, not looking up. “I mean, he doesn’t have to be our friend or anything, but the least he could do is be civil. Did you hear the way he snapped at Shoji during that training exercise with All Might? ‘Stay out of my way’—like, come on. ”

She lifts her gaze then, arching a brow like she’s daring someone to disagree. “We’re all here to learn. We’re teammates. That kind of attitude? It’s not just unfriendly. It’s uncool. Completely dominated the exercise like no one else even mattered.”

For a beat, no one responds. Across the table, Sero shifts awkwardly in his seat, scratching at the back of his neck. Kirishima glances down at his tray. Denki lets out a quiet breath and fiddles with the corner of his juice box, suddenly very focused on peeling the straw wrapper all the way off.

None of them had told the girls what happened in the locker room that day. It hadn’t felt… right. Like sharing it would’ve crossed some invisible line. It wasn’t like Todoroki had done anything wrong exactly—but there was something fragile about the way he’d moved. About the way he’d bolted out the door like he couldn’t get away fast enough. That image had stuck with Denki, more than he’d expected it to.

With that in mind, they couldn’t totally fault him for being on edge during that first exercise. Maybe he had overstepped. Maybe he had been cold. But it was hard to see it as simple arrogance when you were holding the memory of his spine jutting like a knife beneath his skin.

“I mean, yeah,” Sero says eventually, his voice careful. “That wasn’t his best moment. But... it was the first day. Everyone was a little intense.”

“He was more than intense,” Jirou mutters.

“Well...” Denki tries, squinting slightly. “Maybe he’s just used to working solo? That could explain why he doesn’t really… you know, click. ”

Ashido frowns thoughtfully. “Then what’s the point of being here? UA’s all about working together. If he’s not even trying to fit in, that kinda defeats the purpose, right?”

Kirishima straightens in his seat, placing his chopsticks down with a soft clack. His brows are furrowed, but not in anger—just a kind of stubborn, determined look that Denki has come to recognize. When Kirishima sets his mind to something, there’s no walking it back.

“Well, I for one haven’t given up!” he declares, his voice loud enough to make a few students at nearby tables glance over. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He claps his hands together with a loud bang, the sound sharp and cheerful in the echo of the cafeteria. “Todoroki’s gonna be my friend whether he wants to or not. I’ll make sure of it.”

Denki laughs despite himself. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise! ” Kirishima says with a grin that could light up a room.

Jirou rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches like she’s holding back a smile. “You guys are hopeless.”

“I prefer to think of us as emotionally persistent,” Sero replies, offering her a toothy grin.

Across the room, Todoroki flips another page in his book, face unreadable.

As the weeks slide by and the novelty of the new school year begins to wear off, something in the class settles into quiet resignation when it comes to Todoroki.

It’s not a dramatic shift—just a slow accumulation of silences, of glances quickly turned away. One day, someone tries to ask him what book he’s reading and gets a curt, almost disinterested response. The next, someone cracks a joke about his hair that goes unacknowledged entirely. And after that, it just stops. The conversations. The small talk. The attempts.

People start treating him like furniture—part of the classroom, always there, always quiet, but never included. Never engaged . No one approaches his desk to chat between lessons anymore. No one invites him to eat lunch with them or asks how his day’s going. He’s just there , like an odd, silent fixture at the edge of the room.

Well—except Kirishima. Kirishima, bless his optimistic heart, still waves at Todoroki every morning. Still tosses him casual “Hey man, good luck!”s before training. Still flashes him that wide, unshakable grin of his, even when Todoroki responds with nothing but a blink and a nod. It’s like trying to hug a wall, but Kirishima doesn’t give up. Denki’s pretty sure he never will.

But Kirishima is the outlier. For everyone else, there’s a creeping sense of frustration that’s started to take root. Any time someone is partnered with Todoroki for training, they groan about being ignored or overshadowed. Any time someone’s against him, they grumble about how it’s “not fair” because of “his ridiculous quirk.”

Denki hears them muttering—sometimes under their breath, sometimes not even trying to hide it.

“Why even bother trying when he’s just going to freeze the whole field in two seconds?”

“He doesn’t even talk to you. Might as well be fighting a robot.”

“Honestly, if he thinks he’s too good for all of us, he can go train alone.”

And the worst part is: Todoroki definitely hears them. His desk is right there. There’s no way he misses the huffs, the irritated sighs, the not-so-subtle comments. But if it bothers him, he never shows it. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t push back or explain.

He just keeps going—stoic and silent and seemingly untouched by all of it.

Everyone talks about how powerful his quirk is—and they’re not wrong. The ice alone is unbelievable. He’s reshaped entire landscapes in seconds, turned battlefields into frozen death traps that even Bakugou struggles to get around. But Denki can’t help feeling like he’s only ever watching half of what Todoroki can really do.

Every time he lifts his right arm, cold blooms and frost spreads—but his left hand just hangs there, limp and still. Like it doesn’t belong to him. And Denki wonders, not for the first time, what would it look like if he ever let it out?

Today, Denki gets what he would definitely call the short end of the stick—the unfortunate honor of being paired up with Todoroki for their Foundational Hero Studies class.

The assignment, according to Aizawa, is to simulate survival and response tactics in the midst of various natural disasters. Every student pair is assigned a different scenario—earthquakes, wildfires, floods, mudslides. It's not about flash or combat today; it’s about strategic thinking, teamwork, and endurance under pressure.

Denki slouches in his chair the moment Aizawa begins listing off the pairs. With each name called, he silently hopes to get Kirishima. Or Sero. Or, hell, even Bakugou. Anyone who at least talks to him. But of course, when his name is finally called, it's followed immediately by: “Todoroki.”

His stomach drops.

Todoroki, as always, gives no reaction whatsoever, just nods once and stands, apparently unbothered. Denki mutters a resigned “cool, cool, this is fine,” under his breath, but he’s already imagining how awkward this is going to be. The guy barely talks. Denki isn't even sure he knows what his voice sounds like at this point, outside of sharp commands during training.

Fortunately, the objective today isn’t rescue or evacuation. Aizawa had clarified earlier that rescue logistics would come later in the month, when they’d be taking a field trip to a specialized simulation facility—the USJ. Right now, it's just about survival.

“When people think of heroes,” All Might begins, his voice ringing through the training hall with that unmistakable larger-than-life cadence, “the first thing that comes to mind is combat . Fighting villains. Charging into danger with fists flying and explosions going off in the background.”

He paces slowly across the front of the room, his arms folded in front of him, posture tall and commanding. His shadow stretches long in the harsh white lighting of the simulation prep space, lending him even more of that mythic presence he carries like a second skin. His sharp gaze scans the room, sweeping over the rows of students suited up in their hero uniforms, until it lands—pointedly—on Denki.

Denki startles, posture straightening a little too fast. He wasn’t zoning out, not exactly , but he definitely hadn’t been giving All Might his full attention either. Now, under that scrutinizing stare, he feels like he’s been caught mid-yawn on national television.

“All that flash,” All Might continues, eyes narrowing slightly at him before finally moving on, “all that spectacle you see on TV— that is the type of hero work that gets the most media attention.”

A few students shift uncomfortably. Others—like Bakugou—look wholly unbothered, perhaps even smug.

“But,” All Might says, his tone dropping a degree, becoming more serious, more measured, “what you don’t often see is what makes up the bulk of the profession.”

He stops in place now, turning to face them all directly, arms crossing in front of his broad chest. His cape flutters slightly in the breeze from the ventilation system.

“Serious villains—high-level threats that require full hero intervention—are actually rare . They exist, yes. And when they appear, they’re dangerous. But they are the exception , not the norm.”

Aizawa, standing silently off to the side, gives a slight nod of agreement, as if to emphasize the point.

“All of you are training hard,” All Might continues, “to prepare for those rare moments when the worst does happen. But if you only prepare for villain combat, you’ll be neglecting the situations that are far more likely to claim lives if mishandled.”

He begins to pace again, slower this time, more thoughtful.

“Natural disasters. Large-scale accidents. Floods. Fires. Collapsed buildings. Chemical spills. Search and rescue. These are the incidents that fill a pro’s calendar. And unlike fighting a villain, where the threat is obvious, in disaster response, you can become the threat if you act without precision and care.”

He stops again and holds up a single finger. “For instance—would you send Endeavor to put out a forest fire?”

A small ripple of laughter passes through the class, hesitant at first, then more confident. Even Bakugou’s mouth twitches faintly.

All Might smiles lightly too, before his tone turns firm once more. “No. You wouldn’t. Not because Endeavor isn’t strong, but because he’s the wrong kind of strong . If you apply the wrong solution to the wrong situation, you don’t save lives—you endanger them.”

The laughter fades, replaced by silence and a faint hum of understanding.

“That is why,” he says, voice echoing with conviction now, “as young heroes, you must become adaptable. Intelligent. Calm under pressure. You must learn not just how to fight, but when not to. How to observe. How to triage. How to assist without causing more damage.”

He lets that sit with them for a moment, his eyes drifting across the room again, this time softer—measuring, not chastising.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks, clearly expecting more than polite agreement.

The class nods in near unison, murmurs of understanding rolling through the room.

“Good,” he says, his booming tone returning. “Then we’ll begin.”

He pulls a tablet from the side panel of the wall and quickly flicks through the student pairings. “Aoyama, Shoji—you’re first. Head to Ground Omega to get started.”

Aoyama salutes with unnecessary flair, nearly blinding several classmates with a sparkle from his belt. Shoji just nods, already moving toward the door.

“The rest of you,” All Might continues, “join me in the observation room. Watching your classmates— really watching them—will teach you more than any textbook. Pay attention to how they communicate. How they adapt. How they recover from missteps.”

As the class begins to shuffle out, Denki finds himself moving slowly, lingering near the back of the group. His eyes flick toward Todoroki, who’s already striding ahead with the same quiet purpose he always seems to carry, like the world can shift around him and he’ll never budge.

He and Todoroki are the last pair to go.

The knowledge settles heavy in Denki’s chest like a rock, a weight of inevitability that only grows as each minute ticks by. With every team that goes before them—Kirishima and Ojiro, Iida and Uraraka, Shinsou and Midoriya—his nerves ratchet tighter, until he’s practically vibrating where he stands at the edge of the observation room. His fingers twitch at his sides, crackling with tiny, involuntary sparks that he tries to shake off without drawing too much attention. The faint buzz of electricity hums in his fingertips like a quiet warning, and he bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to work off the edge.

God, he wishes they would just call their names already.

The anticipation is worse than the actual exercise. Or—it will be, he’s sure of it. Once they’re out there, it’ll be easier. Or at least more active. Right now, all he can do is wait and think , which is never a good combination for him under pressure.

He glances over at Todoroki.

The other boy stands utterly still, arms crossed loosely over his chest, back straight, expression unreadable. His hair—half stark white, half that deep, unnatural red—is lit from behind by the monitor screens, casting a halo of artificial light around his head. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t tap his foot. Doesn’t glance at Denki or the screen or the instructors. He might as well be a statue. One carved from ice.

Denki swallows.

They haven’t said a word to each other all class. Not that that’s unusual—Todoroki doesn’t talk unless he has something specific to say. Still, Denki has been tempted more than once to lean over and break the silence, to say something casual like, “Any idea what we’re in for?” or “You ready to crush this?” or even just “Hey.”

But he never does. And not just because Todoroki would probably blink at him like he’s just spoken in Morse code.

Honestly, there’s no point. All Might had been clear when class started: none of them would be briefed in advance on what scenario they were about to walk into. Each pair would step into a randomized disaster simulation, designed to test their instincts, adaptability, and teamwork under pressure. That meant there was nothing to plan. No game plan to formulate, no strategy to run. Just raw reaction.

So yeah. Talking to Todoroki beforehand would be useless. Besides it’s not like he’ll be contributing much anyway. He has no illusions about how this is going to go.

Todoroki is Todoroki. The guy’s a one-man natural disaster in his own right. Ice walls that shoot up like tidal waves. Freezing half the field before Denki can even finish charging his quirk. He’s not just efficient—he’s clinical . Precise. Cold, both literally and otherwise. And Denki’s watched enough of his training matches to know how this ends: with everyone else floundering behind him while he bulldozes through the assignment without breaking a sweat.

If Denki laid down and took a nap in the middle of their simulation, he’s genuinely not sure it would affect their score.

Still, even knowing that, even expecting to be little more than background noise in Todoroki’s performance, Denki can’t stop the jittery energy fizzing beneath his skin. His nerves are practically singing , overcharged and restless, like static under his skin. He blows out a breath, trying to slow his heartbeat. It doesn’t work.

The worst part is that Todoroki doesn’t even seem anxious. Doesn’t look like someone waiting to be dropped into a potentially deadly disaster scenario. His face is blank, not relaxed but neutral. Controlled. Like he’s already there, already inside the problem, calmly calculating how to tear it apart from the inside.

Denki can’t tell if it’s impressive or infuriating. Maybe both.

Finally, it’s their turn.

All Might glances over and gives a nod, and Denki’s heart gives a single, sharp jolt in his chest. He startles slightly—he’d almost convinced himself they might run out of time before their round came up. No such luck.

He and Todoroki exchange a brief look—more reflex than anything else, because they don’t say a word—and then they’re moving, stepping through the reinforced doors that lead out of the observation deck and into Ground Omega.

The transition is immediate and jarring. The moment they cross the threshold, Denki’s breath catches in his throat. The cold hits first.

It slams into him like a wall, sharp and sudden, and he stumbles a half-step forward before catching himself. It’s a deep, biting cold—not just a chill, but the kind that cuts straight through his clothes and sinks into his bones. He instinctively hunches his shoulders, trying to tuck his chin down against the wind as it howls around them.

Snow whips across the air in wild, chaotic flurries, fat flakes stinging his cheeks and eyelashes. The wind is relentless, slicing sideways and dragging the snow in every direction at once. It makes it hard to tell what’s coming from where, and even harder to see. Denki blinks rapidly, his vision full of white static, the world narrowed down to a swirling, frozen blur.

He can barely make out Todoroki’s silhouette next to him—just a dark outline in the storm, unmoving, somehow standing perfectly steady despite the way the wind is trying to push them both off balance.

Ground Omega has been completely transformed. Gone are the neat city blocks and artificial concrete sprawl they’d seen earlier when other teams went in. In their place, a full blizzard rages, complete with jagged snowdrifts and ice-slicked rooftops. He recognizes the bones of the layout, but it’s been buried under several feet of white, like an entire world has been swallowed up.

Denki has to squint just to make out the shapes of the surrounding buildings. Everything is coated in a thick layer of frost. He wraps his arms around himself briefly, trying to preserve warmth, and then immediately regrets it—the motion nearly knocks him off balance again. He shifts his stance wide, knees bent, fingers spread for balance as the snow crunches unevenly beneath his boots.

The wind is alive. It tugs at his jacket, pulls at his sleeves, and claws into the gap at his collar. Every exposed inch of skin stings. His teeth chatter almost immediately, and it takes everything he has not to shout over the sound of the storm.

It’s… it’s incredible. If he didn’t know this was just a simulation—if All Might hadn’t explained earlier that the weather systems in Ground Omega were programmed and controlled by the school’s tech support team—he’d believe it was real. That they’d been dropped in the middle of Hokkaido during a brutal winter storm. The illusion is that convincing.

He glances toward Todoroki again, eyes watering from the cold and snow. The other boy hasn’t moved. Not an inch. He stands with his back to the wind, cloak of frost already beginning to settle into his hair and lashes, face utterly blank. Denki can’t even tell if he feels it—if he’s cold at all. Maybe he’s immune. Maybe he likes it.

Denki, meanwhile, is already shaking.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath, half to himself, voice mostly swallowed by the storm. “They weren’t kidding.”

There’s a buzz in his chest now, and not just from the cold. It’s adrenaline, raw and urgent. This is it. Their test. Their survival scenario.

Luckily, they don’t have to figure out how to stop the natural disaster itself. Honestly, Denki isn’t even sure how anyone would go about that in a situation like this—stopping a blizzard? It’s not like flipping a switch or shutting off a villain’s quirk. Nature is messy, relentless, and this simulation is designed to be unforgiving. Their objective is far simpler, but no less challenging: they have to locate their target.

The target, as it turns out, is a large, heavy-duty canvas sack—about the size of a small duffel bag. But there’s nothing subtle about it. The front of the sack is emblazoned with a ridiculously cartoonish drawing of All Might, his signature grin wide and toothy, one arm stretched out in an exaggerated thumbs-up. The image is almost comically out of place amid the swirling snow and biting wind, a bright splash of yellow and blue in an otherwise monochrome world.

Once they find it, they have to transport it to the checkpoint—located on the far side of the training grounds. Denki’s already thinking about how tough that will be. Between the swirling storm and the uneven terrain hidden beneath the snow, every step will be a battle against the elements. And the sack probably isn’t light either, which will only make things harder.

A sudden static crackles over the speakers suspended high above the training ground, momentarily breaking the white noise of the blizzard. Then All Might’s unmistakable voice booms out, deep and confident, ringing with that characteristic heroism.

“As you start your careers, not every scenario you find yourself in will be ideal!” His voice fills the air, carrying with surprising clarity despite the storm. “That’s why it’s important to be adaptable and able to achieve your goal no matter the terrain! Good luck, young heroes, your classmates and I will be watching you!”

With a final, enthusiastic note, his voice cuts out, leaving behind only the howl of the wind and the crackle of snowflakes hitting their gear.

Denki swallows hard, his excitement mixing uneasily with the creeping weight of isolation. And just like that, it’s only him and Todoroki—alone in the middle of a goddamn blizzard. Fantastic.

Todoroki moves through the blizzard with an unsettling ease. His usual icy aura seems untouched by the biting cold swirling around them—as if the storm’s chill is nothing more than a mild inconvenience to him. Denki, on the other hand, feels the sting of the freezing wind cut through his layers, tugging at his hair and chilling his bones. It’s a small comfort, then, to see that the gusts buffet them both, knocking them slightly off balance at the same moments. Despite Todoroki’s composed exterior, the storm shows no favoritism.

​​As they trudge forward, Denki’s mind races with questions he’s been asking all semester. The way Todoroki had declined to use his fire—it was like watching a painter deliberately avoid half his palette. It didn’t make sense. How could he leave such a crucial part of his quirk unused, especially in a situation like this where his ice alone might not be enough?

Finally, unable to keep the thought inside any longer, Denki breaks the tense silence with a teasing edge to his voice, hoping to cut through the cold and the quiet.

“So… your ice isn’t really gonna be much help here, is it?”

His words carry a lightness that barely masks the seriousness of the question. Is Todoroki planning to use his fire today? Will he finally let go of whatever was holding him back all these months?

For the first time since the start of the school year, Todoroki meets Denki’s eyes directly. The usual guarded expression builds, just a fraction, but it’s enough to catch Denki off guard.

“Yes, I’ll have to get by without it.”

The answer is blunt, almost resigned. No flourish, no explanation. Just those words—short and final.

Denki blinks, confusion knotting in his chest. Does that mean Todoroki plans to push through the challenge without using his fire either, or will Denki finally get to see it? Should he have asked more directly? Was this an invitation or a wall?

The wind howls louder around them, drowning out the moment as both boys turn their attention back to the blizzard ahead, the unspoken tension lingering like frost in the air.

They begin making their way toward the center of the training grounds, boots crunching into snow already half-packed from the storm’s onslaught. Visibility is poor—maybe only a few meters ahead—and every step forward feels like a small act of resistance against the wind. Denki squints into the flurry, trying to spot anything familiar through the swirling white, but the target might as well be in another country for how impossible it is to see.

The cold, which had been uncomfortable before, is now setting in with a sharper bite. The air claws at any inch of exposed skin, and Denki feels like the chill has seeped through his clothes and straight into his bones. His gloves, while insulated, are quickly growing damp at the fingertips, and his ears sting from the cold. Every time he breathes, it’s like swallowing glass—each inhale raw and stinging, each exhale vanishing into the storm in a puff of vapor.

Todoroki walks ahead slightly, his pace even, posture straight, shoulders square like he doesn’t even notice the cold. His breath fogs the air like Denki’s does, but he doesn’t seem to hunch or shiver. He doesn’t even tuck his chin. Denki knows it’s because of his quirk—half his body is literally built for this—but it still makes him feel like a complete weakling by comparison.

By the time they reach what must be the halfway point, Denki’s shivering has grown so intense that his teeth begin to chatter uncontrollably, the rhythmic clack of them barely audible over the wind. His hands have lost most of their feeling, his knees trembling slightly with each step. It’s not just discomfort anymore—it’s bordering on the miserable.

And that’s when Todoroki finally glances back.

His eyes linger on Denki a beat longer than usual, scanning him from head to toe, before his brow furrows faintly. His expression isn’t quite concerned—more like puzzled. As if the idea that someone could actually be suffering in this weather is news to him.

“Are you… cold?” Todoroki asks slowly, voice nearly lost to the wind. He blinks, and for the first time all day, looks genuinely confused. Like the thought hadn't even occurred to him until this moment.

Denki stares at him, lips blue and fingers twitching, and lets out a short, incredulous laugh that immediately gets stolen by the wind.

“No shit I’m cold,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it—his voice is shaky, too numb to sound annoyed. “We’re in the middle of a blizzard and I’m wearing a leather jacket. I’m not an air conditioner like you, man. I’ve been freezing my ass off since we got here.”

Todoroki’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. He doesn’t respond, not right away. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something caught between apology and uncertainty. As though he’s processing a piece of information he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

A flicker of something unreadable crosses Todoroki’s face—uncertainty, maybe, or guilt—before he moves. It’s not a dramatic gesture, not something Denki would’ve even noticed if they weren’t standing so close together. But Todoroki takes a small step closer, just enough to close the space between them, and then gently bumps his left shoulder against Denki’s. He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he keeps it there, their arms brushing with every trudging step through the snow.

Denki almost trips. His boots skid slightly on a patch of hidden ice beneath the snow, and he stumbles just enough to make it look stupid, catching himself with an awkward flap of his arms. He turns to look at Todoroki, startled, but the other boy doesn’t even glance at him. His face is neutral, focused straight ahead, as though nothing’s happened at all.

But something has .

The contact, small as it is, is surprisingly grounding. Warmth begins to radiate from Todoroki’s left arm, where it presses lightly against Denki’s side. It’s not scalding or even hot—it’s a soft, steady warmth, the kind you feel when standing in sunlight after being stuck in shade too long. Gentle, but unmistakably there. And real. It takes Denki a second to realize what Todoroki’s doing. 

Ever since he skipped out on that one training day a few weeks back—the one where Aizawa had led him away before warm-ups even started—Todoroki’s costume had changed. It was still a fashion disaster of a white jumpsuit, but the thick shell of ice that used to sheath his entire left side had disappeared. Kirishima had noticed immediately (of course he had, he was basically the president of the ‘Make Todoroki Smile’ club), and had asked him about it in that loud, friendly way he always did.

Todoroki hadn’t answered. Just tightened his jaw and looked away. He hadn’t looked happy about the change. That much was obvious.

And now— now , with that same side pressed against him—Denki realizes the warmth isn’t some quirk of body heat or coincidence. Todoroki’s using his fire. On purpose. For him .

Denki presses in just slightly, shifting so more of his side aligns with Todoroki’s, curious if he’s imagining it. But the heat increases, as if in silent response. He can feel it soaking through the chill in his jacket, soothing the sting that had long since settled into his fingers and spine. His hands don’t hurt quite as much anymore. His breath stops puffing so sharply. It feels like curling up next to a radiator in winter—quietly lifesaving.

He doesn't say anything. He can’t.

Partly because the wind is still too loud, still biting around the edges of them, and partly because he doesn’t want to break it. This strange, quiet truce. A gesture of… what? Not friendship, exactly. But something like it. Something quiet and reluctant and deeply personal.

After that quiet shift between them, the rest of the exercise goes… surprisingly smoothly.

With Todoroki acting as a walking space heater at his side, the cold becomes far more tolerable—still biting around the edges, sure, but not the all-consuming ache it had been before. And with the two of them pressed shoulder-to-shoulder as they trek through the whiteout, braced together against the shrieking gusts of wind, it becomes easier to move forward in rhythm, to lean into the storm without getting knocked over. They’re steadier together, like a two-person tent in a hurricane—awkward, but functional.

There’s even something oddly natural about the way they fall into step, a quiet synchronicity that surprises Denki the longer it lasts.

At one point, just as they’re climbing over a fallen tree limb frozen stiff with ice, Todoroki’s foot slips out from under him on the packed snow. He stumbles without warning, a sharp, awkward lurch sideways—Denki catches him automatically, throwing an arm out and grabbing hold of his bicep before he can fall completely.

But then his brain catches up with what his hands are feeling. He almost drops him out of sheer reflex.

Because underneath Todoroki’s uniform—thick as it is—Denki’s fingers can nearly meet around his arm. There’s barely anything there. Not fat, not muscle, just a startling thinness, fragile in a way that makes Denki’s stomach flip a little. Like grabbing onto a stack of bird bones wrapped in fabric. He hadn’t expected that. Not from someone who fights the way Todoroki does.

As they get moving again, Denki lets his hand linger for just a second longer than he means to, steadying Todoroki as they trudge forward. He can feel every bump of ribcage beneath the suit where their sides connect. Like a xylophone. Hollow-sounding and sharp-edged in his imagination, like maybe if he knocked his knuckles there it would echo.

The shoulder bone is the same—jutting and hard, knocking against Denki’s collar with each step until it makes him flinch a little. He’s not sure why it unnerves him. Maybe because it doesn't fit the image he's had of Todoroki until now: the powerhouse, the ice prince, the stoic, flawless combatant who always looked like he had everything under control.

Still, Denki doesn’t pull away. If anything, he adjusts his stride so they stay in contact, even as his mind runs the math behind Todoroki’s weirdly light weight and what it might mean. The guy clearly didn’t stumble from fatigue—he was back upright in a heartbeat, no sign of breathlessness. But something about the moment sticks with Denki anyway, a lingering discomfort that settles in the back of his mind like a flickering bulb.

Still… it’s not bad , exactly. Not compared to how miserable he was at the start of the exercise. His fingertips have regained feeling. His jacket doesn’t feel frozen stiff anymore. And it’s easier, somehow, to keep pushing forward like this, flanked by steady heat and quiet determination. They don’t talk again, but the silence isn’t cold now. It’s something else.

When they finally reach the checkpoint—just a battered metal post sticking up through the snow with a blinking light on top to signal their success—it takes a moment for Denki to register that they’re actually done.

Done.They’ve made it.

As soon as they step across the invisible line that designates the boundary of Ground Omega, the blizzard simulation abruptly cuts out. One second, they’re being hammered by wind and ice; the next, it’s like someone hit the mute button on the world. The air goes still. The snow vanishes mid-fall. The sky lightens overhead in a sudden artificial shift, leaving only silence and the faint sound of their boots crunching across frosted ground as they slow to a stop.

Denki instinctively peels himself away from Todoroki’s side. He hadn’t even realized how closely they’d been walking until now. The loss of heat is immediate and sharp, and the cold that had crept into his bones starts to reassert itself in the space left behind. He shivers once, hard, as if his body is suddenly remembering how to be cold again.

Todoroki doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does—Denki’s not sure. The other boy pauses just a few feet ahead of him, halfway turned, and gives Denki a look that’s hard to place. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just… unreadable. His mismatched eyes flicker across Denki’s face, catching briefly at his shoulder, then drop away like they weren’t really looking at all.

And then, without a word, Todoroki turns on his heel and heads off toward the changing rooms.

Gone. Just like that.

Denki watches him disappear around the corner, wondering for a split second if he imagined the whole thing. The body heat. The stumble. The awkward sort-of teamwork. But his jacket still carries the faint warmth of Todoroki’s quirk, and his side is still buzzing with residual heat, and his fingers still tingle faintly from gripping bone through a jumpsuit.

So yeah. It definitely happened.

Still, before he can really wrap his head around what any of it meant, he’s ambushed.

“Kaminari!” Kirishima barrels into him like a freight train, knocking the air from his lungs with a full-body hug and nearly taking them both to the ground. “Dude! That was so badass!”

Behind him, Sero and Mina are whooping, arms raised, Jirou grinning behind a half-hearted eye-roll. Even Bakugou, leaned back against the far wall with his arms crossed, gives a short, disbelieving snort that could maybe be interpreted as reluctant approval.

Denki blinks at them, wind-chapped and foggy-headed, still half-cold and barely able to process the sudden volume.

“You totally won that!” Sero says, clapping him on the back. “Todoroki didn’t even freeze you solid. That’s a victory in itself.”

“Seriously,” Mina adds, eyes wide. “I thought you were gonna turn into a Kaminari popsicle out there.”

Denki laughs, a little dazed. “Yeah, well. I, uh… mostly just stuck close to Todoroki and hoped for the best.”

Which, if he’s honest, is exactly what happened. Other than making sure Todoroki didn’t get blown away like a paper cutout, Denki hadn’t really contributed much. Not in the traditional sense. If he’d gone out there alone, he probably would’ve frozen to death in the first five minutes.

Still, there’s a strange kind of pride curling in his chest, however undeserved. Or maybe it’s not pride—maybe it’s just adrenaline, still wearing off. Or relief. 

Or maybe it’s bafflement. Because the one thing he is sure of—more than the cold, more than the awkward silence, more than the echo of Todoroki’s stare—is this:

Shouto Todoroki might be the weirdest person he’s ever met.