Chapter Text
Touya was two when Fuyumi was born. At that time, Rei was still gentle, still smiling easily.
“Touya,” Rei said softly, kneeling down so she was level with him. She carefully lifted the small bundle in her arms and angled it toward her son. “This is your sister, Fuyumi.”
Touya leaned forward, gripping the hem of Rei’s sleeve with one small hand as he stared at the baby’s tiny face. The infant shifted and let out a soft noise.
“Yumi?” Touya asked, testing the name like it might break.
“Yes,” Rei said with a warm laugh. “You’re a big brother now. You have to look after her, okay?”
Touya straightened immediately, eyes widening. He pointed at his own chest. “Me? Big brother?”
“Yes, Touya dear.” Rei smiled, her eyes shining.
From that day on, Touya took his role seriously. Rei showed him how to carefully hand her diapers, how to rock Fuyumi when she cried, and how to hum softly until she fell asleep. Touya copied everything, sitting stiffly beside the futon, watching over her like it was the most important job in the world.
Touya was four when his quirk appeared.
The flames bloomed from his hands—and the pain came instantly. He screamed, dropping to his knees as the fire scorched his own skin. That was when he learned the truth: his fire hurt him.
His father still trained him every day, standing tall and cold as Touya struggled through each exercise.
“It’s to help you control it,” Endeavor said.
Touya nodded, biting his lip and forcing himself to stand again. But he was smart enough to understand what his father never said out loud. The disappointment lingered in every sharp glance, every sigh.
Touya was five when Natsuo was born.
Rei held the baby this time too, but her shoulders slumped, dark circles sitting heavily beneath her eyes.
“Touya,” she said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “this is your little brother, Natsuo.”
Touya nodded, but his gaze flicked to his mother’s trembling hands. He noticed how tired she was. He noticed everything now. He knew why, too. His mother had been sold into this marriage. His father wanted a perfect child—one who could surpass All Might.
So Touya stepped in. He fed Natsuo, rocked him to sleep, changed him when Rei was too exhausted to stand. He did it all with practiced hands, just like he had with Fuyumi.
That was how it happened.
“Mama!” Natsuo shouted one afternoon, wobbling across the tatami with his arms outstretched.
Touya blinked, crouched halfway through folding laundry. “Huh?” He stared at the two-year-old. “What did you just call me?”
“Mama!” Natsuo yelled again, grinning.
“No, no,” Touya said quickly, shaking his head and waving his hands. “I’m not your Mama. I’m your big brother. Touya-ni!”
“Mama!” Natsuo repeated stubbornly.
“No!” Fuyumi suddenly chimed in from behind him.
Touya sighed in relief. “See? Your big sister knows you shouldn’t—”
“It is Mama Touya-ni!” Fuyumi declared proudly.
“Yumi!” Touya yelped, whipping around.
“Mama!” Natsuo shouted again.
“Okay, okay—wait, no!” Touya dropped the laundry and crouched in front of them. “I am not your Mama! I’m just your big brother, not Mama, not Mama Touya-ni!”
Fuyumi’s lower lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. “You don’t want to be our Mama?”
“I—” Touya froze.
Natsuo’s face scrunched up, and then he wailed. “Mama!”
Fuyumi followed immediately, sobbing loudly.
Touya panicked, scrambling forward and pulling them both into his arms. “Shh—shh! Don’t cry! Fine—fine! I’m Mama, okay? Mama Touya-ni!”
The crying stopped instantly.
When Touya was eight, Shouto was born. This time, Rei didn’t hold the baby. She placed him on the floor and stepped back, her hands shaking as she stared at nothing. Touya knelt beside the infant, his chest tightening as he took in the sight—half red hair, half white. Exactly what his father had wanted. Rei couldn’t even look at him.
So Touya fully raised Shouto too. Just like the others. He cooked, cleaned, did chores, basically just like a mother. And honestly, he should have known how this would end.
“T-t!” Shouto babbled one day, sitting on the floor while Touya clapped encouragingly in front of him.
“Yes! Shouto, say Tou-ya,” Touya said eagerly, leaning forward. “Tou-ya.” Touya knew one day Shouto would call him Mama, he just wanted Shouto to at least say his name once before the Mama incident happened again.
“T-T…” Shouto tried again, concentrating hard.
“Tou-ya,” Touya repeated, smiling—
“Shouto!” Natsuo suddenly yelled from across the room. “Is Mama!”
Touya whipped around. “Natsuo—!”
“Mama!” Shouto chirped happily.
Touya slumped forward onto his hands. “…No.”
He lifted his head slowly and glared at Natsuo. “Why would you do that? I was trying to get him to say my name.” His dream of getting Shouto saying his name was gone.
Natsuo tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Isn’t your name Mama?”
Touya sighed. “No.”
Shouto was four when his quirk appeared.
It happened quietly—too quietly.
Touya had been folding clothes when the temperature in the room suddenly shifted. Heat bloomed on one side, frost creeping along the floor on the other. Touya turned just in time to see flames flicker in Shouto’s right hand while ice crystallized around his left.
Touya’s heart stopped.
For a split second, he couldn’t breathe. All he could see was their father’s face—cold eyes, cruel expectations, endless training. Touya crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees in front of Shouto, gripping his small wrists gently but firmly.
“Shouto.” Touya forced his voice to stay calm, even as his hands trembled. He lowered himself so they were eye level. “Listen to Mama.”
Shouto blinked up at him, confused but not scared. The flames and frost faded instinctively.
“Do not ever do that again,” Touya said softly, but there was an edge to it—sharp with fear.
Shouto tilted his head. “Why?”
Touya swallowed. He loosened his grip and rested his hands on Shouto’s shoulders instead, thumbs brushing over the fabric of his shirt like grounding himself.
“Because it’s dangerous,” Touya said carefully. “Not because you are dangerous.” He shook his head quickly, making sure Shouto understood. “Your quirk isn’t bad. You aren’t bad.”
Shouto’s brows are knitted together. “But… I didn’t feel hurt.”
Touya’s chest tightened. He leaned in closer, pressing their foreheads together. “If you show it,” he whispered, “you will get hurt. People will hurt you.”
Shouto went very still.
“I will get hurt… if I show my quirk?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” Touya nodded, brushing a hand through Shouto’s hair. “So you have to listen to me, okay? Hide it. Only Mama needs to know.”
Shouto stared at him for a long moment, then nodded seriously.
“Okay,” he said, breaking into a small smile. “Mama!”
Touya hugged him tightly, arms wrapping around Shouto’s small body as relief and fear tangled painfully in his chest.
“That’s my good boy,” Touya murmured, holding him just a little longer than necessary—like if he let go, everything would fall apart.
Touya should have known it wouldn’t last long before his father found out.
Still, three days.
Three whole days.
Honestly, that was almost impressive.
Those three days were quiet in the worst way. Touya stayed glued to Shouto’s side, flinching every time the temperature in the house shifted, every time footsteps echoed down the hall. He hovered during meals, slept lightly outside Shouto’s room, and snapped at anyone who got too close. He knew what came next.
And when it happened, it happened fast.
Training.
That single word meant everything Touya feared. It meant bruises hidden under long sleeves. It meant burns that never fully healed. It meant tears swallowed down because crying only made things worse.
It meant Shouto would get hurt.
Touya clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stand in their father’s way—not yet.
But he could change something.
Touya was ten when he realized that protecting Shouto meant more than standing in front of him. It meant becoming stronger. Strong enough to endure the heat, strong enough to take the pain, strong enough to be something their father couldn’t ignore or push aside.
If he couldn’t stop the training, then he would survive it.
And if Shouto was going to burn—
Touya would burn first.
Touya knew there was no way he could protect Shouto while he was training with their father. Endeavor would never allow it. The moment Touya stepped in, he would be thrown out—shouted down, dismissed, silenced.
So Touya chose a different path.
If he couldn’t stand between them, then he would become strong enough that Endeavor would look at him instead. Strong enough that Shouto would be left alone.
That became his routine.
Every morning, Touya walked Natsuo and Fuyumi to school, watching until they disappeared through the gates. Then he returned to a house that felt far too big and far too quiet. He was homeschooled—another decision made without his voice—so his lessons were rushed and forgotten in favor of something more important.
In the afternoons, he trained.
He burned.
Flames licked up his arms, pain blooming instantly beneath his skin, but Touya gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep going. If he stopped, it meant Shouto would suffer instead. He would rather it be him.
By evening, he helped his mother sit, made sure she ate, kept his voice gentle so she wouldn’t drift too far into herself. Then he stayed close to Shouto, straightening his clothes, smoothing his hair, smiling when he wanted to scream.
And when Endeavor came home, Touya listened.
He sat on the floor outside the training room, back pressed to the wall, every muscle tense. He memorized the sounds—commands barked sharply, the crackle of fire, the dull thud of a small body hitting the ground.
Then, one night, the door creaked open.
Shouto stepped out slowly, shoulders hunched, one hand clutching his sleeve. Touya was on his feet instantly.
“Shouto?” He knelt in front of him, eyes scanning quickly. “Hey—what happened?”
Shouto’s lip trembled. He looked down at the floor, toes curling inward. “Mama… it hurts.”
Touya’s chest clenched. He reached out carefully, lifting Shouto’s arm. Angry red burns crawled along his skin, ice burns blooming pale and raw on the other side.
“I don’t want to do it anymore,” Shouto whispered. “I tried. I really tried.”
Touya pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him protectively, shielding him from the hallway like Endeavor might still be watching.
“I know,” Touya murmured, rocking him gently. “I know you did.”
Shouto’s small fingers fisted into Touya’s shirt. “Can I stop? Please, Mama… I don’t want to train anymore.”
Touya swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell him he never had to do it again.
But he couldn’t lie.
So instead, he pressed a kiss into Shouto’s hair and whispered, “You don’t have to be strong tonight. Mama’s got you now.”
He helped Shouto sit, cleaned the burns with shaking hands, wrapped careful bandages around his arms. Shouto hissed softly, then relaxed as Touya worked.
“I’m sorry,” Shouto mumbled sleepily.
“For what?” Touya asked.
“For being weak.”
Touya froze.
He cupped Shouto’s face firmly, forcing him to look up. “You are not weak,” he said, voice low and fierce. “You’re four. You’re hurt. And you’re brave.”
Shouto nodded slowly, eyes heavy.
That night, Touya stayed awake long after Shouto fell asleep, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched.
If this was what training did to him—
Then Touya would become strong enough to end it.
No matter what it cost.
Four years later, Touya finally learned how to make blue flames.
It didn’t happen all at once. It came after countless burns, after nights spent shaking with fever and pain, after biting his tongue until it bled just to keep from screaming. The flames burned hotter than anything he had ever produced before—too hot, too fast—but they were his.
And that was enough.
The first time the blue fire bloomed in his hands, Touya stared at it in disbelief. The flames were sharp and bright, unnatural in color, twisting like they were alive. Pain ripped through his arms instantly, but Touya laughed through clenched teeth.
This is it.
This was what Endeavor wanted. This was what he would finally look at.
Touya didn’t tell anyone at first. Not Fuyumi. Not Natsuo. Not even Shouto. He waited until he could control it—until he could hold the flames for a few seconds longer, until his body stopped collapsing immediately afterward.
Then, one evening, he stood in front of his father.
“Come see me,” Touya said, voice steady despite the way his heart pounded. “At Sekoto Peak Park.”
Endeavor paused, one hand still on the doorframe. He looked back slowly, eyes narrowing.
“For what?” he asked.
Touya met his gaze without flinching. His hands burned faintly, like the flames were waiting just under his skin.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “Something you won’t want to miss.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Endeavor turned away with a short, dismissive sound. “Very well. Don’t waste my time.”
That night, Touya went to the park alone.
Sekoto Peak Park was quiet, empty except for the wind moving through the trees. The city lights glittered faintly in the distance. Touya stood in the clearing, fists clenched, breathing slow and measured.
This will work, he told himself.
If he sees this… he’ll stop hurting Shouto.
However, Touya waited and waited.
Endeavor didn’t come.
Touya waited anyway.
The sky darkened slowly, the sun sinking behind the trees as the air grew cold. The park lights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows across the empty clearing. Touya stood exactly where he had said he would be, hands clenched in his pockets, eyes fixed on the path.
Every footstep that wasn’t his father made his chest tighten.
He checked the time. Once. Twice. Again.
Still nothing.
The blue flames stirred beneath his skin, restless, eager—burning him from the inside out. Touya swallowed hard and forced himself to stay put. Endeavor was late sometimes. He had to be. This was important. This was worth coming to see.
Minutes stretched into an hour.
The wind rustled through the trees, carrying laughter from somewhere far away—families, children, ordinary lives. Touya hugged his arms around himself, nails digging into his sleeves.
He’ll come, Touya told himself.
He has to.
When the park was nearly empty and the lights hummed softly overhead, Touya finally understood.
Endeavor hadn’t forgotten.
He had chosen not to come.
Touya’s vision blurred. He scrubbed his eyes roughly and laughed under his breath, the sound sharp and wrong. “Of course,” he muttered. “Why would you?”
The flames burst free before he could stop them.
Blue fire erupted around him, wild and uncontrolled, swallowing the clearing in harsh light.
Touya screamed for help but no one heard him.
Touya died at Sekoto Peak Park.
There was no dramatic witness. No final words spoken to anyone who mattered. The park emptied, the lights shut off one by one, and the night swallowed the clearing whole.
By morning, the fire was gone.
So was Touya.
What remained was scorched earth and silence—too much of it.
Endeavor didn’t find him.
Rei didn’t know.
Shouto slept through the night.
The house woke up like any other morning.
Fuyumi waited by the door, wondering why Touya hadn’t come to wake her for school. Natsuo complained that breakfast tasted wrong. Rei stared at the kettle too long, a hollow feeling pressing against her ribs that she couldn’t explain.
Shouto tugged at his sleeve and asked a simple question.
“Where’s Mama?”
No one answered.
When the truth finally came, it didn’t sound real. It came in fragments—official words, lowered voices, adults who wouldn’t meet their eyes. Touya Todoroki. Deceased. An accident. Unfortunate. Regrettable.
Shouto didn’t understand at first.
He waited.
He waited for Touya to come bandaging his arms.
He waited to be told it was okay to cry.
He waited for Mama to say he could stop training now.
But Touya never came home.
And something in Shouto closed forever that day.
Years later, people would say Touya was unstable. That he burned too hot. That he was destined for it.
But the truth was simpler.
Touya died because no one came when he called.
And the fire he left behind never truly went out.