Chapter Text
Domesticity is not the first word that comes to mind when Toshiro thinks of Uraraha Kisuke. It’s not the second, or twentieth, or hundred and nineteenth, but somehow, miraculously, it’s the only word that fits.
He’d spent the afternoon after returning from the academy pushing the limits of the gigai with Ururu while Kurosaki tended to the shop in her stead. As expected, the power of negation is out of his reach without Bankai, but he’d retained most of his other abilities just fine. The lack of his Four Elements Seal as a quick defensive option would also be a bit troublesome - admittedly, he’s grown quite fond of the technique, especially since it hardly takes much time to cast these days - but Quirks are less concentrated than reiatsu. He’d manage.
After a soak in the springs and some words with Ururu about her hakuda, Toshiro spent a few long hours on the phone catching up with the goings-on of his Division and writing up his quarterly report. Missing dinner wasn’t much of an issue, Tsukabishi was in the habit of boxing up leftovers and leaving notes to the stray recipients in the fridge - no doubt a hold over from having to feed Urahara on a semi-regular basis.
When Toshiro emerged from his quarters for some tea and cold rice, he found Urahara in front of the pinboard, shuffling pictures of dead and de-commissioned Pros around so he could hang up a hand-written schedule for their schooling. The folder with Ichigo’s curriculum was half hanging off the table, already tabbed and likely annotated and Urahara’s own half eaten dinner was left unattended on the table.
They sat like that in tenuous silence, Toshiro boldly staring as Urahara back-referenced the tabs in the curriculum, shovelling half bites of his fish into his mouth in between making additional notes and hanging up any documents that seemed important. It’s how Toshiro learns of the upcoming Unforeseen Simulation Joint excursion their class is set to take at the end of the week. It’s also how he learns of the Sports Festival.
At some point, Kurosaki breaks the mounting tension. He steps in, easy as ever, sleeping yukata tied so loosely Toshiro kind of wants to scold him for it. He’s glad he doesn’t. It lets him see Kurosaki’s eyes go soft when he sees Urahara staring up at the board, neon green study tab stuck to his finger as he considers whether he should tag the mandatory seasonal physical exam as ‘medical’ or ‘academic’. Kurosaki walks in, makes sure his steps are audible and Urahara lets him swipe the curriculum from his open palm. He makes the most pathetic sniffling sound when Kurosaki baps him on the head with the spine of the binder too.
“You don’t have to do this,” but Kurosaki’s smile is like the first rays of dawn, a soft burn, a well kept secret, “You should be resting.”
“On the contrary, Ichigo-kun,” and contrary to his protests, Urahara shuffles to the side, settling in front of his picked-at dinner and properly holds his chopsticks for the first time since Toshiro sat at the table, “I distinctly remember agreeing to lend my support for this assignment.” He blinks up at Kurosaki. Without his hat covering his face in perpetual shadow, Toshiro can see the playful gleam in cool, silver eyes, the way the black of his suture scars catches in the overhead light, “Do you not want my support?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” another light bap. Toshiro rather feels like they’re flirting but Kurosaki huffs and turns to the pinboard, assessing Urahara’s handiwork like school schedules and notes about connecting stations have any bearing on their mission to purge All For One of their power. “Eat,” he says, a little forceful. Like trying to convince a feral cat the fish you put out isn’t poisoned.
“Yes, yes,” and Urahara begins eating in earnest. He still takes terribly small bites, still picks and pokes at the food, but he clears his plate in between teasing comments thrown over the shoulder at Kurosaki moving some of his tabs and reorganising the list of medical and Quirk assessments the academy demands.
Toshiro washes up for them both before he leaves the dining room. If he thinks Urahara’s leaned a little too much of his weight against Kurosaki’s back as he looms over his shoulder to check his work, well, that’s between him and his bedroom walls.
The morning is more of the same.
Up ‘til now, Toshiro got ready completely in the isolation of the quarters provided to him. Urahara was kind enough to give him a room with an en suite and Kurosaki is habitually punctual so Toshiro felt no need to mingle with the rest of the shoten when he could simply rendezvous with Kurosaki in the front room when the time came for their departure.
This morning however, there’s a mix-up with the city’s water flow. Some part of the water distribution plant was destroyed in a villain attack - Toshiro doesn’t actually care about the details - so instead of taking his time getting ready, he’s loitering about the dining room, toiletries on the table, as he watches Kurosaki flit about like a harried housewife.
Tsukabishi is out doublechecking the barriers and plumbing which leaves Kurosaki in charge of breakfast and general preparation of the other shoten members for the day. It’s slightly disconcerting seeing Kurosaki grumble morning greetings in between frying eggs and sauteing vegetables, if for no other reason than Toshiro’s knowledge of the man’s ability to vaporise a small continent if he gets a little annoyed.
Jinta stumbles in, picks his way through the growing breakfast spread then sits in a huff at the table. Kurosaki smacks him in the head with a kitchen towel for serving himself before Toshiro, saying some ridiculous line about having raised him with better manners. Ururu piles in not too long after, looking around helplessly before taking down a clatter of tea cups and assortment of pre-mixed teas for everyone. She even asks Toshiro for his preference, pulling down a decidedly more traditional teacup for him, round and hand-painted just like the cups the previous Captain-Commander used in his tea ceremonies.
Kurosaki tops off the - frankly elaborate - spread of food with sausages rolled with rice and seaweed then finally addresses Toshiro, face bright with an alien sort of enthusiasm. “Yo, help yourself to whatever looks good.” Idly, Toshiro realises Kurosaki’s wearing an apron. Light blue with darker blue vertical stripes and an ‘Urahara shoten’ insignia on the top right hand corner. He turns towards the cabinets and pulls down two plates, passing one to Toshiro then deftly stacking food onto the other. “I’ve gotta give Kisuke breakfast but the bathroom should be free and there’s hot water in the red bucket. We’re leaving at seven.”
Then he’s gone, quick-stepping down the hall into whatever unfindable hole Urahara calls his lab.
Ururu passes him his cup of tea. Jinta sniffs and says something snide about not wasting all the hot water on his hair. Toshiro’s too busy looking at Kurosaki’s home-cooked meal and the bento he’s already packed for their lunches like it’ll make the last ten minutes of his life make any more sense.
It should be odd. Kurosaki, this house, the mod souls acting like moody teenagers, the mundane inconvenience of having to share a communal bathroom before his day can start. Instead, it feels nostalgic, sepia-edged. An old picture he’d tucked far behind his duties and oaths; of teenaged Kurosaki and his friends gathered in his room sharing Yuzu’s cooking while toppled on top of each other to watch boxing matches on Kurosaki’s small tv. Of Karin dragging him by the hand to teach him football, competition and easy acceptance in her eyes, the red-hued burn of Karakura’s sky at dusk all around them.
The shoten is a halfway house to him. An assignment, a mystical, troublesome in-between where he eats, sleeps and writes out his reports so he isn’t swimming in undone paperwork when he gets back to his Division. It’s home to Kurosaki, who’s carved out a place among Urahara and all his gadgets and trickeries. Bold, like the brush mark of a calligraphy pen on pure white paper. So unfailingly him that Toshiro feels foolish for not realising it sooner.
Later, when they’re settled in the backseat of Jinta’s obnoxiously luxury car, the shadow of Urahara waving from the second storey window nothing but a memory on the rearview mirror, Toshiro looks at Kurosaki’s relaxed face and has to smile.
“Marriage is a good look on you.”
And where the Kurosaki in his dusk-coloured memories would blush and bluster, always quick to refuse compliments and too-earnest teases, this Kurosaki laughs. Smiles so hard his eyes squint closed and the gleam of his joy seems to make his entire person shine a bit more brilliantly, “Yeah, I know.”
Maybe Toshiro ought rethink his concept of Urahara and Kurosaki’s relationship. Maybe he ought reconsider why Kyouraku chose him specifically for this mission too.
Honestly, this hero high school thing is pretty fun!
Ichigo hadn’t been looking forward to it - had complained just this morning while bringing Kisuke breakfast that it’s a little insane Soul Society is using the same tactics on Yagi and Midoriya that they used more than a hundred years ago on him - but Kisuke jauntily informed him it was effective so, fair. And yeah, Kisuke was right about relaxing and taking it easy. ‘Enjoying the scenery’ he said, the bastard. Fluttering his little fan and batting his stupid eyes while poking Ichigo in the forehead to relax his frown lines. Ichigo should’ve pinched his nose or stolen his hat or something. Not that he minds Kisuke’s teasing. Or the kiss he’d given him as thanks for the meal.
In a lot of ways, he’s resolved to treating the whole excursion as a do-over for his own tumultuous high school years. He’d barely gotten past his first semester midterms when Rukia originally stepped into his life, then he’d spent the rest of his first year fighting, training and fighting some more. Second year and half his third year was spent lost and empty after Mugetsu and after that—
Well, after that was Yhwach and the Blood War. And high school hadn’t really been on his or any of his friends’ minds when the Quincies were attacking.
All things considered, it’s kind of a miracle Ichigo managed to get through to King’s College when all was said and done. And when he’d died early from his physical body breaking down due to the weight of his spiritual power, it hadn’t really felt like death at all. Everyone in his life could see and interact with spirits - even Yuzu when everything was over - and Ichigo had the phone numbers and life debts of pretty much every higher up in Soul Society anyway, so it wasn’t like he’d be among strangers even if konso worked on him. He still dreams of the gentle way Rukia had taken his hand and offered to send him off two weeks after he’d died, her promise to find him no matter where in Soul Society he’d be reborn. Sometimes, if he’s particularly nostalgic, he can recall the comforting cool of Sode no Shirayuki on his forehead like the press of his mother’s kiss, a final peace before the end.
It didn’t work of course - Ichigo’s soul was simply too immense, too developed for a konso to take. He’d ceased being a Plus ages ago, was too human to be Hollow, to Hollow to be Shinigami and too Quincy to care about the opinions of either factions trying to barter for his eternal allegiance. In the end, he’d chosen to stay with his family and friends, spending his time with them, living and laughing and burying them one by one by one. Then it was just him, the old man and his people at the shoten. Then a glowing baby was born in China and well - the rest is history as they say.
It’s funny, really. Ichigo hadn’t gotten to do more than his Literature degree in King’s, but he’d always liked school. Keigo teased him like hell for it, but there’s something comforting about the regimen of it all. School rewards structure, linear learning. There are tangible goals to work towards, a complete set of assignments and expectations that are easy to achieve and can’t be cheated due to personal grudges or biases. Good teachers make the process feel rewarding even if the material was boring. Bad teachers could be tuned out like shitty music so long as all the work was done and academic standing was maintained. School, unlike so many things in Ichigo’s life, was easy.
So yeah, he thinks the hero high school thing is fun, actually. Their mission is simple, the kids in the class are little awkward babies, the likes of which he hasn’t seen since the baby Shinigami Shinji introduced him to the last time he visited Soul Society to teach a ‘special’ zanjutsu class. Most importantly, there’s no chance of a super powerful secret shadow organisation with a blood-hungry grudgebound leader trying to kill specifically him waiting around the corner. Once again, Ichigo’s life feels easy.
He just kind of wishes he could convince Toshiro to see the bright side of everything too.
He knows Toshiro’s always had a bit of a short fuse for the incompetent. Knows being a kid again has to be a right pain in his ass too after all the growing up he’s done in the past century or so, but he’s way too stressed about it. Even for a Shinigami, Toshiro’s short on sleep. He’s spent all his free time studying Quirks and Quirk History, getting more and more agitated about the changes in Human culture that have slipped past Soul Society’s notice.
As far as Ichigo knows, Soul Society doesn’t concern themselves overmuch with whatever’s going on in the Living World. Rebuilding after the war allowed for some updates to infrastructure and technology, sure, but Shinigami still exist in a practically Heian society. Kisuke said something along the lines of Kyouraku wanting to keep a closer eye on the Living World just in case any other Soul King candidates are ‘accidentally’ born under everyone’s noses again, but Ichigo didn’t really think it was Toshiro’s responsibility to shoulder.
Ichigo’s just glad Kyouraku’s capable of acknowledging his wrongs and immediately acting to correct them. The One For All-All For One situation is on the verge of getting ugly and for once Soul Society might just be on top of things instead of just reacting when shit’s already been pushed past the tipping point. Once they smoke out All For One’s user and get rid of both Quirks, Toshiro can go back to Soul Society and Ichigo can… honestly? Probably look into getting a Hero License because this stuff is pretty interesting.
Right now, he’s mostly in between Hueco Mundo and the shoten. Being a part time Hero could be a fun little time waster. That’s what immortal things do, right? Find fun ways to waste time?
Eh, he’d ask Kisuke when he gets home later.
For now, he has a Foundational Hero Studies class to get to. Whatever that is.
Training Ground Beta is, like many facilities in this school, urban in nature.
Emerging from the tunnel into the light of a sprawling metropolitan arena once again compels Toshiro to wonder whether or not this ‘academy’ is actually a school. In Soul Society, such elaborate training fields are only possible by manipulating and layering high level kidou on cleverly placed anchor stones. Perhaps this too is the power of human ingenuity when mixed with Quirks?
At least the ‘hero costume’ is more comfortable than the UA uniform. Looking around, it seems like most of the students of this era favour close-fitting, skin tight material with a few armoured or engineered pieces to protect or accentuate their vital points. Others like Yaoyoruzu and Kirishima have gone towards the other extreme with large swathes of skin exposed and a few accessories like belts or utility pouches for tools and other important odds and ends.
Urahara’s gigai are remarkably resilient. Short of being deliberately atomised, Toshiro’s fairly certain they won’t crumble or waste away, but he’d still sat at the chabudai with Kurosaki all those weeks ago, consulting hero style compendiums and hero magazines to produce believable enough schematics for the clothing allowance. In the end, Toshiro went with something familiar; dark kosode with matching hakama and blue-green ties to match the green of his scarf. Tabi and waraji are an old friend on his feet, and while he does miss the weight of his captain’s haori, the lightweight sleeveless haori with Hyourinmaru’s crest stitched to the back he wears now is a fine replacement. He regrets not asking for some sort of rod or staff. He does not need Hyourinmaru’s blade to use his power, but he does miss the weight and chill of him against his back and shoulders.
“If you were just going to wear your usual stuff, what was the point of all that research?”
And isn’t that a blast from the past. Kurosaki in a white, long-sleeved under shirt with deep black interlocking ‘x’s over his chest. A matching deep black kimono with slim sleeves and dark, close-fitting trousers that end in those bulky modern sneakers he’s so fond of. It’s been ages since Toshiro’s seen him in something even remotely similar to his original Bankai, and it rouses a bright, bubbling nostalgia in his chest. At his waist, almost hidden beneath his white obi, is his wakizashi. On his back, connected with dark chain Toshiro is certain Urahara will enchant to the heavens and back is his tachi.
“Like you aren’t using an outdated design yourself?”
Kurosaki settles next to him, hand habitually resting on the hilt of his wakizashi, “I felt like the situation called for it.”
Toshiro hides his smile behind the hem of his scarf, “You could’ve kept the pauldrons. Seems like armour is in style this year.”
Kurosaki smiles right back, “You making fun of me, brat?”
“I’m older than you!”
“Well, you certainly have traditional sensibilities, Hitsugaya-kun,” Yaoyoruzu comes to settle on his right, appraising his appearance like it will reveal more secrets about his power. “Aren’t you worried about the extra fabric getting in the way when you fight?”
Looking around, there are far more questionable clothing options in the group. Capes, pointed eye-pieces, removable masks. Toshiro hums, “It’s familiar. Comfort over style.”
Yaoyoruzu shifts her focus to Kurosaki, a hawk trailing new prey, “And you - you’re a swordsman? With a Quirk like yours?”
There’s genuine surprise there, like she couldn’t possibly imagine someone with raw power like Kurosaki choosing to use something other than his fists. It’s an immature and potentially dangerous way to think. Yaoyoruzu has good analytical skills, she shouldn’t be compromising her judgements with those kinds of assumptions.
Predictably, Kurosaki just grunts, practically waving her off with a gruff, “You’ll see in combat, won’t you?”
“I see,” She really doesn’t. With any luck, none of them will. Toshiro hopes Kurosaki isn’t in a showing off mood again. “Then, we’ll see just how good you are on the battlefield, Kurosaki-kun.”
She wanders off to go chat with a few of the other girls. Kurosaki’s got his gaze firmly set on Yagi, and really, Toshiro can’t blame him.
While Toshiro wouldn’t exactly describe Yagi as ‘lit up like a Christmas tree’ like Kurosaki so eloquently put it, the quality of his soul is certainly unique. It burns with a multicoloured flame, intense and all-encompassing, warm like the memory of Yamamoto-san’s reiatsu at the height of summer. The impression of Pluses - the vestiges that linger just atop Midoriya’s soul - linger here too. It’s a maturation of the assimilation that’s only just begun with him, the threads of eight souls bound so tightly together that separating the signatures would just be elaborate mutilation. At least this gives a concrete difference between the Quincy’s Power Distribution and whatever mechanism is behind One-For-All’s manifestation; when the Quincy King gave power to his subjects, it truly was their power. Likewise, when he stripped them bare, it left nothing behind.
Would All For One also bear the soul signatures of the original owners of the Quirks they steal? If that’s the case, finding them should be as easy as locating the only other living person in the world with multiple soul signatures. Which means that can’t be the case - not with Shihouin and Kurosaki casing the city and its surroundings night after night. Perhaps they should increase their search parameters?
Kurosaki nudges his shoulder, disrupting his thoughts, “Your turn to draw.”
Oh.
The entire class is looking at him, including Yagi. Seems time just slipped right past him. The two boxes with lots are propped up on a makeshift pedestal, it’s easy to stick his hand in and pull out a neat wooden stick with an ‘I’ on it. When he holds it up, Mashirao holds up his matching lot, an excited gleam in his eyes. Aside from himself and Kurosaki, Mashirao’s the only other person who elected to wear traditional garments. A karate gi with a slightly ornamented belt. Toshiro likes him already.
Mashirao gives him a bit of a wide berth as Toshiro settles next to him, looking a bit pale in the cheeks. “Uh, let’s do our best?”
Toshiro can’t tell if Mashirao is nervous because of the assignment or if he’s nervous because of him. He’s not exactly the comforting type, so hopefully Mashirao gets over it himself. Toshiro offers his hand in greeting, “Let’s win.”
And, like most of these children, Mashirao surprises him when he visibly swallows his nerves, exhaling deliberately before taking his hand. His grip’s firm, not so tight that he squeezes Toshiro’s palm but weighted enough that his strength and control is clear. The gi alluded to it, but now Toshiro’s sure Mashirao has great martial prowess. It’s a perfect compliment to his oppressive ranged abilities. “Right. Let’s win.”
Hopefully they get to face Kurosaki’s team. Toshiro’s still got to pay him back for showing him up so entirely during the assessments. A Captain’s got his pride, after all.
The monitor room is a darkened, enclosed basement not unlike the various specialised laboratories Akon runs in the Twelfth. Everyone elects to stay close to their team member, huddled as they are in front of a great, wide screen with four sub-screens surrounding it, looking on as communication between Iida and Bakugou breaks down immediately in favour of Bakugou pursuing his grudge against Midoriya.
In some ways, this kind of exercise is familiar. Toshiro often personally oversees the training of his officers - unseated or not - and works with Matsumoto to compile their evaluations. One of the new directives Commander Kyouraku initiated after Seireitei was rebuilt was joint training camps, both to foster better relations between Divisions and to ensure no Division was completely ignorant to the duties and purview of another. Newer recruits often complained about the rigourousness of these practices - Hollow-slaying doesn’t require such elaborate communication or cooperation - but Sousuke Aizen’s scars run deep, and no Captain is willing to suffer such abject loss should the day ever come that their foes once again stalk about the shadows.
Watching now as Midoriya and Uraraka run through narrow halls like stalked prey, Toshiro considers his own partner. Mashirao is a martial artist. While there is a marked lack of formally trained fighters in this class, the actual issue of sustained combat lies with the amount of ranged Quirks their opponents have access to. No matter what, Mashirao cannot be allowed to fight in a conventional one-on-one. That leaves surprise tactics, hit and run strategies and out and out repurposed assassination techniques which Mashirao may not even agree to if he’s the honourable type. Worse leads to worst, Toshiro can compensate for them both if Mashirao gets taken out, but, if he’s facing Kurosaki (and he does, really want to face Kurosaki), Toshiro will need every advantage to simply outlast him.
‘Freezing young Ichigo along with the rest of the building for fifteen minutes would be trivial.’
Maybe, but Mashirao and Yaoyoruzu certainly would not survive that sort of gambit. If Toshiro has to play the role of the ‘Hero’ in this exercise, there would be no logical excuse for such a reckless maneuver.
‘The opponent is young Ichigo. He is reason enough.’
Toshiro sighs, misty breath curling like smoke in the insulated room. Regardless of the merit in that argument, neither their classmates nor their teacher is aware of Kurosaki’s… Kurosaki-ness. Maintaining a perpetual freeze and waiting out the fifteen minutes is out of the question.
The muted blast of an explosion pulls his attention back to the screens. Uraraka’s gone on ahead, but with Iida distracted with his… roleplaying, Toshiro doesn’t think anything will happen except exactly what Midoriya’s planned. Because it’s clear he has a plan. Even with half the building in pieces all around him, it’s clear there’s a plan. Midoriya is tenacious - more than his bestowed abilities, Toshiro already knows his mind is his real power.
Which makes it all the more strange that Bakugou doesn’t acknowledge Midoriya’s intelligence.
Toshiro’s observed whispers of it curling about this world since he’s arrived, read of the blood shed for the sake of recognition for Quirks in the historic reports Urahara compiled, heard the way the people on the streets deride and avoid those who look different due to their powers. Discrimination is stitched into the souls of humanity. It lives deep in the essence of them and manifests at the slightest hint of weakness or division. Toshiro was feared and hated for an appearance he could not help, for power he could not control. The Vizards were nearly put to the sword for circumstances that were thrust upon them, then forced to wander aimless and paranoid for one hundred years. Even Kurosaki was feared when he lived, first for the intense colour of his hair, then for his strength as a human, then for the hybrid blood which flowed through his veins. For all the progress and advancement the Living make with their limited, precious time, in situations like this, their progress is circular.
So what if Midoriya was born Quirkless? What does it matter that he did not tell Bakugou of his change in status - the acquisition of new power? All of this so-called strength these humans so venerate mean nothing when they’re dead and their spirits wander the endless wilds of Rukongai. All souls are equal in death, all struggle and must overcome the same trials to hold an asauchi and call themselves Shinigami. All Bakugou has proven in this selfish, one-sided crusade against Midoriya is that he’s a naive fool.
‘A child.’
Toshiro snorts. Uraraka manages to get her hands on the weapon just as Midoriya destroys the supporting wall. The timer runs out. Heroes win. Yagi is a flurry of blinding motion as he calls for medical assistance for Midoriya and orders the remaining students to reconvene at the monitor room.
“Wow,” Mashirao says, and now that Toshiro is a little less focused, he notes the grim dispositions of the rest of the class. Some speak in worried whispers for Midoriya’s well-being, some discuss the strategies displayed and how best to utilise them in their own training. “That was… intense.”
Toshiro makes a dismissive hum. As far as he knows, Kurosaki isn’t yet overly invested in Midoriya’s wellbeing - it would be nice to pick his brain about his thoughts on such a deeply personal exchange. Maybe it would stir old memories. “It seemed more like a tantrum to me.”
Mashirao’s gaze tickles the side of his face. Toshiro frowns, “You don’t agree?”
A shrug, “I just think…maybe it’s a bit more complicated than we think.”
Everything is complicated. Human customs, adolescence, the expression on Bakugou’s face on the monitors. “Rage like that isn’t born overnight.”
“Quirks as powerful as Midoriya-san’s don’t form overnight either.”
Perhaps this is a hidden aspect of human society Toshiro simply cannot understand. Discrimination he has faced and crushed under his heel with ruthless competency and uncompromising sternness. In that way, Toshiro prefers the direct way Kurosaki deals with his problems - fight whoever has a problem and if they cannot win, they are not strong enough for their opinion to matter. A lifetime of bureaucracy and swallowed down insults and glib, condescending comments blown apart by too much reiatsu and a will so ironclad, the Soul King himself could not stop him. If Shinigami could not be cowed by playing their game, one could always beat their way up the corporate ladder.
Here though, with humans, the social pressure seems even heavier, like chains binding one’s spirit ‘til they force their bones to conform to the shape drawn for them by the minds of the people. It must be hard, then, to be born powerless here.
Even the most untalented Shinigami would be embraced by a Division. Work will exist, there will be tutors to foster a relationship with their zanpakuto, comrades to share the burdens and victories of keeping the invisible scaffolding of Seireitei from crumbling beneath the tremors of Commander Kyouraku throwing his weight around, intent on bullying Central into some mimicry of progressivism.
Toshiro cannot imagine what it must be like, to have conquered the most impossible of odds only to be rejected once more.
Watching Midoriya be wheeled out of the training grounds on a gurney, breathing harsh and clothes half burned off his crippled body, he thinks it must be beyond agony if Midoriya is willing to be mangled, insulted and exploded for the sake of his dream.
He doesn’t get much more time to contemplate the complexities of human society. As quickly as the others return to the monitor room, the main screen lights up with the next assignments; Team B vs Team I. Todoroki and Mezo as the Heroes, him and Mashirao as the Villains.
At least he won’t have to flash freeze the building to earn a victory.
No matter how much time he spends here, Toshiro really can’t get used to the feel of the Living World’s concrete jungles.
The inside of the building Yagi leads them to is desolate - all empty rooms and thin, claustrophobic corridors. Mashirao studies the scaffolding, the low ceilings, the way scrap metal and hard plastic is scattered about the corners like well kept secrets. They have five minutes to prepare themselves and fortify the weapon however they deem fit. Toshiro spends a few seconds decidedly disappointed he won’t get to cross fists with Kurosaki.
“Um, is something wrong, Hitsugaya-san?”
Mashirao is a wary line of heat beside him, looking obliquely at Toshiro’s feet where buds of ice have already taken root. Toshiro sighs, and, for the first time, realises that Mashirao is barefoot.
What foolishness-! Their opponents aside, Toshiro’s own power should’ve earned some degree of caution. His feet are a bit smaller than Mashirao’s but it’ll have to do. “Yes, you’re not wearing shoes.”
Toshiro immediately begins working his ties loose. This will be a considerable loss to their preparation time if they don’t discuss strategies while swapping slippers. Mashirao makes an embarrassed noise, “Ah, yeah. It’s more comfortable for me to fight like this.”
He holds up a sandal, “Put this on. Todoroki has a freezing ability and my power is ice. You need to protect your feet.”
“But then you’ll be barefoot…” Still, Mashirao must see the sense in his words. He takes Toshiro’s waraji. His toes spill out the front, just a little too long to be neat in Toshiro’s diminutive size, but it’s much better than nothing at all. “Are you keeping your socks on?”
A snort. “Don’t be foolish.” He hands up his other sandal and Mashirao easily accepts it, “I’m impervious to the cold.”
“‘There’s no ice I cannot control’, right?” Mashirao gives a sheepish smile, perhaps embarrassed after quoting Toshiro’s words back to him, “Sorry, it was a cool thing to hear. Todoroki-san’s ice is pretty impressive though, are you sure you can control it?”
“I don’t need to control it,” Toshiro stands, tucking his tabi into his pocket and turning his attention to the paper-mache missile they need to protect, “I just need to make sure it doesn’t affect you.”
“Me?” Mashirao sounds surprised. Maybe he thought Toshiro would take the chance to show off. Maybe he would if he were facing Kurosaki. “But I — my Quirk isn’t very flashy and both Todoroki-san and Mezo-san are strong.”
There, a perfectly straight piece of rebar. It’s sturdy enough that Toshiro does not freeze it to shattering just from a touch. It’s not Hyourinmaru, but it will do. “Exactly, which is why I’ll be supporting you.” Three minutes. He presses the tip of the rebar into the concrete three feet away from the weapon. The mark of his Six-point Ice Binding is subtle enough that the heat of battle should keep it from his opponents notice. “I saw you looking up at the ceiling. You’re good with stealth, yes?”
To his credit, Mashirao doesn’t make an issue when Toshiro nudges him out of the way so he can continue placing seals. The steel in Toshiro’s hand will last only one more mark. “Stealth doesn’t really do much good when your opponent has super senses.”
“Get me another piece of rebar,” Right on cue, the steel shatters. Toshiro kicks away the frozen chips and holds his hand out. One minute. “Let me worry about that. All I need you to do is keep them out of this room for fifteen minutes.” Another perfect piece of rebar fits in his open palm. Another piece of evidence to Mashirao’s observant nature, his attention to detail. He grips on to the steel rod and meets Mashirao’s eyes, wants to catch a glimpse of the fire he knows is burning within him, “Can you do that?”
And Mashirao, like Yaoyoruzu, like Bakugou, like all of these children seeking power beyond themselves, answers with the certainty of a young inferno, “Yes. Yeah, okay, I will.”
Toshiro etches the last mark of the formation into the concrete. It comes to life with a pulse of chill and the lattice of a snowflake printed into the floor beneath the weapon.
The alarm goes off, marking the end of their five minutes. Mashirao gives him one last look then runs out the door, disappearing into the rafters. Toshiro sighs, closing his eyes and focusing on the ambient moisture.
Time to bully some children.
Todoroki Shoto is cautious.
It does not come naturally, this stillness in his mind that lets him slow his heart and temper the blood in his veins, but, like any good warrior, he’d learned. He’d learned from the flickers of his father’s flames, the angle of their wisp-trail, the heat of them on his skin. He’d learned from the hunch in his mother’s shoulders when he’d return from tutoring, the emptiness of the family room despite knowing his siblings ought to be home. He’d learned from instinctual last minute flinches and half-steps that saved him the brunt of an unrelenting impact, the extra bit of gauze and muscle tape he’d pack into his bag so he could wrap too-big bruises in cramped bathroom stalls.
Yes, Todoroki Shoto is cautious.
So even though his teammate is staring disbelievingly at him while their precious fifteen minutes tick down, Shoto will not simply walk into a trap. Not when every single one of his hard-won instincts is screaming at him that it is a bad idea to cross that threshold.
“Todoroki, we need to begin.”
Mezo is right, they should begin. Still - with all his heightened senses and myriad receptors, can he not feel the buzzing in the air? The bone-deep weight that screams at them to keep a wide berth? Is this what they call killing intent? And, if so, whose is it? Surely not mousy, timid Mashirao Ojiro. He disappears in the crowd of their classroom, a skilled physical combatant to be sure but too untested, too weak. Which means—
“Todoroki!”
Eyes snap to Mezo. It’s hard to tell if he’s irritated or concerned with his dark mask, but Shoto doesn’t need to be told a third time. They’ve already lost almost three minutes without having made it into the building. There’s no more time to squander.
“Right,” he says, then steps up to the open doorway. There’s a chill just past the threshold, a subtle delineation of the battlefield. Just as Shoto suspected, Hitsugaya Toshiro’s Quirk already permeates the entire building. He looks back to Mezo, mind recalculating the parameters of their plan. He’d thought Hitsugaya was merely cocky - the way Bakugou had been cocky - but it’s clear now his words aren’t unfounded. There’s a very real chance Shoto’s Quirk is compromised in this space marked and defended by Hitsugaya. “Can you figure out the weapon’s position from out here?”
Mezo’s heavy brow shifts minutely, “Did they rig the entrance?”
“Hitsugaya’s Quirk is already active inside.” Mezo doesn’t bother to deny or question. In this way, Shoto quite likes that he’d gotten paired with him. He splits his arm and creates ears on the end, pressing them up against the concrete. Nothing happens. No surprise blade of ice, no sudden chill, nothing freezing Mezo to the building’s wall. Perhaps Hitsugaya’s Quirk has a limited range? Is that why it’s so allegedly absolute?
Mezo’s voice is a murmur when he speaks. Much softer than before. Are they that close-? “Weapon’s on the third floor along with one other person. There’s another one in the scaffolding above the first floor. An ambush.”
Todoroki Shoto is cautious. It’s what keeps him safe, what will keep him alive for long enough to see his revenge through to the end. It is what differentiates him from that abominable man.
He takes a step back, studies the entirety of the building. Cramped, stuck between two bigger buildings, all the windows closed in with the beginnings of a fine frost sparkling on the windows higher up. Back entrance boarded up and defunct. Wait —
“Mezo, can you figure out if Hitsugaya is the one with the weapon?”
A beat of silence. He doesn’t quite understand where Shoto is going with this, but that’s fine. Mezo is good at following orders; it’s an invaluable skill to have as someone with a more support-type Quirk. This is the kind of decisiveness that will save lives someday. Mezo splits his arm apart again, creating what looks like a nose with additional slits around it. He inches a bit closer to the door, nostrils sniffling deeply. His mouth pops up again, lips pursed, “I need to be inside the door to get a proper reading.”
They don’t exactly have many options with time ticking away. Six of their precious fifteen minutes have already slipped through their fingers. Shoto nods, “I’ll cover you.”
They inch towards the door, backs pressing up against the wall in tandem. From a cursory glance, it seems like the inside is empty, save for the fine misting cold settling heavy just above the ground. Shoto can’t hear any shuffling around or footsteps despite listening for it. One of them is in there, and if they can’t get in, he’ll just have to leave Mezo here and build a path up to the third floor himself.
When Mezo’s appendage inches past the threshold, he shivers. He makes one good inhale then makes a soft sound of frustration. Shoto takes a calming breath, aware that Hitsugaya could be anywhere then puts his hand to the ground, fingers grazing the tile just peeking past the doorway. He sends a mild burst of heat through the floor, just enough to dispel what has to be some kind of haze of frost meant to obscure their ambient heat. He has to give them credit for being smart at least.
The minute the chill mists up and water begins to fall back down to the ground, Mezo makes a startled sound and kicks Shoto out of the way just as half a piece of rebar launches right where Shoto’s shoulder had just been and sticks itself fully into the concrete ground. They both stick themselves to the wall again, Shoto taking a deep breath to rid himself of the excess shock and Mezo staring warily at the bar of steel.
Right. So getting in through the front door is a no-go.
Mezo’s mouth comes up next to his face, lips slow and obvious as he mouths ‘Ma-shi-ra-o’. Which is congruent with what Shoto figured from the temperature obviously being much lower on the floor with the weapon. He motions for Mezo to give him some space and quickly rolls over to his side of the wall. Mashirao hadn’t thrown anything their way before they crossed the threshold, which must mean he only intends to stop them if they intend to pass. A good defensive tactic, but exactly the kind of thing that would lead to their downfall.
Nine minutes gone. They’ll really be cutting it close.
He pulls Mezo up and stares straight up to the third floor windows, the same ones that are frosted over and seem to be forming ice on the panes, “If we can’t get in through the front door, we’ll just have to make our own way up.”
With Mezo this close, Shoto doesn’t hesitate to put his right hand down and begin creating a spiral stairway up to the window. Admittedly, there’s hesitation as he gets closer, Hitsugaya sounded absolutely certain when he’d claimed there was no ice he could not control. He plays the last few minutes of this assignment over in his mind. There was no interference when Shoto melted his ice haze just a few moments ago - no trap or consequence for the immense pressure he’d originally felt when staring up at the building. And now, with almost three storeys of ice constructed and not a single bit of resistance, Shoto feels an uneasy weight settle in his stomach.
Could it all have been a bluff? Something meant to get into Shoto’s mind and stop him from even trying to use his ice against Hitsugaya?
Had he really fallen for such a simple, cheap trick? Would he be the reason for their abject failure in this assignment?
…No, there’s still time on the clock. Four minutes. More than enough to touch the weapon even if he can’t incapacitate them both. Shoto would not fail.
The window is more ice than glass when Shoto finally stops. He shifts around so Mezo can quickly shatter it with a punch, neither of them wincing as the sharp shards slice into the knuckles of his manifested hand. They’re both feeling the pressure now. They’d been overconfident, with too little contingencies and Shoto’s dallying at the entrance had eaten far too much time.
Green eyes greet them at the window; Hitsugaya, just a step away from the open hole in the wall, the weapon like a beacon behind him. Todoroki doesn’t hesitate, shoots a blast of ice at Hitsugaya’s lower body to freeze him to the floor. It doesn’t take. Without so much as a glance, the ice becomes sparkling, tepid water just before it makes contact with Hitsugaya. He really could control ice made from other people’s Quirks.
Mezo doesn’t stop to let it sink in, rushing in through the opening, capture tape clutched in two of his hands. Hitsugaya doesn’t even seem phased, nimbly avoiding the first grapple then changing the quality of the ice clinging to the floor so it becomes clear and slick like an ice rink. Mezo slips on his next step, wobbles as he tries to gain balance from the unexpected change in friction beneath his feet and suddenly Shoto is leaping into action, blasting a beam of ice at Hitsugaya to distract him.
“Surrender, villain,” the words are cold and steady coming from his mouth, a calmness he does not feel taking over as his brain folds itself in knots to find some sort of solution. Their objective is right there. The environmental advantage is Hitsugaya’s but he does not know that Shoto can also heat. With any luck, Mashirao hasn’t wised up to what they did and is still on the bottom floor. “We have you outnumbered and cornered. Come peacefully.”
Hitsugaya looks at him like he’s said something funny. He does not smile, nothing so extreme, rather the severe line of his brow softens and his lip twitches like he’s smothering a smile. “Counter-offer, hero,” he sneers the word like it’s poison. It’s an impressive performance. ‘You and your partner leave the way you came so you can keep a bit of your dignity. I’ll even be kind enough to leave you your slide.”
Arrogant. He feels the heat in his feet flare with the dismissiveness of his tone. Steam hisses where he stands atop the clear ice. He realises the moment Hitsugaya’s gem-coloured eyes flick down.
Rookie mistake.
Hitsugaya’s thin veneer of confidence and smugness falls into something sharper. Shoto doesn’t hesitate to pull Mezo back as he feels the very ice beneath his feet pull forward towards Hitsugaya, a large icy, semi-circular wall separating them from their target. The sudden loss of mass beneath his feet causes Mezo to finally lose his balance, toppling into the ice wall. Shoto leaves him be, staring resolutely at the now dry floor on their side of the room.
He’s such an idiot. Of course. Hitsugaya gave him the answer the same time he’d stated the differences between them. Hitsugaya can’t conjure his own ice or freeze things without moisture - so all Shoto needs to do to defeat him is get rid of all the moisture in this room.
“Mezo, get out of the room,” he orders sharply, taking a deep breath and pressing his left hand to the ground, “Make sure you and Mashirao get out of the building.”
“Todoroki— “ He’s much, much worse at controlling his heat than his ice. On purpose obviously, beyond keeping his own temperature regulated and large heat waves to melt his equally large ice blocks, he doesn’t know if he has the fine control to keep his heat contained to one room.
“Go. We don’t have time to argue.” The room is already beginning to swelter, steam rising up from the point of contact of his hand and the concrete floor. “I’ll take the blame if this gamble doesn’t work.”
Shoto feels the weight of Mezo’s stare on his shoulders but remains firm, glaring at the wall of ice that doesn’t seem any closer to melting despite the heat already being stifling enough to make sweat stick to Shoto’s bangs.
“Come on,” he mutters.
Hitsugaya waits for the door to close before he speaks, amusement clear in his tone. “You do realise that this is a bomb, yes?” He sounds unbothered. His ice still isn’t melting - even the steam smouldering from the floor doesn’t touch his wall. Shoto’s own ice would be puddles by now. “If you want to do my job and blow this building to high heavens yourself, be my guest.”
Less than two minutes left. He can’t waste time on something that’s not working. Was his hypothesis wrong-?
Shoto swallows his frustrated sigh, retracting his hand from the ground and frowning at the melted tar sticking to his glove. Nothing is working. He’s never been good at feeling helpless, like all his cursed power and strength counts for nothing when it matters most. This is the most benign of reminders - a wall of ice, an enclosed room and Shoto, unable to so much as pierce it.
Less than two minutes left, and Todoroki Shoto was going to fail.
There’s a soft thump from behind the ice wall, the whisper of clothes against the ground. The ice is too thick for Shoto to see past but he takes a breath and listens, trying to find any weak spots, anything at all that will let him turn this around.
“Your partner’s been captured, Hero.”
What? Already? Mezo didn’t even signal for help or — Wait. Breathe. Calm down. Shoto narrows his eyes and stares at the wall. What are the facts? Mezo left to chase down Mashirao who was set and prepared for an ambush. He trusted Shoto to handle things here even if there was a risk of him getting captured. Shoto’s Quirk is useless against Hitsugaya’s who can freeze and unfreeze the moisture around him at will.
“You’ve done enough damage. Just accept that you’ve lost.”
Don’t think about it. Focus. Almost a minute of time left. There must be something—
A glint catches his eye, the sparkle of light catching on the jagged tip of one of the top spires of the wall. Shoto’s breath catches. Of course. Just like Midoriya and Uraraka in round one - they would win as long as they retrieve the weapon. Shoto doesn’t have to beat Hitsugaya, he just needs to get the weapon out of the Villains’ grasp.
There’s not much room to squeeze in between the top of the wall and the ceiling but Shoto’ll make it work.
He bends his knee, bracing his right arm in front of himself and propelling himself forward with a violent blast of ice. The gap is small - tiny enough that even when he twists his body around so his back is perpendicular to the top of the wall, he feels it when the tips scrap against his back, catching in the fabric and scratching his skin. He can’t afford to get stuck, not like this, so he quickly presses his left hand to the nearest bit of ice and lets the heat freely flow, victory like the rush of blood in his veins when he feels them fold and melt to allow him more room.
A glance at his target to confirm his destination - the weapon is directly behind him, he just needs one more boost -! There’s a flash of green and white in his periphery; Hitsugaya sitting in front of the wall, face slack with shock. Shoto can’t help the way his lips twist up. Arrogant. His right foot blasts out a jet of ice and Shoto is flying, barely has enough time to adjust himself so his hands can brace against the hollow shell of the weapon.
Yes! With only seconds left on the clock, it’s finis—
“Rokui Hyoketsujin.”
Ice. Crystals of it, shooting up first from his sides then all around him. The points of them clip Shoto in his shoulders then pin him to the side of the weapon. Shit - he was careless. Of course someone as meticulous as Hitsugaya had set a trap. Of course. Of course— !
A final wall of ice encloses him, entombing him in deep, frigid cold, something so much more absolute than any ice Shoto or any of his siblings have ever been able to produce. It’s all he can do to activate his heat to keep his body from immediately being shocked by the extreme temperature. It’s all he can do to swallow down the instinctual urge to recoil at the totality of his loss.
The alarm goes off. It’s dulled by the thick wall of Hitsugaya’s ice but Shoto feels it like a fist to his cheek. A palm flurry right to his sternum.
The Villains win.
Todoroki Shoto lost.