plotted starter with @txnatiuh-etc / Todoroki Enji & Todoroki Shoto
tw: abduction, torture, memories of child abuse
Never had Shoto imagined, he'd be grateful for all the hardships in his life. For the harsh training he was forced to undergo as a child, for the times he had nearly lost his mind, for having known pain and despair from a young age. As if prepared for a moment like this, as if protected, having built resilience for this tragedy. Battles of endurance weren't his strong point, his father having noticed from the start, working with him to make sure, he could withstand anything. Still, far too many times Shoto had broken, each time collecting his pieces, putting himself back together, and continuing in the path he had chosen for himself, whether it was revenge, or healing. Would it be the same this time as well? When the first cracks had made their appearance?
His mind would wander to where his loved ones were, to his family and friends, desperately clinging to the everyday life he had parted with. The life at the U.A. dormitories, the garden of his house he hadn't tended for a while, his mother's pained smile, the satisfaction of taking another step closer to his dream. Minutes had turned to hours, hours to eternity, and in that eternity Shoto patiently waited, when these memories slowly begun to fade, along with his ability to think. Unable to hear his own voice — the one inside himself to serve as his guide — he'd lose his sense of self, pain replacing the part of him that used to hope. His heart, heroically battled against despair in an uneven battle, where his weakened body and mind had the final say. The certainty he'd get rescued, turned to the admission of his doom.
Sounds he hadn't heard in a long time, familiar footsteps, and a voice he'd recognize anytime, woke him up from his disoriented state of mind. Raising his head, unfocused eyes searched for his father's figure — blurry yet outstandingly bright. His warmth, serving as the reassurance Shoto needed that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him — that he was real. Always radiating with high temperatures, even if not using his flames. Absurd, wasn't it? It was his father's coldness of heart, Shoto had used to note — the same coldness he used to carry for years — a heart he had seen change, and who became the sole source of his comfort at this moment. “ Dad . . . ” He'd normally hate the sound of his voice calling him, unstable and eager, but he was beyond caring. Logic had lost its proper place a long time now, Shoto having surrendered to the intensity of his emotions, instead.
