Todoroki One-Shots that were supposed to be one shots but we see how that went

Just like that...

It felt freeing just standing there and watching. Hands in his pockets, fumbling with his wallet. The sun was setting, indicating the end of a day.

The end of Fuyumi's self-inflicted suffering.

He watched as she closed the small shoebox that contained all of the razors, pocketknives,
rubber bands- anything she used to hurt herself.

She'd invited her siblings, Natsuo for support and Shouto because-

At one point he was a cause for this.

Yes, there was a time Fuyumi- kind, loving Fuyumi- blamed her kid brother for the despair brought to their family.

But, she was younger then, and dealing with too much to handle. She didn't blame him anymore. None of them did.

Except for Shouto himself.

But still, it was freeing, just standing there. Watching those double-edged weapons be buried with moist, loose soil. A few roots making their way underneath. It was a sign of forgiveness in his eyes. She wasn't angry with him, and if she ever had been, she forgave his mistakes.

Three in the morning wasn't an ideal time to go dig a hole, but looking at all of his razor blades stacked neatly on the ground in front of him, he wanted to follow in his sister's footsteps and get rid of them. He didn't need to harm himself to be present in his own life. He could get past his dissociative habits, and the need to ground himself every now and then.

He didn't need these. Didn't want them.

And admitting that was just as freeing as watching an apology sprout from the shoebox in the ground.

He grabbed them, deciding he could go out tomorrow and pick a place, but his hand wouldn't let him drop the blades on the desk.

And before he knew it, his fist was clenching, hit tears spilling over trembling eyelids. He didn't know why he was crying, even as blood seeped from his tightened fist onto the desk. Onto the envelope from his mother. Staining the light wood of his workspace with crimson dye made from agony and abuse.

He finally willed himself to drop them, and the bundle bounced once before sitting idly on the surface.

The water was cold when he ran his hand underneath it. It was stabilizing, cooling. Balancing out the heat from his left hand with a steady relief.

He pulled up his sleeves to look at his wrists, at the slight scars he'd made over the years. He knows which one came first, but couldn't recall which one was most recent.

And then there were the scars that weren't his doing. His first one he'd gained at age five, being thrown against a piece of equipment and the cold metal breaking his skin. Father had been angry for the blood he'd left on the ground.

His second one, also age five. A burn on his ribcage, earned for disobeying his father and going to see his siblings.

His third, from his mother. A burn on his eye. The worst one. The scar that held the most baggage.

The list goes on. Talking back, not being strong enough, vomiting after only two kicks, not using his fire, refusing to eat, etc.

He didn't think scars were a punishment that fit the crime, but he also didn't have a say in what disciplinary methods his parents used. Which ones his father used.

There were also the good scars. One on his thumb, the first time he'd made paper snowflakes with Fuyumi and he'd cut his finger with the big scissors. She helped him clean it and they continued on, listening to Christmas music and laughing with each other.