Cold | Suicidal Todoroki

1 | Reminisce

A/N:
The poetry in this fic is old and bad, and I would love to redo it all.

。。。

Todoroki swept his index finger over the whitish-gray snowfield of dust clinging to the top of the drawer face that protruded from his desk. A fuzzy film of dust was caked onto his finger, but the surface he'd cleaned had attained a fresh luster. He almost envied that immediate shift in appearance; the dull, lifeless gloom had been smeared into its original form that exuded a revitalized, vivid gleam.

Cleaning one fraction of the desk makes me want to clean the entire desk to see it all in color again, Todoroki realized while unhurriedly tugging the drawer open. I want to, but it's honestly a waste of time. Impractical.

Rummaging through his belongings for a sheet of paper, Todoroki's eyes were drawn to a familiar notebook. He slid it free from the drawer and began to reminisce over the cover he'd scrawled onto it many years prior. With a sigh, he glanced at the time displayed on his watch, but he figured that glimpsing into his past might provide him with valuable information.

Before he could dive into the pages of his memories, however, he received a call from Midoriya. He debated on whether or not to answer, but he figured that ignoring his classmate's call would end up wasting more time in the future than it would to listen in the present.

"Hello?" Todoroki sighed once he accepted the call.

"Oh!" replied Midoriya. "I didn't think you'd actually answer... Um. I just... Well..."

Get on with it. "Midoriya, I don't have all day." He stared at his dusty desk.

"S-Sorry... I just wanted to check in. How are you doing?"

"Fine. Is that all you called me for?"

Midoriya was silent for a few moments. "I'm worried about you. That's all..." His voice sounded soft and strained.

Todoroki exhaled slowly. "Did I not just say I'm fine?" He fought the urge to cut the call.

"That's exactly why I'm worried, Todoroki-kun," Midoriya clarified. "I heard about what happened. You're...not fazed at all?"

"No. Grieving is a waste of time. Midoriya, I'm not the person I used to be. Is there something wrong with that? Do people not change?" Todoroki ran his pinky finger across the dust lining the handle of the drawer beneath the one he'd opened.

Midoriya ejected a brief vocalization of what Todoroki interpreted as a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty. "I'm not saying people don't change. But not all changes are good. None of us have seen you smile in so long. But...were you sad at all? I—"

"Does it matter? If you're bothered by me, then you have the right to ignore me. Look, I have things I need to do. Bye, Midoriya." With a sigh, Todoroki hung up the phone and let the lock screen fade into darkness. "Why are they so obsessed with this? It shouldn't matter to them." He shook his head and glanced at his notebook again. "What did it feel like to be in the place I was at before? Before this new person that no one seems to recognize, what was I like? I know I was severely depressed for a while. Ah. Is that why?"

Todoroki popped open the notebook to the first page, but as he did so, two small, faded sticky notes flittered down from somewhere within the sea of pages. He plucked the notes with their worn adhesives up from the floor and instantly recognized what he was looking at.

I remember this, he thought to himself while flipping through the notebook to find a few more sticky notes scattered throughout the pages. I don't know where I put these notes with their poems originally, but it doesn't particularly matter to me. With that, he slowly began to scrutinize the contents of the first note.

Candle

The striking light of the brilliant flame.
It dances on and on.
Always bright, always shining.
The vivid foxtail of happiness swishes.

The candle's snickering ocean of warmth is ever enticing.
A forced flame devours the wick and wax, slicing and slicing.
The resplendent flame marches along the charcoal tightrope of shadow and air.
It's almost so set in stone that it doesn't seem to care.

The syrupy wax weeps at the blissful display.
Laughing, splintering, sobbing.
The flame cries out as its flaking enemy of shadow is replaced by nothing.
But the warm puddle surrounding that dying dance was only pushed away.

From unexplained conflict was the birth of a spark.
The spark erupted into a deceiver that swallowed up the dark.
Ever sly so none would see beyond its brilliance, it danced around.
It was only a matter of time before the enemy that fed its existence was burned to the ground.

The sickening smoke of deceit pervades the air.
There is no more room for that cheerful guise.
Everything, even the bitter fuel that was the flame's nemesis, cold and unfeeling.
The empty vessel will be terminated.

Solidifying, solidifying...
Plans set in stone.
Hardening, hardening...
A hardened heart.

Ripping, ripping...
The wax won't let go.
Falling and falling...
But the candle is gone.

Blow out the flame.

"I see," Todoroki murmured before he flipped to the next thin piece of paper resting between his fingers. "Oh, this one. What small writing..."

On the Stage

The lights are cut as the spotlight flicks on.
Another day, another performance beginning at dawn.
Hurry, hurry, don't make them wait.
Their despair is what my songs can sate.

The melody fluctuates, filling the air.
Missing a beat, I wouldn't dare.
Frowns and neutrality replaced by affable smiles.
Words harmonized with information from their files.

Content for now, the audience bursts into applause.
But my entire performance was covered in flaws.
Exhaustion grips my voice by the end of the day.
But the pain that my singing brings will I never say.

Alone on the stage, the spotlight stays on me.
The light is the chains from which I can't break free.
Singing of only their interests, I've forgotten my own.
Since when did the audience control the throne?

Without a tune, my voice begins to break.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
My voice will heal by tomorrow, right?
But why is it my own voice I have to fight?

Day after day of crumbling attempts at singing.
Whispers of suspicion endlessly ringing.
The audience has inevitably grown over time.
More ears are exposed to my songs caked in grime.

I can't keep writing these pitiful songs.
As more are written, so are my wrongs.
For once, my voice speaks for me.
But it's not the voice that they always see.

The expected groans of disappointment do not arrive.
Worry is now what fuels their drive.
Realizing my fatal mistake, I sing instead.
But my throne of songs is my own death bed.

The spotlight is blinding, blurring the world more.
I never should've walked through that shining door.
Sirens are wailing, but for whom I do not know.
The name is familiar, and so is this ethereal glow.

Desperate to escape, I cut into my time on the stage.
But I awaken on it again, bound by a cage.
Fluorescent lights blind my eyes.
I can't see past all of my lies.

Familiar figures surround the white bed.
But my songs and my voice are equally dead.
White lies, white lights, white paper, white room.
How much of me did the lies consume?

Sour, broken notes impale my chest.
So this is why I wished for eternal rest.
Someone dressed in white calls a familiar name.
Oh, my name is...