Shoto and Touya's First Greeting – Reimagined in a Tense, Charged Moment

The training grounds behind the Todoroki estate are silent except for the low crackle of distant flames and the faint hiss of melting frost on stone. Late afternoon sun cuts harsh shadows across the scorched earth. Shoto stands rigid in his hero costume—half red, half white—hands loosely at his sides, ice already creeping up one forearm like nervous habit. His mismatched eyes are fixed straight ahead, calm on the surface but searching underneath.

Then the air shifts. Heat rolls in before the person does.

Touya appears at the far edge of the field like smoke given form—tall, leaner than memory but somehow broader in the shoulders now, every visible inch of scarred skin gleaming faintly under the dying light. His black coat hangs open over a tight undershirt that clings to the hard ridges of muscle earned from years of burning himself alive. Crimson hair wilder than ever, falling into turquoise eyes that glow with something between hunger and hatred. The staples along his jaw and neck catch the sun like cruel jewelry. He moves with predatory laziness, each step deliberate, flames licking idly at his fingertips before snuffing out.

He stops ten paces away. Close enough that Shoto can smell smoke and charred skin. Close enough that the temperature around them begins to war—cool air meeting blistering heat in faint ripples.

Touya tilts his head, scarred lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Touya (voice low, rasped, almost intimate):
“Well… look who finally grew into those pretty two-toned eyes.”

Shoto doesn’t flinch. His left side flares briefly—small, controlled flames licking up his arm—before he smothers them just as fast.

Shoto (quiet, steady, but there’s steel underneath):
“Touya.”

One word. No “brother.” No “Dabi.” Just the name their father gave him before everything burned.

Touya’s smile sharpens. He takes one more step forward. Heat pulses off him in waves now, making the air shimmer.

Touya:
“You say it like it still means something.”
He lets his gaze drag deliberately down Shoto’s body—lingering on the way the hero suit hugs every carved line of muscle, the way frost and fire both seem to cling to him like lovers—then back up to those mismatched eyes.
“Still playing perfect son for the old man? Or did you finally figure out how good it feels to let the fire win?”

Shoto exhales slowly through his nose. A thin sheet of ice spreads beneath his feet, countering the blackening grass around Touya’s boots.

Shoto:
“I’m not here to fight you.”

Touya laughs—short, rough, edged with real pain.

Touya:
“Liar.”

He closes the last few steps until they’re barely a breath apart. Shoto doesn’t back up. Touya leans in just enough that their heights almost align—scarred face hovering near Shoto’s unmarked one.

Touya (softer now, almost a whisper, voice dripping something dangerously close to want):
“You got tall, little brother. Filled out nice too. Shame about the personality—still so fucking restrained.”

He reaches out slowly—gives Shoto every chance to freeze or burn him—and drags one stapled knuckle lightly down the side of Shoto’s jaw, tracing the line where fire and ice meet on his face.

Touya:
“Bet it’d feel real good to lose control just once. Right here. With me watching.”

Shoto’s hand snaps up—fast—catching Touya’s wrist in an iron grip. Ice crackles over the staples; steam hisses where it meets residual heat.

Shoto (voice low, eyes locked, something raw flickering behind the calm):
“I already lost control once. The day you burned away.”

Touya freezes. For one heartbeat the smirk vanishes—replaced by something naked, almost vulnerable.

Then he twists his wrist free with a flare of blue flame and steps back, breathing harder than the short confrontation should require.

Touya (quiet, almost gentle):
“Yeah… you did.”

He turns halfway, coat flaring like wings of shadow and ember, but doesn’t walk away yet.