Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Todoroki Shouto—

Some days were easier than others. 

Todoroki Shouto loved

It was easy to pretend. It was easy to blame himself. 

Todoroki Shouto—Midoriya Izuku.

Because if he had said something, maybe, things would have turned out. He didn’t think they would have. He had posed the same challenge to other and

Midoriya Izuku did not love Todoroki Shouto.

It was easy to surmise that it would’ve Shouto hurt more if he had tried. At least he could say that he was protecting his heart.

Midoriya Izuku loved Todoroki Shouto like a friend. 

Day by day. Year by year. It had been okay.

But now?

Midoriya Izuku loved Todoroki Shouto. 

And Shouto? Shouto could not finish the

Todoroki Shouto loved Midori—

It hurt too much to even try. 

It wasn’t as if Midoriya had gone quietly into the night either. He had started by calling, screaming, for him to come back. Shouto did not. He made it to the stairwell and bolted from there. Then, Midoriya tried contacting him at every chance. Shouto couldn’t get himself to block his number; instead, he watched the small number next to his voicemails increase tenfold, and his unopened texts reach triple digits. Someone—he couldn’t remember who—had asked him if he was okay. They had mentioned off-handedly that it was weird that he hadn’t volunteered to accompany Midoriya on any of his missions as of late. Weirder still that Midoriya hadn’t come to bother him on one of his patrols. Shouto had said they were busy. Secretly he was terrified that Midoriya would show up one day. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to walk away a second time. Surely, it would kill him to hurt Midoriya again. 

Because it had hurt Midoriya. He watched it happen. He replayed the scenario repeatedly in his head. How Midoriya’s face went from sleepy happiness to wide-eyed fear when Shouto backed away from the table. The plea in Midoriya’s voice to get them to talk. How terrible he looked when Shouto did. A strong exterior breaking away at each word. Shouto had done that. He didn’t get far enough before he heard Midoriya cry out. He pictured him falling to his knees. He begged him to come back. Shouto did not. Shouto went home. He got into bed next to Taki, lying about a headache, and went to sleep. He hoped the whole thing had been a nightmare. 

It was not. 

At the very least Taki didn’t suspect anything from him. Shouto didn’t know how he would begin if he did. When they first started dating, they had a conversation about past relationships. While Shouto could say he had never been involved with anyone else seriously, he knew Taki had his suspicions about Midoriya. Of course, he did. Midoriya was the only one that Shouto dropped everything for because he was Midoriya. Shouto— 

It was messy and Shouto did what he thought would make it better. He ran away. He hurt someone. He didn’t deserve to get their forgiveness. They wouldn’t want to forgive him anyway.

“Guess what,” Taki said, bouncing through the door one day. Shouto was washing the dishes but turned to face his partner when he entered. “What do you think about New York?”

“It’s big,” Shouto said, turning back to the dishes and rinsing them. “Why?”

Taki closed the short distance between them, before wrapping his arms around his midsection. “What else? Like the atmosphere.”

“My dad said it smelled bad, and it was crowded.” 

Taki chuckled, “think more romantically, darling.”

Unprompted he remembered a time in high school after finishing homework. Midoriya was in his bedroom for some reason—usually, they studied in Midoriya’s room. He was staring up at the ceiling. 

“They’re putting up an All Might statue in Central Park,” he said. Shouto had nodded, pretending to play on his phone so it wasn't obvious that he was struggling not to stare at how Midoriya’s sweatshirt was a size too small. “You don’t think I can convince Uraraka-kun to take a trip halfway across the world to see it, right? I mean it’s supposed to be the biggest All Might statue in the Western Hemisphere. They’re even painting parts of it to match his costume from when he worked in America so it will have a vintage edge to it.”

“I’m sure Uraraka won't take much convincing,” Shouto had said, “it’s New York.”

“Yeah, but she’s going to want to see the rest of the city,” he flipped onto his stomach, “and I’m going to just want to stare up at it all day—maybe go to the gift shop at one point. Who would want to put up with that?”

Shouto was able to swallow the instinctual, I would. He would sit in front of a single statue for the whole day, waiting for Midoriya to get every single shot he wanted of it, before going to buy souvenirs, and maybe, if they had time, catch a couple of hero museums too. Midoriya would love it. Shouto would enjoy making him happy.

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but Central Park is supposed to be one of the best places to visit in the city. I’m sure Uraraka would adore it.”

“Maybe,” Midoriya said, chewing on his lip, “it could be awfully romantic with the stars and the flowers and…” 

“Central Park, and,” Taki prompted, poking Shouto in the side, “Times Square. A boat ride over the Hudson Bay. Watching a show on Broadway and eating dinner at the bottom of the Empire State’s building, or better yet,” Taki squeezed Shouto tighter, “kissing on top of the Empire State’s building.”

“Are we taking a trip to New York,” Shouto asked, “I’ll have to put in vacation days. I don’t have much left for this year.”

Taki chuckled against his back. “What if I told you, I accepted a job offer there.” He turned Shouto around to face him. “I want you to join me, Shouto. The city isn’t exactly hurting for heroes, so I’m sure you’ll easily find a job, and we can get a crappy apartment and eat New York pizza and make fun of their subways on our way to work.”

“You’re moving to New York,” was the only thing Shouto had managed to glean from that.

Taki frowned. “I’d like it better if it’s us—together—I want to do this with you." He loosened his hold on him. "Unless you don’t want to?”

Shouto said, “I don’t know,” which caused Taki to drop his arms. He backed up and Shouto had to resist the urge to immediately pull him back and agree with him. What was New York compared to Tokyo? Everything, a little voice told him. “It’s a big decision.” 

Taki sighed, “it doesn’t have to be. This place’s lease is up soon and there’s not a thing here that we couldn’t get over there.”

“My family,” Shouto said, wanting to turn around and focus back on the dishes. He didn’t want to stare at Taki while the inevitable happened. He didn’t want to see the hurt.

“They could visit, or we could visit them.”

“Fuyumi is having a baby and Natsuo is getting married. I couldn’t ask that of them.”

“Then you could wait the six months before moving out there. It would give me time to find a place. By the time you got there everything would already be set up. You could move right in.”

“And if I don’t want to move?”

“Don’t ask me to stay,” Taki whispered. “It’s an amazing opportunity. I could go from trailing the best to being the best.” 

Shouto always knew how important Taki’s job was to him. He knew in the way the man’s eyes would light up when he tinkered with things on their coffee table. How excited he got to meet new heroes because it meant that he got to work on a new person’s costume or support items. He had a gift. Of course, Shouto wouldn’t ask him to stay. It would be unfair.

“I didn’t say that,” Shouto said. 

“Then what are you saying?”

Less than two months later Taki was on a plane to New York and Shouto was standing alone in an airport. People came and went all around him, but Shouto was rooted, nailed down to his spot. They had talked about long-distance, but in the end, Shouto didn’t want to feel like an obligation—the only tie to Japan. Was it too selfish of him to still want to be someone's first?

He did eventually get home—Taki’s, the apartment’s lease wasn’t up for another three months. He sat on the bed he never slept in alone, and for the first time in months, he fought the urge to go to Midoriya. Midoriya would understand. He would hold him and ask for nothing in return—or maybe he would offer something to Shouto to take. A trade of sorts. As if that could fix what had been broken. No promises just tangled sheets and empty beds. It's what kept Shouto from leaving. The most he could do was stare at the full inbox of voicemails, and his hundreds of texts, and tell himself to delete them. When he woke up the next morning his phone was dead.

Shouto did not know if this was what true heartbreak felt like. It was numb. It was reckless. It was jumping in front of a junior hero because they refused to watch their back and nearly losing his head. It was Bakugou screaming at the random hero, before turning his wrath on him.

“Don’t you dare let me watch you die,” he said, foaming at the mouth. “You’re too pathetic to die a tragic death.”

There were no lights on Taki’s ceiling. Shouto didn’t think his death would be tragic. It’s how his father told him true heroes went out. He closed his eyes, deep down he knew he didn’t want to die. He couldn’t resist the urge to bruise. Unlike before he couldn’t find it in himself to ask for it to stop. He pictured Taki, trying to hold back tears, while Shouto said he couldn’t do it—he was too scared to even try. He pictured Midoriya, calling for him to come back and Shouto walking away. It was what he was good for. Large hands wrapping around his waist, his arms, his neck, and applying too much pressure. Dark shadows jeering at being able to conquer a hero. 

It’s okay. 

He reasoned. 

I’m moving on. 

He lied. 

It doesn’t hurt. 

It did. 

Shouto knew something was wrong when he left the bar one night. The colors were too saturated. Too many diagonal greens and whispering yellows. He didn’t remember why he said yes to this man. Maybe he had nice eyes. It didn’t matter. He was still stumbling down the street. His only dignity was that he didn’t have to hold the wall to stay upright. His right eye was swelling up, which was a new one, people usually had more problems with his left eye. He hoped he could make it home before it completely closed. It was already hard enough to see in the dark. 

“Are you okay?”

Shouto stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn’t be happening. 

“It’s okay. I’m a hero. I can help get you home.”

Shouto knew that. He didn’t want to turn around to face him though. To lower his hood and have him see how well Shouto had been doing these last, hell it must have been ten months. He was trying to be better. He was trying to be okay. But if anything, Midoriya Izuku was a hero. The type of hero who saved others without them needing to ask. He stepped in front of him. Shouto was too tired to hide any further than what his hood provided. It was no costume at all. 

“Shoukun?”

Midoriya’s eyes were somehow vibrant in the dark. His expression, less so. He seemed to be working out a problem that Shouto could easily solve with a mouthful of words but didn’t.

“You’re not in costume? You weren’t scheduled for patrols tonight and I saw Yakki-san, so I know he worked, so you didn’t take over for him. Unless you’re doing something else? But generally, all covert missions get passed through me too—not that I ask for that, or expect it really, people just tend to want to keep me in the loop. I think it makes them feel better. Not that you would want me in the loop. Did you call for backup already? I can’t imagine anyone letting you walk away looking like this, but hell, I’ve walked away from plenty, so maybe we’re just two peas in a pod.”

“Midoriya.” Shouto’s right eye was officially closed. Maybe leaning against the building wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. “There’s no police. I was off.”

It wasn’t a good answer because Midoriya’s face was scrunching up; and, if it was brighter out, Shouto suspected he’d see the beginning of tears in the other’s eyes. 

“Oh, Shoukun,” Midoriya said, “what happened to you?”

Shouto didn’t want to say. It was pathetic if he allowed words to go along with it. 

“I’m fine,” he said, attempting to walk again, “I’m going home.”

However, as he stepped forward the world lurched around him. Midoriya caught him before he fell. He protested in his arms, telling him to put him down, but Midoriya refused and Shouto didn't have enough in him to fight. Midoriya fixed his hold on him before they were off, hopping along the streets. The whole time Shouto resisted tucking his head in to fight off the wind. It was probably better to feel the windburn against his cheeks than pretend that Midoriya racing him home meant anything. Meanwhile Midoriya was muttering something about patrols, and how he was lucky he had just gotten off. Regardless of his trepidations, Midoriya was warm. It felt safe. Shouto was stupid. Midoriya took him home to his apartment. 

When they got there Midoriya didn’t stop at the couch where a pillow was along with some leftover containers on the coffee table and a blanket haphazardly thrown in the corner. He didn’t stop in the guest bedroom where the door was open allowing Shouto to see the hero merchandise and the unmade bed. Instead, Midoriya stopped in the familiar room with a watercolor ceiling. Even now, the curtains were open. Had Shouto been feeling better he would have joked about how Midoriya used to complain about that all the time when Shouto had lived there. But, instead, he groaned, as Midoriya placed him on the edge of the bed, only now realizing that more things hurt than just his head.

“I’ll be right back,” Midoriya said before running back into the hall. Shouto stayed put. It wasn’t like he could do anything. He was tired. This bed was familiar. The red light across the ceiling was missing. The blue remained, as did the yellow, a hint of indigo if he caught it just right. When Midoriya came back, without the overhead lights, he would still be a dark shadow. Shouto closed his eyes. It was easier to pretend that nothing happened. Pretend, like he used to, that it was only a dream conjured up by desperate feelings that no longer existed. 

Todoroki Shouto did not—

He was pitiful. 

“Hey, don’t fall asleep yet,” Midoriya said as the bed dipped. “I need you to take something for the swelling.” 

Shouto obeyed, opening his eye, and pulling himself up somewhat so he could accept the medicine and the glass of water. He took them while focusing his attention on the comforter, but it was hard to ignore him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Shouto said, after placing the glass down on the nightstand. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t need to apologize.” 

“I’m so—” Midoriya scratched his cheek before shifting slightly. He raised his hand. Shouto hadn’t noticed the other object. “Lay back, you need to rest.”

“I think I can—” 

“Lay down,” Midoriya repeated, “please.” 

Shouto did as he was told, caught between wanting to flee and wanting to obey. Back against the pillow, Midoriya hovered above him, holding an ice pack. He placed it gently against his cheek. It didn’t take him long before he was talking quietly to himself about temperatures and quirks and whether an ice pack could do anything on Shouto’s right side. It was almost stupid how regular the situation had become. How mundane it would have been three years prior. 

“I’m not an actual ice sculpture,” Shouto said, after a minute of Midoriya speculating with the cold press against his cheek and eye. “My body temperature, though not conventionally stable, is the same as everyone else, though I can change it, I suppose.” 

He felt Midoriya, pause, more so than he saw him. He was hard to see between the darkness of the room and the swelling of his one eye. Shouto feared he might have been too blasé—too normal—when Midoriya didn’t respond at first. But then he laughed. It was small and soft.

“You know most people choose to ignore me when I get like that. It’s barely anything useful at all.”

“The only time I’ve ever ignored what you had to say, I nearly got my ass kicked,” Shouto said. “I rather not take the chances.”

Midoriya smiled and said, “you just needed to give yourself more credit. I hardly did anything at all.”

Shouto said nothing to that. It was hard, even now, to fully appreciate what Midoriya had done for him back then. It was part of the reason he had—It was a long time ago. They were both different people. He didn’t know if he should be sad about that. The Midoriya of his memories was a beacon, a symbol, a person who could do no wrong. The Midoriya before him was Midoriya, yes, but he was less shiny somehow. He seemed more human, more exposed and flawed than Shouto had ever allowed himself to see back then. The same hero, but different. Shouto didn’t know what that meant.

“I know about Ta—” Midoriya stopped and took a deep breath, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. He asked, “why didn’t you come home? I could’ve helped.”

It was a fair question. Shouto wrapped his hand around the arm Midoriya was holding the ice pack with. His heartbeat was steady. How could he tell him what he was afraid of ever doing? To seek out Midoriya for one night only to realize in the morning there was nothing there. To build up Midoriya's hope only to destroy it in one moment of lonely weakness. This had to be the better way. He had to be the stronger one. The one who was able to say, “no.” The one who was too weary to try. 

He squeezed Midoriya’s arm. “I didn’t want to burden you.” It was close enough to the truth. It didn’t stop Midoriya’s face from falling. 

“You’re not a burden,” he said, shifting his position on the bed, lifting, and reapplying the ice pack. “This place is too big on my own. I wouldn’t mind if you came back home.”

Shouto looked away from him, recalling all the reasons he had avoided him thus far. He had a terrible track record in being able to turn the other man down. Even though he knew it was a terrible idea he couldn’t help but think that it would be nice to be able to come home to someone each night. To walk to work—to run so they were able to catch the tail end of fights—and discuss the nothingness of the day. To finish patrols and grab dinner because it was convenient, not luxurious. To close his eyes now and fall asleep—to wake up in a handful of hours to stare at Midoriya blissfully asleep beside him and wonder if this was it. 

But he had to face the other reality of their situation. The thing that kept Shouto from accepting anything that Midoriya had offered. 

“You hurt me,” he whispered. The ice pack was lifted off his face and Shouto knew that if he looked at Midoriya now he would lose his nerve. “And I hurt you.”

Staring at the ceiling he continued quietly. “It’s like a bruise. It’ll go away one day. One day you won’t even feel it. You won’t remember it causing you pain.” He turned his head to see Midoriya again. He was still, eyes wide. “At least that’s what I’ve told myself this whole time. Because I don't think I can force myself to move on, if it’s actually a scar.” 

Midoriya mouthed the words, “move on,” and backed away. He folded his legs underneath him. He was no longer touching him. Shouto assumed this was for the best. A clean break. He couldn’t see how they would salvage their friendship after this, but maybe that was what Shouto deserved for years of burdening their relationship with his feelings—to somehow infect Midoriya with them once he thought they were gone. 

Midoriya stretched out his right hand, before tracing out the faint lines across his knuckles. “I don’t regret this. I never have; even though, it was my dominant hand and I have made a second career out of my analyses at this point. But I never regretted reaching out to you.” Midoriya took a deep breath. He rolled up one of his sleeves and pointed to another scar. 

“This happened because I decided it was a good idea to jump between you and a villain who had knives for fingers. He would have got your eye, but what I got instead was an exasperated nurse and my friend falling asleep in the chair beside me while the doctors discussed whether or not I got stitches.” 

Midoriya dropped his arm and then pulled up the bottom of his shirt. “This probably would have been fatal had you not caused me to trip on some ice, causing the bullets to hit here and not the middle of my chest or wherever the villain was aiming for.”

Next Midoriya pointed to an unblemished part of his skin. 

“I’d probably have a scar here if you hadn’t taken that bottle from Kaminari when we were in school when he was daring people to allow him to hit it across their chest to see if would shatter. I don’t know how I thought that it was a good idea—I probably was trying to impress someone—but I’m pretty sure you ended up scolding Kaminari into sobering up.”

He pointed to another spot equally empty. “I think this one is because you caught me from falling overboard when that cruise we were invited on got ambushed by that ex-special ops group. Actually, I remember Kacchan about to dive overboard to go after me, for you to just point down a level where I was on my butt staring up at you guys before the rest of the villains started attacking again.”

Midoriya was studying his hands again, debating something, before he touched his chest. “Because you chose to sacrifice your own happiness in order to protect mine. Because you never let me be on my own amidst any of my heartbreaks.”

He lowered his hand, chewing his lip before reaching out to Shouto again. He wasn't looking at him when he placed his hand on Shouto's chest.

“But I didn’t think to protect yours."

"That night,” Midoriya sighed, searching the wall. “I woke up and you were in your usual spot—half a foot away. Not touching. I think, well no, I know, at the time I figured that I couldn’t expect any more than that from you. You are pragmatic. I assumed it was more like a transaction, which saying it now sounds insane. Because I was—am—stupid and I just wanted someone to hold me, and you weren’t. You were sleeping and I can’t blame you for that because if I really wanted to, I could have crossed that barrier myself. But I didn’t. I just sat and watched you sleep for who knows how long trying to figure out what you could have got out of that situation. It never dawned on me that the reason you had always been there—Always the first one to pull me back. Always the first one to catch me before I fell. Always the first one to tell me I was important—that I was important to you—was because you loved me. Maybe I would have gotten there eventually, but then my emergency phone was going off in the living room and I didn’t want to wake you up, so I rushed to get ready and left. 

“I don’t know why I never asked you how you felt. I think when I left it was something I thought was too heavy for a phone call, and then I got distracted, but it doesn’t matter. It all ends the same. I hurt you. I hurt you so bad that I made you, the one person who had never left my side, leave.” Midoriya dropped his head. “You don’t know how sorry I am for abusing our relationship like that and how much I wish I could take it back and start all over, but I can’t, I can't, and I know it will never be better, or as good as it could have been, and I’m sorry. I am so sorry Shouto.” 

Midoriya gripped his knees. Shouto wondered how much of an effort he was putting in to not crying. He knew this was the part where he was supposed to say something. But Shouto was struggling to pin down which emotion struck him the most. Anger was mostly a cooled ember—burnt too hot last time. Hurt was ever-present, tangled with muted acceptance. Looking back Shouto knew should have said something first before he kissed Midoriya. He shouldn’t have dived in without caution. It didn’t mean that Midoriya was right to assume it wouldn’t matter to him—it obviously did. The bruise never healed. But laying here now, Shouto was ever aware of the small bit of hope that always blossomed whenever Midoriya was around. 

However, emotions were convoluted, and hard to parse out. Hard to put into words. Shouto let the silence between them grow too much. Midoriya started to speak again. 

“I can’t stop you from believing what you do, nor do I expect you to forgive me for all the heartache I’ve caused you. But I need you to understand that you’ve always been there to protect me. You didn’t hurt me. It’s not pain and it’s not something I want to forget. But since I hurt you—it’s okay if you decide to walk away.”

Midoriya uncurled himself from his position on the bed and got up. He reached and grabbed the ice pack before placing it against Shouto’s eye again. 

“You should get some sleep,” he said before turning and heading to the door. His parting farewell look was overcast, as if he expected he’d never see Shouto again. 

Shouto refroze the ice pack and put it back over his eye. Midoriya’s words turned in on themselves. He tried to sleep, but he knew it was fruitless. There was too much anxiousness. Too much emotion. Too much everything.

Restless, Shouto left the bed. He left the icepack on the nightstand and walked quietly out into the hall. He slowed at Midoriya’s door but couldn’t get himself to stop. He continued down the hall towards the living room and kitchen, hoping for a glass of water and a way to convince himself whether it was right or wrong to stay. To attempt to heal alone or to risk more injury.  

Shouto paused at the entry of the hall. Midoriya was asleep on the couch. He was clutching a pillow to his chest, instead of laying on it. The blanket he was using was wrapped around his middle. A piece of hair, longer than what it used to be in school, fell over the bridge of his nose. He muttered something in his sleep and clutched the pillow tighter.

Shouto had been lying, he did remember the moment he fell in love with Midoriya. He was fifteen, an embarrassingly long time ago. Iida had left their room to stay with his brother—only two doors down, but he wanted to make it easier on his family. Midoriya had said his mom was going to kill him for getting injured again, and Shouto remembered feeling a spike of panic, only to remind himself that not every parent was his father. His father, who hadn’t even stopped by since he was too busy dealing with actual hero work to bother checking if his son was okay. 

He was. 

Shouto thought he was.

He also thought he was lucky he could not remember the dreams. On bad nights, he used to wake up frozen to his sheets. But that wasn’t such a night. It was just him startling awake, gasping for breath from an unknown demon. He hadn't even stopped to get his bearings before he was swinging his legs off the bed and taking the two steps to the window. It was only after he threw open the curtains to mitigate the dark, casting the room in an artificial orange, did he remember he was not alone in the hospital room. He struggled to get a good grip on them to draw them closed again when Midoriya interrupted him. 

He said, “you can keep them open if you want. I don’t mind.”

Slowly, Shouto had turned. He stared at the linoleum. “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” he said. 

“You were calling out to for your mother,” Midoriya said.

Shouto gripped the curtain tighter, forcing himself into nonchalance. He repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t asleep if that’s what you’re apologizing for,” Midoriya said, “it’s sometimes hard for me to sleep, so I don’t. Not that it’s particularly healthy and I’m already so far behind everyone that I can’t really afford to be taking naps after school, but sometimes my body just collapses. Actually, it happened during my internship, which was a bit embarrassing, but I learned a new trick with my quirk, and I was so excited to try and now I’m injured again, so it’ll set me back days, and what if I forget how to do it? I guess then I’ll just have to work extra hard so that it becomes second nature so that I don’t even have to think at all.”

Amongst all that Shouto found himself watching Midoriya, animated as much as he could be, speaking with his hands. In the few months he had known Midoriya he had found him odd. It was not necessarily a bad thing, but so completely different than any hero he had ever known. Midoriya must have felt his gaze because he paused, snapping his attention to him, and apologizing for the rant.

“You don’t have to listen to me. If anything, I should be asking you if you’re okay. You went through a lot.” 

Shouto had thought it funny that Midoriya didn’t include himself in that statement. It was Midoriya who found Iida and Stain first. He had to fight against that monster alone and almost faced watching them die because Shouto was almost late. But Shouto didn’t particularly want to relive that memory at the moment—not if he wanted to try and go to sleep. So, he willed his hand to let go of its vice grip on the curtain and approached his bed. 

“You learned something new about your quirk,” he asked, sitting down. Midoriya frowned contemplating something, but eventually ended up nodding.

“I learned how to spread the energy of my quirk throughout my body. Before I was only focusing my energy on my arms, but now I can contain it. It's not at full power, but I can keep it somewhat steady throughout the rest of my body.”

“Oh. I can already do that.” 

Midoriya flinched. Shouto frowned, reprimanding himself. Compared to shattering his fist a couple of weeks ago to combining forces with Iida to take Stain out, Midoriya had come far. Much further than he had with his fire in that time. He told Midoriya as such, which caused his companion to smile and say, 

“Maybe together we’ll get there one day.” 

Shouto nodded, not used to earnest optimism. He wanted to believe that one day soon using his flames wouldn’t stir up as much unease in his gut as it did right now. It had to become second nature as Midoriya said.

He realized a little too late that he had been simply staring at Midoriya for some time without saying anything. Midoriya must have found it odd because he was muttering something to himself before he said that maybe it was time they went to bed—a hero needed rest and all that. Shouto’s grip tightened on around his blankets. The effects of the dream, while forgotten, still lingered. 

"Actually," Midoriya said swinging his legs out of his bed. Before Shouto could ask him what he was doing, Midoriya pushed their beds together. He got back in on his half, and snuggled back under his blankets, looking up at Shouto with wide green eyes. He was cast in golden orange from the open window Shouto never managed to close. Midoriya pulled out one of his arms and patted Shouto’s bed. "I think the bigger the bed the harder is it for the bad things to find you."

"What?"

“I can take the first watch,” Midoriya said. “I’ll keep us safe from the monsters.”

“I’m not scared of monsters,” Shouto said while he was pulling his blanket back up and sliding back underneath it. 

“I know,” Midoriya said, kind and understanding and not pushing to ask something more of Shouto. "But I'll keep a look out, regardless." 

“Technically, the point of a guard is to wake others up if a monster did attack, not go in alone,” he said, turning his head. “And shouldn’t I have the first watch since I already slept?”

 Midoriya shrugged as well as he could under the blankets while lying down. 

“I slept all day and I think you slept about two hours before waking up, which gives you another hour and fifteen minutes of sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch over you until then, and then wake you up so you can do the same.” He nodded to himself as soon as he finished the statement, happy with himself. Shouto found he couldn’t argue with that. 

“You’ll wake me up?” 

“And keep you safe.”

Shouto closed his eyes and then reopened them not a minute later. He frowned. It was just sleep; it shouldn’t be that hard to do. He had no reason to fear it. He was not scared of it. Midoriya stirred next to him, but Shouto didn’t want to openly acknowledge that he was struggling to go back to bed. He couldn’t appear weak in front of All Might’s predecessor of all people. But Midoriya was a lot more than that. 

“I can tell you a story if you want,” Midoriya said, “sometimes it just helps to know that someone’s right there, or well, at least that’s what my mom used to say when I was younger. She's going to like you when she meets you since you saved my life and all. I’ll be sure to tell her that there’s more to you than just being a hero, though I know you’re going to be a great one.” 

Shouto glanced over at him, unprepared to see Midoriya hadn’t stopped watching him this whole time. Green and earnest just as before. It was just brief, but it was enough for Shouto to feel it, that first thrill.

“You can say no of course. Most people want to sleep in silence.”

“No, a story might be nice.’ He paused, “as long as you wake me up for my shift.”

“Okay,” Midoriya said. Shouto didn’t hear much of Midoriya’s tale, only that it involved All Might and a Crane villain which all seemed rather convoluted, but Shouto was asleep before he could question it further. He didn’t wake back up again until the morning, Midoriya inches away, his hand overlaying Shouto’s. 

It was in that morning sun that Shouto saw Midoriya differently. A boy who was soft with sleep but would one day become a fierce hero. Not because of how strong his quirk was but because of how much he cared about others. How much he wanted to protect them, not just from villains, but from everything else too. It was overwhelming. The urge to never dare let go. It scared him. In that moment he made a hasty decision that he'd make again and again. He sacrificed his right to touch. He pulled his hand from under Midoriya's and tucked it under his chin. Midoriya was going to be amazing one day. Shouto didn't want to risk being forced to leave his side. 

Now, Midoriya’s face was cast in moonlight. It should have washed out his features, but Midoriya was vibrant. Shouto caught his hand reaching out to move that stray curl out of his face, but then asked himself why he was still hesitating. Why now of all times? He let himself touch. And, the world didn’t shatter. There were no symphonies rising in grandeur. It was just Midoriya’s nose wrinkling up and him sighing in his sleep. The hair fell back into place as soon as Shouto let go. He tried again, with another piece of hair, tucking it behind Midoriya’s ear. This one was more pliant. It stayed put. 

Would you believe me?

Shouto pulled the pillow out of Midoriya’s grasp. Midoriya frowned, beginning to roll over, but Shouto stopped him, pulling him into his arms. It wasn’t the first time he had held him. Given their careers, it was doubtful it would be the last. But it was the first time, in a while, that when Midoriya burrowed his head against Shouto’s chest, Shouto felt the fluttering of something akin to hope. 

What would you say if you knew?

Midoriya mumbled something against his chest. Shouto wondered if his eyes would shine if he knew. Would he look at Shouto and see ? Would he look at him like he had with the others and accept it? Would he stop if given the time to stop? Was that what Shouto wanted?

But can I believe it?

The only light in the hall was mint green. A different color than what he was used to. He didn’t open Midoriya’s room. He brought him to the other. He placed Midoriya on his side of the bed, closest to the door. Laying, Midoriya frowned again. Shouto reached behind him and grabbed another pillow, placing it in his arms. Midoriya furrowed into it, content as Shouto pulled the blankets over him and tucked him in. 

If I say it…

Todoroki Shouto—

“Izuku.” It was only a whisper. There was no risk in trying it out. If it wasn’t true, he would know. The words were easy enough. He would know if it was a lie. He just had to say it. He took a deep breath, a long exhale and spoke into that dark room where lights played with one another and Midoriya laid blissfully asleep, unaware. 

“Izuku, I think I love you. I'm scared I will never stop loving you.” 

—loved Midoriya Izuku.

The next morning Midoriya will wake up, tucked under the covers in a bed he hasn't slept in since the other had moved out. He’ll blink looking around the familiar, but unfamiliar space, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He will force himself not to look at the other side where the sheets are tucked in and the pillows fluffed. He will gently step out of bed, stopping briefly in his room to check his phone. He'll have missed messages. They will be from the wrong people. He will lie to himself and say he’s not searching for him when he goes back to the hall. He will enter the kitchen where reality will cement itself. He will go to the fridge ready for breakfast. He will make his coffee alone. He will not know. He will curse the ripples in his mug caused by a single falling tear.

Voicemail #27: June 28th

“I think sometimes that the villain in that one All Might movie can actually exist. I know, bold of me to say—the one who made a whole presentation to say the opposite. Maybe I’m yearning for excitement like the good ole days. Those days were hard. But they were good too. I miss sometimes how easy everything else was besides those fights. 

“Regardless, while I still think a villain with a quirk that allows him to jump realities messes too much with the fabric of time to be real, perhaps I’m thinking too hard? Maybe one decision in one place doesn’t collapse the same instance in another. If all decisions are drastic, then wouldn’t they all become obsolete? I don’t know. I still don’t think it’s a good quirk…

Voicemail #43: August 8th

“I heard about Taki-kun. I’m sorry Shoukun.” 

Voicemail #83: October 2nd 

“I’m at the market, picking up stuff for dinner and whatnot. I’m trying something new. Well, it’s not new, it's katsu and I needed pork, but I’m trying to cook it so that’s the new part.

"It got me thinking about food though. Well, what I would make you if you ever came over again—I’d want to make it special. However, I don’t have that much faith in my cooking abilities, so I think I’d just use my fancy hero salary to take you to a nice place. Your pick? Noodles? Okay. Feeling something different, like I don’t know, Mexican (Mexican?), we can get quesadillas. The cheese ones because why mess with perfection? 

“Actually, what I’m craving is that diner we found when we were twenty and exhausted at 4 am after patrol and while the place boasted to you about how great their soba was, you got waffles. I don’t think I ever saw fans so disappointed at something so mundane before...” 

Voicemail #99: December 24th

“I’ve been thinking—a terrible pass time, really—about,” coughs, “you. Gosh, I’m like a fourteen-year-old girl blushing and blubbering to her crush. Honestly, you would think this would be easier since you already know—it’s not. Nothing I do, can be easy, now, can it? 

“But I was thinking maybe you would want to know when I first knew I loved you? A little too late I know. I’m pretty sure you delete these all anyways, and while I could fill out a diary, most of my writing free time goes to filling out my quirk analysis, so you see, really this is just easier on me. 

“(Yes, I could set up a voice recording diary of sorts, or better yet talk to a therapist, but, well, that seems like too much work and I've always found it easier to talk to you.)

“I guess I should preface this by saying it’s not the love you think it is. It’s the smaller kind, important nonetheless, but not romantic, though that came later because I was dumb and I’m sorry for that. 

“One night I got back late from a terrible day of interning. I couldn’t save someone, and my boss chewed me out because I don’t depend on others, so I push myself to do too much alone. It doesn’t matter. I was feeling like shit. But when I entered the common room, all that kind of just faded away. You were sleeping on the couch, and I wasn’t paying enough attention, so the door shut with a thud. It woke you up. A couple of lazy blinks and a smile as you stretched out. It wasn’t the first time you had waited for me to get home, but it was the first time I realized I didn’t want anyone else to do it besides you. 

“(I told you I was stupid, didn’t I?)” 

Voicemail #110: January 6th 

“I was visiting a school the other day and all the children were gathering around me and asking me to draw pictures with them and talk to them about their favorite heroes. It was a lot of fun. They made me tell them my favorite color. Have you ever been held hostage by a four-year-old until they give you what you want? It’s terrifying. 

“I settled on blue

“It was a bad choice. I upset nearly everyone there. They took a poll to prove I was wrong. The winner was pink. They would’ve liked you…” 

Voicemail #154: February 22nd 

“Kacchan is going to kill me one of these days. Did you see that fight, near the harbor? He nearly blew the whole place up. Of course, we won. I’m glad he’s still there. We could’ve used your help though. There was a water villain that could have used being frozen in a solid block of ice...”

Voicemail #165: March 1st

“Are you okay? I caught the tail end of your fight. I was held up so I couldn’t get there sooner. You took a nasty hit. It looked bad. The agency said it wasn’t. Said you just bruised some ribs. They couldn’t understand why you jumped in like that when there were easier ways to defeat the villain. You’re a ranged fighter, don’t you remember?

“I know you did it because you were distracting the villains. One of the sidekicks, she was petrified, wasn’t she? She couldn’t use her quirk because of how anxious she was. I remember those days. We’re lucky we never got killed because of it. 

“I’d go to the hospital, but I don’t think a sappy reunion there would be much fun. Especially, if I’m not someone you want to see. The nurses already hate me enough, I don’t want them to give me a new reason to. I hope you get better soon.” 

Voicemail #183: March 31st

“The landlord nearly caught me on the roof. I didn’t even know people checked roofs—it’s a good thing I know how to fly I was able to jump off without a problem. I’m blaming you for this. You got me addicted to sitting on rooftops and watching the sunset, or the sunrise, or the stars (Wow we really had shit sleep schedules, didn’t we?) and just contemplate life. 

“I remember when I first found you up on Alliance Heights one night. I was surprised when you didn’t tell me to leave, even when I insisted it was your spot. You told me the stars were coming out soon, and that it’d be a shame to miss them. You were right, they were beautiful…” 

Voicemail # 197: April 17th

“You wouldn’t believe me, but I’m sitting on the ground in front of the couch, ignoring the perfectly good piece of furniture like a stubborn child…”

Voicemail #205: April 27th

“Every once in a while I really feel it. The urge to say fuck it and run to you. I’m trying. I promised to give you space. I promised to let you decide. Sometimes I wonder though if you think differently. If you think that I’m trying to stop by avoiding you. I don’t think it works like that. Well, at least it hasn’t yet. I don’t think it will. 

“I wished you’d call. I miss your voice. I miss your face. I miss a lot of things. I miss you Shouto. Just Shouto if that’s all you want to be. But you’ve never been just anything to me. 

“I love you. 

“Crap…” 

Voicemail #1: May 2nd 

“Hey, it’s Shouto…Todoroki, Shouto. I just wanted to say—

There are times when the breeze catches right in the spring and the air smells sweet instead of smokey like machines, which makes the world somehow seem brighter with too blue of skies and people who smile at train stations. People who are not in a hurry to get where they are going because the weather is nice, and it feels good to exist in it. 

There’s a day where Shouto is standing on a platform, with his phone to his ear, listening to a recording he’s heard an embarrassing number of times, but can’t stop replaying—even the hard ones. He’s heard them all. Every goof or mistaken phrase or the sense that the other knows he has said too much, but the tone sounds before he can take it back. Something is endearing about their quality. A reminder of a time long ago. 

Shouto, more particular, and less prone to risks, only sends one voicemail back—it takes five tries. Midoriya’s too quick to answer each call. Shouto had ended up calling at two in the morning when he hoped Midoriya would be asleep due to his patrol schedule. He was. Shouto was able to ask without hearing an immediate rejection—or acceptance, though he was at a train station now, after all.

Shouto used to think that if people called it destiny it meant it to be true. It was something he could not interfere with because it was out of his control. Soulmates had a sort of inevitability to them. Fate, something that he always related to his creation. His sham of a childhood. They weren’t nice. Destiny and fate and no choices always lead to the same, ultimate conclusion. There is something special in being able to choose which path to go down. A choice he made without the help of some omnipotent force. The ability to make his own decision to forgive and to ask. 

There are times, when the weather is nice, where people will smile on either side of the train tracks.  Vendors will call out, selling things in a way that adds to the atmosphere rather than detracts. Where a train passes and people pause to watch it go by, whipping hair and skirts and ties. A small break between cars to see the other side with yellow tape, and a poster to some concert coming up. To see something green and unkempt. Bright eyes to match. The train keeps passing, car after car after car after car. Until finally it’s over and Shouto can see that what he saw is not a mistake. 

There are people on the other side, and they are moving, talking to one another, undisturbed by the one who does not move. The one who is, shouldering a bag and wearing a pink shirt of all things. Shouto could waste time thinking about how he got here, or if he struggled like Shouto did to take the first step out his door—not because he hated the idea, but because he knew it would be the final act. The thing that cemented their future going forward. But Shouto can’t waste time on that. Another train will come soon, and if he’s not careful, it will take Midoriya Izuku away again.

Midoriya smiles, hesitant and unsure. An offering. Shouto knows he matches it. There’s no way he can’t. In his ear, the current voicemail is just about to finish. Shouto knows how it will end. Midoriya will say, “my always,” before screeching. 

Shouto catches it before he drops his arm and pockets his phone. It’s not far, that hop across the tracks. For people who can fly it’s a simple pass. It's absurd to fly. There are other ways to cross the tracks, so Shouto does not fly. He only a launches himself on a small burst of ice, over the tracks. Midoriya staggers, only briefly, when they collide. But then he's wrapping his arms around him, holding him steady. Shouto will never know what comes out of his mouth then. Something about sorry. Something about not letting go. Something about something. He does know that his eyes burn, and he thinks distantly that maybe he's crying. Midoriya speaks too, more concise—he’s had longer to practice. In time this will become a joke. The moment they switched, briefly. 

There are people and they are smiling. They are leaving and they are coming. It is warm. There is music coming from somewhere, just soft enough that it is hard to make out what exactly it is. Another train passes, it carries strangers making vows and the wind, which toils with clothes and makes Midoriya hold him tighter as if he is scared to let go again. Shouto understands. But his focus is on the light. The way it shines from an open window somewhere. Singular, bright, and blushed-pink.

Shouto thinks, not for the first and not for the last time, that Midoriya is beautiful. Midoriya hears him because he laughs and says Shouto’s beautiful too. Because he can see him. He sees him and it’s a lovely feeling. It has Shouto chasing his laugh until he’s kissing him. And isn’t that something? To kiss Midoriya Izuku and to know when he kisses back it’s not unfound hope, but a quiet promise.

There are unconditional truths in the world. On an overcast day when the cloud’s part, ever briefly, the sun will shine. It will seem like a beacon. The moon will follow the earth, pulling tides, acting coyly with the sun. When it disappears it makes a promise to always return. When it’s warm there will be rain and when it’s cold snow. They’re both beautiful, though there’s a certain magic in standing in a summer rain. 

Todoroki Shouto will love Midoriya Izuku. 

“Come home,” Midoriya whispers into the space between their lips. Shouto will close it once more before he agrees. 

He will be loved in return.