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Security has always been one thing that Midoriya Izuku likes to think he has. Earth-steady security in the knowledge that if he kept a safe distance away from the danger zone, life would go on with minimal crash collisions and no broken bones. Bakugou Katsuki—former tormentor and estranged childhood friend—taught him that much, at least.
So the question is, why did he agree to meet up with Todoroki Shouto in what must be the most shady streetway in the area, however close to their university campus it may be?
The answer is simple: trouble finds Izuku no matter where he goes.
(Honestly, he should be used to it by now.)
Izuku's fingers have turned into popsicles by the time Todoroki's car pulls up at the curb. The tinted driver’s window rolls down, and Izuku feels his breath catch a little in his throat. Washed a dim yellow by streetlamp glow, Todoroki looks as troublesome as they come—dressed to the nines, hair slicked to one side.
"Hey," Todoroki greets him. "You came."
Izuku feels himself relax a little once he hops in; heated seats are truly a godsend. But then he tenses up again, because it would do him well to remember this isn't exactly a buddy-to-buddy meeting they're having.
Todoroki looks at him. "Let's take this up somewhere else, okay?" The passenger door unlocks, and shadows dance on the pensive curve of Todoroki’s mouth, like sinuous ghosts.
Izuku tries not to squeak out his response. "Right. Yeah. Sure.”
The gravity of his tone is not lost on Izuku after an, admittedly, anticlimactic visit to a tacky drive-through. Even after they stop at a gas-station parking lot, poking at their oily boxes of fried noodles and soda cans.
"So ..." Izuku leans back on the car's hood, examines Todoroki's outfit: suit, tie, cufflinks, and very, very polished wingtips. "Rough night?” He tries not to feel too self-conscious about his frayed joggers and dirt-stained hoodie.
Todoroki's eyes darken. "Something like that. You know, the usual." After a brief pause, he adds, "A company thing." That makes sense. Explains the formal getup. Then, his face clears in the way a magic sketcher reverts to default—the transition smooth but noticeable. “So, about that favour I texted you about. The super important one.” The absence of emojis made his seriousness clear enough.
Izuku braces himself for the Question—the ultimate game-changer, the tide-maker. Whatever may be the case, Izuku draws the line at vandalism. And homicide.
It turns out it won’t be necessary for Izuku to negotiate with his own morals or do any skirting around the law enforcement system, but what Todoroki says next is worse, in that sense that it opens up an additional five cans of worms instead of just, you know, one: “Midoriya, I want you to go out with me.”
Anyone familiar with any dramatic movie ever knows that there’s always this pause in time that follows a shocking revelation. Like when the protagonist finds out the guy they’ve been getting all up and cosy with is actually their half-brother or cousin or something, as graciously revealed by a DNA test, and there are all these close-ups and fading-out sound effects and hollow-eyed stares.
That’s kind of happening right now, except there’s no camera crew—just Izuku being Izuku, and Todoroki being, well, not Todoroki, as far as he’s aware.
The low drone of flies haloing a nearby garbage can dimly registers in Izuku’s mind. Now, that request came out of nowhere, right up there with Uraraka asking him to buy a kilogram of sequins, a wastebasket, and a shovel a few months back. (To this day, he still doesn’t know what it had all been about).
Bits of mystery meat spill over his front as Izuku lowers his chopsticks, wondering if Todoroki can really hear himself. “As in, out of this parking lot?” Izuku says, because it’s possible he just misheard. Just recently he’d been butter-fingered enough to spill a test tube of hydrochloric acid.
“No, as in you and me,” Todoroki is saying very seriously. “Dating. Being a couple. That sort of thing.”
This must be a cruel joke. It has to be. Back in the middle school days, Izuku’s classmates would pull pranks like this on him all the time, because he was the only one dumb enough to believe anyone would be interested in him. It grates a little on an old wound, because he never thought that Todoroki would be that sort of person, even though they’re not exactly close—just on well enough terms that the weather isn’t the only topic up for discussion.
“Really,” Izuku says flatly.
“Just as long as it takes for my dad to get off my case,” Todoroki adds, which somehow makes Izuku deflate and feel better at the same time. Of course . Why would Todoroki want to actually date him?
Izuku sips on his Coke, unsure of how best to respond.
“I know that this is too much to ask of you,” Todoroki continues, fiddling with his sleeves.“But you were the only person I could think of, the only person I can trust on this.” This is the part where Izuku should feel flattered, he supposes. “Look, my dad’s been hounding me for months, trying to set me up with potential partners. Dragging me to stupid parties, forcing me to interact with other rich kids I don’t care about.” He shrugs off his suit jacket, and unbuttons his collar. “It’s tiring, and I’m sick of it all, sick of him, especially.”
Izuku says, “So this is the part where I come in.”
Todoroki nods. “It’ll piss that bastard off, for sure. Plus, you’re close with Toshinori-sensei, right? You’re probably not aware of it, but my dad absolutely hates his guts. So this’ll be like an extra slap to his face—actually, a huge punch.”
“A Detroit Smash,” Izuku says, and, at Todoroki’s confused face, he coughs into his own straw. “Never mind.”
“Takes as much time as you need to think about this,” Todoroki says. “If you refuse, I understand. No hard feelings on that front. But if you agree … I’ll be forever be indebted to you, keep that in mind.”
By the time Izuku returns to the apartment he shares with Iida and Uraraka, the shock has worn off enough that he does spend a whole night contemplating the idea. And a whole morning. And a whole afternoon.
All things considered, Izuku’s final decision was made in good time: specifically, three scalding showers and a bitter shot of espresso. But it was in large part due to the fact that Izuku has always been rubbish at making safe, logical decisions, anyway. If he’d been stupid enough to brawl with a cast and a bad leg once upon a time, then what more going along with a concept that, in retrospect, doesn’t seem nearly as impossible to manage.
So this is how Izuku finds himself sitting across Todoroki at a coffee shop only three days later, twiddling his thumbs and trying his very best to act normal. Casual. Calm.
“Thank you for agreeing to this, Midoriya,” Todoroki says, grateful. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Izuku says, slowly, “Uh, no problem. I guess.”
The two of them hold each other’s gaze five minutes longer than necessary when Izuku comes to the realization that they have no idea how to discuss the mechanics of this fake dating thing. Which makes sense; it’s not every day that someone comes up to you and asks to be your fake significant other in the name of vengeance. Daddy issues, in this case.
Todoroki says, “So, first things first. We should, uh, establish some boundaries. Rules. Something to abide by.”
Have Todoroki’s eyes always been this intense? As grey as the sky after it has rained, as blue as an ocean in noontime heat, almost too overwhelming to behold. “Like?”
“Like—” Todoroki gestures vaguely —”like no physical contact if you’re not comfortable with it, so that would mean no hand-holding or—or anything.”
“Ah. Right.” Derivatives and integrals would be much, much easier to deal with; at least they have a rhythm, a certain pattern, whereas this is no different from plunging yourself headfirst into a murky brown swamp—it’s that unpredictable.
But, against all expectations, they end up agreeing on … well, everything.
Like the pretend PDA, for instance. Because it would make the facade a lot more convincing. Obviously, it wouldn’t be anything too touchy-feely—just hand-holding. Or, actually, whatever the situation calls for. (Izuku tries not to blush too much over this part.)
“Think that maybe we should have a code? To let the other person know if it’s too much?” Todoroki says.
“How about a nickname?” Izuku suggests. “Or something coupley. Because we’re ‘together’ now, right? So something like—like—”
“Sweetheart?”
Izuku buries his face into his hands. Good lord.
“Darling?”
What makes this worse is that it’s really nice when Todoroki says it, the way the syllables drag like poured honey.
“Izuku?”
Izuku looks up, finds Todoroki has gone a little pink in the face. “You know, we should just go with that,” Izuku says. Finally, a bearable alternative. “So that means I should call you Shouto, too. It would seem weird if I don't.”
Shouto . Huh.
The feel of his name is almost like calligraphy on Izuku’s tongue.
Izuku nearly forgets that they’re supposed to be dating, nearly goes on the defensive when a waitress comes by and announces that everything is at half-price for couples. “He's not my boyfriend,” is poised on the tip of his tongue, but then Shouto gives him a smile that somehow makes him feel very, very warm, and Izuku remembers what they are now.
What they're pretending to be.
Popular rumour has always made out Todoroki Shouto to be an ice prince, but the assumption, Izuku realizes, is pretty far-off.
And, now, the rules. Even if it’s weird, Izuku has them in writing: numbered and colour-coded, even. It’s not until he’s spread belly-down on his bed that he goes over the list again, like he hasn’t memorized them already.
The first rule is simple: don’t tell anybody. Easy enough. Not so easy to lie about it, though. Speaking of the situation, how exactly should Izuku break out the news to his friends?
He imagines going, “Hey, guys, I know this may seem unexpected, but I’m kind of, sort of dating Todoroki Shouto now, and yes, we are very much in love, please believe us.”
If it sounds stupid in his head, it would sound even more stupid phrased out.
But it turns out that the people finding out part is the least of his worries. By the time Monday morning rolls around, pretty much anyone who’s anyone has somehow gotten word of their newfound “relationship”. The news is there in every hushed whisper, every stolen glance, every curious look.
It’s overwhelming.
Uraraka, Iida, Kirishima, Tsuyu, Kaminari, and Jirou are surprised, to say the least. Really, really surprised. Even more surprised is Bakugou, who tchs at the sight of Izuku and Shouto when he encounters them on their way to the science faculty.
“What the fuck,” Bakugou says, eyes narrowed, and, shit, because if there’s anyone who can see through the lie, it would be Bakugou, alright. “How the hell did this happen?”
Izuku stiffly says, “Hello, Kacchan,” for lack of a better response.
Bakugou looks like he has something not very nice to say, but instead he huffs and ambles down the opposite direction, hands shoved into his pockets. “Whatever. Always thought half-and-half here was a guy of piss-poor taste.”
“Funny, because, as the saying goes, it takes one to know one,” Shouto says smoothly, without batting an eye.
Bakugou stops. Spins on his heel.
The crimson of his eyes simmers into the shade of war.
Oh.
It’s on now.
Fortunately, Kirishima and Uraraka choose to swing by their way before the gauntlet is thrown down, books braced against their chests. “Hey, Bakugou, join us!” Uraraka calls out, sending Izuku a look. You, me, details. Later.
The fight in Bakugou’s posture ebbs, slightly.
Kirishima nods his head, grinning, and says, “Yeah, dude, we totally need your help. These cosine functions are messing with our brains.” Then, to Izuku and Shouto, “Have fun on your date, guys.”
It’s only when they’re well out of sight that Izuku glances at Shouto. His supposed boyfriend.
“I think it won’t take much to convince them,” Izuku says, nudging Shouto’s arm.
Shouto blinks as though roused from a daze. “Yeah, I think so, too,” he says, looking at Izuku just a little bit curiously.
Just a little. But it does make a guy wonder.
In all honesty, the rules are not so much rules as they are guidelines.
And also, to be truthful, any rule after the first is just what Izuku assumes is part of their unspoken agreement. It’s like social etiquette. No one tells you to not release gas on public transit. You simply don’t do it, because it’s inappropriate, not to mention gross.
Except this isn’t a social etiquette thing. Just a way of safeguarding Izuku’s heart for when the time comes.
But he ends up breaking his so-called rules, anyway. Again and again.
(And they never do end up needing codes.)
Take Rule Two, for instance: don’t hang out when not required.
Yeah, they’ve been doing a lot of that. At first, Shouto just called him up whenever he needed to blow off steam from the much dreaded company functions or piss off his dad to high heaven, but after they got past the tumultuous stage, where they were still figuring out how to fit the deception into their lives without raising any red flags, it went smooth sailing from that point onwards.
Izuku supposes that they could even be considered good friends now.
As a consequence, there are many things Izuku learns about Todoroki Shouto in the next couple of months. Two hundred and twenty seven things, to be precise, but the list grows every day.
One of the very first details Izuku observed earlier on is the fact that Shouto never gets cold for some odd reason. Or hot. So like his body’s homeostatic mechanisms not only work internally, but externally. Lucky him.
Lower down on the list are Shouto’s maddening talents at Mario Kart and Tekken. It’s unfair how Izuku only ever wins by cheating. Close by are Shouto’s music preferences, and, man, Izuku never took him to be a Disney kind of guy, so it came off as a surprise when they shared earphones one lazy Friday and the first track that came up was “Part of Your World.”
Izuku tries hard not to think about this one, but Shouto has muscles. This he found out the hard way when Shouto joined Izuku and Iida on their morning run one weekend. One moment Izuku was listening to Iida discuss the Copernican Revolution, and the next he was focusing on the way Shouto’s shirt clung to his body. The way sweat glistened on his toned arms. The way light caught on the ivory of his hair.
The way the glare of the sun softened ever so slightly when splayed across his cheeks.
The most recent discovery took place just yesterday, and it had Izuku thinking real deep.
It had drizzled that afternoon, the sky pewter-grey with clouds, and as a result the world shifted and became quieter, somehow. Gentler. Softer. All its loudness and sharp edges tempered by rain.
Life always seems more beautiful after rainfall or snowfall or a storm. Maybe it’s just Izuku, but there’s something about the earth’s renewed vitality, the way all is calm and hushed in those long moments afterwards, like a well-deserved exhale after a hard day.
And that, Izuku thinks, is the kind of beauty that Todoroki Shouto has.
Izuku’s not sure exactly sure how he noticed it. All he knows is that they were walking to class in relative silence, shoes crunching against wet pavement, when a breeze came by and pushed back the hood pulled low over Todoroki’s head.
And that was the moment when realization clicked into place, in the way a camera’s focus hones in on moving objects.
It was a sort of magic on its own, Shouto’s features painted in the silver-gold of dew illuminated by dawnlight, two-toned hair windswept, skin glowing like a newborn star.
Soon birdsong and colour broke out over the horizon, a sign that all would return to normal, but the spell … held.
Did not break.
Was firmly locked in place.
There was only room for two thoughts in Izuku's mind then, the first one being that Todoroki Shouto was lovely.
Very, very lovely.
The second one was that Izuku would be screwed if he wasn't careful.
So, so screwed.
Enji Todoroki is an intimidating guy. That much is obvious from face-value. Anyone can tell from a cursory Google image search or a one-minute press conference YouTube video. And there’s Shouto’s word, which is evidence enough in itself.
“I’ve already told you before, but my old man is kind of the world’s biggest asshole,” Shouto is saying to Izuku, straightening the lapels of his suit jacket. “And this—” he points his finger at Izuku then back to himself — “ticked him off big time, like you wouldn’t believe. When he found out, I thought he’d bust a vein or something, the way he glared at me.” If only he did is the unspoken sentence that follows.
The suit threatens to pinch off Izuku’s blood circulation at the shoulders. “Remind me again why this is a good idea,” Izuku says, jumping back to avoid a server bearing sparkling flutes of champagne.
The hall doors open, and the sounds of chatter and clinking glassware pour in. Then the doors shut again, leaving Izuku conflicted. It’s probably not too late to turn tail yet.
“Hey.” Shouto’s hands find his elbows. “Listen to me. You’ll be fine. Just keep your eyes on me.”
This night, as Shouto had mentioned before, is his father’s most important event of the year, and therefore the most perfect opportunity for a mini rebellion.
Once inside, Izuku can’t help but feel supremely out of place among the glass chandeliers, lilting music, and the sparkling swish of skirts. And it doesn’t take long for Izuku to discover just how honest Shouto is.
Enji Todoroki sure knows how to make a person feel like a wriggling worm. “Shouto,” he growls, thundering his way over to where they stand.
Shouto holds his gaze coldly. “Father.”
The staring contest does not last long; soon Enji’s serrated glare fixes upon Izuku like a pesky wart. “Midoriya Izuku. Toshinori’s boy, eh?” He spits out their names like they’re rotting fruit.
For some reason, Izuku does not shrink. Does not shy away. Instead he is emboldened, against all logic. He says, “That’s right.”
“I see.” A grimace twists Enji’s face, like he’s just remembered the cameras. The flashing lights. The scrutinizing glances. “Send him my, ah, best regards , will you?”
Izuku merely smiles. Then he takes Shouto by the hand. Says, “ Darling , do you want to have this dance?” in the sweetest voice he can muster.
It’s only when they’re on the dance floor that whatever Izuku said fully registers in Izuku’s mind. That Izuku looks Shouto right in the eye, under the watchful gaze of a thousand diamonds, a thousand people.
“I can’t believe I said that,” Izuku whispers, face burning from the memory. And the weight of Shouto’s hand on his hip. And the dazed glimmer in Shouto’s eyes. And the warmth of Shouto’s breath against his neck when Shouto leans down to whisper, “You’re amazing, Izuku,” in his ear.
Then, Izuku feels it: a gentle twist near his sternum.
Rule 3: don’t get any closer. Izuku thinks: they crossed that proverbial treeline a long time ago.
“By the way, “ Shouto says, “your tie isn’t straight.”
Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Izuku thinks about what it would be like to close the gap between their lips as Shouto’s fingers brush against his neck.
The others notice it long before Izuku even does himself.
By this time, Izuku’s friends have come to know Shouto well enough that they’re eager to include him in their outings and get-togethers. And it’s made Izuku complacent, to the point he’s forgotten that this charade has an expiration date.
One cold day, they’re all sprawled out on the couches, watching the last Harry Potter movie, when Izuku decides to take a good, good look at Shouto, who has fallen asleep beside him. It makes his heart skip a beat.
Beautiful. Shouto looks beautiful even in slumber.
It does not slip Uraraka’s notice, the way Izuku stares at Shouto for far too long. The way Izuku’s hand brushes away the strands of hair on Shouto’s forehead. The way Izuku’s entire expression shifts when he looks at Shouto specifically, the way his smile is let out at the edges and eyes glazed over with what can only be one exact thing.
“Deku-kun,” Uraraka says when Izuku shuffles inside the kitchen for some more hot chocolate.
“Mhm?” he murmurs a little absently, blowing on the cup she has poured for him.
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
The liquid burns all the way down. Izuku freezes. Stares down at his clenched fist. The silence that ensues tells Uraraka more than what words could ever convey.
Later on, Kirishima even comments on it. So do Jirou and Kaminari, both at the verge of teasing him mercilessly, until Tsuyu and Iida come to his rescue.
The fourth and most important rule, the rule to end all rules, is the one boundary that should never be crossed, if love advice columns and romance novels are anything to go by. And the scary thing is that Izuku flew right over it without even knowing it.
Shouto’s been in a happier mood lately, and Izuku hears the countdown everywhere. In the beat of his own heart. In the ticking of the clock. In the relieved sigh that Shouto releases now.
“The fucking asshole’s finally getting the hint,” Shouto tells him over an impromptu study session in the library.
The meaning of the words on Izuku’s textbook stubbornly refuses to register. Izuku says, breathily, “Oh. Um. That’s good news, I suppose.”
Shouto’s fingers close around his wrist. The textbook slumps down. “You look a little pale,” he observes.
Izuku murmurs, “I’m just cold.”
His stomach twists painfully when Shouto drapes his own jacket over Izuku’s shoulders.
It all goes down to shit the day of the first snowfall.
It’s one a.m, and they’re walking in the brighter part of the city, with its flashing lights, sparkling billboards, and early morning humdrum. Traffic is absent, almost no one in sight, and the air thick with that skin-numbing, pre-winter chill.
Izuku is not sure how they end up there, to be honest. On a weekday, no less. It’s just one of those things no one can explain, he supposes. Like when you lose a sock, hunt for it high and low, only to find that it was right in your hand all along.
“Don’t things seem stranger past midnight?” Izuku finds himself saying to Shouto as they meander down a street lined with towering Christmas trees strung with fairy lights and baubles. “Like, the world is the same, but you can’t help but feel that there’s something different about it. Something unsettling. Magical, almost.”
Shouto says, “I guess,” and that’s when white spindrifts pour down from the sky, slowly, gently.
Izuku raises a hand. Feels a flake dissolve on his palm. “See? Magic,” he says with a grin.
“Or, you know, the weather.”
“Oh, pfft, don’t rain on my parade.” Izuku lets out a laugh that echoes into the night sky above. Shouto looks at him. Laughs with him, too, and now they’re both laughing, their shared joy drifting up, up, and away on a powdery wind.
That should be the end of it, right?
Well, no; here is where Izuku fucks up. Big time.
To be fair, Shouto’s act had gotten so, so convincing that the line between pretence and reality began lifting. Became confusing. The shy glances, hand touches, and tender smiles … if Izuku were an outsider, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Shouto liked him back.
Was in love with him too, even.
One second they’re fooling around like dopey-eyed kids, and the next they find themselves standing under the garlands of mistletoe dangling close to the trees.
The symbolism is lost on neither of them.
Shouto’s head turns towards him. Gets closer. And closer. Wide-eyed, flustered, Izuku breathes out, “Oh.”
What happens next is that Izuku’s back presses up against a wall, hands clenched into Shouto’s coat, and before he knows it Shouto is kissing him, really kissing him.
And it’s everything Izuku has ever wanted or imagined, and then some.
It’s so easy to melt into the kiss that Izuku loses coherency, loses track of the time. This, Izuku thinks, is what flame would feel like at its hottest and most volatile. Shouto’s palms reach up to cup Izuku’s jaw, tilting up his head, and Izuku lets slip noises that may or may not be of the obscene persuasion.
But it doesn’t matter, because this isn’t going to last, the reminder makes itself known in the fog of desire.
“Wait,” he protests into Shouto’s mouth.
They break away, trading damp, hot breaths.
“Shouto, I can’t do this anymore,” Izuku whispers. “I should—I should go.”
Shouto stares, as though waiting for an explanation.
Izuku nearly weeps of frustration. He wrings his hands. Balls them into fists. “I’m in love with you.” There. Izuku said it. And then he flees, into the night, lips burning with the taste of Shouto’s mouth: strawberry, mint, and blue-white flame.
Iida and Uraraka are waiting for him when he returns to the apartment.
“Where were you?” Iida says, rubbing at a sleep-crusted eye. Then he squints, alarmed. “Hey, what happened? What’s wrong?”
Izuku crumples to the floor. Tucks his head between his knees. “We broke up.”
The ensuing noises of utter, utter confusion only make him feel the sting more acutely.
Avoiding Shouto is not easy. Though shutting down his phone does part of the trick, Izuku finds out. That way he won’t be tempted to text, call, or scroll through his camera roll.
Izuku ends up skipping class the next day, under the flimsy pretext that he has a cold. Lucky for him it’s a Friday. Meaning it’ll soon be the weekend, two additional days where he can sit back and go over everything he did or said. Which means he doesn’t have to deal with Shouto just yet.
Uraraka and Iida are careful not to pry. Instead they give him room to breathe so he doesn’t feel like suffocating under the weight of his own idiocy.
A day passes. And then another.
It’s only when Izuku is on his penultimate cup of katsudon-flavoured ramen noodles that he realizes that he has to face the music eventually.
But it’s hard, so very, very hard; everything has become a sad reminder that it was never going to last. He can’t even put on music, because somehow the only playlists that Spotify doesn’t buffer for contain mournfully relatable teenybopper heartbreak songs.
Even Netflix is in on the game, too, refusing to load superhero blockbusters in favour of tragic romance films.
Shit, there must be an esoteric hivemind out there hellbent on making his life as miserable as possible. It’s like when he was a kid and he got picked on by an older gang of kids who ensured that he never got his way, taunting him at every twist and turn.
Much as Izuku would like to believe they’ve been sentenced to a lifetime of looking after greasy grills and deep fryers, it's more likely they're out there partying on their little yachts and private planes, because life is unfair like that.
And so Izuku sits. Rallies up the courage to settle the matter once and for all.
And then there’s a knock on the door.
His heart does a cartwheel in his throat.
Every self-preservation instinct in his body screams at him not to answer it. Danger alert. Do not approach. You have been warned. But he does anyway, and then he feels like shriveling up all over again.
Shouto is standing at the doorway, cheeks flushed, hair mussed up. “Hey,” he says, still so unfairly beautiful.
Izuku says, “Hi.” At least, that’s what he thinks he says—or maybe he chokes it out, instead. Does it matter, though?
They stand in silence for about half an eternity when Shouto cuts right to the chase. Slam-dunks the ball straight into the net.
“That night when we kissed,” he says, eyes locked into Izuku’s. “What made you leave?”
He should know this better than anyone. “I already told you,” Izuku mumbles, hoping he doesn’t do something stupid, like burst out into tears. “Our relationship was built on a lie, Shouto. It had to end one way or another. You said it yourself; it would only last until your dad got off your back. But even if he never does, we can’t go on pretending forever. It’s not right.” Oh, God, Izuku is about to cry.
Izuku moves to turn away when Shouto grabs him by the wrist. “Who says that it has to be pretend?”
Izuku releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Wait. What—what are you saying, Shouto?”
Frustration bubbles in Shouto’s gaze. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Hope blooms forth in Izuku’s chest, weedlike in its growth. “What is?” he says, daring himself to dream.
To hope.
To want.
“I’m in love with you, too, goddamnit,” Shouto says, desperate, and, wow, Izuku realizes just how oblivious they’ve both been. “I thought I made my feelings clear.”
Izuku almost laughs. Almost cries. Instead he pushes himself up on his toes and steals the breath directly off of Shouto’s parted lips.
Their second kiss is better than anything Izuku’s ever dreamed of. Soon one kiss turns into two, then three, now four, and by the sixth press of Shouto’s mouth Izuku is completely sucked in. Completely dazed. The feeling that’s taken up residence in his heart, it’s the same feeling one gets during the pause before a firework shower. The moment when a comet streaks across the sky. The moment when the sun bleeds colour into the night. The moment when sweeping orchestral strings reach their most thrilling crest.
Dimly Izuku wonders how he’s going to explain the reunion to his friends as Shouto pushes him back on the couch, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column of his neck.
(“Hey, guys. I know we broke up two seconds ago, but we’re together again. For real, this time.”)
(Not that they were ever aware it was fake to begin with.)
One hand reaches up to curl at the base of Shouto’s neck. The other presses itself flat against his chest.
The explanation part, Izuku decides, can wait when Shouto lazily murmurs into his collarbone.
It can most certainly wait. For now, he has a boy to kiss breathless.