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afternoon.
Shouto doesn’t stare very often. Truly, he doesn’t. He knows from firsthand experience just how creepy it can be, so for his sake, and everyone else’s, he’s been actively minimizing his gazes. Avoiding them, if he can. Some of his classmates have said to him that they wouldn’t mind if someone even half as pretty as he is stared at them, whatever that means, but despite their assurances it still feels weird. Strange.
So, yes, Shouto doesn’t have a staring problem. But there are always exceptions to every rule, and for this the exception happens to be Midoriya Izuku.
It’s unclear as to when the Midoriya-watching all started. Probably after the Sports Festival. Surely not before that. But what Shouto knows is that one day he just started noticing Midoriya more and more. The shades of his hair whenever sunlight catches on the curls. The smudges of ink on his scarred fingers whenever he writes. That slightly crooked half-smile of his, and the dimples on his cheeks.
The warm, resonant quality of his laughter. The way it is effervescent and somehow hushed all at once. Like he is trying to restrain it when it comes pouring out but can’t, because of just how lively, how vibrant it is. Five people’s worth of vitality, compressed into a single, tinkling breath.
The crinkling of the corners of his eyes whenever he smiles. The slight, inward turn of his shoulders whenever he walks down the hallways, like he doesn’t want to stand out. Doesn’t want to be singled out. Like a reflex made deep-seated. The remnant of a past hurt.
Those pauses and stutters in between words. The tendency of his voice to trip whenever he gets carried away by a topic he is passionate about: his Pro Hero observations, All Might knowledge, training, his favourite movies.
The way he is always eager to please. To help.
The sound of Shouto’s name on his tongue: a soft, precious thing. Like a cherished word. The feel of his hand whenever it brushes past Shouto’s: a light, fleeting touch that seems to carry more weight than it should. The way he looks at Shouto, whether from across the hallway or standing right besides him, like he sees only Shouto and Shouto alone.
The way it’s maybe possible there’s something there, in his gaze, that matches the feeling in Shouto’s chest. A feeling that is unmistakably a giddy sort of warmth. Bubbling, rushing. The kind that snaps Shouto out of focus, that draws him towards Midoriya and his million-dollar smiles. That throws off-kilter Shouto’s centre of balance, that pulls Shouto towards him much like a magnet caving into the forces of attraction.
“Eyes on here, Todoroki-san,” Yaoyorozu’s voice brings him out of his thoughts.
Shouto quickly tears his gaze away. Away from Midoriya, who is half-immersed in afternoon light. His skin made warm and luminous by yellow-gold sunlight.
“Are we - are we on Chapter 4 now?” Shouto murmurs, reddening.
“Five,” she coughs, smiling knowingly, and Shouto spends the rest of the afternoon annoyed with himself, wondering if he’s just misinterpreting the signs.
Seeing things that aren’t there.
bedhead.
Shouto is not a morning person. Given the choice, he’d sleep in for as long as possible over suffering at the ass-crack of dawn, but there are times when duty calls, ruling out the former option.
And today just so happens to be one of those times. On a weekend, no less. God, how Shouto really hates it.
So here he is, in the kitchen with his other classmates. Uraraka and Sato are both serving pancakes. Jirou’s cranked up the volume of her music to keep everyone on their toes. Iida’s speaking in a very authoritative, no-nonsense voice about what needs to be done, and Kaminari is protesting every point five seconds.
Everything’s pretty much running according to routine. Bakugou is scowling at anyone who dares look him in the eye this early in the morning. Kirishima, all grins and boisterous words, is trying to raise morale.
Midoriya is now walking in with unruly hair that refuses to be tamed, clad in a jacket that is too large on him.
Oh. His hair.
“Hey,” Midoriya is saying to him in a sleep-soft voice, stifling a yawn with a palm. “You ready for today, Todoroki-kun? Because I’m not sure if I am.”
There’s a stray lock of hair on his forehead. Shouto wants to brush it away. With his hand, his thumb. This feeling is not new, but somehow it feels like it is. Changed, at its very core. Thrumming with disorienting novelty. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Shouto says, and Midoriya beams.
That smile, paired with his messy bedhead. It is almost too much for Shouto to handle; it makes him want to run his fingers through his hair. Trace the curve of his mouth. But before Shouto’s thoughts can progress Iida is telling them to get a move on, and to finish their food asap.
(Later on, Shouto won’t be able to focus on much else besides Midoriya’s hair. And smile.)
corny jokes
Midoriya has a huge repertoire of all things All Might—both mental and physical. This, everyone is well aware of. It is reflected in the theme of his room, the subjects of his rambling, the messy scrawls on his notebook. It’s even there, in the flickers of his movements when he fights - the careful bend of a wrist, the kick of a leg, moves taken from sheer observation and recalibrated to accommodate his capabilities and self-learned tactics.
In addition to that, he also has a pretty incredible database of random facts. Birthdays of historical figures, the names of at least ten different types of cheeses, the idea that ketchup was thought to have medicinal properties in the past. Midoriya is practically unbeatable at trivia games, and honestly it’s kind of nice, just listening to him talk about whatever.
It ignites in his eyes a spark that adds verve to his words. Buoyancy to his gestures. Midoriya has never minded the silence on Shouto’s part, because he knows Shouto is paying attention to his every word. Every inflection, every tone. Those, Shouto’s becoming increasingly attuned to, seeing that he’s with Midoriya most every day.
When Midoriya speaks, he has this way of drawing Shouto’s eye to him and keeping it there. On his face, on the lines of it. His features: the slight tilt of his chin, the jut of his bottom lip. The curve of his cheekbones, feathered by his eyelashes during his languid blinks.
Midoriya’s voice halts.
Then, there’s a nudge on Shouto’s leg. Shouto’s cheeks warm.
Those large, round eyes are fixed on him. The hue of them brightens, spring green now. “So, as I was saying, do you wanna hear a joke?” he asks, legs swinging where they’re dangling over the edge of the table. Shouto can’t forget about that, too, Midoriya’s terrible sense of humour.
“Sure,” Shouto breathes out.
Midoriya clears his throat. Says, “What did the finger say to the thumb?” A brief pause, and then: “I’m in glove with you! Get it?”
And then Shouto is rolling his eyes, chuckling softly, thinking about how he’d really like to marry this boy.
One day.
Someday.
dorky dumb smiles
The universe is home to many constants. Gravitational, atomic, permeability, Rydberg, Newtonian, Boltzmann, and many, many more. There are some things for which an undeviating amount would be far from ideal, like an infinite quantity of rain, but perfect, when it comes to things like falling in love.
Because that kind of freefall? It is not quantifiable. There exists no other implement besides the treacherous heart that can measure its velocity or the dizzying concoction of chemicals and hormones that work hand-in-hand to create an entity beyond biology.
Unlike a body with a parachute, a person tumbling headfirst into love will not experience terminal velocity. Acceleration will continue to stay its fluctuating course, much to the afflicted person’s dismay: up, down, over, sideways.
Worse still, these complicated mechanics are accompanied by no manual. They’re something you’ll have to figure out on your own. And Shouto is floundering in that regard. A blow to the ribcage, he can deal with. Navigating a collapsing building on an injury, sure.
But trying to get himself to breathe whenever Midoriya smiles at him?
Impossible.
Midoriya has many types of different smiles, and Shouto’s favourite one—the one Midoriya is giving him right now—is much like a sunrise, he thinks; both are slow to come, in the way you get a flower to blossom open, and really nice to look at.
There’s a shyness on Midoriya’s face. It pulls on Midoriya’s edges, softens them. Brings out the colour of his cheeks, that rosy pink glow. Makes electric his touches, charges them with energy.
Shouto is sure that if their fingers touch, his veins will be filled with lightning.
(White-hot flashes of it, every zap like a dance. Particles, charging. Particles, colliding.
Electrons to protons. Pushing, pulling. Building up.)
“Do you believe in soulmates, Todoroki-kun?” Midoriya asks him out of the blue, breaking the silence between them.
They’re standing on a balcony, leaning over the rails. They watch the sky unfold like ink seeping into water, black chasing away blue. There are stars blossoming up above, clusters of them burning white. Half of Midoriya’s face gleams moon-gold.
“The idea of preordained attraction?” Shouto tilts his head. “No, not really. Because I like to believe in choice.”
Midoriya leans forward. “But what if they’re like perfect for you? Compatible in every way? I mean, isn’t this what the concept’s supposed to be all about?”
Shouto thinks of main sequence stars. Stars, in a state of hydrostatic equilibrium. All their fusion reactors pushing outwards, with gravity pulling inwards. Then, he thinks of the unspoken thing between them that’s balancing precariously on an either/or. Being pushed to one side, then being pulled back again.
“Well, what if they’re not?” Shouto says.
“Then they’re not.” Midoriya shrugs. His smile twitches, almost coyly. “Since you like choosing so much, who would you pick?”
(There’s stardust in Shouto’s blood. Hydrogen fusing with helium. Igniting.)
“Take a guess,” Shouto says. “It’s someone you know very well. You see them everyday.”
Midoriya flushes again, prettily. “Do I, now,” he says. His smile loosens, softens.
(Molecules into atoms. Nuclear fusions. Protostars, and cores.)
Shouto coughs. Feels a familiar heat rise. “What about you? Have someone in mind?”
Midoriya brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. The curve of his mouth remains, and Shouto is screwed. “You know them, too. Whoever you’re thinking of right now, that’s the person.” And his eyes hold the answer. Literally.
(Gravitational collapse. Birth. Atoms, packed. Burning bright .)
“Mineta?” Shouto teases, and Midoriya lightly pushes at his shoulder, huffing out, “That’s not funny.”
That dorky dumb smile of his grows into a grin.
eyes
Shouto’s always taken pride in his calculations, his judgements. He’s relied on them since he was a kid getting pummelled into shape by his asshole father, and they’ve rarely failed him in all his years of knowing them. More than that, he has faith in his intuition, which he hopes will not do him wrong for the risk that he is about to undertake, however low it may be.
Midoriya is sitting besides Shouto, at Shouto’s desk, their knees and elbows aligned. They’re both sharing a single pair of earphones, listening to some bubblegum pop song about a road-trip and a beach. There’s no one else in the classroom, just the two of them; the others won’t be coming until much, much later.
Midoriya’s eyes are half-closed, and he is idly flipping through his book. He looks highly relaxed. At ease.
“Midoriya,” Shouto says.
Midoriya’s eyes blink open. They slide towards Shouto’s own questioningly, lovelier than anything Shouto has ever, ever seen. “Yes?” he says, and Shouto tries not to think too much about the space between their faces.
The way Midoriya’s lips are slightly parted.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Shouto continues, the heady rush in his system mounting, rising. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we said to each other the other night. When we were talking about who we liked and all that.” He props his chin on a palm. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think it’s safe to assume that our feelings are mutual on that matter.”
A faint blush stains Midoriya’s cheeks.
Shouto continues, “Look, I—um—really like you, Midoriya. A lot. Not in the friendship kind of way but something more. Beyond that.”
Midoriya is still not speaking. Like he is waiting for Shouto to go on.
So he does, and Shouto is reminded of how very bad he is at expressing his own feelings: “I’ve wanted to hold your hand for the longest time now. Buy you a flower. Things like that. I think—I think I’d like to make you happy in that way. If you let me.”
A pause. And then Midoriya’s hand is reaching up. To trace the curve of Shouto’s jawline, all the way to his cheekbone. “You know, Shouto ,” he says, and Shouto’s heart skips at this, Midoriya saying his first name—yes, his first name—the sound glorious, and natural, and five categories of perfect, “the way you look at me …” He trails off, blushing deepening. “I look at you like that, too.”
(Helium to carbon, then expansion.
Shouto’s veins, heart, blood, all set alight.)
The song they’re listening to reaches its chorus. The warmth in Shouto’s chest expands when Midoriya presses his lips to the corner of his mouth.
Shyly.
“I’ve always wanted to kiss you,” Midoriya breathes out.
“Then kiss me again,” Shouto says.
And so Midoriya does.
flowers.
Shouto ends up buying Midoriya a lot more than flowers. And Midoriya ends up kissing Shouto on other places other than cheeks. His forehead, his hands, his mouth.
So the stardust in Shouto’s chest?
It expands into a supernova.
Brighter than a galaxy.
Brighter than the moon in their eyes, here, under the city lights.