Work Text:
Shouto can’t sleep.
There’s not even a real reason for it this time; it’s not nightmares or anxiety, he’s just… restless. His brain is too aware.
It’s barely midnight. He’s been awake later than this, he could roll over and keep trying, but experience has taught him that nights like these usually end with his brain generating countless irrational thoughts and suggestions. That’s not something he wants to deal with right now. He wriggles his way out of the covers - normally a monumental task, but he hadn’t even been able to get comfortable this time - and calls a fire to his hand so that he can find his slippers.
When he first takes to the halls he has no goal except for walking, but he’s halfway there when he realizes he’s on his way to Midoriya’s dorm.
By the time he reaches the first floor hallway, Shouto picks up on a sound - faint at first, but it becomes clear as he approaches the door that it’s not in his imagination. A rapid, repetitive creaking sound, the source hidden by the walls and further obscured by the beat of some unfamiliar music. Shouto hasn’t heard anything like it before. It has to be coming from Midoriya’s room.
“It’s me, Midoriya,” he says, knocking once. “Er. It’s Todoroki.”
Through the door, he hears a vague exclamation. He can’t make out the words - it sounds obstructed, like Midoriya is shouting through something between his teeth, and the thought sends a chill down his spine. Quickly, he brushes off his own paranoia, but something coils behind his ribs, keeps him ready to spring into action just in case.
“Midoriya,” he says again, voice measured. “Is everything alright?”
A muffled grunt of frustration is his only response for a moment, followed by hurried shuffling. Shouto tilts his head and waits. The noise subsides briefly, the music pauses mid-word, and Midoriya coughs.
“It’s open,” he says from inside the room still, and immediately the creaking sound resumes. Shouto takes his blunt response as an invitation and lets himself in.
Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.
He’s been in Midoriya’s room before. He’s familiar with the vast assortment of All Might-themed decor and loose clutter. When he and the others come here to study, he’s used to natural lighting and the smell of fresh laundry, ink, maybe some of Satou’s goodies if they’re lucky.
Tonight, the dorm smells of chemicals and warmth. Midoriya has several bright lamps Shouto has never seen before - requested from Momo, perhaps? - and a small table pulled into the center of his room. Fabric, pencils, rulers, and tools are strewn across the floor and every surface except for the rumpled bed. The table in particular is barely visible under all of the materials and the machine Midoriya has before him. Shouto stands slack-jawed in the doorway for what feels like a solid minute to absorb it all.
It’s then that Midoriya jerks his head towards the bed, and Shouto breaks from his analysis at the signal. He tiptoes through piles of material and tools on the floor until he’s close enough to hop onto the bed and sit, legs criss-crossed.
Midoriya, in a t-shirt several sizes too large and a pair of leggings Shouto has never seen before, is sewing. He’s kneeling on a stool, bent over the table with a look of determination that rivals what Shouto has observed in any of their training - maybe even real combat. Midoriya has a large permanent marker clamped between his teeth, a pencil tucked behind his ear, and an industrial-sized glue gun in one hand, which he shoves wordlessly into Shouto’s chest the second he takes a seat on the bed.
Shouto blinks, and in that time Midoriya has already returned to his work. He settles and lifts his knee to rest his chin, half-hiding behind it as he stares on, wide-eyed.
Having nothing better to do, and not wanting to break his friend’s intense focus, he watches Midoriya work. His fingers, pale and scarred, maneuver around the fabric with expert dexterity that shouldn't be possible, taking into consideration how many times they've been thoroughly shattered in the past few months alone. Shouto finds them all the more fascinating for it.
Seeing the creation from this angle, despite being clumped and tugged around, Shouto recognizes the colors, the pattern, as one he sees nearly every day. This is clearly an All Might costume.
The needle jams, and Midoriya releases a low growl almost reminiscent of Bakugou, but he makes such quick work of exchanging it that Shouto can hardly track his movements. Before he knows it, he’s leaning over the fabric again, guiding it firmly under the machine.
When he pauses occasionally, tracing lines with his pencil and scowling, erasing, going over in marker when he’s satisfied, Shouto finds his eyes wandering. His gaze drifts to the line of Midoriya’s scrunched brow, or his puffed-out cheek where his tongue pokes around while he runs the numbers in his mind.
Finally, Midoriya stands and brushes off his hands. He pops the marker out of his mouth and tosses it onto a pile of grey fabric off to the side.
“Sorry about that, Todoroki,” Midoriya groans, tilting his head up and scrunching his shoulders behind him to pop his back. Shouto cringes - it’s loud, and sounds more like someone violently crunching a plastic wrapper than he thinks is probably healthy, but Midoriya has always had a complicated relationship with his own bones, so he shrugs it off.
Midoriya takes the glue gun from him and hastily clears a space for it on the table. “I’ve been working on this for ages, but it’s not quite done, and I need to get it finished up for tomorrow’s convention. I’m at a stopping point for now, though, if- if you wanted to talk.”
Shouto considers the reason he came here - he could bring it up now, but nothing seems as pressing as it had less than half an hour ago. Being in this space, existing comfortably alongside his close friend, had left him feeling content. Midoriya tends to have that effect on him - it’s why he came here.
“Convention?” he asks instead of bringing up his insomnia, one eyebrow raised.
“Um… Hero Con. I have tickets for tomorrow.” When that doesn’t resolve Shouto’s curiosity, Midoriya sighs a nervous laugh. “It’s just an event for hero fans, nothing too special.” But Shouto can see the thinly veiled passion in his eyes, can tell he’s holding back.
“I want to hear more about it.”
“You’ve- have you never been to one?”
Shouto steels his jaw and shakes his head. “Endeavor didn’t really encourage those sorts of activities when I was growing up.”
Midoriya frowns, though only briefly; Shouto can pinpoint the exact moment that inspiration strikes Midoriya like flint striking steel. His face lights up with a grin somewhere between heroic and devilish, and he jumps out of his stool to grab Shouto by the shoulders.
“You should come with me! I have an extra ticket, and I had planned to ask you anyway, but now you have to! Please, it’ll be a really good time, and I know my way around so you don’t have to worry about anything. I can even make you a cosplay!”
Shouto’s confused face returns, and before he can ask, Midoriya is already explaining.
“It just means you dress up!” he beams, and grabs for his phone. After a few seconds of tapping, he’s holding it up in front of Shouto and swiping through a whole photo album made up of his various cosplays over the years.
“This one is probably my favorite so far,” he says in reference to a more recent Present Mic cosplay, “but I’ve had a lot of fun with all of them! I’m hoping this year’s will be my new best, though.”
“I’m sure it will be,” he mumbles, taking hold of the phone and swiping through more photos. Among them are a young Midoriya in a Cementoss costume made up mostly of spray-painted cardboard, an even younger Midoriya in an All Might onesie, and a Kamui Woods cosplay that looks to be from his middle school years. In each picture, regardless of costume, Midoriya wears the same radiant smile that Shouto has come to know well. He tries, poorly, to fight back a fond grin.
“Sounds fun,” he admits, and hands back the phone. “If you have one I can use, I would be open to it.”
The second he accepts, Midoriya’s eyes ignite with inspiration and determination the same way they do in battle, and Shouto gets the feeling that he’s made a very good mistake.
“Do you have a preference? Not Endeavor, obviously - nobody cosplays him much at all anyway, it’s kinda funny - but I have some old cosplays already that we could use! I mean, I’d have to alter them obviously because you’re taller than me and you have a lot more muscle than I did when I wore any of them, but it shouldn’t be too much trouble...”
Shouto puts a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Midoriya.”
“My Mt. Lady costume from last year is stretchy enough that it could work already with minimal alterations, if you’re not opposed to going as a female hero. People do it all the time! But you haven’t had the best luck with wigs, historically, so maybe a different-”
“Midoriya,” Shouto interrupts again, and this time he can’t help his smile, or catch the airy laughter before it escapes his chest. Midoriya snaps to attention at that, eyes wide.
“Oh, um. Sor- I’m sorry about that. I know I tend to ramble.”
“Midoriya.” He smiles the name more than says it, and watches Midoriya’s gaze shift from anxious determination to starry with some feeling he can’t place - surprise, perhaps awe? No, he’s seen both in Midoriya before, and neither are quite like this. This look is something unfamiliar, directed at him, and it leaves him glowing inside.
Shouto can only hope his persistent grin doesn’t betray the sudden rush of fondness he feels - and that’s a strange thing for him, too, to feel so blatantly that he can’t help his own expression, but being around Midoriya often entails many strange things, and it’s not wholly unpleasant in this case.
He bites back the glow rising from his stomach to some degree of success and leans in, the hand that isn’t already occupied settling over his knee, and their fingertips brush before Midoriya flushes and jerks his arm away. Midoriya meets his gaze like he has no other choice, eyes wide and sparkling and so, so green. It’s enough that Shouto almost forgets what he had to say, and he wants nothing more than to close the distance between them.
But he doesn’t.
His face mere centimeters away from Midoriya’s, he murmurs, “Surprise me.”
And the moment ends as quickly as it started. Shouto rolls onto his side on Midoriya’s bed, curling in on himself, feigning exhaustion as an excuse to pull himself together and break all contact. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about what he just did, or the look on his close friend’s face, or the fuzzy sensation that slowly but surely takes over his face and arms and he has to fight the urge to let his quirk take over and light himself on fire.
“Oh- o-okay,” Midoriya says, barely louder than a whisper, but Shouto still hears it.
He hears Midoriya struggle to turn the chair back towards his sewing machine with shaking hands, hears him fumble with his phone to start up the music again and quickly set it to a lower volume before situating the fabric and starting up the sewing machine again.
Somewhere between the gentle whir of the machine, Midoriya’s small noises of focus, and the distant, soft pop music, Shouto loses himself in a warmth that is unfamiliar but very much welcome.
Shouto wakes slowly.
He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, instead curling his toes and taking a deep breath in. He nuzzles into his pillow and listens to the quiet music and even quieter humming somewhere behind him. Machinery clacks in a rhythm of its own, but it doesn’t bother him. He heats up the cushion beneath him with his quirk and lets himself drift. He mumbles something against his arm in his content, sleep-heavy state, and the sewing machine’s consistent whir comes to a stop.
When he pushes himself upright, Midoriya is already staring at him.
“Morning,” he yawns, fingers tangling through his green curls. He turns in his stool to face Shouto with a tired smile.
Shouto eyes him over suspiciously. Midoriya’s wild curls are, of course, unkempt, but no more than usual - not enough to suggest sleep. His eyes are as big and expressive as always, but the skin beneath them is dark, heavy.
“You haven’t slept.” Shouto pins him with an accusing glare, and Midoriya startles.
“I did- I mean, maybe a little? Okay, I didn’t but I had to finish-” Midoriya continues his rambling, but Shouto stops listening and lifts the covers away from himself.
“I apologize,” he says, standing. As much as he hates to drag himself away from sleep, he shouldn’t have intruded. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here, and I invaded your space. I’ll leave.” Shouto stretches, popping his back, and steps toward the door. He opens it slightly, then looks over his shoulder. “You should rest,” he adds, then makes to leave.
The next second passes in a blur and ends with Midoriya between him and the door, green energy fizzling out around his legs. Shouto takes a startled step back.
“No!” he wheezes. Midoriya leans his head against the doorframe and squeezes at his temples, looking suddenly worse for wear. “I mean, I’ll rest, I should rest. But,” he cuts off, cheeks flushing just a little, “you should stay. I- it’s not your fault I didn’t sleep, really. I wouldn’t have anyway, probably, at least not until I finished my costume. Besides, you should… you should try yours on so I have time to adjust it if you need.”
Shouto blinks at him. “Already?”
“I know! I know, I did a rush job, especially since I had to start from scratch-”
“You made it from scratch.”
“But I had all the material for it and it was pretty simple! You’ll be wearing a wig, which I wanted to avoid, but honestly with hair as distinct as yours it was going to happen anyway. I had to repurpose an old one and trim it a bit to reshape it, but I think it should work.”
“Midoriya.” He jumps at the sound of his name, and Shouto has to make a conscious effort not to laugh. He puts his hands on Midoriya’s shoulders. “I will try on this costume. But you have to sleep.”
Midoriya nods, takes a single step, then slumps against Shouto’s chest.
“Sorry- oh god, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have used my quirk, even though it was only a little. Still too much on no sleep, I guess.”
“You’re fine, Midoriya.” Shouto slings an arm around him, half-guiding him to the bed, where he flops over in relief. Once he situates himself beneath the covers, Shouto sits down and reclines next to him.
“You can go, Todoroki, you don’t have to-”
“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep,” he says, and begins to slowly warm up the mattress. It takes a good amount of focus still to use his left side like this without actually summoning flames, but it’s worth it to watch Midoriya wiggle under the covers, clinging to his pillow and making small, contented noises.
He waits until he’s sure Midoriya is asleep before grabbing the costume and sneaking into the hall.
Shouto can’t say it’s not what he expected, because he honestly doesn’t know what he did expect.
Rotating and shifting his stance, he examines himself in the bathroom mirror. The costume fits him surprisingly well, although it’s fairly loose by design, and more comfortable than he had thought it would be. He’s never been one to wear quite this much black, or this much loose clothing, but his style isn’t the point. All things considered, it’s an impressive recreation of the real thing.
He pulls on the wig to the best of his ability. Even though he still needs Midoriya’s help with makeup for his scar, and for the fake scar he has to put on, he can already tell it’s going to be convincing. Maybe too convincing for comfort, even. He finishes with the last garment - a long, thin scarf that looks like it must have taken hours but that Midoriya probably made quick work of - and heads back to the dorm.
Opening the door as quietly as he can manage, Shouto enters the room only to find that Midoriya is already awake. He sighs and closes it behind him, and Midoriya looks up, bleary eyes widening with excitement.
“You look just like him! If Aizawa-sensei could see you now, he’d- oh…” Midoriya’s face falls. “He would probably expel you, actually.”
“Let’s not find out, then.” Shouto allows himself a small, dry laugh at that, long enough to look away from Midoriya and cover his growing blush behind an arm. “Have you slept enough?”
“You were gone for…” Midoriya grabs his phone and checks the time. “At least half an hour. I can manage on that. Besides, it’s 7:00. We should start walking soon if we want to avoid longer lines for the good stuff, and I still have to help you with makeup.”
Shouto rolls his eyes, but it’s clear there’s no talking him back into bed for now. Besides, the earlier they go, the sooner he’ll tire himself out. Shouto has a feeling Midoriya will sleep more easily with an empty wallet and a backpack full of hero merch.
“My makeup bag is on the table, under that grey- yeah.” Shouto grabs the bag and sits in front of Midoriya on the bed. “You don’t need much, just some foundation to cover your scar if you want to - you totally don’t have to, we can leave it be - and I can use some of this to recreate his scar. I’ll give you fake dark circles too, I’m pretty good at those. Oh, and-” he cuts himself off, grabbing Shouto’s face with no warning and angling it up.
He twists open a tube of mascara and runs the wand gently over what little hair there is on his chin and along his jawline. Shouto squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus on anything but Midoriya’s hand on his jaw, or the thumb idly tracing over the side of his neck while he works.
When Midoriya finishes, his hand hesitates at the base of Shouto’s neck. The sensation sends shivers racing through him - he feels like he should pull away, or pull Midoriya to him, but he stays frozen.
With a quiet inhale, Midoriya comes back to himself, returning his focus to the makeup bag. He reaches for a foundation stick, and Shouto panics and grabs his hand. They both look up, a question in Midoriya’s eyes that he can barely summon his voice to answer.
“I don’t want to cover my scar.”
“Okay.”
Midoriya uncaps a lipliner pen with his teeth and starts tracing the outline of Aizawa’s scar on his cheek. He doesn’t ask questions; he never does, when it counts.
At 7:27 in the morning, Izuku scrambles into his All Might costume in the corner of his dorm while a furious blush spreads from his face to his shoulders. He trusts that Todoroki won’t peek - why would he? - but his cheeks burn all the same.
He imagines Todoroki sitting on his bed, facing the opposite wall and fidgeting with his thumbs, lost in his own internal monologue. So much goes on behind that reserved front, and Izuku wants in. His incessant chattering and mumbling feels like a constant distraction from his friend's mind, even knowing that Todoroki would never seek him out if that were the case. There must be some appeal to his presence, though he can't imagine what. Maybe Todoroki needs an interruption of his thoughts, sometimes.
Izuku wonders how often he crosses Todoroki's mind, if ever.
All of a sudden, the pulsing warmth resting across his face spikes unbearably and leaves him dizzy, his whole body at a gentle simmer. He changes faster than he ever has in his life.
They tiptoe down the stairs a few minutes later, quiet so as to let their friends rest in the early morning hours. The common area is empty except for two people. Bakugou and Kirishima sit together on one couch, shoulder to shoulder, each with an old DS in hand, mashing buttons intensely.
The fact that they’re in the common room rather than one of their dorms tells Shouto that the pair never left, and the fact that Bakugou doesn’t have the energy for yelling or exploding anything tells him that they’ve been up all night. Neither seems to notice as they walk past, or at least they don’t care, so Shouto risks a glance over Kirishima’s shoulder at the game.
Mario Kart. He should have guessed.
They make it to the kitchen before Shouto remembers that he doesn’t have any of his belongings. He grabs Midoriya’s shoulder, and Midoriya stops immediately, turning to face him.
“You should grab yourself some breakfast. I have to get things from my room.”
Midoriya nods, but as Shouto turns around, he grabs his hand and whisper-shouts, “Wait!”
Shouto looks over his shoulder expectantly, and smiles when Midoriya flushes.
“Should I get you anything?”
“...Toast and green tea,” he says, then pulls away for the stairs.
He runs up the stairs, footfalls landing as quietly as possible. It’s not a skill he’s proud of having mastered, but it served him well in the years he lived with Endeavor. At least now he uses it out of respect for his friends rather than trying not to provoke his beast of a father; it’s more bearable, here.
He doesn’t need much from his room. He grabs his phone, wallet, a water bottle, and his good hoodie, and shoves them into a backpack, then after a moment’s consideration, empties them out and find a slightly smaller yellow backpack to put them in. Shouto isn’t sure how iconic Aizawa’s yellow sleeping bag is outside of 1-A, but he likes the idea of it anyway.
When he heads back downstairs this time, he forms a little shelf of ice along the bannister to surf down on, and makes a beeline for the kitchen.
Shouto expects to see Midoriya there with food when he returns, but the only person he finds is the last one he expects: Aizawa, rummaging through the cabinet that has, through unspoken agreement, been set aside for Satou’s baked goods. The teacher turns around, a muffin in each hand and a coffee tucked securely in his elbow, to face Shouto, who is dressed exactly like him.
Aizawa’s face jumps before he quickly regains composure, and they both stare blankly at each other. Shouto makes a game of matching his expression exactly. Aside from the height difference and the scar, he considers himself a convincing double. Shouto makes a mental note to compliment Midoriya’s skill later.
After what feels like ages, Aizawa blinks at him slowly, and Shouto feels a bit like he’s been threatened.
“He went outside,” Aizawa says.
Shouto nods and runs for the door. The fact that Aizawa didn’t decide to suspend or expel him on the spot means he’s probably fine, but Shouto doesn’t want to spend any more time with him than he has to, at least when dressed up as him.
Midoriya is leaning on the wall just outside the door when Shouto bursts outside, a thermos in one hand and a few slices of bread in the other.
“We should head out,” he blurts, at the same time as Midoriya says, “Let’s go.”
They set off down the sidewalk. Midoriya hands him the thermos and toast, and Shouto has to stop himself from scarfing it down instantly. He takes a small bite from the corner instead.
“It- it’s plain butter, I wasn’t sure-”
“It’s good.”
Midoriya gives him a helpless look, thoroughly unconvinced, so Shouto permits the corner of his lips to curl up for a moment in a small smile.
“So what’s the plan?” The question lights up Midoriya’s whole face, all according to Shouto’s plan. He pulls out a folded piece of paper with the whole schedule scrawled out in familiar, scratchy handwriting.
“The first panel I want to see starts at 10:30, so that should give us time to scope out the merch stands and things like that before the place gets too hectic. Then we can get lunch before the next one, and- oh, if you see anything that interests you, let me know and I’ll work it in somehow! Now, there are- huh?”
Midoriya trails off when Shouto interlaces their fingers, pumping warmth through his left arm that he can’t help but cling to in the cool morning air. Leaning his head on Shouto’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he lists off all the vendors he wants to look for, the ones he thinks Shouto would like, the heroes that usually show, and a million other things that matter just as much.
Todoroki doesn’t look anywhere near as overwhelmed by the convention as Izuku was worried he might be. Maybe because it’s still early and the entry line, as he had assured him, could have been much longer, but when Todoroki looks all around, unblinking as though he needs to soak in every detail, it seems to be more out of fascination than anything else. Izuku is glad for that, at least; Todoroki's mind is a hailstorm behind the icy front he presents constantly, and he would hate to cause his friend any additional stress.
“Do you need to use the restroom?” He asks without fully thinking it through, and rushes to clarify the instant he thinks better of it. “I- I only ask because we should, uh, resolve that before it starts to get hectic in here- because, trust me, it will.”
Todoroki stares at him blankly, if a bit wide-eyed, and shakes his head.
“Okay,” Izuku hisses more to himself than as a response. “Maybe we should… we already ate, so we should check out the vendors. I don’t want to spend too much money right off the bat, but if we can hit the more promising stands before they get swarmed I want to buy the things that are more likely to sell out before it’s too late. I don’t have a map or a layout of the convention floor, but I know where they usually put the good stuff…”
“Lead the way, then.” This time when Todoroki grabs his hand, leans into his space like he’s a lifeline, Izuku carries on with heroic determination despite the fireworks in his chest. He marches into the crowd like it’s a battlefield, and Todoroki is the most valuable ally he’s ever known.
The 10:30 panel on effective incorporation of support devices into costume design leaves Midoriya bubbling over with ideas. They sit together on the first empty bench they find, and Shouto curls around the merch bag in his lap while Midoriya scribbles frantic notes in his journal for ten minutes.
He stirs when he realizes he no longer hears the scratching of pencil against paper. When he sits up, Midoriya is already shoving the notebook into his backpack.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” He crams his pencil into the side pocket of his bag. “I know what I’m looking for, but if you see somewhere you want to check out, let me know.”
Shouto nods and interlaces their fingers wordlessly. Together they weave their way back into the crowd as skillfully as Midoriya’s needle through fabric.
He follows closely behind, watching over his head for anything that might interest him. None of the attractions catch his eye long enough to be worth interrupting his friend’s hunt, but every so often they stop to take pictures with other fans in costume.
One group in particular hits it off with Midoriya: a quartet of friends who introduce themselves as Shiketsu students, cosplaying as the Wild Wild Pussycats. Midoriya rattles off compliments about the authenticity of their costumes, and he exchanges social media with each member while Shouto bites his lip to keep from smiling.
This place brings out a side of Midoriya he had never seen - browsing the assortment of hero-themed goods surrounded by dozens of other hero fans who are just as ecstatic as him, he positively glows.
Shouto walks straight into Midoriya’s back when he startles to a halt, but Midoriya doesn’t seem to notice.
“Oh,” Midoriya breathes, barely audible amongst the crowd. Without looking, Shouto already knows the exact expression his companion now wears: the same one from the night before, stars in his eyes shimmering with emotion. “Oh, no way.”
Midoriya breaks into a sprint, crackling green with energy and sputtering apologies and pardons; Shouto clings to his arm for dear life while his legs work overtime to keep up.
The kiosk they end up in front of isn’t far from where they had been, but it’s so small and crowded in that Shouto can hardly believe Midoriya spotted it in the first place, especially across the packed convention floor with all of its sights and sounds. He almost feels sorry for it. It’s in an odd corner, closer to the exits and the bathrooms than anything else, and with its small table still completely covered with merchandise, it doesn’t seem like many convention-goers have stopped here at all. It’s staffed by a single young woman, curled in on herself in a foldable lawn chair, who gives them a vague smile and returns her attention to the tablet in her lap.
It’s the least impressive stand they’ve seen so far, but Midoriya stares at it with so much awe that if Shouto didn’t know better, he’d have thought it was run by All Might himself. He finally bothers to check the sign, and suddenly he understands why.
It reads ‘U.A. High Hero Class 1-A Fan Merch’ in large red letters, clear as day, but he has to scan it at least four times before he’s sure he isn’t tricking himself.
“Todoroki.” Midoriya’s voice is soft still, but his grip is not as he tugs Shouto forward. “Pinch me.”
Shouto gives Midoriya’s upper arm a quick pinch and nudges him into the stand, where he trips over himself to avoid crushing a small display. The young woman in the chair slams her book shut with a start. Midoriya, tangling fingers through his hair, launches into a fumbled greeting.
“We’re- hi! I’m Midoriya! Midoriya Izuku, Class 1-A!”
Todoroki half-listens to the girl gushing over- no, gushing with Midoriya over their class, and her explanation of the stand, and which items were her own creations or those of her friends. He picks up one bookmark and examines it; it’s solid yellow except for one circle near the top, from which a lovingly illustrated mop of black hair protrudes, framing the chibi-style sleeping face of their homeroom teacher.
The strip of cardboard at the head of the display proclaims “BOOKMARKS 500 YEN” in bold, black letters, so he picks up nineteen more - each themed around a different classmate, and one for himself - to pass out when they return. He's tempted to smile at the thought.
When he looks up, Midoriya is right in front of him, holding up two crochet plushies - one of himself and one of Shouto, both in their hero costumes. His plush has a blank stare on its crocheted face, while the Deku plush wears a sweet smile.
Midoriya peeks out from over the dolls’ heads, his nose poking out where their plush shoulders meet. Although his face is barely visible, he must be beaming.
“I think we need them. Like, I can’t speak for you personally but somebody made these with their own hands and I think I might die if I don’t bring one of them home with me.”
“I’ll pay,” Shouto says with no hesitation. He takes the dolls from Midoriya and holds them against his chest with his arm.
“Todo-”
“Don’t start.” He puts a hand over Midoriya’s mouth. “It’s Endeavor’s money anyway. Pick out whatever else you want.”
Shouto’s chest tightens at the way Midoriya’s eyes light up - he’s not sure what he wouldn’t do to see, to cause that smile.
He’s content to lean against a wall and watch as Midoriya ogles every individual item in the stall like each is the best thing he’s seen in his whole life.
When the girl rings him up, Shouto has to hide his wince - it’s a lot of money, even for him. Except that he doesn’t care as much as he might any other day. He wants to support these people who were inspired to create because of him and his friends, wants to fan the flames of Midoriya’s passion for heroics. So what if it costs Endeavor’s money to do that? It’s for a good cause, he tells himself, and swipes his card.
By the time they leave the convention, the only place that’s open is the convenience store. It’s closer to U.A. than the convention center. Nauseous with hunger and exhaustion, Izuku leans heavily on Todoroki the entire walk there.
The absence of unease in the pit of his stomach comes as a pleasant surprise. He can hardly remember the last time he felt so carefree in front of someone his own age. Izuku is used to ingrained fear of humiliation or pain spoiling comfort like this; years of torment had taught him to live with one foot out the door, because the other shoe could drop at any moment - but he couldn't be afraid of Todoroki if he tried. For all his ferocity in combat, Todoroki is one of the most mindful people he knows. ‘Gentle’ feels like the wrong word, but it’s the best that comes to mind, and his soft weight against Izuku’s side reinforces its truth.
They take turns changing in the single-stall bathroom while the other raids the shelves for anything appealing and affordable. When Todoroki emerges in a worn-out hoodie and joggers, Izuku wets the end of his thumb between his lips and smudges out the fake scar without thinking.
The wad of cash left in his pocket after the convention is barely enough to pay for the mountain of gas station snacks. Todoroki scoops them into his arms while Izuku counts coins hastily even though there’s nobody else in line, or even in the store. They hurry out into the night air and search the parking lot for somewhere to sit.
“I told you we should have eaten at the con before heading out,” says Todoroki, nudging Izuku’s shoulder as they plop down on the curb side by side.
“It was too expensive! You already spent so much money.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well,” Izuku blushes, “I do.”
Todoroki shrugs and bites into a curry bun. “I don’t mind this, though.”
“Me neither.”
Todoroki attacks what’s left of his food, and Izuku takes the cue to do the same. He's been here before, eaten all sorts of greasy, fried midnight snacks, but somehow it's more pleasant this time. The hum of the light is tangible in the air, peaceful yet electric, and the night itself feels more alive.
Izuku breaks the silence by popping the plunger of his soda (with a little help from One For All that he hopes Todoroki didn’t notice).
“So,” he looks up, more nervous than expectant. “What did you think?”
“I think… I had fun. And I think we should do this more often.” He snags Izuku’s drink and takes a slow sip, tinting his lips blue. With the store window illuminating him from behind, Todoroki looks unearthly.
Izuku swallows hard.
“Oh, well- they only have hero conventions so often, but we could-”
“We should go out more often, I mean.”
Izuku chokes on nothing, and Todoroki raises an eyebrow at him. He watches Todoroki make a conscious effort to keep his composure and lose the battle by a hair, laughing himself breathless. His face flushes bright red and he wants to blame his lack of sleep but Izuku can’t bring himself to speak yet and interrupt the heavenly sound. Backlit with a halo of gas station neon, Izuku thinks for a second he’s been graced with the presence of an angel.
Like a tide, sudden and irresistible, Todoroki pulls him in; his smiling eyes as he catches his breath are magnetic and Izuku already has a hand on his face before he knows what he’s doing. A flash flood of panic wells up in his stomach, but it dissolves in the exact instant that their lips collide.
Todoroki tastes like curry and blueberry soda. It’s an odd combination, but he doesn’t mind - not when a hand finds his waist and cold fingers ghost under his chin. He can feel his own warm breath between their faces and he thinks he could melt into a puddle right there.
He realizes when Todoroki’s eyes flutter open, soft and knowing and far too close, that his have been open this whole time. Half a second later, he processes everything else. Izuku can’t jerk away quickly enough, stumbling to his feet.
“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I should have asked before I- I’ve never done that before, I don’t know what came over me. We should go back. I can- I can leave first, or you can, if you don’t want to go together after that. I am so-”
“Izuku.”
The sound of his name - his first name - cuts Izuku off immediately. Todoroki hasn’t moved from the concrete. His voice is steady and stoic; his face is anything but. He stares intently through the deep blush settling over his face, and offers his hand.
It’s the only answer Izuku needs. He takes it, and Todoroki tugs him back down. His thigh lands heavy on the curb and it will probably bruise, but he can’t bring himself to care. Todoroki is kissing him, and he’s kissing back like he’s never wanted anything so badly before, and that’s all that matters.
He catches teeth, and it sends a jolt through him that morphs into giddiness; he can tell from the way Todoroki's hand finds the back of his neck with urgency that he feels it, too. His heart swells to scale with the night sky stretched out above them. The neon hum courses through his veins, weighty and grounding. The moment tries to swallow him whole, and he gladly lets it. Izuku could get used to this.