Chapter Text
Hitoshi is, quite suddenly, hyper-aware that his toes have started to go numb.
The feeling’s probably been building up for a pretty long time; he just hadn’t noticed it until he shifted and felt a rush of sharp tingles. The cold metal of the wire balcony chair isn’t helping matters, and he swears he can feel the cold leeching deeper and deeper with each passing second. Honestly, he’s definitely been colder before, but there’s just something about the first cold snap of the year that really screws him up.
It’s not even that cold out yet; it’s only early November, but the winds are starting to become bothersome when the sun’s not out to warm his skin. He knows it’s silly to be sitting outside, freezing his ass off, when it would so effortless to pop back inside for a pair of socks, or even a sweatshirt. But he stays planted in his seat anyway, a mostly-finished cigarette dangling from his cold-clumsy fingers. He shakes his free hand in vain, trying to regain a bit of feeling. He’s always had terrible circulation, and right now he’d much rather blame his discomfort on his shitty anatomy than admit it’s all because he’s too lazy to get up and dress himself properly. He settles somewhere in the middle by pulling the cuffs of his baggy sweatpants over his feet, doing the absolute bare minimum to shield them from the cold.
He reasons that it’s been a long day, a long week, hell, a long month and he deserves to be a little lazy. For the moment, that means christening the balcony as his new smoking spot. He can kiss the days of sneaking off to some obscure corner of U.A. goodbye, at least so long as his new classmates don’t snitch. Given his immediate neighbors, he remains pleasantly hopeful. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if he’d been placed next door to the class rep. He somehow doubts that the engine legs guy would appreciate the questionably smoky smells that’ll inevitably surround his balcony. But the guy’s a whole floor up and two doors down. Shouldn’t be a problem.
Sighing, he shakes out another cigarette and chains it off the first one, knowing full-well that his wallet, his lungs, and his mentor aren’t going to be happy about it. But fuck it. If the burning ached in his calves is any indication, he deserves some release.
His bi-weekly private sessions with Aizawa-sensei have always been hell on his body, but they’ve been rising in intensity since last month, on top of all the stress of negotiating his transfer. He’d expected to feel pretty worn out at the end of his first week as a proper hero in-training, but he didn’t anticipate just how sore he’d end up being. His calves are burning from their runs, and he can feel his bruised ribs twinge painfully with each deep breath. At this point, he can’t even remember who made which bruise. The whole week’s been a flurry of punches to the stomach and kicks to the rib, and part of him wonders how the entirety of class 1-A isn’t limping through life.
He feels like he can hardly complain though, at least not out loud. He’s the hero in-training Mind Jack. He’s Eraser Head’s protégé, and he’ll inevitably turn that relationship into an internship and maybe even a post-graduation job offer with his agency. He’s poised to take his licensing exam in just a few weeks’ time, and he’s determined to pass.
He’s basically got everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s worked his ass off these last few months to achieve…
But that doesn’t make his pain any easier to deal with. Even if he pretends that it’s proof that he’s getting somewhere, he can’t ignore the fact that these body aches suck. A particularly bad cramp rips through his leg, as if on cue, causing the corners of his mouth to involuntarily tug downwards. His hand shoots out to massage the offending muscle, fingertips digging roughly into the scant flesh of his calf.
No longer content to suffer, Hitoshi shifts the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and lazily makes his way through the cooldown stretches that the engine legs guy is always going on about. He’s in the middle of flexing the arches of his feet and working his way up to his calves when the hair on the back of his neck starts to prickle.
Sensing a second presence, he whips around, wobbling unsteadily in his chair. He’s not sure who he expects to be there, but the only logical conclusion is that Aizawa-sensei has showed up to lecture him about his smoking habits for the fourteenth (or fifteenth?) time. He’s already mentally preparing himself when he realizes that it’s definitely not his sensei. The figure is way too short and way too…green.
Standing in the doorway to his balcony is none other than Izuku Midoriya, who for some god forsaken reasons thinks that it’s okay to barge into people’s rooms unannounced.
Hitoshi swallows his initial panic though thankfully doesn’t swallow the cigarette, which ends up getting dislodged during his scramble to stay upright without his muscles seizing mid-stretch. The glowing tip bounces down his chest before landing pitifully on the concrete.
“Fucking hell, Midoriya,” he groans through gritted teeth, lightly brushing a hand over his chest while he inspects his t-shirt for any holes made by the run-away cigarette.
To his credit, Midoriya looks like he’s about to die on the spot, his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes wider than usual. In fact, the encounter seems to have somehow stunned him into silence, which Hitoshi would’ve thought impossible until now. The other boy has a tendency to ramble whenever he’s anxious, which seems to be his default state even without scary classmates shouting expletives at him. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to criticize the cigarette that was hanging from Hitoshi’s mouth just a few seconds ago.
“Need something?” Hitoshi tries again in a halting voice, intently focused on keeping it stable and venom-free. He has to remind himself that Midoriya’s done nothing to deserve his usual brand of hostility, even if letting yourself into someone’s room isn’t normal. He’s been remarkably cool about the whole Sports Festival thing, even though he’s got every right to be mad. After all, the tail guy and the invisible girl have both made it abundantly clear that they’re still holding a grudge about the involuntary brainwashing.
Midoriya practically squeaks, going even redder in the face. Hitoshi raises an eyebrow at this, because he’s obviously got to be here for a reason.
The other boy stammers for a few moments before finally finding his voice. “Well, um, sort of? I just wanted to make sure that you’re settling in alright! I know it’s probably a big change, coming from General Studies and all…”
Hitoshi struggles to keep the grimace off his face. He’s been able to avoid this sort of conversation so far, only netting a handful of casual greetings from the other students during his initial tour of the dorm building. And frankly, he’d like to keep it that way. But of course, Midoriya keeps going.
He starts fidgeting with the end of his scarf, rolling the fringe between his knobbly fingers. “I…um…picked up some snacks for you. It’s not much, but I’m pretty sure you’ll like them. I thought that maybe they’d cheer you up a bit, help you feel more…welcome, I guess? I mean, my favorite snacks always make me feel better, even though we should really be watching what we eat. But I figure it’s fine every once in a while…” he rambles, gesturing shyly to the plastic bag that’s dangling from his forearm.
He only goes quiet when he notices the look of sheer confusion on Hitoshi’s face. All the pretenses of fake annoyance and carefully buried hostility have dropped away, leaving him much more vulnerable than he’s used to being.
“They’re for the movie!” Midorya suddenly interjects, a nervous smile lighting up his face. “We usually have movie nights on Fridays if we’re not too tired. And I was running errands with Uraraka-kun anyways, so it was no trouble at all!”
Reading the hesitation that’s slipped onto Hitoshi’s face, Midoriya backpedals almost immediately. “I-I guess nobody actually invited you, huh? Well, you can have the snacks anyway, even if you’d rather not come. I’m sure everyone would understand if you’d rather go to bed early.”
Before the green-haired boy can continue his rambling, Hitoshi swallows hard and stands without another word, joints audibly popping in protest. He bends over and picks up the sad, wasted remains of his cigarette, chucking it into the faded coffee mug he’s been using as an ashtray. He steps forward a bit and motions for Midoriya to move out of the door frame. They both step back into the warmth of the dorms, awkwardly shuffling out of each other’s way.
Unsure of what to do, Hitoshi sits down on his bed and awkwardly pats the spot next to him, beckoning for Midoriya to join him. He resumes the same position as before, knees pressed to his chest as he stretches his tingling toes.
Midoriya holds out the plastic bag once he’s settled on the edge of the bed, his limbs stiff and his feet firmly planted on the ground. The other boy watches intently as Hitoshi rifles through its contents, pulling out a package of dried seaweed and a marble soda.
The corners of his lips briefly tug upwards as he runs his thumb across the purple-tinted glass bottle. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s always been a sucker for grape-flavored things.
Midoriya twists his hands together nervously, like he’s suddenly afraid he’s made the wrong choice and was somehow being offensive. “Too on the nose?”
“Ah…no, actually,” he replies, voice involuntarily ticking upwards at the end of the statement to match the green-haired boy’s chronically unsure tone. And from the look of it, he’s even managed to pick out Hitoshi’s favorite flavor of seaweed crisps, judging by the little chili peppers decorating the packaging. He looks up, meeting Midoriya’s expectant gaze with a wobbly smile of his own.
“You stalking me or something?” Hitoshi deadpans, initially intending to pass it off as a joke.. But, come to think of it, how the other boy discovered his favorite snacks is a mystery. He highly doubts someone as anxious as Midoriya would just guess; he’d probably be too afraid of picking the wrong thing. So Midoriya must have been silently observing him for weeks to get the information. It’s not like he’s got the pocket money to purchase non-essentials very often.
He’s about to make a joke about the questionable contents of the other boy’s hero analysis notebooks when he realizes that Midoriya isn’t smiling anymore. Before Hitoshi can blink, the green-haired boy is rising to his feet, the empty plastic bag fluttering onto the ground as he jerks up. A flurry of ‘no, of course not’s fly past his lips, accompanied by flurry of awkward hand motions. He’s way too stuck in his own head to react to Hitoshi’s hesitant apology, and instead gives a small, stiff bow before speed-walking to the door.
He shouts something about the movie starting in half an hour on his way out, but Hitoshi is hardly listening. He rubs his fingers over the cool glass bottle, short nails picking at the crinkly plastic seal as he tries to ignore the tight feeling in his throat. He looks down at the drink in his hands before breathing slowly out his nose.
He feels so unbelievably screwed up for even half-assuming that Midoriya’s kindness was conditional or creepy or intended to make him feel anything but welcome. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking the worst of his classmates, who seem to be decent people despite their disinterest in him. They don’t outright mock him. They don’t talk about him behind his back, at least not to the degree that the room goes quiet whenever he walks in. For the most part, they ignore him.
He knows that he should find the gesture endearing. He should’ve accepted the thoughtful gift and laughed about how much of a hardass Aizawa is about their diets. And he probably should have promised to join in on a least one movie as a courtesy, even if he’d honestly rather be in bed.
But of course, he did none of those things.
And worst of all? It just had to be Midoriya. This random act of kindness couldn’t have come courtesy of some other member of 1-A, someone who’s advances would have been all too easy to shrug off.
He just had to make a dumb joke in front of the most painfully anxious person he’d ever met. And it just had to be a joke that was never going to land in the first place because he can’t regulate his tone for shit. He just had to ruin everything.
After a minute or two, Hitoshi has unconsciously picked away the plastic seal, forcing him to realize that there’s no sense in waiting. It was unlikely that he would’ve shown up to the movie in the first place, but he’s certainly not going now that he’s screwed things up so badly. So he pops the plastic plunger out of the cap, fumbling to open the bottle that’s poised precariously on his knee. A little bit of pressure from his thumb produces a loud pop and clink, and soon the sickeningly sweet artificial grape flavor coats his tongue. When he takes a second sip, the hollow ping of the marble bouncing against the glass is the only sound in the room.
That is, until the laughter starts filtering up from the common area just below his feet.