Chapter Text
Izuku can feel the constant, nagging buzzing of his phone from where it stays inside his jean’s pocket. A part of him wants to reach out immediately and pull it out to see who’s so desperate to get in contact with him, but the other part —the part that knows better— has an inkling feeling that the constant buzzing is just spam texts from his co-workers. So, Izuku does what any sane person would do which translates into completely ignoring the group chat and instead focusing on doing his actual job – driving house to house at probably very illegal speed to deliver pizzas while they’re still hot.
Hours pass by in a flurry of delivering, smiling, exchanging money with hungry customers and picking up more pizzas from his designated stack of deliveries back at Shinsou’s pizzeria before hitting the road once again.
Come ten in the evening, Izuku has half a mind to ditch work altogether and just return to his flat and enjoy a good ol’ cry in the solitude of his bedroom.
Before anyone dares judge him, the boy has quite the arsenal of things to defend his posture with. He’s been running from one house to another for more than five hours now. His hands ache from gripping the motorcycle’s handlebar a little too hard when trying to escape the midday traffic and his feet are sore from sprinting from floor to floor every five minutes to deliver lukewarm pizzas to expecting customers.
Now, it isn’t as if Izuku hates his job — far from it, actually, seeing as working as a delivery boy in his friend’s pizzeria actually grants him a flexible work schedule and more off days than what’s legally stipulated — but one man can only take so much before finally caving in to the pressure. He has research papers due tomorrow morning that sit halfway done in his laptop and about three group projects that need to be done by the end of the week that not even the thrill of speeding down a busy avenue two hours away from midnight can erase from his mind. On top of that, there’s so many cardboard boxes Izuku can carry from one apartment to another before he feels the irresistible urge to just smash his hand into one of the pizzas and call it a day.
To add onto his ever-growing hunger and the fact that he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in what feels like forever, the fact that all this customers that keep greeting him at their doorstep and asking for a few pictures to post online — or, God forbid, information about his father’s latest movie and a little insight onto what it feels like to be the son of Japan’s greatest action movie actor — doesn’t help much.
Izuku knows, logically, that it is but the trend of requesting for “the cutest delivery boy available” what made Shinsō’s pizzeria differentiate from any other and soar high above the ranks of the most popular pizza places in Musutafu and that he should be thankful and even proud of himself for being the designated “cute delivery boy”. However, his brain begs to differ, seeing as his workload seems to duplicate each passing day and that smiling for the cameras keeps getting harder with every delivery.
Still, Izuku grits his teeth and bears through the exhaustion, handing out pizzas left and right while somehow managing to keep his one million watt smile on. It is what makes him so popular with the clients, he guesses, and part of the reason that his workload never drops. He is cute and extremely kind, which makes him a natural magnet for people, or so he’s been told.
With a heavy sigh and feeling ready to drop dead at any given moment, Izuku takes Whiskers Pizza’s sturdy helmet off and places it askew on the handlebar, getting off the motorcycle and patting the seat as a sign of appreciation. From where he stands outside the pizzeria, he can see some contented patrons enjoying their meal near the big glass walls and distinguish some busy servers running from one place to another, their hands full of drinks, gourmet desserts and Musutafu’s Number One pizza.
Izuku barely makes it into the shop before Tsuyu looks up from her register and waves a hand at him, long fingers beckoning him to come closer.
“We have some ready for delivery over there,” the girl croaks in lieu of a greeting, not even looking up from her register as she finishes typing some order and adds it onto the ever-growing list of meals Uraraka and Bakugou will have to prepare in the short span of half an hour. “Manager said you can clock out as soon as you’re done with those.”
The greenette nods, following her slender fingers to where they rest atop three neatly stacked cardboard boxes with Whiskers Pizza's logo all across the sides and front. Begrudgingly, Izuku picks them up and begins sorting through the tags before realizing that none of them stray too far away from the pizzeria. If he’s fast enough, he could clock out an hour before his shift is due to end. It’s not until he reaches the third box that a frown sets itself over his features and he turns towards his friend with a question at the tip of his tongue.
“Hey,” he tells the Tsuyu, who brings two fingers up in a silent request for silence as she begins speaking through someone on the phone and promptly hangs up, fast fingers already typing in another order. Izuku blinks, uncertain of how he didn’t notice her attending a customer while he was staring into the pizzas he’s bound to deliver.
“What is it?” The girl asks, big eyes looking briefly at him with a flash of concern before they go back to staring at her computer screen.
Izuku clears his throat, nervously tapping his fingers to the counter before looking back to the one tag that has his mind reeling a mile a minute.
“This order,” he says, munching on his lower lip with a worried expression. “It fall’s in the range of Camie’s designated delivery area, how come it’s in my pile?”
Tsuyu shrugs, looking briefly at the half-empty spaces next to Izuku’s delivery pile where Shindou’s and Camie’s piles rest. She taps a finger to her chin and scrunches her eyes before quickly tapping something in her computer and looking at the screen with a knowing glance.
“Special delivery,” is all she says, closing the newly opened tab and shrugging as if it’s no biggie. Which it really isn’t, really, but Izuku really can’t keep the tired grunt from escaping his lips at her answer. Tsuyu, at that, at least has the decency to look apologetic.
It seems she wants to add something more, probably a few words of encouragement, but the phone next to her rings once again and the girl huffs before picking up and mouthing a quick ‘good luck’ at her friend that Izuku does his best to replicate.
With a resigned sigh, Midoriya carries the three boxes out of the pizzeria and carefully places them inside the special container in the back of the motorcycle before placing his helmet back on and turning on the vehicle. The engine roars to life beneath him, a gentle purr that accompanies Izuku through the busy streets and gets him safe to his destinations. He delivers one pizza to a couple of friends with messy hair and tired eyes that softly thank him before returning to their revising and another to an elderly woman whose grandchildren can be heard excitedly yelling in the distance, delighted at the prospect of having pizza for dinner, who tips Izuku thrice as much as she should’ve and gives him a Snickers bar before wishing him a goodnight and closing the door.
Feeling quite accomplished that his last two deliveries for the evening are coming up roses, Izuku feels quite confident in that the last delivery won’t be half bad. There’s a negative feeling pooling at the depths of his stomach when he realizes that the people that ordered that last pizza are expecting a cutie to go along with it, but he shakes the heavy feeling off and gently knocks on the door before he has time to regret it.
Now, the trend has been going on for quite some time and by now Izuku’s positive he’s seen everything there was to look at. He’s had embarrassed teenagers desperately beg for a photo and even sometimes video or audio recordings, he’s had groups of flustered friends thank him for his services and he’s even been hit on more than once by a particularly flirty customer who seems not to know the difference between what’s okay and what’s not. However, Izuku was in no way prepared for what would be waiting for him behind that door.
Behind the mahogany door stands what might as well be the most precious being Izuku’s ever seen in his life. This angel, for the lack of a better word to describe him, shyly greets Midoriya with an awkward wave and then goes completely still, hand frozen halfway in the air.
Right off the bat Izuku notes that this handsome stranger is a few inches taller than him, which gives the greenette just the perfect angle to truly appreciate this God-send person in all his glory. One of his eyes is a deep grey, the same colour as wet concrete or mercury — the other, however, is a divine shade of blue that matches the open sky or the water of a koi fish pond. His hair is also unnaturally perfect, with one half being as red as lava or a fiery inferno and the other one being snow white. Underneath the silky red bangs lies what looks like scarred tissue from an old injury.
He's goddam perfect.
Izuku feels his brain shut down, shut off and go into an instant reboot as he stands there, petrified and absolutely smitten as he does nothing but gape at the beautiful man that stares right back at him.
“T-this is your pizza,” Midoriya manages to croak out with much effort, giving himself a mental pat in the back for being able to even produce sound while being confronted with such a divine person.
Shakily and not unclumsily, Izuku somehow manages to present the cardboard box to the beautiful person that stands before him, and the dual-haired man nods before walking back rigidly into his apartment.
The greenette uses his few free seconds away from such a handsome man to try and regain his footing and calm down his beating heart, which is going a mile a minute. His cheeks feel somewhat warmer and Izuku doesn’t have to guess to know that he’s probably blushing to the point of looking like a strawberry.
Inside the apartment a few hushed voices can be heard, what Izuku assumes is a woman presumably scolding the handsome stranger and then a few grunts, but before the greenette can peer inside the flat to see what’s going on a solid, rock-hard chest obstructs his vision and he shakily raises his head to meet a pair of dual-coloured eyes that stare right through his soul.
“I think I know why you work in a pizzeria,” is what the stranger says and, shit, Izuku really wasn’t prepared for that husky, seductively serious tone.
His knees are shaking, Midoriya is sure of that much. Still, he manages to suck in a sharp breath and smile up at this perfect human.
“Heh, really?” Batting his eyelashes, the greenette makes sure to tilt his head at just the right angle to make himself seem small and innocent, puckering his lips slightly and letting out a breathy laugh for good measure. “Why?”
This, apparently, seems to work just fine, if the way the stranger holds his breath and promptly stiffens is anything to go by. It’s only for a brief moment, though, because as soon as that moment comes it goes and then the stranger licks his lip before leaning down slightly, his face hovering mere centimetres away from Izuku’s.
“Because, just like pizza, you’re hot and everyone wants a piece of you,” the stranger says, sounding very proud and sure of himself. In the distance, someone gaps and whines, although Izuku is pretty sure those noises are coming from his mouth. “It seems like you just fit right in.”
And, wow, okay, bold. Izuku really wasn’t expecting to be hit on by such a pretty dude, much less in work hours — wait, fuck, he’s still at work. This is definitely not what he should be doing right now.
“Well… not so much, actually,” Midoriya smiles, taking a step back to try and put some sort of distance between himself and this straight-forward stranger. He needs to cash his money before indulging in more playful flirting. “You should see Kacchan someday, though, he’s ripped and smoking hot, definitely lives up to that pizza delivery porn aesthetic people crave.”
Okay, a self-deprecating joke. Definitely not what Izuku was expecting but his brain is pretty much fried right now so, he guesses, this is as good as it’s gonna get.
The stranger doesn’t seem to mind his sense of humour too much, thing Izuku is eternally grateful for, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if this smoking hot babe suddenly starts trying to counsel him.
Instead, the half-and-half beauty just smiles lightly and brings a hand to rest at his nape. “And you don’t?”
Now, of Izuku wasn’t crushing before, he definitely is now. This stranger who he knows next to nothing about is leaning against the doorway and looking unbelievably sexy while in a loose tank top and short jogging trunks and, yup, Izuku is so fucking gay.
“Nah, I’m just your regular nerdy guy everyone was into for the aesthetic but forgot about soon enough and moved on to the next big thing,” trying to get things back into the right path is apparently a thought lost somewhere deep, deep inside his mind, and Izuku starts playing with the hem of Whiskers Pizza's ugly orange vest to distract himself from the hot sensation in his cheeks. “I’m kind of like math, y’know? You might’ve liked it at one point or another but looking back on it you’re just glad it’s over.”
The stranger frowns, clearly a little put off by the sudden change in the mood. Izuku is about to go over and apologize, get his money and leave but it seems the handsome man has other plans as he looks Midoriya up and down and then licks his lips once again.
“Well, I’ve never met anyone that hasn’t opened a Math textbook and immediately said ‘fuck me’ so you must have your charms,” inside the house a groan can be heard, and there’s a loud bang from somewhere nearby which Izuku is pretty certain was the sound of someone’s head hitting a table.
“Big words, especially considering who they’re coming from,” is what tumbles out of his lips, and yup, there it is. Izuku knew this was all too good to be true.
The stranger steps back, seemingly recoiling from Midoriya and his stupid mouth. Instinctively, a hand flies up to the left side of his face, fingers hovering millimetres above a big scar that covers half of his face in red tissue.
“Excuse me?” Is all the stranger says, his tone suddenly gone cold. Izuku swallows, realizing the implication of his words, and decides to take a step forward.
“You’re not too bad yourself, baby boy,” the greenette prays to every deity listening that his voice doesn’t crack, and he shudders when those heterochromatic eyes lay on him, confusion swimming deep into those mismatched pools. “Your split hair kinda reminds me of pepperoni and cheese and damn, don’t I love to swallow those two things.”
The stranger gapes, his eyes widen and his hand shakes right where it’s hovering above his scar. Izuku sucks in a breath and waits for whatever happen next. Was this alright? Did he mess up? Was all this shitty flirting really worth it?
He has no way to find out, unfortunately, because the handsome stranger gets forcefully removed from the door way and in his place appears a sculpted woman with long, dark hair all the way to her waist and trembling shoulders.
“O-okay!” Is what she says, clutching tightly onto several banknotes with her perfectly manicured hands. She all but shoves them at Izuku and smiles brightly, completely embarrassed yet kind. “Here, keep the change. Thank you so much for the meal, goodnight!”
Without further ado, the woman shuts the door close and immediately begins scolding the stranger inside, who does nothing but whine lowly.
Leaning back against the door, Izuku hides his blush on the collar of the ugly work best and brings a hand to his chest to try and calm down his beating heart.
Just… what the hell was that?
Shouto leaves school that day feeling like utter shit. Acting is hard, fuck what everyone says.
He supposes that having Theatre as a major would be more bearable if he actually enjoyed acting, but here’s the thing — he doesn’t. If he’s studying at Yuuei and acing every single class it’s because that’s what Enji asked him to do, not because Shouto chose that on his own accord. If anything, Shouto would’ve told college to fuck off all together and instead started his own business, like Shinsou did.
But, the world just isn’t that kind. He’s stuck studying something he doesn’t want to so he can apply for a job in an industry that has deprived him of absolutely everything and follow in his father’s footsteps, because apparently that’s what the world expects him to do.
Taking a breath to calm himself, Shouto slides into the driver’s seat of his car and grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He’s not doing this for himself, his brain reminds him. Pursuing an acting career was what he chose to do so his siblings could all study something they actually enjoyed. Hardships were worth it if they meant his loved ones could all be in control of their own fate, even if he himself wasn’t.
With that in mind, Shouto turns on the engine and begins the slow drive towards his house, which seems even slower than usual today. Cars and motorcycles pass by as the radio's soft music flows through his speakers, Present Mic's voice coming in every other song to remind his listeners about something before playing yet another jam.
By the time he makes it back home the sky is pitch black and the streets are blissfully empty, which means there's nothing to accompany but silence as he steps into his apartment building and hops onto the unpleasantly creaking lift, tiredly awaiting for his floor. Once he reaches the penthouse, the dual-haired man sighs and drags himself out of the rectangular steel voice that pulled him upstairs, patting his keys from where they rest inside his jean's pocket and sliding them easily through the keyhole of his doorknob.
His flat is cold an empty, as always. Shouto mindlessly flicks on the lamps and starts making himself a cosy space in the middle of the couch, wanting nothing more than to snuggle with his favourite blanket and sleep the night away. Thank God it’s Friday.
Once nuzzled inside his makeshift blanket fort, Todoroki finds himself scrolling through his Netflix account, trying to decide which cartoon he should binge, when his phone starts buzzing.
Confused, he picks it up and brings it to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, Shouto!” It’s Momo’s voice that pours in through the speakers, the woman cheery and bubbly even with all the chaos that can be heard around her. Is she on the street? “We still on for movie night, right?”
Blinking back his realization, Shouto quickly hurries to open the calendar app on his phone and scroll through it until he finds the events assigned for that month. Shit, it was today?
“Yes,” he blurts out once the date blinks back at him, November 24th proudly mocking his lack of foresight.
“Okay, cool, cool, just making sure, you haven’t been answering any of my texts as of lately so I thought I’d check in this way,” Momo’s heels can be heard even through the phone, and little by little the noise around her dies down until Shouto can only hear the rustle of the wind and her breath.
“Been busy with school, s’rry,” Shouto lies through his teeth, eyes heavy with sleep. The reason why he has been avoiding his phone lately is because of his damned father and his instency on calling everyday at least three times in the hopes of his son finally picking up. Needless to say, it's not working.
Todoroki Enji may be stubborn as a rock, but Todoroki Shouto has a will made of steel — and he isn't willing to speak to his father, no matter what the circumstances might be.
“It’s okay, darling, I know how it is,” Shouto can almost imagine Momo brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear, a maternal smile on her lips as she taps quickly on her phone screen. He knows she knows he's lying, but Yaoyorozu has always been too good of a person to pry into personal matters like that. “I’ve been pretty busy too, y’know. Didn’t even have time to cook something for tonight.”
That manages to get a reaction out of Shouto, who blinks past his sleepy state and frowns at the phone, double-checking the caller ID with curiosity.
“You were planning to cook something for tonight?” He asks, incredulous. This definitely isn’t his best friend, who can’t boil water to save her life. “You, Yaoyorozu Momo?”
The woman huffs, almost ashamed, and Shouto can hear her mutter something under her breath.
“Okay, fine, I was planning on asking my chef to cook us something for tonight,” Momo confesses, pouting. “But I didn’t have the time, and I really don’t want to call him fifteen minutes prior and ask for food, because that would be rude, so I guess we’ll have to order takeout.”
“Sits right by me,” with a final sigh, Shouto detangles himself from his warm, fuzzy cover and paddles over to his kitchen, opening up the drawer in which he keeps his takeout trifolds and sorting through them. “What are you in the mood for? Zaru Soba? Takoyaki? Chinese?”
“Honestly? I’ve been dying all week to try this new online-exclusive tuna pizza that Whiskers Pizza released a few days ago,” Momo says weakly, her voice a faint sound over the wind. “Could you be a sweetheart and order that for us?”
Todoroki shrugs, tiredly placing the trifolds back onto their designated drawer and instead opening up Whiskers Pizza web page on his browser, clicking through the banners until he finds the pizza Momo asks for.
“Yeah, sure thing,” tiredly, Shouto begins filling in his order, contemplating the add-ons with interest but ultimately deciding that no, a two-liter coke isn’t worth the additional 500 yen. “Anything else?”
On her side of the line, Momo breathes a sigh of relief.
“Hmm, no, I don’t think so, I’ll call Kyouka and tell her to bring snacks so we’re good.”
“Okay,” Shouto frowns, trying to remember his CSC code and hoping that the three numbers he typed are correct. He’s about to go and press on the [COMPLETE ORDER] button when Momo blurts out.
“No, wait, actually!”
“Hm?” Shouto tilts his head, finger hovering over the black button that will purchase his pizza.
“Could you… shit, this is going to sound really weird but could you, maybe, I don’t know?” Clearly, Momo is struggling to find the right words to say, and Todoroki frowns.
“Spit it out, Momo,” he says, not bothering in the slightest about coming off as rude. The woman knows him well enough to sense the worry in his tone.
On her side of the line, Yaoyorozu sucks in a deep breath and then sighs.
“Okay, so there’s this ongoing trend of asking restaurants to deliver their food with the cutest delivery boy available,” the girl begins ranting, words flowing out of her lips so fast Shouto barely manages to catch them all. “I overheard Hatsume-san and Shield-san talking about it at lunch today, and I’m really curious to see how that turns out.”
“You want me to ask a pizza place to deliver our pizza with a cute boy?” Is what the dual-haired man says, blinking stupidly at his phone screen and scrolling through the web page trying to find the “special requirements” box.
“I mean, yeah,” Momo taps her heels against the sidewalk, drumming a melody Shouto is unfamiliar with. “Pretty please?”
“Okay,” Todoroki relents, finally finding the bright orange box and typing in the words ‘must deliver a cute boy’ in lowercase because fuck grammar. “But you better be here for when that pizza arrives or so God help me, Momo.”
“Chill, I’ve got this covered, I’ll be at your place in ten minutes tops,” there’s the sound of a car stopping by and Momo greets someone before there’s a door opening, closing, and then the low purr of an engine. “So, my Uber just arrived. Want to keep talking until I arrive at your doorstep?”
“Sounds fair,” with a final sigh and having received an Order Confirmation email, Shouto slowly begins walking back to his couch, not bothering to rearrange his blanket before plopping on top of it with a humph. “Only you do the talking, I’m not feeling Gucci about right now.”
“Tough day, I guess?” Shouto hums his affirmation so Momo just sighs. “Well, at least you got to see Midoriya again today, didn’t you? I think you had a class together in the morning.”
“Yeah, he rushed in twenty minutes into the lesson because apparently he’d been stuck delivering pizzas until midnight the day prior and slept past his alarm,” Todoroki can’t keep the grin off his face while remembering how cute his crush looked, dishevelled and all, still a God despite rushing late to their Advanced English and Literature class wearing an ugly orange Whiskers Pizza vest and red sneakers.
Then, the realization sinks in, and Shouto stands abruptly from his place on the couch and begins madly tapping at his screen. “Wait, fuck, shit.”
“What happened?” Yaoyorozu manages to sound a little concerned, although quite joyous.
“Momo, what the fuck did I just do?” Shouto whispers, biting his lip as the Whiskers Pizza website loads up. Immediately, Todoroki clicks on the link for the gallery, and his breath stops upon seeing a pair of friends smiling at the camera, wearing the same orange vest Midoriya rushed into class with that morning.
Sensing his inner turmoil, Momo begins growing nervous. She taps at her phone screen to see if the call hadn’t disconnected, and then feels dread pool in her gut when she realizes it’s still on.
“Shou, you okay?” More silence, the woman frowns. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”
“Shit, Momo, fucking shit,” Shouto gasps for air, wanting nothing more than to yeet himself out the window. “Midoriya works at Whiskers Pizza.”
Yaoyorozu rolls her eyes, already aware of this kind of information. She's spent one hundred nights hearing the same story over and over about a cute boy with freckles and green hair that delivers pizza for a living and is working hard to become a script writer, she doesn't need to have a repeat of it now.
“Yes, I know, you’ve told me about it already,” Momo rolls her eyes, is this really what Shouto is freaking out over? Midoriya works at Whiskers Pizza and grass grows up.
The woman sighs, not really in the mood for dealing with this kind of bullshit on an empty stomach. She wishes the pizza would just arrive already. Is that even possible? Can Whiskers Pizza deliver to a moving vehicle? Wait, Whiskers Pizza? Oh. “Oh… oh, I see it now.”
“Shit,” Todoroki groans through the phone. “Momo, fucking holy shit. Can I cancel my order? I think I might cancel it.”
“Shouto, baby, don’t you dare!” You having a gay crisis won’t stop me from putting food in my mouth so don’t you dare test me, her brain barks. “I’m on my way already, okay? I’ll be there before the pizza arrives, and I can help you open the door if you’re still nervous by the time it gets there. Just don’t do anything stupid, you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay…” In, out, in, out, just like your therapist said. “Shit, I’m an idiot.”
“A little bit, yeah,” the girl laughs through the line, and Shouto frowns.
“Not helping, Momo,” he deadpans, and Yaoyorozu must sense the tension in the air because she coughs rather dramatically and then sighs gently.
“I know,” the brunette admits, a smile evident in her tone. “Okay, so let’s switch the subject. Did you find out that Mic Studios actually emailed Kyouka back?”
“Really?” Shouto can barely hold his surprise back. He knew Jirou was good, but Mic Studios level good? Damn, that girl knows how to play.
A beat of silence passes and Shouto is reminded that, being the one that pulled some strings so Jirou could even audition at Mic Studios to begin with, he is supposed to say something else regarding this whole situation. “I mean, of course they did, they would have been idiots not to.”
“Yup, they’re willing to record a trial demo and put it out for sale as long as we pay for it,” Momo can barely contain the excitement in her voice, and Shouto finds himself sharing that happiness. “If sells good, then they just might sign her contract.”
“That sounds amazing,” he whispers, truly feeling the words. Anxiety forgotten, he plops back onto the couch and buries his face in a cushion. “Tell me more.”
As Momo’s voice begins excitedly ranting about this new record deal and how good it’d be if things set out in Kyouka’s favour, Shouto can only close his eyes and think back to the pizza order that is due to arrive at any minute now, trying to fight his urge to shove himself into a trashcan and never come back out.
He just really hopes this wasn’t too bad of a fuck-up.