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The hands of the clock always drag whenever it's close to the end of Izuku's shift.
The 24-hour convenience store is empty except for him, which isn't an uncommon occurrence this close to midnight. The busiest time is just after six, when tired workers stop by to grab something quick for dinner and college students come for a snack before heading to class, but the closer it gets to the late night hours, the less the bell above the sliding doors jingles to announce the arrival of a new customer.
Izuku sighs, tapping his fingers against the counter. Twenty more minutes until his shift ends. He briefly considers rearranging some of the products, but there's nothing left to do—everything is perfectly lined up on the shelves, food and drinks checked for their expiration date and separated by flavors. Today's been even slower than usual; Izuku's had a lot of free time.
He yawns and looks at the clock again. Eighteen minutes.
Aside from the occasional car speeding down the street and a fly buzzing against the lights, the only sound breaking the monotony comes from the static-filled speakers tuned into one of those pop stations that constantly circle through the biggest hits. Not Izuku's favorite, but he's grown used to it after a few months.
This time, he even recognizes the next song that starts playing. It's one he particularly enjoys—a collab between a korean boyband and an american artist, a nice change from the usual playlist—and he's heard it enough times by now to recognize the melody even if he doesn't understand all of the words. Before he knows it, he's bobbing his head to the chorus, humming under his breath.
Red blooms into his field of vision.
Izuku cuts himself off with a gasp, looking horrified at the rose resting on the counter. His eyes are wide with fear as they dart around the room, but relief floods him when he realizes he's still alone.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid, what if someone had seen you?" Izuku mutters to himself, turning his attention back to the flower.
His heart plummets when he picks it up. It's already wilting, its petals brown and ugly at the edges, just like every other flower Izuku has sung into existence for the past years. It's been like this for so long now—he barely remembers the times when everything that bloomed with the sound of his voice was as beautiful as music itself.
"Doesn't matter anyway," Izuku sighs and, with one last look at the dead flower, he throws it in the trash.
Izuku's apartment is a few blocks away from the convenience store, but on winter nights like this the walk seems to be much longer. His breath fogs up in front of him when he exhales, and his cold fingers hurt as he flexes them inside the pockets of his jacket, still sensitive from the phantom touch of the rose against his skin.
When Izuku was a kid, his favorite pastime was creating flowers of the most varied types and colors until he covered himself with them like he would with a warm blanket. That was before he had learned the importance of keeping his magic secret if he didn't want other people—normal people—to be afraid of him. Now, the reminder of what he'd just done in a moment of distraction makes his stomach twist with unease. The image of the rose blooming and dying before his eyes haunts him.
Izuku is so lost in his own thoughts that he almost misses the first notes of a violin coming from a nearby park.
When his ears register the sound, Izuku halts. He turns towards the park, trying to see who's responsible for the sudden music, but the nearest streetlights are as broken as they've been for months now. The place is covered in shadows. Izuku walks by this street at night five times a week, and never before has he seen—or heard—anyone else around here.
He's curious, but it's past midnight, he's freezing and it's dangerous, so Izuku is about to resume his walk when, for the second time in less than an hour, red flashes before his eyes.
Izuku blinks. Before he can dismiss it as an optical illusion, another strike of red lights up the dark, followed by bursts of white and purple and blue, shimmering weakly for a few seconds before fading away. They all come from the park—from the same place as the music.
Caution forgotten, Izuku heads towards the sound. As he gets closer, the air around him becomes strange; his heartbeat speeds up, and sweat rolls down his temples despite the cold. Between the flashes of color, he makes out a silhouette sitting on a bench. Izuku catches sight of white and red hair and slim fingers moving over strings before the stranger notices his presence, and the song comes to an end with a screech. The colors die with it.
Izuku's eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that he can see when the man stands up clutching his violin to his chest, his entire body tense as if he's ready to bolt. Izuku puts his hands up in what he hopes is a non-threatening gesture. Hopefully the man can see at least his silhouette, too.
"Please don't stop playing."
Izuku isn't sure what makes those words come out of his mouth when he meant to ask for the man's name, but everything in him is begging to listen to him play again. It's like he's been interrupted on the edge of a breakthrough, the answer to a question hanging on the tip of his tongue. All he needs is one more chance to figure it out.
Slowly, the man brings the violin up to his chin. He starts playing the same song as before—a sad, lonely tune—and something in Izuku stirs as the air once again shimmers with colorful shapes that don't quite form before dissolving away.
Izuku takes a sharp breath when the answer presents itself before him. "Magic," he whispers as the power running through his veins calls out to the stranger's.
The song falters for a second before the man regains his composure, and through the faint colored lights his magic creates, he stares at Izuku with piercing blue and grey eyes. There's an unspoken question in those eyes, and perhaps that's what gives Izuku the burst of courage for him to start humming along to the melody.
The instinct to panic as soon as flowers bloom around their feet prickles the back of Izuku's mind, but he tries his best to ignore it. It's late, they're alone, and this could be the only person Izuku will ever meet who can finally, truly understand him. He won't throw that away for the fear that's kept him prisoner for most of his life.
Izuku's magic is close to alive in his veins as the song comes to an end. The colors created by the man's music take a little longer than before to fade, giving Izuku a chance to peek down at the flowers he's made.
They're not as pretty as the ones from Izuku's memories, but his heart leaps when he notices they have yet to start wilting away.
"You have magic too," the man says, bringing Izuku's attention back to him. It's not a question or an accusation—just a fact.
"Yes." Izuku smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. "I'm Midoriya Izuku."
There's a moment of silence in which Izuku's afraid the man won't introduce himself back, but then he says, "Todoroki Shouto."
"Nice to meet you, Todoroki-san." Izuku's almost glad for the shadows that hide his face from Todoroki, because he's smiling so much it must be creepy. He can't help it; his magic still tingles at the back of his throat, spreading all the way down to his fingertips. He hasn't felt this good about it in years. "I've never met anyone else who could do magic before."
"People like us usually don't go around announcing it to every stranger," Todoroki grumbles.
"No, we don't," Izuku agrees, smile dimming. He'd never stopped to think there could be others out there living like him—constantly afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, of exposing their secret to the judging eyes of those who wouldn't accept them. "I'm glad I found you, though."
And maybe that's too much to say to someone he's just met, but Izuku can't find it in himself to regret it. Not when he's being nothing but completely sincere.
It feels only natural for Izuku and Todoroki to exchange numbers after that. Their first meeting might have been brief, but their magic formed a connection between them that they couldn't find anywhere else. It's surprising, really, that the topic doesn't come up much during the first weeks they spend texting each other. Perhaps it's a reflection of the innate fear of exposing the truth in a place they don't have total control over, but Izuku isn't too bothered about it.
Talking to Todoroki is fun even if it's not about magic.
He finds out Todoroki is twenty-two, the same age as him, and has recently majored in Art History. He learns that Todoroki's favorite dish is cold soba and he owns a calico cat named Pumpkin and he doesn't get along with his father much. In turn, Izuku tells him about the English course he's taking during the day and his work at the convenience store and how he loves mint chocolate chip ice cream.
It comes to a point where a day doesn't go by without a notification for a new message from Todoroki popping up on Izuku's phone. It's only a matter of time before they decide to meet again and, inside the comfort and security of Izuku's apartment, they are finally free to speak about the secrets they carry.
"I create illusions with music," Todoroki tells him in between mouthfuls of soba. "Doesn't matter what instrument I'm playing."
"Those colors and lights I saw," Izuku says, nodding. He leans forward, eager to know more about how different Todoroki's magic is from his own, but Todoroki's expression darkens at his words. Izuku momentarily panics. Did he say something wrong?
"What you saw is nothing," Todoroki says, and he sounds… almost angry. "I can— Could do so much better than that."
Izuku's fingers itch to reach out and smooth the creases in Todoroki's forehead, to get rid of the frown twisting his lips downwards. He tightens his hold on the hashi instead. "What happened?"
"I learned that I had to hide."
Oh. Izuku's gaze softens, and a dying red rose comes to the forefront of his mind. Tulips, peonies, hydrangeas, white, purple, blue—how many times had he watched flowers die and colors turn to brown in front of his eyes since he started repressing his own magic?
He's all too familiar with what Todoroki is telling him.
"My magic doesn't work properly anymore, either," he confides, because Todoroki is sharing something personal, and it doesn't feel right to let him be vulnerable alone. "My flowers don't last more than a few seconds. And they're not— They're not as beautiful as they used to be, even before they die."
Stating it out loud hurts more than Izuku expected. He's not used to being able to talk about magic like this, to facing the truth of his reality so head-on. He has his mom, sure, and she's a great listener, but she'd never understand it the way someone who shares the same fate as him would. Someone like Todoroki.
Izuku shifts in place, scratching the back of his neck. "But we don't have to hide here. Not when it's just the two of us," he adds. "Next time, can you bring your violin?"
Silence follows, with Todoroki staring at him with a portion of soba frozen halfway towards his mouth. The longer he takes to answer, the more Izuku feels like banging his head against the table for his own stupidity. It'd been silly to assume Todoroki would want to use his magic in front of him—and what if he didn't even want to hang out again, and this was supposed to be a one time thing?
"I-I mean, you're not obligated, and that's if you want to meet again— If you don't want to, that's fine, too, I just meant—"
"Yeah, okay," Todoroki says, cutting off Izuku's desperate mumbling. "I'll bring it next time."
Izuku's eyes widen. "Really?" His voice comes out as more of a squeak, making Todoroki huff out a laugh. The barely-there smile left on his lips stirs something in Izuku's chest, something that Izuku doesn't examine too closely. A nice kind of warmth.
"It's a promise."
One meeting turns into another, that turns into another, and soon Izuku and Shouto are on a first name basis, seeing each other almost every day of the week.
They don't always meet in one of their apartments. Sometimes Izuku texts Shouto to grab some coffee when he has a night off and the latter is done with work, or Shouto invites him to go to the newest exposition by a famous painter the local art gallery is hosting. They don't talk about magic in these occasions—it's too risky—but Izuku enjoys the light-hearted conversations they share just as much.
Sometimes Shouto waits for Izuku to finish his shifts at the convenience store, dismissing any concerns about the time as he insists on walking Izuku home. That often leads to him crashing on Izuku's couch—after the first few times that happens and Shouto is late to his own job in the morning, he starts bringing a change of clothes so he can get ready at Izuku's place.
It becomes a habit, saying good morning every day, be it face to face or via text. Izuku has seen how adorable Shouto is with bedhead, knows how grumpy he is when he's just woken up. He's learned the sound of Todoroki's laugh and what's his go-to coffee order. When he goes to Shouto's place, Pumpkin sticks to him like he's her second owner, and Izuku pretends he doesn't see the way Shouto stares fondly at them whenever he's playing with her, even if it makes his heart do somersaults in his chest.
And then there's the magic.
When Izuku is with Shouto, his fear is stripped away and he can finally be himself. They close the curtains whenever they're inside to keep any onlookers from catching a glimpse of something they shouldn't see, and bask in their magic like neither of them have done in years. It's like taking a breath of fresh air after being underwater for too long—Izuku gasps and drinks in the energy, the thrill of allowing this part of himself to be free, of covering their surroundings in flowers that don't wilt as fast as before and having Shouto's illusions paint the world in return.
And Shouto's illusions are truly stunning, almost as much as the man himself. As time passes, they begin to last longer, taking shapes instead of mere bursts of color. Shouto shows Izuku memories of places he went to as a child, conjuring such intricate details Izuku forgets they aren't actually real.
Not like the feelings blossoming inside him every time he looks at Shouto.
"Why were you playing outside that first night?" Izuku asks, tucking his legs underneath him and making himself more comfortable on the couch.
The only light illuminating Shouto's living room comes from the movie credits rolling on the TV screen. The remains of the pizza they'd ordered lie discarded in a box at the center table, the lid haphazardly thrown over it to keep Pumpkin from stealing any food.
Shouto yawns, arching his back as he stretches. The movement makes his thigh press against Izuku's, but he doesn't move away and Izuku doesn't complain.
The body heat is nice. Cozy.
"'s a stupid reason," Shouto says.
"Tell me."
"Had a bad day at work. Can't even remember why. But I was tired and angry and felt like doing something reckless, so I just grabbed my violin once it was dark enough and went out."
"That was dangerous."
"Yeah." Shouto shrugs. His gaze turns to Izuku, and the corner of his lips tremble as if he were holding back a smile. "But I'm glad I did it, or I wouldn't have met you."
The feelings inside Izuku's chest bloom. For months, Izuku had let them grow, and Shouto had nurtured them without knowing—be it with his smiles or his grumpiness, with his laugh or the way he showed he cared with actions rather than words. Maybe it's because Izuku's not used to Shouto saying such things that their meaning becomes more precious, and it's easy for him to lean forward and press a kiss to Shouto's lips.
If Izuku could choose a moment to relive for the rest of his life, he would choose this, with Shouto's hands carding through his hair and the warmth of his body held close. Their lips are still a bit greasy from the pizza, and their teeth clash when Izuku smiles in the middle of the kiss.
It's perfect.
Later, when Shouto picks up his violin, Izuku sings along with him like he had on the night they met. His magic rises within him and bursts forth in a flurry of petals—roses, carnations, chrysanthemums, the most varied and beautiful flowers Izuku has ever created bloom around them in vivid colors. They cover the ground, confusing Pumpkin when a sunflower grows on top of her fluffy head.
Shouto laughs, fingers nimble over the violin strings. The air shifts as his illusions take shape, and Izuku is faced with himself—himself through Shouto's eyes. There's the pattern of freckles on his cheeks, his messy hair in the mornings, and the crinkle on the corners of his eyes when he smiles. There's Shouto, not an illusion but real , pulling him in for another kiss despite Izuku's surprised squeak and the halt it puts in their song.
When they separate, Izuku is breathless and happier than he's ever been. He presses his cheek against Shouto's chest and closes his eyes, breathing in his scent and listening to his heartbeat.
The flowers around them are still alive.