Chapter Text
“Oh, that’s a good costume!” the girl taking money and handing out badges says. “Now just write your name on this and I’ll laminate it. You can put down an alias or your cosplay name, that’s fine. If you want to register for cosplay judging, it’s in room 24B. Good luck!” He writes down something quickly and hands it to her. With a small, knowing smile, she sticks it in the machine, pulls it out the other end, fans it to cool it down, and punches a hole in the top before handing it and a plain black lanyard to him, “Welcome to Super FamiKon!”
The convention, held across a series of buildings at the local university, covers virtually all genres. The printed schedule in his hand has a map and a list of programming tracks. Video and tabletop games are in building A, cosplay and autographs in building B, scifi and fantasy novels in building C and so on. There’s even a small hero programming track in building F, but as heroes sort of cross the line into real life rather than constructed, manufactured fantasy, they’re a minor presence in a multigenre con like this one.
A few people stop him as he walks, asking him to strike a pose for pictures, but with his current workload Midoriya Izuku didn’t have a lot of time to perfect this Shouto cosplay. Exactly four hours, to be honest; he’s had the contacts for a while, the wig he hastily wefted together at about 1AM this morning, and he hemmed the pants right before leaving. Not his best work by a longshot, but a job for Saturday had suddenly canceled, leaving him with an unplanned free day and an affordable convention a short train ride from home.
He misses college and all of the uninterrupted creative time, just him and his sewing machine and his hot knife and tons of apologies to his next door neighbors for the sounds and scents of his cosplay crafting. He misses filing notebooks with endless ideas and sketches and designs for just how he will make all of the accessories. He misses casting resin and sanding, so much sanding, and sleepless nights and dragging suitcases on the train and changing in convention center bathrooms. But now that he has the money to do more with his cosplay hobby, he doesn’t have nearly the time; employment is demanding and weekends are often more full than free.
Maybe he needs a muse, Izuku thinks, or a partner. Someone to sew and design for but who can go to the cons and compete and succeed under a group name. Someone who doesn’t mind the endless array of hero costumes that he’s skilled at making. Someone a little taller than him, with clean lines and broad shoulders and legs for days…
The line he’s in moves and Izuku hurries forward...right into the back of the person in front of him. “I’m sorry, so sorry!” he exclaims, hastening to bow. He stands up...and gasps.
Todoroki fucking Shouto is standing there.
Well, obviously not the real Todokori Shouto, but the best Shouto cosplayer Izuku has ever seen. He’s the exact height, his long hair perfectly split into red and white (omgomgomg it is his real hair and not a wig!) and tucked into a high ponytail on the back of his head showing off an undercut below. His costume is a throwback one from Shouto’s early sidekick days, the red/black/silver a rare instance where blue wasn’t a part of his ensemble. It’s fitted to him like a second skin, and Izuku’s fingers itch to check the stitches and touch the fabric. Shouto only wore this costume for about a week and retired it without explanation; Twitter speculated endlessly as to the why and what-for, eventually concluding that it was incompatible with his unique quirk and support items. Only the purest and most dedicated of Shouto fans would even know it existed, much less take the time to make it and wear it for public display.
“Marry me!” Izuku blurts out. The Shouto cosplayer’s eyes widen in confusion and it’s only then that Izuku’s real-time inner-theater playback repeats what he just said. “Oh god I didn’t mean that!” he stammers, flushing hot with embarrassment. “I just get a little excited and my mouth runs away and I just, your costume, your whole look, your hair, it’s stunning and it stands out and I might be just a little bordering on a lot jealous of how perfect you look, and I am oversharing but for some reason I can’t seem to stop the words and and and…”
“It’s fine.” He even sounds like the real Shouto, voice deeper than Izuku’s. “Thanks?” he says, what might be a nervous smile tugging one corner of his mouth.
“Okay okay, let me rewind a bit.” Deep breath, Izuku, he tells himself, start at the top like a normal, functioning adult. “What’s your IG? Twitter? TikTok? Are you in a group? Just looking at your costume you must be master class." The words keep coming, faster, running together in his haste to say them all before this amazing creature decides to walk away. "Do you have a photographer? Videographer? Can I take photos? How should I tag you in them? Do you have a card? I should have asked that first, my brain is everywhere today. There are almost no reference photos of this Shouto costume. How long did it take you to make? Do you have your concept sketches with you? I’d love to see them or your pattern work.” Izuku heaves, coming to the end of his usable oxygen, and gasps in a new breath, excitement pulsing in every scrap of his skin. It's too soon to know if this person is the muse he's longed for, but just sharing the same air as him strikes sparks and kindles creativity. He could fill up a sketchbook in no time just with ideas and variations, ways to showcase everything beautiful and masculine this cosplayer possesses. “Oh, I’m Midoriya Izuku. My socials are all dekucosplay, and, uh…” Izuku ruffles his hand against the back of his neck, only experience keeping him from dislodging his wig with nervous fidgeting. “Wow. I don’t even know what to say except you’re the best Shouto cosplayer I’ve ever seen. I follow all the Shouto tags and I’ve never seen your work before." His hands draw up into excited fists as he rocks forward and back, utterly sincere in his admiration. "I’d remember.”
“Oh. Uhm.” Izuku watches him chew his lower lip in thought and it’s cute, if cute’s the right word for someone standing roughly 187cm with shoulders for days. “Do I need to go in order? I’m not sure if I remember it all.” Perfect-Shouto-Cosplay huffs a little sigh, stirring those wispy bangs and, yeah, definitely cute . “I don’t have socials, or a photographer, but pictures are okay, I guess? No group, and I have no idea what master class is, this is my first convention. I’m...Tanaka Yukito, Yukito is fine.” Yukito looks down at his hands, tapping his fingers one by one as if counting his replies. “I didn’t make this myself. A...a friend did.”
“Shhhhh!” Izuku reaches up and claps a hand over Yukito’s mouth, pulling the taller man down to his eye level. “I don't think anyone heard,” he continues in a whisper, “but don’t ever admit you didn’t make something yourself. Rumors get started and reputations get ruined before people can even get serious about The Art. Not everyone competes, but you’ve got the looks where if you wanted to you’d go far.”
“The Art?” Yukito manages to mumble from behind Izuku’s hand.
"Cosplay ," Izuku intones, the word taking on an aura of reverent holiness. “Creating and wearing costumes to show your love of and passion for a particular character or show or book series or movie.”
Warm fingers curl against Izuku’s, pulling his hand away. "...is that different from…" Yukito gestures down at his (perfect) body, "...me playing dress-up?"
It’s so sincere that Izuku can’t help but laugh. “That’s one form of cosplay, it’s what most congoers do, and it’s absolutely valid and fun and open to everyone and that's where we all start out, let's be honest, but competing and making everything yourself...is a different animal.” How can this possibly be Yukito's first con? Is he just naturally blessed with Shouto resemblance and a hair-changing Quirk? Whoever made the costume has skills, but given time Izuku thinks he could do slightly better. It startles him to realize just how much he wants to costume this person, how inspired he suddenly feels.
“It sounds exhausting.”
“It is!” Izuku’s eyes light up and he grins, unable to believe he’s stumbled into such good fortune today. “But that’s also part of the fun, running on no sleep and conbini food trying to get everything just right and finish in time. And I, er, work well under pressure...once I stop overthinking how I’m going to do it and just do it.”
“I think I understand. Pressure...motivates you to do your best and give it your all. To...go beyond?” Yukito adds, deadpan.
“Plus ultra!” They both laugh and lean against the wall. Izuku can’t help but notice that even Yukito’s boots look accurate. “Your friend, they must be a pro, right?”
“Uh...yeah...something like that.” Yukito turns his head and once more Izuku simply marvels; this cosplayer has outdone himself with makeup to put on Shouto’s signature scar. Is it all shading or is that an actual appliance? Izuku wants to ask, to ramble on endlessly, but he reminds himself that this is Yukito’s first con and his own nature is to come on way too strong. “How about you?” Yukito’s face in profile is curious, the press of his lips together distracting. “Is...dekucosplay, was it? Is that your group?”
“Not really. It’s...just me.” Something about that sits a bit acidly in his mouth. Even at the height of his cosplay involvement, Izuku never found a regular group to belong with. Sure, he met up with a lot of the same people in photoshoots at cons, but...after the photographers move on to the next meetup they’re shooting, that tended to be that. He’s too excitable, too wordy, too needy to really fit in with most others in the current community. Views, likes, reblogs, and monetization aren’t that important to him; Izuku loves details and tiny accuracies and the sorts of things that don’t really show up in a polished, edited, IG-filtered shot.
“Is that bad?” Yukito is looking at him now, very seriously. “I don’t know anything about all of this, but...your face says I may have asked you the wrong thing...”
Izuku slaps his hands over said face, momentarily not caring if he smudges his own drawn-on scar. “No, it’s not bad, and you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just...awkward, and I get lost in my own thoughts and I talk a lot and I can’t shut up, and that makes people uncomfortable, even if I’m not directly talking to them, it’s really just me talking and organizing the things I’m thinking about, but it’s unspeakably rude and I’m drawing attention to myself and this is your first convention and oh now I’m totally ruining it for you and you’ll never want to cosplay again and I’m sorry, endlessly sorry and...yeah, awkward.”
“Hi Awkward, I’m Yukito.”
It’s so perfectly timed that Izuku can’t help but snort, cackling until he has tears in his eyes and his stomach hurts from laughing. “Did...did you just dad joke me?”
“Depends.” The corner of Yukito’s mouth definitely slants up, his blue eye almost sparkling. “Did it work?”
“Yeah…” Izuku laughs again, more relaxed, touched by the amount of kindness and humor Yukito was showing a complete stranger. “Sorry, I’m--”
“Awkward, I know. But that’s okay. Even when I’m not dressed up, I sort of am, too.” Yukito shifts from where he’s leaning against the wall to face Izuku head-on, the entire regard of his eyes laid upon him in full. “You seem to say a lot when you feel awkward, whereas I’m more of the ‘say nothing’ variety. A lot of times...I can’t think of anything to say or I don’t have the experience to speak about something, so I just don’t. People can take that as some sort of personal slight, though.”
Izuku nods, because in his heart of hearts he knows he probably would assume all the wrong things and he makes a mental resolution not to hold silence against anyone in the future if at all possible. The quiet people probably hold his default setting of ‘all words, all the time’ against him, come to think of it. “We’re all different, and yet we’re all the same, too,” Izuku muses. “Just human.”
“Just human,” Yukito agrees, both falling into a comfortable silence as they people watch. There are a few other hero cosplayers milling about, including a Lemillion who looks just amazing and a Mt Lady who can’t be more than 8 years old holding hands with a younger sibling sporting Miruko ears and paws. Yukito waves at the Miruko and she shoots him a wide grin with front teeth missing. He smiles back at her, Shouto-soft. Izuku feels his heart stutter, clutching one hand over the front of his costume as if he could contain it. It’s not a secret that Shouto is one of his favorites, perhaps the favorite of active heroes, and his brain is only too happy to conflate the real Shouto with the costumed one next to him in all the right-but-wrong ways.
“What did you mean by card?” Izuku makes a strangled, unattractive noise of surprise at the question, yanked out of his temporary mental paradise. “I’ve been replaying what you said,” Yukito continues, seemingly oblivious to Izuku’s side trip to fantasyland, “and I realized I didn’t ask you about it, sorry. You asked if I had a card?”
“Oh!!” Izuku digs in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a card case. He snaps it open and takes out a card, bowing slightly and offering it with both hands to Yukito in perfect meishi koukan style. “It’s good to meet you. I’m Midoriya Izuku of Dekucosplay.”
“Awkward,” he hears Yukito mutter under his breath, but hands reach out and accept the card, turning it over to study with all the seriousness and formality appropriate for a first-time business meeting. “Thank you for the card. Your name is Midoriya, I see. Please take care of me from now on.” He holds Izuku’s card, seemingly unsure what to do with it beyond the ritual introduction. “Is this another part of The Art?” he asks after a long pause.
“Ahaha, no, cosplay greetings really aren’t that formal, not like business ones. I panicked, I guess,” Izuku laughs nervously, not quite wanting to admit that the greeting is something he’s practiced in the mirror more times than he could count, if fate ever favored him and dropped the real Todoroki Shouto in his path, and the resemblance is strong enough that it overrode his programming and spit out the ‘meeting Shouto’ subroutine. But Yukito nods with sage understanding, as if somehow in his real life he, too, has defaulted without conscious thought into something stupid, and tucks the card away.
It might be his first convention and his first cosplay, but something about Yukito puts Izuku at ease, makes him feel understood. Feel seen. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one that gnaws at him deep inside with how new and precious it is, how he craves experiencing it beyond this fleeting moment. Growing up quirkless when quirks are everywhere and everything, wanting so badly to be a part of that circle which seems to include everyone but him…
Izuku has known for a long time that the closest he’ll get to being an actual hero is dressing up as one and posing for some pictures. Most days, he’s okay with that and it’s enough; kids know the real heroes are too busy working to appear at conventions and it means so much to be able to make them smile and laugh. Still, the longing never quite goes away, the urge to know and analyze and, yes, create what small things he can in the world of heroes. Maybe if he’d gotten serious about it sooner, he could have gone into the support division, making and designing costumes. He can only imagine what tools and materials are available to someone clothing a pro hero, hanging endlessly on any AMA put out by a designer or a fabricator. But the best of those are nevertheless people with quirks, people who can manipulate fabric or generate raw materials to order. People with skills and training and inborn raw talent. Not people with impossible dreams like his.
“Izuku?” Yukito’s voice is low and close to his ear and it makes him ache. “What is this line we’re in, by the way? I just saw some people standing here and joined them.”
Izuku stills, just for a moment. Then he beams at his newfound friend with something close to conspiratorial glee. “It’s the Heroes Trivia panel. You play in teams of two.”
By contrast, Yukito freezes solid. “Izuku, no.”
“Izuku, yes! Most of the prizes are kind of silly, but there’s a mint in box All Might Silver Age Limited Edition figure that was limited to TEN worldwide. I can’t let a chance like that slip by.” He starts to bounce with excited, nervous energy, converting it instantly into an avalanche of words. “Don’t worry, I’ve got lots of experience at these. They’re really fun, especially with a good host. Three years ago, the con MC ran this, and he’s so Insta-famous for his Present Mic cosplay, I’m about 90% sure it’s his real hair, but I used to think that about the #1 Froppy cosplayer and, wow, was that embarrassing when I asked them, but they were so nice about it and I wished I’d taken them up on that offer to get together and weft but that’s a really odd thing to slide into someone’s DMs over, but it is cosplay after all, but then I think I waited too long and thought about it when I should have been doing it and the moment passed and--”
The faint tremble of Yukito’s laminated con badge and the Sharpie writing on it derail the train of word vomit and Izuku double-takes so hard he feels his brain slosh against his skull with concussive force. He grabs for the badge, ignoring Yukito’s “Are you all right?”, and reads the alias written there again. His eyes shimmer and mist as he looks up at Yukito with awe bordering on worship.
"You know about 5peepeeman." Izuku’s voice is a rapturous whisper and he seizes both of Yukito’s larger hands in his. “We are so going to win.”
They do.
It’s a crushing defeat of all challengers; Izuku knows he chose his partner well, even if Yukito seemed overly self-conscious about his own knowledge of things Shouto and Endeavor and Creati, among others. No sooner does Izuku have his rare prize cradled in his arms like a baby (inside a hard plastic protective case, because it is one of only ten in the world) than he’s leading Yukito all over the convention, showing him everything SuperFamiKon has to offer. They spend about an hour in an academic discussion panel about gender roles in science fiction, watch a few trailers and an anime episode in the video rooms, join a casual MarioKart contest in the gaming ballroom (they lose spectacularly because they’re laughing too hard), grab some food from the closest conbini and eat on a bench between buildings E and F. They take stupid pictures in dumb poses (and a few in hero poses because Izuku wants this rare costume immortalized for posterity) and inspect all the merchandise in the vendor hall and artist alley.
Yukito remains somewhat reticent throughout their adventures, but as the hours pass Izuku learns he’s both observant and oblivious and has a wicked, subtle sense of humor. He also seems to use his phone less than anyone else Izuku knows. They stay the entire day until the convention shuts down and are among the last to leave, neither one of them making a move towards the train station and going their separate ways. Almost...afraid to break the spell.
“Well, I--” Izuku says at the same time Yukito leads with “uh, and--”. The latter makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture, the faint breeze sifting through his hair. “Do you like karaoke? There’s a good place nearby and costumes aren’t considered weird there.” It’s a stupid, pathetic idea, but Izuku just doesn’t want the day to end.
“I hate it,” Yukito replies with the tiniest smile. “Lead the way.”
The aforementioned karaoke place is about eight blocks away from campus and takes up the fifth floor. The girl at the desk welcomes them, asks to see their con badges for the SuperFamiKon discount, and giggles at Yukito’s written alias. She takes their order for some snacks and drinks, setting up their tab for the night. “There are a lot of other cosplayers winding down in the suites,” she says, leading them down the hallway, turning left twice, and opening the door to suite 15. “The building here is older, but all of the equipment is new. When you want to order more food or alcohol, please use the touchscreen and it will be delivered right to your suite. Happy singing, Shouto-twins!”
Their suite is about two down from the corner, with a television monitor mounted high on the wall at one end and some low couches facing a table in the center. The touchscreen to select songs sits there, with an option in the menu to get food and drink. They haven’t even settled in to scan songs when someone knocks on their door, bringing in a tray of edamame and gyoza and several bottled beers.
“Wow, that was fast!” Izuku says, rushing to hold the door for her.
“There are some big groups ordering lots tonight, so we managed to get ahead and already had the gyoza ready.” The server bows slightly, unloading the tray on their table. “If you want more than this I’d order soon before the buff sailor senshi get their order in.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I know some of those guys, and, yeah, they eat like sumo.” He shuts the door, shaking his head and chuckling softly as he walks back to the table; he’s never envied their notoriety or their cosplay choices, but wouldn’t it be nice to be as tall or as ripped as any one of them? Just for a day or two? Long enough to do an amazingly accurate All Might silver age cosplay….
Yukito, with a gyoza pinched in a set of chopsticks, looks up at Izuku with what might be the most adorably puzzled expression ever. “What are sailor senshi and why are they buff?”
Izuku snaps out of his All Might daze and gapes in shock. “Seriously? You've never heard of Sailormoon?” Is that even possible??
“Cut me some slack, I was homeschooled. My father didn’t approve of ‘distractions’ like anime and fun.” Yukito stuffs the gyoza entirely into his mouth, a near pout settling across his features as he chews.
“Wow. I’ve never known anyone who was homeschooled.” It’s exceptionally rare in Japan, with conformity and social obligation instilled in its citizens from birth. School is where children learn about responsibility and community and cooperation. Even when it involved bullies and teasing, Izuku can't imagine never having gone to school. “Usually that’s only allowed for children with special needs or...uhm…”
“Pathetic shut-ins who can’t or won’t function in regular society?” Izuku chokes on the edamame he was eating, coughing and heaving for breath as Yukito smirks. “I think you just called me a hikikomori .”
“No!” Izuku wheezes, trying to stop inhaling soybeans. “I...totally didn’t….” He coughs harder, swilling down some of his Asahi. “You don’t have to be so direct, Yukito,” he protests weakly.
“But then I wouldn’t catch you off guard like that. It's my only shot at keeping up with you.” Yukito shrugs, still grinning, his long hair spilling its way over one shoulder as he picks up a beer, twisting the cap off in a fluid motion. He drinks and Izuku watches the mesmerizing bob of his throat as he swallows “I'm pretty sure the reason I hate karaoke is I don’t know a lot of songs. See above about growing up with a controlling paternal figure." He isn't embarrassed, just straightforward and matter-of-fact about it all, which has curiosity burning a hole in Izuku's throat. "I’ve been with people from work a couple times, but that was mainly to drink if I’m honest.” He gestures with the bottle and takes a long pull from it.
“I do think they have enka if that's more your speed…” Izuku taps the screen to scroll through songs, snickering as Yukito rolls his eyes and drinks more. A lot of idol groups of all varieties, not much chance Yukito would know those. Anime themes are probably out, too. “Well, I’ll go first, and then we can find something for you.” He toggles over to the English songs, so thankful to live in the era of digital karaoke rather than laserdiscs or video CDs. “Oh, I’ll start with this one! It’s my mom’s favorite, so she’d sing it every time we did karaoke.”
“You do karaoke with your mom?” Those words sound nothing like all the times Izuku has heard them before; instead of the usual derision they’re soft with wonder and curiosity. He looks up from the screen and the room’s colored lights have turned the white half of Yukito’s hair a soft blue, his lighter eye almost glowing. “I didn’t know it could be something for families. I’ve only experienced it with drunk salarymen blowing off steam.”
“Well, my mom is the only person guaranteed not to laugh at my bad singing.” Izuku picks up one of the mics, making sure it’s on as he taps to start the song. “You need to get out more, Tanaka Yukito.”
The video screen flashes the countdown as Yukito whispers something which sounds like “yeah...maybe I do.”
Several hours and change later, what kicked off with Izuku’s passionate, energetic rendition of the Spice Girls ‘Wannabe’ has gotten far crazier and far drunker. Yukito winds up knowing more songs than he thought if Izuku pulls the original up on his phone, and the culmination of the night is an on-the-table duet of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ complete with headbanging.
“You…” Yukito heaves when it’s over, mic loosely gripped in his hand, tall body spent and flopped on one of the couches. “You actually went for the high note.”
“I could tell you wouldn’t. Ow!” Izuku protests as Yukito throws a bottle cap at his forehead. “Can I help it if I was born a tenor?”
“Guess not.” They both lay there in an alcohol and post-adrenaline haze, colored lights and disco ball twinkling through their small space, simply letting their hearts pound and their breaths normalize. “Izuku?” Yukito muses into the quiet, waiting until Izuku hums in reply. “I think I may have lied earlier.” Izuku shifts to sit, watching Yukito stare up at the ceiling, the play of light and shadow across his face almost hypnotic. “I don’t hate karaoke...if it’s with you.”
“Yukito..." Suddenly the man who always has everything to say, always too much and all at once, can't form more than a single word. Forget being seen - that simple sentence has Izuku feeling wanted. Enjoyed. Significant. Fondness is a fierce and sudden bloom in his chest, aching to burst forth in a fountain of tears, an avalanche of words. How could he possibly verbalize anything capable of conveying the incandescent joy of time spent with him being valued by someone else?
"Oh fuck."
Yukito jerks upright, on his feet almost faster than Izuku's eyes can follow and hands balled into fists as though expecting some sort of heinous attack. "No, no, sorry, I didn't mean that, it's just..." Izuku points, flailing, at the digital clock on one wall of the suite. "The last trains from this station leave in exactly twelve minutes." If they don't make it, they'll be stuck in the area unless they take a cab, which is stupidly expensive even for a short trip.
Some but not all of the tension leaves Yukito's body. "I'm on it. Get your stuff, I'll pay. Meet me at the reception desk."
"You don't have to--"
"Do it," Yukito barks with the sort of full command that expects and demands obedience. He's out the door before Izuku can protest again, fast footfalls heading down the corridor. Izuku wastes no time in gathering up his shopping bags and the precious All-Might figure, putting the empty bottles in the recycle bin and the trash in the other. He sprints to the desk, arriving just as Yukito accepts a few coins in change. "Did you get everything?" he asks, his clipped tone slightly softer than before. Izuku nods and Yukito takes the lead down the stairs. "We have nine minutes. I'm on the westbound. You?"
"Eastbound." They hit the street at a brisk pace, navigating deftly around those milling in the bar district. Music and celebration waft out of the various izakaya they pass, some of these revelers only beginning their evening out and others hip-deep in alcohol and companionship. Izuku's head swims a little from all the beer and the speed with which Yukito leads them towards the train station. Absently, he fumbles his train pass out of his pocket, the green glowing signage at the distant end of the street a beacon as his feet pound in time with the frantic pace of his heart.
I don't hate karaoke...if it's with you.
Izuku thinks he could live inside the warmth of that moment forever, cherishing the catch in his chest and the rainfall of colored lights over Yukito's perfect face. It's something extraordinary in the life of someone who has always been so very ordinary and plain and forgettable, and it's a little frightening just how much he yearns for more of these moments to sculpt into...something, something he can't quite see but can certainly feel.
"Scan your pass, Izuku." Reaching back across the barrier, Yukito's hand closes around his wrist, bringing the card over the sensor to grant Izuku admission. They hurry down the escalator to the platform, only about a dozen others milling there, mostly college and post-college young people this close to the university. Their costumes get a couple curious glances and shrugs before they're forgotten, relegated to background noise. Izuku...doesn't want to be background noise anymore, doesn't want to linger in relative anonymity. He's had a tiny taste of the starring role and it's addictive. Yukito is addictive, and funny and dense and in his own way just as awkward as Izuku. The other part of that nebulous something he's feeling.
"Are you sure you're okay to get home?" Yukito leans down, voice low and disquiet creasing the space between his red and white eyebrows while he peers at Izuku. "I could ride eastbound with you and then take a taxi home afterwards."
That won't do. Creases don't belong on a face this pretty, he thinks, shaking his head. Izuku's thumb ghosts over the drawn spot, whispering until the valley relaxes. "I'll be fine. I don't want to keep you." It tries to form again, concern crushing in its desire to frown, but Izuku strokes, soothes, stretches the time they have left as far as it can possibly go. "Seriously. I have been way drunker and way less okay in my life."
"If you're sure." The light tune indicating the arrival of the eastbound train and the recorded warning to stand behind the line interrupts any other words from Yukito. He moves to step back and let Izuku queue up at an entry, but before his beer-soaked brain has time to negate the impulse Izuku collides against the warm expanse of Yukito's chest, one arm snugged around his waist and squeezing tight.
"Thank you," Izuku whispers as the doors hiss open. "Today was amazing." He draws a deep breath of the other man's scent, hoping to memorize it for all eternity, before letting go and hurrying onto the train car. He turns around, the anemic light turning the white half of his wig a creamy yellow color, and waves, sleepy intoxicated joy stretching his mouth into a broad smile. Bubbles of delight nearly choke him when Yukito also lifts his hand, unsure but sincere, and waves back. The doors close, Izuku somehow holding his balance as the train lurches into motion. Something in his chest burns watching Yukito watch him, his hand still up, until there's no way to see the platform any more.
Exhaling deeply, Izuku sinks into an empty row in his empty car, clapping one hand over his mouth so he doesn't squeal aloud. He just hugged someone else, someone he met only today. Who even does that? He doesn't think Yukito was bothered by it, but he could just be projecting or trying to make himself feel better about such a social breach. Touching like that isn't normal, it's more for intimates - not necessarily sexual but intimacy reserved only for one's closest friends.
It's just...my body moved before I could think about it.
"It's okay," Izuku says to himself, patting his cheeks with both hands. "I'll just apologize the next time I see him. He already knows I'm awkward, so maybe he'll forgive...me...for..."
"Oh fuck."
Nowhere in the entire day did Izuku get Yukito's number or mail. He doesn't have socials. Musutafu is a suburb of Tokyo but Tokyo alone has at least 39 million people. There is no way in all the probabilities known to all the humans that he could ever hope to find him. He doesn't know how Yukito writes his name. Tanaka is one of the most common surnames in Japan.
He doesn't have any idea what he looks like when he's not dressed as Shouto.
"I'm so stupid," Izuku sighs, slumping in his seat and eyes stinging. The rocking motion of the train jars a few tears loose, fighting their wet way down the slope of his face as he tries to process the jumble of emotions rattling inside him. Elation crumpling into disappointment. It's frustrating and it hurts, but mostly he just feels...futile. So close. He was so close to having what he longed for. A muse or convention partner, sure, but mostly...just an actual friend. Someone who enjoyed spending time with him. Who laughed at his dumb jokes and didn't laugh at his singing. He rubs the spot on his forehead where Yukito had thrown the bottle cap at him. Not that it had really hurt, but he'd take a thousand bottle caps a day, every day, if it meant he had another chance to do that one thing over, to ask Yukito for his number. He wouldn't change anything else about today, even if he had some time-rewinding Quirk.
The priceless All-Might figure grins out at him from inside its protective shell, swooping bunny-bangs and exuberant confidence nearly speaking aloud, pressing plastic wisdom directly into Izuku's buzzed brain and achy heart. Even when things do not go your way, always be grateful, young Midoriya. A hero would not mourn when there are good memories gained.
"You're right," Izuku whispers, as if it's completely normal to be answering a figure of his idol. "I'm missing the point. If this one day is all I get, I'm just going to have to hold this memory close and never forget anything about it." A weak smile inches his mouth up. "And be grateful that I met Tanaka Yukito at all."
“Coming, coming.” By far, one of the biggest adjustments to adult hero life for Yaoyorozu Momo has been doing simple, daily things for herself. Such as answering the door. Just after midnight. Kyouka is on duty for another hour, and most anyone else from the agency would have called first unless they were hurt and needed help. Throwing on a thick, fluffy robe over her pajamas, she pads through the large apartment and unlocks the door. "Shouto?!?"
Her erstwhile on leave best friend stands there, inebriated, arms shyly folded across his chest and looking strangely small, wearing a costume he hasn’t worn in years with something close to panic in his mismatched eyes. "Help?" he whispers. "I missed the last train and…."
Without hesitating, Momo pulls him inside and into the hug she can tell he needs.