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Shouto has learned, over the years, the importance of history. Knows it instinctively, reflexively, the same way he knows to flinch every time his father enters the room. History, after all, gets layered like ugly wallpaper, bad decision after bad decision, poorly hidden yet ignored all the same.
History repeats itself, and disguises itself as change. History is cyclic. History is violent.
He wonders sometimes, when his fear turned into knowledge. When he began cataloguing his father’s blows into a database for future reference, when the only way he could stay alive was perfected dissociation.
“Hey, dude—”
History is stuffed into the cracks of the asphalt and Shouto finds himself tripping over it, his face alarmingly close to the grey sidewalk before a hand latches onto the back of his jacket and pulls him up.
“Woah, man, you were zoning out pretty bad there. You good?” Kaminari asks him.
The unfortunate side effect of perfecting a dissociative state as a coping mechanism: it bleeds through. Shouto will never be able to separate himself from his trauma, it seems, much the way he will never be able to know a metaphor other than history. History, the annals of time, the analyzing of words and actions until a pattern emerges. The inevitability of it.
“Yes,” he replies as they straighten up, continue down the walkway. “Just tired.”
Kaminari hums a sympathetic noise. “Professor Aizawa is brutal, isn’t he? How late were you up working on that paper?”
Shouto winces. “More like how early.”
“Yikes. Momo was telling me about it and even she was struggling.” They reach Shouto’s building first, worn brick imbued with the imposing air of academia. History is lodged here, too, within the echoing hallways, the dusty classrooms.
“See ya, Todoroki!” Kaminari waves as he walks backward, steps light and smile loose, down the street to the engineering building.
Shouto pushes open the door to the classroom, slides into a seat next to Momo just as Dr. Aizawa walks in through the door.
“Your papers should be turned in by now,” he begins without preamble. “Today we’ll be moving onto the causes and treatment of cultural and societal-induced trauma throughout history.”
HIST/PSYC 342, Madness and Civilization, a class Shouto took with Momo only because it offered him joint credit for his major and a gen ed. A decision, he realized within the first week of the semester, he was going to sorely regret. Not that the class was bad, per se, but—
“You’ll be working on a partner project—” The class bursts into conversation. “—and I will be assigning the partners.”
Everyone explodes. “What? We’re adults—” “You can’t!” “I’m 20 years old!” “I didn’t leave high school for this bullshit—” Aizawa stands at the front of the classroom, looking vaguely pleased with himself. Some of the stuff he pulls makes Shouto think he’d be better equipped teaching teenagers.
“All right, all right. Calm down. Partner assignments are already made.”
“I wonder how he picked them,” Momo muses as she pulls out a notebook. “A random generator?”
“If he’s going through the trouble, I’d assume there’s reasoning behind it,” comes Midoriya’s voice from the table behind them. Shouto turns, slightly, to get a better view of his face. This, too: another reason for regret. Midoriya is thoroughly distracting, completely unaccountable. Shouto never factored him in as a variable to be analyzed, doesn’t think he can, in all his unending contradictions. Sharp-witted and talkative; shy and meek. An anomaly written out of history books.
“You’re right, Midoriya-san, he would. Maybe he’s partnering us based on who he thinks we don’t get along with.”
“He’d be right about it, too,” Midoriya grumbles.
Everything about him is confusing. Shouto can’t even remember becoming friends with him. Just that he sat down behind Momo and Shouto one month ago, at the beginning of the semester, and now he talks to them as if they’ve known each other for years.
“Partner list will be posted outside my office in the evening,” Aizawa says, and begins class.
“Todoroki-kun!”
Shouto pauses at the top of the stairs, turns so half his body is wreathed in sunlight and the other half in shadow. Midoriya bounds through the door. “I just looked at the partner list—I had a feeling it would already be up, sometimes I don’t know why Dr. Aizawa does these things—anyway, sorry, the point is—” Midoriya steps so he’s out of the shade of the portico, dark hair warm like honey, freckles on sun-kissed skin. “—we’re partners! I’m glad, though it makes me wonder what criteria he used to pick. I was so sure he’d do what Yaoyorozu said.”
Shouto hums as they walk down the stairs. “Who were the other partners?”
“Oh, well,” Midoriya startles. Inexplicably, his cheeks start to color. Shouto watches the blush spread up his ears, watches it swallow his freckles. “Momo was with Jirou. And, uh, Hagakure with Ojiro. I don’t really know the rest of the students that well, so…”
“Odd. That just sounds like partners we’d pick ourselves,” Shouto muses.
Midoriya smiles. “You’d pick me, Todoroki-kun?”
He has a disarming smile, Shouto thinks. A quieting smile.
“Yes,” he says, a beat too late but easily all the same. “Wouldn’t you?”
Midoriya flushes again—another one of his contradictions, easy confidence, mercurial in a way that’d make it impossible to predict. Nervous laugh, hands tucking hair behind ears. Shouto reins in the urge to put his own hands over Midoriya’s.
“Anyway, uh, what do you have next?”
“I have an hour before my next class.”
“Cool, me too! Do you want to grab some food and go over the project?” Midoriya asks, bright until worry overtakes him. “I mean, unless—”
“No,” Shouto interrupts, then backtracks at the look on Midoriya’s face. “I mean, no need for unless.” He takes a breath. “I’d love to.”
Midoriya’s smile, this time, is loud where the other was quiet, and disarming all the same.
∷
Spring. Cold breeze, melting snow. Quiet, in the gardens, surrounded by green-yellow grass, pale pink buds. A reprieve from the oppressive air of the house, his brother’s history books spread on the wet grass, pages fluttering in the wind.
“Look, Shouto.” Touya points to a picture, a painting of a tall man with dark hair and a proud look on his face. He laughs, sharp and mean— a joke shared with only himself, at the expense of the world. “It looks like dad, doesn’t it?”
Shouto nods. He is only seven years old but he sees his father’s anger in the set of that man’s mouth, sees his pride in those dark eyes that look like an oil spill. He has learned, already, to look.
“Shouto.” Suddenly Touya is facing him, gripping his shoulders so hard it hurts; for a split second he feels his father’s hands around him and fear spills through his body like a flood— but then the grip loosens and Shouto sees Touya’s face again, scared and angry, in front of his own. “Listen to me. Don’t forget what I’m about to tell you.”
Shouto nods and Touya’s hands slide down to circle his wrists. There’s a frantic light behind his eyes that Shouto’s never seen before.
“History repeats itself, Shouto. You saw that picture, didn’t you?”
Shouto nods, again, though he doesn’t quite understand.
“People don’t change. They can’t. Open a history book and you’ll see for yourself. You did see for yourself.” Touya lets him go, rocks back onto his heels. “Do you understand, Shouto? Dad will never, ever change.” A million words, unspoken, in the way Touya looks at Shouto. “Don’t ever believe him.”
∷
Something shatters that August night when Fuyumi moves out.
Their father isn’t home, yet; the moving truck idles on the driveway and Fuyumi stands, blanketed in the summer heat, impossibly far away. Crickets chirp and the stars swim endless above their heads and Shouto tries not to feel like a betrayal is taking place. Tries to look everywhere but at the sheen coating Fuyumi’s eyes, tears moments away from spilling.
“Shouto,” she breathes out. “The offer is always on the table, okay?” She walks forward, hands gentle around his arms. Her hair glows under the night sky. “Promise me— promise me that you’ll think about it.”
Within every word there is an undercurrent of guilt; Shouto hears it in the shudder of her voice, feels it in the fingers that curl around his arms. He wishes he could say— something. Anything, to mollify her. He’s not angry, not really, not at her. Even at thirteen he understands that it was never any of their faults. None of them deserved the guilt that they harbored.
Still, Fuyumi looks seconds from kidnapping Shouto herself.
“I promise,” is all he can say, in the end. Inadequate, as always.
The horn honks, shattering the still quiet of the night. The fragile air between them breaks and suddenly Fuyumi is smothering him, hugging him harder than she’s ever hugged him in his life. He breathes in her scent, burrows his face into the crook of her neck. Exhales, allows himself to feel the tightness in his chest, the burn behind his eyes for just a moment before pulling up the walls again. He wishes he could live in that one moment forever— Fuyumi’s hair brushing against his cheek, her arms unfaltering around him, the house behind them, empty of their father’s presence. His chest feels like a cavern and there isn’t enough oxygen in the world to fill it.
Watching the moving truck drive away, Shouto thinks that the betrayal wasn’t directed toward Fuyumi for leaving him. Nothing as petty as that—they understand each other, after all, understand the necessity of such a thing—no, it was a sense of betrayal against himself. If only he’d run. If only he’d listened. Instead, he’s resigned himself to five more years of this hell. His ribs ache just thinking about it, phantom pains lighting up across his body.
Half a decade, he thinks turning back to the house. He might not even live to see the end of it. The thought brings him bitter, acerbic satisfaction. For a fleeting moment, he thinks he understands Touya, after all.
Stepping into the foyer of the house, he feels a chill settle over his body. He’s the last one left, he realizes belatedly. Touya, gone; Natsuo, abroad; and now Fuyumi, heading to her own apartment in the city. They’ve left Shouto behind, in this house that feels too big for itself, in a body that’s never been his.
In the kitchen, he goes through the motions of making himself tea. Has to stop himself from pulling out two cups, measures out half the amount of water. It’s not the silence that’s oppressive, he finds; it’s the absence. Their absence is tangible in the air around him, the room like a balloon about to burst.
The kettle whistles, startling Shouto out of his own head. He pours the water into his cup, and hears the front door open.
His hand jolts; hot water spills onto the counter. Fear courses through his veins, a feeling so routine it almost doesn’t register.
Then he hears his father’s footsteps against the tatami floor. His frame fills up the doorway.
“She finally left, huh?”
The worst thing, Shouto thinks, is that his father doesn’t drink. He remembers, last year, sorting through Touya’s old books. There were the textbooks Shouto remembered from when he was young, but there were also plenty of biographies Touya had never shown them. Most of them were of people he’d never heard of, the covers cracked, the pages worn and dusty. As Shouto read through them, though, he could imagine the fierce scowl twisting Touya’s features as he read through the same words.
He only hit me when he was drunk.
I’d have to be careful around his third or fourth bottle.
Alcohol seemed to turn on a switch inside of him; or, maybe it was the opposite, a primal off-switch that turned off his humanity and brought out only the animal instinct.
“Too bad she didn’t take you with her.” His back collides with the edge of the countertop; his breath cuts sharp and ragged in the too-small kitchen. No, his father doesn’t need alcohol to turn off any switch inside of him. He wonders if Touya picked out those books for the irony of it, wonders if people like him will always fall through the cracks of history, never to be accounted for.
His back burns from where it hit the counter. His father is speaking but he can’t make out the words; he doesn’t have to, knows that it’s some iteration of worthless disappointment it always is.
My shoulder, next, he thinks.
His right shoulder explodes in pain. It never helps, the predictions, the bracing of himself. He can never seem to stop, either way.
His father’s footsteps recede and Shouto realizes, suddenly, that he’s kneeling on the floor. Blinking, he notices shards of ceramic littering the floor, water dripping steadily from the counter onto the tile in front of him. He can’t remember that happening.
He splays his fingers against the kitchen floor, feels the cold seeping into his skin. Takes measured breaths, feels the way his lungs constrict in pain at every exhale.
Hears, distantly, the rumble of cars. Lives that exist separate from his own. Bodies, that exist. Autonomous.
This body has never been his. It has always belonged to his father.
∷
“Shouto,” Momo huffs out, exasperated. “I mean this in the most inoffensive way possible, but— where would you be without me?”
Despite himself, Shouto smiles. “Living with my sister, probably.”
Momo looks stunning tonight, as she always does— deep red dress, trailing behind her; dark hair curled over her shoulders. Despite her insecurities, she glows at these sorts of things, the politeness and social cues coming to her like second nature.
Shouto, on the other hand—
“I know you hate these things, but you can’t just pretend you don’t know Japanese when someone asks you a question about your father!”
“Actually, I can— it’s rather easy, actually.”
Maybe it’s the fact that he saw Fuyumi today for the first time in months; maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t seen his father in three days; maybe it’s the way the stars looked close enough to touch as he stood on his driveway, waiting for Momo’s car to pick him up earlier in the evening.
Or maybe it’s none of those things, maybe it’s Shouto being fifteen and being quietly aware of his drifting loneliness, resigned to his fate, homeless in the mansion of the second-most popular politician in the country.
Whatever it is, the light sparkles off of the silverware brighter than he ever remembers it, and Shouto feels nearly invincible.
“Maybe I should go back and apologize on your behalf for rudely whisking me away,” Shouto muses. “And then ask him his thoughts on the dismantling of the constitutional monarchy.”
Momo blanches. “Though I agree that you don’t have much to lose— don’t look at me like that, you know I’m right—I think it would be in your best interest to not do that.”
“No, you’re right; I don’t have much to lose.”
“Shouto, no—”
Momo’s laugh is breathless, contradicting; in this moment Shouto feels as close to being an actual fifteen year-old as he’ll probably ever feel. Talking, laughing with a friend, not a care in the world.
A woman comes over, then, taps Momo on the shoulder and whisks her away with talk of networking and high school internships. Shouto watches Momo transform, dazzling in her element, all bright smiles and sturdy handshakes and enthusiastic nods. She really is a natural.
She throws a final glare towards Shouto over her shoulder, somehow a cross between don’t you dare and please help me, before she disappears into the crowd.
Shouto smiles to himself. Momo had been joking earlier, but she was right. He had no idea where he’d be without her. Like all good friendships, theirs had been born out of spite— at least, on Shouto’s part. Her mother and Shouto’s father were divided on political issues Shouto didn’t care to keep track of; all he remembers is being ten years old, at a charity fête much like this one, locking eyes with the daughter of his father’s rival. Momo, on her part, was as kind then as she is now, if not more withdrawn. Their friendship, to an outsider, must have been stilted and awkward, but to them their silences evolved into their own language. Momo’s initial hesitation melted away as Shouto’s own facade cracked when he was around her.
She used to be intimidated by him, Shouto recalls. His face, probably cold and indifferent to her at first, almost scared her away.
And— still does scare people away. He walks along the edge of the room, almost clinging to the crimson drapes that line the windows. People give him a wide berth. He will be getting no networking opportunities or high school internships; in a way, he has already failed his father, by virtue of being his son.
Enji would balk at the irony, and the thought brings a smile to Shouto’s face.
Almost as if the mere act of thinking about him acts as a summons, his father steps into the doorway, promptly blocking any means of exit Shouto had hoped for. His eyes land on Shouto the moment he walks in, and his buoyed mood from earlier sinks. Primal fear sets in.
Shouto does not understand the facial expression his father is making as he walks towards him. Loose smile, easy gait, but—
His eyes are so, so dark.
Shouto stares back, impassive. There are two men trailing him, he notices, dark suits and red ties, greed etched into the lines of their faces.
“Shouto, my son!” His voice booms across the room, commanding and larger-than-life. People around them stop their chatter and turn to look at them, respect and expectancy lighting up their eyes. He hopes Momo isn’t watching.
“Father,” he responds. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
He laughs, throwing an arm around Shouto’s shoulders. “Meeting ended early, fortunately. Besides, I’m sure you missed me.” More good-natured laughing. “Hayashi, Ikeda,” he says, addressing the men behind him. “This is the son I was telling you about.”
Greasy-haired douchebag #1 steps up, puts out his hand. “Very good to meet you, Todoroki Shouto-kun. This is our first meeting, yes?”
Shouto takes the hand and nods, dreading where this interaction was going.
“Yes, yes,” greasy-haired douchebag #2 says. “We’ve met the other two.”
Douchebag #1 furrows his eyebrows. “I thought there were four?”
Shouto’s blood runs cold.
His father’s booming laugh cuts them off. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, gentlemen,” he says, voice flippant. Grin loose. “I have two sons and one daughter, though I’m afraid Natsuo is abroad and Fuyumi got held up with work— anyway, come, let me introduce you to the mayor, I’m sure he has some wonderful insight that would interest you—” He is already leading them away, Hayashi and Ikeda with matching bemused expressions of their faces. With a jolt, Shouto realizes his father is afraid, afraid of him saying something that would shatter the precarious illusion he had built.
Shouto has not heard Touya’s voice in seven years but he imagines it now, anyway. Don’t be so fucking spineless, Shouto. Tell them what happened. Tell them why I’m rotting in a casket six feet under the ground.
He doesn’t, of course. He stands, frozen, watching as his father disappears into the crowd. Anger thrums underneath his ribcage, at his father, at himself— but over it, a cool blanket of resignation. Touya was right, as always. People don’t change. Not his father, whose greed and dirty pride eats him from the inside out; nor him, whose fate will never be his own.
He tamps down shame with acceptance. History is cyclic; this, he knows. The chains that bind his throat are padlocked and only his father holds the key. The most he can hope for is that he doesn’t bind them tighter.
The stars that seemed so close to him earlier are now impossibly far away. Their light will never reach him.
∷
History, in the curl of Midoriya’s hair, the electric green of his eyes. Electric, electrifying. Mind-numbing. Disarming, like his smile.
The quiet chatter of the noodle shop is comforting, grounding. He curls his fingers around his chopsticks and feels more aware of himself than he has in a long time. The rough wood under his skin, cold soba noodles against his tongue. Midoriya, in front of him, aglow with boundless energy.
They’d talked about the project— or, more accurately, Midoriya talked about it, and with each subsequent mention of the word trauma Shouto felt something sink deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. It was all he could do to nod along, add his own thoughts when appropriate, but he felt unhinged. He’d been doing so well, too, at first, but then Midoriya said something unnecessarily convoluted like patriarchal societies perpetuate and normalize abuse creating long-lasting trauma that spans generations and suddenly Shouto was standing at the front door of his father’s house; hiding on the patio in the garden; clutching his mother’s skirt as he hid behind her leg.
He had tried focusing, instead, on the sound of Midoriya’s voice, the rhythmic cadence of the words he spoke rather than their meaning. He’d have to figure this out before they actually started working on the project; he knows, but for now the conversation has shifted into safer territory, and Shouto allows himself this small reprieve.
Midoriya’s talking about his major—biochem, pre-med track. “My roommate is pre-med, too, though her motivations are a little different than mine.” He fiddles with his spoon, with his hair. “My dad died— cancer, before I was even born, but I still remember my mother telling me about it for the first time. She looked so— helpless, you know? And it made me feel helpless. I hated it. I didn’t want anyone to feel like that ever again.” The light in his eyes is so, so sharp. A memory, unbidden, at the forefront of Shouto’s mind: spring, cold breeze. Melting snow. Green-yellow grass.
“That’s a rather lofty goal,” he replies. “And a noble one.” Then, he has to remind himself to add, “I’m sorry about your father.”
Midoriya smiles, kind. “Don’t be. I didn’t know him— my mother was enough.” His smile turns sheepish. “And, yeah, ha.” He scratches the back of his head. “It’s definitely…aspirational. I was pretty young when my mom told me, so for a while whenever a teacher asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up I’d always answer, I want to save everyone.” He huffs out a laugh, but his eyes are fond.
“Anyway! What about you, Todoroki-kun? Why history?”
When Shouto looks at Midoriya he sees every version of himself that he will never, ever be. When Shouto looks at Midoriya he sees pages of history, paragraphs upon paragraphs of the hero who triumphs on the battlefield. When Shouto looks at Midoriya— he thinks of the last spring. Cold breeze, melting snow. Green-yellow grass and pale pink buds. He thinks, if Midoriya met Touya, stops.
“When I was eight,” Shouto starts. “My brother killed himself.”
Shouto watches himself speak like he’s watching a stranger; the words fall and Midoriya’s smile morphs into surprise, then horror, then guilt.
Really, in hindsight, Shouto should’ve taken one look at the course description and known to stay away.
Before Midoriya can say anything, Shouto plunders on. “Before, though, he used to read to me. From old history books, because they were all we had.” The ground under his feet. I am still here. “It’s all I know.”
A dozen expressions flit across Midoriya’s face, too fast to catch. Then—
“I’m sure your brother would be proud of you, Todoroki.”
Shouto’s breath catches. No he wouldn’t, a voice inside his head says. He’d be ashamed.
Shut up, Shouto thinks back.
“Thank you, Midoriya,” Shouto breathes out. It feels enormously inadequate.
Midoriya looks like he has a thousand things he still wants to say, earnest consternation written across his features— another contradiction, Shouto notes. He looks hesitant, too, like he has something to say but doesn’t know whether it’s his place to say it.
From what Shouto knows about Midoriya, though, he’ll spit it out anyway.
“What is it,” Shouto asks, not unkindly.
Midoriya fidgets for a little longer, debating whatever he’s about to say in his head. Shouto waits, patient.
When Midoriya speaks, it’s as if the words burst out of him, of their own accord. “I’ll be honest, when you say they were all we had I don’t really know what you mean and I get the feeling there’s a lot you’re not telling me but it’s not my place to force you to tell me anything you don’t want to and obviously I don’t know everything that’s going on in your head—” He says all of this in one breath, then stops, like he’d hit a barrier.
“But it’s not your fault.” He gets a sudden intense look in his eyes, a confidence that’s in stark contrast to his hesitation just seconds ago. “Whatever happened has happened, but what you do with your life is yours now. Make the most of what you’re given, you know, because you’re not beholden to someone else.” He looks away, nervous again, and says, “Uh— at least, that’s— that’s what i think.”
Shouto stares, eyes flicking across Midoriya's face as he fidgets under the scrutiny. Silence stretches, taut with tension. Shouto cannot begin to articulate the mess of emotions knotting in his chest.
Midoriya breaks first. “Sorry, sorry— that was out of line—”
Shouto huffs out a laugh, disbelief coloring the edges of his voice. “Midoriya, you’re always one to speak your mind, aren’t you?” Shouto doesn’t quite understand him, but he wishes he could. What makes a person so brazen in their kindness?
Midoriya colors. “I guess I just…understand what it means to be alone. To carry a burden by yourself. No one deserves that.”
“Including you,” he blurts out without thinking, surprising himself. Spontaneity was never in Shouto’s DNA, but the electricity that crackles just under his skin when he’s around Midoriya seems to have a mind of its own.
“What?” Midoriya asks, taken aback.
“You don’t deserve to be alone, either,” Shouto clarifies as embarrassment settles in. Should he have said that? It felt too forward, and Midoriya looks uncomfortable.
But, to be fair, that rather makes him a hypocrite. Shouto tells him as such.
Midoriya laughs. “You're pretty blunt yourself, Todoroki-kun.”
Shouto smiles. “I suppose that’s another thing we share in common.”
It feels— different. He feels closer to Midoriya, somehow, closer to understanding him, closer to understanding himself. It feels good.
They slip back into safer territory, Midoriya talking about his upcoming internship and Shouto content to listen, interjecting on occasion. Their time is over too soon; Midoriya gets a phone call that he answers frantically and apologetically—“I’m sorry Ochako, I’m sorry, it slipped my mind! I’m coming right now, I swear”—and Shouto has his own class he has to get to.
They gather their things, Midoriya rushing and moving twice as fast as Shouto. He waves to him as he leaves, walking backwards out the door and nearly bumping into someone coming in. Shouto watches him sprint down the sidewalk. He startles when he sees himself in the reflection of the window. He’s smiling, fondly. Something settles in his chest.
∷
“Momo.” Shouto toes off his shoes at the entrance, fatigue heavy in his bones. He’d drifted through his two classes, back-to-back after lunch with Midoriya, and the sun is starting to set now, golden light falling in through their window. “I need your help.”
He looks up, then, to find that he’d been addressing an empty room; he hears the sound of a faucet running, sees light from under the bathroom door.
Sets his bag down, opens the fridge, pulls out an apple. Slices it, then pulls out a second apple for Momo. In the muted half-light of the kitchen, he feels strangely— untethered. His right hand holds a paring knife, his left an apple half. His hands are not his own.
“Shouto?” Momo’s hesitant voice, the sudden flood of the kitchen lights. Shouto blinks, once, twice, awareness bleeding back into his limbs. “What’s wrong?”
Shouto exhales, closes his eyes. He still feels like he’s— floating, feet not quite touching the ground. He feels nine years old again, perched, terrified, behind the closed door of his bedroom, listening to the footsteps of his father getting louder and louder.
“Shouto.” Momo’s face is suddenly in front of his own, her hand gentle around his fingers as she pries the knife from his hands. He’d been gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. He sets it down, flexes his fingers. Stares down at the cutting board. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I told him,” he says. “About Touya.”
He imagines her face— stricken, concerned.
“Why? And— how?”
“He asked me, why history. I told him.”
“Oh, Shouto,” she breathes, rests a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, finally. She holds her arms out and he has never been more acutely aware of the understanding between them, never been more thankful for their friendship.
He lets her wrap her arms around him, leans his forehead against her shoulder. Grounds himself with the pressure points of her arms around him.
“What did he say?” she asks after a beat of silence.
“That Touya would be proud of me. And that— it wasn’t my fault. He—” Shouto breaks off, shaking his head. He hasn’t cried in a long, long time, but he feels like he could, right now. “He said that my life isn’t beholden to anyone else.”
Momo pulls away, searches his face. Shouto blinks.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re not— upset?”
Shouto furrows his brows, trying to place the expression on Momo’s face. It’s odd, not being able to place it; he’d assumed, after so many years, this was something he could take for granted, being able to read her. Never having to second-guess himself around her.
“No…” he says, cautiously. “Why would I be?”
“Hm,” is Momo’s only reply. She looks at him, appraising. “I see.”
“What? What are you seeing?”
She laughs, and there’s a glint in her eye that makes Shouto wary as she opens her mouth, no doubt to tease him for something.
His phone rings, saving him from whatever Momo was going to say. He pulls it out, and then nearly drops it looking at the caller ID.
Momo laughs, though she covers her mouth right afterwards, looking only a little guilty. “Sorry, sorry— but, I mean, impeccable timing on Midoriya-san’s part.” The phone continues to ring and Shouto looks at her, panicked. “Shouto, pick it up!”
One ring, two rings, and then Momo must get fed up because she leans over and presses the green answer button before Shouto can react. He glares at her, trying to formulate how to get back at her, but a tinny voice crackles over the phone.
“Ah, hello? Todoroki-kun?” Midoriya’s voice is hesitant, searching. Momo looks at him with raised eyebrows and a bright look on her face; she flashes him a thumbs-up, then quickly leaves the kitchen to give Shouto some privacy. She keeps the lights on.
“Hello,” he responds. Falters with what to say next, but Midoriya is already talking.
“I’m so sorry to ask this of you; I wouldn’t call unless I had to, but no one else was available— you can say no if you want, of course!— don’t feel obligated, or anything, it’s just that you’re nearby so it’d be easier, but—”
“Midoriya,” he interrupts.
“Right! Right, uh, so I was wondering if you’re free? Right now? Ochako and I’ll need help to get this dining table into our apartment, um, and Ochako’s called someone and we need one more person, I think, so…”
“Yes,” Shouto says before thinking. “Send me your apartment number.”
Shouto finds himself standing outside a five-story brick building ten minutes later. Momo had just looked at him, knowing, as he slipped his shoes back on and tried not to think too hard.
Gray-marbled sky, slight wind against his skin. The building is nestled in between groves of bright yellow-red trees, a picture straight out of an autumn lookbook. The area is empty, mostly; Shouto sees two other people as he makes his way to the lobby entrance.
He presses the intercom button next to Midoriya’s number. “It’s Todoroki.”
Midoriya’s voice filters through the speaker. “Todoroki! That was fast— hold on, I’ll get the door.” The door buzzes and the lock clicks open. He makes his way up the stairs and finds Midoriya’s door at the end of the corridor, the door slightly ajar from a thick stack of envelopes and magazines.
He knocks, hesitant, and a female voice calls out, “Come in!”
He pushes open the door at the same time someone from the inside pulls; he stumbles, thrown by the sudden lack of weight.
“Oh!” A warm voice laughs, breath ghosting the shell of his ear. Hands, steady around his shoulders as he rights himself. “Sorry— are you okay?”
Suddenly Shouto is having a very difficult time trying to get oxygen into his lungs.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” He forces himself to look at Midoriya’s face. His face is flushed red, he notices, but the apartment is uncomfortably warm. He’s starting to regret his sweater.
“Well, come in, come in—Ochako, he’s here!—sorry for calling you so suddenly, oh, and sorry about the heating, too; we opened some windows so it’s not as stuffy, but we can’t turn it down— we have to get that fixed, too—”
They enter the kitchen, warmly lit with maple cabinets, laminate countertops. In the middle of the otherwise bare floor, four wooden table legs with four matching chairs are scattered around a harried looking woman who Shouto assumes is Midoriya’s roommate. The tabletop is nowhere to be seen.
“Todoroki-kun!” She exclaims, jumping up from her spot on the floor. “Deku-kun has told me so much about you.”
“Ochako—”
“Nice to meet you! I’m Uraraka!” She barrels on, ignoring Midoriya, and thrusts out a hand. Shouto takes it, nervously.
“Deku…?” He asks, confused.
“Oh, that’s just a nickname— anyway, did the tabletop get in, yet?” Midoriya looks flustered, Shouto notes, the red covering his ears even brighter than it was at the entrance.
“Not yet, but they said about five minutes till it gets here. Which means—” Uraraka turns to him now, mischievous glint in her eyes. “Todoroki and I have plenty of time to catch up!”
“Yeah, right.” Midoriya grabs Shouto’s wrist, leading him out of the kitchen. “We’re gonna go wait down in the foyer.” He marches them determinedly out the door, as Uraraka’s laugh rings behind them. Shouto’s wrist burns at the contact point where Midoriya’s fingers are wrapped around him. He barely notices as Midoriya drags them down a back staircase until he lets go when they’ve reached the bottom. His breath stutters and he blinks, recalibrating.
“Sorry for doing that, she was—” Midoriya breaks off, his eyes darting around the stairwell, blush reaching down his neck. He breathes out a laugh. “She was probably going to embarrass me.”
Shouto raises his eyebrows, both confused and intrigued. “What could she possibly say to me that’d be embarrassing?”
“Uh— n-nothing, I mean, who— who knows—” Midoriya stutters, leading them to the stairwell exit out to the delivery entrance. “I mean— ugh.” He buries his face in his hands, pushing the door open with his back.
Shouto feels strangely endeared, he thinks. It feels almost like the same type of affection he has for Fuyumi when she gets embarrassed over her old artwork, or for Momo whenever she talks about that girl she met at a concert last year. Endearment, a warmth that fills his veins. Except— it’s different, with Midoriya. It’s warmth, but it’s also electric; it makes him want to do something impulsive, like wrap his fingers around Midoriya’s wrists and guide his hands away from his face. Something impossible, like brush away the bangs from his eyes. Cup his cheek, cradle his jaw. Kiss him.
Midoriya, though, is unattainable, a star impossibly far away. Shouto is just grateful that his light touches him, if only for a moment.
“Okay, they should be here soon,” Midoriya says, stopping before a set of double doors. He seems less flustered now, having put physical distance between himself and Uraraka. He turns to Shouto, fidgeting. Opens his mouth, about to say something, and manages to get out “Are—” before the sound of doors closing and footsteps speed-walking up to them causes Midoriya to promptly snap his mouth shut.
This is the second time this has happened today, Shouto thinks tiredly.
“Tsuyu!” Midoriya exclaims. Shouto turns and sees a girl with long, black hair at Uraraka’s side.
“Hi, Izuku,” she greets. “And Todoroki.”
“My girlfriend,” Uraraka explains.
“Oh. Nice to meet you…”
“Please, call me Tsuyu.”
“Okay. Nice to meet you, Tsuyu.”
She smiles up at him, warm and genuine. Shouto thinks he likes her.
“Ah, they’re here,” Uraraka says, looking up from her phone. Moments later, the double doors open up to a ramp leading down to a driveway. A moving truck is parked, the doors open and two delivery workers hauling out the fabled tabletop up to the apartment. They lean the table against the wall; Midoriya thanks them profusely, and then they’re gone.
The four students stand in a semi-circle around the table. It’s worn, pockmarked from years and years of use. Scratches line the wood, and dust is caked into the seams. They’re all quiet for entirely too long.
It’s Tsuyu who breaks the silence. “That’s too big for your apartment,” she says.
They collectively wince.
“Thank you, Tsu-chan, for your bluntness.” Uraraka’s voice sounds pained.
“Lets, uh, let’s just get it upstairs,” Midoriya says.
They manage to fit it into the service elevator near the delivery doors, Midoriya and Uraraka pulling from the front and Shouto and Tsuyu pushing from the back. It’s too heavy to carry, so they edge it along its long side and somehow manage to prop it up in the elevator while squeezing in the four of them.
“So, uh,” Shouto starts. “I assume there’s a reason you’re using this table and not a…smaller one. ”
He can’t see Midoriya’s face from behind the table but he imagines the face he’s making.
“It’s— my mother sent it over. It was our old dining table and I accidently mentioned in passing that Uraraka and I were looking for one so she just…” He sighs, sounding entirely defeated. “Yeah.”
The elevator dings open and they carefully begin the process of exiting. “Did you…send your mom measurements?” he asks. Tsuyu snorts from next to him.
“Not you too, Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya groans.
“I’d been telling Deku for weeks to measure the room and send her the sizing, but no, he was so sure it would fit, there was no need for any complications—”
“He gets it, Ochako!”
Tsuyu is fully laughing, now, eyes crinkled fondly as the two of them bicker back and forth. They continue to slide the table against the carpeting, pace slowing as Midoriya and Uraraka and Tsuyu laugh, faces aglow under the dim apartment lighting. Their joy is so physical, Shouto thinks. Happiness worn on their faces, like it’s something to flaunt, like it's something to be proud of. He feels a smile blooming on his own face as he listens and watches. He’s never felt anything like it.
“Todoroki!” Midoriya turns to him, frazzled as Uraraka continues to laugh at him. “Please tell Ochako about my amazing organizational skills and how lucky you are to have me as your partner—”
“The only thing you keep organized are your textbooks,” Tsuyu interjects. “You once wore the same t-shirt for three days in a row because you couldn’t find anything else in your mess of a room.”
“Not you too, Tsuyu—!”
Shouto laughs. This is lovely, he thinks. I never want to stop feeling like this.
By some defiance of the laws of physics, the table fits. They’d manage to get it in through the front door through some careful maneuvering, and then attached the legs after getting it into the kitchen. It’s nestled in the far corner now, short side pressed against the wall right under a window.
“You know, even if it doesn’t match, I think I like it,” Uraraka muses, leaning against the counter. Her hair is pulled back, and despite the breeze floating in through the open window, her face is flushed.
“I think clashes is a better word, but I agree,” Tsuyu adds.
“I'm just glad it fit,” Midoriya sighs. He’s slumped in a chair, fingers idly tracing over the worn patterns in the wood. The motions of his hand look practiced, familiar, like he’s done this a hundred times before. With a jolt, Shouto realizes he probably has; it’s his childhood table, after all. It must be weird, to have a reminder of his past shoved so unceremoniously into his new apartment. Or maybe it’s just Shouto who feels so at odds with his own childhood. Maybe other people don’t care nearly as much.
“Alright,” Uraraka says, straightening up. “Tsuyu and I are going out!” She throws a knowing smile at the both of them. “Bye Deku, Todoroki; stay safe!” Tsuyu waves apologetically, and then they’re both out the door before Midoriya can properly thank them.
Midoriya grumbles and rolls his eyes, a small blush blooming across his cheeks as he glares at the closed front door.
“She’s so—” he breaks off, sighing. “Never mind. Would you like to stay, Todoroki?”
“I’d love to,” he says, surprised at the easy way the words fall out his mouth. “If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Midoriya says with a small smile. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
“You sure? I’m making— well, ‘making’ is a strong word. My mom used to do this a lot for me when I was younger: watermelon juice with crushed mint leaves. It’s super refreshing, especially in the summer. Plus, it reminds me of home, you know? By the way, I’m making you some, now; I don’t care if you don’t drink it.” He pulls out a jug of watermelon juice from the fridge, and a bag of mint leaves. Swirls the two with a small milk frother. Shouto leans against the counter, watching him work, suddenly and inexplicably assaulted by a longing for a life that will never be his.
A particularly strong breeze flurries into the kitchen, playing with the curls at the nape of Midoriya’s neck.
“Oh, could you close the window? I think it’s cool enough in here now.”
Without thinking, he pads over to the window, barely fumbling with the confusing latch as it slams shut. When did this become so easy? Shouto feels as if his center of gravity has shifted, sometime within the past 24 hours. Some central part of him changed, shown in the ease with which he can navigate Midoriya’s apartment.
“Much better, thank you. I’m done, too,” he says, holding two glasses. “Let’s go christen the dining table.” Shouto snorts before he can help himself; Midoriya’s face colors at alarming speed as he realizes what he said.
“I mean—” he squeaks out. “Stop laughing, I hate you—” He marches resolutely to the table, glasses tipping precariously in his hands. Shouto tries to hide his smile behind his hand as he follows him.
At least he can identify the feeling in his chest as endearment, now.
They sit across from each other, embarrassment still evident on Midoriya’s face— and this, at least, is familiar. The two of them sitting, facing each other. Like a premonition.
Midoriya launches into a story about a particularly deep gash in the side of one of the chairs, something involving a childhood friend with anger management issues, a pair of chopsticks, and a razor blade. Shouto loses track of the story somewhere after and then he tried to glue the blade onto the chopsticks to make hybrid knives but he sinks into Midoriya’s words all the same. His voice is disarming, Shouto finds. He could listen to him for hours on end, his brain turned off, that constant undercurrent of anxiety fading to a hum for just this moment.
Like all good things in Shouto’s life, it ends abruptly, interrupted by his father. He stares at the screen of his buzzing phone, a blank screen with father at the top, a green answer button at the bottom. His airway constricts and there is a very precise beam of anger burning through him, because even here, even here, hands clutched around a glass of watermelon juice, seated at Midoriya’s dining table, surrounded by good, soft memories, he finds him. He will never stop finding him.
Midoriya must understand something in the set of Shouto’s shoulders, the fragile glass in his eyes. In the slight, slight tremble of his hands, like they’re pressed against the wall of his old bedroom feeling the tremors of Enji’s anger from the other room. Can feel it now, with kilometers of distance between them.
Midoriya says nothing. Only waits, as the call ends and the phone slips onto the table from Shouto’s hands.
“Sorry,” he says finally. His voice sounds wrong in this kitchen.
Midoriya’s brow furrows. “Don’t apologize,” he says, firmly. Then, softer: “If you want to talk about it…I’m always here to listen.”
Does Shouto want to talk about it? He doesn’t know. Hasn’t ever even entertained the possibility to have an answer.
“Sometimes,” Shouto starts. His throat feels so dry. “I think I was born afraid.” A heavy pause. “Maybe fear was never something I learned. Maybe it was something I grew into.”
Silence sounds wrong here, too. This place was never meant to be burdened with Shouto’s secrets.
“I used to think that,” comes Midoriya’s reply, whispered into the still air. “When I was— in elementary school. I— I used to get…bullied. Fear became intrinsic to my identity, after a while.”
Shouto holds impossibly still.
“But—” Now Midoriya looks up, familiar resolve glinting in his eyes, and Shouto can breathe a little freer. “But things got better. I… High school was kind to me. It’s where I met my best friends.” He smiles to himself, a quiet, private thing. “It’s where I met Ochako. Now…I don’t hold fear so close to me, anymore. Because things change; people change. I— I believe that we hold an infinite capacity to change, because we are in charge of only ourselves.”
All Shouto can think about is the green of the garden on that spring day. All he can see is the green of Midoriya’s eyes. His mind is a confluence of Touya and Midoriya’s voices.
“…I can’t forgive him,” Shouto whispers, after an eternity of silence.
Midoriya says, softly, “No, but you can forgive yourself.”
The rhythm of his voice is the spring breeze that blew through the garden when Shouto was four and Touya was 11; when Shouto was 15 and Fuyumi was 20. His hand fidgets where it’s resting against the table, then moves, covers Shouto’s own. Their fingers overlap.
And that’s all that matters: they are sitting, facing each other, and their fingers overlap.
When Shouto gets home, it’s nearly 10 pm. It’s probably the latest he’s ever gotten home, so it warrants Momo’s fussing as he walks in through the door.
“Do you think I’m stuck inside my head too much,” Shouto asks without preamble, slinging off his backpack.
Momo looks taken aback, and she asks, hesitantly, “Did he say that to you?” The way she says it gives Shouto the impression she wouldn’t believe him even if he said yes.
“No, no; I was just thinking as I was walking here.” He sighs. “Never mind. I just—”
Momo is quiet, gives him space to navigate the thoughts swirling in his head.
“Just— it’s as if every time I talk to him I divulge another piece of my tragic backstory to him.” He considers. “Not that I mind; I’m just worried that he does.”
Momo laughs. “I might not know Midoriya-san very well, but I know him well enough to know that that’s not true. As long as you’re comfortable, I think it’s good for you.”
Shouto goes to sit next to her on the couch. “Good for me,” he repeats.
Momo nods, clutching his hand. “I want you to be happy.”
Shouto doesn’t answer.
Because they have learned to communicate in silences as well as they have with words, Momo understands the hunch of his shoulders and changes the topic.
“So, what else did you do? You were gone for nearly five hours.”
Shouto breathes a little easier. “He needed help getting a dining table into his apartment, but after all that, we talked about our project, a little. Speaking of, how are you doing with it?”
Momo blushes, suddenly. “W-well, Jirou-san and I haven't gotten the chance to talk properly…”
Shouto wonders at her sudden decomposure, at the way she says Jirou’s name, before it clicks. The girl she met at the concert last year.
Shouto smiles; Momo catches it and throws a pillow at him.
“Not a word, Shouto!”
“I didn’t even say anything—”
Momo buries her face in her hands.
“Oh, I don’t know what Dr. Aizawa was thinking— I’m not that obvious, am I?”
Shouto blinks at her. “What are you talking about?”
Momo looks at him through her fingers, incredulous. “Shouto— don’t tell me…have you not figured it out?”
Shouto continues to look at her.
“Haven’t you wondered about how Dr. Aizawa chose the partners?”
“Well, yes— I thought it was just people we got along with.”
Now Momo blinks at him, conflicting emotions warring on her face. Shouto squints. “What.”
“Oh, Shouto,” she says fondly. She pats his cheek, almost condescendingly. “Well, I’m going to bed.”
“Momo— what—?”
“Good night, Shouto! I hope you figure things out soon!” With that cryptic message, she disappears down the hallway.
Shouto just shrugs; he’s too tired to try and comprehend that conversation. If it was important, she would’ve told him. Probably.
For the first time since moving into their apartment, Shouto falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.
∷
Seven days later, Shouto has his epiphany standing halfway down the steps of the history building.
Midoriya slams into him as Shouto comes to an abrupt halt, his rant about visual aids in presentations cut off mid-sentence.
“Sorry,” Shouto mumbles. His eyes are still focused on the pair of partners from his class walking down the steps, hand in hand. The puzzle pieces slowly slot themselves together in his head.
“Todoroki,” Midoriya says, concerned. Shouto turns to look at him, and is assaulted with his dark hair, warm like honey, his freckles on sun-kissed skin. “What’s wrong?”
The blazing afternoon sun wreathes them both in sunlight.
“I was just thinking,” Shouto says. “About Aizawa’s partner list.”
Midoriya’s skin turns ruby-red. “Uh, what— what about it?”
Shouto side-eyes him. After a week, he is growing increasingly acquainted with the causes of Midoriya’s blush. It’s almost always embarrassment, usually directed at himself. Sometimes it’s because of something someone says to him, but more often it’s something he never voices out loud.
Midoriya is also infinitely more observant than Shouto. He has to know. He has to know.
Shouto has been quiet for far too long, because Midoriya is the one to break the silence first. “You figured it out, then?” He sounds…dejected.
“Yes, I suppose I did. Though, I have to ask; how did you know?”
“You’re asking me how I knew?” Midoriya exclaims, sounding frantic. “How did you know?”
“I… what?” Shouto has a sudden realization, dread flooding his veins. “Midoriya, are we talking about the same thing?”
Midoriya looks up at him, squinting against the bright sun shining in his face. “We’re… ” he starts apprehensively. His hands start to fidget. “Talking about how Aizawa-sensei assigned partners based on…for lack of better term, crushes, and how I’ve…liked you. Since the day I first met you.”
“Well, yes, but—” Shouto’s mind stutters to a halt as Midoriya’s words sink in. “Wait, what? You like me?” He must’ve misheard, Shouto thinks. That’s really the only rational explanation—
“Yes! What— what were you talking about, if not that?” Midoriya’s eyes are wide. “Wait, you— you didn’t know?”
“No, I—” Shouto can’t do this. “I was talking about how I like you. And I thought you knew, from the beginning.”
“You…” Midoriya’s voice sounds faint. “Is this a joke? You’re joking, right? You have to be—”
“Midoriya. I like you. And you like me.” Shouto feels like he could implode at any moment. He wants— he wants to grab Midoriya’s hands. He wants to kiss him, right here, in the middle of the staircase to the history building, underneath the blazing afternoon sun. He wants to live in this pocket of time forever, even if it’s a dream.
Which, it has to be. Nothing this good has ever happened to him in his life. Love, reciprocated, still sounds like a pipe dream.
“I like you,” Midoriya repeats back to him. The words sent a shiver up his spine; he feels the truth of it settle into his bones. “And you like me.”
Shouto nods, dazed.
“Then— Can I— uh, I-I mean, do you—” Midoriya stutters, his hands flailing and face coloring at an exponential rate. Shouto really might implode if they keep standing here.
Spontaneity may have never been in his DNA, but that had never stopped him when he was around Midoriya.
Shouto kisses him.
It’s messy, confusing; Shouto’s never kissed anyone before so he doesn’t know where to put his hands, how to move his lips. Midoriya stumbles backwards, once, and Shouto panics before he feels a breathless laugh against his mouth, Midoriya’s hands coming up to cup Shouto’s face. He guides him forward, tilting his head, and— oh. Pure heat coils in this pit of his stomach and Shouto’s arms move to Midoriya’s waist, pulling him impossibly close.
Eventually, Midoriya pulls away, his lips red, skin flushed. He looks vaguely mortified, being kissed in such a public place.
Shouto marvels, drinking in his appearance like he’ll never see him again. Green eyes and enough life to power a building. He used to think he was unchangeable, unknowable, used to think that his identity was inseparable from his past.
And yet, here he is. Crowned in golden sunlight and a current buzzing just under his skin, warm and so, so alive.
“Your place,” Shouto murmurs. “Let’s go to your place.”
He kisses Midoriya in the middle of his kitchen, and then against the dining table. Midoriya squeaks, leaning back. “Todoroki-kun! This was from my mother!”
“You said you wanted to christen it.”
Midoriya makes an unintelligible noise and buries his face in Shouto’s shoulder. “I hate you,” he mumbles.
“No,” Shouto answers. His lips brush against Midoriya’s soft hair. “You like me.”