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There comes a point in their relationship where Shoto can walk into Izuku’s dorm room without fear of being reprimanded. Late one weekend night, he takes advantage of this privilege and pushes the door open without knocking. A little bold of him, since he usually at least taps on the door a few times before letting himself in on the off chance that Izuku is indecent, but it doesn’t much matter.
Fortunately, Izuku is not indecent. He’s sitting on his bed. The lights are off. Perhaps unknowingly, he uses the moon shedding in from the window to illuminate his textbook. It’s bad for his eyes but he doesn’t seem to mind— probably doesn’t even realize the darkness is why it’s gotten more difficult to read. Shoto flicks the light on. Izuku squints until his eyes adjust.
“Hi, Shoto.” Izuku shuts his textbook and sets it beside him on his bed. “What’s—”
“I did it,” says Shoto. He steps in. He shuts the door quietly behind himself. A warm feeling tugs at his chest and he wants to bask in it, to really understand it.
Is it self-sabotage to come here and talk about it? Is he making a big deal out of nothing? Will Izuku be excited about it as he is? Or will he be unimpressed, and rend Shoto’s own excitement? This could be a suicide mission. It could be the Big Bad of the storm coming back. A piece of him wants to be torn back down.
At the same time, he doesn’t think he can understand the warm feeling on his own.
Izuku stares at him, brows furrowed and one leg hanging off the side of his bed. A lidocaine patch sits, stark white in comparison to the suntan of his hand. To the rosy red and silvery edges of his scar tissue, it runs deep.
“Did what?” Izuku asks. He slowly gets to his feet. His sweatpants are untied but they stay on his hips perfectly fine. “What’d you do?”
“I did it,” Shoto repeats. He’s a broken record. Concern starts to settle into Izuku’s face— Shoto has seen that expression so often, determining it is almost formulaic. He leans back against the door, wrists pinned between his lower back and the wood. He wants to say it but he’s nervous. He feels adrenalin cut through the warmth.
Frowning, Izuku takes a step forward.
More insistently, he says, “Shoto, what did you—”
“I looked in the mirror,” Shoto says. “I looked in the mirror and I didn’t hate what I saw.”
The concern leaves Izuku’s face faster than it had settled in. Instead, it’s replaced with a smile. It’s positive reinforcement. The warm in Shoto’s chest starts to spread to his belly. Izuku really is a bad influence on him. Once he starts, he can’t stop.
“I didn’t hate it,” says Shoto. “I like having my mom’s face and I like having broad shoulders and I like having muscles. I like having my space back. My body is mine and I like it. I like my body, Izuku.”
Izuku’s smile grows tenfold. The word “grin” may describe it better, this wide, toothy thing that makes his eyes quint like he’s reading in the dark. Shoto likes the way his eyes catch the light like that. He likes the way he can see the way his freckles move over his cheeks.
“You did it!” says Izuku.
And then Izuku throws his arms into the air, doing fist-pumps that are more physically celebratory than Shoto has ever felt comfortable with. He relinquishes his lean on the door and removes his weight from his wrists. He slips his hands out from behind himself. They dangle at his sides, unhindered, unchained.
Gone are the bruises and gone are the scrapes. Gone are the nails that look like they’ve been chafed repeatedly against brick.
Shoto’s hair is back, too, and it’s thick, and it’s healthy. When Shoto trains, he can card his fingers through it without any coming off in his fingers. When he and Izuku kiss, Izuku can grab it at the roots and pull. When they lay in bed together, Izuku can scratch his scalp. Mina can braid it over and over and over and the worst he’ll have to deal with is having temporary curls the next morning.
Izuku approaches quickly. He throws his arms around Shoto and pulls him in for a hug that would bruise him badly just a couple years ago. They’ve reached a point in their relationship where Izuku doesn’t have to ask to hug him. Shoto craves them more than he craves the verbal affirmations that what he’s excited about is worth something.
He grabs onto Izuku’s hips. He buries his face into Izuku’s shoulder. He slides his hands behind Izuku to grip the back of his shirt.
“You did it,” Izuku says, a soft radio in his ear. The hum of his breath isn’t static, it’s music. He latches onto it, and he memorizes it the same way he memorizes the shape of Izuku’s hands. “You are doing it, Shoto. You’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you.”
Izuku curls his fingers through the back of Shoto’s hair. Gently, but purposefully. It tickles. Shoto scrunches his nose, digs deeper against the side of Izuku’s neck, before he comes up for air.
The breather is temporary. Izuku leans forward. The tips of their noses brush, warm from one another rather than Shoto leeching off of Izuku’s body heat. The warm feeling in Shoto’s chest and belly grows to twice the size and he just wants to stand here with Izuku in his arms. He just wants to half-close his eyes like this, and he wants to rub their noses together, and he wants to keep sharing each other’s existence like this.
He wants it to last a little longer.
They kiss, but it’s not really a conscious decision. It’s more of a slip— their noses lost contact and instead they’d tipped into it. Izuku’s lips are chapped from stress chewing but it doesn’t much bother Shoto. He used to taste like blood, but now he just tastes like his skin, and his mouth, and it’s not really describable.
Open mouths make it softer, tongues make it softer. Their teeth don’t click together by accident the way they used to.
The fingers in Shoto’s hair grip tighter, curl harder. They dig to the scalp and latch on at the roots, combing one vulnerable little inch at a time.
It’s okay that Izuku does this, it’s okay that they kiss, because Shoto doesn’t taste like vomit anymore and his hair is healthy and his nails aren’t scuffed and his skin isn’t bruised or scraped. And they aren’t in the hallway, this time.
Shoto doesn’t get distracted by the way his body feels against Izuku’s. He just loves the way Izuku’s body feels against his, like this.
He did it, he’s doing it, and he doesn’t feel selfish for saying he’s proud of himself, too.