Chapter Text
Shouto sighs, the sip of bubbly liquid from his glass immediately followed by the unimpressed pursing of his lips. He sets it down, glaring at it moodily. Champagne had never been his thing, sitting too soft and sweet on his tongue. It was probably expensive, he guessed, as any charity event organized by Deku and Uravity tended to be. It wasn’t because they were unnecessarily extravagant people, but because they knew that expensive people were attracted to expensive things.
He had to commend them on their strategy— what better way was there to lure Japan’s elite to their event and encourage them to open up their wallets?
That being said, it didn’t mean he was particularly happy to be here. The invitation had come to his father’s agency, but Shouto had expected the old man to send a fat cheque and be done with it, not send his son instead.
The majority of Musutafu’s Pro Hero population was in attendance tonight. Bakugou and Kirishima were loudly arm wrestling in a corner, their poor decorum cheered on by Ashido and Sero. In a shadowed corner, Kaminari leans over a smirking Jirou, probably seconds away from getting punched. At the opposite end of his table, Iida was deep in conversation with Yaoyorozu and Asui.
With so many Pro Heroes in attendance, villains all over the city would be inclined to mischief. It was the reason charity events with a guest list like this so seldom occurred.
So, it wasn’t that Shouto disliked the charity part of the evening. He had a decent amount of money, always more than willing to put his father’s cash and his own to whatever deserving cause his friends were supporting.
It was the event part that he had an issue with. Aside from the potential increase in villain activity, it was no secret that Todoroki Shouto wasn’t the best at navigating the public relations part of his job.
(He wasn’t like Bakugou though, who was an S-Rank PR nightmare.)
He just wasn’t overly friendly like Uraraka or a smooth conversationalist like Iida. He wasn’t outgoing like Kirishima or talkative like Kaminari. He wouldn’t go as far as to call himself socially awkward or inept, - he kind of was - his social battery just ran out faster than others and took longer to charge.
It would be best to say that he was perhaps too professional and extremely concise, never offering too much or too little. Elusive in a way that wasn’t meant to offend, or intended to come off as standoffish. He was just nervous, afraid to say or do the wrong thing and mess with his reputation. He knew how vicious the media could be, how one slip-up could send approval ratings plummeting and dig holes that would be difficult to escape.
So Shouto would do his part; sit and drink the saccharine sweet champagne and slip Midoriya a cheque printed with the Todoroki Agency logo in the corner.
Nothing more, nothing less.
And he’s fine with it, really, that due to his slight lack of…marketable and distinctive personality, that despite his flashy quirk, the public sometimes found him a little lacklustre, and the hero billboard deemed him worthy of number three. Just behind Japan’s Sweetheart and the explosive, Hot-Headed hero.
No, Shouto was as he’d always been. Just Shouto.
No definitive superlative other than the fact that he was the son of the former number one, Endeavor (a title he was still trying to distance himself from until he could start his own agency).
Though, there was the occasional clueless interview moment that the internet deemed worthy of becoming a ‘meme.’
(how was he supposed to know that Mt. Lady didn’t have heart problems, and that she was joking when she’d said his smile could potentially kill?)
Unfortunately, at galas like this - crawling with paparazzi, old friends, and powerful guests - socialization was a must.
So when his father had insisted he attend, instructing him to represent their family and agency, Shouto had known he was going to have a downright horrible time. He’d tried to skip out on going - Midoriya and Uraraka typically held two events a year, he’d just go to the next one.
His father wouldn’t hear it, and neither would Uraraka, who’d reminded him that he’d already missed their event earlier that year when a mission had taken him out of the country.
So he’d sucked it up, dug a crisp, well-tailored suit out from the back of his closet, worked a mulberry silk tie around his neck, and put on his best smile so as to not look like he was suffering.
For the first hour or two, at least.
Once the food had been served and the majority of the speeches had been made, the guests had scattered, engaging in idle small talk while Shouto remained at his table. He has a habit of lingering on the sidelines and keeping to himself, but he makes polite conversation when necessary.
You look like a total snack tonight, Todoroki! “ A snack…?” It’s a compliment, cupcake! Ashido was always comparing him to a light meal or some sweet confection. Was she eating enough? “Oh. Thank you?”
Whoa! You’ve really bulked up, dude! What’s your secret? He’s not sure why the Red Riot (6’3 and 270 pounds of pure muscle) is asking him for workout tips, but he tells him anyway. “Vegetables, protein, and exercise.”
Awe, no special friend tonight either? Kaminari had lamented, an arm slung around Shouto’s shoulders. “No.” Don’t worry about it, I’ll be your wingman! “Great.”
Shouto’s feeling drained already.
The place just wasn’t his scene, all warm golden tones, a surplus of dainty, twinkling fairy lights, and soft, plucky piano music that just made him sleepy. Crystalline fixtures and a gaudy mirrorball that casts shimmering refractions of light across the open floor.
He takes another sip of his champagne, grimacing as he looks around. Okay, he really didn’t like this. Maybe he’d head over to the open bar…
He’s just left his seat when someone calls his name, their voice rising above the murmur of the ballroom. “Hey, Todoroki!”
He glances over his shoulder to see Midoriya behind him, the Symbol of Peace wearing a bright smile and looking quite dapper in his suit. “Midoriya. Hello.”
He tries to offer his hand in greeting, but the hero sidesteps it in favour of wrapping Shouto in a hug, which he awkwardly returns in the form of an awkward pat on the back.
“We’re really glad you could make it!” Midoriya grins, his excitement so genuine that it makes Shouto feel a little better about attending. “We missed you at the last one.” He peeks around him to scan his assigned table, green eyes landing on the chair occupied by Shouto’s jacket. “No Fuyumi or Rei? Not even Natsuo?”
He shouldn’t be shocked that Midoriya’s noticed that his usual choice of plus-ones consisted of his family members, but he is anyway. “It’s parent-teacher conferences at Fuyumi’s school, Natsuo is studying for an exam on Monday, and my mother…a change in her medication has left her feeling a little tired lately.”
The number one hero’s smile doesn’t falter as he nods, but the air between them is suddenly stiff and Shouto worries that he may have overshared. The Todoroki’s were almost infamous for their very public familial drama, but he didn’t need to go around airing all their dirty laundry.
Too much, too much, too much.
He coughs awkwardly, looking around the crowded ballroom. “Where is Uraraka? I’d like to commend her on organizing yet another great event.”
Seeming grateful for the change in subject, Midoriya whips his head around in search of his girlfriend. He suddenly points towards the stage. “She’s right there!”
And yes, Shouto briefly catches a glimpse of Uraraka in her sparkly pink gown, but the practiced words of thanks and congratulations he has prepared suddenly dry up on his tongue.
He suddenly can’t focus on much else, the cacophony of the gala diminishing to a gentle murmur. He knows he should go over, thank Uraraka for inviting him and say hello— but he can’t. His feet just won’t do what he’s telling them to.
Not when he can see you standing there. You look nice ( or, as Kaminari might put it, drop dead gorgeous) draped in a floor length gown. Your dress is a smooth silk the shade of deep evergreen, complete with the gentle swoop of a cowl neckline that left him feeling awestruck. Simple, yet elegant looking, with your hair done up in a neat bun at the nape of your neck.
He’s so busy drinking you in, that he doesn’t notice Midoriya’s knowing grin.
“She’s a good friend of Ochako and I,” he says, reminding Shouto that he’s still in the midst of a conversation. “You might know her, actually. She’s an actress.”
He does know you, he realizes. Or rather, he knows of you.
You’re the star in one of Fuyumi’s favourite shows; a modern soap about an ambitious business woman determined to be made CEO of her family’s conglomerate company. Though it’s of a newer age, it still stays true to the roots of a good soap opera. Overdramatic, sexy, with the perfect amount of backstabbing, the classic ‘long lost sibling’ twist, and a decent amount of stinging slaps.
Whenever Shouto visits his sister on weekends, he knows the exact moment you’ll strut onto her screen (Saturday’s, 4pm JST). Each appearance of yours is heralded by some badass instrumental, a witty one-liner, and Fuyumi’s excited squeal. Shouto loses her for forty minutes as she follows whatever ridiculous venture you and your on-screen multi-millionaire family are bickering over.
You’re good at what you do, he thinks. He knows a lot of powerful women, and the character you play would most certainly hold her own amongst them. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t binge watched not only one, but two entire seasons of your show in a single sitting.
(That was 24 forty-minute episodes— 16 straight hours of television. A rare, well-spent day off, in his opinion.)
You laugh at something Uraraka says, and his ears perk up as your bubbly laughter floats around the room.
“How long have you guys…known her?” He questions slowly, swallowing the uncertainty bubbling in his throat.
Midoriya cups his chin and tilts his head, thinking. “Five, maybe six months? She was a guest on Late Night Japan the same night that Ochako was, and they really hit it off. We like to have her over for dinner every once in a while. She has an awesome taste in wine, and makes the most amazing onigiri! She does this little thing where she…”
The Pro keeps talking, but the ramble tapers off when it becomes apparent that Shouto isn’t really listening.
Six months. Six months you’d been hovering just within the outskirts of his life, and he hadn’t had a clue.
“You should talk to her,” his friend suggests, his tone gentle as if he were speaking to a newborn fawn and not the number three Hero.
It’s just his luck that you seem to sense his unashamed staring, glancing over your shoulder and smiling softly when you meet his gaze.
His heart stutters in his chest, a trembling butterfly beat that feels so foreign that his breath catches in his throat. Holy shit. Shouto immediately averts his gaze to the floor in an attempt to hide the blush he can feel crawling up his neck.
He can’t talk to you, not yet. What would he even say?
The rest of the evening is spent working up the courage to talk to you. Shouto mills about on the sidelines, silently watching you mingle and laugh and shake hands with the other guests. You’re so lively, so social, so comfortable with people in a way that he never was.
You’re in your element, sipping champagne with ease as you so seamlessly blend into conversations that never seem to hit any snags or fall victim to awkward silence.
It’s because people like you. They’re drawn to you, intrigued by that endearing tilt of your head and the gentle smile that graces your lips as you listen so intently. He wonders what it is you do that makes the ever-scowling Bakugou blush, and is curious as to what you say to make Shinsou actually laugh.
(Part of him - the analytical hero side - wonders if your natural charisma comes with the job. You’re an actress, after all. You’re a master adopting different personas and bringing them to life. )
The night is coming to a close, and so is Shouto’s chance to find out.
His table is one down from yours, and he watches as you clap politely when Midoriya and Uraraka make their final thank you speech, a proud smile on your face. When the hosts step off the stage, you’re the first one to stand and wrap them both into a hug, pressing kisses to their cheeks before they begin making the rounds, leaving you alone.
His heart begins to hammer loudly in his chest. He’s ripping the band-aid off, rising abruptly from his seat as the applause dies down and people return to socializing. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he’s taking a chance. After downing the rest of his water, he’s reaching down to straighten his tie and is taking a step in your direction when an elbow digs into his ribs.
“Oi!”
He groans at the familiar voice, both internally and externally. “Bakugou.”
The explosive pro sneers down at him, but Shouto remains unaffected. He’s long used to this, the explosive conversation about rankings and stats becoming tradition since they both broke top ten. “Don’t think you’re passing me on the charts this week, Icy Hot! Just ‘cause my property damage stats are up again—”
“—like your temper,” he mutters under his breath, trying to peek around the ash-blond’s broad shoulders. He pretends not to notice the pops of smoke wafting from the pro’s palms as he growls,
“Wanna say that again, you half-and-half bastard?!”
Shouto just shrugs, but is grateful when Kirishima interferes, dragging away the fuming blond.
“Friend of yours?” A soft voice to his right asks.
Shouto scoffs. “Something like that.”
His companion laughs, the sound prompting a grin to tug at the corner of Shouto’s mouth as he looks over—
He’s suddenly frozen, unable to move or talk - is this what it’s like to get hit with his quirk? - when your pretty smile is directed at him, and you’re standing so close that he can smell the soft notes of your perfume. Something sweet and floral that he already knows will haunt him for days.
His mouth opens and closes a few useless times, like some koi fish in a pond and not the suave Pro Hero he was supposed to be. Any coherent thought had long evaporated, and the first official words he says to you end up being,
“I like watching you.”
Your brows arch in surprise, and Shouto wonders briefly if it was possible for one to die of embarrassment.
“On your show,” he quickly adds, heat flaring in his cheeks as you nod in realization, relief flashing in your eyes. “My— my sister is a fan.”
“Oh,” you breathe, giggling again and making his heart swell. “Well, I’m honoured, really. I’m…” Then you’re holding a neatly manicured hand out to him as you introduce yourself, and Shouto’s sweating so much that he might as well call himself Dynamight.
He quickly swipes his hand on his pant leg before taking yours to shake. Your hand is smooth and warm, and though his touch lingers longer than he knows it should, you don’t seem to mind. “I’m Shouto...” then, with a grimace, “Todoroki Shouto.”
“I know,” you reply coolly when you finally part, and if you’d noticed how wet his palm still was, he’s grateful that you don’t mention it. “Everyone knows who you are. It’s very nice to meet you.”
And Shouto’s standing there, utterly starstruck because, holy shit, you know who he is.
“You’re…” There’s a shy look falling over your face as you glance up at him. It’s cute. “You’re one of my favourite Pros.”
He’s sure that his heart stops beating for five whole seconds. Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? “One of your favourites?”
You smile again, tilting your head towards Midoriya and Uraraka, who are making a group of well-dressed people laugh. “It’s hard not to love them.”
“They’re good heroes,” Shouto agrees, “good people.”
“They put on a good party,” You murmur, taking a small sip of your champagne as you watch your friends. Up close, Shouto can see how stunning you look in person. He’s almost overwhelmed by the urge to touch you, curious as to whether your skin is as soft as it looks under the warm glow of the chandeliers.
He keeps his hands to himself, though, glued tightly to his sides as he experiences the mental gymnastics of initiating small talk. He eventually decides on, “Are you having a good night?”
You frown slightly, and for a terrifying second, Shouto is worried that he’s somehow already messed up. But then you’re tugging on his sleeve, pulling him closer so you can whisper in his ear. He almost passes out when your lips brush his skin and you whisper, “Can I tell you a secret?”
He draws back to look at you, shocked. A secret? You want to tell him a secret? “You may…but I believe it’s inadvisable to divulge personal information to someone you just met.”
You blink up at him.
Shouto blinks back.
“If I tell you my secret, are you going to go straight to the tabloids?” Your tone is playful, but Shouto is quick to shake his head.
“Of course not!”
You nudge him lightly with your hip. “Then I trust you enough, number three, to tell you that big events like these still make me a little nervous.”
“You’re nervous?” He echoes dumbly, still confused when you nod in confirmation, because despite his initial instincts, he still can’t believe it. He can’t believe that the social butterfly he’s been shamelessly tracking all night shares the same anxious sentiment as him.
“A little,” you admit, looking a little embarrassed as you avert your gaze to your shoes. “I guess I’m still not too used to it— the attention and all. It can get a little overwhelming. But my publicist keeps saying that ‘events like these—”
“‘—are good for your image,’” Shouto finishes with you, well acquainted with his own publicist’s ‘think about your image, Shouto,’ speech.
You beam up at him, giving him the perfect angle to admire the subtle twinkle in your eyes. “So you get it.”
There’s nothing better, Shouto thinks, than the comfort of knowing that someone understands. “I get it.”
The silence that settles over the two of you is comfortable. You don’t leave his side, and he doesn’t leave yours. He’s content to just be in your presence, and you don’t seem off-put by his silence at all.
(He’s so busy admiring you and caught in his own head that he completely misses the wink that Uraraka shoots in your direction.)
Then the soft, plucky music is changing, and some upbeat tune that elicits whoops and cheers around the room is blasting through the surround sound. Uraraka and Midoriya are dragging you out onto the dance floor with them. You look uncomfortable at first, body stiff as you tap your foot and sway awkwardly.
But he watches a smile break out onto your face as you slowly loosen up. It’s like watching a butterfly emerge from a cocoon, with the tantalizing way your hips sway and your shoulders roll. Your hair falls out of its bun as you bounce around with Uraraka, and you laugh when Midoriya takes your hand and twirls you around in a circle.
Then you’re grabbing his hand, and his entire system shuts down and his brain stops functioning and every hormone he’d suppressed since puberty comes raging forth just because you’re touching him.
“Come dance with me,” you beg, a little breathless as you give him a light tug.
Oh no, he panics, because as a rule, Shouto didn’t dance. Well, his father had insisted on ballroom lessons as a child, but this pop hit wasn’t exactly the type of music one waltzed to.
“I— I can’t dance,” he stutters, eyes flicking around the room as he watches the rest of his friends bop around to the music. There’s no set steps or anything, no guide for him to follow, and he’s scared to mess up, scared to make a fool of himself.
But he lets you pull him along, regardless, downing the rest of his sickly sweet champagne and handing it off to the nearest waiter because he just can’t say no to you.
“Close your eyes,” you instruct, and he snaps his gaze back to you, hesitantly meeting your expectant stare.
“What?”
“I won’t look,” you explain, closing your own eyes by way of explanation as you start to sway around, your movements uncoordinated and messy— carefree. You look absolutely ridiculous, but your joy is so contagious that Shouto chuckles, loosening his tie and shaking his head slightly before shutting his own eyes. A burst of courage at your carelessness leads to limbs flailing inelegantly as he tries to dance along.
The second he starts moving, most of his nerves melt away into the jaunty beat and the swell of immense pleasure in his chest.
“Todoroki!” He hears you laugh over the flow of the music, and he cracks one eye open to see you watching him in awe. “You’re dancing!”
He’s dancing with you, and it’s the most fun he’s had all night.
He catches you when you accidentally whirl into him, his ballroom instincts expertly maneuvering you in his arms so he holds you in a dip, his hands gently cradling the small of your back.
Your eyes shoot open, staring up at him in surprise as you grip his arms. The breaths between you two are short and trembling as your chests heave against one another. He’s minutely aware of the paparazzi cameras flashing around him, of the whistles and cheers of Kaminari and— is that Midoriya?
But it’s all background noise. All of it unnecessary when he pulls you upright and your hand caresses the back of his neck and you get up on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear once more.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
Shouto doesn’t have to think twice before snatching his jacket, throwing it over your shoulders and resting a hand on the small of your back as you say your goodbyes to Midoriya and Uraraka, who lead the two of you out through a back entrance.
As soon as you’re out the door, you both run. You barefoot, him with his tie completely undone. One of his hands holding your heels and the other clutching your hand tightly.
You’re like a pair of teenagers, stumbling across the street from the hotel. Shouto lets you lead him into a hole-in-the-wall ramen place that’s empty, considering it’s almost eleven in the evening, the two of you giggling drunkenly as you slide into what you tell him is your favourite booth— tucked into a cozy corner and away from the windows.
He looks around a bit, taking in the new setting you’ve introduced him to as you, taking in the chipped paint and faded cushions, and the mouth-watering aromas of dashi and miso. It’s homey, a little rough around the edges with food that’s plentiful and cheap.
The owners - an old couple - are familiar with you, and beam proud, gap-toothed smiles when they spot Shouto sitting across from you.
“You finally brought a boyfriend!” The old woman grins, looking between the two of you. “And a good boy too, a pro hero! Very strong! Very handsome!”
Shouto raises a brow at you as the woman pinches his cheek. You don’t say anything to correct her, so neither does he.
The old woman leans over to whisper something that makes you blush before she takes your orders - he lets you order for him, perfectly comfortable with letting you take the lead - and the old man grips Shouto’s shoulder when he brings the steaming bowls to your table a few moments later.
Sitting there with you, in that little restaurant, is probably Shouto’s favourite part of the night.
Once you’re both acquainted with your meals, conversation flows between the two of you with ease. You tell him stories about your co-stars, and he shares some fond memories of his co-workers. You like hearing about his UA days and about his friends.
It humanizes you all, you tell him, especially when you tell me about all the times Chargebolt has fried his own brain.
You’re easy to talk to. Talking has never come easily to him, but with you, it comes a little more naturally. There aren’t any awkward pauses, he never feels pressured to contribute or respond, and there’s never a moment where he isn’t paying attention to you.
You sit there for hours, but it only feels like minutes by the time your dishes are being cleared and you’re arguing about who’s going to pay. (Shouto is faster, and can’t help feeling smug when his father’s black card swipes across the machine first.)
He can’t help but feel disappointed when you hand back his coat, and slip your shoes back on your feet as you walk back to the hotel. Your car is on its way, it’s almost time for you to go.
He needs to say something— and fast, because a sleek black car is pulling up, and you’re smiling tiredly like you’re getting ready to say goodbye.
There are a million things he wants to say. I had a good night, being tied with I want to see you again.
But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. The words are there, but they’re stuck in his throat and refusing to budge.
The driver steps out of the car to open your door, but before you slide in, you turn to Shouto and gently cup his cheek, standing up on your tiptoes again to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth.
“I had a great night,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes. “Thank you, Todoroki.”
“Call me Shouto,” he manages to croak, still feeling the phantom press of your lips on his skin. “And I— I did too.”
Then you slip into your car and you’re gone. He starts to miss you before the car can round the curb, so he has to walk away.
The walk back to his own car is quiet, cold. He slips his jacket on (it still smells like you), reaching into his pocket to retrieve his keys, but comes up with something else instead.
It’s a napkin from the restaurant, folded neatly into a little square.
Trembling fingers slowly unfold the thin material, where he spots your slanted cursive.
It’s your autograph, and written neatly below it in parentheses,
(For your sister!)
It’s a kind gesture, one Fuyumi will definitely appreciate.
He’s about to tuck it back into his pocket when he spots something else written on the back.
It’s your phone number, and below it,
For my new favourite Pro Hero.