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Izuku hasn’t put much thought into how would die. He should have, probably. He would have, if he’d known. It’s just that (despite Kacchan’s best and most commendable efforts) he hadn’t guessed it happen at sixteen.
Because of a complete stranger, too.
A complete stranger who also just happens to be the prettiest person Izuku has ever laid eyes on. Life has an odd way of being nice to him, Izuku muses, if this is the last thing he sees before he goes.
The boy is looking down at him, eyes filled with concern, and Izuku—Izuku malfunctions. That’s the only way to put it. The only plausible explanation for why his brain seems to stop working entirely for a few unbearably lengthy moments, leaving him only capable of gawking. Not even sputtering an apology. Just gawking.
“Pretty,” he manages finally, reaching—up, as if towards the heavens, and surely, it must be the same thing? It can’t be that different.
The boy turns red. “Did you hit your head when you fell?” he asks, and—oh. Oh.
The neat handwriting on the inside of his left forearm prickles. “You—you’re my soulmate,” says Izuku, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt, because surely, someone that pretty must get told that all the time, surely he needs proof that this is—that they are—surely—
“I’m sorry for crashing into you,” the boy says, and the hand that pulls him up is gentle, cautious. Kind.
“That’s okay!” Izuku says. You can do it again if you want, his mind supplies. “Your hands are really soft.”
The boy scratches at the back of his neck, eyes downcast as if he’s embarrassed when the only one who should be embarrassed here is Izuku. (Izuku who just met his soulmate, and still feels like he might die any moment.) “Thank you,” the boy says, “you’re—I mean, we’re—yeah.”
Cute.
Mom would be mad if he proposed to his soulmate without telling her, right? Besides, Izuku should probably learn his name first. Carefully, still holding on tightly to the boy’s hand, he gets up on his feet.
“I’m really happy you almost killed me,” Izuku blurts, which, in immediate retrospect, is kind of a horrible thing to tell your soulmate. Unfortunately, it’s already out of his mouth, and can’t be retracted.
The boy blinks. “I thought soulmates were supposed to want to spend their lives together?”
“No!” Izuku shouts, frantically waving his hands. “I mean—I mean, yes, I’m happy that we—I’m happy I got to meet you.”
“Oh,” the boy says. After a bit of contemplative silence, he adds, “So you wanted to meet me?”
“Of course I did,” Izuku says. “Mom was worried at first, because of my soulmark, but I always—I thought you had to be someone really kind, to worry if I was okay.”
“I’m the reason you got hurt in the first place,” the boy says. He looks sad, and Izuku really, really doesn’t want his soulmate to be sad if he can help it, now or ever. Especially not because of him, especially not when he’s always wondered, always imagined this exact moment.
“You should smile,” he says. “I’m sure—I’m sure your smile is just as pretty as the rest of you.”
“You know,” the boy says, the edges of his mouth curling upwards, and—it feels like a victory, like the sun shining, bright and warm, “that’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me. I kind of—grew up thinking I’d never hear it.”
Izuku doesn’t recognize the feeling, for a second, foreign as it is. Disappointment, he’s used to. Fear and shame and crushing despair, too. But this—he’s angry, he realizes. All 166 centimeters and 120 pounds of him. It feels unfair in a way nothing that has ever happened to him has before. The idea that this boy, his soulmate, even if Izuku still doesn’t know his name—god, this is all backwards—could have grown up without knowing, without believing that he would one day be the best thing to ever happen to someone. To Izuku, specifically. Accidental almost-murder accounted for.
“It’s true,” Izuku says, “You’re really pretty…”
“Shouto,” the boy says. “Todoroki Shouto.”
Ah. So that’s his name. “You’re really pretty, Shouto-kun.” The proposal is probably still going to have to wait. They could get pancakes, though. Izuku should ask if he likes pancakes.
“What’s your—”
“Do you—”
“What’s your name?”
“Oh, um, it’s—it’s Midoriya Izuku.”
“Izuku,” Shouto says, like he’s testing the word out.
Izuku’s heart feels funny. Too heavy and too light all at once, both like it’s about to go into overdrive and completely stop working. “So.” He coughs. His palms feel sweaty. “Do you like pancakes, Shouto-kun?”
Shouto makes a face. “Too sweet,” he says.
Izuku’s shoulders slump. “Well,” he says, “I kind of wanted—I mean, we could do something else, if—if you’re free, that is, I wouldn’t want to—”
“No,” Shouto interrupts. “We could. I think—I’d really like it.”
Izuku smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
So. They get pancakes. Izuku drowns his in maple syrup, and Shouto looks like he’s extremely worried about his coronary health, but he takes a bite from his own stack—chocolate chip, no maple syrup—and smiles, says, “These are actually pretty good,” and then—
They talk, and Izuku leans things, catalogues them. Learns that Shouto is a cat person, that he doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up but he would like to do something to help people, that his favorite season is spring, that his parents were soulmates too but it didn’t work out, and that Izuku’s hair apparently makes him think of broccoli.
It’s a lot to squeeze into one meeting, and it’s also nothing. Izuku wants to learn all the things that can’t be told, that take time and effort and all the other stuff that people tend not to mention in those cheesy romance novels about meeting a soulmate, about having to learn how to fit together.
But they have time. So he starts off slow. Tells Shouto he doesn’t think he has a preference between cats and dogs, that he always told his mom he wanted to be a hero when he was a kid, even though that’s not a real job, that he thinks he likes autumn best, that his dad is away from home for work a lot and Izuku kind of misses him terribly sometimes, when he doesn’t know what to do and no one else is there, but it’s fine, mom’s great, she tries her best, and that he thinks Shouto might need to pinch him, just to make sure all this isn’t a dream.
At this, Shouto laughs. “Why would it be a dream?”
“Because I’m too happy,” Izuku says, and it’s maybe too much truth for one day, but—
“Me too,” Shouto says. “My heart’s beating so fast. Here, you can feel it.”
And the thing is—
The rhythmic thumping of Shouto’s heart underneath his palm feels too real, and so does the blood rushing to his cheeks, and—
Yeah, it’s not a dream.
It’s better, Izuku realizes giddily.
He’s not going to wake up from this. They have time.