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Nutcracker season is simultaneously Izuku’s favorite and most beloathed time of the year.
He loves playing his violin; outside of classes, he lives and breathes music; he wouldn’t be complete without it. He’s immensely thankful that Ochako forced him to join Yuuei University’s student orchestra in their freshman year; his life’s never been the same ever since and he wouldn’t give up that community for anything.
Between labwork, clubs, and assignments, he doesn’t always have time to dedicate to performing. But the one show he’ll always do regardless of his busy schedule is Nutcracker. Admittedly, every year he toys with the idea of saying no when the director asks—after all, show week does coincide exactly with the last week of classes before finals, which means every professor mercilessly assigns last-minute homeworks and quizzes and makes major grade projects due at 11:59 p.m. even though students are already studying as though their lives depend upon it.
But despite the fact that there’s a direct correlation between being in the Nutcracker’s pit orchestra and getting significantly fewer hours of sleep, ultimately he always reaches the conclusion that it’s wholly worth it.
Since the fine arts program administration puts on the ballet for so many nights that they can never get enough musicians, at that point they take anybody they can get—and they hold re-auditions due to the sheer volume of volunteers disrupting the usual placements.
Izuku’s good enough that he usually lands solidly in the first violin section, but still, it’s not like he’s ever been first or second desk.
But this is his third year, and this year the audition cut is one of his favorite pieces: Trepak.
It’s also filled with ridiculous string crossings because Tchaikovsky why on earth couldn’t you just make the poor violinists’ lives easier but that’s beside the point. Although of course one can never predict what hotshot freshmen prodigies will be joining, the point is that he’s grinded for hours on this piece specifically, and so maybe he actually has some hope this year.
Nutcracker info sessions and casual practicing starts in early October, with auditions opening up the second week, sectionals kicking off the third week, and full orchestra rehearsals beginning November 1. In preparation, Izuku, Ochako, Tsu, and Iida lock themselves up in a practice room that they’ve booked for several hours, and they spend that time recording their auditions and critiquing each other. Tsu’s practically guaranteed to get any harp part she wants, and Izuku’s pretty sure Iida will end up as first cello although there’s typically more competition among that section.
As for him and Ochako…
Ochako used to teach lessons to support her family financially, so her technique is pretty much textbook-perfect. Izuku personally isn’t that talented, but he is so obsessed with his instrument that he works his butt off and is decently skilled as a result of the hours of work.
But the violin section is where there exists the fiercest competition. First of all, there are simply more of them—the potential talent pool is greater. Second of all, violin seems to be the instrument of choice for the large majority of the child prodigies Izuku’s met.
So there’s no knowing where they end up. No way to predict—
—that in first chair is himself, Izuku Midoriya, written in bold black unbelievable lettering at the top of the announcement posted three minutes ago?!?
Concertmaster.
He’s concertmaster of the Nutcracker Symphony Orchestra.
Oh, he’s royally screwed.
Being concertmaster also means that unlike every other string musician who gets to switch out and pick their preferred performance days, he has to play at every show. Every single one of the 10 two-hour shows they put on during what is affectionately known as Doomsday Week.
He’d better give his professors some advance notice.
The first full orchestra rehearsal is simultaneously immensely awkward but also relieving. He sees plenty of familiar faces—Kacchan is beside him in the first violin section as his begrudging stand partner, Jirou is still first clarinet, Yaomomo is still playing the piano for the dance of the sugar plum fairy, Tsu is still on harp and will surely nail the Waltz of the Flowers solo as perfectly as she always does, Kaminari and Sero still share percussionist duties—but there’s also a few new faces in the mix.
Namely, the boy with red and white hair split down the middle and heterochromatic eyes sitting in the principal cellist’s spot. It doesn’t remain a mystery for long, however; immediately after they’re dismissed on a ten minute break, Iida drags the boy over to their friend group’s little picnic table. “Midoriya, Uraraka, Asui. This is Todoroki Shouto, a family friend and a cellist I greatly respect and admire. We took lessons together when we were young, but he quickly progressed past my skill level and soon we parted ways. I’m glad to have reunited with him through this wonderful winter tradition.”
Uraraka beams brightly. “Hello! It’s nice to meet you!”
Todoroki acknowledges her with the slightest half-nod.
Izuku sticks his hand out in greeting, smiling as well. “Todoroki! How have I never seen you around in orchestra- congratulations, first chair is a really great accomplishment, I can’t wait to get to know you better-”
When Todoroki leaves him hanging awkwardly, Iida steps in. “My apologies, Todoroki is a bit touch-averse, I should have mentioned-”
“Oh, no, it’s my bad,” Izuku immediately interjects. “Sorry-”
In their moment of distraction, Todoroki has already taken half a step backwards away from the four of them. He bows slightly, saying, “Iida, thank you, I appreciate the effort, but I’m not here to make friends.” And before any of them can get another word in edgewise, he slips away.
Soon enough, somebody’s timer goes off, signaling the nine-minute mark for their break, and they’re all hurrying back to their seats and picking back up their instruments in order to be ready to go—their conductor Aizawa is notoriously strict, so the returning musicians have seen or experienced his wrath firsthand and all the newcomers have been warned or heard stories through word of mouth.
The rest of rehearsal flies by as they’re mostly just running through what remains of the two hours’ worth of music that they’ll be polishing over the next few weeks. The run-through offers them a good reality check; it’s almost a tiny bit amusing watching the increasing panic in the eyes of the freshmen and other first-timers as followed by a lecture on the rationality and importance of practicing before Aizawa releases them all.
And it’s over. Izuku survived his first day. (Now he’s just got to survive the next week. And all the way until the end of December. No big deal, right?)
Izuku spends most of his free time practicing, determined to set a good example (read: not make an absolute fool of himself) in first chair under the stern, watchful gaze of Aizawa. But at the next rehearsal, it’s Todoroki’s eyes he finds himself meeting on accident every time he looks up from his music. He can’t help it; they are quite literally seated across from one another, and Aizawa is so tall on his podium that his arms barely block the way. It wouldn’t be an issue, except Todoroki doesn’t have any facial expressions. At all. And where Izuku attempts to smile in a friendly way, Todoroki is simply… untouchable. He’s incredible at the cello, as expected of his first chair placement, and it really does seem like what he said that first day was true: he’s here to play Nutcracker music, not make friends.
Much to Izuku’s chagrin and disappontment at the failure of his every attempt to get to know Todoroki, the awkwardness persists through the next few weeks of rehearsals.
Until one day.
The topic that gets Todoroki to speak up, of all things, is ice hockey. Izuku shows up to rehearsal one day in a Tampa Bay Lightning shirt, and he gets caught up in discussing the recent games with Iida during their break.
Right as Todoroki exits the bathroom, like a switch has been flipped, he makes a beeline for them immediately.
“They were doing so well in the pre-season,” Izuku is lamenting. “And then ever since their game against the Canadiens they’ve been on a losing streak.”
“Maybe they’ll make a comeback later on,” Iida thinks out loud. “I feel like in recent games their goalkeeper has been showing more and more involvement, and plus that one player who was in a skiing accident a while back and transferred recently has been recovering really well. I bet his old team regrets letting him go.”
As Todoroki comes to a stop directly in front of him, Izuku’s eyes widen and he takes a slightly wary step back. But Todoroki only jabs a finger at the 02 emblazoned on Izuku’s shirt.
“Isn’t that the one who’s the secret love-child of the Lightning coach.”
Izuku almost chokes on his goldfish crackers. Iida doesn’t fare much better.
“Uh… maybe?” Is that how one is supposed to respond?
“Anyways, I believe that it’s about time for them to show any secret strategies they’ve been preparing, so they can do better,” Todoroki continues as if he hadn’t just dropped a massive bombshell of a conspiracy theory.
Izuku bobs his head in agreement. “I really hope tonight’s game will be an improvement.”
Ochako comes by and pats him sympathetically. “Well, I hope you can have a winning day today. But for now we’ve gotta get back to our seats, we only have two minutes-”
With that, all thought of hockey is banished from their mind in favor of bonbons and tea and ginger. But Izuku is grinning widely to himself the entire time they run through Clara and the Nutcracker’s journey through the land of sweets.
From that short conversation onward, it seems like Todoroki (“I don’t like that name, call me Shouto instead”) has accepted his place in their friend group. He joins them for breaks without Iida dragging him over, he makes passionate small talk with Izuku and Iida about hockey and even listens to his ramblings about bow techniques, he bonds with Ochako over being business majors, he lets himself get roped into polyrhythm tapping contests with Tsu and occasionally Kacchan when the blond gets competitive and refuses to be left out.
During rehearsals, he’s still the aloof mysterious handsome principal cellist that people wonder about. But Izuku, having heard his silly conspiracy theories (of which he has more, beyond his initial secret love child one); having seen Shouto’s photo album of his grey longhaired cat; having tasted firsthand his inability to cook anything but cold soba, he knows there’s so much more to Shouto than just a brilliant musician.
Weeks pass, and then December is upon them.
Rehearsals ramp up as they still can’t play their music at the level they need to; it doesn’t help that Aizawa refuses to compromise on tempo.
“You are all excellent musicians, you all auditioned to be here and knew what you were signing up for. Or, at least, you put your signatures on a piece of paper that said you knew what you were signing up for. You promised to practice, now practice. Also, Nemuri will kill me if we play so slowly that her dancers have to do extra spinny rotations or whatever they’re called.”
The coda becomes homework for the violinists, who are treated with expulsion if they don’t bring back a near-flawless recording within seven days. The other instruments don’t fare much better, although Izuku doesn’t keep track of every section’s practice assignment.
In spite of it all, Izuku manages to maintain his 4.0 GPA (with a few close calls) going into finals week, the true test of his ability to function for an extended period of time on three and a half hours of sleep.
And then he realizes that he forgot one very crucial detail about being concertmaster.
In addition to, well, leading the literal entire orchestra, being concertmaster also means that he gets to be part of the stage ensemble during their post-coda finale rock performance of Carol of the Bells.
More rehearsals for him, then.
At least he’s not alone. Momo will be playing piano, Kacchan on the drums, Jirou on guitar, Ochako will be there too as the second violinist, and of course Shouto and Iida on cello, along with some others he doesn’t know as well.
The string musicians get to swap out, so thankfully Izuku doesn’t do the finale for every show—he doesn’t think he’d make it through.
“Which days are you all doing?” Iida inquires one day at lunch.
“I’m doing days one, three, and six,” Ochako responds. “I’m trying to schedule them on days I have final exams, so I can let loose afterwards.”
“Good idea,” Izuku agrees. “My classes are looking okay this semester, so I’ll probably do days one and three with you, but I might want to also do day ten for the fun of playing on the last day.”
“Actually, you’re so right, I want to play closing night too,” Ochako grins.
“My parents and brother are coming on the fifth day and my acquaintance from Shiketsu University will be in town on the seventh day, so unfortunately I can’t play with you on those days, but I’ll do the last show,” Iida says.
“What about you, Shouto?” Izuku asks.
“I’ll do whatever you do,” Shouto replies. “No way will my family come see me, and my exams are stacked so I finish them all before Wednesday.”
Shouto’s relationship with his family is a topic that Izuku can’t deny he’s curious about. His friend is usually tight-lipped and curt about his father in particular, but Izuku hasn’t heard much about the siblings whom he knows Shouto has as well.
“Can I ask why…?” he starts.
“Fuyumi’s always busy. Natsuo’s in another city. My mother–” Shouto looks like he’s swallowing the end of his sentence. “She’s… not able to come.”
His pained expression signals that this is the end of the conversation.
But Izuku just knows he has to do something about this for Shouto. Anything.
At the first extra night rehearsal, they quickly discover that Shouto has no stage presence whatsoever; when they run Finale for the first, second, third, and fourth times, his movements are stiff and awkward, even moreso than Iida. Although the rest of them, save for Kacchan’s aggressiveness and Jirou being a natural at performance, aren’t much better. Eventually Aizawa has had enough.
“You guys are so in sync and yet so uncoordinated, in the worst way possible!” he barks. “I need you to move! Square up! Walk around! Pull out your inner Lindsey Stirling! Anything!”
Even when the others get the hang of it, though, Shouto still looks lost.
“Cello 1, see me after rehearsal is over.”
Shouto returns from his talk with Aizawa looking unsettled and uncertain.
“What did he want to talk to you about?” Ochako inquires.
“He… he asked if there was anything stopping me from putting my all into the finale,” Shouto answers. “He saw that I wasn’t moving properly.”
“It’s your first year,” Izuku hurriedly assures him. “You’ll get better.”
Shouto shakes his head. “It’s not that. I’m classically trained, just like all of you, and it’s not that I have stage fright—I was forced onstage as soon as I hit age six. It’s just that every time I think of what he’d want me to do, and it goes against what Aizawa wants me to do, and I just freeze up-”
“You’re referring to your father?” Izuku probes gently, carefully.
Shouto nods. “My mother was the one who first introduced me to music—she taught let me sit on her lap as she played the piano. She played violin too, and was really good at it, but she somehow wanted me to learn cello. And then the moment I showed any talent, my father took over my training. I was supposed to be a world class cellist, win a bunch of big competitions, major in music; I did the first two things, but Fuyumi convinced Father that it’d be practical to major in business for the life skills. I think mostly she wanted me to have an out, if I ever got tired of music.”
He pauses to breathe now, allowing the four of them to take in what he has just said.
“Are you? Tired of music, I mean?” Izuku finally asks.
“No,” Shouto replies. “I like it. I like studying business, too. But I don’t have an issue with cello, only with my father. It feels like I can’t escape his shadow even here.”
And even Izuku, as a violinist, has heard of Enji Todoroki, the grand prize winner of every string competition under the sun, but in his mind he never quite thought of father and son as a unit.
“You’re your own person,” he tells Shouto, and there is so much more he wants to say, yet he lacks the words to say it.
He thinks Shouto understands, though, but even then Izuku isn’t sure if that’s enough.
Show week begins far too quickly.
It’s a whirlwind, just like it is every other year, but moreso this year in particular for Izuku.
At least he has his friends by his side; he’s not sure he’d stay sane without their glances and hand gestures of encouragement every now and then, their kind faces visible in the dim lights clipped to each music stand.
Izuku meets Iida’s family, and Ochako’s parents as well when they decide to buy plane tickets and come at the last minute, insisting that they can afford it and they’ll find some other way to make up their work.
As for Shouto’s relatives…
On closing night, all the planning that he, Iida, and Ochako have been doing comes to fruition. Twenty minutes before their call time, two texts from Fuyumi and Natsuo respectively arrive in their secret groupchat. Ochako goes to bring them to where their brother is waiting, while Izuku waits for their third special guest.
Suddenly, his phone vibrates and he hears the telltale ding! and he sees the new message pop up from Iida: we’re here.
Izuku rushes out to usher the two of them inside, and then soon enough Todoroki Rei and her three children are in the same room at the same time for the first time in years.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Iida says, backing out of the room, followed by Izuku and Ochako.
As Izuku closes the door, he can see the tentative joy and gratitude shining in Shouto’s eyes.
Later, during the ballet, they play as they have done for the last nine days, the music and entrance cues almost instinctive now, although across from him Izuku can see Shouto swaying slightly more than he usually does.
And then they finish the coda in a frenzy, quarter note equals 144 beats per minute, and then it’s finale time.
“It’s your music, not his,” Izuku tells Shouto as they quickly make their way through the backstage corridor. “You get to do whatever you want with it.”
“Okay,” Shouto agrees. “And thank you- thank you all for bringing them here, and for teaching me how to have fun with this. It’s been the best winter I’ve ever had.”
“Of course. Anything for you,” Ochako says.
Iida nods. “You’re our friend.”
“Let’s do this!” Izuku whisper-cheers, and they slip out under the cover of darkness and smoke from the stage wings and into their places.
The lights illuminate.
They play their hearts out.