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The first time Izuku takes a punch to the face, he is in elementary school.
In the future, he won’t remember it much. He won’t be able to reconstruct the series of events that put him in front of Bakugou Katsuki’s fist for the first time. That’s fine, he thinks. It doesn’t matter, not the way other things do.
It’s just a punch.
Izuku grows up a warrior. He fights a lot - he fights, and he loses. And, in the end, what he learns is that getting hit sucks. It doesn’t matter how many times it happens - it always, always knocks the wind out of you, turns your vision scarlet, makes you want to lie on the ground and not get back up again.
He gets back up anyway.
Every time.
Every time.
“You lose,” people tell him, over and over again, “because you need to be a hero. To save people. To win.”
That’s probably true, Izuku thinks. But he keeps fighting anyway. He keeps trying to be a hero. He keeps trying to save people.
He keeps trying to win.
step one.
There’s a fitness center down the street from Izuku’s new apartment. When he mentions it to Ochako over dinner, she tells him that it’s a fairly nice one; she and Iida have been taking yoga classes there on the weekends, and it’s actually pretty clean and bright, and only smells a little like used socks.
Plus, she says, they have open gym in the evenings.
And a boxing ring.
“Membership is a little expensive,” she’s warning him now, but Izuku’s not really hearing it. He’s picturing the ring rising up around him, sweat and dirt on his palms and a familiar ache in his muscles. Imagining the way his vision narrows and focuses itself when he moves.
It’s been a long time since he’s been able to actually, properly fight.
“Deku-kun,” Ochako says, a little reproachful but still gentle. “You’re not listening to me, are you?”
“I’m not,” he admits, and she throws a breadstick at him.
He goes by the fitness center to scope it out the next day, and signs up for a membership on the spot.
It’s nice to have a routine, something to look forward to, as he settles into a new home and gets used to living with Ochako and Iida as roommates. Classes and homework still take up most of his time, and his apartment still feels a little strange - too clean and too dark. But boxing is the same, no matter where he’s living and no matter how busy he gets. It’s easy and natural and honest. It always has been.
And fighting is in his veins. Itching in his fingers. Burning in his blood.
He’s good, too. He wasn’t at first, of course. But he is now.
There are a couple other regulars that Izuku gets to know. Kirishima, Kaminari, Asui, Jirou, Yaoyorozu. They’re all strong, and funny, and interesting, and clever, and they make Izuku better.
“We have matches, sometimes,” Kirishima tells him, after a couple weeks of practicing together almost every night. “Lowkey, and all friendly, naturally. You’re welcome to try us out.” And then he grins and says, “If you’re man enough, of course.”
The next time Izuku steps into the ring, Kirishima is standing opposite him.
He goes home banged up a lot. “You must lose all the damn time,” Ochako says cheerfully, whenever she has to help him ice a bump on his head or a swollen lip.
“Rude,” he mumbles. “I don’t lose that often.”
It’s a little bit true. But it’s also a lotta bit not.
One night, Yaoyorozu slams him into the mat hard enough that he’ll be feeling it for a week. He lets them all clear out, shouting their goodbyes and thumping him cheerfully on the shoulder, before dropping down and wheezing, clutching at his aching fingers. They’re probably sprained, he thinks. That girl packs a serious punch.
And... he’s out of medical tape to set them. Of course.
If he doesn’t do some damage control now, Ochako and Iida will drag his ass straight to hell when he gets home - he knows it better than anyone. That’s why he starts prowling the almost-empty building, ducking into unlocked rooms, trying to find some goddamn medical tape.
The only room that’s still lit and in use is the dance studio. There’s soft music with a heavy bassline vibrating in his feet as he steps up to the door. It looks like there’s only one person in there, though, so he lets himself in, trying to be quiet so he doesn’t interrupt the dancer, who’s practicing some mix of what might be contemporary and what might be hip-hop in front of the mirror.
And, oh.
Oh.
Last summer, Izuku saw a meteor shower.
There was something irrational about it. Improbable. Strange. One second, the sky was motionless, holding its breath, and then the stars were falling, tumbling out of place and streaking toward the horizon in a way that made Izuku feel small, somehow. Quiet.
Lucky.
This boy dances like that meteor shower.
He is taller than Izuku, and maybe a little bit broader - all strength and grace and deliberate motion, his jarringly-dyed red and white hair at odds with the fluidity of his motion. Izuku doesn’t really know what kind of dance this is; it’s composed of sweeping gestures, curving lines, fingers outstretched like the dancer is reaching for something Izuku can’t see.
He’s beautiful, Izuku thinks. Startling and beautiful.
And then he spins, turns away from the mirror. Towards the door.
Towards Izuku.
Their eyes lock.
His motion stops.
Izuku panics.
“Oh, no,” he blurts, taking a step forward and then two steps back. “I’m sorry, so sorry to interrupt, I - um...”
The dancer tilts his head. He reaches up to push a hand through his bangs, which are sweaty and sticking to his forehead, and Izuku catches a half-second glimpse of a scar that surrounds his left eye before his hair falls back into place again.
“You’re really good,” Izuku finishes, all in a rush.
The dancer looks almost alarmed, his eyes sharp on Izuku’s face for a long moment before he turns away to grab a towel and wipe off his face. “Thank you,” he says, like a question. His voice is low and quiet and calm, like a summer night, splattered with with stars, dripping their way across the cosmos.
He glances up again when Izuku stays stunned and silent. “Can I help you with something?” he prompts, but it isn’t rude. It’s not friendly, either, exactly. It just is.
“Right, yes, sorry!” Izuku lifts his hands, which sort of don’t even hurt a little bit anymore, but oh, well. “I was looking for some medical tape. I ran out. Sorry.”
The dancer raises an eyebrow, inspecting the awkward angle of Izuku’s fingers before his expression softens a little. He steps forward, moving toward his bag. The way he walks looks like dancing, too. “Don’t apologize,” he says. He pulls a roll of tape out of his bag and tosses it to Izuku, who catches it automatically, on reflex. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you!” Izuku gasps, dropping into a quick bow. “Thank you, I’ll just - I’ll just be going-”
He is halfway out the door before he turns around and blurts, “MynameisMidoriyaIzuku,” at the dancer, who is looking a little bit amused and a little bit baffled.
“Todoroki Shouto,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
step two.
That night, Izuku dreams of movement. Of motion.
The vision starts out fairly normal - one of those memories of fighting in the schoolyard, ducking underneath Kacchan’s punches. This time, though, it’s different. It changes. It morphs.
There is a startling, fuzzy energy in his chest and in his mind. He dreams of waves on the shore and those sparklers that people light on holidays that render the stars earthbound. He dreams of snow falling and the sun curving its way across the sky.
He dreams of the lines of Todoroki Shouto’s arms. His shoulders. His throat.
Izuku wakes, but he does not stop dreaming.
step three.
The next day, when he fights Kaminari, Izuku does not lose. He finds a particular power in himself, one he does not recognize.
“You were great today,” Kaminari enthuses, when they’re done with the match. “Spectacular, even. Do you have some instructor on the side that you’re not tellin’ us about?”
Izuku shakes his head and smiles. “I just... feel good today. I don’t know.”
Kaminari pouts. “Well, you looked good, too. Hey, Momo, come and fight Midoriya real quick! I bet he can win.”
He can. He does. In fact, he beats three of them in a row, and then he hits the showers, his muscles sore but his joy staggeringly bright.
He’s walking out, hair still damp and elation still clinging to him, when he passes the dance studio and catches a glimpse of Todoroki Shouto’s red hair. He lets himself look for a moment - the dance is sharper today, and stronger; more like a war - before pulling out his phone and texting Iida about picking up takeout on his way home.
Fighting, Izuku thinks, is a lot like dancing. Depending on your perspective.
step four.
The others don’t come on Fridays, usually. Kaminari and Yaoyorozu both have internships, Kirishima commutes into the city to study during the week, Asui swims every other day, and Jirou doesn’t usually come unless Yaoyorozu does. It leaves the ring oddly silent - almost like a foreign entity, a beast Izuku has to defeat.
He doesn’t mind, really. Izuku’s always liked people, but he’s never really minded silence, either.
He is practicing alone on a Friday night, losing himself in the feeling of his fist connecting with a punching bag, when the door to the ring opens and Todoroki Shouto lets himself in.
Izuku freezes immediately, mid-swing, momentum carrying his fist forward to hit the punching bag lamely. Todoroki has his bag slung over his shoulder, and he’s wearing sweatpants, high-top sneakers, and a loose, sleeveless shirt - not exactly clothing that lends itself to going a few rounds in the ring.
“Hi,” Izuku says. “Are you here to punch me?”
Todoroki smiles a little, just the hint of it, pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I hate to disappoint, but no. There’s a bunch of kids in the dance studio right now. Would it be okay if I practiced in here for awhile?”
“More than okay!” Izuku says, and then he wants to kick himself. “I mean. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
Todoroki has a thoughtful kind of face. Careful, watchful. He looks at Izuku like he’s taking him apart and putting him back together again. It’s a disconcerting feeling. A little heady.
Izuku’s trying to decide whether or not he likes it.
“Thank you,” Todoroki finally says. “I appreciate it. Sorry for the intrusion.”
And then he turns away, begins to stretch, and the muscles in his back and arms are really, really distracting, so Izuku forces himself to tear his gaze away. He turns back to his punching bag and attacks it with renewed vigor, trying desperately to ignore the impulse tugging at him to look, look, never stop looking.
In the end, he allows himself glances between punches. a small concession.
One. A split-second image of Todoroki’s legs and back that makes Izuku want to blush and maybe take a cold shower.
Two. A glimpse of Todoroki spinning, graceful and gravity-defying and immensely unlikely.
Three. The idea of motion in stillness. The fierceness of violence in the gentleness of a breath.
Izuku doesn’t stop punching until Todoroki stops dancing, almost a full hour later. He’s drenched in sweat and aching by then, but Todoroki offers him his water bottle and another one of his almost-smiles, and Izuku thinks it might be a little bit worth it.
Todoroki sits down to peel his sneakers off, and, after a second of hesitation, Izuku settles down next to him. The smell is pretty terrible, coming off the both of them. It’s comforting, though. It’s what Izuku is used to.
“You’re pretty strong,” Todoroki comments, taking his water back from Izuku. Their fingers bump, briefly. It makes Izuku’s insides turn warm. “I’m a little surprised.”
Izuku frowns at him. “I don’t look strong?”
Todoroki spins the bottle between his fingers before putting it down. “No,” he says, bluntly. And then he adds, probably because Izuku couldn’t keep the hurt from showing on his face: “You look... quick.”
“Quick,” Izuku echoes, trying very, very hard not to look visibly injured.
Todoroki nods. “Quick,” he repeats. Izuku is about to steel himself for a night of absolute and entire crushing, bitter disappointment when he adds, almost reluctantly, “And kind.”
Quick. And kind.
“Oh,” Izuku chokes. “I. Well. I’m strong, too.”
Todoroki snorts. “I see that, now.”
The surprise of the compliment melts the shyness inside Izuku, a little. It allows him to ask Todoroki things like what he does when he’s not at the gym - “Student at the university, majoring in dance.” - and what his favorite color is - “Yellow, maybe. Or blue. I’m not sure.” - and what kind of music he likes - “I usually just listen to the music I’m dancing to.” Todoroki doesn’t seem to mind; he answers, and then he asks back, sometimes adding questions of his own.
“Have you ever danced before?”
No.
“Do you live around here?”
Yes, right down the street.
“What do you want to be?”
A hero.
They fall into a silence after a little while, but it’s companionable and easy, and Todoroki doesn’t get up, doesn’t start packing, doesn’t show any inclination of wanting to leave.
It is almost-not-quite-late before Izuku’s courage peaks.
“Todoroki,” he begins, and then he isn’t sure how to continue.
Todoroki doesn’t look away from the shadows he’s following across the ceiling, but Izuku feels his attention shift, focus. Todoroki has an incredible way of making you feel watched, even when he’s not looking at you.
“Yes,” he says, and it’s half a question and half an affirmative, like he’s not sure Izuku remembered his name and wants to confirm.
“When did you start dancing?”
Todoroki looks up and meets Izuku’s eyes, his eyes a little wide and a lot startled. “I’m not sure, exactly. I was... young. Three, probably. Four.”
“Three?” Izuku repeats, alarmed, and Todoroki’s expression dulls.
“My father,” he says.
“Oh,” Izuku says. And then, “Oh. He wants you to be a dancer?”
“Something like that,” Todoroki says. His hands close into fists, his eyes narrowing and honing in on something high above Izuku’s head. “He wants me to be the best that ever walked the earth, actually.”
There’s a lot that Izuku could say, right now. Something like, Keep working hard, or, You could definitely be the best, or, Maybe you already are. But Todoroki’s eyes have turned to ice, and he has reached up automatically to cover his scar with one shaking hand. So instead, Izuku waits for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind, before asking, very quietly, “Is that what you want, Todoroki?”
Todoroki pauses. “What do you mean?” He gestures at himself, at his scar, something wry and a little bitter on his face. “This?”
Izuku winces. “No - no, I meant...” He trails off. Hesitates. Gestures at the room around them. “This.” And then he gathers his courage, before reaching up and touching his fingertips to Todoroki’s chest. Feels the heat on him. Feels the beat of his heart.
“This.”
“Oh,” Todoroki says. And then, “I don’t know.”
Izuku nods. “That’s okay, you know. It’s okay not to know. But I think... If you love dancing, really love it, then you’re not doing it for him, are you? You’re doing it for you.”
When they part that night, Todoroki gives Izuku another tiny curve of a smile and says, softly, “Thank you, Midoriya,” and Izuku notices that he has the shadow of a dimple on one side of his mouth, right beside his lip.
Izuku stumbles over his feet immediately, the ability to walk irretrievably lost in his memory.
step five.
Somehow, after that, it becomes routine. Even when there isn’t a class in the dance studio, even when everyone else is around, Todoroki meets Izuku in the boxing ring before the night is over. Izuku watches Todoroki dance, and Todoroki watches Izuku box, and they watch each other watching.
“Your boyfriend is cute,” Kirishima says to Izuku, once, and Izuku looks so mortified that Kirishima apologizes immediately and profusely, and then warns everyone else not to say anything.
Todoroki sinks under Izuku’s skin, though. The way he walks, the way he holds himself, the way he moves like he has some immense secret pressed inside his chest. The way his hair is somehow simultaneously sunlight and stardust. The way his eyes are a thousand hundred different colors, all at once.
The way he says Izuku’s name. Mi-dor-iya. Like a song.
I think Todoroki Shouto is handsome transforms into, I may have a teeny tiny crush on Todoroki Shouto, which transforms into, Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m so fucked.
“He’s so beautiful,” Izuku says to Ochako once, helplessly, his forehead pressed against the dinner table. “It doesn’t make any sense. How does he do it?”
Ochako takes a sip of her drink and pats his hand.
step six.
“Teach me to dance?”
Todoroki freezes mid-motion, twisting his body to look at Izuku over his shoulder. Izuku shifts from foot to foot, his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, but he meets Todoroki’s eyes as steadily and brazenly as he can bring himself to.
“You want to learn to dance?” Todoroki repeats, and there is something eager - almost hungry - in his eyes that Izuku was definitely not expecting.
“Yeah,” Izuku says, decisively. “If you’re willing.”
“Of course,” Todoroki says, and - oh, yeah, Izuku absolutely didn’t imagine it. He looks excited, almost. Or, as excited as Todoroki will ever allow himself to look.
(Todoroki tells him, later, that he wanted to see Izuku dance because he had seen the way Izuku fights and thought it would translate well. That there was grace in his violence. Right then, though, Izuku is only fire.)
After that, it is a blur - Izuku tries very, very hard to lose himself in the motion, in the movement, but it’s difficult when he is burning with proximity. With the feeling of Todoroki’s hands on his limbs, on his shoulders. With the stretch and curve of Todoroki’s muscles beneath his own fingers. With the violence with which his heart is pounding in his throat.
With the way Todoroki’s eyes lower, and land on Izuku’s lips.
There is a beat. A breath, during which Izuku allows himself to hope.
But Todoroki’s expression goes guarded and he lifts his gaze to somewhere above Izuku’s left shoulder, so Izuku pulls himself away with a short burst of nervous laughter. Todoroki’s face doesn’t change - he steps away, ducks his head a little in what might almost be an apology, but his eyes stay iron.
No, Izuku wants to say. No, no, don’t regret this. Please don’t ever regret this.
The night ends with the ghost of Todoroki’s heat under Izuku’s palms, and the memory of Todoroki’s breath gentle against Izuku’s mouth.
step seven.
Things are... a little bit odd, after that. Not outwardly; Todoroki is never less than kind to Izuku. He never has been. But he does start finding excuses to leave early, start answering Izuku’s texts less quickly and less enthusiastically. Small things, little things, but they add up. They carry weight. It aches inside Izuku’s chest, the knowledge of it.
Midterms creep up, and they are both swamped. Maybe that’s why Todoroki goes radio silent.
Maybe that.
(But maybe not.)
When several days - almost a week - pass without seeing or hearing from Todoroki once, Izuku throws himself back into the ring.
This time, he loses.
He’d forgotten, a bit, just how much it hurts to be hit. The blow that breaks his nose hurts almost as much as the stab in his gut when he thinks about the look in Todoroki’s eyes when he pulled away. The punch that splits his lip hurts almost as much as the violent twist in his stomach when he imagines what it felt like to be touched gently.
“I’m sorry,” Kirishima says, repeatedly. “Jesus, Midoriya, I’m really sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to hit that hard-”
That night, he leaves the ring bloody and battered and bruised. Fury and embarrassment are a twisted up knot inside him, frustration at his own weakness and his own stupidity.
“Want help cleaning up, Midoriya-chan?” Asui offers, but Izuku turns her down in favor of finding himself a corner to sit in and pout.
What? Even university students need to act like little kids sometimes. Often. All the time.
The ring clears. Izuku stays, and stares at the blood dripping down onto his fingers, and if he maybe cries a little, nobody needs to know about it.
“Midoriya?”
He jumps to his feet, one hand leaping up to cover his nose. Todoroki is standing in the doorway, still in his workout clothes, his bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder. There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin a little paler than usual.
“You’re still here,” he says, and then his eyes go wide. “You’re bleeding.”
“Hi,” Izuku manages, before he gets blood in his mouth and has to spit it out, wincing.
“Shit,” Todoroki says. His eyebrows push together in the middle, his bag dropping to the ground as he crosses to Izuku’s side. “What the hell happened?”
“I got beat?” Izuku says, thickly.
“No kidding,” Todoroki mutters, and he probably means to look stern, but there is affection in his face and in his voice. “Sit down, idiot.”
Todoroki cleans him up. He touches Izuku carefully, hesitantly, his fingers below Izuku’s chin and along his cheekbones and skirting the edge of the cut on his lip. He talks quietly the whole time, about everything and about nothing - more than Izuku has ever heard him talk before.
When he is done, he touches Izuku’s knee for a split second, and Izuku knows it is an apology.
“I’m a coward,” he says.
“You’re not,” Izuku says, instinctively. Easily.
“I am,” he says, very quietly. “I’m afraid of you.”
Izuku shakes his head. “Why?”
Todoroki pauses, worries his lower lip between his teeth before saying, like it’s an understanding he’s just reaching right now: “Because you woke me up.”
Izuku blinks in surprise. “You weren’t awake before?”
“I don’t think I ever was.”
That night, Todoroki walks him home. Neither of them mention the almost-kiss.
(Neither of them need to.)
step eight.
A couple weeks after that, Izuku goes to see Todoroki dance professionally for the first time. It’s a talent showcase, nothing special, but Izuku is walking on air the entire time. Todoroki moves like music, and the lights on his skin and hair make him look ethereal and magic, and Izuku feels inescapably out of place in a suitcoat and tie.
When it is done, Todoroki accepts the bouquet of flowers from Izuku’s arms. He smiles, broader than Izuku’s ever seen it, and tucks a daisy behind Izuku’s ear.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
There’s a dusting of gold around his eyes. It sort of reminds Izuku of the stars.
step nine.
Izuku waits outside the stage door for Todoroki to emerge. When he finally does, he’s sweaty and exhausted-looking, but there’s a glow in his face that Izuku’s never quite seen before. It’s a new kind of happiness, an unfamiliar kind. Izuku wants to memorize. Wants to tuck it away inside his pocket and keep it there.
“Thanks for waiting,” he says, and Izuku beams at him.
They set off, Izuku chattering happily about the show, his favorite parts and what he wishes he could’ve seen more of. He cracks some lame joke, decidedly uninspired and unfunny, but Todoroki laughs, and it takes Izuku completely by surprise.
Just like when they first met, he stumbles to a stop, right where he is.
“Midoriya?” Todoroki says, immediately. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
Yes, Todoroki wants to say. Yes, yes, I’ve never been better in my life.
Instead, he reaches up and brushes his fingertips along the line of Todoroki’s jaw.
Todoroki goes still, his eyes wide and fixed on Izuku, like he doesn’t know whether to lean into the touch or turn around and start sprinting. Izuku smiles and presses his palms flat along Todoroki’s cheeks, his fingers tangling in the silk of Todoroki’s hair, thumbs brushing along the corners of Todoroki’s mouth.
“Midoriya?” Todoroki repeats, and this time it is half a plea, his voice breaking in a way that Izuku has never, never heard from him before.
Izuku presses his hand flat to Todoroki’s chest and lifts onto his toes.
Their lips meet.
step ten.
Sunlight catches in Todoroki’s hair and turns it to fire. His eyes are closed, his breathing even, but Izuku feels his kinetic energy, feels the sparks inside his veins. The bed is warm where his body has been, warm where their legs are tangled together.
He is not standing, not moving, but his shoulders rise and fall with every breath, and to Izuku, it looks like dancing.