Chapter Text
The tap water runs loud, just as laughter trickles in from the living room. Shouto locks eyes with Izuku over the sink, smiling conspiratorially as he passes a plate scrubbed-clean, and Izuku can’t help but laugh in response, drying towel in hand.
Today’s been a good day.
It had been a while since he and his former classmates had gotten together like this. Unfortunately, not everyone’s here—that hardly ever happens anymore with their busy schedules and all... But even so, they’d video-called their absentee friends tonight, notably Iida in Busan, Hagakure in Hokkaido, and Kacchan in stick-in-the-mud land.
(Not even Kirishima had managed to drag him from his paperwork this time.)
The occasion for this get-together had been more of a pretext, really—Kaminari had managed to remember to pay his Hero Licence renewal on time this year for the first time, and Ashido had declared this a cause for celebration.
Yeah, a pretext.
Izuku wasn’t complaining though: it was so much fun seeing each other again. Even Sensei was here—the day had been running late for them both at UA and Izuku had spontaneously decided to invite him on his way out. It had been a great idea really, otherwise he’d have never known that Aizawa-sensei, three shots in of shōchū, could rap Hideyoshi’s Majinahanashi.
Jirou had almost lost her mind.
They’d caught up, everyone, had eaten well—and now the party had moved to Ashido and Kirishima’s tiny, cozy living room, leaving Shouto and Izuku to clean up in the kitchen. Not that either minded. Shouto needed some space to decompress sometimes, and Izuku needed some time with Shouto to do the same.
It’s hard to catch up when your best friend is the No. 2 Hero.
So with Shouto on wash duty and Izuku on drying, they talk a bit, hang around in silence a bit more, then Shouto hums some children’s song and Izuku listens. Natsuo’s daughter will be four by now, he knows—and he couldn’t be happier seeing Shouto flourish in his role of doting uncle.
“How’s Aki?”
Shouto honest-to-god sniggers. “Energetic as always,” he says, passing him a dripping wet clay tea cup. “She told father yesterday that Mom’s scar is cooler than his.”
He huffs out a laugh at that but Izuku can’t help but wince himself. Sometimes he forgets just how much suffering the Todorokis have endured, despite having been aware of said suffering when those scars had been carved some eight years ago.
Shouto’s smiling though and Izuku doesn’t want to change that.
“Endeavour-san probably didn’t enjoy that very much,” he says, going for lighthearted.
“I did,” Shouto smiles wider. There’s no malicious intent on his face—simply amusement, distilled and honest.
He talks about Aki some more and Izuku listens, happy to see his friend happy. Eventually, Shouto’s words run out—but somehow, Izuku can tell there’s something he wants to say still, something he’s holding back.
He doesn’t press, lets him speak on his own time. With Shouto, it’s important he know that he has the time to express himself, otherwise he’ll clam up and act like nothing’s amiss…
“You told me once,” Shouto says eventually, a curtain of hair shielding his eyes as he scrubs a plate, “that I was preparing myself to forgive him.”
There’s no mistaking who he’s talking about. Izuku remembers those words he’d spoken after his first dinner at the Todoroki estate. He’d been meaning to help back then, he remembers. Hoping to help Shouto make sense of his complicated emotions…
Meddling when he didn’t need to.
(He thought he’d been doing the right thing.)
When Shouto’s eyes lock onto Izuku’s now, there’s something complicated in them, something heavy and…
Sad.
Izuku feels his pulse quicken in response.
(Was he wrong to have said that?)
Shouto looks down.
“I never managed to do it, Izuku,” he confesses then.
And Izuku’s stomach drops.
He sounds guilty, Shouto.
Self-loathing.
No no, this isn’t right, Izuku thinks.
“I think I knew the moment I saw Touya again,” Shouto continues. “After the war—after the second one… After what I did to him. I saw him in that containment pod, half dead—and I knew then that if I ever forgave the old man, Touya would never forgive me...”
His voice strangles itself, and Izuku’s jaw hurts from biting down. This is so wrong, Shouto shouldn’t be feeling guilt for something that wasn’t his doing—
But right now, Shouto needs to talk, and Izuku’s got enough discernment to know that he himself needs to listen. Not butt in, not this time.
He caused more harm than good last time.
Shouto resumes scrubbing with measured motions then, and Izuku resumes drying.
“It’s selfish,” Shouto breathes, like he’s revealing some unspeakable secret. “He hated me, after all, Touya. From the moment I was born, or so I’m told.”
Shouto’s bangs are short, but his face is angled in such a way that Izuku can’t see his eyes. He would like to though. His voice is too monotone…
“It’s selfish,” Shouto repeats. “It’s foolish… And it’s… unkind to the old man. But I can’t betray my brother. Not again.”
He says this and Izuku’s jaw hurts. His chest aches. There’s a lot there, feelings and pain packed tight, ones that Izuku can only ever try to understand. Because the truth is, he never had a brother, let alone one who wanted him dead. He never even had a father, let alone one who ever abused him.
He never had to carry any of the burden that Shouto still shoulders.
And contrary to the well-meaning fool he’d been eight years ago, Izuku now is neither naive nor arrogant enough to think he can truly understand Shouto’s situation. Because even though he’s an empathetic person, even though he cries watching cartoons and can’t help but well up at the smallest act of kindness—he can walk away from this burden when thinking about it gets too much.
Shouto can’t.
His guilt, his self-loathing, his pain—they’re his to endure.
Always…
The dishes are almost done now. There’s a dutch oven in his hands with red and orange flowers painted on it, and it gleams in the overhead light from how many times he’s scrubbed it. Izuku waits for more work to come his way, the cloth damp in his hand—and it’s only when Shouto passes the dutch oven over at last that Izuku’s words form in his throat.
“I think it’s human, Shou.”
Shouto grabs spoons to clean, his hands clumsy. Izuku doesn’t look at him.
“I think…”
He hesitates, pausing to mull the words over.
You can add to his pain if you’re not careful, he warns himself. You can make this worse.
Just like he’d done eight years ago.
“I think people that are considered smart can be incredibly dense sometimes,” he says eventually, picturing his younger, well-meaning little self. “And I think that kind people can be harsh too, sometimes. That doesn’t change who they are though. Some situations warrant just that. Harshness. Unforgivingness.”
He looks at Shouto—Shouto whose hands are idle now, whose eyes are hooded, whose shoulders are tense. He’s waiting, listening.
“You haven’t forgiven your dad, and that’s that,” Izuku tells him. “It’s not bad, not wrong, not anything. And it doesn’t change who you are.”
Shouto looks at him, his eyes gleaming like the dutch oven in his hands. Izuku smiles.
“You are a kind person, Shou.”
Eyebrows come together, lips press tight, and eyes cloud over. For a long moment, there is silence. Words decant until—until Shouto huffs, breaks eye contact and closes the faucet.
“I suppose I should believe you,” he says, a note of teasing in his voice. “You can be incredibly dense, but you are a smart person too after all.”
Izuku huffs out a laugh, swats his damp cloth onto Shouto’s shoulders.
“More dense than not, I’d say.”
Playfully, they exchange blows for a bit, droplets of water flying until eventually, the sadness and guilt dissipates a bit. Izuku wants to apologize for causing him pain all these years through simple, well-meaning words once—but he doesn’t, because he knows Shouto would just readily forgive him, and he doesn’t think he deserves absolution so easily.
No, he’ll work at making sure Shouto knows that no matter what, he is who he is, unconditionally.
Smart.
Gentle.
Kind.