Archive of Our Own

Shouto realizes it gradually, which is to say all at once but only after weeks of very serious data collection.

Bakugou and Midoriya are obviously dating. This is not a theory. This is a fact. They train together constantly, they know each other’s schedules without asking, they hang out after work, Bakugou laughs at all of Izuku's jokes which might not be all that relevant considering Shouto himself can't help laughing at Midoriya's colourful stories. Still, although Shouto does not understand romance very well, he understands patterns, and this is a pattern.

To Shouto, whose understanding of romance arrived filtered through textbooks, old movies his sister once forced him to watch, and the single, stark example of his parents' catastrophic union, these were not ambiguous signals but patterns as reliable as gravity pulling objects downward or as axiomatic as the superiority of hot soba over the cold, congealed alternative that some people inexplicably tolerated.

Bakugou Katsuki and Midoriya Izuku were dating. Obviously.

It wasn't even a question in his mind. From the moment he'd joined Class 1-A, the signs were everywhere.

Shouto had nodded to himself early on: They're in a relationship. A turbulent one, but committed. He respected it. He even felt a little envious sometimes—Midoriya and Bakugou had that intense bond he'd never experienced.

He never mentioned it, of course. It was not his business. If they had chosen to keep their relationship private, he would respect that boundary. Discretion seemed consistent with their personalities; Midoriya flustered easily under scrutiny, and Bakugou would sooner set something ablaze than entertain public discussion of his feelings. Shouto saw no reason to embarrass them by acknowledging what was clearly intended to remain understated.

So Shouto begins operating under this assumption.

He stops offering to pair with either of them during exercises because that would be intrusive. He stops sitting between them because that would be rude.

He asked Bakugou, during a rare lull in hostilities, whether anniversaries were difficult to celebrate given their schedules and he had gotten an incredelous stare in return. He figured it was just Bakugou being Bakugou.

But lately... things weren't adding up.

They still sit together at lunch and Bakugou steals food from Midoriya but also steals food from Kirishima and Mina and once from Shouto himself, which Shouto had not known was an option.

Five years after graduation, Japan’s hero scene had changed. The Class 1-A kids were now full-fledged pros, scattered across agencies, some even starting their own.

Midoriya’s ascent had been the most dramatic.

Izuku is wildly popular now, to the point that most normal hero work becomes impossible the moment he arrives.

The Commission learned quickly: regular patrols were impossible. Send Deku for muggings or petty thefts and you got a PR migraine that lasted weeks.

His face on billboards, his name trending before he even finished a fight; the moment he touched down on a scene, civilians whipped out phones instead of running for cover, reporters materialized like summoned villains, and what should have been a straightforward takedown turned into a live-streamed spectacle complete with hashtags and sponsorship offers.

So he only gets assigned high-profile cases, things that require symbolism as much as power. He hates it, Shouto can tell.

Midoriya had never sought to be untouchable. He wanted the ordinary rescues—the small fires, the alleyway disputes, the quiet gratitude of people whose names would never reach a press release. Instead, he was deployed like a statement, held in reserve until the narrative required him. There was a tightness in his smile after press briefings, a fatigue that had nothing to do with physical strain. He had become too visible to function normally.

Bakugou gets assigned fewer low profile cases too, but that was because his behaviour in public was a nightmare. Public relations departments across three agencies had collectively flinched at the memory of unscripted interviews. The Commission didn’t want lawsuits so they began directing him away from media-heavy environments. So Bakugou spent half his time training sidekicks and growling at paperwork.

He excelled at it, which only made the irony sharper.

Where Midoriya’s presence drew too much attention, Bakugou’s threatened to repel it entirely.

When Midoriya can’t be deployed without causing a media event, Bakugou clears the area first. When Bakugou’s temper threatens to scare civilians, Midoriya handles the talking. They have a shared encrypted channel. They show up to each other’s offices without appointments. Bakugou yells at Midoriya’s interns. Midoriya keeps spare gloves in Bakugou’s size.

This is not subtle.

So when the tabloids begin circulating glossy, aggressively speculative headlines about Uraraka Ochaco and Deku—Secret Romance? Caught Off-Duty Together!—Shouto dismisses it immediately. Surely he would know?

He had known Midoriya and Uraraka since high school, after all—close friends who shared lunches, study sessions, and the kind of easy, supportive affection that came from surviving the same nightmares. Ochaco blushed sometimes, yes—cheeks pink when complimented or when Midoriya rambled too enthusiastically—but that was simply her: warm, expressive, quick to flush under attention like sunlight on fresh snow.

Midoriya, for his part, remains catastrophically oblivious to overt romantic signals, a condition that has not improved with age or professional success. If a confession were delivered in clear language, he would likely require follow-up clarification.

If they were dating, Shouto would have noticed. He was observant.

When Deku was finally deployed on a large-scale operation—one of the Commission’s carefully curated, symbol-heavy assignments that required helicopters overhead and press barriers already installed—Dynamight was there.

It did not matter whose jurisdiction the incident technically fell under. It did not matter which agency logo dominated the briefing slides. Somehow, inevitably, Dynamight appeared as backup, arriving either moments before Deku or moments after, positioned close enough to intervene, far enough to preserve the illusion of independence.

In interviews they finished each other’s sentences, though “finished” was perhaps too gentle a word for the way Dynamight cut across Deku’s phrasing to correct terminology, or the way Deku adjusted mid-explanation without losing momentum, as if the interruption had been anticipated and accounted for in advance. They argued on live television about strategy, about timing, about who had miscalculated by three seconds, yet the underlying narrative remained unified. No contradiction lasted longer than a breath. No disagreement altered the outcome.

Shouto observed this from the quiet of his office, steam no longer rising from the container of soba resting on his desk. He preferred it hot, of course, but he had been reviewing footage and had forgotten to eat until the noodles had lost its warmth entirely.

Shouto nodded to himself as he ate. They’re together. Of course they kept it quiet. The media circus surrounding Deku alone was suffocating; adding public confirmation of a relationship—particularly one involving Dynamight—would generate a spectacle large enough to eclipse actual hero work.

Bakugou would hate the scrutiny even more—his temper already a liability, his personal life would become another battlefield for pundits and paparazzi.

The joint press conference after the massive villain attack in Tokyo was everything the public expected and more: a packed room buzzing with camera flashes and Hero Deku & Hero Dynamight at the centre of it. 

A Nomu-level threat had torn through three districts before containment. Deku and Dynamight had neutralized it side by side, trading momentum mid-air with the seamless brutality of long-practiced coordination. The footage was already looping across every major network.

Shouto Todoroki was there too, a few seats down, composed and quiet as always, but his mismatched eyes never strayed far from the pair.

The first questions concerned damage control, evacuation timing, projected recovery costs. Deku answered with careful clarity, hands moving as he explained impact vectors and rescue prioritization.

Then, inevitably—

“Deku! Any truth to the rumors about you and Uravity?”

Izuku froze for half a second, then laughed awkwardly, the sound bright but strained, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in that familiar, flustered gesture that hadn't changed since high school.

“Ah, no comment on personal stuff,” he said quickly, smile wobbling just enough to show he wasn't comfortable with the spotlight swinging this way. “But Uraraka-san is an amazing hero and we're close! We've been friends for years, and I'm really grateful for her support—on and off the field.”

Bakugou had been rather silent throughout the entire conference—uncharacteristically so.

The cameras pivoted, hungry for a reaction.

“Dynamight!” another reporter pressed. “Care to comment? Are the rumors bothering the team dynamic?”

“No,” he said, flat and precise. “They don’t affect our work.”

It was a perfectly professional answer.

It was also delivered with the tone of someone restraining significantly more colorful commentary.

Still, later that week, when Shouto ran into Uraraka at a hero charity gala, he decided to ask. 

Uraraka stood near the bar, elegant in a way that felt effortless rather than extravagant, her laughter rising light and unguarded at something Midoriya had just said. Midoriya, in a dark suit that did little to dim the earnestness in his expression, was mid-gesture, hands moving animatedly as he recounted some anecdote that seemed to involve an intern, a misplaced clipboard, and a very confused police captain.

Shouto walked over. “Uraraka. Midoriya.”

They both turned, smiles blooming instantly.

“Todoroki-kun!”

He got straight to the point. “The dating rumors. They’re nonsense, right?”

Uraraka’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, knuckles paling for a fraction of a second before she corrected her grip. The smile she offered was gentle, but it carried a softness that did not align with dismissal.

“Ahh…” she exhaled, eyes dipping briefly toward the polished surface of the bar. “It didn’t work out, Todoroki-kun.” A beat. “But they were not all rumors.”

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

She waved it off quickly, cheeks pink. “It’s fine! Really. We’re still good friends. Better this way.” Her gaze catches movement across the ballroom and brightens instantly. “Oh—Tsuyu-chan! I promised her a dance. Excuse me!”

And just like that, Shouto finds himself standing beside Midoriya with two untouched drinks resting on the bar between them and a noticeable absence of small talk.

For a moment, the orchestra swells to fill the gap.

“This must be difficult,” Shouto says at last, because endings—even amicable ones—require adjustment.

Midoriya tilts his head, green eyes open and unguarded. “Hm? Nah, not really.” He smiles, small but steady. “It’s better this way, honestly.”

And judging by the careless tone, and his casual demeanour Todoroki guessed he was the one who ended things.

“I see,” Shouto says.

He doesn't have anything else to say, so they just sit together in silence. But he doesn't feel awkward.

Midoriya has always possessed an ease about him that diffuses tension without effort. He had none of the loud charisma of a performer, he had something steadier. A grounded warmth that settles into a space and invites others to breathe more evenly. Standing beside him feels less like waiting and more like resting.

Shouto does not feel awkward.

He notices the minute ways Midoriya shifts his weight to face him slightly, an unconscious signal of attention. The way he absently nudges one of the glasses closer, as though remembering belatedly that Shouto might want it. The way his gaze drifts occasionally across the room—not searching frantically like he did when they were younger, not anxious either, simply aware.

Aware of everything.

A flicker of movement near the balcony doors draws Midoriya’s eyes again.

Dynamight is no longer speaking to agency representatives.

He is watching.

Midoriya’s mouth curves faintly at one corner, an expression so subtle it might escape anyone not already attuned to patterns.

Shouto takes a note of it.

Midoriya, recently disentangled from a relationship that “didn’t work out,” appears neither destabilized nor adrift. He appears—if anything—unburdened. Centered and almost anticipatory.

“You handled the rumors well,” Shouto says, testing the waters of neutrality.

Midoriya scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Ah—yeah. It’s just part of the job, I guess.”

He says it casually.

But his gaze has drifted back to the balcony.

And when Dynamight finally pushes away from his conversation and begins crossing the room, Midoriya straightens just slightly.

“Yo, Icy-Hot. Nice party.”

Shouto turned. Bakugou Katsuki was standing there in a sharp black suit with an orange tie.

"Um. Thanks?" 

He does not understand why Bakugou has decided to inform him of this.

“Shouldn’t you tell that to the host, though?” he asks.

Bakugou frowned. “Huh? Are you not the host?”

Shouto stares at him.

There are several possible responses to this. He selects the simplest.

“Uh… no. Momo-san is the host,” he explains, enunciating carefully.

Before Bakugou could respond (or explode), Izuku—still standing beside Shouto with his half-empty champagne glass—suddenly let out a bright, helpless burst of laughter that cut through the low hum of the gala like sunlight through fog.

“Ahaha—sorry, sorry, Shouto-kun. Kacchan! Do you not even read who’s texting you?!”

Bakugou’s eyebrow twitched with visible irritation. He pulled his phone from his pocket, stabbed at the screen with unnecessary force, scowled at whatever incriminating evidence glowed back at him, and then shoved the device away.

“The invite just said ‘formal bullshit at this address,’” he snapped. “I figured the rich half-and-half bastard threw it.”

Shouto blinked.

“I am not the rich one here,” he said flatly. “That would be Yaoyorozu. Or actually, wait—”

He's pretty sure Deku is drowning in riches at the moment.

Because statistically speaking, Midoriya Izuku, currently had to be the highest-paid not-even-fully-active hero in the country by an absurd margin. Billboards in Shibuya. Sports drink endorsements. A limited-edition All Might collaboration sneaker line that had sold out in under three minutes and crashed two retail servers in the process. His face—earnest and smiling and unavoidably hopeful was printed across vending machines and transit ads and the side of a train Shouto had boarded twice without noticing.

It was most definitely because of the insane support he got internationally.

The revenue reports were public record but Shouto had access to them anyway. International contracts alone placed Deku in a bracket typically reserved for legacy heroes decades into their careers. His two-year stint abroad—joint operations in America, collaborative disaster relief work in India, had cemented a global reputation that translated cleanly into numbers.

And yet.

He was standing here in a perfectly normal suit that Shouto was reasonably certain he had seen at least three formal events prior. The cuffs were slightly softened with wear. The tie was neat but unremarkable. There was no ostentation, no subtle tailoring that hinted at excess.

And yet, the other man doesn't show it, so he'll probably never know the exact number in Izuku's bank account.

Midoriya caught Shouto looking and smiled.

“Something on your mind?” he asked lightly.

“Yes,” he amended calmly. “Actually, Midoriya is currently the wealthiest among us.”

Bakugou scoffed. “Tch. Nerd doesn’t even spend it.” 

Buut Shouto noticed how he didn't deny it. The only person in the room, who is aware of the number is definitely Bakugou. 

Midoriya flushed. “I do! I just—well, I invest a lot back into support development, and there’s the scholarship fund, and the overseas relief programs, and—”

“And you forget to buy new suits,” Bakugou cut in.

Midoriya opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated. “This one’s comfortable.”

“It’s ancient.”

“It’s vintage,” Midoriya tried weakly.

“It’s pathetic Izuku.”

Despite the insult, Bakugou’s hand reached out without apparent thought, to fix his tie. 

Shouto observed this with silent interest.

“So,” Bakugou said abruptly, turning away, “you two just gonna sit here all night or are we getting food.”

“There is catering,” Shouto said. “You may eat.”

Bakugou grunted and moved, then stopped when Midoriya didn’t immediately follow.

“You coming or what.”

“Oh—yeah,” Midoriya said, standing instantly and looking at Shouto to follow.

They stand around a table, eating, nothing dramatic, just paper plates and too much food and Shouto is only half-listening to whatever Midoriya is saying, because most of it is directed to Bakugou anyway, just like the school days, when something catches his eye.

Bakugou’s left hand is resting on the rim of his plate, and there’s a ring on it.

Bakugou does not wear jewelry. Bakugou barely tolerates sleeves. Shouto knows this because he notices things like that.

Oh.

This explains everything.

“Congratulations,” he says.

Bakugou looks at him. “What?”

“On the engagement,” Shouto clarifies.

Izuku freezes mid-bite. He looks at Bakugou’s hand. Then at Bakugou’s face. “E—eh?”

“Engagement?” Bakugou repeats, incredulous. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Shouto gestures, calm, helpful. “Your ring.”

Izuku’s eyes widen. “K-Kacchan is engaged?!”

Bakugou’s expression shifts from confusion to pure fury in half a second. “The fuck? No!”

“But,” Shouto says, faint crease forming between his brows as he looks between them, “you both have rings.”

“I do?” Izuku blurts, immediately abandoning his food to inspect his hands like he’s expecting jewelry to materialize under stress. “I don’t—I don’t have a ring—what—”

“I thought,” Shouto says slowly, “you were getting married.”

There is a beat.

“You and Bakugou,” he adds, because apparently this needs clarification.

Izuku stares at him. “Me and Kacchan?”

“Yes.”

“No???” Izuku squeaks, voice cracking under the sheer weight of disbelief. “Shouto-kun—what?”

Todoroki Shouto experiences confusion.

“We aren’t even dating,” Midoriya says now, softer, as if he’s trying not to laugh and also trying to figure out if this is some elaborate joke.

“Wait. What?”

“You guys aren’t together?” he asks slowly, as though perhaps they are simply being modest.

“No?” Midoriya says again, helplessly.

Ah.

The press.

Shouto nods once, decisive. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

Midoriya rubs the back of his neck, smiling awkwardly. “Todoroki-kun… me and Kacchan are not dating. Never were.”

Bakugou is looking down at his plate of food, suddenly disinterested in the conversation.

“You were never dating?” Shouto asks again.

“No?” Izuku says, confused. “We’re friends.”

“Oh,” Shouto says.

Shouto stands there a moment longer, until Bakugou finally turns to look at a wide eyed Izuku. 

"Wouldn't I fucking tell you if I was engaged, nerd?"

Shouto turns and walks back to the dessert table.

He sets his plate down and exhaled.

He was no longer certain they were dating.

But he was now absolutely certain they were idiots.

-

“…So,” Touya says carefully, “let me get this straight. You assumed for years that they were together.”

“Yes.”

“They are not.”

“Correct.”

“They act like a married couple."

“Yes.”

Touya bursts out laughing, throws his head back, nearly drops his food.

“Oh my god,” he says, wheezing. “They’re idiots.”

“That was also my conclusion,” Shouto agrees.

"I know what you should do."

Shouto looks at him. “I thought you were going to tell me to leave it alone.”

“Eh.” Touya shrugs. “I’m bored. Aren’t you bored?”

“Not really.”

“That’s tragic. Anyway. What you should do is lock them up together.”

Shouto blinks. "...How?"

“I don’t know. Get creative. Throw a party. Play spin the bottle. Rig it so the bottle always lands on them. Classic.”

Shouto considers this with the same seriousness he applies to mission briefs. "A party. Yeah. I could invite them."

Touya bolts upright. "Hold up. Invite them to a bar, Shouto. Not here."

Shouto considers this. “We cannot play spin the bottle in a bar.”

Touya squints at him. “You can do anything if you commit to it.”

“That is not true.”

“Didn’t you ever hear confidence is key?”

Shouto frowns. “Nii-san. That is extremely strange motivation.”

Touya waves him off. “Ask that rich girlfriend of yours."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"I wonder why."

There is a tone there. Shouto doesn't really understand his brother. Or maybe he doesn't understand sarcasm, but he had taken two communication skills classes and had aced both of them. Myabe it's just his brother he doesn't understand. 

He looks over at him now, and smiles a little. It's okay, they have time.

Shouto hums, unbothered. "Fine."

Touya eyes him suspiciously. "Fine?"

"I'll figure something else out."

Touya’s expression shifts from suspicion to dawning dread. “What does that mean.”

“It means,” Shouto says calmly, “that I will reassess available resources.”

“You’re gonna do something weird.”

“I am always doing something weird, according to you.”

“That’s not a denial!”

Shouto considers this. It is not.

Touya groans dramatically and slumps back in his chair. "Ugh. Whatever. Just get me water."

“You are capable of obtaining it yourself.”

“And yet,” Touya says, gesturing weakly with his empty cup, “I am choosing not to.”

Shouto looks at the cup. Then at Touya. Then back at the cup.

“Very well.”

Behind him, Touya calls out, “Not sparkling! If you bring me sparkling I’m throwing it at you!”

-

Shouto is not doing a good job at rigging seven minutes in heaven.

This is becoming evident to everyone involved.

They are crammed into the back room of a dimly lit bar that absolutely did not approve this activity, seated in a loose circle on mismatched couches and the floor. Someone has confiscated a decorative bottle from a table centerpiece. It is now the instrument of fate.

Shouto Todoroki had never considered himself particularly skilled at games of chance, but he had also never considered himself capable of failing so spectacularly at something he had, in theory, rigged with nothing more sophisticated than a slight bias in wrist torque and the strategic application of a single, infinitesimally small ice shard beneath the bottle’s base—barely enough to create friction asymmetry, nothing that could reasonably be called cheating, at least not in a court of law or a court of public opinion.

And yet here they were.

Kaminari squints at it. “Okay, cool, cool—” he says, watching the glass slow. “Wait. Why does it keep landing on me.”

“It’s random,” Shouto says.

Bakugou looks at the bottle, then at Shouto, then back at the bottle. “It hasn’t moved more than forty degrees in ten fucking turns,” he said, each word clipped and increasingly loud.

“That is coincidence,” Shouto says.

Midoriya Izuku, already flushed from the second-hand embarrassment radiating off everyone else in the circle, waved both hands in a frantic attempt to de-escalate. “I-I think it’s just probability! It’s okay! Probability is weird sometimes! Like, uh, the birthday paradox, or—or how you’re more likely to get struck by lightning if you’re already on fire, statistically speaking—”

No one was listening to the statistics lecture.

Jirou leans toward Sero and mutters, “If he says ‘standard deviation’ I’m leaving.”

Shouto knew—objectively, calmly, with the detached clarity of a man watching his own tactical error unfold in slow motion—that he had to give up at some point. The ice shard had melted. The wrist torque had failed. The bottle was now behaving with the chaotic neutrality of actual randomness, which was, frankly, worse than any rigging could have been. He had spent the last hour trying to engineer a single clean, subtle push toward Midoriya and Bakugou ending up in the same closet for seven minutes; instead he had created a perpetual-motion machine of Kaminari suffering and Bakugou’s blood pressure climbing toward critical.

It's his turn to spin. 

The bottle slows.

It could land on Sero. Harmless. They would nod politely at each other inside the storage closet and discuss adhesive tensile strength for seven minutes. It could land on Jirou, which would be awkward but manageable. It could land on Midoriya, which would be... alright. It does not land on Midoriya. It does not land on anyone neutral. It keeps turning, clicking softly against the floor, and then it stops, decisively, unmistakably, aimed directly at Bakugou Katsuki.

Shouto’s first thought is that he's fucked.

His second thought is that he's royally fucked. 

The room reacts around him, noise swelling and blurring at the edges, but he barely hears it because his internal assessment has shifted rapidly from trying to get the Midoriya's bottle to land Bakugou to How did his land on Bakugou's?!

This is worse. This is significantly worse. Shouto tries to recall if he has ever been alone with Bakugou before. He has not. He tries to recall if Bakugou has ever threatened to kill him. He has. Frequently. Sometimes creatively.

Bakugou is already standing, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in anger because he refuses to back down but he also hates Shouto. 

Shouto’s internal monologue hits lightspeed.

Options:

Refuse. Claim quirk exhaustion. Feign sudden onset of hypothermia. Consequence: Entire class calls him coward forever. Touya hears about it. Touya never lets him live.
Go through with it. Seven minutes in a closet with Bakugou. Consequence: Probable death. Or worse—awkwardness. Bakugou might actually explode the closet. And him.
Fake a phone call. Pretend Endeavor needs him for an emergency. Consequence: No one will believe him. Endeavor is at a conference in Osaka. Everyone knows this.
Simply cease existing.
He briefly considers option four.

Bakugou snarls, “You got a problem, Icyhot?”

Shouto realizes he hasn’t moved.

"No I do not." 

Confidence is key, his brother said. Shouto's pretty sure that is not helpful at the moment, but he tries it anyway. "Let's go."

Shouto inhales slowly as the door shuts. Exhales frost that clouds in the dim light seeping under the door.

He can do this.

He’s faced villains. He’s faced his father. He can ask Katsuki Bakugou a direct question about feelings.

…Probably.

It’s been maybe three minutes, but it feels like thirty. Bakugou’s breathing is loud and even, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

Shouto decides, belatedly, that if he is already here and the situation is irreparably strange, he might as well continue with honesty, since retreat no longer appears to be an available option.

“Are you dating anyone,” he asks.

There is a pause where Bakugou looks him over in a way that is sharp and suspicious and deeply unhelpful, and Shouto realizes too late how this could sound without context.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” Bakugou hisses. “You planning on kissing me or something, Icyhot?”

“No,” Shouto says immediately. “Bakugou. No. I just want to know.”

"...No I'm not."

Shouto nods mostly to himself. Good. That’s a start.

“Midoriya isn’t either.”

Bakugou blinks. “Huh?”

“Yes. He and Uraraka broke up.”

Bakugou’s expression shifts, fast and unguarded. “Huh? They were together?”

“Yes,” Shouto says, then adds, because clarity seems important, “but they are not anymore.”

Shouto watches the faint outline of him in the dark. Even without light, he can tell Bakugou’s jaw is tight, eyes narrowed. He looks… upset. Definitely upset. Shouto is fairly sure of this.

“It’s fine,” Shouto says, attempting reassurance. “Because they are not together now.”

Bakugou laughs and it's sharp and defensive. “It’s fine? It’s fine either way, Icy Hot. Why the hell would I have a problem.”

“You look like you do,” Shouto says.

Bakugou scoffs, but it’s forced.

Silence again. 

“…Are you mad,” Shouto asks.

“Yeah, I’m fucking mad,” Bakugou snaps. “I’m stuck in a closet with you.”

“Would you rather it was Midoriya?”

Bakugou whirls on him. “The fuck?? Why are you bringing up Deku so much?”

“I do not know,” Shouto admits. “Why are you getting upset when I do.”

“I’m annoyed as hell because you’re here,” Bakugou says.

“And if Midoriya was here, it would be better?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. I will actually kill you.”

“You will not,” Shouto says calmly. “There are witnesses. You would not jeopardize your career like that."

“Is this what you were trying to do?” Bakugou asks suddenly, voice sharp. “Is that why you kept messing with the bottle?”

“No,” Shouto says quickly. “This is not what I was trying to do.”

“Then what,” Bakugou demands.

Shouto hesitates for a moment. 

"I thought you guys were togeher."

"Is that why you assumed we got engaged?"

"You were wearing a ring!"

"That was some dumb gift some crying child isnisted I take. He was crying and all about wanting to be a hero."

Oh.

Shouto wondered if that boy had reminded Bakugou of Izuku. He wondered if that's why he had accepted the gift.

“I was trying to get Midoriya to land on you.” He says, because Bakugou clearly still wanted answers.

The words sit between them.

“Oh,” Bakugou says.

Shouto nods once. “Yes.”

Shouto shrugs, even though Bakugou can’t see it. “It would’ve been better.”

Bakugou doesn’t argue.

“Probably,” he mutters.

And Shouto takes that as a win. 

Outside, Mina’s voice sings through the door: “Seven minutes are up, lovebirds!"

Bakugou pushes off the wall first.

But there was no sign of Bakugou even though Shouto left right after him. 

Katsuki had flown straight home. 

Shouto walks.

The walk gives him time to think, which is unfortunate, because the thinking does not resolve anything but instead stacks questions on top of one another until they feel less like curiosity and more like obligation. He reaches Bakugou’s building.

The door opens.

“The hell do you want, Icyhot?” 

“I wanted to ask a few more questions,” Shouto says, and steps inside before he can check whether permission was granted, dimly aware that Bakugou might shut the door in his face if given the chance.

But Bakugou looks tired. 

Shouto turns. “Do you like Midoriya?”

“Get out of my house,” Bakugou says.

“I am fairly certain Midoriya likes you too,” Shouto says, because momentum appears to be his only functional strategy.

“None of your damn business.”

“Why aren’t you together then.”

Bakugou turns away, scrubs a hand through his hair. “He isn’t interested.”

Shouto opens his mouth to ask something else and then stops, abruptly, because he realised Bakugou has answered him, actually answered him. And it takes his brain a moment to register the content of the answer rather than the fact of it.

He stares.

“…What.”

Bakugou looks back at him, irritated. “Yeah.”

“You asked him,” Shouto says slowly.

“Yeah,” Bakugou mutters, looking away toward the window.

“You asked Midoriya,” Shouto clarifies, “and he refused to go out with you.”

Bakugou’s laugh is kind of bitter. “What the fuck are you not getting, Icyhot? Are you slow?”

“No,” Shouto says, honestly. “But… why.”

Bakugou exhales through his teeth. “Cause he doesn't wanna fucking be with me dipshit.”

“What was the situation when you asked him?”

“I don’t know. Eijirou was there. Got awkward probably.”

“…Did you ask him later.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou says immediately. "He said, ‘Just let it go, Kacchan. Didn’t I already say no?’”

Shouto goes quiet.

There is a way Bakugou looks like when he repeats the sentence that makes him realise he probably thinks about it a lot. This is something he has replayed. Something that stuck.

“Oh,” Shouto says finally. “I’m… sorry.”

“What the fuck, man,” Bakugou snaps, defensive again. “It’s fine.”

Shouto nods once. “Okay.”

He doesn't know what to say anymore. 

Shouto shifts. “Um. I’ll leave now.”

Bakugou doesn’t stop him.

Confidence is key, Nii-san said. But Bakugou had plenty of it. Too much even. Where'd that get him?

-

“Oh my god,” his older brother is wheezing, clutching his stomach. “You spent the whole night trying to nudge a glass bottle with your quirk and couldn’t manage a single correct landing? Shouto. Little brother. You can split a skyscraper in half but a soda bottle defeated you?”

Shouto stares at him. “It was warped carpet.”

“Warped carpet,” Touya echoes, mocking. “Sure. Blame the floor."

“It was statistically difficult,” Shouto says.

“That’s not what statistics are,” Touya replies cheerfully.

Natsuo, who has been listening with his arms crossed, sighs. “Look, kid, you should probably just let this go. Bakugou’s business, Midoriya’s business. You tried, it backfired, move on.”

“I'll try,” Shouto says, but he must have sounded upset because his sister glances at him.

Fuyumi hums thoughtfully. “Well,” she says, “you’ve heard Bakugou’s side.”

Shouto turns to look at her.

Fuyumi shrugs, small smile. “You could ask Izuku-kun." 

His sister and Midoriya were on a first-name basis.

Surprisingly enough, so was Bakugou.

He had discovered this entirely by accident two weeks ago, when he had borrowed Fuyumi’s phone to look up a train schedule and stumbled across a...

Text notification from Bakugou Katsuki.

Katsuki: the chili oil ratio was dogshit last time, what did I do wrong?

Shouto had stared at the screen for a full five minutes, feeling the pattern shift beneath his feet yet again.

His sister—sweet, gentle, perpetually mediating Fuyumi, was friends with Bakugou Katsuki.

“I could,” he said slowly, hanging up his coat. “Ask Izuku-kun.”

Fuyumi’s smile widened, warm and utterly devoid of judgment. “He’s very honest, you know. If you just ask directly, he’ll tell you anything. He always answers my questions.”

He thinks about the way Bakugou had said the words: Didn’t I already say no?

Touya squints at his face. “Oh no. Don’t do that.”

“Do what,” Shouto asks.

“That look,” Touya says. “That ‘I am about to make this my responsibility’ look.”

Natsuo groans. “Please don’t drag Midoriya into whatever this is.”

“I would only ask,” Shouto says.

Later, when he finds Midoriya, he is struck again by the familiar, inexplicable sense of awe that settles over him whenever he speaks to him directly. Midoriya Izuku listens like every word matters.

It wasn't in the performative way people sometimes did when they wanted to appear attentive; not with the distracted nods or half-smiles Shouto had grown accustomed to from reporters, sidekicks, even some of their old classmates. Midoriya listened with his entire body: head tilted just slightly, green eyes wide and unguarded

His presence is earnest and warm and quietly devastating, and Shouto thinks, with a sudden uncomfortable clarity, that no wonder Bakugou is upset. To lose this, to think you had reached for this and been turned away, would be unbearable.

Shouto would be upset too.

To lose Midoriya Izuku?

He would not take that well at all.

"Shouuchan? Is something the matter?"

Midoriya used the nickname often in public—had started doing it sometime in their second year of hero work, when he was in a drug addled state. It always always elicited giggles from the people around them. Shouto didn't really understand why, he thought it was rather cute. 

"No. I just wanted to ask you if you're okay." 

"Me? Oh I'm okay! Are you okay?"

Ever the thoughtful person. 

"Yes I'm okay."

Midoriya studies him for half a second longer, clearly unconvinced but too gentle to press, and then disappears into the kitchen.

Shouto can hear the soft clink of ceramic as cups are lifted from the cupboard, the quiet rush of water into a kettle.

It was a pretty little house, more modern than traditional but had a definitive homey feeling, that Bakugou's lacked. 

“Why didn’t it work out,” he says, “with Uraraka.”

Midoriya’s fingers pause on the cup. “Eh. It was never going to. We both knew that.”

Shouto waits.

Izuku shrugs, a little sad, a little fond. “It happened in an emotional moment. We were both upset—about different things, the same things. It was just… in the moment. I love Ochaco-chan. More than anything. Maybe under different circumstances, it could’ve been something."

“I see,” Shouto replies.

He does, actually.

Midoriya pours the tea while they talk.

When he turns and hands Shouto a cup, their fingers brush briefly. Shouto realizes with a small jolt that it’s the exact flavor he likes. He hadn’t mentioned it tonight. He might not have mentioned it recently at all. The kindness of it settles somewhere warm and disorienting in his chest.

“I thought you and Bakugou were together,” Shouto says.

Midoriya laughs. "Yeah, I know. We aren’t.” He clarifies, again.

He sits across from Shouto, relaxed, open, eyes bright. “What about you, Todoroki-kun? Why all the questions about Kacchan? Is it because of the seven-minutes-in-heaven thing?”

So Izuku had already caught on.

“Yes,” Shouto admits.

“Oh,” Midoriya says quickly. “That’s okay, you know. I don’t mind or anything. Really. I’d be happy.”

Shouto blinks. 

So he was right.

Midoriya likes him too.

“Then you should tell him,” Shouto says, firm.

Midoriya blinks. “Huh? Oh—um… you want me to tell Kacchan?”

“Of course,” Shouto thinks. He can’t imagine delivering a confession on Midoriya’s behalf. Bakugou wouldn’t believe him. And he’d probably die trying.

“He won’t believe me if I tell him,” Shouto says. “And I’m sure he’ll kill me.”

Midoriya chuckles softly. “Oh, I’m sure he won’t. Kacchan seemed… okay after the game. I’m sure he likes you too.”

Shouto freezes.

Oh.

“Oh,” Shouto says.

That is not correct. Izuku had caught on all wrong.

“No, no” he says quickly. “I meant—no, I meant you. You should tell Bakugou that you like him.”

Midoriya stares. “Eh?”

“You don’t?” Shouto asks.

“Uh…” Midoriya rubs the back of his neck, exasperated. “No, I—what?”

“I thought you liked Bakugou.”

“I do.”

“Romantically.”

Midoriya looks down at his hands.

“Um… it won’t happen, Shouto-kun.”

“Why?”

Midoriya watches his fingers for a moment, tracing the rim of his cup. “Kacchan frustrates me sometimes,” he says quietly. “All he cares about is hero work. And that was fine when we were fifteen, sixteen. Full of ambition. Full of dreams.” He smiles faintly, then shakes his head. “But we’re in our mid-twenties now, Shouto. There’s more to life. There’s so much more to life. And Kacchan just… won’t see it.”

Shouto listens, very still.

“You know, that day," Midoriya continues, voice softer, “I thought… maybe. Maybe this was it. Maybe after everything, after all the years of pushing and pulling and almost-dying together, he was finally going to say something real. But no. He was asking me to join his stupid agency.” Another soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t even realize it at first. Ei had to explain it to me. I felt so stupid.”

“Oh,” Shouto says softly.

He understands now.

Where it all went wrong.

-

Izuku shows up in ten minutes flat, hair still damp from a shower, shoes half-tied. Shouto is waiting outside the apartment door.

“What’s wrong? Is Kacchan hurt—”

Shouto doesn’t answer. He just opens Bakugou's door, ushers Midoriya inside, steps in behind him, and closes it.

And then ices it.

Izuku reaches for the handle, tugs, then freezes.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “Um. Sorry, Kacchan. Shouto froze it shut. Uh—don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll—” He raises his voice. “SHOUTO-KUN? WHAT IS GOING ON?”

No answer.

Izuku turns slowly. Bakugou is still standing where he was, arms crossed.

“I—I’m sorry,” Izuku rushes. “I don’t know what this is either, I swear. I can just—uh—I can go out the window! Don’t worry—”

He looks around for the window overlooking the outside. Ah... that was a high jump. But it was alright, he's jumped higher before. He should probably warm up but...

“You hate being in one room with me that much?” Bakugou snaps. “You’re gonna jump out a damn window?”

Midoriya freezes mid-step. “No? What? You clearly don’t want me here.”

“How do you know that?”

"Was this your plan?"

"No. I don't fucking know what's going on either, but I'm not tryna jump out of windows."

"This is your apartment!"

Bakugou moves into the kitchen.

Izuku follows.

“Well… do you want me here Kacchan?”

He stops abruptly, glares at the counter, and pours coffee with unnecessary force. “I’m pouring you a cup, aren’t I?”

Izuku blinks. “…Oh. I’m sorry. Um. Hi.”

Bakugou leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I didn’t know you and Round Face dated.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. For a bit.”

“Right.”

“…Sorry.”

Bakugou turns sharply. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” Izuku says helplessly. “You seem upset.”

Katsuki scowls, but it’s weaker than usual. He doesn’t know why everyone keeps saying that.

“I’m not.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“…You could’ve told me,” Bakugou mutters.

“Told you?” Izuku echoes.

“About her.”

“I tried to!” Izuku blurts, his hand flying up. “Every time I brought her up you told me to shut the fuck up!”

“…Oh.”

Then Katsuki speaks again, quieter. “Why didn’t you tell me you broke up, then. Is that why you were upset for so long?”

“I wasn’t upset.”

Bakugou looks at him. “Then what.”

Izuku fidgets with his sleeve. “Ochaco-chan and I weren’t going to work out anyway. We were just… coping. And I wasn’t upset.”

He’s certain Kacchan sounds upset now.

“Is this why you rejected it, then?”

“Rejected what?”

Katsuki groans. “Me.”

“What?”

Katsuki exhales sharply. “When I asked you out. I didn’t know you and Round Face were dating. Sorry.”

Izuku’s eyes go wide. “No— wait, what? When did you—?”

“That day,” Katsuki says. “In the car.”

“Huh?” Izuku’s voice goes small. “You were asking me out?”

“Yeah.”

“I wasn’t dating Uraraka-san then.”

“Oh.”

Katsuki stares at the floor.

“Then you could’ve told me why you were rejecting me,” he mutters. “You didn’t have to be so—”

“I thought you were asking me to join your agency!”

“What—no! That was shitty hair—wait, what?”

“You were asking me out?” Izuku whispers.

Katsuki looks away. “Sorry.”

"Kacchan was asking me... what? Don't be sorry. I would've said yes Kacchan."

Katsuki’s head snaps up.

“Huh?”

“I was…” Izuku’s voice shakes. “I was telling Todoroki-kun yesterday how I thought you were asking me out at Momo-san's party, and then I got upset because you weren’t.”

“What? I clearly was!”

“Kacchan! I didn’t know!”

“Oh.”

Izuku’s eyes are shining now, tears gathering fast.

“I thought you only saw me as a hero,” he says, eyes shining. “That you were only happy with whatever we had because I was useful. That’s why I told you to let it go. I wanted more, but I thought you didn’t.”

Katsuki steps forward instantly. “Hey—don’t cry. Don’t. I was asking you out.”

“I didn’t know,” Izuku sniffs. “If I had known, I would’ve never said no.”

“It’s okay,” Bakugou says, rough but gentle. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Kacchan.”

“It’s fine,” Katsuki says, then blurts, “I’m asking you out now.”

Izuku blinks through his tears. “What?”

“Can I ask you out now?”

“…Really?”

Katsuki’s mouth curves just a little. The softest smile Midoriya has ever seen on him.

“Midoriya Izuku,” he says, half laughing, half serious, “will you do me the honor of going out with me?”

Izuku laughs through his tears and nods.

They stand there, a little breathless, a little stunned.

“…Is that why you were upset about Uraraka,” Izuku asks quietly.

“Yes,” Katsuki admits.

“Oh.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“Oh.”

Midoriya tilts his head. “Have you… kissed anyone, Kacchan?”

Katsuki glares. “Look at me. Do you really think I willingly kissed someone? Or that someone tried to kiss me?”

Izuku leans in, mischievous despite everything. “And what if I do?"

Katsuki’s brow furrows, breath catching.

Izuku closes the gap and Kacchan smiles into the kiss. 

"Again," he says when Izuku pulls away a little.

-

Midoriya and Bakugou walk out when Shouto knocks, letting them know, he has melted the ice. 

“Are you together now?” He asks, looking expectant as he sees Bakugou's smiling face.

“…Yeah,” Izuku says, then adds, fond and pointed, “no thanks to you.”

Shouto nods, satisfied.

He watches them for a moment longer than necessary. Bakugou’s posture is looser than he has ever seen it, anger replaced by something warm and bright and unguarded, his smile small but real, and Shouto realizes, belatedly, almost absurdly that Bakugou Katsuki is… pretty. Striking, even. He isn’t sure how he missed that before.

Midoriya reaches for Bakugou’s hand without thinking. Bakugou lets him.

Shouto feels content.

“Good,” he says simply.

Love looks good on them, he decides, and turns to leave, finally done playing Cupid.