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Shinsou Hitoshi decides early on that Midoriya Izuku is the kind of person who doesn’t get it.
The realization happens during training.
Which, honestly, should’ve been his first warning.
Because training with Midoriya is a genuinely awful experience.
Not because he’s arrogant.
Or cruel.
Or even annoying in the usual hero-course way.
No, Midoriya is awful because he looks at quirks like they’re miracles.
Every single one.
Shinsou notices it during one of Aizawa’s combat exercises. Midoriya’s taking notes from the sidelines instead of fighting, muttering rapidly under his breath while the rest of them spar.
Most people get weird around Shinsou eventually.
Some are obvious about it.
Others try too hard not to be.
But eventually everybody does the same thing — they hear brainwashing and something in their expression shifts.
A flicker of caution.
Wariness.
The silent thought of villain.
Midoriya, somehow, just looks fascinated.
Like Shinsou’s quirk is something incredible.
It’s deeply suspicious.
“Your activation timing got faster,” Midoriya blurts the second the exercise ends.
Shinsou blinks.
“What?”
“The brainwashing,” Midoriya says quickly, flipping through his notebook. “Last week your average response time was around one-point-three seconds, but today it was under one second almost every time, and your scarf coordination’s improved too—”
He stops abruptly.
“…sorry,” he says. “I was muttering again.”
Shinsou stares at him.
Then at the notebook.
Then back at Midoriya.
“You took notes on my quirk?”
Midoriya immediately looks horrified.
“NOT in a creepy way!”
“That sentence made it creepier.”
“I just think your quirk is really cool,” Midoriya says helplessly.
There it is.
That tone.
Too careful.
Too sincere.
Like he’s trying to compensate.
Shinsou’s shoulders tighten automatically.
“Sure.”
Midoriya frowns slightly.
“I mean it.”
“Uh-huh.”
For a second, Midoriya just looks confused.
Then Kaminari throws an arm over his shoulders and loudly announces that if Midoriya doesn’t stop analyzing everyone in a five-mile radius, he’s going to become “the world’s nerdiest supervillain.”
The moment passes.
But the weirdness doesn’t.
Because after that, Midoriya keeps doing it.
Keeps smiling at him in the hallway.
Keeps waving him over at lunch.
Keeps talking about his quirk like it’s genuinely impressive instead of unsettling.
And the worst part?
Midoriya never sounds fake.
That’s what gets under Shinsou’s skin.
If Midoriya were obviously lying, it’d be easy to ignore.
But instead he sounds earnest every single time.
Like he honestly believes brainwashing is amazing.
Which just makes Shinsou more irritated.
Because people like Midoriya don’t understand what it’s actually like.
Midoriya walks into a room and belongs there instantly.
People gravitate toward him.
Teachers trust him.
Class 1-A practically revolves around him without realizing it.
Even when he’s mumbling nonsense into hero notebooks or breaking his bones every other week, people still look at him fondly.
Nobody looks at Midoriya and thinks dangerous.
Nobody hears his quirk and gets nervous.
Nobody tells him he’d make a good villain.
Meanwhile, Shinsou’s heard that sentence his entire life.
Sometimes from strangers.
Sometimes from teachers.
Once from a middle-school guidance counselor who smiled sympathetically while saying it.
So yeah.
Maybe he gets a little defensive.
Maybe he gets irritated every time Midoriya looks at him with those stupidly bright eyes and says things like “your quirk is incredible” like he actually means it.
Because Shinsou knows pity when he sees it.
Or at least he thinks he does.
The argument starts after training three weeks later.
Midoriya catches up to him outside Gym Gamma, notebook tucked under one arm.
“Hey, Shinsou!”
Shinsou pauses automatically.
Midoriya smiles.
There’s sweat still clinging to the side of his face from training, curls damp and messy around his forehead.
“You adapted really fast today,” he says. “Most people can’t improvise around Bakugou that quickly, but your counter-timing was seriously impressive—”
Shinsou stops walking.
Midoriya trails off.
“…what?”
“Why do you keep doing that?”
Midoriya blinks. “Doing what?”
“This.” Shinsou gestures sharply between them. “Acting like my quirk’s amazing.”
“Because it is?”
“That fake nice thing people do.”
Midoriya’s expression falls immediately.
“I’m not being fake—”
“Right,” Shinsou snaps. “Because the golden hero-course kid definitely understands what it’s like getting judged for your quirk.”
The second the words leave his mouth, the air changes.
Midoriya goes still.
Not angry yet.
Just hurt.
Which somehow irritates Shinsou more.
“You don’t get it,” he says, voice rising. “You walk into a room and people already assume you belong there. Meanwhile I spent my entire life hearing how I’d make a better villain than hero!”
A few students nearby glance over.
Neither of them notices.
“You think I don’t know when people pity me?” Shinsou continues. “You don’t have to keep pretending my quirk is cool just because you feel bad for me!”
“I don’t pity you!” Midoriya says sharply.
“Sure.”
“I mean it!”
“Then why are you always looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something sad!”
Midoriya stares at him.
Then, suddenly—
“What exactly do you want me to say?” he bursts out.
Shinsou freezes.
Midoriya’s breathing hard now, green eyes bright with frustration.
“Do you want me to say your quirk is creepy? Dangerous? Villainous?” he demands. “Because it’s not! It’s an amazing quirk and I *mean that!*”
People are definitely staring now.
Kaminari is openly pretending not to listen from halfway down the hallway.
Shinsou barely notices.
“You don’t understand,” he says again, quieter this time.
And Midoriya—
Midoriya finally looks angry.
“No,” he says. “You don’t understand.”
Shinsou blinks.
“I know exactly what it feels like when people decide who you are before they know you,” Midoriya snaps. “I know what it’s like to get looked down on and told you’ll never be a hero no matter how badly you want it!”
Something in Shinsou’s chest twists.
“You have one of the strongest quirks I’ve ever seen,” he says. “You don’t know what that’s like.”
Midoriya laughs once.
Except there’s no humor in it.
“You think having a strong quirk magically fixes everything?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean!”
“No, it’s not—”
“You think I don’t understand?” Midoriya cuts him off, voice cracking now. “You think I don’t know what it feels like when people look at you and decide you can’t become a hero?”
Shinsou opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
“I spent ten years getting told that by someone I thought was my best friend.”
Because Midoriya looks furious now.
Not at Shinsou.
At something older.
Something that’s been hurting for a long time.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Midoriya says quietly.
“Then explain it to me.”
The words come out harsher than Shinsou intends.
Midoriya flinches slightly.
Then looks away.
For a second, Shinsou thinks he won’t answer.
Then—
“I was quirkless,” he says finally.
Shinsou’s entire body goes still.
“What?”
“I didn’t have a quirk growing up.”
The hallway noise seems to vanish.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
“But your quirk—”
“I got it later. Like much later.”
Midoriya’s hands curl tightly around his notebook.
“I know it sounds fake,” he says quietly. “People usually think I’m lying.”
Shinsou stares at him.
At the scars webbing across his fingers.
At the way his shoulders have curled inward like he’s bracing for impact.
And suddenly—
Suddenly so many things make horrible sense.
The obsession with analyzing quirks.
The way Midoriya talks about heroism like it’s something fragile and precious.
The almost painful sincerity every time he compliments someone.
The look in his eyes whenever people say impossible.
“Oh my god,” Shinsou says softly.
Midoriya laughs weakly.
“Yeah.”
“You were actually quirkless.”
“Until right before U.A.”
“And you still wanted to be a hero?”
Midoriya looks genuinely confused by the question.
“Of course I did.”
“People told me to give up for years,” Midoriya says quietly.
“Kacchan too. But I forgave him eventually, so… I guess I just didn’t want to become someone who assumed the worst about people.”
“Your childhood best friend told you to give up being a hero,” he says slowly, “and your response was to become more understanding?”
Midoriya blinks. “...was that not the normal reaction?”
“Midoriya,” Shinsou says flatly, “you are either the nicest person alive or genuinely insane.”
Midoriya brightens slightly. “Kaminari says both.”
“Kaminari is unfortunately correct.”
“Kaminari is unfortunately correct.”
Midoriya laughs quietly at that, rubbing the back of his neck.
And Shinsou—
Shinsou suddenly feels a little sick.
Because Midoriya’s saying all of this so casually.
Like years of being told he couldn’t become a hero are normal.
Like forgiving people who hurt him is normal.
Like kindness is something he gives away freely even after people use it against him.
Something sharp and guilty lodges itself in Shinsou’s chest.
Because all this time—
Midoriya wasn’t pitying him.
He understood.
Maybe more than anyone else Shinsou had met.
“I’ve been a complete asshole to you,” Shinsou says suddenly.
Midoriya blinks. “Uh—”
“I accused you of pitying me for weeks.”
“Well,” Midoriya says carefully, “a little.”
“A little?” Shinsou repeats incredulously. “I practically started a public argument in the hallway.”
“That’s true.”
“And you were literally just trying to be nice.”
Midoriya rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I mean… I *do* think your quirk’s cool. And”
Shinsou drops his face into his hands.
“You cannot say that right now.”
“But it *is!*”
“You’re making this worse.”
Kaminari finally appears beside them like he’s been summoned by emotional tension alone.
“For the record,” he says, “this has been the best hallway drama I’ve seen all month.”
Midoriya makes a strangled noise.
“Were you listening the whole time?!”
“The walls were listening, dude.”
“I need to transfer schools.”
“Nah,” Kaminari says cheerfully. “Now you guys have friendship trauma. That’s basically legally binding.”
Shinsou snorts before he can stop himself.
Midoriya looks absurdly relieved at the sound.
And that—
That makes the guilt worse somehow.
“You really meant all that stuff?” Shinsou asks quietly once Kaminari wanders off again.
Midoriya blinks.
“About your quirk?” he asks. “Yeah. Obviously.”
“Why?”
Midoriya stares at him like the answer should be simple.
“Because it’s yours,” he says. “And because it’s amazing.”
Shinsou feels something warm and aching settle in his chest.
Weirdly enough, he thinks this might be the first real conversation they’ve ever had.
Which is unfortunate considering he spent half of it yelling.