Come On Play Me Something - ladyhoneydarlinglove - 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia (2024)

Chapter 1: You Don't Want to be Alone

Chapter Text

It starts, as many of Izuku’s bad days do, with a nightmare.

Horrible visions of twisted metal wrecks and loud screeching sirens and bones crumbling to dust keep him trapped in their clutches so long that by the time Izuku manages to wrench free, gasping and sweating and trembling into consciousness, his alarm has been going off for twenty minutes. He stumbles out of bed, muttering frantically, mind trying to rearrange his morning routine so he won’t be late to work, but when Izuku trips over his own feet and goes crashing face first into the floor, he can tell the effort will be a lost cause.

Still, he tries, because that’s all he can do. His shower lasts three minutes and he skips drying his hair properly, bracing himself for the tangled mess of green curls that will result from the heavy August humidity. He shoves an apple into his mouth for breakfast and a granola bar into his backpack for lunch before dashing out the door, hoping against hope to catch his bus in time only to watch in dismay as it pulls out into the street seconds before he reaches the stop.

A creeping dread begins to simmer in Izuku’s stomach. He shoots a text off to his supervisor letting him know he’ll be late before heading into a nearby Starbucks for a consolation iced tea while he waits for the next bus, only to realize after placing his order that he left his wallet on the kitchen table. The barista behind the counter kindly tries to tell him it happens all the time, but Izuku still leaves red-faced and embarrassed, on the verge of tears like he always seems to be. By the time he makes it into work nearly an hour late, Izuku wants nothing more in the world than to return home, burrow under his covers, and never leave his bed again because nothing bad can happen if he doesn’t do anything at all.

But instead he puts a smile on his face and cheerfully greets everyone he passes, because more than he wants to go home and crawl back into bed, Izuku wants to feel like he’s accomplished something today, however small.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Izuku exclaims as he opens the door to the IT office. “I missed the bus and then I thought about walking but it’s so humid outside I couldn’t see myself not working up a sweat and I didn’t want to subject you to the smell all day so I just waited for the next one but then there was construction so we got delayed and—”

“And now you’re here, which is really all I care about,” Shinsou cuts him off, not looking up from his screen. “I know all this; you texted me. And before you continue your apology rant—yes, it really is fine, no, I really don’t care, yes, I know you’re really sorry and no, of course Sigmund isn’t going to find out about this, because I still don’t believe in throwing people under the bus for being late.” He turns his head, leveling Izuku with a look that makes anything Izuku intends to add shrivel and die in his throat. “Does that cover everything?”

Izuku flushes. “I think so,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Shinsou turns back to his screen. “But to make up for being late, you do have to help Yoon get another trojan virus off his computer.”

Izuku blinks. “What?” he says. “But we just cleared his computer of viruses last week.”

“Well, he’s got more. And I helped him last time, so now it’s your turn.”

The day does not improve. Yoon's computer is corrupted nearly beyond repair; Izuku spends most of his morning attempting to coax the machine into cooperation, Yoon breathing down his neck the entire time. The granola bar he brought for lunch turns out to be so old and stale Izuku can’t even bite into it, so he has to settle for an overripe banana and a handful of pretzels from the breakroom. If Izuku ever held a shred of hope that the afternoon might go better, it’s dashed when the office’s email server crashes, leaving him and Shinsou scrambling to fix it.

“I don’t understand,” Izuku sighs as they fail yet again to restore service. “This is what we did last time and it worked just fine, why isn’t it helping now?”

“Technology can sense fear and panic,” Shinsou deadpans. “It knows we’re afraid.” He curses loudly as his monitor flashes an error message. “I’m going to try resetting it again. Maybe the fifth time’s the charm.”

“Maybe,” Izuku echoes. He sighs again. “But at this rate it’s probably going to take the rest of the day to fix.”

“Probably,” Shinsou agrees. “Speaking of which…” He glances at the clock on the far wall of their office. “Don’t you have a doctor’s appointment you need to get to? I remember you sending an email about it last week.”

“Doctor’s… Oh! Oh, sh*t!” Izuku grabs his phone, frantically pulling up his calendar to see that he does indeed have a doctor’s appointment in thirty-seven minutes, which means even if he leaves right now, he’s going to be late. “Oh my God, I completely forgot, I need to leave—Oh, but the server still isn’t back up! I’ll—I’ll just call them and reschedule—”

“And get charged for a late cancel? No way.” Shinsou nods his head towards the door. “You should go. I’ll take care of this.”

Izuku hesitates. “But don’t you need my help?” he asks.

Shinsou shrugs. “Two of us working on it obviously isn’t helping.” He shoots the still flashing error message on his monitor a dirty look. “Just get going. Your doctor’s appointments are more important than this crap.”

“But—”

“Go.” Shinsou jabs a finger towards the door. “Or as your supervisor, I’ll make you go.”

Izuku opens his mouth to protest, but Shinsou’s dead-eyed glare has any arguments dying in his throat, and after a moment, he only sighs. “Okay,” he mumbles as he stands. “But text me if you think I can help, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Shinsou says, which means he almost certainly won’t. Izuku wants to protest that too, but Shinsou’s still glaring at him and being pinned under his gaze makes it extraordinarily difficult for Izuku to do anything besides obey his wishes. He grabs his backpack out from under his desk and shuffles to the door, only to pause.

“Are you sure—”

“Out,” Shinsou commands, and Izuku’s halfway down the hall before he can even register moving.

Izuku arrives to his appointment seventeen minutes late, panting and sweaty and red faced from his frantic sprint to the office, apologies tumbling out of his mouth so fast they’re incoherent. He doesn’t like what it says about him that the receptionist’s response to his babbling is only, “It’s fine, Mr. Midoriya. We expected you to be a little late. Please have a seat.”

A nurse calls him for him soon after. She’s friendly, has seen him here enough to know a few things about him, asks about his job and his cat while taking down all necessary particulars before informing him with a smile that Dr. Shuzenji will be with him shortly. Izuku breathes a heavy sigh when she leaves; his checkups have been routine for years now, but doctor’s offices still make Izuku nervous. Anxiety curls tightly in his gut, bracing himself for the worst even though he knows that logically, nothing can possibly go wrong because nothing’s happened since the last time he was in. He repeats this to himself, over and over and over again, but it doesn’t help much. By the time Dr. Shuzenji enters the exam room, Izuku’s already sort of a nervous wreck.

“Hello, Izuku,” Dr. Shuzenji greets, the lines of her old face crinkling as she smiles. “Please take a deep breath.”

Izuku does, letting it all out in a shuddering exhale. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“No need to be sorry,” Dr. Shuzenji assures him, taking a seat at the computer. “Coming in here still makes you anxious, doesn’t it?” Her eyes are kind, understanding. A lump wells up in Izuku’s throat, so he only nods. “I suppose that’s to be expected, after everything you’ve been through,” she says, typing out a few quick keystrokes. “But let’s try and put that aside for now and just focus on today, shall we?”

Izuku nods again. Dr. Shuzenji adds a few more things to his chart before asking him to have a seat on the exam table. She spends a cursory minute checking the mobility of his arms and wrists; they’ve recovered nicely, and she tells him so with another kind smile. Then she takes his hands. They shake with a slight tremor as she holds them, knobby joints and faded scar tissue all the more obvious in the stark light of the exam room. The ball of anxiety coiled tightly in Izuku’s gut cracks opens, and something hot and noxious bubbles over, flows all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes, sinks down deep into the very fibers of his being. Even as Dr. Shuzenji holds them, the tremor in his hands grows.

“Do they still do this often?” she asks.

“Some—sometimes,” Izuku stutters. “When I’m stressed, usually. Or… Or if they get tired. It… It happens a few times a week, still.”

“Hmm.” Her frown sinks deep into the wrinkles of her face. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Let’s see how your mobility has held up, shall we?”

She starts with his right hand, the better one. It continues to shake as she pushes and pulls, this way and that, has him bend his fingers and try to make a fist, as best he can. He can close it, but if he clenches too tightly an ache slowly starts creeping up into his arm. Izuku tells her so, and Dr. Shuzenji nods, still frowning.

The left hand is worse. Izuku still can’t fully curl his ring finger, and his pinky doesn’t bend at all anymore. His other fingers and his thumb move with protest when he tries to close a fist, skin tight where old scar tissue won’t give. Dr. Shuzenji asks if this hand hurts more often than the other one; it does.

“Well, they’re still holding steady,” Dr. Shuzenji declares as she steps away from the exam table. “That’s a very good sign, considering where you started from. I assume you’ve been keeping on top of your physical therapy?”

“Every day,” Izuku affirms, which reminds him that he missed doing his stretches during his chaotic morning.

“Excellent. You’ve always been very good about that.” Dr. Shuzenji starts typing notes onto his chart. “There’s not much else I can say; just keep doing what you have been and that should keep any regression at bay. And if you do notice any change, let me know as soon as possible, alright?”

Izuku looks down at his still trembling hands, wincing a little as he tries to close them into fists. “Alright,” he repeats, voice quiet.

The sound of typing stops, and he hears Dr. Shuzenji sigh. “What’s wrong,” she says, more statement than question.

Izuku looks up. “Nothing,” he answers automatically.

Dr. Shuzenji levels him with a look. “Izuku, please don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“My dear, I’ve been with you through every step of your recovery over the last four years; I know when something’s wrong.” She turns to face him, hands folding neatly in her lap. “You might as well tell me what’s on your mind.”

Izuku opens his mouth to protest, to tell her everything’s fine and she doesn’t need to worry, but Dr. Shuzenji levels him with a critical look and the truth comes spilling out before he can stop it. “It’s just… I mean, it really isn’t anything big I just…” He sighs, hands slowly closing again as he tries to coax movement out of them that no longer exists.

“Sometimes I feel like I haven’t made any progress at all,” he confesses in a small voice. “And—and I know that’s not true,” he hurriedly adds before Dr. Shuzenji can start lecturing him, “but… but that’s what it feels like, some days.” Like today, a bad day, where all his silly thoughts and worries and fears feed and feed and feed off each other until Izuku’s little more than a human-shaped shell of nerves, slowly ripping apart at the seams.

He glances up; Dr. Shuzenji looks back at him, empathy and concern etched into the deep lines of her face. She says nothing, so Izuku keeps talking. “It’s just… it’s been years and nothing’s changed and I know that’s good because it means I haven’t gotten any worse but I also haven’t gotten any better and I know that technically this is as good as I’m ever going to be again but I just… I don’t know.” He swallows thickly, blinking back tears, a crumbling dam barely holding against a sudden flood. “I just… I just wish there was more I could do besides not get worse.”

Dr. Shuzenji hums thoughtfully. “I understand,” she says. “Recoveries like yours are long and arduous processes. The stagnation is bound to be frustrating.”

“Very frustrating,” Izuku echoes, sniffling a little.

“And that’s to be expected; I doubt anyone could go through what you did and not be. And while I will once again remind you that you’ve done incredibly well considering your circ*mstances…” She smiles kindly at him. “I know it's not always so simple.”

Izuku nods slowly. “So what do you think I should do?” he asks.

Dr. Shuzenji stays quiet for a few moments, considering. “Using chopsticks was your previous barometer of recovery, correct? And that’s still going well?”

“Yeah. I’m not as precise anymore but… But I can use them fine most days. Unless the tremors get really bad.”

“Then I would say you should find something similar to use as a new gauge. Perhaps a hobby that uses your hands and requires some dexterity.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, there’s lots of options,” Dr. Shuzenji says with a smile. “Origami, knitting, crochet—” There’s a sudden glint in her eye, leaving Izuku no time to brace himself as she says, “—playing an instrument—”

He inhales sharply as the world goes fuzzy, hands clenching tight as they’re able. In the back of his mind he hears music, and the sound stabs viciously at his heart, blood pouring hot and aching from the wound. It leaks into his veins and muscles and bones, spreading until the hurt fills his entire body and for a moment, all Izuku knows is the sad old sound of pain and loss and fear.

Then he hears his name and comes crashing back to himself, a comet burning up as it hits the atmosphere. “No instruments,” he says, cutting off Dr. Shuzenji.

She frowns at him. “You have the resources,” she presses. “If you’re still living in Toshinori’s old apartment I know he has at least a few—”

“No instruments,” Izuku repeats, wincing at the slightly hysterical edge to his voice. “I-I-I know you and Dr. Aizawa think I should but—but I can’t. Not yet, I’m not—I’m not ready.” Izuku’s not certain he’ll ever be ready, but he doesn’t say this, just looks at Dr. Shuzenji with pleading eyes and silently begs her to drop it.

Her frown deepens, cutting sharply into the wrinkles of her face, but after a few moments, she relents. “Alright. No instruments.” Her tone makes her displeasure clear, but Izuku can’t bring himself to care, not with the old ache settling deep into his bones, pain bursting from his heart to claw at his ribcage, the sound of loss still ringing loudly in his ears.

Izuku leaves Dr. Shuzenji’s office downtrodden and exhausted. He’s fighting back tears all the way to the Metra station, knows by the funny looks people shoot him on the streets that he doesn’t quite succeed. He pulls his battered old headphones out of his backpack and shoves them over his ears, pulls up the latest episode of Sawbones on his phone and tries to drown out his emotions by listening to the history of erectile dysfunction. It only sort of works.

He gets a text from Ochako halfway through his ride asking if he wants to join her and Tenya for dinner; he has to decline, because the co-pay for his appointment chewed up most of the disposable income he might have had for the month. He’s already adjusting his bills in his head, not looking forward to the inevitable slew of rice and instant noodle heavy meals that await him until September. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Bauj from the office will bring in another basket of produce from her garden, and he can snag some things to bring home.

Humid summer air assaults Izuku the moment he steps outside the Metra station. By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the green curls closest to his hairline are damp with sweat, and parts of his dress shirt have begun sticking to his skin. The climb upstairs seems especially grueling, and the second Izuku kicks his red boots off and shuts his door, he slumps against it, sliding to the floor with a long, pained noise.

Home now, with nobody here to see him, Izuku finally lets himself cry. Big, fat tears well up at the corners of his eyes and before long he’s sobbing quietly into his knees, pulled up close so Izuku can wrap his arms around them and rock slowly back and forth. He tries to keep his breathing steady, but it gets caught in his throat and he ends up giving himself the hiccups, which seems a fitting end to an all around terrible day.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, but at some point a soft meowing draws his attention, and Izuku finds himself with a face full of fur as his cat wiggles expertly into the tight space between his knees and chest. “Onigiri, off,” he hiccups, but Onigiri only meows loudly in response and stretches, butting the bottom of his chin with her head. “Oni—Oni, stop—” She meows again and presses harder, demanding pets, and Izuku lets out a noise that’s half sob, but half laughter too. “Dumb cat,” he mumbles, all affection, and scratches the underside of her chin. She purrs happily, snuggling into his arms, and some of his tension bleeds away.

“Silly bean,” he mutters, running a still trembling hand over her black and white fur. “How come you always gotta butt in whenever I want to have a good cry?” She meows softly, and Izuku manages a watery smile. “Yeah, I guess that is what I got you for, isn’t it? Come on, off.”

He pushes her aside with some effort, and she stares reproachfully at him as he stands, wiping away the last of his tears. “Sorry,” he says, patting her head fondly. “We’ll snuggle later, okay?”

He hangs up his backpack, grimacing at the way his clothes cling to his skin. The windows are open, but hot air rises and he’s all the way up on the third floor. Izuku picks up the mail he grabbed on his way in, leafing through it briefly. It’s all junk except for a page of coupons from a pizza place he likes, and a notice from the hospital to remind him his monthly payment is due soon. Izuku’s not sure how he could ever forgot—the days his bills are due have been seared permanently into his brain—but the notices are still sent every month, and every time Izuku’s reminded of how he’s been making payments for years now and still seems no closer to paying off his debt than when he started.

Blinking rapidly against the sudden onset of fresh tears, Izuku reaches down to pat Onigiri’s head once more before moving to the kitchen. “It could be worse,” he says to Onigiri while he pulls leftovers out of the fridge. “Imagine if Mr. Yagi hadn’t let me rent out his old apartment. Then I’d be having to commute in all the way from Arlington Heights. How awful would that be?”

Onigiri meows at him, and Izuku sighs. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “It does sound a lot better when you forget about the lifelong injuries and crushing mountain of debt.”

After the day he’s had, Izuku can barely muster up his appetite for even a small dinner of seasoned rice and miso soup. He puts off eating by bringing out his tablet and scrolling through Netflix for something to watch, debating between a documentary or a comedy special when a notification from the Airbnb app flashes at the top of his screen.

Momo Yaoyorozu has requested to book with you!

Izuku blinks a few times at the screen before his brain catches up. Mr. Yagi lets him rent out the apartment’s spare bedroom on Airbnb for extra cash, but he’s only had two this whole summer. It seems nobody wants to visit Chicago in the sticky summer heat; or at least, nobody wants to visit and stay at Izuku’s place. Izuku’s not sure he can really blame them. Not expecting anything until at least September, Izuku reads Momo Yaoyorozu’s booking dates, and promptly chokes.

The screen tells him Ms. Yaoyorozu’s request starts August sixth and extends for an entire month, but that can’t possibly be correct. August sixth is this coming Saturday, and Izuku’s room has never been booked for longer than a week; his meager offerings aren’t really suited for anything more extensive. Izuku restarts the app, but the dates of the request remain the same. Izuku stares dumbly at the screen, trying to figure out why on earth someone would want to book his small, third floor bedroom with minimal amenities for a whole month.

Something soft brushes against his leg, snapping Izuku out of his daze. He reaches down absently to pet Onigiri’s head before pulling up the accompanying message from Ms. Yaoyorozu, hoping for some enlightenment.

Hello Mr. Midoriya!

Apologies if the sudden nature of my booking caught you off guard. I’m in a bit a situation and needed a room quickly; yours seems to fit what I’m looking for! But before you confirm with me, I do have a special request I’m hoping you’ll be able to accomodate, if you’re willing to hear me out. If not, please feel free to decline my booking, and thank you for your time anyway!

Momo Yaoyorozu

[Aug 2 via Airbnb SMS]

A special request; that doesn’t give him much to go on, but Izuku supposes that in conjunction with the long stay period, it makes sense. He hits reply, shaky fingers slow to type out a response.

Hello Ms. Yaoyorozu!

I’d be happy to hear your special request, though I should warn you if it’s an accessibility issue, my building is old and sadly doesn’t have an elevator. How can I help? I’m sure it won’t be any trouble at all to accommodate you!

Izuku Midoriya

[Aug 2 via Airbnb SMS]

(That’s sort of a lie; Izuku has no idea how hard it will be to accommodate Ms. Yaoyorozu’s request, but a whole month’s worth of extra income is too enticing to pass up.)

Mr. Midoriya—

Thank you very much for your graciousness. It isn’t an accessibility issue. I was actually wondering if I might be able to book your room for someone else, i.e. have someone besides myself stay there. I understand it’s an odd request, and of course you are under no obligation to accept it, but should you say yes, please know you would be helping me greatly!

Momo Yaoyorozu

[Aug. 2 via Airbnb SMS]

Izuku has to read the message over a few times before it fully sinks in. It is an odd request, but he supposes it’s not entirely unmanageable.

Ms. Yaoyorozu—

I’d be happy to help you out! If it’s a language barrier I do speak Japanese, some Spanish, and basic Korean, though my Spanish accent has been called atrocious :) Can you tell me about the person who’d be staying in your stead?

Izuku Midoriya

[Aug 2 via Airbnb SMS]

Her reply comes a few minutes later, by which time Izuku’s all but shoveling rice into his mouth, appetite having returned with a vengeance.

Mr. Midoriya—

It’s not a language barrier, though coincidentally, he also speaks Japanese. His name is Shouto; he’s sort of in between jobs right now and needs a place to stay that will allow him to move around freely if needed. Airbnb rooms are usually cheaper than hotel rooms, and a lot more comfy! I can’t say much else other than that he’s in his mid-twenties, and he’s very polite if a bit standoffish. You’ll get used to it once you spend some time with him, I promise.

Momo Yaoyorozu

[Aug. 2 via Airbnb SMS]

Not a language barrier, and young enough that technology shouldn’t be an issue. And accessibility isn’t a problem. Izuku frowns at the message on his screen; the request seems more strange now, and it leaves something uneasy curling in his gut.

Ms. Yaoyorozu—

Could he make his own Airbnb profile and just book with me directly? It’s really easy, as I’m sure you know!

Izuku Midoriya

[Aug 2 via Airbnb SMS]

He hasn’t even grabbed his chopsticks again when her response comes through.

No, he can’t. Let’s just say there are some extenuating circ*mstances.

[Aug. 2 via Airbnb SMS]

That doesn’t make Izuku feel better at all. He’s lifting his fingers to type a response when another message pops up.

I understand completely if you can’t accommodate my request, but please do know you would be helping both myself and Shouto out greatly if you agree. I’m sorry I can’t say more than that; it’s just a very tricky situation for both of us.

[Aug. 2 via Airbnb SMS]

Izuku frowns at the screen, worrying at his bottom lip. Logic tells him he ought to say no, that this situation is too strange to warrant whatever money he’ll gain from it. But there’s also a rapidly growing part of him that wants to say yes, to extend freely a helping hand to what seems to be at least one person in need. It’s a part of him Izuku’s not always proud of, that often gets him into more trouble than he can handle, but it’s also a part of him Izuku knows he can never be rid of, that he could never want to be rid of.

His mother once told him he was, above all things, someone who wants to help people, no matter the cost, and he’s always been hard-pressed to disagree. Izuku’s battered and bruised and more than a little broken in some places, but he likes to believe that no matter how much he might be falling apart at the seams some days, he’ll always be able to help, somehow.

Izuku closes his eyes for the time it takes to breathe one full inhale and exhale, then types his response before he can think better of it.

Ms. Yaoyorozu—

I understand. I’m no stranger to tricky situations myself, so if I can help you guys out, I’d be happy to do so :) Please tell Mr. Shouto he’s welcome to stay under your name.

Izuku Midoriya

[Aug 2 via Airbnb SMS]

Chapter 2: Give Me Hope in the Darkness

Chapter Text

Izuku spends the remainder of his week preparing for Shouto’s stay, trying to remain calm even as a sickly sort of nervousness continues to grow in the pit of his stomach. His one consolation is that Momo will be there when Shouto arrives, and Izuku’s never seen someone with a more stellar Airbnb profile; all her hosts absolutely gushed about what a wonderful guest she was, and the reviews left for her own often rented out apartment held nothing but the highest praise. Izuku can only hope (pray, really) that Momo’s seemingly pleasant disposition will be shared by her mysterious friend.

Saturday arrives; Momo and Shouto ask for a late check-in, so Izuku spends the entire day as a nervous wreck, forced to wait. He does an extra set of physical therapy stretches, then goes out around his usual running route twice despite the humidity, just to burn off his excess energy. On his way home Izuku panics about not having any breakfast offerings even though food isn’t a part of his listed amenities; he nearly buys an entire cart full of groceries before managing to talk himself down to yogurt, fruit, and some instant oatmeal. He spends almost two hours rearranging the guest bedroom again and again and again until finally he forces himself to sit on the couch and watch Planet Earth on his tablet until Shouto actually gets here so he won’t do anything else stupid, like run out and buy a TV so he can offer some entertainment options.

Shortly before eight-thirty, a message from the Airbnb app pops up, informing him of Shouto and Momo’s arrival. Izuku allows himself thirty seconds of total panic before reigning it in, repeating to himself over and over again as he heads downstairs that he can always turn them away if he needs to, and that if they try to murder him, there’s at least a fifty percent chance the Asui kids in the second floor apartment will be able to hear him screaming.

His hands tremble as he reaches for the door handle. “Breathe,” he mutters to himself. “Just breathe.”

One full inhale and exhale later, Izuku throws open the door, greeting the two people standing outside with what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Hello!” he says cheerfully. “Momo, right?” He nods at the woman with thick black hair pulled into a high ponytail, familiar from her profile picture. “So you must be Shou… to…”

Izuku doesn’t mean to trail off. He also doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t, but it’s very hard to do anything else when he finds his gaze being met by winter storm cloud grey and bright summer sky blue, looking back at him with such singular intensity that Izuku’s breath catches in his throat. For a moment, the world around him crumbles away, lost in a storm or washed out by the sun, and Izuku rather thinks he could lose himself in that gaze forever.

Then Shouto’s head dips, the brim of his overly large baseball cap hiding his eyes from view, and Izuku’s brain helpfully informs him Momo is speaking as he’s dumped unceremoniously back into reality. “—have showed up so late, I hope it wasn’t too much trouble!”

“Oh—oh no, it’s no trouble at all!” Izuku prays his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as it feels, wrenching his gaze back to Momo. “This isn’t even late for me, really, I’m prone to staying up past midnight going down Reddit holes.” He smiles sheepishly. “Please, come on up. Careful on the stairs, they’re a little narrow.”

He steps aside to let them pass; Momo has a duffle bag that she hoists with apparent ease, and Shouto wheels in a large black suitcase. “Can I help with that?” Izuku offers.

Shouto frowns. “I’m fine,” he says curtly.

“It’s two flights of narrow stairs, Shouto, let the man help,” Momo scolds from ahead of them.

Shouto glares up at where she’s already climbing the stairs, but after a moment, he sighs and gestures for Izuku to take the other end of the suitcase. His baseball cap covers all of his hair and the brim makes viewing his face difficult, but Izuku manages another brief glance, taking in what looks to be a large scar extending over much of the left half before Shouto turns away to begin the ascent. They make the climb up to the third floor in total silence.

“Here we are!” Izuku opens the door the let them inside. Momo passes by with a smile, Shouto without so much as a glance in his direction.

“It’s warm,” Momo comments, slipping out of her ballet flats as she crosses the entryway. “Is it always like this?”

“During the summer, yeah. I do have air conditioning, it just costs a lot because the building is old and the insulation isn’t great.” Izuku’s sure he has that mentioned in his listing, but a new wave of nervousness overtakes him anyway. “I hope that won’t be too much of a problem?”

Momo looks to Shouto, who shrugs. “The pictures showed a ceiling fan in the bedroom, right?” he says as he steps out of his shoes, eerily pristine light blue Converse low tops. At Izuku’s nod, he continues, “Then I’ll be fine.”

“Great!” Izuku relaxes minutely. “So, did you want to look around or—”

“No,” Shouto cuts him off. Momo shoots him a reproachful look, and he sighs. “Just my room is fine for now, thank you.”

“O… kay. Well, um, the kitchen and the in-unit laundry are to the left, for when you want to use them. Your, um, your room is this way.” Momo hands Shouto the duffle bag, and Izuku leads Shouto through the living room to the far corner where the guest bedroom entrance resides. The windows on both walls are open, creating a nice cross breeze that leaves it more cool than the rest of the apartment, and the scent of fresh laundry wafts about pleasantly. “There’s an en suite bathroom through that door there,” Izuku points. “It’s all yours, so feel free to set it up however you like!”

Shouto makes a vague noise of agreement, dropping the duffle bag on the bed. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he says, “I’d like to get settled on my own for now.”

“Oh, um, sure. Of course.” The words are polite, but the brusque tone leaves Izuku faltering. “I’ll—I’ll leave you to it, just um. Just let me know if you need anything.”

His hand shakes on the door handle as he pulls it closed, anxiety and nerves feeding the tremors and leaving Izuku exhausted from being on edge for so long. Returning to the living room, he offers Momo a shaky smile. “He um, said he wanted to get settled. By himself. So, uh, I guess that’s it. Unless you had anything else you needed from me…?”

Momo shoots an annoyed look towards the guest bedroom. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’d say he’s not usually like this, but…” She sighs. “Please don’t take it personally, he doesn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

That doesn’t really make Izuku feel better, but he won’t say as much. “You mentioned extenuating circ*mstances,” he offers instead. “I’m sure he’s just a little stressed.”

He’s actually not sure about that at all, but the words have Momo heaving a huge sigh and clasping her hands in front of her gratefully, so he figures it was the right thing to say. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, it’s been… I’m sure he’ll be better soon, he just needs some time to unwind. I’m hoping his stay here can help with that.”

Izuku frowns. “Look, um. Not to try and sell myself short, but… Are you guys sure he wants to stay here? I mean, I’m not… I’m happy to have him, but this listing—it’s not really meant for long term stays. There’s the air conditioning thing, and I know the room is on the smaller side and I don’t even have a TV or anything for entertainment and the kitchen is serviceable but… There are other places that are better suited to long periods of time. Maybe not as cheap as mine, but I know at least a handful that are still in the Lakeview area, if you wanted to switch? Not that I mind him staying here, of course! I just, you know. Want to make sure he’s going to be comfortable.”

Momo smiles at him. “That’s kind of you, to think of that.” she says. “But when we were looking for places, he chose here.”

“But why?” Izuku can’t help but ask.

“Well, there honestly weren’t a lot of place that were available for such a long stay,” she answers; Izuku supposes that makes sense. “So thank you again so much for agreeing to this on such short notice. I know I said that probably a dozen times in our messages but… We’re both very grateful to you.”

That eases some of the anxiety bubbling over in Izuku’s stomach, settles his nerves just a little. “I’m happy to help,” he says, and means it.

Momo spends a minute saying goodbye to Shouto before she takes her leave, thanking Izuku several more times on the way out and assuring him that she’s sure Shouto’s attitude will be better soon. Izuku stays up a little longer to see if Shouto will come out, but by the time nine-thirty rolls around, he gives it up as a lost cause. Izuku goes to bed trapped between slow waves of anxiety as he contemplates what he’s gotten himself into, and by the time he finally falls asleep, it’s past midnight.

Nightmares force Izuku awake early the next morning, leave his hands trembling before his day has even started. A morning run listening to the soothing monotone of a This American Life podcast and a cold shower afterwards helps a bit, as does doing an extra few stretches for his hands, but anxiety still simmers low in his stomach as Izuku putters around the kitchen, feeding Onigiri and making breakfast. He’s just sitting down when Shouto enters, and Izuku chokes on his orange juice at the sight of him.

“Good—good morning!” he sputters. Blood pools rapidly in his cheeks, turning them nearly as red as the vivid shock of hair on Shouto’s left side, matched only by the stark white of his right. His winter storm grey and summer sky blue eyes fix onto Izuku with the same fierce intensity, and Izuku finds himself pinned in place again, desperately wishing Momo had warned him about the absolutely striking appearance of his house guest. He’s stunning and beautiful and just a bit terrifying with his scar and his gaze boring into Izuku like it does, and Izuku’s aware that he needs to say something right now before he gets accused of staring, so words just start tumbling out of his mouth.

“Did you sleep well? I hope it wasn’t too hot for you last night, if it was just let me know and we can talk about turning the air conditioning on! Um, I know breakfast isn’t listed in my offered amenities, but since you got in so late last night I thought you might appreciate having something to eat? So there’s um, some yogurt in the fridge and some fruit over by the coffee machine there, and some instant oatmeal. Or I guess if you want I could make you some eggs? Otherwise if you’re willing to wait I could make some rice, I do have miso soup and some pickled vegetables in the fridge too if you wanted something more um, traditional? You are—you are Japanese right? Momo said you spoke Japanese so I assumed—I mean, I’ve never met anyone named Shouto before but I do know someone named Shouta and that’s similar so I guess I just—do you have a last name? Momo never mentioned one but you must…”

Izuku’s rambling trails off, face burning red at how long he’s let himself go on. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry, I—I do that. Um, ramble, I mean. A lot. So please don’t—if I’m ever annoying you please just tell me to shut up, I promise I won’t take it personally.”

Shouto’s still staring at him, expression mostly blank except for a mild furrow of his brow. “Last night was fine. I don’t need the air conditioner,” he says after a moment. “I am Japanese, and I’d just like to stick with Shouto for now.” He pauses, and then adds, “I’ll take yogurt and some fruit for breakfast. And coffee, if you have it.”

“Oh. I—Yeah, um, coffee’s on the counter over there. And yogurt’s in the fridge, help yourself.”

Shouto looks at where Izuku gestures, brow furrowing more deeply. “Is the Keurig machine all you have?” he asks.

“Um, yes. Is that… is that a problem?”

Shouto purses his lips. “Keurig coffee tastes terrible,” he answers, voice annoyed.

“Oh, does it? I wouldn’t know, I actually don’t ever drink coffee.” Coffee only serves to amplify his already nervous disposition to nearly unbearable levels, or so he’s been told. “Sorry about that, I… I don’t have anything else for coffee but I do have several kinds of tea, if you want to take a look at them.”

“I hate tea,” Shouto replies, mismatched eyes narrowing so sharply Izuku jumps a little in surprise.

“Oh—okay.”Who the hell hates tea?“Um, well, there’s a couple coffee shops nearby if you want, but obviously you’d have to go out. Otherwise I’ve just got orange juice and milk.”

Shouto casts an irritated glance at the Keurig machine before sighing. He says nothing, just strides over to the fridge and pulls out the orange juice and a yogurt. Izuku sets out some dishes for him while Shouto takes a banana from the fruit bowl, saying a quiet thanks as he sits down.

Breakfast is eaten in total silence. The lack of noise grates on Izuku, who spends most of his mornings rambling on to his cat or listening to podcasts. His nervousness from yesterday returns in full force, coiling tightly in his belly and banishing most of his appetite before he can finish eating. He’s poking at his scrambled eggs, trying to decide if he hates wasting food or forcing himself to eat more when Shouto abruptly asks, “What do I call you?”

“Call me?” Izuku looks up, brushing a few green curls out of his eyes. “Oh, you mean my name? Uh, most people call me Izuku, but if it’s easier for you Midoriya works just fine. I know my mom had a hard time breaking the whole calling people by last name habit when we first moved here.”

“Hmm. Midoriya, then.” Shouto gives him a sidelong glance. “Where is your family from?”

“Oh, um, Shizuoka. But we moved when I was like five, so Chicago’s always been home for me.”

“You grew up in the city, then.”

“No, just outside of it, in Arlington Heights. My dad got a promotion at his company that came with a transfer to the US. But I’ve lived in the city proper for several years now.”

Shouto hums in response, but says nothing beyond that, returning silently to his breakfast. Izuku chews on his bottom lip, wanting to ask Shouto where he’s from and how long he’s lived in the US. He suspects not his whole life; now that he’s listening for it, Izuku can hear Shouto’s mild accent. But the distinct impression that Shouto won’t respond well to personal questions hangs over the table like a storm cloud, so Izuku tucks his curiosity away for the moment and instead says, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Tension flares to life in every line of Shouto’s body. He eyes Izuku warily, a cornered animal with hackles raised in challenge. “What?” he asks, knife sharp tone cutting straight through Izuku’s chest. It leaves him floundering, and Izuku’s starting to think he might have made a horrible decision in agreeing to host this mysterious and slightly terrifying stranger.

“I, um… I just… I—I mentioned this to Momo last night, but—but obviously you weren’t there so, um. I’ll ask you too, why, um. Why exactly did you—why pick my place? I mean, she mentioned there weren’t too many places that could accommodate a whole month, and I know mine’s pretty cheap but that’s because I don’t have a lot to offer in the way of amenities and it’s not—it’s really not meant for long stays, it’s more for quick weekends or stuff like that. So I feel like there must have been better options—not that I mind hosting you, of course!” Izuku does mind, actually. Right now he minds a lot and he wants answers or he might just call this whole thing off. “I—I was just, um. Curious.”

“Oh.” The tension coiled in Shouto’s body eases. “I picked your place because of the grand piano I saw in the pictures of your living room.”

Izuku blinks once. Twice. “The… the piano? Why the piano?” No one has ever asked about the grand piano. Half the time Izuku forgets that he even has a grand piano. He’s never used it; the piano belonged to Mr. Yagi when the apartment was still his. The only reason it stayed when Izuku moved in was because he didn’t think removing it would be worth the hassle of trying to get it down the narrow staircase.

Shouto gives him an odd look, one that seems to be questioning Izuku’s intelligence. “I was hoping I could use it while I stay here.”

“… Oh.”

The anxiety coiled in his stomach bubbles over, running sharp and lightning quick through his veins until it threatens to consume him. The tremor in his hands picks up, and Izuku pulls them down into his lap so Shouto won’t see them shaking. “You… You want to… use it?” he asks, barely able to hold his voice steady. “For… for what?”

“I’m a pianist,” Shouto answers. “I don’t want to fall out of practice.”

“Oh.” Of course. Of course he’s a pianist. Of course this mysterious stranger is a pianist and of course he wants to use the grand piano, because Izuku can never offer to help someone without something ending up in total disaster. Someday, he’s going to learn his lesson and stop diving headlong into stupid situations. Just not in time for today, apparently.

“Midoriya?” Shouto frowns at him. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Izuku swallows thickly, unsure how to answer. Part of him wants to simply scream that yes of course, of course it’s a problem, how could you even ask that, but the still rational part of him understands Shouto couldn’t possibly know that. The rational part of him also understands that he can’t very well turn down Shouto’s request; or rather, he could, but it would likely require an explanation and the answer comes with more baggage than Izuku wants to share.

His hands clench up in his lap, as much as Izuku can make them, old scars pulling taut over curled fingers. “How… How often were you thinking of practicing?” he asks, trying to put off his answer.

“Quite often,” Shouto answers simply. “At least a few hours a day, probably more.” Izuku doesn’t quite manage to suppress his grimace and Shouto frowns deeply. “You can say no, if it’s a problem,” he says. “But if that’s the case I’d rather know now so I can find another place to stay that better suits my needs.”

Something about his tone—the blunt force, the sharp edge—strikes a chord deep inside Izuku’s chest, thrumming in his blood until it spreads out to the very tips of his fingers and toes. It’s not nice, it’s not even polite, but it resonates, a singular note ringing out through the cluttered din of his mind, leaving but a single thought in its wake.

You can’t avoid this forever.

Izuku breathes, one full inhale, one full exhale.

“It’s… It’s not… It’s not a… problem,” he says, carefully, slowly, every word measured and deliberate even as he stutters over them. “You can… You can use the piano if you want. Just not too early, and… And not too late. The sound—it carries really well, and I don’t—I wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors downstairs.”

“That’s fine,” Shouto agrees. “Let’s say between seven in the morning and seven at night, I won’t play. Is that acceptable?”

Slowly, Izuku nods. “That is… acceptable.”

“Good.” Shouto takes a sip of his orange juice, and then adds, in a quieter voice. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Izuku says, and can’t quite bring himself to mean it.

The tremor in his hands grows as Izuku cracks open the piano’s lid and dusts off the keyboard for Shouto, and he can’t bring himself to stay in the living room as Shouto takes his seat on the bench. Izuku shuffles off to his room, lying down on his bed and staring up at the ceiling while a few tears leak from his eyes, frustration and nerves sliding down freckled cheeks. The single thought from earlier lingers at the forefront of his mind.

You can’t avoid this forever.

But does it have to be now?

Why not now? This is a good a time as any.

“Because I’m scared,” Izuku whispers into the quiet of his room.

You’ve always been scared. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.

And that’s the core of it, really. He can’t avoid this forever, but he also can’t move past it if he doesn’t try. The truth sits heavy on his chest, sinks deep into the core of his heart and squeezes until it fills him entirely, blood and muscle and bone. Izuku takes one full inhale, one full exhale.

Cautiously, he lifts himself from his bed and shuffles to the door. He rests his head against the old wood for a few moments before cracking it open.

Sound filters in, sharp and clear, something soft and slow in a minor key. The rich tones of the piano strike that same chord deep inside his chest, blood singing with the sound, flowing into every part of him until all Izuku can do is stand there and listen, consumed.

It’s the first music he’s heard in nearly four years, and the sound winds its way through his body, sinking into the lumen of his veins, the fibers of his muscles, the marrow of his bones, until the rhythm fills every hollow space inside him, sharp and aching. Tears wells up in his eyes, salt pouring down his cheeks, and Izuku can’t even try and stop them because it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, but—

It’s beautiful.

Chapter 3: You Were Scared (And You Were Beautiful)

Chapter Text

Every day, Shouto starts practicing with scales. After that, he’ll do one or two simple pieces, just a minute or so in length. Then he begins to play in earnest, for what Izuku can only assume is hours at a time. Most mornings Izuku leaves for work with Shouto still warming up, and most evenings he comes back to what sounds like a private concert being performed in his living room.

And it’s…

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be.

Maybe it’s because piano was never his forte, maybe the smooth sound of classical music doesn’t sting quite as much as something contemporary would, or maybe he’s too awestruck by Shouto’s talent to think of much else, but Izuku doesn’t find the near constant stream of sound to be unpleasant. It still wracks his nerves a little, listening to music again, but the bone deep ache of loss isn’t as strong as it was the first day, doesn’t threaten to consume him like it did four years ago. Shouto’s a wonderful pianist, capable coaxing a single instrument into becoming an entire symphony, and sometimes, Izuku will find himself paused in the middle of whatever he’s supposed to be doing, just listening to the beautiful sound.

Music fills the apartment, a steady stream of intricate melodies and rich tunes that, if Izuku’s being perfectly honest, he might even be starting to enjoy, just a little.

Shouto himself is another matter entirely.

The third day of Shouto’s stay, Izuku comes home to find a package addressed to him that he’s certain he didn’t order. Opening it reveals two bags of coffee and what appears to be a strange sort of a glass teapot. He’s trying to figure out who on earth might have sent him such an odd gift when Shouto enters the kitchen and takes the package.

“This is mine,” he says at Izuku’s bewildered look.

“It is?” Izuku blinks. “Why… Why does it have my name on it?”

“It’s your apartment,” Shouto answers. His tone rarely strays beyond perfectly level and it lends a quality to his voice that often leaves Izuku faltering. “I didn’t want the delivery people to get confused.”

“Oh… kay…?” Izuku frowns. It strikes him as very odd that Shouto would have put down Izuku’s name instead of his own, especially when the address is the same, but he doesn’t want to upset Shouto, so he opts not to press. Instead, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me you had ordered something?”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Shouto answers simply, and pushes past Izuku to begin washing the glass pot in the sink

“What… What did you even buy?” Izuku asks.

“A French press. For coffee.”

“Because…?”

Shouto fixes him with the look that leaves Izuku’s stomach entirely unsure which way it should start twisting. “I told you, Keurig coffee tastes terrible. Though I understand that if you don’t drink coffee, you wouldn’t know that.”

“I…” Izuku can’t speak. His brain can’t quite comprehend what’s happening and he’s left gaping dumbly as Shouto leaves the kitchen. The sound of his bedroom door closing echoes loudly throughout the silent apartment, and Izuku has to sit down for a few minutes before he can gather his wits.

In the end Izuku chalks it up to a one-off incident, keeping in mind what Momo said about stress and her assurance that eventually, Shouto’s attitude would improve. The following Sunday morning Izuku makes breakfast for both of them, because the weather during his run was nice and he’s feeling cheerful. He greets Shouto with a smile when he enters the kitchen. “Hi!” he says. “I made breakfast, if you want some.”

Shouto stares at the kitchen table, brow furrowing. “Why?”

Izuku blinks. “Why did I make breakfast?”

“Yes.” Shouto frowns at him. “Providing breakfast wasn’t listed in your amenities.”

“… Because I thought you might want some?” Izuku flushes, his cheerful mood fading rapidly as he’s knocked off-kilter. “Do I need another reason?”

Shouto continues to frown at him for a moment before speaking. “Thank you, Midoriya,” he says, in his strangely level tone. “But in the future you don’t need to worry about me. I can manage breakfast by myself.”

“That’s not…” Izuku begins, but cuts himself off, deciding it isn’t worth the argument. He shovels his food down as fast as he can before leaving the kitchen to avoid another awkward silence, and spends the rest of the day running errands and basking in the good weather while trying to figure out what Shouto could possibly have against Izuku making him breakfast.

A few days later, Izuku makes an effort at finding some common ground by recommending a few local coffee shops, only for Shouto to turn him down. “I’m perfectly fine making my own coffee,” he says.

“I’m sure you are,” Izuku answers. “But I thought maybe if one day you felt like treating yourself, or if you just wanted to get some more coffee—”

“My current supply should last me at least the month,” Shouto cuts him off. “Besides, I tend to find most coffee shops crowded and noisy.”

“Really?” Izuku perks up slightly. “Me too actually, that’s why I hardly ever go to them.”

Shouto frowns. “Then why did you just recommend those ones to me?”

“Because I… I thought…” Izuku gives up with a heavy sigh. “Nevermind,” he mumbles. “They were just suggestions.”

And so it goes. Every effort Izuku makes to extend a friendly or helping hand to Shouto gets rebuffed. Shouto’s always polite whenever they speak, but his unchanging cool expression and even tone make it impossible for Izuku to extrapolate any sort of information about him besides the fact that he’s a talented pianist and also possibly the least emotive person on the planet. “I swear he’s actually worse than you,” he tells Shinsou one day during lunch.

“My sympathies,” Shinsou says, utterly deadpan. “How long until he leaves?”

“Two weeks.”

“Eh, that’s not so bad then. Plus the rented room means you’ve got some extra cash, right?”

“I guess.” Izuku did pull in a tidy sum from the booking, enough that he was actually able to make an extra bill payment to the hospital this month. “He’s just… aggravating.”

“You’re trying too hard.” Shinsou flicks his temple sharply, and Izuku yelps a little. “Just leave the man alone and let him do his thing. In two weeks, he won’t be your problem anymore.”

Shinsou’s right. Izuku knows he’s trying too hard and that he should probably just leave Shouto alone, let him play his music and drink his fancy coffee and be as distant as he likes. His polite dismissal of Izuku at every turn ought to be enough to deter him, but every so often there comes a tiny crack in Shouto’s facade that leaves Izuku certain there’s more to him than just a cold exterior.

It’s in his music, more than anything. It might seem silly to say music can’t lie, but Izuku’s always found people have difficulty masking their true emotions whenever they play, and what Shouto plays clashes badly with his assumed persona. More and more often, Izuku finds himself simply listening to the symphony that fills the apartment, and he begins to hear a common thread in nearly all the pieces Shouto plays. It’s not obvious at first, but as the days tick by and Shouto continues his constant stream of music, it begins to stand out; a melancholy vein makes itself known across all of Shouto’s music, every piece tinged by something heavy and morose. Izuku can’t quite put the sound of it into words, couldn’t say what exactly to look for if describing it to someone else, but he knows it’s there. It hits that same chord deep inside Izuku’s chest, brings to life an even deeper ache, one that seems to sink down into the very core of his being.

When Shouto plays, Izuku hears something sad and lonely and maybe just a little broken, and in those moments, he wants nothing more in the world than to help.

But as soon as he leaves the piano, the cracks disappear and Shouto’s cold shell consumes him. And try as he might, Izuku can’t seem to break through. Still, Izuku is nothing if not stubborn to a fault, so even as the month winds down and Shouto continues to show a clear desire to keep his distance, Izuku can’t help but push back.

One Saturday afternoon, Shouto plays something so hauntingly beautiful Izuku seats himself on the living room couch and listens to the whole thing. By the end his eyes are watery, and he claps a few times, causing Shouto to jump and whip around. “That was wonderful,” Izuku says, trying to ignore the way Shouto glares at him. “What was it?”

“… Bénédiction de Dieu dans la solitude,” Shouto answers after a moment. He eyes Izuku warily, shoulders hunched in, tension bleeding into the lines of his body. “Franz Liszt.”

Izuku tries smiling at him, bright and cheerful. “Are you a concert pianist?” he asks, hoping the question to be innocuous enough and trying not to let his smile collapse when Shouto seems to grow even more guarded.

“No,” he answers shortly.

Izuku keeps smiling, makes his tone light, teasing. “So playing is just what, a hobby?”

“Does it matter?” Shouto asks sharply.

“I—” The smile drops. “No, but I—I was just curious—”

Something harsh flashes over Shouto’s face for a moment, a bright burst of angry flame. “Why do you need to know?” Shouto snaps, fierce enough that Izuku starts a little.

“I don’t,” Izuku says immediately, hands thrown up in surrender. Something sharp and jittery claws its way up his spine, settles uneasily over the back of his neck and seeps into his throat. “I—I don’t, it was just—it was just a question, I swear, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

The fire snuffs out, replaced by the familiar impassive cold. “I’m sorry,” Shouto says, the faintest hint of apology threading through his tone. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just don’t like personal questions.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Izuku mutters under his breath, and Shouto glares at him.

“What was that?” he asks.

Izuku forces a smile onto his face. “Nothing,” he lies. “Just—Sorry to have bothered you.”

He stands and leaves for his bedroom, sighing so heavily his shoulders slump as soon as he’s safely alone. “Christ, this is ridiculous,” he mumbles to himself as he falls onto his bed, Onigiri meowing reproachfully as she’s disturbed from her spot on his pillow. He sighs and pets her head in apology. “I don’t know, silly bean,” he says to her. “Think I might have to give this up as a lost cause.”

“So,” Dr. Aizawa says from his black leather armchair, worn and frayed with use, “how have you been since last I saw you?”

Izuku fiddles with a button on the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ve been… okay,” he answers after a moment.

“Just okay?” Dr. Aizawa prompts.

Izuku takes a moment to consider, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Just okay.” He might have been better if not for his stupid house guest and the month’s worth of aggravation his stay induced. At least there’s only a few days left before Shouto leaves; Izuku can’t honestly say he’s sorry to see the man go.

“Hmm.” Dr. Aizawa frowns, scribbling something on his notepad. “Do you want to elaborate on that?” His brusque tone makes it sound less like a question and more a demand, but Izuku’s known Dr. Aizawa long enough to understand that’s just how he talks—bluntly. It threw him for a loop during their first couple sessions, but since then, Izuku’s come to appreciate his therapist’s candor. It’s easier, to be open and honest, when he can always expect the same in return.

“It’s… It’s not like anything’s gotten worse,” Izuku begins. “I had my yearly follow-up with Dr. Shuzenji and, well…” He looks down at his hands; there are no tremors today, but the scars seem to stand out in sharper relief than usual. “Everything’s still pretty much the same.”

“Ah.” Dr. Aizawa settles back further into his chair. “You’re disappointed.”

“I—yeah.” Izuku looks up. “I—I know I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

“So let’s talk about that. Why?”

“You mean beyond the obvious?” Dr. Aizawa nods, and Izuku sighs. “I guess… I guess I just… It sort of hit me at the follow-up, that this is as good as I’m going to be for the rest of my life.” He looks back at his hands, flexing the stiff joints, mottled purple and red scar tissue dull in the diffuse light of the room. “When I was still in recovery I worked and I worked and I worked and I knew I was never going to recover my full mobility but… It’s just so frustrating.” He tries to clench his hands into fists; the right manages to close properly, but his left hand can only curl two fingers and his thumb, and his scars pull uncomfortably at the skin. “I did everything I possibly could and I know that but it just doesn’t feel like they got any better.” Izuku sniffles. Tears are already building behind his eyes, but he doesn’t bother trying to stem them. Dr. Aizawa’s quite accustomed to his crying by now.

“But they did get better,” Dr. Aizawa points out. “Look, you just made a fist with your right hand, didn’t you? When you first started seeing me you couldn’t even do that.”

“I know.” Izuku sniffles again. “I know, Dr. Shuzenji said the same thing, but… But it’s just hard, you know?” Tear start trickling down freckled cheeks. “All I can do at this point is keep myself from regressing, but that just means I stay stagnant and it’s hard because nothing ever changes and I know that’s good but it also sucks because I can’t see any sort of progress anymore.”

Dr. Aizawa jots something down as Izuku exhales shakily, grabbing a tissue. “So you’re frustrated because you can’t measure your own progress,” he says. “Have you thought about using a barometer other than your follow-ups with Dr. Shuzenji?”

Izuku shoots him a withering look. “I’m not picking up an instrument again,” he says flatly, knowing exactly where this conversation is going and not wanting to have any part of it.

Dr. Aizawa looks back an unimpressed stare. “It would be a good measure,” he says. “Both to see how far you’ve come and to continue tracking your progress.”

“It hurts,” Izuku insists. “Everything hurts.” He sweeps his hands up and down to indicate such. “I’m not doing it. I don’t care if you think it would be good for me.” He pauses, and then adds in the hopes of switching topics, “Though that reminds me—there’s something new that’s been bothering me. I got a long-term guest through my Airbnb rental."

Dr. Aizawa glares at him from over the rim of his peculiar yellow framed glasses, clearly displeased, but after a moment he sighs and relents. “A long-term guest?” he says. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he’s been staying with me for about a month. I’m not… really sure why, he doesn’t talk very much, and I can never get a straight answer out of him for anything, and he doesn’t ever want to engage, he’s always either in his room or playing at the stupid piano.” Izuku slumps back into his seat, huffing. “I can’t get through to him, I’ve tried everything. It’s infuriating.”

“Can’t imagine what that’s like,” Dr. Aizawa mutters.

Izuku shoots him a wounded look. “You’re supposed to be my therapist,” he complains.

“So I am. Which is why we’re talking about your house guest right now instead of other things. You said he plays at the piano?” Dr. Aizawa’s lips twitch. “I thought you didn’t want anyone touching any of the instruments at your place.”

“I didn’t, but he said the whole reason he picked my place was because I had the piano and he wanted to play it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” Izuku throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t know anything about him except his name and that he’s the most frustrating human being on the face of the planet!”

“Then why let him stay?”

Izuku blinks, cheeks flushing. “I… I could really use the money, to help pay down more of my debt,” he says sheepishly. He doesn’t add the part about Momo’s plea and wanting to help, because all that will do is get him another lecture on learning boundaries.

“Of course. That’s quite understable.” Dr. Aizawa taps his pen on his notepad. “Any other reason?” He levels Izuku with a knowing look, and Izuku grimaces.

“Well, he’s not… He is polite, I guess.” Izuku says, trying to skirt around his other reasons for letting Shouto stay. “And he hasn’t really done anything wrong I’m just… Not used to not being able to talk to people. That’s… That’s what I’m good at, you know? Talking. Even with Kacchan, like, he hated me, but at least I felt like I could talk at him and know what he was thinking, even if he didn’t really listen. With this guy, he… It’s like talking to a block of ice. I can’t read him at all. And I can’t seem to get him to warm up to me either, no matter what I do.” He’d even bought Shouto a cappuccino from the little Italian cafe near his apartment the other day, and all it got him was a blank stare and an assurance that Shouto was perfectly capable of getting his own coffee.

“Do you need him to like you?” Dr. Aizawa prompts. “He’s just a house guest, after all, not a friend.”

“… I guess not,” Izuku admits. “I just… I feel weird when people don’t like me.”

Leaning forward, Dr. Aizawa levels Izuku with a severe though not unkind stare. “I don’t know your house guest,” he says, tone utterly even in a way that calms, banishes all extraneous thought from Izuku’s mind. “But I do know you. And from what you say, it sounds to me as though the two of you might be similar.” He chuckles a little at Izuku’s shocked look. “Think about it. You say he’s polite but distant, and he doesn’t talk very much about himself. Sounds to me like he might have some other, larger things going on in his life that have most of his attention, and he can’t afford to put energy towards much else. Sound like someone you know?”

Heat flares to life in his cheeks, and Izuku sinks down into the couch cushions, embarrassed. “I guess,” he mumbles. “But I’m not distant like he is.”

“No, but you have other distinct mechanisms. Different people have different ways of coping.” Dr. Aizawa moves back to resettle in his chair. “My advice? Don’t force it. You may end up on better terms with this person, and you may not. But don’t feel obligated to make him like you. He’s not your responsibility.”

“He’s not my responsibility,” Izuku repeats. Momo’s plea echoes inside his head. “But… But what if I want to help him?”

“Help him with what?” Dr. Aizawa frowns.

Izuku shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. He thinks of the way Shouto plays, how everything he plays speaks to something broken and lonely. “He just… seems very sad to me.”

“That’s not your problem. And I would highly advise against you making it your problem.”

Izuku flushes. “I know, I know,” he mumbles. “And he’s leaving in a few days anyway, so after that…” He shrugs, gesturing vaguely.

“Then it’s even less important that you get along with him, isn’t it?” Dr. Aizawa says with a pointed look, and Izuku sighs.

“Yeah,” he concedes. “You’re right. I guess it isn’t important at all.”

His appointment with Dr. Aizawa had been scheduled for early afternoon, so Izuku gets to head home a little earlier than usual once he leaves. He stops by the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner, and after a short internal battle, some delightfully fresh looking apples for Shouto. Despite Dr. Aizawa’s insistence that Shouto isn’t his responsibility, Izuku can’t shake the sad vein of Shouto’s playing from his mind. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be able to help ease that burden, especially with only a few days left in Shouto’s stay, but some part of him remains determined to do so, against all better logic.

When he opens his apartment door and slips off his old battered headphones, cutting off the sound of NPR Illinois, the first thing Izuku’s brain registers is singing. He sighs as he steps inside and toes off his shoes; he knows Shouto listens to music, often sees him wearing headphones around the apartment, so he supposes it’s not unusual that he would play it out loud while Izuku isn’t home. At least it’s something older, not quite so sharp and fresh against his nerves; Hallelujah, Izuku registers after a moment. Mentally he flicks through all the versions he can recall, trying to pinpoint the one currently playing, and then startles as he realizes he doesn’t recognize it at all.

Curiosity flares up in Izuku’s mind. He sets his grocery bags down on the floor before padding to the living room, stopping just short of the threshold as he takes in the scene there.

Shouto sits in the middle of the floor, surrounded by neat piles of folded laundry he’s grabbing from a basket at his side. He has headphones on, the same pair of rose gold Beats he always uses. Izuku can still hear Hallelujah, but it isn’t because Shouto’s listening to it; it’s because Shouto’s singing it.

Shouto’s singing Hallelujah and it’s…

When Izuku was five, his parents dragged him to one of the last public performances of the American musical legend All Might. He complained the entire way to Ravinia Park, convinced that whatever or whoever All Might was, he couldn’t possibly be worth an hour long car ride, plus a two and a half hour long wait to get into the place, plus another three hour long wait before the show even started. Exhausted from his constant chatter and complaining, Izuku at one point curled up on the picnic blanket his mother laid out for a short rest and fell promptly asleep. He was awoken by the sudden roar of the gathered crowd as All Might walked onto the stage, and as Izuku yawned and rubbed blearily at his eyes, All Might began to sing.

The deep, booming notes of his voice cut straight through Izuku’s sleepiness and suddenly he’d been wide awake, captivated the massive man on stage. He’d never heard anyone sing before, really sing, until there was no air left around him, only sound, and it was all Izuku could ever know. All Might’s voice washed over the crowd in a wave and Izuku was swept away, adrift in a sea of thundering tones that seemed to strike at his very core, until he could feel it all the way down to his bones.

He was only five years old, but as Izuku rose up on his mother’s shoulders and screamed his small lungs out for the man singing on stage, he knew he’d never want anything more than to bring music to people like All Might brought music to him. That sentiment fueled his every waking moment right up until the day the bones of his hands were shattered beyond repair. Then it was gone, snuffed out like a candle flame, and all that remained in its stead was something hollow and empty and painful.

Now, listening to Shouto sing Hallelujah in the middle of his living room, Izuku’s five years old again and hearing someone sing for the first time, except it’s not in the hollows of his bones this time, it’s in his veins, flowing and free and electric as it rushes through every part of him, down to the very tips of his fingers and toes. It scatters sparks in his stomach and his lungs and his heart, and Izuku can’t stop the sharp inhale he takes, not when the sound of Shouto’s voice flows inside of him, warm and vivid and alive.

He moves forward without thinking, not at all sure what he wants to do other than be closer to that beautiful sound. Shouto must catch the movement from the corner of his eye, because his gaze flickers to Izuku for just a moment before his mouth snaps shut so fast Izuku can hear the clack of his teeth. He rips the headphones off his head, staring at Izuku with eyes gone wide in shock and embarrassment and what, inexplicably, looks like fear.

Izuku’s mouth drops open, and words begin spilling out before he even realizes he’s speaking, heart stuttering inside his chest as his mind screams that he needs to banish that fear now, now, now.

“Wow, that was—You were incredible!” Izuku grimaces a little at how dorky that sounds out loud, but he doesn’t let himself stop talking, words rushing out faster than he can handle them. “Have you always been able to sing like that? I mean—obviously you’ve been able to sing like that before, that’s probably a lifetime’s worth of practice, what I meant was do you sing here like that? When I’m not around? You don’t have to have to wait until I’m gone to sing, I won’t mind at all! I mean, I know I was a little reluctant about the piano but that’s been fine—you also play really well, I don’t think I’ve really told you that yet, have I? You’re very good! At—at both things! Playing and singing! I just—I’ve never heard you sing before so you must wait until I’m not around to do it and you don’t have to! It’s—it’s really very lovely so I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t mind at all if you wanted to… sing…”

Izuku’s voice peeters out as Shouto continues to stare at him, and he has to swallow around the lump in his throat, acutely aware of the blush catching fire across his cheeks. His arms come up of their own accord to hide his face, a habit born from childhood as an effort to hide how badly the splotchy red clashes with his dark scatter of freckles. “You have a beautiful voice,” he finishes, words muffled by the crook of his elbow.

“... Thank you,” Shouto says after a long moment, and there’s a softness to his normally brusque tone that compels Izuku to lower his arms for a proper look at Shouto’s face. He’s still staring, but there’s been a definite shift in his expression, shock remaining but embarrassment and fear giving way to something much more bewildered. His mismatched eyes keep roving over Izuku’s form like they’re not quite sure where to land, brow furrowing as his face settles into something that looks strangely perplexed.

“You—you’re welcome,” Izuku stutters. If his face gets any redder he might start popping blood vessels. “I… Obviously if you prefer waiting until I’m not here to sing that’s your choice but um. I… I really wouldn’t mind if you did it, y’know. Whenever.”

Shouto doesn’t answer right away, just keeps staring at Izuku with that same perplexed expression for several long beats before he finally speaks. “I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind,” he says softly.

“Please do,” Izuku replies without thinking, and has to bite back the embarrassed noise that bubbles up in his throat. “I’m—I’m just gonna—put my groceries away. Oh, and I, um. Got you some apples. If you want. They’re—I’ll just—put them in the fridge.”

Izuku backs out of the room so fast he stumbles over his own feet, barely saving himself from slamming into the doorframe. He can feel Shouto’s gaze boring into the back of his head as he grabs his grocery bags off the floor, steady until Izuku disappears around the corner into the kitchen. He exhales heavily, leaning against the counter for support as his body comes back to itself, electricity still sharp and bright in his veins. He closes his eyes, and for a long moment, all he hears is Shouto’s voice echoing in his head, soft and steady and so beautiful he starts tearing up.

“Stop that,” Izuku mutters to himself. “Get a hold of yourself, it’s just a voice.”

He can’t get it out of his mind, though, stuck as a constant melody while Izuku puts his groceries away, cleans out Onigiri’s litter box, throws a load of laundry in the washing machine. It’s just started to fade as Izuku empties out the dish drainer when Shouto walks into the kitchen singing something new, though much more quietly. Izuku hones in on the sound, low and resonate, deepening the edges of his accent, and the leftover sparks start lighting anew.

Izuku turns to look at Shouto, and he immediately stops. “Sorry,” Shouto says. “Was I bothering you?”

“What—no! No, of course not!” Izuku flushes, scrambling. “I was just… wondering what you were singing, that’s all.” It’s only half a lie; Izuku wasn’t wondering, but he knows whatever it was, he didn’t recognize it.

Shouto gives him the same perplexed expression as before. “You don’t know it?” he asks, head tilting slightly in question. Izuku shakes his head. “It’s called Half Cold Half Hot; it was a really popular pop song a few years back. They still play it on the radio pretty frequently.”

“Oh, well, I don’t, um.” Izuku’s flush deepens. “I don’t really listen to the radio. Or new music. Or music at all, really. I probably haven’t heard anything new from the past—four years or so?” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t spent all four of those year isolating himself from music so much he’d nearly forgotten what it was supposed to sound like. “So I wouldn’t, y’know. Recognize any new pop songs for sure. It sounded nice, though!” At least it did in Shouto’s voice.

Shouto just sort of stands there, blinking at him. Izuku fidgets under his scrutiny, opens his mouth to keep talking because he’s not sure what else to do when his gaze flickers back to Shouto’s face and he stops short.

Something has shifted in Shouto’s expression, the bewilderment blending with… Izuku’s not quite sure what. It’s a peculiar mix of confusion and what seems to be awe, though Izuku can’t imagine why. There’s something else there too, something that defies being named, but Izuku thinks that if not for the lack of smile, Shouto might almost look happy.

Shouto clears his throat and Izuku snaps out of his daze, about to start spewing apologies for staring when Shouto says, “You mentioned something about apples earlier?”

“App—Oh, yes! Um, in the fridge. Help yourself.” Izuku turns back to the dish drainer, grabbing the last of the plates and silverware. He hears Shouto move behind him, finishes putting the dishes away in time to turn again and see Shouto chewing thoughtfully on a bite of apple.

“I have a question for you,” he says after swallowing.

Izuku blinks, tilting his head curiously, a few green curls falling into his eyes. “What is it?” he asks. He thinks the last time Shouto asked him a question was the morning after he arrived.

Shouto continues to stare at him silently for a few moments before his gaze drops to the floor and he ducks his head, a red and white sweep of hair hiding his gaze. “Would it be okay if I stayed here for another month?” he asks, tone quiet, cautious.

Izuku stares. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again to stutter out, “You—you want to stay here?”

Shouto nods, still looking down at the floor. “It’s been very pleasant,” he says, which makes Izuku’s jaw go slack. “And it suits my needs quite well. But I know I’m not…” His mouth twitches, a small grimace forming. “I know I’m not the easiest person in the world to get along with. And that recently I’ve been worse than normal. So if you’re uncomfortable with me staying here, I don’t have to. But I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Shouto’s shoulders hunch a little as he speaks, gaze remaining firmly fixed on the floor. One socked foot traces a line back and forth on the linoleum as his hands slowly push themselves into the pockets of his jeans, and for a moment Izuku can’t even breathe as he stares at Shouto, cold shell cracked wide open to reveal something shy and embarrassed and strangely vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Izuku blurts out before he can stop himself. “Yeah, you can—you can keep staying here if you want just, um. Just tell Momo to put in another booking request and I’ll—I’ll confirm it.”

Shouto looks up at Izuku through a veil of red and white and Izuku’s heart stutters a little in his chest as mismatched eyes meet his own. “Thank you, Midoriya,” he says, soft and low and grateful.

Izuku doesn’t know why, but he’s almost certain Shouto doesn’t mean for the room.

Chapter 4: あの日から僕の胸には嵐がある

Chapter Text

Things change, after that. Cold, bitter winter gives way to warm, sunny spring as the icy shell surrounding Shouto begins to thaw, day by day. Slowly, the personality hidden underneath his cold facade comes to life, notes to a slowly building crescendo, and Izuku comes to find that all things considered, Shouto’s really rather likeable.

He still doesn’t ever really leave the apartment proper, but Shouto also doesn’t stay holed up in the guest room nearly as much now, spending more time doing things, like folding laundry in the living room or working on a laptop in the kitchen. A handful of times Izuku has seen him on the couch, long legs tucked neatly underneath him as he video chats with someone in softly spoken Japanese. On sunny days light will filter in from the large windows, and something about the beams bring a little extra vibrance to Shouto’s already striking appearance, stark white and vivid red hair turning bright like flame; the site has pink blooming over Izuku’s cheeks, hiding his face in his arms as he turns away before he can be accused of staring.

Shouto still takes breakfast alone, and Izuku’s usually not home for lunch, but now that they’ve started properly warming up to each other, Izuku often asks Shouto if he’d like to eat dinner together. Izuku’s not the greatest cook, but he’s got his basics down, knows staples like gyudon and yakisoba and omurice well enough to make them in his sleep. Shouto doesn’t always accept, but when he does, it’s a pleasant affair, comfortable moments shared over warm food, in good company. Izuku learns quickly that Shouto’s not much for talking, so Izuku fills the silence with aimless prattle about the boring details of his life, work and errands and exercise and all manner of pointless, silly things.

He doesn’t really expect Shouto to listen to a word he says, because Izuku talks way more than he should and he’s gotten very used to people mostly tuning him out over the years. So when Shouto actually follows up on things Izuku tells him—were those deleted files he complained about ever recovered, did he see Trader Joe’s is having a frozen fruit sale if he wants to stock up for smoothies, has he thought about taking Epsom salt baths after a workout if he’s experiencing muscle soreness?—it can be horribly disarming. The first time it happens Izuku just gapes at him for a solid five seconds before asking if Shouto was actually listening to all of his nonsensical rambling, which earns him a rather curious look and a comment about how of course he did, it’s rude not to pay attention when people are talking.

(Shouto hates being rude. Izuku already suspected this from his previous polite yet distant behavior, but it was confirmed when the day after extending his stay, Shouto spent a solid five minutes apologizing to Izuku for his disrespect, promising to be better in the future. It makes Izuku smile, strikes a chord in his chest that reminds him a little of his mother, of Mr. Yagi, of home.)

But the most drastic shift by far is Shouto’s singing, a fire roaring to life from a single spark, consuming everything in its wake. His voice rings throughout the apartment all the time now, the lower pitch and wide range and the deep edges of his accent creating a sound wholly, wonderfully unique. Even if he’s not at the piano Shouto often sings along to whatever music he has running through his rose gold headphones, rhythms and melodies abounding until Izuku begins to find it strange whenever silence sets back in. Some songs are painfully familiar, things Izuku was determined not to hear ever again, but it stings less than he thought it would, the years old ache soothed by Shouto’s rich, resonant tones. Others are bright and shiny and new; a little scary to hear, but exciting too, the first tentative notes before a sonorous symphony. Sometimes Shouto even sings in Japanese, bringing Izuku back to childhood afternoons spent with his mother, listening to the old record collection she brought with her when they moved from Shizuoka, a summer bright smile always gracing her face as she shared with him the music of her youth.

He doesn’t mean to fawn, but every note Shouto sings hits that same chord deep inside Izuku’s chest, strumming expertly over his heartstrings while lightning strikes in his veins and sometimes, he just can’t help himself. He’ll stutter and babble out praises without thinking, freckled cheeks burning because he’s certain Shouto must hear how good he sounds all the time, and one more compliment from his awkward host can’t mean much.

Yet every time Izuku says something—That was incredible, you were amazing, how did you learn to sing like that!—Shouto stares at him with that same strange expression of confusion and awe, like he can’t quite wrap his head around the words tumbling from Izuku’s mouth. He says thank you every single time, mismatched eyes softening with sincerity as the corners of Shouto’s mouth turn up, ever so slightly. It’s as close as Izuku’s ever seen him get to a smile, and his heart does an odd sort of stutter at the sight.

Izukulikes the look of it, wants very much to do whatever he can to bring it out more.

For weeks now, even before Shouto’s arrival, Izuku has been trying to find time to spend with Ochako and Tenya, not having seen either of them since his birthday in July. Thus far, he’s been unsuccessful, the conflicting schedules of a prominent lawyer and a talented engineer proving an impossible puzzle to master. “I’m sorry,” Tenya apologizes, electing to call Izuku directly when he has to cancel plans last minute yet again. “It’s my fault, I meant to be all caught up on my work by this evening but—”

“You took on another case?” Izuku guesses, unable to help smiling at how predictably good-hearted Tenya continues to be.

Static feeds from his phone as Tenya makes a distressed noise. “There’s just a lot of people that need help!” he squawks, and Izuku can’t help but laugh.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I get it. Really.” Lives are chaotic, stressful things, and it’s really nobody’s fault that it’s become increasingly difficult for them to spend time together like they did when they were teenagers, young and carefree. “We can always meet up some other time.”

Tenya sighs heavily into the receiver. “How are you doing?” he asks without preamble, and Izuku blinks.

“I’m… fine?” he answers, taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I called Ochako before I called you, and we talked for a bit,” Tenya says. “She’s worried about you. And so am I, for that matter.”

“I—What? Why?”

“Because we haven’t seen you in weeks, and Plus Ultra is still on tour. Outside of that you don’t really have any other friends.” Izuku winces a little at the bluntness of the (not untrue) statement, but the concern flooding Tenya’s normally stern tone softens the blow. “And you know if nobody forces you to go out you tend to hole up in your apartment. We’re concerned about you being alone. You don’t always do so well when you’re all by yourself.”

“… Oh.” He should have guessed as much. Most of the people in Izuku’s life spend inordinate amounts of time worrying on his behalf, and it never fails to make guilt bubble up hot and uneasy in Izuku’s gut. “I mean, I… I’m fine, actually. I haven’t been alone all that much honestly, I’ve got a guest staying with me through the Airbnb rental right now. So, you know, I’ve had some decent company. I’m not just wallowing in my own misery, I promise. I even got one of those cheap Planet Fitness gym memberships.”

“Ah! That’s good! Exercise is excellent for helping your brain release more endorphins!” Tenya exclaims enthusiastically. “But how long will your guest be staying? You don’t usually have people for more than a weekend.”

“Um, another two weeks or so, I think. He’s here through the end of September, at least.” Izuku’s trying not to think too hard about what he’ll do when Shouto leaves, already startlingly used to his presence. Even now, Shouto’s been singing Queen for the last twenty minutes while he folds laundry, hitting all of Freddie Mercury’s high notes with astonishing accuracy.

“That is something, I suppose.” Izuku can hear the frown in Tenya’s voice. “But still. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Ochako and I, we’re here for you.” There’s an aggravated sigh. “Even if we can’t manage to organize one single night out together.”

“I know you guys are. But really, don’t spend too much energy worrying about me,” Izuku says. “I’m doing just fine right now, I swear. We’ll get together soon, and I can regale you guys with more thrilling tales about how many times the office email server managed to crash in one week. It’ll be great.”

They exchange a few more words before Tenya has to leave, work calling him away. Izuku sends a text to Ochako telling her to get in touch the next time she has a free evening, then makes his way to the living room to slump over on the couch, a sudden moroseness overtaking him, dark storm clouds blowing in on fast winds.

He could never begrudge Tenya and Ochako their successes — they’re his best friends and they’ve earned everything they’ve worked for and more besides. But Izuku can’t deny that it stings a little sometimes, knowing he might have been right up there with them but for one disastrous turn of events.

“Something wrong?”

Izuku turns his head to see Shouto looking at him from his spot on the floor, headphones pulled askew to expose one ear. “Fine,” he answers, without conviction. “Just… life stuff.”

Shouto hums. “Life stuff can be very hard,” he says sagely, and Izuku snorts.

“Super hard,” he agrees, sighing heavily. An impulse fires lightning-quick in his brain and suddenly he’s asking, “Can you sing Bohemian Rhapsody?”

Shouto raises an eyebrow. “Is that a question or a request?” he says.

Izuku considers. “Both?”

Winter grey and summer blue eyes catch his own, almost terrifying in their intensity, but Izuku’s slowly becoming accustomed to this. He stares back evenly, and after a moment, Shouto breaks his gaze away, chest expanding as he draws in a full inhale and begins to sing, voice filling the room until the air itself nearly vibrates with song, and there’s a lightning storm running through Izuku’s veins.

“What made you name your cat Onigiri?” Shouto asks him one evening over dinner. The cat in question keeps weaving in between them, brushing up against their legs and meowing softly. Izuku suspects Shouto feeds her from the table when he’s not around; he ought to be annoyed, but any irritation he feels is utterly drowned out by a warm fondness at how affectionate Shouto has become towards his cat.

“Oh, it’s because…” Izuku reaches down to pick Onigiri up. She stares at him reproachfully as he curls her body into a loose sort of ball, holding her for Shouto to see. “See? When she’s curled up the black and white kind of make her look like an onigiri.”

Shouto’s mouth twitches, a faint ghost of a smile. “That’s cute,” he says, and Izuku beams.

“I like to think so!” He sets Onigiri back down and she immediately darts for Shouto’s legs. “Plus she was an absolute terror when I first got her and Onigiri shortens very nicely to Oni.”

Shouto frowns. “But she’s so sweet,” he says. He reaches down to scratch Onigiri’s head and when she leans into the touch, the ever present furrow of his brow melts away, softening the sharp edges of his face. Izuku’s heart skips, beating a funny sort of rhythm inside his chest.

“She’s sweet now,” Izuku corrects. “But when I first brought her home she was a furry little demon. She used to scratch up everything, I think I lost at least half a wardrobe and one good armchair to her shenanigans. And she clawed one of my friends so badly once he’s still got the scars.” Katsuki won’t call her anything but Oni-Neko now. “She used to do this thing where she’d start yowling in the middle of the night for no reason and wake me up at like three in the morning all the damn time. Oh, and hiding! She’d hide in the weirdest places and give me heart attacks every time I couldn’t find her. She was the worst.” He laughs a little. “Anyway, I guess nobody ever wanted to adopt her because she caused so many problems. Even the normal foster homes were reluctant to take her because she got along so horribly with everyone.”

Shouto blinks at him. “Then why did you take her?” he asks.

Izuku shrugs. “She deserved a good home,” he says simply. “And I wanted a pet, and… I guess I thought if no one else was going to do it, I would. I figured all she needed was a little extra care. And I was right! Now she’s my sweet little rice ball.”

The ever present furrow of Shouto’s brow fades, leaves him looking at Izuku a little wide-eyed and wondrous, like Izuku’s some exceptional rare sight to behold. “That’s… remarkably kind of you,” he says.

Blood pools rapidly inIzuku's cheeks, the soft tone ofShouto's voice plucking almost painfully at the chords of Izuku’s heartstrings. “I… I mean, I guess? I just thought it seemed like the right thing to do, but um. Th—thanks.”

Izuku ducks his head, unable to keep holding Shouto’s gaze, and he can’t help but wonder what kind of life Shouto leads, to stare in such astonishment at so simple a thing as compassion.

Three weeks into September, Izuku comes home from the gym and pulls off his old headphones to the sound of a song so familiar that tears gather and fall from his eyes before he’s even closed the front door. He sags against it as the sound filters through his ears, flowing hot and sharp and electric in his veins, sparking painfully through a heart that beats in perfectly matched harmony.

Izuku’s accustomed to hearing the tune on a guitar, either backed by an rousing band and a screaming crowd or in the quiet of a room shared by only two people, soft twangs of the strings and a voice cracked and worn but still sonorous and proud. Now it plays on a piano, and the long, echoing notes sung perfectly in the pitch of Shouto's voice, soft but brimming with warmth, even the vague hints of an accent uncannily similar.

Slowly, Izuku pulls away from the door, dabs at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket until most of his tears have been swept away. His legs shake and his hands tremble as he kicks off his red boot before entering the living room, whole body teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed. His heart pounds a heavy drumbeat against his ribcage and blood rushes loudly in his ears, but not enough to dampen the rich, booming notes of the song, the sound filling all the spaces in Izuku’s head until nothing else remains.

This was his favorite song once. The first one he ever really listened to, the one first played by All Might at that fateful concert of Izuku’s childhood, the one that lit within him a lightning storm of unchallenged passion until suddenly it was stolen and left Izuku but a shadow of his former self. What had once been his greatest comfort became his greatest sorrow, sharp and aching and horrid, agony roiling through his veins as he came to realize fully what he’d lost.

He’d cast aside his love for it along with everything else, but some things are not so easily given up. As the song reaches its crescendo and Shouto perfectly holds the long ending note, a spark ignites in Izuku’s heart and sets fire to his soul, a phoenix rising from the ashes of his torched dreams.

When the last notes fade away, Izuku wipes away the fresh tears and claps loudly. “That was fantastic!” he exclaims, pleased when his voice only wavers a tiny bit. “It was—I’ve never heard You Can Be A Hero played in that arrangement before. Did you… Did you make that up yourself?”

Shouto turns, looking at Izuku with that same strange awe and wonder expression before the corners of his mouth twitch and settle into a soft, barely there smile. “No,” he says, while Izuku forgets how to breathe. “My mother did the arrangement. I didn’t play guitar but she knew I loved the song, so she composed this for me to learn.”

It takes Izuku a few seconds to force air into his lungs, push his voice out of his throat. “Is your mother a musician too?” he asks, unable to pull his gaze away from the faint upward tilt of Shouto’s mouth.

“… Once,” Shouto answers, quiet. The smile slips from his face, something akin to misery settling over his expression. “She’s retired now. Hasn’t played in years.”

Izuku nods, empathy cooling the storm still burning through his heart. “She must have been very talented, to write an arrangement like that,” he offers, knows condolences are useless and so often unwanted.

Shouto looks at him, blinking slowly. “She was,” he answers after a moment. “She… she was my first teacher.” His gaze softens, winter grey and summer blue eyes still sad but wistful too, and something else Izuku can’t name. “Most of what I do, I do because of her.”

He all but whispers the last words, spoken like he’s sharing a secret. Shouto’s gaze flickers to Izuku’s, filled with uncertainty, and Izuku speaks before he can think better of it.

“I think she’d be proud of you,” he says, because it seems like the right thing to say, and forgets how to breathe all over again when the soft smile returns to Shouto's face.

You Can Be a Hero isn’t the only All Might arrangement in Shouto’s vast repertoire. The next day he performs an equally stunning rendition of Go Beyond, voice pitched low and throaty to match the deep bass-baritone of its original singer. The sound winds itself through Izuku’s whole body, plucking expertly at his heartstrings until his entire being seems to thrum with song. The sensation lingers long after Shouto stops, and try as he might Izuku can’t seem to shake it, this nervous, electric thing still echoing faintly in his ears, like a tune he can’t get out of his head.

He compliments Shouto on it at dinner, rewarded with Shouto’s soft, barely there smile as he thanks Izuku. When Izuku comes home from work the next day, Shouto’s singing something catchy but unfamiliar while he loads laundry into the dryer, but the moment he’s finished, he waltzes into the living room and immediately begins a brilliant rendition of I Am Here.

“Did your mother help you write all of these compositions?” Izuku asks, when Shouto’s finished playing.

“Yeah.” Shouto’s lips twitch briefly upward. “I know it’s cliche but… All Might was my idol as a child. I used to listen to his albums for hours on end. I thought… I thought I would be just like him.” A deep furrow settles itself over his brow, and Shouto drops his gaze to his hands. “But I guess that was just a silly dream.”

Izuku blinks, frowning. “I mean… I know nobody can really match his tone perfectly because it’s so unique, but… What you’ve been playing have been some really beautiful versions. At least I think so.”

“That’s not…” Shouto begins, but stops short before sighing heavily. “Never mind.”

“What?” Izuku prompts, but Shouto just shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, somewhat curtly. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Long fingers curl up so tightly they start digging into the flesh of Shouto’s palms, and Izuku can almost see the air beginning to settle heavy and dark over his shoulders. Shouto turns away, a familiar icy shell starting to wrap itself around him, and Izuku blurts out, “You know, All Might used to be my idol too,” before he can stop himself.

Shouto stops. Blinks. “Really?” he asks, turning to face Izuku again.

Blood vessels burst to life across Izuku’s face, turning him red enough to rival the left side of Shouto’s hair. “Um, y-yeah,” Izuku stutters. He wants to leave it at that, but now Shouto’s looking at him curiously, and Izuku’s mouth keeps spewing words because he’s never been very good at just shutting up. “I-I was a lot like you, actually, he was everything I wanted to be when I grew up, and I used to make my mom play all of his albums nonstop while I’d run around the house, pretending I was him. I’d set up little stages and sing for her—and I was terrible really, I can’t believe how long she put up with my awful singing. I even had a set of rabbit ears I painted yellow so they’d look like his hair.”

Shouto keeps staring at him, and his mouth does a funny sort of twist, trying to turn all different ways at once. “Yellow rabbit ears?” he repeats, and he honestly sounds amused and Izuku’s torn between wishing he could spontaneously combust and wanting to see how far he can push Shouto, see if he can coax out a smile, or maybe—maybe—even a laugh.

“Yeah. I was… I was kind of obsessed,” Izuku admits, face absolutely burning. One arm comes up in a vain attempt to cover his blush, so he ends up talking into the crook of his elbow. “He was so cool and so talented and I loved everything about him and I… I don’t know. He was amazing. I, uh, I actually…” Izuku laughs, a nervous, thready thing. “I actually got to see the last concert he gave. You know, the one at Ravinia Park.”

The smile drops from Shouto’s face, jaw going slack. “Bullsh*t,” he says, voice flat and disbelieving.

Izuku shakes his head. “I… I still don’t really know how my parents managed to get us in, but they did and… I was only like five so I actually didn’t want to be there at all, I couldn’t understand why they were making me do this stupid adult thing with all this waiting and standing around, I was so bored. And then he stepped out onto the stage and started playing and that was it. He was my hero.”

He shifts a little, bringing his arm down and moving to hide his hands underneath his legs so Shouto won’t see how they tremble, fond and painful memories swirling together inside his head. Shouto’s still staring, winter grey and summer blue eyes bright and almost a little glassy. “My mother always wanted to take me to see him, someday, but we never got the chance,” he says, envy and awe winding through his tone. “I’ve always wondered—what was he like?”

Izuku considers, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment as he tries to find the right words. “It was kind of like being inside a supernova,” he says after a few moments. “You didn’t just hear the music, it was—It was all around you, inside of you, like… Lifting up your soul, almost. And time just kind of stopped, and you wanted it to last forever.” He flushes a little, cheeks going red again. “At least, that’s how it was for me.”

Silence settles between them for a few long moments, and then Shouto shifts, brow furrowing deeply as his back straightens and he fixes Izuku with a very curious look. Izuku’s heart seizes, panic kicking into overdrive as he takes in Shouto’s expression, because he knows, he knows that look. It’s the same look he gets from Dr. Shuzenji, Dr. Aizawa, his mother, his friends, all wanting to hear over and over again why Izuku’s given up on his dreams, and Izuku’s not ready to answer that question again.

Just as Shouto opens his mouth Izuku jumps up from his seat and declares, far too loudly, “I’m—I’m gonna go get dinner started! I’ll uh, I’ll call you! When it’s ready, I mean!”

He dashes from the living room before Shouto can say anything. By the time Shouto joins him the tremor in his hands has faded a bit, and any tears Izuku might have shed while cooking have long been wiped away. If Shouto finds his behavior peculiar, he says nothing.

Sometimes, though not often, Shouto will sing what sounds like pop songs, pleasant but vapid things that don’t really hold up to the quality of his voice. Izuku doesn’t particular enjoy these, but he doesn’t really mind them either. Most of them aren’t even distinct enough to grab his attention; they just sort of fade into the kind of background music you’d find at a mall, or inside a restaurant. A few of them tug at something in the very back of Izuku’s brain, tinged with just enough familiarity to make him think he’s heard them somewhere before, but he’s certain it’s incidental, like how he’s pretty sure he could recite at least half of Shake It Off from memory despite never having actively chosen to listen to a Taylor Swift song in his life. Lots of popular songs get played everywhere, and even with all his handy tactics for blocking out music, Izuku can’t avoid everything.

What he finds peculiar is that whenever Shouto sings these songs, he seems to watch Izuku out of the corner of his eye, as though he’s waiting for him to react. And if Izuku so much as looks in Shouto’s direction while he’s singing he’ll immediately stop and ask if he’s bothering Izuku, just like he did the first day Izuku heard him singing. Izuku always tells him no, because he never is, and Shouto will give him that same sort of awe and wonder expression before he resumes singing, though never with the same song.

It’s odd in a way that sits just at the periphery of Izuku’s mind, tugging at old memories Izuku’s hasn’t touched in years. It sort of reminds him of Mr. Yagi, how his old music teacher didn’t sing for the first few years Izuku knew him, despite Izuku knowing he could and asking Mr. Yagi to teach him on multiple occasions. There was always a distinct aura around Mr. Yagi during these moments, a thin veil of nervousness that settled oddly over everything and wouldn’t dissipate until Izuku dropped the matter.

The same aura surrounds Shouto whenever he does this, making him ever so slightly stilted and hesitant until Izuku confirms Shouto’s not bothering him, and then it vanishes, as though it had never existed in the first place. Izuku doesn’t like to pry, especially because Shouto’s still not very receptive to personal questions that extend beyond his musical talent, but…

Izuku can’t deny that it does leave him feeling rather curious.

Some nights, if Izuku wakes up from nightmares or just can’t fall asleep in the first place, he’ll eventually give up on tossing and turning and make his way to the kitchen for a hot cup of tea. One night, he finds Shouto sitting at the table, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug while he blinks blearily at some unknown point in the distance. When Izuku’s socked feet shuffle over the linoleum, he turns his head, opens his mouth to speak and gets cut off by a wide yawn.

Izuku smiles at him. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

Shouto shakes his head. “You?”

“No. Bad dreams.” The words leave his mouth before Izuku can process them, and blood begins rushing to his cheeks in embarrassment, but Shouto only yawns and nods slowly.

“Me too,” he murmurs, accent just a bit thicker with sleep. “They suck.”

Izuku blinks at him. “... Yeah.”

He sits down next to Shouto at the kitchen table, and for several long minutes they sit in comfortable silence, the air between them heavy but warm and tinged with something like comfort. Eventually Shouto stands, sliding his mug towards Izuku. “You can finish this if you want,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

Izuku wraps his scarred fingers around the still warm ceramic, and the tremors in them ease, just a little. “Thanks. What is it?” he asks.

“Warm milk with honey,” Shouto answers. “What my mother used to make, to help me sleep.”

He shuffles off, feet dragging heavy against the linoleum. Izuku smiles after him, watching until Shouto disappears around the door frame before bringing the mug to his lips. The first sip sits pleasantly on his tongue, warm and sweet, and the sensation curls around him, flows lazily through Izuku’s veins and nestles comfortably against the slow beat of his heart.

When Izuku returns to bed, he falls asleep easily, and the nightmares don’t return to plague him.

By the time September draws to a close, they’ve settled into such a nice routine Izuku doesn’t really know what he’ll do once Shouto’s gone. He’s there when Izuku leaves in the mornings and there when he gets home at night, and there for all the spaces in between. Shouto’s presence fills Izuku’s home like a symphony inside a concert hall, fitting into all the places Izuku didn’t realize were empty until something came to settle where they used to be.

So he can’t help but be quietly delighted when on the last day on the September, Shouto asks him, “Would it be alright if I stayed on for another month?”

Izuku looks up from his dinner. “You mean you aren’t sick of me yet?” he teases, but Shouto only frowns at him.

“Why would I be sick of you?” he asks. “You’ve been very nice.”

“I… Nevermind. Just joking.” Izuku ducks his head to hide the sudden flush blooming across his cheeks. “Um, yeah, you can stay longer just uh, you know. Tell Momo to put in another request.”

He peeks up just in time to see the ghost of a smile flit briefly over Shouto’s lips. “Thank you,” he says, and Izuku can’t stop the wide grin that overtakes his face.

Chapter 5: Can You Hear My Heart Beating

Chapter Text

A few days into October, Izuku wakes, as he often does now, to the sound of music filling the apartment. He doesn’t pay much attention to it while he slowly makes his way out of bed, yawning widely as he shuffles into the kitchen for breakfast. It isn’t until he’s flicking on the electric kettle for his morning tea that it strikes Izuku how… different this music sounds.

He pauses, frowning as the sound filters through his ears and into his still-groggy brain. It’s not the smooth, seamless melodies he’s become accustomed to; this music sounds stilted, rough. The scale is basic and it keeps cutting off in the same place, only to restart a few seconds later, the notes recycled as they’re played over and over and over again.

Curious, Izuku heads to the living room, where he finds Shouto seated at the piano bench. Frustration rolls off him like heat from a bonfire as he hunches over the piano, glaring like it’s somehow personally offended him. There’s a few pages of sheet music on the rack above the keyboard, but it looks oddly blank except for a small section of notes that have been scribbled in. Several pieces of paper litter the floor at Shouto’s feet, clearly crumpled in agitation.

All the breath leaves Izuku’s lungs in one fell swoop, expelled in a harsh wheeze he can’t manage to hold back. Shouto straightens at the sound, stark white and vivid red hair sweeping over his eyes as he turns around, calm but visibly wary. “Good morning,” he says, tone careful, measured. “Did I wake you up?”

“N-no,” Izuku forces out, voice lodged tight in his throat. “I-I was just… I woke up and—and I heard you and I… I was just curious to, um. See… See what you were playing.” He swallows thickly, prays he doesn’t look as stricken as he feels, heart beating a frantic staccato against his ribcage, anxiety boiling up hot and heavy in his stomach, tremors starting to build in his hands.

“… Ah.” Some of Shouto’s tension bleeds away, and he sighs. “Just… Some personal stuff. I’m sorry if it sounds terrible, I’m know I’m not great at composing.” His brow furrows sharply, winter grey and summer blue eyes sharp and bright with frustration.

“It… It sounded like a good start,” Izuku manages weakly.

“No it didn’t, but thank you,” Shouto says with a soft snort.

He’s right. It was simple, basic chords, a standard triad progression, not unlike the vapid pop songs he sometimes sings and it’s fine but Shouto could do better, so much better, should have something that can stand up to the depth and resonance of his beautiful voice and Izuku chokes a little as his mind takes off in the complete opposite direction of his nerve-wracked body, actually has to bite down on his tongue to keep the sudden wave of suggestions firing rapidly in his brain from spilling out of his mouth. He yelps a little at the sting, and Shouto gives him a curious look.

“Midoriya?” he says, and Izuku forces a smile onto his face.

“I’m fine!” Izuku assures him. “I, uh… I was just gonna make breakfast for myself, did you, uh… Did you want anything?”

“No, thank you, I had something already.”

“O-okay! I’ll just, um. I’ll leave you to it then!” Izuku says, trying not to wince at how loud and strange his voice sounds, even to his own ears. He can feel Shouto staring at him curiously as he beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen, freckled cheeks hot from the blood beginning to pool there. He grips the edge of the sink with shaking fingers, taking in one full inhale, one full exhale.

“Breathe,” he whispers to himself. “Just breathe.”

It’s not nearly so awful the next time, once Izuku’s had ample opportunity to steel himself for the dueling tides of anxiety and excitement that wash over him whenever he hears Shouto working. True to his personal assessment, Shouto’s not great at composing. Izuku might even go so far as to say he’s bad at composing. And he gets frustrated easily, growing moody and aggravated and snappish whenever he can’t seem to work through a block, which is often. It’s perfectionism at its finest; Shouto wants to be good at everything right away, so he can’t fail and start over the way he ought to in order to improve. Izuku understands this painfully well; Katsuki is the same way, though Shouto seems to have at least figured out how to channel most of his aggravation into more productivity, instead of doing stupid things like breaking instruments in a fit of rage.

Izuku gives him credit for that; for as easily flustered as he becomes and as little progress as he seems to make, Shouto doesn’t give up. A few times Izuku leaves for work with Shouto already playing and comes home to hear him working on the same thing, with narrowed eyes and rigid shoulders and fingers curled tightly over uncooperative keys. But he doesn’t stop, keeps playing the same things over and over and over again, until Izuku manages to lure him into taking a break or it’s the end of the night and Shouto’s simply too tired to continue.

“I’m sorry,” Shouto says to Izuku one evening as Izuku hands him a hot bowl of curry rice at the piano bench. “I know I haven’t been very pleasant to listen to recently. Or to be around, I imagine.”

“You’re fine,” Izuku assures him. “I don’t mind at all.”

Shouto snorts. “Even though I sound like a monkey banging away at the keys?” There’s frustration in his voice, but it’s tempered by a low undercurrent of defeat.

“I mean, I think everybody must sound like a monkey banging away at the keys when they first start out, right?” Izuku says, and Shouto frowns at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that…” Izuku bites his lip, wanting to choose his words carefully. “I think… If you haven’t really done something before, you’re going to be bad at it. And that’s how it is for everybody. I don’t think anybody really starts out being great at anything, they get better when they practice. Like, when you first started playing, there’s no way you were as good as you are now. You got there because you worked at it, right? So if you work at this…” Izuku gestures to the crumpled bits of sheet music littering the floor around Shouto. “You’ll eventually get better. You just have to accept that you’re going to be bad at first.”

The deep furrow in Shouto’s brow smoothes out a little. “I guess,” he says after a moment. A rueful expression settles over his face. “I’m just not used to being bad at things. Usually it all comes very naturally to me.”

“Everybody has to be bad at something,” Izuku replies, smiling a little. “You’d never improve if you were always good at everything.”

Shouto blinks at him slowly; the tension sitting on his shoulders fades, long fingers stretching out for a moment before curling around his bowl, seeming to relish in the warmth. “You’re very good at that,” he says.

“At… what?” Izuku asks, confused.

Shouto lifts his head, and their eyes meet. Izuku’s breath gets stolen from his lungs, pinned in place by winter grey and summer blue as Shouto answers, “Knowing the right thing to say.”

Izuku can’t answer that. He stares dumbly as Shouto begins to dig into his curry rice, and he’s almost certain his face must be the same vivid red as the left side of Shouto’s hair. He wants to say something—anything—I could help you, if you wanted, you know I used to be—

He clamps down violently on that thought before it can go any further.

The days pass quickly as their routine settles again, different though no less pleasant, even if Izuku finds himself biting his tongue more and more frequently as Shouto continues to work, largely without success. He tries hard not to listen too closely, not to let himself think too much about it, but it’s impossible when the rough, stilted notes fill the air and Izuku hears them and knows how much better they could be.

But he says nothing. To offer help would necessitate more explanation than Izuku is ready to give, his wounds still raw, still struggling to heal. Instead, he offers what words of encouragement he can, watches for when Shouto becomes too frustrated to continue and steers him into taking breaks, gets him coffee and snacks and forces him to step away. Shouto won’t do these things on his own, and Izuku has to wonder how often he’d work himself into total exhaustion if no one were around to watch him. Too often, he worries. Shouto seems trained not to stop until he physically can’t go on any further.

“I think maybe you should take a break,” Izuku says to Shouto one Saturday in late October. It’s barely past noon and already Shouto’s worked himself into an aggravated mess.

“I’m not going to get anywhere if I take a break,” Shouto snaps.

“You’re not getting anywhere now,” Izuku points out.

Winter grey and summer blue eyes narrow sharply. “I don’t need you—” Shouto begins, only to be cut off by a loud, solid knocking coming from Izuku’s front door. “What was that?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe the family downstairs needs something? I’ll go check.” Izuku frowns as he gets up. He’s not expecting any visitors—never expects visitors, really—and the Asui’s should already be down at the restaurant on the first floor for lunch, but he can’t think of a better explanation. Then he pulls open the front door and promptly chokes.

「I am here! With cake!」 Mr. Yagi proclaims in thunderous Japanese, his deep, booming voice and broad, summer sun smile filling the entire landing with his presence. He carries a large plate with both hands, and on it rests a beautiful souffle cheesecake. 「But before I hand it over, your mother wants me to ask you why you hate her.」

Izuku groans a little. 「You should have called first to let me know you were coming,」 he chides, stepping out into the stairwell and closing the front door behind him. 「And why does mom think I hate her?」

「You haven’t called since the end of September,」 Mr. Yagi answers. 「You know she worries if she doesn’t hear from you often enough.」

「It’s the third week in October, it hasn’t been that long!」 Izuku protests, but the words don’t hold much fight, the battle lost before it even began. 「I’ll call her today,」 he promises with a small sigh, loathe to make his mother worry more than she already does.

Mr. Yagi beams at him. 「So, are you going to invite me in to share this cake she so lovingly crafted for you?」 he teases, and Izuku can’t help the small grimace that passes over his face.

「Actually—」 he starts, but gets cut off as a loud bang comes from the apartment, the jarring sound of several piano keys being hit together lingering for a moment. Izuku yelps loudly. Mr. Yagi stares.

「Was that your cat?」 he asks, looking at Izuku curiously.

「Um,」 is all Izuku manages before music starts filtering out into the landing, Shouto’s instrumental rendition of You Can Be a Hero loud and emphatic and stunning, filling the spaces around them until the very air becomes saturated with rhythm.

Mr. Yagi’s jaw goes a little slack, and he stares at Izuku, eyes wide as they can be in sockets sunken and dark from illness. Blood rushes to Izuku’s freckled cheeks. 「I have… a guest staying with me,」 he offers, fidgeting nervously.

「… I see,」 Mr. Yagi says slowly. 「And your guest is… a pianist?」

The muscles in his arms twitch, rising to cover his face before Izuku can stop them, trying to cover the blood pooling in his freckles cheeks.「He… He picked this place because… Because of the piano. He was… He wanted to keep up. With, um. With his practice,」 he mumbles, voice muffled against his skin.

「And you… let him?」 Mr. Yagi asks, tone flooded with disbelief.

Izuku fidgets, burrowing his face into the crook of his elbow. 「It… It seemed rude to say no,」 he answers, voice exceptionally small.

For several long moments, there’s nothing between them but the sound of music in the air, You Can Be a Hero finishing up and transitioning seamlessly into Go Beyond. Izuku watches Mr. Yagi move first, carefully setting the cheesecake down on the ground beside him. Izuku blinks, and the next thing he knows he’s being wrapped up in a ferocious hug, held by arms of wasted muscle and unyielding strength both.

Izuku’s eyes water, tears stinging sharp and hot as he tries to keep from crying over something so simple. 「It’s… It’s really not that big a deal,」 he mutters into Mr. Yagi’s shoulder.

「Of course it is,」 Mr. Yagi counters, voice low and comforting. 「It’s a very big deal. And I’m so proud of you for making it this far.」

That’s what does it, more than anything. Izuku’s never been good at holding himself together in the face of Mr. Yagi’s pride, and this time is no different. Fat droplets of tears begin to roll down his cheeks, and Izuku forces himself back so he won’t end up ruining Mr. Yagi’s jacket.

「S-sorry,」 he mumbles. 「I know—I know I always get like this.」

「I think you’re entitled to a few good cries, after what you’ve been through,」 Mr. Yagi says, placing a gentle hand on Izuku’s shoulder, and Izuku barely manages to bite back the tiny sob bubbling up in his throat. They don’t talk as much as they used to since Izuku moved away from his childhood home in Arlington Heights, and he forgets sometimes that with Mr. Yagi, there has only ever been empathy and understanding and unconditional support, in all things.

It takes a minute for Izuku to reign himself back in, during which time music continues to fill the stairwell, and a soft grin breaks out over Mr. Yagi’s face as he listens. 「They’re really very good, aren’t they?」 he comments, and Izuku nods emphatically.

「He sings too,」 he can’t help but add. 「Beautifully. It’s… It’s been good. Listening to him, I mean. I… I guess I didn’t realize how much… How much I missed it.」 Izuku swallows thickly. He thinks maybe he didn’t want to admit how much he missed it, easier to wrap himself in denial than face his demons.

Mr. Yagi beams. 「I’m glad,」 he says, and the sincerity in his tone has Izuku’s eyes watering all over again. 「You know, this might be jumping the gun a bit, but I still have your old—」

「I know,」 Izuku cuts him off, heart seizing in a brief moment of panic. 「I-I know you do, but I don’t… I don’t think I’m… I’m not there yet.」

His smile dims a touch, but nonetheless, Mr. Yagi nods in understanding. 「Fair enough,」 he concedes. 「But if you do want it back—just call. I’m always here.」

A single tear finds its way down Izuku’s cheek, even as he smiles. 「I know,」 he says. 「You’ve always been there.」

Another broad smile fills Mr. Yagi’s face. Skin stretches oddly over sunken cheekbones, but his eyes still burn bright in their dark sockets, full of life. 「And I always will be.」

By the time Izuku steps back inside the apartment, Shouto’s finished his round of All Might songs and has started plunking away at the keyboard again, though the notes are dull and lifeless, his heart clearly not in it. “Who was that?” he asks, when Izuku comes to stand next to him.

“Just the landlord,” Izuku answers, which isn’t technically a lie because Mr. Yagi does own the building, bought it at the height of his fame to help preserve the childhood home where Izuku currently resides. He’d lived here briefly after he retired, but moved when hiding in plain sight grew too difficult; the suburbs were quiet, less dense, offered fewer opportunities to be recognized.

Shouto raises an eyebrow. “Your landlord brings you cake?” he asks, eyeing the cheesecake.

“Well, the landlord is also an old family friend,” Izuku explains.

“Ah. So that’s how you can afford a two bedroom in Lakeview all by yourself.”

Izuku laughs. “Yeah, he gives me a pretty great deal on the rent. Otherwise I’d probably still be living with my mom in Arlington Heights. The cake is from her, actually. I guess she thinks I’m dead because I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks, so he swung by to help bribe me into calling.” He pauses, and then adds, “He said to tell you that you’re very talented, and you should be quite proud of yourself.”

Shouto sighs, glaring at the crumpled bits of paper surrounding the piano bench. “You can tell him thank you,” he says, but the words lack sincerity, too full of frustration and something like defeat. Izuku’s chest aches with sympathy, and he wishes more than anything he could tell Shouto the truth, understands with painful certainty how much more the sentiment could mean if only Shouto knew whom it really came from.

But that’s not his secret to tell, so instead Izuku smiles as warmly as he can and says, “Anyway, my mom’s a really fantastic baker and she makes the best souffle cheesecakes in the world, guaranteed. I mean, I’m probably biased since she’s my mom and I love her—but they’re really delicious I swear! Like even when I go back to Japan and have souffle cheesecake there it’s not as good as mom’s and I’ve had a lot of souffle cheesecake so I know what I’m talking about. Her secret is that she uses vanilla bean for extra flavor and she only uses this special apricot jam, I don’t know where she gets it from but it’s delicious and, um…” Izuku’s freckled cheeks bloom pink, acutely aware of how he’s running his mouth again. “Anyway you should, um. Take a break and have some.”

Shouto frowns. “I would, but I don’t really like sweets,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Izuku blinks. “Wait, what?” He frowns, confused. “But you… You put sugar in your coffee every morning. You even bought a special bag of coffee sugar, I know because you store it next to where I keep Onigiri’s wet food.”

“That’s not… That’s just to cut the acidity of the coffee,” Shouto answers, but his gaze flickers away from Izuku’s, cheeks coloring the faintest pink.

“You add two spoonfuls to every cup,” Izuku counters. “Also, what about the warm milk and honey trick you showed me a couple weeks ago? That was sweet.”

“That’s…” Shouto’s brow furrows deeply, face oddly scrunched for a moment before he lets out a sharp sigh. “Fine. I’m not supposed to like sweets,” he corrects.

Izuku blinks again. “Says… who?” he asks.

“Says my f—” Shouto starts, but stops short. A rather peculiar expression settles over his face, eyes narrowing sharply for a moment before the furrow in his brow smoothes out, mouth twisting oddly as he gives Izuku a bewildered look, almost as though it has never occurred to him before this moment that he’s allowed to like something.

Izuku’s not quite sure what to make of that, wonders not for the first time what kind of life Shouto led before he came here, what kind of person could become so utterly confused at the simple idea of enjoyment. Curiosity courses through him, but Izuku forces himself to tuck it away; it’s not his place to pry. Instead, he puts on a somewhat impish grin and says, in the most innocent tone he can muster, “You know, when a host offers you something, it’s rude to turn them down. Especially if they offer you something to eat.”

It’s a horribly cheap shot, but it works like a charm; Shouto’s cheeks go blotchy red, the flush nearly as deep a red as his scar, dismay tinting the edges of his expression. “You—” He begins, but stops as Izuku fixes him with an expectant look, perfected after years of watching his mother. “Fine.” Shouto huffs. “But only one slice. A small one.”

(He eats three. Izuku tries not to be too smug about it.)

The following Monday manages to be one of worst days Izuku’s had since that first month with Shouto, when tensions were still running high between them. An accident on Belmont delays Izuku’s morning commute by half an hour, the email servers are down by the time he walks in late, neither he nor Shinsou manage to squeeze in a lunch break, and traffic extends his evening commute so long that it’s nearly eight by the time Izuku actually makes it through his front door. He only bothers to kick off his red boots before he heads straight for the living room and collapses face first onto the couch with a long, drawn out groan.

It’s a few seconds before Shouto asks, “Rough day?”

Izuku just lets out another groan in response.

“Can I… help?” Shouto asks, sounding uncertain.

With a heavy sigh, Izuku turns his head so he can speak properly. “Help me pick what kind of take-out to get. I don’t think I could make dinner right now without passing out,” he answers. It’s not something he does often, but right now, letting someone else cook seems like the single best idea he’s ever had.

Shouto chooses Vietnamese. Amazingly he even offers to pick it upso Izuku can continue being a useless lump on the couch, but Izuku forces himself to go, knowing how much Shouto dislikes leaving the apartment, even for small errands. “It’s only a few blocks away,” he says to Shouto. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, tops.”

“But you just said you were so tired you wanted to pass out,” Shouto argues, brow furrowed in concern. “If you’re that exhausted I don’t think you should be getting up off the couch.”

Izuku rolls his eyes. “I was just being dramatic. I sweat I’m not that tired. I’ll be fine!” he promises, brushing Shouto aside as he heads out the front door.

He sort of is, though. Exhaustion sits heavy over his whole body, weighing Izuku down as he steps outside and makes his way to the corner. A thin haze settles over his thoughts, just enough to dull his senses, and maybe that’s why Izuku only pays attention to the walk signal beckoning him onward, and not the car speeding down the street. It runs the red light, nearly clipping Izuku as it barrels straight through the intersection, the momentum enough to ruffle the collar of his jacket and the green curls brushing against his forehead.

Izuku blinks slowly, taking a step back. His heartbeat picks up, deafeningly loud as blood begins to rush rapid and heavy in his ears. He opens his mouth to yell at the offending vehicle, but it’s already well beyond him, just a blob of color in the distance as his vision turns blurry at the edges. There’s something wet on his cheeks, salt on his tongue. His lungs are empty and Izuku tries to inhale but the breath gets trapped in his throat, refusing to budge.

Stumbling over concrete as he backs up to the sidewalk, Izuku heads blindly for his apartment building, the sights and sounds of Lakeview blurring into something nebulous and murky around him. He collapses against the outside door, fumbling for his keys but they keep slipping from his grasp as his hands begin to quake, tremors running all the way up his forearms. A sound pushes past the squeeze of his throat, but it gets lost over the drumbeat pounding in his ears. The world hangs suspended around him, waiting for Izuku to do something—anything—only he can’t get his body to work right, can’t get it to just move . A looming darkness begins to creep around the edges of his senses, waiting to drag him down into its depths.

Something grabs his shoulders, turns him around, but Izuku can only stare blankly at the person standing in front of him. It looks sort of like Tsuyu, from the family on the second floor, but his vision swims in and out of focus too fast for Izuku to form a clear picture. Time and space pass by in waves rushing over his head, keeping him bogged down as the front door opens and Izuku manages to stumble his way up the stairs without no real memory of how he even got this far. The person gripping his shoulders remains, a phantom presence guiding him as they talk; the tone is urgent but his brain can’t string the words together, and they fade away into static. Everything around him has gone dark and quiet, and Izuku hears but can’t listen, looks but can’t see, inhales but can’t breathe.

His apartment door swings open and Izuku tries to step inside, but he trips over the threshold, stumbling forward and crashing into something solid and very warm. Izuku curls into it instinctually, catches the faint scent of pine and smoke as his body braces, desperate for an anchor, knees weak and hands trembling and eyes wet and lungs burning and—

“Midoriya!”

His name, roared like wildfire, sinking deep down into Izuku’s veins, his heart, the very hollows of his bones.

Izuku breaks the surface. Takes one full inhale. Sobs out the exhale.

Then collapses, utterly wrecked, into Shouto’s arms.

“What the hell happened?” he hears Shouto yell as sob after sob starts wringing itself out of Izuku’s throat. Salty rivers of tears and snot are streaming down his face, and each gasping breath twists like knives inside his burning lungs. Dimly, Izuku registers he’s moving. Or rather, Shouto’s moving and Izuku’s limp body stumbles along with him like a ragdoll.

“I don’t know!” someone answers, and it must be Tsuyu, her nasal, croaking voice unmistakeable. “I saw him collapsed against the door from the restaurant so I stepped outside to help him and he was like this!”

Izuku sobs. “I was—I was—I was—” he tries to say, but the words keep getting jumbled up inside his head. There’s not enough room between his gasping gulps of air to speak properly. He manages gibberish, nothing more.

A rough noise escapes Shouto, the sound vibrating where Izuku’s still pressed against his chest. His arms move down, wrapping around Izuku’s waist and Izuku has no time to brace, yelping as Shouto manages to pick him up and haul his body over to the couch. “Midoriya!” Shouto says sharply, kneeling in front of him. “Midoriya, what happened to you?”

“I-I-I,” Izuku stutters, but the word comes out sounding wrong. A great, heaving sob shudders its way out of his chest and he wheezes with the force of the exhale, head shaking frantically back and forth. His eyes sting, his lungs burn, his hands ache. Izuku’s cracking apart, ripping, tearing, breaking at the seams.

“Midoriya,” Shouto says again, emphatic. “Midoriya please, you have to tell us what’s wrong.”

Izuku shakes his head violently, tears flung every which way. He tries to speak, and the words come but they still sound wrong and he doesn’t know why but it doesn’t matter because there’s no sense to his babbling anyway and it only makes him cry harder.

Shouto’s hands squeeze his shoulders, grip so tight his muscles ache with the pressure. “He’s not making any sense,” Izuku hears him tell Tsuyu. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” There’s distress in his voice, and Izuku’s heart cracks opens at the sound, bloody, raw, throbbing inside his chest. He tries to say he’s sorry, but the words come out wrong again, with a G and an M and an N, and Izuku realizes dimly he’s babbling in Japanese, having hurtled past the point of coherency in English, his brain now trying to express itself the first way it knew how.

Through his veil of tears Izuku sees Tsuyu move to crouch next to Shouto, wringing her hands. “Maybe we should take him to hospital?”

All the breath abandons Izuku’s lungs, leaving them hollow, empty, burning.

His vision swims, spotted black and red, sterile white at the edges.

There are sirens blaring in his ears, the piercing screech of metal on metal, frantic beeping from machines hooked to his vitals.

His nostrils fill with fumes, disinfectant and gasoline and hot, dirty asphalt.

Blood swims in his mouth, fresh, salty, metallic.

There are cracks in his bones, breaking, snapping, shattering them into pieces and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

「 No hospital! 」

A frenzied drum roll beats inside his chest as Izuku’s still quaking hands fly up, seizing Shouto’s wrists and wrenching them away. He reaches down deep into the depths of his still screaming mind, scraping together the last dregs of his coherency and begs,「Please—please—no hospital.」

For a moment, there is only the cacophony echoing inside his head. Tears cloud Izuku’s vision, but even so it can’t obscure the sight of winter grey and summer blue, stark white and vivid red.

「No hospital,」 Izuku croaks again, and one, two, three heartbeats pass before Shouto nods slowly.

「Okay,」 he says, voice low, matching Izuku’s fractured Japanese. 「No hospital.」

Izuku closes his eyes again. One full inhale. One full exhale.

「I need… I need my… I need my phone,」 he stutters.「I need… Need to call… Call someone.」

Shouto exhales slowly. 「Okay,」 he says, pulling away from Izuku’s grasp on wrists, Izuku’s fingers too weak to hold on. 「Where’s your phone?」

「I have it,」 Tsuyu answers, reaching into her apron.「You dropped it when you were fumbling for your keys outside, Midoriya.」

She hands him the device and Izuku tries to grab it, but it falls out of his hand instantly, trembling fingers locked in place, unable to keep their grip. Tsuyu picks it back up, this time handing it over to Shouto, who takes the phone in one hand and grabs Izuku’s with the other. Tiny shivers run up Izuku’s forearms as Shouto’s cold fingers begin maneuvering his own, unlocking the screen with his thumb, using his finger to pull up his contacts.「Who am I looking for?」he asks.

「Ai-Aizawa. Sh-Shouta Aizawa,」Izuku answers. Shouto scrolls until the name comes up, then holds the phone to Izuku’s ear as the line begins to ring, the seconds seeming to drag into infinity until—

“What happened?” comes Dr. Aizawa’s deep voice from the receiver, and Izuku sobs; he’s not sure if it’s in agony or in relief.

「P-p-panic—panic att-attack,」 he stammers out, each word wrenched painfully from his throat.「C-car. Almost hit m-me.」

「Where are you now?」Dr. Aizawa asks, calm but urgent, an effortless switch in language to match the situation at hand. It’s far from the first time Izuku’s deteriorated this far.

「I’m at… I’m at h-home.」

「Is anyone with you?」

Izuku glances up, grimacing at the anxious stares Shouto and Tsuyu have directed his way, stomach knotting, heart bleeding as Izuku sobs out a yes.

Time flows over him in waves, as Dr. Aizawa slowly, carefully, methodically talks him down, voice low and soothing and steady in his ear, the calming breeze after a wild storm. At some point Izuku’s able to start gripping the phone by himself, allowing Shouto and Tsuyu to step away. Then all that’s left is Dr. Aizawa’s voice on the phone and Izuku, just a crying, shaking, tear-stained mess on the couch.He doesn’t know when he’s let go, just that it only happens with a promise to call again tomorrow and book an appointment as soon as possible. When Dr. Aizawa finally hangs up, Izuku lets the phone drop from his aching fingers. Exhaustion seeps into every fiber of his being, and Izuku’s muscles give out, body going limp and slumping over on the couch, eyes slipping shut as his head hits the cushions.

He hears his name, but darkness claims him before Izuku can answer.

Chapter 6: All That's Left

Chapter Text

Izuku wakes slowly, in fits and false starts; he’ll come to just long enough to gain a vague sense of his surroundings before exhaustion claims him once more. A tiny whisper in the back of his mind tells Izuku he needs to get up, but everything aches in a way that sinks down deep into the marrow of his bones, and it’s far easier to just descend back into sleep.

It’s not until something soft and furry begins nosing at his face and meowing loudly that Izuku finally manages to leave his daze, forcing himself to leave the sweet cocoon of sleep and sit up. His neurons aren’t quite firing properly, so it takes Izuku a few seconds to realize he’s not in his bedroom, but on the couch. There’s a pillow where his head just was and a blanket pooled around his waist; Izuku has no idea where either came from.

Onigiri meows at him from her spot by his knees and Izuku reaches out to pet her head absently while he looks around for his phone, which he finds on the armrest. The lock screen tells him it’s just past noon, and Izuku’s head musters up a feeble wave of panic at the realization he’s missed half a day of work with no prior warning. He’s about to text Shinsou and plead for mercy when he sees he has several missed calls, two new voicemails, and one message waiting to be read, all from his supervisor.

Shinsou

Sorry about all the calls, I assumed you were dead when you didn’t show up. Your boyfriend finally answered and told me you got sick last night. Don’t come in today or I swear I’ll fire you.

[Sent 9:03]

“Boyfriend?” Izuku mutters, staring down blankly at the text. “What boy—”

“Midoriya?”

Izuku’s head whips around so fast he hears something crack. Shouto stands just inside the entryway to the living room, winter grey and summer blue eyes staring at Izuku with characteristic intensity, concern etched into every line of his face, enough to make Izuku’s heart burst open inside his chest.

Oh. That boyfriend.

“Sh… Shouto,” Izuku stutters. “Um, h… Hi.”

“… Hello,” Shouto says. “How… How are you feeling?”

“I… I’m f-fine,” Izuku answers, which is a blatant lie. Shame bubbles hot and heavy from the pit of his stomach, acrid and bitter as it rises up in the back of his throat and lodges there. At least he’s recovered enough to be speaking properly again. “I, uh… My head, though. It kinda, um, hurts.”

Shouto nods slowly. “You’re probably dehydrated. I’ll get you some water.”

As soon as he leaves, Izuku presses the palms of his hands tightly against his eyes to try and stem the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill, praying that he’ll manage to keep it together until he can retreat to the safety of his bedroom. Shouto should never have had to deal with what he did last night; Izuku refuses to subject him to anything else.

He drops his hands when he hears Shouto’s footsteps, mumbling out a thanks when Shouto hands him a large glass of water. “You should eat something too,” Shouto says when Izuku’s finished drinking.

Izuku grimaces. “I’m really not hungry,” he says.

“You should still eat,” Shouto counters. “You never had dinner last night and you slept straight through breakfast. Your body needs the nutrition to help recover.”

His stomach gurgles in protest, but Izuku doesn’t have it in him to fight Shouto’s concern. “Okay,” he mutters. “But nothing heavy, just like… Some rice or something.”

Shouto returns this time with another glass of water and a bowl. “Is this… okayu?” Izuku asks when he takes it, looking down at the thick swirl of rice porridge, neatly garnished with some shredded nori and a sprinkle of scallions. “When did you make this?”

“This morning. I thought you might be ill when you woke up. My mother used to make this whenever I got sick as a kid, so I figured it might be good for you too.”

“Oh.” Izuku looks up, blinking owlishly. “You didn’t… You didn’t have to do that.”

Shouto frowns. “I know I didn’t,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

A flush spreads over Izuku’s cheeks as he wraps his fingers around the bowl, the heat of the ceramic giving sweet relief to his aching muscles. “Th-thanks,” he mumbles. He doesn’t want to move his hands so instead he brings the bowl up to his mouth and takes a careful sip. It tastes like the okayu his mother makes, chases the shame still burning through Izuku’s throat all the way back down to his stomach and settles over it, blanketing any unease with something soft and pleasant and warm.

Silence stretches between them as Izuku continues to eat, Shouto watching him from the piano bench. The only noise comes from slurp of Izuku’s sips, the muffled traffic outside, and Onigiri’s soft purr where she lays curled up on his lap. There’s no piano or Shouto’s voice filling the air, and it’s so strange now, not to hear either. The lack of music grates against Izuku’s nerves, more than it should. He wishes he could break the quiet, fill the room with his usual inane prattle, but for once in his life, the words won’t come. “Did you… Did you talk to my supervisor this morning?” Izuku asks when he can’t take it anymore.

“Ah, yes. Your phone kept ringing but you weren’t waking up. I thought it might be your job so I answered to tell them you wouldn’t be coming in.” He clears his throat, making Izuku look up from his bowl. Pink blooms faintly over Shouto’s right cheek, lost when it reaches the scar on his left. “But I think your supervisor has some… misconceptions. About the nature of our relationship.”

Izuku grimaces, shoulders hunching in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I promise I’ll set him straight when I go in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Shouto frowns. “Don’t you think you should rest up for another day?”

“Probably. But I don’t think I afford it,” Izuku answers with a shrug. He can’t really afford to take today off either, wants to save what little sick time he has in case of a real emergency, but he has to imagine Shinsou will absolutely make good on his threat to fire Izuku if he comes in.

The silence returns, stilted and suffocating. Izuku knows he can’t just brush off a total meltdown and hope Shouto will never bring it up again, but he hasn’t got a clue what to say. He likes Shouto, and he’s pretty sure Shouto likes him, but Izuku wouldn’t subject most of his closest friends to suffering through one of his panic attacks, never mind the stranger staying in his spare bedroom. They might be more than just acquaintances now, but there was still a very clear boundary between them, and Izuku just smashed right through it and broke everything on the other side. He’s honestly a little shocked Shouto didn’t simply pack his bags and leave before Izuku woke up.

Shouto needs an explanation. Shouto deserves an explanation. It shouldn’t be that difficult to give him one, even if it’s not the full truth. Lots of people have traumatic accidents. Shouto has probably had a traumatic accident, if his scar is anything to go by, and Izuku’s sure he’d understand at least that much. But there’s so much more layered underneath that, things Izuku has spent the better part of four years trying to bury, and now all of them are simmering just below a slowly breaking surface, threatening to bubble over.

But still. He owes Shouto something, and as much as talking about it makes Izuku sick to his stomach, this is something he needs to do. A little voice inside his head that sounds very much like Dr. Aizawa whispers that it will be good for Izuku, that airing his trauma out instead of trying to keep everything locked away has never been good for him, and that even if it’s just a small piece, talking about it will make him feel better. It’s that more than anything that brings a little courage to Izuku’s still faint heart, has him setting his bowl aside and drawing in a deep breath before he looks at Shouto and says, “So, um, about. About last night.”

Shouto, who has been staring very intently down at his hands for the past few minutes, looks up. “Yes?”

Izuku sighs. Reminds himself he doesn’t have to tell Shouto everything, just enough. Takes one full inhale, one full exhale.

Open his mouth and says, “I used to be a musician.”

Every synapse in Izuku’s brain begins firing, muscles going rigid, lungs refusing to breathe, heart seizing inside his chest. His head snaps up, eyes wide and jaw slack as he stares at Shouto because that wasn’t what he meant to say at all but now it’s out there and Shouto knows and Izuku can’t take it back and there’s going to be so many questions and Shouto will know Izuku lied and he can’t do this, not yet, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

“Yeah,” Shouto says, head bowing as he looks down at his fingers. “I kind of figured.”

Time ceases, suspended unmoving between them as Izuku’s mind comes screeching to a halt, staring at Shouto with wide, watery eyes. “You… did?” he manages after a moment, each syllable spoken a monumental effort.

Shouto nods, gesturing at the grand piano. “That’s a Bösendorfer. Normal people don’t have instruments of that caliber just sitting in their living rooms if they’re not going to use them.” There’s a pause, and then he continues, in a softer tone, “And when you listen to me, you listen like a musician does.”

Izuku blinks slowly. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Shouto’s brow settling into its normal furrow. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s sort of like… You don’t listen to music like you’re just hearing it. There’s more. It’s like when you described listening to All Might. You let it surround you and you sort of… Absorb it into yourself. If that makes any sense.”

“Y-yeah, it does.” Perfect sense, he doesn’t say. That’s how Izuku’s always listened to music, ever since he was five years old and watching the sun in human form on a stage, certain that if the stars could sing, they would sound like him. It’s not enough to listen, Mr. Yagi used to tell him. You have to be able to feel it.

“Were you a pianist?” Shouto asks.

“… No,” Izuku answers after a beat. “Guitarist.”

“But you gave it up?”

Izuku closes his eyes. Something hollow and bitter and miserable worms its way out of his throat, expelled in a single harsh sound. “No,” Izuku whispers. “It was taken from me.”

For several long moments, nothing passes between them. Then, into the silence, a single word. “Taken?”

When Izuku opens his eyes, Shouto’s staring, but not at his face. His gaze is fixed on where Izuku’s hands rest in his lap, still trembling, ever so slightly. Izuku swallows thickly, curling him into fists as best he can, rigid pinky and ring finger held out awkwardly, scar tissue pulled tight across his skin.

If he speaks now, he won’t be able to stop. Shouto, who has already done so much—too much, really—will be burdened with something he never asked for, never should have had to know. There’s a chorus of voices echoing inside Izuku’s head, begging him to stop, to pull back now, before it’s too late.

But underneath that, there’s something else. A single chord inside his heart, still reverberating from when Shouto plucked at it nearly three months ago, and it makes Izuku think that maybe—maybe—if he can just pluck up the courage to tell Shouto the truth, Shouto will understand.

It shouldn’t be enough to drown out all the other doubts screaming inside him. It really, really shouldn’t.

“I started practicing when I was five,” Izuku begins, voice whisper soft in the quiet of the room. “After I saw All Might I wanted so much to be just like him, so I begged my mom to buy me a guitar. That never happened because she couldn’t afford it, but after about a year we got a new neighbor and it turned out he had been a professional musician, and he could play a whole slew of instruments. So I started taking lessons from him, and I… I loved it. It was everything I ever wanted. He gave me my first guitar—a Seagull S6, solid cedarwood, it was amazing. And I got… I was good. I was really good. Probably about as good as you are with the piano.”

Izuku glances up, but he can’t hold Shouto’s gaze for more than a second, not when Shouto’s staring at him with his strange awe and wonder expression, this time tinged with shock at the edges. “I formed a band with some friends from high school, people I trusted, people I knew were good,” Izuku continues. “We played at venues all around the city for a couple years, gained a pretty big underground following. Self-produced some EP stuff and then got signed to a major record label. Even got a chance to perform as an opening act at Pitchfork once which was just… incredible. We’d never played in front of a crowd that big before and people loved us, they went absolutely nuts. Even demanded an encore. Of course we wanted to celebrate, so we went out. I volunteered to be designated driver while my friends got sh*t-faced, and I ended up having to drag all of them home. I didn’t mind but I was exhausted by the time I got done so my attention was kind of spotty on my way home and I, uh… I…”

He swallows heavily, tears building at the corners of his eyes. “I was taking a right, and… And I didn’t realize there was another car coming towards me. So I… I turned and this other car—I swear to God it must’ve been going at least sixty down a residential street, it didn’t have time to stop, and it, uh… It. It hit me. T-boned me, right on the driver’s side door.”

Something wet runs down his cheek; Izuku wipes at it furiously, but more tears start trickling from his eyes and Izuku knows he’s fighting a losing battle. “I woke up in the hospital and it’s… It’s all still kind of blurry, but I know… when I got out of surgery I had… I was a wreck. There was so much internal damage, plus both my arms were broken, and… And my left femur had been fractured, and then my… My hands… M-my hands were…”

Izuku pauses, trying to blink his tears away while he pushes down the lump swelling up in his throat. His hands twist tightly in the blanket around his waist, still trembling, aching from injuries that will never heal. “They said the bones… The bones had been shattered. That I’d… I’d never… I’d never get my full mobility back. A-and that… Th-that meant…”

A sob worms its way out of his throat, small and miserable and broken. Izuku squeezes his eyes shut, displacing Onigiri as he curls his knees up to his chest. Four years. Four years and he still can’t say the words.

“You can’t play anymore,” Shouto says for him. His voice echoes through the quiet, a heartbroken melody just for Izuku, and Izuku only sobs, nodding his head where it rests against his knees.

“I tried—I tried ev-everything,” he stutters. “I c-couldn’t just accept it, I-I-I thought there h-had to be a way, b-but… There’s only so much m-medicine could do. I-I sunk everything I had into recovery, I did… I did all these surgeries and—and physical therapies and everything but… but in the end I… I still only g-got about s-s-seventy percent mobility back and that’s not… It wasn’t enough. I can… I can sort of play still but—but it’s so crude and I just… I sound so awful now and I can’t… I couldn’t h-handle it. Ev-every time I tried to play again I just… I just broke down so I… I gave up. I gave everything up. It just… It hurts too much.”

For a long time, Shouto says nothing. Izuku doesn’t blame him; what could someone possibly say after hearing a story like that? He still hasn’t spoken by the time Izuku manages to reign himself back in, tamp down on his sobs and pull away from his knees, dabbing at eyes still wet with tears. Onigiri’s been trying to snuggle into his legs for a couple minutes now, so Izuku picks her up and holds her in his lap, the smooth stroke of her fur a balm against his still trembling fingers.

When Shouto finally speaks, all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

Izuku sighs. “It’s not your fault,” he answers. “It just—”

“Not that,” Shouto cuts him off. “For how I acted, when I first arrived. I could tell you didn’t want me to use the piano but I pushed anyway because I thought you were just being stubborn about letting a stranger use it. But I was—that was… wrong.” Izuku stares as a splotchy blush begins to spread over the whole of Shouto’s face. “I shouldn’t have pushed you into accepting. I’m sorry for that. I can stop playing, if that would be easier for you.”

Lightning strikes in his lungs with the force of Izuku’s inhale, white hot and searing.

“No!”

Shouto jumps, eyes wide in shock, and Izuku’s face starts burning up as he begins to babble, “I-I mean you’re right, I didn’t want you playing when you first asked and I was actually kind of upset when you did, but it’s fine now, I swear! I mean, it was kind of hard to listen to at first because I haven’t… I haven’t listened to music properly in four years but that’s—that’s not your fault, that has nothing to do with you, and I… I like hearing you play. And sing. Really. It… I don’t want you to stop.”

“But doesn’t it…” Shouto frowns, a deep furrow between his mismatched eyes. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“No! It doesn’t bother me at all, I actually…” Izuku’s fingers wrap over his knees, squeezing tightly, face growing hotter by the second. “I like listening to you. A lot. The first time I heard you singing, I thought… It was like I was listening to All Might for the first time again. That’s… that’s what you made me feel.”

There’s so much blood pooled in his face Izuku’s certain his head is going to explode, but he forces himself to look up and hold Shouto’s gaze, as best he can. Shouto’s staring at him like Izuku just grew a third arm, winter grey and summer blue eyes wide, the normal crease of his brow completely wiped away. He opens and closes his mouth a few times while Izuku continues to do his best impression of a tomato before finally managing to say, “I… make you feel like All Might did?” in a rather warbly tone.

“… Yeah,” Izuku says, swallowing heavily. “Yeah, you do.”

A new silence settles as they continue to stare at each other, Shouto’s face cycling through several shades of pink, Izuku’s turning the same vivid red as the left side of Shouto’s hair. It’s different this time, the air between them no longer stilted but vibrant, electric, sparks just waiting to ignite with… Something. Izuku can’t decide what. But it skitters along his skin and up his spine, sinking into his blood as his heart beats a frantic staccato against his ribcage, and Izuku thinks it doesn’t feel entirely unpleasant.

Chapter 7: Sorry That I Care (It's Really Not That Fair)

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Ochako asks him for possibly the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Ochako, I’m fine,” Izuku insists. “I still don’t know why you thought you had to come all the way here when you could have just called, my office is so far out of your way—”

“Deku, you were almost hit by a car,” Ochako says flatly, exasperation etched into every line of her body. “The last time something like this happened you straight up couldn’t leave the house for three days, what did you think I was going to do?”

He’d told her about what happened only at the insistence of Dr. Aizawa, who’d informed Izuku at his emergency follow up that while yes, telling a stranger about his accident did certainly count as a sort of progress, he wasn’t allowed to do so at the expense of cutting out his family and friends. So Izuku reluctantly texted both Ochako and Tenya, hoping for just a few concerned inquiries that could easily be deflected with some vague reassurances, and that would be that.

Instead, Ochako came directly to Izuku’s office and dragged him out to lunch, under the logic that this way, they could have a proper conversation about the incident where Izuku couldn’t easily lie or dodge questions. It’s working; so far the only thing Izuku has managed not to tell her about is Shouto’s involvement, and he doubts that’s going to stay under wraps for much longer. Even now, Ochako’s saying, “I just don’t want you to be alone after something like this. You get all wrapped up in your head and start ignoring everything else. Have you called your mom? Maybe she could come stay with you for a few days—”

“God, Ochako, no, please don’t tell my mother about this,” Izuku begs. “I don’t want her to know, she already hates that I chose to move out to the city, she thinks I’m gonna die here living all by myself.”

“You’re her son, Deku.”

“Yeah, a son that gave her a stress ulcer. Twice.” Izuku clasps his hands in front of him, pleading. “Please, I love her, but I don’t want her to know about this. She already worries about me too much.”

Ochako’s nose wrinkles in irritation, but Izuku’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve from when they dated years ago, knows if he keeps his eyes wide and sticks his bottom lip out just a little, she’ll eventually cave. “Oh, fine,” she grumbles after a minute. “I won’t tell her. But that still doesn’t solve the problem of you being alone after a huge panic attack.”

“I’m not totally alone,” Izuku says. “Tsuyu from downstairs has been stopping in to check up on me, and Onigiri’s there.”

“Your cat doesn’t count as a person, and Tsuyu’s great but she can’t be there all the time,” Ochako counters, sighing heavily. “Maybe… Maybe I could find a way to take a few days off—”

“Oh my God, you don’t have to do that!” Izuku says. “Your job is way more important than I am, please don’t take time off just to—”

“My job is not more important than my best friend,” Ochako snaps, and Izuku’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. “And before you try and tell me that you’re fine again, I would like to remind you that historically, your judgement of ‘fine’ has been terrible. I don’t want to hear ‘I’m fine’ a hundred times and then find you later that you were lying!”

“… Okay, that’s totally fair,” Izuku mutters. “But this time I mean it, I promise that I’ll be fine.”

“Really,” Ochako says, eyeing him in clear disbelief. “How do you know.”

Izuku sighs. “Because I have… I have someone staying with me right now. That’s been helping out,” he mumbles, half hoping she won’t hear.

No such luck. Ochako stares at him, slack-jawed. “You have—what? Who? Deku, I swear, if you started dating someone and didn’t tell me I will—”

“I’m not dating anyone!” Izuku insists. Upon returning to work he’d spent nearly an hour trying to convince Shinsou that the man he’d spoken to on Izuku’s phone really wasn’t his boyfriend, and he’s still not sure Shinsou believes him; he really doesn’t want to have the same conversation with Ochako. “He’s just a guest staying through the Airbnb rental I have, I swear that’s it.”

“Through your… Wait.” Ochako squints at him. “Is this the same guest you told Tenya about? He’s still staying with you?” Izuku nods. “Why?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know.” He’d been utterly floored to find a new booking request in his inbox only a few days ago, extending Shouto’s stay through the whole of November, without so much as a word from the man himself. “He just really seems to like my place.”

“Oh.” Ochako blinks at him. “Was he there during the panic attack?” Another nod. “And he didn’t… freak out?”

“N—no. He didn’t.” A flush blooms lightly over Izuku’s freckled cheeks. “I mean, he was really confused at first but I… I, um. I told him. About… about the accident. So he could understand.”

There’s a pause, and then Ochako lets out a high pitched squawk, clapping her hands over her mouth and staring at him with brown eyes blown wide. “Please don’t do that,” Izuku says, burying his face in the crook of an elbow.

“But this is good!” Ochako protests, practically bouncing in her seat. “This is really, really good, Deku! You don’t ever talk about your accident with… Well, anyone. How much did you tell him?”

“Ev… Everything. Well, everything I could,” Izuku admits, sinking down into his seat when Ochako lets out another thrilled noise. “Ochako, people are staring.”

“Oh, whatever,” Ochako huffs. “They can stare all they want. I’m allowed to be happy that you’re making progress.” Izuku tries to glare at her, but it’s extraordinarily difficult to be mad when she’s beaming at him, face glowing positively pink. Instead, he finds his mouth curving into an answering smile.

All things considered, it’s really not as horrible a conversation as Izuku thought it would be, and he’s disappointed that the time constraint of a lunch hour means Ochako leaving before they can really settle down and just talk like they did when they were teenagers, for hours and hours and hours on end. Izuku misses that, and from the very long, very tight hug she gives him when they say goodbye, he thinks Ochako probably does too.

“You’re sure this Airbnb guy is enough help for you?” she mumbles into his shoulders, squeezing until his his lungs ache.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, well. That makes me feel a little better. Guess I can stop pestering you about it.” She pulls back, smiling broadly at him. “Hey, you wanna come over for Thanksgiving this year? Nothing big, just the three of us. Like old times.”

Izuku grins back. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds awesome.”

“Great!” She gives him one final squeeze before pulling away, still beaming. “And hey—tell your guest thanks for helping out from me, okay? He seems like a really nice guy.”

In truth, ‘helping out’ isn’t really giving justice to everything Shouto has done for Izuku over the past several days, and all despite the fact that the atmosphere inside the apartment has been undeniably stilted, conversation and interactions between them awkward and fumbling as they attempt to navigate the newly blurred boundaries of their odd relationship. As many times as Izuku’s tried to insist he truly doesn’t mind Shouto singing and playing, Shouto’s clearly been hesitant to resume either. He hasn’t touched the piano in days, at least not while Izuku’s home, and the closest he’s gotten to singing is humming along to whatever music he listens to through his rose gold Beats.

Instead, Shouto’s been sinking most of his energy into keeping Izuku stable and balanced in the wake of his panic attack. He’d insisted on taking over all meal duties the day Izuku went back to work, pointing out when Izuku tried to protest that his hands still hadn’t fully recovered from their tremors. “One slip and you could seriously hurt yourself,” he said, frowning sternly. “It’ll be safer if I cook until you can get your shaking back under control.”

Izuku couldn’t argue, so he’d let Shouto take over; and even though his tremors subsided to manageable levels within a day or so, he hasn’t exactly been itching to get back into the kitchen. Izuku cooks well enough, but there’s a difference between cooking to feed oneself and cooking like Shouto does, with genuine enjoyment and perhaps even a dash of enthusiasm, not just making food but crafting meals, coaxing simple things like rice and chicken and miso into a myriad of delicious concoctions. The one caveat is he doesn’t seem to know how to cook anything that isn’t Japanese (Izuku suggested spaghetti one night and received nothing but a blank stare in return), but Izuku doesn’t really mind. Shouto’s cooking reminds him of his mother’s, carries him back to many happy nights spent around a cozy kitchen table, talking and laughing and listening to music, his own personal favorites and the old records his mother brought with her from Japan. It brings a warmth to his belly that spreads to the tips of his fingers and toes, greenery blooming in the sunlight.

There’s other gestures too, small but no less meaningful. Shouto took over some of Izuku’s normal chores like laundry and dishes so Izuku could focus more on recuperating, giving him time to do things like stretches for his hands, or trips to the gym to work out his excess of nervous energy. Shouto’s even gone so far as to accompany Izuku on a few of his runs, something Izuku protested as wholly unnecessary until Shouto pointed out, “What if you collapse again while you’re out running? If it’s anything like before you won’t be able to handle your phone and you’ll have no way of contacting anybody. It’s safer if I come with you.”

Izuku couldn’t dispute his logic, nor could he deny his curiosity at seeing Shouto outside the confines of the apartment he so rarely leaves, so he agreed. They don’t talk much while they run, still tiptoeing around conversation, but the mere presence of another person offers more comfort than Izuku thought it would. His normal routes are carefully planned to avoid as much traffic as possible, but Chicago’s depressing lack of large parks means Izuku has no choice but to run along the streets, anxiety spiking in his veins every time his overactive senses perceive the slightest threat. The knowledge that Shouto is by his side helps stem his panic, keeping Izuku calmer than he would be otherwise.

“You know, you’re pretty good at taking care of people,” Izuku finally comments one evening, rinsing rice at the sink while Shouto chops vegetables next to him. They haven’t really talked much since his panic attack, despite everything Shouto’s done for him, and Izuku’s decided he’s tired of the stilted air that’s settled around his home.

Shouto frowns. “Am I?” he asks, slicing neatly through an onion.

“I mean, I think so.” Izuku sets his pot inside the rice cooker. “I know things around here have been kind of, um, weird? But I really appreciate everything you’ve been willing to do for me this past week. It’s been really helpful, having someone else around to sort of, you know. Look out for me. I’ve had um, attacks like that before and usually I’m just a zombie for days afterwards but this time wasn’t bad at all and I think it’s because you were there. So, um. Th-thanks.”

Shouto pauses in his chopping, looking up with a deep furrow nestled in his brow, mismatched eyes staring at Izuku in incomprehension. The urge to apologize bubbles up in the back of Izuku’s throat, but he doesn’t let it escape. Keeping his gaze steady, Izuku stares carefully back at Shouto, open but unyielding, until Shouto turns his gaze back down to the cutting board, head bowing so a sweep of red and white hides his eyes from view.

“My mother used to have episodes sort of like yours,” Shouto says. “They weren’t as strong, but they lasted longer, sometimes for hours at a time. I was only a child, so there wasn’t much I could do except try and make things a little easier for her. But it never seemed like I helped all that much.”

Izuku frowns, biting his lip for a moment before he decides to speak. “I’m sure you did,” he says, choosing his words with care. “Sometimes… Sometimes it’s hard for people to say so, because we don’t like feeling helpless, so we get sort of… Embarrassed, I guess? When we have to rely on other people. But it doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the help, we’re just bad at talking about it. Or at least that’s how it is for me, usually. Maybe your mother was the same way.”

“… Maybe,” Shouto says. He doesn’t sound quite like he agrees, and resumes his chopping without another word. Izuku, acutely aware of the tightrope he’s currently walking, opts not to push any further.

It isn’t until they sit down to eat that Shouto finally speaks again. “You’re pretty good at taking care of people too.”

Izuku blinks. “I… I haven’t taken care of you,” he says, confused.

“Not exactly,” Shouto says, winter grey and summer blue eyes staring at Izuku with characteristic intensity, making something warm and electric spark along his nerves, something oddly familiar, like an unnamed tune he can’t get out of his head. “But you’ve been considerate of my peculiar circ*mstances. And in letting me practice as much as I do. Especially after what you told me about your accident.”

Shouto ducks his head, a soft pink tinting his cheeks, creeping slowly across his nose and the edge of his scar. “I’ve said this before, but I think it’s worth repeating. I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, most of the time. And I’m sure I didn’t give you much reason to want me here after that first month, but you let me stay. So, thank you. Both for your patience and your hospitality.” He pauses, and then adds, in a much softer voice, “And your kindness.”

“… Oh. I mean that’s not… I’m not really… I don’t…” Izuku stammers, barely able to form a cohesive thought. “Thank you—really, thank you—but it’s not… It’s really not anything special, what I’ve done.”

Shouto shrugs. “Maybe not for you,” he says. “But it still means a lot to me. It’s nice to feel like I can trust someone.”

Izuku can’t answer that. He can’t speak at all for fear he might just dissolve into tears on the spot, wet droplets already beading up along his lower eyelid. He lifts his rice bowl in an attempt to cover his face, shoving grains into his mouth while casting a furtive glance at Shouto as he tucks into his own food.

There’s no tension held in his body right now, the lines of his brow mostly smooth, his mouth free of it’s usual faint downward tilt. He doesn’t really look happy, but Shouto does, at the very least, look peaceful. Unburdened. And he thinks Izuku helped with that.

“We should exchange phone numbers,” Izuku says suddenly, dropping his bowl. Happiness runs hot and sharp through his veins, making courage roar up inside his heart.

This time it’s Shouto’s turn to blink. “What for?” he asks.

“For emergencies, just in case,” Izuku answers. “And, you know. Because we’re friends. Right?”

Shouto pauses. Seems to think for a moment. Then smiles, a soft thing that barely tilts the corners of his lips, yet manages to stretch all the way to his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling out his phone. “We are.”

Izuku beams.

“So do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?” Izuku asks Shouto the Wednesday before the holiday in question. Shinsou let him off work early with a half day, so now they’re sharing an afternoon snack of apple tart, Shouto nursing a cup of coffee, Izuku sipping on some tea.

Shouto raises an eyebrow. “I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. And even if I did, you’re the only person I know in this city,” he points out, and Izuku’s ears go pink.

“Right. Of course. Sorry.” Izuku clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, I did get invited over to celebrate with some friends which means I’ll probably be gone most of the day tomorrow. Are you… Is that okay with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Shouto frowns.

“Well, because it’s a holiday, and it… I don’t know, it just sucks to spend holidays alone?”

Shouto shrugs. “I spend a lot of holidays alone,” he says. “I’ll be fine. You should enjoy your time time with your friends.”

“… Okay,” Izuku says, though it’s not, not really. It’s not the first time Shouto’s said something without seeming to realize how sad and lonely it sounds, but every time he does it strikes that chord deep inside Izuku’s chest, makes him want to do… Something. Izuku doesn’t quite know what, but he thinks he’d be willing to try crazy, stupid, impossible things if it meant he could banish the broken aura that still surrounds Shouto, keep it from ever coming back.

“So what about the storm?” Shouto says suddenly, snapping Izuku away from doing something monumentally stupid, like asking Shouto to come to dinner with him.

Izuku blinks. “Storm?”

“There’s supposed to be a winter storm coming through the city starting early tomorrow morning,” Shouto explains, pulling out his phone. “My weather app says it’s going to make travel conditions difficult.”

“Oh.” Izuku rolls his eyes. “Won’t happen. I’ll be fine.”

“But this warning is from the National Weather Service,” Shouto says, frowning. “Surely it’s credible.”

“I mean, we might get like, a sprinkling of snow, but trust me. People predict a lot of winter storms for Chicago and at least half of them never happen. Plus I’ve lived here since I was five and there’s never been a storm on Thanksgiving.” Izuku smiles a little at the way Shouto’s brow furrows, mismatched eyes bright in a way Izuku now understands to mean Shouto’s concerned. “Trust me on this. I promise nothing’s going to happen.”

“You know,” Shouto says the next morning as he peers out the living room window, “I’m not a meteorologist, but—”

“Oh, shut up,” Izuku mutters, glaring at the curtain of fat, heavy snowflakes falling outside. “I swear this is the first snowstorm we’ve ever had on Thanksgiving. It’s an anomaly and shouldn’t be counted.”

Normally snow wouldn’t be much of an issue, Izuku more than familiar with Chicago’s temperamental weather patterns, but the holiday changes things, and Izuku’s dismayed to find out the normal plowing services likely won’t be around until tomorrow. He calls Tenya, and it’s agreed that if the roads aren’t clear by the afternoon, Izuku won’t come over. Everyone’s disappointed, Izuku most of all, but especially in the wake of the recent incident, his friends understand.

Izuku spends most of the morning waiting and hoping for the snow to stop and the roads to clear, and while the storm does slow down, it doesn’t stop entirely. He considers trying to go anyway, even gets as far as walking out his front door, but Izuku doesn’t make it more than five steps before he watches a minivan lose control and start slipping down the street, and he beats a hasty retreat back inside, defeated.

“So, what are you doing for the rest of the day?” Izuku asks Shouto once he returns.

Shouto, currently seated at the kitchen table while he sips on his customary cup of afternoon coffee, shrugs. “The same thing I do every day—practice.”

“Oh come on, it’s a holiday. You should take the rest of day off, do something fun.”

Shouto raises an eyebrow. “Like what? Everything’s closed and it’s still snowing.”

“Hmm. Good point.” Izuku frowns, tapping his chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness. “We could have a snowball fight,” he suggests after a moment, grinning impishly.

Shouto stares back at him, clearly unimpressed. “We’re not children,” he says pointedly.

“You don’t need to be a kid to have a snowball fight,” Izuku argues. “It’s fun for all ages.”

“I’m not participating in a snowball fight.”

“Aw, come on. You don’t want to recapture the nostalgia of your childhood snow days?”

“You can’t have nostalgia for something you never did,” Shouto answers neatly.

Izuku blinks. “Wait—have you never had snow day before?”

“No,” Shouto answers, adding at Izuku’s incredulous stare, “I split my time growing up between Tokyo and Los Angeles. Snow was not a common part of my childhood.”

“Seriously? Well, now you have to come outside and have a snowball fight with me.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Yes, you do,” Izuku insists, reaching out and tugging on Shouto’s sweater sleeve. “Everyone should have a snowball fight at least once in their lives. Come on, it’ll be fun, I promise!”

“You think getting pelting with wads of snow qualifies as ‘fun’.”

“Please? It’s not like you have anything else to do today besides practice more.” Izuku asks, still tugging on Shouto’s sleeve, not missing the way Shouto’s gaze keeps drifting to his hand before darting away. “Just like, twenty minutes.”

Shouto’s brow furrows deeply, but it’s not quite a frown, which gives Izuku hope. “Five,” he counters.

Izuku grins. “Ten.”

Shouto glares at him, but Izuku stares back resolutely, and after a moment, he sighs. “Fine. Ten.”

The space behind the apartment building isn’t really a yard so much as a dirt packed square, but it’s open enough to run around in, fenced off from the outside alleys, and now covered in a thick layer of snow. Two forts already stand in opposite corners of the space, probably built by Tsuyu’s younger siblings earlier in the day. “Do I need to show you how to make a snowball?” Izuku teases.

Shouto just glowers at him. “I’m setting a timer,” he declares, and Izuku, embracing his childishness, blows a raspberry at him.

“Ready?” he calls, crouching behind his fort, which is at least a good foot too low to really provide any cover.

“No,” Shouto calls back.

“Too bad! We’re starting now!” Izuku laughs, chucking his first snowball. It goes wide, smacking into the fence with a solid thud. Izuku reaches down quickly to grab another handful of snow, but falls straight onto his behind when a snowball hits him square in the chest.

“Oof!” Izuku blinks, staring down at the white clump. “How—”

Another snowball flies by, grazing his ear. “Hey!” he yells, and then there’s another, hitting his shoulder. “I thought you said you’d never done this before!” he accuses, trying to duck behind his fort.

“It’s really not a difficult concept to figure out,” Shouto calls back.

“But I was supposed to have a home field advantage!” Izuku whines, chucking a snowball over the top of his fort. It barely glances off Shouto’s arm, while he almost gets hit in the face with the one Shouto just threw. How Shouto’s managing to make them so fast Izuku doesn’t know. What he does know he needs to start retaliating right now, except that’s proving exceptionally difficult when he can barely raise his head up for fear of getting hit.

By the time the ten minutes is up, Izuku’s had his ass thoroughly handed to him. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, his thick green coat caked in snow from all the places Shouto landed blows. “I just got beat by someone who grew up in California.”

“Learn to throw better,” Shouto suggests, stepping out from behind his fort, his navy peacoat only spouting three small white patches from the few times Izuku managed to hit him.

“I can throw just fine!”

“Prove it,” Shouto challenges.

Izuku huffs, reaching down to pick up a handful of snow. He studies his trajectory for a moment before launching the snowball, confident it will hit Shouto somewhere on his chest. Instead, it arcs higher than Izuku intended, and explodes into a powdery dust when it collides with Shouto’s face.

A horrified squeak bursts from Izuku’s throat as Shouto reels back and then doubles over, sputtering. “Oh my God, Shouto, I’m so sorry, that wasn’t where I was aiming for at all!” Izuku says, rushing over to him. “Are you hurt? We should get inside, you’re probably fine but sometimes snowballs to face are really painful, I can get you a hot—”

Izuku yelps, rambling cut short when Shouto shoots up and shoves a handful of snow right into his face. He stumbles back, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. Shouto begins to move away, but as he turns, Izuku catches it out of the corner of his eye; a sharp upward tilt of Shouto’s mouth, quickly covered by the gloved hand he claps over it.

Two distinct options pop into Izuku’s head in that moment. Option one: head back inside, accept that he got Shouto to have ten minutes of fun, leave him be.

Or, option two—

“What the hell,” Shouto yells, jerking forward in a vain attempt to escape from the snow Izuku just shoved down the back of his coat.

“Snow war!” Izuku declares loudly, laughing as he dodges Shouto’s swipe. He grabs another handful and smashes it on top of Shouto’s woolen beanie before turning around to run, only making it a few steps before a snowball hits him in the back of his neck. Tumbling forward, Izuku’s unable to regain his footing before something grabs the bottom of his coat, and he knows what’s coming but there’s no time to brace. A high-pitched squeal escapes against his will as a clump of snow gets shoved against his lower back.

Izuku jerks up, grabbing some snow on the way and throwing it blindly as he whips around. It hits the left half of Shouto’s face, and Shouto lets out a garbled yell before he lunges, Izuku shrieking as his legs give out and his back hits the ground. Snow presses into his skin from where his coat is still hiked up and Izuku arches violently to get away from the cold, bucking Shouto off. Shouto rolls, moving to all fours so he can push himself up but Izuku moves faster, wrapping an arm around Shouto’s back and using all his leverage to bring them both down, faces buried in the snow.

They surge up at the same time, gasping. “Oh God, that was too much,” Izuku sputters, wiping frantically at his face, skin stinging from the cold. He looks at Shouto, mouth open to ask if he’s alright, but the words die in his throat and all he manages is a soft wheeze because—

Because Shouto’s smiling.

Shouto’s smiling, really smiling, and it’s beautiful and brilliant and blinding. There’s still snow on his face, clinging to the edges of his scar and the tips of his eyelashes, blending seamlessly with the white and contrasting sharply with the red. Winter storm grey and summer sky blue eyes crinkle at the corners, shining in a way Izuku’s never seen before, bright with mirth. An odd noise bubbles up from Shouto’s throat, light and breathy like laughter.

Dimly, Izuku’s aware he needs to stop staring, but it’s impossible to look away. Blood rushes heavy and loud in his hears; that nervous, electric feeling, the song he can’t get out of his head, shifts, becomes a building drumbeat to match the bassline of his breaths and the vibrant strum of his heartstrings. Together they begin to play a melody inside his chest, the rhythm spreading until it reaches the deepest parts of him, sinks down into the lumen of his veins, the fibers of his muscles, the marrow of his bones, until it reaches the very core of his being, pounding and electric and alive.

Oh.

They catch Tsuyu in the back hallway on their way inside.「You two look like you had fun,」she says with a smile.

「Did we have fun?」Izuku asks, nudging Shouto with his elbow. Some of the snow caked onto his coat slides off, hitting the floor with a soft thump.

Shouto huffs.「It wasn’t terrible,」he concedes, and a broad grin breaks out over Izuku’s face.

「That means yes,」he teases, laughing when Shouto attempts to hide his face inside his scarf only to get a mouthful of snow still clinging to the fabric.「Anyway, we’d better go upstairs and change before this all starts to melt and we get hypothermia.」

「You should come down to the restaurant when you’re done,」Tsuyu suggests.「We made a special turkey ramen for Thanksgiving.」

「Oh. That sounds great, Tsuyu, but…」Izuku trails off, grin slipping from his face. He’d had to cover the full cost of his emergency appointment with Dr. Aizawa by himself, and while he’d actually been able to pay in full this time, it chewed up a huge chunk of his budget for November. He’d have been back to living on rice and miso soup if not for the fact that since he started cooking for both of them, Shouto buys most of the household groceries now.

「We should go,」Shouto says, and Izuku whips his head so fast he hears something in his neck crack.

「You… You want to go?」Izuku asks, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice, because Shouto never wants to go anywhere. The only time he leaves the apartment is to run the occasional errand; every single time Izuku’s suggested he go somewhere or do something, either alone or together, Shouto’s always turned him down flat. Even when Shouto went with him on his runs he never wanted to do anything afterwards, always seemed keen to return to the apartment as quickly as possible.

With a shrug, Shouto says,「I’m hungry, and ramen sounds really good right now,」like it’s that simple.「Besides with the snowstorm on top of the holiday it’s probably not very busy, right?」

Shouto’s gaze shifts to Tsuyu, not him. Tsuyu smiles at Shouto with a rather knowing look, and a prickle runs up the back of Izuku’s neck, like he’s just missed something. 「There’s a family of three that should be finishing up soon and one old guy that’s just been reading papers for the past two hours. And honestly if we don’t have anyone come in within the next hour, we’ll probably just close early anyway.」

「What do you say?」Shouto asks, turning back to Izuku.「My treat.」

And, as has become quite normal with Shouto, Izuku can’t really argue.

They head upstairs just long enough to change into some warmer clothes, Izuku in layers of flannel and a hoodie, Shouto in a bulky turtleneck sweater that looks stupidly good on him and another beanie, all of his hair tucked carefully underneath like it is every time he goes out. Izuku’s usually chalked this habit up to Shouto not wanting to deal with people gawking at the distinctive two-toned color; but the prickle on his neck hasn’t fully faded, and while Izuku tries not to think too hard about it, he can’t help but be reminded of how Mr. Yagi has always worn his hair down for as long as Izuku’s known him. Curiosity sparks unbidden in the back of his mind and Izuku has to shove it aside, remind himself that Shouto’s his friend but he’s also still Izuku’s guest, and in any case, Shouto hates personal questions.

The family of three has actually left by the time they make it down to the restaurant, leaving only themselves and the old man still reading his papers. Tsuyu seats them in a secluded corner booth, brings out a pot of green tea for Izuku, one of hot water for Shouto. “You’d really rather drink just plain hot water over tea?” Izuku can’t help but ask.

“I told you, I hate tea.”

“Okay, but like. Who hates tea?”

“I do, obviously.” At Izuku’s curious squint, Shouto continues, “My family’s very traditional, and they used to force me to drink proper tea in full ceremony all the time growing up. I was supposed to learn how to appreciate the subtlety and nuance of flavor and the artistry of the ceremony.” He snorts. “Instead I just wound up hating it.”

“But there’s so many different kinds of tea,” Izuku argues. “You can’t possibly hate all tea.”

“I can and I do.”

They go back and forth over tea until Tsuyu comes back with two bowls of ramen, the heavy scent of rich broth wafting pleasantly over the table. 「Are these fried brussels sprout leaves?” Izuku asks, peering eagerly at his bowl. Steam rises up, warm against his freckled cheeks.

「Dadwas feeling creative,」Tsuyu says with a smile. "Happy Thanksgiving guys.”

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Izuku chirps.

「Thank you, Asui,」Shouto says, bowing his head slightly. Tsuyu rolls her eyes,smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

「Don’t be so formal. Tsuyu is fine,」she chides. 「Let me know if you guys need anything else, okay? I’m going to start cleaning up.」

For the next few minutes, the only sounds at the table are the loud slurping of noodles and broth. Izuku lifts the bowl to his mouth so he can finish off the very last dregs, sighing happily as the ceramic warms his fingers, and the meal his belly. Something pleasant curls its way lazily throughout his body, bolstered by good food, excellent company, and the song still playing inside his heart. He finds himself watching Shouto as he too sips down the rest of his broth, content for once not to break the quiet. He smiles goofily at Shouto when he lowers his bowl, giddy when Shouto gives him a small smile in return.

“Midoriya,” he says, rather suddenly, “Can I ask you something?”

Curiosity sparks again in the back of Izuku’s mind; Shouto almost never asks him questions. “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

The smile slips from Shouto’s face. He looks down at his bowl, mouth twisting into an uncertain line. “I know it’s not really my business,” he says after a moment, “but when you told me about your accident, you never said what happened to the person who hit you. I don’t want to pry, but… I’ll admit I am a little curious.”

Izuku’s entire body goes rigid, hands clutching tightly at his own bowl as a tremor runs through them. The pleasant warmth sitting in his stomach ignites, gasoline fire burning in his veins. He has to force himself to breathe, one full inhale, one full exhale. “I’m… I’m not actually allowed to talk about it,” he answers, voice strained tightly, a thread just about to snap.

“Not allowed?” Shouto frowns. “What do you mean?”

Another tremor runs through his hands, panic skittering up his spine. Molten anger bubbles up from the pit of his belly, barely cooled even after all this time, and Izuku has to breathe again, tell himself Shouto doesn’t know—couldn’t know.

Because this part—this part is what stings the most, what keeps the pain fresh and raw and bleeding. This is the part that still haunts Izuku’s nightmares, even more than the crash itself. He can’t even think about it without wanting to break down in tears or scream in rage. There’s already a prickle building underneath his eyes, bile rising in the back of his throat.

He doesn’t need to answer Shouto. Technically he shouldn’t answer Shouto, but it’s been four goddamn years since he was forced into silence, and Izuku’s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

“When the accident happened, it was because I took a turn at a red light,” Izuku explains, each word sitting heavy on his tongue. “Technically, that means I should have yielded to any oncoming traffic. So even though the other car was going almost double the speed limit, that gave the case some gray area. And if, say, you were a rich asshole who could afford some really good lawyers, you might be able to take that gray area and turn what could have been a pretty cut-and-dry case into a legal nightmare.”

Tremors have started in his hands again; Izuku hides them in his lap, but he sees Shouto’s gaze follow the movement, concern rising rapidly in his expression. Izuku wants more than anything to keep going, to spill his guts and bear his pain for the entire world to see, and he very nearly does. It’s Shouto asking, and Shouto trusts him, would almost certainly understand, and Izuku’s close, he’s so close to opening his mouth and telling him everything, because really, what are the odds of it getting back to that bastard anyway?

And then a little voice in the back of his head quietly reminds him that Shouto’s a musician, and that the music industry is terrifyingly large but also frighteningly small. The people at the top hold enough power to destroy entire careers with a simple decision, and if Izuku’s not careful, Shouto might get dragged down into his quagmire. And there’s simply no excuse for jeopardizing him, no matter how badly Izuku wants someone else to know the truth of what happened to him.

“Midoriya?” Shouto says, and Izuku snaps out of his reverie.

“Sorry, sorry, um. Anyway. Because the legal fight happened right after the accident, I was still trying to recover from all my injuries. But after a while, I realized I couldn’t do both. Rehab wasn’t going great, bills were piling up, and the stress, it was just… It was too much.” Izuku grimaces at the memory, of days when darkness was omnipresent, had sunk its tendrils deep into his soul and very nearly dragged him into the abyss. “It came down to two choices: I could fight the legal battle, or I could focus on my recovery. So I chose my recovery. The case was dropped, but because I was the one who backed out first, I didn’t get any kind of settlement. That’s, uh. Why I rent out the spare bedroom, actually. It helps me keep up on debt payments to the hospital.”

Heat floods his cheeks at that confession, Izuku not used to talking about his financial woes, but Shouto doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have noticed at all; he’s looking at Izuku with a very curious expression, caught somewhere between confusion and contemplation, almost as though he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “So, this other person… They, what, countersued?” he asks.

Izuku shakes his head. “I can’t… I can’t talk about it,” he answers miserably. Anger still boils in his depths of his stomach but it’s being rapidly overtaken by despair and frustration at how little Izuku could do to fight back. “An agreement was made, and that was part of it. Otherwise I’d… Well, let’s just say the nightmare wouldn’t have stopped.”

Something wet trickles down his cheek; Izuku hastily rubs it away, willing himself not to start crying in the middle of the restaurant. Shouto’s still wearing his strange expression, but when Izuku dares to peek up at him, he finds something oddly empathetic there as well. “They sound like a soulless bastard,” he says, utterly deadpan as he moves to refill his teacup, and despite himself, Izuku snorts.

“Yeah, that’s uh. That’s one way of putting it.” Izuku sighs, slumping a little in his seat. “Bastard, asshole, absolute f*cking dickwad. He was—God, do you know what the worst part was? He didn’t even think he’d done anything wrong. He honestly thought it was my fault for taking a right turn even though he was the one who—He cared more about wrecking his godawful orange Rolls Royce than he did about crashing into me, he was so—” Izuku stops, cheeks burning as he realizes he’s just said too much. “S—sorry, I shouldn’t have… I wasn’t supposed to say that, I—Oh my God, Shouto, your hand! ”

Izuku jumps up, legs hitting awkwardly against the booth as he leans over the table, wrenching the ceramic teapot away from where it’s held frozen in Shouto’s grip. It stops the flow of still steaming water from the spout, but Shouto’s left hand remains bright red from where his teacup overflowed, his sweater sleeve soaked from the puddle of liquid on the table. He doesn’t move at all when Izuku takes the teapot, staring straight ahead, fingertips turning white from how hard he’s still gripping his teacup.

“What happened?” Izuku cries. He reaches over to grab Shouto’s hand, but Shouto pulls back with a violent jerk, bringing it up to cover the left side of his face. He’s staring at Izuku now, winter grey eye wide. There’s a torrent of emotions swimming across his features, almost like the first time Izuku caught him singing, and the bottom drops out of Izuku’s stomach when he looks at Shouto’s face and sees fear.

Shouto’s looking at Izuku like he’s afraid of him, and Izuku thinks his heart might shatter.

“Shouto?” he says, uncertain. Terrified.

Heswallows, so thickly Izuku can follow the bob of his throat. “Midoriya,” he answers, andShouto sounds so quiet, so unlike himself. “Midoriya, I—”

“Hey, what’s going—Oh my God, your hand!” Both heads turn towards Tsuyu, now standing at the edge of the booth, wide eyed with concern. 「What happened?」

「He spilled hot water on it,」Izuku answers.「Could we get—」

「I’ll get some ice,」Tsuyu cuts him off. 「Hold just a second, okay?」

Izuku only sees her leave from the corner of his eye, unable to look away from Shouto as his grip slowly tightens over his face, fingertips digging into the edges of his scar. A grimace settles over his features, brow creased, eyes still wide, mouth twisting back and forth, a tumultuous wave on the sea. “Shouto?” Izuku asks again. “What happened? Are you… Are you alright?”

Winter grey looks up, catching Izuku’s gaze for only a second before flickering away. “I… I’m fine,” he mumbles, and doesn’t sound it at all.

The song inside Izuku’s heart drops sharply, a single wavering note echoing painfully inside his chest because he knows that tone. It’s the same one Izuku uses, when everything’s falling apart and darkness threatens to drag him down into the depths, but he still puts on a smile and lies through his teeth because even though he knows he’s not fooling anyone, he thinks that maybe if he repeats it enough, he can at least fool himself.

“Shouto—” Izuku starts to say, but Shouto just shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice so soft Izuku just barely catches it, and that…

Izuku doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

Chapter 8: And Then It Came (A Melody)

Chapter Text

Shouto retreats to his room as soon as they return to the apartment, dismissing all of Izuku’s concerns with the same sort of brusqueness he had when he first arrived in August, leaving Izuku to fight a losing battle with his tears as he heads off to bed. He doesn’t understand what happened at the restaurant, he doesn’t understand why Shouto won’t talk to him about it, he doesn’t understand what he did wrong, if he did anything wrong. Izuku doesn’t think he did, but he can’t really tell because Shouto’s encased himself back inside his icy shell, utterly unreadable.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. The few times Izuku manages to close his eyes he’s wrenched right back out by nightmares of twisted metal wrecks, sterile white rooms, and, towering over everything, a shadowed face and burning, pitiless gaze. When he wakes for the fifth time in as many hours, Izuku gives up sleeping entirely. Throwing on his warmest set of workout clothes, he trudges out into the snowy dawnlit morning, running through the empty streets of Lakeview until the ache in his muscles overpowers the ache in his chest.

Onigiri’s scratching at Shouto’s door when Izuku returns; she meows reproachfully when Izuku scoops her up and carries her away to the kitchen. “Leave him alone, silly bean,” he chides, but when he sets her down, she goes right back, refusing to budge until Izuku bribes her away with a can of tuna. He putters around the kitchen, making breakfast, brewing tea, eating his meal slowly, bite by bite, in the hopes that Shouto will come out and join him.

But Shouto still hasn’t emerged from his room by the time Izuku’s setting his bowl in the dish drainer, and even though Izuku knows he should just leave Shouto be, he finds himself drawn to the closed bedroom door, moth to a flame. “Shouto?” he says, knuckles rapping against the wood. “Hey, are you up?”

No answer.

“Well, um, I’ve got the day off because the office is closed for the weekend so, uh. I’ll be around. If you… If you need anything,” Izuku continues. He waits a few moments, but no sound comes from the bedroom. Maybe Shouto’s still asleep, Izuku reasons with himself as he steps away. Maybe he’s not avoiding Izuku at all, and if Izuku is patient, Shouto will eventually come out and they can talk. Maybe there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for Shouto’s behavior, and Izuku’s worried for nothing.

So Izuku waits. He passes the time in the living room, doing his daily stretches, then some basic strength training, then cleaning until the entire space is spotless. Shouto doesn’t come out. Izuku makes lunch, tries and fails to move Onigiri away from Shouto’s door before he knocks and asks if Shouto wants to join him, or else if he’s not feeling well, Izuku can bring him something. Shouto still doesn’t come out. When he’s done washing his lunch dishes, Izuku grabs his tablet and parks himself on the couch for most of the afternoon, working his way through several episodes of Parts Unknown, stopping only when the last rays of sunlight have faded behind the distant skyline. Shouto still doesn’t come out. Dinner is made, and Izuku finds himself stepping around Onigiri again as he knocks on Shouto’s door for a third time. When Shouto still doesn’t come out, Izuku finds himself torn between wanting to break down in tears or scream his lungs raw.

“Shouto,” he says to the door, voice quiet, wavering. His hand grips the doorknob so tightly his knuckles go white, old scar tissue pulled taut over bone. “Look, I don’t… I don’t know what happened last night, but… You know I’m here if you want to talk, right? I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but… I am here.”

He presses his ear to the door, hoping for something—anything—to indicate Shouto’s presence, but the room remains utterly silent and after a minute, Izuku gives up. “I made dinner, if you want some,” he says miserably before stepping away, scrubbing furiously at the salty droplets beginning to trail down freckled cheeks, Onigiri’s sad meows echoing throughout the quiet apartment.

After dinner Izuku heads straight to bed. Exhaustion and misery lead him quickly into sleep, but once again he’s plagued by nightmares. The dim light of early morning has begun filtering through his curtains by the time Izuku manages to free himself from their hold, more tired now than when he went to bed. Putting on his slippers, he shuffles drowsily into the kitchen, and stops short.

Shouto’s sitting at the table; Onigiri weaves through his legs in an ignored bid for attention. He looks up when Izuku enters the room, blinking blearily at him. Tension rises in his shoulders, but it’s slow and heavy, bogged down by a fatigue that seems to match Izuku’s perfectly. Izuku just stares dumbly at him for a moment before he remembers how to speak.

“How’s your hand?” he asks.

Part of him doesn’t even expect Shouto to answer, so it’s a mild surprise when Shouto looks down at his neatly bandaged left hand, expression indiscernible as he answers, “It’s fine.”

“Oh. That’s… That’s good.” Izuku fidgets, trying to think of ways to talk without prying too much. “I hope… I hope it wasn’t injured too badly?”

The fingers of Shouto’s left hand twitch, his arm rising until the tips rest against the edge of his scar. “I’ve had worse,” he says simply, which does nothing to assuage Izuku’s concern. He chews on his lip, searching for something to say, but comes up short. His normal inane prattle won’t do, and Shouto’s made it pretty clear he has no interest in talking about what happened. Eventually, Izuku opts not to say anything at all, only lets out a heavy sigh and moves to get Onigiri her breakfast.

“Midoriya.”

Hepauses, turning his head to look at the table. Shouto’s left hand still rests on his face, but the fingers of his right are wrapped so tightly around his mug that the knuckles have turned white, like pieces of bone. There’s a strange furrow to his brow, an uncertain twist to his mouth, an odd gleam to his mismatched eyes. “Midoriya,” he repeats, and there’s a waver in his voice Izuku’s never heard before. “You don’t know who I am. Do you.”

Izuku blinks.

Oh.

Opens his mouth. Closes it.

Oh.

Because here’s the thing, about that.

Izuku’s not stupid. And he’s particularly not stupid when it comes to observation, at picking up on all the little details hidden inside a large picture and fitting them together until an image emerges from the fog. It’s part of what made him such a good musician; there’s nuance to music, subtleties that make for a greater whole, and Izuku excelled at creating all the bits and pieces that took a song from simply being played to becoming more, music with a bassline heartbeat and vocal breaths, chords firing like neurons until it wasn’t just a song, but something palpable, something alive. Izuku observes, and he learns. It’s what he’s good at.

So technically, no; Izuku doesn’t know who Shouto is. But he’s seen enough of the details to understand there’s more to Shouto’s story than just a pianist doing a long term stay in Chicago. There’s the big pieces; his secondhand booking via Momo, the fact that he still hasn’t given Izuku a last name, how rarely he leaves the apartment, and his tendency to cover up as much as possible when he does. It’s reminded Izuku of Mr. Yagi’s old behaviors since the very beginning, and Izuku doesn’t think that’s just a coincidence.

But if Izuku looks closely (and he always does), it’s there in the details too. It’s how Shouto doesn’t like personal questions, how little he shares about his life beyond what relates back to his music. How poorly he reacted when Izuku asked him if he was a concert pianist, and how insistent he was that it didn’t matter, that Izuku didn’t need to know. It’s the way he looked when Izuku caught him singing the first time, wide eyed and terrified, a secret never meant to see the light of day. And in how astonished he seemed when all Izuku did was babble out his praises, because that clearly hadn’t been the response Shouto was expecting.

It’s there when he sings; in how nervous and wary Shouto was at the beginning, in the odd songs he’d sometimes pick while watching Izuku, just waiting for him to react. And in how much he opened up when it became clear Izuku didn’t recognize anything, a spark catching and building to a roaring flame.

“I know who you are,” Izuku says, and Shouto’s head jerks up, staring at him.

“You… do?” he asks, and looks just a little terrified.

“Yes,” Izuku answers, and take one full inhale. One full exhale.

Here’s the other thing.

Izuku could have gone looking for answers a long time ago. He might not have Shouto’s last name, but he doubts there’s more than one Shouto in the world with two-toned hair and mismatched eyes, and Google image search is a thing that exists. But Izuku also understands how absolutely invaluable privacy can be to someone who needs it. That was a lesson he learned years ago with Mr. Yagi, hiding away in the quiet suburbs of Chicago, desperate that the public not find him. He kept his identity well concealed for ages, and only an exceptionally observant person might have been able to connect the gaunt, sickly music teacher fighting stomach cancer with the beloved idol, the cultural icon, the musical legend that was All Might.

Izuku’s kept that secret for well over fifteen years now, never spoken a word of it to anyone who didn’t already know. He’ll take it to his grave if that’s what Mr. Yagi wants, because that’s what it means, to put your trust in someone.

Shouto trusts him. The least Izuku can do for him is keep whatever secrets he holds.

“You’re Shouto,” Izuku says, putting on what he hopes is a convincing smile. “You’re the guy that’s been staying in my spare bedroom since August, and honestly I’m not really sure why, because there’s a lot better places to stay, but you seem to like it and you pay your booking dues so I don’t think it really matters. You like my cat, and you feed her from the table when you think I’m not looking, which is annoying but also kind of adorable. You keep my fridge stocked, and you cook me food that makes me feel like I’m back home with my mom. You help me with chores like the laundry, and you’ve never once commented on my frankly embarrassing collection of patterned boxers. You’re a brilliant pianist and an incredible singer and you… You brought music back into my life, and maybe I didn’t want you to at first, but… But I’m really glad that you did.” He tilts his head, fixing Shouto with a level gaze, kind but unwavering. “Do I need to know more than that?”

A war of emotions flashes over Shouto’s face, the lines around his eyes and mouth twisting and turning this way and that, waves upon a tumultuous sea. No one thing settles for more than a few seconds at a time, and after what seems like an eon, Shouto lets out an aggravated sigh, gaze dropping to the table, hands clamped tightly around his mug. “I don’t understand you,” he says, voice tight, a single thread pulled taut and waiting to snap.

Izuku frowns, leaning back against the counters. “What don’t you understand?”

“Just… you.” Another sigh, and this time Shouto brings his hands up, dragging them across his face. “You don’t know anything about me but you still…” His brow furrows and his jaw tightens, eyes gleaming bright and sharp as he opens and closes his mouth, but whatever words Shouto wants don’t come. A noise escapes him instead, harsh and raw, the wrong pitch hit in the middle of a song. “Why are you helping me?”

He says this with such vehemence that Izuku almost flinches, words flung like stones against his skin, like Shouto means them as an attack. Maybe he does. Izuku’s not sure what Shouto wants from him right now; all he can do is be truthful. “I don’t… I don’t know if I have a reason,” Izuku says honestly. “But when you first came here you just… You seemed sad. And I guess I thought… Maybe I could help with that.”

“And that’s it?” Shouto demands. “You just… wanted to help?”

“I’m good at helping,” Izuku answers, not sure what else to say.

Something new flickers over Shouto’s face, cutting neatly through the aggravation until all that remains is the ever present furrow of his brow. “Is it really that simple to you?” he asks, and the sheer disbelief in his voice has a familiar prickle building under Izuku’s eyes.

“Yes.” Izuku bites his lip, chewing on it for a moment before asking, “Is it really that strange to you?”

The lines of Shouto’s face twist sharply, and the expression that settles there is something hopelessly lost, utterly heartbreaking. “Yes,” he breathes, whisper soft, but his answers rings through the air like a chord played inside an empty concert hall.

A hundred thousand questions flare up in the back of Izuku’s mind, and he might not need to know more than what Shouto has given him but he wants to, wants to know who hurt him, when it all started, what exactly happened in Shouto’s life that makes kindness such a foreign concept. Curiosity burns like bushfire at the back of his throat, strong enough that Izuku can’t quite push it aside. “Look, Shouto…” he starts, slow, cautious. “You said before that you trust me, right?”

Shouto flinches, the words a hard hitting blow against his icy defenses, but he does nod, and Izuku lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Then trust me when I say I know that sometimes people keep secrets for good reasons. And maybe I don’t know everything about you, but I know enough. I meant all those things I said before, about who you are. And that’s all I really need. I know you and I like you and we’re friends, I think, and that’s all there is to it. And you know, if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask. I just… I want you to be happy.”

This last part escapes before Izuku can think better of it, lights his face on fire, splotchy red bursting bright over freckled cheeks. Shouto stares at him, wide eyed in that strange awe and wonderment expression, tinged with frustration at the edges but laced with something else to, something Izuku can’t quite name but that makes the song inside his heart start up again, the first quiet notes to roaring symphony.

“I’m not used to people wanting me to be happy,” Shouto whispers. There’s no remorse there, no anger or regret; just a simple statement of fact, and Izuku’s heart bleeds, sharp and aching.

“Well, I do,” Izuku says, unwavering. “So I guess you’re just gonna have to get used to it.”

A noise bubbles up from Shouto’s throat; a strange, reedy thing caught somewhere between a laugh and sob. He brings his hands up to cover his face, but Izuku doesn’t miss the bright sheen over winter grey and summer blue. “You are unbelievable,” he mutters into his fingers, and despite himself, Izuku smiles.

“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”

They don’t really talk for the rest of the weekend. Shouto doesn’t seem particularly upset anymore, but then again, he doesn’t seem particularly anything else either. He’s distant, chilly, polite if spoken to but never initiating conversation, and never sticking around for long. Izuku’s heart crumples slowly in his chest as any approach he makes is gently rebuffed, a tin can crushed under a sturdy fist. By the time he leaves for work on Monday morning, the apartment still depressingly devoid of any music, Izuku’s nearly as miserable as he was that first month they spent together.

“Someone had a sh*tty holiday,” Shinsou remarks when he enters the office and finds Izuku already hunched over at his desk, morosely typing out an email.

“The holiday was fine,” Izuku mumbles. “It was the weekend that stunk.”

“Why? Get into a fight with your boyfriend?”

“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Fine. Get into a fight with your ‘house guest’?” Shinsou corrects, exaggerated air quotes conveying the depth of his skepticism. Izuku can’t muster up the energy to correct him.

“Maybe?” At Shinsou’s raised eyebrow, Izuku heaves a deep sigh and slumps over onto his desk. “I don’t know, something happened and now he’s upset—or at least I think he is, I can’t tell. And I tried to make it better but I don’t know if it worked and whenever I try to talk to him he just pushes me away. I don’t know what to do.”

“So it’s the same crap he pulled when he first started staying with you?” Shinsou asks, leaning back in his chair to give Izuku a critical look.

“No. I mean, yes, kind of, but… This is different.”

“Different how?”

“I… I don’t know. It just is.”

Shinsou, who himself has an emotional spectrum limited mostly to sarcasm and fatigue, can’t offer much more advice than he has before, so the conversation drops, leaving Izuku to stew in his thoughts for most of the morning. It’s a painfully slow day, most people lazing about without doing much real work, still trying to recover from their hectic weekends. Izuku finds himself spiraling rapidly down a hole of useless Buzzfeed quizzes (his personality apparently matches the Mr. Krabs meme, and if he were a pizza topping, he’d be veggie supreme), and he’s seriously considering raiding the janitor’s closet for supplies to deep clean the office when his phone buzzes.

He’s expecting a text from Ochako or Tenya, maybe his mom to chide him for not calling her over the weekend, but then he reads the name attached to the message, and it takes pretty much all the willpower Izuku’s capable of mustering to keep himself from bursting into tears.

Shouto

What are your favorite songs?

[Sent 11:13]

It’s the first thing Shouto’s texted him since they exchanged numbers a couple weeks ago, and all Izuku can do it stare at it. The question isn’t exceptionally difficult to answer; Izuku might not have listened to music properly in ages, but his old favorites will always be permanently branded into his brain. But it does invite a whole slew of answering queries into Izuku’s overactive mind—what for, why do you want to know, are you planning something, does this mean you’re not upset anymore? A full ten minutes passes before Izuku can muster up the courage and calm to answer Shouto in a coherent fashion.

Me

uh i mean i have a lot?

[Sent 11:23]

why?

[Sent 11:23]

Shouto doesn’t respond. Izuku waits a good hour for a reply that never comes, and while he’s tempted to just let the message sit unanswered, its presence sits heavy at the back of his mind, an anchor weighing him down, dragging him into the sea. By the time he takes his lunch, the suspense has sunk so deep Izuku can almost taste it rising up in the back of his throat, and he finds himself typing out an answer just to ease the tension in his shoulders. The choices include some obvious answers, some not so obvious, a few he’s maybe more than a little embarrassed about. It takes Shouto less than two minutes to send a response.

Shouto

Thanks

[Sent 12:36]

Me

sure!

[Sent 12:41]

but uh what are you gonna use this for exactly?

[Sent 12:42]

Again, Shouto doesn’t respond, forcing Izuku to spend the rest of the day in limbo. He tries to drown out the building anxiety in his stomach by focusing on work, but there’s so little to do that Shinsou actually offers to let him go home early. He listens to Bedtime with Babish podcasts on the way home, battered old headphones clamped extra tight over her ears, as if that can somehow banish his nervousness. Logically, Izuku knows nothing sinister could possibly come from Shouto asking what his favorite songs are, but the thought doesn’t mix well with his dread, oil sitting atop water, making him feel heavy and vaguely sick.

He can’t hear the piano playing from the third floor landing when he reaches it, and Izuku almosts hesitates to enter the apartment, unable to continue bearing the strange silence that’s settled there the past few days. But it’s not as if he has anywhere else to go, so with one full inhale and one full exhale, Izuku opens his door, toeing off his boots before he removes his headphones, cutting off the rich, soothing tone of Andrew Rea.

Music hits all of his senses at once, quiet but undeniable as it filters into the entryway. At first Izuku thinks Shouto’s started singing again, but as he takes the few necessary steps into the kitchen, it registers that it’s a female voice singing. Speechless, Izuku’s brain supplies automatically, one of the songs on his list, and Izuku stops short in the doorway, limbs locked in place, breath trapped within his lungs, heart ceasing its beat inside his chest.

Shouto’s laptop sits on the table; next to it, there’s a small portable speaker, pouring music into the relative quiet of the kitchen. Shouto stands near the sink with his back turned to Izuku, chopping vegetables as he sings quietly along to the tune. His hips are swaying a little with the rhythm, and the sight and sounds leave Izuku’s heart open and raw and bleeding. He gasps, barely louder than a whisper, but as soon as it leaves him Shouto starts and whips around, eyes going wide.

“Ah,” he says, voice somewhat faint. “You’re home early.”

“Um, yeah. It… It was really slow so my supervisor let me go.” Izuku swallows thickly, an all too familiar prickle burning underneath his eyes; he lets it build, knows better than to try and stop his tears. “Is that… Are you making dinner?”

“Ah. Yes. Katsudon.” Shouto seems unduly nervous, shifting awkwardly where he stands. “I thought it would be good since it’s so cold out.”

“Y-yeah,” Izuku answers, can’t manage to keep the stutter out of his voice. “I… Yeah that sounds great, I… I…”

Speechless ends, giving way to Lazarus, another of Izuku’s old favorites. A noise bubbles up from Izuku’s throat, small and quiet, but it smashes through the damn holding back his tears and suddenly they’re flowing down Izuku’s cheeks in rivers, dripping all the way down his neck and soaking into the cotton of his shirt.

Shouto starts, blinking rapidly at him several times before he grimaces and strides over to the table. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “I thought… I wasn’t sure if it would be too much but clearly I misjudged—”

“What—no, wait!” Izuku says, and Shouto pauses, hands hovering over his laptop. “It’s… It’s not too much, it’s…” He swallows again, throat so thick it’s all but swollen shut. “Don’t—don’t turn it off. I’m… I’m fine.”

“Midoriya, you’re crying,” Shouto answers flatly.

Izuku shakes his head frantically. “It’s fine!” he repeats. “I-I mean I know I’m—I’m crying but it’s… it’s not…. It’s okay, really. I cry all the time, it—it’s really not that big a deal.” He musters up a wobbly smile, trying to demonstrate his sincerity. “I… I want to listen. It’s okay.”

Shouto continues to stare at him in clear disbelief, but Izuku’s being honest. True, he’s crying; his eyes burn and his lungs ache and his heart still bleeds inside his chest, but none of it’s unpleasant. On the contrary, his whole body feels electric with something that feels like it ought to be pain but isn’t, an adrenaline rush that sinks all the way down to hollows of his bones.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, grinning through his tears. “I want to listen, Shouto. Really I do.”

Shouto continues to hover at the table, brow furrowed and mismatched eyes bright with concern. In an effort to divert Shouto’s attention elsewhere, Izuku clears his throat and asks, “Do you, um. Do you need any help with dinner?”

“… I need to fry the pork cutlets,” Shouto answers after several long moments, and he finally steps away from the table, though he’s still eyeing Izuku warily. “You could help with that.”

Silence settles between them, but it can’t fully permeate the air, not with music still playing from the speakers. Lazarus ends and transitions into You Can Be A Hero, the original version, All Might’s deep, booming voice filling all the places where an awkward quiet might try and take hold. Sensation keeps skittering along Izuku’s nerves as he begins helping Shouto with dinner, almost like anxiety but not quite; it’s too happy, too light, lifting him up instead of weighing him down. He’s still crying—keeps having to wipe at his eyes and blow his nose every few minutes—but it’s okay. He’s okay.

Soon, the sizzle of frying pork cutlets joins the noise of the music, and Izuku’s mouth waters at the smell, bringing him back to his childhood, when his mother would make this same dish on cold winter days while they sang and danced together along with the music that always filled the kitchen.

There’s more quiet here than there was back then, and Shouto keeps looking at him in mild concern every few minutes, Izuku unable to stop the trickle of tears. But it’s still achingly familiar, fills Izuku with something warm and bright until he’s so full of emotion he thinks he might explode.

Goodbye Tokyo fills the kitchen next, as Shouto begins cooking onions in sauce next to him at the stove; their arms brush occasionally, sending sparks along Izuku’s skin. “My mom used to play this song all the time when I was a kid,” Izuku says, voice wavering with tears but happy all the same. “It’s one of her favorites.”

He glances at Shouto, and from the corner of his eye he catches the twitch at the corners of Shouto’s mouth, reaching for his soft little half smile. “This is one of my mother’s favorites too,” Shouto says, stirring the onions as the sauce bubbles away, the scent of dashi, soy sauce, and mirin wafting pleasantly through the air. “Is yours an Enka fan?”

“Mmm, not especially? Enka was more my dad’s thing, when he was home. Mom just really likes Keiko Fuji. I think she’s probably her second favorite artist of all time.”

“Second? Who’s the first?”

“Oh, it’s…” Izuku frowns, chewing on his lip for a moment. “I don’t think you’d know her. She’s kind of older, like 80s. And Japanese.”

Shouto raises an eyebrow. “I was born and raised in Japan, remember?” he points out. “I’ve probably at least heard of her.”

“Eh, I don’t know. My mom says this artist was really popular when she was a teenager but then she sort of just vanished off the face of the planet. And now you can’t find her music anymore. My mom’s still got a few old records, but I’ve never been able to find anything for myself, even when we’ve gone back to Japan. It’s so weird. And sad. I really liked her music.”

Izuku finishes frying a pork cutlet, setting it aside to rest before adding another to the oil. He glances at Shouto from the corner of his eye, startled when he realizes Shouto’s standing absolutely stock still at the stove. He’s looking at Izuku strangely, the half smile gone as the lines of his face twist every which way, rough waves on the ocean, unsure of where to settle. “What… What was the artist’s name?” he asks, voice oddly subdued.

“Oh, um. Yuki Rei,” Izuku answers. Shouto says nothing to that, and Izuku assumes he has nothing to add. “Are the onions almost ready?” he asks, looking over at Shouto, and starts.

The onions and sauce bubble away in their pan, utterly forgotten as Shouto simply stares at Izuku, eyebrows slightly raised, jaw sort of slack, eyes a little wide. It wouldn’t be an exceptionally notable expression on someone else, but on the normally taciturn Shouto, it’s absolutely jarring. “You… Your mother listened to Yuki Rei?” he asks, and there’s a waver in his voice, cracked glass ready to shatter into a million pieces. It brushes right past the logical forefront of Izuku’s brain, makes Izuku want to do very stupid things, like wrap Shouto up in his arms and never let him go.

“Y-yeah,” Izuku stutters, violently shoving the sudden urge to hold Shouto aside. “Do you know her? I always thought she must not have remained very popular since her music is so hard to find.”

A rough sound escapes from Shouto’s throat. “That’s not—” he starts, but cuts himself off abruptly, mismatched eyes squeezing shut for a few short seconds. When he opens them again, they shine like glass, even in the dim light of the kitchen. The bottom drops out of Izuku’s stomach, a growing horror that he’s somehow screwed up again running fast and sharp up his spine. He opens his mouth to apologize, even if he doesn’t know what went wrong, but before he can get a word out, Shouto steps away from the stove.

“Watch this for a second,” he says, gesturing at the pan of onions. There’s an oddly thick quality to his tone, eerily reminiscent of how Izuku sounds right before he’s about to start crying, and it’s got Izuku’s heart shattering inside his chest.

“Shouto?” he asks, but Shouto ignores him as he heads for the kitchen table. Izuku can’t keep watching him, distracted by having to flip the pork cutlet and stir Shouto’s abandoned onions, so he hasn’t any idea what Shouto’s doing until Mr. Brightside cuts off, and something new takes its place.

A light, happy beat fills the air, and Izuku barely manages to hold in a gasp as he gets knocked right back to his childhood, into a small but cozy kitchen, socked feet sliding over the linoleum floor as he danced with his mother while they’d wait for dinner to finish cooking, uncaring of how badly their mismatched voices clashed with the women singing on the record. The sensation leaves him reeling, and Izuku has to take to moment to breathe in one full inhale, one full exhale before he can push his thoughts back into the present. He turns to look at Shouto, still at the kitchen table, gazing sadly at the speakers despite the upbeat tone of the song.

“This is Yuki Rei,” Izuku says, very intelligently.

Something flashes over Shouto’s expression, gone too quickly for Izuku to catch it. “Yes.”

“That’s… Oh my God, that’s amazing, I’ve never—her music is so hard to find! I used to scour record shops looking for LPs or cassettes whenever we went back to Japan but I never found anything, my mom’s were the only ones that seemed to exist. Did—I know it’s been a while since I looked, but did they add her on streaming services or something? I could never find her before but I feel like companies are always adding new stuff, maybe they—”

“It’s not on any streaming service,” Shouto says shortly, but there’s a quality to his tone that diffuses any irritation, leaves him sounding odd, almost vulnerable. “These are converted files from my own collection.”

“Oh.” Izuku frowns. “But you’re like, my age, so how did you know about Yuki Rei? Unless—you said your mom was a musician too, right? So was she a fan, or something?”

Shouto just sort of blinks at him slowly before color blooms to life on his face, pink spreading across his right cheek and nose until it reaches the edge of his scar. “Um,” he says, looking distinctly sheepish, and it’s doing all sort of funny things to Izuku’s stomach and lungs and heart. “It’s more… or something.”

He ducks his head, stark white hair falling from its place tucked behind his ear in a perfect sweep, hiding his winter grey eye from view. From this angle, with his left side turned away and only a halo of vivid red visible as backlight, Shouto seems so soft and pale and stunningly, heartbreakingly beautiful, and in the exact second Izuku’s heart starts to flutter like a baby bird in his chest, his brain sends out a thought that hits him with all the force of a bullet to the gut.

“Oh my God!” Izuku shrieks, trying to ignore how many octaves his pitch just rose. “I—Shouto, is Yuki Rei your mom?”

The soft pink staining Shouto’s cheeks abruptly turns bright red, blotchy and uneven as it spreads all the way up to his hairline, down to his neck, out to the tips of his ears, and really, that’s all the answer Izuku needs. He makes a distressed noise, flailing at the stove as his arms come up to cover his face in embarrassment. “Oh my God, I feel like such an idiot, of course you’re her son, you even look like her.” His mother’s record covers were old and faded, but Izuku can still distinctly recall the smiling face of a pretty young women, with white hair and grey eyes exactly the same colors as Shouto’s right side. “You even said she was a musician, how did I not put that together—”

“Midoriya,” Shouto says, and Izuku chances a peek through the space between his elbows. The red of Shouto’s blush is near indistinguishable from his scar, and he looks more embarrassed than Izuku can ever recall seeing him before, which does absolutely nothing to ease Izuku’s current state of anguish. “Midoriya, it’s okay, I wouldn’t have expected you to know.”

“But it’s so obvious,” Izuku half wails as he covers his eyes again, even though it really wasn’t and he knows hindsight is always 20/20, but Izuku’s supposed to be good at things like this, at observing, putting together all the little bits and pieces that other people seem to miss.

“It’s really not,” Shouto insists. “I’m honestly just surprised you even know who she is. Most people barely remember her music.”

“O-oh, well. Um. Like I said, my mom was a big fan,” Izuku says into his arms. “A-and I guess, I mean, I am too, I always really liked her music, she’s very talented. You—actually now that I think about it, you two sound very similar, you have the same sort of tone and—”

“Do you smell burning?” Shouto cuts him off, and Izuku immediately drops his arms and whips around to look at stove, where his pork cutlet has started to turn black at the edges.

“Oh—sh*t!”

There’s a fight over who gets the burned cutlet, Izuku insisting he should take it since he burned it and Shouto adamant he ought to have it because katsudon is Izuku’s favorite dish, something Izuku’s fairly certain he only ever mentioned in passing and yet amazingly, Shouto remembered. Neither will yield, so they compromise by each taking half of the good cutlet and half of the bad. Once they’re set upon steaming bowls of nice and laden with saucy onions and softly cooked eggs, Izuku can barely taste the difference anyway. Like most of Shouto’s cooking, it tastes like being back home in his mom’s kitchen, and tonight, with Yuki Rei continuing to play in the background as they eat, nostalgia wells up so strongly in his heart that Izuku almost starts crying in the middle of dinner.

Not much is said throughout the meal, Shouto still distinctly embarrassed and Izuku mostly preoccupied with trying to keep his tears in check, but by the time they’ve finished and are tag-teaming dishes, the awkwardness has settled enough that Izuku’s willing to try filling the silence. “So, um. You said before your mom’s retired right?” Izuku starts, scrubbing at the rice pot while Shouto rinses plates.

“That’s right.”

“Why, um… I mean, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, obviously, but uh, why?” Izuku nods his head towards the speakers, Yuki Rei’s warm voice still filtering pleasantly into the kitchen as she sings about being in love with a childhood friend. “She was so talented, I feel like…”

Izuku trails off, biting his lip before he can finish that thought. Experience tells him musicians don’t stop in the middle of promising careers unless something tragic happens, but he doesn’t want to be so blunt, not when he’s just managed to get Shouto talking to him again. But from the deep furrow of his brow and the thin press of his mouth, Izuku thinks Shouto understands what he meant to say. He doesn’t answer right away, methodically rinsing each piece of cutlery, not speaking until everything’s been carefully set in the dish drainer.

“She was still in the middle of a contract with her producer when she got married,” Shouto begins, soft spoken. “So she put her career on hold to focus on raising a family. I suppose the intent was always that she would go back once her children were old enough, but… It didn’t work out that way.”

“Oh. What—I mean, can I ask what happened?” He’s got an inkling, pieced together from the small bits Shouto’s already told him, but Izuku would hate to be presumptuous.

Shouto sighs, and it seems to ripple throughout his whole body, leaving him drained. “Health issues,” he says. “She started getting sick a few years after I was born and she just… Never really recovered properly. It was no condition to continue a career in, so rather than try and force herself, she just didn’t go back.”

“… Oh,” Izuku says. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Shouto, that sounds… That’s awful.” The muscles in his hands twinge in sympathy, and when Izuku closes his hand over the handle of the wok, he’s acutely aware of scar tissue stretching over his knuckles.

“It is what it is,” Shouto answers, though there’s a sadness to his tone that his typical nonchalance can’t hide. “I’m just glad she’s doing better now. For a long time I thought…”

He trails off, gaze fixed at some far point in the distance, lost and lonely. Inside his chest, the song of Izuku’s heart shifts, sharp and aching in empathy.

“So, when she retired did she… Did she not want her music to be available to the public anymore?” Izuku asks.

“No, that was—” Shouto sighs harshly, something new bleeding into his expression that narrows his eyes, flares his nostrils, clenches his jaw. “She lost the rights to her music when she couldn’t fulfill the terms of her original contract. And her old producer has never authorized any sort of new release; he’s just kind of let her fade into obscurity.”

“Oh—wait, what?” Izuku blinks. “How—That’s total bullsh*t, how can he get away with that?”

Shouto snorts. “Because it’s not worth it to fight him; he’s got resources, she doesn’t. You know how nasty legal battles with the wrong people can get.”

Izuku inhales sharply, hands clenching as a tremor runs through the muscles. He has to close his eyes and take one full inhale, one full exhale in order to ground himself, banish the image of exactly how well Izuku knows from his mind.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, reaching into the basin to pull the plug. “I do.”

He reaches across Shouto to grab a rag, mopping up the water gathered at the edges of the sink, and then over the counters and table. Shouto’s quiet, so Izuku assumes the conversation finished until—

“I’m sorry,” Shouto says, so suddenly it takes Izuku’s brain a few seconds to realize he’s even speaking. “About what happened on Thursday.”

Izuku pauses mid swipe over the stove, blinking. “I… Oh. I mean, you don’t… You don’t really need to be sorry, you were the one that got hurt—”

“But I treated you badly when you didn’t deserve it,” Shouto presses. “And I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have done that.” He pauses, and then adds, in a much softer voice, “You shouldn’t have had to deal with me acting like a petulant child.”

“Oh, that’s not… I mean, you shouldn’t have had to deal with me having a panic attack either, but you did.” Izuku smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. “So… let’s just call it even, okay?”

Shouto stares at him, brow furrowed. “It can’t… You can’t just make it that simple.”

“Sure I can. I just did.”

Shouto opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and he closes it with an audible click, shaking his head. There’s equal parts disbelief and exasperation and what Izuku’s going to tell himself is fondness scrawled into the lines of his face.

“Did… Did you want to talk about it?” Izuku offers, because he figures it can’t hurt to ask.

Shouto’s brow furrows, but it’s not quite a frown, too hesitant, sorrow sitting heavy in the shadows. He’s quiet for several long moments, seeming to mull over his answer, so Izuku waits. “Not now,” he says finally, and then, after a pause, “Maybe someday.”

Izuku nods. “Okay,” he says. “Well when—if—you ever want to… I’m here.”

Winter grey and summer blue eyes flicker up, shining bright as they catch his gaze, and Izuku forgets to breathe when Shouto answers, soft and maybe—maybe—just a little hopeful, “I know.”

On Tuesday morning, Izuku wakes early like he usually does, stumbling out of bed and throwing on his workout clothes so he can get out the door before his blankets have a chance to lure him back into their warm, cozy clutches. Normally Izuku listens to NPR on his runs, the monotone of the broadcasters providing a soothing start to his days; but now, with the remnants of last night’s music still ringing faintly in the back of his mind, the sound of the radio show feel stilted and boring and intrusive. Izuku can’t lose himself to the spoken word like he usually does, can’t settle back into his old routine when there’s a whisper in his heart that begs him to find something more rhythmic. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, the feeling won’t come loose, sinking itself deep into his core, so that by the time Izuku’s climbing up the stairs to the apartment, his entire body’s gone electric with pent up energy.

It’s only when he starts putting things on the table for his breakfast that Izuku notices Shouto’s laptop is still there, stashed neatly in one corner along with the portable speakers. There’s a sticky note on top, with a message scrawled out in neat, even handwriting. Izuku doesn’t recall seeing it when he and Shouto went their separate ways last night. Curious, he picks it up.

Music from last night is pulled up if you want to listen to it. —Shouto

A storm begins to rumble through Izuku, warm and heavy and thunderous. His fingers tremble as he opens the laptop and iTunes immediately pops up to a playlist window. It has all the songs Izuku sent Shouto yesterday, plus a few extra at the bottom from All Might, and below that, Yuki Rei. The title at the top simply says For Midoriya .

Lightning strikes, at his bones, his lungs, his heart. Rhythm reverates inside his chest, building and rising like waves of a symphony until it hits the top of the crescendo and holds there, resonant, sonorous. Tears start leaking from his eyes as Izuku’s shaking fingers turn on the little speakers before hitting the keyboard’s play button, and when the sound of Texas Smash starts filtering quietly into the kitchen, Izuku lets out the softest sob he can manage because it’s so, so beautiful.

Something brushes against his leg, and Izuku peers down to see Onigiri looking up at him, meowing softly. Izuku bends down to scoop her up, giggling when she butts up against his chin affectionately.

“Don’t you worry about me, Oni,” he mumbles into the soft fur at the crown of her head. “I think I’m better than I have been in a really long time.”

Chapter 9: You Know You Make My World Light Up

Chapter Text

“You need to stop doing that,” Shinsou tells Izuku one afternoon in early December.

Izuku blinks, looking up from his computer screen. “But I thought you said you wanted to get these status reports out before we leave,” he says, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Not that.” Shinsou heaves a sigh. “This.” Two fingers come up, stabbing viciously at the corners of his mouth.

Izuku blinks again. “What—you mean smiling?”

“Yes. You’ve been doing it nonstop for days and it’s starting to freak me out. It’s exactly the kind of thing the quiet, mild-mannered office guy does right before he snaps and goes on a murder spree.” Shinsou glares. “So knock. It. Off.”

The smile gracing Izuku’s face falters as he presses his lips together, trying to keep the corners from turning up again, but the muscles in his cheeks tug insistently at his mouth and Izuku can’t hold the expression. “Sorry boss,” he says, letting his expression settle back into place, summer sunshine bright. “I can’t help it. I smile when I’m happy.”

“Happy about what?” Shinsou demands. “You’re sending out status reports because somehow Yoon managed to email a trojan to half the office staff, we’re gonna be stuck here fixing it until God knows when, Barata has been playing All I Want for Christmas is You remixes for three f*cking hours and that has been our weather for the past four days.” He jabs a finger at their tiny office window, where sleet pelts the glass and the wind howls so loudly it rattles the pane. “What the hell do you have to happy about?”

Izuku bites his lip, trying to stop a wide grin from spreading over his face and failing miserably. “I don’t know,” he lies. “Just… stuff, I guess.”

Shinsou’s eyes narrow, slits of purple framed by dark half moons. “This is about your stupid boyfriend, isn’t it?” he accuses, and Izuku sighs.

“For the hundredth time, he’s not my boyfriend,” he insists.

“He’s totally your boyfriend,” Shinsou retorts. “Look at you. You’ve had that dopey smile on your face for at least a week, you’re either about to go off the deep end, or you’re in love. Those are the only possible explanations.”

Izuku sighs, turning back to his computer screen. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he repeats.

But he is kind of, maybe, just a little bit in love.

Over the past twenty-something years, Izuku likes to think he’s gotten to know himself pretty well. He’s perceptive, keen at observation, knows that there’s often nothing more important than what’s hidden in the smallest details. He helps people, because he’s kind—always has been, probably always will be, despite how determined the world seems to be trying to prove otherwise. He is, sadly, allergic to pineapple. He’s an emotional crier, meaning that just about any emotion can reduce him to tears if felt strongly enough. And Izuku feels everything strongly. He wears his heart proudly on his sleeve, because he doesn’t see the point in trying to hide it; feelings, after all, are meant to be felt.

It’s therefore never been much of a surprise to Izuku that when he falls in love, he falls hard. With Ochako he was constantly walking on clouds, weightless, floating, all his troubles left somewhere far below. Mei had been fast, intense, a hyper awareness of every little detail, about him, about her, about everything. And Eijirou hit him with the bluntness of a rock to the cranium before settling into something strong and steady and unyielding. Even his childhood crush on Katsuki had its own sort of uniqueness, came with an explosion of strange new emotions bubbling up in his chest, back when Izuku was still too young to truly understand them. Love has always been something he can only feel absolutely; a massive lightning storm welling up inside his chest, different each time the strikes break across the sky.

So being in love with Shouto isn’t like being in love with Ochako or Mei or Eijirou; it’s something entirely new and unique, just for him. Like coming inside from a snowstorm, chilled to the bone, but there’s a roaring fire waiting to warm Izuku up, welcome him home. Or maybe it’s baking under a scorching summer sun, the heat broken only by a plunge into crystal clear waters, cool and refreshing. It seems to change every day, swirling up a veritable tempest of emotions inside him, and Izuku can’t recall the last time he felt so wonderfully, vividly alive.

The only downside is, true to Shinsou’s observation, Izuku’s been acting like a moonstruck idiot for the better part of two weeks with absolute no end in sight. He knows this, because it happens every time he falls in love, and he knows he needs to reign it in before Shouto starts to notice it’s not just the music making Izuku act like he is. But that’s going to be a tremendously difficult task, because Shouto is just so, well…

Shouto.

And there’s so much more to know and understand and love about Shouto than he ever realized that Izuku gets dizzy just thinking about it.

It is, for instance, easy to tell just by looking at Shouto that he’s tall, and pretty fit. But it’s only recently that Izuku’s noticed the grace with which Shouto moves, how every step he takes seems measured and precise, even for something as simple as walking into the kitchen. That there’s a rhythm to his movements, like the fluid motion of turning to grab dishes from the sink or sheet music off the piano; how he doesn’t shift his torso but instead rises up onto the balls of his feet to twist his whole body in a sort of pirouette. Or, now that there’s music playing almost constantly around the apartment, how easily Shouto’s hips will start swaying to a beat, a rhythm like snow blowing off drifts in a gentle wind, or flames working their way across a piece of wood. It sparks Izuku’s curiosity, can’t help but make him wonder if maybe Shouto’s not just a pianist and a singer, but a dancer too.

(From the fiery pink blush that bursts across his cheeks and the emphatic, “Don’t be ridiculous,” Shouto gives him when Izuku plucks up the courage to ask, he can only assume the answer is yes.)

Some things could never have escaped Izuku’s notice, like the brilliant color of Shouto’s two-toned hair. But much like everything else, he finds himself suddenly noticing it in entirely different ways, picking up on details he never thought to look for until now. Like the halo effect that occurs when Shouto’s lit from one side, an ethereal stark white or vivid red crown circling his head. Or how one afternoon, when the sun finally broke through the clouds, soft light poured into the living room and Shouto’s spot near the bay window made the duality of colors sort of blur at the edges, creating an almost pink aura. Izuku couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds before having to avert his gaze, because the twilight made Shouto so soft around the edges that Izuku forgot how to breathe. He tries not to think too hard about what it would be like to run his fingers through Shouto’s hair, if it would be soft with a slight catch like fine linen, or entirely smooth, the finest strands of red and white silk.

And then there’s the things Izuku didn’t realize because they were simply never there before. If the first layer to Shouto’s personality was an unforgiving winter storm, and the second was a slow thaw into spring, then the one that’s emerged now can only be described as the first days of summer, soft and bright and warm. It’s not that Shouto’s acting exceptionally different, but there’s little things, small changes he’s made, whispering soft and sweet into the empty spaces of Izuku’s heart until the song inside swells to something thunderous, a symphony filling a concert hall.

It’s the way he talks more, not in quantity but in content, offering the briefest glimpses into the more personal details of his life. He makes zaru soba for lunch on Sunday despite the cold weather, tells Izuku unprompted that it’s his favorite dish because his mother is from Nagano Prefecture, and soba was what she made to cheer him up as a child. One night, poking at his broccoli, Shouto admits he doesn’t really like vegetables, having been forced to eat mostly plain steamed varieties throughout his teenage years because they were healthier. When Izuku asks why they needed to be healthy, Shouto only hesitates for a handful of seconds before explaining simply, “I’m not allowed to gain weight.”

(His reluctant sweet tooth suddenly makes a whole lot more sense, and Izuku definitely brings home Purple Velvet cake from Jennivee’s the very next day, much to Shouto’s feigned annoyance.)

It’s also hidden in the things he does, in a thoughtfulness that wasn’t there before. Like how Shouto’s resumed playing, though it’s not quite as strenuous as before, and he seems to reserve working on his original pieces for when Izuku’s not home. But where Shouto doesn’t play he sings, and where he doesn’t sing he’s been filling in the spaces with music, all of it tailored specifically for Izuku. He’s cautious about what he picks, expanding slowly out from the initial list of songs Izuku gave him, and the care Shouto puts into all his choices makes Izuku’s heart want to beat itself right out of his chest.

It also affords Izuku the chance to learn which songs Shouto likes, because Izuku’s noticed he only sings along to certain ones, soft melodies hummed just under his breath, so it never overpowers what’s playing. Most of his picks don’t really surprise Izuku (like All Might, Yuki Rei, Bowie, Queen), but some absolutely do, like discovering that there’s not a single Lady Gaga song Shouto doesn’t know the lyrics to. “She has a nice voice,” Shouto explains when Izuku asks. “And I admire the ease in her freedom of expression.” He pauses, and then adds, in a gloomier tone, “Not every performing artist gets that luxury.”

That’s something Izuku’s noticed as well; for as much as his attitude has shifted during his time staying with Izuku, Shouto remains reserved, almost muted. It’s not that the emotion isn’t there, because it absolutely is; Izuku hears it in the rhythm whenever Shouto plays, in the melody when he sings. But it seems to Izuku that Shouto’s been trained to keep everything he feels tightly under control, that even if he allowed himself access to his full range of emotions, he wouldn’t know what to do with them. If Izuku’s the sort of person who wears his heart on his sleeve, then Shouto’s the kind that keeps his locked away and won’t show the true colors to anyone except a select, privileged few.

But however subdued they might be the emotions can’t be hidden completely, and Izuku’s slowly but surely teaching himself how best to read what little Shouto offers. Like how if the edges of his eyebrows knit tightly together it means frustration, and if they rise up slightly, it’s concern. How the faintest lift at just one corner of his mouth is amusem*nt, and it can be compounded into genuine enjoyment if he quirks one eyebrow as well. A purse of his lips means annoyance, while a slightly hollowing of his cheeks indicates he’s mulling something over. And then of course there’s his soft sort of half-smile, the one that just barely touches the corners of his mouth but still manages to reach his eyes, that beautiful winter storm cloud grey and bright summer sky blue lighting up with what Izuku assumes (hopes) is happiness.

Because Shouto deserves to be happy, however much he seems expect otherwise. And Izuku?

Izuku’s willing to do whatever it takes to get him there.

The last days of November go by faster than Izuku can keep track them. Soon he finds himself caught in the whirlwind of a rapidly building crescendo to Christmas, assaulted on all fronts by twinkling lights and shiny tinsel and festive pine. It’s okay though, because Izuku kind of loves it; he finds the joy and cheer of the holiday season absolutely infectious, adores the camaraderie and caring it seems to bring out in people. Even the gloomiest winter days don’t seem so terrible when there’s carols to be heard, warm drinks to be sipped, fairy lights to sparkle and chase away the dark.

His already good mood further bolstered by holiday spirits, Izuku throws himself into the season with fervor, bringing out his haphazard collection of Christmas decorations, decking out the apartment in cheap garland, tacky window decals, and a little fake tree covered in a motley assortment of mismatched ornaments. He even manages to rope Shouto into helping him string up lights around the living room, only because Shouto is taller than him and definitely not because Izuku wants to watch the elegant way Shouto rises up onto his tiptoes when he needs to reach for something.

(This plan backfires spectacularly when Shouto inexplicably decides to plug the lights in before going to hang them, painting him in a kaleidoscope of rainbow hues that Izuku can’t look at for more than three seconds at a time before his lungs stop working. When Shouto’s finished he makes Izuku a fresh pot of tea with honey and lemon, concerned because he heard Izuku breathing funny and Shouto thinks he might be catching a cold, and Jesus Christ, Izuku thinks as he accepts the tea with a shaky smile, he is so f*cked.)

Even the weather eventually begins to cooperate, shifting from the horrible grey mess of slush and sleet to proper winter snow. On Monday evening, a powdered sugar sprinkle settles neatly over the sludge accumulated from last week’s storm, and it makes for a picture perfect walk home, fat white flakes catching on Izuku’s jacket and in his hair, twinkling faintly as they pass through the aura of all the lights decorating the neighborhood. Izuku’s so caught up enjoying the scene as he rounds the corner before his apartment that he completely misses the human sized mass barreling towards him until they abruptly collide.

“You f*cking idiot, I told you he wasn’t looking!” a gruff voice from somewhere up ahead yells as Izuku stumbles sideways, the traction of his red boots just barely allowing him to keep his footing. He doesn’t even get a chance to blink before he’s swept up in a massive bear hug, gasping violently as the breath gets knocked unceremoniously out of his lungs.

“Oh, Eijirou!” Izuku wheezes, arms coming up to return the embrace. He can’t see Eijirou’s face, but Izuku recognizes his old lumberjack plaid jacket even from the back, and the familiar whiff of Classic Old Spice cologne. “And… Kacchan?”

A few feet away, Katsuki rolls his eyes. “You guys look ridiculous, I hope you know that.”

“Don’t be jealous, Katsuki!” Eijirou retorts from somewhere near Izuku’s ear. For emphasis he gives Izuku one last squeeze before letting go.「Hi!」he says, toothy grin lighting up his whole face like a comet streaking across the night sky, and Izuku’s mouth breaks into an answering smile without so much as a thought.

「Hi! I didn’t realize you guys were back already!」

「We just came home this weekend. I’m not even unpacked yet,」Eijirou tells him, slinging a friendly arm around Izuku’s shoulders as they shuffle over to where Katsuki’s glaring at both of them.「But it’s been ages since I last saw you, so I thought I’d swing by for a surprise!」He leans close to Izuku’s ear and whispers loudly, 「And Katsuki’s here because he says he has nothing better to do, but I think he just doesn’t like being alone.」

“What was that?” Katsuki snaps, eyes narrowing when Izuku doesn’t quite manage to muffle his snort.

“Nothing!” Eijirou chirps, cheerfully ignoring the murderous glare Katsuki sends his way. “So, now that we’re here, what do you say we grab something to eat? Our treat!”

“What the hell do you mean, our treat? It’s your treat, this was your idea,” Katsuki snaps.

“Okay fine, my treat.” Eijirou rolls his eyes, the effect significantly dampened by the broad grin still gracing his face. “What do you say?” he asks, turning to look at Izuku.

“I—Oh. Tonight? Right now?” Izuku answers, blinking slowly. Shouto’s making kakuni tonight and Izuku’s been looking forward to it all day, because he can never afford pork belly on his own budget.

“That was the plan. Why, have something else going on?” Eijirou tilts his head curiously, and Katsuki’s glare shifts into something considerably more calculating.

“No,” Izuku lies immediately, because if he so much as hints at Shouto’s presence neither Eijirou or Katsuki will let him off the hook without asking ten billion questions that he can’t answer for the sake of Shouto’s privacy. “I just… I have some salmon in the fridge I need to use up soon, but I think it should be fine for another day.”

“Ah. Are you sure?” Eijirou asks. “We did kind of surprise you, if you have other plans, that’s okay dude. We come back another night.”

“Oh no no no, it’s fine! I was just caught off guard, that’s all, but I want to hang out with you guys, really.” Which is true; as much as Izuku likes Shouto’s cooking, it isn’t worth passing up time with friends he hasn’t seen in months.

Eijirou beams. “Great!” he exclaims, stepping away from Katsuki, who rolls his eyes as Eijirou wraps his arm around Izuku’s shoulder again. “So, where are we going? Your pick, anywhere you want.”

“Within reason,” Katsuki adds.

“Anywhere,” Eijirou counters.

Izuku chews on his lip for a moment, considering. “Well…”

“You can’t be serious,” Katsuki groans, glaring viciously at the spectacle in front of him. “Deku, no.”

Izuku smiles. “Eijirou said anywhere.”

“I did say anywhere.”

“So you pick the f*cking Christmas market?” Katsuki snaps, gesturing violently at the wide array of red and white striped tents, interspersed with festive decorations of holly and baubles and garland. Christmas trees stand tall and glittering between the tents, towered over by an exceptionally large pine at the entrance of the market. And in the middle, an ice skating rink, filled with people, illuminated by soft spots of warmth from the lights strung above them.

“I like the Christkindlmarket,” Izuku says simply. “And I haven’t had a chance to go yet this year.”

The force with which Katsuki rolls his eyes makes Izuku surprised they don’t pop out of his head. “But it’s so stupid,” he complains, voice echoing loudly around the entrance, causing several heads to turn in their direction, frowns and glares glinting sharply in the scattered light.

“Aw, come on, Katsuki, don’t be such a… a…” Eijirou’s face scrunches up.「Shoot. The green thing, the one that hates Christmas.」

“Grinch,” Izuku supplies.

“Yeah, Grinch!” Eijirou points an accusing finger towards Katsuki, poking his side. “You know dude, if you don’t like it, you could always just go home.”

“f*ck off,” Katsuki grumbles, shoving him away. He continues to gripe as they make their way into the market proper, prompting Eijirou to roll his own eyes and share a knowing grin with Izuku when Katsuki’s back is turned.

They wander around slowly for a little while, taking in all the sights and sounds and beautifully handcrafted curios that Izuku probably couldn’t afford even if he wasn’t strapped for cash, but which make a lovely accent to the festive backdrop. He lingers a little longer at the stalls selling cloth goods, tempted by the wide array of beautifully knit hats and cozy woolen socks, and at the sweets shops he finally caves, treating himself to a bag of candied nuts dusted with cinnamon. All the while he and Eijirou keep up a friendly chat, Eijirou asking Izuku an endless stream of questions about his life, his job, his mom, the answers to which aren’t anywhere close to interesting, but Eijirou listens intently all the same. Katsuki keeps quiet except for the occasional comment, usually in the form of a complaint, but Izuku’s not fooled; Katsuki’s still here, which means that despite his grumbling, he’s having at least a decent time. And despite his insistence that treating Izuku to dinner was Eijirou’s idea, Katsuki handily wins the spectacular three-way fight to pay for food, bullying the poor confused cashier into taking his credit card first and violently shoving a twenty dollar bill in the tip jar before either Izuku or Eijirou have the chance to retaliate.

“So how was the tour this time?” Izuku says once they’ve seated themselves inside one of the heated tents, with plates full of food and steaming souvenir mugs of hot chocolate.

「It was fantastic! I wish you could have seen it!」Eijirou exclaims, broad smile taking up his entire face. “We got to have a full international circuit this time! Went to just about every major city on the whole planet!”

“Oh, right; I think remember Ochako mentioning that.” Izuku ducks his head rather sheepishly. He doesn’t keep up with his old band’s activities nearly as much as he should, feels guilty about how much he’s kept everything at arm’s length over the years, even if his reasons are good and they’ve always understood. “So where all did you go?”

Eijirou launches into an animated recollection of their adventures, interspersed with short bursts of commentary from Katsuki. Excitement bleeds into the air around them, leaving no doubt as to how much they enjoyed this last tour. Their infectious enthusiasm sinks deep into the cracks of Izuku’s heart, filling it with something sharp and bright and sort of wonderful.

It’s different this time, hearing about their marvelous exploits. After Plus Ultra’s last tour Izuku couldn’t listen to more than a few short snippets from any of the band members before he started to feel miserable, a brewing storm cloud that would hang over him for days afterwards, badly hidden behind a fake smile and reassurances that he was fine and happy for them and they didn’t need to worry. Now Izuku finds himself hanging onto to every word pouring from Eijirou and Katsuki’s mouths, excitement bubbling up deep within the pits of his stomach, and the smile that graces his face couldn’t possibly be more real. Beneath the old pain and anguish, a swell of genuine enjoyment surges up at knowing how well Plus Ultra’s been doing, his heart roaring with pride as Eijirou and Katsuki talk about their critical acclaim and hordes of adoring fans from all around the globe. And beyond that, a thin thread of jealousy that Izuku couldn’t be there with them, neatly cutting through the old veins of bitterness until they’re all but gone.

“That all sounds so amazing,” he tells them sincerely when Eijirou’s wrapped up his last anecdote. “You guys have really come a long way from weekend shows at Schubas, huh?”

“Hell yeah we have. Speaking of which,” Katsuki says, elbowing Eijirou sharply in the ribs.

“Ow! Speaking of which what?” Eijirou asks, leaning away from him.

Katsuki performs another one of his spectacular eye rolls. “Schubas,” he hisses.

“What about Schubas?” Eijirou asks blankly, and then his eyes go wide and bright with recognition. “Wait, we’re doing that now?”

“Yes, now, you idiot, that was a great set up!”

“No it’s not, I’m not ready!”

“What the hell do you mean you’re not ready, you literally spent the entire plane ride back from Australia practicing for this.”

“Dude, you gave me no warning! I don’t have any time to prepare!”

“Jesus f*cking—okay, well now he knows, so you might as well go for it because otherwise you’re gonna look like a total dumbass.”

“Me? You brought it up, you’re the one that’s going to be a dumbass!”

“Just f*cking ask him the question already!” Katsuki yells, startling a handful of nearby families and sparking several angry glares. One woman snaps “Language!” from behind them, and Izuku has to grab Katsuki’s hand and force it to the table so he can’t flip her off.

“Guys, what’s going on?” Izuku asks, feeling rather lost. It must show on his face, because the annoyed glare Eijirou’s directing at Katsuki crumples, replaced by a sheepish and oddly nervous smile.

「You’re an ass, I hope you know that,」 Eijirou says to Katsuki, ignoring Katsuki’s indignant growling and demands to know what Kirishima just said as he turns back to Izuku. “Well, um. We obviously have something to we want to ask you.”

Izuku nods.

“ Ano…” Eijirou pauses, seeming to gather his thoughts together for a moment before he continues. “Since we’re done with touring for now and the whole band is still in Chicago, me and Denki thought it would be fun to hold a special set at one of our old venues. You know, say thank you to people who helped us get our start. So Denki and Kyouka talked to the manager of Schubas, and the manager said he’d be happy to help—”

“You mean he pretty much pissed himself in excitement when we said we wanted to play,” Katsuki interjects, growling when Eijirou gives him sharp nudge with his elbow.

“Happy to help,” Eijirou repeats emphatically. “So we have a special holiday show this weekend. One night only, it’s gonna be a riot.”

“At Schubas?” Izuku asks. “Isn’t that kind of a small?”

“Not Schubas—Lincoln Hall,” Katsuki corrects.

“Oh. Right, that’d make sense.” Izuku’s only performed at Schubas, but he knows they’re run by the same people. Lincoln Hall is a nicer venue, newly built with all the best touches of modern technology that a small place can offer. “Well that sounds great but um… What does that have to do with me?”

Eijirou clears his throat awkwardly, the color deepening in his cheeks with every passing second. “Ano… I know you haven’t wanted to go to any of our shows before, because of…” He gestures vaguely, smile giving way to a badly concealed grimace.

“Reasons,” Katsuki grunts, and Eijirou nods.

“Reasons,” he repeats. “But… It’s been a few years now and we were… We were kind of hoping you could come to this one. You know, for old time’s sake.”

Izuku blinks. Once. Twice.

“Oh.”

Around him, the Christkindlmarket goes sort of blurry at the edges, the sights and sounds fading away as Izuku’s brain processes the words just spoken to him. He braces himself for the storm of anxiety and nausea that comes whenever people invite him to shows, whenever anything to do with music comes up, only—

Only it never happens.

Instead, Izuku’s mind conjures up images of Thanksgiving weekend, of coming home from work that evening to Speechless filling the kitchen and Shouto making katsudon; of how much he cried, not because it hurt, but because it was beautiful. He thinks too of all the days since then, of Shouto’s slowly expanding playlist that fills all the empty spaces in the apartment, making sure there’s never a quiet moment until Izuku heads off to bed for the night. The phantom sound of all his old favorites fills his ears, settling right back where they belong in his heart; and over that, the symphonic noise of the piano, and the wondrous tone of Shouto’s resonant voice.

“So?” Izuku’s dimly aware of Eijirou speaking to him, of the tentative but hopeful smile spread wide across his face. “What do you say?”

Izuku’s never been to one of Plus Ultra’s shows since he left them; never wanted to, because even the thought of going hurt too much. And there’s some hurt running through him now, but it’s feeble, dulled at the edges and giving way rapidly to something new, something warm and excited and insatiably curious.

Hebreathes. One full inhale, one full exhale.

“Okay,” he says, a soft smile touching his lips. “Sure.”

Katsuki chokes on his hot chocolate, slamming his cup down on the table so he can stare at Izuku, his normal glare completely wiped off his face. Next to him, Eijirou sighs heavily and clasps his hands in front of him. “Dude, I know this has been really hard for you and last thing I wanna do is force you, but we really, really want you to be there—Ow! Katsuki what the hell, that hurt!”

“He said yes, dumbass,” Katsuki snaps while Eijirou clutches at the spot where Katsuki punched him in the arm.

“He—what? He did?” Eijirou blinks, then turns towards Izuku. “You did?”

“I—Yeah.” Izuku bites his lip, a wave of nervousness washing over him, fear that somehow he picked the wrong answer. “But if it’s going to be a problem—“

“What? No!” Eijirou throws his hands up, waving them frantically. “Nonononono, of course no problem! No problem at all, I—I—I just—”

“We thought it would be a lot harder,” Katsuki cuts him off, and Eijirou nods emphatically.

“So much harder,” he whispers loudly.

“He had a whole f*cking speech prepared,” Katsuki snorts.

“Not a speech,” Eijirou huffs. “More like—”

“He practiced it for hours.”

“Not hours, I just went over main points a few times to make sure—“

“He was going to try crying at one point; Denki had to talk him out of it.”

Eijirou’s face turns the approximate color of a Santa hat. 「I just really wanted you to be there this time,」 he mumbles, staring very hard down at his empty plate.

Izuku blinks. “Oh,” he says faintly, feeling quite intelligent. He blinks again.「Eijirou that’s… That’s really… You didn’t have to go through all that trouble just for me.」He keeps blinking, and maybe sniffles a little.

“Don’t f*cking cry,” Katsuki warns.

“I’m not crying!” Izuku protests, though there’s an insistent prickling underneath his eyes and he can feel the droplets beginning to gather in the corners. “I’m not I’m just—I’m really happy that’s all!”

He smiles at them, wobbly around the edges but it comes naturally instead of being forced and that just has more tears trying their best to escape, leaving Izuku to fight a losing battle against them. Across from him Eijirou smiles back, sharp toothed and bright even as his bottom lip starts to quiver and his voice is thick as he says,「That’s great! That’s really great, Izuku, we’re… We’re happy too!」

“Oh my God,” Katsuki groans, turning away from them as he stands up. “I’m f*cking leaving, I deny knowing either of you. Christ, you both look like idiots. I hate this, God, why the f*ck do I hang out with you.”

They do one last lap around the Christkindlmarket before leaving, sharing a piping hot bag of bag of mini donuts on the walk back to Izuku’s apartment, which Katsuki and Eijirou refuse to let him make alone. Somewhere along the way Izuku ends up walking side by side with Katsuki, while Eijirou remains a few steps ahead. “He’s hogging the donuts,” Katsuki grumbles.

“So ask him to share; he’s not gonna bite,” Izuku can’t help but tease, and it’s a testament to just how good Katsuki’s mood must be right now that his eye only twitches once, and he barely glares at all.

“Whatever,” he mutters. They make it another half a block in silence before Izuku feels Katsuki’s elbow nudge his side sharply. “Hey.”

Izuku blinks, turning to look at him. Katsuki’s staring straight ahead, his mouth and brow set deeply into his expression, lending him an aura of gravity. “You sure you’re gonna be alright with going to this show?” he asks, and there’s no taunting to his words, no heat. It’s a simple, straight forward question, and Izuku’s known Katsuki long enough to understand that means he’s looking for a serious answer.

“Yes,” Izuku says, sincere.

Katsuki’s gaze flickers for a moment, eyeing him. “It’s a big f*cking step.”

“I know.” God does Izuku know. “But it’s… Life’s been, um, good for me, the past couple months. And I’m not gonna pretend I’m not, you know, kind of nervous, but I want to go, I really do. I mean, I was never going to be able to avoid it forever, right?” He smiles at Katsuki, who snorts.

“You were really f*cking trying.”

Izuku grimaces. “Yeah, I know,” he admits, gaze dropping. “But it’s different this time, I promise.”

“Yeah? How so?”

Izuku thinks of stark white and vivid red, winter grey and summer blue. Of a piano that plays like a symphony, and a voice that sings ethereal.

“Because things are good right now,” Izuku says simply, and leaves it at that.

It takes him a few steps to register that Katsuki’s stopped walking. When Izuku turns to look back, Katsuki’s glaring, but it isn’t aggravated; it’s sharp, calculating, and Izuku’s stomach drops all the way to his knees because Katsuki’s a lot of things but he’s not stupid; and Izuku is so, so bad at hiding when he’s in love.

“Hey, why’d you stop?” Don’t ask, don’t ask, please please please don’t ask—

Katsuki’s gaze narrows, and Izuku’s on the verge of a heart attack when Eijirou yells from somewhere up ahead, “Hey, you guys coming or what?”

“Shut the hell up, of course we are!” Katsuki yells back, and Izuku heaves a sigh of relief as Katsuki resumes walking, and the moment passes.

“Do you wanna bring anyone with you?” Katsuki asks as they fall into step again.

“Mmm, Ochako and Tenya, maybe?” It’s a long shot, with their busy schedules, but Izuku’s now keenly aware of just how much he missed these parts of his life that he tried to bury, how badly he wants to recapture the sense of pure, unadulterated joy that came from spending long nights out with his friends, surrounded by music. “I know that’s technically two people though so if you don’t have any more tickets—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Katsuki cuts him off.

“Oh. Are you su—”

“Deku, shut up. We’ll make it happen, Jesus.”

A smile settles over Izuku face, and remains there for the rest of the walk home. When they finally reach his apartment, Katsuki says goodbye with a quick handshake, while Eijirou wraps him up in an embrace. “We’ll email you the tickets,” Eijirou tells him, grin sharp and wide in excitement as he hugs Izuku so hard his ribs ache. “This Friday, Lincoln Hall, show starts at nine!”

“I’ll be there,” Izuku says, beaming back at him. “I promise.”

The apartment is quiet when Izuku enters, save for the soft sound of some Tycho coming from the living room. A quick peek sees Shouto curled up with Onigiri on the couch, reading a book and looking as lovely as ever under the soft wash of rainbow lights. Izuku lingers just long enough to say thank you when Shouto tells him that he packed the dinner leftovers for Izuku’s lunch tomorrow, and to wish Shouto a goodnight. Then he makes an evening cup of tea, giving himself some time to steady his nerves before retreating to his room to make a very important phone call.

The line only rings twice before Ochako picks up. “Deku?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

“I—what? Nothing! Why—why would anything be wrong?”

“Oh! It’s just… You usually only call when—well, nevermind.” She sounds relieved, and also rather echoey. “What’s up?”

“Am I on speaker?”

“Yeah, sorry. I got home late so I’m just eating dinner now. Kind of need both my hands.”

“Oh. Busy day?”

She laughs, bright but tired at the edges. “Isn’t it always? Just a lot going on right now; the early snowfall threw a bunch of my projects off schedule so now I’m kind of scrambling. I want to get at least some of them done by New Year’s so I can actually take time off, but…” She sighs. “Anyway, enough about me; why’d you call?”

Izuku bites his lip; the chance of free time is looking ever more slim, and now that he’s actually made the phone call, Izuku’s become increasingly aware of the fact that he hasn’t really got a clue how to bring this up. How exactly is he supposed to say Hey I know I’ve been actively trying to avoid music for four years since a horrific accident but a pianist started staying at my house and now I’m feeling better and want to go to show oh and also I’m super in love with him?

He doesn’t know, so in a bid for extra time, Izuku asks, “Just… Had something I wanted to ask you about. Is Tenya around?”

“Yeah, he’s home for the night.” There’s a muffled noise, and then Ochako yells, “Say hi to Izuku, Tenya!”

“Hi Izuku!” comes Tenya’s booming voice from somewhere in the background, and Izuku can’t help but laugh.

“What’s he working on now?” he asks.

“Eh, case stuff. The usual.” Another sound, and when Ochako speaks again, her mouth sounds full. “So what did you want to ask?”

Izuku doesn’t answer right away; he’s chomping at his bottom lip now, waffling between whether he should bide for more time or just bite the bullet. He wants to do this, wants to ask them to come with him, but it’s awkward and he’s nervous and there’s a high chance they won’t be able to come anyway; he almost wonders if it’s even worth it to try.

“Deku?” Ochako’s voice is softer now. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

There’s concern in her tone, and it strikes right through to his core, banishing all extraneous thought and doubt.

Izuku breathes, one full inhale, one full exhale.

“So, um. You know Plus Ultra is back from tour, right?”

“Yeah! I saw it on Eijirou’s Twitter feed—why, did you see them already?”

“Just him and Kacchan. We got dinner together tonight. They took me to the Christkindlmarket.”

Ochako snorts. “Oh, I bet Katsuki loved that.”

“Hey, he didn’t hate it!”

“Only because he loves the hot chocolate.” He can hear the smile in her voice, and it brings an answering one to his own lips.

“That still counts. Anyway, they, um. They told me that the band is, uh. Doing a special show this weekend. At… At Lincoln Hall. One night only, this Friday.”

“Really? That sounds fun.” She sighs, wistful. “It would be so nice to go to show again. I don’t think I’ve seen anything in like two years. Probably longer.”

“Oh!” Now, it’s now or never. “Well actually, um. If… If you to go to this one, I have… Kacchan promised me three tickets. Two of them are for you and Tenya if… If you guys can make it.”

There’s a long pause.

“Oh, Deku,” Ochako finally says, and her voice sounds heavy, weighed down with regret. “I… I would love to go, really I would, but with all the backed up work—and I’m supposed to go to Milwaukee tomorrow for a meeting, I don’t get back until Friday and who knows—Wait. Did you say three tickets?”

“Y—yeah.” Izuku sighs, shoulders hunching with the force of it. He knew to expect this, but it still stings. “But it sounds like you’re busy, which is fine, I thought—”

“Who’s the third ticket for?”

Izuku blinks. “Oh, um. Me. It’s for me.” He pauses, and then adds, in a softer voice, “I’m… I’m going this time.”

There’s another long pause.

And then very suddenly, a crash in the background so loud that Izuku actually jumps.

“Tenya!” he can hear Ochako yelling, muffled and far away. “Tenya you can’t just leap over the couch like that, you almost broke your ankle—”

“Izuku!” Tenya yells into the receiver, completely ignoring her. “Izuku did I hear you right? You’re going to a show?”

“Um.” Izuku blinks. “I—Yeah, how did you—”

“Tenya give me back my phone!” Ochako shrieks, and there’s a loud cacophony of unidentifiable noises for a moment before she returns, high-pitched and breathless. “Show!” she exclaims loudly. “You—Deku you—you’re going! To a show! By Plus Ultra!”

“I… Yes.” Izuku frowns, confused. “But, you know, you said you were busy so it’s not—”

“Busy? I—what—who said anything about being busy?” Ochako’s laugh is so shrill Izuku jerks the phone away from his ear. “I am not—I’m not busy, Tenya are you busy?”

“Certainly not!” Tenya answers, voice ringing out loud and clear despite being in the background. “As a matter of fact I was just wondering what on earth I was going to do this Friday night because I don’t have anything planned at all!”

“Oh my gosh, that’s so funny, I was just thinking the same thing! See, Tenya’s not busy, and I’m not busy, so we are both perfectly free to do something this Friday! Right Tenya?”

“Yes! Absolutely, one hundred percent free!”

“Not doing anything at all!”

“But—Ochako you just said you had a bunch of projects, and you’re going to Milwaukee—”

“Oh, that? Pft, that’s just… Things. That need to get done. At some point. They’re not important, I can just—”

“Guys,” Izuku says, soft but firm, and they both pause.

“Okay fine,” Ochako says after a moment, “they are important, but you know what? So are you, Deku. Way more important than a bunch of projects or a business trip. So if… if you’re not joking, if you’re really going to this show, we… We want to be there. Because it’s important to you and you’re important to us, so… So…”

“We’ll make it work,” Tenya finishes. “We can find a way to set aside a few hours for our best friend. Especially for something like this.”

There’s a familiar prickle building underneath his eyes again. “Guys, you really… You don’t have to—”

“Yes we do!” they cut him off, in perfect unison, and Izuku lets out a noise that’s half laughter, half sob.

“Okay,” he says, wiping at the tears starting to trickle down his freckled cheeks, lips stretching into a smile so wide it kind of hurts. “Okay.”

Okay. It’s okay.

It’s going to be okay.

Chapter 10: You Could Cause You Can So You Do

Chapter Text

Time becomes intangible for the remainder of week, and Izuku’s barely so much as breathed before he finds himself coming home on Friday with just three hours left before show time. He feels bad for all but wolfing down the lovely gyudon dinner Shouto made but his nerves are finally starting to build up, small little pulses that tug at the back of his mind and the bottom of his stomach and the edges of his heart. Izuku’s jittery as he strips out of his work clothes and starts changing for the night; it shouldn’t matter that much, especially when a Plus Ultra show couldn’t possibly be anything more than casual, but he can’t help it. He’s nervous, and the sudden excess of energy bubbling up from the pits of his stomach has to go somewhere.

He settles on dark jeans and his very first Plus Ultra t-shirt, accented with his normal red boots because there’s still snow on the ground and Izuku’s lived in Chicago long enough to value function over fashion. But the jeans he picks are so much more slender than the khakis and gym shorts he’s used to wearing, and the shirt—which he knows fit well once because he used to wear it all the time—is tight. Not all around, but in odd places, like over his chest and arms. Izuku frowns as he plucks at the soft cotton, trying to coax it into having some give. It definitely didn’t fit like this the last time he wore it, which was admittedly over four years ago, but still. He doesn’t feel like it should have changed this much.

The atmosphere around him doesn’t seem quite right, like hearing an instrument that’s just slightly out of tune. Realistically, Izuku knows he looks fine and even if he doesn’t, his appearance isn’t going to matter in the middle of a packed concert venue. But veins of anxiety are sprouting up in the back of his mind, sowing tiny seeds of doubt, just enough to knock him off kilter and leave him fumbling. He wants tonight to go well—needs tonight to go well—and if even the tiniest details aren’t set perfectly in place, he thinks the entire thing might come crashing down.

His hands start to tremble; old scar tissue pulls extra tight across his skin. Izuku has to force himself to breathe, one full inhale, one full exhale.

Another opinion, he decides. He needs another opinion. A reassurance to dull the edges of his nerves.

So he walks out to the living room where Shouto’s seated on the couch, legs tucked neatly underneath him, long fingers curved elegantly where his chin is propped up by his palm as he reads the book perched in his lap. The sight does absolutely no favors to Izuku’s already frazzled brain, especially not when the fairy lights strung up paint the white side of Shouto’s hair in a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors, rendering him wholly and unfairly beautiful. When Izuku breathes in, it sort of sounds like a wheeze.

Bad idea, bad idea, holy sh*t this was a bad idea.

He turns to leave, hoping Shouto’s too enthralled by his book to notice his presence, but Onigiri foils his escape by jumping down from her spot on the piano to brush against his legs. The clatter of keys causes Shouto to look up, and all Izuku can offer him is a nervous, wobbly smile. “Uh, hi,” he says, pushing Onigiri away with one foot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Shouto doesn’t say anything at first. He just kind of… stares at Izuku. And blinks. Which Izuku finds very peculiar, because Shouto doesn’t usually blink, not the way he is right now, like he’s surprised and very possibly perplexed. He even blinks twice more before finally saying, “You’re not wearing khakis. Or gym shorts.”

Izuku laughs, too high-pitched to be truly comfortable. “I know. Weird, right?” He swallows thickly, trying to tamp down on some of the anxiety creeping its way up his esophagus and burning at the back of his throat. “I’m, uh. I’m going out with some friends tonight and I, well… Do you… Do you think this looks okay?” He gestures weakly at his torso, acutely aware of the tremors running through his hands. He hopes Shouto won’t notice.

Shouto blinks again. “Yeah,” he says. “You look cu—Fine. You look fine.” His head tilts curiously. “I assume you’re just going out for drinks or something?”

“Oh no, we’re actually… Did I not tell you?” He shakes his head and Izuku flushes; Shouto’s half the reason tonight’s even become a possibility, and somehow in the whirlwind of the week, Izuku never even told him what happened. “I’m, um. I’m going to uh, a show.”

The words drop from his mouth like drumbeats, heavy and thunderous, and for what feels like an eternity, Shouto simply stares at him. “A show meaning a music performance?” he eventually asks, and Izuku can’t help the nervous bubble of laughter that erupts from his chest.

“Ye—yeah. I, um. Some old friends of mine they’re—they’re back from tour and I guess, uh. I guess they’re doing a special show? At Lincoln Hall, it’s uh, it’s this really nice venue over in—well I guess it doesn’t really matter where it is but, um. They invited me. And I haven’t… I haven’t been to a show since, uh. You know. So yeah, I’m going to see a band perform for the first time in like… Four years?”

Another laugh, starting to tip toward the edge of hysterical. Izuku’s acutely aware of his babbling but he can’t seem to make himself stop. “So it’s uh… Well, my friends are all really excited and I think—I mean I know it’s gonna be good because they’re amazing performers but like—I’ve never technically seen them before because the band—Well, nevermind, it’s not important, I just… Anyway I, um. That’s why I asked about how I look because I—I just wanna look nice, I guess? I know that doesn’t—I mean it’s just a show, it doesn’t matter that much but I… Yeah.”

Shouto doesn’t answer right away. It’s only a few seconds, but the quiet proves too much for Izuku’s nerves to handle and he starts talking again, because that’s all he can think to do. “I—Do you think this shirt is too tight? I feel like it’s too tight, it feels weird around my arms and chest, I think it must have shrunk in the wash or something, uh…”

There’s another moment in which Shouto doesn’t speak, and Izuku’s already opening his mouth to start a new string of thought when Shouto says, “Your shirt fits fine.” There’s a pause, and then with curious tilt of his head, he adds, “Why are you so concerned about what you’re wearing?”

Izuku grimaces. “I… I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I just—I haven’t done this for a long time and it’s got me kind of worked up. And I know it doesn’t really matter but I… It’s kind of important and I just… I wanna look nice, you know? Like you.”

Shouto blinks. “Like me?” he repeats, and Izuku’s entire face bursts into flame.

Okay wow, thanks brain. Thanks. It’s like you want me to die.

“Y—yeah,” Izuku answers. “Because you… You always look so well put together!” Excellent. Great save. “Like all your clothes match and nothing’s too big or too small and you just… You always look stylish.” Case in point, Shouto’s currently wearing nothing more than trim black jeans and a white v neck sweater, and he still looks stupidly beautiful.

“Ah.” Shouto nods thoughtfully. “So you want to have a look.”

“Uh, yeah. I guess?” Izuku has no idea what that means but Shouto clearly knows more about fashion than he does, so he’s not going to question him. “So um. What should I do?”

Shouto’s brow furrows, cheeks hollowing just a touch as his gaze sweeps over Izuku a few times, clearly mulling the options over in his head. Izuku does his best not to fidget but it’s extraordinarily difficult with all of Shouto’s attention focused directly at him, winter grey and summer blue eyes alight with intensity. Electricity sparks in jittery pulses along his spine as Izuku waits for Shouto’s answer.

An eternity seems to pass before Shouto stands up, walking forward until he’s mere inches away from Izuku. “May I?” he asks, lifting one hand, and Izuku’s too hyper fixated on their sudden proximity to really understand what Shouto means, but he nods anyway, because he can’t imagine it would be anything bad.

Then Shouto takes hold of his left arm and Izuku’s entire brain short circuits.

Cold, he registers dimly as the electricity floods into his body, thunderstorms brewing at all the points of contact between them as Shouto draws Izuku’s arm up and out, asking him to hold it there. Shouto’s fingers are incredibly cold, like tiny spots of ice brushing against his skin, and yet Izuku’s burning up, combusting from the inside out as Shouto proceeds to take the edge of his t-shirt sleeve and roll it up.

“What—what’s that for?” Izuku barely manages to choke out, his tongue resting leaden and dry and kind of useless in his mouth.

“It’ll accentuate your arm muscles,” Shouto answers, very matter of fact, before he moves to the other arm.

“Oh.” That seems odd, mostly because Izuku’s pretty sure he doesn’t have much in the way of arm muscle to accentuate. “Are you… sure about that?”

“Yes. You have really nice biceps.”

Izuku nearly chokes on his own spit at that, hastily trying to cover the misstep as a loud cough while Shouto steps back to assess his handiwork. “I… I don’t think that’s right,” he squeaks, his face flushing so rapidly he’s surprised the blood vessels there don’t just burst. But when he actually looks down at his arms, it’s surprisingly easy to tell how the shortened sleeve length fits neatly against the curve of his muscles, which seem… Much more defined than Izuku ever remembers them being before. He wonders when the hell that happened.

“What shoes are you wearing?” Shouto asks, snapping Izuku back to attention.

“Uh, my boots. The red ones.”

“Can you go put them on?”

It feels like sacrilege to trek back into the living room with shoes on, but any hesitation goes flying out the window once Shouto kneels down to tend to the hem of Izuku’s jeans. He’s not even touching Izuku properly this time, icy fingers blocked by a thick layer of woolen sock, but it still has sparks flying all along Izuku’s legs, pooling at the base of his spine. He holds his breath for the entire time it takes Shouto to roll his pant legs up to a specific height, fearful that even the slightest wrong move could shatter the entire moment. He struggles to mask the heavy sigh of simultaneous relief and disappointment he heaves when Shouto finishes and steps back to evaluate his handiwork.

“Better?” Izuku asks, pleased when he his voice doesn’t shake.

“Better,” Shouto agrees. “But… Hmm.” He tilts his head, cheeks taking on a slight hollow as he considers something. “I think you should push your hair back,” he says after a moment, and Izuku blinks.

“My hair?” Izuku hadn’t even considered the possibility of doing anything with his hair; his curls don’t lend themselves well to much more than having the tangles brushed out. “Why?”

Shouto shrugs. “It’ll look good,” he answers simply. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I—I mean yeah, but…” Izuku frowns, reaching up to tug at the green mess atop his head. “It’s not really long enough to put back.”

“Not put—push. Like you do with your sweatbands when you go out running, but with a normal headband.”

“Oh.” Izuku blinks. “That looks good?”

“Yes.”

That doesn’t seem right at all, and even though Izuku wants to trust that Shouto knows what he’s doing, he can’t help but be skeptical. “I don’t have any normal headbands,” Izuku says in lieu of telling Shouto that he’s probably wrong.

Shouto frowns, brow scrunching for a moment before he says, “Hold on,” and brushes past Izuku to head for his room.

He returns holding what appears to be two bandanas, one red and one white, but upon closer inspection Izuku sees they’re patterned not with paisley, but small and intricate designs of koi fish, and made of what looks to be silk. Shouto holds the ends with one hand and begins to twist them together with the other, until they twine into a swirl. “Push your hair back,” he instructs, and Izuku obeys, running his fingers through the green curls a few times to settle them before gathering as much as he can and pushing it away from his forehead.

Izuku sees what’s coming before it happens, but it does nothing to assuage the storm that roars to life inside his chest as Shouto comes near enough to begin tying the intertwined fabric around his head. This close he can catch the faint whiff of Shouto’s cologne, a pine and smoke scent that Izuku wants to drown in. He can’t help the deep inhale he takes as Shouto’s nimble fingers begin tying the scarves together, the smell working its way down until it settles in his belly, soft and warm like embers, ones that burst back into flame when Shouto begins strategically adjusting a few stray curls here and there. His cold fingertips brush close to Izuku’s temples, and suddenly breathing becomes an impossibility.

It would be easy, Izuku thinks, so easy, to tilt his head up and kiss him. Slip his fingers into the red and white strands curled at the base of Shouto’s neck and bring his head down. Find out if Shouto’s skin is as cold as his fingertips. If his hair is as silken as the light makes it seem. If his lips taste like the peppermint chapstick Izuku sometimes sees him use.

(If the faint wash of color rising in Shouto’s cheeks is just Izuku’s eager imagination, or if maybe, maybe, Izuku isn’t the only one who feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust.)

Then Shouto steps away and Izuku has to settle back from where he was beginning to rise onto balls of his feet, leaning forward, and dear God he hopes his face isn’t as red as he thinks it is. “How… How does it look?” he asks, praying Shouto doesn’t notice how hoarse his voice sounds.

Winter grey and summer blue eyes sweep over him in a final appraisem*nt. “Good,” Shouto says after a moment. “You look… Good.” He nods his head towards the general direction of Izuku’s room. “Go see for yourself.”

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror proves to be somewhat surreal. Izuku’s never cared all that much for his appearance beyond wanting to look presentable or professional where called for, but now he finds it oddly difficult to pull his gaze away from his reflection. There’s not enough vanity in him to say definitively whether he looks attractive or not, but he certainly looks different. More polished. Deliberate and careful in his choices rather than casual. And Izuku can’t deny that he kind of likes how his hair looks when it’s pushed neatly away from his face.

(The fact that the swirl of fabric reminds him of Shouto’s own stark white and vivid red hair might be swaying his opinion. But only a little.)

“Thank you,” Izuku tells Shouto when he returns to the living room, where Shouto’s resumed his spot on the couch. “Really, thank you, I’m not—I don’t know anything about this kind of stuff so this was… Nice. To have some help.”

He offers Shouto what he hopes is a winning smile, thrilled when Shouto answers with a small one of his own. “You’re welcome,” he says. Then, “Who are you going to see anyway?”

“Oh! Um, Plus Ultra. Do you know them?”

The smile disappears, replaced with a confused frown. “Yes,” Shouto says, “but they’re a relatively recent band, aren’t they? I thought they only debuted within the last couple years.” Before your accident, goes the unsaid implication.

“They did. Well, sort of. They only signed to a major record label within the last few years but before that, um. They were… Well, they were my band. The one I told you about, before.”

“… Ah.” Something indecipherable flashes over Shouto’s expression, gone too quickly for Izuku to try and puzzle it out. “So this is a reunion.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Izuku laughs, still nervous, but less so than before, without the edge of hysteria; just normal nerves, and those he can handle well enough. “I’ve never seen them play without me so this’ll be kind of a brand new experience. I’m… I’m pretty excited.”

The corners of Shouto’s mouth twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but doesn’t quite make it all the way. “It sounds fun,” he says, voice a touch softer than it was a moment ago.

“It will be.” Of this much, Izuku is certain. Plus Ultra has always known how to put on a rousing performance.

Shouto says nothing in response, and an odd sort of silence settles between them for a few moments before Izuku coughs and says, “Anyway, I uh. I should probably get going. Wanna catch the CTA on time, you know.” He pauses, and then adds, “Thanks again for your help.”

He makes for the entryway, is just stepping over the threshold when Shouto says, “Midoriya.”

Izuku turns his head, blinking curiously. Shouto’s not quite looking at him, but there’s an undeniable faint upward tilt to his lips as he says, “I hope you have a good time.”

A swell of emotion rises up in Izuku’s chest, a sudden wave that catches him off guard and very nearly pushes words out of his mouth. Come with me, please, we can hide your hair and stand off in a corner so no one will notice, I won’t let anyone spill your secrets, please, I want to know what you look like when you dance—

Izuku bites down on his tongue, hard enough to taste iron and salt.

“Thanks,” he says instead. “I will.”

Izuku rides his lovestruck high all the way down the Red Line from Addison to Fullerton, acutely aware of his pink-tinged cheeks and dopey-eyed grin but uncaring of who sees, who might guess at the nature of his happiness. It’s illogical, but Izuku swears his nerves are still tingling from the brush of Shouto’s cold skin against his own, keeping the electricity alive as it sparks through his veins and along his spine and deep into the crevices of his heart. When he steps onto the platform and away from the stale air of the carriage car, Izuku inhales deeply, and underneath the brisk winter wind filling his lungs he catches the faint scent of pine and smoke. The smell lingers as Izuku exits the station and makes his way towards Lincoln Hall, a soothing balm against his frazzled nerves that helps keep him grounded.

At least, until he rounds the street corner.

Even from a full block away it’s possible to see the crowd gathered outside the venue, the cacophony spreading down the whole street, causing Izuku to slow as a familiar unease catches fire in his stomach, gasoline bright. It’s not that he thought this wouldn’t be a popular show, not with how well Eijirou and Katsuki said Plus Ultra was doing. But there’s something about seeing the crowd in person, its presence solidifying in his mind what was, until this point, still sort of an abstract thought.

This is a show. For the first time in four years, Izuku’s really going to see a show.

The hard reality settles like a shackle in his gut, slowing his pace even further as he cautiously makes his way towards the crowd. Every nerve feels hyper aware now, balanced on a precarious edge that he can’t be sure won’t tip in the wrong direction. He wants to do this, wants to be here, for the promise he made to his friends if nothing else, but seeing the undeniable truth of his undertaking, it’s…

It hurts. Just a little, right in the pit of his stomach where all his guilt and anxiety and denial live, bubbling up underneath a rapidly cracking surface. Izuku inhales, but it’s not as deep as he needs it to be, doesn’t quite fill his lungs the way it should, leaves him with a shaky exhale that does nothing to push back the rising swell of emotions in his chest. He tries again, but the breath catches in his throat and Izuku can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t—

“Oh, oh, there he is! Deku! Deku, here!”

Quite suddenly, Izuku finds himself with an armful of Ochako, literally bouncing in excitement as she proceeds to squeeze all the air from his lungs. “Hi!” she squeals, at the exact same time Tenya declares, “Hello!” and now Izuku’s sandwiched between to opposing hugs, the sheer crushing force of which leaves him hanging limply between them.

“Guys, I need to breathe,” he finally squeaks after at least a solid ten seconds of embrace, and with a great huff of reluctance, they let him go.

“Oh, you look so cute!” Ochako chirps, clapping her hands in glee as she sweeps a critical eye over his appearance. “I like this!” she adds, reaching up to poke at his makeshift headband. “Like a candy cane! Very festive!”

“Th-thanks,” Izuku stammers, still trying to get air into his lungs.

Ochako’s smile dims, lips pursing in concern. “Hey, are you okay?” she asks, gaze flickering over his face. “You look a little pale.”

“I—I’m fine,” Izuku lies. He doesn’t try to fake a smile because Ochako will see right through it, but he does say, “There were just a bunch of annoying drunk people on the CTA, that’s all.”

“You took the CTA? You should have said something, we could have gone with you!”

“Oh no, it’s fine Tenya, I take the CTA all the time and you guys were already driving up from Hyde Park, it would suck to have to drive to Lakeview and then take the CTA back down—”

“Nonsense, it would have been fine!” Tenya insists. “Though I suppose it’s a little late now. Well, at least we can accompany you home.”

“What? No, you guys don’t have to—”

“Ah ah ah, no arguing! Not tonight!” Ochako slaps a hand over Izuku’s mouth, muffling his protests. “Come on, let’s get going. Gosh, I hope that crowd isn’t the line to get in, we’re gonna be stuck out here forever if it is.”

The clamor grows as they near the doors, catching at the edges of Izuku’s nerves and setting them alight. He’s thankful for the gloves hiding the tiny tremors in his hands as they move forward, Tenya’s towering form cutting a neat path through the masses until they reach the entrance proper. Several haggard looking bouncers are trying to keep most people back, while a few surly looking employees check tickets at the door. A heavy lump swells up in Izuku’s throat as he casts his gaze around; all of these people are here for Plus Ultra, and it seems very few of them are actually getting in to see them. He thought he’d braced himself for the evidence of their popularity but with the reality of the crowd closing in, Izuku’s finding himself grossly unprepared for the truth.

The tickets he printed earlier sit leaden in his pocket, weighing him down. Maybe, Izuku thinks as Tenya muscles his way to the front, maybe there are other people here who deserve them more. People who have been following Plus Ultra since the beginning, people who are true fans, people who didn’t spend four years running as far away from music—from their friends—as possible. People who can appreciate the beauty and artistry of Plus Ultra’s performance, who will actually have an amazing time, not like Izuku, who can barely keep his nerves under control, whose hands are trembling in his pockets, whose muscles are starting to lock in fear, whose lungs won’t work quite right as he takes in a shuddering inhale—

Catches harsh winter air at the back of his throat, and the faint scent of pine and smoke in his nose.

Breathes out a slow, if shaky, exhale.

“Hello!” he hears Tenya say to one of the bouncers, booming voice carrying clear through the din. “We’re here—”

“Tickets up front or you’re not getting through,” the man answers flatly.

“Ah! Yes, of course! Izuku—”

“Right here,” Izuku says, pulling the tickets from his coat and passing them to to Tenya.

“Hey, you’re here!” Eijirou yells when they enter the Green Room backstage. He vaults off from where he’d been seated on the back of a couch, knocking Denki straight into Kyouka with the force of his jump. “Guys, they’re here!”

Izuku has no time to brace before Eijirou’s body collides roughly with his own and he sweeps Izuku into a crushing bearhug.「You made it!」he exclaims, lifting Izuku off the ground and swinging him around in a full circle before letting go, leaving Izuku dizzy and wheezing.「Ah, this is cute!」He reaches out to tug at Izuku’s headband with a toothy, teasing grin.「Ochako, did you do this?」

「No, he showed up like that!」Ochako answers, laughing when Eijirou turns and wraps her up in a sweeping hug as well. 「You think he’s finally figured out there’s more to fashion than khakis and t-shirts?」

「Hey now, that’s not fair; he also wears gym shorts and sweatshirts,」Eijirou replies with a impish smile, ignoring Izuku’s indignant squawk in favor of exchanging a manly hug with Tenya.

“What’s he saying?” Denki asks Kyouka.

“He’s making fun of Izuku’s fashion choices,” she answers.

“Oh! Are we critiquing? Because I have some thoughts—” There’s a loud yell as Kyouka smacks him upside the head, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t be rude,” she scolds as she stands up. “Hi,” she says to Izuku with a smile, pulling him in for brief embrace. “We’re so glad you could make it. Go ahead take off your coats, you guys can just leave them back here.”

“Th-thanks,” Izuku stutters. At present he’s not entirely sure he shares the sentiment, still raw and shaky from the sheer volume and noise of the audience out on the floor. Weaving their way through the bodies to make it backstage felt rather like being stuck in rush hour traffic, and what little calm Izuku managed to gather outside has rapidly faded away.

He slips out of his puffy green coat; Eijirou lets out a low wolf whistle at the sight, and a rush of blood fills Izuku’s freckled cheeks, turning him a perfect Christmas red. He thought he’d braced himself for an inordinate amount of attention from his friends, which could only be expected given the massive feat he’s about to undertake, but this, the focus on his appearance? It never even occurred to him as a possibility, and now he’s been caught off guard, faltering and unprepared.

“Where’s Katsuki?” Izuku asks, trying to turn the attention away from himself.

“Still arguing with the stagehands about sound check and sh*t—you know how anal he gets,” Denki says, rising from his spot on the couch. He too wraps Izuku in an embrace, grinning when he pulls away. “Oh hey, I like this,” he says, poking at Izuku’s headband. “Who did this for you?”

“I—what?” Izuku blinks several times, brain scrambling for an answer that doesn’t involve revealing anything that might even hint at the existence of Shouto; he can barely handle lying to one person at the time, never mind six. “No one, I-I did it myself.”

Denki raises an eyebrow. “Mmm, Izuku no offense but like. That seems fake—ow, Kyouka! Stop hitting me!”

“Stop being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m just saying that historically, Izuku’s fashion sense has been… Um…”

“Terrible?” Eijirou suggests.

“Mildly atrocious?” Ochako adds.

“Hey!” Izuku absolutely does not pout. “Come on you guys, my fashion sense isn’t that bad!”

“Maroon pinstripe suit,” Ochako responds flatly.

“I—Okay fine, fair point, but that was high school! I’ve gotten better!”

“Do you still have all your old volunteer t-shirts from high school?” Denki asks, and Izuku’s blush spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Well yeah, but… But so does Tenya!”

“I don’t, actually! Though only because Ochako either threw them out or donated them, a decision I very much disagreed with—”

“Honey, we’ve talked about this; they were over ten years old, and most of them had at least three holes each. I stand by my decision.”

“I understand that. I also stand by my decision to keep pointing out how wasteful it was to toss out perfectly wearable t-shirts—”

“What the hell are you guys yelling about over here? Jesus Christ, if you’re gonna be so loud at least close the f*cking door.”

Izuku doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved to see Katsuki in his life, slamming the Green Room door behind him as he enters in characteristic annoyed fashion. “Kacchan!” he greets, with perhaps just a touch more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, earning him a few raised eyebrows. “Hi!”

“Hey.” Katsuki stops just short of Izuku, frowning deeply. Izuku’s just about to ask him how the sound check went, desperate for any topic of discussion that isn’t about him when Katsuki says, “What’s with the headband? Your boyfriend give that to you?”

Death. Death would be preferably to being where Izuku is right now, at a sudden and intense center of focus, as five of the six people around him begin shouting in unison. “I— what? Boyfriend? ” is all he manages, coherent thought unable to push past the roiling nausea in his gut, the sudden tremble in his hands, and the building prickle underneath his eyes.

“Oh, what, girlfriend this time?” Katsuki corrects, and Izuku’s a hundred percent certain he’s about to find out whether it’s possible to die from sheer embarrassment; he’s honestly kind of hoping the answer is yes.

“No!” he half yells, emphatic as possible to try and cut through the noise, but to no avail. The commotion simply overwhelms him, from Denki and Kyouka’s exuberant chatter to Tenya’s loud and exasperated exclamations to Eijirou and Ochako’s simultaneously disappointed and delighted shrieking.

“Deku you liar, you said you weren’t dating anyone—”

“I’m not—”

「Why didn’t you say anything at dinner, dude! This is crazy, you should have asked for another ticket—」

“No, I didn’t need—”

“Izuku, when did this happen! And why didn’t you tell us, I’m very hurt—”

“That’s not it—”

“That’s so great, Izuku, when did you—”

“I don’t—”

“Details, man! Boyfriend? Girlfriend? What do they look like? Come on, you’ve gotta have pics—”

“I’m not—”

He keeps trying to speak, to tell them no, they’ve got it all wrong, he’s doesn’t have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, he isn’t dating anyone, please, please, just listen but it’s too much, they’re too loud, too insistent, too excited. Their questions and demands crash over him, a tidal wave dragging him out to sea, and Izuku is lost and desperate and drowning. He can feel the catch of breath in his throat, the funny spasm of his lungs, building and building and building until he swears his very bones themselves quake.

Helpless, Izuku looks to Katsuki, eyes wide and watery in a silent plea. It’s not the greatest idea; reading others emotions has never been Katsuki’s strong point, and comfort is a concept that still escapes him. He would, under any normal circ*mstance, never be Izuku’s first choice when asking for help.

But, if nothing else, there’s perhaps no one on Earth who better knows what Izuku looks like right before he’s about to start crying.

"Hey, will everybody just shut the f*ck up for one goddamn second!”

The cacophony ceases, and Izuku’s lungs release all their air in a single, wavering exhale.

“Jesus f*cking Christ, you guys are annoying,” Katsuki mutters. “You gonna let the man speak or are you gonna just keep jabbering away like a pack of angry monkeys?”

Eijirou and Denki grimace; Tenya, Ochako, and Kyouka all go varying shades of red. “Sorry,” Ochako murmurs, subdued. “Sorry, Deku, we just—”

“I think we all just got a little over excited,” Tenya says, expression now calm and somewhat grave. “I’m sorry, you were saying…?”

Izuku takes a breath; inhale, exhale. It’s not nearly deep enough to soothe himself entirely, but it’s all he can manage. “I was saying,” he starts, slowly, carefully, “that I do not have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, for that matter. I’m not… I’m not dating anyone. Really.”

Five faces abruptly fall. Katsuki’s remains glaring but he’s eyeing Izuku critically now, like he’s trying to assess something; Izuku doesn’t particularly want to think about what. What he does want to think about it what he should do next, because clearly none of his friends are going to buy into the idea that Izuku managed to dress himself, which honestly, he can’t really blame them. He’s not fashionable; he knows this. It’s why he asked Shouto for help in the first place, which was, apparently, a terrible miscalculation on his part. So he needs a strategic answer, one that places credit for his appearance on someone besides himself while also letting on as little about Shouto as possible, because if any of his friends get so much as a hint of his having fallen in love with a stranger, Izuku’s not sure he’ll survive the interrogation that follows.

“The headband is from… a friend,” Izuku finally says, because technically, that’s not a lie. “I… I wanted to look nice tonight because it’s, you know. K-kind of a big deal.” He laughs, nervous and jittery, a little too close to crying for comfort. “So I asked him for help and he… He lent me the headband because he thought… He thought it would like good. B-but that’s it, I swear. It’s just… Just a friend.”

Izuku can feel the muscles in his arms twitching, trying to rise so they can hide his face from the abashed gazes of his friends as they process his answer; it takes far too much effort to keep them down.

“So… who’s this new friend?” Denki asks after a few tense moment; Eijirou and Kyouka smack him at the same time, both hissing to shut up. Izuku thinks he’d be more appreciative of the gesture if he could actually get a proper breath in, if his muscles didn’t feel like they were going to vibrate right out of his skin.

“Is there, um. Is there a bathroom around here?” he asks. It’s an effort to keep his voice from shaking.

“Yeah, just down the hall. I can show you—”

“That’s okay, I’ll find it,” Izuku cuts him off. A bubble of guilt shoots up into the back of his throat at the wounded tilt of Eijirou’s eyebrows, but Izuku forces himself to push it aside. His heart’s beating a snare drum staccato against his ribs, hands trembling like overly long piano chords in his pockets, and he desperately needs to get out of this room, away from these people. He makes a beeline for the door, opens it right as a stagehand makes her way past him, frantic and haggard. He hears her voice informing the others it’s fifteen minutes to showtime.

Just fifteen minutes to gather himself into a cohesive state. Izuku wants to burst into tears at very thought.

The bathroom door shuts behind him with a satisfying click, dampening any noise from the outside. It’s nicely appointed and exceedingly clean, so Izuku doesn’t feel too terrible about slumping against the wall and sliding to the floor, tears flowing freely down his freckled cheeks now that there’s no one else here to see them. He brings his legs up, wrapping his arms around them and resting his forehead on knobby knees; he isn’t sobbing, but his breath keeps coming in fits and hiccups. His head aches. So does his heart.

He should have known better than to try and dress up. But he’d gotten so wrapped up in his nerves and excitement that he never stopped to consider how odd it would look, the king of casual wearing something that looks like it took effort. Izuku’s sorely tempted to take the whole ensemble apart, but as soon as his trembling fingers brush against the soft silk of the entwined scarves, he stops. Shouto gave this to him, and for however much trouble it’s causing, Izuku can’t bring himself to take it off. It’s not Shouto’s fault he became the sudden center to a storm of unwanted attention. And it’s not his friends’ fault either; they were only doing what friends do best, looking after his well being, expressing curiosity at unexpected changes. Izuku can’t blame them for that, because that’s what people do when they care. They poke, they pry, they meddle. It’s exactly what Izuku would do for any one of them.

So it’s really nobody’s fault that Izuku’s on the floor of a bathroom trying to fight back a panic attack, except maybe his own. And it’s not really about the clothing, thought it did make for a great catalyst. The simple fact of the matter is he’s nervous and he’s scared. He’s been nervous and scared since he got home earlier this evening, and his poor attempts to patch over the cracks in his facade have all come crumbling apart. It shouldn’t be that surprising, because this is what happens every time Izuku does something like this; he makes a monumental, spur-of-the-moment decision and barrels headlong into it without so much as thought, only for his mind to catch up to his heart and swallow him whole in a hurricane of doubts and worries and fears.

Maybe, Izuku thinks as he continues to cry into his knees, maybe he shouldn’t have done this. Should never have agreed to go to this show, not this soon. It’s been little more than three weeks since he even started listening to music properly again, a tremendous step in and of itself, and that only with Shouto’s help. Choosing to try his luck at going to a live performance, especially one given by his old band, seems, in retrospect, absolutely ludicrous.

But this is how it always goes. Like performing his love song to Ochako at the Battle of the Bands. Deciding to go to Oberlin. Everything about Mei. Spontaneously picking up the rhythm guitar spot for Howitzer Blast when their fourth player bailed ten minutes before they were due onstage. Dropping the legal case. Moving from Arlington Heights to Lakeview. And, of course, taking in Shouto. Izuku’s always been good at thinking things through until he’s very suddenly not.

Is that such a bad thing though?

Izuku takes a shuddering inhale, trying to force as much breath into his lungs as possible. The air smells like potpourri, a bit of lemon cleaner, and a faint, lingering hint of pine and smoke.

I mean, can you really say those were the wrong decisions to make?

He sobs on the exhale, tears still streaming down his cheeks, but it’s not sad, exactly. It’s not painful. It almost feels like relief.

Because you don’t regret any of them, do you?

No.

No, he really doesn’t.

Slowly, Izuku loosens the death grip on his elbows. Lifts his head from his knees. Opens his eyes. Lets his arms fall to his sides. And after one more deep breath, stands up.

He shuffles over to the sink, hands seeking the comfort of cool ceramic while he takes a good long look at himself in the mirror. It’s not a bad picture, despite his puffy red eyes and the line of tear tracks over each cheek. The headband looks nice; the red and white make a good contrast to the green, and the swirl compliments the shape of his loose curls. Shouto did an excellent job. He can see why his friends would be drawn to comment on it.

Izuku closes his eyes, just for a moment. Breathes; one full inhale, one full exhale.

So here’s one truth: he’s nervous, yes. And maybe more than a little terrified. But the other truth is that deep down, at the core of his heart, Izuku wants to be here. He wants to be here just like he wanted to listen to the music Shouto played for him that evening, because it’s been four long, exhausting years since Izuku tried to leave his former life behind and the fact is, he’s missed it. He misses music; he misses listening to it and playing it and sharing it, and he especially misses enjoying it. He’s tried his best to find things to fill the void its absence left behind, but nothing has come even remotely close, never made him feel vivid and electric and alive the way music does. He agreed to come tonight because he’s been feeling good, and he’s feeling good because the hole carved into his heart has been mending, slowly but surely, ever since he heard Shouto at the piano for the first time.

It still hurts. Izuku’s not certain it will ever stop hurting, but if the past few months have taught him anything, it’s that the pain will be worth it. Because music is a part of him, entrenched in his heart and engraved in his soul, and a life without it hasn’t been much of a life worth living.

A lot of people have made a lot of sacrifices to get him this far—friends, family, strangers, all working to make it that much easier for him to pick up the pieces of his shattered dreams. Izuku doesn’t want their hard work—his own hard work—to go to waste.

And if that means jumping headfirst into an arguably poor decision while utterly ignoring the potential ramifications?

So be it.

“Jesus Christ, it’s about damn time,” Katsuki growls when Izuku finally exits the bathroom. “I thought I was gonna have to break down the door. Showtime is in five f*cking minutes, you know.”

“Sorry,” Izuku says. “Just, uh. Wanted to make sure I didn’t need to go during the performance?”

Katsuki very pointedly stares at Izuku’s still red-rimmed eyes. “Right,” he says flatly. “Well, mission accomplished. Now you shouldn’t need to use the bathroom for the next f*cking week.”

Izuku laughs; it’s small and shaky, but it’s a real laugh, and it makes him feel a little better. “Where are Ochako and Tenya?”

“Waiting for you by the backstage exit.”

“Oh, okay.” He offers Katsuki a smile, wobbly at the edges but genuine enough. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you after the show, then. Good luck! Not that you need it, of course, you guys are gonna be great, but uh. Yeah.”

He turns to leave and even manages to take a step forward before Katsuki says, “Deku.”

Izuku turns back to him, blinking. Katsuki’s expression is set deep into the lines of his face, not quite angry, but certainly not pleased. “Who’s this friend that gave you the headband?”

“I—what?” Izuku blinks several more times in rapid succession, mind scrambling to come up with a good diversion. “Why do you want to know?” he asks after a moment. “Do you care?”

“No,” Katsuki snaps, which definitely means yes. “But whenever you meet someone new and you like them you literally can’t shut up about them because you feel like you have to share every single goddamn detail about everything. I’ve literally never met your supervisor in my life but I feel like I know more about him than his own parents.”

A blush blooms hot and fast over his cheeks. “Well okay, I guess that’s fair, but I don’t see—”

“Shut the f*ck up. Let me finish.” Izuku’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. “My point is, you haven’t said anything about this new friend of yours to anybody. Not a word. And don’t f*cking lie, because I asked; even Ochako and Tenya say you’ve never mentioned them.” Katsuki’s gaze narrows sharply, and a sense of impending doom settles firmly over Izuku’s shoulders. “So something about this person is different. And I want to know what gives.”

Izuku blinks, several more times. It’s not like Katsuki to ask after things like this, ostensibly because he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything to do with anyone else’s personal life, so the demand throws Izuku off kilter, stunned and faltering. His first instinct is to lie, but it won’t work. Izuku knows Katsuki won’t be fooled by his half-baked excuses or poorly constructed diversions. Just like he knows, deep down in the bottom of his heart, that this brusque questioning is Katsuki’s angry, roundabout way of showing that he cares. That he’s worried. It’s kind of sweet, in a vaguely threatening sort of way.

“The friend is… Someone I met through my Airbnb rental,” Izuku answers after a long moment. It’s a truth, and ultimately not an unreasonable one to reveal; he’s already told Ochako and Tenya as much.

“Your—What the f*ck, you’re still doing that crap?” Katsuki glares. “Why? You’re gonna get yourself murdered by some weirdo looking to make a skin suit out of gullible idiots.”

“Okay first of all, Airbnb lets me vet anybody I rent my place out to so I can be sure to pick the least murdery people, and second, the rentals help me keep up with my bills. Which, you know. I kind of need to be able to do.”

Katsuki keeps glaring, but there’s a least a hint of sheepishness to it, which Izuku appreciates. “Well it’s still a dumb idea,” he snaps, but then continues. “So how did you make friends with this Airbnb person? I thought people only stayed for weekends and sh*t.”

“Well normally yeah, but this guy stayed longer, so we—”

“Why?”

“I—does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“That’s not—” Izuku begins, but Katsuki’s gaze is getting dangerously narrow, and he decides it’s best not to argue. “He was an artist working on a project, so he stayed for longer. That gave us time to click, and now we’re friends. That’s it. It’s really not that exciting, that’s why I never said anything about it.”

Katsuki doesn’t stop glaring. “What kind of artist?”

“What?” Izuku blinks. “I—Kacchan, I’m not telling you that.”

“Why the f*ck not?”

“… Because it doesn’t matter? And you don’t need to know?”

“Bullsh*t it doesn’t matter. Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“Kacchan, I am not—”

“Oi!” Izuku jumps at the sudden yell, and Katsuki directs his now vicious glare down the hall to Denki. “Dude, we’re supposed to be on like right now, quit talking and get over here!”

“Hold your f*cking horses, I’ll be there!” Katsuki yells back, then rounds on Izuku again. “Deku—”

“No,” Izuku says, firm and unyielding. “Kacchan, I know this your weird way of trying to say you’re worried about me”—Katsuki’s face bursts into an angry, mottled, red and purple hue—“but this guy is my friend, and you don’t need to know anything more than that. So please, just drop it, and get to the stage, because I kind of think there’s a lot of people out there anxious to hear you play.”

And with that, Izuku turns on his heel and makes for the backstage entrance. He doesn’t bother looking back.

“Sorry,” Izuku says when he reaches Ochako and Tenya, still waiting by the backstage door. “I didn’t mean to take so long I just—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ochako says, cutting him off with a sudden tight hug. Tenya joins a second later, and they don’t let go until all the air has been thoroughly squeezed from Izuku’s lungs.

“Are you going to be okay?” Tenya asks, tone oddly soft with concern. “You didn’t seem well back in the Green Room.”

“I…” I’m fine, Izuku almost says, but the worry etched onto their faces has him pausing, reconsidering his words. “I’ll be okay,” he opts for instead. “But I am, you know. Kind of nervous. And… and a… A little scared, I guess.”

Ochako makes a sad noise from the back of her throat. “You should have said something sooner!” she scolds. One of her hands comes up to squeeze his; the weight and warmth is a balm against the bleeding cracks in his heart and Izuku squeezes back as tight as he can.

“I know.” He ducks his head sheepishly. “I know, I just—I was trying not to bother anyone—”

“Deku, it’s not bothering anyone if you need to ask for help!” Ochako sighs deeply, exasperated and fond. “Someday we’re going to get that through your thick skull.”

She raps her knuckles against his temple, and Izuku can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, don’t count on that,” he says, yelping when she punches his arm in retaliation.

“Serves you right,” she says smartly. “Come on, we’d better go if we want to be out there when they start. Unless—do you want to stay back here…?”

“N-no. No I want to be out on the floor, I do. I just…” Izuku thinks for a moment of the crowd waiting outside, of the suffocating press of bodies and loud, pounding noise. A small grimace flitters across his face, unmissed by his friends.

“What if instead of going out onto the main floor, we went up to the balcony level?” Tenya suggests. “It will probably be less crowded, and there are tables if we need to sit down.”

“Oh. That actually…” It won’t be any less quiet but Izuku thinks he might be able to better handle the noise if he isn’t being crushed from all sides by foreign bodies. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that sounds good.”

They make it upstairs just as the lights begin to dim, and a rumble rises up from the crowd, a massive wave that fills the entire space with its energy, sends sparks skittering up and down Izuku’s spine. Tenya leads them off to the side, using his bulk to politely muscle his way through to the railing so they can look down at the stage below. A twinkle of blue lights begins to sparkle at the edge of the platform and by their aura Izuku can just make out a cloud of fog slowly pouring into the crowd. A shiver runs through him; every part of Izuku’s body feels as though it’s balanced precariously on a knife’s edge, just waiting, waiting, waiting to see which way he’ll fall.

The blue lights snuff out, and a sudden hush falls over the crowd. Izuku’s hands curl tightly around the railing, and he starts to inhale, as slow and careful as he can.

And then—

“What’s up, Chicago!”

A single guitar chord explodes through the quiet, reverberating around the entire concert hall.

“Thanks for coming out tonight!”

A bassline heartbeat, low and steady.

“Are you ready to f*cking riot!”

The lights above the stage burst to life, brilliant purple and red and yellow, and the crowd roars .

It’s compounded and electrified as Katsuki begins the opening guitar riff, Kyouka steady on her bass and Denki backing them both on a keyboard synth. The lights on stage flutter and then fracture into near blinding brightness, painting Plus Ultra! on the black curtain behind them in a shifting display of colors. Eijirou lets out a whoop of excitement so loud it carries all the way to the balcony as he begins the drum line, and then Kyouka steps forward and screams to the crowd—

“Ready—set—Plus Ultra!”

Izuku didn’t listen to any of Plus Ultra’s music before he came tonight; he’d tried, but backed out every time. He convinced himself it would be a nice surprise to listen to them for the first time live instead, to better hear what they sound like without him. It had to be different, of course, because they’re down a rhythm guitar and have shifted from alt punk to pop punk to better capitalize on Kyouka and Katsuki’s shared vocals and Katsuki’s uniquely aggressive playstyle. He’d assumed that the change meant this set would be entirely new and unfamiliar content but—

Izuku knows this song.

He knows this song because he wrote it, years ago, at one in the morning while hunched over a table at the Nisei Lounge, arguing with Katsuki about verses and bridges and lyrics, and whether or not long guitar solos were still a viable option.

This was the song that brought them all together, the one that convinced Eijirou and Denki and Kyouka that the band was a venture worth pursuing. This was the very first song Plus Ultra recorded, the one that vaulted them from relative obscurity to playing venues around Chicago every single weekend. This was the song they played at Pitchfork, the one that had the crowd screaming for an encore. This was the song heard by reps from DCD2 and then Fueled by Ramen, the one that got them their record deal.

One Hundred Percent. Because Izuku was going to give everything he had to this band, or he was going to give it nothing at all.

He’s never heard it without himself playing before.

And it’s…

It’s…

Dimly, Izuku registers hands on his shoulders and back, steadying him against the wave of noise. There are tears on his cheeks, fat, heavy droplets that pour all the way down his neck and pool in the divot between his collarbones. Blood rushes in his ears and his heart’s pounding so loudly it’s starting to drown out the music. Or maybe that’s his voice, because Izuku is screaming, as loud as his lungs will allow.

It hurts. It’s amazing. It’s heartbreaking. It’s magnificent.

He’s moving, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Beside him, Ochako does the same thing, while Tenya remains a solid presence at their backs. There’s a delighted shrieking ringing in his ears and Izuku’s not sure where it’s from, but it’s got something blazing inside his chest, a fiery warmth like the hottest summer sunlight, spreading all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes. It ignites the gasoline fire still sitting in his belly and burns it all to ash and smoke, exhaled with every breath heaving from Izuku’s lungs until there’s nothing left but beautiful, brilliant, blinding light.

A storm rages inside him, heavy and thunderous and electrifying, and Izuku finally remembers what it’s like to truly be alive.

The song fades into a seamless transition, and now Izuku’s listening to something he’s never heard before, something thrillingly new. It sends up another roar from the crowd, and Izuku turns back to Ochako and Tenya and screams to be heard above the noise. Their eyes light up, and then Tenya’s barging his way through the bodies around them, and they’re taking the stairs two at a time, and the ground floor is so densely packed they can barely move but they muscle through anyway, ignoring the dirty looks and annoyed shouts because they don’t care. They keep going until they’ve made it to right in front of the stage, Tenya all but shoving people out of the way and Ochako keeping them back with strategically placed elbows and foot stomping, and maybe it’s rude but it doesn’t matter because it gets Izuku to where he needs to be.

Right here, front and center.

Izuku waits for a lull, and when it comes, he inhales, as deep as he possibly can.

Screams out his exhale, so they’ll know that he’s here. For them.

For himself.

Chapter 11: Higher Now Than Ever Before

Chapter Text

The morning after Plus Ultra’s show, Izuku wakes up with a massive hangover.

Everything hurts. From the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, Izuku’s entire body has become little more than a useless, aching mass, cotton mouthed and leaden limbed. While he waits for the marching band parading around his head to calm down, Izuku attempts to catalogue his current position. The surface under him seems too lumpy and irregular to be his mattress, which means he probably fell asleep on the couch. There’s something soft supporting his head and a warm weight covering his body, so at some point he got himself a pillow and blanket. He can sense light pouring in through his eyelids, so it has to be day time, but that could really mean anywhere from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon.

As for how he got into this position, well.

Of course he remembers the concert. He remembers dancing for the first time in four years, uncaring of how stupid he might look because he was having fun, and that was all that mattered. He remembers meeting his friends backstage after the show and being unable to contain his exuberance, much to the delight of everyone. There were a lot of hugs, a fair amount of crying, and even Katsuki couldn’t seem to maintain his usual aggressive nonchalance in the face of such overwhelming joy.

They had a private after-party at The Arrogant Frog following the show. Most of the night consisted of friendly shenanigans and good natured teasing, swapping embarrassing stories and simply trying to catch up on all the years gone by. At some point Eijirou put a drink in Izuku’s hand so they could have a toast to his presence; Izuku hadn’t meant to finish it all, but then he’d started crying in the middle of the makeshift speech and chugged the whole thing just to give himself something to do besides leak tears all over the place. That’s definitely where he messed up; Izuku’s never been much of a drinker, and he can pretty distinctly recall the rush of wooziness and sudden loosening of inhibitions that came with slamming back whatever Eijirou gave him. There was definitely a second and third and maybe even a fourth drink pressed into his hands shortly afterwards, and very possibly a tequila shot right before leaving the bar, and that’s where Izuku’s memory starts to get hazy.

He remembers feeling vaguely nauseous as they rode the CTA and then stumbling through the streets of Lakeview, giggling madly about anything and everything with an equally drunk Ochako while a sober Tenya continuously tried to corral them back into a straight line, largely without success. He kind of remembers making it to his front door and giving his friends some sort of send off, though what he said or did remains largely a mystery. He thinks he remembers tripping on his way up the stairs, which might explain why his knees are so sore. He barely remembers how he made it through the front door, and he has a vague impression of maybe running into Shouto at some point, but he also sort of remembers dancing with Shouto on the middle of a frozen lake surrounding by snow banks and meteor showers, so there’s a pretty good chance that last bit was simply part of a dream.

He’s starting to think that he might honestly just keep lying on the couch for the rest of the day when something shifts around his knees and then starts walking all over his body, drawing a pained groan from his sandpaper rough throat. “Oni, no,” Izuku rasps, but his cat pays him no mind, instead coming to sit by his head and start batting insistently at his face while meowing. The sound rattles around inside his skull and his headache spikes sharply.

“Oni-neko,” he hisses, reaching up sluggishly to try and push her away, but she doesn’t budge. Izuku lets out another groan and swats at her head. Her only response is to burrow into him, rubbing her face along his neck and jaw, purring in contentment.

“Oh my God I hate you,” Izuku moans. “Oni please, get off.” He tries to shove her again, but she only shifts closer to the front of his face, and once Izuku gets a mouth full of fur, he knows he has no choice but to move.

Mustering up every last scrap of energy at his disposal, Izuku manages to push himself up and dares to crack open his eyelids. It’s only then that he realizes his headband has been knocked entirely askew, now resting awkwardly across his face and half covering one eye. His head throbs at the assault of light on his retinas when he slips it off, sunshine pouring into the living room from the big bay window and catching on the polished surface of the piano, compounding the brightness across the entire space. Izuku’s forced to bring his arm up to try and shield himself against the onslaught, and the only reason he lowers it is because he hears the distinct shuffle of bare feet on wooden floorboards.

Shouto stop just in front of the couch, holding a tray laden with a glass of water, a teapot, and a plate of onigiri. Winter grey and summer blue eyes are unusually bright, and one corner of his mouth is lifted higher than the other. Amusem*nt, Izuku’s mind supplies, and a slow burn begins to spread over his freckled cheeks.

“Uh… Morning?” he guesses, twining the scarves nervously around his hand.

The corner of Shouto’s mouth lifts higher. “Afternoon,” he corrects, and Izuku’s flush ignites, spreading all the way down his neck and out to the tips of his ears. “Here. Water first, then the tea.”

Izuku chugs the entire glass in one go, nearly crying at the sweet relief it grants to his parched mouth and throat. The teapot he takes with more trepidation, and when he opens the lid to take a sniff, a grimace spreads across his face. “It smells like licorice,” he accuses, staring at Shouto reproachfully.

“Do you want to sound like you’re dying for the rest of the weekend?” Shouto asks, and after a moment, Izuku shakes his head. “Then you’ll drink it.”

Grudgingly, Izuku pours himself a cup. A shudder runs up his spine as the sickly sweet anise flavor coats his mouth, but the scratchiness in his throat eases as soon as he swallows the first mouthful, so he keeps drinking until he can’t stomach anymore. Meanwhile, Shouto carefully sets the tray down on the middle couch cushion and takes a seat at the other end. His mouth is still quirked to one side when Izuku sets his cup down and shifts so he can face Shouto properly. “Thanks,” he murmurs, voice still low and hoarse despite the tea.

“You’re welcome,” Shouto answers. There’s a pause, and then he adds, “So you had fun last night.”

A bubble of laughter rises up from Izuku’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I had a lot of fun. It… It was a good show.”

A prickle starts building underneath his eyes, one or two tears leaking out before Izuku can reign himself in. He doesn’t bother brushing them away, though; it doesn’t feel like he should. “It was so worth it,” he breathes, soft and reverent. “They were so amazing and wonderful and I just—I loved it. I loved everything about it. I didn’t even realize I missed it that much but I did. And being there it felt… It felt like I was back where I belonged.”

Shouto smiles at him, soft and almost kind of sweet. “I’m glad,” he says. “You deserve to have some fun.”

Izuku’s face goes positively pink. “I… Thanks,” he mumbles. Then, before he can stop himself, “I… I actually thought about asking you to go with me, but um. I thought you’d probably say no, since… You know.”

Shouto stares at him, blinking slowly as the words work their way into his brain. “Ah,” he says after a moment. “That’s nice of you, to have considered. But you’re right; I would have had to turn you down.”

The happy wave welling up in Izuku’s stomach dips, just a little. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I figured.” Part of him desperately wants to ask if Shouto wishes he could have come anyway, but Izuku shoves the thought aside, tucks it away in the back of his brain where all his other unanswered questions about Shouto reside. He likes to think that someday he’ll get to ask them, but not today. Today, it’s enough that Shouto’s just here.

“Do you think this will become a regular thing now?” Shouto asks, and Izuku snaps out of his daze, blinking furiously.

“What will become—oh, you mean going to shows!” Izuku shrugs. “I… I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to say yes but it’s… I think part of the reason I had so much fun last night was because it wasn’t just any show, you know? It meant something to me, personally. I don’t… I don’t think I could pop into any old concert and be okay with it. But I do think… I think I’d like to keep trying. Like maybe just a few here or there.”

Shouto nods again. He’s still smiling, and the light pouring in from the windows catches on the white side of his hair, making it glitter like sun shining on midwinter snow. It’s longer than when he first arrived, and the ends can now curl against the lobes of his ears and the bottom of his nape, and the strands of his bangs keep mixing together from futile efforts to push them away from his eyes. He looks, as always, unfairly beautiful, and Izuku’s heart seizes inside his chest, a well of words pouring out of his mouth before he can think better of them. “Hey who knows? Maybe I could even see you perform someday.”

The smile drops from Shouto’s face in a instant, replaced by a deeply furrowed brow and downturned mouth as a sadly familiar gloom settles into the lines of his face. His shoulders hunch, his whole body seeming to curl in on itself, and his gaze drops down to his slowly clenching fists as he says, “I doubt that’s ever going to happen.”

“O-oh,” Izuku stutters, suddenly feeling very small and very stupid. “I-I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want me there.”

Shouto’s eyes snap to him, and his frown melts away as fast as it came, replaced by a sort of wide eyed confusion. “Midoriya, that’s not what—I don’t—” The edges of his eyebrows draw together in a tight pinch and there’s a hollowing of his cheeks too. He seems frustrated, but not angry, and that knowledge slows the frantic beat inside Izuku’s chest, quells the rising storm in his stomach.

This is something Izuku’s begun to learn about Shouto recently, as their conversations have delved into some of the more personal aspects of Shouto’s life; words don’t always come easily to him. It is, admittedly, a concept Izuku doesn’t always understand given his own predisposition to spew his thoughts all over the place at any given opportunity. But he tries his best to keep it in mind when they talk, reminding himself that Shouto’s not him; that Shouto keeps his emotions tightly under control and doesn’t always seem to know how to let them out. It only makes sense that words wouldn’t be so different.

So Izuku waits while Shouto takes a few moments to puzzle out what he wants to say, pouring himself another cup of tea so he can wrap his hands around the warm ceramic. When Shouto finally speaks he says, “I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t want you at one of my performances, Midoriya. What I meant was I’m not sure if I’m ever going to have another performance.”

Any relief Izuku might have felt disappears in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden churning in his stomach and sharp drop in his chest. “What? Why?” he asks. “I mean you’re—you’re so amazing, Shouto, your voice was meant—you can’t just—why wouldn’t you be able to have another show?”

Shouto frowns again, expression taking on a dismal cast. “It’s complicated,” is all he says.

Izuku frowns, picking up an onigiri off the tray and biting into it, the taste of seasoned rice and salty nori blooming over his tongue as he takes a moment to think.

Another thing Izuku has learned about Shouto; he dislikes risk. And moments like these are especially trepidatious to him, because even if he says he trusts Izuku, it seems the sentiment sometimes has trouble getting past all the barriers he’s put up around himself. Izuku hates thinking about the things that might have facilitated those walls, wonders not for the first time just what kind of life Shouto lived before now that keeps him from being able to do normal, human things like speak what’s on his mind, or say what he really feels. But Izuku knows he wants to, and moments like these prove it; Shouto’s words suggest that he wants the subject to drop, but his tone is sad and weary and maybe a little imploring. Like he has something he needs to say, but he’s not sure if anyone will listen.

So once he swallows his bite of onigiri, Izuku tilts his head and asks, “Complicated how?”

Shouto’s frown deepens, brows drawn tightly together, mouth turned down in an exceptionally thin line. “I don’t think you want to know.”

And there it is, such a small thing Izuku doesn’t think he would have even noticed it if he wasn’t hyper fixated on learning how to read every little thing Shouto offers him. I don’t think, not You don’t. It’s not definitive. And that means there’s a chance Shouto actually wants to talk.

Izuku breathes. One small inhale, one small exhale.

“I mean, I don’t think you probably really wanted to know my story either, but you listened anyway. The least I could do is return the favor. If you want, of course.”

Shouto glances up, winter grey and summer blue eyes narrowed and questioning, but soft around the edges. He doesn’t say anything to Izuku’s offer, but neither does he make any move to leave, or steer the conversation in another direction. So Izuku waits, patient and quiet as he finishes his onigiri. He’s popping the last bite into his mouth when Shouto finally moves, heaving a sigh so deep he actually slumps into the cushions on the back of the couch. A hand comes up to thread through his bangs and his fingers curl around his scar, tips digging visibly into his skin.

Izuku’s already half lifted himself off the couch cushions before he even realizes he’s started moving, driven by an overwhelming desire to reach out to Shouto and do… Something. Hold him, perhaps. Anything to give him some relief or provide some comfort, because in this moment Shouto looks tired and lonely and absolutely miserable, and it’s so hard—so hard—to force himself to sit back down and wait for Shouto to speak.

But he does. After what seems like an eternity, Shouto finally lowers his hand away from his face and says in a low, somber tone, “I assume you know how recording contracts work.”

“Y-yeah, of course.”

Shouto remains silent for a few seconds, leaning heavily into the couch while his gaze remains fixed down at his lap, where his hands have laced themselves together in a tight grip. “I had one,” he says finally. “And I finished it late this past spring. Five albums, five tours. One in Japan, one all over Asia, one in the US, and two worldwide. In under seven years.”

“In—what?” Izuku stares, his jaw going slack. It takes a few moments for him to remember how to speak. “Shouto, that’s—that’s too much, five albums—and tours—in—how?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Shouto says, tone oddly quiet. “Performing has always been my dream but when I was first starting out there were very limited choices for who I could sign with. I picked the record label I did because at the time I thought it would be the best option to help me move forward, but…” He trails off, a frown settling over his features, pained and tinged with something like anger.

“… But?” Izuku prompts, and Shouto flinches sharply. It startles Izuku, knocking the breath from his lungs and the beat from his heart, and he’s opening his mouth to begin babbling apologies when Shouto starts speaking again.

“But my producer is an ass,” he snaps, voice dripping with venom. “He’s a selfish, mean old bastard and he’s never going to let me go until he gets what he wants out of me just because his stupid f*cking ego won’t… Won’t let him…”

He trails off, eyes going wide as he takes in Izuku’s shocked expression. “Sorry,” he mumbles, dropping his head. Splotchy red bursts to life across his face. “You didn’t—you didn’t need to hear all that.”

“It’s… It’s okay,” Izuku says, a little shaky. He’s grown accustomed to Shouto’s annoyance and frustration, but anger—real anger—is new and terrible and Izuku kind of hopes he never has to see Shouto like that again. “I… I get it. I’ve heard a lot of industry horror stories about bad producers and sh*tty record deals and stuff, so I… I understand—”

“The record deal wasn’t the problem. It was him. He just…” Fury clouds Shouto’s face and he opens his mouth, but no words follow; just a muted, strangled groan. Izuku catches himself rising again and has to force himself back down.

“In the beginning, he took care of everything,” Shouto explains. “The deals, the contracts, the songs, the production—him or someone on his team would handle it and all I had to do was show up at the studio and sing what they made for me. And I went along with it because he’s a professional; he knew what it took to succeed and I thought that was what I wanted. I thought I wanted the… fame.”

He winces at this last word, like it’s something vulgar, not meant to be spoken out loud. Izuku pipes up without hesitation, “I mean, lots of people want fame. I think… I think that’s why a lot of us get into the business in the first place, isn’t it? Sure, there are other reasons but like. Wanting fame is normal for a performer. I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

“I know that,” Shouto sighs. “But I did it wrong. I let him take control and now what I’ve got isn’t… It’s empty. And pointless. And I wanted to change that—branch out and try something new, something that means something—but he wouldn’t let me.”

“Why not?”

Shouto snorts, hollow and bitter. “Branding. People have certain expectations of what I’m supposed to be like. What kind of content I make. Changing that means changing the brand, and that hurts appeal. In his mind that means less success, so he won’t even let me try. And I have no say because I can’t—” His mouth twists into an uncomfortable line, as though he’s once again stretching to find the right words. Izuku waits, gnawing on his bottom lip in a desperate bid to keep from speaking.

“I was trapped,” Shouto finally says. “Finishing the contract was the only shot I had at getting out, so I made myself get there as fast as I could. I know it wasn’t a smart decision, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to my mother. How the same could thing could happen to me. And I didn’t want to end up like her.” His head droops, bangs long enough now to fall in front of his eyes and completely obscure them from view. “Forgotten.”

There are, in that moment, perhaps a hundred thousand things Izuku wants to say. But he doesn’t say any of them, because they won’t come; there’s a swollen lump in his throat, so heavy Izuku feels like he can barely breathe. A tear slips unbidden down his cheek and Izuku wipes it away with a furious motion. He can’t let himself be the one crying, not after everything Shouto’s just said to him, not when he looks like he does right now, as though the world declared some final judgement and he has no choice but to accept defeat. The ache in his chest hurts something fierce, piano wire wrapped around his his heart that tightens with every passing second, slowly slicing through the muscles and vessels and sinew until it reaches the very core, and there it finds that still vibrating chord, the one that hasn’t stopped its constant hum since Shouto reached in and plucked it all those months ago. When they collide, the pain spikes so sharply Izuku swears he feels it all the way down in the hollows of his bones.

It takes longer than he wants to collect himself, and all the while Shouto keeps sitting there, hunched over as though there’s nothing left to keep him standing tall. Like it took everything in him just to speak. Maybe it did. Izuku thinks this might be the most Shouto’s ever said about anything they’ve ever talked about. He wishes there were more he could do, but even for as well as Izuku’s gotten to know Shouto, there’s still so much that remains uncertain and he’s scared that he’ll somehow tilt the balance in the wrong direction.

So instead he does what he knows will work; Izuku breathes, and he talks.

“So… You finished your contract.”

After a few heavy beats of silence, Shouto answers, “Yes.”

“And… you wound up here.”

“Yes.”

Izuku bites his lip, trying to choose his next words with care, and settles on, “How?”

Shouto sighs, lifting his head so he can meet Izuku’s gaze. The normal intensity of winter grey and summer blue has faded into something dull and lifeless, and God, Izuku hates it. “I needed to get away,” he says. “From everything. But I couldn’t do it alone so Momo helped me form a plan. This stay—it was only ever supposed to be for that first month. Just enough time to lie low and figure out what I needed to do. Honestly I wasn’t even keen on the idea, but Momo insisted. She said I couldn’t just hole up in a lonely hotel room somewhere; that I needed to stay some place that felt more like a home. I didn’t believe her.”

And there, flashing so fast across his face Izuku nearly misses it, flies a spark. For a split second, Shouto’s eyes are bright again and one corner of his mouth twitches upward, and Izuku seizes onto that moment with everything he has.

“But you stayed.” He leans forward, head tilted and eyebrows raised curiously, and he smiles. It’s kind of small, but even the worst of Izuku’s smiles still shine like the first rays of sun after a dark and angry storm, and not many people can resist their charm. Izuku watches Shouto watching him, and after a moment, his mouth twitches again.

“You don’t know who I am,” Shouto says, voice subdued, like he means to be whispering a secret. “And you don’t—you’ve never asked questions. You don’t even seem like you want to.” He makes a strange noise, caught somewhere between a hushed laugh and a muted sob. “You know I’ve never had anything like this before, ever? People always know who I am and they always have expectations because of it. Some are better than others, but I’ve never… Except for my family no one’s ever had a chance to only know me. You’re the first. And it means I just get to be myself and not… who I’m supposed to be.”

His head drops again; the veil of his bangs falls in front of his eyes, but Izuku can still see his cheeks and the faint pink tinge that’s begun to creep across them. “I like that,” he says, voice so low now Izuku can barely hear him. “I like having a friend like you. I like having someone to trust.”

He swallows thickly; Izuku knows because he can follow the heavy bob of his throat. “Shouto,” Izuku says, pained and aching, and Shouto flinches like he’s been struck.

“That was—” He inhales, and Izuku can hear how shaky it is. “That was too much, I shouldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t too much,” Izuku insists. “It’s not too much to say what you feel, Shouto. That’s just… what you’re supposed to do.”

But Shouto only shakes his head. “Not in my world.”

He looks up, and his eyes are no longer winter storm cloud grey and bright summer sky blue. There’s a sorrow that’s settled in their depths and wiped away the light, and now they’re nothing but two dull orbs framed by red and white lashes. Like Shouto offered up his soul the world, and it took all he had and left him bereft of anything but misery.

Izuku’s body moves before his mind can think.

Peripherally, he is aware of lifting himself away from the cushions. He is aware that he is grabbing the tray and setting it down on the floor. He is aware of scooting awkwardly across the couch until he’s close enough to Shouto that their legs touch. He is aware that his arms are coming up, and that he is leaning forward. But he doesn’t truly register any of it until he has Shouto wrapped up in a loose embrace, and Shouto goes stock still against him.

His head screams, begging him to pull away, to babble apologies and make excuses like he normally does, but Izuku won’t. He holds on, counting the seconds in his head to let Shouto react.

One. Two.

On three, Shouto moves.

All the tension bleeds out of his body as he sinks into the hug, leaning his full weight into where he’s pressed against Izuku’s chest. His arms rise, held stiffly in the air for a moment before slowly, hesitantly coming to wrap around Izuku, like Shouto’s not sure he’s allowed to return the embrace. Izuku only holds him tighter, resting his chin against Shouto’s shoulder. Shouto lets out a soft, muted noise, and his arms come to rest heavily on Izuku’s waist.

Izuku’s not sure how long they stay here. Time seems to have ceased, the world around them fading into something hazy and obscure, and all Izuku knows is what he holds in his arms. The weight of Shouto’s body against his. The faint scent of pine and smoke curling in his nose. The cold press of skin against the bottom of his chin. The rise and fall of Shouto’s chest as he breathes, in near perfect tandem with the beat of Izuku’s heart.

It’s Shouto who pulls back first, and Izuku lets him go with no small amount of reluctance. “So… have you figured out what you’re gonna do next?” he asks.

With a heavy sigh, Shouto shakes his head. “No. I had some vague plans, but they haven’t really worked.”

Izuku thinks of the blank sheet music still piled up on the piano’s rack, of Shouto hunched over the keyboard, seething with frustration. “Those original pieces you work on sometimes—was that part of it?”

Shouto grimaces, a splotchy red flush crawling across his cheeks as he nods. “Part of the problem with my producer was that he always controlled the music and lyrics for my songs; I barely had any say about what I got to sing. So my initial thought was that I’d make my own music without him but…” He sighs again, so heavy it seems to rack his whole body. “I can’t compose. I should be able to; the technique and the know-how are there but something won’t connect in my head. Everything I make just sounds empty.”

“Well, do you have to do it all yourself?” Izuku asks. “I mean, lots of artists work with composers and lyricists. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Shouto shakes his head. “It’s not shame, it’s more that I can’t work with anyone. There’s this unspoken agreement between the top record labels that they won’t poach each other’s biggest talents and I am… a big talent.” He winces, as though it pains him to admit this. “So other major labels are out. So are any independents. If my old record label ever got wind I was trying to break away from them, there’d be trouble. Most small studios aren’t willing to take that risk.”

Izuku frowns. “What about artists not signed to labels? Those are more common now, what with digital music and online platforms.”

Shouto shakes his head. “I could but… I’d have to find people good enough to do what I want and then I’d have to be able to trust them not to leak the work or my involvement. I doubt there’s many people out there like that.” He sighs again, pulling farther away from Izuku so he can lean more heavily into the couch cushions, though their legs remain pressed together, bony shins and knees like rough points of comfort. “I thought that maybe if I could just make a few of my own songs I might convince an independent label to take the gamble, but I can’t do that if I’ve got nothing to give them. And with the way it’s been going, I may never have anything to give them. This… This might just be the end for me.”

Izuku’s heart seizes at that, rendered raw and wounded and bleeding. He still doesn’t really know anything about Shouto’s career save for he’s apparently far more popular than Izuku initially gave him credit for. But he knows Shouto, knows that Shouto must have been made to perform, crafted by some unseen force beyond the cosmos into a being composed of melody and rhythm, to sing and play and gift the world with something to make it brighter, better, more beautiful.

He used to know the same thing about himself, once. Eons ago, Izuku knew that he was born to make music, and there was no force in the universe capable of stopping him. He held no truth more dear to his heart, but then the world flipped upside down, and suddenly everything he thought he knew was wrong. And now Izuku’s battered and bruised and more than a little broken.

But he’s still standing.

“Well, what about me?”

Shouto blinks. “What about you?”

“Would you let me help you?”

Red and white eyebrows begin a slow crawl up Shouto’s forehead and he stares. “Help me how?”

“Help you make music.”

Shouto blinks again. Stares some more. His eyebrows keep fluttering, expression clearly and utterly lost. “What?”

One of Izuku’s arms comes up, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I can compose,” he says. “That’s… that’s actually a lot of what I used to do back when I played with Plus Ultra, and even before that. I uh. I have a degree in Composition from Oberlin, if you can believe it.”

Shouto keeps staring. His jaw’s gone slack, and his mouth is open, forming a small O. It’s kind of unnerving to look at, so Izuku drops his gaze down to his left hand. The scar tissue doesn’t seem quite so gnarled today, and when he closes it into a fist, it doesn’t hurt. Even his rigid pinky twitches as though it means to try and curl.

“I’d be um, really rusty, of course,” Izuku continues. “And I’m sure I’d need some time to readjust and full confession, I’m definitely gonna cry at some point. Probably a lot. But if you really—if you don’t think you can trust anyone else to help you, then maybe… Maybe you can trust me.”

He dares to look up, offering Shouto a shy smile. Shouto is full on gaping at him now, and it’s such an odd expression on him that Izuku can’t help the little burst of laughter that bubbles up from his chest. The noise seems to jar Shouto out of his reverie, and he shakes his head vigorously, one hand coming up to thread through his bangs again.

“Midoroya, three months ago you told me you hadn’t listened to music in over four years, and now you’re going to shows and offering to help compose for me? Don’t you think you might be moving a little too fast on this?” His winter grey eye levels Izuku with a severe look, but Izuku’s not fooled; he can see the softness at the edges, that subtle tilt to Shouto’s eyebrows as they dip and scrunch together. He’s concerned, and the thought makes Izuku’s heart swell to nearly double its size, pump liquid courage into his veins, sharp and bright like lightning strikes.

“Probably,” he concedes with a smile, one that grows wider and wider with each passing second. “But I’m stubborn like that, I guess. My mom always says once I’ve got my mind set on something I’ll smash through any obstacle to make it happen. I just… I feel like I’ve gotten so much better than I was these past few months. And I don’t want that to stop, you know? So if I’m going to keep going full throttle, I figure… I figure I might as well do it trying to help you.”

Shouto doesn’t answer right away. He keeps staring at Izuku, hand brushing his overly long bangs aside so Izuku can see winter grey and summer blue clearly. There’s life in them again, soft and hazy and uncertain, but life nonetheless. “Why?” he finally asks.

Izuku shrugs, mustering up what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Because you helped me,” he says. “I think it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

Again, Shouto doesn’t speak at first. He keeps staring at Izuku, a war of emotions waging behind wide open eyes. Izuku can’t follow them all, but he knows they’re there, simmering below an icy surface that’s just begun to crack.

“You… You would really do this. Start trying to compose again. For… For me.” Shouto speaks barely above a whisper, like he can’t quite bring himself to believe in what Izuku’s just offered; but there’s a faint layer of hope there too, like he could, if only given the chance.

“Yes,” Izuku answers with absolute conviction. “Of course I would.”

For a long time, there’s nothing but silence. Shouto stares, and Izuku smiles, and that’s all that there is to the world. Just the two of them, and an offer that hangs between them, filled with things spoken and unspoken. Support. Friendship. Trust. Things that Izuku carries in excess, often to his own detriment. Things that Shouto seems bereft of, to the point he barely understands them. Izuku’s not sure he’ll ever know why that is, but he does know he wants to give them all to Shouto, as much as he can manage. Wants Shouto to know with absolute certainty that people care about him, however much he seems to be geared into thinking otherwise.

The wait for Shouto’s answer takes an eternity, but Izuku forces himself to be patient, to hold still and not speak until finally, finally Shouto moves, gaze dropping down to his lap. “Okay,” he says, in a low tone filled with something like awe and wonder. “I… I could try that.”

The song inside Izuku’s heart roars, a thunderous symphony that sounds loud enough for he swears the whole world can hear it.

“Okay.” His voice shakes, barely able to keep his excitement under control. “Okay, okay, we can um—do you want to start now? I know it’s like already past noon but I feel like we could—just let me like, take a shower and change and we could sit down—I think I have—no I guess all my old notebooks and stuff are at my mom’s house so I’d—but you’ve got sheet music so that shouldn’t be too hard—oh but it’s a piano—well no that should be fine it’s the same scale so I shouldn’t—”

“Midoriya.”

Izuku stops, freckled cheeks going pink. “S-sorry,” he stutters. “Just, um… Yeah.” He smiles sheepishly, and Shouto just shakes his head with what Izuku hopes is a fond sigh.

“We don’t need to start right this second,” Shouto says. “You sound like you could still use some time to recuperate.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but an ache pulses behind his eyes and Izuku’s flush goes darker as he realizes that Shouto’s right; he feels better, but his throat is still scratchy and his headache isn’t entirely gone. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Not today. But—what about tomorrow? That should give me enough time to rest up.”

“… Tomorrow would be fine,” Shouto says after a moment, and Izuku beams.

“Great!” he chirps, then coughs as the high sound sends a tickle running down his windpipe. “Tomorrow’s great! I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go take a shower now, and some laundry, I think. If you’ve got any dirty clothes just through them in the basket, I’ll take care of them.”

He scoots away from Shouto so he can stand up, hands clapping together in unabashed delight, and when he feels the soft brush of silk on his skin he suddenly remembers the headband he has yet to return. “Oh, right, I almost forgot!” He slips the fabric off his hand and holds it out for Shouto to take. “Your scarves. They, um. They were really popular last night, so uh. Thanks. For your help.”

Shouto blinks at him, gaze flickering between Izuku’s face and the scarves. After a moment he reaches up, but instead of taking them he pushes Izuku’s hand back towards him. “Keep them,” he says. “They looked good on you.”

Now it’s Izuku’s turn to blink and he does so, several times. “Wh-what? No, Shouto, I can’t, these—these are yours.”

He tries to drop the headband in Shouto’s lap, but Shouto catches it neatly, then stands and settles it on Izuku’s head like a crown. “It’s fine,” he insists while Izuku’s face abruptly turns into a forest fire. “I don’t wear them all that much anyway. They’ll be better off with you.”

Izuku opens his mouth to try and argue, but Shouto doesn’t afford him the chance, brushing past Izuku and heading for his room. The door closes behind him with a solid click, and Izuku’s left standing alone in the living room, heart pounding and lungs heaving and mind racing, the faintest scent of pine and smoke filling his nose.

Chapter 12: Have You No Idea That You're In Deep?

Chapter Text

The rest of the weekend goes like this.

Izuku spends Saturday recuperating from the concert. Shouto makes him another pot of the anise-flavored tea and Izuku dutifully drinks every awful sip because of how well it soothes the rough ache in his throat. By the time they’re sitting down to steaming bowls of kitsune udon for dinner he feels nearly back to normal, and spends the meal merrily chatting away about the concert. Dishes are done side by side, and then they wind down the evening by watching a documentary about coral reefs on Shouto’s laptop. If Izuku happens to sit a little closer than strictly necessary, he can always blame it on the small screen. But Shouto says nothing to indicate he even noticed, and Izuku goes to bed that night with a pile of embers burning in his stomach, happy and warm.

On Sunday morning, Izuku wakes early, does his stretches and goes for a quick run around the neighborhood, skirting neatly around mounds of snow and piles of slush as a jittery, excited energy starts to pulse slowly around his heart. He comes home to Shouto sleepily nursing his first cup of coffee while he putters around the kitchen making breakfast. A pot of green tea sits waiting for Izuku on the table when he comes back from his shower, and they eat bright golden bowls of tamago gohan while Onigiri weaves affectionately between their legs.

Then, once the breakfast dishes are done, they take a seat at the piano. Izuku’s nervous, but not panicking. Shivers run up his spine, but his hands don’t tremble. There are a lot of deep breaths, but he doesn’t cry. He asks Shouto to play for him, and Shouto does.

Izuku’s listened to this piece before, but only at a distance; always trying to keep himself from ever analyzing it properly, his wounds still just a little too raw. But now he tries intently to absorb everything he hears, and the parts of his brain that know what to do creak and groan as they begin to waken from a years long slumber. Shouto’s made at least a modicum of progress; the melody is longer than it used to be, and the chords a little more refined. The rhythm works, but there’s still an odd quality to the tone, something that doesn’t quite click right in Izuku’s head, and by the end of it he’s already gnawing on his bottom lip, deep in thought.

“It’s still bad,” Shouto sighs when he finishes.

“It’s not,” Izuku says. Shouto shoots him a very skeptical glare, and Izuku continues, “No, I’m serious, it’s not bad, it’s just… I don’t know.” He looks at the sheet music, frowning. “Like from a purely technical standpoint it works just fine. The chord progression makes sense and fits with the key. But it doesn’t… Hmm.”

Shouto waits as Izuku mulls over the potential problems, but he can’t quite pin down the issue. He has Shouto play the piece a few more times and each one sounds the same; technically good, but distinctly lacking in something that eludes Izuku’s perception. He supposes that’s to be expected given how many years it’s been since he last did something like this, but it’s still undeniably frustrating and he understands why Shouto gets so easily worked up over it. After several long minutes of getting absolutely nowhere, Izuku’s started to get irritated too.

“It’s weird, it almost sounds like background music, you know?” he says. “Like it’s there but you don’t really listen to it because it’s just missing something. I can’t, I don’t know, connect with it?”

“Just what every musician wants to hear,” Shouto snorts. “I’m starting to think I might be a lost cause.”

“Hey, we’re working on it. Don’t give up after like what, fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen minutes for you. I’ve been working on this for over three months.”

“Well, still. Great art never comes easy, right?” Izuku studies the sheet music, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tries to parse out the notes and chords and figure out exactly what’s missing, but everything’s there that’s supposed to be, and he keeps drawing a blank. After another minute with no insight, he heaves a sigh that shudders its way through his entire body.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess… sh*t. Guess composing isn’t like remembering how to ride a bike, huh?” He tries to laugh, but the sound comes out reedy and thin. A few tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and he struggles to blink them back.

“Midoriya, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Shouto says, voice low with concern, but Izuku shakes his head furiously.

“No. I said I would help and I’m gonna help, I just… I just need some time to get back into the right headspace. I’m sure that’s it.”

Shouto eyes him dubiously, so Izuku flashes him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Maybe, hmm. Maybe I’m coming at it from the wrong angle. Because if everything is technically sound then it might not be a composition problem, per se? It could be something else, something I’m not getting. Let’s see. Um… I guess… Okay well, maybe if we start at like, the most basic level. What kind of feeling are you trying to evoke with this?”

Shouto, who is currently glaring at the sheet music like he’s trying to set it on fire, blinks a few times before turning to look at him. “What kind of what?”

“Feeling,” Izuku repeats, and Shouto just sort of stares.

“I’m not?” he says, clearly confused. “I’m just trying to make something that sounds good.”

Now it’s Izuku’s turn to blink, and he does so several times in rapid succession. He looks at Shouto, then at the sheet music, then back at Shouto, and something inside his head falls neatly into place.

“Shouto,” Izuku says slowly, “are you… Are you trying to compose a piece of music without knowing what kind of emotion you’re putting behind it?”

Shouto frowns. “Yes?” he says, like he doesn’t quite understand what Izuku’s asking.

“… I see,” Izuku says, and Shouto’s frown deepens.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Izuku answers immediately. “Nothing really, I just, um… That is not… maybe… the way I would recommend doing it?”

Shouto’s brows draw so tightly together that the ends nearly touch. “Why? Does it matter what the feeling is as long as the music sounds good?”

“… I guess not,” Izuku answers with no small amount of hesitation, and Shouto glares at him.

“Midoriya,” he says sternly, and the dam inside Izuku’s throat bursts.

“Okay it’s just that’s not… That’s like how you compose commercial jingles and stuff, not real music. Like I can’t—how did you even get this far without knowing what you wanted it to sound like? And I know you said you just wanted it to sound good, but how can you know what’s good if you don’t even know what you’re trying to make? I mean, just think for a second about how different songs can sound even if a lot of them use the same basic structure and components. That’s like composition and songwriting 101. And I’m not—I swear I’m not trying to mock you—but you’ve made five whole albums, Shouto. That’s gotta be what, minimum forty full songs? How… how could you make that much music and still not understand the basic principle behind it?”

The glare melts off Shouto’s face, replaced by an odd twist to the mouth and a slowly creeping flush across his cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t understand it,” he says, a tad defensively. “I just don’t see the necessity in creating something only from an emotion. Not every song needs to have some deep philosophical meaning for people to enjoy it.”

“But we’re not talking about deep philosophical meaning right now, we’re talking about basic primal emotion. Just think about some of your favorite songs and how much feeling went into them. That’s why they’re so good, and that’s why you want to listen to them over and over again. And I mean—it’s not that you can’t write songs without those things but like… It’s just going to so much harder for people to connect with them if you don’t, you know? They’ll just be flash-in-the-pan pop hits that people won’t even remember ten years from now.”

Shouto’s flush deepens. “What’s wrong with pop hits?” he asks, sounding oddly miffed.

“Nothing!” Izuku answers. “Pop hits are great if they’re done correctly, but what makes or breaks a pop star isn’t just their music, it’s also like, the aura they end up cultivating. Anyone can make a catchy tune that gets its moment in the spotlight, but what people really love is something they can relate with. So I mean—I think the pop stars people end up remembering are the ones that put their all into everything they’ve got. And in order to do that, you’ve got to put at least a little piece of yourself out there for people to see. Make sense?”

He smiles, trying to be encouraging, but instead of relaxing every line of Shouto’s body goes taut. “I don’t—I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” he says, and there’s an underlying waver to his voice that rides an uncomfortable wave up Izuku’s spine. “Plenty of musicians lead very private lives and are still successful. What about All Might?”

“That’s not—Shouto that’s not the same. I mean yeah, nobody really knows anything about All Might’s private life but like—every song that he ever did still had something personal attached to it. That’s what people latch onto, and that’s what makes him so iconic. You can’t listen to an All Might song and not feel something, you know? Isn’t that… isn’t that what you want?”

“I…” Shouto’s brow furrows so deeply it narrows his eyes nearly to slits, and his fingers curls tightly against the piano keys, the tips beginning to turn white. “Does it have to be something personal?” he asks, and the iciness creeping into the edges of his tone leaves Izuku’s heart raw and aching.

“I… I mean I guess it doesn’t have to be but I just… I don’t think you’re going to get very far if you don’t.” He draws his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at it as he deliberates on what to say next. After a few moments of tense silence, Izuku settles on, “Look, you… You said yesterday that your old producer controlled all the music and lyrics to your songs, right? Those songs—were they ever about anything personal?”

“… No.”

“And the career you built off of them—is that what you want?”

It isn’t really a question; Izuku already knows the answer, and so does Shouto, which is why he flinches like he’s been physically struck by Izuku’s words. And it hurts, it hurts so much to see it and know he’s the cause, but this is an ideal Izuku can’t compromise on. Above all things music is supposed to be an expression of self, a creation of thought and feeling brought to life through melody and rhythm. Without that, it quickly turns into something vapid and hollow, enjoyed in the moment but never remembered, and there’s clearly a block somewhere in Shouto’s head that prevents him from truly accepting that. He’s unwilling to share any greater part of himself with the world, and until he can learn to do so, he’s never going to be able to compose the way he wants to. Shouto can’t just cobble pieces together from the best bits of his previous works; he needs to be able to create something that’s entirely his own.

“So, I’m gonna make a suggestion,” Izuku says, “and you can say no to this if you want, it is just a suggestion—but I’d say that before you go any farther with trying to finish this, you should take a step back and really think about what kind of a song you’d want to create. Don’t work on this until you’ve got a concrete idea in your head of what you want to evoke, because otherwise it’s just going to keep sounding the same as it does already.”

Shouto squints at him. “You want me to work… By not working,” he says, clearly unconvinced.

“No, I want you to work by thinking.” He reaches up and gently taps Shouto’s temple. “Think about something or somewhere or someone you’d want to make a song for. Or even just an emotion that you’d like to sing about. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Shouto still doesn’t look convinced. “Midoriya, I’m not—I don’t think this approach is going to work for me.”

“It will,” Izuku says, with utter conviction. “Look, you said—you agreed to let me try and help, right?” Shouto nods. “And you trust me, right?” Shouto nods again. “Then trust me when I say this will work. And you don’t—it’s just an exercise to help you get better at composing. Nobody has to see what you end up making outside the two of us. But just—just give yourself some time to think about it, okay? You can do this. I know you can.”

For several long moments, Shouto stares at him, a deep frown settled on his face and mouth held in a thin, frustrated line. Izuku simply stares back, steadily holding Shouto’s gaze with bright eyes and a brighter smile.

“… Okay,” Shouto finally says, so quiet Izuku can barely hear him. “I’ll try.”

Izuku won’t let Shouto near the piano for the rest of the day, so instead they spend it doing painfully domestic things like laundry and cleaning, making lunch and then afternoon tea and coffee. Most of the time it’s silent, Shouto trapped deep in thought and Izuku trying his best not to disturb him. There’s an undeniable tension hovering around Shouto throughout, but otherwise the quiet remains easy and unburdened. It loosens the knot in Izuku’s stomach, makes him feel better about pushing Shouto to a point so clearly outside his comfort zone when Izuku can see him at least trying to take his advice to heart.

Rather than let Shouto get distracted by making dinner Izuku insists they get take-out, so they order the Vietnamese they never ended up eating the night of Izuku’s panic attack. To Izuku’s surprise and quiet delight, Shouto comes with him to pick up the food, stating that he needs to get some fresh air in his lungs to help him think. His bundled up appearance doesn’t look at all out of place now that winter has truly set in, and there’s a certain kind of joy that bubbles up inside Izuku’s chest as they make the walk to the restaurant, at the idea that to anyone catching sight of them, they appear to be just two ordinary friends going to get a meal.

(More than friends maybe, a little part of him wants to say, but Izuku pushes this aside, tucks it back down into the crevices of his mind for another time, another day.)

Dinner is quiet save for the loud slurping of pho broth and noodles. Shouto remains lost in thought as they clean up their meal and then sit down to split a cup of che ba mau Izuku snuck onto their order after he saw Shouto eyeing its picture on the menu sign. They pass it back forth as Shouto continues to think and Izuku scrolls through the newsfeed on his tablet, and he’s just beginning to wonder if he can find an unobtrusive documentary for them to watch together when Shouto says, “My mother.”

Izuku looks up. “Your mother?” he repeats, and Shouto nods.

“If I have to write about something personal, I think—it has to be about her. I don’t—I don’t know that I could do it for anything else.” He ducks his head, overly long bangs falling in a graceful sweep to cover his eyes but not quite reaching the splotchy red flush beginning to rise in his cheeks.

“Okay,” Izuku says slowly, trying not to disturb the delicate balance between them. “Just your mother in general, or did you have something specific in mind?”

Shouto twitches, nearly harsh enough to be a flinch. His left hand rises, fingertips coming to rest on the bottom edge of his scar. It’s a heavy, silent minute before he speaks.

“To tell her I’m sorry.”

His voice registers at barely above a whisper, and it carries the same melancholy aura that hung ever-present around Shouto when he first arrived. Hearing it again stabs viciously at Izuku’s heart, and he can’t help but ask, “Sorry… for what?”

This time Shouto does actually flinch, fingers digging deep into rough skin before his hand drops heavily against the table. “Just sorry,” he says, and there’s a finality in his tone that tells Izuku not to press.

“… Okay,” he answers after taking a moment to breathe, one full inhale, one full exhale. “I think I can help with that.”

“God, what is with you today?” Shinsou asks when Izuku screws up a basic troubleshooting ticket for the fourth time Monday morning. “Are you feeling alright? You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I don’t feel sick, anyway.” Izuku sighs, shooting Shinsou an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I just… I had a busy weekend. Guess my head isn’t ready to jump back into the work week.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Shinsou glares at him. “Did this busy weekend have anything to do with the guy who isn’t your boyfriend?”

“He’s not,” Izuku insists, and Shinsou snorts in a tone that says he definitely doesn’t believe him.

In Shinsou’s defense, it’s not like the reason for Izuku’s distraction isn’t Shouto. When they’d first started on Sunday morning, Izuku’s primary thought had been that he’d need time to warm up to the idea of composing again. Like relearning to use his hands after they’d been shattered nearly beyond repair, it seemed the kind of thing he could do only because his stubbornness outweighed the pain that came with recovery. He assumed he’d have to ease back into it step by step, and each one would be be excruciatingly difficult.

Instead, those parts of his mind he’d tried to bury for so long have come alive with a vengeance, kicking and screaming and raring to go. He’d barely so much as stumbled out of bed this morning before his head started mulling Shouto’s piece over, picking apart and analyzing every little detail so it could better fit Shouto’s new vision. He kept trying to tuck it away for later, but the ideas wouldn’t stay put, pushing to the forefront of his mind at any given opportunity and stealing away every last bit of his conscious thought process. Between that and a creeping concern about Shouto’s clear hesitation, Izuku’s not quite sure how he managed to make it through work without doing something catastrophic.

So it’s a deeper relief than Izuku can fathom when at least some of his worries prove to be misplaced; for all the previous day’s reluctance, Shouto now seems quite keen about listening to and implementing all of Izuku’s suggestions. He doesn’t bat an eye at the idea to swap from C major to Ab major for a more unconventional key, or at his proposal to shorten the verse and the refrain but add in a bridge, or his opinion that a pre-chorus isn’t necessary for what can ultimately just be something simple. And with each subsequent playing the piece gets better and better, life being breathed into what before was just a hollow shell.

“You know, for someone who supposedly hasn’t done this in four years, you’re really quite good at it,” Shouto tells him as he pencils in the beginnings of the revised intro.

Izuku laughs. “To be fair I did spend at least a good fifteen years prior to that doing it practically non-stop so like. I would hope I’d still be at least decent at it.”

Shouto’s lips twitch, reaching for that soft little half smile Izuku has come to cherish. “You’ve been composing for that long?” he asks.

“Yeah? I mean, I’ve always kind of had a knack for it. Used to drive my teacher nuts because it took ages for me to learn proper technique since I always wanted to make up my own tunes instead of learning new ones.” Izuku looks down at his hands; old scar tissue tugs at his skin, but the ache in his bones hasn’t bothered him for days. “It… It feels good to be doing it again.”

Shouto hums, but there’s a soft furrow to his brow that speaks to concern. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’re not—this isn’t moving too fast?”

“… I’m okay,” Izuku assures him after brief pause. Truth be told he’s not sure he isn’t moving too fast, and there have definitely been a few moments this evening where he had to turn away and beat back a prickle under his eyes or a sob welling up in his throat. A painful twinge at the back his heart ripples through his veins every time he hears Shouto play again, but it’s not bad, exactly. It’s like his physical recovery; the hurt might never go away, but that doesn’t mean he’s not getting better.

“Besides,” Izuku adds with a smile, “look at how far we’ve come already. There’s no way I’d want to slow down now.”

Shouto’s frown deepens at that, and he huffs. “You mean how far you’ve come,” he says, unmistakable irritation lacing his tone. “I’ve barely done anything.”

“Hey, that is absolutely not true,” Izuku protests. At the withering glare Shouto gives him he continues, “No really, I mean it. Like sure I made some suggestions and helped you smooth things out, but the basic structure was already there, Shouto. I just tweaked a few things you were missing, that’s all.” His smile grows, bright and reassuring. “Don’t be so critical just because it wasn’t perfect. You’re better at this than you think.”

Shouto’s glare remains, but it starts to falter around the edges, softening the sharp lines of his expression. “If you were anybody else, I’d say you were lying to make me feel better,” he says after a moment, and Izuku beams.

“Good thing I’m me then, huh?”

The rest of Shouto’s glare melts away, and something new settles in its place. He drops his gaze down to the keyboard before Izuku can discern what it is, but it has the corners of his mouth twitching, and a light, breathy noise escaping his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Good thing.”

His voice is soft with something Izuku can’t name, but the tone of it winds its way around down to his core and squeezes, ever so gently. The world around him shifts, sights and sounds going hazy at the edges, until it’s just Shouto with his lips curled at the corners, and the steady, thunderous drum beat of Izuku’s own heart in his ears. The song that plays there rises until it hits a fever pitch, and suddenly everything’s balanced on a precarious edge.

What if, the back of Izuku’s mind whispers to him. What if, what if, what if.

One of his hands rises, driven by an instinct Izuku can no longer control. He can feel his fingers trembling as he begins to reach, and he’s not entirely sure for what. Vague thoughts run through his head, of maybe grabbing Shouto’s hand, or threading his fingers through Shouto’s hair, or maybe even cupping his cheek so Izuku can lean in and—

And then Shouto lets out a wide yawn, and the moment breaks, leaving Izuku cotton-mouthed and red-faced, a furious staccato pounding against his ribcage.

“What time is it?” Shouto asks, covering his mouth. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Izuku’s motions, and slowly, so as not to draw too much attention to himself, Izuku pulls his hand back and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

“It is… Oh jeez, it’s almost eleven.” He’d gotten home shortly after six, so that means… “Have we really been at this for almost five hours?”

“Seems so.” Shouto yawns again. “We should probably call it a night. You don’t want to be late to work tomorrow.”

“Okay. Bedtime it is.” Izuku’s lets out a yawn of his own, his arms come up to stretch over his head, and he sighs a little at the ache before moving to stand. “Hey,” Izuku says as Shouto follows suit, “since we got so far with the melody today, maybe tomorrow we could start working on lyrics, yeah?”

Shouto blinks at him, and the low slope of his shoulders rises sharply, drawn tight and rigid. “Lyrics?” he repeats, and the edge in his tone makes something start to knot in the pit of Izuku’s stomach.

“Y—yeah?” he says, a nervous bubble of laughter escaping in a futile attempt to break the tension crawling up his spine. “I mean you’re a singer, right? That means you need to have something to sing.”

Shouto doesn’t respond to that; instead his face settles into a deep frown, mouth pressing into a distressingly thin line before he speaks again. “And those—that’s supposed to be about my mother too?”

“… Yes? That’s—that’s the whole point behind this exercise.” Now Izuku’s frowning, head tilting slightly as concern wells up in the back of his throat and puts a building pressure underneath his eyes. “Is that… okay?”

“It’s—nevermind,” Shouto answers, voice tight as his gaze drops away to the side.

“No,” Izuku says, calling his bluff. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Shouto replies, in the same tone that Izuku uses when he tells people it’s fine. It makes the knot in his stomach tightens painfully.

“It’s not nothing, you’re—something’s wrong,” Izuku insists, fighting back the urge to reach out and touch Shouto, unsure if the comfort would be welcome or not. “Is it—do you need help writing lyrics too? That’s nothing to be ashamed of, I used to—”

“It’s not that,” Shouto cuts him off, and Izuku’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. He waits for Shouto to continue, but after a few moments, Shouto simply sighs, brushing overly long bangs out of his face with an aggravated gesture. “Don’t worry about it Midoriya, it’s—it’s nothing. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He brushes past Izuku without so much as a glance backwards, leaving Izuku to shuffle off to bed with his stomach so tightly coiled it’s making him nauseous. Fitful sleep rapidly gives way to old nightmares, twisted iron and burning asphalt and fresh blood, and a horrible song that plays off key, wailing and screeching in his ears. Izuku wakes up in a cold sweat, limbs tangled in his sheets and heart beating so hard he feels it against his ribs. There’s something wet on his cheeks, and salt on his tongue.

Bad dreams always leave his throat parched, so Izuku heads for the kitchen for a glass of water, only to be greeted by the sight of Shouto sitting at the table, hands wrapped loosely around a mug. It’s dark except for a faint hint of streetlight coming in from the window, but the white side of Shouto’s hair stands out like the moon against the night sky. “Hey,” Izuku says, blinking owlishly at him. “What are you doing up?”

Shouto yawns. “I couldn’t sleep,” he answers, voice low and rough with fatigue, accent thicker at the edges than usual. “There’s just… a lot running through my head right now.”

Izuku hums, moving to take a seat at the table. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “But that’s kind of good too, you know? Creativity doesn’t happen in idle minds.”

Shouto’s brow scrunches in displeasure, and Izuku catches himself wanting to lean forward to kiss away the furrow. He pushes the urge aside, instead bringing his arms up so his elbows rest on the table and he can lean his head against his hands, watching as Shouto sips his drink. Silence reigns, but even with tonight’s tensions hanging between them the air remains comfortable and warm, like being wrapped in a soft blanket on a cold winter night. When Shouto sets the mug down and slides it wordless across the table, Izuku picks it up without a second thought, relishing the sweet taste of milk and honey on his tongue.

It’s sort of surreal, what they’ve managed to build between them. Izuku’s never had anything like it before, this strange thing that’s both less and more than a traditional friendship, lacking in knowledge but overflowing with trust. Having Shouto around just makes the world seem better, somehow. Brighter. Like the first sunbeams poking out from behind the clouds on a rainy day, slowly but surely chasing away the gloom. Or fresh spring flowers, sprouting up through the earth and adding little bits of color to a still dreary landscape. Something that Izuku didn’t necessarily need, but now that it’s here, he doesn’t want to let it go. Izuku’s gotten so used to Shouto’s presence that he’s starting to have trouble imagining life without him.

But Shouto can’t stay here forever. As much as Izuku enjoys having him around his stay in now in its fifth month and he can’t imagine Shouto will be sticking around much longer; he has a career to think about, and family waiting for him. It would be beyond selfish to think he’d give those things up.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Izuku says, now that he’s thinking about it, and Shouto inclines his head. “Are you planning on staying through January?”

“Ah,” Shouto says, and his head ducks, eyes hidden behind a sweep of stark white and vivid red. “About that. I’m actually… not.”

“Mmm. S’okay. That’s what I thought,” Izuku mumbles sleepily. He smiles, even though he knows Shouto probably can’t see it. “You probably want to go home for New Year’s right?”

Shouto’s head lifts, and he blinks slowly at Izuku before seeming to relax, shoulders losing some of their tension. “Yes,” he answers. “It’s been months since I’ve seen any of my family, and my mother especially seems worried—”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain,” Izuku says. “Truth be told, I’m kind of glad you’re not gonna be here because I’m going to spend a week with my parents and if you stayed you’d be stuck here all alone. Not that you wouldn’t be welcome, of course!” he add hastily. “Just—I figure with the—you know. You probably wouldn’t want to risk it.”

“Probably not,” Shouto agrees. “And I doubt your parents would want to host a total stranger for the most important holiday of the year.”

“Ah, they wouldn’t mind. Mom loves having extra mouths to feed.” Izuku yawns, sleepiness beginning to creep slowly back into his body. “How long will you be there?”

“A few weeks, at least. Maybe even the whole month.” Shouto shrugs. “It’s not like I’ve got other places to be right now.”

Izuku hums. A thought sprouts up inside his head, and he can’t stop himself from asking, “So… You haven’t thought ahead to next year yet?”

“Not beyond January.” Shouto tilts his head. “Why?”

“Nothing, just…” Izuku shifts, burying his head in between his arms. There’s an anxious knot in his stomach now and he’s not entirely certain he should say what he wants, but then again, it’s Shouto. Shouto, who likes him and trusts him and hasn’t judged him despite seeing Izuku break apart at the seams. The thought brings a bit of courage to his heart, and Izuku presses on despite his doubts.

“I was thinking if you… If you wanted to come back here, you’d… I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t charge you for an Airbnb rental either, you could just… Stay. Not that you have to of course, I’m sure you’ve got tons of other options, but um. The offer’s open, if… If you’re interested.”

He dares to peak up so he can see Shouto’s reaction; even in the dark, he can see winter grey and summer blue eyes go a little wide as they blink a few times, Shouto clearly caught off-guard. “Ah,” he finally says. “That’s nice of you to offer, Midoriya, but haven’t you said you need the money you get from renting out the extra room?”

“Mmm, I don’t need it exactly, it’s just nice to have. Makes me feel like I’m actually making a dent in the debt, I guess.” He laughs, too high and too nervous to be comforting. “But honestly I doubt I’d get someone wanting to stay in February anyway, so I could keep it open. But I know—I’m sure you could find better places.”

Shouto hums. “No,” he says after a moment. “Not really. I think besides my mother’s this is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real home.”

He says this like it’s the most simple truth in the whole world and Izuku stares, rendered speechless for a few long moments until he manages to scrape together some semblance of a voice.

“So… You want to come back,” he says, rather hoarsely. It’s not quite a question.

Shouto hums, gaze dropping to the mug he holds in his hands. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “It’s… I do like it here. It’s just…”

He trails off, an odd expression coming to rest on his features. There’s a hollowing of his cheeks but also a strange tilt to his brow, the line of his mouth seems thin and uneven, like he’s trying to process some particularly heavy thought. “Just what?” Izuku prompts, and Shouto starts as if snapping out of a daze.

“Just… some things I need to take care of,” he answers. “But I will—I’ll keep it in mind.” There’s a pause, and then his lips curl, mouth coming to rest in that achingly familiar soft sort of half smile. “Thank you, Midoriya.”

“Y-yeah,” Izuku says, barely able to hear himself over the thundering beat inside his chest. “Of course.”

A new silence settles over them, and Izuku assumes the conversation over. He’s just about to bid Shouto another goodnight when Shouto asks, “Will you be going home for Christmas at all?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Izuku shakes his head. “Christmas is just an aesthetic kind of thing for my family. And the hassle of getting to Arlington Heights without using a car isn’t worth it for just one day. Usually I meet up with my friends for the day, but my Christmas Eve plans are mostly just ordering take out and watching whatever terrible holiday movies are on Netflix.”

Shouto quirks one eyebrow as he lifts the mug to take another sip. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. Stuffing yourself to cheesy romcoms is a much better activity than it sounds like.”

“Mmm. I’m sure.”

“It’s true!” Izuku protests, and then, with a small grin, asks, “Why don’t you just join me and decide for yourself?”

Shouto chokes on his drink.

Actually, literally, honest to goodness chokes, with a harsh gurgling sort of noise before his eyes go wide and his mouth sputters and one hand comes up to thump against his chest and alleviate a sudden onset of coughing. It is by far the most exaggerated action Izuku has ever seen him make, and the strangeness of it leaves him full on staring, jaw going slack at the sight because watching Shouto choke is just weird on a level his brain can’t quite comprehend. Shouto in his mind is always reserved. Refined. Muted. He makes small actions that speak volumes and measures each gesture carefully to help cultivate a particular aura. He doesn’t make sudden, uncalculated movements. He doesn’t choke.

“Shouto?” Izuku asks once he’s managed to find his voice. “Are you—are you okay?”

“Fine!” Shouto gasps, which just makes the whole moment even weirder. Shouto doesn’t gasp. “Just—fine!”

Izuku raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look fine.”

“I—I’m perfectly well, Midoriya, thank you for your concern.”

Izuku squints, unconvinced. “What was that about?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Shouto answers, far too quickly.

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” Izuku presses, and even in the dark, it’s impossible to miss how Shouto’s face turns a perfect shade of cheery Christmas red.

“It’s—It’s stupid really, I just—” He pauses, brow scrunched in an aggravated furrow but mouth twisting in an uncertain line. His gaze keeps moving between Izuku and the mug now held in a deathgrip between his fingers, like he can’t decide where it should land.

Embarrassed, Izuku realizes with a jolt. This is what Shouto looks like when he’s embarrassed.

“Hey,” Izuku says softly, and mismatched eyes snap to him for a moment before dropping again. Izuku sighs, opting to nudge Shouto’s shin gently with his foot rather than try and maintain eye contact. “It’s okay. No judgements, promise.”

Shouto’s gaze flickers back up, and this time he manages to hold it for a few seconds before it drops again, shoulders hunching in as he heaves a resigned sigh. “Christmas Eve in Japan is a… couple’s holiday,” he admits in a very low tone. “Kind of like Valentine’s Day here. And I just—I’m tired, and I got my countries confused for a second. That’s all.”

His face is now so red it looks like it might actually burst into flame, though in fairness, Izuku’s not much better off. “I—what?” he squeaks, a wave of intense heat sweeping across freckled cheeks. “But I thought—isn’t Christmas just like, an excuse for being with family? And getting KFC? I don’t—couples? Really?”

“That’s the day, but the eve—I wouldn’t expect you to know,” Shouto says quickly. “Most people outside of Japan don’t—-and you’ve said you were young when you moved so—I just—” He makes a garbled sound caught somewhere between a sigh and groan. “It’s nothing. I know that’s not what you—like I said I just—got a little confused. Please just—just forget about it.”

There’s no way in hell Izuku’s ever going to be able to forget about this, ever, though he doesn’t say as much, too busy trying to get his pounding heart and wheezing breaths back under control. Any threads of sleepiness have been utterly eradicated from his mind, and now it feels like every synapse there is firing off, feeding a whole slew of ideas to his consciousness that loom like an oncoming tidal wave, ready to swallow him whole. There’s apologies and excuses and all myriad of other words brewing at the back of his throat, so thick and heavy Izuku chokes a little with the imagined weight of all he could say in his moment. A growing panic bubbles up from deep in the pit of his stomach because it feels like everything’s gone terribly wrong and Izuku doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t—

Shouto moves, and Izuku stops breathing entirely as he brings the mug up to his mouth, taking a slow sip while his opposite hand brushes his bangs away from his face. For one brief second, all Izuku sees is winter storm cloud grey and bright summer sky blue. They’re swirling with unspoken sentiment, but it’s not embarrassment or irritation, or anything else he thinks Shouto ought to be feeling in this moment. It’s something different, something that defies naming but that punches straight through the din cluttering his mind and reaches out to pluck at Izuku’s heartstrings, at that same chord still resonating from all those months ago.

His mind quiets. His heart slows.

He breathes. One full inhale, one full exhale.

“Hey.”

Shouto doesn’t move, but Izuku keeps talking.

“We could do it anyway, right?”

He counts exactly three heartbeats before Shouto looks up. “What—what do you mean?” he asks, and his voice trembles a little at the edges.

“I mean—if you’re going to be here for Christmas Eve anyway we might as well spend it together, right? I’m not—I don’t have plans, and you’re obviously not going anywhere so we could just… Do what I always do but together. Because it’s a holiday and you’re… You’re supposed to spend holidays with family and friends and we’re… We’re friends. Right?”

For a long moment, Shouto just stares at him. It’s that same peculiar mix of confusion and awe, the kind that sinks into every line of his face and makes it seem like Izuku’s some exceptionally rare sight to behold. Like Shouto’s never seen anything like him before, and he doesn’t quite know what to do now that he has. As though he has trouble believing Izuku is even real.

If he were just a little braver, this might be the moment when Izuku would choose to reach out and touch Shouto, ground him in reality and assuage all his doubts with a gentle caress or squeeze of the hand. But he’s not, so he doesn’t. Instead, Izuku smiles, bright and cheerful as he can possibly muster, and hopes that it’s enough.

Shouto keeps staring. Several loud heartbeats thunder in Izuku’s ears and for one brief second, he wonders if he made the wrong choice, screwed it all up somehow. Panic rises in the back of his throat, but Izuku forces himself to push it down and wait. Wait. Wait.

And then—

“Yes,” Shouto finally says, voice barely louder than a whisper. “We’re friends.”

The corners of his mouth twitch once, twice, before settling into a smile so shy and soft and heartbreakingly beautiful that Izuku’s lungs stop working.

“So… that’s a yes?” he barely manages to wheeze out.

Shouto’s eyes slip shut, and he lets slip a light, breathy noise that almost—almost—sounds like laughter.

“Yes.”

Chapter 13: And I Really Truly Honestly Want to Believe (That Everything Will be Alright)

Chapter Text

“You’re smiling.”

It’s the first thing Dr. Aizawa says to him after Izuku sits down for his session, and the sharp arch of one eyebrow tells Izuku that he finds it rather peculiar. Laughter rises up from the back of Izuku’s throat, a small bubble bursting with excitement and only the faintest hint of nerves. “Uh, yeah?” he says. “I kind of do that a lot.”

A thoughtful expression settles into the tired lines of Dr. Aizawa’s face. “No,” he says after a moment. “Something’s changed. You look happier.” He leans back into his chair, hands steepling in front of him as he regards Izuku over the rim of his yellow-framed glasses. “Care to elaborate?”

Izuku laughs again, unable to help himself. “I mean it’s, um. It’s kind of… A lot of things?”

Dr. Aizawa’s eyebrow rises incrementally higher. “You have… fifty-eight minutes left in your session,” he says, making an exaggerated show of looking at his watch. “Plenty of time to get through a lot of things.”

Izuku’s actually not quite sure about that, given the sheer breadth of subjects he could choose to talk about, everything from I started listening to music again to I finally went to a Plus Ultra concert and it was one of the most amazing experiences of my life to Remember that Airbnb guest I was complaining about back in September? Well he stuck around and now I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with him. Izuku’s hesitation isn’t so much that he doesn’t want to talk as it is that he’s not even sure where to begin. There’s a million little things swirling around in his head, all clamoring for their turn in the spotlight, and Izuku spends a good long while gnawing on his lip in thought before settling on the one he believes most prominent.

“Well, um… I, uh.” Izuku smiles, bright eyed and a little wobbly. “When this session is done I’m… I’m going to meet Mr. Yagi. So… so he can give me back my old guitar.”

Dr. Aizawa’s eyebrow shoots so far up his forehead it nearly disappears into his hairline.

“Excuse me?”

“My… my guitar,” Izuku repeats, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. “I’m… I was thinking I might… That I might start playing again.”

There’s a very long, very pregnant pause, during which Dr. Aizawa simply stares at Izuku like he just confessed to killing someone with his bare hands.

“So,” he finally says, after at least a full thirty seconds of silence, “four months ago you told me in no uncertain terms that you were dead set against ever picking up another instrument. And now you’re meeting up with your old music teacher to get back your guitar because you want to start playing again.” His eyes narrow critically, but the corners of his mouth are beginning to curl into a highly unnervingly smiles. “What the hell happened?”

Izuku grins, fat tears starting to roll their way down his freckled cheeks, and begins to talk.

What happened is this.

On Tuesday, three days before his usually bimonthly session with Dr. Aizawa, Izuku wakes up in a state of mild euphoria, endorphins still running high and lending him near boundless amounts of energy despite only a few hours of actual slumber. Shouto’s in the kitchen when he enters, drowsily nursing a mug of coffee and mumbling something about never having gotten to sleep. So before heading back after an exceptionally invigorating run, Izuku swings by a coffee shop and gets a white chocolate peppermint mocha. The way Shouto’s face lights up when Izuku gives it to him makes it feel like his whole body is about to burst into flames, and he honestly kind of loves it.

Then, right before Izuku heads off for work, Shouto hands him a bento box, and opening it reveals a neatly packed meal of onigirazu, tamagoyaki, and an assortment of fresh cut fruit and vegetables cut into all sorts of fun shapes. Shouto’s cheeks stain a very bright pink as he mutters something about Izuku needing a lunch since he was too busy helping Shouto to make one for himself yesterday, and the overwhelming urge to just tilt his head up and kiss him has never flared so strongly down Izuku’s spine as in that moment. It takes every ounce of his willpower to reel it in and stutter out a thanks instead, but it proves a worthwhile sacrifice; the warm, sleepy smile he gets in return leaves the goofiest grin in the history of mankind plastered on Izuku’s face for the entire morning. He can’t even muster up his usual defense against Shinsou’s new round of accusations about how he absolutely positively one hundred percent has a goddamn boyfriend, because while Izuku still very much does not have a boyfriend, he does kind of sort of maybe have a date.

Or at least, it will be a date. Izuku’s going to make it a date, because he is stupidly in love with Shouto and if he doesn’t do something about it soon he’s going to lose his freaking mind. And while the thought of confessing his feelings is a particular kind of gut-wrenchingly terrifying, it’s hard to miss how much more seems to have happened between them in only a few short days. How that precarious edge Izuku’s been balanced on since Thanksgiving is rapidly shifting on its axis towards an entirely new resolution, inconceivable until just a handful of hours ago. He has no concrete proof, of course, and it could end up being a horrible miscalculation borne of his own naive optimism. But that optimism has gotten Izuku just as many happy endings as it has blown up in his face over the many years of his life. He has no reason not to at least try.

Izuku returns home that night to find Shouto curled up on the loveseat in the living room, and even from a distance Izuku can make out the deep furrow of his brow and the sharp hollow of his cheeks. It seems wrong to disturb him when he’s so clearly lost in concentration, so instead of extending his usual greeting Izuku heads off to change his clothes before getting started on dinner. But by the time he’s got the rice cooker going and a teriyaki sauce mixed up and miso soup heating on the stove, curiosity’s been burning at the back of his mind for the better part of a half hour and Izuku can no longer convince himself to ignore it. He heads back to the living room, where Shouto remains exactly as he was, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

“What are you working on?” he asks, and Shouto jumps, like he hadn’t even noticed Izuku was there.

“You’re home,” he says, brushing overly long bangs away from where they’re falling into his eyes, and Izuku laughs.

“I got home like thirty minutes ago,” he says, smiling. “You must be pretty wrapped up whatever you’re doing not to have noticed.”

A splotchy pink flush rises to life in Shouto’s cheeks and he ducks his head, gaze dropping down to what Izuku now sees is a notebook in his lap. “I suppose I was,” he answers, and there’s something strange about his tone that settles oddly at the base of of Izuku’s spine, slowing the hopeful beat of his heart.

“So… what is it?” he asks, trying to keep his tone gentle and unassuming.

Shouto doesn’t answer right away, fingers curling tightly against the pen held in his grip. “It’s lyrics. For the song,” he says after a long moment, voice still holding the same strange quality, but its effect is lost on Izuku as the words fill him with an insatiable curiosity that washes away any caution.

“Really?” He glances down at the notebook, the pages of which are positively filled with impeccably neat writing. “Wow it—it looks like you did a lot already, that’s awesome!” He reaches out, hands trembling in excitement. “Can I see—”

Shouto jerks back, a violent motion that has him curling up on himself. He clutches his notebook fiercely to his chest as he looks up, eyes wide with something that makes the bottom of Izuku’s stomach drop all the way to the floor.

“No.”

Izuku’s hand freezes, held awkwardly outstretched between them as his heartbeat screeches to a painful halt. A loaded silence rapidly fills the air, and suddenly Izuku’s balanced once again on that precarious edge, only this time he’s struggling desperately not to fall in the wrong direction. “Wh… Why?” he can’t help but ask, and hates how much his voice wavers on the single word.

“I—” Shouto swallows, thickly enough that Izuku can follow the bob of his throat. He lowers his gaze, shoulders hunching as he continues to clutch the notebook, knuckles white from the strength of his grip. His brow furrows deeply and his mouth presses into a thin, uncertain line, the corners twisting this way and that before he lets out an abrupt, muted noise. “Midoriya,” he says, and there’s a vein of distress underlying his tone that has an all too familiar prickle building beneath Izuku’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—I can’t do this.”

Izuku blinks, partly from confusion, partly to stem the oncoming tide of tears. “Do… what?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows the answer.

“I can’t—I can’t make this song about my mother. It’s just—it’s not—” Shouto pauses, throat bobbing heavily again before he shakes his head, not meeting Izuku’s gaze. “I can’t do it.”

“What?” He keeps blinking, but there are already droplets on his eyelashes and Izuku’s not certain how long he can keep the rest back. “But—but we already did so much with the composition and—”

“I know,” Shouto sighs, and something in his posture gives out, tension bleeding into a slump that speaks only of defeat. “I know and I’m sorry, but you—you were wrong. This approach—it’s not going to work for me.”

Izuku’s stomach twists and knots itself into something tangibly painful. The wave of elation he’s been riding since last night comes crashing down, filling his chest with a nauseated kind of anxiousness that rises in the back of his throat and lodges there, making it hard to speak. “Is… Is it the lyrics?” he manages to say, more of an effort than he wants to admit. “I… If they’re giving you any trouble I’d be more than happy to—”

“It’s not that,” Shouto cuts him off. “I can write lyrics. She… She actually taught me how, just like she taught me how to play.” He winces, like it hurts to say this. “But I can’t—I can’t make this into a song.”

“But you’ve already—”

“I can’t. I know you said I need to make something personal but I—I—”

Izuku watches as Shouto’s mouth opens and closes, issuing a few soft noises but no words. After several long seconds he lets out one final strangled groan. Izuku’s heartbeat ceases entirely as Shouto looks at him, brow tilted and furrowed in a poignant kind of distress, winter grey and summer blue eyes shiny in a way Izuku knows all too well.

“I just can’t,” Shouto says, and there’s a finality in his tone that tells Izuku he shouldn’t push any further, but it isn’t angry. It’s not even frustrated. It’s just sad.

The knot in Izuku’s stomach continues to twist, tying itself so tightly he feels ill. There’s a lump in his throat and a vice around his heart that makes it hard to breathe, and he keeps having to blink so the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes won’t fall. Panic brews at the back of his mind, but looking at Shouto—listening to him speak and hearing that familiar tone of sadness that remains ever present no matter how much happier Shouto seems to be—gives him pause and forces him to stop. Think. Breathe.

Izuku closes his eyes.

He’s not you.

Takes one full inhale.

He’s not you, and he needs more time.

One full exhale.

“Okay,” he says. “You don’t… If you don’t think you can make the song about your mother that’s… That’s fine.”

He opens his eyes, and finds the distress on Shouto’s face rapidly giving way to relief, smoothing the line of his brow and the harsh downward turn of his mouth. An answering wave of calm rises up Izuku’s spine, easing the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat and the grip around his heart.

“But,” he continues, forcing himself not panic at the wary, aggravated look that flickers over Shouto’s features, “I do still think you should try and make it about something meaningful to you, just… Maybe not quite so deeply personal this time.”

Izuku smiles; he can feel it wavering at the edges, but it still works, relaxing the edges of Shouto’s expression as it turns into something much more thoughtful. “Is there… Is there maybe something your fans really like about you, that they already know? That way you could still give them something to connect to but it doesn’t… It doesn’t have to be quite so deep.”

Shouto hums, cheeks hollowing as he mulls this over. “I guess—maybe koi fish?” he answers after several long moments, and Izuku blinks.

“Koi fish?” he repeats and a flush blooms to life across Shouto’s cheeks.

“Yeah.” His gaze shifts away from Izuku, darting all across the room like he can’t decide where it should land. “I gave an interview once where I was asked about childhood memories. I told them about how there were never any pets in my household growing up, but I wanted one so badly that I taught myself how to take care of the fish in my family’s koi pond. People really seem to like that story.” The flush on his cheeks deepens, turning from soft pink to a bright red that melds seamlessly with his scar. “But I don’t—I don’t know if it would make a very good song.”

“Hey, if Queen can make a song about wanting to ride a bicycle I’m pretty sure we can do something with koi fish,” Izuku says, wobbly smile growing wider by the second as his brain process this new information with nothing less than sheer delight. “And I mean, even if we can’t, nobody has to know we failed except us, right?”

Shouto’s eyebrows twitch, but stop short of settling into their usual furrow. “I guess that’s true,” he concedes, and Izuku’s willing to count it as a victory.

On Wednesday Izuku comes home to the much more familiar sight of Shouto in the kitchen, already working on dinner. “Hey,” Izuku greets, thrilled when Shouto turns around and his mouth quirks into a soft little half smile.

“Hey,” he answers. “How was work?”

“Well, a server crashed because two office wide emails got caught in a continuous reply all loop but other than that it was fine.” He grins, trying to be encouraging. “What about you? Get any work on the song done?”

The smile drops off Shouto’s face, brow furrowing and tension rising in his shoulders. For one heart-stopping moment Izuku thinks he’s about to experience a repeat of the previous night, but he forces himself to wait before panicking, and after a pause, Shouto simply lets out a little sigh and gestures towards the table. Izuku turns to see Shouto’s notebook laid out, already open to a page filled with writing.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “You… You got that much done already?”

“It wasn’t exceptionally difficult, once I got going,” Shouto says with a shrug, but Izuku doesn’t miss the careful nonchalance of his tone, too calm and steady to be quite natural.

“Can I read it?” he asks, keeping his own voice level and kind, unquestionably a request and not a demand. Shouto frowns, but after a moment he gives Izuku a short nod.

Slowly, Izuku moves to take a seat at the table before grabbing the notebook. He’s grateful for the neatness of Shouto’s handwriting as his brain takes a second or two to warm back up to interpreting kanji, but soon Izuku finds himself enthralled by what Shouto’s written. It’s a simple concept, about a young boy who visits a koi pond and watches the fish change throughout the seasons, but the words flow seamlessly into one another and the imagery is bright and vivid and lively. The emotion feels a bit stilted, but it’s still undeniably there, simmering just underneath the surface and waiting for a few careful tweaks that could allow it to break free.

“Shouto,” Izuku says once he’s finished, “this is… This is really good.”

He turns to find Shouto looking at him over his shoulder, mismatched eyes blinking owlishly. “You think so?” he asks, the precise calmness of his tone fading in favor of what Izuku hopes is something pleased.

“Yeah! I mean like—I have a few suggestions but overall it’s great. Really solid and… Beautiful, kind of? Like it definitely reads like some sort of romantic poem or part of an old epic or something, I really like it.” Izuku fingertips trail lightly against the page, as if he might be able to feel the beauty of words just by touching them. “Where did you learn to write like this?”

“It wasn’t really by choice,” Shouto says, coming to stand by the table. “My education when I was growing up was very traditional, and part of it required me learning how to write poems in a classic style.” There’s a pause, and then he continues, in a much softer tone, “And my mother—she used to help me when I was younger. She taught me how to take the poems and make them into something more lyrical. We’d always try and turn them into things I could sing.” He sighs, eyes going sad and hazy as though cast upon some distant memory. “But that was a long time ago. I don’t know how well lessons stuck.”

“I mean—I’d say they stuck pretty well.” Izuku smiles at him, brighter when Shouto’s gaze seems to clear a bit. “This is great, we can totally make this work as a song. We’ll—I do think we should make a few more tweaks to the composition since this isn’t quite the same vibe as what we were trying before, but I think—Shouto?”

He stops, heart beating thunderously loud in his chest as Shouto’s expression shifts, brow furrowing and mouth thinning and fingers curling tightly where they rest against the back of a chair. It’s dangerously close to how he looked last night, and Izuku’s chest starts to fill with something dark and anxious as he asks, “Is… is something wrong?”

Shouto remains silent for several long moments, frown set deeply in the lines of his face as his mouth twists and his throat bobs, that increasingly common gesture that seems to happen whenever he’s struggling to voice his thoughts. “About the composition,” he finally says, words careful and measured. “I was actually wondering if we could make a new one for this song.”

“… Oh,” Izuku says faintly, trying to ignore how fast the bottom just dropped out of his stomach. “I… Did… Did you not like the other one?”

“No, I did,” Shouto answers immediately. “It’s just when I was working on… the other song, that composition was what I kept in my head and now they’re—linked, I suppose. And if—if I ever did make a song about my mother, I… I think I’d want to keep them together.”

He ducks his head, bangs falling in front of his eyes and obscuring them from view. “And I need practice making new compositions anyway,” he continues, not meeting Izuku’s gaze. “So I think it makes sense to just start over.”

It does make sense; Izuku knows it makes sense, though his heart falls a little anyway at the thought of shelving the composition, especially after how hard they worked and all the progress they made together. But right now this is about helping Shouto, not him, so Izuku tucks the thought away to the back of his mind. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a great point,” he agrees. “We can—we can get started on that tonight after dinner, if you want…?”

He trails off, hesitant and unsure of what Shouto’s reaction will be, but to his immense relief Shouto only looks back up and gives Izuku one of his small sort of half smiles. “I’d like that,” he says, and Izuku’s heart soars.

They go to work as soon as the dinner dishes are done. Since there’s no music yet Izuku asks Shouto to try singing what he thinks the song ought to sound like, and quickly discovers that this is yet another hurdle Shouto will have to overcome as for the first time since they’ve known each other, Shouto hesitates when he sings, clearly not as comfortable bringing the song to life as he was writing it down. His tone is stilted and short and uncertain, struggling to navigate this strange and foreign concept of creating something personal, even something as simple as a song about koi fish. By the end of his only his second round Izuku can see frustration and unease creeping into the edges of his expression and, not wanting a repeat of last night, Izuku suggests they move on to the composition proper. He pretends not to notice how relieved Shouto looks when he does so.

But composing a piece with little understanding of what the lyrics should sound like proves more difficult for Izuku’s still rusty skill set than anticipated, and they don’t end up getting very far that night. They try again on Thursday, but it becomes apparent over the course of the evening that there’s a disconnect between what Izuku can hear in his head and what he can explain to Shouto, and between what Shouto will write down and play versus what he’s actually willing to try and sing. It makes progress slow, much slower than last time, and it’s impossible to miss how much tension and disappointment lingers in the air when they finally call it a night.

Sleep eludes Izuku, his mind too riled up and thoughts darting all over the place as he mulls the new song over and over and over again in his head. There’s a clear idea there and Izuku’s sure he could make it a reality if only he could help Shouto get over that block. He tries to tell himself that it’s only been a few days, that of course Shouto will need more time to get comfortable with the idea of singing something personal about himself, let alone actually executing it. But there’s so little time left until his impending departure, and even if Izuku logically knows that there’s a high chance Shouto will return, the anxiety pooling in his stomach tells him otherwise. It floods up his spine and takes hold at the base of his neck, whispers awful things in the back of his mind about how he’s not good enough, how his help is useless and how Shouto won’t come back, and Izuku wants so badly to tell it to shut up but he can’t because it feels like it’s true, he isn’t helping and he doesn’t know what to do and God this would be so much easier if I just had my—

Izuku snaps upright so fast his head spins.

You can’t , his brain screams. You can’t you can’t you can’t it’s not possible it’s not—

Why?

His heart begins to pound in his chest, heavy and thunderous.

You can’t you can’t you tried and you couldn’t—

It’s been four years. I could try again.

His stomach twists, knots itself into something terrible and wonderful in equal measure.

You can’t you can’t you can’t it won’t be good it’ll never be as good—

It doesn’t need to be as good. Just good enough.

Just good enough to show Shouto what he means.

(And maybe how he feels.)

No no no you can’t you can’t you can’t—

He breathes. One full inhale, one full exhale.

Yes, I can.

The Nisei Lounge prides itself on being the last remaining so-called dive bar in Wrigleyville, and more than lives up to that reputation with an unassuming front, plenty of beers, and no kitchen to speak of. These days the crowd mostly consists of old regulars and Cubs fans, but years ago it used to be the place where Lakeview’s once sizeable Japanese-American population would come to socialize and be free of the suspicious glares of other Chicago residents who still viewed them as distrustful. Here is where the original proprietors allowed a young rising star named All Might to play the very first sets of his now legendary career, and even though it’s been over two decades now since anyone of Japanese descent actually owned the place, the history has been kept alive by a slew of dedicated patrons and knowledgeable bartenders.

This is where Izuku heads after his session with Dr. Aizawa, with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face and a song thrumming warmly deep in his core. It’s early when he arrives; the seats are mostly empty and there’s only one surly looking man behind the counter, but his expression morphs into a broad, crooked grin when he sees Izuku approach. “Hey there, Deku!” he greets. “Jesus, never thought I was gonna see you around here again!”

“Hi Doug,” Izuku answers, unable to help the flush that blooms across his face. “I guess it has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A while? It’s been more than four f*cking years, man. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve… been,” Izuku says truthfully, and Doug nods.

“Sometimes that’s as good as you can ask for,” he says wisely before stepping over to the beer tap. “You’re an IPA fan, right? Got just the thing for you. On the house.”

“What? Oh no, Doug that’s—”

“Hey, no arguing with the bartender,” Doug chides as he finishes the pour and slides Izuku a picture perfect glass. “Besides, I think you got someone waiting for you in the back there.”

He nods towards the pool table, where next to the old jukebox sits a tall, thin man with ashy blond hair and smile so brilliant it can be seen all the way across the room. Izuku feels his own grow wider in reflex, and he laughs a little, thanks Doug for the beer and makes his way to the back of the lounge. He doesn’t even get a chance to set his drink down before Mr. Yagi stands and wraps him up in a sweeping hug, squeezing so tightly Izuku’s lungs start to ache.

「I can’t breathe,」 he complains, poking at Mr. Yagi’s side, and his old teacher lets out a booming bark of laughter before he lets go.

「Look at you,」 he says, face positively glowing with pride. 「I haven’t seen you this happy in years.」

Izuku laughs again, high and bright. 「I know. It’s kind of weird, right?」

「Well I’d personally say it’s good, not weird, but if that’s how you want to describe it, go right ahead.」

「It’s kind of weird,」 Izuku repeats. 「At least, it feels weird right now. But I guess—hopefully it’ll stop feeling weird soon.」 He sets his glass down on the table and slides into a seat, Mr. Yagi following suit. 「Do you…?」Izuku starts to say, and then trails off when his voice can’t quite form the words, the idea of it still too strange, too foreign even inside his own head.

「Right here,」 Mr. Yagi answers with a wide smile, and shifts to reach behind him and grab a black guitar case leaning against the jukebox.

Izuku’s entire existence seems to halt for a moment as he sets it carefully between them on the small table, heartbeat stopping and breath ceasing and mind turning perfectly blank. He watches in a daze as Mr. Yagi pops open the tabs and gently lifts the lid, and when Izuku peers inside, the sight that greets him seems utterly surreal.

It’s almost like the last four years never even happened. His guitar sits in the case just the way it did when he packed it up the night of his accident, freshly polished and newly tuned, cushioned comfortably on all sides by plush green velvet. It still has a small knick on the body from where he bumped into an overly enthusiastic Katsuki onstage, stickers on the pick guard courtesy of Eijirou, and between the tuning keys, in bright silver Sharpie and Ochako’s bubbly handwriting, rests できる.

Because you’re the Deku that always does his best, right?

Tears slip down his cheeks as Izuku reaches out to touch the instrument with trembling hands, running fingertips along the old wood and new strings, already vibrating with the hum of possibility. Scar tissue catches on one of them as he moves across it, and the space between them fills for a moment with a soft twang of a low E note.

The sound pools at the base of Izuku’s spine before riding a shudder all the way up the back of his neck. It’s like his whole body is waking from an ages long slumber, and every part of him, from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, turns into something vivid and electric and beautifully, wondrously alive.

「Thank you,」 he whispers, voice thick with tears, and Mr. Yagi beams .

「Anything for you, my boy,」 he says, and Izuku lets out a noise equal parts laughter and sob. He feels one of Mr. Yagi’s large, bony hands come to rest over his on the table, and any restraint he might have had left shatters. Tears flow like rain from heavy storm clouds down his cheeks, and Izuku’s helpless to stop them, so he doesn’t try. He cries and cries and cries, until his eyes ache and his nose is blocked and the scarf around his neck has turned damp.

「S—sorry,」 he stutters when his head finally begins to clear and he can start to think properly again. 「Sorry I—I just—」

「There’s no need to be sorry,」 Mr. Yagi tells him, patting his hand. 「Honestly I wasn’t expecting anything else.」

Izuku makes another half-laugh, half-sob noise, but this time it’s accompanied by a wide, watery smile. 「I am kind of predictable like that, aren’t I?」

「Very predictable,」 Mr. Yagi agrees. He’s smiling too, broad and brilliant, and in the dim but cheery light of the old bar, it shines so brightly that Izuku can just make out the last remaining vestiges of the icon that was All Might, still burning even after all these years. It lights a fire in his chest, something low and slow but unyielding, feeding hope into the pits of his belly that smothers all his doubts and fears, and in that moment, Izuku really truly honestly believes that everything will be all right.

「I just have one request, before I officially give it back to you,」 Mr. Yagi says suddenly, and Izuku blinks at him.

「Which is…?」

「Tell me why.」

Izuku blinks again, more slowly this time, before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he mulls over the answer. As it was in his session with Dr. Aizawa’s office he’s not quite sure what to say, because the answer requires sharing more information than he technically has permission to give. Not that Shouto’s secret could be safer anywhere in the world than the hands of Mr. Yagi, but a promise is a promise. So instead of specifics, he opts for a vague though no less true response.

「I fell in love.」

The smile on Mr. Yagi’s face turns impish at the edges. 「Oh?」he says, in a tone that most definitely says he’d already figured that part out. 「With who?」

「I… I can’t tell you,」 Izuku answers. 「Not because I don’t want to. Just because I’ve been asked not to.」

Mr. Yagi’s smile dims, just a touch. 「Really,」 he says, clearly surprised. 「And why is that? Or can you not say?」

Izuku considers. 「They have… Well, they’re kind of in the same boat as you, if you catch my meaning,」 he says. 「They just—they really need to be careful so I can’t say much about them. Even to you.」

He smiles apologetically, and Mr. Yagi nods with understanding. 「I see.」 He pauses, and then adds with a sly look, 「I don’t suppose this has anything to do with that mysterious pianist that was staying with you back in October, now does it?」

「It… might,」 Izuku admits, smile turning sheepish, and Mr. Yagi laughs.

「Well I wouldn’t want to pry anymore than that.」 He lifts his hand off Izuku’s and wraps it around his glass, colored the deep golden brown of his favorite, an Arnold Palmer. 「To you, then. And all the best of luck in your future endeavors.」

Izuku grins, lifting his own glass and clinking it against his teacher’s. 「To me,」 he echoes, and they declare kanpai together before knocking back long sips. Doug was right; it’s a good IPA.

They chat for a little while more as they finish their drinks, and leave just as the bar starts to pick up with its early wave of regulars. Mr. Yagi walks him to the corner of Sheffield and Newport, giving him another crushing hug before they part ways. 「Promise me one more thing?」he asks, and Izuku nods.

「Anything,」 he agrees, and Mr. Yagi grins.

「That I’ll get to meet him someday,」 he says, and Izuku blinks at him for a moment before a swell of laughter rises up in his throat, high and bright and so wonderfully happy.

「Yes,」 he answers, grinning so wide it hurts at the thought of being able to introduce Shouto to the childhood hero he never got the chance to meet. 「Yes, I promise.」

The guitar case is a heavy but solid comfort in his hand as Izuku makes the walk back home. He can’t honestly remember the last time he felt so good about something, and even Thanksgiving weekend or Monday night’s conversation seem to pale in comparison, Izuku high on joy and pride and the idea he can finally share this one last missing piece of himself with Shouto, utterly and completely. There’s a tune coming to life inside his head, already so vivid that Izuku finds himself starting to hum as he rounds the final corner before his apartment. He almost can’t believe how easy it’s been, slipping back into these old habits like he’d never even tried to stop them, and it makes him smile even wider, so much that his cheeks start to ache in protest, but he just can’t seem to stop. He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he very nearly misses the sight of Katsuki barreling towards him from the opposite direction, and only the sound of several annoyed shouts and a one very loud, “ Shut the f*ck up and get out of my way! ” echoing down the street manage to snap Izuku out of his reverie.

“Kacchan?” he says, smile dimming in confusion, but Katsuki doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice that Izuku is there at all, instead making a sharp turn at the apartment entrance and stabbing at the lock with a spare key, then slamming the door open so harshly Izuku swears he hears something crack before barging inside, screaming near incoherently about some half-and-half bastard and how he’s going to murder him with his own disemboweled intestines. It makes for such a jarring scene that Izuku can’t quite process it at first, just stands there blinking and gaping dumbly until he realizes—

Shouto.

His body is moving before his mind can even finish the thought. Izuku dashes towards the still open door, taking only the necessary moment to close it behind him and set his guitar case carefully down in the foyer before he darts after Katsuki, leaping up the stairs two at a time to try and catch up. “Kacchan!” he yells. “Kacchan wait, stop!”

Katsuki doesn’t seem to hear him, rounding the corner at the top of first flight of stairs and disappearing from view, though the strength of his shouting reverberates throughout the entire space. Panic surges up Izuku’s spine, coiling sharp and painful in his gut. With a huge burst of effort he jumps the last three stairs, smacking his leg painfully on the railing as he slides over the corner, but it’s worth it; the move propels him forward, allowing him to sprint down the landing and catch up to Katsuki just as he begins his climb to the third floor. He reaches out to grab a fistful of Katsuki’s jacket and with as much strength as he can muster, pulls.

Katsuki falters, arms reeling as he loses his footing on the stairs and falls back, crashing into Izuku and sending them both careening into the wall. “What the f*ck,” he yells, clearly disorientated, and Izuku seizes on the opportunity, rushing forward and blocking him from going any further.

“Kacchan stop!” he bellows, and Katsuki does, staring at him without comprehension.

Then his gaze clears, and the expression that overtakes his face is so enraged it borders on murderous.

“You. f*cking. Idiot.”

He’s angrier than Izuku’s ever seen him before, angrier than when he was a schoolyard bully or a combative teenager, angrier than when Izuku showed him up the first time or when they finally came to proper blows in a Denny’s parking lot at three AM, angrier even than when he first saw Izuku in the hospital after his accident or when Izuku told him he was dropping the legal fight because if he didn’t it was going to kill him. Katsuki in this moment is a veritable typhoon of wrath and rage and fury, an absolutely terrifying sight to behold and Izuku—

“Get out of the f*cking way Deku.”

Izuku is not a child anymore.

He’s seen worse than Katsuki, and he is no longer afraid.

“No.”

Izuku throws his arms out, one hand on the railing and one on the wall. He plants his feet firmly on the ground so they won’t budge, and he stares Katsuki down, unyielding. “Kacchan stop,” he says again. “You can’t just barge into my apartment for no reason like this, it’s ridiculous—”

“Ridiculous? You know what’s f*cking ridiculous, Deku? You! You’re a ridiculous f*cking moron who apparently doesn’t have two f*cking brain cells left in his whole goddamn head! Now get out of the f*cking way so I can take care of this for you since you’re too goddamn stupid to do it your f*cking self!”

He lashes out, shoving at Izuku’s shoulder with one hand, but Izuku doesn’t move. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demands.

“Don’t f*cking play dumb with me you f*cking idiot! You know exactly what I’m talking about, Jesus f*cking Christ I thought round face and four eyes were gonna watch you to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid while we were gone but I guess nobody f*cking cares—”

“You take that back,” Izuku snaps, a rare spark of anger flaring to life in his chest, red hot and smoldering. “Ochako and Tenya are my best friends and you know they’d never—”

“Best friends who apparently don’t pay any goddamn attention to the kind of sh*t you get yourself into!” Katsuki retorts. “Can’t even stop you from being a spineless f*cking dumbass who just lets people walk all over him—”

“Kacchan you spent literally all of grade school and most of high school doing exactly that to me, you can’t just come in here and—” Izuku cuts off with a strangled yell, frustration and outrage rising up from the pits of his stomach and making it hard to speak. “Look, either you tell me why you’re here and I’ll kick you out nicely, or you don’t and I’m gonna kick your ass straight out the door. Your choice.”

Katsuki’s entire face goes molten crimson. “You—f*cking—I can’t f*cking believe you, you’re seriously gonna defend him over me?”

“Defend who?” Izuku says. “Kacchan I don’t have any idea what’s going on here so please, explain it to me.”

“Don’t f*cking—” Katsuki begins, and then stops. His whole body roils with tension, shoulders tight and chest heaving and fists clenched at his sides, but the fury painting his features falters, flickering as tiny bits of his expression begin to change. He’s glaring at Izuku, but then his gaze shifts, cast briefly to some unseen point above them before it returns, and disbelief floods his face.

“Jesus pissing Christ,” he hisses. “You have no f*cking idea who he is, do you?”

“Who who is?” Izuku asks, even as his heart seizes in the sure knowledge that somehow, some way, Katsuki found out about Shouto, and not only knows exactly who is but also apparently wants to kill him.

“Your Airbnb guest, you f*cking idiot!” Katsuki yells, jabbing a finger violently towards the third floor. “You know, the guy you wouldn’t f*cking tell any of your goddamn friends about because you’re a f*cking moron who doesn’t know how to f*cking protect himself and gets wrapped up in these godawful f*cking situations because you never stop to use your f*cking brain for two f*cking seconds!”

A shudder runs up Izuku’s spine, anger and fear twining together in a horrible wave that seems to swallow him from head to toe. He has to force himself to breathe before he answers, one full inhale, one full exhale.

“I know enough,” he says, and Katsuki full on growls.

“Enough? What the f*ck does that even mean, enough, what the f*ck—”

“It means enough!” Izuku yells. “Obviously it’s not as much as you do but he’s been honest with me—”

“Honest? You think he’s been f*cking honest?”

“Yes!” Izuku insists, and there are angry tears starting to form in the corners on his eyes but he refuses to let them fall. “He trusts me and that’s enough, I don’t need to know everything because it doesn’t matter! And you can’t just—”

“Oh, I see, it doesn’t matter! That’s great! That’s just f*cking great for you, isn’t it Deku?” One fist comes up to punch at the wall, the blow so hard it turns Katsuki’s knuckles red with blood. “And I guess it’s not gonna f*cking matter when I tell you his name is Todoroki Shouto either, is it?”

Izuku’s heart stops.

The world around him is rendered undone as his whole body goes still, breath ceasing and blood slowing and mind utterly blank except for one single word.

Todoroki.

“Wh… what?”

“Todoroki. Shouto,” Katsuki repeats, spitting the name like venom. “You know, international pop sensation, mysterious brooding heartthrob of teenage girls everywhere, son of the bastard who—”

“Shut up,” Izuku says, voice cracking on each word.

Todoroki.

“Shut up,” he says again. “Shut up, you’re—you’re—”

Lying , he wants to say, but he can’t. Bakugou Katsuki is many things—angry, belligerent, occasionally violent—

But he is not a liar.

Todoroki.

“You seriously didn’t know?” Katsuki asks. “Deku all you have to do is look at him, he looks just like his f*cking—”

“No,” Izuku chokes out, shaking his head. Shouto doesn’t look like that, he’s stunningly, achingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, with his mismatched eyes and two-toned hair and he’s not—He’s not—

Todoroki.

“I don’t… I don’t believe you,” Izuku stutters, because he can’t call Katsuki a liar but it’s not true, it can’t, it can’t be true, it can’t—

“Jesus f*cking—do I have to prove it to you, you f*cking idiot?” Katsuki whips out his phone, fingers flying angrily over the screen for a few seconds before he stops and shoves it in Izuku’s face. “Look.”

Izuku doesn’t want to. He wants to shut his eyes and run away, up to his apartment where Shouto’s probably making dinner, singing softly to himself, and he’ll turn when Izuku enters the kitchen and greet him with one of those soft little half smiles—

“Deku,” Katsuki snaps, shoving the phone at him, and Izuku looks, because he has no choice.

It’s Instagram, pulled up to a picture of Shouto lying on a bed, one arm curled gently around a sleeping Onigiri. She’s been strategically placed to cover the left side of his face, hiding his scar. There’s a caption, something about apologizing for a long absence and thanking his fans for being patient, but Izuku barely sees it, because all he can focus on is the name at the top of the account.

TodorokiShouto.

Todoroki. Todoroki. Todoroki.

“Kyouka saw it first and she thought the cat looked familiar, so she showed it to all of us and I recognized that f*cking Oni-neko right away.” Katsuki shoves the phone back into his pocket and glares at Izuku, mouth forming an ugly sneer. “I can’t f*cking believe you Deku, I mean I know you said you were never gonna listen to music again but how could you not f*cking know—”

“Get out.”

Katsuki stops, his angry gaze faltering. “What?”

“Get. Out,” Izuku spits, and one hand comes up, jabbing vaguely towards the direction of the street even as it begins to tremble so badly Izuku can feel it all the way up his forearm.

The glare disappears from Katsuki’s face, replaced by something uncertain, almost hesitant. “Deku—”

“Get out!” Izuku yells, so loud Katsuki jerks back in shock. “Get out of here Kacchan I don’t—I can’t—f*cking—deal with you right now so just leave. Now.”

“But what about—”

“Out!” Izuku repeats, tears spilling down his cheeks as storms burst open underneath his eyes. “Just—f*cking—leave and let me deal with this, I don’t want you here right now so just go!”

“Deku I’m not—”

The noise that leaves Izuku’s throat isn’t human. It’s just a raw, mottled sound of pure anguish, and it sends Katsuki fumbling backwards, wide-eyed and wary.

“Deku,” he says, but Izuku just shakes his head, stabbing his still quaking hand at the stairs below.

“Leave,” he commands, then turns on his heel and marches the rest of the way up to the third floor. He does not look back.

He finds Shouto exactly how he imagined him; in the kitchen prepping vegetables for dinner, rose gold Beats over his ears as he sings softly and his hips sway with the rhythm. The setting sun casts a veil of golden light across the room, igniting the stark white and vivid red crown of his hair, and if Izuku could see them, he’s sure those winter grey and summer blue eyes would be alight as well, bright and brilliant and beautiful like always.

Only this time there’s no urge to touch him running unchecked down Izuku’s spine. There’s no catch of his breath, or gentle curl of warmth in his stomach, or a buoyed lightness around his heart.

This time, Izuku stares at Shouto from the doorway and he tastes iron, smells scorched metal and burning rubber. Phantom sirens wail in his ears and his hands shake so violently he can feel the tremors in his bones. Tear tracks stain his cheeks and his knees are locked in place, rendering him unable to move from his spot. His breath is gone and his heartbeat still. The song that played there, which had seemed to reach the peak of its crescendo only minutes ago, is now completely and utterly silent.

Shouto’s head shifts, pausing as he seems to catch Izuku from the corner of his eye. Then he turns, a soft sort of half smile ready in greeting, but it drops into an expression of alarm almost instantly. “Midoriya, what happened?” he asks, setting down his knife and stepping forward, one hand reaching out for Izuku. “You—”

A raw, aching noise pushes past the block in Izuku’s throat and Shouto halts, wide-eyed and wary. “Midoriya?” he says, and the concern in his tone sounds so honest and genuine that it has bile rising up in the back of Izuku’s throat, vomiting up words he never wanted to ask before.

“Your last name,” he croaks. “Is it Todoroki?”

At first Shouto just sort of stares at him, blinking slowly in confusion as the question works its way into his brain, but Izuku knows the exact second that Shouto figures it out because every line in his body goes rigid, shoulders rising and fists clenching and eyes narrowed so sharply his gaze physically stings. His mouth thins, a frown settling deep into the grooves of his face, and whatever warmth he might have held before snuffs out entirely, leaving in its wake something alone and miserable and brutally, painfully cold.

“Who told you?” he asks, tone so frosty it could match the howling wind outside, and Izuku barks out some hollow imitation of laughter.

“Does it matter? It’s true, isn’t it?” It’s not even a question, not really. “You’re… You’re Todo… Todoroki… Todoroki Enji’s…”

The words catch in the back of his throat; it sounds so ridiculous out loud, some farcical idea planted by doubts and fears that always whisper dark, wicked things in the back of his mind, and for a single moment, Izuku nearly can’t bring himself to believe his own accusation because it simply can’t be true. Shouto is warmth and comfort and love , not fury and hatred and spite, and he trusts Izuku, he’s honest , he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t—

Shouto recoils like he’s been hit, a blow that ripples from his core out to the very edges of his being. The ice cracks, splitting him wide open with shame and fear and some wild, unnamed thing that makes his mismatched eyes burn like red hot coals and in that moment, Izuku sees it all so, so clearly.

His left side.

How did I never notice it before?

Red and blue. Just like…

Just like…

There is blood in his mouth, and ash on his tongue.

His lungs are empty and screaming, his heart ripping apart at the seams.

There are cracks in his bones and scars branded onto his skin, and Izuku—

Izuku is dead, and he is burning.

“I can’t believe you,” he chokes out, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, tremors so violent he feels it in his ribs. “You—you—you lied to me!”

“Midoriya,” Shouto says, but Izuku doesn’t—won’t—listen.

“Did you know? ” he demands, voice rising into a furious, awful cry that echoes around the kitchen as Shouto flinches under another invisible blow. The flame behind his eyes dies, smothered by another blanket of cold. His gaze drops to the floor as his shoulders hunch, drawn so tight it seems the muscles might snap. It’s as good as an admission, and something black and ugly and wretched bubbles to life in the pits of Izuku’s stomach as he sobs, wrecked and broken.

“Oh my God, you did. You—you knew and you never—you never said anything .” The terrible thing bleeds out of his stomach, pumping slowly through his veins until all Izuku knows is hurt. “How—how could you do this? I thought—I thought—I thought—”

I thought I could trust you.

“It’s not—I didn’t—” Shouto starts to say, but Izuku isn’t done.

“How—how long? How long did—did you—” An awful thought rises in the back of his mind, dragging him down until Izuku’s drowning under the weight of his own anguish. “Did he—did he put you up to this—this whole thing? Did—did you always know was that—was it some kind plan—”

“No!” Shouto yells. “I wouldn’t—I would never —don’t you dare—”

“Don’t I dare?” Izuku all but shrieks. “How—how can you even say that you—you—you—”

“I didn’t know!” Shouto blurts out, and there’s a desperation in his voice that might have given Izuku pause if he weren’t filled to the brim with a torment so encompassing he can no longer feel his own body. “I didn’t—I didn’t know at first, I swear Midoriya, I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Izuku screams. “Didn’t know that your father destroyed me?”

Shouto freezes, utterly still except for the storm that swirls across his face, too many expressions and emotions to count; but when he opens his mouth, it’s only a few scattered, meaningless words. “Midoriya I didn’t—I wanted—but—”

“Then why didn’t you! Why—why didn’t you ever say anything ? Didn’t you care? ”

Please tell me you cared. Tell me it wasn’t all a lie I made up in my own head.

“I—Midoriya I—I—”

Shouto’s throat bobs, mouth twisting every which way, but no words come. He simply stands there, half frozen in fear and half smoldering in anger as his gaze flickers wildly around the room, unable to land in any one place until for a split second, it falls upon Izuku and the whole world comes grinding to a halt as he searches for something— anything —in those deathly grey and ghastly blue eyes and finds—

Guilt.

That black, ugly, wretched thing in his veins roars in anguish, pulsing through him in frantic waves as it plunges itself into every last fiber of his being, until Izuku’s whole body goes heavy and numb.

Except his chest.

In his chest, there is gasoline in the hollow where his heart used to be, and it ignites into a roaring blaze that burns and burns and burns.

It was a lie.

None of it was ever real.

“You—” Izuku tries to say, but it only comes out as an awful, broken noise. “You—”

“Izuku—” Shouto starts, and the way he says Izuku’s name—like it’s supposed to mean something, like his words aren’t empty and hollow and devoid of any truth—makes him want to scream until his lung burst.

“Don’t. Stop, just—just stop, I don’t—I don’t want to—to hear your excuses you—you—you’re just like him,” Izuku sobs, vision melting away in a flood of tears. “You—you don’t—you never cared about anything.”

Shouto moves, something sharp and jerky like he’s just been burned, but Izuku barely notices. It’s like his consciousness has left his body, trapped and unmoored on a dark sea, only able to watch as he finally manages to wrench himself away from his place in the doorway. He’s vaguely aware that he’s moving, but the feeling of it only seems to come in dull waves. A dash to the door and a stumble down the stairs. A trip on the mat in the foyer and a blast of cold wind from outside. A skid against an icy sidewalk and a slow careening into the street. An angry screech from a car horn and—

And Izuku snaps back to himself, screaming as he barely breaks the surface of the tumultuous ocean intent on dragging him down into its icy, barren depths.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts—

There’s blood in his mouth, smoke in his nostrils, sirens in his ears.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts—

He sees sterile white burned into the back of his eyelids, and hears the hideous screech of metal on metal on bone.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts—

And in the back of his mind, like a pitch black eclipse of the sun, towers a man with fire in his veins and coal where his heart should be, already burned to ash.

A man with raging red hair, and furious blue eyes.

Todoroki.

It’s hours before Izuku finally returns home.

He spends the entire time staggering through the streets of Lakeview, its familiar sights and sounds and people indistinguishable as the tears continue to pour and pour and pour, endless storms running down his cheeks and soaking into the woolen fibers of his scarf until its frozen against his skin. His breath comes in sharp, painful bursts and his heart slams a rolling drumbeat into his ribcage, hard enough it feels as though the bones might crack. Izuku has no clue where he’s headed, nor does he care. He lets his feet carry him wherever they please, so long as it’s away from where he was. Occasionally he hears a concerned call trailing after him, but he pays them no mind.

Panic and anger and hurt coursing through his veins keep him suspended in his dreadful state until exhaustion overtakes him instead, sinking so deep it seems to settle down in the very marrow of his bones. Izuku begins the long trek back to his apartment, his body weighed down by fatigue and numbing cold and a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest where he thinks his heart used to be. When he finally reaches the building, the clock on the phone he can barely hold in his frigid, trembling hands tells him it’s well past midnight. More than once, Izuku considers just collapsing on the stairs and staying there; the only thing that stops him is a small voice in the back of his head that speaks just loud enough to cut through the hazy fog of his scattered thoughts.

I want answers.

I want answers, and Shouto’s going to give them to me even if I have to rip them out of him with my bare hands.

He owes me at least that much.

Izuku nearly begins crying in relief when he reaches the third floor, stumbling the remainder of the way to his door as his legs begin to give out beneath him. He opens it with a very small sob, already kicking off his boots and shedding his scarf and gloves with stiff movements from half frozen limbs when something small and loud and furry darts past his legs.

Izuku has to blink several times before his brain recovers enough to process what he just saw. “Oni?” he mumbles, turning his head in confusion. His cat is roaming around the landing, alternating between sniffing at the ground and yowling at the top of her tiny lungs. Izuku watches in bemusem*nt as she circles around the space a couple time before returning to him, weaving in between his legs while she continues meowing in distress, eyes large and pleading.

“Oni, what’s wrong?” Izuku crouches down with a groan, reaching out to try and calm Onigiri down, but she darts away from his touch, dashing back into the apartment to continue her strange search. He blinks after her a few times, frowning in concern but unable to muster up the desire to do anything, already about to fall asleep in the doorway. With a great effort Izuku manages to pull himself back up, pausing to kick his boots into the entryway next to the other shoes—

Shoes.

He stops, staring at the space where Shouto’s light blue Converse have always resided since he first arrived in August.

They aren’t there anymore.

Izuku stares at the empty spot for several long moments in incomprehension, until a spark finally manages to fire in his nearly dead brain, and suddenly every fiber in his body is burning with a sense of dread.

No.

He forces himself to move, feet dragging heavy against the floor as he makes his way to Shouto’s room. The door is ajar. The door is never ajar; Shouto always keeps it closed.

No.

Izuku enters the room, and finds it empty.

No. No. Nonononono—

Nausea curls and knots painfully in the pit of his stomach, nearly bringing Izuku to his knees as he stumbles through the apartment, desperate for any sign to prove what he sees false, that it’s all just some horrible misunderstanding made up by his exhausted mind. But there’s no coffee in the cabinets, and the French Press is gone from its place next to Keurig, and the clothes he placed in the washer for Shouto this morning have been removed.

Nonononopleasepleasepleasepleaseno—

Izuku staggers back into the living room, barely holding back a new onslaught of tears when the dim street light from outside draws his gaze to the softly illuminated piano, and he freezes.

There’s no sheet music on the rack anymore. Or anywhere. The piano sits exactly as it did five months ago, cover closed and keys pristine, as though it had never been touched at all.

Izuku stares at it.

He stares at it, hands trembling and lungs aching and heart bleeding, screaming, burning inside his chest and Izuku—

Izuku shatters.

Chapter 14: Despite Everything (I’m Still Human)

Chapter Text

Denki

yo dude, katsuki just stormed out of kyouka’s apt screaming about u
sorry man i know u don’t want 2 hear that :( but we think he’s headed over 2 ur place?
wt hell is going on?

[Sent Friday 4:43 PM]

dude what the f*ck katsuki just came back and i think he’s crying
wtf happened?

[Sent Friday 6:07 PM]

izuku u there?

[Sent Friday 8:24 PM]

come on dude, srsly, we’re kinda freaking out over here.
katsuki won’t say anything
pls answer?

[Sent Friday 11:59 PM]

Me

hey sorry, katsuki and i just got into an argument, that’s all. everything’s fine, please don’t worry

[Sent Saturday, 11:07 AM]

Kyouka

Hey Izuku, sorry to bother you but Katsuki just ran out of my apartment acting like a crazy person and I think he’s going to your place, heads up!
He’s really mad about something
I don’t quite know how to say about what, but um
Do you know who Todoroki Shouto is?

[Sent Friday 4:54 PM]

Izuku? Is everything okay? Katsuki came back to grab something and he looked pretty upset

[Sent Friday 6:13 PM]

Izuku?
Eijirou just texted, he said Katsuki’s kind of a mess but he won’t talk about anything
What happened? Did you guys get into a fight or something?
Denki says that’s happened before. Please let us know you’re alright!

[Sent Friday 9:36 PM]

Izuku?
Please we’re starting to get worried

[Sent Friday 12:01 AM]

Me

hey kyouka, sorry i didn’t get back to you sooner, everything’s alright. katsuki and i didn’t fight, it was just an argument. please don’t worry, i’m fine

[Sent Saturday 11:07 AM]

Eijirou

uh hey can you tell me why i’m getting all these frantic texts from denki and kyouka about katsuki?
they say it has something to do with you maybe? what’s going on

[Sent Friday 5:34 PM]

Voicemail, Eijirou

「 Hey um so I just went over to Katsuki’s place and he told me to f*ck off and then slammed the door in my face but he kind of looked like he’d been crying? Like his nose was all runny and his eyes were really bloodshot and I don’t know dude, he looked really upset. Denki and Kyouka said they thought he went over to your place to talk—or yell probably—something but they haven’t heard from you so we’re all just wondering what the hell happened? Just like. Let us know you’re okay dude. 」

[Received Friday, 7:57 PM]

「 Izuku? Come on please call me back or text me or something. Nobody’s heard anything from you. I don’t—well we can talk about the details later but um. I know something kind of bad might have happened and I—just call okay? We’re worried. I’m worried. 」

[Received Saturday, 2:09 AM]

Me

hey i got your voicemail, don’t worry about me
something did happen and i was upset but it’s okay. i’m fine now

[Sent Saturday, 9:12 AM]

Voicemail, Tenya

“Izuku! I’m very sorry to bother you so late but I got several distressing texts from some of our friends about a possible altercation between you and Katsuki and also possible Todoroki Shouto? I’m… not entirely clear on why that last part might be, nobody was very sure on the details. But I’m quite concerned, could you please give me a call back when you have a chance?”

[Received Friday, 8:25 PM]

“Izuku I’m sorry I know it’s very late but, well… Nobody has heard from you and Katsuki isn’t responding to any of our calls or texts either. Please give me a call back, or Ochako, or—or anyone, really, we just want to know you’re alright. Please.”

[Received Friday, 11:48 PM]

“Izuku please. Ochako’s been freaking out all night, she can’t settle down and well—neither can I, frankly. And maybe you’re fine and this is all just a misunderstanding but the last time we didn’t hear from you after you were upset… Look just call, okay? You don’t have to tell us anything, just please, please let us know you’re okay.”

[Received Saturday, 3:56 AM]

Me

hey sorry i didn’t call last night, i was just upset about something that happened and didn’t feel like talking
but i’m fine now, you don’t have to worry
please tell ochako to stop freaking out
i don’t think she’ll listen to me

[Sent Saturday, 9:15 AM]

Voicemail, Ochako

“Deku, what the hell is going on? I’ve got texts and voicemails from everyone saying they think something happened between you and Katsuki and also Todoroki Shouto? I don’t think you even know who he is, do you—sorry that’s not important right now, just like. Call me, okay? Everyone’s worried and that’s not good, you know it’s not good. Just—just send a text to someone—anyone—and let us know you’re okay, okay? Seriously, I’m really worried.”

[Received Friday, 8:48 PM]

“Deku it’s been two hours and I haven’t heard from you what the hell is happening. Call me you big dummy or I swear I’m gonna break into your house and drag you to the you-know-what.”

[Received Friday, 10:53 PM]

“Okay well you didn’t respond to the hospital threat at all so now I’m really worried. Like a lot. Deku what’s going on, please, please call me. You’re making me sick here.”

[Received Friday, 11:09 PM]

“Deku I’m serious, if I don’t hear back from you in the next thirty minutes I’m gonna call your mom.”

[Received Saturday, 12:14 AM]

“Deku please. I’m not—I’m trying really—really hard not to overreact but I know—I know it’s bad when you don’t respond to mom threats and I—I—I just I’m so worried and no—nobody knows anything and Katsuki won’t talk and please please please call back or I really—I’m gonna assume the worst and call an ambulance. I mean it.”

[Received Saturday, 12:42 AM]

Me

don’t call an ambulance
i’m fine

[Sent Saturday, 12:44 AM]

Ochako

no you’re not you liar!!!
deku please, what’s going on?
you know you can tell me anything, just please tell me what’s happening.

[Sent Saturday, 12:45 AM]

Me

it’s nothing that bad. just something between me and katsuki mostly
i swear i’m fine ochako
really

[Sent Saturday, 12:45 AM]

Ochako

I don’t believe you.

[Sent Saturday, 12:45 AM]

Katsuki

hey idiot wtf happened
is he gone
i didn’t tell them who it was but everyone’s freaking out
what did you do
what happened

[Sent Saturday, 8:31 AM]

Me

leave me alone katsuki

[Sent Saturday, 8:41 AM]

Katsuki

not until you tell me what happened
he didn’t f*cking hurt you did he

[Sent Saturday, 8:41 AM]

Me

no
he just left
that’s it now leave me alone i’m fine

[Sent Saturday, 8:42 AM]

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m f—

Izuku is not fine.

In fact, he’s the farthest he’s been from fine in a long, long time.

There’s no sleep that night. His body is exhausted beyond all belief but his psyche remains a broken, shattered wreck, like a tumultuous current that drags him a hundred different directions all at once in wave after wave after wave. There isn’t any rhyme or reason or logic to his thought process anymore; it’s only overwhelming emotion and scattered visions seared into his eyes every time he closes them. Twisted wreckage and gritty asphalt. White hallways and sterile rooms. Lawyers’ offices and the places he used to hide when it all became too much to bear.

Red and blue, burning in rage and fury.

That same red and blue, vivid and bright like summer sunlight.

It’s this thought that really hurts the most, that stabs viciously at Izuku’s stomach and spine and the place where his heart used to be, until it’s so raw and painful he can barely keep from screaming. It’s this that keeps him wide awake and reliving the very worst of his nightmares in agonizing detail, smelling gasoline and hearing sirens and feeling his bones break and break and break.

And he cries. God does he cry, in wracking sobs that shrink to miserable sniffles and then morph into near howling wails as tears flow in rivers and then streams and then trickles down his cheeks until there’s simply no more left in him to give. His eyes are dry but the weeping still rattles deep within his chest, creating an ache so sharp it slows his blood and stalls his lungs. And yet he can’t make it stop, thwarted every time he tries by thoughts of grey and blue, pine and smoke, smiles and promises, all of it now turned to ash.

Meanwhile the texts and voicemails from his friends continue to build up; Izuku ignores them until he can’t anymore and then he gathers what little energy he has to send back the most meager of responses. He knows it’s bullsh*t—he knows that his friends know it’s bullsh*t—the constant and meaningingless refrain that he’s fine, it’s fine, everything’s fine. But it’s all he has to offer, and right now, everything in him is too broken to care much more than that.

Once, and only once, he manages to muster up the very last scraps of his courage and tries to call Shouto, utterly desperate for any kind of resolution. But it just goes straight to voicemail, and Izuku can’t find it in himself to try again.

He hates it. He hates every tear staining, lung heaving, heart wrenching moment of it, because it shouldn’t be like this. Izuku should be happy—thrilled even—that Shouto is gone. He should be happy that he won’t have to look at him knowing he was played for a fool. He should be happy that it’s done and over and that Shouto isn’t coming back because Shouto lied to him and hurt him, and then didn’t even have the decency to try and defend himself or talk about why he’d done it and Izuku should be happy, he should be happy—

But he’s not.

He’s angry and upset and miserable and so, so broken, and it doesn’t seem like he’ll ever be whole again.

Exhaustion finally catches up with Izuku early Saturday afternoon, and he has a vague sense of collapsing onto his mattress before he blacks out, not awakening until some long and unknown time later. His body revolts when he tries to get up, head pounding and chest aching and stomach so heavy with nausea it makes Izuku ill. He stays like that through the rest of the afternoon, bumbling around his apartment as little more than a mockery of a human being. Phone calls are made, proper ones where Izuku tries to force on a smile that his friends can’t see as he repeats the same line over and over and over again: yes, something happened but no, you don’t need to worry, I promise—I promise—I’m fine. Nobody believes him, of course; Denki and Kyouka don’t press much, but Tenya and Eijirou are insistent about coming over, and Ochako spends the entire time yelling at him while she all but cries into the receiver. But somehow, through flimsy excuses and tearful sobbing and a stubborn refusal to yield to their demands, he convinces them all to stay away, at least for now.

It’s not that he doesn’t want their help; he does, badly, but their help also means explaining why he needs it, and Izuku can’t even look at the piano or the stove or the spot where the French Press used to sit without dissolving back into an incoherent mess of tears, the last vestiges of his heart burning away inside his chest. Distress and shame and humiliation all boil together in the pits of his stomach and flood deep into his veins at the mere thought of what happened, and Izuku can’t. He can’t bring himself to tell them—any of them—how stupid and foolish and blinded he has. How far he let himself fall. How much he cared.

Was it all really a lie?

Did you really never care about me at all?

A new round of nightmares plague every moment of his rest that night, and by the time his alarm goes off early Monday morning, Izuku’s even more tired than when he tried to go to sleep. He nearly collapses just trying to make it to the kitchen; there’s no way he can leave the apartment without risking something disastrous. So as much as it kills him to have to do it, he calls Shinsou to tell him he won’t be coming into work. Then, after forcing down a few measly mouthfuls of rice and a glass of water, Izuku returns to bed.

He doesn’t sleep. He’s not tired enough for it, even if his body aches with the bone-deep exhaustion that only comes after days spent in pure misery. Instead he alternates between trying to distract himself on his tablet, staring blindly at the ceiling while his thoughts do their very best to overwhelm him, and when they succeed, shedding new bouts of quiet tears. His friends try reaching out a few more times; Izuku ignores the calls but answers their texts in the same weak, monotonous fashion he’s been repeating all weekend, trying to fend of their inquiries until he can at least stop being such an absolute wreck. When that might happen, Izuku doesn’t know; he’s trying desperately to keep his mind on other things but it just keeps circling back to Shouto, and each time the smouldering ashes where Izuku’s heart used to be ignite and burn a little more.

I was so sure. I was so sure I—

I thought—

I—

His phone rings again, and this time when Izuku glances at the caller, his whole body goes rigid.

Mom

“No,” he moans as he turns to bury his face in his pillow, unable to keep looking at the screen. “Nonononono—”

Guilt sinks all the way down into his bones as Izuku leaves the call unanswered, but he can’t pick it up, because if he does he won’t be able to hide anymore. So he lets it ring, hoping against hope that it’s just a coincidence; but barely a few seconds pass between the end of the first call and the start of another. There’s absolutely no part of him that wants to answer, but Izuku also knows that if he doesn’t, it will only make his mother worry more than she already does. And as much as Izuku hates lying to his mother, he hates making her worry even more. So he picks up.

“Hello?”

There’s a soft tutting from the receiver. 「Hey sweetie,」 comes Midoriya Inko’s voice, already brimming with potent concern. 「Not at work today?」

Izuku’s stomach sinks all the way down to his toes.

She knows. She has to know, she wouldn’t have asked that if she didn’t. 「Uh, no—no I, um. Caught a bug over the weekend, and I, uh. I’m still not, um, feeling so great,」 Izuku lies anyway, trying to spare her, or maybe himself. 「So I, um. I called in. Just, you know. Need the extra day, I guess.」

Inko hums. 「I see,」 she says. 「I imagine you must be terribly sick then.」

「Uh, I mean not—not terribly sick just, uh—Under the weather. Not good enough to go into work, anyway.」

She hums again. 「Are you sure?」

「Yeah? Yeah, I’m—I’m sure. Uh, why um. Why do you ask?」

「Well it’s just—your supervisor called me this morning.」

「My—what?」

「Your supervisor—Shinsou, I think you’ve said? He reached out to your emergency contact because you’d called in and he seemed to think that must have meant you were on your deathbed. So I thought—well I just thought I’d call to check up on you.」

「I—oh.」 Goddamnit Shinsou. 「Well that’s, um. I’m not dying, I—I promise.」 He tries for a laugh, but it comes out so hollow and pathetic Izuku winces at the sound. 「Just—just like I said, under the weather. You don’t—you don’t need to worry, mom, I’m—I’m fine.」

There’s a pause. Izuku can hear her humming for a moment before she lets out such a heavy noise that it only comes through as static. 「Honey, I also got a call from Ochako,」 she says, and Izuku shuts his eyes.

f*ck.

「Okay, well—」

「And Tenya.」

「That’s—」

「And Eijirou, and Kyouka, and Denki.」

「Mom, I—」

「And Katsuki.」

Izuku’s heart goes utterly still. 「Katsuki?」 he repeats.

「Yes. Katsuki.」

「Oh—oh.」

And that’s the crushing finish to his line of lies. Any other one of his friends reaching out to her Izuku might have been able to explain away, however feebly, but the only way Katsuki would be pressed to contact his mother is in the event of something catastrophic. If Izuku didn’t currently want to hurl Katsuki headfirst into Lake Michigan, he’d be touched by the concern. 「What… What did he tell you?」 he asks.

「Not much,」 Inko answers. 「Nobody told me much of anything, actually, but it’s because none of them really know what’s going on. Just that… Just that something bad happened. And they think… They think you need help, but you’re being an idiot about it. As usual.」

Izuku squeezes his eyes tightly. 「Mom,」 he says, voice already thick with tears. 「Mom, I… I…」

He tries to speak, tries to say something—anything—that might convince her she’s wrong, that he’s fine, that his friends are mistaken and he doesn’t need any help. But he can’t. He can’t because it’s a big, fat, horrible lie and Izuku has never, ever been able to lie to his mother. So he trails off, silence as good as any confession. It hangs heavy in the air for several agonizing moment before Inko finally speaks again.

「Look, Izuku, I… I know—I know— you don’t want me to worry about you and I… I know you said when you moved out that you… You needed space and time to work things out without people constantly hovering over you and I want to respect that, I really, really do, but… But something’s happened to you and I can’t make you tell me what it was but…」 There’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle. 「But I would very much like it if you did.」

The last of Izuku’s resolve fades away, like ashes caught in the wind.

「Where—are you at home?」

「No. I actually used my spare key to get into the building but I thought… I thought I’d let you decide if you wanted to let me see you.」

Izuku lets out a throaty sigh, trying to ignore how much it sounds like a sob. 「Okay I’ll… I’ll let you in, just… Just hold on a sec.」

He ends the call before she can answer. There’s barely any strength left in him, but Izuku gathers what little remains and forces himself out of bed, shuffling weakly to the front door. When he opens it, his mother stands on the other side, phone in hand, looking as tired and worried and exasperated as she ever has. Inko’s gaze sweeps over him in appraisal, and when her eyes land on his they start welling up with tears. 「Izuku,」 she says softly, 「what happened to you?」

Something inside Izuku cracks, so sharp and painful that it rattles all the way down to the hollows of his bones.

He doesn’t answer, not in words. Instead, Izuku moves, taking the last few, shaky steps necessary to close the gap between them before his knees give out, and he all but collapses in a fit of tears and small, pitiful sobs. His mother’s arms come up to hold him, squeezing tightly around his torso, and Izuku can feel the vibration of her voice against his chest.

「Oh, Izuku.」

In the end, he tells her everything.

From the very first message sent by Momo to the last time he saw Shouto on Friday night, Izuku spares his mother no detail of his life over the last five months, save for how fast and hard he fell in love, and this only because when he tries, the words refuse to move past the painful swelling in his throat. He doesn’t really need to say it though; from the pained, sympathetic looks she keeps shooting him as she shuffles around the kitchen making food, Izuku knows his mother understands.

「Oh honey,」 Inko murmurs when Izuku finally finishes, walking over from the sink to cradle his head against her body as she dabs delicately at the tears streaming once again down his freckled cheeks. 「I’m so sorry.」

「It’s not—s’not your fault,」 Izuku hiccups. 「S’mine. I—I—I should have known better, I—I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have trusted him so much, I—I just—I just feel like such an idiot.」

「You are kind of an idiot,」 Inko agrees, but the low, soothing tone of her voice keeps any sting out of her words. 「But you’ve always been kind of idiot, and more importantly, you’re an idiot with his heart in the right place. It’s just… Sometimes it gets a little too big for your own good.」

「I wish it didn’t,」 Izuku mutters, and she sighs.

「Sometimes I do too. Not often, but… Gosh, you know I hate seeing you get hurt like this.」

「M’sorry,」 Izuku mumbles as a fresh wave of tears wells up. 「I don’t—I just—I didn’t want you to worry.」

「Izuku, I am always going to worry about you because you have never once in your life given me a reason not to,」 Inko chides gently, and Izuku can hear the faint, exasperated smile she favors around him in her voice. 「But I’d much rather worry about you when I know what’s going on in your life. At least then I can kind of guess where that too big heart is going to take you next.」

He grimaces, shying away from her comfort as guilt pools heavy in his stomach. 「I’m sorry,」 he repeats, and Inko just shakes her head with another sigh.

「I know,」 she tells him. 「And I love you anyway. Now, let’s get you some food.」

She putters back to the stove, and the faint sound of clinking dishes fills the kitchen. Izuku knows she made okayu, because that’s what she always makes when he isn’t feeling well and it’s the one thing Izuku’s stomach never rebels against, even when everything else comes right back up. But when she sets the bowl down in front of him, neatly garnished with shredded nori and scallions and a few flakes of smoked salmon, a wave of nausea rises up in his throat so fast that he gags a little.

「Honey what’s wrong?」 Inko asks, hands immediately coming to rest on his shoulders and press against his forehead, checking for signs of fever. 「Are you okay?」

Izuku shakes his head, eyes slipping shut. 「No,」 he croaks, barely managing to swallow back a sob. 「No, mom, I’m… I’m…」

Against the dark of his eyelids, Izuku sees another bowl of okayu being handed to him, feels cold skin brushing against his own as he takes it, and it hurts.

It felt real, back then. It felt so, so real.

「Izuku?」 Inko says, and Izuku just shakes his head again.

「I’m sorry,」 he rasps. 「I’m sorry mom, I just—I just—I—」

The sob finds its way out, and Izuku stops trying to fight his tears as his mother gathers him in her arms once again. He just cries and cries and cries, until there’s nothing left in him to give.

「I—I—I really—I really cared about him,」 he finally rasps with the last dregs of his voice. 「I—I cared about him so—so much and—and I thought—I really thought—I thought he cared too. But—but—but it—it was—I can’t believe it was all a—a lie. 」

I thought I knew him.

I was so sure I knew him.

Inko says nothing to that; she just continues to hold him and Izuku allows himself to lean heavily into her comforting warmth, like he’s five years old again, crying about scraps and bruises from the schoolyard bullies while she patches him up with a sad smile on her face and promises him it’ll get better if he just gives it a little time.

「Sweetie, can I ask you something?」 she says after a long moment of quiet.

Izuku sniffles. 「Yeah?」

「Do you… Do you know for sure that—that what you thought this Shouto might have felt about you—that it wasn’t true?」

Izuku blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinks a few more times as he pulls slowly away from his mother’s embrace so he can look at her properly, which is to say he stares at her in utter shock, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

「It’s just—well, I know you,」 Inko continues. 「And yes, you can be kind of an idiot about these things sometimes but you—you’re not stupid, Izuku. You’ve always been a good judge of character, I think—I mean, just look at how you never gave up on Katsuki because there was something you saw that lord knows I never did!」

「What does that have to do with anything?」 Izuku asks.

「I’m just saying, you’re good at understanding people. And—and I’m certainly not trying to excuse what this person did to you, because he clearly he hurt you and if I ever see him myself I will just—Oh!」 She huffs, eyes narrowing sharply for a second before smoothing out again, and she smiles at him, kind and just a little apologetic. 「But I just think… I can’t see you letting someone stay here if you thought there was something fishy going on, and I find it very hard to believe that you would have let five whole months go by without noticing anything to make you suspicious. Plus, from everything you’ve told me, it sounds like there was quite a few things making it worthwhile for him to stay so… It just doesn’t sound to me like all of it was a lie.」

The bottom drops out of Izuku’s stomach so fast he swears he can hear it hit the floor.

「What… What are you trying to say?」 he asks, and it’s a struggle to keep his voice calm as distress rises up from the dark pit of his stomach, bleeding out into his veins, his lungs, the smoking hollow of his chest.

「I’m not trying say anything!」 Inko answers immediately. 「It’s just, you know… You’re upset right now, and of course you have every right to be, what happened was terrible, just terrible! But… It’s just that when we’re upset, we tend not to think about things clearly. I mean, if anyone should know anything about that it would be me!」 She shrugs a little, still smiling. 「My point is, give it some time. You might be willing to see things a little differently with some hindsight.」

Izuku stares at her, dumbstruck as a veritable tempest roars to life inside him, filling him all over again with anger and turmoil, hurt and misery, heartbreak and confusion. 「I don’t… I don’t want to see things differently,」 he insists, voice cracking on the words as they leave him.

Inko frowns, though not unkindly. 「Well that’s fine too,」 she says, reaching out to brush a few errant curls away from his eyes. 「But then what do you want?」

「I…」 Izuku swallows heavily around the sudden lump in his throat. 「I…」

I want to forget about him. I never want to think about him again.

I want answers. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me why he lied.

I want—

I want—

I just want him to come back.

「I don’t know what I want,」 he manages after a long, heavy moment of silence, and tears begin trailing down his cheeks once more.

His mother remains well into the evening, doing her very best to turn Izuku back into some kind of functional human being. She nearly stays the night as well, worried about what might happen without anyone around to watch him, but Izuku coaxes her into leaving with a promise that she can return tomorrow, and he’ll call right away if anything changes. It’s a shaky compromise, and guilt sits heavy in his belly as he walks her out, trying to ignore the concerned glances she keeps shooting his way. But there’s something Izuku’s decided he needs to do tonight, and it’s something he needs to do alone.

So, once he’s settled in bed for the night, Izuku collects the last remaining remnants of his courage, and does what he’d never allowed himself to do until now: go looking for information on Shouto.

And what he finds is that there is so much more to understand about Shouto than Izuku ever thought to realize that he gets dizzy just trying to comprehend it all.

He gets now why Shouto seemed so flabbergasted at the idea that Izuku didn’t know or care about who he really was. A single Google search pulls up all the normal particulars (official website, social media handles, YouTube channel), but on top of that there’s multiple fan sites, articles, gossip blogs, ad campaigns, and pages and pages and pages of other things that Izuku can barely wrap his head around. It’s not just American tabloids either; news about Shouto comes from all over the world, from multiple countries in multiple languages, every corner of the globe clamouring for more. Izuku remembers him hinting vaguely about being well-known, but he’d never imagined fame on this scale. Shouto’s not just a pop star; he’s a pop sensation.

It’s all far too much for Izuku to take in, especially with his wounds still so fresh and raw, and even trying to read something as simple as Shouto’s Wikipedia page hurts just enough to make him want to stop. But he needs to do this—Izuku knows he needs to do this, or it’s going to sit and fester inside his head until it consumes him. So he forces himself to push through all the pain and anger and heartbreak still pumping heavy and thick in his veins, and starts at the most obvious place: listening to Shouto’s music.

It’s really just as Shouto had said. His voice is amazing, but all of his songs are vapid, flash-in-the-pan hits, designed for commercial success in the moment and very little lasting effect. Izuku cycles through at least a dozen of them trying to listen for anything that might stand out and set Shouto apart, but there’s almost nothing, every single one a manufactured chart topper. They’re good in a sense, fun and peppy with beats that make a person want to move and sing along, but anybody can make those kinds of hits, and they alone don’t seem to account for Shouto’s popularity.

So Izuku digs a little deeper, and finds that, as he’d suspected, Shouto’s stunning appearance plays a heavy role. Photo ops and ad promos do an excellent job of playing up his natural beauty, though notably, Shouto in the public eye doesn’t have a scar. Or more accurately, the scar is extremely well hidden; staged photographs of Shouto are taken almost exclusively from his right side, and if his left side does show, the places where the scar should be are mysteriously smooth and normal. Candid photos are a little different; here Shouto can potentially be viewed from all sides, and in some of them Izuku can see little bits of texture on his face that hint at what lies underneath, but it’s all very well concealed, the makeup artistry so perfect it borders on witchcraft. The official explanation for any discrepancies seems to be acne scarring, and his fans eat this explanation up easily.

(It’s not acne scarring; even if he couldn’t have told from the appearance, Izuku had actually asked Shouto about it once, and only once. He’d said boiling water, and nothing else for the rest of the evening.)

The other contributing factor to Shouto’s fame seems to be the effort that goes into his stage performances and concerts, which are lauded as the kind of show-stopping spectacles to make any of his contemporaries envious. Singing live, Shouto makes much better use of his voice than in any of his recorded pieces, harnessing the full power of his vocal range and easily creating quick improvisations to add a personal touch to each show. Izuku also discovers that he is indeed a dancer, and a distressingly good one at that. His movements are all grace and fluidity coupled with dynamic poise, the kind that stirs things still resting at the bottom of Izuku’s empty chest and making him feel even more the fool than he already does. No small part of him wants to stop here, but there’s still so much he wants to know.

So Izuku goes searching, through fan sites and news articles and interviews, looking for things he’s not even sure how to ask but for which he desperately wants the answers. He doesn’t find them. There’s very little real information about Shouto available, so much of his image meticulously crafted to fit that perfect archetype of mysterious and brooding. The social media feeds are all highly scripted, and Shouto rarely does TV or any other kind of video appearances, seeming to prefer print as his media of exposure. Almost every single interview that Izuku reads are fluff pieces, with softball questions and mechanical answers lacking any real personality. Who are your biggest influences? Ah, I couldn’t even name them all there’s so many. How do you stay so fit? Diet and exercise mostly, I’m lucky because I’m really not fond of unhealthy foods. How do you feel about being such a worldwide sensation? I’m very grateful of course, especially to my fans.

(Izuku’s not entirely sure how to feel about knowing the real answers to those questions are: All Might and his mother, a horribly strict regime that’s left him with a passionate dislike of vegetables and voracious sweet tooth, and he hates it because he doesn’t feel like he’s ever created anything worthwhile.)

Still, for as worthless as all the tabloids are, Izuku keeps reading in the hope of finding something that can help with any the questions still burning in the wreckage of his heart. He scrolls through fan sites and Facebook groups, Twitter feeds and Reddit threads, Instagram and Youtube comments, and anything else he can find. It yields paltry results, but Izuku does manage to discover that at least Shouto hadn’t been lying about the koi fish motif; his fans adore it, and it’s even been incorporated into some of his official content. A little research eventually leads him to the featured article, published along with a cover for Vogue Japan a few years ago. After everything else he’s read Izuku has low expectations for the content, and he only skims through it until he finds what he’s looking for.

Izuku rereads the anecdote three times over, just to make sure it’s not some trick of his exhaustion-addled brain. It seems too good to be true after all the drivel he’s had to slog through, but no; here’s an honest question asked of Shouto and an honest answer given in reply, maybe the only one Izuku’s found so far in all of his searching. He scrolls back up to start from the beginning for the author’s name, curious as to who the one journalist in the world able to conduct a proper interview about Shouto might be, and has to blink several at the kanji before it fully sinks in.

Yaorashi Inasa.

Izuku actually knows him. Yaorashi had done a three part series for the same magazine chronicling Todoroki Enji’s career and Endeavor Records’ subsequent influence on the music industry in Japan, then Asia, and finally the US. Izuku found it while researching as much as he could about Enji, back when he was still planning on taking him to court. The articles had been one of the few things he could find that painted Enji in an accurate light: highly respected, but absolutely ruthless and widely feared. There’s still a reply sitting in his inbox from Yaorashi to a now four-year-old email Izuku sent asking for anything else the journalist might be able to tell him about Enji. Yaorashi couldn’t say much because of NDAs, but he did wish Izuku good f*cking luck, because you’re gonna need it.

He can’t believe that Yaorashi of all people would have been allowed to interview Shouto, especially when the publication date is after that of his not exceptionally kind expose, but Izuku’s not going to question it. Instead, he just starts reading.

What’s wrong with pop hits?

The memory of the question rises up unbidden in the back of Izuku’s mind, accompanied by the visual of a pink-cheeked and rather miffed looking Shouto. He shoves it viciously to the side, not wanting to get bogged down by recollections of things that for all Izuku knows could have been lie upon lie upon lie. But the more Izuku reads, the more they keep popping up, these bits and pieces of Shouto that seem to mesh, however strangely, with the picture being told in Yaorashi’s story.

I was trapped. Finishing the contract was the only shot I had at getting out, so I made myself get there as fast as I could.

I did it wrong. I let him take control and now what I’ve got isn’t… It’s empty. And pointless. And I wanted to change that—branch out and try something new, something that means something—but he wouldn’t let me.

Izuku’s whole body settles into stillness, breath and blood pumping slow and heavy until everything goes sort of numb. He stays like that for a good long while, staring blindly up at the ceiling while a deluge of images passes through his mind, each one rendered in such painstaking detail that it burns.

Confusion and awe. Corners turning up, ever so slightly. Mouth twitching, like a ghost. Not quite, barely there. Real, the first, beautiful, brilliant, blinding. Small, soft, sometimes just a half but so much more often. It was there.

It was real.

When Izuku finally moves again it’s to reach for his tablet so he can start looking for photos of Shouto. And he does, through official promotions and tabloid shots, ad campaigns and red carpet walks, music videos and live performances. He runs through Facebook and Twitter and the official website gallery. He goes all the way back to the beginning of Shouto’s Instagram feed and dutifully scrolls through every single post, each one fanning the smoking ashes of his heart just a little more. This one hurts the worst because it seems to Izuku the most honest, with things like dance practice videos and backstage photos and silly Snapchat filters. But even here, he finds nothing.

There is apparently not a single captured moment of Todoroki Shouto smiling in all of existence.

And that—

Izuku can’t deal with that. Because there are a lot of things—so many things —that Shouto might have lied about, but not this. Never about this. Izuku knows this, as surely as he knows the mottled scar tissue and shattered bones of his fingers.

And if his smiles were real, then what else—

What else—

Were you—

Were you really—

Were you happy?

Chapter 15: Maybe Tomorrow You'll Find the Sun

Chapter Text

Rousing himself for work on Tuesday is easily within the top ten hardest things Izuku has ever done, but through sheer grit and determination, he manages to be only a few minutes late. “Jesus,” Shinsou says as soon as he walks in. “You look like sh*t.”

“Thanks. I feel like sh*t,” Izuku answers, slumping into his desk chair and taking a long sip of his double strength black tea.

“Yeah, I figured it had to be pretty bad for you to actually call in yourself. So, let me guess: the flu? Or pneumonia?” His lips quirk into a teasing smirk. “Or are you just coming off a bad breakup?”

Izuku flinches so hard he spills piping hot liquid all over his hand, and Shinsou’s expression drops like a dead fly.

“Oh—that wasn’t—f*ck, really?”

“Some—something like that,” Izuku manages to stutter. His hand stings, but the pain seems utterly inconsequential next to the sharp ache that rises up inside the hollow of his chest.

“… Well now I just feel like a jackass. Sorry.”

Izuku heaves out a sigh. “It’s okay,” he answers, not quite able to look at Shinsou directly. “You didn’t know. And it wasn’t—it wasn’t technically a breakup anyway.”

You can’t breakup with someone that was never yours.

Shinsou apologizes again and thankfully says nothing else about it for the rest of the day, though he does miraculously manage to procure several tasty snacks, fresh tea whenever Izuku’s running low, and lunch from Izuku’s favorite sushi spot nearby. He can’t handle much except the tea, stomach still queasy from turmoil, but the thought is appreciated and by the time he clocks out for the day, Izuku supposes he feels a little better than he did coming in.

His mother is already there when he returns home, with a guest in tow. She stays in the kitchen to make dinner while Mr. Yagi takes Izuku to the living room, wrapping him up in a furious embrace as soon as they’re seated on the couch. This spurs Izuku into yet another round of tears, though they don’t last as long and he finds it’s not too terribly difficult to speak afterwards. He tells Mr. Yagi the same things he told his mother, and a little more besides. 「I just—I don’t know,」 he says, wiping at the stray droplets that keep slipping down his cheeks. 「I thought I knew him and then I thought I didn’t and now I have no idea if I did or not. It just… It just seems all over the place. I don’t… I don’t know how to feel about any of it.」

Mr. Yagi hums thoughtfully. 「I imagine it must all be very conflicting,」 he sighs, patting Izuku’s knee in a comforting fashion. 「Though I have to admit, I’m still trying to understand how you really had no idea who he was.」

Izuku sighs, eyes slipping shut as images of Shouto flash through his mind, all the little details he’d missed before now painfully clear in hindsight. 「It honestly never even occurred to me,」 he admits in barely a whisper. He knows Mr. Yagi would never judge him, but shame still coils low in his belly and floods slowly into his veins. 「I… I didn’t know even know En—Enji had family, let alone a son in the business. And… And when he was here, Shou—Shou—Shouto wasn’t… He wasn’t…」

In his mind’s eye, Todoroki Enji always stands as a towering figure of fight and fury, a colossus looming over the destroyed landscape of what had been Izuku’s future. His temperament even in the few cordial meetings they’d had seemed perpetually on the brink of boiling over, and when Izuku unwittingly invoked the full force of his ire, it had taken everything in him to survive the roaring, raging storm that followed.

Shouto had been nothing like that. Even on his worst days, Shouto’s disposition ran cold, shutting down instead of riling up, encasing him in that icy shell that had once seemed an utter impasse. And then when it did crack, the person inside had been something warm and thoughtful in a way the music tycoon could never be. Even now, Izuku has trouble wrapping his head around it all, unsure he could make himself believe it if he hadn’t seen the guilt burning in Shouto’s eyes that night.

「Do you know anything about him?」 Izuku asks Mr. Yagi in lieu of finishing his thought.

「Not more than the general public, I’m afraid. I think being an enigma is part of his appeal; people enjoy the mystery,」 Mr. Yagi says, giving a thoughtful sigh. 「You know though—I’ve always thought it strange that he doesn’t smile. I know he claims it’s because he’s just a very serious person, but well. To me he just seems rather sad.」

「… Yeah,」 Izuku murmurs, tears welling up again as he recalls that melancholy aura that hung perpetually around Shouto, something that even now, Izuku doesn’t really think he could have faked. 「That’s what I thought too.」

「Is that why you let him stay?」

Izuku nods, wiping at his cheeks again. 「I thought I could help,」 he admits. 「I thought I did help. I thought… I thought…」

He’d thought a lot of things. But most of all he’d thought he’d stumbled upon someone sad and lonely and vulnerable, someone who trusted him and whom he’d wanted to trust in return. He thought he’d found someone who seemed to fit just right into all the places where Izuku remains a little bit broken, and that he fit into all those same places for Shouto.

「He smiled, when he was here,」 Izuku finds himself murmuring. 「Not… Not much, but… But it was definitely there. And that just… That just makes it so much harder, you know? Because what if… What if…」

Shouto lied, and those lies hurt, leaving a hole in Izuku’s heart that’s filled with nothing but smoke and dust and ash. But when he thinks of all the time they spent together, all the little moments they shared, of that unique warmth from a snowstorm or cool break in the heat kind of love that had nearly overwhelmed him—

He just can’t bring himself to believe that none of it was true.

「I don’t know,」 he sighs, slumping heavily into the couch cushions. 「What do you think about it?」

Mr. Yagi takes a long moment to think before he responds. 「I think that If he knew about Enji and the accident, he should have said something right away. Lying about it was wrong, and you have every right to be upset over it. Even angry, if you want.」He smiles ruefully at Izuku, and despite everything, Izuku finds his lips twitching in response. 「But you know… I also think it might not be as simple as it first appears.」

Izuku frowns. 「What do you mean?」

「In my experience—and I would say I’m rather an expert on the subject,」 Mr. Yagi adds with a small laugh, 「the persona that stars project to the world and the ones they have in private are often starkly different. And the public persona isn’t necessarily a lie, but I’ve never known a case where the person wasn’t more true to themselves when they’re away from all that scrutiny. So if the young man truly believed you didn’t know who he was, I’d bet anything that how he acted here was more truthful than anything you might find in the tabloids.」

He pauses, and then continues, 「And while I can’t speak for him, I can tell you right now that when people in the public eye lie about things, it may not be malicious intent so much as a defense. Just look at me.」 He gestures at himself, bony hands sweeping over his frail body and gaunt face with a flourish. 「Would you believe I still find myself scared that the public will find out who I really am, and see their beloved idol sick and wasted away to practically nothing? The thought terrifies me, and that’s why I try so hard to keep anybody from ever finding out. Barring a few exceptions of course.」

He winks at Izuku as he says this, nudging him with one sharp elbow, and Izuku finds his lips twitching again. 「Too clever for my own damn good, right?」 he says, and Mr. Yagi chuckles.

「My point is this—if you truly think what you saw of this young man was real, then perhaps his lie wasn’t intended to hurt you so much as to protect himself. That’s not an excuse, mind you; it was still a terrible, terrible thing to do. But it might be a reason.」

Izuku’s brow furrows deeply, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on it in lieu of a proper response. Mr. Yagi sighs and pats his shoulder again. 「I know that’s probably not what you wanted to hear right now,」 he says, 「but that’s what I think.」

「It’s not,」 Izuku sighs. 「But that’s okay.」

He shifts, leaning against Mr. Yagi’s frame, and an arm comes up to wrap his shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. They stay like that for several long minutes, until Inko calls them for dinner. She’s made Shizuoka-style oden, and sitting down with them feels like a night out of his childhood; warm food, good company, and more comfort than he knows what to do with.

It’s not enough to banish the heartache, but the hollow in his chest does, at least, feel a little less empty.

Inko seems content enough with his mental state that she doesn’t feel the need to return on Wednesday, though she does call every day for the remainder of the week just to check up on him. Mr. Yagi offers to keep stopping by, but Izuku turns him down; he appreciates the company, but a large part of him simply wants to be left alone to mourn. He doesn’t say as much, but Mr. Yagi seems to understand, and settles with a promise that he too will call Izuku each day to make sure he’s still alright. With his mother and Mr. Yagi satisfied, Izuku expects a quiet remainder of the week, not intending to do anything except go to work and then go home to languish in his heartache.

His friends, however, have other plans.

“Hey!” someone yells just as Izuku’s walking out of his office building on Wednesday evening, and before Izuku even has a chance to respond, promptly wraps him up in one-armed hug.

“Eijirou?” Izuku blinks. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you silly!” Eijirou declares, reaching up to ruffle his hair good-naturedly.

“Oh… kay.” Izuku squints. “Why?”

Eijirou shrugs; Izuku thinks he might be shooting for casual but it’s failing miserably, shoulders too tense and eyes too bright. “Got a plan tonight?” he asks instead of answering Izuku’s question, and Izuku frowns.

“Not really,” he says. He doesn’t really want to do anything, but he rather suspects that’s exactly the reason Eijirou is here. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Ah, kind of!” Eijirou laughs, a little sheepishly. 「I thought it would be a good night to go do Zoo Lights. Since it’s not totally freeze-ass cold and the wind’s pretty chill. But it’s no fun to go alone and everyone else is busy, so… I thought maybe we could together?」

He flashes a smile, sharp-toothed grin on full display as his eyebrows wiggle up and down invitingly. Izuku sighs. 「Honestly, I kind of just want to spend the night at home,」 he says, trying to ignore the small pang of guilt that drops in his stomach.

「Yeah, I know you do,」 Eijirou answers with a sage nod. 「Which is exactly why you should do this instead. Come on, it’ll be good for you! Fresh air, hot cocoa—and you love Zoo Lights.」

He pokes Izuku’s side playfully, still grinning, and Izuku sighs again. 「I do love Zoo Lights,」 he admits, just the thought of the colorful winter display piquing his interest and rousing the remnants of his slowly recovering spirits.

「See? It’s a great idea!」 Eijirou pulls away from him to do a little dance, gesturing vaguely towards the direction of the zoo. “So…?”

Izuku considers. He’s tired, sad, kind of hungry, and he really very much just wants to go home, eat some leftover oden, then shower and head straight to bed.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he says after a moment, and Eijirou whoops so loudly it echoes down the whole street.

The lights at the Lincoln Park Zoo are perhaps Izuku’s favorite thing about Chicago during the holiday season. It’s an absolutely stunning display, a dazzling kaleidoscope of rainbow colors that makes the whole space seem surreally beautiful. They get soft pretzels and mini doughnuts and hot cocoa, then meander around slowly to take in all the sights and sounds. Carolers roam throughout the pathways, singing brightly for everyone to hear, and even with the pain still stirring in his chest, Izuku finds he quite enjoys their presence.

They talk, first about nothing and then about some things and then at some point Eijirou says, 「 Ano… Since you weren’t talking to anybody, Ochako may have kind of forced Katsuki tell us what was going on with you.」 He looks down at the ground, shoulders hunched guiltily. 「Or at least the parts he knew about. I’m… I’m sorry if you didn’t want us to know, I was just… We were all just really worried.」

“It’s okay,” Izuku sighs. 「It’s not that I don’t want people to know I just… I feel stupid about it. I guess that makes it hard to explain what really happened.」 Even now it’s all sitting heavy in the back of his mind, ready to consume him again as soon as he leaves the pleasant atmosphere of the zoo.

「Do you… want to talk about it now?」 Eijirou offers.

「… Not really,」 Izuku admits after a moment. 「There’s just… a lot of things I need to work through. And I don’t really know how to feel about any of it.」

That’s the end of it, at least for the moment. They resume chit-chatting as they finish their hot cocoas and then slowly make their out of the park, and it’s under a brilliant arch display that Eijirou suddenly says, “You know—” and then stops.

Izuku blinks. “What?” he asks, but Eijirou just shakes his head.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Forget I say anything,” he says, and Izuku frowns.

“No, you look like you want to say something,” he insists.

Eijirou frowns at him, so Izuku simply stares back, unyielding until Eijirou finally sighs and drops his gaze to his shoes, scuffing the toe of one boot against the ground. 「I don’t know man, this probably isn’t gonna help anything but… I was just thinking about when we went to the Christmas Market and then when you came to the show and just… How happy you seemed.」

Izuku blinks again. 「Happy?」 he repeats.

“Yeah.” Eijirou nods slowly. 「I don’t know, it’s like… Before the accident you always used to be so bright and cheerful all the time and then it was just gone and I know why it happened but it was always still just like… So weird to see you after that because you’d be so subdued and I wasn’t used to it.」 He shrugs nonchalantly, but his voice grows quiet and soft as he continues, 「But at the Christmas Market, you were like, genuinely excited and then you came to our show and it was like… It was like seeing you how you used to be. You were just… Happy.」

For a long moment, Izuku simply stares at him. The silence goes long enough that eventually Eijirou grimaces and says, 「I’m sorry, that probably didn’t make you feel any better, did it?」

There’s regret in his voice, and the sound snaps Izuku out of his reverie. He shakes his head with a sigh and answers, 「Well it didn’t make me feel worse, so…」 He shrugs, trying and failing for casual, shoulders too tight, expression too shuttered. 「And I mean. You’re not wrong. I was pretty happy.」

Happier than I’ve been in years.

「Well then… Maybe this whole mess wasn’t a total loss,」 Eijirou says, and the smile he gives is wide but sad at the edges. 「Silver linings and all that.」

Izuku doesn’t answer right away, preoccupied with a sudden tightness inside the hollow of his chest that makes it hurt to breathe. He’s dimly aware of Eijirou sighing next to him, and then quite suddenly, Izuku finds himself enveloped in a tight hug that he returns without a second thought.

「I’m always here for you, if you need it. You know that, right?」 Eijirou mumbles into his shoulder, and Izuku sighs, lets his eyes slip shut for a moment as he leans heavily into the embrace and absorbs Eijirou’s warmth.

「I know,」 he murmurs after a long moment, and Eijirou just squeezes him that much tighter.

He showers and goes to bed as soon as he’s home, snuggling with Onigiri under his covers by the ripe old hour of nine. Exhaustion still sits heavy in his limbs, and the nightmares don’t help, keeping him tossing and turning with dark visions of metal and ash, bloody broken bones, and a man wreathed in flame. He finally manages to fall into a semi-restful sleep at around two, only to be rudely awoken sometime after four by his phone going off.

“Hello?” Izuku answers, not so much speaking as uttering a vaguely word-sounding grunt.

“Good morning Izuku!” comes Tenya’s booming voice through the receiver. “Are you awake yet?”

“… I mean I am now,” Izuku groans. “Why, is something wrong?”

“Oh no, nothing like that! I simply thought that since the weather’s been a little warmer recently it would be an excellent day to do a run on Lake Michigan together!”

A full ten seconds passes before Izuku can muster up a response. “… Tenya it’s like. Four thirty in the morning.”

“Exactly! Few people are up right now so we’ll have the path to ourselves.”

“Yeah, they’re not up because it’s four thirty in the goddamn morning.”

“I thought it would be better to get it out of the way early. That way you’ll have the whole day ahead to do other things!” He laughs a little, far too loud and bright for the ungodly hour. “And the endorphins from the exercise might help you feel better. I’m sure you could use that right now.”

He probably could, which is the only reason that Izuku pauses to actually consider Tenya’s offer instead of hurling his phone across the room and going straight back to sleep. “You’re already here, aren’t you?” he asks after a few seconds.

“Yes; I’m just outside your building.”

Of course he is. Izuku groans loudly before forcing himself to sit up, stumbling blindly out of bed. “Okay, just like—give me fifteen minutes okay?”

“Of course! Take your time.”

He makes it down it ten, only yawning widely in response when Tenya greets him, and then they’re off. They go at an easy jog until they hit the Lakefront Trail, and then Izuku’s panting and sweating and struggling to keep up as Tenya basically runs circles around him and still somehow manages to keep up a pleasant stream of conversation all the while. He doesn’t seem to mind that Izuku doesn’t really answer him, too busy trying to keep his lungs from imploding.

“See? Wasn’t that invigorating?” Tenya declares as they make their way back to the apartment at a blissfully slow walking pace.

“That is… one way… to look at it,” Izuku gasps.

“Yes well, it might take a little while to feel the effects but I’m sure once you can breathe properly again you’ll feel much better,” Tenya says, and Izuku doesn’t miss the playful curve to his mouth, which makes his own want to twitch upwards.

“It did… take… my mind… off things,” he admits, and Tenya lets out a bark of vindicated laughter. Then his expression settles, taking on a more somber aura.

“Ochako and I had a talk last night,” he says.

Izuku frowns. “Oh. About…?”

“Us. Not our relationship!” he adds quickly at Izuku’s panicked gasp. “But just our lives over the past few years and how much things have changed with our careers and whatnot and we decided we’re making a New Year’s Resolution. To step back from work and take more time for ourselves.” One arm comes up, making a grand sweeping gesture before smacking against the other for emphasis.

“Oh—really?” Izuku blinks, taken aback. “But you guys have been both been doing so well—”

“But that’s the thing; we haven’t.” Tenya sighs, and Izuku has to step away to give his arms room to gesture as he continues, “Yes, our careers are advancing and we’re both well on our way to fulfilling our ambitions but that hasn’t come without its costs. We realized how much we’ve been ignoring our social obligations; family, friends.” He halts for a moment so he can look straight at Izuku. “You.”

Izuku blinks again, and then keeps blinking, an all too familiar prickle building underneath his eyes. “Tenya, that’s not—you guys don’t have to worry about me—”

“Oh yes, we absolutely do.” Tenya frowns at him emphatically for a moment before resuming his pace, hands still waving about in front of him. “I just… I only know what Ochako wrung out of Katsuki of course but I can’t help thinking of the few times you mentioned having a guest. And if I had just been paying a little more attention, maybe I could have figured it all out and done something.”

“I mean—that’s—none of that’s your fault, Tenya. It’s not like I would have said much about him even if you had asked; I had promised not to.”

“It’s not just that,” Tenya insists. “There was also you starting to listen to music again, and then going to a show, and clearly having someone in your life that was making you feel better and I somehow managed to miss all of that. For what! A few more case folders in the finished pile?”

He shakes his head vigorously, then pauses once again to stare at Izuku, brow and mouth set in a fiercely determined line. “No, I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to let work consume my life anymore, even if it means pushing back my goals a few years. It’s not worth what I’ve had to sacrifice.”

He makes a sweeping motion towards Izuku, and Izuku has to press his palms against his eyes to keep the tears from falling. “You… You’re a really—really good friend, you—you know that?” he hiccups, feeling his lips try and reach for something he hasn’t felt in days.

“Not as good as you,” Tenya says, and Izuku lets out a noise that’s mostly a sob, but maybe has just a hint of laughter at the edges too.

Given the trend of the past few nights, Izuku’s not really surprised when Ochako shows up unannounced at his apartment on Friday. “Hey dummy. What’cha doing?” she asks, bright and bubbly as ever, and Izuku eyes her warily.

“Spending a quiet night in?” he answers, sighing when Ochako makes a harsh buzzing sound.

“Wrong! You’re coming home with me so we watch movies and stuff our faces with tasty snacks.” At Izuku’s skeptical look, she continues, “Come on, I got all your favorites. It’s gonna be great.”

“I… don’t know if my body can handle that kind of food right now, to be honest,” Izuku says, trying not to sound too much like he’s making excuses, though he knows Ochako can see right through him. “I haven’t been feeling well, and I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“It’s called Pepto Bismol,” she answers smartly. “Come on, you can’t turn me down, I drove all the way to Mitsuwa for most of this stuff.”

Izuku blinks, his interest piqued. “Mitsuwa?”

“Yeah.” She wiggles her eyebrows, her grin broad and enticing.

“… Did you get kare pan?”

“Of course I got kare pan, who do you take me for?”

Izuku sighs. “Oh, fine,” he says, making a dramatic show of grabbing his coat and shoes, but the thought of snacks from his childhood and the cheerful company of his very best friend is too strong, putting a faint upward tilt on his mouth that he can’t be bothered to hide. Ochako must see it, because her own smile turns softer at the edges and when he’s ready she loops her arm in his, and they make a grand show of waltzing down the stairs together.

Ochako’s presence brings a sort of buoyancy to the hollow in his chest that only grows as they make their way back to her’s and Tenya’s apartment, where there awaits a veritable buffet of snacks and all his favorite movies, ready and waiting to be watched. She builds a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch and then they snuggle up together, slowly working their way through bags of crispy chips, sweet candies, fluffy kare pan, and a Marvel marathon. By the time Peter Parker is saving his friends from dying at the Washington Monument , Izuku’s got his head resting sleepily in Ochako’s lap while her fingers comb idly through his hair, and he almost feels like he could be alright again.

“Hey,” Ochako murmurs as Spider-man tumbles ungracefully down the elevator shaft, poking lightly as his cheek.

“Hmm?” Izuku shifts, looking up at her as he blinks slowly, and she taps his nose.

“How are you feeling?”

He hums. “Right now or just in general?”

“Mmm… Both.”

“Right now I’m very full and kind of sleepy,” he answers, a yawn working its way up from his throat. “In general… I don’t know. It’s just… a lot.”

She nods thoughtfully, saying nothing. Izuku knows she wants to press but she doesn’t, and maybe that’s why he keeps talking, words spilling out of his mouth even as the hollow in his chest aches and burns in protest. “I just… I thought I knew him and then I thought I didn’t and now I think I knew some parts but not others and it’s all… It’s all just one big mess in my head and I can’t sort any of it out.”

A gentle thumb brushes away the tears building in the corner of one eye, while a few from the other drip slowly down his cheek. “I… I wish I could just ask him,” he says, whisper soft, a confession not meant for anyone else. “I know—I know that probably sounds stupid because like, I should be happy that he’s gone, right? I mean, he lied to me. But… But I still kind of want him to come back. Not just for answers either. Just… just because I… I…”

I miss him.

He makes a sound, not quite a sob but close enough. Ochako shushes him softly, maneuvering to haul him up so she can wrap her arms around him, and he can cry quiet tears into her shoulder.

“You really fell hard this time, huh?” she says, and Izuku nods miserably.

“Yeah. I really did. Like a big fat idiot.”

“Hey, you’re not an idiot. I mean you are, like a lot, but not about this kind of stuff.” Izuku snorts at that, and Ochako breaks their embrace so she look at his face properly, a thoughtful expression settling deep into her features. “You… You get people, Deku. There’s just something about you that makes… Ugh, I don’t know if I can describe it, exactly, but it’s like… When we were together, I knew I didn’t have to hide anything from you because you’d always understand, or even if you didn’t, you’d find a way. And like, I didn’t tell you everything that went on in my head, but I always felt like I could. That was the first time I felt I could trust someone like that, and it was really nice.”

Izuku stares at her, blinking slowly as her words work their way through his mind.

“And like, this guy—he’s a jerk and what he did was wrong and if I ever meet him myself I’m gonna rip him a new asshole—” Her grip on his shoulder tightens painfully before she takes a deep breath and continues, “But like… I don’t think you should beat yourself up too much about getting it wrong because you probably didn’t. Maybe it’s just like you said; you didn’t know everything about him but you did know some things, and maybe the things you did know weren’t the lies. Because it’s really hard to lie to you. Just like… You make people want to be honest.”

Somewhere, far deep down in the blackest pits of Izuku’s psyche, something sparks in a place that ought to be numb.

I like having a friend like you.

“Does that make any sense?” Ochako asks.

“Ye—Yeah.”

I like having someone I can trust.

A shudder runs through him, from the tips of his toes all the way to the crown of his head. Ochako must feel it because she sighs loudly and says, “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m not being very helpful.”

“No you are,” Izuku tells her. “I just… Like I said it’s just a lot to think about.”

It means I just get to be myself and not… who I’m supposed to be.

Izuku closes his eyes, a few stray tears slipping out before he can stop them. “I wish it was easier than this,” he whispers, and Ochako wraps him up in another hug and doesn’t let go for a good long while.

He ends up spending the night. In the morning Tenya whips up a lovely breakfast of blueberry pancakes, piled high with whipped cream and then drenched in maple syrup. They eat while swapping favorite stories of wild shenanigans from their teenage years, and as Izuku makes the trek back of Lakeview, it seems as though the embers burning inside his chest might finally be starting to snuff out, the world just a bit brighter around the edges than it was a few days before.

Most of Saturday is spent taking it easy, doing all the things he’s neglected throughout the week, chores and laundry and the like. Izuku’s just thinking about starting to make dinner when there comes a loud pounding from the front door. It could really only be one person, and Izuku debates with himself for a good minute or so on whether or not he actually wants to answer it.

Eventually he does, if for no other reason than to stop the noise. Katsuki stands on the other side, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as he glares a hole into the floorboards, one eye twitching occasionally. Izuku crosses his arms, leans against the frame, and waits.

After several, near painful moments of silence, Katsuki finally clears his throat. “So.”

Izuku arches one eyebrow. “So?”

Katsuki’s head shoots up, eyes narrowed to near slits as he opens his mouth, but then seems to think better of what he was about to say, because after a moment he just heaves an aggravated sigh instead. His shoulders slump a bit, and he kicks at the welcome mat while huffing loudly before hr suddenly blurts out, “I f*cked up.”

“… Yeah. Yeah you really did.”

“I f*cked up,” Katsuki repeats, “and I am… sorry.”

His head lifts, an angry grimace settled into his features. But when Izuku sees the bright, glassy sheen in his red eyes, the last of his anger fades away into dust.

“I forgive you,” he says, with a fond if exasperated sigh. “Only because I know your intentions came from the right place. And because Eijirou said you cried about it.”

“Eijirou’s a f*cking liar, I didn’t cry!” Katsuki snaps, and Izuku levels him with a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Okay, maybe a little but it was because I was angry and frustrated, it doesn’t count!”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s true.”

“Of course.”

“f*ck off.” Katsuki brings one hand out of his pocket to flip him off, and Izuku finds his lips twitching despite himself. That earns him an exaggerated eye roll, but then Katsuki’s expression shifts to something some serious, maybe even conciliatory. “So, how are you… You know.”

Izuku sighs. “Honestly? Everything sucks and I hate it.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second before continuing, “But like… It’s better than it was.”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And it is. There’s still so much Izuku doesn’t know and he’s not sure he’ll ever get the answers he wants, but that’s okay. Because there will always be people there to catch him when he falls.

The hollow in his chest still smokes, but it’s no longer burning.

“So what are you doing right now?” Katsuki asks, and Izuku blinks at him.

“Uh… I was just gonna start making dinner, why?”

“f*ck that. Let’s go to Strings so I can kick your ass at the spicy ramen challenge.”

“Uh, okay first of all, you’ve lost the last two times we did the spicy ramen challenge, and also, didn’t Strings ban you after you broke that table?”

“That was the Chinatown one. There’s a new location on Belmont.”

Izuku makes a face. “I don’t know…”

“Aw what, scared you can’t keep up that winning streak? Come on, I thought you were braver than that.” Katsuki grins, sharp and daring, and Izuku can’t help but want to answer.

“Fine, I’ll go. But you can’t get mad when you lose again.”

“Not a problem. I’m not gonna get mad because I’m not gonna f*cking lose.”

He does, and he does get mad, but that’s pretty par for course as far as Katsuki’s concerned. Watching him rant and rave while trying desperately not to show how much pain he’s in brings about a touch of normalcy that Izuku’s been sorely missing, and it makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, it could all still turn out okay.

By the time Sunday rolls around Izuku feels, if not entirely back to normal, then at the very least stable. Calm. Grounded, enough that he manages to gather together the resolve needed to the tackle the last task that will finally rid at least the apartment of Shouto presence. It won’t be enough, not really, but right now it’s all Izuku has. So after breakfast, he gathers up a small bucket of cleaning supplies, and enters the spare bedroom with the intent of scrubbing it top to bottom, until it looks like nobody ever occupied it at all. Izuku dusts everything before giving the ceiling fan a thorough wipedown, then goes over all the molding with a damp rag before breaking out the vacuum and getting into as many nooks and crannies as he possibly can, sucking out every last speck of dirt until the room seems inhumanely spotless. Finally, he takes the old sheets off the bed, firmly ignoring the faintest scent of pine and smoke that catches in his nostrils as he throws them into the washer.

Onigiri meows loudly at him when he returns, clearly displeased with this new turn of events, as she’d taken to sleeping on the guest bed over the past week. “Sorry bean,” Izuku sighs as he goes to grab a spare set of sheets from the bottom drawer of the dresser. “Gotta get things cleaned up or else I’ll… I’ll never…”

He stops, blinking down at the now open dresser drawer. Nestled on top of the bedsheets rests a thin, square, brown paper package and a small white envelope; the former has an address label written in Japanese, and the latter just has a name.

Shouto.

The bottom promptly drops out of Izuku’s stomach.

“Goddamnit,” he hisses, hands starting to tremble as he bends down to grab both items; Shouto must have forgotten to grab them in his hurry to leave. It shouldn’t be a big deal—Izuku might even just be able to throw them out—but it hurts all the same. Yet another reminder of Shouto, of his presence, still hanging over Izuku like a stormcloud.

(Of how close—so close—they were to something now unimaginable.)

With a heavy sigh and tears prickling at the bottom of his eyes, Izuku sets the envelope aside as he scans the address label on the package, and then blinks.

“Nagano?” he mutters, squinting at the return address. “And—”

Todoroki Rei, reads the sender’s name, and Izuku’s stomach twists so sharply he feels vaguely ill.

“No,” he moans as he rereads the label, hoping against hope that he’s mistaken, that the writing is somehow playing tricks on him. “Nonono— ”

But he’s not wrong; the package was sent by one Todoroki Rei, and it came from Nagano, in Nagano Prefecture, Japan.

“f*ck.”

It would have been fine if it had just been a few of Shouto’s things, some trinkets left behind in his haste to leave, but not this. Shouto might have lied about a lot of things and Izuku may never know the full extent to which he was deceived, but hindsight and words of wisdom have managed to lend him at least of modicum of perspective. And if there’s one thing Izuku’s certain Shouto was always honest about, it’s his mother.

Shouto left a package from his mother behind and Izuku—

Izuku has no idea what he’s supposed to do.

He considers for a moment just throwing it out anyway, but the thought makes him nauseous; he’s upset, but he’s not heartless. Logic tells him he needs to return it because whatever’s inside is sure to be meaningful, but the thought of facing Shouto again has his stomach tying itself up in knots, though whether it’s from anger or desperation remains as unclear as ever. He supposes he could try and figure out some other way of getting it back to Shouto that doesn’t involve direct contact—an agent or a place to send fan mail, something like that—but that just sounds far more complicated than anything Izuku wants to deal with right now.

Biting his lip, Izuku runs his fingers over the brown paper, feeling it crinkle under his touch. He doesn’t much like the idea of opening it to see what’s actually inside either, but what it ends up being could sway his decision one way or another, and it’s looking like he might not have much of a choice. “Okay,” he mutters to himself. “If… If it doesn’t seem like anything important I’ll toss it. And if it does I’ll… I’l…”

I’ll figure something out.

It’s really all he can do at this point, and with that, Izuku carefully slips his hand inside the already open end, tips brushing against something cool and smooth before he tugs it out into the open and—

His blood slows, settling heavy in his veins.

His lungs stop, breath coming to a halt.

In his hands rests an album, with a light blue background, playful snowflake filigree on the borders, and the smiling face of a pretty young women with white hair and grey eyes. It’s all very shiny and new, without the fading and tattered edges Izuku’s used to seeing in his memories. And in one corner, just underneath the elegant type of the album title, there’s a note written in neat, crisp kanji.

To Izuku—

Thank you to you and your mother for still being fans after all these years!

Yuki Rei

His knees hit the floor with a harsh thud that rattles all the way up his spine.

He can feel tears slipping down his cheeks, taste the salt on his tongue.

And in the still smoking hollow of his chest there rises a flame so fierce it engulfs his entire being, until every part of him is alight and burning.

The album shakes as he holds it in trembling hands and for a good long moment Izuku can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even think; he can only stare at small note and the pretty white haired women who wrote it for him, she wrote it for him, how would she even know unless—

Unless—

Izuku drops the album and reaches for the letter so he can rip it open and read the contents inside. It’s wrong; he knows it’s wrong, feels guilt and shame bubble up from his stomach to settle in the back of his throat but he has to—he has to—because he needs answers and he needs them now and this is all he’s got.

For a good, long while, Izuku stays where he is, kneeling on the floor with the letter held between trembling hands, while tears slip slowly down his freckled cheeks. He reads it, over and over and over again, and each time the gravity of it seems to sink a little deeper, into his muscles, his veins, all the down to the verymarrow of his bones.

Shouto, you—

You—

When he finally moves, Izuku folds the letter up carefully and sets it on top of the dresser; he’ll have to find a new envelope later, the original having been torn to shreds by his clumsy fingers. Then he picks the album up off the floor, and heads to the living room. There’s a record player on one of the bookshelves there, the only piece of musical equipment besides the piano that Izuku kept when he moved it. It filled the space nicely, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have it around if he didn’t have anything to play.

He lifts the needle, and oh so carefully opens up the album cover to slip out the record inside. It’s held like glass as he sets it on the turntable, some primal part of him terrified that one wrong move could shatter the whole illusion. Because none of it feels real right now; just some wild, fantastical dream conjured up by his subconscious to cope with a loss so great he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole again.

And then Yuki Rei’s soft timbred, contralto voice begins to fill the air, and it hits like a lightning strike to his heart.

Izuku’s only dimly aware of moving, shuffling over to the couch so he can sit down, knees drawn up to his chest so he can rest his forehead against them. Too much of his thought process is absorbed in listening to the music, those beautiful tones that seem to resonate throughout his whole being. It reminds Izuku so much of so many things, of his own mother and his childhood and his once forgotten dreams.

Of pine and smoke, stark white and vivid red, winter grey and summer blue.

It hurts. It hurts so much and yet.

(And yet.)

Izuku stays seated on the couch for a long, long time. Long enough that he can track the movement of sunlight across the living room floor. He sits, and he thinks.

And thinks.

And thinks.

At some point, after his butt has gone numb and his knees have locked in place, Onigiri leaps up next to him, searching for pets. Izuku gathers her up in his lap and lets her snuggle into his chest while he scratches behind her ears. Her contented purrs reverberate against him, and Izuku can’t help but let out a soft sigh.

“How have you been, bean?” he asks her, one finger rubbing gently against the underside of her chin. “I feel like I haven’t been paying any attention to you all week. I’m sorry.”

She burrows deeper into his lap, and he lets out a small laugh, the first one he’s uttered since last Friday. “Have I ever told you the story of why I got you, Oni?” he says. “I don’t think I have. Or maybe I did and I just forgot. Want to hear it anyway?”

Of course she doesn’t respond, but Izuku keeps talking. “I brought you home because the shelter said you were the worst cat they had and I needed something to keep me distracted and busy. See about two years before I got you, I was in a car accident, and it was real bad. That’s why I have all these scars, see?” He picks up one of her paws to touch it against his hand, laughing again when she pulls it back and hides the leg under her body. “I didn’t think I was ever going to recover. I had a lot of really dark days back then, and I thought maybe if I had a fuzzy little critter to keep me company, it would make it better.”

He settles his hand against her back, strokly idly over her fur. “But that wasn’t even the worst part,” he continues. “The worst part was that the other person in the accident—he was awful. At first he tried to buy me off to keep me from suing, but I refused, and man did that piss him off. He was so angry with me for not taking his stupid money and he did everything he could to discredit my case, and the trial, and—just all this stuff. You don’t understand because you’re a cat, of course, but it was really bad. Some days… some days it was so bad I honestly didn’t know if I was going to make it out alive.”

Onigiri shifts, butting her head against his hand, and Izuku indulges her with a few ear tugs before he slumps deeper into the couch cushions, head tilting back so he can stare up at the ceiling.

“That was only maybe nine or ten months of dealing with him, and I felt like I was going to die,” Izuku whispers, voice barely audible, even to his own ears. “So what do you think it would be like having to deal with him your whole life?”

He’s a selfish, mean old bastard and he’s never going to let me go until he gets what he wants out of me just because his stupid f*cking ego won’t… Won’t let him…

I’m glad you managed to find a place where you feel safe.

He won’t find you, I promise.

I just… I want you to be happy.

I’m not used to people wanting me to be happy.

“Damnit, Shouto,” Izuku says to no one but himself, voice cracking on each world as tears start to slip from his eyes once more. “Why did you have to make this so much harder than it already was?”

I think—

I think that maybe you really did care.

So why did you run? Why didn’t—

Why didn’t you—

A knock echoes throughout the apartment, and Izuku jerks, startling Onigiri off his lap. He frowns as he stands to go answer it, wondering which of his friends is calling on him this time, and is surprised to instead find Tsuyu on the other side of the door.

「Hello Midoriya-san,」 she says. 「Is Todoroki-san around?」

Izuku stares at her for a few seconds before his brain remembers that he’s supposed to respond when people ask questions. 「Oh—oh no, he um. He had to leave. There was, uh. A—a family thing, I think.」

「Oh dear. I hope everything’s okay.」 She tilts her head. 「He must have been in quite a hurry; he left his guitar behind.」

Izuku blinks. Once. Twice.

「Gui—guitar?」

「Yes.」 Tsuyu reaches down by her side to pick up a guitar case that Izuku hadn’t noticed until just now. 「Satsuki found it in the foyer downstairs. We thought he’d come looking for it but I haven’t seen him around so I thought I’d just bring it up here myself. I didn’t know he even played guitar. Will he be—」

「It’s not,」 Izuku croaks, shocked that he manages to keep back the sob welling up high in his throat.

Tsuyu frowns. 「Not what?」

「Not—not his. It’s, um. It’s… it’s actually, um. Mine.」 He’d completely forgotten about it until now, the once momentous occasion of its return now buried somewhere deep under the debris of his broken heart.

「Oh!」 One of Tsuyu’s fingers comes up to rest thoughtfully against her mouth. 「I didn’t know you played, Midoriya.」

I don’t, is what Izuku’s mind tells him to say.

「I… I haven’t for a while,」 is what he tells her. 「A—a few years at least. But I… Since Shou—Shouto was playing piano while he was here I… I thought I might try… Picking it up again.」

He reaches out, and she gives him the case. His hands are shaking so much he can feel it all the way up his forearms, rattling the handle where he grips it so tightly that the textured leather presses patterns into his skin.

「Thank—thanks,」 he says. 「I… I’d forgotten I left it, I… There’s just… There’s just been a lot of stuff going on.」

Tsuyu hums, brow scrunching in concern. 「I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?」

Izuku shakes his head, blinking several times to clear his vision of the new tears threatening to fall before he tries for a smile. It doesn’t sit quite right on his face, tight at the edges and wobbly in the middle, but it seems to hold well enough. 「I’m… I’ll be okay. Just, um. Thanks again for uh… For finding this.」

She blinks slowly at him for a moment before breaking into an answering smile. 「Of course,」 she says. 「Maybe you could come play down at the restaurant sometime. I think people always like a little music while they eat.」

Something inside him seizes, drawn tight and ready to shatter as his mind recoils and thrashes and screams—

「May—maybe,」 Izuku stutters. 「Just, you know. Gotta… gotta practice a little first.」

She nods brightly, then bids him farewell before returning downstairs. Izuku retreats back into the apartment and shakily makes his way back to the couch, knees weak and legs turned to jelly. He sets the case carefully down on the cushions before taking a seat, and for a long time, Izuku simply stares at it, as though seeing something incomprehensible.

He’d been so close. So close to picking up where he’d left off, and it was going to be something wonderful and glorious and special, this one last piece of himself to share with Shouto so everything could be complete. But now Shouto’s gone, and Izuku’s just trying to keep from ripping apart at the seams, and he’s patched up some places but still broken in others, and none of it makes sense anymore because Shouto cared, Izuku knows he did, so why, why, why did you lie, why did you leave, why didn’t you just talk to me—

A tiny sob worms its way out of his chest and Izuku buries his face in his hands, fat tears dripping down his cheeks because it’s all too much and he can’t sort any of it out anymore and he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t—

Don’t you, though?

Izuku gasps, air catching in his lungs and holding as his head snaps up and he stares at the guitar case sitting mere inches away.

How did you do it before?

He swallows heavily, throat so swollen it’s nearly closed.

What’s been missing, this whole time?

The fire inside him roars, burning up every last fiber of his being and yet—

It doesn’t hurt. Not even a little.

In fact, in this moment, sitting on his couch and staring at his old guitar case with his trembling hands and stalled lungs and ashen heart, nothing hurts at all.

Izuku breathes. One shuddering inhale.

One steady exhale.

Then reaches out, and opens the case.

“You look like sh*t again,” Shinsou says to him when Izuku walks in on Monday morning.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Izuku yawns. He’d tried, but there’d been an overwhelming storm of emotions that kept crashing over him every time he attempted to rest, and for once, Izuku hadn’t felt particularly inclined to stop them.

“Hmm. That sucks. You wanna take a nap?”

“I’d love to, but sadly…” Izuku gestures at his desk. “You know. Work.”

“Eh, whatever,” Shinsou scoffs. “Take the nap, it’s not like anybody’s here today anyway. I have exactly one ticket and I’m already halfway done with it.”

“What? Where is everyone?”

Shinsou chuckles. “It’s Christmas Eve; most people took off so they could have a four day weekend.”

“Oh.” Izuku frowns. “So… why are you here?”

“Money.” At Izuku’s anxious look, Shinsou heaves a sigh and says, “Look we’re only doing a half day anyway, just relax a little and don’t worry about it. Because you of all people here could really use a day off.”

“I…” Izuku bites his lip, work ethic warring against his exhaustion for a few long moments before he too sighs and takes a heavy seat in his chair. “Okay well, I’m not gonna take a nap but maybe… Maybe I won’t keep myself too busy.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Izuku does end up cleaning out his inbox and clearing some space on his computer’s hard drive, just because he can’t quite bring himself to not do anything work related. But it’s all mindless and repetitive, allowing him to keep his thoughts occupied with other things. Or rather, one thing. The same thing that’s been hanging over Izuku since last week Friday and which likely won’t be leaving anytime soon, too entwined now with every other part of his life and of himself. He’s been turning it over in his mind again and again and again, and it always cycles back to the same thing.

Shouto cared; Izuku can’t go back to any of those little moments that they shared and come to any other conclusion. But Shouto also lied, and then he ran away, and now Izuku’s left picking up pieces with no ideas about what to do with them. More than ever he wishes he could just talk to Shouto, find out what might have been going through his head when he decided not to say anything, but that seems less and less a possibility the longer time goes on. Izuku had even tried calling Shouto yesterday to see if maybe— maybe —he could get a conversation started, but it just went straight to voicemail.

So now Izuku’s left with a whole slew of questions and only his own thoughts to help answer them, and they aren’t proving exceptionally helpful. He keeps coming back to how things might have gone differently, hindsight showing him all the little details he’d forgotten in his distress. Like how lonely Shouto seemed in the beginning, and how much warmer he was at the end, and all the little things he’d done for Izuku in between. Talking about Shouto’s career and the utter vehemence with which he’d spat about his producer. How much trouble Shouto seemed to have expressing himself and how reluctant he’d been to show any kind of strong emotion. But none of that had mattered in those first few moments of truth, overwhelmed as he’d been by anguish and hurt and betrayal, and Izuku…

Izuku’s always tried his best to see the value in any lesson learned, no matter how painful the process. And when all is said and done, he can’t find it in himself to regret helping Shouto as he did, because for as much pain as Shouto’s caused him he also undeniably made Izuku better, better than he was, better than he has been in years. And maybe Izuku had been ready to get better, more than he gave himself credit for, but it was Shouto that gave him the push he needed when he lacked the courage to take the plunge himself. And that has to count for something.

He just…

He wishes that he hadn’t been so quick to upset and let Katsuki’s rage get the better of him. He wishes he could take back some of the things he said because they simply weren’t true. He wishes he had just stopped to think for five seconds, because if he had, maybe it all would have gone differently. He wishes…

Izuku wishes a lot of things. He doubts very much that he will ever see any of them resolved.

As soon as the clock hits noon Shinsou calls it a day, and sends Izuku off with a holiday tin of Garrett’s Mix to help him get over his not-a-breakup, which definitely has Izuku sniffling as he leaves the office. There’s a group text started by Denki asking if everyone wants to meet up at Crisp for a Christmas Eve Korean fried chicken dinner, and Izuku responds yes because he knows that otherwise he’s just going to spend the evening thinking about how tonight was supposed to be when he finally told Shouto how he really felt, and it was going to be magical and wonderful and perfect and now—

Well, Izuku has his friends, and that’s a kind of magical and wonderful and perfect all its own. Maybe he’ll even make the arduous bus trip to Arlington Heights tomorrow and spend a quiet, comfortable day with his mother and Mr. Yagi. That sounds like a nice way to pass the time.

Eijirou sent a text earlier asking what Izuku thought of Plus Ultra’s holiday surprise for their fans, so on his ride home Izuku slips on his old battered headphones and goes to their Instagram to check it out. It’s a take on Winter Wonderland, complete with ridiculous novelty Santa hats and the ugliest sweaters Izuku’s ever seen. He loves it, and keeps the video playing a few times over so he can chuckle at their antics and absorb the light, playful melody, letting it sink down deep and chase away some of his heavier thoughts.

The bus makes a sudden screeching halt, and Izuku’s phone drops to the floor as he’s unceremoniously thrown forward. His lungs seize, panic flooding up his spine; it bubbles heavy inside his stomach for a few moments before he regains control, forcing himself to breathe as he reaches down to pick up his phone. “It’s okay,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his headphones before turning back to the screen. “It’s okay, it’s… It’s…”

Izuku blinks at the display. It isn’t on Plus Ultra’s Instagram page anymore; instead the search tab is highlighted, showing a selection of suggested posts. And the very first one is a video from Shouto.

The heaviness in his stomach spreads rapidly out to settle in his veins, his lungs, the mending hollow of his chest. The app must still be using cookies from when he’d looked at Shouto’s account before; he can’t see another reason why it would have picked this. Izuku’s finger hovers over the home tab, ready to go back to Plus Ultra’s page except…

Except Izuku doesn’t recognize the video. He should; he’s been through Shouto’s Instagram at least a dozen times, going over every single post in a desperate bid for answers. Most of Shouto’s videos were either promos for concerts and other live performances, backstage peaks at things like wardrobe, or dance practice and choreography. The sound isn’t on for the one playing, but he doesn’t remember any videos that looked like this one on Shouto’s feed. It’s strange, enough that Izuku’s thumb continues to waver over the home button, unmoving.

He shouldn’t watch it. He knows he shouldn’t watch it, because whatever it is isn’t going to bring Izuku anything but more pain and misery and heartbreak. He ought to just forget about it and move on, because that’s really the only path he has going forward now. He shouldn’t watch it. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

Izuku selects the video, and it starts over from the beginning.

The first few seconds are just Shouto setting up what Izuku assumes to be his phone, positioned so it’s mostly focused on the accompanying piano and not on him. His movements are odd, much less fluid than Izuku’s used to seeing them, and what few glances Izuku catches of his face seem strange to him. At first he thinks it might be because the scar is concealed, but as he watches Shouto take a seat and do few quick finger stretches, he reconsiders. Everything about Shouto, from the way he’s holding himself to the limp fall of his overly long bangs to the peculiar furrow of his brow, is entirely off kilter, completely unlike Izuku’s ever seen him look before.

Shouto’s fingers settle against the keys, and even though Izuku tries to brace himself for whatever comes next, it still hits like a punch to the face when he hears the opening chords of the first song they composed together, the one for Shouto’s mother. His stomach churns and his lungs stop and the place where his heart should be goes utterly still. It’s his, Izuku tries to tell himself as tears well up in his eyes because everything hurts so, so much. It’s his, you gave it to him, he’s allowed to do this, he’s allowed to do whatever he damn well wants with it, you can’t get upset about this, it’s his—

And then Shouto starts to sing.

He sings while he plays the song they wrote together and…

Izuku feels tears slipping down his cheeks, tastes the salt on his tongue.

Scar tissue pulls tight as tremors start in his fingers, and they rattle the ache right out of his bones.

He makes a sharp inhale, air spilling into his lungs until they’re near bursting, light and full.

And deep, deep within the hollow of his chest, the chord that Shouto plucked at all those months ago comes bursting back to life with a song so symphonic that it rises in the lumen of his veins, the fibers of his muscles, the very marrow of his bones, until Izuku’s entire body is filled with something warm and vivid and so very, wondrously alive.

Because this—

This is not a song about Shouto’s mother.

It'sa song about them.

Izuku can only listen in astonishment as Shouto sings a melody that seems equal parts admission of guilt and apology and desperate plea, for understand or forgiveness or maybe even a second chance, and all of it played to the familiar, lilting tune of the music they created together. It is perhaps the single most amazing thing Izuku has ever heard in his entire life, more so than Plus Ultra without him, Yuki Rei after all those years, Shouto for the very first time. Once, a supernova exploded inside him from the marvelous experience of All Might, and Izuku has always wondered if he would have something like that happen again. Now he knows the answer; this is beyond anything Izuku has ever felt before, maybe beyond anything he will ever feel again. It’s creation, crafted from melody and harmony and rhythm into something that shines so brightly it makes Izuku’s very bones want to explode.

When the song ends, Izuku watches enraptured as Shouto’s fingers curl against the piano keys, so hard he can see the tips turning white. Then a hand comes up to stop the video, but not before Izuku catches another glimpse of Shouto’s face. It still looks odd, too tight and too pale and shadowed by something strange, foreign thing that Izuku can’t name. Then it’s starting all over again, and all Izuku can do it listen.

Each time there’s something new to notice. How the chords they constructed are imperfect for the new lyrics, unchanged from what they’d written. That three times, Shouto hits a wrong key, and Shouto’s brow twitches furiously when it happens but he simply pushes on. His voice, wavering ever so slightly on high and low notes in a way it shouldn’t. The peculiar tilt of Shouto’s brow, the bags under his eyes and sharp downward turn of his mouth that somehow isn’t a frown. How this video is on Instagram of all things, when Shouto once told Izuku he didn’t think he could share anything quite so personal with his audience. And yet here he is, baring his soul for the world to see, in a song made by and about and for Izuku.

He doesn’t stop looking at his phone as he gets off the bus and makes his way back to his apartment. Nor does he stop looking as he fumbles with his key at the front door, missing the lock at least five times. He doesn’t look up even as he makes the climb to the third floor, tripping on the stairs several times and not caring one damn bit. The only thing that matters to Izuku right now this song.

As soon as he’s inside, Izuku leans against the door and slides down it, attention still glued to the video. He hadn’t exactly been keeping his tears in check on the bus but now he really lets go, storms building so heavy in his eyes that his vision goes blurry and he can’t see anymore, but the song keeps going and that’s what matters most. Its melody winds into him, curling warmly around that hollow space in his chest where the pieces of his heart are slowly stitching themselves back together. And when it finds that chord vibrating furiously deep down at his core, Izuku swears he can feel music playing in the very marrow of his bones.

“Shouto,” he croaks to the silence of his apartment. “Why?”

Why? What does this mean? Is this for me, did you want me to find it? Is it just because, or maybe your last goodbye? Why this, why now, why can’t you just talk to me—

The music stops. Izuku blinks several times to clear the tears from his eyes, frowning down at the screen.

The video is gone.

The chord inside his chest seizes, coming to an awful, screeching halt.

“No,” Izuku chokes, trying to reload Shouto’s feed. “No, nonononononono, don’t—don’t do this Shouto please—“

He tries, again and again and again, but to no avail; the video has vanished, like it never existed in the first place.

“You—stupid—”

Izuku doesn’t allow himself to think about what he does next. He simply pulls up Shouto’s number in his phone and presses the call button. To his utter shock, the line actually starts ringing, and Izuku’s heart almost leaps right out of his chest.

“Pick up,” Izuku hisses. “Pick up, pick up, come on you stupid jerk, pick up—“

But the call just keeps going until the voicemail answers, and Izuku can barely muffle the frustrated scream that crawls it’s way out of his throat. He’s not giving up though, not this time, not until he can actually talk to Shouto and hear his voice and ask him all the questions he needs answers to. So Izuku keeps trying, again and again and again until he loses count of how many times he’s hit Shouto’s number, but nobody picks up. It just keeps returning to voicemail.

“f*ck!” Izuku yells into the quiet apartment after his umpteenth failed call. “f*ck, f*ck, just—f*ck—“

He jams his finger against the number again, telling himself one more time. One more time and if Shouto doesn’t answer Izuku will just—

He’ll just—

(He doesn’t know what he’ll do.)

“Pick up,” Izuku begs as the rings drag on. “Pick up, pick up, pick up—“

There’s a long beep, and then the start of the voicemail message, and whatever’s left of Izuku’s heart shatters into a million little pieces.

“You jerk,"he cries to no one. “You absolute dick, you can’t just—you can’t just leave it like this—“

He chokes back a sob, trying to regain some semblance of control as the voicemail message runs its course. When he hears the beep, Izuku doesn’t think. He just starts talking.

“Hey. Hey it’s me. Um, Izuku—Midoriya, I mean.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath before pressing on. ”I’m, um. I’m just. I’m calling because I saw—I saw your—your Instagram post with our—I mean your—song and I just…” Another breath, trying desperately to hold back his tears. “Oh and I also… I also found the um. The gift? I think it was a gift, that you… That your mom sent and I… And I just wanted to tell you that… That…”

The dam bursts. Izuku lets out a long, wailing sob that he can’t stop, and then keeps sobbing as words spill out of his mouth, entirely beyond his control.

“Come back. Please—please come back Shouto I—I’m still mad but I don’t—I don’t want it to end like this please, I miss you, I miss you so much it’s not—nothing feels right anymore and I don’t—I don’t—Just—just come back, please, so we can talk I just—please just—I lo—“

The message beeps, cutting him off, and Izuku lets his phone drop to the floor as something close to a howl escapes him. He buries his face in his knees as great, heaving sobs wrack his whole body and oceans pour from his eyes, because he doesn’t want it to end like this but he also doesn’t know what else to do.

If Shouto calls back, Izuku tells himself. If he doesn’t, Izuku will have to give up and move on, but if he calls back, he’ll try and work things out. Only if he calls back though. Only if he calls back.

Please, please call back.

Interlude Three | Flaws — Bastille

The rest of Izuku’s day is spent in a peculiar state of misery, one that undulates between fleeting hope and utter despair and evens out somewhere around just plain exhaustion. He stays completely glued to his phone, compulsively checking it what seems like every five minutes, but nothing comes through. The notifications remain perfectly empty until Katsuki sends a text around six asking where the hell he is, because everyone else is already at Crisp. Any desire Izuku might have had to leave the house tonight has been obliterated, but he can’t not show up to dinner or he’ll have an entire hoard of people banging at his front door. So Izuku sends Katsuki some flimsy excuse before venturing out, continuing to glance at his phone screen every time few minutes as he walks. Still nothing.

Izuku doesn’t pretend to be happy when he sees his friends, can’t even find the resolve to try and fake a smile. They shoot him concerned glances as he takes a seat, but Izuku’s kind of an expert at deflection by now. He uses a few well placed questions to get a conversation about Plus Ultra’s holiday video going, and then the attention shifts away from him, at least for a moment. It returns when Eijirou notices that he isn’t eating, but Izuku explains this away by pretending he got too enthusiastic about his Garrett’s tin and stupidly spoiled his appetite. He’s not sure how many of them actually buy the excuse, but they seem to get the hint that he doesn’t feel much like socializing, and thankfully don’t press. If everyone happens to give him extra tight hugs when they leave, well. Maybe that’s just the holiday spirit in the air.

The last one to say goodbye is Ochako, and Izuku isn’t at all surprised when she wraps him up in an embrace and then says quietly, so no one else can hear, “Are you okay?”

“… Not really,” Izuku admits, and she squeezes him a little tighter.

“Do you wanna stay with me and Tenya tonight?” she offers, but Izuku shakes his head.

“No, I… I need to be alone tonight. I’m sorry.” She pulls back to frown suspiciously at him, and Izuku sighs before putting on his best pleading look. “Look I know… I know that seems bad especially after this last week but just… Just trust me on this. Please?”

Ochako continues to squint at him for a long moment before she finally heaves a sigh and wraps him up in another hug. “Okay?” she says. “Just don’t do anything stupid, promise?”

“Who me? Never,” Izuku answers, lips twitching when she can’t help but give an exasperated laugh.

Once back at the apartment, Izuku sets up a little nest for himself on the couch, complete with several cozy blankets, a steaming pot of tea, and Onigiri curled up comfortably in his lap. A stream of cheesy Christmas movies is started in an effort to distract himself, but it only sort of works. He still keeps checking his phone like desperate clockwork. Each time it remains silent, and each time Izuku’s heart breaks a little more.

Eight passes. Then nine. Then ten. Then eleven, and suddenly Izuku is jerking himself awake from his awkward slump against the armrest, phantom sounds ringing in his ears. He sighs, checking his phone on reflex and—

Missed Call [11:23 PM]

Shouto

Izuku stares at the screen blanky for a solid ten seconds before every synapse in his head fires off at the same time, kicking his brain into overdrive.

“Jesus f*ck,” he hisses, pulling up the phone app and then jamming him thumb so hard against Shouto’s number he thinks he might bruise something. He inhales sharply, heart beginning to pound a furious staccato against his ribcage when the line starts to ring. And ring. And ring.

“No,” Izuku moans, tears welling up in his eyes, “nonononono pick up, I know you’re there, pick up, you stupid freaking—”

“Midoriya?”

Izuku’s entire existence short circuits at the abrupt sound of Shouto’s deep, slightly accented voice, and it is only with phenomenal effort that he’s able to pull himself back into reality.

“Oh—oh. Shou—Shouto,” he says, rather faintly. “I… I didn’t realize you had… Um… Yeah.”

There’s at least a ninety percent chance Izuku’s going to self-immolate on his couch, and he’s thinks the only reason he doesn’t is because Shouto starts talking again and he’s desperate to hear every word. “I… I got your message,” he says; Izuku can’t tell if he’s just speaking quietly or if his voice actually sounds hoarse. “From earlier. I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t answer before now.”

“Oh! Nonono don’t—it’s fine, it’s totally fine, I just um.” Izuku lets out a noise too nervous to be called laughter. “I’m just glad you answered at all, I was… I wasn’t sure I’d ever… You know. Talk to you again. And I… I really, um. I really wanted to. Talk, I mean.”

“… You do?” Shouto says, and something in his tone has Izuku’s fingers digging deep grooves into his thigh, scar tissue pulled taut over the skin.

“Yeah…?” It comes out more as a vague noise than a word, so Izuku clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, I do, I think… I mean I think there’s a lot to talk about. Don’t you?”

There’s an utterly silent pause, and for one heart shattering moment, Izuku’s thinks Shouto might have hung up. Then a heavy sighs comes through the line. “Where are you right now?” Shouto asks.

“Oh, um… Just at home. I was watching Christmas movies with Onigiri.” Izuku blinks, a little confused. “Where, um. Where are you, did you… Did you go back to Los Angeles? Or are you in Tokyo?”

Another pause, longer this time, followed by an even heavier sigh. “Actually, I’m… I’m standing outside your apartment door.”

The entire world grinds to a sudden, screeching halt.

“You’re—what?”

A noise echoes through the apartment and the receiver at the same time; knuckles rapping against wood.

For a few long seconds, Izuku’s body remains completely frozen. Then a lightning strike fires from his brain all the way down his spine, into his veins, his lungs, the slowly mending pieces of his heart and Izuku is stumbling through the living room, throwing his phone God knows where and tripping over furniture and banging painfully into the bookshelf but it doesn’t matter, it does not matter so long as he gets to the—

He wrenches open the door so hard the handle leaves an imprint on the wall and Izuku does not care because there, standing on the other side, is Shouto.

“Hi,” Shouto says, so quietly he barely makes a noise.

“… Hi.” Izuku blinks at him, not quite able to believe what he’s seeing. He’s not entirely sure someone as beautiful as Shouto could ever look terrible, but he’s coming pretty damn close right now, with rumpled clothes and exhausted expression and dark circles under his unscarred eye. “You are… here.”

Shouto clears his throat, weight shifting back and forth on his legs in a manner that can only be described as awkward. “Well your… The message said come back, so I…”

He swallows, and Izuku can follow the bob of his throat, the tightening of his shoulders, the thinning of his mouth. It makes him look even worse than he already does, like he hasn’t rested properly for days. “I’m sorry, I was… I was going to call and let you know when I was leaving LA, but I… I couldn’t really think of what to say so I thought I’d use the plane ride to figure it out, but I—And then I thought I’d figure it out when I landed but that didn’t—Then I thought maybe during the taxi ride but—Anyway. Now I’m… I’m here.”

There are synapses firing in Izuku’s head, but none of them are doing anything remotely useful. All he can do is stare at Shouto, thoroughly dumbstruck, as he starts to grow visibly more—agitated? No, Izuku thinks, following peculiar furrow of his brow and the uncertain twist of his lips. Not agitated. Anxious.

“The—the Asui’s let me in,” Shouto says, gesturing vaguely towards the downstairs, and as he keeps talking Izuku decides that his voice does indeed sound oddly hoarse, rough and a little gravely like he hasn’t gotten any sleep. “I don’t—they didn’t seem to know what happened so they thought everything was fine. I hope… I hope that was okay.”

Izuku blinks slowly. There are words in the back of his mind but he can’t quite figure out which ones he’s supposed to say, so he just keeps staring at Shouto with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Shouto swallows again, so slow his whole head bobs with the motion, and then something in his face cracks, splitting him wide open to reveal something miserable and vulnerable and terribly, horribly afraid.

“I… This was stupid, I’m sorry.” Shouto steps back with a great, heaving breath that seems to rattle his whole chest. “I can… I’ll just leave, I’m sor—”

Somewhere, deep inside Izuku’s chest, that newly thrumming chord sends a surge coursing throughout every last fiber of his being, and Izuku moves so fast he doesn’t even realize he’s done it until suddenly his hands are on either side of Shouto’s face, fingers trembling as he holds on so tight he feels it all the way down to the old shatters.

“If you leave again,” he says, speaking soft and low and more fiercely than he’s ever done in his whole life, “then so help me God I am going to punch you in the face.”

Shouto goes utterly still, except for his winter grey and summer blue eyes. They blink several times at Izuku before the irises go bright and glassy and something wet touches Izuku’s fingertips where they rest against Shouto’s cheeks and oh.

Oh.

“Shouto,” Izuku whispers, thumbs wiping at his tears. Shouto’s hands shoot up, cold fingers clasping around Izuku’s so tightly it hurts. A great, shuddering sob works its way out of his throat, so harsh and brutal that an answering tide rises in Izuku’s own eyes. He opens his mouth, not sure quite what he’s going say, but Shouto beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” Shouto cries, voice absolutely wrecked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mido—Izuku—I never meant—I’m sorry I know—I know I f*cked up I know—I know I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t even be here I just—I just needed to—to tell you I’m so, so sorry and I know—You must hate me and I don’t—I deserve it, I know I do, I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have lied, I know—I know—I hurt you and I’m sorry I can’t—I know I can’t make it up and you can hate me and that—that’s okay I just—I just needed to tell you I—I—I—”

He breaks off with heaving breath, tears still streaming over Izuku’s fingers where they hold his face. “I’m sorry,” Shouto says again, completely broken. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry and I know—I know that’s not enough but that’s all—That’s all I can—can—” Another sob, and this time winter grey and summer blue eyes slip shut for a long moment before Shouto takes a deep, wavering inhale and croaks, “I f*cked up. I f*cked up, I know I did and I—you don’t have to forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me. I don’t—I don’t think anybody would.”

A pitiful whimper escapes him, every line of his body sagging in defeat, but he doesn’t let go of Izuku’s hands around his face, cold skin growing rapidly warm where they touch. Izuku swallows thickly, anger and pain and hurt stirring to life in the dark pits of his stomach, but they don’t rise, don’t bleed into his veins and muscles and bones. The chord in his chest is still thrumming, still stirring up storms in his lungs and heart and mind, and Izuku lets it guide him.

“Why… Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asks, because that’s what he wants to know, more than anything.

Shouto shakes his head with another small sob. “It’s not an excuse,” he says, eyes still shut tight as tears continue to fall.

“Tell me anyway,” Izuku prompts, wiping a few droplets off of Shouto’s lashes with his thumb. His eyelids flutter open, and Izuku’s breath catches in his throat at the sheer amount of anguish swirling there, open and raw and utterly unguarded.

“I… I tried, I really did, as soon as I knew, I just—I know that sounds like bullsh*t and it is because I never—but I swear I wanted to I just—I couldn’t… I couldn’t figure out how because… Because…”

His eyes slip shut again with quiet, pained noise. Then he’s moving, and Izuku has no time to brace himself as Shouto’s body pitches forward, forehead coming to rest lightly against Izuku’s as something in him just gives out entirely, tears still streaming over Izuku’s fingers where they haven’t let go.

“Because you were kind,” Shouto whispers, barely audible. “You were kind and patient and gracious and I know I should have told you, I wanted to tell you I swear I did it’s just… It’s just every time—every time—I find something good in my life he always, always ruins it or—or chases it away or—or just takes it from me and you—you were—you are amazing and I… I think you might be the best thing that ever happened to me and I couldn’t—I just—”

Shouto pauses, drawing in a shaky breath before he presses on. “I didn’t want him to take you too,” he says, voice cracking on every single word. “And I couldn’t… I couldn’t make myself say anything because I knew if I did then I would lose you and I… I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand that thought because… Because…”

He stops, body going completely still. It stays that way for one, two, three long heartbeats before Shouto’s eyes open, and Izuku finds himself utterly trapped by winter storm cloud grey, and bright summer sky blue.

“Because I love you.”

The words leave Shouto’s lips as barely more than a whisper on the wind, and yet they echo inside his head like the most thunderous orchestra Izuku’s ever heard.

His blood slows. His breath ceases.

But his heart—oh, his heart.

Inside his heart there is a song, some vivid, electric thing weaved of melody and harmony and rhythm, that plays and plays and plays until Izuku’s knows nothing except its tune and the magnificent colors of stark white and vivid red, winter grey and summer blue. He can’t find his voice, can’t even think for all the noise playing so sonorously inside his mind and body and soul, so he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, Izuku closes his eyes, takes one full inhale, and thinks.

And what he thinks is that he’s tired. So very, very tired.

Tired of nightmares and panic attacks and nervous little tendencies that keep him from enjoying the things he used to love. Tired of waking up to the sound of sirens and monitors beeping, the smell of asphalt and gasoline. He’s tired of cowering before the colossus that looms over the broken landscape of his dreams, but most of all, Izuku’s tired of this lonely half-life that’s sustained him so minimally, devoid as he made it of anything like joy, until Shouto.

What Izuku thinks is that he is so damn sick of surviving.

He wants to try living again.

His exhale leaves him in one full, steady breath. For a moment, there is nothing in the world except the song playing inside his heart.

“Shouto.”

Izuku opens his eyes to find Shouto has closed his, though his fingers haven’t let go of where Izuku still holds his face. “Shouto,” he repeats. “Look at me. Please?”

It takes a few seconds, but eventually Shouto’s eyes flutter open, and they look so absolutely wretched that a tear slips down Izuku’s cheek unbidden.

“I need you to know,” he begins slowly, “that I am still kind of pissed at you.”

Shouto winces so sharply he nearly leaves Izuku’s grip. “I know,” he rasps. “I know, I know, I’m so—”

“Let me finish please.”

His mouth snaps shut with an audible click, eyes wide and a little terrified, so Izuku lets his fingers stroke gently over Shouto’s cheekbones for a moment before he continues.

“I’m still pissed,” he repeats, though he does his best to keep his voice kind. “And if you ever do anything like this again I am going to throw you into Lake Michigan. Do not test me.”

He pauses, taking another deep breath before going on. “But I… I’m sorry too,” he says, one thumb wiping away an errant tear from Shouto’s nose. “I’m sorry for what I said about… About how you didn’t care because you did and I knew that and I wish I hadn’t said that you didn’t. And I really, really wish I hadn’t said you were like your father, and I’m… I’m really sorry, for that.”

Shouto flinches, shaking his head furiously. “You shouldn’t be,” he croaks, tears rising high in his voice and threatening to spill over once more. “You don’t—you don’t have to be sorry, you were right, I am just like—”

“No you are not,” Izuku insists before Shouto can finish, hands clasping ever more tightly around his face. “You aren’t anything like him and don’t you dare try to argue with me because I know you, and maybe… Maybe I don’t know everything but I know enough and you aren’t, you never could be, he’s… He’s an absolute f*cking dickwad and an angry heartless monster and that isn’t you, Shouto, I know it isn’t. You… You’re just…”

Izuku’s mouth twitches, lips curling and corners turning upwards until it settles into a smile, wobbly at the edges but genuine and kind and hopeful. “You’re just Shouto,” he murmurs. “And I… I love you too.”

The world fractures, edges breaking into a million little pieces as Izuku smiles and Shouto stares and the weight of the universe settles between them.

And then Shouto moves, hands dropping so his arms can loop around Izuku’s torso, and Izuku finds himself being tugged forward, stumbling a little over his own feet as a warm, heavy weight settles against him and then—

In his mind, Izuku always imagines first kisses to be something soft, gentle, a little shy, because that’s what they’ve always been for him before. With Shouto he’d planned for Christmas Eve; maybe there’d be some mistletoe mysteriously hung up around the apartment in very strategic places, and he’d draw Shouto in with false bravado while inside his nerves would be on fire. He’d thought a peck would do, just enough to show Shouto how he felt. And then he’d leave the rest up to him.

This kiss is nothing at all like that. It’s aching and desperate and kind of salty from the tears still streaming down both their faces, and Shouto’s holding onto him like Izuku will disappear if he lets go, and Izuku’s grip on Shouto’s face is just as fierce as he pulls him in as close as he possibly can. It’s wet and messy and completely imperfect and it doesn’t matter one bit because it’s still Shouto and Izuku has never, ever in his life wanted anything as badly as he wants this.

“Shouto,” he gasps when they break apart. “Shouto I—”

“I’m sorry,” Shouto cuts him off, pressing his lips to Izuku’s again and again and again, punctuating every time he speaks. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I don’t—I don’t deserve—God, how do you always do that?”

“Do—what?” Izuku asks, gasping a little between each kiss.

“This.” Shouto pulls back, resting his forehead against Izuku’s again so he can look at him with wide, pleading eyes. “You should—you should hate me for what I did and instead you—you—how do you always manage to make it so simple?”

Izuku blinks at him, biting his lip. “I… I don’t know, I just... “ He trails fingers against where Shouto’s skin has grown impossibly warm while he breathes deeply, trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s not really that it’s simple, it’s just… I was happy, when you were here. Happier than I’ve been since—since the accident really. I was… I didn’t think I’d ever be happy like that again and you… I think you were happy too. Weren’t you?”

Izuku gnaws on his lip, gaze flickering shyly up to Shouto’s, who stares back for a good long moment before he sets out a noise equal parts laughter and sob, and pulls Izuku so close there isn’t one bit of space left between them.

“You made me happier than I think I’ve ever been in my whole life,” he whispers, and the song inside Izuku plays so vehemently he swears he can hear it in the air around them.

“Well then… That’s really what matters most, right? I mean, I make you happy and… And you make me happy so that’s… I mean we still need to talk about stuff but I just… I just want to be happy again so… Yeah.”

He tilts his head up, pressing a soft kiss against one corner of Shouto’s mouth for emphasis. The song makes a funny screech when Shouto stiffens, but it only lasts for a moment before he’s sighing, breath so heavy it ruffles some of Izuku’s curls as it blows past.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, so low Izuku almost doesn’t hear him.

“What?” Izuku blinks, placing another kiss on Shouto’s cheek in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. “Why?”

“Because I hurt you.” Shouto stiffens again, body going taught and starting to pull away from Izuku, who drops his hands from Shouto’s face and loops his arms securely around his neck instead, stopping him from going any further. He nudges at Shouto’s jawbone with his nose, making a soft noise in the back of his throat, and then Shouto’s melting against him again.

“I hurt you,” he repeats, voice hoarse and thick with tears, accent heavier than Izuku’s ever heard it before. “I hurt you because I was too scared to tell you the truth and I… I just…” He shakes his head, a pained noise slipping past his throat. “All you ever were was helpful and I… All I did was hurt you.”

“That’s…” Izuku presses a long kiss against Shouto’s cheek until he stops tensing up, and then continues, “That’s not true, Shouto, that’s—I mean it is true, you did and I’m still—we are definitely gonna talk about that but that wasn’t all you did, you… You took care of me after my panic attack and—and made me food and—and you got me a copy of your mother’s album and you… You…”

So much, Izuku thinks. Shouto did so much for him, enough that he doesn’t even know how to put it all into words, and some of it was bad and there’s still a little hurt playing more somber chords inside his chest, but Izuku doesn’t care so much about that anymore. Because all he really hears is the song in his heart, vivid and electric and thunderously alive, and it’s there because of Shouto.

Izuku breathes. One full inhale. One full exhale.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Shouto’s cheek gently with his nose. “Come here. Let me show you something.”

Shouto frowns at him as Izuku pulls back, letting Shouto shed his coat and shoes before lacing their fingers together and guiding him to the living room. “Take a seat,” Izuku tells him, and Shouto does, dropping with no small amount of confusion onto the piano bench.

“What—” he starts to say, but Izuku shushes him.

“Just wait, it’ll take me like two seconds,” he chides, then strides over to where his guitar case rests in the corner by the couch. He opens it, a fond smile spreading unbidden over his face as he takes the instrument out of its green velvet lining, a few errant notes floating softly on the air as his fingers run over the strings.

When he turns back Izuku says nothing, just loops the strap over his neck and then holds the guitar up for Shouto to see. Shouto simply blinks at him for a moment or two before his mismatched eyes go wide and bright and a little glassy. “Is that…” He trails off, making a vague gesture at the instrument as his throat bobs heavily.

“Yeah.” Izuku makes a little noise in the back of his throat, just high enough to maybe be a laugh. “I, um… When we were working on your koi fish song I… I just felt like we weren’t getting anywhere and I was getting so frustrated with myself because I—I could hear what I wanted in my head but it wasn’t coming out on the piano and I thought… I thought if I just had this…” He plucks a string, and a G note rings out in the quiet of the room, heavy and full. “That it would be so much easier. So I, uh. I got it back from my old music teacher and… Yeah.”

He smiles, soft and kind of shaky, knees a little weak as he steps closer to the piano bench. Shouto continues to stare, and Izuku sees tears in the corners of his eyes before he flinches and a violent shudder ripples throughout his whole body. “That would have been… God, Izuku, I’m so so sor—”

“You don’t have to be sorry!” Izuku insists, fingers twitching against where they rest on the strings and sending a few sounds into the air. “It’s not—it had nothing to do with what happened and I… Look do you know why I wanted to have this back? It’s because I felt like I could. I felt like if I had it then I could play it and show you what I heard in my head and that… Shouto, six months ago I literally never thought I would pick up a guitar again because it hurt too much too even try and now—”

He pauses, lungs filling with a deepest breath he can manage before his fingers snap to position, and the opening verse to You Can Be a Hero rings out so clearly it could be the only sound in the world. It winds its way down, settling neatly next to the thrumming chord deep inside Izuku’s chest, and the noise they make together fills him with something so potent he thinks his bones could crack wide open with it.

“It’s not… I mean I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as I was before but… I don’t think that matters so much to me anymore. I just… I just want to be able to play. And maybe I always wanted that but I didn’t know how to make myself do it until you came along. So don’t—please don’t think that you never did anything for me because I think… I think you let me get my life back.”

Izuku smiles, bright eyed and wobbly as an errant tear slips down one freckled cheek, but it feels good, right and real in a way that makes him never want to stop. And all the while Shouto stares at him, expression laid bare with things like awe and wonder and bewilderment and fondness and a hundred other things Izuku could name but doesn’t because he doesn’t need to. It all adds up to the same thing.

He steps forward, until he’s close enough to take Shouto’s face between his hands again. His fingers tremble, scar tissue tugging at the skin but it doesn’t hurt, not even a little; the breaks in his bones are phantom pains, gone for now like they’d never even existed at all. And when he presses them against the now warm skin of Shouto’s cheeks, Shouto lets out a noise that could be a sob except it’s just a little too high and bright and warm, and Izuku thinks it could be the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard in his whole damn life.

“Shouto,” he murmurs.

“Izuku,” Shouto murmurs back, and at the sound of his name Izuku loses it. He leans down, capturing Shouto’s lips in his again and again and again, so many times that he loses count. But he doesn’t stop, not until he can feel Shouto’s mouth twitching and the corners turning up. Only then does Izuku pull away in one last, lingering kiss so he can look properly at Shouto’s face and see the smile there, brilliant and beautiful and blinding.

“Will you…” Shouto swallows heavily, a tear or two leaking from his mismatched eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave. “Will you play something for me?”

Izuku blinks, the words working themselves slowly through his mind. “You… You want me to?”

Shouto’s smile twitches, the edges growing just a little wider as a light, breathy noise slips past his throat. “Yes. Yes, I… Please.”

For a moment, everything ceases. His blood slows and his breath stops and his heart seizes, and all Izuku can do is stand and stare at stark white and vivid red, winter grey and summer blue.

And then a smile stretches so wide across his face that it aches, and Izuku all but jumps into the space next to Shouto on the bench, settling his guitar firmly in his lap. There’s barely enough room for them both, so Shouto leans heavily into his side, one arm slipping easily around Izuku’s shoulder, and it feels good and right and so, so warm.

“It’s, um. I’m gonna be like really, really rusty,” Izuku warns, and feels Shouto shake his head where it rests against his shoulder.

“I don’t care,” he says. “It can be Twinkle Twinkle Little Star if that’s all you can manage I just… I want to hear you.”

Somewhere, deep inside his heart, the song reaches its long awaited crescendo, playing a melody that sounds like love.

“Okay,” Izuku breathes, mind pulling up the already memorized chords of Shouto’s song—their song—already tweaking and improvising the parts that will be too difficult for his injured hands without a second thought. “Okay.”

He breathes. One full inhale. One full exhale.

Sets his fingers against the strings, and begins to play.