Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The moment it happens, Shouto belatedly recognizes it’s not the first time it has occurred, nor the second, third, or fourth. It happens, and Shouto feels a twinge in his heart, fond yet aching, as the world drifts on as gentle as a summer breeze. Only it’s not summer but frigid February. They’re not outside on the hill just beyond the dorms. But in the halls of UA, where students and teachers pass them by, faceless background actors meant for roles in the periphery, not center stage. Shouto feels it. His position in this cast of three meant two.

What happens is that Midoriya walks away from them. Through a sea of people all parting for him with the sort of reverence only given to heroes—real ones—bouncing on his way to eat lunch with All Might. And, Bakugou stands ahead, and to Shouto’s left, watching him go. Shouto does not know why this moment, flooded and bloated, keeps him equally transfixed, waiting for Midoriya to turn back. Stars in his eyes, seen even a hallway away, meeting Bakugou’s gaze with an easy smile and a wave before disappearing.

Bakugou does not move, not immediately. He stays there half a second longer. It's too far away for Midoriya to see how his hand had begun to rise. Left, clenched into a fist in his haste to get rid of it. 

But that’s not important. 

What is important is his face: his brows relaxed, his mouth less stern, and his face blushed warm.

The moment pieces fall into place.

Bakugou turns, ready for lunch now that Midoriya is gone. 

Shouto speaks without pause or warning. He says, “you like Midoriya.” 

Bakugou doesn’t immediately bite, lost perhaps in the vision of watching Midoriya go, until Shouto’s words trickle in, his brows furrow, his scowl sets.

“What the fuck are you on about, Halfie,” he asks, shoving his hands in his pocket, set on pushing his way through a crowd that parts for him too. “Who would have a crush on that nerd?”

Shouto trails, not bothering to clarify that he said nothing about crushes or crushing. Of being in love. 

He knows enough not to push Bakugou. Not all at once. A fickle creature he is.

So, he stores away his observation—lets it make its home with the rest that Shouto’s been too blind to see—and heads to the lunchroom. 

There Bakugou gives him a half-grunted goodbye as he goes to the corner where Kirishima and Kaminari are hanging off one another, and Sero sleeps on Shinsou’s shoulder. Unspoken that Shouto will go somewhere else. To where Uraraka, and Iida, sit, somewhere that feels some days like half a world away.

If Shouto pauses at the entrance a minute too long, who’s to say; Bakugou does not look back.

***

They have a name: UA’s Wonder Duo. All Might’s protégé’s. The ones to defeat all-encompassing evil. To herald in a new age for heroism. They began second years as legends who mellowed out into something more easily attainted. But to Shouto, they’ve always existed as they were. Amazing. Partly unobtainable. Midoriya and Bakugou. Bakugou and Midoriya. His friends, best friends if he’s allowed two, and he wants to be. Wants to be a part of something special. Something like them.

Most people do; Shouto was as unoriginal as the next passing student. They flock around them after every practice fight or lazy Saturday patrol. They scream extra loud during their second Sports Festival, gold, and silver—bronze, left sharing a podium one below, paired with someone else. Someone, not them. They are invited to radio shows and feel-good news stories and enticed to take internships out of the country with the promise to make them better heroes. To become the very best. 

Therefore, when Aizawa mentions at the end of a random Friday that the school has been watching the class throughout the year, and depending on how they do on their finals, the next Big Three will be announced, everyone knows who will make up two-thirds of it.

Bakugou gives the same cocky statement he’s given two sports festivals in a row. It’ll be him. No need to give him two losers that trail after him. While the class erupts to put him in his place, Midoriya bites the tip of his pencil. His expression is two-fold. Respect and determination. At this point, it is understood that however Bakugou reacts, whatever he chooses to do, Midoriya will be right there, ready to prove himself too—it works in reverse order but people tend not to focus on how much Bakugou chases after Midoriya. Or maybe they do, and like Shouto, know there is no reason to point out the obvious.

Aizawa gets the class to quiet down and explains the responsibilities of the Big Three. The other parts of heroics that make them worthy to be looked up to. Winning and saving aren’t everything, people have to trust their heroes too. They have to believe that they will be there when no one else can be. They have to be reassured. 

When he dismisses class, the room erupts again. Through the bustle and jokes, Shouto turns to Yaoyorozu as she’s putting her different colored pens away. 

“Who do you think will get the third spot,” he asks. Their class has a lot of good potential candidates. Iida’s a strong leader, and he’s reliable. He doesn’t care much for glory; however, he knows the most about each individual in class with uncanny enthusiasm. Kirishima and Uraraka possess more inherent optimism, however. It's as if they know that no matter what: the day will be saved. They work well on teams. They work exceptionally well with Midoriya or Bakugou, respectively. Uraraka has a way of cheering Midoriya on, and Kirishima, for whatever reason, could read Bakugou the moment he stepped into class their first year.

“What are you talking about,” Yaoyorozu asks, “it’s sort of obvious who’s going to be it.”

Yaoyorozu would be a good pick too. People treat her with a reverence few other people in their class are afforded. It makes sense, and it’s a good story. A legacy candidate. She’s also humble—a good trait for a hero. 

“I’m not sure though,” Shouto says, “if it’s that easy to guess, Aizawa wouldn’t make such a big deal about it. The fact that he’s making us work for it, probably means it could be anyone’s.”

“Then that just means we all need to work hard then if we want to be chosen,” she says, closing her case. 

But no one will work as hard as them. They all know this. As a collective, they watch Midoriya and Bakugou talk, heads together, already discussing battle strategies. The special combo moves they will use. The way they can guarantee that they will be the best—leagues ahead of their classmates. In groups the class whispers, acknowledges, what he already knows. They are fighting for one spot. One chance to prove themselves amazing, too.

For brief seconds Shouto wonders what it would be like to be picked alongside Midoriya and Bakugou. His star is not nearly as luminous as the pairs, though he tries to make it just as bright.

It’s a silly, useless practice.

They’re everything. Binary stars.

He’s only Shouto.

Shouto does not blame them. Though, he wants all the same. Hopes that when someone says Deku and Dynamight, they follow with his name. A needless dream. Shouto’s his own hero, his family’s hero, but if asked, if given the opportunity, he’d want to be that type of hero too. A hero that was not alone but a part of something. A part of a team. To be included too. 

***

The following Saturday, Shouto is knee-deep in All Might memorabilia, watching Midoriya pull more and more things out of his closet. They are at his home, in his bedroom. His mom, just in the other room, having wiped away her tears at Shouto’s appearance, even though it is not the first time he had come—only the first time he’ll spend the night on the promise that he’ll help Midoriya sort through his things and convince him to donate some of them. 

“I found it,” Midoriya says, backing out of the closet. There’s a stuffed animal thing in his hands—a stuffed All Might with floppy bunny ears. He squeezes it to his chest. “I used to love this thing when I was a child.”

“You still are a child,” Shouto says from his spot on Midoriya’s bed, tasked with sorting trading cards and deciding which ones are special enough to keep. Shouto finds most of them are pretty, making his “keep” pile dreadfully large comparatively. 

Midoriya sticks his tongue out over the top of All Might’s round black eyes and beaming smile. “Says the baby who just turned seventeen.”

“Says the one squeezing All Might to death.”

Midoriya scoffs, loosening his hold around the plush. “I’m going to see if Eri-chan wants it. I’m trying to get her to appreciate older heroes, plus this thing is just so soft.” He rubs to prove his point before tossing it across the room. Shouto’s paying enough attention to catch it before it hits him in the face, finding that Midoriya’s right. It is extremely soft. If he was a kid, he’d probably use it like a pillow every night—he has half a mind to ask Midoriya if he can borrow it so he can put it on his futon at the dorms and send a picture to his dad. But, he’d have to openly talk to his father first, and Shouto isn’t at that stage of his life yet. 

An object hits his chest, falling on top of the stuffed All Might. A small figure, holding up his thumb. He picks it up after scowling at Midoriya, who is wearing a cheeky smile, sitting crisscrossed on the floor.

“I want you to have that,” he says, “you like his silver age costume more than me, and I certainly don’t need it anymore.”

“I,” Shouto glances down. All Might smiles up at him. Not in perfect condition, a little old and faded with dust. “I don’t want to break it.”

“It’s a toy, Todoroki-kun. It’s not like one of my figures at school. It’s nearly impossible to break, or well not impossible. I broke a lot of toys growing up. But it’s not fragile. Besides, if you don’t take it, I’ll have to give it to my mom to donate it, and then I’ll never see it again,” Midoriya pouts, batting his eyes, “but I’m more okay with giving it away if I know it’s going to a good home.”

“Okay.” 

“Great,” Midoriya jumps up, heading toward the bed. His smile is a tad infectious. The way it lifts his cheeks and crinkles around his eyes. Shouto doesn’t smile in any grand way, but he does know what happiness feels like. Sometimes he wishes he could bottle up the warmth in one fun-filled afternoon room and keep it with him when the world dims around the edges, hazy. 

“Thank-you,” he says as the bed dips. Midoriya picks up the larger of the two piles, filing through them quickly and discarding more than what Shouto thinks is appropriate. 

Shouto never had stuff. He had a desk and a favorite pencil until it became a stub to be replaced by another. Midoriya does not have an absence of things. They're stacked all around them, cluttered but not unmade. Not unloved. Midoriya is spectacular like that, taking in as many things as he can to cherish them equally. If Shouto had his way he wouldn’t let Midoriya throw a single thing away. But then again, if that was the case, he wouldn’t be the one allowed to help Midoriya go through his things, to begin with. 

They sit there sorting through more cards until Inko bursts into Midoriya’s room, holding a shoe box. “Izuku,” she says, throwing off the lid, “look what I found.”

“Mom,” Midoriya whines, sliding off the bed, “Todoroki-kun doesn’t want to see my baby photos. I don’t want to see them.” 

“Nonsense, Shouto-kun loved your baby photo’s last time.”

Midoriya whips his head around to Shouto, who only shrugs, saying, “you were taking too long at the store once. You were a very cute baby.”

“Traitor.”

“These aren’t baby photos.” Inko interrupts, setting the box down on Izuku’s desk. “It’s a memory box from when you were in preschool,” she pulls out a onesie, “look how small you were.”

“Mom,” Midoriya admonishes again, pulling the yellow and blue onesie out of her hands and shoving it back into the box. However, before he can complain further, something catches his eye. He reaches inside and takes out a rock painted red. “I can’t believe you kept all this.”

Shouto’s not sure if Midoriya meant to say that out loud or not. His mom's resulting, “of course,” is just as soft. Shouto bows his head, studying the current trading card in his hand. A hero made for a movie he doesn’t know with bird claws and a sparkly filter. Inko and Midoriya continue to dig through the top of the box, lost in their private world. Mother and son. The moment is ruined by an alarm going off in another room. 

“Oh,” Inko says, “I have to be getting to work. Dinners in the fridge. Call me if you need anything.” She kisses Midoriya’s temple and then waves to Shouto. “Don’t stay up too late. Even heroes have bedtimes.”

After she leaves,  Shouto says, “I like your mom.”

“Of course, you do,” Midoriya says, climbing back onto the bed with the box in tow, “she doesn’t scold you for eating too many cookies.”

“She knows they’re good cookies,” Shouto reasons, peering over the edge of the box to see what’s inside. Mostly art projects. Suns painted with fingerpaint and crayon-drawn flowers. Midoriya pulls out each one, cringing at some but mostly just studying them. It doesn’t take long for a pattern to emerge. It’s almost funny, tease-worthy, the number of small Midoriya’s next to small Bakugou’s. Little flower children with capes meant to save the day.

Shouto picks up one where the coloring is near perfect for a four-year-old. The blue sky reaches the green grass where kids smile. With the paper, something else falls onto the bed. A green and orange band. He picks it up. It’s small, both ends frayed.

“Oh, wow,” Midoriya says, leaning over the box. Close enough for the ends of his hair to tickle Shouto’s forehead. “I thought I lost that in the forest or something.” He doesn’t take it from Shouto’s hand but he does run his thumb along it. “I forgot Kacchan, and I even made these things.”

“What is it?”

Midoriya’s gaze snaps to his. If they were first-years, his expression would’ve worn shock, then sadness. But nowadays, Midoriya’s less likely to be surprised by Shouto’s childhood, though still sad. It shines in his eyes.

“It’s a friendship bracelet,” he says, taking it from Shouto and putting it under Shouto’s wrist. The ends touch either side of it. “When we were smaller these would tie together, and I think there used to be a charm or something in the middle, but that’s definitely lost now. I wonder if Kacchan still has his. What am I saying?” Midoriya shakes his head, “he probably got rid of its years ago. I’m the one with sentimental issues, obviously.” His shoulders sag as he places the bracelet back in Shouto’s palm. 

Shouto tries to picture Bakugou wearing a braided bracelet like this one. Not now. But when he was younger. When he was more apt to brag about Midoriya, he probably boasted that they were the ultimate best friends. The thought bubbles in Shouto’s chest. Not unpleasant, just there.

It is like Midoriya to keep his, even after everything he went through. A little boy, longing to be friends again, or something more; an intrinsic pair.

“Midoriya,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the bracelet. Midoriya hums, searching through the box again. “Do you like Bakugou?”

Midoriya freezes. Stiff. Slowly, he reanimates with a light chuckle, “Of course, I like Kacchan. Who wouldn’t like him? He’s amazing.”

Shouto doesn’t know a lot of people who would call their previous tormentors amazing. Shouto certainly doesn’t use the word lightly concerning his father. He can’t get it out of his head, though. The way Midoriya looked back at Bakugou. The way he smiles when he sees him. It’s kind of silly that Shouto hadn’t noticed it before. 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Shouto pauses and squeezes the bracelet again. “Do you love him?”

Prepared, Midoriya doesn’t seem as panicked by the questions. He unfurls his hands from the box and places them in his lap.

“Love’s kind of tricky, you know?” He says, staring at his hands. “I think I get it some days, but then,” he pauses and shakes his head. Then stares at Shouto. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” The truth. 

Shouto wonders if Midoriya knows about all the betting pools their class has held to guess who he’ll end up dating.  The highest used to be Uraraka but steadily fell as their second year wore on. How now people see them together, Midoriya and Bakugou, and say they’ll never separate. Shouto doesn’t know how love feels, but he thinks he can recognize it in others—his best friends at least. 

“Do you want to love him?”

“I want to be happy,” Midoriya settles on after a beat of silence, and then, “it doesn’t necessarily have to be with Kacchan.”

But he’d like it to be, goes unsaid. Midoriya wants to be with Bakugou because you don’t chase after someone for over ten years and do not have a bit of hope that one day it will become more. The day Bakugou reaches back, with a smile, and says that he loves him too.

Shouto doesn’t say that it has already happened; he does not know why he keeps it to himself.

***

As February dwindles in days, Shouto decides that he can do something about his friends awkwardly dancing around one another. Now that he sees it, he can’t unsee it. Midoriya waits to see if Bakugou’s walking back to their dorms with someone before he leaves—usually with them, Shouto trailing along the edge. Bakugou always makes an extra portion for Midoriya when he’s on kitchen duty. And he tells Shouto that if he doesn’t want to finish his food, to give it to Midoriya too. When they sit on the train heading back from their internship, Midoriya and Bakugou are always slightly too close, thighs touching and knees banging at every track change.

Shouto becomes mindful of his position as well. If it’s obvious, to him, a boy with no eye for this sort of thing, it means something is distracting the pair from seeing it themselves. If Midoriya knew how much Bakugou cared, he wouldn’t be so hesitant to admit his feelings. If Bakugou knew that Midoriya thought it possible for them to become something other than friends, he wouldn’t mock Shouto with how he’s beyond having crushes. They would be happy. Shouto would be too. 

It’s why he sits in a different seat when he used to sit right next to the window, having Midoriya squeeze next to him and Bakugou to cap off the edge. Quietly, using Midoriya and Bakugou as barriers from the rest of the people on the train. But Shouto doesn’t need the added protection. Either people ignore his presence, or they don’t try anything when he chooses to focus on a scuff on his shoe rather than the people surrounding them on the train. Instead, he spends his time noting how tired Midoriya and Bakugou are based on how their feet don’t move—on extra energy days, they’ll kick each other back and forth, almost mindlessly. It’s better to be away from that. 

Shouto stops joining them on every training exercise, which is hard to do with their exams coming up. He wants them around so he can compare himself to them. To see how much further he still has to go. But he wants them alone so they can figure out their feelings. He knows for a fact that if Bakugou suspects Shouto’s intervening, it may add at least five more years of distant pining. No one wants that, least of all Shouto. 

This plan works fine if he ignores how disappointed Midoriya looks when he says he has plans or how Bakugou’s brow twitches twice in irritated silence. It works fine until Aizawa announces that their final exam will be done in trios, not pairs. Trios that have already been decided by their teachers, leaving Shouto at the mercy of little white cards in a hat, hoping, but not wishing. Wanting but not needing. 

Aizawa reads, “Bakugou, Midoriya, and Todoroki,” then reads another, unbothered. The rest of the class jumps as soon as he’s done speaking, heading toward their respective groups. Shouto stays. 

Kaminari, Sero, and Kirishima all lean close to one another, with matching grins. A formidable group Shouto hopes he doesn’t have to fight. Iida, Uraraka, and Asui are talking equally, though Asui gets pulled to join her group, leaving Uraraka and Iida to talk to Ashido. An interesting group too. They all are. 

Shouto doesn’t know what their final exam will be, but it doesn’t stop the dread of his inadequacies from seeping in. To be put in a group where he has the smallest chance of messing up.

A piece of paper hits his head, pulling his gaze up and forward. Bakugou is grinning; Midoriya is holding his arm.

“Are you going to come over here or not,” Bakugou yells. His voice carries over the sound of the rest of the class. “We don’t have all day.”

Shouto bows his head. But, he obediently gathers his notebook and his current pencil before walking diligently to their desks. He sits down at Jirou’s desk, pulling the chair across the linoleum, decidedly not in place. He does not dwell on it.

“Kacchan’s sorry,” Midoriya says as soon as he’s settled. 

“I am not,” Bakugou says, “Icy Hot was trapped in his own little world, and we need to be thinking about strategy.”

“It’s kind of hard to do when we don’t know what it is we’re doing.”

“Todoroki-kun is right,” Midoriya says, already scribbling in his notebook. “If Aizawa-sensei didn’t tell us today, there’s a good chance he won’t tell us until the day of, which means we should be preparing for anything. Rescue missions, fighting, sparring. Who knows?”

“At least we won’t be fighting All Might again,” Bakugou says, and the pair share an unreadable look. Shouto plays with his pencil. He wasn’t good enough last year to fight against All Might, and now he will never get the chance to. He’ll only ever be able to guess how he compares to the former Number One hero. But maybe that’s for the better. If he had been directly compared to them, it’d probably show how abysmal he really is.

“Is that okay with you Todoroki-kun?”

“What?”

For a moment, Bakugou and Midoriya’s heads are squished together, looking up from Midoriya’s notebook. Bakugou’s finger pushes down on the paper as Midoriya stops mid-writing to stare at him with wide, concerned eyes. Midoriya’s face pinches, and he lifts his pencil to push it against his bottom lip. 

“Are you okay?” 

Midoriya probably has a better sense for him than anyone else in the class, reading him when Shouto rather he did not. He doesn’t have to worry over him over something so trivial. But that is Midoriya. Kind and understanding. Always understanding, even if he doesn’t understand a thing, even if the burden of Shouto’s trouble could be the thing that broke Midoriya for good.

“Yeah,” Shouto shakes his head, “yeah of course, just tired.”

“If you and Deku’s bad sleeping habits cause me to fail—

“Our sleeping habits are perfectly fine.” Midoriya says, “we only stayed up a little past one this weekend. Right, Todoroki-kun?”

Shouto nods as Bakugou purses his lips, eyes on his finger. The paper is apt to tear due to stress. It takes Shouto a moment to realize why. If Shouto hadn’t been around, who’s to say Bakugou wouldn’t have been the one sitting in Midoriya’s room playing old video games this past weekend? Maybe they would have kissed—no point wasting time with words when actions speak louder. 

Shouto swallows. 

“One is still too late. Add that to your list Deku. Appropriate bedtimes for morons.”

Midoriya dutifully does as he is told, leaving out morons, much to Bakugou’s chagrin. Shouto reads over what they have, getting stuck on the slots for sparring and inner-personal training. It’s not as if Shouto didn’t think they’d train together, but Midoriya has them training at least twice, oftentimes three times a day. In the morning, right after school, and after dinner, if their homework was light. 

It was a lot of time alone together.

But not alone, Shouto reminds himself. He will be there too.

“Are those times okay,” Midoriya asks him.

“Yes.”

“Great,” Midoriya says, shutting his notebook. “We can start tonight, and maybe brainstorm more about what our exam might be. I can always ask Mirio-senpai what his final exam was, but I have a feeling they’ll change it. However, it’s never bad to be too prepared Actually, it might be nice to just talk to him in general. He was a part of the Big Three, if anyone has pointers it would be him. Oh, but he’s probably busy with the agency, so it might be hard to get some time in. Though he’s always been willing to help.” 

Midoriya pulls at his lip while he continues to speak about the likelihood of them talking to Mirio, if not other alumni. Usually, Bakugou would have interrupted to input his ideas, but for some reason or another, he doesn’t.

Instead, Bakugou sits backward in his chair completely unaware of Shouto. His hand, no longer pressing into Midoriya’s notebook but left resting under his chin, watching the other speak. Eyes alert, picking up every small intricacy and remembering it for later. Because even if Bakugou would be loathed to admit it, he pays attention to the people he cares about. Pays attention well. And Midoriya, so lost in thought, does not see. He does not see the way Bakugou looks at someone when he loves. 

***

Sato is sick. He can’t make cupcakes for Shoji’s birthday. It is why Bakugou’s in the kitchen, stirring his third bowl of batter. All different flavors, though Shouto is certain everyone would be okay if he did only one. An assortment of ingredients across the counter. Organized. It only appears disarrayed to Shouto, who sits on the one clean spot next to the sink. Not to help—Shouto’s not allowed to help. 

He figures Bakugou wants company. Everyone else is busy setting up for the party later or doing homework—Shouto’s long completed in one anxiety-induced night of sleeplessness. Generally, Shouto usually helps put up streamers or other party decorations but no one asked for his help yet, and if he’s honest with himself, he’d rather hang out with Bakugou anyways. Especially, when he’s calm, and in his element, cooking or, well, baking in this instance. 

A spoon is placed in front of his mouth. Shouto opens it. Bakugou isn’t watching him, stirring something—maybe frosting—but he knows well enough when to push it into Shouto’s mouth. Shouto hums around the spoon as Bakugou pulls it out. The man only spares him a glance over his shoulder while Shouto swallows. 

“Well?”

“It’s good.”

“That’s what you said about the last two.”

They were good. Chocolate and vanilla.

“I like lemon. It might be my favorite.”

“Usually is,” Bakugou mutters, back to focusing on stirring one of the bowls. Shouto lets his heels bounce against the cabinets. The oven has a couple more minutes before the first batch is due to be pulled out or tested. Whatever Bakugou decides after glaring at them for a bit. 

“How’s this?” This time Bakugou turns before handing Shouto a different spoon instead of placing it in his mouth outright. He allows Shouto to hold it properly to get all the frosting off the spoon.

“Zesty.”

Bakugou’s eyebrow rises. Shouto expects him to say something, but he refrains, beating the timer on the oven and pulling out the first batch of cupcakes. 

“Make yourself useful, and start on the dishes,” he says, replacing the tray with a pan of chocolate. He doesn’t see Shouto’s pout as he slides off the counter. He hates doing the dishes. Luckily, Bakugou’s a clean chef, rinsing most of the things he uses before dropping them into the sink. While Bakugou prepares the other cupcakes, Shouto methodically begins washing. Water splashing over the discarded items.

“Do you have the friendship bracelet Midoriya made for you?”

Shouto doesn’t have to turn to sense that Bakugou pauses.

“What are you on about?”

Shouto brushes his hair out of his eyes before going back to work. His hands disappear into the sudsy water. “When we were at his house, we found an old friendship bracelet you made for him. I’m wondering if you still have yours?”

“Why would I have kept something like that? It probably fell into a river, or I exploded it. Who cares? It was an ugly red thing.”

Of course, it was red. Midoriya loves red.

“Midoriya made it for you.”

“I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, Halfie, but I tended not to give a shit about what the nerd did back then. He could’ve made me one-hundred and they all would’ve ended up the same.”

Shouto’s been wiping the same bowl, he realizes belatedly. He lifts it, running it under water, soap spilling out onto his hands before he places it on the rack.

“He only made the one,” Shouto says, “well, I suppose he could’ve made you more than one, but he only kept one from you.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond right away. Shouto gets through washing two more bowls and a couple of spoons. In the common room Kaminari, Jirou, and Yaoyorozu are laughing while they blow up balloons. Kirishima stands precariously on a chair as he tries to hang up the “Happy Birthday” banner. So engrossed in watching these others, he doesn’t realize when Bakugou is setting a now empty measuring cup next to the sink. 

“Are you trying to tell me you would’ve saved it if he made one for you,” Bakugou asks.

It’s redundant. Shouto knows Bakugou doesn’t say it to be cruel, nor does he know that it cuts a little too close to Shouto’s heart. A silly, fanciful dream to wonder how different their lives would have been if Shouto’s father had been a little less strict when he was growing up, allowing his mom to walk him to the local public school. How loud and bright it would’ve been.

When he entered the classroom, would two pairs of eyes dart to his, or would that have been too late too? He likes to pretend that it wouldn’t have been—that it would have been better. 

“I know you would’ve kept it,” Bakugou admits. He lifts his hand, and Shouto reminds himself not to flinch, though his left eye betrays him, closing tight as the back of Bakugou’s fingers brush across his cheekbone. He opens it in time to see the remnants of bubbles left on Bakugou’s hand before he’s wiping it off on a towel. “You’re a better person than me, congrats.”

It’s missing Bakugou’s normal bite, mixed with a look Shouto’s never seen on him before. At least not towards him, but it’s gone before Shouto can decipher it. For his part, Shouto recognizes that his mouth is open, closing with a click.

“If it is around, the old hag probably kept it. She’s sentimental like that,” Bakugou says, backing off, “I’ll ask her about it the next time she calls to bitch at me.”

Shouto is slow to return his hands to the sink. What’s left there, nearly done. The water obscures his fingers as he grabs something else. 

“I just thought it’d be nice,” he says, “having something from both of your pasts to hold on to. It’ll probably make Midoriya cry if he knew you still had yours.”

Bakugou scoffs, carrying more dishes to Shouto, stacking the bowls, and dumping a spatula into the water.

“I didn’t say I had it; I said I might. There’s still a chance I blew it up.”

Shouto doesn’t say that he doesn’t think Bakugou would have. Accidentally lost it? Possibly. But, unless he was making a big show at the detriment of Midoriya once they weren’t friends, then no. There would have been nothing to gain from destroying it. 

At Shouto’s silence, Bakugou continues, “is that why you’ve be weird this week? Busy worrying about whether or not I kept a bracelet from when I as four?”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“You’ve been spacey. I’d be worried something happened between you two, but Deku is just as confused as me.” He pauses, having moved to dry the dishes on Shouto’s left. “I don’t leave my door open for any fucker, so you better start using it more frequently or else I’m going to ban you again.”

“I just haven’t been sleeping.” Bakugou makes his own assumptions about that, dropping into a squat to put away a pile of dishes. “Well, that’s changing this week, right? I’ll knock you and Deku out to get you two to go to bed at a decent time.”

Shouto gives him a non-plussed look, which Bakugou matches completely unbothered. The truth is that the evening workouts get him to sleep, but staying asleep is a whole other ordeal.

It’s not helped that it’s been well over a week, and he’s still not certain he knows how to help his friends get together. He was kind of hoping that the moment he noticed it, it would only take a couple more days for the other two to do it as well, but alas.

He bites his tongue, rinses the last bowl he has, and then asks, “Bakugou, do you like Midoriya?”

There’s no one else around close enough to hear. Shouto sets a bowl down and then slowly spins to watch the other, coming down from their tiptoes where they were beginning to put ingredients away. Bakugou grabs a handful of spices and begins to sort them in the organizer before he speaks.

“Why are you so worried about that all of a sudden? You in love with us or something?”

“No.” Perhaps too defensive. Perhaps not. Bakugou doesn’t comment on it. Shouto finishes, “I’m just curious. You’re both my friends, wouldn’t I be a good person to know?”

Bakugou takes his time to respond, starting with, “Deku is,” he slides a bottle into place, “special. That satisfy you enough, friend?”

Shouto blinks, looking down at his hands folded over his stomach. Pale and prune. There’s a chance Bakugou won’t like being told about Midoriya’s feelings; but then again, if someone loved Shouto, he’d like to know. Like to search across the room for his person and find them searching too.

“He likes you,” he whispers, barely audible across the small space between them. Bakugou’s shoulders rise and fall twice. He grabs a carton of eggs, walks to the fridge, and puts them inside. 

“You think so,” he ends up saying as the door closes. 

Shouto nods, “he watches you.”

Bakugou’s silhouette smiles briefly, “well, the nerd has had a habit of doing that for some time. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

Shouto rolls his tongue between his teeth, unsure how he can make Bakugou see that the way Midoriya looks at him isn’t how he looks at someone whose quirk he fancies. It isn’t how he looks at Uraraka. At Kirishima. At Iida, Asui, or even All Might. It’s special. Completely Bakugou’s, yet he doesn’t see.

“I’m going to go start frosting these,” Bakugou says, “why don’t you go help someone else, so you don’t accidentally ruin any of them.”

“Okay.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

Shouto steps around him. He’s just passed the counter's edge when Bakugou says one last thing. 

“Izuku likes someone else.” They search each other’s faces. Bakugou has a smudge of icing under his chin. Shouto wants to reach across the space between them and wipe it off. He refrains. “Has for a bit.” 

“He doesn’t like Uraraka,” Shouto says.

Bakugou looks like he wants to say something by the way he scrunches up his nose and bites his tongue. But he shakes his head and goes back to the counter. Done with the conversation—with Shouto. Shouto feels the biting edge of disappointment, chilling as he walks further away from the kitchen to the common room, music drowning out his footfalls. He reaches the couch, a pack of streamers to be rolled already waiting for him. 

He does not look back at Bakugou. 

He wishes he were Midoriya instead.

***

Shouto doesn’t think he’s quieter at Shoji’s party any more than usual. Not avoiding Bakugou, but certainly not putting himself in a place that would require him to interact with the other hero. All the while being extra aware of his every movements. But Bakugou stagnates around the hour mark, stuck between Kirishima and Kaminari as they trade off playing some video game. It switches Shouto’s attention to Midoriya. 

Midoriya assimilates into groups easily. Cheery smiles and easy touches. How Bakugou can discern he had a crush on anyone besides him is beyond Shouto. Midoriya continues as he usually does, happily talking with someone until he’s distracted by another, going off with them for a bit. He sits with Tokoyami and Shoji at first, then is pulled away when Ashido challenges him to some competition, then to Shinsou. He stares at him and puts his hand on his shoulder—though certainly Bakugou doesn’t feel threatened by Shinsou, the man is already in a relationship. After that, Midoriya gets more giggly and less aware of himself. He sits between Uraraka and Iida but leaves almost as soon as he’s comfortable, apologizing. It leads him to Shouto, so far successfully hidden on the furthest chair, tucked in on himself.

“Try this,” Midoriya says, pushing a cup into his hands and sitting next to him. There isn’t room for the both of them, but Midoriya doesn’t seem to mind. The drink is red and smells terrible. It’s not the first party they’ve hosted with alcohol from an unknown source making an appearance. Shouto knows well enough he’s not going to like what he swallows, no matter how much sugar is dumped into it to cover the taste.

He takes a sip regardless, cringing almost immediately, getting an earful of laughter from his friend. Midoriya wraps his hand around Shouto’s, pulling it toward his mouth, and drinking, gulping, the rest of it down. He smiles when he’s done. His lips are shiny, artificially red. Shouto has the strangest urge to want to touch them, which is altogether fascinating until he realizes he’s been staring at his friends lips for way too long, whipping his head around to search out some other distraction within the party. Ashido’s, dragging people onto the floor to play a game, but she passes over them all the same.

A finger pokes him in the corner of his mouth and then pulls up.

“You shouldn’t frown so much Shouto-kun,” Midoriya says, “you’ll get wrinkles. Not that you won’t get wrinkles if you smile. You get wrinkles for smiling too. Happy ones. Right here.” He wiggles his finger, “or here,” with his other hand he touches the skin around Shouto’s silver eye. “You’re so pretty when you smile. Not that you’re not pretty, everyone agrees with me. Super pretty. The prettiest.”

“Are you drunk?”

As far as Shouto knows, Midoriya can’t get drunk. But his cheeks are flushed, his words stumbling in on themselves when usually rapidly speaking is something Midoriya is near perfect at doing.

“You and Kacchan both,” Midoriya continues, “but you won because you’re easier to be around. Kacchan isn’t easy. He’s hard.” Midoriya giggles, “like Kirishima-kun. Sharp, but a grouch. Kirishima-kun isn’t a grouch, he’s nice. Do you like Kirishima-kun, too? Everyone likes him. He’s a ray of sun and I’m a bush. A fuzzy bush who doesn’t make the pretty list.”

“Midoriya?”

Midoriya’s eyes focus on him. He blinks twice and then tilts his head. “I can’t get drunk, silly.” Shouto wonders if he can get whiplash from a conversation. “But I thought it’d be fun, so I asked Shinsou-kun.” A deep breath. “I asked Shinsou-kun if he could make me pretend, but it just made me sort of tired, and loopy.”

That made marginally more sense. Though the cup is already empty, Shouto takes it from Midoriya’s lap, placing it on the ground beside them.

“Maybe no more drinking tonight, just to be safe, okay?”

He isn’t expecting an arm to wrap around him while he’s facing away. He certainly isn’t expecting Midoriya to pull him into his lap and tuck his head into his shoulder, whispering something Shouto has no hope of making out. Shouto braces his left arm on Midoriya’s shoulder and pushes, giving them more room, but not much. Shouto is stuck on Midoriya’s lap until the other decides to let him go.

“What was that?”

“You’re a good person, Shouto-kun,” he says with endearingly bright eyes. “You’re always trying to look out for me, even when I don’t expect it.”

“I’m just trying to be a good friend,” Shouto says. Mindful that Midoriya’s hand keeps rubbing down his back in an attempt of soothing circles or completely pattern-less. His other hand is trapped between them, pressed between their stomachs.

“You’re too good of a friend,” Midoriya says, “you win every friend competition. Number One Shouto-kun.” 

The statement doesn’t make much sense, and even if Midoriya’s not drunk on a technicality, he’s still not of sound mind. Nonetheless, Shouto’s heart flutters. He doesn’t know much about being friends, but he had to be doing something right for Midoriya to compliment him so readily, with such sincerity.

“You’re a good friend, too, Midoriya,” Shouto says. It doesn’t sparkle in his eyes like Shouto had wanted it to, but Midoriya does smile. His hand supports Shouto’s back, and he leans forward. Shouto doesn’t get to find out if he meant to put his head on Shouto’s shoulder or somewhere else because the chair dips, someone sitting in the spot where Shouto had been. 

“The extra’s told me to come over here and tell you to stop being so gross,” Bakugou says. Whatever drink is in his hand sloshes over the rim and unto the floor behind them. “It’s disgusting.”

“Kacchan!” Midoriya greets. Stars in his eyes. He maneuvers Shouto to be on his right leg, relinquishing his hold on Shouto’s back and turning his body as much as he can to face their friend. “I haven’t seen you all night. Are you enjoying the party?”

“I’d be enjoying it more if I didn’t have to watch you two make kissy faces at one another.” 

Confusion colors Midoriya’s face and pulls at his brows as he repeats, “kissy faces,” while Shouto's stomach drops. Fire in his veins licking up his neck. Aware of his position. Practically straddling Midoriya in front of everyone, letting Midoriya run his hands all over him like they were anything other than friends. Friends certainly didn’t entertain their other friend's inebriated state. They at least did something to de-escalate the situation. Especially, when said friend knew that the other one is, for all intents and purposes, taken. Taken and in love with another, who’s unsure, sitting beside them, scrutinizing their actions.

Shouto’s ready to push himself off Midoriya and run away, but Midoriya speaks first. “Jealousy isn’t pretty Kacchan.” 

There’s not enough room on the couch for Bakugou to properly back away, but his eyes widen, both in fear and then anger, as he says, “why on earth is there anything for me to be jealous of?”

Midoriya places his finger on his mouth, “shh, I can hold you too.”

“I don’t—”

It’s too late, Shouto’s properly released, sliding off of Midoriya’s lap onto the floor, and Bakugou is pulled up to where he had been sitting. Both arms wrapped around his back to hold him close. Bakugou tries to tell him to let him go, but it’s too late; Midoriya simply rest’s his chin on his shoulder. Bakugou struggles for a second longer before he goes still, accepting his place in Midoriya’s arm.

Shouto can’t quite place the emotion he feels watching the scenario play out. He thinks it’s akin to happiness that his friends are so close, close enough to perhaps realize their feelings, but there’s something else there too. Sadness, maybe. 

It gets Shouto to back away from them, to turn and leave, heading for the kitchen, cursing himself for being selfish. What kind of person sees a happy couple and decides to be upset about it? He shakes his head. Not a couple. Bakugou won’t confess. Midoriya is still unaware. 

And Shouto’s too stupid. Stupid and fumbling, threatening to destroy the foundation before they can even build anything upon it. 

But then again, he glances back to the couches, maybe not. Midoriya and Bakugou, trapped in their own small world, whisper secrets to one another, close enough to kiss.

Shouto wishes that they would. 

Wishes that they won’t—knows it will be what seals him away. Keeps him apart. He’s an awful person for wishing he can still include himself in their relationship. To want it to be three not two. 

But only two people can kiss. The lingering third has to walk away, has to go. Shouto does. A sour cupcake in his mouth. 

Midoriya and Bakugou do not confess their feelings that night.

***

 “You know studying together isn’t really helping our bedtime issue,” Midoriya says, pointing to the clock on his nightstand. It reads 11:38. According to Bakugou, the latest they were allowed to be up was 9:30.  But the end of the year came with more assignments and reading. All done easier with a friend.

“Are you tired,” Shouto asks. Their math assignment lies finished ahead of them. Shouto isn’t opposed to doing their history reading though he can just as easily do that in his room.

“No,” Midoriya says, pushing his books forward. “But I am done with homework. Do you want to watch tv or something?”

“Aren’t we supposed to be going to bed?”

“What Kacchan doesn’t know, won’t hurt him. Besides tomorrows an easy day. We can totally get away with watching a couple hero compilation videos. Oh! We can even watch ones that focus on teams, thus preparing us for our final, so that way it’s not a waste of time,” Midoriya says. “Specifically, teams of three’s though there’s no harm watching a smaller dynamic, or a larger one, in order to see what we are missing, or what we get by having an extra edition.”

“Okay.”

Midoriya brightens. “Great. Let me just get my computer. We can ignore this for later,” he waves at their books and paper, jumping up to go to his desk to grab the computer. He sits there a moment before suggesting they sit on the bed instead of the ground. Shouto doesn’t mind either but follows Midoriya onto his bed. His bed is squishier than Shouto’s futon, with a bunch of pillows along the top of it and a body pillow against the wall, which Midoriya pushes into to accommodate Shouto beside him. 

There isn’t a lot of room once he’s seated. It leaves every part of them connected. The bones on their ankles clack. Shouto wonders if this is something Bakugou would like too. Snuggled together as Midoriya rests his head on Shouto’s shoulder. Bakugou, brave with them finally dating, could put his arm around Midoriya and squeeze him closer. Shouto won’t do that, safe in just being within Midoriya’s space.  

“Is this one okay,” Midoriya asks, indicating a video onscreen. Shouto agrees without reading the title. Two heroes fill the screen, working together perfectly to stop the villain. Succinct with no extra characters to needlessly fill up space. Beside him, Midoriya mumbles along with the video with his thoughts. The places where the heroes work well together. The places where they are exceptional. 

Shouto’s not sure how many videos they watch. One second, he blinks, watching a hero in red stop a building from collapsing, and then reopens his eyes to see a cat wearing an All Might costume, trying to climb a wall. Midoriya giggles into his side. Shouto checks the time, nearing two.

“I should get going,” he says, voice scratchy.

Midoriya pauses the video. The cat is stuck mid-jump. “You were already asleep, Todoroki-kun, why don’t you just stay?”

Shouto tries to turn to see Midoriya’s face, but it’s hard to do. All he gets is the tips of his eyelashes and the slope of his nose.

“Like a sleepover?”

“Yeah,” Midoriya says, “you’re already tucked in and this way I don’t have to worry about you falling asleep in the elevator.”

“That happened once.”

“And Kacchan will never let me live it down. He says I should’ve known better and brought you to bed myself.”

“It was my fault,” Shouto says, pursing his lip, “Bakugou was only upset because he’s the one who found me.”

Midoriya breathes long and low. “Bakugou was only upset because he cares,” he says, reaching up to close the laptop. “But you’re going to stay, right?”

Shouto agrees because he is comfortable. Warm. Midoriya hands the laptop to him to put it on the bedside table. But Midoriya doesn’t immediately slide down in the bed, shadows cutting shapes across his face. 

“Can I braid your hair? It helps me sleep better if I do something to unwind. Relax my brain after being in front of the computer, you know,” he says. Shouto nods, gently laying his head down in Midoriya's lap. 

“This, okay?”

“Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Midoriya starts pulling at his white hair, carefully running his fingers through it. Shouto’s hair doesn’t tangle, but it’s a nice feeling. The gentle tugging as Midoriya begins to braid.

“Hey Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya begins after several moments of quiet braiding. “You remember what you asked me when you spent the night at my mom’s?”

Any lingering drowsiness from watching tv leaches out of him. Shouto doesn’t move. Scared that whatever peace Midoriya has found in his quiet room will vanish if he sits up.

“About you loving Bakugou?”

He does lift his eyes to see Midoriya’s reaction, blanketed by darkness. It doesn’t hide his form from nodding.

“I’ve been thinking about it more, about being happy and being in love. Everyone makes it seem straightforward. You see a person. Through circumstances, you love that person. A one and only, but what if—what if there isn’t one?”

Shouto frowns. Midoriya’s usually too hard on himself. “Like you never find your true love, and die alone? Because that’s not going to happen. Someone will love you.” 

Someone already does—Not Shouto’s to say. 

“No,” Midoriya begins to separate his hair, “as in you’re in love with more than one person.”

Oh.

Shouto has never thought about that. His experience with romances is regulated to movies, mangas, and whatever happened between their classmates. Always two. Wouldn’t a third just be distracting? Too much work that threatened to implode the original pair? Shouto doesn’t say that, though. He knows it’s not what Midoriya needs to hear.

“I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t think I know anything about love, but I can listen if that helps.”

Midoriya braids silently, collecting his thoughts and pulling more hair between his fingers.

“Okay,” he says, “it’s embarrassing so we’re going to use pseudonyms. Curry and—no wait that’s stupid,” he mutters, and Shouto waits. He likes listening to Midoriya talk even when he can’t make out what he says. It’s soothing. “We’re going to go with A and M.”

“Like All Might?”

“NO,” Midoriya tugs sharply, and Shouto winces. “Like apples and melons. Both are good, er, fruit, but they’re completely different. They bring different things. Like apples can be eaten with caramel but you wouldn’t put caramel on a cantaloupe.”

“I’d eat it,” Shouto says. Midoriya leans over his head to glare at him with no heat. 

“That’s because you’re insane,” he says. But it does the trick. Midoriya’s fingers are back to being gentle in his hair, less tense. “So hypothetically, I’ve known Apple longer than Melon, but that doesn’t mean I like Melon any less, or that our relationship is weaker, in fact sometimes I think it’s stronger. They understand me more than I understand myself, and that’s kind of scary. To be known that well. But then there’s Apple, and Apple’s amazing. The most amazing person I’ve ever met and suddenly it’s not so hard to believe that he thinks I’m amazing, too. Or special at least. That I’m worthy of being their equal, and I want nothing more than to be that person.”

Midoriya pauses. Shouto can sense his smile. “You know I used to imagine what it’d be like to hold his hand. I was a bit of a hopeless romantic back then. I thought if we held hands I’d know if it was true love or not—that I’d feel a spark, or some other cosmic sign. But I don’t think I’d need that now. Just words. Just,” Midoriya sighs, “but I don’t know what to do or say because—”

Because Melon’s in the way, Shouto thinks. Bakugou had been right. Midoriya did like someone else. But he potentially liked Bakugou just as much. Shouto just had to destroy Melon—or at least make them so unappealing that Midoriya will realize they weren’t that great. Hard work, considering the pseudonyms.

“Because if I say yes to him, these other unresolved feelings will just keep bubbling up, and Ka—Apple will know. He’s eerily perceptive of me and I can’t break two boys’ hearts just because I’m selfish and I love—like—them both.”

Midoriya had stopped with the braid, so Shouto rolls over. 

“I don’t think you’re selfish, Midoriya.”

“Would you love two people at the same time?”

Shouto’s careful before he responds, a nagging feeling in his heart telling him he’s undeserving of love. A fused-together monster of patchwork parts. Can he love? He never sat down and thought about it. Can two people love him? It’s a fanciful dream. His best-case scenario will be that after Bakugou and Midoriya get together, they will let him tag along. Wherever they go, he wants to be there too. Shouto is the selfish one, after all, basking in their glory in the hopes he can become amazing, too.

“Are you sure you love Melon, or are they just a distraction until you get Apple to look back?”

An indignant, “they’re not,” and then, “would you?”

Shouto studies Midoriya’s left hand, resting on his knee, his right somewhere in his hair. 

“I would want whoever I was with to be happy. If they couldn’t be happy with just me, then, I rather be a choice, a second option, then abandoned and alone.”

“Whoever makes you a second choice shouldn’t have you at all,” Midoriya says, sliding down in the bed, keeping his hold on Shouto’s head, positioning it on his chest. All normal. He’s cuddled with Midoriya before. “You should get to be happy too Shouto-kun.”

It shouldn’t be a novel idea. And it isn’t, not really, left sitting in the air.

“I’ll be happy if you ask out Apple,” he says, which gets Midoriya to snort.

“You’re pro Apple and Strawberry, huh,” he says. 

“I’m pro making sure my friends are happy.”

Midoriya hums into his temple. “We should go to bed.”

Shouto doesn’t need to respond, closing his eyes and shifting around as Midoriya gets comfortable. He falls asleep fast, dreams of someone telling him he loves him. They kiss him on the cheek. 

***

Shouto’s door flies open, banging into the opposite wall. His desk chair lazily turns to meet his guest. Bakugou. Proud. Usually, a bad precursor, meaning Shouto’s about to be dragged out of his room to prove himself in a fight—unfair because they already sparred this morning, and Shouto was pretty proud that he had pinned the other hero. It hadn’t lasted Bakugou had bucked the moment Midoriya started teasing them.

Personal training without Midoriya can be interesting, though. Interesting to watch Bakugou fight when he doesn’t have something to prove—or show that everyone else is so beneath him that the only competition he has is Midoriya. Whatever the case, Shouto isn’t necessarily in the mood for an extra sparring session when they’ll have one in a couple of hours. Besides, he really should be studying.

However, Bakugou says nothing, stomping into his room. He slaps his hand down on Shouto’s desk. A small red thing remains when he lifts his hand. Had Shouto not seen the other one, he wouldn’t have known what it was. It’s smaller, torn apart worse, like the wearer had been more adventurous, uncaring when it lost strings with every climbed tree branch. Uncaring wasn’t right, though. Uncaring would suggest that it no longer existed. It did, in shambles, yes, but a friendship bracelet, nonetheless.

“You happy,” Bakugou says, “I kept it. Found it in a junk drawer back home.”

Shouto picks it up. There’s gold thread mixed in with the red—Shouto wonders if Midoriya had to beg his mom to use some of her sewing supplies. Like Midoriya’s, there’s no way it can be worn now. Maybe as a ring, but that seems kind of goofy. Though, he’s sure there’s a way to repurpose them. A bookmark. Placed in a shadowbox. Worn as a tassel on their hero costumes. Sewn together as one bracelet that they can share. 

“I knew you kept it,” Shouto says, setting it back on his desk. “I won’t tell anyone you’re secretly a sappy bastard.” 

“Haha,” Bakugou mocks, backing away from Shouto’s desk and walking around his room. “Don’t act so high and mighty. I know I’m good at taking care of things.” He stops when he reaches the small bookcase Shouto got earlier in the year. A miscellaneous collection of books and a succulent that Yaoyorozu said he couldn’t kill. Bakugou grabs Midoriya’s action figur, flipping it around. “This shits mine.”

“I got it from Midoriya.” 

“Deku stole it from me. Said he lost it, little fucker,”

“You can have it back.”

“I don’t want it back.”

“Okay.” Shouto closes his notebook. Bakugou apparently wanted to talk. He couldn’t just say this, of course, like a normal functioning human. However, Shouto’s patient. Maybe not patient enough like Midoriya or Kirishima, but good enough. He’s a bit touched that Bakugou hadn’t sought out his actual friends for something that is bothering him.

Bakugou sets the All Might figure down with a new pose: fist raised to the sky. He doesn’t comment when Shouto stands. Shouto himself, not quite sure why he walks until he’s next to him, so they’re both looking at it. 

“I never had any toys growing up,” Shouto says, “I think Midoriya feels bad for me.”

“Shit is sad,” Bakugou says, “your childhood was pathetic. But,” he backs away from Shouto’s bookcase. “Our childhood wasn’t roses either. It wasn’t friendship bracelets and shared toys. It was broken noses and explosions.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do,” Bakugou says, “dredging up this old shit, making Deku remember things he should have forgotten.” 

“He forgave you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Bakugou sighs. It’s a defeated sound, not meant for Bakugou. “You want me to give him the bracelet to show him that I care. That I’ve changed—a better man and all that sappy bullshit—when if I was a better man, I’d be backing off.”

It takes Shouto a moment to realize that Bakugou is jealous. It sits in the red of his eyes, swirling and unpleasant, gripping in his hands as he flexes them. 

It makes sense. Bakugou has to be the best. The best at winning Midoriya’s affections. The best at being the one Midoriya chooses. Whoever Midoriya’s Melon is, he’ll eradicate him off the playing field, make Midoriya see only him. Only Bakugou. 

Shouto tries to picture this mystery person. The one who’s coveted Midoriya’s heart. Someone Bakugou respects enough to hesitate. They’d have to be strong, powerful—beautiful, and wonderful, everything that Midoriya deserves, which Bakugou sees, too. 

Midoriya loves two people, but it seems like a stretch to say that Bakugou had it in him to love this mystery person. Respect and love were two different things, after all. He’ll want Midoriya to himself. Shouto can understand. He’d be jealous too if another person, Midoriya’s person or another, shined just as bright as the pair, standing equal, three across—nowhere for Shouto. Banished to the periphery forever, always yearning but never achieving. 

But possiblys and scared maybes won’t get Midoriya and Bakugou together. No, they were stubborn, dancing around the issue, afraid of colliding. And unlike the rest of their classmates, wary at seeing their impact, Shouto’s not. He’s willing to orchestrate a push.

“Midoriya would like to see it,” Shouto says, “no one else can replace what you two have. I didn’t take you to be one to back down from a challenge.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow in thought, clenching and unclenching his fist. Soft when he says, “it’s what he deserves.” 

It gets a surprised laugh out of Shouto. What gets Bakugou to back down, standing on the precipice of a confession? Not a rejection or his pride, but because he wants what’s best for Midoriya. 

Bakugou’s gaze snaps up, glaring at him now. “What’s so funny, Halfie?”

Shouto shakes his head, “you’re actually stepping back? You think that’s what Midoriya wants? He fell in love with you for a reason, not for you to sit back and let this other person swoop in and take him away.”

“And what do you know about it?” Bakugou spats, “how do I know this isn’t one giant scheme to make sure you’re the one he comes crying to when I inevitably screw things up?”

Hurt flashes quickly and quietly a shard to the heart. 

“You think that I’d set you up for failure in a game I have no stakes in? I’m not the one Midoriya likes.” Shouto is thankful his disposition keeps him distant and doesn’t betray hurt.

Bakugou purses his lips but is the first to break eye contact, staring behind Shouto and then out the window. “I don’t know what you think—that’s the whole problem.”

“Midoriya adores you,” Shouto continues. Bakugou needs to see. He needs the push. “He talks about you constantly. About how strong you are. How you’re a natural leader who constantly pushes your team to win. How your,” beautiful, but Shouto catches himself. He figures that Bakugou would throw him out his window if Shouto said that. Even if he thought it came from Midoriya, “improving, becoming better in every way. He wants it to work out just as badly as you do. All you need to do is confess—then everything will be okay.”

Bakugou refuses to look at him, staring at the wall as if trying to parse something out. 

Shouto can’t see why it can’t be so simple. The movies always make it that way. Sure, there’s that awkward pining stage of will they-won’t they, but by the end, the pair is always kissing in the rain, surrounded by dozens of blooming flowers and a soft decrescendo as the score fads out, screen to black. But this isn’t a movie. After true love's kiss comes life. A hero’s life. Though, if anyone can figure it out, it’s them.

“That easy, huh,” Bakugou says, “simple moving parts, without any complications.”

“What’s there to be complicated about? You already know each other’s darkest secrets. It’s not like Midoriya doesn’t know something about you.”

Bakugou doesn’t immediately agree. Ruby eyes colored somewhat like betrayal. As if he had done something wrong. Done something irredeemable. 

“Katsuki?” Bakugou’s attention snaps to him. “You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is that is bothering you. I won’t tell Midoriya—anyone. Or we can talk about something else, put this behind us and do something else. I care about you, you know?” 

Shouto doesn’t realize he’s touching Bakugou’s elbow until he feels the muscle there tense and untense. He drops it, stepping back after unknowingly crossing a line. But Bakugou doesn’t comment on it. Too busy searching him, chewing on his tongue, until he’s stepping forward. A new sheen of determination in his eyes.

Shouto thinks, finally. He can hear whatever dark secret he’s been holding. Together they can figure out a way to break it to Midoriya. Midoriya will forgive him because this is Bakugou Katsuki, and Midoriya Izuku cannot hate him. Not even if it’s what’s best for him—though Shouto wonders if it is best for Midoriya to cut Bakugou out like that. 

“Maybe I’m not asking for your advice because I know it’ll be shit,” Bakugou says, another step forward. “Because you’re just like him. You wanna talk when there are better alternatives to getting points across.”

“Like what?” Shouto breathes. “Taking Midoriya out into a training field and hoping when you both collapse, he confesses?”

Bakugou sneers, another step forward. Shouto doesn’t stand down. He wonders if he’s seconds away from being punched. He’s not quite convinced he deserves it, but maybe it's karma for trying to interact with his friend’s relationships.

“I don’t need the nerd to confess. You said it yourself, he’s in love with me.”

“Yet, you’re hesitating.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Bakugou’s toe bumps his. Shouto barely acknowledges it, locked in a staring contest. There’s resolve in Bakugou’s eyes. Shouto matches it. He will not be the one to back down. It’s in the air. The deciding factor that will either make Bakugou see or leave them stuck in the same position.

“I think you should do something about it,” Shouto says.

He’s about to say more, but then there’s a searing hand on his neck. And it’s pulling, not pushing, bringing him forward. Only their foreheads don’t crash, sending Shouto to the floor. Their noses bump, causing Bakugou to growl, before readjusting their lips together with such intensity it leaves Shouto shocked, exposed. Unable to think. Hearing only the heavy whumping of his heart while wide eyes catch every detail of Bakugou’s face, scrunched painfully closed. A small gasping “oh,” to be lost between their lips.

For a brief quiet moment, Shouto thinks he might close his eyes, reach between them and tug on the bottom of Bakugou's shirt to make their knees hit and bruise. Have Bakugou grip him with both hands, keeping him in place while Shouto tentatively moves his lips back. Wonders if the urgency bubbling in his chest is his to possess. Take Bakugou’s chin to move him better. Trace his thumb along near-translucent freckles—

Shouto shoves. Bakugou stumbles back, catching himself fast. Shouto doesn’t, hitting the bookshelf. It catches him hard in the back, bruising. Bakugou shakes his head, saying something, but Shouto cannot hear it. Can only watch the other man right himself.

“Get out.” He is trying not to gasp for breath. His heart beats harder.

“We need to talk,” Bakugou says, “All of us. Me, you, and Izuku.”

Shouto is shaking his head before he can finish. Midoriya will walk away. Midoriya will say, “you deserve to be someone’s special person, Todoroki-kun. I’m happy for you.” 

A lie.

He will go and find Melon, or someone else, someone not worthy of all that Midoriya is.

It will ruin them. Bakugou and Midoriya. Shouto, caught in the epicenter while news broadcasters and pencil pushers wonder out loud what caused UA’s Dynamic Duo to shatter before they even had the chance to be great. To be heroes. To be best. 

“Get out,” Shouto says. His voice raised now, shaky. He sounds like he’s going to cry. Eyes burn like they will too. 

Bakugou doesn’t move, still watching, like he knows something. Like he’s waiting for the moment Shouto breaks.

Shouto won’t let him. He can play this too. “How can you do this to him? He loves you.” There’s a flicker at that. A remark that Shouto beats because he has to. Midoriya and Bakugou deserve to be together. This is a distraction, nothing more. “Why do you destroy everything he loves?”

It’s scathing and bitter on Shouto’s tongue. It makes the burning in his eyes more prudent. Bakugou straightens. Maybe this time to fight, but instead of spark, there’s resignation. Defeat. As if he lost. Shouto hates it. But the part of him that wants to fight is sagging, and the bit of him that wants to reassure Bakugou that he’ll never, never, say anything about this to Midoriya, he can’t voice—his throat closing in.

All Shouto wants is for them to be happy.

“Go,” Shouto says. 

Bakugou does. 

Shouto makes sure to stare at the ground.

***

If Bakugou wants to say more, Shouto doesn’t give him the opportunity. He walks to school between Iida and Uraraka. Waits with Midoriya for lunch when he can. He doesn’t speak more than he needs to at their training exercises. It isn’t perfect. People notice—Midoriya does, jokingly collapsing one night to say he felt like the pair were teaming up on him. Shouto won’t attack Bakugou, too scared of setting him off. Bakugou, just as cautionary, fighting Midoriya as an excuse wrapped up as a challenge.

If Shouto had a choice, he’d hide in his room until semester's end, take an internship several hours away, and then maybe convince his dad to transfer him to another school where he can’t make an asshole of himself or his friends. That plan, however, hinges on asking his father for anything, which is unlikely, and unfortunately, he has what is considered “too distinct” of features to properly run away, anyway. 

So, no, Shouto is not allowed to hide in his room, contemplating life, and all the shitty choices it has faced him. Instead, he’s dragged to a beach in what is deemed a fun, relaxing night out before their exams.

As the only one who doesn’t actively feel the cold, Shouto wonders how bright the plan to go to the beach is at the end of winter, but Iida and Yaoyorozu procure permission to leave and enough wood to host a bright fire to last them many hours. Kaminari and Kirishima divvy out marshmallows, and Shouto makes sure to sit on a log far away from a blonde, currently yelling about how no one knew how to properly cook them.

Before Shouto hadn’t given much credence to him and Bakugou being friends; he knew they were, but he had come to learn not to put much weight on the label of it. He assumed most of the class would care less if they stopped talking to one another for a handful of days, but given the increasing number of glances over the tops of pens, mouthguards, and mugs, Shouto’s not that lucky. Compounded by the fact that Midoriya is their partner for their final exam, and no matter what is happening between Bakugou and Shouto, they show up to training to prepare for their test. 

Midoriya’s no idiot. The pair isn’t exactly coy with choosing not to spar against one another, aiming most of their energy at the other hero. Had Midoriya been anyone else, he’d be fed up with the tag team. However, this was Midoriya, and the only feeling he holds is concern. Only a couple of well-placed lies keep him from knocking down Shouto’s door and demanding answers. 

But Shouto can’t get out of this one. Midoriya showed up at his room when they were about to head out, leaving Shouto with the sense that if he had said he was going to stay in, he would have stayed with him too. They’d get maybe halfway through a movie before Midoriya was on him, asking softly what was wrong. Shouto always had trouble lying to Midoriya. He didn’t trust himself enough, yet to keep from saying, “the person you love, kissed me. I don’t know what it means.” 

And Midoriya, sweet and gentle, would probably respond with something similar to, “just because I love him, doesn’t mean he loves me,” which is wrong because even after the kiss, Bakugou hasn’t stopped treating Midoriya with his own version of care. Hasn’t stopped searching after him every chance he gets. Certainly hasn’t stopped loving him.  

What is worse, however, is that Shouto fears Midoriya will follow it up with a second question. One Shouto asks but does not receive. 

“Do you like him?”

Perhaps it’s a bad sign that Shouto’s immediate reaction to a hypothetical isn’t “no.”  A part of him liked kissing Bakugou. The shot of energy that went down his spine when they made contact. But it’s not even the kiss, really. Bakugou’s always been different around him. Quieter when everyone else is loud—a tad ironic because everything about Bakugou is loud. Bright. Scorching. Gentle. Confusingly gentle with him, but not in the way that annoying. The way people act when they assume he’s damaged, weak. But Bakugou doesn’t take him for that. A begrudging respect between the both of them. That might be where this problem lies. Bakugou respects Midoriya too. He’s just confused. Whatever lingering feelings or doubts Shouto has can easily be laid to rest.

He will not be the thing that stands in the way. 

“Have you’ve ever tried roasting a marshmallow with your finger,” Midoriya asks, walking up to him, trying to eat around the edges of his s’more. “Kaminari said he once tried to electrocute one, which just caused it to explode.”

He sits down on the log next to Shouto, chewing thoughtfully. There’s a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his lip. Midoriya’s tongue darts out to lick it before taking another bite, finishing it.

“I haven’t,” Shouto says, “it could be a good exercise for control though. To see if I don’t burn it.” 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Midoriya says, his eyes sparkling, “I think I can sneak a bag from behind Iida-kun’s back, so we can test it out.”

Shouto puts a hand on his knee, keeping him in place, “aren’t we supposed to be relaxing tonight? I have a feeling our classmates wouldn’t like me burning the marshmallows they were supposed to be eating.”

Midoriya listens to him, which Shouto momentarily considers a win until, “Kacchan used to explode marshmallows when we were younger. We went camping once and sacrificed the whole bag of these giant ones to see if he could cook them in his palm. Since it was Kacchan he figured it out about half-way through the bag, declaring he had perfected it before exploding the rest. Our parents were less thrilled,” Midoriya shrugs, “but we were kids.”

Shouto nods, putting his hands in his pocket, catching on the braided edges of something he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Speaking of Bakugou.”

Beside him, Midoriya sits a little straighter. He turns his body slightly, in lieu of real privacy, but no one is paying attention to them between the sweets, the games, and the stars that were beginning to dot the sky. Shouto makes sure to stare at his lap as he takes his hand out of his pocket, knowing it’s not what Midoriya expects from him. He rubs his thumb across the rough texture and, in one motion, places it in Midoriya’s unexpecting hands. 

“He wanted me to give this to you.” 

It takes Midoriya a moment to realize what exactly is in his hands, lifting it to his face and turning it over. But the moment it does, his mouth falls open into the smallest, “o,” and if his eyes were sparkling before, they contain galaxies now, part wonder, part disbelief.

“I can’t believe he kept it,” he whispers, tugging at the edge. “I had to beg my mom to let me use her special string, and even then, she only allowed me a bit of gold.” He shakes his head, his bottom lip wobbly even without a tear shed. “Why do you have it?”

“He wanted me to give we it you,” heys again, searching for something near the truth that wouldn’t give him away. “I told him you had yours still, and well, he went and found his. He didn’t think you’d want to see it, though, but I told him otherwise.”

He doesn’t expect Midoriya to throw his arms around him, but maybe he should have, catching himself in time before they topple over. Midoriya has a track of tears down his face when pulls away, a big grin. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, as Midoriya shakes his head into his shoulder instead of voicing any agreement. Instead of pulling away, though, Midoriya keeps himself right there, leaning against Shouto, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is—or at least getting to be. By nature, Midoriya is a touchy person. The first time they watched a movie together, he practically launched himself into Shouto’s lap at a jump scare. But save for when they fell asleep, those touches were brief, never lingering. 

Now, Shouto simultaneously wants to wrap his arm around him, a cruel part of his curiosity just to see how it would feel, and push him away because he knows that’s the right thing to do. Even if he isn’t searching Bakugou out, there’s no way Bakugou doesn’t see them.

“Hey, Midoriya.” 

“Yeah?”

“Have you thought about who you’re going to choose?” Absentmindedly, Midoriya plays with the bracelet, tugging at the edges of it. “I know you love him, and doesn’t this show he loves you too? Enough proof that there’s nothing to be scared of if you confess.”

Midoriya is silent for a long time. Shouto watches the fire. The way it dances up as bright sparks, only to disappear just as fast. No permanency in something like that. A breeze filters through, and delayed, Shouto gently raises the temperature on his left side where Midoriya is. It’s probably unconscious—or just Shouto’s paranoia—but Midoriya snuggles into it regardless. 

He asks, “do you really think I have that bad of a chance with Melon?”

“I think if you ever told someone you love them, they will love you back,” Shouto says. “They’d be foolish not to.” 

Shouto wishes he had all the words to describe what exactly Midoriya is. Someone special. The type of hero the world needs. A boy with too big of a heart who falls in love with anyone who stumbles upon him. If Midoriya chose, he could have anyone. But not everyone is worthy of him. Perhaps it’s silly to be this protective of a man who doesn’t need it. Though, if all he can do is protect him from this, then so be it.

“But if I had to choose, you’d rather I pick him.” 

“Yeah.”

Midoriya pulls away. It leaves his shoulder cold. Midoriya searches the bracelet before shoving it in his pocket. Shouto prepares to watch him go. Instead, Midoriya stands, turns, then turns back. He tilts his head; loose curls fall against his forehead.

“Do you like anyone, Shouto-kun?”

Shouto likes training exercises that let him play with his quirk. He likes humanities classes over anything technical. He likes Kaminari’s jokes, which everyone else groans at, but he keeps to tell his mother on Sundays to watch laugh lines crinkle around her eyes. He likes movie nights and Sunday breakfast when the whole class can make it. Birthday parties, shopping trips, and the short walk to class. He knows what it is like to like. But not to like someone—Bakugou, rubbing soap off his cheek; Midoriya pulling him into his lap because he could. The pair of them turning to him as one, glowing ahead.

Shouto shakes his head. Mouth dry. “No.” He shakes his head again.

Midoriya’s lip twitches down at that, “are you sure?”

Shouto nods, uncomfortable on the log, under Midoriya’s gaze. “I think you should go confess to Katsuki, Izuku. There’s nothing here if you delay.”

Whatever argument that flashes in twin green eyes, evaporates into acceptance, and Midoriya takes a step back, nodding to himself. Shouto chooses to pretend he doesn’t see the way disappointment is quick to follow, stated in Midoriya’s frown. He says nothing else and leaves, stepping around their classmates, excitable off treats, and walks right to Bakugou with no more hesitation in his steps. 

Shouto aches.

He swings his leg over the log the moment Bakugou realizes who is walking toward him. Eyes alight just by seeing Izuku so close. Shouto walks away. Had anyone called for him, he doesn’t hear, simply buries his hands deeper into his pockets, picking his way between the sand. 

The water is quiet. A steady thrum.

When he was younger, he used to race beside a current of water, yearning to reach the open sea. He thought one day he’d jump into the waves to greet it too. Make his ice into an island and float away.

He doesn’t jump into it now. He keeps walking, not slowing when the sand turns to wood planks with dry grass poking between the wood. He keeps his head down and his thoughts at bay, which would be a lot easier if they weren’t so loud.

Shouto doesn’t get love. Kaminari once burst into tears in the middle of game night, crying when he said he loved them all, ending in a group hug that Shouto made sure to be scarce for while several other people declare their feelings too. He once sat with Uraraka in her room while she braided his hair, speaking of love. Everyone knew she had a crush. She could have gone to anyone. And, maybe because he was dispassionate, she came to him. Talked of Midoriya, Izuku. Her words held both gentle kindness and brewing ferocity. Shouto remained quiet. Not his place to say. 

Uraraka wasn’t the only one who came to him. Others in the quiet darkness of the common room, or on the walk back to the dorms after school would drop into step with him. Ask him to listen, and Shouto listened well. If he couldn’t be confident enough to believe he knew the feeling, he at least had begun to see the signs in others once they had fallen. The jitters. The easy smiles made for easier laughs. The way the urge to feel—once hesitant, fingers suspended in the air became drawn out touches on knees, elbows, and cheeks. The way people searched when they knew someone was searching back.

Any functional person would be happy to see love given with such ease. Especially, a person of their class who saw heartbreak in the form of bloody limbs, disjointed voices, and the strangled unified cry when it was all over. His classmates deserved to fall in love, become messy experiments, fall out of love, and try again. Unabashed. Unafraid. He doesn’t disparage anyone for trying. 

And yet. 

The boardwalk gives way to concrete, a parking lot, a road, and the sleepy city behind it. Only the car Iida and Yaoyorozu had taken with all of their supplies sat far away from him. He needed to head back before someone noticed or worse came after him. A deep breath. A turn. He re-finds his footing on uneven boards. One step at a time. Only stopping when he hears the rise and fall of familiar voices caught in the wind. Indistinct. But there’s no mistaking the shapes on the apex of a small hill Shouto hadn’t been aware enough to realize he had climbed nor descended.

Shouto looks up the moment Bakugou tugs Midoriya toward him. The moon is behind them, large over the sea. It is kind to them. Shouto is too far away to see properly, but knows needlessly, how Bakugou’s eyes will appear darker as if fighting the silver light that gives them a sharp glint. Perfect for his face, softer with the moonlight, and maybe something else. Knows that Midoriya’s eyes will sparkle, putting shame to the stars that flicker around them one by one, begging to be seen. Only to be ignored because flushed pink cheeks are closer, easier to obtain than ones already on the brink of collision. Two stars made one. It’s Midoriya who initiates it. They are bright. Beautiful. Out of reach.

There’s a flicker of fire between his fingertips at their contact. Out by the time, it reaches the ground. The ice is kinder to him, sharp in his palm with a sweet sting that begs for his attention. But he ignores it, letting the chunk slip from his grasp.

Happiness he tries, when Midoriya pulls away only for Bakugou to bring them back again. He is happy, he reasons. Voices hushed, yet, unaware of their audience. He does not smile. Not often. But he tries under the guise of night. He tries to trick his heart by following the commands of his brain. People are happy when their plans work. They are happy when people fall in love. He is happy.

He is—

Shouto’s turn sends a shock of pain racing up his ankle. He ignores it. He is quiet. Knows quiet and hiding and lovelessness. Knows them well. He doesn’t stop at the cracked cement. Makes no moves toward the SUV stamped with UA’s logo. The ocean crashes against the beach and swallows everything up, so Shouto walks until he can hear it no more then walks some more. Past houses where children grow up in kind homes. Where daughters write love letters with tiny xo’s, and sons practice shaky confessions in front of mirrors. Where Shouto walks through a neighborhood he knows because he’s always been close, so fucking close, but not close enough. Through a hanging fence that marks its distinction. Through larger yards, hidden by larger gardens until he’s at the foot of his driveway. Unsure if he wants to scream, explode, or both.

The porch light is on. Fuyumi’s car is missing. He rubs his hand on his pants regardless, slides the door open to his house, and expects darkness. Only Shouto’s never been lucky. Light from the living room spills into the hall. Too loud with his entrance, a shadow cuts through it. He drops his head before his father completely emerges.

“Shouto?” His father is wearing glasses. They fall down his nose. He looks ridiculous. “What are you doing home?”

“I thought you wanted me to spend more time here?” 

No floors creak here, or maybe Shouto’s so used to stepping around them that they’ve become non-existent. He goes to move around his father when his father reaches out to him but does not touch him. 

“It’s late, almost ten o’clock.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He begins to lower his hand. “Are you hurt?”

Shouto manages, somehow, to keep the shocked laugh from spilling out. Incredulous, that’s what his old man is. They might have some type of relationship now, but it’s not an actual one. Will never grow into something. Just barely living. They both know it. Brokenness doesn’t mend in a handful of months. Shouto can’t love because he doesn’t know what it feels like.

All he knows is this, pain, pumping in a rapid heartbeat. Because Todoroki Shouto was made in an act of selfishness, so selfishness he feels. A twisted bastard because when his best friends kissed, all he wanted was to be kissed too. To be held between them, told how moonlike looked against his skin, and whispered an offering to become something more too.

He doesn’t respond when his father asks again. Free to walk away, find solace in a barren room, and curl up on his futon. 

If tears fall on tatami already stained with sweat, blood, Who is there to see?