Chapter Text
The common room was fuller than usual. Someone had suggested staying together just for tonight, and no one had argued. Most of the class had settled into loose clusters, chatting over snacks or half-watching the TV. Izuku sat on the floor with his notebook open in his lap, the only one still occupied with work.
The pages were filled with meticulous hero analysis: quirks, tactical strengths and weaknesses, hypothetical battle strategies. He didn’t think about hiding it. Shouto sat beside him, knees lightly brushing, watching the patterns and observations flow across the page without comment.
For once, the whole class was together without the usual pressure of training or lessons. Izuku noticed small details—the way Kirishima nudged Kaminari to pass the chips, Mina quietly humming along with the TV, the chatter rising and falling like waves. Even Shinsou was here, sitting off to the side, quietly observing without joining in. It was strange to see him like this; he didn’t usually linger where everyone else was.
A soft laugh from Kaminari made Izuku jump slightly. He glanced up at the cluster nearest the TV. The light flickered across everyone’s faces, warm and uneven. Izuku smiled briefly, more to himself than anyone else, thinking how rare it was for moments like this to exist without tension lurking beneath the surface.
A faint buzzing reached his ears, cutting through his focus. Sero was already leaning over the table, eyes on the phone.
“Oi, Aizawa’s calling—this is yours, Midoriya, right? All Might case?”
Izuku stiffened slightly, pencil hovering for a moment over the page. “Uh… yeah,” he murmured, shifting carefully to reach the device without drawing too much attention. He assumed Aizawa was just checking in, making sure there were no issues. Around him, the casual hum of conversation continued: Kaminari tossing popcorn at Jirou, someone laughing at a poorly timed joke, the soft flicker of the TV—all fading slightly as the buzzing phone drew his attention.
He lifted the phone into his hand, cradling it with practiced ease. Aizawa’s calm, efficient voice greeted him immediately, and Izuku settled into the familiar rhythm of their exchanges. There was a quiet normalcy in it, a subtle comfort that let him focus on the call while the room carried on as if the moment existed just for him.
“Midoriya,” Aizawa said, even-toned, “there’s a man claiming to be your father—Midoriya Hizashi. He says he wants to visit you at UA.”
Midoriya froze, pencil hovering over the notebook. He blinked, then slowly lowered it. “…Oh,” he murmured, voice quiet.
“Your file doesn’t list him as an approved visitor,” Aizawa continued. “Have you been in contact with him?”
Midoriya shook his head almost imperceptibly. “…No. I haven’t… talked to him,” he said carefully, keeping his eyes on the page. Then he hesitated. “…Did… did you ask my mom?”
“No,” Aizawa replied simply. “You’re sixteen; it’s your choice.”
Midoriya shifted slightly, glancing around the common room. The chatter continued—the soft hum of the TV, Kaminari tossing popcorn at Jirou, someone laughing at a poorly timed joke—but it all felt distant, as if happening in another world.
He closed the notebook slowly, letting the news settle. Shouto sat beside him quietly, knees brushing lightly, but Midoriya didn’t meet his eyes. The warmth of the room suddenly felt distant.
“…I see,” he murmured after a pause. Quieter but firm: “…Yes. You can add him to the approved list. I can even send you my dad’s number to make sure it’s the same person.”
Aizawa’s voice was calm, deliberate. “Understood. I’ll wait for the number. I’ll find a Sunday when you don’t have classes or work studies and get back to you with a time. I just needed to make sure there wouldn’t be any confusion.”
“…Okay,” Midoriya said, shifting slightly. He glanced at Shouto for a moment, then back down at his notebook, though the words blurred on the page.
“Good,” Aizawa confirmed. “That’s all. I’ll leave the arrangements up to you.”
“…Thanks, Aizawa-sensei,” Midoriya replied, and the line clicked softly as the call ended.
The familiar hum of the common room returned—snacks being passed, muffled laughter, the TV flickering—but Midoriya stayed still a moment longer, phone in hand. The notebook lay open on his lap, but the words seemed distant. His mind was already half-occupied with the thought of what that Sunday might bring.
Midoriya lowered the phone and set it beside his notebook. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the page without really seeing it.
“Everything good?” someone asked casually from across the room.
Midoriya looked up. He smiled small and quick, the kind that comes easily but doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine,” he said. After a beat, almost as if it slipped out: “My dad’s… coming to visit.”
The room didn’t stop. Someone laughed, the TV kept playing, snacks kept getting passed.
Katsuki’s head snapped toward him. He didn’t say anything. He just stared. Long enough that it started to feel deliberate.
Midoriya noticed a second too late. His smile faded as he looked back down at his notebook, fingers tightening around the pencil. He flipped the page, even though he hadn’t finished the last one, like the motion itself might reset things.
“Oh,” someone said, light and unthinking. “That’s cool. You don’t really talk about him much.”
Midoriya hummed in agreement, noncommittal. “Yeah. He’s… busy.” The word came out automatically, practiced. He added nothing else, and no one pressed.
Shouto shifted beside him. Subtle, just a change in posture, but his shoulder brushed Midoriya’s arm again, grounding him. Midoriya straightened, nodded to himself, and went back to writing. The pencil moved. The notes were neat. Exactly the same as always.
Katsuki didn’t look away. A minute passed. Maybe two. Then he scoffed quietly and turned back around, but the sound lingered, sharp and unfinished.
The conversation in the room drifted. Someone switched the TV channel. A bag of chips was opened too loudly. Everything continued the way it was supposed to.
Midoriya kept his head down. He told himself it was nothing. Just a visit. Nothing bad had happened yet, so there was no reason to act like it had. He pressed harder with the pencil, lines darkening on the page.
The change wasn’t immediate. It started with little things—Midoriya’s voice a fraction quieter than usual when he responded, his hands fidgeting with a pen instead of gesturing with excitement, his usual rush to help or comment on someone else’s idea missing. Shinsou noticed everything. Every subtle pause, every blink too long, every careful avoidance of eye contact. Golden Boy thinks he’s too good to notice others when they’re around. But he’s not above this.
Midoriya drifted to the edge of conversations, sat in corners where he could be seen but not noticed, laughed a second too late at jokes he clearly didn’t find funny. Shinsou felt a sharp, gnawing irritation. Oh, so now he’s better than everyone again by just… not being here. Clever. He keeps his distance, arms crossed, muttering under his breath when Midoriya’s quiet presence starts pulling the group’s attention anyway.
By the fifth day, it was almost unbearable. Shinsou watched Midoriya at lunch, spoon paused halfway to his mouth, eyes staring at his tray as if memorizing every detail. Everyone else buzzed around him—Kaminari making some ridiculous pun, Jirou and Sero arguing over music—and Midoriya barely reacted. Shinsou narrowed his eyes. What’s this? He doesn’t even appreciate how lucky he is to have so many friends willing to sit with him, willing to talk with him.
Midoriya drifted toward the common room TV, carrying a stack of papers. He hesitated at the doorway, scanning the room. He saw Bakugo and Kirishima laughing at something on the screen, the others half-watching. He hesitated again, muttered something under his breath about helping, and stepped forward.
Shinsou, already seated with a notebook he didn’t care about opening, saw him. Oh, now he wants to insert himself. Must be so important to him that he’s saving the room from boredom or something. Midoriya knelt near the group, spreading papers carefully, completely oblivious to Shinsou’s pointed glare.
“Seriously?” Shinsou muttered, not quietly enough. “He just… waltzes in, making everything about him again. Can’t even watch TV like a normal person.”
Midoriya glanced up briefly, startled, then looked away. The corner of Shinsou’s mouth tightened. Perfect. Ignored me. Already thinking he’s better than everyone else just by existing. Brilliant.
He watched as Midoriya set the papers down neatly, adjusted a cushion so someone else could sit comfortably, and murmured soft instruction or encouragement to Kaminari. Oh, of course. Everyone loves him. Of course he has to make everything good and perfect for everyone else.
Shinsou’s hands clenched around his pen. Half a breath from snapping, blurting out something sharp, sarcastic, cutting. And yet… he didn’t. Not yet. He leaned back, watched Midoriya fuss over the papers, over the TV, over the group that clearly didn’t need him, and felt that sharp irritation twist in his chest. He told himself he was fine. He was just annoyed. But the next time Midoriya looked up, that soft, anxious glance—Shinsou almost hissed in frustration.
The capture scarf coiled around Shinsou’s hands with familiar resistance, the rough fabric pressing into his palms as he lunged forward. Aizawa watched from across the mat, expression unreadable.
“Focus,” Aizawa said, voice low, calm. “You’re letting your frustration show in your form.”
Shinsou clenched his jaw, forcing a shrug that barely registered, keeping his gaze on the mat. Aizawa tilted his head, letting the silence stretch.
“You think it doesn’t matter,” he continued, “but being unfocused in the field doesn’t just cost points in class. It gets people hurt. It kills.”
Shinsou shifted, lips pressed together, eyes hard. He didn’t answer.
The scarf looped around his wrists as he darted forward and back, muscles taut. Aizawa watched, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
“I swear, it’s ridiculous sometimes,” Shinsou muttered, voice low, irritation leaking into his movements. “Some people get a quirk that makes life effortless, and suddenly they’ve got all the friends, all the attention, zero trouble. Everything handed to them. And the rest of us…” He tugged the scarf sharply, frustration pouring into every motion. “…we get the leftovers. The stares, the bullying, the doors closed in our faces.”
Aizawa didn’t respond immediately. He simply tilted his head. “Life isn’t fair. Some people get a head start. If you want to keep up, you train harder.”
Shinsou’s eyes flicked to the floor, scarf snapping around his arm. “Yeah, well, it’s just exhausting. Seeing people handed everything—attention, friends, praise—while you’re stuck in the background, barely noticed unless someone needs something from you. No matter what you do, the world has already picked who gets to matter.”
Aizawa studied him for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, voice flat but firm. “Then don’t let the world decide. Decide for yourself who deserves to matter, and work to convince everyone else. You said you didn’t want friends when you joined, and now you’re frustrated because you don’t have friends, but you refuse to be friends with people who have perceived ‘good quirks.’”
Shinsou glared, jaw tight, letting the scarf whip around him.
“It’s not fair,” he muttered. “People with perfect quirks, with everything handed to them… they get friends, attention, success, just for existing. And I—”
“And yet you’re here, in the same class as them, with the same opportunities as them” Aizawa interrupted, voice flat. “Terrible things happen to everyone. Quirks, no quirks. Some people are born with advantages, some aren’t. That’s life. Complaining won’t change it.”
Shinsou gritted his teeth, letting a short, humorless laugh escape. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I joined this class, I’m training… but it’s not just about me. It’s all the rest of them too. Every perfect quirk, every person with everything already in place… it just… makes me sick sometimes.”
Aizawa’s gaze didn’t waver. “You want friends, but you push people away. You want recognition, but you refuse to accept the randomness of life. You’ve made your choice, Shinsou. Don’t blame the world for it, and don’t ruin your chances of having friends just because of their quirks. Otherwise, that makes you no better than anyone else.”
Shinsou swallowed, gripping the scarf tighter but said nothing. His eyes flicked down at the mat, jaw still tight. Every pass, every lunge was sharp, precise—but beneath it all simmered a frustration that was impossible to hide.
He let the thought linger: the unfairness, the luck, the quirks. Somewhere beneath it all, the bitterness grew, waiting.
The classroom hummed with its usual energy. Chairs scraped across the floor, papers shuffled, quiet bursts of conversation rippled through clusters of students. Shinsou sat back in his chair, arms crossed, trying to anchor himself in the rhythm—but his gaze kept drifting compulsively toward them.
Midoriya, bent over his notebook, pencil moving across the page in messy, confident strokes. The other students glanced at him now and then with admiration or curiosity. Shinsou noticed it all—the way their attention seemed to orbit Midoriya like a sun—and something tightened in his chest.
Across the room, Mina laughed at some offhand joke, gently slapping Jirou in rebuttal. Bakugo smirked, sharp and commanding even in idle conversation, drawing glances from half the class. Todoroki remained quiet, yet his presence demanded attention regardless, an aura untouchable by anyone. Every small interaction—the shift of a chair, the flick of a hand, the tilt of a head—became another reminder of the effortless ease they carried.
Shinsou forced himself to recall Aizawa’s words: some people are born with advantages, some aren’t. Easy to say when life hands you friends and respect without effort. And then there’s me, stuck on the sidelines, cursed with a quirk that makes people wary, unnoticed until convenient. Everyone else gets a head start. I get scraps.
Complaining won’t change it. He repeated it to himself, willing it to sink in, to feel true. But the thought faltered when Midoriya looked up from his notebook, a small, polite smile crossing his face as he responded to Jirou’s question.
It was like a flare—bright and irritating. The warmth of frustration coalesced in Shinsou’s chest, crawling into his fingers, making them itch. Every display of competence and attention felt like an accusation. The world was telling him he wasn’t enough, wrapped in ordinary moments, ordinary students doing ordinary things.
He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust his sleeve, but the heat didn’t fade. He tried to focus on his own work, his own breathing, anything to anchor himself—but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked back toward Midoriya, toward Bakugo, toward anyone whose ease and acknowledgment seemed effortless.
Even now, Shinsou knew he should calm himself. Aizawa’s voice echoed in his memory: Focus, Shinsou. Distraction gets people hurt.
But all he could feel was the pull of irritation, a low hum beneath his skin. He wanted to think himself above it, to convince himself it didn’t matter—but every glance, every small motion, kept him tethered.
The bell for the next period hadn’t rung yet. The room shifted into a quieter lull. Most students were tidying notebooks or checking phones; the chatter dropped to low murmurs. Shinsou remained, staring down at his own notebook, but the page was blank. He couldn’t focus. Every glance up reminded him of Midoriya: scribbling away, absorbed, unaware, and effortlessly pulling the group’s attention.
Midoriya’s pencil tapping set it off. The rhythmic sound struck Shinsou’s ears like an irritant. He gripped his pen tighter, fingers whitening. How could someone be so unaware, and yet so uncaring of those around them? Especially those in the hero course, for Kami’s sake.
A small noise—a growl from Bakugou, a chair scraping—felt magnified. Shinsou forced his eyes to the blank page, pretending to sketch a strategy, but the lines wouldn’t form. His mind kept looping back to Midoriya: the natural attention he drew, the ease with which he moved, the effortless acceptance of those around him.
Midoriya sneezed softly, muttering a quick, “Sorry.” Kirishima waved it off. “Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s nothing.” Other voices added quiet reassurances, smiles, nods, keeping things light.
Of course. Shinsou leaned back slightly, scarf coiled loosely in one hand. It was all deliberate. Every apology, every reaction, every glance fell exactly where Midoriya wanted it to. Golden boy got what he wanted without anyone realizing it.
He scribbled a few notes on his page, pencil scratching hard. He noticed Midoriya shifting subtly, ensuring no one ignored him. He wanted the attention, and they were giving it freely.
Todoroki nudged Midoriya’s shoulder in quiet question, voice gentle, meant only for him.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Midoriya murmured softly, another small, patient reassurance—the kind born from being loved enough to care, even when it’s over nothing.
And it hurt worse because Shinsou knew. Golden boy Izuku Midoriya was with golden boy Todoroki Shouto—dating, loved, destined for greatness together. A perfect future unfolding seamlessly.
They fell into line side by side. Hands brushed. Steps matched. Every smile, every careful word was part of the design. The world bent for them, seamless and unquestioned, and no one noticed. Not even Shinsou.
He huffed silently, forcing his gaze to the pages before him. The itch of irritation didn’t fade. Every gesture, every apology, every small reassurance only proved it further. He was left outside it all, staring in.
The corridors of Heights Allience. felt heavier than usual. Midoriya’s stomach twisted as he walked toward the common room, the familiar hum of the building doing little to soothe him. His father was visiting. That simple thought pressed on him, insistent.
He shouldn’t be scared. He was safe. Mom had made sure. Still…
He rounded the corner and entered the common room, taking his usual corner seat on the couch closest to the doorway, anchoring himself in the normal bustle and pulling out his notebook like usual. A small comfort, though it did little to ease the tightening in his chest.
“Deku,” Katsuki called from across the room, the nickname sharp and unmistakable. Midoriya froze, meeting Katsuki’s eyes and seeing clearly what he wanted to ask. A small smile forced itself onto his face.
“I’m fine, Kacchan,” he said softly, hands clenched at his sides. “Just… tired.”
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed, scanning him, but he let it drop, muttering something under his breath as he flopped onto the floor. Midoriya exhaled silently, chest still heavy.
Shoto slid onto the couch beside him, quiet and observant. “Looks like he got to you before I did,” he let out what could only be called the closest thing to a chuckle you’d ever hear from him. “You’ve been quiet… want to talk?”
Midoriya shook his head quickly. “I’m okay… just thinking.”
Shoto nodded once and leaned back, giving him space. Midoriya exhaled again, tracing the seam of the couch with his fingers, trying to focus on something mundane—battle strategies, quirks, hero analysis—anything to distract from the thought of his father.
It worked only a little. Memories surfaced unbidden: small, trembling, pinned to the floor as his father gripped him, murmuring about potential and power, insisting it would make him stronger. The pressure, the fear—it wasn’t teaching. It was forcing. Trying to awaken something inside him he wasn’t ready to give.
It was for “help,” he reminded himself. He had survived. He was safe. Mom had made sure. Shoto had it worse. That thought was always enough.
Midoriya rested his head against Shoto’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, feeling the faint weight of the other boy pressing back just enough to be grounding. The common room felt distant, like a small bubble of stillness amid the usual hum of chatter and movement. He traced the seam of the couch with his fingers, letting his breathing slow, letting the pencil lie idle on the notebook in his lap.
Shoto didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone loosened the anxiety in Midoriya’s chest, like a cord wound too tight. Part of him wanted to speak, to explain the tight knot of fear that resurfaced at the thought of his father—but the words stuck. They never sounded right anyway.
A sudden clatter—the sound of a textbook dropping—made him flinch. Shoto’s arm moved a fraction to steady him.
“It’s okay,” Shoto said quietly. “Nothing’s wrong here.”
Midoriya exhaled, letting the tension seep out of him, and pressed his cheek a little closer against Shoto’s jacket. It was absurd how much relief could come from something so simple. His thoughts, still racing, slowly focused on one small, safe thing: the notebook. He traced the margin of his last page, thinking about quirks and battle tactics, pretending it mattered. It didn’t. But it helped, even just a little.
After a few minutes, he pulled back slightly, blinking. His chest still felt tight, but he told himself it was enough. He was overreacting, letting something that had no place in the common room—the thought of his father, his own helplessness—infect his mood. He could handle this. He had to.
He straightened, setting the pencil down carefully, and tried to shift his expression into something more like normal. He could hear the chatter around him: laughter, teasing, the light jostle of friends brushing past each other. They don’t need to notice me like this, he thought. I can’t let them worry over nothing.
Shoto shifted slightly, studying Midoriya’s expression. “Do you want to… go to my room?” he asked quietly. “We could look over quirks or watch a movie—whatever you want.” On the surface, it sounded like a normal suggestion, but underneath, it was an invitation to somewhere quieter, somewhere Midoriya could just be without the rest of the class hovering.
Midoriya blinked and forced a small, even smile. I’m overthinking this. It’s fine. I can handle it. “Sure… yeah, that sounds good,” he said, keeping his voice steady. He pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his posture to seem casual. Shoto nodded and fell into step beside him as they walked down the hall, the quiet hum of the school around them doing little to betray the tension Midoriya tried to shove down.
Once in the room, Midoriya moved to his desk as though he intended to study, pulling out his maths notebook and pencils with shaky hands. Shoto sat beside him, not touching anything, just close enough to notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his pencil hovered over the page without really moving.
“You’re really focused,” Shoto said softly. “Trying to get a lot done?”
Midoriya’s hands tightened around his pencil. “Yeah… just… catching up. Nothing special.” His voice was calm, almost too calm.
Shoto nodded, letting the silence stretch a little. He didn’t push, didn’t ask anything more, just shifted slightly so Midoriya could lean if he wanted. Minutes passed in quiet scratching, the soft rustle of pages. Midoriya’s eyes flicked occasionally to the corner of the room, to the window, anywhere that wasn’t Shoto’s face.
When Shoto noticed his pencil lines beginning to blur, the quality of his work slipping, he reached out carefully, gathering a few of the workbooks. “Hey,” he said softly, holding them just enough to guide Midoriya toward the bed, “maybe we should take a short break. You’ve been at it a while.”
Midoriya stiffened, then exhaled, letting the tension in his shoulders sag just slightly. He followed Shoto’s lead, walking slowly toward the bed, clutching his pencil out of habit. Once seated on the edge, Shoto arranged the notebooks to one side and patted the mattress gently. “Sit,” he said quietly. “Just… sit for a bit. You can rest.”
Once there, Midoriya curled up beside Shoto, resting his head against his chest. The warmth and steady presence were grounding, though he resisted the feeling at first, keeping his eyes half-open and the tension in his shoulders taut.
Midoriya pressed lightly against Shoto’s shoulder, still trying to anchor himself in something steady. Shoto kept his voice soft, careful not to push too fast.
“Back at the sports festival,” he said quietly, “you said you… understood me. That things you went through were hard. I… I just want to understand you too. I don’t know everything, but—”
“I know,” Midoriya interrupted quickly, turning slightly to meet Shoto’s eyes. “I… you don’t need to worry. Really. I mean, it’s fine. It’s been years, and Mom… she made sure. You don’t have to…” His voice trailed off, and he ducked his head back onto Shoto’s shoulder.
Shoto remained still, letting him settle. “I don’t know what happened,” he admitted, “but I know something did. And it’s okay if it still affects you.”
Midoriya shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s… just old stuff,” he said softly. “I probably worry more than I should. I should be over it. Everyone’s… everyone’s lives are messy. Mine’s not worse than anyone else’s.”
Shoto’s thumb brushed over the back of Midoriya’s hand, gentle, grounding. “I don’t think that matters. It’s not a competition. You don’t have to pretend it’s nothing for my sake—or anyone else’s.”
Midoriya let out a quiet sigh, trying to force a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah… maybe I’m just overreacting,” he murmured. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.”
Shoto didn’t reply immediately, letting the quiet hang, but the warmth of his presence was steady. He wasn’t pushing answers, he was just there—listening, aware that there was more than Midoriya was letting on, but patient enough to let him choose how much to reveal.
Izuku hugged the blanket tighter, pressing his face into it. “It… it wasn’t really that bad,” he said, voice low. “He… only hit me. He said it was to help me—make something happen with my quirk. I—I mean… I guess it kind of worked. I got stronger, didn’t I? And he never… he never even touched Mom. I… I don’t know why I’m making it a big deal.”
Shoto shifted slightly, calm, steady. “Izuku… that was abuse. You can be upset about it.”
Izuku shook his head quickly, almost defensive. “No, I… I wasn’t hurt like that. He was just trying to help me. I probably— I'm probably overreacting. I’m just… making everything sound worse than it was. I shouldn’t even be upset. I was fine. I am fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine,” Shoto said, voice steady. “It doesn’t matter what he meant. Hitting you, pressuring you… that’s abuse. You have every right to feel what you feel, Izuku.”
Izuku bit his lip, twisting slightly. “But… it worked! I… I got stronger. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I probably just… I don’t know, made it worse by being scared. It’s… it’s not like he was cruel on purpose.”
Shoto stayed calm, hands resting lightly at his sides. “That doesn’t make it okay. Intent doesn’t erase the effect. You were a kid, Izuku. It hurt you, and that’s enough.”
Izuku let out a shaky breath, voice muffled against the blanket. “I… I guess… but I shouldn’t be upset. I was fine. I’ve already caused enough… I even got a restraining order against him for a few years. I… I made it a big deal when it wasn’t really that bad.”
Shoto’s eyes narrowed slightly, a faint edge of frustration in his calm voice. “Izuku… if it was serious enough for a restraining order, then it was serious. You don’t get to downplay that for anyone, not even yourself.”
Izuku’s jaw tightened. “But… he was just trying to help… it’s not like he wanted to hurt me!”
Shoto’s voice sharpened a little, measured but firm. “It doesn’t matter what he meant. Hitting you- hurting you… that’s not helping. That’s abuse, and you have every right to be upset about it.”
Izuku flinched but didn’t look away. “I… I just… I don’t want to make it worse than it is. I shouldn’t even be angry.”
Shoto leaned a fraction closer, eyes steady. “No, Izuku. You can be angry. You can be upset. That doesn’t make you weak or wrong. You were a child. And what happened… it matters.”
Izuku stayed silent, letting Shoto’s words sink in, before muttering, “I… I just… I don’t know…”
Shoto let him trail off, keeping his presence calm and steady. He’d been through enough himself to know there wasn’t a simple fix. He stayed patient, letting Izuku unpack at his own pace without pushing too hard.
Izuku let out a quiet sigh, hands curling into the blanket. The tight knot of anger and guilt in his chest loosened just a little, though the weight didn’t fully lift. Shoto didn’t say anything, just shifted slightly so he could keep an arm around him without making a fuss. It was enough. That quiet presence, steady and unjudging, gave Izuku permission to let his shoulders drop and stop bracing against the world.
“Do you… want to sleep?” Shoto asked softly, almost hesitant. “We don’t have to talk anymore tonight if you don’t want to.”
Izuku nodded, barely moving, still clutching the blanket. “Yeah… I think… I think that’s a good idea.” His voice was small, a whisper even to himself.
Shoto guided him gently, hands careful and calm, until they were both settled on the bed. Midoriya let his head rest on Shoto’s shoulder, feeling the warmth and quiet steadiness beneath him. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself just exist without thinking about anyone else—no comparisons, no guilt, no imagined expectations.
“Good night, Izuku,” Shoto murmured, adjusting the blanket lightly over them both, careful not to press too close or make him feel trapped.
“Night,” Izuku breathed back, the single word carrying the exhaustion of the day and the lingering, quiet unease he couldn’t shake entirely.
The room was still except for the soft hum of the dorm, the occasional creak of settling furniture, the faint, distant voices of other students winding down. For a moment, the tension that had pressed so heavily on his chest softened enough for him to drift toward sleep, eyes fluttering closed as he let Shoto’s presence hold the space around him.
Even as he succumbed to the slow pull of rest, part of him remained alert, a tiny edge of wariness at the thought of his father’s upcoming visit. But it was distant now, manageable, tucked beneath the small comfort of being somewhere safe with someone who understood in ways no one else could.