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Izuku barely manages to keep from vibrating out of his skin as the day passes around him.
He feels unmoored in an equal but somehow opposite manner from before.
As if, in direct contrast to his days of grey-tinged blankness, there’s now a constant buzzing in the boney cage of his skull. A bee-like rumbling that sets his legs to bouncing and his hands to twitching.
It’s not eagerness, exactly, the feeling that’s eating at him, but Izuku’s pretty sure that it keeps close company to it.
It makes him jittery to the point that he knows he gets more than one look from his classmates throughout the day. Izuku’s sure that even a few of the teachers seem to notice even if no one says anything to him.
But, for once, Izuku can’t bring himself to actually care.
For once the feel of their eyes on his back or the side of his face doesn’t make him want to fold down and into himself. Doesn’t make that voice in his head yawn itself awake to hiss, snakeline, in his ear about how they’re all more than likely judging him.
About how he’s being a distraction and an annoyance.
About how he should just ... stop.
For once Izuku doesn’t give more than a passing thought to narrowed red eyes and flexing hands.
For once Izuku doesn’t think about any of that.
Instead, all Izuku can think about is how a part of him feels as if the thick folder he’d compiled last night is somehow going to ignite and burn a hole through his bag.
It might have been a mistake to bring those folders out of his room this morning. There won’t be a chance for the two of them to sit down and fill the paperwork out safely until after classes are finished for the day.
But Izuku had been eager to show Shōto his newfound resolve. Had been eager to hand Shōto proof of the new path they’d be settling on together soon.
And, somehow, the thought of leaving those folders behind, unprotected in his dorm room where anyone could find them, had been an idea Izuku hadn’t been able to handle.
The dorms aren’t safe.
Not for him.
Not really.
At least not in a way that locking his dorm’s door can fix.
So Izuku had tucked both folders under his arm as he walked out.
Having those folders close to him was well worth spending the day feeling like he’s smuggling something illegal around campus.
In the end, it’s Shōto that helps to ground Izuku again before he can vibrate out of his skin.
Because of course it is.
It’s the cool press of Shōto’s hand on his shoulder and the way he hooks their ankles together beneath the cafeteria table that settles Izuku’s nerves just enough that he can actually eat.
It’s Shōto’s fingers wrapped like a gentle tether around Izuku’s wrist during practical lessons and his voice asking soft questions that lets Izuku’s mind focus on planning and analyzing. That keeps Izuku’s focus in the moment instead of drifting back to permission slips and paperwork and the conversations he knows are sure to come.
It’s Shōto who, once again, helps Izuku fit back into his own skin in a way no one ever has before.
Shōto whose quiet, almost gravitational presence at his side, allows Izuku to reconnect with himself enough to realize that, nerves or not, he’s not actually second-guessing his decision.
His resolve is firm and their path is set.
All that’s left is the journey itself.
~~~
Even with the disarray that’s been haunting Izuku’s every move throughout the day, he and Shōto are still the last ones to leave the training grounds.
By the time they finally stop and head inside to change out of their costumes Aoyama, normally the last to finish changing, is already twirling past them on his way back to the dorms.
The locker room is quiet and still when they finally step inside, both of them automatically heading to the bench in the back corner that they normally occupy.
“Are you okay?” Shōto asks, voice soft and steady as he slots himself between Izuku and the open space of the locker room.
Izuku takes a moment before he answers.
Takes the time to set his mouth guard into his costume case and to remove his boots before he starts peeling himself out of his jumpsuit before he says a word.
Because it’s Shōto who is asking him that question.
And, unlike with the rest of the world, Shōto is the one person Izuku doesn’t want to lie to.
Not anymore.
Not after everything that’s passed around and between the two of them.
Izuku doesn’t want to brush him off with one of the set answers he’s had curled up, ready and waiting, on the tip of his tongue for as long as he can remember.
So instead of giving out an automatic ‘yes’, instead of saying, 'I’m fine’ like he has so many times in the past, as he would to anyone else who asked, Izuku actually pauses to consider.
Because Izuku knows by now that Shōto has no problem with giving him a moment to think.
It makes Izuku just a bit breathless when he thinks about how Shōto never gets frustrated or annoyed with his ... eccentricities.
How he never seems to be anything but calmly accepting on the occasions when Izuku can’t help but mumble and brainstorm aloud. Or in the times where he finds that his words don’t flow and tumble out as rapidly as they normally do.
Shōto just accepts Izuku and all of the issues that come with him. Seems content to shoulder the weight of whatever truths Izuku might be willing to give to him.
All of the things that have made Izuku an outcast and a social pariah for over a decade and Shōto has done nothing but accept them all.
It’s something Izuku’s never really had before.
Acceptance.
And here is Shōto giving him more of it than Izuku had ever thought possible.
It’s sweeter than he’d ever dared to dream
“Just nervous I guess,” Izuku finally answers as he shifts in his spot on the bench, hand reaching up automatically to take the shirt Shōto’s holding out to him.
“Second thoughts?” Shōto asks, no judgment in his tone but gaze intent as Izuku shrugs into his shirt and slowly starts on the buttons.
“No,” Izuku’s reply comes out instantly this time and coated with such a thick layer of certainty that it takes even him by surprise for a split second. “Just … anticipation? I think? There’s a lot that’s going to happen once we do this.”
“We’ll handle it,” Shōto says, one part reassurance and one part stated truth, as he finally begins to strip off his own costume with quick, efficient hands.
These days Shōto always waits for Izuku to be almost completely done dressing before he starts changing himself. And each day without fail he always steps between Izuku and any of their classmate’s curious eyes when it comes time to change.
Always positions himself between Izuku and the rest of the locker room like an impenetrable shield.
Izuku had just been too lost, too faded out around the edges and then slowly resettling, to realize the pattern they’d so effortlessly fallen into as it was developing.
Had been too far gone to realize just what Shōto has been doing for him, unprompted, for so long now that their routines have become instinctual for the both of them.
But he sees it now, sees the way that Shōto keeps himself costumed and battle-ready, keeps himself on guard until Izuku himself is done dressing. Until the skin and scars and stories that Izuku doesn’t want to tell are all once more safely tucked away from prying eyes.
He sees the way that Shōto protects this small bit of vulnerability for him without ever having to be asked.
This small and yet infinitely precious way in which Shōto’s been trying to protect Izuku.
Fondness and a fierce sort of adoration well up abruptly in Izuku’s chest.
In this, as in so many other ways that have become apparent to Izuku lately, Shōto is, has been, and, amazingly enough, wants to continue being there for him in ways no one else ever has before.
In ways that Izuku had never dared to dream anyone ever would be.
“Yeah,” Izuku agrees softly. “We will.”
The truth of the matter is that a part of Izuku is beginning to think that together they can handle anything.
~~~
Sometimes Izuku can’t help but think about how much more Shōto might be willing to accept from him.
Sometimes Izuku can’t help but think about what other kinds of truths Shōto might be willing to help him carry.
~~~
Shōto tangles their fingers together as they step out of the locker room and finally turn their feet towards the dorms.
The warmth of his hand feels good against the constant low-grade ache of Izuku’s twisted fingers.
A soothing sort of balm against one of the only sets of scars Izuku wears with pride.
Izuku would carry a thousand more scars willingly, eagerly, if even one of them was the price he’d have to pay to help Shōto half as much as Shōto has been helping him.
They're on the stairway that leads out to the campus grounds when Izuku's feet root themselves to the floor.
Shōto takes a few steps more before he realizes that Izuku isn’t moving with him anymore and also stops.
Their arms are stretched out between them from where Izuku’s standing at the top of the stairs and Shōto’s standing two or so below him.
Shōto doesn’t say anything, just turns enough to stare up at him in silent question.
He doesn’t step back up the stairs and he doesn’t attempt to pull Izuku down towards him either.
But what’s more important somehow to Izuku at this moment is the fact that Shōto doesn’t let his hand go either.
Instead, Shouto keeps their fingers tangled together and lets their arms stay raised there between them.
Content, it seems, to simply stop and wait until Izuku is ready to move once more.
As if he’d stay there with his arm reaching across the distance between them and his fingers tangled with Izuku’s own for as long as Izuku needs him to.
As if Izuku doesn’t have to ask or explain because Shōto is content to simply be with him.
Izuku isn’t sure what, exactly, he did to earn that kind of acceptance from Shōto but he knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that he’ll happily spend the rest of his life trying to deserve it.
Backlit by the setting sun, Shōto looks as if he’s wreathed in cosmic fire.
And in that moment something solid and true finally crystalizes inside of Izuku’s chest.
He steps down once and then again until he’s once more standing side by side with Shōto on the same stair.
Their shoulders are brushing and their hands are still clasped together.
Izuku takes a deep breath.
He inhales warm summer air.
He exhales something small and tired and no longer welcome in turn.
Shōto squeezes his hand gently.
Izuku smiles.
Squeezes back.
Steps forward.
~~~
When they get closer to their dorm building Izuku doesn’t head for the front door.
Instead, he takes the lead for once and tugs Shōto around the corner of the building and out towards the garden.
There’s a bench out at the furthest edge of the gardens that Izuku occasionally likes to sit on. It’s tucked into a little half-circle of hedges and it’s well out of the hearing range of anyone who might be in the dorms.
Shōji and Jirō included.
They sit down together, bags at their feet and bodies pressed close from shoulders to hips, as silence settles comfortably around them.
Peace.
Something else Izuku didn’t think he’d ever find with someone else.
“I need to tell you something,” Izuku finally breathes the words out into the air around them, voice barely above a whisper. “And I need you to listen to all of it before you judge me.”
“You can tell me anything,” Shōto replies instantly.
“It’s … a lot,” Izuku warns him, a ragged little jolt of almost laughter slipping out of him against his will. “It’s so much, Shōto. A-And there’s no going back once you know.”
Just a bit desperate to make sure he understands, Izuku turns enough to be able to stare up into Shōto’s eyes again. Shōto, as he always seems to do these days, turns to meet him halfway.
“It’ll change things,” Izuku presses softly, adamantly. He needs Shōto to be sure because, above all else, Shōto deserves a fair warning about the cliff Izuku’s about to shove him off of. “It’ll change a lot of things. Maybe even how you look at some people. It could … it could change how you look at me. And that’s terrifying but I still want to tell you because I don’t want to keep secrets from you anymore. Because if we’re really doing this, if we’re leaving together, then you have the right to know all of it before we go. But if you don-”
“Izuku,” Shōto interrupts him as he reaches out and grabs Izuku’s free hand so that he’s cradling both of them between his own.
Izuku goes quiet.
Shōto stares down at him, his warm thumb smoothing over the lines of Izuku’s scars.
“Anything,” Shōto repeats. “Everything.”
Shōto says it with zero hesitation. Like it’s a universal truth given spoken form.
Izuku sucks in a shuddering breath.
Two words and Izuku feels like Shōto’s handed him the entire world all over again.
It's only right then that Izuku gives Shoto the bits of himself he's been holding back in return.
“When I was four,” Izuku whispers shakily, “I was diagnosed quirkless. And a lot of people found that ... pretty unforgivable.”
Shōto’s hands tighten around Izuku’s own.
It comes spilling out of Izuku in stops and starts, in ragged bits and bitten off pieces.
The diagnosis, his mother’s tears and his father’s continued absence, the dream he’d stubbornly clung to with too small but already desperate hands.
But worst of all, most painful of all, was the way that Izuku had been forced to watch as the world around him decided he was less of a person and more of a thing.
And not even a thing of value at that.
Instead of a person, Izuku became little more than a quirkless, a leftover, a throwback from a bygone age that would never amount to anything.
The vestigial boy born in the wrong time.
Defective.
Useless.
A deku in fact as well as name.
“It hurt so much,” Izuku whispers, and saying the words aloud for the first time feels a lot like freedom. Like the snapping of wires and the shedding of a weight he’d never realized was wearing him down. “They hurt me so much. For so long. Because I was ... different.”
“Bakugō.” Shōto finally interrupts, practically hissing the name out, something terrible lurking just beneath the surface of his expression.
Izuku doesn’t bother to try and deny it. Shōto already knows the truth after all.
He’s already seen the scars and the blood and the rest of the ugly aftermath.
Has already chosen time and time again to step between Izuku and the threat that has defined so much of his life for over a decade now.
All of this is just … backstory.
“We really were friends once,” Izuku finds himself saying instead. “Our moms actually still are. But he just … ”
Izuku takes another shuddering breath and finally says the things he’s never allowed himself to give form to before.
“I don’t know if it’s actually hatred, what he feels towards me,” Izuku tells Shōto. “But that’s what it's always felt like to me. When he hit me, when he burned me, when he said … awful things. It felt like hate to me back then and it still does now. And I just … the selfish part of me doesn’t want it to matter what he felt then or even what he feels about me now. I think … I think that, just this once, I want the way he made me feel to be what matters.”
“It’s all that matters to me,” Shōto reassures him, hands still achingly gentle around Izuku’s own.
And there it is again, Shōto so effortlessly choosing Izuku over someone else.
It’s something that no one but Izuku’s mom has ever really done for him.
“We really were friends once,” Izuku repeats, but this time he’s not entirely sure who he’s trying to convince. Shōto, himself, or the ghost of the kid he used to be. “But it wasn’t for long, not really, and it … it wasn’t a good friendship.”
Izuku knows that now.
It’s one of the precious lessons he’s learned during his short time here at U.A., the fact that friendship could be, was supposed to be, kind.
It was supposed to be fair and equal.
It wasn’t supposed to hurt.
What he’d had with Bakugō, the vicious, pain-tinged thing their childish games had turned into, hadn’t been any of that.
At least not for him.
It wasn’t until Uraraka, wasn’t until Iida and the rest of the class, wasn’t until Shōto himself, that Izuku finally realized that he could have those things too.
That kindness was possible for him outside of the apartment he shared with his mom.
“It always hurt so much but I ...,” Izuku stops, swallows, and then forces himself to keep going, “it was all I had. For the longest time. I think that’s why I clung to it so hard for so long. Why I kept calling him Kacchan, why I kept focusing so hard on how great he was. Why I kept trying to find my own way to be … why I just kept trying.”
The shuddering breath Izuku sighs out is thick with a decade of things Izuku’s never been able to say.
“I guess,” Izuku rasps through a throat gone tight, “I thought if I could at least pretend we were still friends it would be better than having to admit how lonely I was. If I could pretend I still had him then I wouldn’t have to admit that I didn’t have anyone else.”
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” Shōto tells him, shifting their hands until his thumbs are pressing firmly into Izuku’s palms. “He doesn’t matter. Not anymore, not ever again.”
“I don’t,” Izuku agrees shakily. “He doesn’t.”
It feels almost like a prayer, that acknowledgment that it really is over.
After a decade of hurt and aching loneliness, Izuku is finally done.
He doesn’t need to cling to that pain anymore.
He doesn’t need to keep weathering explosions, doesn’t need to keep smiling and singing praises or begging for leniency just to try and maintain some sliver of an illusion that’s only ever made him bleed and cry and ache.
He can let it all go now.
Izuku doesn’t have to carry the weight of Bakugō’s disdain and disapproval wrapped around his throat like an anchor weighing him down anymore.
Or ever again.
He can finally, blessedly, let it fall.
Because what he’s found here, what Shōto has given him, what Izuku hopes he’ll be able to return even a sliver of as they move forward together, is so much more precious.
Izuku gives himself a moment to savor that feeling before he tucks it away for the moment.
Even if all he wants to do is sit here in this moment and bask in what he’s found, what he’s been given, Izuku knows he can’t afford to.
He has to move on.
Because there’s still so much to tell.
Because Izuku hasn’t actually gotten to the point of this entire conversation yet.
Hasn’t yet told Shōto the truth he deserves to know before he rearranges his entire life to stay by Izuku’s side.
“There’s more,” Izuku finally says. “This was just … I wanted you to know it all. Wanted you to understand how it all started for me before I told you the rest. But now’s your last chance to back out.”
“Anything,” Shōto repeats yet again, thumbs rubbing circles against Izuku’s palms. “Everything.”
“This quirk I have,” Izuku starts, stops, forces himself to just breathe for a moment before he pushes on, “all this power I’ve been using. I wasn’t born with it. It’s not mine. It-It was given to me.”
Across from him, Shōto’s eyes widen just a bit before they abruptly narrow.
“Given? Ho- Who …?” Shōto trails off for a second before his hands tighten just a bit around Izuku’s own. “All Might.”
“Yeah,” Izuku confirms, not really all that surprised that Shōto has put it together so quickly.
All of the pieces are there for anyone who cares to look.
For anyone who knows they should be looking in the first place.
“How?” Shōto actually asks the question this time.
“It’s a power stockpiling quirk passed from user to chosen user,” Izuku whispers back. There’s a heaviness to the air around them now, like the world itself is holding its breath. “All Might received it from his sensei and she received it from someone else before that. He carried it for decades and now … now he’s passed it onto me. I’m the ninth holder of the quirk known as One For All.”
Shōto’s still for a moment and then he drops Izuku’s hands and shifts back and away from him.
Izuku has a split second to feel hurt well up in his chest before Shōto’s stomping his foot and a ring of tall, thick ice erupts around them.
Shōto’s back in his space in the next second, pulling Izuku into the warmth of his side.
When Izuku looks up into Shōto’s face there’s a tightness at the corners of his eyes that’s never been there before.
“This can’t get out,” Shōto says even as the arm around Izuku’s shoulder tightens just a bit, pulling Izuku closer to Shōto’s chest like he wants to curl up around him. “No one can know about this. If the wrong people found out they’d try to force you to give it up. They'd take you away. They’d hurt you. ”
“I know,” Izuku agrees, one hand coming up to fist in Shōto’s shirt. It’s a thought that’s been living in the back of Izuku’s head for over a year now. A risk he had cataloged back at the beginning even if he’d never said anything to All Might. “That’s why I had to tell you. So you know how dangerous this could be, us staying together. Because that isn't even all of it. There's still more.”
And so Izuku tells Shōto the rest of it.
He tells Shōto a ghost story about two brothers.
Tells him about blood and death and a legacy carried in an unbroken line for two centuries.
About a monster that had likely survived despite all odds.
Pressed close to Shōto’s side and shielded by the walls of ice he’d erected around them, Izuku tells him about the legacy of war that All Might passed down to him.
Tells him about how, even if it ends up killing him, Izuku will never regret all that it has already given him.
He would make the same choice a thousand times if given the chance.
Because even if this ends up killing him, well, it’s not like Izuku was really living before anyways.
“So,” Izuku says after he reaches the end, “now you know the truth. About me, about this quirk. About everything.”
For a long moment there’s only silence.
“That’s why your control was so bad in the beginning wasn’t it?” Shōto finally asks. “Why you hurt yourself so much during our match? Because you’d only had your quirk for such a short time?”
“Since the entrance exam,” Izuku clarifies. “All Might, he gave it to me that morning and then I shattered half my bones that afternoon. I’m getting better now though. I’ve got Full Cowling and I've got ideas for more. It’s a work in progress though, the quirk just has too much power for me to go all out with it right now.”
“We’ll have to up our training when we get to Shiketsu,” Shōto finally says. “We need to refine your style and control. My fire too. We’ll need to surpass our current limits and then keep going.”
“Plus Ultra,” Izuku agrees before he stops and huffs out a small laugh. “Or I guess not anymore huh?”
“We’ll go beyond even that,” Shōto says. “Together.”
“Yeah,” Izuku smiles just a bit. “Together.”
This time it’s Izuku who shifts their hands so that they can twine their fingers together again.
“All Might chose right,” Shōto tells him softly, certainly.
“It feels so heavy,” Izuku admits quietly. “The weight of it all, the shadow of this, this legend I’ve stepped into. I’m not anything special but All Might gave me this quirk and I’m here at UA, with you, and sometimes it just … it doesn’t feel real. Sometimes I wake up and I half expect it all to be a dream. But it’s not.”
“You’re right where you’re meant to be,” Shōto says. “I know you now and I think you would’ve ended up here regardless. Even if you’d never met All Might, you’d have still found a way to make it here.”
Izuku’s breath hitches.
“Y-You think I could be a hero,” Izuku barely manages to choke the words out, “even without All Might’s quirk?”
“I think you already are,” Shōto tells him easily. “I can’t imagine you being anything else.”
And then Shōto moves again.
The arm that’s been laying over the line of Izuku’s shoulder shifts so that a warm hand can bury itself in his hair as Shōto abruptly presses further into Izuku’s space, pulling him closer in turn.
“You’re an idiot though,” Shōto huffs at him then. “To think I’d get to give your words back to you like this.”
“What?” Izuku's brow furrows deeply, thrown by the swift shift in topic.
“You keep saying ‘this quirk’ or ‘his quirk’,” Shōto says. “You keep talking about All Might and your place in his legacy.”
Shōto shifts them until he can bring their entwined hands up between them.
For a second Izuku is left in breathless suspense as Shōto just stares at the scars that litter Izuku’s skin, something soft and fond lurking around the corners of his mouth.
Then Shōto brings Izuku’s hand up towards his face and presses a soft, barely there kiss to the jut of his knuckles.
Izuku’s heart skips a beat in his chest.
“All Might might have had that quirk before you,” Shōto says, gaze moving up to lock with Izuku’s. “But that doesn’t matter. Know why?”
“No,” Izuku denies, oddly breathless. He's sure he knows where this is going but he wants, needs, to hear Shōto say it.
“It’s because it’s your quirk now, Izuku,” Shōto says, the softest, sweetest smile Izuku’s ever seen pointed in his direction blossoming across his face. “It’s your power, not his. ”
For a moment there’s silence.
And then tears abruptly flood Izuku’s eyes.
For the first time in what feels like forever they're tears of pure joy.
He can’t help the way he flings himself across the sliver of space that still exists between him and Shōto so he can bury his face in the boy’s chest.
The force of his lunge sends Shōto teetering backward, surprising and overbalancing him until he’s sprawled out on the bench on his back with Izuku laying practically on top of him.
But Shōto doesn’t bother to fight it, doesn’t try to move or sit back up.
In fact he doesn’t do more than huff out a small breath, shift into a more comfortable position, and pull Izuku closer.
It always seems as if he's pulling Izuku closer.
“I’m glad All Might and you met that day,” Shōto says after a few seconds. “I wish you hadn’t been hurt like you were, but at least it brought you here."
"Me too," Izuku whispers. "This makes everything worth it."
Izuku, of course, isn't just talking about UA.
But then Izuku doesn't think Shōto is either.
"And," Shōto continues, "at least this means I don’t have to kill All Might after all.”
He pauses.
“Probably?” He almost seems to try the word out before shrugging just a bit and settling on a deadpan, “Hopefully,” instead.
Practically sprawled on top of Shōto with his head resting on his chest, Izuku abruptly wheezes out a wet laugh.
“Please don’t try to kill All Might,” Izuku finally manages to choke the words out.
“We’ll see,” Shōto hums as he pulls Izuku even closer to him, one long-fingered hand moving to stroke soothingly up and down the line of Izuku’s spine as the other reaches out to slowly melt the ice that still surrounds them.
But when it’s gone neither of them move. Neither of them pulls away and ends the moment so they can go inside.
Instead they stay there laying on the bench in the garden, limbs twined together and hearts beating out slow, complementary rhythms in their chests, for the longest time.
"Also, fair warning," Shōto breaks the silence, voice almost drowsy, "I’m probably going to break both of Bakugō's legs.”
“Please don’t,” Izuku tries to nip that idea in the bud even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed.
Shōto just hums.
It’s as close to pure peace as Izuku has ever felt.
~~~
"Ready?" Izuku asks.
"Always," Shōto answers.
And somehow that one word is enough.
Izuku raises a hand to knock on the staff room door.