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The sour-sweet smell of steaming milk permeates the air of the dimly lit cafe and the noise of it drowns out the voices of the few people there.
One of those people, Midoriya Izuku, is currently slowly sinking into an old leather couch in the middle of said cafe, staring holes into his hands with a frown on his face as he twiddles his thumbs between his knees.
He’s really not sure how he ended up here- alone, at that- and hasn’t been able to look up since he walked into the nondescript cafe, ordered a matcha latte- and yeah, caffeine was probably not the best idea, but his hands were already shaking so what’s the difference anyway- and promptly allowed himself to be swallowed up by what might be the most uncomfortable couch he’s ever sat on.
The bright chime of his phone alerts him of a text, so he wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts and reaches for it.
OCHA
Sorry again I couldn’t make it! You’re gonna do great!
A smile pulls the corners of Izuku’s lips up when he sees the excessive string of emojis that follow his best friend’s message. He hadn’t really been that upset when she bailed on him earlier, claiming she’d had to trade shifts with a coworker so they could cover her for an upcoming exam.
Honestly, Izuku was relieved at the excuse to skip it himself. Except, he’s been talking about this for the last month, building himself up and making himself accountable to everyone who would listen. That’s a lot of people to disappoint and Izuku doesn’t think he can handle that kind of guilt.
It still doesn’t mean he wants to be here.
Even now, with his name already on the list, he’s considering calling the whole thing off, walking out and never showing his face here again.
There are fire ants crawling under his skin and the loud rattle of grinding coffee beans grates against his ears like cheese. He’s pretty sure there’s a puddle growing on the floor from all the sweat falling from his hands and forehead and he thinks it’s a good enough excuse as any to get up and leave.
He’s just beginning to devise a plan to get out of this couch without falling or making a fool of himself in front of the audience and fellow performers that have already begun to fill the surrounding chairs and couches when a soft voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Midoriya?”
A fluff of green hair bounces as he startles and whips his head around, all wide eyes and pink cheeks.
A tall woman with a thick ponytail and encouraging smile offers him a hand to shake when he manages a gulp and a nod.
“Y- yes?”
“I’m Yaoyorozu, I’m the host. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“O-oh!” Izuku shakes his head and remembers his manners, shaking Yaoyorozu’s hand and praying that she’s not disgusted by the excess of moisture in his palm. “It’s nice to meet you! Thank you for having me!”
“It’s a pleasure to have you. How’d you hear about our little open mic?”
Izuku’s face is overheating now, any chance of escape lost over this one interaction. He hopes the sigh that escapes at his resignation isn’t too noticeable.
“I actually- um... I live across the street and I’ve walked by a few times, but never managed to make it. Well, until now I guess.”
“And you’ll be reading some poems?”
The frown crawls back on to Izuku’s face as he’s reminded that yes, he will be reading his own writing. Damn Ocha and her incessant pushing. Sure he is a writer, but his focus is science fiction, ghost stories, his poems they’re... not really for anybody but himself.
But Ocha had gone and found them and cried and told him they were beautiful and worth sharing, said they were like sad songs. Besides, she’d argued, wouldn’t it be good for him to network, meet some of his peers? Hasn’t he had writer’s block for months and maybe, just maybe performing with other creatives could be the spark of inspiration he needs.
His stomach sank at the truth of her words, but he couldn’t deny them. So he’d grumbled an okay and that was that.
Now, here he is and so he says:
“Y-yes. I have a few with me. I’m honestly not a poet, my friend convinced me to come because I’ve been struggling with my novel. I probably shouldn’t, to be honest, they’re kind of- excessively sad, I use poetry to process. Well, I mean, obviously I’m not the only one. Art, in general, really, is a very therapeutic tool. It’s often used in psychiatric settings, I read this study recently-”
A cough cuts him off and Izuku chokes a little on his words, wishing the couch actually could swallow him alive. Any escape from the embarrassment of his nervous rambling.
Except the look on Yaoyorozu’s face is apologetic as she explains, “that sounds very interesting and I’d love to hear more about it! Unfortunately, we’re getting started soon and I need to go greet the other performers.”
“Ri-right. Of course.”
He’s surprised when her hand reaches out for his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, the smile on her face genuine as she says her goodbyes, “I’m very glad you came out, and I’m sure you’re going to do great.”
“Thank you,” he squeaks as she walks away.
The conversation hadn’t done much to calm his racing nerves, but it is nice to know someone so kind would be in the audience.
It’s then he takes the opportunity to survey the crowd, get to know the faces of the people who would be watching him bare his soul in a muggy room with the bittersweet smell of cocoa hanging heavy around him.
There are still a few empty chairs and only five minutes to showtime. Okay, not too packed then.
At a table next to the window, a woman with purple hair and heavy eyeliner is tuning a ukulele, a blonde-haired man sitting in a chair in front of him taps out a rhythm on his knee and the pink-haired woman in animal print whose sitting across from him is humming along. To his left slicked back raven-hair in a trench coat is whispering to themself as they read out of a notebook in their hand.
The rest of the crowd is either chatting as they wait or staring at the microphone in the front of the room, waiting for the night to begin.
The sight of the microphone makes the whole thing real and Izuku is once again wondering if it’s really too late to walk out when Yaoyorozu walks up to it and opens her mouth to begin.
Only to be interrupted by the tinkle of bells as the cafe door opens and a tall man with dusty pink hair, boredom in his heterochromatic eyes, and a striking jawline walks in, an acoustic guitar strapped to his back.
Something about him scratches a little at Izuku’s memory, he’s familiar in a maybe-I-saw-him-in-a-picture-once kind of way, but Izuku’s not paying attention to that. No, all he sees is a very handsome, well-dressed, and probably talented man who will shortly be witness to Izuku’s impending embarrassment.
Great, he thinks, Ocha’s right. I totally have a thing for musicians.
The other issue is that the man is staring right at him and Izuku can’t seem to look away, hypnotized by shades of brown and grey and blue and wow he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.
Then the man has the audacity to smirk, and yeah, Izuku is going to die tonight, if he hasn’t already because he shouldn’t even be in the same room as the man.
Well, it was a good run- at least he got to see one of the seven wonders, even if it is the cause of said death.
“Shouto! You made it.” It’s Yaoyorozu who breaks their staring contest, barely containing her annoyance as her voice sounds through the amp.
“Ah, yeah. Sorry, Yaomomo! My old man…”
Izuku watches as Yaoyorozu’s face softens at that, and his heart sinks at the way the two are looking at each other. Okay, it’s not really like he thought he had a chance, but still.
She dismisses his apology with a wave of her hand, “you’re here now, that’s what matters. Besides, you can make it up to me by going first.”
Izuku’s gaze is still intent on Shouto? That’s what Yaoyorozu called him, right? So he doesn’t miss the roll of his eyes and little huff that escapes his lips.
It’s actually kind of cute and not at all what Izuku should be worrying about right now.
“Of course, Yaomomo.”
“Yeah! Shouto breaking the ice!” The blonde-haired drummer called from his seat.
“Like he has anything to worry about,” snarked the ukulele player with a spark of amusement in her eye and Izuku doesn’t miss the way her gaze keeps traveling between Shouto and himself.
Soon the room is full of calls of encouragement and laughter and if Izuku wasn’t so distracted by the man who is now tuning his guitar to the left of the stage he might actually be enjoying himself. Still, he absorbs some of the positivity from the atmosphere and sits up a little, as much as he can, when Yaoyorozu finally gets the crowd to settle down.
“Okay, okay everybody, settle down, please! We are very excited for all the performances. Welcome to 1st Thursday open mic! Tonight we’ve got some music and poetry for you. There are some newcomers with us, so let’s give them a warm welcome. Now for the details, each performer gets about ten minutes or three songs…”
Izuku’s eyes can’t help but wander back to Shouto, who's watching Yaoyorozu’s explanation and plucking lazy notes from the strings of his guitar.
There’s a very large scar occupying the right side of his face, from his hairline to a few inches under his striking blue eye, and Izuku wonders how he hadn’t noticed until now. His breath hitches a little at the thought of the pain the man must have endured to have a scar like that, it’s old, too, and Izuku wonders just how long it’s been there. He also can’t help but think that it does nothing to mar the beauty of the man’s face. Somehow the sharp cheekbones and soft cheeks and the upper lip that’s just a little fuller than the bottom one and even the icy-warm gaze are complemented by the mark on his face.
He’s so busy studying it that he doesn’t hear Yaoyorozu introduce Shouto, doesn’t notice that his eyes follow as Shouto makes his way to the mic and takes a seat on a stool behind it, doesn’t even register that Shouto is looking back at him now, curiosity in the slight quirk of his eyebrow.
He does notice when a deep monotone replaces Yaoyorozu’s voice, and he jumps a little as he’s brought back to the present.
“Like Yaomomo said, I’m Shouto. I guess I’m a regular here at First Thursdays.”
“Yeah, you are!” Cries the pink-haired girl with a fist in the air. The room fills with soft chuckles as Shouto waits for the noise to die down.
“Anyway, I have a few songs for you today. I hope you enjoy.” He’s adjusting his strap and readying himself when a soft cough sounds from somewhere to the right and Izuku turns to see Yaoyorozu gesturing for him to continue speaking, expectance in her brown eyes.
Shouto doesn’t look happy at the interruption, but he clears his throat and deadpans into the mic, anyway. “Also, I’m looking for a lyricist and I know there are some poets here tonight. If you’re interested, please find me after.”
Izuku perks up at that, his mind working over the possibility of it. Ocha had said his poems read like songs and it could be a good excuse to approach the man and… who does he think he’s kidding. He’s not a lyricist, he writes science fiction, he’s not even published, he works in a grocery store, for god’s sake. Whatever measly words he’s got written in his notebook aren’t going to be enough to impress Shouto, and Izuku knows he doesn’t have much going for him in the looks department, either.
His shoulders fall a little in disappointment as he decides the inevitable rejection is not worth the effort.
Then, Shouto starts playing, and Izuku stops thinking altogether as the first few notes grow into a sorrowful melody that builds and builds, notes cascading over one another as Shouto’s fingers press and pluck the strings. Izuku can’t help the tears building in his eyes as Shouto opens his and the song comes to an end.
For a moment, it’s like someone has hit the pause button, it’s a room full of held breaths. Until the purple-haired woman lets the first one escape, her hands flying together in applause. Just like that the crowd follows and Izuku blushes at the light flush on Shouto’s cheeks as he waits for the noise to die down.
When the room has finally quieted, Shouto leans into the mic a little, “thank you,” and he’s off again, throwing them all in at once as his fingers fly up and down the neck, this one is a little heavier, a little angrier, and Izuku didn’t think it was possible to make an acoustic guitar sound mad, but Shouto’s somehow managed.
Izuku, not for the first time, wishes he could get to know the mysterious man pouring his emotions into his guitar like he was born to do it.
There’s no pause when this song ends, just whoops and cheers of a pumped-up audience. Even Izuku manages a few calls of praise, carried away by the excitement around him.
Shouto’s final song for the night starts the moment silence fills the air. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes, just settles into his seat more and pulls the first note from the instrument in his lap.
The song stumbles out at first, notes played to an irregular beat as the guitar tells a story only Shouto knows.
Except, when the melody changes after the first few bars, words flood Izuku’s mind, crowding over themselves until Izuku has no choice but to reach for his pen and notebook, pick them apart and put them down before they have a chance to run. The sound of Shouto playing eggs him along as it fills him from top to bottom and he doesn’t even feel guilty that he’s not watching, too wrapped up in the prose falling out of him.
The moment his pen leaves the paper, the final line scribbled haphazardly across the bottom of the page, the song ends and he finds that his tears never stopped flowing. This time, the windows wobble a little from the ecstatic applause and Izuku is the loudest of them all.
Maybe Ocha was right, after all. He does need a little inspiration and said inspiration is currently walking away from the mic and taking a seat next to the man with the square glasses on the other couch.
Izuku stares a little longer, just until Shouto looks back at him, smirk on his face and quirk to his brow. Yaoyorozu is calling for another round of applause for Shouto, and this time they’re so loud Izuku thinks they might blow the roof off the cafe.
***
The person in the trenchcoat goes next, Tokoyami, as Yaoyorozu introduces them, will be reading poetry and Izuku’s nerves are back with a vengeance.
He watches Tokoyami stand behind the microphone as the dulcet tones of a deep voice paint a picture of a dark room, a punch to the face, existential melancholy. Izuku gulps, as the poem twists and turns and lands on impossible conclusions. It’s very well written and very different from Izuku’s writing style. Izuku glances around the room, tries to gauge people’s reactions. His measly prose is nothing compared to this and his heart is racing again at the prospect of following the love child of Edgar Allen Poe and My Chemical Romance.
The couch is in the center of the room, but there’s a little space to walk behind it, maybe if he waits until the performer change he can sneak out on the pretense of getting some air. He’s craning his neck around to check the exit when heterochromatic eyes find his. Red rushes up Izuku’s face as he turns back to the performance, lest Shouto think he was staring at him.
Okay, maybe he has been all night, but that time he really wasn’t!
Izuku crosses his arms over his chest and sinks further into the couch. There, now he can’t have a turn, he’s trapped.
Too soon, Tokoyami finishes, and Izuku struggles to snap his shaking fingers. It’s the thought that counts, right?
The blonde-haired man and pink-haired girl follow Tokoyami.
“Hi, I’m Mina and this is Denki and we are Electric Acid!”
The blonde-haired man, Denki, has an electric keyboard in front of him and Mina is already shaking a tambourine as Denki sets up a looping beat. A few bars in Mina opens her mouth to sing. The music is a lot of fun, and Izuku finds himself tapping along as Denki and Mina rock out a little too hard for the setting.
Nobody seems to mind though, Izuku sees a few heads bobbing in front of him and smiles all around. If he weren’t in a cramped cafe full of chairs Izuku might even get up and dance.
He doesn’t though, and their set ends as abruptly as it began, with a breathless Mina plugging their social media as Yaoyorozu ushers them off stage and calls the purple-haired woman, Jirou apparently, to the mic.
“I’m Jirou, and the host is blackmailing me to perform tonight.”
”Jirou!” Yaoyorozu hisses from the sidelines and the smile Jirou shoots her way is playful and full of affection.
“Don’t worry babe, I won’t tell them what you’re blackmailing me with,” and then Jirou winks and Yaoyorozu blushes and any ideas that Izuku may have had about her and Shouto swiftly fly out the door.
He does his best to squash down the hope bubbling in his chest, just because Shouto isn’t dating Yaoyorozu doesn’t mean he isn’t dating anyone. He’s probably not even interested in men.
The bitter taste of disappointment crawls back up his throat as he watches Jirou fiddle with her ukulele.
“I’m Jirou, I just brought my ukulele today and I’ve got a few new songs for you.” She’s looking at Yaoyorozu when she says it and Izuku’s heart warms at the sight of the two of them. They obviously really like- if not love- each other, and it’s sweet to see Jirou serenading Yaoyorozu.
The music she plays is impressive in its simplicity and her vocals are higher and prettier than Izuku expected them to be.
By the time she’s done, Izuku’s eyes are leaking again and he can’t help but feel he’s just intruded on a private moment between the lovers. And maybe that’s what Jirou intended as Yaoyorozu meets her at the mic and gives her a peck on the lips with tears of her own in her eyes.
He doesn’t even have time to dry his eyes or realize that it’s his turn before Yaoyorozu is looking at him and saying his name and oh look, now the whole audience is staring.
The shakes are back, and he’s regretting that matcha latte more every minute as he lets out a shaky okay and launches himself off the couch and to his spot behind the mic.
When he steps forward to speak his eyes travel briefly over the people sitting in front of him before he focuses on the wall behind the couch he was sitting in, ignores all the pairs of eyes waiting for him, especially the ones that are two different colors and belong to the same person, pretends he’s just practicing in front of his mirror like he’s been doing all week.
“Um. H-hello! I’m Midoriya and my best friend convinced me to come and conveniently couldn’t make it at the last minute. Thanks, Ocha.” It’s a joke for his own benefit, but he appreciates the stray giggles that follow and lets himself relax a little.
Just a little, his stomach is still turning and he knows all those eyes can see the sheen of sweat on his face.
“Anyway, I’m a writer and I’m going to be reading some of my poems.” He takes a breath at that and adds, “I’m also very nervous, but I’m gonna do my best to not speed through these.”
There’s a flutter of encouraging applause at that and he smiles into the mic, grateful for the encouragement of the crowd.
With every bit of strength he has, he wills his voice steady and begins, “this one’s called ‘this euphoria doesn’t belong to you:’
feet stomp on pavement
blistered toes and tight calves
and answers you don’t know the questions to
fall from the lips of strangers
packed tight as sardines in an unopened can
their nonsequiturs caress
your ears like a kiss
intimate and without context
and you do your best not to respond
shut your mouth and lose yourself
and shake
and laugh
borrow euphoria
‘til it feels like your own
He’s not prepared for the snaps that erupt when he stops reading and looks up, signaling that it’s over. He manages a glance at the front row, full of wide smiles and nodding heads.
The encouragement carries him through his next piece and the one after that, his voice flowing smooth and thick over the words, just like he’d practiced.
The nerves are still there, but each cascading round of snaps and cheers has him standing a little taller, speaking a little clearer, and his chest is filling to the brim with gratitude and he thinks maybe he is enjoying himself. A little.
By the time he’s made it through the last poem he’s prepared for the night, he’s reminded of the scribbled lines he’d jotted down during Shouto’s set. He knows he’s got a couple of minutes left and he’s not ready to walk away, not ready for that floaty feeling in his head to dissipate.
Maybe it’s just the adrenaline rush of doing something terrifying, that first drop roller coaster feeling that he’s always loved, that makes him do it. Whatever it is, he’s clearing his throat and speaking again.
“Um I just have one more. And uh- I actually just wrote this one during Shouto’s set, so um. Thanks for the inspiration?” For the briefest of moments, his gaze catches on Shouto’s face and regrets it when he sees the man scooting forward in his seat, eyes trained on Izuku.
No pressure or anything.
“It doesn’t have a title, but here goes:
I’m a coloring book
and my colors bleed
crayon smeared across the lines
‘til it can’t be seen
I’m a stormy night
and the stars won’t come out
teardrops falling from the sky
as it screams and shouts
I’m a kaleidoscope
but it’s all black and white
twisting and turning into patterns
I can’t see without light
and my pages stick together
and the moon never shines
and the mess is my own making
because I’m just one big fat lie
I’m all alone out here
There’s a stranger in my mind
well here’s the joke
here’s the kicker
if you asked me to
I could shine for you
be anything you want me to be
so if you like what you see
won’t you fill me in
please
fill me in”
His chest is heaving when he finishes, the delivery was a little awkward and he’d rushed through the end. He can’t bring himself to look up from the page and the silence is deafening as he waits for someone to do something.
Then, he hears a sniffle and the sound of snapping fingers is apparently not enough because people are clapping and when he finally manages to look up everyone is standing and there are tears falling down Denki and Mina’s faces, and Yaoyorozu’s eyes are shining and Jirou and Tokoyami are looking at him with approval and Izuku thinks it’s all he needs. His words reached people. They actually liked it.
There’s one face he can’t see in the crowd, and he tries not to let the pit growing in his stomach dim the smile on his face when he sees that Shouto hasn’t moved. Is seated in the same position he was in when Izuku started and staring at nothing at all.
Izuku’s not sure what to think of that, but he’s starting to shake again and needs to be anywhere but standing behind that microphone with tears of his own falling down his sticky cheeks.
“That’s all I have, thank you for listening!” And with that, he’s rushing back to his seat.
Denki turns around and shoots him a thumbs up and Mina sobs about how beautiful it was. Izuku blushes and ducks his head at their praise as Tokoyami reaches over and pats his shoulder and Yaoyorozu takes her place behind the mic.
“Thank you, Midoriya! Your vulnerability is admirable as your words are lovely. What a perfect way to end a great First Thursday! Let’s give all of our performers one more big round of applause!”
One last time the room explodes with cheers and applause and raucous laughter and Izuku can’t help but feel connected to the people around him in a way he never has.
Okay, Ocha was definitely right. This is fun and, no matter what Shouto thought, he’s glad he did it.
Maybe even can’t wait to do it again next month.
Yaoyorozu finishes with an invitation to come back next month and a reminder that there are snacks and refreshments available for another half hour.
“Just half an hour,” she repeats, looking pointedly between Denki and Mina.
“Awww Yaomomo, no fun!”
“We only have the cafe booked ‘til 9:30, same as every time. You two can party elsewhere.”
Izuku can’t help but giggle a little at the amicable argument as he grabs his notebook and is attempting to get off the quicksand couch with little fanfare when a throat clears above him and he looks up to find Shouto.
Shouto, in all his pretty boy glory, is looking down at him with an outstretched hand, that damn pink in his cheeks, and what almost looks like nerves hidden behind his impenetrable boredom.
Izuku’s jaw drops and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline because there’s no way this impossibly talented, probably super smart, and did he mention handsome, man is offering him a hand off the devil couch.
Then he opens his mouth to speak and Izuku really is going to die tonight isn’t he?
“Midoriya? Is it?” And oh how unprepared he was to hear his name in that voice.
It takes him a moment to realize that he needs to respond, just stares at Shouto who's still holding out his hand for Izuku to take. He can hardly manage a reply, let alone touch the beautiful enigma.
“I-um. Yes? Shouto, right? Your music is incredible! You really wrote all of those? I’ve never heard anything like that, the way you emote through your music is incredibly admirable. You're vulnerable without words in a way that doesn’t even seem possible. Especially that last one...”
His voice trails off when he realizes he’s rambling again. And not just any rambling, he’s gushing. He’s gushing over Shouto to the man himself.
Red paints his face and he covers his cheek with a squawk, “I mean- uh. It was really great.”
Then he locks his mouth shut and throws away the key. Can’t even look up to see if Shouto is still standing there.
He is, apparently, because he pushes his hand back into Izuku’s line of sight and speaks up, a chuckle lacing his words, “thank you. That means a lot to me. Your writing is… it speaks volumes. I get it, I think. I’m flattered to have inspired you.”
The tears are back at that. It’s not even much, but he’s still surprised that anyone responded to his poetry, let alone Shouto.
“Thank you so much,” he croaks, and finally looks up to find Shouto watching him with lazy lids, a small smile caught on his lips and shining eyes of his own.
Shouto doesn’t wait for him to continue, probably because a few minutes go by as Izuku tries to gather words and Shouto is still standing there, awkward and sweet with an arm outstretched. Before Izuku can register what’s happening, Shouto is grabbing his hand and pulling him up.
Maybe Shouto put too much force in the pull, or maybe Izuku is lighter than he looks. Either way, Izuku doesn’t have a chance to balance his center of gravity and his feet don’t find the floor. Instead, he’s tumbling forward, falling into a firm chest and tight grip as Shouto catches him. Izuku thinks he didn’t really know what embarrassment was before this as he chokes on his breath and an apology rushes out of him.
“I’m so sorry! That couch is made of quicksand or something. It’s actually impossible to get into or out of and it’s so nice of you to help me and then I had to go and fall on you. I’m sorry, I’m so so sor…”
“Midoriya,” Shouto cuts him off and his breath against Izuku’s ear reminds him that he’s still wrapped around the other man’s torso.
“Ahhhh!” With a yelp he leaps back and out of the man’s embrace, nearly falling back into the bain of his existence. Except this time, Shouto is anticipating it and reaches out to steady him.
“Careful, you don’t want to get stuck on that thing again.”
Izuku is rubbing the back of his head, a sheepish smile on his face and he hopes his blush isn’t too bright. “I-uh, yeah. Thank you.”
“No problem, we’ve all been trapped there.” Oh, that does make sense. No one else had bothered to join him on the hell couch, people must know to avoid it.
“Anyway,” Shouto begins, his arm still gripping Izuku’s bicep, like he’d run away if Shouto lets go.
Which, if he’s being honest, he might.
“I don’t know if you heard earlier, but I’m um, I’m looking for a lyricist.”
Izuku is staring up at him with wide eyes now, pleasant goosebumps igniting under Shouto’s palm on his arm as hope flutters in his stomach. “I uh-did actually.”
“Oh,” and Shouto is staring him right in the eyes now, imploring him without words, “well, I was wondering, that last one, it would need to be reworked a bit, of course, but how would you feel if I put it to music?”
“Uh, I- you r-really want to do that?”
Shouto’s smile finally breaks through at that, and there goes Izuku’s heart, not that it wasn’t already being held in the palms of the man offering to take something that came from Izuku and make into something more.
Izuku isn’t a songwriter. Izuku is an author, a stock boy at the grocery store, a plain, nervous, rambling fool who just wants to connect with people. To write stories that resonate, to share himself so maybe others can know they aren’t alone in this great big world.
But, maybe he doesn’t have to be one or the other. He’s here, in a room full of unique, creative people, radiating a plethora of energies he wishes he could bottle up and take home with him, and he thinks, for the first time, that maybe his words are worth sharing. Maybe this isn’t a one thing or another type of situation.
He grasps for the confidence in the air, breathes it thick into his lungs, and feels the unfailing determination that had once defined him, the determination that he thought was long gone after years of rejection letters and too long work days and empty notebooks, fill him from top to bottom.
It’s in his eyes, eyebrows lowered and mouth drawn tight when he meets Shouto’s gaze.
“I would really love that.” Then he’s smiling, wide and shining, and the pink in Shouto’s cheeks is back.
Izuku doesn’t let himself think as he links his elbow around Shouto’s, “let’s talk about it over snacks, I heard they have mochi!”
Izuku doesn’t miss the rise in Shouto’s eyebrows, or the deepening blush on his cheeks as he lets Izuku drag him to the snack table. Ideas are spilling from his mouth at a million miles a minute and for once he’s not embarrassed about it.
***
Midoriya Izuku is a lot of things.
A dreamer, a friend, a sci-fi writer, a stock boy.
A lyricist.
(And when he sees admiration in those stormy ocean eyes and feels calloused fingers laced around his own, he thinks he might even be a little bit in love.)