Chapter Text
Izuku woke up with a stiff neck, a numb leg, and a dead arm.
For a second he had no idea where he was, until he blinked and saw Todoroki’s bedroom. Right. He’d fallen asleep sitting on the floor, legs crossed, head resting on the edge of the mattress. His lower back hated him. His right foot was tingling. His left arm felt like it belonged to someone else.
Todoroki was still asleep. The cooling patch on his forehead hadn’t melted this time, which meant the fever had probably settled.
Izuku exhaled in relief.
He lifted a hand and pressed the back of it lightly against Todoroki’s cheek, checking for warmth. Todoroki hummed faintly at the touch, but didn’t wake. His skin was still warm, but not the concerning “human furnace” level from last night.
Good. Progress.
Izuku’s head, on the other hand, felt like someone had stuffed cotton inside it. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to guess the time. It was definitely late—his body only felt this heavy when he overslept. And Izuku almost never overslept. Even on his days off, he usually woke up early, did laundry, cleaned, sorted papers.But last night had clearly taken him out. He stretched quietly, trying not to wake Todoroki, and his spine made several concerning popping noises he pretended not to hear.
Izuku stretched his neck, trying to work out the kink, when a loud crash shook the apartment. He nearly jumped out of his skin. A beat later, Camie’s voice rang out from somewhere down the hall.
“OKAY—DON’T COME IN HERE!” a second later she shouted again. “OH SHIT—WAIT—NO—DON’T LOOK IN HERE!”
Izuku blinked. Right. He was supposed to stop her from cooking.
Todoroki didn’t fully wake, but he made a low, tired sound that basically translated to, Yeah, that’s normal.
Izuku stood up, every joint cracking, and hurried out of the room. The hallway already smelled… smelled like something that should not smell like that.
When he stepped into the kitchen, he froze. Camie stood in the middle of the room holding a frying pan that was actively smoking. The stove was on. A pot of something unidentifiable was bubbling over like it was trying to escape. There was flour everywhere—on the counter, on the floor, on Camie , on the microwave, in places flour should never logically be.
She looked at him with the relief of someone seeing a rescue helicopter.
“Midoriya—okay, don’t panic, something’s on fire.”
Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose. “You keep trying to cook,” he said flatly, “even though you always burn things. Why?”
“That’s not the point,” Camie said, still holding the smoking pan like it was a newborn.
“Anyway, it’s totally under control.”
The toaster next to her suddenly popped outside its normal cycle and began smoking, too.
“I don't even know how that's possible?” Izuku stared. He unplugged the toaster, because apparently everything in this apartment was a fire hazard now.
Izuku carefully pried the smoking pan out of Camie’s hands like he was defusing a bomb.
He set it in the sink where it hissed loudly, which was not reassuring. Then he turned off the stove, grabbed the pot of… whatever it was, and slid that into the sink too—at arm’s length, just in case it tried to fight him.
He exhaled.
“Camie,” he said, very calmly, like a man on the edge, “you genuinely need to stop trying to cook. I’m serious. You’re going to burn this place down. I am terrified for Todoroki’s safety now.”
She gasped dramatically. “Hey! That’s not fair. Don’t be mean! Shoto and I have been friends for years. If my cooking was going to kill him, he’d already be dead.”
Izuku paused. …Okay, that was a concerning amount of logic. He stared at her for a long second, then realized something. How the hell were Todoroki and Camie even friends? They were complete opposites—Todoroki quiet, serious, borderline expressionless. Camie… not that.
And she moved around this kitchen like she lived here. She knew where the bowls were. She knew which drawer had utensils. She even knew which cabinet was the “trash bag cabinet,” which Izuku was 95% sure Todoroki himself probably didn’t know.
So Izuku’s brain did the thing. “…Are you two dating?”
Camie blinked. Then burst out laughing so loud it made the dying toaster re-smoke.
“Oh my god, no! Shoto? Dating me? That’s hilarious.”
Izuku frowned. “I mean—you know the whole apartment. Usually only someone’s partner—”
“No, no, no,” Camie snorted, waving him off. “I’m here all the time because he needs emotional support.”
Izuku blinked. “Emotional support.”
“Yeah! He’s like a sad cat that looks fine, but then you look closer and you’re like… oh. ohhh.”
Izuku had no idea what that meant, but somehow it also made perfect sense.
“And also,” Camie added cheerfully, “he lets me use his kitchen even though I keep destroying it. That’s basically friendship.”
Izuku stared down at the scorched blender she’d apparently used for… something.
“…You two are very confusing,” he muttered.
Camie beamed. “Thanks!”
Izuku was not surprised that she and Todoroki weren’t dating. It made more sense actually. They didn’t have that kind of chemistry. Izuku had watched enough romance movies and drama shows, and read enough trashy romance novels, to know what romantic tension looked like. Usually there was… something. A spark. These two? Nothing. Todoroki looked at Camie the same way he looked at a chair. Respectfully. And Camie treated Todoroki like a mildly fussy pet she had to keep alive. So yeah. Not dating.
And yet… Izuku still found himself trying to double-check, internally, just in case. Which was dumb. They clearly weren’t dating. He didn’t even know why he cared enough to feel relieved. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t an expert on romance anyway. He’d never been in love, not really. Never had a relationship. Sure, he’d had a few flings — normal stuff for a twenty-four-year-old with a pulse — but nothing more than five people, and none of them were serious. They were more curiosity than anything. A way to understand what he liked. Maybe what he didn’t.
But actual love? Actual emotional chemistry? No, that wasn’t something he’d ever had or even recognized in himself. Which was probably why he kept comparing real people to fictional relationships. Movies exaggerated everything. Real life was not two people falling into each other’s arms after one charged moment.
Still… even in real life, people usually gave some sign when they liked someone. A glance. Something? Camie and Todoroki did none of that. So they weren’t dating. Good. Not that Izuku had any personal investment in that answer. None at all. Absolutely none.
He repeated that to himself once. Twice. And ignored how it didn’t feel as convincing the third time.
Camie leaned her elbows on the counter, studying him like he was a multiple-choice test she had no intention of actually reading. “Wait! Are you asking because you’re interested in Shoto?”
Izuku choked on absolutely nothing. “What? No! What—why would you even—no!” he sputtered, immediately going red. His voice cracked. He hated that.
Camie blinked. “Oh. My bad. It looked like you were jealous."
“I was not—” Izuku stopped himself, rubbed his face, and tried again.
“I wasn’t…. I was just curious. Your dynamic is… unique.”
“Unique?” she echoed.
“Odd. Unusual. Confusing,” he clarified. “Sorry, that sounded rude. I didn’t mean it rude. It’s just—my friend went to U.A. with Todoroki and she told me he didn’t… talk to anyone? At all? Ever? And once they graduated, he disappeared from everyone’s radar. So I was just trying to understand how someone who didn’t want friends ended up… friends. With you.”
Camie nodded thoughtfully. “Ohhh. Yeah, that makes way more sense.”
Izuku exhaled in relief.
Then Camie added, “Good to know you’re not gay, though. Wait—are you gay?”
He stared at her. “You can’t just ask people that.”
“Why not?” she shrugged. “We’re gonna be best friends. Best friends tell each other everything.”
“Best—?” Izuku blinked at her, thrown off. “We’re… best friends?”
“Duh,” she said, like he’d missed something obvious. “You’re in Shoto’s apartment. He doesn’t let people in here. Ever. Not even delivery guys. He makes me get the food from the door.”
“And,” she continued, pointing at him, “once you start caring about Shoto even a little—which, sorry, you totally do—boom. You’re in his life forever. It’s impossible to get uninvolved. So yes. We’re best friends now. Congrats.”
Izuku forced a smile. “That’s… great.”
He didn’t mean it sarcastically. He was just genuinely terrified.
Camie squinted at him. “Wait. You didn’t answer my question.”
Izuku groaned. “What question?”
“Are you gay?”
“Why are you asking me that?” he asked, genuinely baffled.
Camie shrugged like it was the most normal conversation topic in the morning in a smoke-filled kitchen. “Well, I can’t really tell with you.”
Izuku blinked. “…You’ve met me twice.”
“And this is the longest conversation we’ve had,” she agreed cheerfully. “But that’s why I’m asking! Usually I can tell instantly. Like with Shoto.”
Izuku froze. “…He’s gay?”
Camie scoffed. “Can you not tell? The man has zero sexual attraction toward me. Zero. Like, negative. And look at me.” She gestured at herself like a model presenting a prize on a game show. “I’m flamin’ hot. Literally impossible to ignore.”
Izuku didn’t argue because she did, in fact, look like she walked out of a magazine.
But Todoroki having absolutely no reaction made a lot of sense.
Camie continued, “But you? You’re confusing.”
“How?” Izuku asked, regretting it instantly.
“Well,” she said, pointing at him with a spatula for emphasis, “you get flustered when I get too close. So I thought, okay, he likes girls. But then you also get flustered when Shoto get too close.”
Izuku stared at her. “What if I’m just… a flustery person? What if I just get flustered because I’m not used to people being all up in my space?”
Camie considered it. “I thought that at first. I was like, aw, he’s shy. He’s a little nervous bean.”
Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose.
“But then I remembered—you’re a doctor,” she went on. “You literally get close to people all the time. And if you were flustered by every attractive person you treated, that’d be weird. And if you were flustered because you were a pervert, you’d be in jail, not the best surgeon in Japan.”
Izuku nearly choked on air. “Camie—oh my God—”
“What?” she said, genuinely confused. “I’m just saying facts.”
Izuku dragged a hand down his face. “Please stop talking.”
“Can’t. Not until you answer.” She folded her arms. “So, based on my professional calculations, you either like girls… or you’re gay-ish.”
“…Gay-ish?” Izuku repeated.
“Yeah, like, gay with an asterisk. Anyway—” She leaned forward. “Which one is it?”
Izuku gave up. Fully, completely, spiritually gave up. “Fine. If you’re going to keep pestering me… I like both.”
Camie gasped like she’d just discovered a new species. “Knew it. I knew it!”
Izuku pressed his palms to his face. This was way too much for someone who had just woken up from sleeping on the edge of a bed like a Victorian ghost.
“Why are you two screaming?”
Izuku and Camie spun around at the same time.
Todoroki stood in the doorway, one hand on the wall like he needed it to stay upright. His hair was a mess, his eyes half-open, and he looked like he’d been woken up by a disaster he already expected.
Izuku shot forward immediately. “Todoroki—how are you feeling? Are you dizzy? You shouldn’t be walking yet, your fever isn’t fully gone—”
“I’m fine, Midoriya,” Todoroki said, in the same tone people used when they were definitely not fine.
Izuku ignored that answer completely and slipped an arm around Todoroki’s back to support him. Todoroki didn’t protest, which meant he actually needed the help. He was tall — very tall — and surprisingly heavy for someone who wasn’t bulky. Todoroki was lean but with muscle, hero physique.
Izuku could practically hear his own spine crying. Still, he guided him to the kitchen table and eased him into a chair.
Todoroki let out a slow breath, still looking half-asleep. “Midoriya, I’m okay.”
“You’re talking like someone who just woke up from a coma,” Izuku said, already reaching over to check his forehead. “Let me assess—”
Todoroki leaned back just out of reach. “Later.”
Izuku frowned. “Now.”
Before either of them could push the argument further, Todoroki sniffed the air, face twitching.
“…Why does it smell like something burnt?”
Camie raised her hand like a kid caught stealing snacks. “Okay, before you judge me—”
Izuku cut her off. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”
Camie pouted. “But it wasn’t my fault this time! Well, mostly not.”
Izuku gave her a look that said I don’t believe you at all and then turned back to Todoroki, crouching slightly to check him.
Todoroki blinked slowly, still clearly waking up. “This is too loud for the morning.”
“It’s actually almost noon,” Izuku muttered, lifting Todoroki’s wrist to check his pulse.
Todoroki stared at him. “You should’ve woken me.”
“You needed the rest,” Izuku said simply. “And I wasn’t leaving you alone with Camie anyway.”
Camie gasped dramatically. “Wow. Hurtful. Also true, but still hurtful.”
Todoroki sighed like he agreed completely.
Izuku finally let go of Todoroki’s wrist after checking his pulse. “Your fever’s mostly down,” he said. “I don’t even need a thermometer to tell. But don’t get any ideas. You’re not going anywhere today. No training, no patrol, no errands.”
Todoroki blinked at him slowly. “I wasn’t planning to.”
Camie cut in immediately. “You should still stay again, Midoriya. For real. Because if he decides to sneak out and do hero work, I physically cannot stop him. I’ve tried. I almost dislocated a shoulder.”
Izuku didn’t doubt that. He looked at Todoroki. “Yeah, I actually might stay. Because knowing him, he’ll say he’s not going anywhere and then suddenly be halfway across the city fighting a villain.”
Todoroki gave him an unimpressed look. “You two are talking about me while I’m right here.”
“Yes,” Izuku said without hesitation. “We are.”
Todoroki sighed. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. I swear. I don’t need two babysitters. I don’t even need one.”
Izuku raised a brow. “No offense, but I think you need more than both of us combined.”
Todoroki stared at him, exhausted. Then he exhaled in defeat. “Fine.”
Izuku took the win.
Camie clapped her hands. “Great! Then I’ll go finish cooking—”
“No.” Izuku and Todoroki said it at the same time, but Izuku said it louder.
Izuku pointed at her like it was a life-or-death matter. “Camie, please. Do us all a favor and order food. At this point, it's public safety.”
Camie put a hand over her heart. “Wow. Midoriya. Accusing me of attempted murder.”
“You literally burned soup,” Izuku reminded her. “Soup.”
“Okay, but that was one time—”
Izuku looked at the scorched frying pan still soaking in the sink.
Camie followed his stare. “…Fine. I’ll order food.”
“Thank you,” Izuku said, relieved.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, already pulling out her phone. “So dramatic.”
Todoroki leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. “This is… a lot for the morning.”
Izuku snorted softly. “Welcome back to consciousness.”
“…What were you even talking about that loud?” Todoroki asked.
Izuku froze.
Camie did not.
“Sexuality,” she answered cheerfully.
“Camie—” Izuku groaned, already covering his face.
Todoroki stared. “Sexuality?”
“Yeah!” Camie nodded like this was a normal topic. “I was trying to figure out which way Midoriya swings. And he told me he likes both, which honestly makes sense.”
Izuku wished he could melt into the floor. “Why are you like this,” he muttered through his hands.
Todoroki looked between them, confused. “Both?”
Izuku did not answer.
Camie did. Immediately. “He means he’s bisexual, Todoroki. He likes girls and guys.”
Izuku made a noise that sounded like he was combusting. “C-camie—!”
Todoroki processed that slowly. Then nodded. “Oh. That makes sense.”
Izuku stared at him. “How does that make sense?”
Todoroki pointed at him in the most casual way possible. “Because you get flustered when I get near you. And when Camie gets near you.”
Izuku looked offended at the accuracy. “What is up with everyone saying that? What if I’m just—just a flustery person? Did I not explain my entire childhood yesterday? I didn’t have friends. I’m not used to attention. That’s all it is.”
Todoroki hummed. The kind of hum that very clearly meant, No, that’s not all it is.
Izuku narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t hum at me like that.”
Camie clapped her hands. “Anyway! Breakfast before we accidentally start outing literally everyone in this apartment!”
Izuku groaned again.
Todoroki just looked tired.
Camie looked delighted.
It was shaping up to be a long day.
About half an hour later, the food arrived. They ate. Camie talked the entire time. Todoroki ate slowly like a 90-year-old recovering patient. Izuku hovered every five minutes with, “How’s your temperature now?” until Todoroki told him to sit down.
Now the kitchen was a mess again, and Izuku was cleaning it. Todoroki was settled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, looking like a sick cat. Camie had gone to shower because—according to her—“the smoke spiritually attached itself to her hair.”
Izuku wasn’t surprised. Honestly, who knew how long she’d been in that kitchen burning whatever she was burning before he woke up. At this point, it made sense.
He finished rinsing the last dish, set it on the drying rack, wiped his hands on a towel, and turned with the intention of checking on Todoroki again — even though Todoroki was probably already annoyed by the constant monitoring.
That’s when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Izuku blinked. He hadn’t charged this phone since yesterday. Normally it held battery pretty well, but still… miracle. He pulled it out, looked at the caller ID.
Mina.
There were only two reasons Mina ever called him.
One: he wasn’t answering her texts.
Two: she had already gone to his apartment, found it empty, and was now worried enough to start hunting him down.
Judging by the caller ID lighting up for the second time, it was definitely reason number two.
Izuku felt his stomach drop. Mina was terrifying when she got into “worried mode.” She got this tight, pointed tone that made Izuku feel like he was twelve again and caught doing something idiotic.
He hovered his thumb over the accept button, already wincing. Because yes, Mina worrying was annoying sometimes. He’d admitted that to himself a hundred times. She acted like he couldn’t take care of himself — like he’d randomly forget to eat or sleep or hydrate. Which… okay, fine, he sometimes did. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that he hated the feeling. Hated the idea that people thought he couldn’t survive on his own. He was a full-grown adult with a medical degree and a job that required him to literally keep people alive. He could take care of himself. Not perfectly. But enough to function. Enough to get by. Enough to not need someone constantly checking in. And the more people worried, the more it felt like they didn’t believe that. He didn’t like that feeling at all.
Because his entire life had revolved around people assuming he was weak, assuming he was “less,” assuming he couldn’t do things on his own. It stuck to him — carried itself from childhood into middle school, into high school, and straight into adulthood. He knew Mina didn’t mean it like that. None of his friends did. But some old reflex buried somewhere in him still twisted it the wrong way.
Either way, he answered. If he didn’t, Mina would absolutely escalate. The last thing Hitoshi needed was Mina filing a missing-person report while he was knee-deep in paperwork about the hospital explosion and Katsuki’s case.
He pressed accept.
He didn’t even get a “hello.”
“IZUKU MIDORIYA, THANK GOD YOU’RE ALIVE—DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I CALLED—WHERE ARE YOU—WHY AREN’T YOU AT YOUR APARTMENT—WHY DIDN’T YOU TEXT ME BACK—”
Izuku flinched and yanked the phone an inch away from his ear.
Across the living room, Todoroki gave him a slow, concerned look — one raised eyebrow, a silent …what is happening? Izuku sighed, defeated, and mouthed, Mina.
Todoroki nodded like that explained everything or as if he understood who that even was. Did Todoroki even remember who Mina was ? Hed have to ask him later.
Izuku put the phone back to his ear, trying to answer her three separate times. “Mina— I’m okay— Mina, seriously— Mina, I’m—”
Every attempt was immediately steamrolled by another wave of rapid-fire yelling, so he gave up and waited it out. Eventually she stopped, probably because she ran out of oxygen. Izuku took the opening.
“Hi,” he said, deadpan. “Good morning. I’m well. How are you. Thanks for calling, Mina. I actually—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t start with that sarcastic crap. Why aren’t you at your apartment? Are you alive?”
“No, this is my ghost answering you,” Izuku muttered. “Of course I’m alive, Mina.”
“Izuku.”
Right. He knew better than to push.
“Sorry,” he sighed. “I’m fine. I didn’t answer your texts because an emergency came up.”
“What emergency? Is everything okay? What happened?”
Izuku glanced at Todoroki — sitting on the couch, half-awake, not exactly dying anymore, but definitely listening. He kept it vague.
“Everything’s okay. A… friend had a high fever,” he said carefully. “I came to help. They’re fine now. I stayed over to keep an eye on them.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Mina gasped so loudly Todoroki actually blinked.
“What friend? You have, like, three friends, Izuku. Three. And that’s including me. I know Hitoshi is fine. I know Asui is fine. I know every friend you have, so who the hell are you talking about?”
Izuku stared at the ceiling for a second, wondering why he ever answered this phone call at all.
“A friend that I made, Mina,” he said flatly. “I just haven’t had the chance to tell you.”
There was a dangerous pause.
“Izuku Midoriya.”Her voice dropped into the tone she used when she thought she’d uncovered gossip. “Is this friend a friend friend?”
Izuku shut his eyes. “No.”
“Are you hooking up with someone and trying to hide it?” she demanded. “Oh my god, are you trying to cover up a hookup? Izuku, you can tell me anything—”
Izuku immediately facepalmed. From the couch, Todoroki frowned like he had no idea what a “hookup” even was.
“Mina, really,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not hooking up with anyone. It’s genuinely just a friend. And even if it was a hookup, I wouldn’t want to talk about it with you over the phone. Or at all, actually.”
“Aw, why noooot?” Mina whined. “I’m literally your bestie! You can tell me anything! I can give you tips on how to—”
“Mina,” Izuku cut in immediately, voice strained, “please. I’m begging you.”
“Okay, okay, sorry!” she huffed. “I was just worried! I thought something happened! You disappear for a whole day, don’t answer anything, what was I supposed to think?”
Izuku exhaled. “Is there a reason you needed me?”
“Yes,” she said pointedly, “if you would open your phone and look at the thirty-seven texts I sent you, you would know that I actually do need a favor from you.”
“Okay, what’s the favor?” Izuku asked, already regretting the question.
Mina inhaled dramatically. “Alright, but you have to promise you’ll say yes.”
“I’m not promising anything until you tell me what it is.”
“But you will say yes,” she insisted. “You’ll do anything for me, right? You love me, I love you, we’re best friends, so just say yes.”
“Mina,” Izuku said flatly, “that makes it sound suspicious. Like you’re about to ask me to commit a crime.”
“Izuku, please,” she scoffed, offended. “I’m literally a hero. Would I jeopardize my job for a crime?”
“…You’re a hero,” he corrected, “but I’m not. So yes. You absolutely could jeopardize me.”
A loud, dramatic gasp rang through the speaker. “I’m so sad that you think so lowly of me.”
“I don’t think lowly of you,” Izuku muttered, rubbing his forehead. “You’re just being very mysterious.”
“I wouldn’t have to be mysterious if you would just say yes.”
Izuku stared at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him. “Fine. Okay. Fine.”
“Okay, yay!” Mina said immediately, way too cheerful. “So basically what I need is help cleaning a friend’s apartment.”
Izuku blinked. “A friend’s apartment?”
“Yes,” she repeated. “A friend’s apartment.”
“…Can I ask whose friend this is?”
“No,” Mina said, fast.
Izuku stared at the phone. “Mina. Are you sure this is a friend’s apartment?”
“Of course!” she said. “I’m not going to go clean some random stranger’s apartment.”
“Right,” Izuku deadpanned, “so then why can’t you tell me who this friend is? I also know your friends, Mina. There’s only, like, a tiny handful of people you’d actually help. Especially with cleaning. Because you hate cleaning.”
Mina made a strangled noise that absolutely meant she was hiding something. “I hate how much you know me.”
Izuku pressed a hand to his forehead. “Then just tell me, Mina. Why are you being so secretive?”
“Okay, but remember—you already said yes, so you can’t back out.”
Izuku’s stomach dropped. He already regretted everything. “Mina…”
“So,” she continued quickly, “you know how Mitsuki hasn’t left the hospital? Like, at all? And she refuses to leave under literally any circumstances?”
Izuku immediately didn’t like where this was going. “…Yes.”
“Well—she asked us if we could grab some stuff for Katsuki. For when he wakes up.”
Izuku closed his eyes. Yep. There it was. Exactly what he’d been afraid of.
“He’s not due to wake up for a couple more days,” Izuku said, sharper than he meant to. “He’s not going to suddenly wake up overnight.”
His tone of voice surprised even him, but the feeling under it was worse—he knew where she was leading this.
“Yes, I know,” Mina said gently this time. “But she just wants to be prepared, Izuku. And… I think it gives her a sense of hope. That her son is coming back soon.”
Izuku’s chest tightened. The guilt hit instantly. He’d been so wrapped in his own complicated mess with Katsuki that he’d forgotten there were people who loved Katsuki deeply. People who were terrified to lose him.
Izuku scoffed internally. As if he wasn’t one of those people. He’d spent panicking over someone he claimed he didn’t care about anymore.
Mina didn’t know that, though. Nobody knew that.
“Anyway,” Mina went on, her voice shifting back into frantic irritation, “me and the guys went to grab some stuff and—well. Guess what.”
Izuku rubbed at his temples. “...What?”
“Katsuki’s place is trashed.”
Izuku blinked. “Trashed?”
“Yes,” Mina stressed, exasperated. “Completely trashed. Like, everything flipped upside down. I honestly thought we had walked into the wrong apartment at first. Because, hello? Katsuki is a clean freak. The man alphabetizes his spices.”
Izuku frowned, confused and concerned all at once.
Kacchan… trashing his own apartment?
That didn’t make sense. It was out of character—beyond out of character. Even as kids, Katsuki had been strict, obsessive almost, about order. His backpack had been organized. His notebooks. His pencils. His room. Everything had a place, and Katsuki kept it there.
And from the way Mina was talking, that hadn’t changed in adulthood. So… why would the place look like that?
“Do you think he did that on purpose?” Izuku asked.
Mina let out a sharp breath. “Honestly? I have no idea. You know how his temper is.”
Izuku’s jaw tightened. He really, really didn’t like how she said that. Because technically, very technically, he had no idea who Katsuki was anymore. Not her Katsuki, anyway. And she… she didn’t understand that there were two versions of him inside Izuku’s head: Kacchan — the boy who burned him alive in a hundred tiny ways. And Katsuki — the man Mina talked about, this different, revised version Izuku had never actually met.
She didn’t mean anything bad by it. Izuku knew that. But it still bothered him, this assumption that he and Mina were talking about the same person when they clearly weren’t. And what bothered him more was that he didn’t fully understand why it bothered him.
It wasn’t wrong to know two versions of someone, right? To separate the person you grew up with from the person they became? …Except the more he thought about it, the more he realized that sounded insane. Actually insane. He should probably see a therapist. Genuinely. Immediately. Maybe even right now.
Izuku exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Mina kept going, oblivious to his internal crisis. “But seriously, it was bad, Izuku. Like… really bad. I was honestly scared.”
Izuku swallowed. “Scared how?”
Mina didn’t even hesitate.
“Okay, first of all, the coffee table was flipped over. The couch cushions were everywhere. One of the cabinet doors was ripped off—like actually ripped off the hinges. There was glass on the floor. And his bedroom—Izuku, it looked like someone went through all his drawers. Clothes everywhere. The closet was open and half his stuff was on the ground.”
Izuku rubbed his temple. “So he trashed his place.”
“I don’t know if he did it,” Mina said quickly. “I’m not saying it wasn’t him, but I’m also not saying it was him, because if I let myself think it was something else, I start panicking and spiraling and—” she sucked in a breath, “—I really don’t think it was anything else, okay? His building has insane security. No one’s getting in without setting off five alarms and getting shot with, like, a quirk-suppression foam cannon. So… maybe he was just having an episode? I don’t know.”
Izuku didn’t answer at first. He tried to picture it. The idea of Katsuki just destroying his own apartment? Izuku had no idea if that made sense or made everything even more confusing. Either way, he still didn’t understand what this had to do with him.
“Mina,” Izuku said finally, “why do you need me to help clean his apartment? Why can’t literally any of your other friends help you?”
“Because Izuku,” she groaned, “everyone else is busy! It’s just me and Kirishima right now, and I’m telling you the place is sooo trashed — like, beyond my skill set, which is zero. Negative, actually. I need help.”
Izuku sighed. “Okay, but why not ask Hitoshi? Or Tsu?”
Mina made the most offended noise imaginable. “Be serious, Izuku. Hitoshi is drowning in work because of the explosion case, and Tsu—” she paused, “—Tsu already helped me, okay? I can’t keep cashing in favors. I need you.”
Izuku pinched the bridge of his nose. “What if I’m busy?”
“You’re not busy,” Mina shot back instantly. “It’s your day off. I know because when I couldn’t reach you, I called Hitoshi — and he told me you cancelled on him.”
Izuku froze. Of course she did. Of course Hitoshi told her. Of course he was trapped now.
“I cancelled on him because I had plans, Mina,” Izuku said, trying really hard not to rub his forehead again. “Unexpected plans. Not because I didn’t want to hang out with him. I literally told him that.”
“Okay, okay, Izuku, I know,” Mina said, exhaling sharply like she’d been pacing. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask. Especially with—” she hesitated, “—everything. But please.”
Izuku could hear the sincerity and the exhaustion.
“Kirishima’s barely hanging on in here,” she continued. “Like, mentally. Emotionally. Physically. All three. Mitsuki’s obviously not coming to clean — she’s not leaving Katsuki’s side, you know that. Masaru’s the same. And the rest of the guys…” she groaned, “they’re useless. They’d just stare at the mess and cry.”
Izuku blinked. He believed her.
“And I’m barely holding it together,” she added. “Izuku… I know you have this… complicated, weird history with him. I know this isn’t easy for you. And I know it makes me look like an asshole for asking you to help someone you clearly don’t like.”
Izuku winced at that. Not because she was wrong but because it wasn’t that simple.
“But that’s exactly why I’m asking. You don’t care for him the way we do. So you won’t… fall apart like us. You won’t get stuck standing in the doorway remembering all the times we crashed here, or how we were literally hanging out two days before the accident.”
Izuku felt something in his chest pull a little too tight.
“It’s hard for us, Izuku,” Mina said quietly. “Really hard. And you don’t… you don’t have that connection. So you can actually help without—”
She stopped, like she ran out of breath.
Izuku didn’t speak. Because everything she said was completely wrong, but also completely right, and his brain didn’t know what to do with that.
And this—this right here—was exactly why he kept thinking he genuinely needed to see a therapist. A real one. With a degree. Who could tell him why the hell Mina Ashido could be so painfully on the mark and at the same time completely missing the point. How could she be so hot and so cold at the same damn time?
Because yes, she was right—he did spend years trying to convince himself that he didn’t care about Katsuki. That there was no connection. That whatever tie they once had in childhood was gone. That Katsuki was just another person. But hearing her say out loud that he didn’t care made something in him snap just a little.
He cared. He hated that he cared. But he cared. He saved him. Twice. After everything Katsuki had put him through—years of it, all the cruelty, all the pain—Izuku still saved him. And not just because it was his job. Not just because he was a doctor.
The first time, yes, it had been duty. But the second time? The second time in the ICU? The one where he technically wasn’t Katsuki’s doctor anymore? He didn’t have to do that. He chose to do that.
Because some part of him—some pathetic, stubborn, emotional part—couldn’t let Katsuki die. Not like that. Not when Izuku had spent an entire childhood orbiting around him, pulled in by some impossible, stupid gravitational force that he never escaped.
Kacchan, Katsuki, whatever version lived inside his memory—Izuku had been tied to him for so long that pretending otherwise was pointless.
He hated him. He didn’t hate him. He wished he hated him. He wished he didn’t care. He wished he cared less. He wished he didn’t care at all. His feelings were a mess. A contradiction. A disaster. Honestly, he was a disaster.
So no, he didn’t blame Mina for thinking he had zero attachment. He made it look that way. On purpose. Whenever Mina talked about Katsuki, he always brushed it off. Not enough to shut her down, just enough to pretend he didn’t care. But he listened. Every time. He listened to all of it—stories, jokes, annoying bragging, all of it. Because even if he acted uninterested, something in him always wanted to know.
So Mina wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t right, either.
Izuku swallowed hard, fingers tightening on the phone as that uncomfortable, off-balanced feeling washed over him.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Because he didn’t even know what to say to that. He couldn’t deny it—because yes, a part of him did hate Katsuki. That was established. Clear. Unavoidable. A solid fact he didn’t bother arguing with. But another part of him, just as stubborn—cared for him. Deeply. Annoyingly.
Against every bit of common sense he had. Katsuki was someone special to him, whether Izuku liked it or not. Whether he wanted to accept it or not. He had basically admitted that yesterday, standing in Katsuki’s ICU room, admitting out loud that it hurt. That Katsuki had everything Izuku ever wanted, and that he resented him for it. Not because he didn’t think Katsuki deserved to be a hero… but because Katsuki still got to become one after all the damage he’d done.
And Izuku didn’t.
But even then, Katsuki hadn’t been wrong back then—how could a quirkless kid become a hero? How could anyone without power even try? It wasn’t realistic. It wasn’t possible. The world didn’t work like that. Izuku knew that.
But even if Katsuki wasn’t wrong, he didn’t have to be cruel. He didn’t have to make Izuku feel worthless, disposable, inhuman.
And yet… Izuku cared. He hated that he did. He hated that Katsuki took up space in his mind. He hated that Katsuki shaped so much of the person he became. He hated that Katsuki mattered.
But the truth was simple: Izuku could not have walked into that hospital room yesterday if he didn’t care. He couldn’t have stood beside that bed, couldn’t have spoken, couldn’t have looked at him without vomiting from the emotional recoil—if somewhere deep inside, he didn’t still carry the ghost of the boy he once wanted to be like.
So Mina saying he had “no connection” was wrong. He had too much of a connection, and he’d spent years trying to cut it out of himself. That was the problem.
Izuku exhaled slowly, steadying his grip on the phone.
“…Mina.” He finally said her name, not even sure what he intended to follow it with. Because he didn’t even know how to begin untangling this mess for someone else when he could barely understand it himself. So he just exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said the only thing he realistically could say. “…What time do you want me to be there?”
Mina let out a gasp like he’d just saved her life.
“Oh my god, Izuku, THANK YOU. Seriously, thank you so much.”
He rubbed his temple. “When do you need me?”
“We’re already here,” she said quickly. “Me and Kiri. But, uh… he kind of locked himself in the bathroom. I’m pretty sure he’s crying. He didn’t want me to see, because then we’ll both cry and we’ll get nothing done. So maybe as soon as possible?”
Izuku winced. Yeah .Fuck.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Give me some time. I have to make sure—”
He glanced toward the living room. Todoroki, who was absolutely pretending he wasn’t listening, immediately looked up at the ceiling like it had never been interesting before today.
“I have to make sure my friend,” Izuku emphasized just loud enough for Todoroki to hear, “is feeling better and doesn’t wander off or try to do hero work.”
Mina hummed suspiciously. “Uh-huh. Sure. ‘Friend.’ Riiiight.”
Izuku rolled his eyes so hard it physically hurt. “Mina, please. Not now.”
“Fine, fine,” she said. “Just be careful, okay? And thank you again—seriously. I owe you my life.”
“I also need to stop by my apartment to shower and change,” he continued, ignoring her dramatics. “So I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Okay, Zuku, be safe! And THANK YOU SOOO MUCH. I love you!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he muttered. “Love you too. Bye.”
He hung up before she could say anything else.
Izuku stared at his phone for a little too long after hanging up. Now that the call was over, the weight of what he just agreed to finally hit him. Great. Perfect. Amazing. What did he just get himself into?
He was so wrapped up in that thought that he completely forgot he wasn’t alone until someone quietly cleared their throat. Izuku jolted a little and looked up.
Todoroki was watching him from the couch, blanket still around his shoulders, he blinked.
“…Are you leaving?” Todoroki asked. It wasn’t disappointed. It was simply… a question with a lot of meaning behind it.
Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I— uh— well—”
Todoroki tilted his head very slightly. “You don’t seem like you want to go.”
Izuku dragged a hand down his face. “…Yeah. I really don’t want to go.”
“Then why did you agree to go?”
“Because she’s my friend,” Izuku said, like that alone justified every bad decision he’d ever made.
Todoroki’s expression didn’t change. “If she’s your friend, she should understand how complicated the situation is. Asking you to clean the apartment of someone you’re clearly not fond of doesn’t seem very considerate.”
Izuku froze. “…Wait. How did you even know it was his apartment?”
Todoroki looked at him like that was a ridiculous question. “She said his name. And she was yelling. It was impossible not to hear.”
Izuku groaned. He leaned back against the counter, sighing. “It’s not—she doesn’t mean anything bad by it. She just… doesn’t know the whole story. Or even half of it. She only knows we had some kind of history and that it wasn’t good. That’s it.”
Todoroki frowned slightly. “Exactly. She knows it wasn’t good. That should be enough for her not to pressure you into something you’re clearly uncomfortable with.”
Izuku shook his head. “I’m not— it’s not that I’m uncomfortable.”
Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you want to go?”
Izuku opened his mouth, then shut it again. “…Because it’s complicated.”
“How?” Todoroki asked, genuinely confused.
Izuku struggled for a moment. “It’s like— it’s like going to a stranger’s apartment for the first time. Except he’s not a stranger. But he kind of is. I know who Katsuki is— or, well, the version of him I remember. The one in my head.”
“But he’s obviously changed,” Izuku went on. “So going there is like… getting a glimpse of who he is now. And that Katsuki is basically a stranger to me.”
Todoroki watched him for a long moment. “You’re scared of knowing who he is now. Because you don’t want the image you already have of him to change.”
Izuku flinched. “No— what? No. Why would I want to keep a bad image of him? It wasn’t a good one. It wasn’t— pleasant.”
Todoroki shrugged. “That’s what you’re making it sound like. Like you don’t want to let go of the version you know. And that’s fine. You’re not obligated to know the new version of him. And your friend shouldn’t make you feel like you have to.”
Izuku had no immediate response to that.
He just sat there, staring at the counter, while Todoroki’s words kept looping in his head like an annoying alarm he couldn’t turn off.
Did Todoroki actually have a point?
Did he not want to know who the new Katsuki was?
That made no sense. Why would he be stuck on the old version of Katsuki—the one who made his childhood hell, the one whose voice still echoed in the back of his mind when he messed up, the one who made him feel so small for so long? Why cling to that version?
It was stupid. Obviously stupid. And yet… Todoroki said it, and now Izuku couldn’t stop spiraling. Because if he didn’t want to keep that awful version… then why hadn’t he let it go? Why was he resisting so hard? Why did the idea of seeing signs of who Katsuki was now make something tighten in his chest? Was it because Katsuki didn’t deserve a chance from him? Or because Izuku was scared of what that new version might make him feel?
Because Mina’s Katsuki wasn’t his Katsuki. And the Katsuki he remembered wasn’t Mina’s. Or Kirishima’s. Or the public’s. They all had a version of him that clearly wasn’t the same boy Izuku grew up with. And Izuku had been so sure—so convinced—that he didn’t need to know that new person. But now? Now Todoroki had the audacity to make sense. Why didn’t Izuku just… give him a chance? Why was it so difficult? Why was he acting like he had something to lose?
It wasn’t like the Katsuki he remembered was worth holding onto. He wasn’t nice. He wasn’t someone Izuku should’ve felt anything for beyond resentment. So why was he clinging so tightly to the ghost of someone who hurt him?
Izuku was spiraling, because none of this should be so complicated. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to change Katsuki or the version of Katsuki he kept in his head. Even if most of those memories were bad, there were a few good ones. A handful. Small, stupid moments that still clung to him for no good reason. Why did he cherish those so much? Why did he cling to them? It wasn’t like getting to know this new Katsuki would erase anything. It wasn’t like meeting him now would delete the past. That wasn’t how memories worked. That wasn’t how people worked. So why was he acting like it would?
Izuku rubbed his temple. His head hurt more now than when he woke up. Maybe he didn’t want to rewrite someone who had taken up so much space in his life already. Maybe letting go of the old Katsuki felt like letting go of something important— something he couldn’t name, something that never made sense. Maybe replacing him with someone new felt wrong. Unsettling. Maybe he didn’t want to open old doors he had boarded shut years ago. Maybe something about meeting the new Katsuki made him feel like he wasn’t ready. And he didn’t know why he wasn’t ready. He had no explanation that made sense.
His thoughts kept circling back to the same question he didn’t want to look at too closely. Izuku swallowed hard, chest tight, because the truth—the one he kept shoving down every chance he got—was starting to push back up.
Izuku exhaled, forcing himself to focus.
“It genuinely isn’t that,” he said finally. “My friend isn’t trying to force me into… whatever. I think she just genuinely needs help and doesn’t know who else to ask. And I’m free, so saying no would just make me an asshole.”
Todoroki hummed like he didn’t fully buy it, but he let it go with a quiet, “Okay.”
Izuku nodded. “I’m gonna finish cleaning up, and then I’ll head out.”
“Alright,” Todoroki said.
“But first,” Izuku added, already walking toward him, “I want to check on you.”
Todoroki frowned. “Midoriya, that’s really not necessary. I’m okay now.”
Izuku ignored that entirely and rested the back of his hand against Todoroki’s forehead. “Let me check. Because if you’re not fine, I’m not leaving yet. She can wait.”
Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re not just using that as an excuse because you don’t want to go?”
Izuku froze for half a second, then groaned. “Todoroki.”
Todoroki looked at him evenly. “Everything you said yesterday makes it sound like you can’t handle being around him.”
“I’m not going to see him,” Izuku said. “So it shouldn’t matter.”
“That still means you’ll be seeing… him,” Todoroki said, deadpan.
“Todoroki.” Izuku shut his eyes, giving up completely.
Which, of course, was exactly when Camie exploded out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and entirely too much confidence.
“Okay! Crisis averted! The smoke smell is mostly gone—well, kind of gone—and I used Todoroki’s fancy shampoo even though he said not to last time but—” She froze mid-ramble when she finally registered Izuku’s expression. “Why do you look like someone told you your credit card declined?”
Izuku rubbed his face. “Camie, I—actually have to go.”
Camie blinked. “Go? Where? You just woke up. Did I scare you out of the apartment? Is this about the cooking thing again? Because I swear I wasn’t trying to kill you, Midoriya, that was an accident.”
“It’s not about the cooking,” Izuku sighed. “Todoroki’s fine now, so… I need to go help a friend. With something. And I already gave you instructions, so just— keep an eye on him. Please.”
Camie perked up instantly. “Ooh. A friend. Or a friend-friend?”
The teasing lilt in her voice was identical to Mina’s and Izuku looked physically pained.
“Oh god, not you too,” he muttered.
Camie gasped. “It’s a friend-friend, isn’t it? Who is she? What’s her name? Do I know her? Is she dramatic? Do you like dramatic?”
Izuku held up both hands. “It’s not a— it’s just a friend, Camie. She needs help cleaning an apartment. That’s all.”
Before Camie could interrogate that, Todoroki’s voice came from the couch.
“Midoriya.”
Izuku turned. “Yeah?”
Todoroki looked at him with that unreadable expression he always had, except now it carried a tiny thread of concern. “Are you going because you want to?”
Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I mean… Mina asked.”
“That isn’t what I asked,” Todoroki said plainly.
Izuku stood there, caught. Camie, still clutching her towel, whirled toward him like a hawk.
“Ohhh,” she said. “So her name is Mina. Got it.”
“YES,” Izuku snapped, flustered. “And it’s not like that !”
He turned back to Todoroki. “And I’m going because she needs help. And because it would feel wrong not to. That’s all.”
Todoroki studied him for another quiet second, like he could see all the spiraling Izuku was trying very hard not to show, then finally nodded. “Okay. Just don’t hurt yourself.”
Izuku huffed a short laugh. “I’m cleaning an apartment, not fighting a villain.”
“Midoriya,” Todoroki said, tone flat. “You know what I mean.”
Izuku deflated. “Fine. I’ll be careful.”
He pointed at Camie. “And you—please make sure he stays on that couch.”
Camie saluted with the hand not holding her towel. “Aye-aye, Doctor Midoriya.”
Izuku turned back to Todoroki.
Todoroki raised his hand in a solemn oath. “I’ll stay.”
Izuku wasn’t entirely convinced, but it would have to do
Izuku packed fast. Not because he was in a rush, but because if he stopped to think for more than five seconds, he’d talk himself out of going entirely. He shoved his phone charger into his bag, slipped on his jacket, checked for his wallet twice, and then forced himself toward the door before he invented another excuse to stay.
His shoes were barely on when Todoroki called out quietly. “Midoriya.”
Izuku paused in the doorway and looked back. Todoroki was sitting upright on the couch now, blanket bunched around his shoulders like a cape.
“Yeah?” Izuku said.
Todoroki held his gaze for a moment.
“Good luck.”
Izuku froze for half a second. Because… yeah. He was going to need it. More than he wanted to admit. Cleaning an apartment wasn’t the issue. Walking straight into the space of someone he’d spent years trying to emotionally amputate from his life? That was its own battlefield.
He swallowed and nodded. “Thanks.”
Izuku stepped out of the apartment, pulling the door gently shut behind him. He had absolutely no idea what he was walking into. But apparently, he was walking into it anyway.
Izuku made it home quicker than he expected.
The train ride back had been quiet—too quiet, honestly. His apartment felt the same as always when he walked in: clean, organized. But somehow, stepping inside after only one night away made it feel… empty. He’d never noticed that before. Or maybe he had, and he just didn’t want to acknowledge it.
He showered, changed into fresh clothes, and did a quick double-check on anything he needed. The whole time, something felt off.
He kept thinking about Todoroki’s place—how it didn’t feel quiet, even when it was quiet. How Camie was loud in ten different ways but bizarrely comforting. How Todoroki, even half-dead with fever, didn’t make the apartment feel empty the way Izuku’s own place did.
It wasn’t like Izuku disliked being alone. He’d lived by himself for years. It had never been a problem.
So why did one night feel so different?
Maybe he just needed a roommate. That was logical enough. A lot of young professionals had roommates. Hell, it was normal. Or maybe he should move back in with his mom for a while—not permanently, but just until he sorted out whatever weird melancholy this was. But the second he imagined it, it didn’t sit right either.
He didn’t know what he wanted, only that something about going back to a silent apartment felt wrong. Annoyingly wrong. And he didn’t understand why.
By the time he was on the train again headed to Katsuki’s address—thanks to Mina texting it with three heart emojis and one “PLS HURRY”—Izuku had successfully distracted himself by overthinking everything else.
He stepped off at the station, checked the map, and followed the directions.
It became obvious pretty quickly that this was nothing like Todoroki’s neighborhood—and definitely nothing like where Izuku lived. This was a completely different tax bracket altogether, which was saying something, because Todoroki could’ve easily lived somewhere like this if he wanted to. The fact that he didn’t made Izuku file that away for later.
The further Izuku walked, the more out of place he felt. People here dressed differently. Even the way they talked felt. Expensive coats, tailored clothes, shoes that probably cost more than Izuku’s monthly grocery bill.
Izuku made good money. He knew that. He wasn’t struggling. Being a surgeon meant he lived comfortably—more than comfortably, actually. Bills were paid. Food was never a concern. Emergencies didn’t send him into a panic. He was grateful for that. He just didn’t care about showing it.
Izuku liked things plain. Simple. Like him. Clothes that did their job. Shoes that were comfortable. Phones that didn’t shatter if you dropped them. He never saw the point in designer labels or flashy brands when regular ones worked just fine. Spending money for the sake of spending money had never appealed to him.
Standing here, though, he felt it. The difference. His jacket wasn’t bad. His shoes were clean. Nothing about him screamed “out of place,” but nothing about him blended in either. He looked… normal. Which, in a place like this, might as well have been a neon sign.
After a few steps, he glanced down at his phone again. There was still a decent walk from the station. Not insane, but long enough that he immediately regretted not having a car. Izuku had never felt like he needed one. The hospital was close to his apartment by train. Five minutes, maybe less on a good day. That was the entire reason he picked that building in the first place.
And when he did need to go somewhere farther, someone else always had a car. Hitoshi had one. Mina had one. Tsuyu had one. If they went out together, someone drove. If they didn’t, Izuku took the train. His mom didn’t mind public transport either, and honestly, neither did he. It worked. It always had. Until now.
The air was cold from the rain the night before. Izuku shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept moving, trying not to focus on how stiff his neck still felt from sleeping wrong.
What bothered him more wasn’t the walk, though. It was the feeling. No one was staring at him. No one even glanced his way. Logically, he knew that meant nothing was wrong. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He didn’t stand out that much. And yet, he felt out of place anyway.
He didn’t like this neighborhood. He couldn’t even fully explain why. Maybe it was the way everything looked too clean. Maybe it was the buildings. Maybe it was the people. Maybe it was the fact that Katsuki lived here.
Izuku didn’t dwell on it. Dwelling never helped. He just walked faster, boots hitting the pavement a little harder than necessary. Of course Katsuki would live somewhere like this. Of course Katsuki would somehow still manage to inconvenience him without even being conscious.
Izuku was seriously losing it.
Blaming an unconscious man for how uncomfortable he felt was ridiculous. Katsuki wasn’t even awake. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t doing anything. And yet Izuku was standing in the middle of a too-expensive neighborhood, feeling out of place, mildly irritated, cold, and suddenly very aware of the fact that he did not own a car.
That wasn’t Katsuki’s fault.
That was his. He’d known for a while that getting a car would probably be practical. Everyone had told him that. Hitoshi. Tsuyu. Even Mina—who, with her pro-hero paycheck, had once very casually offered to help him buy one.
He’d shut that down immediately. Hard no.
Izuku didn’t want someone buying him a car. Cars weren’t cheap, and he didn’t like expensive gifts, especially not ones that felt like obligations. He’d been firm about it, too. Told Mina that if she ever tried to surprise him with a car, he’d refuse it out of spite. Possibly crash it on purpose. Definitely return it.
She’d laughed. He hadn’t.
And honestly, he hadn’t even been lying. He genuinely didn’t want one.
The train worked. Public transport worked. No parking, no traffic, no maintenance, no insurance headaches. So why—why—was he standing here now, in Katsuki’s neighborhood of all places, thinking, wow, this would suck a lot less if I had a car?
Izuku scowled at the pavement as he walked. It was annoying. The timing was annoying. The realization was annoying. And the fact that it was happening now, of all times, made it worse.
He hated that Katsuki somehow still managed to be an inconvenience without even being conscious.
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept moving, shoulders hunched against the cold. He was irritated in that way that came from being tired, overthinking, and doing something he didn’t particularly want to do. Which, unfortunately, was kind of his brand.
Izuku’s phone buzzed in his hand.He stopped for a moment on the sidewalk, rain-damp pavement reflecting the buildings around him, and glanced at the caller ID.
Hitoshi.
Izuku let out a quiet breath through his nose before answering. “Hey.”
There was a pause on the other end. “So,” Hitoshi said finally, “a little birdie told me you’re hanging out with Mina today.”
Izuku started walking again, adjusting the strap of his bag. “If this is you being passive-aggressive, I’m hanging up.”
“I’m not being passive-aggressive,” Hitoshi replied. “I’m being directly aggressive. You canceled on me, and then I find out you’re with her. I just wanted to check that we’re good.”
“We’re good,” Izuku said immediately. “Come on. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
“That implies guilt.”
“I am guilty,” Izuku said. “I told you something came up. I wasn’t lying. Mina called me in full crisis mode. There was panic. Possibly tears. I folded.”
Hitoshi hummed. “Yeah. That sounds like you.”
Izuku sighed as he passed another cluster of tall apartment buildings. “You know how she is.”
“I do,” Hitoshi said. “Which is exactly why you need to learn how to say no.”
Izuku snorted softly. “Right. Yes. Thank you. I’ll add that to my to-do list. Learn to say no. Grow a backbone.”
“I’m serious,” Hitoshi said. “Someone asks you for anything and you’re already agreeing before they finish the sentence.”
“I hesitate internally,” Izuku muttered. “Very intensely.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Izuku glanced down at his phone again, the map inching him closer to his destination. “Did you call me just to lecture me? Because I feel sufficiently lectured.”
“Yes,” Hitoshi said without hesitation. “But also I actually need you to do me a favor.”
Izuku stopped walking.
“…A favor.”
“Yep.”
“It’s funny,” Izuku said flatly, “how you just told me I need to grow a backbone and learn how to say no, and then immediately asked me for a favor. Knowing full well I can’t say no.”
“Well,” Hitoshi replied, completely unfazed, “you do need to grow a backbone. Just not with me. Also, you canceled on me, remember? Very rude. And now you’re gonna hang with Mina. Fake behavior.”
Izuku rubbed his face with his free hand and started walking again.
“I hate you,” he said. “What’s the favor.”
Hitoshi didn’t answer right away. That was new. Izuku tightened his grip on his phone.and repeated. “What’s the favor.”