Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eijiro Kirishima liked to think of himself as a friendly guy.

Scratch that—he was a friendly guy. There was no “liked to think” about it. It wasn’t an act, it wasn’t a strategy. It was who he was, down to his bones. He was the kind of person who didn’t just tolerate other people’s company—he thrived in it. He drank it in like oxygen, like sunlight through a window after days of rain. The easy flow of conversation, the sharp edge of banter tossed back and forth like a ball, the hearty laughs that burst out in the middle of the hallway, echoing loud and unrestrained—those things fueled him. They were the moments that made everything else—training, exhaustion, bruises—worth it.

He was built for it: for connection. For warmth. He loved the little things, the stuff that most people probably didn’t think twice about. A shoulder punch in the hallway after a tough class. A quick high-five after a sparring match, palms slapping together with a satisfying sting. Even the simple act of walking side by side with someone between classes, bumping elbows, sharing some dumb joke about Aizawa’s perpetually tired glare. That was the stuff that mattered. That was what made a day feel like a good one.

He didn’t do well with silence. Not the heavy kind, anyway. He could handle a pause in a conversation. He could handle a little quiet when everyone was focused on their notes before an exam. But the kind of silence that hung like a weight in the air? The kind that pressed down on your shoulders and made the room feel smaller, colder? That wasn’t him. That wasn’t his world. 

He’d never had any issues making friends in the past. It wasn’t something he had to work at—it just happened, as naturally as breathing. He was easy to be around. Or at least, that’s what people told him, and honestly, he believed it. Sure, he could admit he had a tendency to be a little loud sometimes, but it wasn’t the kind of loud that grated on people’s nerves. Not the kind that demanded attention for the sake of it. His loudness had warmth in it—like a campfire in winter, crackling and bright, something people could gather around and feel good in the glow of. 

And people didn’t seem to mind. If anything, they welcomed it. He was the guy people invited to stuff without hesitation. The group chat always had his name in it when plans were made. He was the guy someone would slide up to after class just to vent about a crappy quiz or an annoying teacher. The guy who could turn a bad mood around with a dumb joke or a stupid story that wasn’t even that funny, but somehow still made people laugh because he meant it to.

And if someone needed a hype man—someone to tell them they could crush it, someone to believe in them even when they didn’t believe in themselves—well, that was his specialty. That was him, through and through. He was that guy who’d shout encouragement from the sidelines, clap the loudest when someone nailed a move, grin so wide it made other people grin too. He liked being that guy. It felt good to lift people up, to see the light in their eyes when they realized someone was in their corner. That was his whole thing—he wanted to be the guy people could count on. The one who made other people feel strong.

It wasn’t like Eijiro expected every person he met to instantly become best friends with him. That would’ve been stupid—and honestly, kind of creepy. He wasn’t naïve. He knew people were different. People had their own quirks, their own baggage, their own walls. And that was fine. That was more than fine—it was part of what made people interesting. The differences, the rough edges, the things you had to work around to really know someone.

Some people just needed a little more time. A little more patience. He understood that. Hell, he respected it. Not everyone opened up like a book the second you said hi. Some people were puzzles, and he liked puzzles. He didn’t mind putting in the effort to figure someone out, to show them he wasn’t going anywhere, that they could trust him. He wasn’t pushy about it—at least, he didn’t think he was. He just… liked sticking around. Liked proving to people that friendship wasn’t conditional.

And yeah, it usually worked. Eventually, he got somewhere. Maybe it started small—a smirk during training when he cracked a joke, a laugh at something dumb he said, that little glimmer in someone’s eyes that said, Hey, maybe you’re not so bad. That spark that told him, Yeah. We get each other now. We’re good.

That's why this? This whole Todoroki situation? It sucked. Because no matter what he did, no matter how many tries he gave it, that spark never came. Not even close.

He’d made friends at UA, sure. A lot of them, if he was being honest. People seemed to like him—he wasn’t exactly struggling in the social department. He had his crew, people he could joke with, train with, eat lunch with. People who didn’t mind his energy, who gave it back and made everything feel easy. And that was great. Really, it was.

But still.

There were two people—two very specific people—he’d set his heart on befriending from the start. People who stood out like sparks in the dark, not because they were easy to talk to, or because they gave any hint that they wanted a friend. No. It was the exact opposite.

Todoroki and Bakugou.

From day one, both of them had been nothing but sharp edges. They were hard to approach, hard to read, like they’d been carved out of stone and weren’t about to let anyone chip their way in. They didn’t smile like the others, didn’t laugh easily, didn’t give you much to work with at all. But there was something about that—about the way they carried themselves—that grabbed Eijiro and wouldn’t let go.

They weren’t just quiet or angry for no reason. No, there was something deeper there. Something heavy. Like they carried entire worlds behind their eyes—whole galaxies of hurt and history and fire that Eijiro couldn’t begin to name, let alone understand. And maybe that would’ve scared some people off. Maybe most people saw that and thought, no thanks.

But not him.

Eijiro had never been the type to shy away from hard things. He wasn’t wired like that. He liked challenges. Lived for them. When he saw a wall, his first instinct wasn’t to walk away—it was to see how hard he could hit it before it broke. And these two? They were the biggest walls in the class. The hardest, thickest, most impossible walls he’d ever seen.

And something in him wanted— needed —to break through.

At first, it had kind of been a joke. A mission. Something he’d thrown out there with a grin one day at lunch, half-serious, half-daring himself to see it through. Like a gauntlet thrown at his own feet.

“I’m gonna be friends with those two,” he’d announced, his voice carrying just enough weight to make Kaminari look up mid-bite. He punctuated the claim by pointing his chopsticks across the table like twin blades, stabbing the air with confidence. “Both of ’em. Mark my words.”

The declaration was met with immediate chaos.

Kaminari choked so hard on his rice that his face went pink, coughing into his sleeve and fumbling for his water bottle like he’d just been personally attacked by the concept. Ashido practically collapsed against the table, her laughter ringing out loud and sharp, the kind that made other people glance over.

“You?” she gasped between cackles, slapping her palm against the wood as if to ground herself. “You’re gonna—oh my god—Kirishima, no. No way. That’s—pfft—that’s suicide!”

Sero leaned in like he was settling in for a live drama, his straw hanging from his mouth as he gave Eijiro a look somewhere between entertained and horrified. “Hold on, hold on. Both of them? Both Bakugou and Todoroki? Like… at the same time?” He shook his head slowly, like someone watching a man step off a cliff in slow motion. “Bro, that’s not just ambitious, that’s—”

“Delusional,” Jirou cut in flatly, one earbud dangling, her unimpressed stare cutting sharper than Ashido’s laughter. “You’re aiming for emotional constipation and cold detachment at the same time. Bold of you.”

“Hey,” Eijiro said, throwing his hands up in mock offense, but the grin stretching across his face didn’t budge. In fact, it widened, bright and reckless.

Because a few tables over, Bakugou was mid-scream at Midoriya for something—loud and explosive, voice spiking through the cafeteria like an air raid siren. His palms cracked with tiny pops of heat as he slammed his hands on the table for emphasis, rattling the trays while Midoriya sputtered frantic apologies in response. Every second word was either a curse or a threat to murder someone, and Bakugou delivered both with the kind of conviction that could make strangers take cover.

And Eijiro? He just grinned wider, eyes tracking the fiery mess of a boy like a climber staring up at the biggest mountain on the horizon. Because Bakugou? He was loud, sure. Volatile, absolutely. But at least with Bakugou, you knew where you stood.

Bakugou’s walls weren’t subtle. They weren’t quiet or polite. They were loud and jagged and came with a built-in soundtrack of explosions and profanity. He didn’t play games. He didn’t hide behind fake smiles or half-truths. If Bakugou didn’t like you, you’d know before you even finished introducing yourself.

And that? That made him easier. Predictable, in a way.

And weirdly enough, that one had worked out.

It hadn’t been easy—far from it. It took time. Patience. Persistence. A whole lot of moments where he had to bite back his own frustration and remind himself, Don’t take it personally, man. It took learning to translate Bakugou-speak—deciphering the difference between “I’ll kill you” as a casual greeting versus a promise of actual bodily harm. It meant hearing what Bakugou meant, not just what he said. Reading the sharp angles of his tone, the grudging respect buried in all the noise, the way “You’re not completely useless” was actually high praise coming from him.

But eventually, Bakugou let him in. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a wild animal circling the same trap for weeks before deciding maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t baited. And somewhere along the way, their weird, spiky dynamic had shifted into something that felt... solid. Real.

Friendship carved out of sparks and scraped knuckles. Late-night strategy talks that devolved into shouting matches, followed by grudging laughter. Team-ups that started as disasters and ended with Bakugou muttering, “Not bad, shitty hair,” like it was the highest compliment known to man.

Of the two, Bakugou was actually easy.

It was like comparing a thunderstorm to a hurricane.

Sure, Bakugou had been difficult—loud, volatile, exhausting—but at least you could see him coming. You could hear him from a mile away, feel the warning rumble under your feet before the sky split open.

Todoroki? Todoroki was impossible.

So, that’s one of them down. A good fifty percent. Not bad, if he said so himself. Definitely better than zero. But still—not good enough. Not when the mission wasn’t complete. Not when the second half of his self-imposed challenge was still standing there like an unscalable wall.

Because so far? He hadn’t managed to make any leeway with Todoroki at all. None. Zip. Not even a toe in the door. And he can’t lie—yeah, it stings. Hurts his pride in a way he doesn’t want to admit out loud.

After all, he’d declared—loudly, confidently, and more than once, to anyone who would listen—that he was gonna pull this off. That he would succeed. No hesitation, no room for doubt. He’d practically carved it in stone at this point.

And the reactions? Predictable.

Bakugou was adamantly, explosively against it—like Eijiro had suggested committing a felony. “Stay the hell away from him, Shitty Hair — he’s not worth your time! And don’t drag me into your idiot crusade!” He said it at least once a week, usually with enough volume to turn heads in the cafeteria.

Shinsou didn’t say much about it. Just raised an eyebrow the one time it came up and muttered something dry like, “Good luck with that,” in a tone that didn’t exactly inspire confidence. But Shinsou didn’t really talk much in general, so Eijiro didn’t take it personally.

Kaminari, Ashido, Jirou, and Sero? They didn’t hold back. They’d just laugh, every single time, like he’d told the funniest joke in the world. Kaminari would clutch his stomach like he was in pain. Ashido would literally cry from laughing so hard. Jirou, deadpan as ever, would just shake her head and say something like, “You know some walls aren’t meant to come down, right?”

Sero was the worst, honestly. Every time Eijiro tried to talk about strategy—about making progress—he’d lean back in his chair, grin, and say, “Man, you should just give it up already. It’s never gonna happen.”

They all said that.

It’s never gonna happen.

And every time he heard it, every time he saw that look in their eyes—amused, smug, like they thought the idea of cracking Todoroki was a joke—it just made him dig in harder. Because Eijiro Kirishima didn’t quit. Not ever.

But so far, they’ve been right.

Every single day, without fail, Eijiro tries. He shows up. He puts in the effort. Throws the proverbial ball—over and over—only to watch it drop right at Todoroki’s feet, untouched, like it never even existed in the first place.

A smile here, bright and easy, thrown across the room like a lifeline. A casual, “Yo, Todoroki!” there, voice pitched just loud enough to catch his attention without sounding desperate. A quick wave in the hallway. An invitation to lunch. A seat saved during breaks. An offer to walk together after class.

The small gestures. The things that work on everyone else.

But Todoroki? Todoroki never bites. He doesn’t react with hostility—that would almost be easier. It’s not a glare or a scoff or some sharp retort that sends Eijiro packing. No. Todoroki doesn’t even give him that much. He just… absorbs the effort and gives nothing back.

Not even disinterest, not really. It’s worse than that. It’s this perfect, impenetrable blankness, like a wall of glass with nothing behind it. He’ll look at Eijiro when spoken to—sometimes—but there’s no spark in his eyes, no flicker of recognition that says I see you, I hear you, I care enough to respond.

Sometimes he nods. Sometimes he hums in acknowledgment, this low sound that could mean anything—or nothing. And then he turns back to whatever he was doing, shutting the door without ever having opened it in the first place.

It’s like trying to hold a conversation with snow. Beautiful, sure—but cold. Silent. Untouchable. And every time that blank stare meets him—polite but empty—it chips at Eijiro in a way he doesn’t want to admit.

It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, per se. Todoroki didn’t scowl at him or snap or tell him to buzz off—not once. He wasn’t hostile in the way Bakugou had been at first, all teeth and fire and threats that sounded like promises. No, Todoroki was something else entirely.

He was just... untouchable. Like trying to talk to a statue that occasionally blinked.

Eijiro had gone in expecting some hesitation—maybe even a few awkward starts. That would’ve made sense. Not everyone was a people person, and he could work with shy. He could work with quiet. He’d done it before, with people who just needed time to warm up. He had patience for that.

What he hadn’t expected was the total absence of response. Not coldness—just nothing. No spark, no flicker, no sign that his words were making any kind of impact. 

No real eye contact—none that lasted more than a fraction of a second. Todoroki’s gaze would slide off him like water over stone, slipping away before Eijiro could catch it. No change in expression, no twitch of a smile, no crease of a frown. It was like everything Eijiro said dissolved in the air before it even reached the guy’s ears, vanishing into some void between them.

Every “Hey, man,” every “Yo, wanna join us?”—they didn’t just go unanswered. They went unacknowledged. And that, more than anything else, messed with him. Because Eijiro could handle rejection. He could handle a flat-out “No.” Hell, he could handle Bakugou screaming obscenities in his face and telling him to drop dead. At least that meant he mattered enough to piss off.

But this? This hollow, glassy indifference? It was like Todoroki was a pane of frosted glass, and Eijiro could pound on it all day with both fists, shouting, grinning, trying to break through—and never even make a crack.

Like he didn’t matter at all. 

At first, Eijiro tried to laugh it off. He’ll warm up, he told himself. Everyone does eventually. He believed that, too—because in his experience, it had always been true. No one stayed a total stranger forever. You just had to keep showing up, keep throwing out those little lifelines—smiles, jokes, an easy “Hey, man.” Eventually, they’d catch one.

But the more time passed, the harder it was to keep telling himself that. Weeks slid by like beads on a string, and Todoroki? Still the same. A blank slate. A sealed vault.

From the beginning, there’d been something unreadable about him. Not just quiet, but carefully quiet. Like his words weren’t just absent—they were locked away, tucked somewhere deep and unreachable. Every motion was deliberate, controlled. Every glance felt like it cost something.

Eijiro had met silence before. He knew what it looked like when someone just wasn’t naturally talkative, when they needed time and space to figure out how to fit. He respected that. Hell, he’d been there himself, back when he was all nerves and doubt, back before he decided to live loud and bright. So at first, he didn’t think much of it. Everyone had their own stuff. He got that better than most. 

But with Todoroki, it wasn’t just silence. It was distance. Cold, deliberate distance. It wasn’t shyness—it was something heavier, something sharper, like a wall made of glass: invisible but unyielding. Every attempt Eijiro made slid off it without leaving so much as a smudge. No warmth, no hint of thaw. Todoroki wasn’t just quiet—he was unreachable.

And the way he did it… God, it was almost uncanny. He wasn’t rude about it. He didn’t glare, didn’t tell Eijiro to back off, didn’t even frown. If he had, it would’ve been easier. At least then Eijiro would know where he stood.

Instead, Todoroki was like a mirror. A perfect, polished surface that reflected everything back without ever letting anything in. Eijiro could throw all his energy at him—grins, greetings, open gestures—and all he’d get was his own effort staring back at him, hollow and unanswered.

Untouchable.

Still, Eijiro tried.

Not because he pitied the guy—hell no. That wasn’t what this was about. Pity felt wrong. Pity meant looking down on someone, and Eijiro didn’t do that. Not to his classmates, not to anyone.

But because... well, he was kind of pitiful himself, and it made him sad. He couldn’t deny there was something about Todoroki that tugged at him, something that felt heavy and lonely in a way that made his chest ache. It wasn’t obvious—not to most people, maybe—but Eijiro had always been good at reading the spaces between words, at spotting the quiet weight someone carried. And Todoroki? He carried a lot.

So Eijiro cared. That was just who he was. It wasn’t something he had to force or think about—it was as natural as breathing.

He’d nudge a smile his way in the mornings, bright and easy, just a little spark to start the day. He’d toss a casual “Yo, Todoroki!” across the hall, hand raised in greeting. He’d make sure there was always a spot at the lunch table, wave him over with a grin that said, C’mon, man, join us. During training, he’d crack a joke, light enough to float, hoping maybe—just maybe—it would coax the smallest flicker of a smile in return.

And sometimes, it worked. Sort of. Sometimes, Todoroki would give him a nod. A tiny dip of the head, so slight you could almost miss it if you blinked. Sometimes, there’d be this quick flick of eye contact—just a glance before he turned away again. And on a really good day? A single, flat word in response.

But most of the time? Nothing. Like his words dissolved in the air before they reached him. Like the distance between them wasn’t just physical—it was a chasm.

Still, Eijiro kept trying. Because the more Todoroki stayed on his own, the more it gnawed at him, the more it felt wrong. No one should be that alone—not here, not when they were supposed to be building each other up, training side by side, becoming heroes together. 

So he kept throwing those lifelines, hoping one would catch. Hoping maybe Todoroki just needed time. Because that’s what this was about. Not pity. Not obligation. Just this stubborn, unshakable need to let him know— Hey, man. You’re not alone.

Except… somewhere along the way, Eijiro started to realize something he didn’t want to admit. Todoroki didn’t seem to want that. Not his smiles. Not his jokes. Not the open invitations he offered without strings attached. It wasn’t just that Todoroki didn’t notice. It was that he noticed—and still turned away.

And it stung more than he thought it would.

Eijiro wasn’t exactly fragile—he could take rejection, shrug things off, keep moving. That was kind of his whole deal: roll with the punches, stay upbeat, keep trying. But this? The quiet, deliberate way Todoroki shut him out? That hit different.

He hadn’t expected the sheer intensity of it—Todoroki’s allergy to friendship, the way it seemed hardwired into his DNA. The way his shoulders would stiffen if Eijiro got too close, like physical proximity was an annoyance. How he’d pause mid-step in the hallway if Eijiro called his name, his body going taut like he was bracing for a particularly unpleasant experience—like Eijiro was the gum Todoroki was picking out from the soles of his shoes. 

​​And the look in his eyes when that happened? That blank, controlled stillness? It wasn’t annoyance, not really. It was something quieter than that. Something heavier. Resentment, maybe.

Eijiro didn’t know. And that was the worst part—not knowing. Because he didn’t want this to feel personal. He didn’t want to make it about himself. That wasn’t fair, and he knew it. Maybe Todoroki was just private. Maybe he needed space. That was okay. Eijiro understood boundaries. He respected them.

But—God, something about Todoroki’s detachment scratched at something raw and insecure inside him.

He prided himself on being genuine. On being the guy who could break through walls without breaking people. On being someone others could count on, someone who made things lighter instead of heavier. And usually, that worked. People liked him. He could connect with almost anyone, if he just put in the time and effort.

Hell—even Bakugou. Especially Bakugou. That had meant something. It still did. Getting through to Bakugou—earning his respect, his friendship—that had been like chiseling through stone with bare hands. And he’d done it. He’d proved to himself that persistence mattered, that heart mattered.

But with Todoroki? Every effort fell flat. Every attempt just bounced off that quiet, frozen wall like a punch against steel. And yeah—maybe it was stupid, but that hurt. More than he wanted to admit.

So, though deep down he knew he probably shouldn’t—knew he ought to respect Todoroki’s clear, unspoken wish to be left alone—Eijiro couldn’t bring himself to back off. It gnawed at him, this stubborn spark inside that refused to quit. Because if there was one thing he was, it was determined to break through walls, no matter how high or cold they were built.

He doubled down on his efforts, pushing past every silent dismissal, every cold glance, every vague brush-off. He kept asking Todoroki to eat lunch with him, day after day, like a mantra, like a challenge he was daring himself to win. Not just with empty words, but with small gestures of kindness and patience, hoping something would chip away at the ice around the other boy.

One afternoon, in a moment of boldness, Eijiro even offered to ditch the rest of the aptly named Bakusquad—the loud, explosive group that Todoroki clearly found unpleasant—if it would make the other guy feel more comfortable sitting with just him. Maybe it was naive, maybe it was desperate, but he figured it was worth a shot. He wanted Todoroki to know he wasn’t just some noisy distraction; that he could be someone quieter, someone who could respect boundaries.

The response he got was painfully awkward. Todoroki’s eyes settled on him, steady and unreadable, like Eijiro had just claimed he could fly or performed some foolish magic trick. There was a brief pause, pregnant with unspoken judgment, as if Todoroki was trying to process why anyone would make such an offer—and why he should even consider it.

Then Todoroki spoke, his voice low and calm, the words sharp in their bluntness.

“Why would you abandon your friends in order to eat with a virtual stranger?”

His eyes didn’t waver, cold and steady.

“Moreover,” he continued, “why would I accept? Your friends bother me no more, or less, than you do. Whether or not they are present has no influence over my answer.”

It wasn’t just a refusal—it was a dismantling of the entire idea. A subtle but unmistakable dismissal that cut deeper than any shouted insult. Eijiro felt the weight of those words settle over him like a heavy cloak. Because if this was the mountain he had to climb, then he wasn’t so confident that he was capable anymore. 

It was probably the most words he’d ever heard Todoroki string together in a single sentence—hell, maybe even the most words he’d ever heard the guy say at all. And yet, instead of feeling relieved to finally get some kind of response, Eijiro found himself reeling under the weight of those words.

Wow. Yeah. That one definitely stung.

The bluntness of Todoroki’s dismissal cut through him sharper than any insult Bakugou had ever hurled. There was no anger, no malice, no hidden meaning—just cold, hard fact laid bare with surgical precision. Like Todoroki was delivering a verdict rather than a conversation.

So, that was it. Eijiro was the problem. The annoying pest who didn’t belong. Todoroki had just confirmed it without even trying to soften the blow. The guy really just didn’t like him.

The thought swirled in Eijiro’s chest, sour and heavy. He could almost feel the invisible line Todoroki had drawn, and Eijiro was on the wrong side of it—completely and utterly unwelcome.

And the worst part? Todoroki didn’t even look like he was trying to be mean. Not like Bakugou, whose anger was loud and jagged and impossible to ignore. No, Todoroki’s expression was flat, almost bored, as if he were stating an unchangeable fact about the weather or the time of day. Factual. Blunt. Straight to the point.

God, did this dude even have a soul?

​​Eijiro swallowed hard, trying to wrestle down the sudden pang of doubt that crept into his mind. Did he really see any trace of warmth or softness beneath that frozen exterior? Sometimes, when Todoroki’s eyes flickered for a split second, he thought maybe there was something there—something fragile and hidden. But right now, with those cold words hanging in the air, that flicker felt more like a cruel trick.

“I’m sorry, but could you move? I would like to make it to the lunchroom before all of the tables are full.”

The words came out quietly, almost as if they were an afterthought, yet there was an unmistakable firmness beneath the calmness—a subtle command wrapped in polite phrasing.

Eijiro blinked, the suddenness of the request catching him completely off guard. For a moment, he’d been standing frozen, rooted right in the middle of the crowded hallway like a lost puppy, his mind still reeling from the last conversation, still hoping for some kind of breakthrough.

He had no idea how long he’d been blocking the way.

Almost sheepishly, Eijiro shifted his weight and stepped aside with a hurried shuffle, the scrape of his shoes on the linoleum echoing faintly in the near-empty corridor. His cheeks flushed—part embarrassment, part the sting of realizing just how oblivious he’d been.

He offered a quick, awkward nod, barely managing to meet Todoroki’s eyes before the other boy slipped past without so much as a glance back. No anger. No irritation. Not even a hint of frustration. Just a cold, unreadable disinterest that settled like a fog between them, thick and impenetrable.

Eijiro swallowed hard, the silence afterward hanging heavy in the air as Todoroki’s figure disappeared around the corner, leaving him standing alone—small, exposed, and still grasping at the fleeting hope of connection that seemed to slip further away with every step the other boy took.

He figured he should probably move on, go join his friends like he usually did. They’d be saving a seat for him at the lunch table, the familiar buzz of their voices a comfort he could normally count on. But for a moment, he let himself linger there, rooted in place by the weight of the encounter. The silence Todoroki left behind stretched out, sharp and cold, and he wasn’t ready to close the distance between them just yet.

He didn’t want to have to walk right behind Todoroki—not after that curt, almost dismissive interaction. The memory of Todoroki’s flat tone, the disinterest masked as politeness, still echoed in his ears. The chill that clung to the air around the other boy seemed to seep into his skin, turning the normally crowded corridor into an empty, drafty space that pressed against him like a physical thing.

So he stayed where he was, his gaze fixed on Todoroki’s retreating back, watching the steady rhythm of his steps fade down the hall. There was something final about the way Todoroki moved away—like a door closing quietly but unmistakably shut.

Eijiro took a slow breath, trying to steady himself. He needed a moment—just a brief pause to regroup. To let the sting of the rejection dull from sharp and immediate pain to something more manageable, less raw. He felt the cracks in his dignity spread beneath his feet, like shards of glass scattered across the floor, and he had to gather them carefully, one by one, before stepping forward again.

Because this time, the coldness, the disinterest, had felt different. This time, it had felt personal.

And for once, Eijiro didn’t have a clear next move. He wasn’t sure how to fix this, or even what fixing it would look like. He wasn’t even sure that he should fix it. That there was anything to cook at all. 

Lunch tasted like nothing. Not unpleasant, not spoiled—just utterly devoid of flavor or satisfaction. The food felt strange in his mouth, soft and insubstantial, like biting into packing foam that squished between his teeth without breaking apart. Each chew was a mechanical action rather than a sensory experience. Eijiro poked at the rice lazily with his chopsticks, watching the grains shift but not caring enough to pick up more than a few. When he finally forced a bite in, it slid down his throat like bitter medicine, scraping the back of his throat and lodging there stubbornly.

He was conscious of where he sat—far enough out at the edge of the long table that it wouldn’t be glaringly obvious he was trying to be invisible, but close enough to avoid suspicion. It was a delicate balance: not so far away that anyone would ask why he was isolating himself, but just enough to mask the truth. Because the truth was, he’d dragged his feet getting there, reluctant to join the group until he was certain there was no other option.

He hadn’t wanted to come to the table at all after that encounter. Instead, he’d wandered the hallways alone for the last ten minutes, pacing, twisting the words Todoroki had said over and over in his mind. He kept telling himself he wasn’t stalling, that he was just killing time—delaying the inevitable—but deep down he knew it was avoidance.

Now sitting there, his chopsticks hovered uncertainly over his food, and his mind wandered far away from the bustling chatter of his friends around him. The laughter, the easy banter—it all felt distant, like it was happening in another room. His stomach grumbled quietly, but it wasn’t hunger. It was the ache of disappointment, the heaviness of rejection tucked in beneath the bland, tasteless lunch.

“Dude, where were you?” Kaminari said the second Eijiro sat down, practically flinging his arms in the air like he’d just spun the jackpot wheel on a game show. His voice was bright and cutting through the lunchtime chatter, loud enough that a few people at the next table turned to look. His grin was wide, golden, and familiar—the kind of grin that didn’t need answers, didn’t expect explanations. It was just Kaminari being Kaminari: easy, warm, relentless. 

Ashido leaned in close, all sharp elbows and a grin to match his. She bumped his shoulder with her own, rocking him slightly off balance. “We thought you ditched us for your ice prince crush,” she sing-songed, dragging out the last word with gleeful precision. Her voice carried, like she wanted the entire cafeteria to hear—and judging by the way heads turned, they probably did.

Eijiro felt his ears heat instantly.

 “Crush,” Sero repeated like a predator locking onto prey, eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. He slapped the table with his palm like the joke was too good to hold in. “You gonna start leaving love notes on his desk, man? Maybe some flowers in his shoe locker? Classic rom-com moves!” He was practically wheezing now, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Jirou snorted into her carton of milk, muttering something low and dry about “melodramatic brooding types,” but Eijiro swore he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. Yeah. That was definitely a smirk. Great. Everyone was in on this now.

Even Bakugou looked up. Just for a second—but that second was worse than all the others combined. That scoff—sharp, derisive, and silent—said more than words ever could. You’re an idiot. It didn’t even need sound to slice straight through him.

And Shinsou—quiet, perpetual observer Shinsou—didn’t even bother hiding the snort that escaped him. He was slouched at the far end of the table, pretending to scroll on his phone like he didn’t care, but the faint twitch at his lips gave him away. Of course he was listening. They all were.

The table erupted with laughter, easy and merciless, washing over him in a wave he couldn’t quite fight against. And Eijiro laughed, too. Because that was what he did. Laughed. Brushed things off. The sound felt stiff and foreign in his throat, and he reached for his chopsticks like maybe if he focused on stabbing his rice enough times, they’d move on. But the heat crawling up his neck burned hotter than any chili pepper, and no amount of fake nonchalance could put that out.

“No dice,” he said lightly, forcing a grin that felt a little too tight at the corners. He stabbed his chopsticks into the rice and bit down like it didn’t taste like sandpaper scraping against his tongue. “Still emotionally constipated. Even upgraded to a full-on verbal rejection this time, though, so hey—progress!”

That earned a ripple of laughter down the table. The kind that came easy to everyone but him. Sero let out a low whistle and lobbed a crumpled napkin at his head like a paper missile. “Ouch. Brutal, man. You need some aloe for that burn?”

Jirou didn’t even glance up from her food, deadpan as ever, though Eijiro caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” she muttered, stabbing her straw into her juice box with a little too much force.

“Unless you’re Kirishima,” Kaminari cut in, already leaning into the bit like it was his calling. He reached over dramatically and slid his half-eaten pudding cup across the table with both hands, face solemn, like he was passing down some sacred relic. “For your loss,” he intoned gravely, clapping Eijiro on the shoulder with all the weight of a priest performing last rites. “You died a noble death.”

Eijiro snorted despite himself, the sound sharp and a little too loud, but he rolled with it. He stood from his chair, sweeping the pudding up in both hands like it was a trophy, and bowed low enough to nearly crack his forehead on the table. “Tell my story,” he said, pitching his voice into that mock-heroic tone Bakugou hated so much. “Let the world know I tried.”

That broke them. Laughter tore down the table like dominoes falling, quick and bright and loud. Even Bakugou—though he didn’t laugh—snorted hard enough to count as an acknowledgment before returning to annihilating his katsudon like it owed him money.

And for a moment, it did help. The sting loosened its grip on his chest, just a little. The ache eased under the weight of all that noise and warmth and easy chaos. It actually did make him feel a lot better.

Almost.

Because even as he grinned and scraped the last of the pudding out with his spoon, something in his chest still felt heavy. Not because they’d teased him—they always teased him—but because deep down, he wasn’t sure why it mattered so much. Why Todoroki’s cold shoulder hurt worse than any punch he’d ever taken in training.

After that, he backed off in his attempts to be Todoroki’s friend.

Not all at once. There wasn’t some dramatic moment where he threw up his hands and swore to give up, no big declaration of defeat that his friends could laugh about later. It just… happened. A slow, quiet easing off, like water pulling back from the shore.

He still said hello when their paths crossed—because that was just who he was, and ignoring someone completely would feel wrong. He still offered a nod during training, maybe a thumbs-up if Todoroki landed something clean. But that was it. No more cheerful “Yo, Todoroki!” echoing down the hallway. No more trying to wedge himself into that frosty silence with warm laughter and dumb jokes.

The invitations stopped. He quit saving him seats at lunch, stopped tossing him casual “You coming with us?” whenever the group headed out. He didn’t hover at his desk anymore before class, didn’t try to strike up conversations about the weather or training or literally anything just to fill the quiet. The extra effort faded, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but bare courtesy.

He let Todoroki be.

Or at least, he told himself that’s what he was doing—letting him be, giving him the space he so clearly wanted. Not licking his wounds. Not giving up. Definitely not taking it personally. Except, sometimes, in the middle of a noisy lunchroom, with his friends laughing around him and Bakugou yelling over something stupid, he’d glance across the room and catch sight of that same figure: sitting alone, head bent, eating in perfect silence like nothing in the world could touch him.

And every single time, something in Eijiro’s chest itched.

It wasn’t the first time he had failed at something. Of course it wasn’t. Failure was no stranger to him—it had been tagging along like an annoying younger sibling for as long as he could remember. He’d bombed tests before, stared down at red ink bleeding across his papers like a crime scene. He’d missed punches in sparring, swung wide and stumbled, left openings so big an amateur could’ve taken him down. He’d blurted the wrong thing at the worst possible moment—words tumbling out too fast, too loud, catching on the jagged edge of his own enthusiasm until they turned awkward and sharp.

He’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. Tripped over his own intentions. Said too much when he should’ve shut up, said too little when it mattered most. Come off too strong, too desperate, like someone who didn’t know when to quit.

​​That’s just life, though, right? That’s what he always told himself. People mess up. People fail. The world doesn’t stop spinning because you face-plant in the middle of the hallway or because someone looks at you like you’re trying too hard.

And as a kid, the answer had always been simple: Get back up. Try again. Try harder. Work harder. Push through. Keep going. Never give up.

That mantra had been burned into him, letter by letter, carved deep into the grain of who he was. It wasn’t just something he said—it was something he lived by, the bedrock of everything he wanted to become. Heroes didn’t quit. Heroes didn’t fold. Heroes stood back up, no matter how hard they got knocked down.

That’s who he wanted to be. Red Riot wasn’t someone who gave up. Red Riot endured. He believed in persistence, in second chances, in third chances if that’s what it took. In the strength of a heart that kept reaching out even after it got bruised, even after it bled. He believed that if you just kept trying, kept showing up, kept being there, then eventually—eventually—it would matter. It would mean something.

As he’d gotten a little older, he’d realized not all failures were like that. Not all of them had a purpose. Not all of them were stepping stones on the way to something better. Some failures didn’t make you stronger. Some didn’t teach you anything except how much it hurt.

Some failures just were . Flat. Final. Immutable. Like a door closing softly in your face and never opening again.

No amount of effort, no amount of grit or optimism or stubborn persistence could pry that door back open. No amount of training, no pep talks in the mirror, no “I’ll try again tomorrow” could make the other side want you there.

He’d learned that the hard way. Slowly. Piece by piece. Because some failures weren’t loud or dramatic or life-shattering. They weren’t the kind that left you bleeding on the floor with your lungs on fire. They were quieter than that. Simpler. Human.

You reached out, and someone didn’t reach back. You cared, and someone didn’t want to be cared about. Or maybe—just maybe—they didn’t want to be cared about by you. And that was the sharpest edge of all. That quiet possibility that it wasn’t about timing, or circumstance, or misunderstanding. It was about you. Your voice, your presence, your everything—just… wrong for them.

Sometimes people didn’t change their minds. Sometimes they didn’t want to. Sometimes it didn’t matter how patient you were, how much of yourself you laid bare in the hope that they’d see it and understand. It didn’t matter if you were genuine, if your heart was in the right place, if all you wanted was to make someone feel less alone.

Because some walls weren’t meant to be climbed. Some gates weren’t meant to open for you. And some people—no matter how much you wanted them to—didn’t want you on the other side.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe it had to be okay.

After all, he wasn’t lonely. Not really. He had plenty of friends already—good ones. People who had taken him as he was, without hesitation. People who didn’t make him work so hard just to be seen. People who made space for him at the table without him having to ask. He loved them for that. God, he really did.

Ashido, with her wild, unstoppable energy that could pull even the most stubborn clouds apart. She had this way of lighting up a room like she’d plugged herself straight into the sun, and Eijiro swore her laugh was loud enough to scare bad moods back into hiding.

Kaminari—chaotic to his core, loyal in a way that felt almost reckless. A guy who’d fail every test in the world and still show up with a smile. Kaminari would ride into hell for you, no questions asked, even if his quirk fizzled halfway through the first mile.

And Sero. Laid-back, always quick with a joke that made you groan before you laughed. The guy you could sit with and just… exist. No pressure to talk, no weight to carry. Just quiet companionship and the occasional roll of tape flicked at your head because he’d gotten bored.

Jirou, who’d roll her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck, but still let him ramble about dumb workout routines or the new band he found. She’d sigh like he was the biggest inconvenience in the world, but she never left. She always stayed.

Even Shinsou, quiet and sharp-edged and lost in a way that mirrored things Eijiro didn’t talk about. The two of them had this unspoken understanding, something steady and unshakable that didn’t need big words or dramatic promises. Just a look, a nod, and the knowledge that neither of them was going anywhere.

And Bakugou… Bakugou was his own storm. His own damn planet. Brash and loud and impossible to reason with. He’d bark, he’d bite, he’d throw sparks like his bones were wired to detonate—but underneath all of that? There was loyalty. Brutal, unwavering loyalty that you couldn’t buy or beg for. You had to earn it. Bleed for it. Prove you were worth standing beside when everything went to hell.

Eijiro had done that. He’d fought for it. And somehow, Bakugou—Katsuki Bakugou, who trusted no one and tolerated even fewer—had chosen him back. Not in words, not in any way you could pin down, but in the way he stayed. In the way he didn’t walk away when it counted. In the way he yelled at him like he expected him to keep up.

That mattered.

He didn’t need Todoroki to be his friend.

He told himself that more than once, like a mantra meant to stick. And for the most part, he believed it. His life wasn’t empty. Far from it. He had people who cared about him, people who made him laugh, who made the world feel bright even on the worst days. So, no—he didn’t need Todoroki’s friendship.

But he still wanted it.

Not in the way he wanted a new pair of shoes or a cool hero poster for his wall. No, it was something quieter than that. Stranger. A pull he couldn’t quite name. Something about Todoroki lingered in his mind, like an itch buried too deep to scratch, always there in the background no matter how much he tried to ignore it. A mystery. A puzzle with pieces he couldn’t find.

He’d always liked figuring people out—not to expose them, not to tear them open, but to understand . To find the thread that made them human, the little spark that made them laugh, the thing that made their eyes light up like fireworks. It wasn’t about conquering walls. It was about connection. About seeing someone for real and letting them see you back.

And with Todoroki? That wall felt endless. Not brick or stone, but glass. He could see through it sometimes—the flicker of something behind those mismatched eyes, something soft and complicated—but he could never reach it. And for a long time, he thought maybe he just needed to try harder. Be louder. Be warmer. Shine brighter until the glass cracked.

But maybe that wasn’t what Todoroki wanted.

And Eijiro could want without chasing. He could care without pushing. Because caring, at the end of the day, didn’t always mean persistence. It didn’t always mean forcing doors open or hammering down walls. Sometimes it meant standing back. Sometimes it meant respect—giving someone the space they asked for, even if they didn’t spell it out in words.

And in this case? Todoroki had more than spelled it out. He’d said it clear as day, blunt as a blade: No, thank you.

So Eijiro would respect that. He let go. Gently. Quietly. Not like a dramatic cut, not like ripping a bandage off—just a slow, careful unclenching. Like holding water in your hands and finally letting it run back into the river where it belonged.

And it didn’t hurt the way he thought it would. Not really. It stung, sure, in that small, sharp way that unspoken hopes always do. But it wasn’t the kind of hurt that hollowed you out. It was just… a sigh in his chest. A weight lifting, even if it left him a little empty for a while.

And hey—if failure came with a consolation pudding cup? If it came with laughter around a table full of people who did want him there, people who teased him and cared about him and called him their friend? Well. That wasn’t so bad.

Yeah. He could live with it.

Still, just because he doesn’t bother Todoroki anymore doesn’t mean he doesn’t watch him.

Maybe it’s a little creepy. Okay, yeah—it’s definitely a little creepy. He can admit that much to himself. He’s not proud of it. It’s not like he’s lurking behind corners with binoculars and a trench coat or anything. He’s not that guy. But he can’t help the way his eyes wander sometimes. The way they seem to drift toward Todoroki in class without him even realizing it. Like muscle memory. Like a reflex that refuses to die, even when the fight is over.

At first, he told himself it was habit. Just the leftover momentum from all those weeks of trying. His brain hadn’t gotten the memo yet, that’s all. But the longer it went on, the harder it was to keep believing that. Because it wasn’t just absent-minded glances. It wasn’t background noise. It was deliberate. Not always, not in a way anyone else would notice, but in the quiet moments—when Aizawa droned on at the front of the room, when pens scratched softly against paper, when the world stilled just enough for him to get lost in thought—his gaze would drift. And land on him. Always on him.

And every time, he’d catch himself and look away fast, heat prickling up the back of his neck like guilt. Like he’d been caught doing something wrong, even though no one saw. Even though Todoroki never looked back.

Because if he were being really honest with himself—and he almost never was, not about this—it wasn’t just a habit. It wasn’t just a bad reflex. It was something softer than that. Something quieter. Something he didn’t want to name.

That kind of longing you feel when there’s a locked door, and you know you’re not supposed to open it, but you can’t stop wondering what’s behind it anyway. A door that promises nothing and still calls to you anyway. You tell yourself you’re just curious. You tell yourself you just want to understand. But the truth? The truth sits heavy in your chest and curls hot in your throat, and you don’t say it out loud because once you do, you can’t take it back.

He respects Todoroki’s decision not to be friends. He really does. He heard it loud and clear.

You bother me no more, or less, than your friends do.

Yeah. Got it. Thanks for clarifying. Message received, point driven home with all the elegance of a sledgehammer.

But respect doesn’t mean understanding. And Eijiro? Eijiro has always wanted to understand people.

It’s kind of his thing, honestly. Reading people. Finding the thread between what someone says and what they mean. What they show and what they hide. The difference between I’m fine and I’m drowning but I don’t want to burden you. He’s good at it. Always has been.

Maybe it comes from being the kind of kid who used to hover on the outside of groups, awkward and unsure, desperate to get it right so people would let him in. When you grow up like that—always second-guessing your words, always wondering if the joke will land or if you’re just going to embarrass yourself—you learn to read the room. Fast. You pick up on tone shifts. The way someone’s eyes flick when they’re nervous. The slight tilt of a mouth that means they’re amused versus annoyed. You become fluent in body language, in silences, in all the invisible things that fill the space between words.

And that’s always been Eijiro’s strength. He’s good at people. He’s good at getting them.

But Todoroki?

Todoroki’s like a locked box inside a vault inside a concrete bunker at the bottom of the ocean. Layers on layers of steel and silence, cold and heavy, like he built himself to be impenetrable. Cold steel around cold thoughts. No cracks to peek through. No seams to pry at. Just smooth, featureless walls and a single sign that reads KEEP OUT in letters so sharp they might as well cut you for trying.

No tells. No hints. No loose edges to pull at.

Just that same unreadable expression, day after day, like he’s playing a game no one else knows the rules to—hell, like maybe he’s the only player, and everyone else is just background noise. It’s the kind of face that makes you feel stupid for even trying to read it. Like staring at a statue that occasionally blinks just to remind you it’s alive.

Still—even if Eijiro wasn’t dealing with what was clearly some kind of weird, possibly unhealthy personal investment—he thinks he’d still be watching Todoroki.

Because the dude is just… so fucking weird.

​​And Eijiro knows that’s not exactly a hot take. Like, at this point, it’s basically the consensus across the entire class—a quiet, unanimous agreement that bubbles up in corners of the room whenever Todoroki is near but no one says outright. It’s the kind of truth everyone feels but no one wants to put too bluntly, as if speaking it aloud might break some unspoken rule.

Ashido was the first to say it out loud, loud and proud, without a hint of shame. It happened during one of those chaotic lunch breaks when Kaminari got caught staring, the conversation twisting and folding itself inevitably toward Todoroki.

“He’s not just regular weird,” Ashido had declared, jabbing a finger in Kaminari’s direction like a referee calling a foul. “He’s weird -weird.”

And now that Eijiro had been watching Todoroki more closely—really paying attention, as opposed to just glancing over in passing or overhearing bits of conversation—he had to admit: Ashido was right.

​​There was something about Todoroki that didn’t add up. It wasn’t simply the aloofness that everyone talked about. It wasn’t just the deliberate silence or the way he seemed to fold himself inward, like a tightly sealed origami crane, refusing to unfold. No, it was something subtler, something more unnerving. Something off. Like a radio station that’s always just a hair out of tune, the sound warbling and crackling beneath a static buzz that you can’t quite block out.

On the surface, he looked normal enough. Walked the same halls as everyone else. Breathed the same thick, recycled air. Smiled when he had to, said the bare minimum when called upon. But when you watched him—really watched him—the illusion of normalcy started to crack. There was a different rhythm playing in his head, a silent pulse no one else could hear.

His movements were precise, too measured, as if he was walking a tightrope stretched across two worlds—one that everyone else inhabited, and another locked away deep inside himself. His eyes flickered with something hidden, a storm barely contained beneath the calm surface, but he never let it spill over.

It was unsettling. Abnormal. Like a clock that runs just a little too fast or too slow, throwing off the entire day’s schedule without anyone knowing why.

Eijiro knows he probably shouldn’t be stealing glances the way he does. It’s not like he’s trying to be obvious—he tells himself that, at least—but Todoroki sits just behind him, so every time he turns his head even a little, it feels like the movement stretches longer and louder than he wants it to. He’s pretty sure it’s more obvious than he lets on, but he can’t seem to help it. There’s a pull there, subtle but persistent, like a magnet buried under layers of concrete.

He tells himself he’s being subtle. He’s just stretching his neck, that’s all. Trying to loosen the tightness that’s been building up all week, like a rope pulled too tight around his spine. Or maybe he’s just checking the clock, making sure class isn’t dragging on too long. Except the clock isn’t behind him—he knows that—so that excuse falls flat every time.

​​And look, he should be focusing. His own grades aren’t exactly anything to write home about. The last time Aizawa handed back a test, Eijiro seriously considered writing a formal apology letter to the entire math department. His shoulders had slumped so low he probably looked like he was carrying the weight of the world. He knows he needs to pay attention. He wants to. But the second he tries to lock in, to tune into the lesson, his mind slips away. A stray thought, a flicker in the corner of his eye, and suddenly he’s somewhere else.

Back to Todoroki.

Because Todoroki never writes anything down. Never.

It’s one of those little things that Eijiro can’t help but notice—a small rebellion against what everyone else is doing. While the rest of the class scribbles frantically, their pens scratching and their notebooks filling with notes, Todoroki sits still, hands folded or resting lightly on his desk. No underlining, no highlighting, no frantic shorthand or messy arrows. Nothing. Just quiet attention, like he’s storing everything somewhere deep inside, locked away and ready to be summoned whenever it’s needed.

And his grades? Perfect. Not just “pretty good” or “solid pass”—perfect. Like a laser beam of precision cutting through every test, every assignment, every quiz without a single miss. Eijiro has caught more than one glimpse of those returned papers. Neat, crisp sheets of paper, the edges sharp and uncreased, with bright red 100s stamped or circled at the top. Elegant, almost delicate little “Well done” comments written by the teachers in careful script, as if they’re admiring a work of art.

And yet—Todoroki never seems to look at them. Not once does he pause to savor the praise or even acknowledge the perfect scores. He just slides the papers effortlessly into his folder, the motion so smooth it looks rehearsed, like a quiet dismissal of the achievement itself. No smile, no flicker of satisfaction, no glance at the teacher’s remarks—just cold efficiency.

It baffles Eijiro. How does someone manage that? How can you carry all that knowledge in your head, without spilling a single drop onto paper? Without ever jotting down a single note? Does it come easy for him? Or is there some secret method, some unseen hours of practice behind the scenes? Or maybe… maybe it’s not about effort or skill at all. Maybe for Todoroki, the grades aren’t the point.

Eijiro finds himself wondering what it must feel like—to be so detached from the little markers everyone else fights for, to carry success so lightly that it doesn’t even register as an event worth pausing for. It’s like watching someone walk through a fire unscathed, calm and collected while everyone else scrambles to find water.

It’s infuriating. It’s fascinating. It’s maddening.

So Eijiro figured maybe Todoroki just didn’t need notes. Some people were like that—different learning styles, different ways of soaking in information. Take Kaminari, for example. He sometimes completely zones out during class, eyes glazed over, mind drifting miles away, but somehow, through sheer charisma, last-minute cram sessions, and group study marathons, he scrapes by just fine. Then there’s Ashido, who spends half the lecture doodling wild, weird aliens in the margins of her notebook, colors splashed everywhere, but once class is over, she switches gears completely and hits the books with fierce determination. Everyone had their quirks.

But Todoroki? He didn’t fit any of those patterns. No doodles. No whispered side conversations with classmates. No glazed eyes, no slouched posture, no signs of boredom or distraction. No secret naps or sneaky glances at the clock.

He just… sat there.

Completely still. Back perfectly straight, shoulders squared but not stiff—more like poised, controlled, deliberate. Eyes fixed straight ahead, unmoving and unblinking, absorbing without flicker or hesitation. His pencil rests lightly between his fingers, poised as if ready to move into action at any moment, yet it remains utterly frozen, an extension of his unmoving hand rather than an active tool.

The page beneath it lies pristine and untouched, an untouched canvas that somehow feels heavier than the thickest textbook. Not a single word, not a single note, no stray marks or tentative sketches. Blank. Waiting. Silent.

When class begins, Todoroki slips seamlessly into this strange stillness, as though it’s a role he has rehearsed endlessly in a private theater only he attends. Every movement measured, every breath controlled—there’s no nervous fidgeting, no restless tapping of fingers, no distracted gazes toward the clock or classmates. He doesn’t shuffle papers or adjust his seat. He simply exists, as if presence alone fulfills some unspoken requirement.

It’s as if being there, in the room, listening, is already enough. As if the very act of sitting still, of not needing to take notes, signals mastery or indifference. Maybe he’s already memorized it all. Maybe the details blur beneath a layer of quiet detachment, because to him, none of it really matters.

It’s not bored detachment. It’s not laziness, laziness would have some spark—some flicker of impatience or irritation. It’s not even arrogance, the kind of confident disdain that makes people tune out. No, it’s something else entirely.

Something that unsettles Eijiro the longer he watches it. That kind of silence that doesn’t just fill the room, but seems to hollow it out, like a shadow stretching beneath the surface of things. It’s not peaceful, not calm or meditative. It’s emptiness, cold and cavernous, like an echo chamber where sound goes to vanish without a trace.

It’s as if Todoroki has made a habit of absence—not just physically present but mentally withdrawn, like a ghost lingering behind glass. Like he’s mastered the art of detaching himself from his own body, floating somewhere just behind his eyes, a silent observer rather than a participant in the world around him.

And despite everything—despite the distance, despite the blunt refusals, despite the coldness—Eijiro still wants to know why. Still wants to understand him. Not to fix him. Not to pry or push or force something that isn’t there. But just… to know. Because that kind of silence never comes from nowhere. There’s a story folded inside it, a weight beneath the stillness that doesn’t make itself obvious to anyone.

Maybe Todoroki never wants to talk about it. Maybe he never will. Maybe the silence is a shield he’s not ready to lower. But if he does—if there’s ever a moment when those walls crack, even just a sliver—Eijiro wants to be paying attention. He wants to be there, ready to listen, even if the words never come.

He doesn’t know why it sticks with him so much—that blank notebook, that pencil that never moves, frozen in place as if waiting for a signal that never comes. It’s not just the image itself, but the weight behind it, like a quiet echo that refuses to fade. Maybe it’s because it reminds him of something he’s tried so hard to bury, or forget—the part of himself that still struggles under the weight of doubt and invisibility.

He remembers a time when he used to do the same thing. Not exactly the same, of course. Eijiro has always had a little more noise in him, a little more bounce in his knees, a little more restless energy bubbling just beneath the surface, pushing him to move, to fidget, to keep busy as a way to manage the nerves. But back then—back in middle school, before Red Riot, before UA, before he made the choice to fight his way out of that hole—there were plenty of days when he’d sit in class, pencil poised uselessly over the page, frozen by a storm of thoughts and fears. Wanting to write something down, to try, to prove something—to himself more than anyone else. But he was too caught up in the fear of getting it wrong, of looking stupid, of being noticed for all the wrong reasons.

He remembers staring at the board, the teacher’s voice turning into a blurred hum, words washing over him like static on a broken radio. Everything felt distant, disconnected, as if he were floating in a space between wanting to be there and needing to disappear. And in that space, a dark thought crept in, relentless and crushing: What’s the point? Why bother?

It wasn’t because he didn’t care. That wasn’t it at all. In fact, it was the exact opposite. He cared too much—about every mistake, every misstep, every glance that passed him by without recognition. He cared that he wasn’t strong enough, that his quirk wasn’t flashy or powerful, that the other kids were faster, louder, cooler, more everything than him. He cared that when people looked at him, they didn’t really see anything worth paying attention to. Just another background kid with a boring quirk and a shy, uncertain smile. Easy to overlook. Easy to forget.

And when you feel like you don’t matter, it becomes terrifyingly easy to start acting like you don’t. To shrink into yourself so small you almost disappear. To fall silent, to leave your page blank, as if erasing yourself from the world might somehow protect you from the disappointment of being ignored. 

So yeah. He gets it, in a strange, complicated way. There’s something about Todoroki—so composed, so still, like a sculpture carved out of frost, flawless and cold—that pulls at something deep inside Eijiro. Watching him, it’s impossible not to wonder if that quiet, that silence, is the same kind he once knew. The kind that looks calm on the outside but is really just fear turned inward, tightly wound and locked away. A fear so deep it never got a name, only a heavy weight pressing down in the chest, making every breath feel a little harder to take.

Maybe Todoroki’s silence isn’t about not caring. Maybe he does care, but he just doesn’t know what to do with it, or how to show it. That thought—the idea that beneath that stoic exterior there might be a restless, confused heart—bothers Eijiro more than he’s willing to admit. 

Because he knows, all too well, how easy it is to slip into that kind of silence. He had almost stayed there himself—almost let himself believe that shrinking down, disappearing into the background, was safer than standing out and risking the sting of rejection. He had nearly convinced himself that trying was pointless, that being small was better than being seen and turned away. That it was easier to fold up inside than to stretch out and reach for something more.

But the only reason he didn’t stay that way—the only reason he found the strength to push through—was because someone saw him first. Not in a dramatic, movie-like moment. No grand speeches or life-altering battles. Just small, quiet moments. A classmate, once after school, asking if he wanted to walk home together, breaking through the silence with simple companionship. A teacher offering a sincere “Good job” on a quiz he thought he’d failed, a rare flicker of acknowledgment that felt like a spark in the dark. Just one person, really—one person seeing something in him that he couldn’t yet see for himself. Someone believing in him when he wasn’t ready to believe.

He thinks about that a lot. Especially now, when the weight of everything feels heavier than ever, and the silence between them stretches wide like an unbridgeable gap. Because deep down, he’d wanted to be that person for Todoroki—the one who showed up no matter what, who didn’t back down or give up, who made himself easy to reach even when it seemed like there was no point. In his own clumsy, cheerful, overeager way, Eijiro had tried to be the steady hand, the constant presence. The guy who might break through the walls, if only just a crack.

But maybe Todoroki wasn’t ready. Maybe he never wanted that from Eijiro in the first place. And that’s okay. It has to be okay. Everyone has the right to choose their own boundaries, to protect themselves the way they need to. To keep their doors locked tight if that’s what feels safest. And as much as it stings, Eijiro understands that. Respects it, even if it hurts.

Still… he can’t help but hold onto a quiet, private hope. A fragile, stubborn thread of hope that someday, somehow, someone will be that person for Todoroki. Someone he lets in without hesitation. Someone who reaches through the silence and the cold, who sees past the stillness and the unreadable gaze, and who stays—steady, patient, unyielding.

And even if that person isn’t him—especially if it isn’t him—Eijiro hopes he notices. Hopes he feels that presence, that warmth, that acceptance. Because that kind of change, that kind of healing, it doesn’t come in a blaze of glory or a shouted confession. It’s quiet. So quiet that sometimes it barely feels like anything at all.

It starts small. A pencil finally moving across the page. A blank sheet slowly filling in, line by careful line. A tentative smile when no one’s looking. A door left slightly ajar instead of slammed shut. The first, trembling steps toward trust.

And Eijiro knows better than anyone how hard that first step is. How terrifying it can be to start reaching out. How every little movement forward can feel like the weight of the world.

But he also knows it’s worth it. That even the smallest flicker of light can grow into a blaze that burns away the cold. That the struggle, the pain, the fear—they don’t have to be the end of the story. That healing is possible.

He knows. And in the quiet hope of that knowledge, he finds the strength to keep watching, to keep hoping, and maybe— maybe —one day, to keep reaching again.