Chapter Text
Love is like…
Love is like…
Well, love is like a strong cup of coffee – it wakes you up, it makes your heart race, it can be enjoyed in a million different ways, it makes you move your bowels – wait. Izuku scribbles hard in the notebook. Love is like a glass of wine – the taste varies from person to person, it's been coveted as a treasure since the dawn of man, it can be addicting, and too much of it can give you one hell of a hangover. Izuku shakes his head at himself, fighting every impulse not to smack his own face. Izuku sits up straighter and shakes out his shoulders, poising the pen over his notebook in preparation for a brilliant thought to finally hit him.
Izuku looks around until his eyes fixate on a businessman wearing a red tie. Love is like a putting on a tie… Izuku thinks, tapping his pen against the paper. Its suffocating, I don’t know anything about it, and every time I try, I get it wrong.
Izuku groans, smacking his face into the table.
“Izuku… are you alright?”
Izuku jerks at the voice. Ochako’s been in the back doing inventory for the last hour, and a part of him sort of forgot that she was still there. Expecting her to scold him for not working, Izuku surveys the café for new customers. This late in the evening, the few patrons left over are no longer drinking coffee – evenings in this dimly lit cafe, flooded with ambient music, the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and soft, warm lighting - are generally dominated by late-night dates, the occasional disheveled college student cramming for a test, and business executives switching from coffee to alcohol at the end of a long day. The evenings are quiet, hypnotic, and a source of reprieve for Izuku. The only source of peace he generally gets during his harried days.
He looks back down at his notebook, hopelessly scratched and wrinkled, stains likely his own tears. Perhaps drool, too, with how much he’s been chewing at his writing utensils. He doesn’t mention this as he motions towards his notebook, leading his friend’s eyes to the torn-up page.
“Ochako, I don’t know what I’m doing wroooong,” Izuku whines. His co-worker leans over his shoulder, and he can feel a blush forming on his face as her eyes scan the page.
Izuku stares at her expectantly as she, face flat, re-directs her eyes to him.
“It’s not bad, Izuku. It’s just…” She chews her lip and takes Izuku’s hand, directing him to the couple sitting at the other end of the cafe. The couple is young, likely not much older than Izuku and Ochako. They’re sitting close, their calves touching underneath the table, mindlessly intimate in such a public setting. The woman is twirling a long, dark strand of hair between her manicured fingers, seeming entranced with whatever the man in front of her is saying. The man talks animatedly, and a soft smile overtakes his face every time she replies.
“What do you think they’re thinking about, in this moment?” Ochako asks breathlessly.
“That they’re about to get laid.” Izuku says, quite seriously. Ochako offers an offended gasp and smacks Izuku across the shoulder. Likely harder than she intends, too, because the couple briefly glances to the two of them, before becoming wrapped up in their own conversation again.
“Come on, Izuku! Where’s the…”Ochako waves her hands and wriggles her fingers, “The romance? Why are you so… pessimistic about love? It’s almost like you’ve never been in love before!”
Izuku fidgets with his pen, mouth closing around the chewed up plastic for the umpteenth time that evening, avoiding eye contact. He flinches as Ochako gasps, placing a hand on her chest as if the non-confession personally offends her.
“You haven’t?! You’re 22 years old!”
“I’ve been busy!” Izuku snaps back. “I don’t have the time, or the money, or the emotional energy to get invested in falling in love! That’s what music is for! To, like, experience the spectrum of human emotion!”
“Izuku Midoriya, you’re telling me you’ve never…” Ochako waves her hands again, attempting to portray some emotion that Izuku doesn’t have a name for, “You’ve never pined? Yearned? Wanted? You know - ” The tone in Ochako’s voice is so wistful, Izuku has half-a-mind to ask her to clarify, expand, maybe write some of those thoughts down. That sounds exactly like what should be in a love song. Has Izuku ever experienced that kind of devoted desire? Izuku flashes back to the few short-lived relationships he’s had in his adult life, and only shakes his head.
The closest he’s ever come to longing dates back to when he had braces, played the tuba in the school band, and couldn’t speak a word to said someone without tripping all over himself. Even then, he didn’t know if those feelings were really desire, or nostalgia for a simpler, happier time. It didn’t matter. In the end, that spark left Izuku’s life with a flash of red, and he hasn’t thought about it since. Until now. The pang in Izuku’s chest makes him glower at his oblivious friend.
“Nope. No one like that for me. My true love is music.” Izuku shrinks in on himself, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling under Ochako’s persistent glare. His eyes dart all around the shop, until finally, he relents. “So, what, I should fall in love to write better music? Seems impractical.”
Ochako grins at that. “Didn’t say that. You just need some inspiration. Lust is also inspiring, you know? When was the last time you got laid? Let me set you up.”
When was the last time Izuku got laid? He can’t remember, which strikes Izuku as odd. Izuku chews at his lip. Lust, too, escaped him. The thrill, the carnal desire for intimacy, for release – he’s not sure if he ever truly felt it either, sex being a simple means to an end in previous relationships. Izuku considers briefly whether the end-goal would be worth it. From his lackluster experiences in the past, and knowing full well who Ochako’s friends are, he decides against it.
“No.” Izuku answers point-blank, and Ochako pouts.
“Fine!” Ochako throws her hands up, earning concerned looks from some of the remaining patrons. “Then write what you know about! Being a stick-in-the-mud, your caffeine addiction, wanting to fuck a musical instrument, jerking off to All Might…” she counts off on her fingers.
“I don’t jerk off to them!” Izuku defends, and Ochako just rolls her eyes. “I just love their music!”
“At least you love something. Seriously, though,” Ochako points to Izuku’s notebook, and then the other two filled out notebooks balancing on the counter. “I’ve never seen you so… obsessive over something. Be careful not to overdo it.”
A wide smile replaces Izuku’s frown, and he grabs the most recent notebook to his chest, starry-eyed and energetic for the first time that evening. Unintentionally, Ochako finds herself smiling, her friend’s brightness contagious.
“This is my dream, Ochako! And Shouto and I can do it! We can win this thing, I know we can! All I have to do,” the smile slowly slips from Izuku’s face, and eyebrows furrow in concern, “Is write… the perfect song.”
“Izuku…” Ochako repeats, and pats his shoulder with whatever reassurance she can pass on to him. They’ve had this same conversation multiple times, and the green-haired musician hasn’t made any progress. He’s written hundreds of pages, filled notebook after notebook, and he still has… nothing.
“Well, Mr. All Might’s Future Concert Opener, if you can take a break from signing autographs, maybe we should get started with closing down the café?” Ochako carefully snakes in her assistant manager voice, and Izuku closes his notebook in response, looking up at the clock. Its already eleven PM, meaning that Izuku has to be awake in just seven hours for his first class. That in mind, Izuku makes sure to take a little baggie of coffee beans with him home, to make the next morning somehow more bearable.
The couple that Ochako seemed to be so focused on before is the last to leave. After paying, Ochako and Izuku watch the two of them walk out the door. As they exit the café, Izuku watches the man’s hand slide to the woman’s backside, giving her an obvious squeeze. Izuku spins around to Ochako, grinning widely despite the fall in her face.
“Laid,” he mouths. She just shakes her head. Izuku pats himself on the back, and wordlessly, the two of them continue to clean tables and sweep the trash before turning off the lights for the evening.
Izuku groans at the repetitive, siren-like blaring of his alarm clock, groggily slamming the silence button. He attempts to roll out of bed, followed by a dozen loose-leaf papers and a few notebooks, clattering unceremoniously to his floor. He all but trips over his synthesizer as he hurriedly tries to get dressed, stepping on and yelping with pain as his pedalboard finds its way under his poor feet. He knows he’s making a ton of noise, and grimaces at the sound of his mom’s concerned ‘Izuku, are you okay…?’ echoing from the kitchen.
If one more person asks if he’s okay… He takes a deep breath and steels himself. He darts to pick up his headphones, scrounges up what he assumes are the most recent notebooks and practically runs out the door. Out of breath and wheezing, he’s just in time to catch the last train that would get him to class on time.
Izuku chews at his lip, pressing the ‘previous’ button on his phone. The arrangement blares in his ears, synth, keyboard and guitar meshing in a manner that Izuku just isn’t happy with. He has to fix this arrangement, somehow. Hard to do, without any lyrics, but… He replays it on constant repeat, mumbling to himself, oblivious to the side-eyes he’s getting from his classmates. He keeps a pen behind his ear, and between rushing to classes, he jots down thoughts on his own skin, oblivious to the fact that all his exposed skin is ink-stained and smeared towards the end of the day.
He can’t waste a single moment. A single breath, a single thought, a single extra minute on sleep. Izuku’s running out of time, and its almost like countdown is loudly playing in his brain, insistently banging against his skull.
Izuku nearly passed out when he heard the news.
Izuku was attempting to cram for an exam, radio playing in the background, when he heard Toshinori Yago’s distinct voice over the airwaves. Izuku dropped his pen, mouth dropped open, his ears not connecting with his brain for what seemed like minutes.
Izuku’s aware of a few things. That all the members of All Might actually met in his home town, having gone to high school together. That this is the same city that they started playing together, the same city they were discovered, the same city they started every single one of their tours in. So it didn’t come as much of a surprise that, after four years, Toshinori Yagi was announcing that All Might would be touring once again. The bomb dropped with the word, ‘farewell.’ Farewell. What does that even mean?! Fare? Well? That didn’t compute to Izuku. Clearly, he was not faring well at all.
All Might has been making music, hit after hit after hit, since Izuku’s been a little kid. The front man, lyrical genius, best vocalist of their generation and Izuku’s personal hero, Toshinori Yagi, and the remaining members of All Might, their guitarist Yamada Hizashi, bassist Shouto Aizawa and keyboardist Namuri Kayama have always been unstoppable, their music transcending genres, topping charts and selling out stadiums since before Izuku could hold his first guitar.
Izuku may or may not have already been crying, making frantic posts on every All Might forum, chat and group that he’s a member off, before frontman Yagi made the announcement.
The contest. The contest to end all contests.
The rules are simple. Battle of the Bands. Local bands send in a single track to the radio station, and ten tracks are selected. Over the coming month, the songs play on the station and listeners vote on the top five. The top 5 play a live concert as part of a music festival, then the top 3 at a larger, indoor venue. The top two have the honor of opening on the first stop of All Might’s retirement tour – here. In Izuku’s home town. And finally, the winner gets the ultimate prize. Getting to spend the rest of the tour, forty cities, across the country as All Might’s opener. Three months. Same tour bus. Shoulder to shoulder with the greatest musicians the world has ever known.
It’s every single one of Izuku’s wildest fantasies, tied pretty in a red, white and blue bow and dropped in his lap.
It would be everything. It would be playing music with his hero, the very reason Izuku started playing music in the first place. It would be getting their sound out there, taking the first step into producing their first album and ideally a record deal. It would be skyrocketing to stardom. It’s Izuku’s dream, and its actually within reach.
If only he can write one fucking song.
By his third class, Izuku is close to ripping his hair out. His phone is near dead from playing his own music over and over again, he’s broken three pencils by tapping out beats on his desk a little too aggressively, and this document that he’s opened on his laptop to take notes remains starkly blank. The droning of his professor doesn’t even register in Izuku’s brain. Everything is rhythm and notes and words, but none of them fit, and Izuku is near tears. Can feel them prickling in the back of his eyes.
Emotion. He has to tap into an emotion. Love. Yes, he loves All Might. Izuku feels the pen crack under his teeth. He tries to close his eyes, tries to bring himself to the first time he heard All Might’s music. Rustling of leaves, the beat of the summer sun, a radio playing somewhere in the background as he runs through the sprinklers. The breath is almost knocked out of him as more memories, unwelcome, follow closely – sing-yelling into hairbrushes, jumping on his bed with the broom pretending it’s a guitar, setting up his plushies as an audience, putting on concerts for their moms… Izuku gasps at the feel of a hand against his, opening his eyes, unexpectedly glistening with tears. He stares down at the notebook, the words
Violent red, crimson tide swallowing me whole
Scribbled on the page, though he has no recollection of writing them. Remembering the tentative touch that broke Izuku out of his trance, Izuku turns his head dramatically, only to meet a pair of comforting heterochromic eyes.
Surprised, Izuku glances around the rest of the classroom. He doesn’t recall the signal for the end of class, doesn’t recall the rest of his classmates leaving, doesn’t even recall his best friend coming into the room, and Izuku flushes with embarrassment.
“I was worried, so I came to find you…” the calm voice of Shouto Todoroki explains, and Izuku flashes him a sincere smile, rubbing at his tearful eyes. Shouto’s last class was across campus, and the fact that he had enough time to wait for Izuku at their general meeting spot, realize that he wasn’t coming, walk all the way over here and still surprise Izuku stirs up a boiling pot of shame in Izuku’s gut.
“Sorry, Shouto. I’ve been, um,” Izuku glances at the notebook, the words looking oddly ominous sitting alone on the clean white page, and slams it shut. “I’ve been distracted.”
“I see,” Shouto replies. He offers Izuku a hand, and, gratefully, Izuku accepts the taller man’s help.
“You still up for band practice?” Shouto asks, and Izuku nods sharply.
It should have been a rhetorical question. They have a tradition, after all.
Izuku works four evenings a week, and the other three, him and Shouto hole up in his two bedroom condo, playing and writing music until, inevitably, Izuku passes out on the other man’s couch. They’ve been doing this since meeting freshman year, and hopefully will keep doing it long after they graduate. Before they make it big, of course. Every superstar needs a humble beginning. Although? Izuku glances up at the skyscraper that his friend somehow lives in. Maybe this isn’t that humble.
Izuku nods uncomfortably to the doorman of Shouto’s unfathomably expensive building. Shouto never acted like it mattered, never pointed out his obvious wealth and Izuku’s painful lack thereof. Still, Shouto let Izuku keep most of his equipment in his second bedroom in a makeshift studio, never complained when Izuku insisted on playing music well into the early hours of the morning, and worked just as hard as Izuku did. If Izuku is honest, his near-savant skills on the keyboard pale in comparison to his definitely-savant skills at being the best friend a scattered, obsessive, insomniac musician/college-student/barista can ask for. There’s no one else he’d rather do this with.
Do this, meaning have an existential crisis about the universe’s most inconvenient bout of writer's block.
Taking an appreciative sip of the canned iced coffee that Shouto tosses his way, Izuku relaxes back into the starkly-white couch. His trusty old acoustic guitar rests in his lap, and he strums a few chords, ears piqued to the pitch. He adjusts the gear heads systematically, almost ritually, feeling just as tightly wound as the high E string, ready to snap at any moment.
“Shouto… we have a problem,” Izuku admits as he finishes tuning. Shouto adjusts himself on his stool and taps out a few notes on his electric keyboard, adjusting the volume so their voices can still be heard over the music.
“What’s the problem?” his friend calmly asks, not looking at Izuku.
“I… I can’t come up with lyrics. For the song. Everything is just falling…” Izuku pulls at a string of his guitar, the vibrant sound bouncing around the walls. “Flat.”
“Why not? You’re constantly writing. You… should also wash your hands.”
Izuku glances down at his hands, as if gaining clarity for the first time today. Covered with text, more than half of it smeared into an unreadable mess, Izuku figures he looks a little bit… insane, really. He tries to make out some of the words, hoping past-him thought of something brilliant, before giving up and disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes. His skin scrubbed raw, blue ink still faint on his skin, he sits back down and groans loudly, dramatically, to garner his friend’s attention.
Seemingly ignoring him, Shouto taps out a few chords on the piano. The opening chords to their songs. Izuku’s groan quiets and he stares at Shouto before he pulls out another notebook, seemingly from thin air, and starts writing frantically.
“…What did you just write down?” Shouto asks after a few minutes, the writing pattering out to irritated taps of a pen, punctuated by loud sighs from his band-mate.
“Loving you was like a tattoo, it inked deep into my skin and ached, but you washed me off like a pen? Is that anything?”
Shouto grimaces. “…Izuku. That… it won’t work for a song. What rhymes with ached?”
“…Baked. Your love was half-baked? Also faked. Your love was faked? Mistake…d? Your love was mistaked?”
Izuku stares at his partner hopefully, only to be met with a shaking of the head.
“Mistaked isn’t a word.”
Izuku wails, throwing the notebook into the air with a flourish. Expectantly, the man raises his eyebrows and waits for Izuku to start explaining, as he often does, without prompting, to anyone who will listen.
“This is too much pressure, Shouto! This is our one chance – one song as our debut! We’ve got nothing behind us – no other music, no shows, no band name. We’re gonna be fighting an uphill battle, but,” Izuku stands up, tossing his guitar to the side, the resounding ‘clunk’ filling the air. Even so, Izuku makes a fist, eyes sparkling as he gazes off to some made-up horizon, and Shouto follows his eyesight only to see the corner of a room.
“We’re gonna win! We have to win. Me and you, opening for All Might! Can you imagine?!” Izuku’s smile falters, and he sits back down on the couch, body becoming more and more limp and liquid by the second. His voice takes on a serious, morose tone, and Shouto watches the other man’s emotional turbulence intently.
“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I just, um, well, I want to write something people are gonna like, because it’s a voting system, and it has to be relatable, so, I thought, you know, love is a safe bet, everyone loves songs about love, so I’ll write a love song BUT I –“
Izuku trails off, blushing, thinking about what Ochako said.
“Have you ever been in love, Shouto…?” Izuku asks, shyly. His best friend scratches the back of his neck, appearing utterly disinterested.
“You know the answer to that. ”
“… What about, like, longing? Yearning?” Izuku’s eyes flash to those disturbing words.
Violent red/Crimson tide, swallowing me whole. Izuku swallows loudly, swatting away the painful memory. Its stupid. And irrelevant, Izuku concludes.
“I’ve yearned to be free from this mortal coil,” Shouto states, deadpan, and Izuku bursts out laughing. The mood eased, Izuku leans back into the couch, twirling his fingers in a stray curl of his erratic hair.
“Ochako says that not having been in love before is what’s preventing me from writing something good. Er, relatable. You think there’s something to that?”
Shouto exhales, nimble fingers hitting two more cords, before tapping out a scale.
“You’re feeling… uninspired,” Shouto summarizes for Izuku, and Izuku shrugs in agreement.
“When I’m feeling stressed, when I need to clear my head, I go visit my mother. Being with her brings me a sense of peace and clarity. Is there something like that for you…?”
Where does Izuku feel at peace? Where does Izuku go to clear his head?
The idea is so obvious, he wants to smack himself for not thinking of it earlier. The only time he feels inspired, feels alive, feels the vibration in his bones, is when he’s in it. When he’s slotted between sweaty bodies, lost in the rhythm of music, infected by the passion and energy from the artists. The love the artists exude from sharing their craft with the rest of the world would always wash over Izuku like a security blanket, leaving him safe and warm and inspired. Yes. Of course.
He needs to go to a show.