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It’s not even Hitoshi’s pocky.
That—feels like an important detail. The fact that he didn’t go out of his way to purchase strawberry pocky just because it reminded him (against his will) of a certain someone. No. It’s Kaminari’s pocky. And Kaminari’s the one who unceremoniously drops it into Hitoshi's lap and—and winks before waving at Todoroki and shouting, in a room filled with people (people who know Hitoshi very well), “Hey, Todoroki, Shinsou’s got something to show you.”
Todoroki blinks, head tilted the slightest bit to the side. It reminds Hitoshi of a sleepy cat. He wants— He wants. God, it’s horrible. Hitoshi is a giant, seventeen-year-old ball of hormones. He’s—well. Expectedly weak for pretty boys. Expectedly weak for Todoroki Shouto, in particular.
Hitoshi wants to die. Right there. Let him die an unfulfilled, sexually frustrated seventeen-year-old. That’s fine. Just as long as he doesn’t have to explain to Todoroki Shouto the activities you’re usually expected to engage in with a pocky stick on this particular day of the year. Just as long as—
“Yes?” Todoroki says. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
Yes, everything. Absolutely. Everything is— Hitoshi swallows. “Nope,” he says. “Haha, no. Everything is—everything’s totally fine.” He hates his life, thank you for asking.
Todoroki’s gaze lands on Hitoshi’s lap. “What’s that?” he asks, rather unhelpfully pointing to the box of pocky.
Hitoshi can feel Kaminari giggling behind him. “It’s—it’s pocky,” he says, defeated. “This one is strawberry flavored. It’s, uh, you’re supposed to play a game with it.”
Todoroki’s eyes light up. “A game?” he asks. “Is it fun?”
For everyone in this room besides me, yes, Hitoshi thinks ruefully. “You don’t have to do it. It’s not—”
“Oh, come on,” Kaminari interrupts. “It’ll be fun.”
Hitoshi is so going to revoke his best friend privileges after this. No more late-night drama watching. No sir. He has standards.
“What should I do?” Todoroki asks.
“Just stand there and look pretty,” Kaminari says. “Right, Shinsou?”
Hitoshi elbows him directly in the ribs. “You really don’t have to—”
“I’m sure Shouto-kun wants to,” Yaoyorozu chimes in. “Surely you’ll indulge him?”
And—
Yeah, no. That whole seventeen-year-old ball of hormones thing doesn’t mix well with thinking of Todoroki and the word indulge in the same sentence. Hitoshi’s face heats up. “Uh,” he says. “I mean, if you really want to.”
“I do,” Todoroki nods, oblivious to the immense amount of pain Hitoshi is currently in.
Hitoshi breathes in. Out. In. Out. Tries to keep his breathing steady and slow, like Aizawa-sensei taught him after the first time Hitoshi knocked on his door unable to breathe, feeling like his heart would beat right out of his chest. It’s—not that different, really, having Todoroki’s pretty face so close, fully aware that in barely a handful of minutes it’s going to be even closer. That they’re going to be—that they’re going to be sharing stupid, strawberry-flavored pocky.
“It’s like this,” Hitoshi says. “You—you take the pocky, and, um, pick an end to bite, and the other person takes the other end, and the first one to, uh, to pull away loses.”
“Oh,” Todoroki says, “but if no one pulls away…”
Has Hitoshi mentioned recently that he hates his life? “Yeah,” he says. “I told you you didn’t have to.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m. Obviously not going to force you.”
Todoroki shakes his head. “I still want to,” he says.
“You do?” Hitoshi asks, hopeful despite himself.
Todoroki smiles. It’s a killing hit. An arrow straight to the heart. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he says, and—
And, and, and.
Hitoshi opens the box with shaky hands. He doesn’t even like artificial strawberry flavor. Too sweet. Hardly reminiscent of actual strawberries. (Strangely and painfully reminiscent of Todoroki Shouto, still. But that might be just a small symptom of a larger, unaddressed issue.)
Todoroki pulls out a single stick, places the strawberry end in his mouth, and leans close. Too close. (Not close enough.)
Hitoshi bites the other end.
Behind them, someone cheers. Hitoshi doesn’t even need to turn to know who it is. He desperately needs a new best friend.
Todoroki is—well. It feels redundant to even think it, at this point, with how painfully obvious it is, but he’s so, so pretty. Hitoshi thinks, vaguely, in that half-coalesced way that’s fueled equally by the pounding of his heart and the heat of his face, that he could spend the rest of his life, however brief, just looking at Todoroki’s face, and die fulfilled. Not just happy, but fully aware he accomplished everything he wanted.
Todoroki bites gingerly at his end of the pocky stick, and suddenly his pretty face is even closer.
Hitoshi doesn’t back down. He’s a hero. Backing down is not part of the job description. (Todoroki’s pretty face is also not part of the job description, but that’s beside the point.) He takes a small bite of his own.
So does Todoroki.
Another cheer.
Hitoshi has now reached the part of the stick that’s completely covered in strawberry. He takes another bite. A little more, and their noses will brush, a little more, and—
Fuck.
Hitoshi remembers, right then, that he’s not the kind of hero who saves the day. That he desperately needs the cover of night, the promise of anonymity, to be brave. That this—a show where he’s the leading actor, put on without anyone so much as asking him—really isn’t the sort of thing he’s good at. And he’s about to do the rational thing, the one that preserves the scraps of his dignity, and pull away.
But then—
Then he’s kissing Todoroki Shouto. His mouth is soft, and his lip balm doesn’t taste like strawberries. It’s a clumsy kiss, but it’s still good. Hitoshi doesn’t think it could be anything else. Not with Todoroki. The worst, wettest kiss in the world would still be good if Todoroki was the one kissing him. Todoroki, who isn’t pulling away. Todoroki, who must want this at least half as much as Hitoshi does. That’s—it’s not a bad feeling, exactly.
“I knew he could do it,” Kaminari yells. “Bakugou, you owe me 1000 yen.”
“Like hell I’m gonna—”
Yeah. It’s good, kissing Todoroki Shouto. Hitoshi wants to do it again. Preferably in a pockyless situation. In private. With his bedroom door locked. Somewhere he can look at Todoroki. Somewhere he can properly appreciate the way red blooms on his skin.
“Wanna try again?” he asks when they pull apart.
Todoroki laughs, so Hitoshi is left with no other choice but to lean in and kiss the tip of his nose.
Maybe strawberry pocky isn’t so horrible after all. Or maybe it’s Todoroki. Either way, Hitoshi doesn’t mind.