Shouto's not sure if it's the morning light leaking into the room or the violent turn of his stomach that wakes him, but he's up with a start, groaning as he wills his eyes open and finds himself staring at the wall across from him.

Maybe he hadn't noticed the pictures there last night, but the gray light of the day bleeds in through the sheer curtains and casts shadows across the wedded couple in the images, darkens their eyes and leaves their smiles ghoulish.

Shouto, you idiot, he thinks as a shiver runs up his spine and he turns onto his back. He regrets it immediately when the bitter taste of bile and stale beer fills his mouth, and he's up and running for the bathroom before his mind has a chance to catch up.

He's glad he's practiced in quiet movement, his muscles recalling light footwork and a grace he hasn't had a use for in what feels like a lifetime. Maybe it really has been that long.

Finally, the door of the bathroom at the end of the hall is open and he's curled over the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach and praying that Midoriya doesn't wake up and hear him.

His stomach aches and his throat burns but there's nothing left in him, so he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and flushes the toilet before standing on wobbly legs and shuffling back to the living room. His phone is waiting for him on the coffee table, so he taps the screen to check the time. Five am, no wonder he felt like he'd just been run over, maybe he's even still a little drunk.

For a moment, he considers crawling back onto the couch and under the covers until Midoriya wakes up. Maybe they could have a late breakfast and commiserate over their shared hangover. Shouto's thoughts are interrupted when he happens to glance back at the gallery wall. The faces judge him as they stare out of the shadows, wonder what he's doing here, wonder why he thinks he still has a place in Midoriya's life. He doesn't blame them, he's wondering the same things himself.

With a sigh, he spots his bag leaning against the side table, his shoes on the mat by the door, and decides he should go home before he embarrasses himself any more than he had last night. It was nice to see Midoriya, more than nice probably, but he doesn't let himself linger on the way his heart sticks in his chest or the floating feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol. It's exactly why he'd left in the first place, he'd let the feelings overflow, nearly ruined his best friend's life.

There's a pounding in the back of his head and spots in his vision, his tongue is dry and his mouth tastes bitter, so he checks the address in his phone and groans when he realizes he's only four blocks from his own apartment. Of course, they're neighbors, and Shouto wonders at the fact that they'd never run into each other before. Still, if they'd avoided each other this long, it's logical to assume that Shouto can just slip back out of Midoriya's life as though last night never happened at all.

He's about to do just that, when he leans down to grab his bag and his eyes lock on the photo album sitting on top of the table. It's not the photo album itself that demands his attention, but the page it's open to, left out like someone was just looking at it and hadn't had time to put it away.

Shouto has never been particularly fond of having his picture taken, has always felt awkward in front of a camera, self-conscious of the scar that mars the left side of his face, but he'd always been defenseless when it came to Midoriya. So, when his best friend set those puppy dog eyes on him with a silent plea, Shouto acquiesced. They'd only ever taken a few and Shouto was sure those few had been lost to time and broken friendships.

They hadn't, Shouto realizes as his eyes map the images in the dim light. They are little more than blobs of color, Shouto's already poor vision swimming from not enough sleep and too much to drink, but he's seen them before, spent hours memorizing the soft curve of Midoriya's smile, his arm around Shouto's shoulder, keeping him close. He doesn't need his vision to see the roundness of Midoriya's cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open, mid-laugh as Shouto leans in close to whisper something in his ear. There's a picture from Worlds, sweat shining on their foreheads, Midoriya's smile painted on with pride and stretched from ear to ear.

Midoriya Midoriya Midoriya, it had always been Midoriya for Shouto and maybe it always would be.

The memories ignite a warmth in his chest as his heart beats a familiar pattern and, somehow, he forgets the judging eyes of the Midoriya's, and the pit in his stomach that had settled in the moment he'd heard Midoriya's voice from across the bar.

He doesn't let himself think about it too hard as he pulls a business card out of the front pocket of his bag and lays it on top of the open photo album. Right next to the picture from graduation; the one where Midoriya is giving Shouto bunny ears and Shouto is glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, his lips pulled up into the hint of a grin.

Before he can change his mind, he throws his bag across his chest, shoves on his shoes, and stumbles out the door.

It's cold, the brisk morning breeze biting at Shouto's bare arms as he wraps them around his chest and rubs his hands over his forearms in an attempt to warm them up. His teeth chatter, but the frosty air calms his stomach and wakes him up enough to make it the short walk home. He absolutely does not let himself think about the small white card that he'd left for Midoriya to find.

Maybe Midoriya would come to his senses, realize that he's better off without Shouto and never contact him at all. Maybe he wouldn't even find it and this would just be another goodbye, a sweeter memory to replace their last painful encounter. Maybe Midoriya would text him like nothing had ever changed. No matter what happens, Shouto doesn't let himself regret it as he wills himself down the street.

Doesn't let himself regret as the deep green of Midoriya's eyes from decade old pictures fills his vision.

Doesn't let himself regret as he makes it to his own doorstep and shoves his hand deep into his bag in search of his keys, the phantom sounds of Midoriya's laugh ringing in his ears.

Doesn't let himself regret as he plops himself down on his couch and closes his eyes, remembering Midoriya's quiet confession from the night before.

Doesn't let himself regret as "I'm glad I found you," plays on repeat in the dulcet tones of the love of his life and lulls him back to sleep.

Doesn't let himself regret until the sound of his ringtone beats against his skull and drags him back to reality. Bright daylight floods the room in hues of orange and yellow and his mind fills with dread as his first waking thought is that of a small, white card left behind for someone he should absolutely not see again.

He swallows hard against the pit in his throat and reaches over the side of the couch to retrieve his phone from the bag he'd left on the floor. His sister's face is smiling at him from the screen and he answers the call before he has too much time to think about it. Anything to distract himself from the overwhelming regret that has settled itself deep in his bones.

Shouto doesn't intend to tell Fuyumi about it, but the moment he accepts the call words are pouring from his lips like they'd been waiting to escape.

"Fuyuuuuu, I have a problem," he groans as he settles back into the couch, the phone perched between his shoulder and his ear.

"Shouto?" Her voice greets him with surprise and concern, "are you alright?"

"No," he says. Fuyumi doesn't miss the petulance in his tone or the hoarseness of his voice, and she giggles a little.

"Are you hungover? No way, Todoroki Shouto, perpetual hermit, is hungover on a Friday morning. Did you go out? Are you seeing someone?" Shouto's head is spinning so that he can hardly keep up with his sister's questions. He should've known he'd get the third degree, Fuyumi's always somehow had a sixth sense when it came to Shouto's mistakes.
"Yes, let's not make a big deal out of this, please. Yes, I kind of went out, though I didn't intend to get wasted, and no I am not seeing anyone. I actually… I um… well I ran into uh…" Shouto's voice trails off and "I ran into Midoriya" comes out in the tiniest whisper he can manage.

Fuyumi hears him anyway.

"Oh, that's um.. That's interesting. Are you okay?"

Shouto wonders for a moment, unsure of the answer himself, before finally settling on, "I'd rather not talk about it," and hoping it's enough to quell Fuyumi's curiosity. It's not, he knows it's not, but she takes mercy on him and doesn't push it.

"Okay, well I'm here if you need to. Anyway, I was just calling to make sure we were still on for the farmer's market on Saturday. Please tell me we are, I need to get out of this house and Sora misses you."

As if on cue, Shouto hears a baby gurgle from somewhere in the background and he can't help but smile, his stomach chooses that moment to remind him of his poor choices and his voice comes out weak, "of course. I wouldn't miss it."

"Shouto? Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should call out?"

"Can't, I have a case meeting at one. Apparently, I was specifically requested, so I have to be there," he explains as his mouth begins to water and his skin grows clammy.

"Good thing it's only ten, get some rest and take care of yourself! You're not twenty-two anymore."

"Fuyu, I've got to go," his words slur together as his breath comes out in pants and he glances towards the bathroom door, "I'll see you Saturday!"

He drops the phone and races for the bathroom before she even has a chance to respond.

It's noon by the time Shouto manages to lean against the shower wall and allow hot water to pour over his aching body. It's enough to clear some of the fog from his brain and the sick from his stomach.

His morning routine takes him twice as long as he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt and the laces on his shoes, runs his hand through his still drying hair and surveys the dark bags under his eyes and the redness in his cheeks.

He doesn't bother to eat anything, doesn't have time really since he has to go back to the bar for his car and glasses before his meeting. So, he grabs a hair tie and a banana on his way out the door.

The Uber ride to the bar is uneventful, save the amount of time Shouto spends absolutely NOT thinking about Midoriya. His car sits lonely in the vacated parking lot, exposing his secrets in the fall daylight.

His black-rimmed glasses are waiting for him on the dash and he rubs his aching temple as he settles them on the bridge of his nose. Errant thoughts of green eyes, and wide smiles, and regret filter into his mind as he stares at the entrance of the bar, but he shoves them away and starts the car. The news is playing through the speakers and he turns the volume up until he can't hear those words, until he can't feel those judging eyes on his skin, until he's drowned out every thought in his pounding head.

Before he knows it, he's pulling into his reserved parking spot, the sound of the engine cutting off is enough to ground him as he startles back to the present.

Shouto has always prided himself in his ability to leave his personal life at the door when he comes to work, but that's easier said than done when there's usually no personal life to speak of. Still, by the time the person at the front desk is telling him that his meeting is waiting for him in his office, he has all but set aside the lingering taste in his mouth, the shades of green that fill his vision, the awful, mind-numbing regret that leaves his skin burning.

All of his careful work is proven worthless when he opens his office door to find his old coach waiting for him in the seat in front of his desk. Someone else from his past and Shouto wonders what he did to deserve a haunting. A lot, he thinks.

He's nothing if not professional though, so he nods at Aizawa as he takes his seat behind the desk and pulls the case report from his bag. The same one he had been trying to read the night before, had it only been last night? The concept of time is evading Shouto, moving both too fast and too slow, he's too tired for the fog in his brain and the weight in his chest. He shakes his head and looks up to meet Aizawa's bored gaze.

"Sensei," Shouto says, "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here."

"I haven't been your coach in ten years Todoroki, you can call me Aizawa." His black hair still reaches his shoulders, but it's graying in patches. The bags under his eyes have somehow gotten darker, but the look in them is the same and he's just as perceptive as ever, it seems. "Do you frequently go on midweek benders or was it a special occasion?"

Shouto thinks he shouldn't be surprised, this is Aizawa, after all, the same man who had caught them trying to sneak out of the hotel at Worlds because he 'could see the guilt on their faces when they said they were calling it a night,' and then waited in the hotel lobby for two hours just to scold them. It doesn't stop the slight blush in Shouto's cheeks when he realizes he's been caught.

He's too tired to come up with a response so he says the first thing that comes to mind and goes with that. "I- um, no I don't. I… ran into an old friend last night and uh- got a little carried away." There's something strange in Aizawa's eyes as he watches him stutter over his explanation, but he doesn't respond, merely studies Shouto's face like there's anything there to find.

"Aizawa," Shouto continues, doing his best to distract the man from his search, "I'm sure you're aware that I usually receive cases through the police or my agency. It's very rare for someone to come to me directly. So, what brings you here? Besides pestering your former student about their private life?" It's rude, Shouto thinks, something like muscle memory from a time when the man sitting across from him had been his mentor and Shouto had been a flippant teen with a wry sense of humor. Maybe a little bit of that Shouto had stuck around.

Aizawa, for his part, seems unperturbed by the questions, perhaps he'd been expecting it, that is the Shouto he had known. "Still a brat then," he grumbles, but there's something like humor in the corners of his eyes and Shouto breathes a sigh of relief as he watches his gaze harden. "I have a student showing signs of abuse. I came to you because of your… experience." There's a knowing look in Aizawa's eyes as he continues, "something you would know if you had bothered to read the case file instead of getting drunk with your 'old friend.'"

This time, Shouto doesn't respond to Aizawa's prodding, it's probably just habit by now, anyway, and Shouto is too distracted by the sharp sting of a hand across his cheek, the ache of the air leaving his chest, and a fist meeting his gut. He inhales sharply and clenches his fists, grounding himself, even though he can feel the phantom eyes of his father glaring at his back.

He's all business by the time he manages to speak, his pen poised and ready in his right hand. "What's their name? Age? How long have you known them?"

"She's ten, just joined the program six months ago and tested into the upper division courses. She's good. Too good. The kid is talented, sure, but not that talented."

"You think she's being overtrained?"

"She frequently comes in with bruises on her arms and legs, sometimes on her face. Her hands are constantly bandaged, and poorly so, like she's doing it herself. Not just that, though," Aizawa pauses, seeming to search for the words to describe something that had, up til now, probably been a gut feeling, "she startles easily and doesn't speak unless necessary. She doesn't seem to care about, or even like, what she's doing, she's just… on autopilot and not at all interested in talking about it."

"What makes you think I can get through to her?"

"Her name. Tamashiro Akari."

Shouto is suddenly very aware of the reason that Aizawa sought him out specifically, "so her father is…"

"Tamashiro Raiden, won gold across the board at the 20** Olympics. Apparently dead set on his daughter following in his footsteps. It seems he enrolled her in the program so that she 'can scope out her competition,' starting to sound familiar?"

There's something stuck in Shouto's throat and he is suffocating, right there in his office with his high school coach sitting across from him, offering him something he's been dreading since the day he decided to go into social work.

Shouto has worked on all kinds of cases, worked with all kinds of hurt and scared children and young teens, but never one so close to home. Never a story that almost belonged to him. Some small voice in his head begs him to stay away, cries over the potential danger waiting for him in the folder underneath his folded hands. It's not that voice, it's something bigger, something braver, something still seeking to pay its debt, that fills his gaze with determination, looks Aizawa dead in the eyes, and speaks.

"When can I meet her?"

The next day, after Aizawa leaves with a curt goodbye and a plan for Shouto to come by the gym during practice on Monday afternoon, after Shouto manages to sneak out of the office for an early weekend, after he finally eats something and the pounding in his head becomes a dull murmur allowing him to fall into a restless sleep, Shouto wakes up still thinking about Tamashiro Akari.

He thinks about her as he steps onto the cool wooden floor, thinks about her as he brushes his teeth and pulls his hair into a loose bun, thinks about her as he sips his coffee and stares out the window at the fog rolling in. Thinks that it's not really her that he's thinking about, but himself.

(It's almost enough to distract him from the fact that he hasn't heard from Midoriya, but there's a nagging voice in the back of his mind that won't let him forget.)

It's certainly not the first time that Shouto has doubted himself, there have been countless children that he struggled to connect with, he's spent many a sleepless night pouring over research and therapy methods, doing everything in his power to get it right. So far, he has.

This time, though, there's more than uncertainty. There's fear lacing his thoughts, taking the face of a man he hasn't laid eyes on in over ten years. There's old anxiety leering over his shoulder, questioning how he could possibly offer her help. There's hints of green and tear-stained cheeks in the corners of his vision, but he refuses to acknowledge it, allows his insecurities to take hold.

How can he possibly show someone whose story so reflects his own that it could get better when his own life is an endless, monotonous routine of sleep, eat, work, eat, sleep? All he'd ever managed to do is destroy the love that had come into his life with the crook of a pinkie and unparalleled determination. Unparalled kindness. Was that even something Shouto was capable of? Maybe once, but isolation had set a film over his eyes so that his life blurs by in a series of greys and whites. Relentless, unending monotony.

There was once a time when he had been happy, a time punctuated by boisterous laughter and growing up, a time when it seemed like they had the whole world waiting for them. He never really deserved that though and maybe part of him always knew, maybe that's the part that had given him the resolve to walk away.

Now he's alone, and will continue to be alone, and it's no one's fault but his own. Him and his stupid, cowardly heart. Tamashiro Akari deserves better than him. Maybe he'd call Iida and see if he was interested in taking the case.

He's scrolling through his contacts when the sound of a car horn alerts him of his sister's arrival. With a sigh, he resigns to call his coworker later. Grabbing a jacket and his keys, he steps out into the muted orange light of the morning.