BLOOMS | [ various oneshots ] ▼

❁ Fluffy Hair II | Izuku Midoriya

❁ [ for ;; @Baconsnightmare ] ❁

Sharp sunlight streamed through the shutters, slinging shadows across the darkest recesses of the classroom and steaming the few visible portions of the windows beneath their shields of shades with evaporated dewdrops, evanescent in the stifling heat of the first sweltering day after weeks of winter chills, ushering in a new age of soft buds and blooming petals, green life poking through the watery remnants of white snow, peeking through sidewalks and parking lots and scrambling for the first meager shreds of solar scintillant skies. Every now and then a faint darkness would stain the glass panels, only to flit away moments later in material form as a leaf or bird emerging from their respective fourth-season nests.

Restlessness hung in the air like festival lanterns. Its overwhelming girth was inevitable to touch all beneath it, tugging with anxious claws, jumping with turbulence, pushing this way and that with elephantine hands on infinitesimal bodies; a force larger than an agglomeration of all of U.A.'s class 1-A could ever form. Denki sporadically twitched his leg as though electricity was running uncontrollably through it, Eijiro's foot harshly hit the hardened floor with every other irregular breath, and fingers red with feigned control and forced calmness drummed atop Bakugou's desk. Even Iida, usually stick-straight with respectful attention, seemed to be distracting himself by rocking the balls of his feet back and forth, heel to toe and toe to heel and back again, all very quiet and very discreet, but still present nonetheless.

Izuku made no outward display of noticeable discomfort, however. His hands were folded, undisturbed, neatly atop his polished desk, and his legs seemed as though they were stuck together through some offhanded measure of superglue. Unlike the muffled, husky humming emanating from Kyoka's seat a few desks over, no sound escaped Izuku. His posture was somewhat slouched, and yet simultaneously spoke nonverbal volumes of his vigilance, stuck between the striking distaste of the day and the singular, stupendous image of the person sitting on his mind, sweeping through his thoughts and shoving out space for anything other than her.

Her.

Even just the thought of her name provoked an instinct within him, immersively monumental, a feeling buried beneath every last fiber of his body, until body controlled mind and his eyes, still as curious and wide with innocence as ever, would scan his surroundings, not stopping until his gaze fell once more upon her. She sat only a few rows away from his desk. Still, each and every inch felt like miles to him.

There once would have been a time when, in fear of her catching his gaze, he would've blushed and glanced away only after a second, and, in those few times where she did meet his eyes, would flush absolutely red, and hide his head in his hands atop his desk, embarrassment marring his face into something like a cherry tomato. For a few weeks things continued this way. Until, of course, he caught you doing precisely the same thing.

From there on, the spark laid within both of their hearts had bloomed into a fastidious fire, feasting on the times spent together and tugging intensively at their heartstrings whenever the other was not around. Minutes with each other turned to hours, hours into days, until eventually a balance was reached; an unspoken bond written in the ciphers of sentiments surrounding them both, yelling louder than words that this was no longer just a friendship, but rather something so very much more.