~ Third Person P.O.V ~

Ragged, disarrayed gasps of air pushed past the confinements of Izuku's lips as the boy hunched over-- resting his hands on his knees as he desperately tried to catch his breath. The scorching sun mercilessly raining down on him like flames from hell, only adding onto his respiratory complications. If there was one thing that training with Shoto had taught him it was one: he hated running, and two: he was severely out of shape.

"Come on kid, keep up!" Shoto snickered from a few feet ahead. The two were currently running on the outskirts of the Base, staying close to the wired fences and running along with them.

Which meant they hardly ran into anyone.

"I . . . can't . . . too . . . tired," Izuku panted out, swaying a bit before inevitably collapsing onto the grass with a muted huff of air.

Flattening his lips into a hard-pressed line, Shoto makes his way over to the fallen male with clenched fists-- knuckles whitening. "Get up," He ordered lowly, voice hard, and strained. When the other male made no move to rise from his position, Shoto heaved an amalgam between a snarl and scoff; opting for hauling Izuku up himself.

"Can't I please just take a break?" The smaller of the two whined, slumping his weight against Shoto's chest as he continued to quietly pant. "It's hot, and I'm sweaty, and out of shape . . . just a five-minute break is all I'm asking for!"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the duel haired man groans as he drops the boy onto the ground-- earning a string of grumbled curses from Izuku.

"Five minutes," Shoto repeated dourly, jabbing his index finger into Izuku's chest-- with a little too much force.

The air between the duo was quiet and unmoving. Neither saying a word to the other as the curly-haired male still struggled to breathe regularly, plump face masked with damp sweat. After a while of having to endure the other boy's breathing, Shoto pulled a canteen out of his pocket-- silently handing it to Izuku.

Mumbling a small 'Thank you' in return, Izuku scarfed the water down . . . some of it dripping down his chin and rolling off his neck-- mixing with the sweat coated on his flesh. And as he drank, Shoto studied him. Heterochromatic eyes monitoring every bat of his eyelash, of bob of his faint adam's apple, he inspected it all. Shoto had always found . . . studying people to be intriguing, finding out what makes them tick just by inspecting them closely. And he found that it came fairly easy for him.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Izuku chuckled, taking note of the other male's obvious staring.

His question was accurate, he does have something on his face-- just not in the way he was thinking.

"Freckles," Shoto whispered, his voice barely detectable as Izuku toiled to hear. "I've seen a lot of Japanese men, women, and children . . . do you want to know what they all have in common?"

"Their beady eyes?" The younger grimaced, nose twisted up and forming wrinkles in the bridge.

Releasing an annoyed snort, Shoto shakes his head. "I've never seen any type of beauty marks on them . . . yet you have freckles, I wonder why that is." He pondered out loud, finding himself leaning in closer to look at the boy.

Izuku stiffened, posture going rigid and emerald eyes enlarging as he eyed the other male suspiciously, 'What the hell is he doing?'. That's when another aspect of Izuku's face became clear to Shoto.

"You have fairly large eyes too, again, most people of your race have slender, more narrow eyes." The elder proclaimed, his two-toned orbs locking in on Izuku's.

The younger of the two's breath hitched in the back of his throat, by now his belly was doing flip after flip-- his teeth pulling at the flesh of his bottom lip as Shoto kept talking. Eyes looking everywhere but Shoto, not daring to make eye contact with him anymore.

Shoto brought his hand up to Izuku's mouth, pulling his lower lip from underneath the confinements of his teeth. "And you most certainly don't have thin lips . . . You know what I think?"

"No. But I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway," The younger sassed, attempting to seem less agitated than he actually was.

"I think you lied to Aizawa in the interrogation room," Shoto stated monotonously, ignoring Izuku's quip from earlier. "You see, I've been around Mexicans who speak English and Spanish . . . but since English isn't their first language they have an accent. Yet you don't. So that leads me to believe that English was taught to you at an early age, therefore you didn't learn them from soldiers. You were taught."

By now Izuku was visibly shaking, breathing erratic and heart-thumping vigorously in his chest-- flooding his bloodstream with excess blood, as the pink hue rose to his cheeks. The deafening sound of his heartbeat robbing him of any coherent thoughts. What would Shoto do with this newly discovered information? Sure, Izuku wasn't denying his accusation, but he also wasn't confirming . . . the elder was a smart guy-- he'd see right through Izuku if he thought of lying. Again.

Would he tell Aizawa?

Use his new knowledge against him?

"So?" Izuku heaved out, "What's the point in all of this?"

"My point is I think your father is American . . . We have records of you and your family, and no father was ever listed-- I checked in with other camps too. So based on that, your facial features, and your ability to speak English I've come to that conclusion." He huffed, leaning back on the flats of his hands.

The very few muscles in Izuku's jaw twitched as his eyes went dark and hooded, how this boy was able to figure him out would most likely forever remain a mystery to him. But he didn't like it. Who gave him the right? Attempting his best to suppress his agonizing anxiety, the younger sports a glare-- the easiest route to go whenever he felt scared. Of course, he had a dreadful feeling that Shoto could most likely see past his mask . . . but that didn't stop him from putting it up.

After a few more moments of the two silently staring at each other-- well, Shoto staring and Izuku cowling dagger at him-- the taller male cleared his throat.

"Am I wrong?" He queried, tilting his head to the side-- strands of scarlet and snowy hair coating over his eyes.

Shoto knew for a fact he wasn't wrong, based on Izuku's body language and little to no eye contact he concluded that fairly quickly. However, the one thing that seemed to irk him was the boy's facial expressions. Body language is one thing, but a person's face, eyes, that's basically the key to their soul. The key to figuring out what makes them tick, and for some odd reason Shoto found himself drawing blanks on what made Izuku tick.

Figuring out things from his pat was easy, basing it off of the things Izuku's said or done, as well as the little information they had on him and his family that was easy. But breaking the boy down, finding out every little emotion that ran through him . . . What should have been another easy task proved itself to be hard.

And he hated that with a passion.

Because here comes this boy, this scrawny, somewhat ill-tempered boy who is taking the one thing Shoto is good at. Reading people. And so, Shoto was now determined to find out what made Izuku Midoriya tick . . . even if it killed him.