Work Text:
Shouto has this habit to look at people and imagine their life. He gives them a name, a job, a background, even if they already have one. He does it everywhere. On the metro to go back home, in the park he crosses to get to his college, even with his classmates. It doesn’t matter what he imagines and it shouldn’t matter to them if they happen to know about it.
It’s all but an exercise to keep his creativeness from rusting.
Before seeing that his name tag corresponds to the name ‘Midoriya’, Shouto already settled on calling him ‘Midori’ because everything about him is green, from his hair and eyes to his innocent demeanour and sweet smile.
He hands over Shouto’s order with cheerful features, contrasting with his, impassible. It doesn’t seem to deter the new barista who flashes another smile, as if taking on the challenge.
Once seated with his espresso in one hand and his pen in the other, Shouto drafts Midoriya’s story. He starts with simple, boring things:
• Wakes up early
• Actually eats breakfast
• Comes to job in bicycle
Shouto glances at the barista. He isn’t smiling anymore, but he’s still immensely pleasing to look at. His brows are knitted tight in concentration as his coworker, Uraraka, explains to him how to operate one of their coffee machines.
• Does everything assiduously
• Will cry if messes up an order
• Possesses no past job experience
He doesn’t know why he continues jotting down ideas that had yet to be verified about the new barista. He assumes that it’s been a while since he has found someone new to write about. Shouto knows, after all, each of the nine baristas working at Oxymel Café, as well as its owner.
Of course, his way of ‘knowing’ doesn’t involve actual communication, rather time spent pondering at his usual spot by the window.
Besides from ordering his espresso, he has never uttered a word to any of the baristas. Nowadays, he doesn’t even have to say something since everyone knows what he orders. This morning, however, Midoriya made him use his vocal chords. Uraraka looked stunned when Shouto answered, as if she hadn’t expected him to answer.
Shouto may be quiet, stoical and brooding but he’s not rude.
On the next day, Midoriya is nowhere to be seen. It was strange how easy Shouto marched to the counter, readying himself to order aloud, but instead he found Iida Tenya nodding to him.
“The usual, sir, got it.”
They always call him ‘sir’, even if they’re the same age. Shouto assumes they would call him by his name if they knew it.
So he ambles back to his spot, feeling deflated although his shoulders are as stiff as ever. He wrote about Iida’s life months ago, as well as Asui’s, his coworker.
Today, Shouto expected Midoriya. As silly as it was, he sips his coffee while gazing at his notebook, blank pages staring back at him. He doesn’t even pick up his pen, this morning, and doesn’t let his eyes wander in the coffee shop for inspiration.
On the next day, Midoriya is here. Shouto strides to the counter, getting in line. From where he stands, he notices the freckles dotting the barista’s face. It amazes Shouto how he ever missed them before. When it’s his turn, he’s still trying to count them all.
“Black espresso again, sir, or something different?”
Shouto’s first instinct is to nod but he rather asks, “What do you propose?”
Uraraka’s jaw drops, her eyes widening. Shouto meets her baffled gaze without blinking. In front of him, Midoriya perks up, showing to him their tea selection.
“We’ve got the new red espresso you could try. We can say it’s an espresso which combines the sweet taste of Rooibos tea, but it’s important to remember it’s tea before being coffee. Red espresso emulates the taste of espresso and gives it a twist. Also, the drink’s caffeine-free but with far better taste and quality than decaf.”
Midoriya’s suggestion does sound appealing, but Shouto is almost tempted to refuse it only to hear the barista talking to him once more. His voice is as silvery as he expected it, a little tremulous as if apprehensive of Shouto’s verdict on his pitch.
“I’ll try it,” Shouto decides.
Midoriya straightens as if struck by thunder, a large smile blossoming on his lips. “Really? I mean, nice. Of course.”
Shouto takes a bill from his wallet and tells him to keep the rest. Midoriya blabbers something about ‘being too much’ and ‘not deserving it’, but Shouto doesn’t give him the chance to hand him back his money. Instead, he slides to the other side of the counter, waiting for his new drink.
When Midoriya appears with his cup, he’s still crimson-faced.
“I, uhm, took some liberties making your tea. Tell me you’re not allergic to cinnamon.”
Shouto blinks, then complies, “I’m not allergic to cinnamon.”
“Thanks the heavens. I added honey drizzle and a sprinkle of cinnamon.”
Ah, so that was why he asked this peculiar request. Shouto watches his red espresso. Cinnamon flakes are speckled on the steamed milk, crisscrossed by the honey drizzle. Underneath, the tea is coloured russet, different from the dark brown he’s used to.
Shouto clears his throat, acknowledging, “That’s thoughtful of you.”
“Y-Yeah, well I just wanted to make sure before you weren’t allergic or anything because some people are and I really don’t want to poison you.”
Shouto wants to smile, he really does, but he knows his lips would only twitch in a parody of a grimace. Instead, he takes his drink, silent, and retreats to his seat. He feels drained yet at the same time rejuvenated. Taking out his notebook, he flips through the pages until he finds where his scribbling yields to whiteness.
• Doesn’t have high esteem of himself
• Pays close attention to people and what they like
• Talks a lot when nervous
Shouto pauses, watching the tea he still hasn’t touched. He can feel Midoriya’s eyes on him, spying him from afar, awaiting his reaction. Shouto brings the cup to his lips, tilting it.
It’s surprisingly good.
He catches Midoriya’s eyes and nods. The barista’s like a deer caught in headlights, but he loosens up when Shouto sips more of his tea. Unlike his espresso which he downs almost like a straight shot, he takes his time to enjoy the sensation of warmth filling his being and the flavours, blooming in his mouth. He can get used to it, the comfort that comes with sipping his tea, and Midoriya’s smile.
It’s not until he has filled an entire notebook about the new barista that Shouto understands his behaviour is far from normal.
His habit has faded away, or rather it has become more specific. The only person he writes about is Midoriya, which means he always writes inside Oxymel Café now. His notes also evolved. They aren’t points he scribbles down in a hurry but rather lengthy descriptions of Midoriya, of his shifts at the coffee shop, of Shouto’s thoughts on him. He never had fathomed how authors could write an entire book about one’s person life without getting either bored or sickened, but upon encountering Midoriya he understood.
Shouto’s half-way through his second notebook when Midoriya, who was serving a customer beside him, trips on his table. Shouto watches his red espresso twirl before spilling its content on the pages, soaking them with tea as avidly as plants gorging themselves with water. His words dance and become distorted, the ink deformed.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”
Midoriya yanks his apron over his head and starts dabbing the table, eyes wide. He’s spurting apologies, his gestures becoming more frantic as he rubs the table so hard Shouto is scared it would be scrubbed out of reality.
“It’s alright. It was nothing important.”
It pangs him but it’s true. Shouto’s writing is a chimera.
“B-But your notebook! You always look so focused writing it and it must take so much time and now I just destroyed everything you worked for—”
Shouto grabs his forearm, drawing his attention. “Midoriya, I told you it’s alright.”
Midoriya’s shoulders sag. He’s looking down at his apron, now stained with tea, and his unruly curls hide his eyes. Shouto curses his voice, knowing how hollow it always sounds, and struggles to infuse warmth in his tone.
“It’s true I was working on a project but I wanted to put an end to it. I was having trouble stopping though so actually, you… you did me a favour.”
Shouto looks down at his ruined notebook and sighs. It’s the good thing to do. His inoffensive habit was turning into an obsession. In fact, he can’t be sure if it’s too late not to call it an obsession.
“If you stop, does it mean you won’t come by anymore?”
If Shouto’s digging his own grave, then he might as well nail his own coffin. “Probably, yes.”
Midoriya swallows. He doesn’t meet Shouto’s eyes as he declares he’ll make him another red espresso on the house, and his back is drooping when he walks away.
Shouto doesn’t understand the ache in his stomach, or he pretends not to.
His visits to Oxymel Café decrease. Shouto didn’t think the effects of withdrawal would be so severe. The other coffee shops he visits are dull, their drinks too bitter, the ambiance too foreign. He doesn’t carry his notebook anymore, but in class he finds his mind wander to the new barista, who isn’t very new anymore, instead of focusing on the lesson. Once, Shouto catches himself drawing green eyes and a myriad of freckles, and his horrible sketch reminds him why he’s majoring in English and not in Arts.
It’s December now, which means the term’s coming to an end, which means finals are hurtling towards him. Shouto’s crawling under literature essays all due next week. His roommate has decided to bring some friends, and Shouto swears his ‘friends’ are people his roommate was paying to make noise only to annoy him. In the end, his feet lead him to the Oxymel.
But the Oxymel isn’t his safe haven anymore. They have been going through renovations the entire November month, and now the creamy blue walls are gone, as well as his usual spot. Instead, there’s a black, sleek piano taking the entire space in front of the window, spiting him. He does recognise the wooden chairs and tables, which is a small comfort, and the faces behind the counter.
Shouto’s frozen on the threshold, aware that the door is open behind him and letting the glacial air whirl inside, but he’s mesmerised by those green eyes roaming over his body. Someone jostles him from behind, and he does step inside to let other customers flee the cold for the Oxymel’s warmth.
Shouto musters his courage to get in line, somehow hoping it will be Midoriya and not Uraraka at the cashier when his time comes. His wish is granted, but Midoriya avoids his gaze.
“Red espresso, sir?”
He realises even Midoriya doesn’t know his name.
“Todoroki Shouto.”
“Is that… your name or a new type of drink?”
Shouto hesitates between chuckling or being offended but ends up doing none. “My name,” he settles on answering.
Midoriya nods, “I see. Red espresso then, Todoroki-kun?”
“What do you propose?”
The barista startles. “In the espresso palette we have our new Yin-Yang mocha and the Frosted Snowball latte. Both have chocolate in it, so if you don’t have a sweet tooth…”
“What’s the Frosted Snowball?”
“It’s creamy white chocolate with frosted mint. Wanna give it a try?”
Shouto does. He doesn’t know why he did when he really needed that dark espresso shot to assault his senses and wake him up. He lingers near the counter, trying to find a suitable place where to work, and glowering at the piano. When Midoriya arrives with his drink, Shouto can’t help but feeling a deja vu.
“Did you take some liberties making my latte?”
“I did, actually.”
Shouto expected something like latte art or an additional topping combination. He did get a mix of the both. The steamed milk forms a string of numbers, their shape made more definite with chocolate flakes outlining them.
“Is this your number?” Shouto asks, feeling like a novice.
“It is.”
They observe each other before Uraraka calls Midoriya to go to the cashier. So Shouto watches him go, wondering why he doesn’t say anything but his lips remain sealed.
He chooses a place near the counter so he could face Midoriya. It was a bad idea to do so. Even with his mountain of books propped in front of him acting as a barrier and his word count as low as ever, Shouto can’t find any motivation to do his homework. After an hour, it’s clear now that he isn’t studying, or rather he’s studying Midoriya.
He ends up staying at the Oxymel until its closing time. He’s the only customer in the coffee shop, his laptop opened even if he didn’t write anything on it for the last five hours. While Uraraka wipes the tables, Midoriya is cleaning the espresso machine, placing the pastries in refrigerators, sweeping the floor, and Shouto is enthralled.
“Why did you stop coming?” Uraraka is standing next to him, hands on her hips. “He was looking forward to when you’d come back. Each time a customer entered, he was hoping it was you.”
“I didn’t know.”
“If you knew, would you have kept coming?”
Of course is on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t answer. There’s nothing gained from imagining how things could be. Shouto knows that. But the numbers on his untouched Frosted Snowball latte are everything but a figment of imagination.
Shouto rises, heading to the counter. Midoriya freezes, looking like he’s about to duck under the counter when Shouto reaches him.
“Can I buy a red espresso or am I too late?”
“You’re not too late, Todoroki-kun?”
Midoriya brews his tea in silence, Shouto’s eyes following his every motion. He likes how the light catches his freckles and make them glow like stars against his flushed skin, how his eyes narrow down when he pours boiling water in the cup, how his hands are as a steady as a maestro rehearsing a composition they know by heart.
Midoriya finishes his red espresso with the same touch as the first time, with honey drizzle and a sprinkle of cinnamon Shouto feels nostalgic. Uraraka says something about cleaning the back store and she vanishes, leaving the two of them alone in the dimmed lighting.
“You were my project.”
Midoriya glances over his shoulder, eyeing him. “What did you say?”
“When my tea spilled on my notebook, I told you I was working on a project. I was writing about you. Imagining things you would do, habits you would have, reactions you would have facing random events. But on that day I realised my project was doomed to fail because whatever I imagine about you can never be better than what you, in flesh and bones, would actually do.”
Midoriya finally dares staring at him. They lock eyes, neither wavering. Shouto isn’t sure of the expression he reads on Midoriya’s face. He’s spent his entire life filling his head with words and knows their literary definition but is incapable of deciphering them in real life.
“I know I must sound like a madman.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Then how do I sound?”
Midoriya bites his lower lip, thinking. “You sound like… a man in love.”
Shouto chuckles, “Isn’t it the same thing?”
Midoriya laughs, and Shouto hides his blush by taking a sip. Midoriya rounds the counter, his steps springy. He’s standing just in front of Shouto, his resplendent eyes gazing up at him. They’ve never been this close before, not even during the tripping incident.
“What did you imagine about me?”
“Lots of things, but now is it right for me to assume I won’t have to imagine anything anymore?”
Midoriya nods, beaming. Shouto feels like he’s won the life lottery.
“So you’ll come back here as a regular? We can put the piano somewhere else if you want to take your old spot again.”
“Don’t bother. Any place is fine as long as I can see you.”
Midoriya lets out a strangled sound as his face flares red. Shouto can’t deny that his doesn’t as well. They don’t speak for a while, and Shouto wonders if he’s killed the conversation, but Midoriya’s presence dissipates his worries. Their silence is comfortable, almost intimate.
Uraraka finds them like this when she gets back from the back store. The three of them leave the coffee shop, Midoriya locking the door, when Uraraka inquires about their budding relationship.
“And? Are you two dating now? Did you kiss?”
Midoriya chokes and splutters something about ‘being too soon’ and ‘later’ while Shouto’s eyes are riveted on the snowy ground. Both have their cheeks burning not only from the cold.
Truth to be told, Shouto can’t wait for ‘later’ to happen.