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He’s right there.
At the coffee machine he had yet to wipe off —no t that he really needed to, though, nobody really came in at this hour with the exception of him .
The guy who preferred more creamer in his coffee than anything e lse—s pecifically the hazelnut, which Bakugou made sure he had a new bottle ready for him every time he was due to come in, typically sometime between two and three in the morning. Bakugou would hear the roar of his truck engine over the shitty pop playlist they had him play throughout the night. He’d pay at the pump and leave the nozzle hanging in the fuel tank and come in and make himself a cup of coffee just like he was doing right now. He always made the same shitty joke, too, not that Bakugou minded seeing that he was one of the few people that bothered to strike up a conversation with him during his shift.
At first, he found the redhead to be quite irritating; no one was usually as cheery as he was pulling into a truck stop in the middle of the night. Nobody wanted to talk, just grab their coffee and some snacks and be back on the road once the gas stopped pumping, but him — he and his stupid sharp smile, obnoxiously red hair, and tanned skin flushed in an offensively dull, grotesquely cool fluorescent light—he’d come in and greet him in a voice that reeks of an efficient sleep schedule, unlike Bakugou himself, who worked a secondary part-time shift just before this overnight one.
He was tired. That much was obvious.
It was laced in his tone of voice and bled vigorously in his attitude, and Bakugou feels his nose wrinkling as soon as the redhead glanced at him before making his way towards the counter with his cup in hand.
A twenty-four-ounce travel mug, the same stupid red one with the initials of Crimson Riot faded where his fingers brushed across it most often. He sets it down on the countertop as he digs for his wallet with his other hand. “Slow night?”
“Obviously,” gripes the blond, the screen of his register shaking as he punched in the price of his cup with a knuckle. His palms were sweating and suddenly the tiny desk fan aimed at him seemed inefficient at cooling him down. His eyes cut up at the redhead as he lays his wallet on the counter. “What else are you gettin’, Shitty Hair?”
“Quit pretendin’ like you don’t know my name, Bakugou, no one else is here.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes and did his best to fend off an impending blush. He scoffs, leaning against the counter until he was a few inches off from the other’s; sun-kissed freckles adorn the expanse of his face like glitter, and Bakugou wished he could pause time so he could count them all with a pointed finger. Instead, he grumbles, “Shut up. What else are you gettin’, Kirishima ?”
“Surprise me,” the redhead shrugs. Bakugou makes an effort to roll his eyes at him again, earning a snicker in return. Plastic crinkles under his palm as he digs his hand into a box nearest to him and slaps it's contents down onto the glass counter; Kirishima glances down at the item and kisses his teeth at the wasabi peas the blond was already ringing up. “Really?”
“You asked.”
Bakugou quirks his fingers—a signaled gesture for payment. Kirishima’s deadpans, Bakugou bites his tongue between his teeth to keep from snorting. Their fingers brush as the redhead passes his card, and the blond promptly shoves it into his chip reader whilst the other ripped open his bag of candy. The reader beeps and noisily regurgitates a paper receipt; Bakugou tears it off and hands it to Kirishima along with his card just as the other pushes the candy bag towards him. “Well, I’ll be passin’ through here in a couple of days or so,” Kirishima says, stuffing his card back into his wallet, “See you around.”
Bakugou grunts a reply and staves off the overly familiar longing affliction with a shove of his hand in the wasabi bag just as the redhead turns his broad back to him. He watches him go, and the distance between them grows from a foot to three, then five, then fifteen, and then the sound of his engine turning over cuts through the shitty pop music playing overhead before he honks a goodbye and pulls off towards the highway ramp.
And then he doesn't see him until four days later.
Same red hair, same stupid typical trucker hat, same faded travel mug, except this time he actually had the decency to wear loafers instead of those crocs the blond despised the most. “Slow night?” he asks whilst crinkling a bag of sour gummies against his mug. Bakugou rolls his eyes, disregarding the redundant question. “What, not gonna answer me?”
The blond’s eyes cut over to where Kirishima stood pouring hazelnut creamer into his coffee mug — the new bottle he cracked open two hours before he arrived. One hand grips the bottle whilst the other nosed into the opened end of the bag he—wait a minute. “You’re supposed to pay for that first, asshole.”
“Oh, so you do see me! For a second, I thought I was a ghost or somethin’.” Bakugou huffs where Kirishima snickers.
It’s the hottest night of the week, and unfortunately for them, the air conditioner decided to end its life earlier in his shift, and the small toy fan the blond had aimed at his face was doing virtually nothing to ward off the sweat sticking to his forehead. He's since clipped the front of his hair back and his entire forehead was on display; Kirishima’s hair was styled in some messy half up half down nonsense that, at the very least, looked way more appealing than the usual gelled-up look the redhead had going for him. His hat is clipped to one of his belt loops, phone tucked away in his front pocket while his wallet creates a bulge in his back. Bakugou angles his neck to get a better look at him and presses the heel of his palm under his sticky jaw—not that he necessarily needed a better look of him when he could paint a solid picture of the redhead in the caverns of his mind, though, the real deal was much preferred over his brain’s rendition.
“You look hot,” the redhead says, and Bakugou nearly jumps when he realizes Kirishima had finished prepping his coffee and had since crossed over to him without him fully registering it, and now they stood leaned into each other face-to-face, uncomfortably close, but comfortable all the same. Bakugou doesn't trouble himself in moving, partly because he was already comfortable in his current position, but mostly because this was probably the closest he's ever been to the redhead over the past few months; he takes in what he can of his current features—the beads of sweat pooling on his face like diamond droplets, the slight crinkle of his cheek when he grins at him, the way he could vaguely see his own reflection in the shine of his eyes—he takes it all in with a neutral-soft expression, eyes flickering from one point of interest to another.
“Of course I'm fuckin’ hot," grumbles the blond, and he notes the redhead’s peak of amusement. “‘S too damn hot in here without an air conditioner.”
“That too, I guess,” Kiri sighs. It's then that he surprises him when he grabs at the thinnest part of his wrist and crooks his hand towards him; he sighs again when the fan points at him, and Bakugou feels a ring of heat from around his wrist and shoot up his arm to his face at the realization that Kirishima was, in fact, calling him hot. He felt childish blushing over a stupid compliment, and the lack of air hitting his face had his cheeks burning ten times more than they typically would—or at least that's what he tried convinced himself.
“Fan use is 50¢ extra, Shitty Hair.”
“Really?” Kirishima stares and the corner of the blond’s lips quirk into a slight grin. The redhead huffs, his own lips pressing into a thin line as he releases his loose grip on Bakugou’s wrist, and Bakugou hums triumphantly and turns the fan back towards himself. “You're really somethin’ else, you know that?”
“Says the one eatin’ gummies like a damn kid.”
“Hey!” Kirishima brandishes a sour-coated worm at him. “Sometimes I have a sweet tooth!”
“Mhm yeah sure.”
“Tuh, to think I thought you'd’ve grown soft on me after all these months.”
“You thought wrong, Shitty Hair.”
“It's Kirishima ,” corrects the redhead, putting a heavy emphasis on the ‘ma’. He rips the head off his gummy worm and narrows his eyes. “Besides, I'd usually buy a bunch of these for m’daughter, but Haru doesn't care for these things like she used to.”
Ah yes, the daughter; a miniature preteen clone of the man himself, if such a science experiment did exist. He's heard the full story already—Haru’s the byproduct of a summertime fling stirred up nearly a decade ago by now, but he treated her as a happy accident rather than some burdensome mistake. “Her birthday ’s comin’ up, by the way. It would be nice if you stopped by.”
“To a kid’s birthday party.”
“Well, three kids and four adults, including myself.” Bakugou felt his nose crinkle. Kirishima sighs. “Please come. I told her I'd bring you.”
Flattering, but—“I don't really do, uh…”
“You'll forget she's 10 as soon as she starts talkin’. Trust me.” Bakugou wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Either way, his hardened expression remained the same throughout the entirety of him ringing the redhead’s candy and coffee. Kirishima exchanges his card for a paper receipt, and he sighs again as he pulls a pen from his chest pocket and scribbles something on the blank side of the receipt. “Anyway, if you change your mind, just give me a ring,” he says, sliding the paper towards him face-down. “I know you've been dying to ask for my number anyway.”
And with that, he takes a hefty sip from his mug and crinkles his gummies in his free hand, and then Bakugou watches him go, the distance between them growing from a foot, to three, then five, then fifteen; and then the sound of his his engine turning over cuts through the shitty pop music playing overhead before he honks a goodbye and pulls off towards the highway ramp.