Work Text:
OCTOBER
Fat Gum’s Café has a new customer.
Well. Not new, exactly. He's been showing up for the last two weeks or so but only on days Kirishima wasn’t working. The news shared by his coworkers more closely resemble war stories than work gossip, ranging exclusively from horrible to terrible.
“He’s the scariest person I’ve ever met in my life,” says Amajiki.
“He’s like a sentient piece of crap rolled up in a garbage can and set on fire,” says Kaminari.
“He makes give me a mocha double espresso sound like an order of execution,” says Amajiki.
“He’s rude and violent and he has no honor,” says Tetsutetsu.
“If he’s not actually a demon sent from the depths of hell to torture me specifically I would be very surprised,” says Amajiki. Most of the stories are from Amajiki.
Kirishima is dying to meet him, in part to defend his friends’ honor and in part to put a face to the legend. Luckily, the start of the new quarter means new classes at new times, and that means new work hours. What was originally a Tuesday-Thursday-Friday-Sunday schedule shifts to a Monday-Wednesday-Saturday schedule. Kirishima feels bad about that. He likes the coffee shop, likes his coworkers, likes his boss. If he could ace his tests and help out at Fat Gum’s every day he would, but he can't. His grades are dragging.
On the bright side, he meets their local celebrity, like, immediately.
It’s his first Saturday on the job. He knows it’s about to go down when he finds Amajiki attempting to assimilate himself into the storage closet.
“He's back,” says Amajiki, doing an excellent impression of coffee grounds quaking in fear. “If I have to deal with him again I'll die, I'll just die. Tell Mirio and Hadou I said goodbye. I'm sorry, Kirishima-kun, I can't do it.”
Poor guy. Amajiki is convinced this dude is terrorizing him deliberately, which Kirishima sincerely hopes isn't true. Anyone who would go out of their way to frighten serious, hardworking, anxious Amajiki must be a monster.
As if to punctuate this point, someone out at the front begins to brutalize the counter bell. To be fair, they really shouldn't leave it unmanned.
“Don't sweat it, senpai,” Kirishima says. He doesn't give Amajiki the manly clap to the shoulder that he wants to—Amajiki isn't so good with physical contact from anyone other than Togata or Hadou. “I'll handle the problem customer.”
Amajiki peeks at Kirishima through coffee filters and the dark wedge of his fringe. “You—you mean it?”
“Sure do. I like a challenge.”
He flashes his brightest smile. Amajiki squints a little at the force of it.
Kirishima is honestly surprised that the poor bell isn’t dented by the time he comes to its rescue.
“About fucking time,” says the problem customer. He's got riotous blond hair and a scowl on his face like it's been carved there. There's a grenade logo sprayed on his baggy black tee, which makes sense, because one look at this guy brings to mind the word explosive.
“How may I help you, sir?” says Kirishima, with deliberate pep. Impossibly, impressively, the scowl cuts deeper. Like an attack—like he's never not on the offensive. That's fine. Kirishima’s smile will be his armor.
The guy snarls his order, and Kirishima is glad because clearly he's an unrepentant dick to everyone, not just Amajiki. It's easier to come to terms with than he thought it would be. “And your name?” he says, plucking a cup from the stack and uncapping the marker with his teeth.
“Who the fuck wants to know?” says the customer.
“Oh no,” says Kirishima, because oh no, he likes this guy. It's one of those sudden revelations that takes him by the throat and shakes him down. Who wants to know, he says, as though it wasn't obvious. Who wants to know. So absurdly aggressive it ends up amusing instead of intimidating. Endearing, even.
Kirishima spits the cap out of his mouth. “I want to know. For your order, man.”
The problem customer narrows his eyes as though to peer through Kirishima’s question to the ulterior motives behind it, which is insane, since there are no ulterior motives to be found in the absolutely routine procedure of a coffee shop. Cheerfully oblivious seems to be getting under his skin, so Kirishima leans into it. “What if I forget who asked for the mocha double espresso?”
The customer rolls his eyes. He rolls his eyes violently. “Right, because I'm real fucking forgettable.”
“You could be.” The look he gets for that is entirely worth breaking the Customer Is Always Right creed. “We get a lot of traffic, man, it’s nothing personal.”
The customer braces himself on the counter and leans into Kirishima’s space. Instinct hooks in his spine and tries to reel him back a step or two, but he hardens his resolve into stone and ties it to his feet, weighs himself down, refuses to budge.
“You'll remember me,” the customer says. A promise like a threat, and for the first time in the duration of this exchange Kirishima feels seen by him. Acknowledged. It's the same feeling as scoring well on a test, or making a sad friend laugh. Hard-won and worth it. Kirishima can't stop the grin from breaking onto his face so he doesn't try to.
“Sure I will. I like you.”
And the look he gets for that, well, that's priceless.
“So that name?”
“Fuck off.”
The guy recovers fast, that's for sure. Kirishima watches him skulk to the serving counter where he roots himself like a particularly irritable tree and barks at anyone who gets too close. The next customer gets an extra punch in her punch card for the wait, and when the guy's order is up, Kirishima is ready with a sharpie in hand. Amajiki has ventured back out to help with orders, steadfastly avoiding anything problem-customer-related, but he blanches when he sees what Kirishima is scribbling on the cup. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Should I be getting you help?”
“Trust me,” Kirishima says. He caps the coffee and walks it to its rightful owner. “One mocha double espresso for Mr. Unforgettable.”
The guy snatches the cup. He stomps off without another word.
Thirty seconds later he stomps right back.
“Blasty McSplode?”
Amajiki ducks under the counter. Kirishima, in the process of taking another order, smiles wide enough to cramp his cheeks.
“Hey! Back already?”
“Blasty Mc Fucking Splode?”
“You wouldn't give me your name. I had to take a stab at it myself. Was I close?”
“I'll show you taking a stab—”
Blasty rants and raves for a full minute, splashing mocha just about everywhere, until finally Fat Gum himself ambles out of his office to gently shoo him from the shop. Kirishima waves at him around Fat Gum’s bulk. Blasty waves his middle finger in response. When Fat Gum comes back in he raises an eyebrow at Kirishima, which, yeah, he definitely deserves, but he also passes a heavy hand through his carefully gelled hair to show that he's not really mad. Kirishima fixes his hair as best he can while Amajiki climbs out from under the counter.
“I can't believe he didn't kill you for that,” he says, his voice buffed by awe.
Kirishima gives the next customer's punch card an extra punch too. Hell, he gives her two extra punches. Why not? He's in a great mood.
Two days later Blasty stalks in and Kirishima can't believe his good fortune. He calls out a greeting from across the cafe and gets a glare in response, but that glare holds, a few seconds of extended eye contact, long enough to stay in Kirishima’s belly after it's ended and flutter there.
Blasty growls his order. Kirishima asks for his name. Blasty tells him to go die and Kirishima scribbles Lord Explosion Murder on the cup. He's rewarded with a snort of amusement.
“Did you see that?” he gushes to Kaminari, after Blasty has left. “He totally laughed! He liked it!”
“I saw it I saw it ow stop hitting me!” Kaminari rubs the place on his shoulder that Kirishima had been slapping repeatedly. “I dunno, man. That sounded more like a scoff to me.”
Nah, he's pretty sure he was amused.
The next time he comes in, after the requisite exchange (“Your name for the order?” “Eat a dick,” “Cool cool I think I'd get fired if I wrote that but cool,”) Kirishima writes King Explosion Murder on the side of the cup.
“Better,” Blasty huffs.
Kirishima feels like cloud-walking for the rest of the day. Kaminari isn’t on shift, but when Kirishima texts him, he texts back: “I stand corrected. When are you asking him out?”
“All in due time,” Kirishima promises his phone.
NOVEMBER
Blasty’s schedule:
He shows up Monday mornings, rumpled by sleep and grouchier than usual, before he heads off to class. Wednesday evenings he drinks and studies until closing time. Saturday afternoons he sits at the window with a bento. Coincidentally these are the three days and times that Kirishima is on duty. And it must be coincidental, because if it's not then that means that Blasty memorized his schedule and molded his life accordingly, learned to fit him in, looks forward to seeing him three days out of the week. Kirishima may be an optimist, but he's not delusional. He knows how dangerous a daydream like that can be.
He’s probably just here because it’s a good place to study. And there must be an exam coming up, because lately he’s been showing up with even more books than usual, and suitcases under his eyes instead of bags. He’s crabbier, too, which Kirishima didn’t think was possible and is honestly impressed by. By this point he has unofficially become the only one willing to serve him, but this wild-eyed evolution of Problem Customer into Demon Customer From Hell just clinches it.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Kirishima says, when he brings over Blasty’s third espresso in as many hours. It’s Saturday, usually Blasty’s day to sit and gaze out the window with one of his more pensive death glares, but today he’s entombed himself in a mountain of notes and textbooks. Kirishima nudges aside a few notebooks to make room for the cup.
“Maybe you should go fuck yourself with a rake,” says Blasty, without looking up from the violent strokes of his pen. “Touch my stuff again and I’ll kill you myself, shitty hair.”
Watching from behind the counter, Amajiki wheezes with secondhand horror. Kirishima peers at the crowded table. “Hey, where’s your bento?”
Blasty slams his pen down. “Was I not clear enough, you moron? Fuck off! Leave me alone!”
Kirishima raises his hands in surrender. Blasty’s mouth opens as if to say something else, but nothing comes out. Maybe he’s realized he’s gone a step too far. They stare at each other for a beat, and then his jaw snaps shut. He jerks his head back to his books and Kirishima retreats to the counter.
“He can’t speak to you like that,” Amajiki says, suddenly stern. He’s always braver on someone else’s account. “I’ll tell Fat Gum, he’ll understand. We don’t have to serve him. You don’t have to take his abuse.”
“The guy’s under a lot of stress,” Kirishima says. It’s overindulgent even for him, but when he glances over his shoulder he sees Blasty wrench his gaze away. “And I think he feels bad.”
Amajiki obviously doesn’t think so, but he says nothing more, which Kirishima appreciates. By closing time Blasty is the only customer left in the shop, still hunched over his books and writing furiously. Kirishima has given him his space, and he hasn’t asked for another coffee. Amajiki is still angry enough to go tell him they’re closing—he’ll even be properly intimidating about it—but Kirishima stops him.
“I’ll lock up,” he offers. Amajiki’s look of disapproval is a blow to Kirishima’s pride, but he stands firm. So Fatgum leaves, and Amajiki leaves, with a sigh and a firm promise that he’ll be on standby if Kirishima needs anything, and then the place is empty and it’s just him, Blasty, and the scritching sound of his pen.
Kirishima takes his time. He cleans up and Blasty keeps studying. He locks the doors and Blasty keeps studying. He sits down at a table across the cafe and gets some of his own homework done, and Blasty keeps studying. Then he goes back to the machines, knowing he’ll have to clean them again, and whips up a special drink. When he’s done, he writes FIGHT ON! where the name should go.
“I don't want your fucking charity,” Blasty says as he sets it down.
“You’ve accepted it so far,” Kirishima points out blandly, gesturing to the very obviously closed cafe. Before Blasty can bite his head off, he continues, “Anyway, don't think of it as charity. Think of it as…an investment.”
“Investment in what?” His eyes are narrowed and very red, both in the iris and the bloodshot sclera.
Kirishima weighs the pros and cons of his next move and decides to go for it. He hazards a wink. “In my future best customer.”
Blasty is unimpressed. Like, fatally unimpressed. Like, it's impressive how unimpressed he looks. Aggressively deadpan. He has to practice that look in the mirror.
But he takes the cup, and when Kirishima peeks at him later, he's smirking at the sharpie message.
Monday morning sees Blasty quiet and terse, but civil. Civil for him, anyway. Kaminari is disturbed.
“What did you do?” he hisses once Blasty bulls out of the shop.
“Nothing.” Even if he barely met Kirishima’s eyes. Not promising.
“Did you fight?”
“No.”
“Did he turn you down?”
“No. Dude, nothing happened.”
Kaminari raises his hands. For a minute they work in silence.
“So if you didn’t get turned down, are you gonna ask him out soon?”
Kirishima hands off an order, and then lets his customer service smile drop. “Now isn’t a good time. I’ve got to give him some space.”
“Okay, but what about all your fortune favors the manly stuff? Isn’t that the reason you got this far in the first place?”
“How far is that? I still don’t know his name.” He can feel Kaminari’s eyes on him, and he tries to rally. Picks up his smile and pastes it back on. “Hey, enough about me. How’s it going with you and Shinsou?”
Kaminari lights up. For the next twenty minutes he regales Kirishima—and the whole cafe—with his loud and maudlin romantic woes, all he’s so hot the bags under his eyes should not be so hot and his dry sense of humor is so hard to read and I think he’s flirting with me but I thought that with Jirou and she and Momo still won’t let me live it down.
Kirishima listens and laughs and offers advice, and he does his job, and he doesn’t think about his grumpy favorite customer even once. Really he doesn’t.
When Blasty comes in on Wednesday, he looks well rested. Kirishima waves before getting back to orders. This is apparently not good enough for Blasty, because he scowls at the people in line and then stalks over to the serving counter and proceeds to glare daggers, like he expects Kirishima to just up and abandon his work to attend to him. Like, yeah, he wants to, but it wouldn’t be right. Even if Blasty scares other customers away from the counter. And even if Kirishima is getting steadily more distracted the longer he stares.
On the third order he messes up, Tetsutetsu intervenes.
“Go on,” he sighs, nudging Kirishima aside as the next customer steps up. “Make it fast, bro.”
Kirishima promises him a meat bun after work and hurries over. “Hey. You’re looking better. Did you ace the test?”
“Obviously.”
“That’s great. Congratulations.”
There’s a stalled moment. Kirishima taps his fingers on the counter. Blasty is visibly grinding his molars.
“Cool, so I’m gonna get back to work, I’ll make you your regular—”
“Last week,” Blasty starts. He bites out each word. “Last week, I was.” He stops, lips pressed tight and bloodless.
“An asshole,” Kirishima supplies.
Blasty hums low in his throat. Or he growls. Either way it’s as close to an admission as Kirishima is going to get, and it clearly took a hilarious amount of self restraint for even that much.
Blasty clears his throat and says, “That drink you made. What was in it?”
Kirishima is a little thrown by the shift. “Xoaxacl chocolate, a little chili powder. I thought you might like an extra kick.”
“It wasn’t half bad.” There’s color along the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take one of those.”
Maybe Kirishima had been more upset by Blasty’s behavior on Saturday than he thought, because now he feels loads lighter, any old hurts dissipating like clouds under the sun. He smiles, and Blasty blinks a lot, the color spreading to his cheeks and his ears and down his throat.
“One special order, comin’ right up!”
Kirishima turns around and reaches for a cup and marker. And then, behind him: “Bakugou Katsuki.”
He pauses. “Sorry?”
Blasty is rubbing roughly at his mouth. His whole face is glowing. “You heard me.”
“Bakugou,” says Kirishima, trying the taste on his tongue. Bakugou, full of plosives and hard consonants. “I love it. It suits you.”
Bakugou’s eyes snap wide, then narrow just as fast. “Why the fuck should I care what you think of my name? It doesn't need your approval, dipshit.”
When Kirishima is finished making his drink, Bakugou snatches it from his hand and whirls on his heel, a dramatic spray of foam following him out. Kirishima tingles where their fingers touched.
Then he watches Bakugou take a deep pull, and he has to go clean the latte machine before he’s murdered by the lethal and lovely line of Bakugou’s throat.
DECEMBER
“Y’know, I still don’t know what you study.”
“Probably because it’s none of your business.”
“Right. Except how it kind of is literally my business, since I let you study here, in my place of work, after we’ve closed.”
This has become their ritual. On Saturdays Bakugou stay past closing, sometimes doing schoolwork, sometimes helping clean up, sometimes just chatting. He never stays past nine thirty—Kirishima has learned that he likes to turn in before ten every night, which is bizarrely adorable—but it doesn’t matter. Any amount of time with him is always going to feel like a blessing, and it’s never going to feel like enough.
“You’re not doing me any favors, shitty hair, get that thought out of your empty skull this instant.”
“Sure, sure.”
Kirishima finishes cleaning up. Once the last table is wiped down he sits heavily across from Bakugou, happy to finally be off his feet. His eyes feel swollen, too big for his skull. His grades have yet to pick up despite the extra hours of studying he’s been putting in. He presses his knuckles into his eyes for a moment of relief.
“I’m a med student.”
He blinks the colorless starbursts from his eyes. Bakugou, across from him, comes into focus: his head is still down, his gaze still fixed on his book. Sometimes he wears glasses, thick dark frames that Kirishima loves, and today is one of those days. He grins.
“No shit! You’re going to be a doctor?”
“A surgeon.” Some color rises in his ears; he looks pleased. Maybe because of how awed Kirishima sounds. But why wouldn’t he? Anyone working to help people is worthy of admiration, and manly as hell.
“Dude, that’s awesome. I’m studying to be a nurse.”
The corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitches upward. “Nurses are badass.”
“I think so. You a doctor, me a nurse. I bet we’d make a good team.”
Bakugou scoffs, even as pink starts to pool in his collarbones. Kirishima still doesn’t get why certain things make him flush, but he’s happy to learn. He rests his cheek in his hand and tries not to smile too dopily. “Y’know, for a med student you sure drink a lot of coffee. You know too much of this stuff is terrible for you, right?”
“I’m going to tell your boss you said that and get you fired.”
“That’s really not how it works.”
Bakugou’s glare is magnified by the glass. He takes a long, aggressive sip of his drink—the strength it takes Kirishima not to burst out laughing is Herculean, truly, with the slurping and the deliberate eye contact and all, because only Bakugou could turn coffee into an intimidation tactic. Then he says, “Whatever. I'm invincible.”
Kirishima bursts out laughing. Bakugou grumbles beneath his breath, but his threats delight Kirishima more than they intimidate; Kirishima’s laughter seems to confound Bakugou more than it enrages. They're good for each other, is his sudden thought, and it thrills him.
He’s a little teary and a little breathless by the time he gets himself under control. Through the blurry smudge of his eyelashes he sees Bakugou. Then he’s breathless all over again.
Bakugou’s face—Kirishima wouldn’t say it softens. But there is a softness there, in his unsmiling mouth, in his brow, stern but smooth. He’s just—watching him, steadily. Intent.
“Hey,” Kirishima says, and it’s easy, it’s so easy. “Make sure you come in on Christmas, alright? I get out early, and I want to ask you something.”
And maybe he expects Bakugou to fluster, or to scowl, or to demand to hear his question then and there. He doesn’t.
“Fine,” he says, and he just keeps watching. Like he wouldn’t mind watching Kirishima forever.
Maybe Kirishima’s projecting a little.
Bakugou would probably tear him a new one for spreading the news around, but Kirishima is too excited to keep it to himself.
“I’m happy for you,” says Amajiki, sounding worried but sincere.
“Congrats, man,” says Tetsutetsu, and then they have a celebratory arm wrestling match.
Kaminari is a little more suspicious. “So you haven’t asked him out yet?”
He’s standing on a stepladder, hanging Christmas decorations while Kirishima mans the counter. Bakugou has already stopped by for his morning coffee, and it’s been a slow morning since. The few people trickling in have been couples, sharing hot chocolate and slices of cake. Kirishima has spent an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about similar situations. In his head it’s usually a little less cozy and a little more explosive, but he likes it better that way.
“Technically no.” He tops the latte he’s working on with extra foam. “I asked him to come by on Christmas, and I’m going to ask him out then. I’ve got a plan.”
Kaminari doesn’t need to know how nebulous said plan is. At the moment it includes things like Step One: Bribe With Spicy Food (Addendum: Can Christmas Cake Be Spicy?), Step Two: Sweep Bakugou Off His Feet, Step C: Profess Manly Adoration, Step N: Kiss Just Like, Wow, A Whole Bunch. The truth is he’s always been more of an in the moment kind of guy. But he likes Bakugou—he really, really likes Bakugou. He doesn’t want to screw everything up with an impulsive word or action. And if that means taking precautions he wouldn’t usually bother with, he’ll take them.
“I dunno, man,” says Kaminari. “Midoriya and Momo are all about plans. You…not so much.”
Kirishima decides Kaminari knows him too well. “Any progress with Shinsou?”
That does the trick. Kaminari brightens like the bunch of LED Christmas lights in his arms. He practically swoons, the stepladder protesting beneath him. “Dude, you have no idea. I took a leaf out of your book, just asked him straight out, and lemme tell you I knew Hitoshi was hot but I’ve never seen anyone blush so cute in my whole damn life—”
He swoons a little too hard, arms wheeling, and Kirishima barely vaults the counter in time to catch him. There’s some polite applause from the handful of patrons in the shop. Kirishima and Kaminari bow, and then Fat Gum tells them to quit fooling and get back to work.
Kirishima does not spend the rest of his shift thinking about how Kaminari called Shinsou Hitoshi. And he definitely does not think about calling Bakugou by his first name on Christmas.
He does, however, scrawl Katsuki on no less than three to-go cups.
Kirishima does not see Bakugou on Christmas. He does not see much of anyone, or anything, on Christmas. He can barely see his own hand in front of his face, which could be the delirium brought on by the fever or the copious amount of sweat rolling into his eyes, which is also brought on by the fever.
As badly as he wants to push through the pain, not even he is hardheaded enough to try and drag his sorry carcass to work. It’s hard enough to drag his sorry carcass to the bathroom and back. He tries to text his coworkers (Tamaki? Kaminari? Tetsutetsu? He can’t recall who’s working today, so he texts all of them) and asks them to apologize to Bakugou, but the characters are swimming in his vision and he’s pretty sure the result is gibberish. Which means it’s over. He’s going to be laid up in bed for weeks, he’s going to fail his finals, and come next semester he’ll have a new class schedule, and he’ll never see Bakugou again. He’s blown it. Romance is dead.
Someone’s knocking on the door. He doesn’t answer it right away—it takes a minute for him to peel the rhythm of the pounding door from the pounding in his head. It takes a minute longer for him to stumble up and open it.
“You look like shit,” says Bakugou. He’s standing there looking like god’s gift to the earth, even scowling, even bundled in hat and scarf and mask, even laden down with groceries. Kirishima is pretty sure he’s hallucinating.
“Well? Are you letting me in or what?”
Kirishima lets him in. Bakugou toes out of his boots and then he plants himself in the middle of the room, jerking his head this way and that, taking it all in: the kitchenette-slash-living room, the card table turned dining table, the clashing red and hot pink interior design. “This place is a shitshow,” he declares. “No roommate?”
“She’s spending Christmas with friends.” More specifically, Mina had left last night with the implication that if Kirishima’s date went well he was free to come back to the apartment. There was a lot of obnoxious winking and innuendos. It was sweet of her, if a little mortifying and inappropriate, and in the end entirely wasted when he woke up with the mother of all migraines.
Bakugou drops the groceries on the table and starts shucking his outerwear. The hat, the scarf, the puffy coat. Kirishima sways in place and watches him. He’s wearing a red button down, and beneath that a black tee with the Punisher logo on it. It’s just a little bit dressier than his everyday attire. Is this what he would have worn on their date? If Kirishima had ever gotten to ask him properly? He sighs, forlorn.
Bakugou turns back to him, and they stare at each other. They keep staring at each other until Bakugou reaches past him to close the door, which was still hanging open over his shoulder. Whoops.
“God damn, you’re out of it. Get back to bed, loser.”
He cuffs him over the head, except it’s less of a cuff and more of a ruffle, exasperated and fond. So Kirishima totters back to bed. Hallucination or not, he’s happy to see Bakugou one last time.
When he wakes up, it’s to the rich, earthy kinds of aromas he associates with home cooking, if not necessarily his home. His first thought is that Mina came home early, but she’s just as useless in the kitchen as he is. So either a burglar broke in to cook for him or he wasn’t having an incredibly vivid fever dream, as he’d previously assumed. Which means Bakugou is really, actually, truly in his home.
The door to his bedroom bangs open while he’s wrestling with the sweat-soaked sheets. Bakugou is armed to the teeth with soup, water, tea, pills, and towel, all laid out and puffing steam on a serving tray that Kirishima doesn’t remember owning. He raises an eyebrow at Kirishima’s ogling and knees him in the side.
“Sit up. You have to eat and rehydrate.”
The tray lands on Kirishima’s lap, and then the water and the pills are pushed into his hands. While he’s downing both, Bakugou makes a sour face at the state of his room, and bustles out to change the bedside wastebasket for a clean bag. Kirishima would be more humiliated if he weren’t so happy to see him at all.
When Bakugou comes back he’s got a thermometer in one hand and the card table’s folding chair under an arm. He kicks the chair open, spins it around, and slings one leg over the side. He brandishes the thermometer like a weapon of war.
“Open.”
The thermometer jabs under Kirishima’s tongue. He winces only a little, and his voice comes out nasally and muffled and a little wondering. “I can’t believe you’re really real.”
“What else would I be?”
“I don’t know, a dream? A near death hallucination?”
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Shut up until I get your temperature.”
A few seconds later the thermometer chirps. Bakugou snaps it up and glares at it, and then something in his face relaxes.
“Barely a fever. You’ll live, moron.”
Kirishima asks, “How’d you know where I live?”
“Your dumbass coworker said you were sick. I threatened him bodily harm until he gave me your address.” Like it’s so obvious. Which, yeah, maybe it is. Probably Kaminari, who is both susceptible to Bakugou’s intimidation tactics and has been pushing for them to get together. When Bakugou snaps open the damp towel and starts mopping at Kirishima’s sweaty face, grumbling beneath his breath, he decides that he’s grateful.
For the first time he’s realizing how silly his fever induced fears were. He might be down for the count for a few days, but he won’t miss his finals, even if he might fail them. And even if his schedule falls out of sync with Bakugou’s, it’s not like he’ll be gone forever. They have a mutual friend in Midoriya, as Kirishima learned recently. Or else he could just loiter around the cafe until they learn each other’s new schedules. This doesn’t have to be the end at all. Bakugou proved that by coming here.
“Sorry, Bakugou,” he croaks. “I really wanted to be there with you today. Was looking forward to it all week.”
Bakugou dismisses him with a roll of his eyes. He folds his arms across the back of the chair and rests his chin on them. “So? What happened?”
“End of the semester. Bad grades. Finals.” He waves a vague hand to encompass the studying and the stress and the lack of sleep. It probably didn’t help that he ran himself into the ground trying to justify a night off with Bakugou, though he doubts that comes across with his flappy wrist.
“Guess it all caught up to me.” He spoons some soup into his mouth. “Oh my god, this is delicious. You made this?”
“I’m great at everything, obviously.” His mask twists with a frown. “You’re having trouble in school?”
“’M not a genius like you.”
“It’s not about being a genius, it’s about studying habits. You need someone to quiz you, keep you on task.” A pause, nearly short enough to be casual. “I’ll do it.”
Kirishima lowers the bowl he had been tipping over for the last of the broth. “You?”
“What, you think I can’t? I’ll be the best damn tutor you’ve ever seen, shitty hair.” Another pause. This one is more thoughtful.
“What?” says Kirishima.
Bakugou shakes his head. His voice has dropped to a low rumble in his chest. “Never seen you with your hair down. You should chuck all your gel, it’s not so shitty like this.”
“Didn’t think I’d have company to put it up for. I’d have to flip upside down to do it right, I probably would have passed out and died.”
Bakugou snorts. “You’d think a nurse would take better care of himself.”
Kirishima snorts back, with a little more phlegm. “You’d think a doctor would have better bedside manner.”
All of a sudden Bakugou’s scowl is a little less—scowly, than it usually is. More searching. More intense. Their eyes meet for a second too long and it’s like someone is pouring nitroglycerin down the column of Kirishima’s spine.
“Sounds like you want to know more about my bedside manner.”
He’s smirking, and there are so many things—so many things—that Kirishima could say to that. Things that would be smart or things that would be manly or things that would be safe. So many things.
His fever speaks for him. “Well, if you’re offering.”
The smirk falls away and that intensity comes roaring back. Kirishima’s insides ignite. Bakugou rises slowly and doesn’t once blink, and his chair scrapes on the floor, and Kirishima has the thought I hope that doesn’t scratch the wood—
Then Bakugou is kissing him. The rough weave of his mask and the heat of his mouth behind it, like a brand. His open eyes. His hand cradling the curve of Kirishima’s skull. It’s overwhelming and it’s nothing at all, less of a kiss than a touch, less of a touch than a promise. Kirishima clutches at him because he’ll fall away otherwise, he’s hungry and dizzy and unmoored, and he’s got one hand clenched in Bakugou’s shirt and one in his hair and it’s soft, how is it so soft? His heart lurches in his chest.
No no no, not his heart. “Bakugou, back up, I—oh shit—”
He pulls away and flops over the side of the bed, unable to see if his hail mary aim for the wastebasket came through. Only once he’s done tossing his guts does he register the steadying arm around his shoulders. The hand pushing back his hair. It’s warm and square and dry, with callouses on every finger.
“You’re disgusting,” Bakugou says from somewhere above him. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
“You’re the one who just kissed a sick man. What does that make you?”
“Magnanimous as fuck.”
Kirishima laughs. It hurts every part of him, but it’s good. It’s really good.
“I really like you, Bakugou. Like a lot.”
It comes out so easy, just like that day in the cafe. He’s still half upside down and his mouth is still sour. Bakugou’s hand is still in his hair. Through the damp red locks that escape his grip Kirishima can see him, and for the first time since they met, he looks starry-eyed. It is the most amazing feeling in the world, even when Bakugou blinks the stars away and glowers.
“Is that why you wanted me to come by the cafe today? I already knew that, dipshit.”
His voice is dismissive and mocking, but his hand is still in Kirishima’s hair, and his collarbones have flooded pink. It’s just like Bakugou to flirt and kiss him within an inch of his life only to get shy about a little sincerity.
“Yeah. That’s all I wanted to say. I was hoping we could go out and, I don’t know, look at Christmas lights. Bake a cake together. Pelt each other with snowballs or something. I like you a lot.”
Bakugou helps him sit up. At his urging Kirishima rinses his mouth with water and then sips some of the tea. It’s lemony and sweet.
Bakugou demands, “What took you so long? I don’t like idiots who beat around the bush, Kirishima. Didn’t think you were like that.”
Kirishima. He doesn’t think he ever wants anyone else to say his name. “Yeah, Kaminari said the same thing. But I didn’t want to mess things up with you.”
“So you decided to be a dumbass? How’d that work out for you?”
He mulls it over. “The guy I like is seeing me half dead, so that’s embarrassing. On the other hand, the guy I like is taking care of me while I’m sick, which is pretty sweet. Net gain, I think.” He’s heartened by the amused squint of Bakugou’s eyes. “So? Want to go out with me?”
For a long moment, Bakugou doesn’t say anything. He just watches, steady, intent, and his hand weaves slow, thoughtless paths through Kirishima’s hair. Kirishima has never been in love before, but he thinks this must be it. He can’t imagine anything else hurting quite so sweetly.
“I’m not dating anyone while I’m still in school,” Bakugou says. “That would be fucking stupid.”
“Okay. After med school is residency, right? You think you’ll be dating then?”
Bakugou’s expression isn’t starry-eyed anymore, but it’s pretty damn close.
He says, “Stick around and find out.”
JANUARY
A new semester means a new schedule, and Kirishima’s does not match up with Bakugou’s even once. It’s a little bit of a bummer, sure, but he’ll survive.
The last customer of the day leaves the cafe two minutes to closing. Kirishima sighs, cracks his neck, and starts prepping the last drink of the day. He sets it on the counter and then he starts wiping down tables, and when the clock strikes the hour, Kaminari goes to lock the doors.
They burst open before he gets there and Kaminari jumps two feet in the air and falls flat on his back. In strides Bakugou, and Kirishima’s heart flutters even as he stands back and cackles at Kaminari for a solid thirty seconds.
“Kirishima,” Kaminari whines from the floor, “your boyfriend’s being mean to me!”
Bakugou kicks at him. “We’re not dating.”
“Ha! Sure, and I’m not dating an insomniac with a fine ass—okay okay you’re not dating, quit kicking me!”
He does, but only after Kirishima scolds him and entices him away with a drink. He grabs it off the counter and passes it to Bakugou. Then he snatches it back.
“Forgot the name, just a sec!”
“You already know my name,” Bakugou groans, but he follows Kirishima behind the counter with barely a frown. “Hurry up, shitty hair, I don’t have all night to tutor your ass.”
“Tutor your ass,” Kaminari laughs from the floor. Bakugou growls.
Kirishima finds the marker and uncaps it. Before he can start to write, Bakugou threads their fingers together and squeezes hard.
“I can’t write your name with my left hand, Bakugou.”
Bakugou hooks his chin over Kirishima’s shoulder. “Sounds like a you problem.”
Well, Kirishima likes a challenge. The final result is messy but legible. He garnishes it with a heart. “Here.”
“Stupid,” Bakugou huffs, but he accepts the cup and takes a swig. Then he yanks Kirishima toward the exit, where Kaminari is finally peeling himself off the floor.
“We’re still on for Saturday, right?” he asks, dusting himself off. “Double--”
“If you say double date, I’ll set you on fire,” says Bakugou. “And only if shitty hair here passes his test with flying colors.”
Kaminari endeavors to look contrite--his face wasn’t really built for it--but when Bakugou’s back is turned, he shoots Kirishima a subtle thumbs up and mouths double date. Kirishima returns the favor.
Outside the cafe it’s cold and biting. Bakugou hisses, and takes another gulp of his drink. Kirishima watches him glance at the name on the side of the cup again. If he pointed out the color in his cheeks he knows Bakugou would say it was the cold, or the heat of the drink, and then he’d punch him for good measure. But Kirishima can see his smile, hard-won and worth it. He can see how he passes a thumb over the shaky black characters, over and over: Katsuki.
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