Archive of Our Own

“You don’t feel like going out with anyone?”

Katsuki vaguely remembers his teenage years. Bits and pieces — conversations he wasn’t a part of, useless facts, mixed faces. Sirens of being more. Whispers of being less.

Somewhere around high school everything his peers were talking about was replaced with useless gossip-talk he’s heard on the TV, but it never occurred to him that it happens in real life, too.

Who liked who. Who slept with each other. What would falling in love feel like, what would a simple gaze mean, when it didn’t mean anything — but everyone believed it did. Nobody seemed to notice the sudden change of themes, rather the opposite — they would bath in it, taking in all the gossip, going to all the parties, living their lives the way you’d see in movies. Katsuki was left alone, bored by his classmates, by their interests, exhausted from their enthusiasm, wondering why he wasn't affected. But it wasn’t important, and it never bothered him that much, anyway.

The whispers turned into yelling, following him through the college, and outside of it, too — the media, the TV, books, ads, strangers’ stories, his parents’ looks. 

The thought of intimacy made something cruelly childish inside come out, making his stomach twist, and his mind was drawing blanks in filling the missing parts of why he was filling this way.

There was something that simply wasn’t there, in its absurdity, and it clicked years later, on accident, with him lazily watching some documentaries about sharks, not even paying attention to the screen, when the narrator started talking about asexuality. And, sure, he was talking about how it affected marine life, but something about the term seemed to pick Katsuki's interest — not in marine biology, though, — and he started to dig. 

And, well— it suddenly made sense. 

Now, in his parents’ house, Katsuki shakes his head, “—no. I don’t feel like having sex with them.”

Mitsuki frowns at his words. She and Masaru share a quick glance, and Katsuki can barely look at them both. It’s a New Year’s Eve, and it wasn’t supposed to end like this — not now, nor ever, the thought of “coming out” crossing his mind periodically, but never making its stay. He knew who he was, and it wasn't anyone else's business — just like he preferred.

But his mother kept nagging, and Katsuki was just like her, in a way, with his mouth working faster than his brains, and he said things he didn’t mean to. 

(In retrospect, maybe his parents knew something was up from the very start. Maybe they even guessed right, generally speaking, but it never went deeper than that. Once he turned sixteen, Mitsuki proudly announced over the dinner table that if Katsuki ever invited a boy to their house, she and Masaru would be very happy, too. He almost choked on the cabbage that night.)

She finds her voice again. “And you’re sure this is not a temporary thing?”

“I’ve always felt this way, I doubt anything will change.”

“Yes, but… You know how it goes. How unpredictable these things can be. I never thought of marriage or starting a family, not until I’ve met your father, you know this well.” She looks away, and up again. “Maybe you haven’t found someone like this yourself, yet? Do you think it’s a possibility?”

Katsuki takes in the falling snow outside, the old holiday movie playing from another room. It's weird how he has to work himself up for an answer. Says, “It’s not about finding the right people, it’s about me not ever wanting to take things to bed.”

It’s Masaru’s voice now, gentle and merely concerned, “And what if the other person wants to?” 

This makes Katsuki look up. Their eyes are not unkind—confused, trying to understand—sickening in a way he isn’t used to. His overconfident ego wants to proudly declare that he’d never fall for anything or, rather, anyone like that. His realistical, rational side stays silent.

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, and it sounds childish. Enough to stop the questions from his parents for a while, as their frowns grow, eyes lost, yet kind. Pitiful, maybe, would have been the right word. Katsuki looks away.

It doesn’t erase the possibility of what if from his memory. Even as he decided for himself he wouldn’t agree on any sacrifices. It might be selfish, but he never had a problem with being seen as such.

And if it wasn’t enough, if what he’s ready to give wasn’t enough? There's not much he could do, then.

There’s a cold bite of autumn wind on his bare arms, and a constant, annoyingly loud sound of water running down the flimsy roof of a bus stop. His phone has been dead for at least twenty minutes now, and it’s impossible to tell what time it is with how entirely and endlessly dark everything looks under the massive thunderclouds, but the street lights slowly start flickering, so it must be late. Katsuki sighs. 

Today was supposed to be his day off. His own Ferris Bueller’s sort of day, and, god forbid, he even had plans — plans other than go to work, be there until it’s so dark you can't see a thing, miss the bus seconds before its’ driving off, and get stuck at the bus station waiting for miracle or, in this case, another bus. But his coworker got sick, and his manager got mad, and he’s still expected to pay his rent, so there’s that. 

Now, with another burst of wind almost knocking him off the bench, he makes a mental note to be an extra dick to his coworker for the next week, and wraps his wet shirt around himself. It makes no change for him other than a fleeting sensation of gross wet fabric on skin, but he’ll take what he can. He’s getting used to the cold, head slowly lolling to the side. It’s been such a long day, and he’s made so little money, and the rain is so soothing, too. He closes his eyes for a bit, and there’s not enough energy to open them. Would it be too bad to waste some time while he’s half-asleep?

Thunk .

Katsuki is instantly awake. He looks down, and finds a metal can of grape soda next to him on the bench. Looking up, he finds a guy.

“Want some cola?”

He’s short and kinda lanky, with dark hair and freckled face, and, by the looks of it, he’s been out in the rain for some time, too. There's another can of soda in his hand— prosthetic hand, if the metal color of it is not just a sick body art. But it’s not what concerns Katsuki.

It's not even cola. It’s grape soda—you don't just call all soft drinks cola—and Katsuki tells the guy exactly that.

“Yeah, well, it still tastes like cola?” the guy offers. He shivers under Katsuki’s piercing gaze (or maybe the wind, but Katsuki will take the first possibility) and sits down himself. “Okay— want some grape soda? ”

“No.” Katsuki narrows his eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Rude. I just offered you a free drink.”

“Don’t want your shit.”

“Missed opportunity,” the guy says, taking a sip from his own can.

They wait silently for another few minutes, with the soda sitting between the two, and the occasional plastic bag flying with the burst of wind in its graceful glory. It's when Katsuki asks, his last brain cell trying to take charge, “Why the hell did you even offer me this?”

The guy blinks. 

“I don't know. I just had this cola—sorry, soda, —that I didn't want, and you looked very miserable. I thought maybe this would cheer you up.” He jerks a finger at the parking lot behind them, pointing at the brightly lit vending machine. “This thing just decided to drop two cans, that's all. I mean, it's free cola. Uh— free soda.”

“I’m not fucking miserable,” Katsuki protests weakly. “That’s creepy as hell. What are you, some kind of low-life? Or a child? Are you eight, shithead?”

“Well, can’t argue with that.” The guy tilts his head, and a faint smile appears on his face. “I mean the second part.”

“You are dead .”

The other man raises his hands in defense, comically leaning back, words on the tip of his tongue, when Katsuki has to shut his eyes slightly, a sudden warm light behind the guy’s silhouette making them both pause. 

The bus’ old doors loudly hisses before the vehicle even stops, the driver impatient to end his shift, and the guy perks up, hastily adjusting the sleeves of his shirt — it must be his ride.

“Well, nice talking to you,” he says, pausing just a little, mid-way to the doors, probably earning himself an enemy in the face of a tired bus driver.

“Can’t say the same.”

If anything, it only makes the guy snicker lightly as he turns away.

The engine roars softly, the tires screech on the wet asphalt, and just like that, it’s Katsuki and the rattling of the rain again. When he suddenly thinks about what happened, it almost puts the smallest of smiles on his face — just for the absurdity of it. He briefly glances at the soda, at the neverending wall of rain all around him, and back at the can. 

First, it wasn't poisoned — a major win. Second, it does slightly remind him of cola. 

Weird.

It’s been roughly a week since he’s spent almost an hour soaking under the cold autumn rain, and it’s a miracle he’s still kicking, not a hint of cold in his body. It’s also been a week during which Jirou, his coworker, really started to appreciate just how much Katsuki usually tries to not be an asshole the whole time they’re forced to spend together. 

The chimney above the entrance chirps roughly three minutes after Katsuki’s shift starts. He takes off his scarf and tosses it onto the chair in the back room, grabs the apron hanging on the wall, and ducks under the plastic flip door. 

“Welcome to Expresso,” he greets automatically, tying the apron at the back. “What can I get for— you ?”

The guy’s puzzled expression is enough proof that he recognized Katsuki, too.

“That’s— funny,” he says, and it's the same voice that offered Katsuki grape soda the other week, and insisted it tasted like cola. “I didn't know you worked here. Did your shift just start?”

Katsuki rounds the counter, picking up a random item to look busy. The said item ends up to be a spoon, so it doesn’t quite work that well. 

“Fuck off. Are you following me, or something? First the bus stop, now this. I will beat you up.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” the guy says, unimpressed. He’s tugging at the top side of his hoodie, and there's a name tag there, with the logo of a tea shop down the street. “I work nearby, that's all. It seems our shifts are at different times, because I always come here after work, and it's usually, well, not you.”

“Not sure I trust this.”

The other man sighs and changes the topic. “I’m actually here to pick up an order. Do you have a matcha latte and a blueberry donut for Uraraka?”

Katsuki looks at the sealed paper bag and a large coffee cup Jirou prepared last before leaving, giant messy letters on it spelled Uraraka , and back.

“Is your name Uraraka?”

“What? No.”

“Then I can’t give you that.”

“Huh?”

There’s something about this guy that makes Katsuki say the dumbest things with no filter whatsoever, it seems. 

Still. If he’s going down, he’s going all the way.

“Yeah, tough luck, uh—” he squints at the nametag on the guys’ apron that reads Midoriya Izuku, but there’s no way he’d say that to his face, so he settles at, “—Deku.”

The guy—Midoriya— Deku studies him for a second.

“Well, aren’t you just charming?” he asks in a deadbeat tone.

“Only the worst for annoying bastards.”

“That’s it. I’m taking it.” He reaches for the bag, and cocks an eyebrow at Katsuki when the blond doesn’t react right away. “What, aren’t you going to call the cops on me? I’m basically stealing.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Deku flashes him a smile of a kid who’s done something very bad, or of a cat that’s just finished pissing in your shoes. That shouldn’t be that amusing as it is, but Katsuki barely holds himself together to keep a straight face.

“Tough luck,” Deku says, holding onto the cup and the bag with way too much enthusiasm, as his eyes travel down to Katsuki’s apron, “...Ka— uh— Kacchan.”

Katsuki pauses. 

“ Huh? ”

“I mean— Wait—Ka... No, no, Bakugou, I meant to say. Oh, man. Sorry—” 

Deku accidentally catches Katsuki’s gaze in his stuttering state and his whole face flushes bright red almost instantly, making him shut up. He slowly turns around and marches to the front door, a shaky “goodbye” right before stepping out embarrassingly thrown into the coffee shop.

When the bell above the door jingles, Katsuki is able to speak again, his heart pounding faster than the car engine.

“What the fuck.”

The guy—Deku—can’t pronounce Katsuki’s fucking name becomes a thing that he learns today, which is... well. Something.

Katsuki’s a good cook — a well known fact, one he isn’t particularly trying to brag about, even if his friends say that having a fancy display for special limited knives is a type of bragging on its own. But they are a bunch of fools who can’t peel a potato, and his knives deserve being seen — another fact. There’s nothing to even brag about, the idiots. It's a decent human skill.

As he crouches to reach the soon-to-be expired canned soups in his neighborhood cheap store, he thinks that maybe his new particular set of knives wasn’t really worth it, after all. It’s so dark outside he can’t even tell if there’s anything but the said darkness, and occasional sleepy customers he’s run into aren’t exactly a fun bunch either. There’s another one going his way, he can tell — hear, rather — before the steps stop abruptly. Then— 

“Oh. That’s weird.”

Katsuki looks to the side. Next to him, Deku, of all people, is looking back, his hand reaching for the same can of frozen soup as Katsuki’s. Realization hits them both almost immediately, judging by the way Deku’s gaze intensifies in time with Katsuki’s, eyes darting from his hand to the soup.

It’s the last one. It’s the last can, it’s almost expired, and it’s the cheapest brand of canned soup there is. It’s practically a treasure.

“You won’t dare.”

“I totally will.” 

Katsuki’s mouth curves into a nervous smile. Deku’s hand twitches, and he jerks forward just in time with Katsuki, two of them grabbing the can at the same time. 

Deku falters. “Listen.”

Katsuki doesn’t have time to think about how their hands are literally on top of each other’s. He shakes his head, “No.”

“C’mon. Look, I’ve got nothing, I really need this.”

“Fuck off.”

Deku tries to send him a glare, but Katsuki’s experienced enough glares in his life to return it twice as intimidating, his hold onto the can tightening, too. It does the trick, the other man releases the soup with a defeated sigh, and it triumphantly falls into Katsuki’s basket. Deku follows its path miserably. 

“You’ve just robbed a one-handed man, how are you going to live with this, Kacchan?” he whines, already picking up a can of different brand, demonstratively grimacing at it before choosing to look at another. Katsuki’s heart jumps to his throat.

“So you're sticking up with that, huh? Deku.”

Deku quickly looks up and demonstratively squints. Says, throwing a can of different soup to his other stuff, “It makes you look less scary in my head.”

Katsuki’s death glare goes unnoticed, and falls on Deku’s basket instead. It’s mostly stupid snacks and fruits, like he’s actually eight years old, and also a lot of cat food. A lot of it.

Almost automatically, Katsuki asks, “—you’ve got a cat?”

Deku briefly looks at at least fifteen different cat food packages he’s got, and his voice gets smaller as he stands up.

 “...oh, yeah, uh, I found one last week, but I have no idea what he likes to eat, and he’s rather picky for a street cat. Also it's not like I can afford some fancy gourmet dishes, too.”

Katsuki pauses, for a moment. Besides cat food and other junk there are some apples — certainly not the ones from the top shelf, — and cheap equivalents of everyday products. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyeing his own basket full of nothing but the same low-priced stuff, standing near the same cheap soup brands. “Tell me about it.” 

“Medical bills are quite wild, I’d say,” the man, smiling, and something crawls at Katsuki’s skin. 

“Where did you get the granola bar?” Deku suddenly asks, changing the topic. He’s either very good at it, or very bad — but it works. “I want one, too.”

He likes exotic fruits and mint. Fucking mint— Katsuki didn’t even know there are mint granola bars.

“They’re like gum, but crunchier.”

“What the fuck.”

“It smells like soda with grape soap.”

“It doesn’t smell that weird.” Deku casually throws two cans of grape soda in his basket. With this new addition it now looks exactly like the type of meal a preschooler would crave. Visually pleased with his soon-to-be midnight snacks, he faces Katsuki. “And maybe I just like grape soap.”

Katsuki makes a face. “Unbelievable.”

Deku laughs, and it sounds nice. 

It actually sounds like his usual laughter, so maybe Katsuki’s just hearing things.

“Do cats have preferences in fish?”

Katsuki’s busy choosing the biggest salmon from the ice box. He can feel Deku’s leaning to peek inside next to him. 

“Never had a cat. They’re dumb, so they probably won’t care.”

“At least don’t be rude to my cat.”

“It’s not your cat in particular that’s dumb, although he’s in your care, so he’s gotta be somewhat stupid—”

“—is that the one you wanted?”

“—no, this one’s too fuckin’ floppy—”

“—and cats overall aren’t dumb, they’re smart for an animal their size, you know?”

Katsuki picks up different fish, and gives Deku one very unimpressed once-over. 

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“So you actually liked it? I never expected you to go that far.” 

They’re standing in a line, and Deku’s excited voice grants them a couple of tired, way too worked up looks from people in front of them.

Katsuki’s face probably shows that he has no idea what the hell Deku’s talking about, because he tilts his head and points at his basket.

“The cola , Kacchan.”

Katsuki looks down, and freezes. There, with tomatoes and juice and the soup and bread and fish, lies the same can of grape soda he once rejected and then reluctantly and quite miserably drank.

The thing is, he doesn’t remember picking it up. He just— did, apparently.

“What the hell.”

“So did you drink it, then? Did you like it?”

“No, I didn’t drink it, it tastes like crap—” 

He freezes. There’s an endlessly long second of silence, interrupted by the cashier’s muffled snicker and rapid apology. Deku’s smile is small and knowing, and Katsuki wants to smack himself on the head.

“That’s nice to know. I actually thought you’d just toss it in the trash on your way back.”

“And I did. That’s exactly what I did.”

“Oh, by the way,” says Deku, not paying attention to Katsuki’s obvious lie, eyes focused on various gums on the counter—fucking mint ones—and saving Katsuki in more ways than one. “I was in Expresso the other day. The girl at the counter said customers are allowed to take orders for other people. Can you believe that?”

“Did you ask her specifically if you're allowed to do so just to brag to me the next time we meet?”

“...no.”

“Of course not.” 

There’s another quiet apology from the cashier, then.

It’s only when they both leave the store with their respectable bags that Katsuki realizes, slowly and painfully, standing under the flickering poorly lit “24/7” sign, that he’s spent his night shopping with Deku, with two of them following each other from aisle to aisle, without ever needing to.

It’s just something that happened.

Like the soda that’s sitting in his bag. 

“You alright?”

Katsuki turns around, and Deku’s looking at him with concerned eyes. 

“You kinda zoned out for a second,” he says, and looks like he’s about to say something else when his phone rings, startling them both. With muttered “‘xuse me” he takes the phone out, and there’s a brief moment before his eyes widen and he shovels the phone back so clumsily it’s a miracle he even got it inside in one piece.

“I really have to go now,” he says, something disgustingly familiar written all over his face — an unfinished thought, an interrupted time. “Sorry, I totally forgot, my neighbor—”

“Yeah, yeah, quit wasting time. Go off.”

Deku flashes him a smile. It’s one he hasn't seen before, small, timid, almost too natural on the dumbass’ freckled face, and Katsuki is left standing there, surrounded by flicking street lanterns, feeling his heart racing in his chest, thinking thoughts and swiping them under the imaginary sofa the second later.

There are words on the tip of his tongue left unsaid. I can cook for your cat. 

It's so stupid and out of the blue, so presumptuous— yet it’s there, making Katsuki feel things he swore he wouldn't. 

If he’s googling homemade cat food recipes while walking to the station, it’s his own business. 

Fuck Kirishima.

Katsuki texts him exactly that, with the addition of other explosive and inappropriate expressions. Kirishima sends him back a heart emoji and a thumbs-up. 

Fuck Kirishima.

From the corner of his eye, Katsuki can see the guy— Deku, he reminds himself unhelpfully—literally jumping out of his seat when their eyes meet as Katsuki enters the Jasmine Dragon. 

So, yeah. Fuck, and he can’t stress it enough, Kirishima, and his abnormal tea-loving tendencies and his sick, painfully rasp voice. He practically sounded like a dying man over the phone, sneezing and coughing, begging Katsuki to go fetch him some tea, and Katsuki was enough of a fool to agree. 

Now, he takes one moment to actually look at all the tea shelves, to try (and fail) to recognize the fountain of smells and the amount of colorful packages. Tea shops, as far as he can tell, seeing literally one of them in his entire life, are vastly different from coffee shops — what a thought provoking conclusion it must be. It reminds him of the countryside, of freshly picked berries, old handmade baskets, of sunsets and the warm evening rain. Maybe it reminds him of cheesy drama movies he’d sometimes catch on TV, where characters always seem to bathe in sunlight and the Eiffel Tower is seen from every window.

So. Not a fan.

“Alright,” says Katsuki, refusing to look anywhere near Deku, taking in all the different kinds of sweets and little things there are on the counter instead. “—can you get me some fucking hibiscus tea?”

No response.

When he looks up, everything he was going to say vanishes, leaving the image of Deku, trying extremely hard to keep a straight face and failing miserably.

“I thought you came here to punch me, or something,” he says.

“What the fuck?” is all that Katsuki can master, and he hates the fact that he can feel his face heating up. In a hurry, he adds, “Screw you. Are you going to sell me the tea or what?”

“Yes, yes— of course,” Deku says, rounding the corner and heading to the nearest shelf, hands already picking up boxes and cans. His voice is muffled as he ducks down to check the lower ones. “Sorry, you just looked so serious, it was kinda scary—...any preferences?”

Out of reflex, Katsuki barks some insults before he actually stops to think about it, and with the silence from his end Deku stops, too, turning to face him. 

“There are, like, a lot to choose from,” the guy adds unhelpfully, and eyes the entire shop as if to prove his point. “I can help you with it, if you wa—”

“No,” Katsuki cuts him off, whipping out his phone. 

bkg

> dipshit

> what kind 

stupidhair

> oh? 

> i dunno i like a lot of different ones

> i’d take anything you can get so idk maybe ask someone there what’s best

Very fucking insightful.

Fuck Kirishima.

Katsuki briefly looks up from his phone, finds Deku still watching him patiently, grimaces, and texts Kirishima exactly that, again. 

“Shoot,” he says next, taking the phone with at least a dozen new messages back into his pocket. “Said it doesn’t matter.”

Deku blinks, waits for some sort of punchline that never comes, before his whole face lights up and he turns around, back to the shelves. Katsuki starts to think he’s made some sort of mistake.

“What about crimson green tea? Do they like green tea? It’s also got jasmine flowers, hibiscus, green sencha — it’s good for your immune system,” Deku says in one breath, some sort of tea can in his hands, as he already picks up another one and starts to mutter again, this time about plums and cranberries.

Katsuki doesn’t care about any of that — the plums, the cranberries, the sencha (and what the fuck is sencha?) — so he wants to say Deku something among the lines of “pick something yourself” or “i don’t fucking care, just tell me which do people like?” , but his brain shortcuts and he says, as loud as he can, “Which one do you like?”

And he realizes, slowly, that Deku heard him, too.

“Me? Uh.”

Katsuki wants to punch himself in the face. He says, because it still counts as punching himself in the face, “Yes, you.”

“Well. Usually I drink this one. It’s lemongrass, orange peel and, well, hibiscus—tea.”

“Sounds good enough.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He bought two.

“Are you sure—? They might not even like this flavor.”

“I said it’s fine, what the fuck? You don’t want my money or what?”

He panicked , alright?

Kirishima, in fact, liked the tea. He sent Katsuki a selfie with a steaming cup in a bandaged hand, a “thank you” note of some sort for the trouble of getting him the box. And, well, sitting at home, Katsuki starts to appreciate the smell of orange peels and lemongrass a little bit more. Maybe he doesn’t dislike the tea, after all. He can tolerate this one flavor alright.

There’s a paper bag and a large matcha latte on the counter when Katsuki goes to his first shift after the weekend. There’s also a note, this time.

it’s probably that sweet guy again. be nice

— jirou

“Someone you know?” asks a voice from the entrance.

Katsuki doesn’t bother to turn around. His hands are busy tidying the place, tying his apron, purposefully not touching the bag and the matcha and the note.

“Are you even allowed to be there? Go home.”

He doesn’t see Kirishima’s face, but he does hear his dramatic gasp.

“I’m feeling fantastic, dude, and I missed you. How come you are so harsh?”

“I could have survived another day or two in peace.”

This time, Katsuki has to bat Kirishima’s grabby hands off of him and slide to the side to escape the death hug. Once he’s sure the redhead isn’t going to try again, he finally turns to face him.

“The usual?”

“Yes! Also, I’m starting late today, so take your time.”

Katsuki gives him a stinky look. “Did you bother Earphones, too?”

“It’s called hanging out with friends .” Kirishima loses the glaring game. “At least she was nice about it.”

“The usual” for Kirishima is a vanilla milkshake with extra cream, and, occasionally, one almond cookie that sometimes ends up being their entire stock for the day, the fucker , before the guy runs off to his next delivery, saving money to attend a nice college further from here. It just so happens that his post service’s office is just one staircase away from the coffee shop.

It’s not after the said milkshake and a couple of simple orders from other customers when Kirishima comes back to his spot next to the counter, slurping loudly through his straw and looking very mischievous — the look Katsuki despises the most, and also the one all his friends unfortunately share.

“So, the mysterious sweet guy Jirou mentioned?”

“None of your business.”

“He comes often?”

“Fuck off.”

“Y’know, she was looking very serious writing that note. Any thoughts why?”

Katsuki almost breaks the plastic cup he’s holding in half. He considers doing the same with Kirishima’s annoying face, but the chimney jingles, and Katsuki’s not that desperate to punch someone risking losing his job. Thankfully, whenever new customers come inside, Kirishima doesn’t dare to disturb the peace.

“Hello, I’m here for the— oh, hi!”

Katsuki breaks the cup in half. He’s too focused on fucking Deku standing there, in his worn hoodie and shorts, to even care about the implications his small slip-up gives to Kirishima.

“What do you need?” he asks, and it probably sounds weird even to Deku, seeing the shorter man pause a little before brushing it off.

“You know, the order? I’m just here to pick it up. Something that, uh, that I do like, thrice a week?”

“Yeah. The order. Do you think—” Katsuki starts, still not processing what exactly is he saying, not really, “—you can manage this yourself?”

“ Ha-ha .”

Deku’s voice is monotonous, but the smile he gives Katsuki upon walking closer and picking up the bag is small yet hard to hide.

“Oh! You are the guy from the Jasmine Dragon!”

Katsuki pales. Kirishima, next to him, leans closer to Deku, eyes fixated on the badge he’s wearing. Deku almost drops the coffee from surprise, but he’s fast to calm down, and it seems that some sort of recognition showed on his face, too — a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Y-yeah. And you are… no, I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. But I do remember you!”

“Woah, take that for a small world… Oh, then I guess you were the one who helped this guy with the tea, right? No way he’d figure this out himself.”

Katsuki protests, but it’s unnoticed. The way Deku’s eyes briefly meet his, is not. 

“Oh, that green tea the other week?”

He sounds tired, suddenly. Katsuki notices right away, but Deku isn't looking at him anymore, eyes jumping from the counter to somewhere behind Kirishima.

“Yeah! That was so nice, I think it’s my favorite now. You really know your way, huh?”

“Kind of,” Deku laughs, but he looks smaller, almost out of place. It pisses Katsuki off, fix it , his mind says, and he doesn’t know how. 

“When Bakugou here texted me about the flavors, I regretted that I didn’t give him directions, y’know? That’s just fate that you were here.”

Kirishima keeps talking, and Deku keeps avoiding, smiling without his eyes. It’s the same smile he used back at the store.

“He gets it, shithead,” Katsuki snaps, but if anything, this only makes Deku more tense. 

“Sorry, I was just so excited. I really like your line of work, that’s all I wanted to say, dude.”

Deku laughs it off. “I’m glad to hear that, really.” 

They chat some more — simple introduction, quick goodbye.

When Deku leaves, he catches Katsuki’s gaze, and holds it for what feels like forever, but it's just a few moments at best. There's something in his eyes that Katsuki knows is there, but is unable to recognise. A fleeting thought of a message he never gets to read.

“Who would have thought, huh.”

Katsuki is snatched away from his useless thoughts by Kirishima’s obnoxiously confident tone. Their eyes meet, and this message in the redhead’s eyes is as loud as it gets.

“What?” Katsuki didn’t mean for it to come off this low, but it did, and Kirishima’s grin only grew bigger.

“Nothing, nothing.” A pause. “This guy…”

“You won’t finish this thought if you value your fucking life.”

Kirishima demonstratively takes a step back and takes a sip of his vanilla shake. 

“Still, I’m rooting for ya!”

Katsuki groans low in his chest. 

When the very next evening he catches himself lingering around soda aisle at the store, or the disappointment he feels whenever there isn't a paper bag and matcha latte waiting to be picked up, or the way his traitorous heart starts pounding like an adrenaline junkie every time he remembers something stupid about the guy, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Kirishima was right. 

And it’s not even a sudden realization, not at all, which is somehow worse. He’s been silently keeping all these things away, and it finally decided to explode right in his face while he was making tea that Deku chose for him, specifically , standing in his kitchen at 4 AM on a Thursday morning. 

Fuck this.

earphones

> we’re a little late, traffic 

> hang in there

> and also sorry!!

Katsuki sighs and takes the phone away. He’s standing on the bus stop, with the skies threateningly gray, and the air around dense and filled with earth smell. He knows it’s about to rain soon — it’s almost December, but the harsh autumn days decided to stay for longer this year. He briefly considers going back to the shop. But it would require him to fetch the keys, struggle with security cameras, and signalization, and the metallic door that can leave him without fingers, so he simply prefers getting a little wet than to go through all that, sue him — that’s more work than it's worth.

bkg

> whatever

> just get your asses here until i freeze to death

Another bus stops at the station.

There are people passing by. Then, there are people stopping by.

“Still waiting for the bus?”

Katsuki doesn’t need to look up from his phone to know who’s standing in front. But precisely because of this very reason, he raises his head.

“Not the bus.”

“Hm. Not the answer I expected to hear.”

“And not the question I expected to get.”

Something falls onto Deku’s forehead, and they both immediately look up. Down on the ground the asphalt around them starts to darken in countless wet dots. 

“Oh, I was hoping the news lady was wrong.”

“She can’t control the weather, moron.”

“The world would be so much cooler if she could, though.” Deku’s smile is ever-present as he tugs on his scarf, tightening it, and covers his head with a hood.

“I gotta go,” he says. He makes a couple of steps, and hesitates. Turns around, hands fiddling with the end of the worn fabric. “If, you know— If your ride is late, and you don’t wanna soak under the rain, the tea shop is open. Just saying.”

Katsuki almost doesn’t react in time.

“Will keep it in mind.” 

Watching Deku’s face light up over such a simple phrase makes things to Katsuki’s poor, poor heart.

When Katsuki steps into the Jasmine Dragon, it's a surprise for literally nobody. The smell is almost nauseous in contrast to whatever it is outside, and it's bright, and warm, with radio playing some talk-show and few people chatting over it at the stand. 

He can instantly spot Deku, his back turned to him, making some sort of drink at the counter. 

Squeezing himself between two customers, Katsuki finds an empty stool right next to the back door. 

With two cups of tea and a steaming pastry Deku turns around, eyes flickering to Katsuki for a moment, and his work flow is gone in an instant, with the tea almost spilling on the patrons. He quickly catches himself, both literally and figuratively, attention back to the customers, with a smile a little bit too polite. 

It's not until they are gone that he allows himself to relax, wiping his forehead, and comes closer to where Katsuki is.

“Sorry. I didn't actually think you’d show up.”

“How come you still aren't fired?” Katsuki says, all bark and no bite, which earns him a tired snort from Deku.

“Luck, I’d say.”

They don't talk much. Deku has other patrons to take care of, and Katsuki doesn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he checks his messages—his useless friends still stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere—and distracts himself with fancy decor when his mind keeps circling back to the cashier over here.

Few minutes later, there's a cup next to him. 

“What’s that?”

Deku doesn't even look at him. Says, “I’d think you know me well enough to take a guess.”

It’s orange peels and hibiscus and lemongrass, it’s everything Katsuki hoped it wouldn’t be, and he almost breaks his phone in half in his attempt to keep a straight face.

He must be very easy to read (or it’s Deku who’s too good at it), because Deku’s lips curve up and he says, timid, soft, the way that makes Katsuki’s breath hitch, “I thought maybe you’d like this one.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki answers, and his voice doesn’t crack — a major win in his condition. He wants to add that he did like this one. He also wants to add other things, things he shouldn’t. I like your cocky smile. I want to hear your stupid voice more. What do you like? What do you hate? Why are you still choosing to stick by?

“Hope the tea is alright. I uh, I don’t really know what kind of tea you drink, or if you even drink tea, so I just got you the one you bought for your partner back then.”

“Friend.” 

“Sorry?”

“I bought it for my friend. And this one’s alright.”

“Oh. I, uh— yeah.” 

Katsuki wants to drop dead right here, right now.  Instead, he tries again. “How’s your cat?”

“Ah! You remember. He is alright— I mean, it’s she, apparently, but I already named him… her, I mean, I named her Jesus, and I’m not changing that.”

“Jesus.”

“I googled cat names. It was on the list. Don’t look at me like that.”

The rain doesn’t stop. On the contrary, it looks like it's just the beginning of a very long stormy night. Katsuki can see more and more customers leave, the street outside slowly filling with shadows from the street lights, people running to their cars, or slowly walking, defeated by nature. Eventually, the last patron leaves. Katsuki’s focus shifts to the small space they share around the counter, with the radio and soft rumbling outside, and he can no longer focus on anything else.

Deku doesn’t miss that. “You okay?” 

“Totally.”

“A lot on your mind, huh?” 

It’s in the way he doesn’t dare to look away from Katsuki’s reaction, silently watching from the corner of his eyes, the way he fidgets with the mug he’s cleaning — little things, Katsuki thinks, unimportant ones, that give him away. 

“Yeah,” Katsuki exhales. Deku quietly hums. 

“Bet you didn’t know this place wasn’t always called the Jasmine Dragon.”

Katsuki perks up. Deku looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to take the bait. It’s adorable in a way Katsuki doesn’t even start to find the words for.

“Well, enlighten me, then,” he says, because he is a weak, weak man.

“The original owner opened this place as The Tea Weevil, but it was so ridiculous that it didn’t even last a month. So, in a way, Expresso isn’t the worst I have seen. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” Katsuki huffs. “Not that it was me who came up with the name, Deku.”

“I don’t even think you can come up with a good name for a shop.”

“Says a guy who names his cat Jesus.”

“I googled it. Also, it sounds cool.”

“Sure. And grape soda doesn't taste like soap.”

“And yet you bought it,” says Deku, and there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. 

There’s a loud thunder outside, and nobody near, and the music flows seamlessly into the background, the tea warm and familiar in Katsuki’s hands. It’s a lot of things, combined, sewn together, and it feels— safe. To say things.

“I did,” Katsuki agrees. 

Maybe it’s in the way Deku’s eyes flicker to him, or in the way his hands stop, for just a moment, in softness of the conversation, in stupid cat names, and shop stories, but Katsuki finds himself saying, with his tongue twisting in knots, “Go out on a date with me.”

Deku puts the mug on the counter.

“A… date,” he echoes, like the words are alien to him. 

Katsuki wants to turn away from him, and fights it, like a fool he is. Says, “Yeah.”

Maybe it’s in the way Deku doesn’t look at him, in the way he tugs on his apron. It’s in the silence, the hesitancy, the bitterness Katsuki feels on his own tongue.

Little things.

“I’m sorry,” says Deku. “I— I can’t.” 

Unimportant ones.

“Okay.” 

Katsuki finds how gravity pulls him closer, suddenly, his shoulders made of molten steel. He takes his eyes off Deku, and wonders if it is the rain or his own heartbeat that feels so deafening. The tea stares at him, and he knows he's making it awkward.

He takes out his phone, doesn't bother to turn it on, and shoves it back.

“Seems my ride's here. I will be going until it's too late.” 

Katsuki doesn’t wait for the answer, either, as he slides off the stool, body stiff and movements not his own. The rain outside drums on the walls of his skull with metallic bats. The radio plays some sort of classical peace, and his mind holds onto that.

Just before stepping out, he finds himself pausing, hand stuck on a door frame. He would turn around, but he can't, and he is a coward, so he doesn't.

“Thanks for the tea.”

earphones

> feelin alive? 

> almost there

> by that i mean. wait another 10 mins

> hey

> katsuki?

bkg

> yeah. yeah, im waiting

At home, he changes his clothes. Takes a shower. Checks the time, — two in the morning, — and decides to cook some noodles. 

It takes him another sickeningly quiet minute of pretending that everything is fine before he breaks down over the boiling water. He can see himself in the reflection in the window, and his whole face suddenly twists, painfully, his breath rapid and fast, voice sore, and angry, and rasp.

“Bastard. Dumbass. Piece of shit . I’ll figure it out? Good fucking luck with that.”

He doesn't see Deku for a week. 

Mostly because he, himself, chooses not to.

He knows the man still shows up roughly five minutes after Jirou’s shift to pick up the coffee. It took her two days to catch up with Katsuki being strangely late for that exact time, but she did, and it only cost him a few pitiful looks thrown his way. It makes him sick, to avoid, but he knows he's got nearly not enough common sense to try and act normal. Things will pass. They always do — he only has to find it in himself to wait it out.

He sees Deku at the bus stop, one time. He was lucky enough to forget his wallet, so he's walking past the stop, otherwise he would totally run into him, and, well— not just him. There's a girl, and she's holding a coffee and a bag — the very ones from the coffee shop, the very ones Deku always picks up, and it clicks, suddenly, making Katsuki feel like a total dumbass. 

Of course. 

Oh, what the fuck was he hoping for? He knows nothing of the guy. He didn't even bother to ask if he was single, if he was into guys , for fuck’s sake. All they did was run into each other, and then Katsuki decided to mess everything up.

This is getting repetitive.

Katsuki’s burning inside, hopes that the heat is enough to excavate whatever he’s feeling for good, and heads for the shop.

He doesn’t get paid enough for this. 

Faces mix in his head, words leaving his mouth automatically. Latte? Sure. More sugar? Here, on the counter. Two donuts? Of course, here are the flavors. Oh, you didn’t like the wait? Fuck you, sir, next. 

His eyes don't register a girl standing in front of him, ready to pick up her order. His voice is an epitome of indifference as he asks, a millionth time this day, “...name?”

Hearing “...it’s Uraraka, thank you,” in return worked like ten shots of pure espresso in his brain.

“Finally came here herself, huh,” he says, bitter, putting a lid on a coffee cup, and immediately wants to chop his own tongue off. He hopes she didn’t hear that. 

“Excuse me?” she says, her shoulders squared, eyes gone to carefully neutral.

Katsuki briefly looks at the line full of people after her. The optimate move would be to apologize and move on. Apologize and move on. Apologize and—

“Usually it’s your boyfriend picking up this stuff. Matcha latte and donuts, yeah?”

Fucking kill him right now.

The silence from her end might as well be an act before his face gets its well deserved slap. Then, Uraraka’s face morphs into a smile, and the soft, childish giggle starts bubbling up. Katsuki simply stares, perplexed, because that’s not what he expected her to do.

“You think Izuku’s my boyfriend?” is all she asks, and he makes a mistake of not answering right away.

She takes the coffee and the bag out of Katsuki’s hands. Says, “He doesn’t drink coffee. I do. So, he needs an excuse, sometimes.”

He doesn’t register the meaning behind right away. Not until a man next in line speaks up, and Katsuki freezes, not hearing his words, nor his own thoughts. But Uraraka has already left, and there’s nobody in the shop but him to take all those orders, and he hates himself, he hates Uraraka, he hates the man whose words he still can’t hear, hates that he can’t leave right now. Hates that there’s nobody across the street, behind the windows of the tea shop today.

“Can you repeat that?” he says, hands shaking as he picks up an empty cup.

He makes it till four, when Jirou comes to the shop. He greets her, ignoring her teasing comments about his appearance and tired look, and goes past her to the back room.

“...customers?” she asks him, popping into the doorway, her voice so unusually sympathetic. 

Katsuki pauses, then nods. “Yeah. Customers.”

She seems like she wants to say something else, as the bell rings at the entrance and she’s going back to the front desk, two thumbs up for Katsuki. He’s about to leave through the back exit when he hears Jirou repeat the lines, “—matcha latte and a blueberry donut, got it—” and he pauses, hand still on the doorknob. There’s no way, but he’s pathetic enough to try.

“—name?”

He opens the door. “Uraraka?”

She looks at him, frowns in confusion, and he has to pretend to be a normal, socially inept person, not bombarding her with questions.

“I need to ask you something. About what you said earlier.”

“Am I his excuse for buying you coffee?” he asks the second they sit at the table, hidden in the corner. Uraraka blinks at him, and he says, less frantic this time, “Is it some sort of a joke? What are you trying to do, to mess with me, or—”

“Hold on a second,” she cuts him off, voice soft yet powerful enough. “I don’t quite understand—If I’m wrong, and you don’t feel that way for him, then I’m extremely sorry for making you uncomfortable. Oh, I didn’t even think about it. I thought—I thought you liked him, too?”

Katsuki bites his tongue. There’s a certain ache in his chest, hearing that out loud, spoken by another person. 

“I do,” he says, and it feels wrong, after everything. Uraraka’s eyes soften, her whole face relaxing, and he rushes to add, “He doesn’t. So— stop. Whatever it is you were planning to do.”

Not immediately, but she picks up the conversation again, her voice more confused than anything else.

“What makes you say that?”

“I asked him out, and he said no. So, stop fucking around. It’s out of the question now.”

He expects her to be disappointed. Maybe angry, or embarrassed. To apologize and forget about what happened. 

“You should seek him, and talk.”

“...the fuck? I just told you what happened. Weren’t you listening?”

“I’m sorry for saying that earlier, Bakugou. I didn’t, well, I didn’t know about what happened between you two. I was sure I was helping,” she says, small and quiet, hands holding onto the coffee. “Izuku, he—how do I say it—became more obvious in the last couple of days.”

They share a look. His, lost and confused. Her, kind and sad.

“Whenever he’s feeling down, he’s trying to make up for it by acting extremely cheerful. It was pretty bad for a while now, but just yesterday we talked about the weather for five straight minutes. I simply assumed he needed help, with, ah—with you.”

“With me.”

“Yes."

“Well,” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, “Not anymore. It’s pretty fucking obvious that you were wrong, so, as I said, stop this.”

“Talk with him,” she insists. Katsuki can’t tell anymore if it’s some sort of a sick prank or she’s just that dense. But he’s tired of being reasonable.

“About what? He made it pretty clear he doesn't want me around. I’m not that guy to knock on the closed door. The fuck?”

“But he does, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Do you think he would sulk for that long if he didn’t?”

“Who do you think you are to decide that? I already told you how that went for me and him,” Katsuki says. “Who do you take me for?”

It makes Uraraka pause, frowning. “I… I don't know. I really do sound like a weirdo, aren’t I? Trying to convince you to try again, to win him over.”

She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.

“Are you done, then?” Katsuki asks. 

“I still believe you two should talk. But it’s—not for me to decide, and I’m not going to tell Izuku that we talked, either.”

For some reason, it stings. Katsuki nods. “Yeah.”

Uraraka leaves. Her eyes linger on him from the other side of the glass, and he can’t bear to look at her.

He doesn’t comment on Jirou’s unusual silence and a cup of soy milk on his table, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. Still, it coils inside, the confusion, the tone in Uraraka’s voice. He can believe her words, and take her advice, but he’s sane enough to see how this is such a bad idea. It makes him feel sick at her — just a little, for giving him this false hope, and sick at himself, for choosing to believe it for a moment. 

“See you.”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you don’t need a ride?”

Katsuki considers it. Then, he remembers how Jirou’s car looks, and his face twists in disgust.

“I’ll pass.”

Jirou’s really bad at being subtle, he thinks. So he adds, just to get rid of those concerned eyes, “I’ve bought this transit pass a while back and I’m willing to use the hell out of it.”

She is good, however, with reading the mood, so she nods, not asking anything else.

The heavy door over the entrance goes down with a loud metallic noise. Jirou gives him one final look before promptly running away, and Katsuki twists the keys in his hand. The wind is howling, and the winter air is harsh, biting at his bare hands and nose. It also works great to keep him moving, he’ll take that.

He walks some more, and the barricade that is the bus stop is enough to protect him for a while. It’s Sunday, and they close earlier. The settling sun paints the sky in rich golden and vibrant blues. It’s nice, in a way, and he finds himself zoning out.

Thunk .

Katsuki turns to his left, feeling like he’s seen that somewhere. The grape soda stares back.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

“I messed up,” comes a familiar voice not far away. Katsuki despises how his own hands twitch when he looks up. 

Deku’s looking at him, dressed in nothing but his old hoodie and a winter coat. He looks bad, but Katsuki’s not one to judge, given his own appearance. “I’m here to apologize.”

“What the fuck? You don't owe me an apology. I get it.”

“No, listen, I didn't mean to say that . To say what I said. I, uh, panicked, a little.”

“Deku, for fuck’s sake—it's… it's whatever. You don't owe me shit. It's not your problem to deal with.”

“But it is, though.”

Katsuki scowls, confused, but mostly angry — he's not sure who is at the end of said anger, though. Deku is stubborn in all the fucking wrong places, but so is Katsuki, even if his own mouth refuses to listen to him, and he takes a moment to breathe.

“I don't need anything from you, and I sure as hell don't need your... what is it? Pity? Fuck ,” he runs a head through his hair. “Just forget it. It’s fine.”

For a moment, he thinks it’s enough. Then, Deku's eyes harden, his face sharp and serious, as he takes a step closer. The sun paints his silhouette vibrant pink.

“I want to go on a date with you.” 

Katsuki freezes. He stares, and Deku stares back at him.

“What?”

“That’s what I should've said back then. But I didn't, and then you left, and I started thinking, oh, god, what did I do?” Deku catches Katsuki’s eyes again—an easy thing to do, now—and his face grows into a nervous smile. “Because I like you. A lot. But I'm, well, not into relationships, you know? Not into certain aspects of it. Like— sexual aspects. And— I've never thought much of it, but when you asked me out? I got scared that you will be more disappointed than anything else. But this is, well, you , and I've been thinking, I'm not ready to give up that easily. Because it's, uh. You. So. I’m kinda late, but, yes, I would love to go on a date with you. If the offer still stands.”

Katsuki can’t focus on anything at all. Deku's looking at him, covered in light, scared, so scared — he can tell just by looking at his eyes, because he's been there, too.

The laughter bubbles up in Katsuki’s throat, and he snorts, loud and ugly, the keys in his hand almost piercing his skin. His knuckles are white, and he can tell his whole face is bright-red and stupid, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Deku’s looking at him, still, and Katsuki never felt lighter than right in this moment. The words still ringing in his ears, alien, warm, impossible, yet there — as if the concept of meeting another ace wasn't just a dream he abandoned long ago. 

“I’m—huh. Fucking hell. All this time, you were this fucking close, but I never even considered—”

It's almost too much when he says, feeling the heat swelling behind his eyes, “I’m ace, too. The offer still stands.”

The smile on Deku's face is something he hopes to never forget. 

“I didn’t think this would work,” Deku says, a bit flustered, voice husk on emotion. He’s crying openly, now, and Katsuki learns that he’s an ugly crier, too. “I almost chickened out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, good to know you aren’t a complete dumbass.”

When Deku laughs, Katsuki can’t help but grin, too, as his chest burns.

Deku still shows up roughly five minutes after Jirou's shift to pick up the donuts for Uraraka, like always — it's just that he's showing up with additional cup of green tea that smells like lemongrass and orange peels. It's in stolen glances, and quick goodbyes, and short conversations on every occasion. It's in containers labeled "tuna for your dumb cat" . It's in the gestures, the talks, the stories. In the messages on Katsuki's phone, in the photos in its' storage, in the occasional can of grape soda in his shopping cart.

It's in the details, in the daily routine, the night calls, the plans they make, the banter, the long late shopping trips. It's in the movie nights, and festivals, shared fries at the stand. It's in the hand that's reaching for his, and vice versa, when things get bad. And it's in the bad things, too — in silence, in fears, in anger. 

And it makes all the difference, now.