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The Dash Diner stands in the center of town, a beacon for all the youth that flock about after the school bell chimes. Centered between the arcade and the roller rink, it’s where you’ll find the cheerleaders and jocks drinking slushies and curly fries while Depeche Mode vibrates from the stereo of the quarterback’s 67’ Thunderbird.
It’s where the nerds, hidden in the back by the bathrooms, trade their D&D cards and discuss their strategies for beating Galaga. The circle booth in the center of the neon space and checkerboard floor is where the deadbeats and dropouts sit. And on Saturday night, like clockwork, a group of six leather-clad layabouts saunter through the door and take their seats. They fill the room with a thick film of smoke from their American Spirit and Camel cigarettes and hog the jukebox. On Saturday nights, it’s Iron Maiden, Metallica, and Skid Row. It’s long guitar riffs and heavy drumming.
On Saturday nights, it’s Katsuki Bakugou’s time.
Everyone knows this; no one fights it.
There was a time, the whole town remembers, when someone tried to fight Mina, the mother of Katsuki’s ragtag group of delinquents, for rights to the Jukebox, and he’d ended up with a black eye and a gash on his cheek where a smashed coke bottle had shattered against his skin.
It had been so crowded no one knew who threw it, no one knew who to blame. But ever since, it had been written in the blood stain that still marks the grouting of the tiled floor, that Saturday nights are the Bakusquad’s.
So on the first Saturday of June—the first weekend since school let out for the summer—the Bakusquad waltzes into The Dash Diner and two things are immediately noticeable.
The first is that the man for whom the group is named is absent from the party. Katsuki Bakugou is not with his friends, and weary looks are swapped across the diner. Waitresses and patrons, jocks and nerds, burnouts and bookworms. There is something deeply unsettling about not knowing where the most dangerous man in town is.
The second oddity is that the group bypasses their unofficial ‘official’ table in favor of a curved booth in the corner of the dining room. They all squeeze in, their eyes trained on the door. And a moment passes where no one does anything, where everyone stares at the center table and wonders what’s up with it, why they’ve switched it up.
The building is getting crowded and they’ll run out of tables soon. Everyone, manager included, hesitantly wonders whether the middle table is up for grabs. That no one’s ass is in a seat should be enough verification, but what if it’s a trick? What if it’s some sort of joke that they’re all falling victim to?
Nobody sits at the table, and it’s a good thing they didn’t. About ten minutes after Katsuki Bakugou’s group had waltzed into the diner, the door swings open again to reveal the tall and menacing figure of the group’s namesake. He is tall, all sharp angles and heavy glares. Everyone is silent for a moment, A-Ha’s Take On Me playing over the loudspeaker.
Katsuki’s red wine glare rolls across the dining room before he turns in the doorway, steps aside, and gestures inside the building.
And, from behind his broad shoulders and embroidered patch emblazoned jacket appears a picture of pretty smiles and pastels.
The image of Izuku Midoriya stepping into the Dash alongside a man who did stick-and-poke tattoos as a side gig is enough for Ochako Uraraka, sitting at the counter, to spray her milkshake down Tenya Iida’s pink polo. It’s enough for Tsuyu Asui, seated near the bathrooms, to budge up from her seat and run into the women’s—an eruption of squeals can be heard moments later.
It’s strange and absurd and downright wrong, but what’s weirder is that Izuku grabs Katsuki’s much bigger hand like he’s done it a million times before. What’s more absurd is that
Katsuki guides Izuku to the center table, pulls out a chair, and pushes him in.
What’s wrong on all levels imaginable is that Katsuki leaves Izuku and saunters over to the jukebox, slipping a dime in the slot. Katsuki can feel breathing down his neck, eyes on the back of his head. Ignoring the discomfort of it all—best behavior for Izuku’s benefit—Katsuki presses a button and I Want Candy by Bow Wow Wow starts up.
Not Dio.
Not Def Leppard.
Not fucking Guns n’ Roses.
Goddamn Bow.
Wow.
WOW.
As Katsuki Bakugou saunters back down the aisle to the center table watching Izuku’s frizzy green curls bouncing to the obnoxious pop song, the biggest smile stretching his rosy, round cheeks, he smiles. Internally, he acknowledges his grin to be something similar to a ravenous dog’s bared teeth because a poor kid flinches in a booth as he passes.
Izuku sees it—and laughs—which makes Katsuki’s ugly smile grow. He takes a seat beside the boy, watches as he toys with the long sleeves of his tacky yellow cardigan, and lays his cheek in his palm. Behind Izuku, he sees Denki making kissy faces.
He rolls his eyes and Izuku notices, turning to see what Katsuki’s friends were up to. Katsuki watches the tips of Izuku’s ears tinge pink. “This what you were fucking expecting, freckles?”
Izuku flips back around with a wobbly smile and a shrug. “Could be worse. Besides-” He reaches out, grabs Katsuki’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his cheek. Intertwining their fingers, he says, “It’s getting boring hanging out in your bedroom.”
Katsuki narrows his eyes. “Spending quality time with me is boring to you?”
“No,” Izuku laughs, rolling his eyes and leaning closer. “But I wanna show off my new boyfriend.”
He is so close now, and Katsuki can see the neon lights twinkling in Izuku’s doe-eyes. “If you look around, doll, I don’t think anyone here thinks I’m something to ‘show off’.”
Izuku seems to consider this, flicking his gaze around the general vicinity, taking in the many sets of eyes plastered on their pretty faces. He purses his lips, and they’re just a fraction too far away to kiss. “Well,” he says, turning back to Katsuki. “They just don’t know you like I do.”
“And how do you know me, baby?”
“A fucking nerd.”
Katsuki feigns offense, leaning back and placing a hand over his heart, gearing up to say something sarcastic. But his smile makes Katsuki pause; it’s enough to remind him for the 8th time today why this little preppy nerd is the reason he gets up in the morning. Then, out of nowhere comes a flustered waitress in a white frill apron and a candy striper dress. She pulls a pen out of her permed ponytail and flips open her notepad. “What can I getcha?”
Katsuki orders for them. He knows what Izuku likes—a double hamburger (no pickles), and a strawberry shake (two straws). The waitress writes their orders and then slaps down two napkins, makeshift coasters for the sodas she’s about to deliver.
But as Katsuki’s turning back from watching her leave, he hears a snort and Izuku flashes him the napkin.
If you need help, ask for a side of bacon — is scrawled across the flimsy paper, ink bleeding away from the original lines. Katsuki sneers and rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Does it really look like I fucking kidnapped you?”
“YES!” Comes a cry from the corner, and Izuku and Katsuki turn to find Hanta with his hands cupped around his mouth, the rest of the group snickering. Katsuki flips them the finger just as the waitress comes back with their drinks.
In a low, wavering voice, she asks, “Can I get you anything else?” Her gaze is fixed on Izuku, who smiles with his lips puckered around his straw. His lips are so pink, so pretty, and Katsuki wants to pull him in for a kiss.
Coming up from his soda, Izuku smiles at her, looks at Katsuki, and says, “Actually-” Katsuki quirks his brow, wondering if Izuku’s going to play her game, if he’s going to feign a forced date, or fuck with him, or something. Katsuki crosses his arms and watches as Izuku’s smile turns to a smirk, and he says, “Can you bring extra ketchup with our fries? My boyfriend’s kinda weird about ketchup.”
It’s not what the waitress is expecting. Her mouth drops open, jaw bobbing with the weight of her confusion. She’s like that for a moment before nodding and walking away. Katsuki leans forward with a heave and a sigh, shaking his head. “You think you’re fucking funny, Deku?” He asks, leaning into his space.
Izuku mimics him, coming in close. He shrugs his small, bony shoulders, and Katsuki tries desperately to ignore the intrusive thoughts telling him to wrap his arms around Izuku’s waist, and tug him onto his lap. “I know I’m funny, Kacchan.”
And they are so close, their breaths intermingling as they lean against the tabletop. Izuku’s eyes are big and round. They were green, but are now black with the weight of his desire. Katsuki thinks his might just match. Izuku’s gaze flicks down to Katsuki’s lips, and Katsuki licks the bottom one in anticipation. He wants Izuku to be the one to kiss him, wants everyone in this goddamn town to see how desperately Izuku wants him. He wants them to see that this isn’t some twisted joke or a kidnapping or blackmail; he wants the world to know Izuku Midoriya—the boy who’s going to make it, someday—is as much in love with Katsuki as Katsuki is with him.
It’s what draws him, his large hand coming up to rest on the back of Izuku’s neck, his fingers curling into the fuzzy green hairs that are curling there. He feels Izuku shudder beneath his touch, and Katsuki closes the distance between them. He kisses him firmly, two mouths slotted together with the intention of reminding one another that they are there, that they are happy and loved and connected.
There is a chorus of gasping in the background, the noise forcing both to twist their mouths into a smile, their teeth clashing together in the center of their kiss. When they pull away, Izuku’s eyelids are heavy as he looks around the restaurant. Katsuki follows the motion, snorting at pale faces and mouths open wide enough to catch flies. When he looks back towards Izuku, he sees a strawberry milkshake resting on the table between them, their waitress zipping off into the kitchen.
There are two straws sticking up out of a tower of strawberry and whipped cream. Katsuki watches as Izuku bends down to suck strawberry.
“Y’know what I think?” He asks, swiping a finger across the top of the glass, piling whipped cream on his digit.
“What?”
Katsuki dabs his finger against Izuku’s nose, smearing it in white. Izuku makes a mock sound of offense, and Katsuki giggles. He fucking giggles because Izuku is sweet and perfect and makes him feel like a school girl. “I think,” he says, lifting his own straw to his lips. “We should do this more often.”
Izuku smiles. “I think so, too.”