Work Text:
As most things are, it’s Izuku’s fault.
“I didn’t know the car locked from the inside!” he protests over the phone as Katsuki stalks back and forth in his office, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw aches. “Why on earth would that be a feature in the first place? It’s stupid! I bet there’s lawsuits against them because of it! There’s no reason why a - ”
“I get it,” he interrupts, stopping his pacing to sit down in his chair and glare at the carpet instead. “It was stupid of you to leave your baby in the car unattended. You’re projecting your guilt onto the manufacturers, if you ask me. What if someone comes along and rear ends the car with Miyuki still in her seat?”
“Don’t!” Izuku wails, making his hearing aids squeal and forcing him to pull the phone away from his ear. “They can’t, not at this part of the car park! I feel bad enough - Shouto’s on his way with the spare keys, but can you please, please call by the bakery for me? It’ll be closed by the time he gets here - I’ll send you all the details and buy your lunch every day for a week - Kacchan, please, don’t make that sound - okay, two weeks, and you can buy yourself as much as you want from the bakery today and just send me the invoice if you - ”
Katsuki leans back in his chair and lets Izuku ramble, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He knows the bakery he’s talking about, even if he’s never been inside - and, yes, it’s on his way home, and would take little effort to call in and collect the birthday cake Shouto has ordered for his mother’s birthday. But that would mean doing Shouto a favour, and Katsuki’s not sure if he could ever cash out the favour from the brainless idiot. What Izuku saw in him that made him want to marry and have a kid with him, he’ll never know. Loosening his jaw before he grinds his teeth into dust, Katsuki has to force the words out. “Is it paid for already?”
“Yes, yes - it’s okay, sweetie, Daddy’s right here, see?” There’s a slightly hysterical tone to Izuku’s voice that has him stiffening, suddenly alarmed.
“What’s wrong? Is she upset?”
“No,” Izuku says, his words punctuated by a sigh. “She’s laughing and smiling, actually, but I don’t want her to think I’ve got her locked in and ignoring her - ”
“Technically you did lock her in when you left the keys in there with her,” Katsuki deadpans, and can’t help his smirk at the strangled sound it brings in response.
“I know you’re trying to make me feel worse, so stop it. Kacchan, please do me this favour: one small, tiny favour that’ll take some of the stress off me. I’ll do anything.”
Checking his watch, Katsuki purses his lips and makes his mind up. “I’ll leave work in ten minutes. The favour can be making sure you never lock my goddaughter in your car again.” Hanging up before Izuku can respond, he begins saving the open files on his laptop while questioning just how an infant could get locked in a car with her father right there.
There’s a rustling beside him, and Momo’s head appears over the divider between their cubicles. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine and dandy,” he says sourly, shoving his things in his bag. “Miyuki’s locked herself in Deku’s car.” Momo gasps, hand clapping to her mouth, and he shakes his head. “She’s fine: I just have to go pick up an order they made. Idiots.”
“I’m pretty sure cars shouldn’t be designed so that babies get locked inside,” Momo says, a crease between her brows, and Katsuki decides to make his exit before she can apply any rationality to the situation.
He’s loathe to admit it, but a bakery/cafe called Baking Point made him snort the first time he saw the sign, if only because it reminded him of a Gordon Ramsay show. He’s never bothered to go inside - can’t even remember the last time he had something baked - but knows where it is enough to be there fifteen minutes after he’s left work, marvelling over the fact the universe thought it wise to let Izuku and Shouto raise a child together. Locked from the inside, he thinks mockingly as he gets out of his own car, striding over to the bakery with his hands in his pockets. He’d best keep his eye on Miyuki, just to make sure she actually survived to adulthood.
Pushing his way into the bakery, a bell cheerfully jingles over his head as he steps inside. Glancing about, it’s small and cosy, and yet Katsuki can’t focus on anything other than the man bent over the register, lips silently moving as he counts out the notes.
There’s no other way to describe him other than enormous. They must be a similar age but Katsuki’s pretty sure this guy could hold him above his head and easily bench press him, a good head taller and twice his width. Heart thudding, he takes a step closer and sees that there’s tattoos inked into the brown skin of his arms, the faintest hint of dark roots in his undercut with the rest of the scarlet hair pulled back into a ponytail. Then he looks up and smiles at him, silver hoops glinting in his nose and frenulum, and Katsuki’s knees feel as though they’ve turned to cardboard.
“Hey!” Even his voice is bright and cheery as he stands to his full height, leaning against the display case. “How can I help?”
It takes a great deal of swallowing before Katsuki finds his voice again. “I have to pick up an order,” he croaks, hands trembling so badly he balls them into fists and shoves them in his pockets.
If Big Red notices, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes rove over Katsuki’s figure, smile widening. “Cool. What’s the name?”
“It’s Todoroki. Or Midoriya. I think.” The redhead’s eyebrows arch, and Katsuki’s words trip over themselves. “It’s my stupid friend - he left his keys in his car and it locked with the keys and his kid inside, so I’m picking the order up for him. It sounds ridiculous, but I swear - ”
“No, no, I believe you,” he interrupts, palm raised. “Is the kid okay?”
“Other than probably wishing she has different parents? Yeah,” Katsuki says, scowling. His scorn fades with the burst of laughter from the redhead, replaced by nerves once more.
“Alrighty. Lemme investigate: I’ll be two minutes, okay?” He disappears into the back of the shop and, craning his neck, Katsuki can see that it’s an open plan kitchen, a dark haired woman icing a tray of pastries. Glancing around the cafe, he notes the mix of heavy wooden benches and soft, worn armchairs, crocheted blankets thrown over the backs of some. The crocheter clearly isn’t the best, given the holes in the yarn even from this distance, but his judgement is interrupted as Big Red returns. “Here ya go.”
He lifts the lid of the box he’s carrying and lets Katsuki peer inside to see a sponge cake with fruits and nuts dotted around the edge, Happy Birthday Mom iced in a neat script in the centre. “Pistachio and passionfruit for Midoriya,” the baker tells him, a distinct note of pride in his voice. “They prepaid, so you don’t need to worry about paying.” He grins at him, teeth white and just a little bit crooked, and Katsuki’s knees are cardboard again. “At least they did you that favour.”
Incapable of speech again, he nods and takes the box Red carefully passes to him. He stiffens as their hands brush, a jolt of electricity going up his spine, and forces the strangled words from his throat. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“No problem, man.” He leans back, head tilted to one side and ponytail swinging slightly. “You’re definitely owed a slice of cake. I hope they get the kid out soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Katsuki manages, not sure if he could even remember the name of said child right now. “Yeah, I - thanks.”
He can only hope Big Red wasn’t watching him when he almost walked into the door, or dropped the cake in the attempt to open his car. It’s all his fault, anyway - or the universe’s, for making someone so unfairly, unflinchingly beautiful.
If he thinks about the redheaded baker near constantly over the next few days, culminating in him leaving early for work on Thursday just so he can call by the bakery first - well, that’s his business.
His heart should not be pounding as dramatically as it is, not when he’s just walking into a bakery to get something other than coffee for breakfast. Resisting the urge to run his hands through the hair he painstakingly styled, the bell over the door chimes as he pushes his way through with his shoulders squared. At once he zeroes in on the person manning the register, so tall that he’s forced to hunch over it, and who looks up and beams as he approaches.
“Hello again!” So he remembered him. A thrill courses through Katsuki’s veins and, tongue tied, he can only nod stiffly at the baker. It doesn’t seem to deter him as he still smiles pleasantly at him, hands splayed on the counter. Roman numerals are tattooed over his knuckles, though he doesn't look long enough to decipher them. “How was the cake?”
“Fine.” Realising how blunt it is, he tries again. “Great.” Still not good enough. “They said it was one of the best they’ve ever had.” That’ll do.
“Really?” The baker’s eyes light up, a haphazard grin spreading across his tanned face. “That’s brilliant! I’m so glad!”
“Really really.” He’d have heard if it wasn’t, but then again, Izuku’s the last one to say something negative, and definitely not the type to complain about subpar service. He’s pretty sure a waiter or cashier could spit at him and he’d spin it to be his fault somehow. Clearing his throat, Katsuki stares at the display case of pastries without taking any of them in. After twenty or so seconds of silence, he realised the baker’s eyes are burning into him. “What?”
“Need some help?” His mouth is twitching, and Katsuki stiffens automatically before he forces himself to relax. There’s a teasing tone to the man’s voice, but nothing more malicious than that. “I don’t think you stopped by just to say the cake was fine. I can suggest something, if you want.”
Having rarely had unhealthy food in the house growing up, Katsuki hasn’t got much of a sweet tooth but thinks he’d drink a vat of molten sugar if it’s what Big Red recommended he do. Swallowing hard, his voice is a rasp. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever you think.”
“Let’s see, let’s see…” Frowning, the baker crouches down and stares through the display case. Katsuki resists the urge to do the same so that they make eye contact over a tray of croissants. “You aren’t allergic to nuts, are you?” Katsuki shakes his head. “Sweet. Try this, then.”
He reaches into the case and pulls out a square little pastry, topped with cranberries and a thin drizzle of icing. “Almond and apricot Danish. I don’t make them that often ‘cause we don’t get apricots a lot, but I like them.”
If he likes them, then it’s good enough for him. “Thank you,” Katsuki manages gruffly as Big Red wraps up the pastry, presenting it to him with a flourish and hunting through his pockets for his wallet, red eyes watching his every move. He tries to think of a topic of conversation as he pays, but it’s no use: the bell above the door chimes again as a group of teenagers enter, talking and laughing, and the baker’s gaze slides to them.
“Duty calls. See ya.” Is he imagining things, or is Big Red’s smile regretful? Shaking it off, Katsuki nods once more and pushes his way out of the bakery, heart pumping and paper bag crinkling under his tight grip.
It takes everything in him to hold off from devouring the pastry in the car, the weight of it heavy in his pocket. Katsuki’s self restraint lasts until he’s finished three spreadsheets, and rewards himself by reverently lifting the pastry from the bag and taking a bite. Flavour explodes on his tongue and he moans, quite sure he’s about to drop dead from pleasure.
Momo’s head appears over the divider between their cubicles, eyebrows raised. Her hair’s loose today, falling down her back in sleek waves. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Katsuki snaps through a mouthful of crumbs, cringing when he ends up with a forest of flakes in his lap. “Do you need something?”
Her eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into her hairline. “It’s rude to talk with your mouth full,” she says primly, vanishing behind the divider again before he can retort.
For the rest of the day, sorting through tedious invoices and the messy work of others, the taste of the encounter still lingers on Katsuki’s tongue. It’s more than once that he starts daydreaming midway through a spreadsheet, focusing on big hands and a wide smile instead of facts and figures.
He ends up at the bakery again two days later, and doesn’t bother with an excuse. Hands shoved in his pockets and jaw clenched, he waits silently until he’s at the front of the queue, gaze boring into the baker at the register all the while.
It’s finally his turn, and the man’s mouth curves at the sight of him. “Hello, hello.” It should be illegal for Big Red to smile at him like that, eyes catlike and exuding confidence. Katsuki can only assume that he’s stolen all of his own, considering the fact he usually ends up a tongue-tied idiot when around the baker. “I’m going to have to get a name at this point.”
“Yours first,” Katsuki blurts out, shoulders stiff. The man raises his eyebrows, leaning over the counter with his chin in his palm.
“Kirishima Eijirou.” He’s still trying to come to terms with it, sounding out the syllables in his head - Ki-ri-shi-ma - when the man offers him his hand. “Thank you for your continued custom.”
Shit. Katsuki can practically feel the sweat dripping from his brow, and wipes his palm against his trousers as surreptitiously as he can before taking Eijirou’s to shake. It’s huge and warm, grip tight, and he stares down at the brown fingers curved around his own before Eijirou finally pulls them free.
“Sorry, give me a sec - Hitomi!” His raised voice is directed towards a teenage girl who stops mopping and looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “You forgot the wet floor sign.” She rolls her eyes and heads off in search of it, and Eijirou turns back to him with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. That’s one of my sisters.”
“One of them?”
“Uh-huh. It’s a family business: I have five siblings.”
“There’s six of you?” Katsuki clarifies, bewildered.
“Yep,” Eijirou says cheerily. “I’m the oldest, then there’s Ayumi, Hitomi, Shigeo and Nanase… Megumi’s the youngest, and since she’s only eight she gets away with just doing the dishes.”
Katsuki feels his eyebrows arch. “That sounds like child labour.”
Eijirou snorts. “Don’t you know it’s not child labour when your parents own a business and they need an extra pair of hands? I practically grew up in here: I’ve never minded helping out.”
He can’t imagine his parents asking him to help out when he was a teenager, other than having fabrics pinned to him. “I’m an only child,” he manages, sounding stupid.
“Woah.” Eijirou lets out a short burst of laughter. “I bet your house was quiet.”
Katsuki shrugs. He supposes so - but, then again, he’s nothing to compare it to. “Did you always want to work in the bakery?”
“I guess so, yeah. It’s always felt like a second home to me - probably because I’d come here straight after school, doing my homework at a table while I waited for my moms to close up.”
Katsuki can picture it: a much younger, smaller, dark-haired Eijirou, puzzling over sums while his mothers moved seamlessly around him, perhaps dropping off the occasional glass of juice or kiss to his forehead as the sun outside slipped below the horizon. He doesn’t know why the mental image leaves him feeling so soft, so warmed.
“And it’s something I’m good at,” Eijirou continues, breaking Katsuki out of his imagination. “Baking, I mean. I was no good at tests or exams - don’t even talk to me about literature - but I’ve been baking since I could walk, and it just comes naturally to me. It’s relaxing, y’know?” Eijirou smiles at him, the edges of his eyes crinkled and devastatingly beautiful. “Some of my little brothers and sisters don’t want to walk in a bakery forever, but that’s fine. I’m happy doing it.”
“Practical jobs are better than people give them credit for,” he says gruffly. “You’re always going to need someone who can bake. You’ll always have a job.”
“True, true… still, it’s nice to be in a job where you’re your own boss. Or one of your moms is - then again, they’re probably stricter than a regular boss.” He grins, piercing on show again. “What do your parents do?”
“They have their own business too, actually. They’re fashion designers, but I’m an accountant.” He has none of the passion for it that Eijirou’s inherited from his own parents, though. Sure, he can sew and sure, he knows how to dress someone for their body type, what shades and shapes look best on them - but it’s in a detached way, lacking desire to make it into his career. Still, Katsuki can remember his mother’s surprising patience when first teaching him to sew, her calm, measured tone as he clutched a needle and thread in chubby hands and pushed it through a scrap piece of material to make big, wobbly loops.
“That’s why you’re always so sharply dressed, then,” Eijirou says. He’s watching him with his chin balanced in a palm, smile still playing around his lips in a way that has heat crawling down Katsuki’s neck like a rash. “Your clothes are always really nice. I don’t care how I dress, as long as I’m comfortable, but you look comfortable and fashionable.”
To call Eijirou a fashion calamity would be an understatement. He’s in clashing prints today - khaki army shorts and a yellow and pink Hawaiian shirt - and Katsuki knows that if he looks too long at his clothes and not his face his eyes will start bleeding. Still, he swallows his judgement down and gives him a brief nod of thanks.
“Eijirou!” comes a shout from the back, and they both jump. “I need you to make up a new batch of dough! Swap with Nanase!”
Eijirou sighs, rubbing his neck. “What was I saying about your mom being your boss?” He smiled ruefully at him, and Katsuki knows when he’s being kindly dismissed. He opens his mouth, intent on a goodbye, but can only manage another stiff nod as Eijirou trails back into the kitchen.
As a twenty-six year old, Katsuki’s Saturdays have gone from wallowing in bed and sleeping off hangovers to hanging out with an infant instead. Considering said infant was probably more mature than his drinking partners, he’s not complaining.
(He’s also pretty sure his younger self would relentlessly mock him for how he’s acting over his crush, but he tries not to think about that part too often)
Eijirou’s in his usual spot at the counter, and his head snaps up as Katsuki pushes the stroller through the door. “Oh!” Leaning over the counter, his eyes are huge as they settle on Miyuki chewing her fist. “Oh, I - didn’t realise you have a family.” He can’t decipher the expression Eijirou’s wearing, but he doesn’t like it.
“I don’t!” he says at once, hands tightening on the stroller’s handles. “It’s a loan! To be handed back at the end of the day to her parents, I swear.”
“It? You’re so mean!” A grin replacing his apprehension, Eijirou moves out from behind the counter until he’s crouching down before the stroller, waving at Miyuki. “Hey, sweetie. What’s your name? Did this mean man kidnap you from your real parents?”
“Hardly,” Katsuki says, scowling down at him. “More like they pawned her off on me for the day.” Eijirou doesn’t need to know that he barely spoke to them when he arrived to pick her up, less interested in chatting to them and more focused on quality time with his goddaughter. “This is Miyuki.”
“You’re so cute, Miyuki. Very fitting name.” Eijirou reaches out to stroke her white hair, beaming up at Katsuki. “Man, I love babies. You kind of have to, if you’ve got half a dozen younger siblings, but they’re the cutest when they’re able to start interacting with everyone - can I get a smile, Miyuki? Aw, yeah!”
Considering she can be as temperamental as the rest of the Todorokis, Katsuki’s jaw drops at Miyuki giving him a huge, mostly toothless smile. “Um,” is all he can manage as Eijirou laughs, a bright, joyous sound.
“Here - ” He stands up and disappears around the counter again and into the back. Katsuki scuffs his foot against the floorboards, rolling the stroller back and forth to soothe both Miyuki and himself as he waits. When Eijirou reappears, he’s holding a little jar of what looks like puréed fruit. “Pear,” he explains at Katsuki’s raised eyebrows, offering it to him. “I know babies can eat it okay, and I thought it was rude if she had to sit and watch while you ate. I’m gonna assume you want an Americano and any pastry I pick out?”
“Thank you,” he says, voice tight. He has to force down the suspicion and need to question him: why is he being so nice to him? Why is he so automatically open and generous? One look at Eijirou’s blithe smile tells him all he needs to know, which is that the man is nice just because. If it were anyone else - say, Izuku - he’d be repulsed by them, but Eijirou’s friendly face has his blood pumping for a whole different reason.
“No problem. Hope she enjoys it!” Eijirou beams at him, and Katsuki’s hands shake around the tray and stroller as he manoeuvres them to a table near the window.
Unbuckling Miyuki from her stroller, Katsuki perches the baby on his knee and frowns at her. “Don’t mess this up for me,” he says warningly, as stern as he can be when she’s back to chewing on her knuckles. “If you start screaming the place down, I’m never watching you again. You’ll have to suffer with your dad’s weird brothers instead.”
Miyuki doesn’t protest, which Katsuki hopes means the message has sunk in and she doesn’t want to be left with either a chain smoker or a hockey player who seems permanently concussed. Supporting her in the crook of his arm, he cracks open the bottle of purée and arms himself with a spoon, trying to decide whether to go for the aeroplane or train method to get her to eat while pretending he doesn’t notice the occasional grins Eijirou sends his way.
Izuku beams at them when he opens the door a few hours later, which Katsuki returns with a scowl. It’s tradition, at this point. “Hey! How was she?”
“Fine.” Stepping inside, it’s with some regret that Katsuki hands Miyuki over, cursing her to be raised by two imbeciles again. “She loves me. I didn’t open the food you packed - she had puréed pear instead.”
“Oh?” Wide eyed, Izuku adjusts his grip on her, holding the baby’s hand as she makes a grab for his hair. “We’ve only tried her on apples, not pears. Did you like it, honey?” His last words are directed at her with a coo, and Katsuki snorts as he drags the stroller in behind him.
“Obviously. Do you think I’d let her starve?”
“No,” Izuku sighs, wincing when Katsuki bangs the stroller against the sideboard. “Well, thank you: she’s always in a good mood after your little outings. Where did you take her today? The park again?”
“Yep,” Katsuki says flatly, deciding that the absolute last thing he needs is for Izuku to find out that he’s become a frequent visitor to the bakery and start meddling. “Lots and lots of loops around the park.”
It’s embarrassing, he knows. He knows full well that he needs to get a life, or a pair of balls: he can’t keep darkening the doorstep of the bakery every few days, acting like a fool every time Eijirou smiles at him or holds his gaze for more than two seconds. His bank balance is suffering, all the carbs are wreaking havoc on his diet, Momo’s clearly holding back comments every time he arrives clutching a new paper bag, and yet -
“You’re becoming a very frequent customer.” Eijirou grins at him the next time he calls in, frenulum ring glinting in the light, and Katsuki’s resolve to act less like a loser is forgotten about as he tries his best not to melt into a pile of goo upon the floorboards. “No niece today?”
“Nope. Her parents are actually looking after her for once.” He doesn’t voice the fact he actually likes babysitting, and that it brings out a parental instinct in him that he used to think he lacked completely. The reasonable part of his mind tells him Eijirou wouldn’t respond well to a sudden question of hey, have my children, though, and he changes the subject. “I’ve got work today, anyway. I just thought I’d call by for a coffee and cake on my lunch.”
“Nice to know you thought of us.” There’s a smudge of flour across his cheekbone, as if left when he absently tucked his hair behind his ear. “We’re nearly out of ciabattas so I need to go back and make them, but lemme take your order first.”
“An Americano,” Katsuki says then hesitates, eyes roving over the display case. As usual, Eijirou waits patiently while he acts like a total fool, tongue-tied and struggling. “You pick for me,” he manages at last, resolving to go outside and bash his head on the nearest brick wall to punish himself for such stupidity. “Again.”
Laughter lines make themselves known around Eijirou’s eyes as he smiles. “Glad you put so much faith in me. Why not… a Pastel de Nata? They’re Portuguese tarts filled with custard.” Katsuki nods dumbly, and so Eijirou reaches into the case and clamps the tongs over a tart. “Go on, grab a table. I’ll get someone to bring it all over to you.” He grins at him through the display, and Katsuki’s ready to disintegrate all over again.
A Kirishima drops the coffee and tart over to him, but unfortunately not the Kirishima he wants. Biting into the tart - then wondering how on earth everything the man bakes is so good - he shifts his chair slightly, angling himself away from the window and towards the depths of the bakery instead, to where Eijirou’s ducked under the doorframe far too low for his massive height.
From where he’s sitting now, all he has to do is lift his chin just slightly to gaze into the kitchen and watch Eijirou at work. There’s the smallest of creases between his brows as he kneads a mound of dough between large hands, the muscles in his arms and the tattoos atop them flexing with the motions. Enraptured, Katsuki can’t do more than drink every aspect of his appearance in, from the high ponytail that swishes with each movement to the soft layer of fat upon his stomach and hips that’s exposed every time he reaches for something and his shirt rides up - God, could he be any more attractive? Katsuki desperately wants to scale him like a climbing wall.
He’s interrupted from his gawping when a teenage girl starts clearing his table, her red eyes clueing him into the fact she must be a younger sibling. “Do you want another one?” she says, jerking her chin at his empty coffee cup then scooping it up. “Or anything else?”
Checking his watch, Katsuki clicks his tongue when he realises there’s only fifteen minutes left of his lunch. “No time.” With one last longing look towards Eijirou in the kitchen, he nods to the sister. “Please thank him for me.”
She nods back, expression suspicious, and Katsuki trails to the door as slowly as possible in the hopes Eijirou will notice him going and rush out to give him a passionate kiss for the journey. Unfortunately, Eijirou stays focused on his work, and Katsuki tries not to fall into total despair on the way back to his own.
Momo doesn’t say anything to him when he returns, but her raised eyebrows do all the talking. It takes a great deal of strength and maturity from Katsuki not to lift his middle finger at her - that, and the knowledge that her response would probably leave him feeling about two feet tall.
It’s not done with deliberate intent, but Katsuki can’t help picking up on Eijirou’s habits, the more time he spends at the bakery. The way he fusses over his younger siblings like a mother hen, good-naturedly laughing it off when they moan and complain. The way he constantly has a smile on his face no matter what moody customers say to him, relentlessly positive at all times. He whistles badly when he’s brushing, drums his hands on the counter when it’s quiet, grind every single time Katsuki catches his eye -
He’s got it bad.
“What’s your favourite thing to bake?” he says one day as Eijirou passes him, brush in hand. It’s not the smoothest conversation starter, but it’s something.
“Uh…” Eijirou pauses, eyebrows knitting together with his frown as he leans on the brush. “I really like tiger bread - it smells so good when it comes out of the oven, even better than your typical loaf. Other than that… oh, I love Cherry Bakewells. You don’t get many bakeries here that do them, so people are always really interested and want to try them out.”
“I have no clue what they are,” Katsuki tells him blankly, and Eijirou’s eyes light up.
“I’ll make sure I have some for you next time you call in! Actually, talking of calling…” He pulls his phone out and hands it over, expectant. “Gimme your number.”
Katsuki’s brain short circuits. “Hah?”
“Your number,” Eijirou repeats slowly. “So you can let me know when you’re next coming by, and I’ll have them ready. No point in me baking them if I don’t know when you’ll be here next, y’know?”
Did he hit his head on the walk in? Stomach in knots, Katsuki obediently slides his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. Eijirou takes it and starts typing, then hands it back with a grin. “Sweet. Just lemme know, okay?”
“Okay,” Katsuki manages, voice hoarse, and almost walks into the glass doors on his way out, Eijirou’s image burnt into his retinas. He only checks his phone when he arrives at work and takes the notification on screen like a punch directly to the heart.
[Kirishima] : why did the accountant take up baking? he heard it’s as easy as pi
[Kirishima] : dunno if u even use pi but it made ME giggle :)
He’s a goner.
When Katsuki pushes his way into the bakery on Thursday morning, there’s no sign of an enormous redhead anywhere in the shop. He stands just in from the doorway, blinking at the kitchen as if expecting Eijirou to sense his presence and come barrelling out, but one of the younger siblings stops wiping down the tables and looks his way. “Eijirou’s picking up flour,” he announces, tucking the cloth into his belt bag. He’s no older than twelve, dark hair cropped short and expression more solemn than anything Katsuki could imagine his brother wearing. “Our delivery didn’t arrive. He said to expect you coming, though.”
He disappears behind the counter and retrieves a box, offering it to him. Frowning, Katsuki lifts the lid and sees half a dozen tiny cakes, each topped with a layer of fondant icing and a shiny glacé cherry. “Are these the Bakewell things?”
“Yep,” the brother says, expression bored. “He said they were on the house, too, so long as you let him know what you think of them.”
Katsuki bites down on his tongue, staring at each round, neat circle of icing atop the tarts. Accepting the box, it doesn’t stop him from crossing the room to the counter, peeling a few notes out of his wallet, then laying them in a neat pile in front of the register.
Eijirou texts him an hour later, the messages practically screaming at him as his phone vibrates against his desk.
[Kirishima] : when i said they were on the house I MEANT IT!!!!! NOT FOR YOU TO LEAVE 3000¥ ON THE COUNTER!!!!
[Bakugou] : I never said it was for you.
[Kirishima] : >:(((((((
[Kirishima] : well thank u very VERY much. it was really too kind of you!!!!
[Bakugou] : When you made me half a dozen tarts and expected me to take them for free?
[Bakugou] : They were excellent. Thank you.
[Kirishima] : really!!!! I’m so glad 🥲💗 I hope your colleagues enjoyed them too!!!
Pausing midway through his third tart, Katsuki can’t tear his gaze away from the heart Eijirou’s just sent him. He has no interest in sharing them with his colleagues - at this rate, he’ll be lucky to have any left over for himself for tomorrow - but thinks it’s best not to tell Eijirou when the man himself was so generous. But the heart - surely just an expression of innocent affection -
Katsuki spends an inordinate amount of the day thinking about the message, in between finishing off the rest of the tarts. He’ll just have to call by the bakery again tomorrow if he’s in the mood for them again. Shame.
They start texting.
It’s all innocent and friendly, no matter how much Katsuki dies inside and has to bite his sleeve with each new message from Eijirou. The messages themselves come in a steady stream, updating him on whatever new thought crosses his mind or interesting thing happens to him that day. He’s not strictly sure that what Eijirou finds interesting are actually interesting - for instance, his shock at a bird flying into the window and endlessly debating on who to call to help it until it simply got up and flew off again - but it’s nice, receiving a running commentary on what’s going on in his life.
The conversation takes an unexpected turn the following week when Katsuki rolls out of bed, plants his feet in the carpet, and hears a crunch. Blood running cold, he knows what it is at once - and, sure enough, lifts his foot to see one of his hearing aids in pieces, having fallen off his bedside cabinet sometime during the night.
“Fuck!” He scoops it up but realises straight away that it’s unsalvageable, and hurls the pieces at his wardrobe. “Fucking shit!”
Growling, he gets ready as fast as he can and stomps out to his car, headed for the hospital. The audiology department can get him a same day replacement, sure, but the inconvenience and the price of it has anger flaring in his stomach, simmering in his veins throughout the drive. Shooting Momo a message to let her know he needs the morning off, his temper hasn’t abated by the time he gets to audiology, explains the situation, and sits down in the waiting area, simmering with rage. He’s still there half an hour later, aimlessly scrolling through his phone and waiting for it to be finished, when a text comes through.
[Kirishima] : missed you this morning! we had these, but they went super quick
Kirishima sent an image
Head reading back against the wall, Katsuki stares through heavy-lidded eyes at the photo of Bakewell tarts neatly arranged in the display case, with Eijirou’s thumb in the bottom left corner of the image. Swallowing, he rights himself and starts on his response.
[Bakugou] : Sorry. Had to take the morning off work to call by the hospital
Not even ten seconds pass before his phone chimes again.
[Kirishima] : WHAT?????
The buzzing of a call starts immediately, and Katsuki lifts his phone to his left ear and its still working aid. “Hey.”
“Are you okay?” There’s no preamble to his breathless question, a door slamming in the background. Katsuki pictures him sprinting off the busy cafe floor into a storeroom, flushed and panicked. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine. Stop freaking out.” He chews on his tongue, deliberating, before pinching the bridge of his nose and huffing out a sigh. It’s now or never, he supposes. “I have hearing aids, and I stepped on one this morning. I’m just waiting for a replacement.”
He squares his jaw, waiting. Eijirou’s the last person who he’d think would say something offensive - maybe something awkward at worst, but not cruelly mocking or ignorant like he’s heard before. There’s a huff on the other end of the phone, and he can just imagine the large palm slapping against his forehead. “Shit! I thought - I dunno, your appendix had burst or something, maybe. But you’re okay?”
Katsuki can’t help but snort. “I don’t think I’d be up and texting already if I had my appendix removed. I’m fine, idiot.” He pauses, curved over himself. “You’re not going to ask about them?”
“What? Your hearing aids?” There’s a groan in the background - Eijirou leaning against a shelf flimsy in comparison to his bulk, maybe. “Well, uh. I didn’t want to ask about them before, just in case it was rude. I noticed them weeks and weeks ago - you rub the big bit at the back when you’re thinking - but yeah. Are you getting a replacement okay?”
His pre-planned speech and the explanation of having meningitis when he was a toddler fades. Staring at the linoleum between his feet, Katsuki’s voice feels strangely disembodied as he tries to wrap his head around the fact Eijirou noticed them a long time ago but kept quiet out of sensitivity. It’s not exactly something he’s encountered often. “Yeah,” he says, words punctuated by a sigh again. “Yeah, they’re just getting the mould sorted now. I’ll have it in an hour or two.”
“That’s good.” There’s a softness to Eijirou’s voice, a kindness that has Katsuki’s eyes burning. “That’s a relief. If - if there’s anything I can do just let me know, okay? If I can help you in any way.”
“Okay.” Katsuki swallows. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” The hubbub in the background increases, and there comes an awkward noise from Eijirou. “Aw, shit, I need to get back out there. Let me know when you get your replacement, though, and I mean it! Anything, at any time.”
Katsuki presses his fingertips into his temples, exhaling hugely. “Thank you,” he repeats, and ends the call.
It’s nice, not having to explain for once.
He’s been eating way too many carbs recently, and so after his next trip to the bakery - where Eijirou had his hair French plaited back, a sight almost enough to make him evaporate on the spot - Katsuki walks to his destination, baguette tucked under one arm. It’s Shouto who opens the door, exhausted and bedraggled with his hair scraped back into a messy ponytail and Miyuki wailing on his hip. “Excellent,” he mumbles, and promptly dumps her into Katsuki’s arms.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he tells him unsympathetically as he follows Shouto into the house, kicking off his shoes and bouncing Miyuki. “What’s up, firecracker? Is your dad an idiot?” He’s more than a little smug when she settles into sniffling instead, while Shouto’s collapsed face-first into the sofa.
“She’s got an ear infection,” he says, voice muffled by a cushion. “The doctor gave us antibiotics, but she’ll probably have it for another day or two. I haven’t slept properly since Thursday.”
Considering the fact it’s Saturday, sympathy - for both of them this time - replaces the smugness. “Go have a shower,” Katsuki orders, dropping into an armchair and stroking Miyuki’s hair back as he rocks her. “Then a power nap. What if you’re so sleep deprived you try to cook something and set fire to the whole house?” he adds when Shouto opens his mouth to protest, which has him dragging himself off the sofa and obediently trailing upstairs.
When he returns an hour or so later, Katsuki’s hoovered the kitchen and living room, finished the dishes, and is midway through coaxing Miyuki to eat the rest of a mashed banana. Standing in the doorway, Shouto blinks at the tidiness as if he’s seeing his house for the first time. “You did all this?”
“No,” Katsuki says drolly, “it was the cleaning fairies. Of course it was me, idiot. Why didn’t you ask for help before now?”
“You don’t really notice the mess building up when you’re trying to soothe a screaming baby.” He moves over to Miyuki’s highchair, fingertip trailing the chubby curve of her cheek. “How’s she been?”
“Grumpier than usual,” Katsuki concedes, “but I’m not surprised. My hearing aids make my ears hurt sometimes, so an infection for a kid who can’t understand why they’re hurting must be torture. There’s a baguette in the kitchen if you wanna eat something.”
“Mm.” Smiling down at Miyuki, he returns to the sofa and sinks into it again. “Thank you.”
Katsuki scoffs, returning his attention to Miyuki as she bangs her palms on the tray before her. “Okay, okay, I’ll free you. Do you want some bread next, kid?”
“Cash,” the infant manages, and Katsuki looks at Shouto with disgust.
“Are you kidding me? Cash? You talk about your wealth so much around her that she’s saying it now? You’re vile.”
“No.” Shouto’s eyes remain closed, as if Katsuki’s interrupting a genuine attempt to sleep. “It’s her way of trying to say Katsuki.”
He stills. “What?”
“Oh, yeah.” Shouto cracks an eye open, peering at him. “Didn’t Izuku tell you? She hasn’t gotten ‘t’ down yet, or syllables, but it’s not the first time she’s said it.”
Katsuki opens his mouth, realises that the words aren’t going to come to him, so snaps it shut again and merely nods. The fact he’s blinking so hard isn’t helping matters, or his pride. What also isn’t helping is Shouto watching him, a smile curving his lips. “When are you going to settle down and have one of your own?”
“Whenever you mind your own business,” Katsuki snaps, and tries desperately to think of anything other than Eijirou saying that he loved babies. It doesn’t work, considering the fact his mind immediately goes to Miyuki trying to say Eiji next. God, he really needs a hobby that isn’t fantasising about a man kneading dough or icing pastries.
At the frosty start of February, garlands of hearts appear in the window of the bakery, vases of fake roses set atop every table. Having already been forced to listen to Izuku droning on about what he could get Shouto - “maybe something to do with Miyuki, since it’s our first Valentine’s as parents!” - it doesn’t put Katsuki in the best of moods, especially as he’s still unable to voice to Eijirou just how attractive he finds the man. He’d be as well ripping out his tongue for all the use it does him.
The bakery’s almost empty and, unusually, Eijirou’s not at the register or vanished into the kitchen. He’s sprawled at one of the corner tables, long legs stretched out in front of him and a crease between his brows. He brightens at once at the sight of Katsuki, sitting up straighter. “C’mere!” He beckons to him and Katsuki walks over as if Eijirou’s hooked him on a fishing line and reeled him in like a prize catch. There’s an open sketch pad in front of him, doodles and notes scrawled across the creamy pages. “Hey.”
“What are you working on?” Katsuki asks as he takes a seat opposite, frowning at him.
“Oh, just some ideas for Valentine’s Day.” Eijirou shrugs. “It’s always really busy for us, so I need to have something good. People do tons of custom orders, so it’s nice to have a catalogue of ideas for them.”
“Let’s see, then,” Katsuki says, but the second he leans in to look at the sketches, Eijirou flips them over. “Hey!”
“No peeking,” he tells him, grinning. All the fight goes out of Katsuki in an instant. “You can see what I baked last year, if you want.”
Katsuki can’t do more than nod mutely, and Eijirou leans over the table as he pulls his phone from his pocket and begins swiping through it. Taking the offered phone, he squints at glossy photos of cakes, biscuits, and everything in between.
“That’s Black Forest gateau.” Sliding out of his seat, Eijirou bends over him to point to different parts of the photo. He’s so close that Katsuki can feel his body heat, smell what he thinks is nutmeg on his hands. “Red velvet cake… it took me so long to perfect those macarons. I’m too heavy handed, so they were all a splotchy mess to begin with.”
Katsuki nods dazedly along, trying to focus on the cakes and not on the proximity of the baker to him. It doesn’t work: his gaze slides to the dragon curling around Eijirou’s wrist, breathing fire onto his thumb. “I want to see your tattoos,” he says before we can help himself, and Eijirou starts.
“Sure.” He rolls up his sleeves to reveal sleeves of tattoos, all the way up his biceps. “They go to my shoulders, too, but my mama will shout at me if I take my shirt off in here,” he says, while Katsuki has to actively work to stop himself from drooling. “They weren’t exactly happy I got them in the first place, but at least they didn’t shout.”
Katsuki can’t respond, too focused on the inkings against his skin and the mental image of seeing Eijirou shirtless. “What’s this?” he asks, voice hoarse, and Eijirou’s skin burns beneath his touch when he taps a fingertip against a tattoo of a winged man, body slumped and still against his bicep.
“It’s from this painting, The Lament for Icarus. You know, the one from Greek mythology who flew too close to the sun? I really like it, so I wanted to get it inked on me permanently.” His finger brushes against Katsuki’s as he traces Icarus’s wings, then drags down to the delicate flowers that frame his figure. “Then these are delphiniums and water lilies for my mom, and marigolds and cosmos for my mama. They’re their birth flowers - I’ve got ones for my siblings on the other arm…”
Katsuki’s eyes rove over his skin, patiently listening to each of Eijirou’s explanations. So badly does he want to trail his fingertips over his tattoos, stroking over his skin and veins - but just as he reaches out to clasp his wrist, he freezes.
It doesn’t matter that they text, that Eijirou does nice things for him and beams like the sun every time he sees him. It doesn’t even matter that they’re hanging out like this now, side by side; they’re in Eijirou’s workplace. He’s working. They’ve never even hung out outside of here, their interactions up until now all being transactional. He’s being friendly but he has to be, showing him the same kindness he no doubt shows to everyone else. And here he is, wanting to make a move on him - to kiss him, even! - when Eijirou can’t leave. When he’s just being nice.
Katsuki snaps his mouth shut, swallows back his speech, and resigns himself to silence. Eijirou’s running commentary halts suddenly, peering down at him with a crease between his brows. “Everything okay?” He leans in closer, enough for Katsuki to see the rings of gold around his irises, and it suddenly becomes too much.
“I need to go,” he says, voice tight and arms folded over his stomach. “I need - ”
He pushes himself away from the table and stands, turning on his heel and stomping out. If Eijirou calls out to him, it’s lost in the slamming of the door or the pounding of his heart.
He avoids the bakery for two weeks after that.
Every time he thinks back to their encounter, humiliation burns at his skin - and yet he can’t stop casting his mind back to it, tormenting himself over how it could have gone differently. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t heard a thing from Eijirou in the aftermath, not one single, solitary text message. Maybe things really were transactional between them, and Eijirou was only interested in him for the money he put in the register. His dismal mood hasn’t gone unnoticed by others: Izuku’s commented on it once or twice in his usual, flapping way, whereas Momo’s eyebrows have went from raising at him to being pulled together in sympathy. If he had to talk to anyone about his feelings it would probably be her, but the idea is more humiliating than comforting, and his mouth remains shut.
He’s perched on the edge of his bed, mood dismal and midway through tying his shoelaces, when his phone rings. Having long given up on Eijirou unexpectedly ringing to declare his love, Katsuki huffs through his nose when he sees the caller and only reluctantly picks up. “What,” he says flatly, and Izuku sighs.
“I need another favour.”
“For God’s sake,” Katsuki snaps, abandoning his shoelace. “You haven’t locked Miyuki in the car again, have you?”
“No, no! We’re going to get a new car, actually. I don’t trust that one anymore.” He can hear Izuku’s scowl over the line, and rolls his eyes. “Look, can you call by the bakery again and pick up an order for me? I’m surprising Shouto with it, but I don’t have enough time to grab it myself before work because, um, Miyuki’s decided to throw up over us both. The joys.”
Katsuki stills. “No.”
“Oh, please!” Izuku begs, tone wheedling. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate! It’s prepaid again, I promise - ”
“I said no.” Putting his phone on speaker, he sets it aside and starts tying his shoelaces again with trembling fingers. “Ask someone else.”
“Why, though?” Izuku argues, and Katsuki feels his lips pull back from his teeth. “You love the bakery! You were never such a big fan of bread until you started going there, and since you’re already there all the time - ”
“Fine,” he hisses, more to shut Izuku up than anything. “I’ll go. Fucking asshole.” He ends the call before Izuku can retort, seething as he finishes getting ready and storms out the door.
One trip won’t kill him, he reasons. Eijirou might not even be working, and if he is, so what? He clearly never cared about him anyway. He probably talks to everyone like that, Katsuki decides, mind working a million miles a minute as he tries to come to terms with the fact Eijirou must treat people other than him with the same effortless, brainless charm -
It’s only when he’s halfway to the bakery that he realises the date; why Izuku’s ordered something for his husband on today of all days. Eyes sliding to the date and time on the dash to confirm it, Katsuki goes cold all over when the digital clock confirms that it’s 14/02. Shit. He contemplates swerving off the road and into a ditch, flipping the car over and over until it explodes into a lethal fireball, but the rational part of his brain tells him that Miyuki would miss him too much, and that he’s got too many unfinished spreadsheets left in the office.
It’s with heavy feet and an even heavier heart that Katsuki trails into the bakery, teeth clamped down on his tongue. His heart sinks further when he sees that it’s full of couples, cosied up and gazing fondly at each other - and the situation only worsens in the fact Eijirou is the one manning the counter, hair pulled back in a high ponytail and a pen behind his ear. He glances up at the chiming bell above the door the second after Katsuki lays eyes on him and falters, mouth slightly ajar as he stares at him.
Swallowing hard, Katsuki makes his way to the counter. “Hey.”
“Hey.” There’s a wariness to Eijirou’s expression that he hasn’t seen before, new tension in his muscles as he rises to his full height, towering over him. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Katsuki says stiffly. Hands balled in his pockets, he forces himself to meet Eijirou’s gaze. “And you?”
Eijirou shrugs, gnawing on his lip. “Okay.” He pauses, and then his lips twist in something that only vaguely resembles a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says quietly, and Katsuki’s stomach twists.
He clears his throat before he can say anything embarrassing, or put Eijirou on the spot. “I have to pick up an order again,” he forces out. “For Midoriya. He asked me to pick it up.”
Eijirou’s expression flickers, but a second later it smoothes out. “Okay,” he says, voice flat, and turns and heads towards the kitchen. Katsuki’s left standing where he is, arms tight around himself. He has the vague idea that a few of Eijirou’s siblings are whispering behind him, but they scatter the moment Katsuki twists to look at them. A minute later and Eijirou re-emerges, a cardboard box in his hands that he offers wordlessly to Katsuki. He makes as though to thank him, but the words get caught in his throat. It doesn’t matter: Eijirou’s gaze slides away from him to focus on the new customers pushing through the door, and Katsuki turns away and slips out before they can exchange another word. Misery filling his guts, he doesn’t even look at whatever confectionery Izuku bought for Shouto and their wonderful, picture-perfect marriage.
His mood doesn’t improve when he gets to work and sees Momo setting up a few cards at her desk, smiling at a bunch of flowers already neatly arranged in a vase. Of course she’s got a host of admirers, charmed by her elegance and ability to get things done without having to raise her voice. The smile’s extended to him as he stomps to his desk, but Katsuki pretends he doesn’t see her when he slumps in his chair and sighs out all the breath in his body.
They don’t speak throughout the morning, throughout Katsuki miserably pouring through spreadsheets and deciding he’s fated to die alone, until Momo walks back from the toilet with quick steps and leans over the partition between their desks. “There’s a man at reception who wants to see you.” Eyes bright, there’s a pale pink flush of excitement to Momo’s cheeks that he’s never seen on her before. “A tall redhead with tattoos and - ”
He’s out of his chair and sprinting towards reception before he can listen to another word. Rounding the corner, Katsuki’s eyes settle on the visitor: the only person it could be, scuffing his feet against the carpet and pretending to be interested in a stack of business cards on the reception desk. Eijirou lifts his chin at the sound of his footsteps, and the sight of him here - outside the bakery, in his turf - has Katsuki’s knees weak all over again.
“You dropped your wallet.” Eijirou holds it up, waving it awkwardly in the air and clutching a shoulder bag in his other hand. Katsuki’s eyes follow its movement, bewildered that he’d missed it in the first place. “It was under the counter: Shigeo found it when he was sweeping up. I remembered you saying you worked here, so…”
“You could’ve texted me to say so.” He thinks his voice sounds odd, strangely strangled. “You didn’t have to inconvenience yourself to drop it by.”
Eijirou’s shoulder lifts and falls in a shrug. “I’m finished for the day: my moms let me have a half day today. I didn’t mind coming by.”
They stare at each other, silent. Eijirou’s jaw is stiff, expression resolute and, unable to bear it anymore and seized with sudden daring, Katsuki throws caution to the wind. “I’ll be free for lunch in - ” He lifts his wrist and squints at his watch to check. “Twenty minutes. Can you wait for me? We can - we can go for a walk.”
Eijirou blinks, mouth open gormlessly, then shakes himself back to sense. “Sure.” He gestures to the chairs behind him, unsteady on his feet. “I’ll just - wait here?”
“Yeah,” Katsuki manages, heart hammering. “Yeah. That’ll do.” Eijirou nods awkwardly, one of the chairs giving a great groan as he settles his wait into it, and Katsuki goes back to his desk in a daze. Staring sightlessly at the papers before him, he makes it fourteen minutes before he calls time and goes back to reception.
They set off out of the office together and down the path towards the river, hands shoved in their own pockets and silent. Katsuki can’t stop himself from glancing at Eijirou every seconds: the strands of hair escaping from his ponytail, the long, straight bridge of his nose, the bag bumping against his thigh. It’s strange to see him outside of work, bundled up with a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, but Katsuki isn’t complaining. He doesn’t think he can ever get bored of just looking at him.
It’s a good five minutes before Eijirou takes a deep breath and breaks the silence. “Why have you been avoiding the bakery?” It’s soft, not accusatory, and Katsuki forces himself to meet Eijirou’s eyes. They’re not creased by a smile this time, his mouth instead pressed into a thin line. “Is it something I did?”
Katsuki forcefully shakes his head. “No. Never. I just - ugh.” He scoffs, aiming a kick at a stone on the path and sending it skittering into the bushes. Eijirou raises his eyebrows, which does nothing to help the tension in his chest. “I - ” His tongue ties itself in knots, and Katsuki is tempted to rip it out.
In the absence of speech, Eijirou seizes his chance. “I, um…” He briefly struggles, opening and closing his mouth, then braces himself and tries again. “I have something else for you. I wasn’t sure how to give it to you this morning, so you dropping your wallet worked perfectly. I kind of wondered if you’d dropped it on purpose, actually - but things have been kind of weird between us recently, so I didn’t know. I didn’t know if I should even give it to you in the first place, but I wanted to, so… yeah.”
He didn’t plan on dropping the wallet, but he doesn’t say so. Katsuki stares at him, hands balled into fists in his pockets and heart picking up speed. “What is it?”
Eijirou swallows, throat bobbing with the motion, then reaches into his shoulder bag and pulls out a takeaway box from the bakery. He offers it to Katsuki and, fingers trembling, he takes it in both hands and lifts the lid to peer inside.
It’s a cake only as big as his hand, heart shaped and iced pink with red ruffles around its edges. There’s a white lacy border painstakingly piped into neat peaks and troughs around the top, adorned with red sugar roses. Such care and attention to detail should’ve taken Eijirou ages, and yet Katsuki can’t focus on the thought of him bending over the cake, tongue clamped between his teeth in concentration as he iced, not with the looping, cursive message in the centre of it.
DATE ME?
“I wanted to write something longer,” Eijirou says in a great rush as Katsuki stares at the message, heart hammering against his ribs. “Something like go on a date with me, or let me take you out, but then they turned out to be too long and I didn’t want to make you a humongous cake. I mean, I would, but I just figured you wouldn’t want me to give you something you’d have to carry around with two hands. And - and if you don’t want it at all, that’s fine.”
“What?” Katsuki says abruptly, gaze snapping up to meet Eijirou’s pale face.
“I…” Eijirou trails off, steadies himself, then tries again. “I’ve had a crush on you for ages. Since the first time you came into the bakery, really. I always wanted to ask you out, but I felt like it might be creepy - you were coming by for pastries, not a date! There’d be nothing worse than finding somewhere you really liked then getting asked out by one of the staff, because it would ruin it for you and put you off coming back and I didn’t want to do that to you - and I was scared I’d scared you off somehow, that last day you were there, so I didn’t want to message you and harass you, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Valentine’s Day and thought I’d just shoot my shot because you weren’t coming by anyway and I really missed you, so - ”
He rambled until he runs out of steam and breaks off, panting slightly. Jaw hanging open, Katsuki can only stare at him, his pink cheeks, his bright eyes and the silver hoop in his nose. “You’ve had a crush on me for months?” he says hoarsely, and Eijirou nods. “Fuck.”
Eijirou presses his lips together. “I hope that’s a good fuck.”
“It’s - ?” Katsuki shakes his head, squares his shoulders, and stares at him, resolute. There’s not a shred of hesitation left in him. “Do you like spicy food?”
Clearly taken aback, Eijirou’s eyelashes flutter. “Do I - what?”
“Like spicy food,” Katsuki repeats, more strength behind his words now. “Because there’s a restaurant near me that does a Sapporo soup curry, and it’s incredible, but it’s hot as hell. I’ve thought about bringing you there on a date since the first time I laid eyes on you, and the only reason I didn’t ask was because I didn’t want to harass someone at their job.”
In the wake of his words, Eijirou’s own eyes look like saucers. “You - date? Us? On a date?”
“Yes, idiot.” Suddenly he’s grinning, shoulders light as if he’s shrugged off the weight of the world. “Tonight? I’ll call them and see if they can squeeze us in.”
“God, yes,” Eijirou breathes, face alight with joy. “I’d love nothing more.” He takes a step closer, so close that Katsuki could reach up to trace the Cupid’s bow of his lip. “Does this mean I can kiss you?”
Katsuki can’t help his scoff, even as he balances the cake in one hand and reaches out with the other to grab a fistful of Eijirou’s jumper. “You took your sweet time asking, Red. What do you think?”
If Eijirou replies, he doesn’t hear it, or else loses it in the movement of the man cupping his face and tilting it up to meet him in a kiss.