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Hidamari Café has a big fat “Closing Soon” sign over their door. Hitoshi can see the paper note explaining very politely that the owners are retiring. His backpack with his laptop and research books feels extra heavy on his back. He’s probably their most regular regular—in that he’s been here every day for the past three years, writing short stories and novellas and now, a novel. It feels weird to know he’s walking in for one of the last times.
Their retirement date is listed as two weeks from now. The sting of betrayal is unfair—they don’t owe him their time or a quiet coffee shop to work in.
He really likes their chocolate cake. They make a homemade strawberry jam that he would buy and eat by the bucketfuls if he was ever given the option. Now he probably never would be. Not that he asked to buy a bucketful of strawberry jam but surely someone had.
Not to mention nowhere else will make his white coffee nightmare latte. Mrs. Rikido was the only one who would just make whatever came out of his head with a smile. Apparently her son had made worse things in his experimental phase. When he’d asked for examples she had, of course, only said “No.” with the grandmotherly smile that offered no room for argument.
And now, he’d never convince her to give him Sato’s recommendation for sugar-fueled inspiration.
He sets his backpack down and pulls out his laptop. Two weeks until he’s got to find somewhere new to write his novel.
How’s he supposed to start a new chapter when he might be halfway through it and have to get used to writing in a new setting?
Mrs. Rikido doesn’t even ask him what he wants today. She just drops off the white demon latte he gets, pale and pretty with grated nutmeg over the top.
It tastes like cinnamon and chocolate. Christmas in a cup, which is nice. She always customizes his drink, just little nudges here and there to match whatever mood she’s in for the day. Apparently she’s feeling festive this week.
“My dear, I’m sorry to spring the news on you so suddenly,” she says, when he gives up on writing two hours in and goes to ask about the retirement. His coffee ended up getting cold before he could finish it, which just goes to show he’s not on top of things.
He’s never handled change very well. He’s been coming to this coffee shop for three years. He once got a present from the Rikido’s on his birthday. Sato has baked him a cake to celebrate when he got his first short story published in a magazine. This place is formative for him in a way that few places are.
“It’s fine,” he tries (and possibly fails, based on Mrs. Rikido’s sad expression) to inject some cheer into his voice. “Everyone’s gotta retire sometime.”
The Rikidos' sons are both heroes. Sato’s even made it to the top twenty, despite working in a more rural area. With both of their offspring in their own respective, successful fields, Hitoshi isn’t really surprised that the shop is closing down. He thought he’d have more time. Time enough to at least finish the novel he’d been working on since he started coming here.
“Well, you know what they say. No point in watering a flower with no roots. Gotta pack up while we can and get our old bones somewhere warm.” Mrs. Rikido rubs the knobby knuckles on her thin, pale hands. She pats him on the shoulder, warm as always, and leaves him to his writing.
His document this afternoon is especially intimidating. A bright white page dwarfs the cursor blinking at him. This is a new chapter and an entire tonal flip. Usually he excels at these, but fuck it all, his mind is stuck on the cafe. He likes this place. They have a black cat who hates him. The two little white spots over his eyebrows make him look perpetually angry, but Hitoshi knows by the way the cat always stares at him when he comes in, front paws curled under his chest while his back legs stick straight out. Somehow, even looking so adorable Hitoshi could die, the cat exudes absolute hatred.
“Are you doing okay, Shinso?” A gruff, far too deep voice shakes Hitoshi out of his cat based thoughts.
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” He squints at his empty document. “Just thinking of how to structure this next scene.”
It’s a lie, but there’s no reason Mr. Rikido should know that. Still, when he looks up thirty seconds later, Mr. Rikido is still standing there, arms crossed over his barrel chest and face scrunched up thoughtfully. Finally, after Hitoshi takes a long, slow sip of his now cold Christmas coffee, Mr. Rikido nods. “There’s another coffee place around the corner. The barista there is a little intense, but I think you’d like him.”
“Oh?” Hitoshi and intense don’t really go together. He likes mild, friendly personalities. Accepting types who won’t look at his purple hair and tattoos and immediately kick him out of their establishment, shaking their fists. Still, Mr. Rikido wouldn’t set him up to get banned right away. “Where at?”
“Well, the name isn’t really important.” Mr. Rikido waves away Hitoshi’s question. The first red flag makes a weak wave in his general direction. Hitoshi, like the brilliant writer with a caffeine addiction he is, ignores it. “If you go around the corner and down two blocks…”
And this is how Hitoshi ends up wandering through an empty street. Only one street vendor has deigned to grace the sidewalk, serving dorayaki and canned, cold coffees. Business trickles in, but the old man doesn’t seem to mind his free time. He’s whistling and grinning at every person who passes him money.
Hitoshi’s a little nervous. He’s not sure why. It’s just a coffee shop. Mr. Rikido says he’ll know it when he sees it but is cagey about any other details. The only thing he’s said is that he thinks Hitoshi will really like the owner.
He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Mr. Rikido’s cheeks went pink when Hitoshi asked why he thought that. Then Mrs. Rikido shooed him away, admonishing him about being a meddlesome old man.
“Hey there, young man.” The old street vendor waves him down. “Would you like to try one? Made fresh every time.”
Hitoshi studiously ignores the several dorayaki premade in a line beside the electric griddle the man is using. “Oh, really?”
“Really really.” The man scoops up one of the dorayaki, slaps it down on the griddle, and lets it cook for thirty seconds on each side.
It’s still a little cool in the middle, but Hitoshi hands over a scrap of cash and a little extra.
He does recognize the shop when he sees it. Kind of hard not to. Mr. Rikido had described a “window with lots of flowers” and a “pretty straightforward sign out front.”
Well, lots of flowers is the understatement of the year. Hitoshi literally cannot see into the shop through the green vines and dotted red, orange, and white flowers. The sign over the top says COFFEE in big, blocky letters, with a handwritten menu painstakingly lined on an a-frame out front.
The menu is simple:
Latte, Espresso, Tea. Separated and to the side are the words Arrangements—Inquiry Inside. The sign has no extra decoration. No doodles of coffee cups or anything.
Hitoshi stands in front of the shop until he’s finished eating his dorayaki. Wiping away the crumbs, he finally enters through the door with an oversized, very loud bell. The lights flicker. It seems purposeful. There are a lot of sturdy but mid-sized chairs and small tables. He finds one with an outlet, drops his stuff beside it, and wanders back towards the front.
There’s an ungodly amount of poinsettias here. Arrangements of the bright red flowers line almost the entire backwall. All of them are vaguely festive. One is a full recreation of a Santa Claus made entirely of woven together poinsettias and white hydrangeas, which is incredibly impressive.
“Wow,” Hitoshi mutters, hovering a hand over the fragile work. He would never touch a poinsettia, of course. Fucking irritates the shit out of all his cats when the holiday seasons come around. He’s pretty sure Gremlin and Ghost are extra allergic, too. Last time someone had dropped off a well-meaning “holiday bouquet” at work, he’d only moved it off his desk and ended up with it all over his hands. Ghost had itched and scratched and wretched for three days before he’d realized what happened.
Sure, poinsettias won’t kill a cat, but they sure are fucking unpleasant.
“Don’t touch the fucking orders.”
Hitoshi swings to face the new voice so fast that he ends up knocking against the Santa Claus’s partially done hand, knocking it right off. Fuck.
“Fuckin’ hell.” The voice is rough like tumbling rocks, like a fucking landslide of deep consonants and rolling vowels. Hitoshi’s neck heats. “What are you, some kinda fuckin’ disaster?”
Hitoshi clears his throat and starts to pick up the fallen hand.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch it. Why are you here?” The voice barks at him, and Hitoshi’s eyes finally snap to the man it belongs to.
Oh, fuck. He’s gorgeous. Hitoshi doesn’t usually feel what he’d call attraction, but he does have a type that definitely takes a shortcut to all his barely used parts.
The man in front of him is shorter than he usually goes for, but that spiky blond hair gives him at least another 4 inches, and the narrowed, ruby eyes cut deep to Hitoshi’s marrow. There’s enough muscle to make Hitoshi salivate and a healthy amount of metal looping through the man’s ears and lip. He doesn’t know the name of all the pieces, he just knows that whoever is staring him down glitters like a fucking rich widow's neck.
“Uh,” he answers, but then realizes he’s forgotten the question. The man quirks an elegant brow at him—god his face is so pretty—and rolls his hand at Hitoshi in a hurry up motion that only ties Hitoshi’s tongue in tighter knots.
“What do you want? We don’t accept solicitors and if you want to use the wifi you better go next door because I don’t fucking have any.” The man eyes the bag Hitoshi dropped at the table. “And if you’re hanging out for any other reason, you have to buy something first.”
A gentle undercurrent of piano music rumbles through overhead speakers and Hitoshi is pretty sure the tune is carrying his thoughts away with the run of the keys. “I wanted coffee?”
“Go sit the fuck down,” the man grumbles, after a second of staring at Hitoshi like he’s the biggest nuisance on the planet. Hitoshi may as well get down and propose now, his heart’s absolutely twitterpated. “Don’t fucking touch anything else.”
Hitoshi is very, very careful not to touch anything else. He’s never been cussed at quite so much by someone he was then going to pay. He wonders if the owner of this place knows that their worker talks to people that way?
Hitoshi isn’t going to say shit to anyone, but he does wonder if they know.
He plops down on the wonky chair, opens up his laptop, and stares at the blank screen. He’s supposed to be writing a rather heavy chapter—there’s a lot of back forth between the main character and the guy who accused him of murder—but he’s listening to that voice in his head washing right over him.
He’s written a single sentence by the time the man returns and thumps a large mug of coffee directly in front of him. No paper cups, it seems. Or at least, not if you’re clearly drinking in. Hitoshi glances up when the man doesn’t leave immediately.
“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Thanks?”
“Drink it first.” The man flips his hand towards the mug.
Hitoshi nods, a bit dumbly, and picks up the mug. It’s a really pretty thing, dark blue and speckled with white, like the potter dipped it in a glaze of melted galaxies. The coffee inside is rich and aromatic, nutty with an almost toffee sweet aftertaste. He doesn’t think he’s ever tasted coffee like this. It’s still too bitter for his taste, but it’s drinkable even though he’s certain there’s only a splash of creamer in it. “It’s good,” he says, instead of any of what he was thinking.
He doesn’t want to come off as insane, after all.
“Leave the fucking plants alone. Refills aren’t free. All of my coffee is expensive as shit, so I can’t afford to top you off for nothing.” The man crosses his arms, glares down at Hitoshi like he’s insulted a man like him would dare step inside his establishment, and then stomps off.
Hitoshi watches with some amount of shame as the man starts to craft another arm for the amputated Santa. It’s really only barely his fault. He was surprised, and the man could have been nicer about it. He doubts arguing the point would get him anywhere, though.
Hitoshi finishes his mug of coffee, is hit by inspiration after listening to the man curse several times over trying to reconnect the arm, and ends up writing five thousand words in a fevered flurry.
Despite the man’s earlier assertion, Hitoshi does find his coffee magically refilled a couple of times. He tries to keep track of how much he’ll owe, only to realize he doesn’t have a clue how much the coffee costs, because there are no prices posted everywhere.
Despite this, Hitoshi also notes that there’s no shortage of customers who bustle in as groups, crowding around the front, watching the barista with vulture's eyes, devouring every twist of his wrist and drinking in every snap of his vicious tongue. They giggle and fawn and Hitoshi can’t help but shrink back into his seat, watching quietly as the man grows frustrated with each rush that flows in through the doors.
But there are quiet moments, too. Moments when Hitoshi looks up to realize they’re the only two in the store and the man is busy with an arrangement of hydrangeas, simple in their set up, but all the more perfect because there’s nowhere for imperfections to hide. His eyes linger a little longer, drinking in the easy, relaxed way the man moves when he’s shifting petals and leaves into place, sticking them where he wants them to stay with a glue he heats by rolling it between his fingers.
The way the oversized leaves curve up over full bulbs of round, blue dusted petals looks like movement, like the leaves are carried on a current of water that Hitoshi could only see if he turned his head right.
The man practically performs magic every time Hitoshi looks up and sees him with a new bouquet. Even the poinsettias turn from garish red sores of color into fluttering dresses or rising flames, effects that Hitoshi couldn’t emulate if he was given a thousand lifetimes.
“Stop staring, fuckface.” The man finally glares at him at the end of the night. The dark outside is deep and velvet, cold brushing over him from the door propped open. “The shops closed, you gotta go.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, like it’s his fault the man never told him they were closing.
“Whatever.” The man waves him off. “Just pay and get outta here, I gotta clean up around your spot.”
The anger from earlier seems to have bled away, leaving Hitoshi faced with a man so exhausted he looks like he can barely stand. The Santa is not just fixed, but at some point the man must have finished. Now there are dark purple tiny flowers grouped together so densely they’re almost painted black by their own shadows, wrapped around the ends of the hands and feet to make gloves and boots. The face is woven from some kind of straw, but the pink flowers on his cheeks leave him appropriately rosy.
Art, really. Hitoshi blinks, overwhelmed by the man’s contrasts—the softness of his talent with the sharpness of his personality. He pulls out a bill that’s probably big enough—big enough that the man only raises both eyebrows and starts to rummage around for change.
“Uh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure I held up some of your work. Just consider it payment for the extra time.”
Tomorrow when he comes back he’ll have to keep an eye out for the actual menu. Maybe he can order something instead of just letting the strange barista make him plain coffee.
##
The next day he comes back, he does not remember to look at the menu. He gets distracted by an absolutely massive arrangement of lilies of the valley, woven together to form a wreath of delicate vines and sweet hanging bells. The center is cut through with a name, though Hitoshi doesn’t recognize it. It’s obviously a wedding arrangement.
“Lily of the valley?” Hitoshi doesn’t know much about flowers, but those are popular to use in fantasy novels. Especially ones to do with faeries. Hitoshi wrote a whole gothic mystery with fae in it once, though the novella was only mildly popular, as most novellas ever are. He does know, however, from his use of them there, that they usually bloom in spring. Not the middle of winter. Does the man have some kind of flower quirk?
“Good, you have working fucking eyes.” The man nudges him further back, away from the place where he’s trying to create a seamless loop in the center of the wreath. “They’re popular for weddings.”
The man is wearing a pair of gloves, weaving in a swirl of stargazer lilies through the inside, weaving long stems in and out of the word written in wire. ASHIDO, it says,
Hitoshi remembers, vaguely, from his research that lilies are poisonous to cats. Like, fatally poisonous—the kind of poison that leads to a vet visit and hundreds of dollars of vet bills if you’re lucky.
He takes another step back and bumps against a rather prickly rose, surrounded by a tangle of thorns. “Uh, do you have cats?” he asks, staring at the gloves that climb all the way up to the man’s elbows.
“What?”
“Uh, cats?” Hitoshi waves over his own arms to imitate putting on the gloves. “Is that why you’re wearing the gloves?”
The man only huffs in his direction and continues working with the lilies.
Hitoshi decides its best to drink his coffee far, far from the lily arrangement. He can’t help but glance at it, though. And the rest of the shop. There’s no more Santa from yesterday. Whoever wanted that one must have already picked it up. Instead, in his place is a rather more intricate, blue petalled deer with silver details weaved into the spaces.
“Amazing,” Hitoshi says, despite the man clearly ignoring him. He still needs to go order his coffee, but first he intends to set up his laptop and get settled.
Before he can even get his laptop plugged in—he forgot to charge it after dragging himself home and collapsing into bed—there’s a coffee mug sitting on his table. This one is different from last time, lavender and white, with black like dropped ink swirling between. Hitoshi wants to find out where the man gets his mugs. He also wants to think of him as something other than “the man” or “gorgeous barista with a bad personality.”
The second one feels really harsh, but he’s not sure how to put into words how the cutting words and disdainful looks makes his heart flutter pathetically, so he decides against trying.
The coffee is just as good the second time, even though it’s not something he usually would order. His tastebuds rebel at the lack of sugar and syrups. He usually orders lavender and honey, with enough caffeine to kill a horse, and a healthy amount of cream to really make it feel like he’s overdoing it.
Mrs. Rikido never minded making it. He’s not so sure that this barista is going to be as accommodating.
Only one way to find out. Hitoshi stops typing long enough to pick up his mug and scurry his way up to the front. At this point he’s already drank two of these, but he needs something with a real, solid amount of sugar or his brain is going to turn to melty soup inside his ears.
The front, it turns out, is 90% plants and the rest of the 10% is mostly little cakes and a whole line of dorayaki, which Hitoshi is pretty sure came from the guy outside. There’s a cheesecake with a line of pink swirling through the top of the golden brown outside and Hitoshi finds he really wants to see if he’s going to be more ruined by this man if he can bake.
Hitoshi is just weak to a good pastry or cake. His mouth is already watering.
“Uh.” He looks around, surprised he didn’t pass the man on the way up. Usually when there’s no other customers, the barista is wrestling some plants into a new shape and cursing up a storm under his breath in a bad pseudo-whisper. Now that Hitoshi wants to get his attention, the entire shop looks to be abandoned.
He glances outside and sees Mr. Short, Blond, and Handsome shouting into his phone. Or, he looks like he’s shouting, but Hitoshi can’t hear shit he’s saying so he must be very angrily and animatedly in a normal tone.
He waits, watching, as the man’s pretty face snarls and burns bright, explosive red. And then, to his amazement, there are actual explosions sparking out from the man’s fists. Hitoshi can hear these, popping like the firecrackers Eri sometimes throws at his feet during festivals. Then, suddenly, Hitoshi feels the pressure of a pair of eyes on him and knows he’s been caught staring.
The man’s eyes narrow to slits, but he clicks off his phone and yanks the door open. “What do you want?”
“Do you always treat your customers so sweetly or am I just special?” Hitoshi keeps his voice dry, his expression blank. No one’s going to accuse him of flirting, even if he does find the strange barista devastatingly handsome in a totally casual, cool way.
“Fuck off, Eyebags. Do you want something or do you plan to leave before I kick you out today?”
“Actually, I was wondering if I could actually order a drink this time instead of you just assuming things.”
“Oh,” the man snorts. “No, you can’t.”
Hitoshi blinks back his surprise, staring down at the barista like maybe he misheard. “What?”
“You look exactly like you’re going to order some bullshit that would make my teeth hurt just making it. I’m not dealing with that. Be a big boy and drink your big boy coffee. You like it, anyway.”
Hitoshi’s mouth opens and then closes a few times. He doesn’t think anyone has ever talked to him like this before, and it is genuinely the worst realization in the world that his heart is thumping wildly in his chest because he kind of just wants to do whatever this complete stranger says. “At least give me sugar.”
“Sugar’s bad for you.”
“Not true, your brain uses sugar as a fuel source.” He gives the man a quick look up and down. “Maybe you could use more sugar.”
“You got some shit to say, Eyebags?”
“Shinso, actually.” Hitoshi clears his throat. “Shinso Hitoshi. In case you wanted to call me a name instead of a random insult.”
“It’s not an insult.” Wine colored eyes flit over Shinso’s body. “It’s an observation. Tall ass purple troll doll, that’s an insult.”
“I think there’s something wrong with you.” Hitoshi says, and he means it too. There’s probably something wrong with him, too, but that’s neither here nor there.
The man smirks, like Hitoshi said something pleasing. “Probably. Call me Bakugo.”
No other name, but at least Hitoshi can actually call him something besides “hot barista” in his head. A second later there’s a small white pot shaped like a grenade with a tiny cap lid and a tiny spoon that sticks out to form the pin. “Uh, what’s this?”
“You asked for sugar, didn’t you? Have a blast.” Bakugo waves him off.
Hitoshi takes the surprisingly adorable little sugar bowl to his table. The next time Bakugo drops off a refill of the coffee, he watches Hitoshi put a spoonful in the cup, stir it, and try it.
As expected, the coffee is even better when Hitoshi gets a little sweetness to it. He grins, and before he can really think to stop himself, he’s holding out the mug towards Bakugo. “Better. Wanna try?”
Bakugo sneers, blushing somewhat cutely, and stomps away without answering.
Hitoshi glances up halfway through his next scene to see Bakugo now has his own mug sitting on a table across from him while he works on a particularly complicated bouquet that towers almost as tall as he is.
Hitoshi may stare at him a little longer than strictly necessary to confirm that Bakugo did make himself some of his own coffee, presumably with sugar this time, but hey. That’s his business.
##
He comes back to the shop several more times over the course of the next weeks. Winter digs deep into the sky and all the frozen solid ground. Hitoshi finds himself bundling up more and more for the walk over, with scarves and sweaters and hoodies and jackets, always half-buried under drifting snow by the time he stomps through the door.
The Rikidos baked him another cake for another short story published. This magazine is a much higher publication. The kind that gets agent attention. Hitoshi doesn’t really know what to do with it—he can’t eat an entire cake by himself, but he certainly can’t turn down free food from the Rikidos. He still hasn’t found a place that does sweets nearly as good as they do. All his friends are off for the holidays, visiting family or their partners.
So, he carries the cake in its box with him from the Rikidos. It’s a much bigger cake than he expected them to make, but Mr. Rikido had scratched his nose embarrassedly and hinted that maybe Shinso should share it with someone. For the holidays.
Hitoshi doesn’t celebrate the holidays but people tend to get weird when he tells them that, so he just thanks Mr. Rikido and assures him that he’ll tell him what his friends think.
Mrs. Rikido only sighs and shakes her head and tells him to be careful on the road.
The snow is heavier than usual, but he makes it to the shop before noon. Most of the poinsettias are gone and all of the completed arrangements have been delivered or picked up. Bakugo is sitting on his countertop, flipping through his phone when Hitoshi pushes his door open.
Bakugo looks surprised to see him, which is a shock in itself considering Hitoshi has been here practically every day for weeks now. “Hey there, Eyebags.”
Hitoshi rolls his eyes. “Still with the nicknames, hm?”
“It’s fun, you should try it.” Bakugo rolls his shoulders. “Didn’t expect you in today. Gonna have to make your coffee fresh. What’s that?”
Bakugo flicks the corner of the box.
“Cake,” Hitoshi ignores the cooler where a very pretty coconut cake is sitting on display. “From the Rikidos. They retired a little while ago.”
“And what, you harassed them for cake?”
Hitoshi scowls. “No. They made this for me. Guess you don’t want any?”
Bakugo snorts and looks down at his display. “Kinda rude to offer me someone else’s cake when you’ve never bought any of mine.”
“Look, I’ll buy some cake. We can decide if yours or theirs is better.” Hitoshi already knows the answer. The Rikidos are unnaturally good at baking. If someone made a cake better than Mrs. Rikido, he’s pretty sure he’d ascend.
There’s a pause where Bakugo considers Hitoshi’s offer. Then he shrugs and hops off his counter, circling around to the back and pulling out the cake on its stand. The coconut is lightly toasted and Hitoshi can smell it from here. It smells fucking divine.
The Rikidos cake is a rolled vanilla sponge cake with sugared berries arranged in bunches over the top. Hitoshi knows there’s strawberry jam on the inside, and homemade whipped cream. It’s a much lighter cake than the dense coconut, and far more colorful. The two slices beside each other both look gorgeous but no one would mistake them as being from the same place. Bakugo disappears into a backroom—probably the kitchen—and returns with two plates and two forks.
Bakugo serves up a piece on each plate and waits, smugly, for Hitoshi to take his first bite.
Hitoshi decides to go with the strawberry rolled cake first. The bite has everything—the sharp tartness of the berries, to smooth sweetness of the whipped cream, the perfect lightness of the cake. He could, arguably, eat this entire cake and he’s pretty sure he’d hardly notice he’d finished it off. Considering Sato’s quirk, he assumes this is a specialty of the Hidamari Café. Sato has to eat a lot of sugar, after all.
He is careful to only eat one bite, though. Bakugo watches him the whole time, leaned against his countertop with a cocky tilt to his mouth, arms crossed over his chest. He pays extra close attention to Hitoshi as he cuts off a piece of coconut cake. The crumb is tender but not falling apart. The cake is a pale white, and the coconut scent is strong.
He expects it to be overwhelming, but when the coconut hits his tongue, he’s surprised to find it balances quickly with almond and the subtle, toasted flavor of the coconut on the outside. Obviously the cake was soaked with something—a little boozy, but not overly so. Hitoshi takes two more bites, trying to discern every layer of flavor before he realizes he’s almost eaten half the slice.
Bakugo, damn him, looks incurably smug about the whole thing.
“It’s not better,” Hitoshi insists. Bakugo snorts in disbelief. “Just different. I can’t decide.”
Bakugo shrugs. “Shoulda known your ass wouldn’t have any taste.”
His fork scrapes against the plate when he tries the strawberry. The jam is incredible. Hitoshi knows this for certain. He doesn’t know what Mr. Rikido puts in it, but Hitoshi’s never had a jam like it.
Bakugo sits back, crossing his ankles over each other, and shrugs. “It’s good.”
Hitoshi knows it’s good. He just had it—he’s well aware. “Yeah? What’s the final verdict?”
“The final verdict is that my cake is better.” Bakugo grins. “That was always going to be the verdict.”
“You’re so full of yourself.” Hitoshi snatches up the rest of the coconut cake and eats the rest of it before Bakugo can go back to finish it off. Damn him, but it is good. “Flowers, coffee, and baking, too? What are you, some kind of fucking domestic arts god? You going to tell me you crochet and quilt next?”
“Quilting is just sewing but flat.” Bakugo shrugs and Hitoshi can’t help but squint his eyes at him. Unbelievable.
“You’re insane.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say so.” Bakugo’s gaze drops to Hitoshi’s backpack. “You gonna write today or what?”
“I write every day,” Hitoshi snaps at him. Bakugo laughs and Hitoshi tries really hard to pretend like his stomach doesn’t do flips at the sound of it.
Bakugo must be enjoying some rare leisurely time because he doesn’t bother making any arrangements or setting up any new flowers. He makes Hitoshi a latte—with vanilla and lavender, with extra cream and sugar, and sets one of those galaxy dipped mugs beside him and then goes back to scrolling on his phone.
Hitoshi tries to immerse himself in the chapter he’s working on, but his eyes keep dragging over to Bakugo. The man barely stops moving. Pacing as he texts on the phone. Disappearing into the kitchen and returning with nothing to show for it. Stretching, working out, and occasionally looking at Hitoshi from the corner of his eye.
Every time Hitoshi catches him, he finds himself both supremely pleased and supremely embarrassed because of course, every time he catches Bakugo looking at him, Hitoshi is also caught looking at Bakugo.
He’s gotten about 500 words into his scene when Bakugo finally wanders over to him, fists clenched at his sides, teeth bared in a smile as vicious as Bakugo’s most cutting remarks. Hitoshi perks up at the approach.
“So, what story keeps dragging you into my shop every day, wasting my space.”
“Didn’t know the seats were so limited today.” Hitoshi can’t help but glance at the rest of the empty shop.
“Not many people show up on Christmas eve.”
Oh, shit. Hitoshi had lost track of the days, hadn’t been paying any attention at all. Everything makes much more sense now. “Oh, shit. It’s almost Christmas.”
The Rikidos must think he’s a bit silly, or incredibly lonely, showing up at their place to tell them he’s managed to get published again. Probably the agent who sent him the acceptance meant it to be some kind of good news for Christmas.
Bakugo quirks a brow at him. “Yeah, dumbass. Did you miss all the Christmas lights and the closed down shops?”
“You’re not closed.” Hitoshi points out the obvious, then feels like a jerk immediately after. “Er, I mean, it’s nice to have somewhere to go on Christmas Eve?”
Bakugo squints at him, as if trying to decide if Hitoshi is being weird on purpose. Unfortunately, Hitoshi is just Like This, all the time. “Yeah, guess so. My parents always take a trip during the holidays and my best friend cancelled last minute because he’s an ass and also across the country and his school essentially shut down everything.”
“Uh.” Hitoshi only knows one school across the country that shut down and he’s pretty sure Bakugo wasn’t even supposed to get that phone call. “Is he at UA? Aren’t they—”
“He’s a teacher and yes, they’re having some bullshit.” Bakugo shrugs. “Most of it’s over though. He’s just stayed behind for the students.”
“Sounds like a good guy?” Hitoshi can’t tell if Bakugo is annoyed or proud of his friend’s decision. Hitoshi would have probably killed to have some nice teacher stay back to keep the students company and routine. Holidays were always exceedingly boring when he was younger.
“Yeah.” Bakugo shrugs. Hitoshi realizes that Bakugo is uncomfortable with his shoulders hunched forward and his face in a distracted scowl. “So, you gonna tell me what you’re writing or what?”
And Hitoshi, as any writer would, spends the next three hours answering questions about the ghost story he’s been working on for years. Somehow they branch off into his short stories—the ones that are published, the ones still searching for a home. Bakugo, it turns out, doesn’t believe in ghosts. He says it with all the gravitas of someone haunted, and Hitoshi can’t help but laugh.
They talk about the way hauntings and queer stories layer over each other. Hitoshi wrote his thesis on hauntings and queer media. He doesn’t realize he’s been yapping nonstop until Bakugo shoves a plate in front of Hitoshi’s face with more cake on it. Hitoshi’s actually a little disappointed to see Mr. Rikido’s strawberry jam sponge cake. Bakugo has already started on his own slice—the piece of coconut he didn’t try earlier.
Bakugo snort-laughs when Hitoshi’s fork dives for his plate. “Told you mine was better.”
“Not better,” Hitoshi insists. “Just new.”
They end up in a brief scuffle that almost knocks over the table and sends Hitoshi sprawling onto his back, long limbs knocking into shelves of loose flowers in their pots. Nothing falls, but Hitoshi flinches anyway. Bakugo laughs at that, too, and Hitoshi is beyond aware that he’s royally fucked.
“So, you know you’re fucked, right?” Bakugo says, and Hitoshi sits up abruptly, staring at Bakugo as if he was caught out over his thoughts.
“What?”
Bakugo points at the door, which has snow piled up to nearly the halfway point. The roads are probably covered in ice so thick Hitoshi could skate on it. “Well, shit.”
“Shit, indeed. Guess you gotta stay here.” Bakugo doesn’t look at him, distracted as he stares outside. “Not going to have a dead customer on my record.”
“Oh?” Hitoshi swallows but his mouth is suddenly dry. “I mean, your shop is preferable to dying.”
“Well, you’re in luck.” Bakugo stands up and offers his hand out to Hitoshi. “I can do one better. I have an apartment upstairs.”
Hitoshi barely resists pinching himself to see if he’s dreaming. An apartment? Bakugo’s apartment? He’s been this close to Bakugo’s home this entire time? And now he’s been invited to see it. Fuck dreaming, has he died?
“A whole apartment?” Hitoshi says, instead of any of the nonsense swirling around in his thoughts. “And here I thought you lived behind the counter like a little barista demon.”
“Florist.” Bakugo corrects him. Apparently tonight is the night of reframing things for Hitoshi, because the fact that Bakugo cares more about the floral side of his business is exceedingly obvious.
Something horrible occurs to Hitoshi. “Were you even open today?”
He never bothers to look at the door when he walks in. He certainly hadn’t today. Had he walked into a Bakugo relaxing at was, essentially, his home, on a holiday?
“Well, I didn’t have a single other customer all day.” Bakugo grins and rolls his wrist to tell Hitoshi to hurry up. “Looks like everyone else in town can read.”
Well. “You know, maybe going out into the snow and just dying out there wouldn’t be so bad,” Hitoshi remarks. Bakugo rolls his eyes and starts closing up Hitoshi’s laptop, since apparently he also can’t listen to instructions. “Hey! I’ve got a very important ritual I have to perform when I’m done writing.”
“You haven’t written anything in literal hours.” Bakugo steps back and lets Hitoshi go through the process of saving his work and then updating his three separate backups.
Hitoshi then follows Bakugo up the staircase to his apartment, shuffling through the narrow space with his backpack as tucked in behind him as he can. It’s a tight squeeze. Even worse when Bakugo gets to the door and has to search through his pants for his key.
The stairwell is much colder than the shop had been. Hitoshi bets that Bakugo prioritizes keeping his plants warm during the winter months.
He’s proven right when he steps into the tidy, neat apartment. There’s a television, a computer desk with an open laptop, and a dozen cuttings in various stages of development. Only one is a mature flower—a white bell that’s open at full bloom in the window.
Bakugo ignores everything else, turns to the left, and disappears in a room that Hitoshi assumes is a bedroom. He, on the other hand, stands in the center of the entryway, holding his bag and realizing, a little late, that he has no other clothes to wear.
Not that it matters. What was he going to do? Freeze to death because he forgot pajamas? Ridiculous.
The problem ends up not being a problem. Bakugo comes out from the bedroom, throws a pair of sweatpants at him. They hit him square in the head because Hitoshi is too busy trying to devour every detail of Bakugo’s apartment while looking like he couldn’t care less.
“You must be a big All Might fan,” Hitoshi says, without thinking. Bakugo scowls, but the theme is pretty obvious. He’s seen more obvious tributes than the muted red, gold, and blues that thread through Bakugo’s living room. What really gives it away, though, is the hand knitted blanket with the Golden Age emblem over the front.
“We’re all fans of something.” Bakugo’s ears are pink, his fists clenched at his side. “Are you hungry?”
Hitoshi is not hungry, in fact. His stomach is full of cake. However, Bakugo doesn’t really wait to hear his answer before he’s crossing the room to the small kitchen and pushing things around in the fridge.
He ends up with eggs and a handful of peppers and vegetables, slivers of thick cut ham. Ten minutes later Hitoshi is dressed in a pair of baggy sweatpants and his t-shirt and being served an omelet that looks like he should drop to one knee right now and propose.
He doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage, but he does maybe believe in wooing a man when he takes the first bite of egg and blended pepper. “This is amazing,” spills out of his mouth, words fighting with the egg as he shovels another bite in.
He also hasn’t eaten all day, but he doesn’t think that makes much of a difference.
“You’re gonna choke eating that fast.” Bakugo breaks up his egg into four sections, then those into halves, and then takes a bite. “But good to know you can actually eat. After nothing for weeks and all that cake, I thought maybe you only had sweet teeth all the way through.”
“I eat real food!” Hitoshi’s not going to admit that he eats mostly cereal out of the box and whatever sandwich he remembers to throw together before bed. “But this is better than most of it,” he admits.
Bakugo grins. “I was a chef for a while.”
“Sounds like you’ve been a lot of things.”
Bakugo hums, looking out of the wide window behind his couch. “Yeah, guess so.”
Hitoshi gets it. He’s worked in the same office for five years, but it’s definitely not his dream. Writing is slow, hard work though. Hitoshi has to pay the bills somehow, and his miniscule writer checks won’t do anything. Bakugo doesn’t seem like he’d work well under someone else. Bakugo doesn’t seem like he’s ever done anything he doesn’t want to do. Still, Hitoshi can’t help but notice all the stuff around the room—the gauntlets, the high school award, the general theme of heroes around the room. And Hitoshi wonders if Bakugo once dreamed of something beside flowers and coffee pots.
“So, heroes, hm?” Hitoshi says, after he’s finished his last bite of food. If he’s going to take a risk, he’s going to at least not risk the food.
“What about ‘em?” Bakugo’s shoulders tense, but he’s left his last couple of bites on the plate.
“I don’t know anyone who didn’t used to want to be a hero.” Hitoshi glances back at the award on the wall. “Not every kid went to UA, though.”
“Doesn’t matter what school you go to when your quirk rattles your heart so bad you end up in the hospital three times before you graduate.”
Hitoshi doesn’t know what to say to that. After a while, he pulls together every scrap left of his courage. There wasn’t much left after high school and a career path that includes fielding rejection as part of the process. “I tried out for the hero course. Didn’t get in, of course. The entrance exam doesn’t exactly work well with quirks like mine.”
Bakugo gives him a sharp look at that. “Quirks like what?”
“You know, not everyone has a power based quirk.” Hitoshi shrugs, looks away, out the same window. The winter is cold and deep and thick, a blanket over the night that makes everything feel quiet. The quiet steeps everything in vulnerability, like a safety net Hitoshi can’t help but trust. “Brainwashing isn’t really seen as a heroic quirk, either.”
Bakugo frowns. “Like. Mind control?”
“Yeah.” Hitoshi watches, carefully, for the tension of uncertainty, the shift of Bakugo’s eyes towards the door or his phone. The panic, then the escape route. But despite how closely Hitoshi watches him, Bakugo only fiddles with his fork in contemplation.
“I get it.” Bakugo sighs, leaning back and meeting Hitoshi’s eyes straight on. He doesn’t even ask how Hitoshi’s quirk works. “Nothing like a quirk that should be the best thing about you fucking you over, hm?”
“Yeah… nothing like it.” Hitoshi doesn’t think he’s ever met a more perfect person. Sure, Bakugo is abrasive and pushy and never bothers to ask Hitoshi what coffee he actually wants. But he’s also basically mastered every art under the sun, including wooing strange writers who stumble into his shop like errant fae creatures.
He can’t really let this opportunity pass him up.
Except, when he opens his mouth to speak, Bakugo’s already talking.
“So, when this storm passes. You think you’re open to coming back around?” Bakugo frowns, then scowls. “Shit, should’ve waited until the weather cleared. Look, you don’t have to say yes just because you’re in here, I won’t kick you out if you say no.”
“Bakugo,” Hitoshi laughs and Bakugo’s scowl lessens, just enough that Hitoshi knows he’s not taking it the wrong way. “Would you like to go get… well, not coffee. Dinner?”
“Save your money,” Bakugo’s cheeks are pink, but his lips split into a wide smile. “I’m a better cook than most restaurants around here. Whaddya want?”
Hitoshi looks down at his empty plate. “I would eat just about anything you make, probably. More eggs?”
Bakugo looks perfectly pleased, like a cat who a mouth full of cream. “I’m not makin’ eggs for our date, dumbass.”
“Dealers choice, then.” Hitoshi’s cheeks hurt. He’s pretty sure he’s grinning like an idiot.
The winter carries on outside. The Christmas Eve lights break through the white wall of snow, and a glitter of rainbow lights, and Hitoshi couldn’t give a shit less about the holiday. But watching shitty movies and eating too much cake with the world’s grouchiest barista might be a worthy tradition for the season.