Chapter Text
Izuku learned early how to live lightly in small spaces.
His apartment sat directly above the café, wedged between old brick walls that held onto warmth in winter and heat in summer, the kind of place that creaked when the wind was wrong and hummed softly with the life below. It was cheap, suspiciously cheap, his mum had said when he’d first signed the lease at nineteen, but it was clean, safe, and close enough to work that he could roll out of bed and be downstairs in under five minutes if he had to.
Which, admittedly, happened more often than he liked.
Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, catching on dust motes and the edges of mismatched furniture he’d collected second-hand or salvaged from the curb. His couch was a deep teal, the fabric worn soft and pilled at the arms. The coffee table didn’t match it at all, bright yellow legs and a scratched white top, but Izuku liked the way it felt alive, like it had history. Like it hadn’t been afraid of color.
Color mattered to him.
His walls were crowded with it.
Sketches taped up with washi tape in clashing patterns. Pressed leaves. Old café menus he’d redesigned for fun. Pages torn from his sketchbooks, florals wrapped around limbs, designs meant to follow the curve of a shoulder or the hollow of a wrist. Some were neat and deliberate, others frantic, layered over and over until the page almost tore.
Ink without skin.
Izuku lay on his back on the narrow bed, emerald curls splayed messily across the pillow, staring up at the ceiling fan as it clicked softly in uneven rotations. He should get up. He knew that. His alarm had gone off ten minutes ago, and the smell of coffee drifting up through the floorboards told him someone downstairs had already started the first pot.
But he stayed still, one hand resting on his chest, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt.
Bright green. Oversized. Clashed horribly with the orange pajama pants he was wearing.
He smiled faintly to himself.
“Okay,” he murmured, finally pushing himself upright. “Okay.”
The bathroom mirror reflected a familiar mess, curls that refused to lie flat no matter what he did, freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose like someone had flicked paint at him without warning. His eyes still looked sleepy, a little too big for his face, but there was warmth there too. Always warmth.
He brushed his teeth while mentally running through the day, inventory, restocking syrups, a staff meeting at close, and tried not to let his thoughts wander to the sketchbook tucked into his bag by the door.
Tried, and failed.
The café was already awake by the time he came downstairs, the bell over the door chiming softly as he stepped behind the counter. The space was narrow but cozy, all exposed brick and hanging plants, the kind of place people liked to sit in for too long. Izuku loved it for that. Loved watching strangers soften as the hours passed, shoulders dropping, conversations growing quieter and more honest.
“Morning, Deku,” Mina chirped from the espresso machine, pink hair tucked into a messy bun.
“Morning!” he replied easily, tying his apron around his waist. The fabric was splattered with old stains, coffee, milk, ink from a pen he’d forgotten in the pocket once, but it was comfortable. Familiar.
He slipped into the rhythm of work like muscle memory.
Grinding beans. Steaming milk. Calling out orders in a voice that carried warmth without trying. Izuku liked this part, the steadiness, the way his hands always knew what to do. He liked the smiles he got when he remembered someone’s order, the way regulars lit up when he greeted them by name.
It felt good to be needed.
Sometimes, though, that feeling twisted in his chest.
Because as much as he loved the café, the warmth, the people, the small rituals, he knew, deep down, that this wasn’t where he wanted to stay forever.
Between customers, Izuku leaned against the counter and flipped open his sketchbook, pencil already smudged dark along the side of his hand. He sketched without thinking at first, a cup, steam curling up like vines, a hand wrapped around ceramic, veins and tendons carefully mapped.
Then the drawing shifted.
The lines grew bolder. The steam became something else, an explosion of shapes restrained by structure, flowers pushing through sharp angles. He erased, redrew, layered shadows until the page felt heavy with intention.
A tattoo.
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
There it was again, that pull in his chest. That longing that had followed him since he was sixteen and had watched, transfixed, as a tattoo artist worked on a customer’s forearm at a street fair. The steady hands. The focus. The reverence with which skin was treated, not as something to mark thoughtlessly, but as something to honor.
He’d gone home that night and drawn until dawn.
He’d kept drawing ever since.
“You okay?” Mina asked gently, peering over the counter.
Izuku startled, cheeks flushing. “Yeah! Yeah, sorry, just… zoning out.”
She smiled knowingly but didn’t press. No one ever did. They all knew him as the sweet barista with the colorful clothes and the nervous rambling, the one who stayed late to help close and covered shifts without complaint.
They didn’t know about the research tabs open on his laptop at three in the morning. The saved internship listings he never applied to. The way his fingers hovered over the submit button and froze.
The tattoo industry felt intimidating.
Loud. Sharp-edged. Full of people who looked like they belonged there in ways Izuku wasn’t sure he ever would. He imagined walking into a studio, sketchbook clutched too tight, voice too soft, and being laughed right back out the door.
So he stayed where he was safe.
And tried not to resent himself for it.
By mid-morning, the rush slowed, and Izuku found himself wiping down counters with practiced ease. His reflection in the espresso machine caught his eye, layers of color, patterned socks peeking out beneath cuffed jeans, a cardigan thrown over a shirt that didn’t match anything else he wore.
He liked how he looked. Most days.
It felt like armor of a different sort.
At noon, he took his break upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor with leftovers balanced on the coffee table. He ate absentmindedly, flipping through his sketchbook again, tracing the lines with his fingertip.
“Someday,” he whispered, not entirely sure whether he believed it.
The afternoon passed gently. More regulars. More smiles. A student who tipped too much and blushed when Izuku thanked him. The sun shifted, light slanting gold through the front windows.
By the time evening crept in, Izuku was tired in that good way, feet aching, shoulders sore, heart full.
He locked up after close, waved goodbye to his coworkers, and climbed the stairs back to his apartment, the café quiet beneath him now. He set his bag down by the door and toed off his shoes, padding barefoot across the floor.
He stopped in front of the wall where his sketches were taped.
Tonight, his gaze lingered on one in particular, a design he’d drawn months ago and never touched again. Bold lines. Controlled chaos. Something powerful, restrained, waiting.
He swallowed.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought.
Maybe soon.
Down below, the café sat empty, lights dimmed, waiting for morning. Waiting for the door to open.
───────
Katsuki woke up before his alarm, as usual.
The room was dark, curtains pulled tight against the early morning light, the city still quiet enough that he could hear the low hum of traffic several blocks away. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his apartment, jaw tight, mind already running through the day ahead.
Inventory check. Two appointments before noon. A cover-up that needed redrawing. A walk-in he already knew he was going to turn away.
His hands flexed at his sides.
He got up without hesitation, bare feet hitting cold concrete floors, and crossed the room to the bathroom. The mirror there reflected a man who looked exactly how most people expected him to. Sharp. Intimidating. Awake even when the rest of the world still lagged behind.
Katsuki splashed water on his face and dragged his fingers back through his hair, blond strands already falling into their usual wild shape. Dark smudges of eyeliner clung stubbornly beneath his eyes, remnants from yesterday that he hadn’t bothered to scrub away completely. He liked the way it made him look harder. Less approachable.
Safer.
His apartment was minimalist to the point of austerity. A mattress on a low frame. A metal shelf stacked with ink caps, gloves, sketchbooks, and disinfectant wipes. No unnecessary decoration. No photos on the walls.
Everything he cared about lived somewhere else.
Ground Zero sat three blocks down from his building, a converted warehouse space with tall ceilings and reinforced concrete floors. Katsuki had spent years turning it into exactly what he wanted. Clean lines. Bright, unforgiving lights over each station. Steel and glass and order.
People assumed the name meant violence.
They were not wrong, but they were also not right.
To Katsuki, Ground Zero was about precision. About control. About taking something volatile and shaping it into something intentional.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic and ink settling over him like a second skin. The space was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. He flicked on the lights one by one, watching the studio come alive.
This was his.
Every surface gleamed. Every tool had its place. His station sat at the far end, immaculate, sketchbooks stacked neatly beside his machine. He ran a finger along the edge of the table, checking for dust that wasn’t there.
Tattooing had saved him.
He did not say that out loud. He did not think it often. But it was true.
There had been a time when all Katsuki knew how to do was burn himself out, chasing something he could never quite name. Anger had come easily then. Control had not. He had been sharp in all the wrong ways.
The first time he’d held a tattoo machine, something had clicked into place.
The weight of it. The vibration. The way his hands steadied instead of shaking. The way the noise in his head quieted when he focused on linework, on depth, on the trust implicit in someone sitting still beneath his touch.
People gave him their skin.
Katsuki never forgot that.
By the time his apprentices began to filter in, he was already working on a design, graphite dark against thick paper. One of them greeted him cheerfully. Another nodded, more cautious.
“Morning,” one ventured.
“Mm,” Katsuki grunted in response, eyes never leaving the page.
They knew better than to expect more.
He was not unkind. He paid them fairly. He corrected their mistakes without cruelty and praised good work without embellishment. He just did not invite closeness.
Friendship existed for him in a narrow band of tolerance. Kirishima texted him memes and dragged him out for drinks once a month. Mina teased him relentlessly and had been piercing him for years without flinching. Sero stopped by sometimes to fix things Katsuki pretended he could handle on his own.
They were friends.
He kept them at arm’s length anyway.
Because wanting more than that felt dangerous.
By mid-morning, Ground Zero buzzed with quiet activity. Machines whirred. Needles buzzed. Clients came and went, some nervous, some eager, all treated with the same blunt honesty Katsuki offered everyone.
He worked without pause, posture perfect, focus absolute. The piece he finished just before noon was large, intricate, and flawless. When the client saw it in the mirror, they cried.
Katsuki looked away, pretending to adjust his gloves.
Praise made him uncomfortable. Gratitude even more so.
He took a break only because his stomach twisted sharply, reminding him that he had skipped breakfast again. He stripped his gloves off and washed his hands thoroughly, scrubbing ink from his skin with practiced care.
“Back in twenty,” he said, already reaching for his jacket.
The air outside was crisp, sharp enough to bite. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and walked without thinking, boots heavy against the pavement.
He always ended up there.
The café on the corner sat directly beneath a narrow apartment building, warm light spilling through its windows even at this hour. It was quieter than the chains scattered around the neighborhood, cozier, the kind of place that smelled like fresh bread and comfort.
Katsuki told himself he went there because the coffee was good.
He told himself that every day.
Inside, the café hummed softly with early patrons and low music. He stepped up to the counter automatically, gaze fixed ahead, already preparing the familiar order on his tongue.
Then he looked up.
And stopped.
The barista behind the counter was not new. Katsuki realized that distantly, even as his brain stalled out entirely. He must have been here before. He must have seen him.
But something about the morning light caught him wrong this time.
Big green eyes, wide and bright, blinking up at him in surprise. Freckles dusted across soft skin, scattered unevenly like stars. Curly hair the color of fresh leaves tumbled around his face, refusing to stay neat.
And he was smiling.
Not a customer service smile. Not forced. Crooked and warm and real, like he had been genuinely pleased to see Katsuki standing there.
Katsuki felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.
He stared for a beat too long.
The barista’s smile wobbled, just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing something wrong.
Katsuki’s jaw clenched.
“Black,” he barked out. “No sugar.”
The words came out sharper than intended. Loud enough that a couple of people nearby glanced over.
The barista startled, then recovered quickly, nodding. “Y-yeah, okay. Coming right up.”
His voice was gentle. Soft around the edges. It did something unpleasant to Katsuki’s chest.
He watched, uncomfortably aware of himself, as the barista moved with practiced ease. Hands steady. Motions confident without being rigid. There was something familiar in the way he worked, something Katsuki recognized on a visceral level.
Focus. Care.
When the cup was placed on the counter, it was done with both hands.
“Here you go,” the barista said, eyes flicking up again. Still smiling, though now there was a flush creeping into his cheeks.
Katsuki swallowed.
“Yeah,” he muttered, grabbing the cup and dropping cash onto the counter without counting it. “Thanks.”
He turned and left before he could embarrass himself further, heart pounding harder than it had during any session that morning.
Outside, he took a long pull of coffee and scowled at nothing in particular.
It tasted perfect.
He did not look back at the café.
But the image followed him anyway. Green eyes. Freckles. Steady hands.