Chapter Text
Twenty-five felt much sturdier than twenty-four.
Eijirou decided that while jogging down the sidewalk at six in the morning, the city was still half asleep around him. His shirt stuck to the back of his neck, slightly damp with sweat. He always enjoyed jogging in the mornings.
Life was good.
No. Life was great.
He had his dream job. An apartment with decent sunlight for once. Friends he trusted with his life. Fans who still cried meeting him for reasons he honestly didn’t understand.
He’d made it.
Which is probably why the weird restless feeling in his chest made absolutely no sense.
Eijirou slowed to a walk when he was about a block away from his apartment, already reaching for his earbuds.
Routine carried him the rest of the way automatically.
Shower. Hoodie. Hair. Then out the door again to the café he’d been going to for almost four years now. The café was along the walk to the agency, plus he would never complain that the owner always gave him extra whipped cream on his drinks.
Eijirou liked routines.
Routines meant stability. Stability meant he wasn’t sleeping in a UA dorm room wondering if he would survive long enough to graduate.
The little bell usually rang as he opened the door.
Today, it didn’t. It didn’t even open.
Eijirou blinked.
The lights weren’t on, there was a massive brown sheet covering the windows, and a bright sign taped crookedly to the glass read: “Closed for renovations. See you in three weeks!”
Eijirou blinked again.
Three weeks?
He pressed both hands to his hips, staring through the paper covered windows as if determination alone might manifest his coffee.
“Man, that's brutal,” he muttered.
The realization hit him with surprising force.
This place had become part of his life in that sneaky way routines did. The smiling barista with dyed hair who started his order the second he walked in. The table in the corner that had the best view out the big windows so he could people watch before he had to make his way to the agency. The terrible pop music they always played too early in the morning.
Huh.
Maybe he really was stuck in routine.
Eijirou exhaled slowly through his nose.
Maybe this was the sign he needed to switch up his routine.
Eijirou continued down the sidewalk, he still had an hour before his shift started, now is the perfect time to find a new café for the next three weeks.
A few blocks down, Eijirou was drawn to a café that he had never noticed before.
Warm air rolled over him the second he stepped inside, rich with the smell of coffee and cinnamon.
“Welcome in.”
The voice behind the counter was sharp, rough around the edges, and immediately comforting in a way that made his brain short-circuit for half a second. He looked up.
The barista stood with one hand braced against the counter, black apron dusted lightly with flour in the most endearing way. Ash blond hair fell messily across his forehead, and his expression looked aggressively unimpressed for someone working in a café at eight in the morning.
He was unfairly pretty.
“Uh,” Eijirou was an idiot who did not know how to talk to pretty baristas.
Red eyes flicked up towards him.
No.
Not toward him exactly.
Slightly to the left.
“Are you ordering or are you just going to stand there?” The barista asked.
Eijirou coughed. “Right. Sorry,” he looked at the board behind the blond. “Uh, I'll try the pumpkin spiced latte, please and thank you.”
The blond nodded, uncrossed his arms, and dragged them up to the screen of the register. His movements were smooth, practiced.
After paying, he found himself watching the way he moved around the workplace.
Efficient.
Exact.
It was like a dance, he never hesitated when reaching for anything, even things that should’ve been out of arm’s reach. His fingers brushed the edge of the espresso machine once, twice, like checkpoints.
The milk pitcher sat exactly parallel to the counter’s edge.
Every syrup bottle was lined up with weird precision.
And he still hadn’t actually looked directly at Eijiro once.
“I seriously do not understand how you drink this shit,” Eijirou looked up. The blond was still busy making his drink, but had his head tilted toward him.
“Life is hard,” Eijirou said solemnly. “Sometimes a guy needs whipped cream.”
The blond turned and stared in his direction for a long moment.
“That is the stupidest shit I've ever heard.”
“You smiled a little though.”
“Get out.”
Eijirou laughed before he could stop himself.
The barista’s expression shifted almost gradually at the sound, like he hadn’t expected it.
Then someone from the kitchen called, “Bakugou, where’d you put the cinnamon rolls?”
“Same place they always are,” Bakugou snapped immediately.
He turned his head slightly toward the sound.
Precise again.
Listening.
He finally made his way over to the pick up counter, reaching for a to go lid. He slid his hand over the counter before placing the drink down, “one pumpkin spiced latte.”
Eijirou reached for the cup, the warmth from the cup was soothing.
He took a careful sip.
Perfect.
“See?” He said immediately, “That's good.”
Behind the counter Bakugou scoffed.
“Your tastebuds are weak.”
“Listen man, not everybody wants their coffee to taste like punishment.” Eijirou laughed as he turned to pick a seat by the window.
Bakugou grumbled something that he couldn’t decipher as he turned to welcome the customer that had just walked in.
Eijiro settled into the window seat with his latte cradled between both hands.
The chair beneath him creaked softly. Outside, morning traffic rolled steadily past the fogged glass, people hurrying to work with scarves pulled tight against the cold.
Inside, everything felt slower.
Warm.
He took another sip, letting the sweetness settle on his tongue and the warmth fill him while his eyes drifted back toward the counter almost automatically.
Bakugou was arguing with the espresso machine.
“If you break on me today, I'm setting this whole place on fire,” he muttered.
The older woman at the end of the counter snorted into her tea like she had heard this speech before.
Eijiro smiled into his cup.
Weird.
He had only been here maybe fifteen minutes, and already the café felt.. Comfortable.
Familiar.
Bakugou moved through the space with sharp efficiency, shoulders squared like he was always ready to fight. Every movement looked deliberate. Measured.
Eijiro found himself watching the tiny details instead of looking away like a normal person probably should.
The rough edge of his voice softening, just barely, when talking to an elderly customer.
Huh.
He was kind.
Mean about it, apparently, but still kind.
Eijiro rested his cheek against his fist, staring openly now.
He was so pretty.
Like, distractingly pretty.
Which,
Okay.
Maybe he has a problem.