Chapter Text
Doubles were brutal, especially the evening and then the graveyard shift. Some action to none, minutes dragging to hours with seemingly no limit to the bone-deep exhaustion as he would have to swing through the city on lookout for stumbling drunks.
Sometimes Hitoshi regretted going underground. It had always been the plan, especially after Aizawa became his mentor and later his father, but there were lots of things about the job he could do without.
Scraping by with the finders cut and surviving on whatever Yamada made that day and instant ramen was made even more frustrating when his classmates were plastered over billboards holding a perfume bottle and rolling up to red carpets in designer suits. No, that was unfair - he was close enough to know most of it was facade, but not all of it.
Even with that, he knew he had it good. He was a hero - a real, actual hero, who saved people and was smiled at and appreciated. He had two loving parents, who he could bicker and squabble with, and hug it out afterwards. Who he could hang out with silently in the sitting room. Well, almost silently, since Yamada hummed when he did anything, even if it was meditation or breathing, usually some awful pop song that made Aizawa swoon behind a scowl.
He still detested this shift.
Suffice to say, caffeine was constantly required.
Grimacing at the run down cafe, the only one open at the slum his new route began at, he weighed the risks of weariness or possible food poisoning.
An iffy stomach was easier to heal than broken bones. He wandered in.
A rusted bell clattered as the cracked glass door swung open.
As he predicted, it smelt of must and damp, but not as strongly as it could have. It was surprisingly warm, bare bulbs glowing brightly above well worn wooden tables and chairs with vaguely commercial blue cushions. The floor was concrete but a rug had hidden most of it, other than where the fibres had worn to be translucent.
Rather suddenly, and without warning, he came eye to eye with the ghost classmate.
For the first time in a long time, Izuku felt anger. Actually, not anger, rage. His teeth clenched and his fists were white, clutching the underside of the order counter with all of his puny quirkless strength. Judging by the creaking, it wasn't that weak.
Shinsou had the fucking gall to look pleasantly surprised.
Izuku wanted to punch him. He wanted to take the ridiculous overpriced coffee grinder and cave in that liar's skull.
Years of nothing except reminders that he wasn't included, involved or even thought of. After everything they had been through, he was tossed aside like an empty can.
It's not the first time Bakugou has turned his back on him. It's not the second time has turned his back on him. It was Bakugou, Izuku never expected him to change completely.
But the entire class. It was meant to be different this time, it's one of the reasons he fought so hard to keep them safe. So much scar tissue and constant pain and dedication to a group of people he thought actually loved him.
It was meant to be different this time.
"Izuku? Holy shit, where have you been?"
Shinsou spoke his name so casually, as if he had any right. If only he could shove the word back into his mouth, so violently it broke all of his teeth. But he needed this job. It was the only job that would hire a quirkless person knowingly in the entire prefecture.
Izuku deflated.
Energy leeched out of him, and all of his bitterness with it. Intense apathy and nothingness that made his skin tingle as if he was a doll wrapped in a too tight disguise and he needed to peel it off-
"Hey. You okay?"
Blinking, Izuku registered that Shinsou had moved closer.
For a brief moment all Izuku wanted to do was hug him and weep.
It felt as if he was a monster, reaching out of the shadow with pale hands towards the shimmering heroes, basking in the sunlight of the day, yearning for a single ray of their warmth. Anything to break through the oppressive dust that coated his skin, regulated in blackness, a sign that he had been abandoned. Left behind, like a trinket while moving house, never to be searched for and promptly forgotten as they decorated a shiny new room with larger, brighter things.
Even seeing one of those he once considered close friends burnt. An ache deep in his chest, a heart he thought to be long dead was wailing as it pulsed.
And even worse, Hitoshi looked good. Tired, exhausted as usual, but happy.
And the fact that Izuku didn't feel happy for him made the wound bleed more, dripping down to the fall slowly, loudly, every drop soaking into the floorboards.
At some point during third year, he foolishly thought that maybe their relationship was only beginning to blossom. They kissed a few times, at sleepovers once everyone else fast asleep, and then behind closed doors during study dates. After the final battle, it just… fizzled. Graduation came and went, and so did Hitoshi.
He got adopted.
The class had a party to celebrate. They talked about it endlessly in a new group chat, discussing details and how to make it a surprise since Hitoshi and Aizawa would never agree. But nobody asked his opinion, or even acknowledged him at all.
Then, after a hard day of being sneered at by customers and micromanaged by a boss who thought he was an incompetent narcissist, he opens it for curiosity's sake, and finds that the party was yesterday.
It went incredibly, according to them. A begrudging Hitoshi joined in eventually with the festivities. There were so many photos.
Everyone was grinning. Their eyes sparkled. They had plates of food, cupcakes and chocolates and coffee jelly. Aizawa was in the corner, glancing around with purse lips, clearly in discomfort, but even he had a sparkling drink in hand and was being chatted at by Todoroki; boy could never read cues that someone wasn't interested in being info dumped too.
Izuku waited for the pain. For the betrayal and anger that had been the only thing he held for the past years, for the tears and sobbing and silent hiccuping when he wore himself out.
It never came.
His chest was empty. There were occasional revelations, like someone dropped their phone on an empty tube platform. But no rumbling bullet trains screeching past, no tightness or heavy stones to weigh him down.
When he pressed against the skin of his leg, he couldn't feel it. As if he was touching somebody else. This limb was not his, nor this one, or that one, or any of them.
"Oy, greenie! Do your fucking job! You know, the one I pay you for!" came the sneering reprimand from the boss, echoing from the backroom with the stench of tuna.
Oh right. He was at work.
"Welcome to Kocha Cafe, what can I get started for you?"
Hitoshi blinked at him. He was taking a very long time to blink, and there was something odd happening on his face. "Um. What? Sorry?"
Deep breath. In. The smell of butter and cream. Wood print limonium smooth underneath his fingers. Out.
"Is there anything I can make you today? Or would you like to try one of our pastries? They're made fresh every morning."
It was later afternoon verging on early evening. All of the pastries were like baseballs.
"Um. What?"
"We have a new drink on the menu-"
"Stop talking. Just… Izuku?"
Again, something was happening to Shinsou's voice. It was pitching weirdly, a wobble. And his face was scrunched. Now his hand was on the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin there not covered by his capture weapon.
Aizawa had become a strawberry when Hitoshi first did it in class; he was teased endlessly about having a copycat, and despite all the grumblings Izuku could tell he was privately honoured.
"Hey, are you doing okay? You seem seriously out of it."
The smile arrived on his face so naturally, like his flesh suit was full of air and it needed to bubble out of his mouth through the corners of his curved mouth.
Shinsou's presumptions about his normal slid underneath the locked gate, something to slither out during the dark hours where he lay in bed.
"Yes Sir?"
"How long have you been working here? You never mentioned anything about getting a job to anyone. We're been looking for you."
Oh. Usually the first port of call when trying to find someone was to contact them on their number. Maybe his phone got disconnected? Failure to pay, or simple unwillingness to have a quirkless person infecting their network. No, he had checked when he mother failed to even text him last year on his birthday. And then again this year.
"Oh. Why didn't you just phone?"
Shinsou flinched, paling. "Oh, um-"
"What would you like to drink?" Izuku cut in. Whoops, that wasn't the light and friendly tone he was aiming for at all. In fact, nothing seemed to be as it should. The world seemed particularly fuzzy in fact.
Purple eyes stared at him. They were so vivid and clear - it was really pretty. His mouth was hanging open, and the intrusive memories of what it was like to sneak kisses from those thin lips barged into his mind.
Silence hung in the air for a moment, and then a moment more.
Clearly Shinsou wasn't going to say anything else, so Izuku turned his back to him and began to make coffee.
Rhythmic movements soothed him, rubber as he tamped the grounds, warm metal underneath his hand as he frothed the milk. Four shots of espresso, milk poured out of the side of the jug so it didn't dilute the dark liquid below. A takeaway cup was placed on the counter.
Shinsou was still staring at him. He seemed sad. Then he looked down to the mug, lifted it and saw the small white sugar packets alongside it.
Another moment of silence. Shinsou swallowed, closing his eyes, fingers tight around the cardboard cup.
"We should-"
"Thank you for stopping by Kocha Cafe. Have a great rest of your evening sir. Stay warm, it's meant to get to single digits tonight."
And with that, Izuku turned, going back to wiping down the counter, mopping up a pale puddle from where someone had thrown their drink at him ten minutes prior.
By the time the bell jingled, he was back to occupying someone else's body. The wetness was still piping somehow, and as it touched pale skin it bloomed like a flower, redness spreading rapidly along the palm. Izuku shivered and continued mopping.
Hitoshi was lost.
He was sitting on a bench, sipping a coffee crafted exactly the way he liked it, with blank green eyes etched into his skull. Wind rushed past him, leaves following the movements scurrying across the floor like tiny brown insects.
A shrill buzzing came from his pocket. It was his alarm, signalling the beginning of his shifts.
Chugging the rest of the drink, Hitoshi rose, unpacking his bag and securing the electronic mask.
He couldn't think about this right now, it would jeopardise his ability to save people. Even so, it was a lost cause - replaying that interaction would consume his mind for days no matter what he did or when he needed to focus.
Hitoshi had a sinking feeling that he had really fucked up.