coffee, tea, or

Summary:

Legend has it that Natsume Takashi can see ghosts.

Legend also has it, though far lesser-known, that Natsume Takashi is a god—a legend so unheard of that not even Natsume himself knows, except in the deep of his subconscious and the deep of his dreams; except in a alternate reality parallel to his universe.

(In the deepest of his dreams, he dreams of a godlike figure, sometimes clad in dazzling gold robes and jeweled headgowns; sometimes in ominous white robes.

In his waking reality, the Dog's Circle requests for him to partake in a god-summoning ceremony one day, and in the process, he gets kissed twice in a single day—the first time on his lips by a passing silver butterfly, and the second time on his fingertips by the long eyelashes of his dearest friend.)

In Stone World, 11/11 does not stand for Pocky Day, because Senku refuses to invest resources in building a Pocky-making machine.

But what they have is lots of ramen, and Gen figures they could certainly make do with what they have.

(Pocky Game AU, Stone World version)

Read on ao3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/51510949!

| ao3

“Table for one, please,” comes the voice from the door; Ochako hasn’t been paying much attention, so she jumps. It’s a young man; can’t be any more than 16.

(Though in these rough times, in 1930s Kyoto, men and women often look younger than they are. They don’t get the chance to grow up very much.)

“P-please follow me,” Ochako stutters a bit; she can’t see his face because he’s looking at the floor, and she wonders why he is. Maybe he’s nervous. She’s nervous too, for some reason. Maybe butterflies in stomachs are infectious.

She places the menu (a humongous selection of dead leaves mixed with water) on the table. “Please let me know anytime you’d like me to take your order!”

“That’s alright! I don’t need to think about my order. Could just have whatever is the bestseller, please?”

“That’ll be jasmine sencha! It’s my favourite, too.” Ochako smiles; she always smiles when she’s talking about tea.

“Jasmine sencha will be good,” is his response, sounding like he’s smiling, too. But Ochako can’t tell if he really is, because he’s not looking like he’s smiling - just sounding like he is. “Thank you,” he says, in the same gentle, smiling voice.

“One jasmine sencha coming up!”

How nice it’ll be to see his smile, is all that’s in Ochako’s mind.

She gets to steeping the tea leaves in a fresh teapot; typically by this hour there would already have been a pot already brewed and ready to be poured out for customers, but in these rough times barely anyone has time to leisurely drink tea at 3p.m. In the afternoon. When three minutes pass, she pours half the pot into a large tea cup.

“Enjoy your drink,” she sets the cup on the table, and leaves to resume her position at the counter. The rest of the teahouse is empty, devoid of customers, so Ochako watches him the entire time, and that’s when she sees that he doesn’t look anywhere but into his cup for the next hour. When the old mahogany clock chimes to announce 4p.m., he downs the cup in one go, and takes his leave.

She wonders if the tea was too hot. Maybe she should have placed a few ice cubes into his drink for him.

---

“Which brew for you today?” Ochako hands the tea-adorned menu to him - it’s the same customer from yesterday with the nice voice that sounds like he’s smiling. “Hope you enjoyed yesterday’s jasmine sencha.”

“It was really nice!”, is his friendly response. This time, Ochako can see the lower part of his face; he sure is smiling, though he isn’t looking up, still. “I think I’ll have the normal sencha today.”

“Okay! Would you like it cooled down this time? We serve ice cubes for those who prefer cooler tea.”

“Ah, no need for that, thank you.”

“Alright! One hot sencha, coming up!”

How nice it’ll be to see his eyes smile, is all that’s in Ochako’s mind, as she sets the leaves in the pot to brew.

“Enjoy your drink,” she sets the cup on the table, and again, he doesn’t look anywhere but into his cup for the next hour.

“Could I have your order, please?” It’s him again - the same him who has been visiting the teahouse at the same time for the past two days. 

“Hello,” goes his kindly, friendly, smiley voice again. “Today, I’ll have the houjicha.”

“That’s a good choice! It’s one of my favourites, too.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it, then!” He’s definitely smiling, but Ochako can’t tell if his eyes are, because he’s still not looking up. Ochako wonders if he’s vision-impaired, but it appears that he can read the menu with no problem at all. Maybe he’s dealing with social anxiety or extreme shyness? But those potentialities, too, appear unlikely – she finds no difficulty talking to him at all. In fact, she enjoys talking to him more than any customer she’s ever had.

How nice it’ll be to see his eyes look up, is all that’s in Ochako’s mind.

“Enjoy your drink,” she says as she sets the cup on the table, and he still doesn’t look anywhere but into his cup for the next hour.

---

“Hello again!” Ochako chirps; she’s been looking forward to this time of day, everyday, for a whole week. “What’ll it be today?”

“Haha, I think I’ve exhausted almost half the entire menu by now,” he laughs, a little sheepish. Ochako realises it’s the first time she’s heard him laugh, and the sound goes straight to Ochako’s heart. “I think for today, it’ll be oolong for me.”

“Sure thing!” Ochako wants to ask more questions, but decides the better of it.

How nice it’ll be to know more about him, is all that’s in Ochako’s mind.

“Enjoy your drink,” she sets the cup on the table, and he doesn’t look anywhere but into his cup for the next hour.

---

The clock strikes 3, chiming to announce itself. The door opens, chiming to announce the new arrival into the shop. Though it’s not so new an arrival as it is just the usual arrival, because it’s the same customer - it always is, and it always makes Ochako’s heart beat just a little faster.

“Welcome back!” She hands him the menu, smiling with her eyes. Though he probably can’t even see her eyes. 

“Hello,” he smiles back with his voice. “It’ll be a pu-erh for me today.”

“Pu-erh, coming right up!” Ochako wants to end the conversation at that, but curiosity gets the better of her this time. She breathes, courage coursing through her lungs. “Mind if I ask, why have you been here everyday?”

“Oh,” his smile sounds a little nervous this time. “Actually, I work at the traditional confectionery store three streets down. I’ve been tasked to find a good tea supplier for customers who want to purchase confectionery and tea in the same packages.” He breathes a little too audibly, a little too nervously, and Ochako gets the urge to breathe, too. “I knew after the first day that this store’s tea would be perfect, but I wanted to try every single offering on the menu before I leave.” He breathes out, sounding slightly more relaxed this time. “I’m glad I did manage to reach the very end of this menu today.”

Ochako takes a moment to process what he’s just said - she realises he’s right, because he’s actually managed to try every variety of tea leaves they offer, with today’s Mandarin pu-erh tea being the final type. “I see! Thank you so much for your continued patronage,” is her polite response, but something within what he just said doesn’t settle too well within Ochako…

“There’s actually another reason,” he continues, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you that one because that one’s a little personal.” He smiles, staring straight at the table, a little stiff.

“No worries!” Ochako smiles, feeling very much like a hypocrite because she hasn’t shaken that unsettling feeling off. “Everyone has things they cannot share. It’s part of being human!”

How nice it’ll be to have him share his gaze, though, is all that is in Ochako’s mind.

“Enjoy your drink,” she sets the cup on the table, and as usual, he doesn’t look anywhere but into his cup for the next hour.

------------

Today, 3 o’clock arrives and so does the chime of the grandfather clock. The usual customer, though, doesn’t arrive.

“Where is he?” Kyouka asks Ochako, watching the water boil, preparing coffee for a customer at the adjacent counter. “You know, the one who’s always reading the tea leaves.”

Ochako doesn’t answer. She can’t, because she doesn’t know the answer.

It’s a very unsettling feeling, this is.

The next day, he doesn’t arrive either.

“Oh, you know the guy always reading the tea leaves?” Kyouka whispers, beckoning Ochako over to the coffee counter, elated. “I heard he came by this morning and made a one year-supply order for every single tea variety in our store. One year supply! For every single tea! Can you believe it?”

Ochako doesn’t believe it - she doesn’t believe that he hasn’t come to meet her today.

Her eyes haven’t even gotten to meet his yet.

The next morning, Ochako figures out why he hasn’t been around for the past few days.

It’s the same reason why he’d said that strange thing that time - when he’d said that he needed to try every variety of tea leaves before he leaves.

He’s leaving. To fight in the war.

It came out in the newspaper this morning that they were recruiting the next battalion, mostly young men (and some young women). Had Ochako been slightly tougher, she may have signed up. Had she not this teahouse to inherit, she would have signed up.

She’s pretty sure he didn’t have to sign up. It’s compulsory for all men aged eighteen and above to enlist.

(So she got it wrong - he’s definitely older than sixteen.)

They’re given one day to bid farewell to their family members and have one last meal before they leave tomorrow. Ochako prays (prays) she’ll get to see him today.

---

3p.m. arrives; true enough, he walks in through the door. Even though he really no longer has any reason to - after all, he’s already managed to procure the tea leaves for the store he works at…worked at.

But maybe she’s wrong. He did say there’s another reason.

“You’re here,” she breathes, not succeeding at smiling. “Welcome back. Missed having you around.”

“Yeah,” is all he says. “I’ve already tried every type of tea, so I think I’ll just get the jasmine sencha again this time. It’s your favourite, right?”

Ochako pauses. Breathes to put a stopper on the tears threatening to flow.

He actually bears in mind words she says. It’s more than evident how incorrigibly kind he is, so Ochako doesn’t know how she can let him go now. Maybe he’ll remember what she’s about to say next. She breathes again, letting the courage flow.

“I lied. Jasmine sencha is my second favourite. My favourite type of tea isn’t on the menu.”

“Oh,” he says softly, sounding slightly shocked. “What a shame.”

“I’ll bring the jasmine sencha to you in just a moment.”

She still isn’t succeeding to smile, and she realises that she hasn’t yet been able to look at him today the entire time.

...

Today, it isn’t “enjoy your drink,” that Ochako says when she sets the teacup on the table. She doesn’t say anything, in fact - just cries, and cries. And cries, louder and louder –unbecoming of a quiet tea server in a quiet teahouse; she reckons she doesn’t quite deserve to be so bold, but at this point she doesn’t care. Two minutes later, she’s still crying.

  “Why are you crying?” He’s crying, too; some of his tears are falling into the teacup like fallen cherry blossoms from a tree almost past its season; like dead leaves from a tree way past its season.

“Because I have always been looking at you. But you have never once looked back.” Ochako’s looking at him through the saltwater. Her voice is almost too loud at this point. But she doesn’t care. If she doesn’t say it today, she reckons she never will.

“Because I have always been waiting for our eyes to meet. But you have never once met me.” The tea leaves spill onto the table, and so do the tears. “And after today, we may never meet again.”

“What are you saying?” He looks up, smiling and crying, and it’s the first time Ochako’s eyes meets his eyes. “That’s not true. I’ve been looking at you the whole time.” 

“You’re a liar,” Ochako wishes he’d denied the part about them not meeting again instead. She also wishes that the first time their eyes met wasn’t through their own tears. “I’ve always wanted to see your eyes smile, and now that I finally get to, it’s the last time.

He breathes, and she can tell he’s letting the courage flow. “I keep secrets, but I don’t lie. And now I’m going to give my last two secrets away, to you.” He’s not smiling now. “I haven’t managed to look straight at you the whole time because I got my draft letter just the day before the first time I stepped foot in here, and I knew that if I’d looked straight at you, I wouldn’t be smiling. I would be crying.” He pauses slightly. “that’s the first secret. The second one is that the second reason I’d been coming everyday ever since the first time is just to see you everyday. Even if it’s just through your reflection in the cup.”

Now he’s smiling - sadly smiling, but smiling, eyes and all. “At least I got my wish granted before I left.”

Ochako feels like she’s been hit with a ton of tea cups - the most intricate, beautiful and fragile tea cups. Like the one her dad had made for her mother before he left, for the war; the one her mother had shattered when she herself had shattered when he had really left, for good.

“You are not leaving anywhere. I will be waiting for you, here. You shared your last secrets with me, and in return, I will share with you my favourite tea. I won’t be sharing it with anyone else but you, so you’re going to have to take responsibility.” Ochako smiles, crying. “So come back and look for me when this war ends.”

He pauses to take in the information. Breathes. “I’ll be looking forward to it, then.” He’s definitely smiling, and this time, Ochako can tell that his eyes are, too.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s three years after the war. Kyoto is not the same; nor is Izuku. Nor is anyone else.

(One may ask how Izuku can tell that his hometown has changed. He doesn’t even need to see it to know that it has. He just does.)

The first day Izuku is released from the military hospital back home, he rushes to set his baggage down back home. Rushes to hug his crying mother, crying with both tears of joy and grief. Rushes three streets down.

The door still chimes with the same welcoming chime; thank goodness Izuku’s used to counting the number of footsteps he takes to walk there.

Of course he counted - he was always staring at his feet. Now he doesn’t even have to do that anymore.

Now he doesn’t even get to do that anymore.

“Good afternoon, sir,” comes the unfamiliar voice from the door. Said unfamiliar voice must have recognised his military outfit, because “Thank you so much for your service, and congratulations on returning home!” is her high-pitched conversational add-on right after the greeting.

“Thank you very much,” is Izuku’s reply, but he wastes no time. “I’m looking for the girl who used to work here, the daughter of the teahouse owner.”

“Oh,” is the girl’s reply, sounding somewhat stunned. “Please wait here for a moment.”

Three minutes that feel like three years passed; Izuku thinks, almost laughing, that it feels even longer than the three years he spent away from home. At least he gets to meet her again. But what he doesn’t expect is-

“Please sit down,” comes the same unfamiliar voice, who pulls him by both shoulders and sits him on a cushion. Apparently she has already realised that he’s blind. 

“Thank you very much for noticing that I’m blind, I lost these eyes in the war, but where is-”

“Ochako-san?” the new waitstaff asks, and Izuku feels a sense of pain and hesitation in her voice. “She asked me to hand you this.” She puts a teacup in his palms; the warm mist emanating from it smells like flowers. Like chrysanthemums. Like roses. Like daffodils and daisies and violets and tulips and hydrangeas and wisteria all all at once. Like innocence and beauty and composure and surprise and grief all at once. What tea is it?

(It smells just like how she’d looked the first time he’d laid eyes on her - like love.)

“It’s chrysanthemum rose,” she says, answering the question that hadn’t even gotten to form on his lips. Then she breathes nervously before she continues, and Izuku is even more nervous now.

“She said it was her last promise to you. She’s not here anymore, and my family has taken over this traditional Japanese teahouse. Unfortunately, we only deal with English tea, so it will become an English teahouse soon. But I am so happy I got to meet you and finish what my best friend asked of me. Thank you for coming home,” is what the new teahouse’s daughter tells him, grasping onto his two hands; he can feel her tears hit his wrist.

(Or maybe it was his own tears. He can’t tell anymore.)

“I’ll leave you to finish the cup of tea. In this bag are the loose flower petals that are the remainder of the supply of this tea she had.” The girl hands him a paper bag and he is left alone.

“You lied,” Izuku chokes almost inaudibly, to no one. “You said you’d be waiting for me.”

(But Izuku knows she didn’t lie, not really - after all, she did end up giving her last secret away, to the one who’d given his last secret away to her.)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the dead of Kyoto midwinter, nothing stirred; no gentle breeze, not even a falling leaf.

Izuku drains the last of the tea packet, from it floats a few remaining falling chrysanthemums and roses. He pours the boiling water into the teacup, and within seconds it smells like chrysanthemums, like roses, like every flower in the world. Like love. He can’t see the flowers float on the water, but he knows they are.

And then he stops.

“Izuku,” is his mother’s chiding voice. “You’ve really got to stop reading the tea leaves again. I’m so sorry, but she’s-”

“-no longer around. Right?” Izuku finishes her sentence for her, and she sighs, leaving him alone. 

At the one-hour mark, right when the leaves have lost every last vestige of their calming scent, Izuku sighs; it’s time to finish the tea again. And this time, it’s his very last.

Izuku takes a breath. Brings the teacup to his lips. Takes in a gulp of air and lets it out before he takes in the tea, but-

“You found me,” comes a smiling voice from in front of him. He looks up and can’t believe his eyes - why is it, that after three years of surgery and therapy, he could never see, but all of a sudden…?

And all the more shocking is the sight in front of his eyes - more innocence and beauty and composure and surprise than he’d ever seen, even more than that one time he’d stepped foot in the teahouse three streets down at three o’clock for the first time.

It looks like love. And he’s found her.

And they’ll be returning home together. To the spaces that reside; to where you find when you read between the leaves.

...Bakugo thinks he sees the goth bitch who works the night shift at the convenience store. ♪☆♫ ao3

(Bakugo is a bodyguard-cum-security-guard hired by the town mayor to protect the city. With the rising torrent of villainous events happening lately, he gets injured on a near-daily basis, stopping by the nearby convenience store for a box of plasters almost every night.

He has it bad enough as it is, but the goth bitch who works the night shift at the convenience store just has to keep making sarcastic remarks at him.)

===================♪☆♫=====================

“That’ll be 200 yen,” says the cashier as she hands him the pack of bandages.

Bakugo drops the two coins on the counter, grabbing the packet as he turns to take a leave, but the cashier continues speaking before he does.

”And stop getting into fights,” She looks him straight in his face; kid’s got balls. “It’s bad for health.”

”The fuck?” Bakugo almost shouts; a few heads in the store turn to accost him. “The fuck are you, my mom?”

“10 yen extra for the plastic bag,” says the cashier to the next customer, no longer responding to Bakugo. “That’ll be 610 yen in total.”

===================♪☆♫===================== The next night, she’s there again.

“Bitch, it’s you again.” Bakugo grins; now he’s the customer and she has no excuse to ignore him. Such a bitch she really is - Bakugo thinks she even looks like some hooligan cult member, multiple piercings and black fingernail polish and all.

”That’ll be 200 yen,” is her deadpan response. “Plus 10 yen for the plastic bag, so 210 yen.”

”Fuck off, bitch,” is all he says before he leaves the store, store doorbell ringing in his wake.

He doesn’t even realise that he forgot to take the plastic bag he’d paid extra for.

===================♪☆♫===================== She’s there again the next night.

”What the fucking fuck are you, some fucking ghost fucking haunting this fuckin’ shop or somethin’?” Bakugo exercises his fullest linguistic capacity. “It’s you taking my money every single time.”

”Not some fucking ghost fucking haunting this fuckin’ shop or somethin’,” she responds, sounding slightly amused. “Just a starving college student trying to pay the rent. 200 yen, because I guess you don’t need the plastic bag.” She looks slightly amused, too, and her face makes Bakugo want to punch her. He doesn’t, though, because there’s an old lady behind him waiting to pay for some sleeping pills and lozenges.

"Then stop acting like you're the fucking princess of fucking China," He grabs the box and makes his way to the door. "Get rich first before you do."

”Stop getting into fights,” she says, waving her free hand a little at him as he leaves. “It’s bad for health.”

===================♪☆♫===================== Truth be told, Bakugo wants to stop getting into fights himself.

But if there were ever such thing as an “occupational hazard”, then this must be it for him, because if being a security guard in this side of town didn’t involve fights, then no one would have needed to hire a bodyguard-cum-security-guard in the first place.

Bakugo sighs longsufferingly. Huge event tonight. Very rich hosts. Even richer guests. He can almost smell the criminals approaching. Goddammit.

The night is going to be long, and the events that will come are going to be just fantastic for Bakugo’s health.

===================♪☆♫===================== “Whoa, wait,” is what she says this time, instead of 200 yen. “I think I want to call you an ambulance.”

”Just gimme my plasters and lemme fuck off,” Bakugo gruffs. The night had been terribly terrible for Bakugo’s health, because he's bleeding profusely out of more than many parts of himself.

”You must be a fool to think these bandages can fix you,” she tries, and had Bakugo been listening he’d have heard the way her voice is almost fully devoid of sarcasm this time; in its place is a genuine concern Bakugo would have thought to be uncharacteristic of the usually sarcastic cashier.

Bakugo doesn’t have the energy to ignore her, nor respond to her. He limps his way out of the door, doorbells jingling worriedly in his wake.

===================♪☆♫===================== Bakugo is lying on some random bench when he wakes up.

Fate would not have much mercy on him, because he is in excruciating pain. Small mercies, though, because apparently he’d managed to land himself on a bench before he’d passed out; imagine if he had been on some ditch or road or river or god forbid, some female toilet.

He opens the plastic bag, and realises the bandages are of the extra-large variety this time - strange, did he grab the wrong box? (Well, wrong box or not, these plasters are definitely the right type for the scale of his injuries tonight.) Another thing is strange - there’s something other than the box of plasters at the bottom of the bag. A pack of painkillers. This was definitely by no means his mistake - Bakugo Katsuki does not utilise painkillers (because he is the painkiller, is what he tells everyone who tries to sell him one, or persuade him to buy one)...

...or perhaps it'd be more appropriate to say that Bakugo Katsuki does not usually utilise painkillers, because this time he is really in fucking excruciating pain, so he decides to try one.

(Bakugo doesn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out how the pack of painkillers got there. He can only guess the same for the upsized plasters. The fuck does she think she’s doing, though? Wouldn’t she get herself fired if her manager catches her sneaking these things, or something? Bakugo silently hopes she paid actual money for throwing in the extra item, rather than her job.)

Half an hour later, apparently the painkillers worked like magic, because there’s so much less pain. So much less, that Bakugo Katsuki decides that maybe he will perhaps kind of maybe occasionally utilise painkillers. (Only when he really, really needs them.)

===================♪☆♫===================== Three hours later, “occasionally” arrives. (He really, really needed them. Curse those stupid muggers and their extra-sharp daggers.)

Three days later, Bakugo is almost all recovered.

He is also back at his job, because mercy does not exist. If anyone’d thought his boss would let him off due to injury, they’d definitely be fucking dreaming of fairy fucking tales.

Small mercies do exist, though, because tonight there’s no large event, just the boss’s daughter and friends having a sleepover, watching animated versions of fairy tales.

After the small, fairytale-like event, it's the first time Bakugo sees her in a long while, because he does need some plasters suffered from some small cuts from saving the boss's daughter's stupid cat from climbing up a tree.

“You’re alive!” The cashier chirps, and it’s the first time Bakugo sees her smile. It’s also the first time Bakugo sees her name tag - Jirou Kyouka, it reads.

”Are you trying to fucking curse me or something,” Bakugo curses. “Of fucking course I am.”

”Don’t forget your change,” she tries to hand him four 100-yen coins. “And don’t forget to change - fighting is bad for health.”

”That ain’t my change. I hadn’t paid fully for the purchase four nights ago, thanks to you. XL bandages and painkillers from the previous time add up to 410 yen, including the plastic bag. Today I only have the normal-sized bandage and no plastic bag, so I paid exactly 610 yen.” Bakugo brandishes his box of bandages at her. “Even I can count.”

This time, she’s silent. A few moments later, she laughs, and it’s the first time Bakugo hears her laugh.

”Okay,” she says, slightly red in the face. “Still, don’t forget to change. Wouldn’t want to have you dead, not anytime soon.”

Bakugo leaves the store, trying not to wonder what that last sentence really meant.

===================♪☆♫===================== When Bakugo reaches the store this time, two things are strange.

Firstly, there’s no one at the counter. Bakugo tries ringing the service bell; nothing. Tries screaming is anyone fucking there you fucking lazy fuckers; nothing, maybe except for a few shocked faces from customers around him. Nope, no one there at the counter.

Secondly, Sarcastic Goth Bitch is not there. 

“200 yen,” he hears a high-pitched cutesy female voice go; he turns. Nothing.

What the fuck?

”I’m in front of you, sir,” comes the voice. “Ugh, look at me already, would you.”

Bakugo tries looking in front of him. Nothing…except a floating name tag that reads Hagakure Toru.

”This is so fucking creepy,” he slaps the two 100-yen coins on the table, leaving the store as soon as his legs can. ===================♪☆♫=====================

She isn’t there the next day either.

(In her place this time is an almost equally-invisible squirt with equally-creepy grape-like hair.)

===================♪☆♫===================== Not the next day either.

(In her place this time is a confused-looking blonde-haired dude.)

===================♪☆♫===================== Nor the next.

“Where’s the fucking goth bitch,” Bakugo demands. The white-haired cashier with a quarter of his face reddish-brown (a burn scar?) blinks silently. A few seconds pass as Bakugo waits expectantly for the cashier to respond to his question, which really sounded more like a demand, devoid of question mark intonation.

”Oh,” the cashier guy actually manages to realise who Bakugo’s referring to, around 15 seconds later. “If you’re talking about Jirou, she’s busy with rehearsals every night for this week and the next.” The white-haired guy’s nametag read shotokeiki or something; isn’t Christmas still months away?, thinks Bakugo.

Rehearsals…the fuck?

She’s not there the next day either.

Bakugo curses himself for even trying; of course she wouldn’t be. It’s still the same week.

Not there again.

Bakugo didn’t even need the bandages this time, but somehow or rather he found himself checking in there anyway. But nope, not there again.

Not there again; Bakugo Katsuki, you fucking fucked up idiot fucker, he curses inwardly, three boxes of unopened bandages in hand. (Apparently Bakugo hasn't realised the possibility of leaving without buying things from a store, after checking for the presence or absence of a particularly sarcastic but also surprisingly caring goth bitch cashier who has the gall to both make fun of his injuries and make them feel better.)

===================♪☆♫===================== Apparently he wouldn’t even be able to check in at the convenience store tonight, because the event is in the other side of town.

The ‘cool’ side of town. The safe side of town. The one that barely needs any security; barely needs any guard.

Nonetheless, there Bakugo Katsuki is, because his boss told him to be. Apparently, he owns this venue or something. It’s an open-air concert-like venue; feels really weird to be guarding such a huge mob of people at one go, at such an outdoorsy location.

Not that he’s complaining. Most of the time, he’s tasked to be a bodyguard for some drunkard and the room always smells either like alcohol, tobacco, vomit and/or blood. Tonight he gets fresh air - small mercies. Just that he'd have to travel particularly far to stop by the usual convenience store at the usual side of town, to buy bandages...as if. Even Bakugo knows he's lying - he just wants to check if Sarcastic Goth Bitch Cashier Fucker is still alive. How ironic, because she's been the one asking him to quit fighting and stay healthy and stay alive the whole time. And now she's missing. (Bakugo's still lying. He knows she's alive, just at some rehearsals for some shit. He just wanted to see her and her stupid face and hear her and her stupid voice.)

Looking up, he realises it’s a dark night out, and that quite a few stars are visible. (Or maybe they are just satellites? Who fucking knows.) Regardless, he gets fresh sights, too.  ===================♪☆♫=====================

And no fresher can the sight get than when the concert starts, because there she is, electric guitar in one hand and microphone in the other; there she is, in front of him, in front of everyone underneath the same skyful of stars.  (That night, he gets fresh smells, sights and sounds, and a fresh perspective on Cashier Goth Bitch Fucker.)

===================♪☆♫===================== “Found you,” Bakugo grins, plopping the bag of spicy potato chips down on in front of the cash register. “You’re finally back. Good concert.”

Jirou grins back in response. “Yes, Fucking Goth Bitch is finally back.” She scans the bag of extra-spicy chips, machine gleefully beeping away. “And thanks. And yay, you're no longer buying bandages! Good health to you too, finally.”

When asked what do you do for a living?, a few unexpected answers pop up.

(Momo happily eats. Shoto happily eats vicariously.)

(click here to read on ao3)

“Your order, please.”

The black-haired girl in a high ponytail surveys the menu for a quarter of a minute. 

“Hello! Could I please have a 30-piece box with 10 sets of cheese fries, as well as 7 mashed potatoes, 5 coleslaws, 15 chocolate fudge mudpies, 11 butter biscuits, 3 strawberry white chocolate brownies, 12 milk chocolate walnut brownies, 5 dark chocolate brownies, 13 strawberry white chocolate blondies, 8 croquettes, and a Coke Zero, please.”

For a decision that took a quarter of a minute to make, that sure is…a real mouthful. But perhaps she’d already memorised her order before coming to the counter, though that also already would have been a real feat in itself.

(Is there a difference between strawberry white chocolate brownies and strawberry white chocolate blondies? Never even knew we had both on the menu, goes the little part in the back of Shoto’s brain, slightly amazed.)

“Oh right, I’d also like 20 apple pies, 5 banana pies, 6 fudge pies and 7 chocolate fudge pies, please.”

(Is there a difference between fudge pies and chocolate fudge pies? Never even knew we had both on the menu, goes the little part in the back of Shoto’s brain, a little more than slightly amazed.)

Turns out she’s right, because when Shoto keys the order into machine, there are, in fact, both fudge pies and chocolate fudge pies, as well as strawberry white chocolate brownies and strawberry white chocolate blondies. Inwardly, Shoto makes a serious resolution to brush up on his knowledge of all the food items existing on the menu at his workplace.

Still - that was a pretty tall order. Shoto reckons she’s probably buying back for a house party, or something.

"Okay, let me repeat your order. That’ll be 7 chocolate fudge pies…6 fudge pies, 5 banana pies…20 apple pies……”

...

("The fuck, it’s been two and a quarter minutes and Shoto’s still fucking repeating the customer’s order, fucking seriously? How fucking humongous is this order", goes Bakugo in the back of the kitchen, a little more than a little more than slightly amazed.)

“…and a Coke Zero. Please let me know if I have missed out anything.”

“Nope, it's all correct, thank you very much!”

“Okay, for takeout, there will be an extra charge, so it will be an extra dollar for plastic bags and boxes…wait, the order is pretty large so your takeaway fee will amount to 5 dollars, hope that is okay with yo-”

“Oh, no worries, I'm not taking it out! I’ll be eating in the restaurant, thank you! I like to be environmentally friendly,” she beams, shining like the sun.

Shoto pauses, taking a while to take in the information. Maybe she isn't buying back for a house party after all, but buying for a party of friends, having some fried chicken together in the store. However...

He looks behind and around her. Isn’t she alone? From the counter earlier, he’d seen her enter from the entrance, all by herself. In fact, there aren't even any customers in the store except for her - restaurant is nearly dead empty, save for three other humans (Shoto, Bakugo and the store manager).

Or…were there, god forbid, some non-human customers present in the store, who will be her eating partners? (Shoto tries to suppress the shudder.)

"O-okay. That’ll be 7000 yen, please,” Shoto says, a little weakly.

("Oh my god, we just hit our monthly sales target", goes the manager in the back of the kitchen, a little more than a little more than extremely amazed.)

“Thank you!” The ponytailed girl pays, walks away with her first tray of food, and heads to an empty table. She sets it down, and takes around 5 rounds to finish carrying all the trays of food back to the table (now three tables, side by side).

She starts eating, and five minutes later, Shoto confirms (after staring at her the entire time), that there are no human and non-human interactions being conducted - she’s just eating alone, in the most normal way any human would.

The amount, though…not the most normal. 

===============================================

"Mind if I join you? My shift is over, so I'm having dinner."

The girl looks up. "Sure, would love for you to!" She beams, and Shoto catches some of her light, somehow feeling a little healed from the day's events.

"My name's Shoto. You?"

"Momo, nice to meet you, Shoto!" She beams again, and Shoto manages to get more healing done.

"You sure are eating quite a lot. Not that it’s a bad thing. Just. Sort of really amazing.” Shoto glances slightly awkwardly at his own single bowl of soba in a kid-sized bento box which his mom had given him as a kid, which he’d been using for years, and can never bear to change. “Are you perhaps a competitive eater?"

"Yeah, kind of." Momo smiles sheepishly. "Apart from that, I make stuff. How about you? Apart from working here, what do you do for a living?"

Shoto pauses, thinking for a bit. "In the summer, I work at the kakigori stall at the beach to help make shaved ice desserts and roast dango on one side. All year round, I get called to the Winter Amusement Park to help with the snow-making, once every month. Occasionally, when elementary school students have camping sessions, I get called up to help roast the marshmallows. I have a small side business selling packs of ice. I also work freelance sometimes, helping people who don't know how to light fires, to start their barbecue sessions." A short, thoughtful pause before he continues. "And there was this one time when the stage play actress broke her arm and she couldn't perform as the snow princess, so they forced me to sing and dance to some song called let it snow or let it cold or let it bakugo or something. That one was really horrible." Shoto cringes into his soba, revolted at the memory. "The worst job I've had so far."

"Whoa,” Momo is almost speechless. “That’s too much.”

You’re one to speak, goes some part in the back of Shoto’s brain...not that Shoto thinks it’s a bad thing to eat so much, though. It's just. Sort of really amazing.

In fact, Shoto thinks it may in fact be a good thing, because the way she looks so downright elated when she is eating whatever she is, be it a piece of chicken drumstick or chicken thigh or chicken neck, be it an apple pie, or fudge pie, or chocolate fudge pie, or fries, or strawberry dark chocolate blondie (wait, that last one isn't on the menu, realises Shoto)...

...the way she looks so downright elated when she is eating whatever she is, it is...it is as if the sun is shining so hard that it may well be the last day of the universe and it wouldn't even care, that's what it is. It almost makes Shoto feel as if...feel as if he may well be photosynthesizing, that's how he feels. Whenever he so much as throws so much as a single glance at the girl and her happily-eating self, he feels as if he could go without food for fifteen days and he'd still be able to make it alive, like a plant surviving on beaming rays from the sun.

It is really rejuvenating, to say the least. (Shoto suddenly recalls to mind some kid at one of those marshmallow-roasting sessions, talking about some YouTuber called Yukinoshita or something, doing some sort of live eating show where they ate nothing but 30 packets of marshmallow or something, something called mukbang or something of the sort. Maybe this is a similar sort of thing, Shoto thinks.)

"Would you like one?" Momo beams, handing Shoto a strawberry white chocolate brownie. (Right, it was the white chocolate one that went with the strawberry, not the dark, remembers Shoto.)

Denki’s brain is already fried after a long day.

All he wants is some fried chicken, and not to become twice-fried by the guy working at the fast food restaurant.

(click here to read on ao3)

The guy in front of Kyouka isn’t responding.

To be slightly more precise, he’s lagging.

”Oi, can you move it!” screams the staff member handling the queue - the one with the explosive hair and the explosive voice. “The snake behind you is growing.”

Kyouka looks behind her. He’s right - the queue is getting longer by the second, impatient feet tapping, impatient stomachs growling.

”Do you need help?” Kyouka tries. “I can help you if you’re not familiar with the ordering machine.”

The guy doesn’t seem to hear her. Seems like his processor really has crashed.

He stays like this for the next two minutes, unmoving, silly expression on face and silly finger in air. Kyouka really wants to laugh, but the tension in the air is growing and -

“FUCK OFF ALREADY!!!” Explosive Store Worker loses it, exploding at Lagging Brain-Fried Guy.

Commotion erupts as the poor silly guy falls onto the cold hard ground; as he does, he seems to regain his senses somewhat, wincing in pain. Another staff member - the white-haired one that was multitasking really hard (handling both the fire for frying chicken and the ice for soft drinks at the same time), comes to control his co-worker.

Poor Silly Guy runs away from the scene, looking traumatised. Kyouka hurries up with her order at the self-serving kiosk and quickly gets out of the restaurant, too.

=============================================

It takes Kyouka five minutes to find him, sitting sadly on a bench at the park beside the mall.

”Are you alright?” Kyouka tries to speak in her most compassionate voice as she plops herself down on the empty seating space beside him. There’s a bit of extra space in between them, so there she places the box of chicken and fries, plus two paper cups filled with Cool-Aid and ice, fitting the space perfectly.

Poor Guy (now no longer silly) stares at her, looking confused and a little sad. “Huh?” is all he says, eloquently.

”I was the person right behind you in the queue. That worker guy shouldn’t have done that to you, no matter how slow you were.” Kyouka picks up a French fry, handing it to him. “No worries, he's been fired already.”

A slight pause, a series of three confused blinks, a chewing of French fry later, another “Huh?” is all that comes out of his mouth.

“Yeah, in fact he was fired twice. First by his co-worker, the cool multitasking fire dude, who had to restrain him with actual fire. Then by his manager, who fired him from the job.” Kyouka hands him the box. “Here. You can have the whole box.”

”Oh,” Poor Guy responds quietly as he chews on some fries, seeming to get it by now. “Thank you.” A slight pause. “Wait, why am I eating your food?! And who are you?!”

(Because first I felt extremely bad for you and wanted to lend you a listening ear, and then I realised how extremely cute you are when you are being silly, and now I realise how extremely cute you are even when you’re not being silly, is what Kyouka wants to say, but -)

(Click here to read on ao3)

For the first time, the brainwashing isn’t working at all.

That one time with Midoriya, it had partially worked – to be more precise, it had worked very well, and all that happened was that he broke free from it.

This time, the brainwashing isn’t working at all. Just a few minutes ago, it had worked perfectly well - even better than with Midoriya, in fact. Now that Shinsou has won the physical battle and is attempting to gain extra points by throwing his opponent into prison, he’s trying to brainwash him to go in there on his own…but strangely enough, the brainwashing is no longer working. Which is ironic, because his opponent is physically weakened from self-destruction, which should have theoretically made him easier to brainwash.

But he isn’t reacting to Shinsou’s voice - rather, he appears to now be in his own world. And it isn’t even like Shinsou is attempting to bring about some action necessitating some sort of advanced brain function - all he’s telling the opponent is walk into the prison and stay there. But his opponent is not budging from his seated position in the middle of the battlefield. So this really is the first time the brainwashing isn’t working at all.

Nor are the Persona Chords working. Nor anything else, in fact. He’d tried saying fight me like when Midoriya lost control of himself – there was no response. He’d tried waving his hand vigorously in front of said opponent – nothing happened. He’d tried calling his first name – all he got was a few muffled noises that sounded simultaneously like sobs and giggles.

So Shinsou figures he’ll try his last.

“Denki,” Shinsou runs up to whoever was his opponent just minutes ago, now a non-functional being capable of nothing but giggles and seizure-like jerks. Shinsou starts to worry. Maybe he has traumatised the poor guy.

“Are you okay,” he says, forgetting about the extra mission altogether. “Please be okay.”

No response, except the same giggle-sobs and seizure-like jerks. Shit, maybe he really is not okay. Who knew the defeat would hit him so bad? He wraps his shoulders tightly around the poor guy, momentarily forgetting about the possibility of death by electrocution, though he has nothing to worry about, really for his opponent’s brain is the one who has had been fried…not that this is a fact he knows. “You were a great opponent,” Shinsou tells Kaminari, sincerely.

This time, there is a slight response – a few sparks were sent flying, and Shinsou experiences the electrocution he’d managed to escape during the actual practice match. This is bad for my heart, is all Shinsou knows at the moment, but he doesn’t break free – he needs to get Kaminari out of his despair, is all he thinks. Meanwhile, Kaminari has lost complete consciousness, head falling onto Shinsou’s shoulders, limp as a rag doll, and because they’re in that hug-like position, Shinsou fails to see that Kaminari’s hands, behind Shinsou’s back, have managed to signal a somewhat-victorious thumbs up to the audience before he faints. Which is funny, because in no way has Kaminari won the match, though whether or not he has won anything else is another question altogether.

(Meanwhile, the spectators in the stadium’s audience seats sit, confused why the two are sharing a moment in the middle of the battlefield.

They stay in that position, continuing to share that moment until the teachers arrive to pry them away from each other.)

================================================

Eleven Recovery-Girl kisses and twenty-two minutes later, Kaminari regains consciousness. As he does, he realises Shinsou is right beside, eyebags darker and hair wilder than ever before.

Huh? Why Shinsou currently looks like Kaminari is about to die, Kaminari has no idea.

“Are you okay.” Shinsou seems too worried to even give his utterance a question-like intonation.

“Huh?” goes Kaminari, eloquent as ever. “What happened?”

“You weren’t responding at all, not to brainwashing, nor to normal language.” Shinsou’s voice is one of genuine concern, and even Kaminari can detect that (at least now). “I’d thought you might be really traumatised by my brainwashing, or something. After all, it was the first time you’d experienced it, because before that match we were on the same team, so that was the first time we’d really encountered each other as opponents, and I didn’t know whether I went too far or something.” (Had Kaminari’s brain been marginally more functional he’d probably have realised that it’s the most words Kaminari has heard Shinsou utter, really.)

Huh? thinks Kaminari, intelligent as ever.

Oh, realises Kaminari.

“Oh,” Kaminari starts, giggling a bit, this time not out of momentary self-inflicted brain damage but of genuine mirth. “Sorry, should have told you earlier. Thing is, for the few minutes after I go all out with the electricity, my brain kinda sorta stops functioning.” Kaminari scratches his head. “At all.”

“Huh?” goes Shinsou.

“Yeah. Which means that even the simplest commands, like run! or stand up! or smile! or strike a pose! or stop clinging onto me, you stupid electricity guy! or whatever you can think of…those would all be considered advanced brain function to me at that point in time.” Kaminari looks up briefly and sees the realisation dawn in Shinsou’s face, and continues explaining. “So your brainwashing didn’t work, but it was not because I was emotionally damaged or physically damaged, or something. I was just shocked to the point of idiot.”

“Oh,” Shinsou is visibly relaxed at the explanation. “Which means that post-shock Kaminari is probably the only one on whom my brainwashing won’t work at all? Of course, except for Aizawa-sensei when he’s staring at me.”

Kaminari nods. A brief thoughtful silence from Shinsou, before he continues. “Which means, you’re my Achilles’ heel?”

Kaminari doesn’t understand the metaphor, and this seems to prompt Shinsou to explain. “I mean, the one I can never defeat, the one who’ll always be my weakness.”

 “Haha, yep.” Ah, so that’s what it means. Kaminari grins. He decides he doesn’t quite dislike the sound of that, not in the slightest.

“That won’t be a problem, right? As long as we always stay on the same team.” Kaminari grins as he speaks. Though, even someone as much of an idiot as him, knows, deep down, that it’s a bold claim to make – this universe is not one in which you can simply promise to stay on the same side with just about anyone.

But as much as an idiot he is, even Kaminari knows, looking at the purple-haired brainwasher in front of his eyes – kind to a fault, too innocent to live out his superpower’s outstanding propensity for villainhood, too caring to let his opponent wilt away post-match, too gentle to physically drag his opponent into jail even if this could gain him extra credit to help catapult him into the top class in school, too silly to stop himself from being at least marginally electrocuted by way of hugging an actual human battery just because he thinks said human battery is sad or something –

– as much as an idiot he is, even Kaminari knows, that this is one person he’d be a real idiot to let go of.

“It’d be a huge honour, if we could stay on the same side forever.” Kaminari pulls Shinsou in for a hug, reciprocating his earlier gesture. “You are just about the kindest person I’ve met, and I feel the need to have to protect you. Though you’re probably way stronger than me when it comes down to it.” Kaminari pulls away and his eyes catch the look on Shinsou’s face, and this is bad for my heart, is all Kaminari knows at the moment.

“So…please stay with me, on the same side, forever.” A pause. A cough. A ripening of tomato, right on Kaminari’s face. “I mean, only if you want.”

And if Kaminari had been listening to himself he’d have died of second-hand embarrassment, but honesty and shamelessness have always been Kaminari’s best virtues...so what else does he have left to lose, really.

(Meanwhile, Class-A’s spectators in the stadium’s audience seats stay there watching the other matches, still feeling a bit guilty about Shinsou and the poor, pure, sweet cinnamon roll of a heart he has, but also feeling a bit like they’ve just gotten diabetes from the entire exchange, with zero regrets.

They decide, now that Shinsou has officially joined their side, that it is a good time to sit him down and tell him more about themselves, and the conditions and consequences of their Quirks, at the earliest opportunity…wouldn’t want to have poor him worrying more than he needs.)

Years later, and the two are still on the same side.

“Except for one thing,” goes Kaminari, feeling like he’s made the smartest revelation he ever has.

“Huh?” goes Shinsou.

“The two of us will forever be on the same side, except for one thing.” Kaminari grins, sending a few sparks flying, and this is bad for my heart, is all Shinsou knows at the moment.

“The bed. We will not be on the same side of the bed.” And if not for the embarrassment that has immediately followed, Kaminari may even have thrown in a small wink for good measure, but as brutally honest and shameless as he always is and has been…Shinsou has always been his Achilles’ heel, and he hasn’t mastered the art of flirting with his boyfriend without shame, not just yet.

An awkward silence. A cough. A ripening of tomato, right on Kaminari’s face. It doesn’t take long for Shinsou to reciprocate the blush, either.

But it’s been years, so Shinsou has learnt. You’re wrong, Shinsou speaks, directly to Kaminari’s brain, patting the space beside him on the bed, smirking a bit as he does. We can meet in the middle.

(Meanwhile, all their friends, also on the same side forever, still worry from time to time about how Kaminari might taint the purity that is Shinsou and his sweet soul.

One of them always heats, sizzles and melts; the other is blown away every single time.

But there is one common element between them, and it is the one on which they both thrive.

(click here to read on ao3)

Without air, fire cannot exist.

With too much air, fire cannot exist either.

Which is why Shoto almost loses it the first time they train together, when Shoto is trying to get the hang of using only the power from the paternal side of his family. But every single time he turns up the flames, Inasa extinguishes them using nothing but the tip of his fingertips.

“You sure are a force to be reckoned with,” Shoto mutters, more to himself than to anyone else, as he ducks into a corner to escape the wind. “Gale Force.”

“COME ON OUT, SHOTO!!!” comes the voice of said Force, forceful as ever, and one would have thought the wind had come from the sonic boom emerging from the soundwaves of his vocal tract. Shoto tries to get the flames going again; his efforts were futile as the wind extinguishes them in no time, like they’d never existed in the first place.

Shoto emerges from his corner; he refuses to give up. He knows he’d win once he uses his ice, but hell as if he’s going to give in. (Truth, though, is that he can never bring himself to be cold to Inasa, not really.)

So he turns on the flames again, but he knows he’s lost the match, because he’s met his Achilles' heel, because he is blown away, just like every single time.

==========================================

It’s a ridiculous mission, and they all know it.

But Inasa sure is enjoying it; heck, if there was anyone who could enjoy it, it’d be him. (Not even he’d known he loves kids prior to today, but honestly just about anyone would be able to tell that he perfectly fits the role of stereotypical favourite uncle just by looking at him alone.

And just as Inasa thinks he cannot enjoy this silly mission further, he does, and that’s when the unexpected occurs.

Shoto is smiling. At children.  (Wilful children nonetheless, but still, children.)

On another occasion, Inasa might have told him to stop vying with him for the position of favourite uncle, but this time he’s too busy staring to care. Little would he have known the Prince of Ice had such a side to him. (Inwardly, some voice inside of him, in the deep of his gut, tells him he’d make a good father. His gut twists a bit, and his heart skips a beat.)

Shoto makes a snow cone for one of the children. He catches Inasa staring, so he makes one for him, too, and Inasa knows he’s lost the mission, because he’s fallen, because he heats, sizzles, and melts, just like every single time.

==========================================

They really never should have stepped foot in here.

Had it been just the soba being shitty, Shoto may have forgiven them. But the soba was shitty, and the waiter is apparently either deaf or has a death threat on Shoto, because he’d asked for cold soba, but the soba was boiling.

“WAITER!!! AN ICED WATER PLEASE!!!” Inasa screams and waves, panicking a bit. Shoto realises the waiter is deaf, because he stays in his position and rolls his eyes instead of heading over to their table. (Wait…maybe it was the other option. It doesn’t matter anyway, because his tongue is too fried to care.)

When Shoto’s tongue recovers a bit, he attempts to take another bite of the soba. When he was a young child, his mother had taught him to never waste food. Apparently, habits stick, because he is determined to finish this soba no matter what.

And apparently, Inasa is very touched at his endeavour, because he starts looking a tad teary-eyed. “Let me help you, my comrade!” he chirps, as pumped up as he usually is, even if it’s over soba.

At first Shoto had thought Inasa was about to help him eat his soba, and starts to tell him to go back to his own udon (apparently lukewarm, though he’d asked for hot udon, guess the waiter hates Inasa just a tiny bit). But Shoto was wrong, because Inasa starts blowing like crazy at the soba, and in all seriousness, too.

(Stop doing weird things to my soba, he wants to tell Inasa, but he knows he can never bring himself to be cold to Inasa, not really.)

It’s been a good two minutes and Inasa is still blowing at the soba that isn’t even his. And something in the deep of Shoto’s gut twists a bit, and his heart skips a beat, because hell as if it isn’t the most hilariously adorable sight he’s ever seen, and he is blown away, just like every single time.

==========================================

It was all his fault.

He’d made Shoto angry. (Called him “half-Elsa” and made him dance to Let It Go in front of a very excited Eri, and Shoto couldn’t refuse, and he’d known that Shoto couldn’t refuse because Shoto can’t refuse children, and especially not Eri.)

So it was all his fault. Now he has to down this boiling bowl of udon as punishment. In front of an equally excited Eri, the one little girl he can’t refuse either.

“Eat it,” is Shoto’s voice, showing icy-cold restraint, but Inasa can tell he’s downright burning with rage. “Now.”

So he does, but the scald, from his lips to his tongue to his throat to the very deep of his gut, is more than worth it, because he all he sees in front of him is a tall glass of sobacha filled to the brim with ice, and a Shoto in a silly frilly apron belonging to his aunt, washing dishes with Eri. The sight is awfully domestic and it starts burning a hole through his heart, and he heats, sizzles, and melts, just like every single time.

==========================================

He’s making Shoto angry again.

“Light it up again!” Inasa chirps, clapping his hands a little. He looks so happy Shoto wants to punch something; for the first time Shoto realises that Inasa smiles with his eyes. “Please? It’s my birthday.”

They’ve been at it for a good two minutes – Shoto attempting to light up candles on the birthday cake, Inasa blowing the candles out before the birthday song ends (before he makes the wishes); Shoto lighting them up again, Inasa extinguishing them again –

He’s making Shoto angry again. Except this time, he actually kind of has an excuse, because it’s September 26.

(Not that the date matters, because deep down, Shoto knows that regardless of what day it is - what week, month, year, decade or century - he can never bring himself to be cold to Inasa, not really.)

“Hurry up and make a wish,” is all Shoto says. (Whatever Inasa wishes, Shoto wishes for it to come true.)

“Okay,” Inasa clasps his hands in prayer and closes his eyes; he looks so happy Shoto wants to punch something. “Then I wish we could stay like this forever.”

And when Inasa blows the birthday candles (this time for real), he is blown away, just like every single time.

He’s trying to make Shoto happy again.

Today proves to be especially difficult, because Shoto is looking like he’s about to punch something. (Apparently it had been an especially difficult day, first with the villains, and then with the reporters.)

But if there is any day that Inasa must succeed, it is today.

He glances at the calendar for motivation. Breathes. Tells himself he can do it. Turns off the lights, and starts singing. (Halfway into the song, he realises he forgot to light the candles on the pool of soba noodles that was supposed to be the replacement for cake, and he panics, waging a bit of a war with the lighter.)

(Luckily, he eventually wins the war, and in front of him is the birthday boy Shoto, looking all wide-eyed and shell-shocked  in the semi-dark.)

January 11. In another world, they may have been enjoying some sort of vacation somewhere bright and sunny, instead of fighting literal and metaphorical villains in the dark. Inasa wishes it were the case for Shoto; he doesn’t deserve this.

But nothing’s going to stop Inasa anyway, so he has been trying, is trying, and will always be trying, for as long as he ever can, to make Shoto happy again.

But Shoto is crying.

“Sorry,” Inasa drops to his knees; some of the soba spills a bit. He’s so bad at this, he’s so bad at everything; he’s failed again. Curse him, curse everything. “I just wanted to make you happy.” He starts crying himself, but it isn’t long before his tears evaporate, because he realises Shoto is smiling.

And he heats, sizzles, and melts, just like every single time.

==========================================

It’s the second time they grab a drink together, and it’s the first time Shoto sees him like this.

The first time they did, Inasa had gotten piss-drunk, so Shoto had to carry all hundred-and-ninety metres of him on his back, with him snoring and breathing down his neck. It wasn’t very good for his heart, especially because Shoto’d had quite a bit to drink himself. (Eventually Inasa vomited all over the taxi, and it was very, very bad for the taxi driver’s heart.)

This time, Inasa has gotten piss-drunk again, and thank goodness they’d gotten a room instead of a taxi, was what Shoto had initially thought.

How wrong Shoto was, because Inasa starts stripping.

“Don’t do this,” Shoto growls, trying to hold him down, all hundred-and-ninety metres of him. “It’s bad for my heart.”

Unfortunately when it comes to a pure physical brawl without Quirk, Goliath is sure to win.

He pulls Shoto down, and he can feel him breathing down his neck. The smell of alcohol is not helping – Shoto feels his stomach churning lightly, and his heart beating heavily.

“What do you want,” Shoto tries, but at this point not even he knows what he wants himself.

“I don’t want anything,” Inasa’s voice is deeper and growlier than usual, and the sound knocks the breath out of Shoto. “Not money, not fame, not fans. Not even the clothes on my back.” A pause.

“Just you.”

(Stop doing weird things to my heart, he wants to tell Inasa, but he knows he can never bring himself to be cold to Inasa, not really. So he says nothing, and lets his body do the talking instead.)

The clothes on their backs are gone, but it’s not like Shoto cares, because he now knows what he wants, and he has had it all along without even having to try, and it is with this revelation that he is blown away, just like every single time.

==========================================

It’s the second time Shoto invites him to his house, and it’s the first time Inasa sees him like this.

The first time he did, it was because Fuyumi had wanted to invite all of his friends over, and much unlike her name, she was literally the warmest human being to ever exist.

This time, Shoto may have broken her record.

“How did you get this ill,” Inasa starts to panic. 38.7, reads the thermometer, and Inasa panics further. “This is very bad for my heart.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve taken the pills.” Shoto’s voice is deeper and growlier than usual; it must be the fever, or perhaps it was the pills, but whatever it is, the sound knocks the breath out of Inasa. “Just sit down, here. Or lie down, or whatever you wish.” He pats the other side of the bed, and Inasa is surprised because it’s rare for Shoto to make requests.

“Okay,” Inasa tries. “I’ll sit down, but first I need to get you some food. The meds won’t be effective unless your body has the energy to deal with them. What do you want? I can cook chicken soup, or instant ramen or soba if that’s what you prefer-”

“I don’t want anything. Not soup, not ramen. Not even soba.” Inasa feels Shoto’s hand grab his hand before he can stand up, before he can leave, before he can evacuate. “Just you.”

(And Inasa knows he can’t refuse, because he’s met his Achilles' heel.)

Inasa’s sure he’s not the one running the real temperature, but still he heats, sizzles, and melts, just like every single time.

==========================================

Shoto’s eyes are transfixed on the television screen.

He’s too nervous, for one who isn’t even participating in the actual battle. He wishes he is, but instead he’s here in the hospital, stuck and unable to help out.

Five minutes in, and Shoto barely notices that he’s barely breathing. “Hurry up and win already,” he thinks, almost aloud, awaiting with bated breath. “Don’t let the villain take you.”

Truth is, he knows that if the villain does take him, then he’d never be breathing any more, not in quite the same way. (And neither will the villain, because Shoto has never been able to tolerate anyone taking what’s his.)

The villain doesn’t, luckily, and Gale Force emerges victorious, surrounded by almost a hundred villains, collapsed on the floor, limp as ragdolls.

“What a force to be reckoned with,” goes the news announcer. “Trust Gale Force to knock the breath out of everyone!”

And knock the breath out of Shoto he did, because it’s hard to believe this mighty, heroic figure on the TV screen is the same overgrown child who begs for pancakes for breakfast, begs for hugs before leaving for work, begs for goodnight kisses.

(And no matter how childish the requests, Shoto grants them readily, because he knows he can never bring himself to be cold to Inasa, not really.)

And as he stares at a Gale Force staring down villains with a victorious smile on the television screen, for the first time, Shoto realises it isn’t always that Inasa smiles with his eyes; mesmerising as he still is, he never wants this smile to be one directed at him, because a real killer smile this is, directed only at those who kill, too.

It doesn’t matter which Inasa this is, because he’s still his, and Shoto doesn’t believe his luck; it’s been many years, but still he is blown away, just like every single time.

==========================================

Inasa’s eyes are transfixed on the television screen.

He curses himself for not participating in the actual battle. He wishes he is, but instead he’s here in the hospital, helping patients evacuate. It’s an important job, too, but he’s too worried to properly concentrate.

Still, he does, and he’s actually marginally relieved the hospital does have a still-functioning TV screen, even amidst all the rubble. Should something untoward happen on the battle scene, Inasa decides he will drop everything and fly to him. It wouldn’t be the most professional of Inasa, but he is too worried to care, because he knows what’s most important to him.

“Hurry up and win already!” He screams, and a collective gasp emerges from the patients, not knowing the speech wasn’t meant for them. (Luckily for him, some of them interpret it as a motivational speech, and start moving faster.)

The speech wasn’t meant for the patients – it was meant for them, the two fire-wielders on the TV screen, on the battlefield; the two banes and sources of his existence.

Had it not been for the first Todoroki, Inasa would never had wanted to become a hero; he reckons he’d be better off selling his services as some human version of an electric fan. Had it not been for the second Todoroki, Inasa would never have become a hero, would never have realised that life was worth living and saving; would never have learnt to live.

“Don’t let the villain take you,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Inasa has never been selfish, but he knows what he wants, and he knows what’s his.

And the villain almost takes the first Todoroki, but he doesn’t because the second Todoroki manages to reclaim him, and as the latter clings onto his father, crying warm, liquid tears of relief –

– the sight of them burns a hole through his heart, and he heats, sizzles, and melts, just like every single time.

==========================================

The door clicks shut behind him. The lights are on, and Inasa knows someone’s home.

He’s home, too, Inasa realises himself.

The apartment is smaller than they’d expected – not very ideal at all, considering one of them is a good hundred and ninety-one centimetres tall. But they’d gotten it for a good deal, and it is within the vicinity of both of their agencies, so no one’s complaining, really.

No one’s complaining, really, because they know what they want, and they know they already have what they want.

“Welcome home,” comes a voice from behind him. Right behind him, in fact, because he also feels something (someone) stuck to his back, hugging him. Although Inasa had always known that Shoto has always been warm in his own cold and silent way, Inasa realises he’s been particularly affectionate lately, and it is with this revelation that he heats, sizzles, and melts, just like every single time.

“Chicken soup, or instant ramen? Or udon, we have one packet left-“

“Not soup, not ramen. Not even udon.” Inasa smiles, interlacing their fingers together, and it’s the eye smile he reserves for Shoto; and when Shoto receives it, he is blown away, just like every single time.

“Just you.”

Without air, fire cannot exist. Wind cannot exist either.

At 12.06am, an anxious (and nauseous) Yaoyorozu shows up at Satou's door with eight half-eaten cakes and a desperate plea for help.

Half an hour later, Satou cracks the mystery, and Yaoyorozu cracks the eggs.

(Click here to read on ao3)

Three raps on the door.

Must be the building rats again. Satou ignores the noises, continuing to brush his teeth with the amount of care needed to prevent cavities resulting from a diet high in sugar (hardly an understatement).

Three raps on the door again. Strange, hardly anyone comes to visit. Plus, what could anyone want at 12.05am? Satou starts to conjure images of emergency situations (hardly a surprise, given the type of school they’re in), until…

“Satou-san? Are you in?” comes a female voice from the door.

Yaoyorozu?!

“Yaoyorozu-san?!” Satou almost shrieks, toothbrush in hand, slightly foaming at the mouth.

“Good, I thought you might have been asleep,” Yaoyorozu places her free hand at her forehead. In her unfree hand is a trolley with trays holding eight…beige-blobs that seem to be half-eaten chiffon cakes. Judging from the slight fragrance, Satou knows they must in fact be half-eaten chiffon cakes. In her face is anxiety (along with visible streaks of nausea), and Satou wonders what in the world could be the matter.

“I’m extremely sorry to be intruding on your rest time at this hour, but I have an urgent request.” Her voice is wobbling, and she looks like she is about to faint any moment.

“N-no worries at all, but please come in and have a seat first,” is all Satou can manage, dumbfounded and confused and sleepy but also completely awake, and he wonders what in the world could be the matter.

“Sorry, I only have cheap green tea in here,” Satou sets his most expensive-looking teacup down on his table in front of Yaoyorozu, slightly sheepish but worried and sincere. “Nonetheless, I hope it can calm you down at least a bit. Green tea has antioxidant properties, I think.”

“Thank you very much,” Yaoyorozu says softly and sadly, downing the entire cup in one go (not noticing Satou’s jaw reaching the floor at how she just managed to drink boiling water like it was nothing, reaching slightly for his phone for ease of calling Recovery Girl’s office any time).

Yaoyorozu puts her palms together as if to make a slight prayer, and before Satou can ask, she forms the words for him.

“Can you give me a crash course on baking? I’m so sorry, I know it’s in the middle of the night, but I need to get this cake out by tomorrow.”

Huh?

“Huh?” is Satou’s eloquent response. “Wait, Yaoyorozu-san, aren’t you supposed to be able to make just about anything using your Quirk?” Right, and she doesn’t even need baking utensils, ingredients or ovens! Imagine the financial savings this superpower must bring, goes Satou’s brain enviously.

 “Yes,” is Yaoyorozu’s sad-sounding response. “But unfortunately I can’t seem to make the cake taste right. I even used the exact same proportions of each ingredient you told me from that time, down to the very atom.” She conjures a metal fork from her wrist and hands it to Satou. “Please feel free to give it a try and I think you’ll know what I mean.”

He takes the fork, forgetting that he has just brushed his teeth (even if only midway). Amazingly enough, all eight cakes in front of him bear striking resemblances to each other. In fact, they all bear a striking resemblance to the one he was baking in the midst of the room contest they held when they first moved in; how?!

Tasting them one by one, the resemblance between only grows uncannier…except that this time, they don’t exactly taste like that cake he baked. They somewhat do, but…also somewhat don’t.

He wants to say they taste perfect; in fact they do. But something feels off.

Tasting them one by one again, he thinks he kinds of gets it.

They’re too perfect.

“Yaoyorozu-san,” he clears his throat. “They are very good. But…”

“But…?” Yaoyorozu’s eyes fixate on his; they are on fire – Satou knows this probably means a lot to her, given her perfectionistic nature, but if he isn’t one to never betray his baker soul then he doesn’t know what he is.

“But they taste like carbon-”

“-CARBON?! THAT BAD?!” Yaoyorozu almost shrieks, placing a hand on her heart.

“C-carbon copies of each other! Carbon copies!!!” Satou holds onto Yaoyorozu’s shoulders to prevent her from fainting. “They taste too perfect. They taste almost…”

“…mechanical?” Yaoyorozu continues for him, visibly slightly relieved, but still concerned.

“…Yeah. They almost taste factory-made.” He hurriedly continues, just in case “factory-made” carries a negative connotation. “I mean factory-made in a very well-maintained factory, with extremely strict quality control and top-class ingredients.”

“Oh,” Yaoyorozu puts a hand to her chin, stroking it slightly. “That doesn’t sound so bad, but I wonder what could be the problem. It still doesn’t taste like the one you made the other day, which stole the hearts of all men and women and rabbits present.”

Satou pauses to think for a bit; something in that sentence sounded weird to his sleepy brain. (Rabbits? Oh, Yuwai-chan.)

“Yeah…mine wasn’t perfect. I also didn’t use very good ingredients, because I can only afford what’s from the discount store, given the mass-production scale of my need for cake.” Satou pauses to breathe before continuing. “But there is indeed one missing ingredient in your cake, compared to mine.”

“A missing ingredient? What could it be?”

Satou breathes, bracing himself slightly.

“…love. The missing ingredient is love,” he says, at the same time believing wholeheartedly in the truth of what he said, and also not believing that he said it. But, if he isn’t one to never betray his baker soul then he doesn’t know what he is.

“Love?” Yaoyorozu pauses slightly, thoughtfully. “Your love? If you don’t mind elaborating on what you mean…your love for…?”

“Cake.” Satou clears his throat, steadying his voice. “My love for cake.” (Love comes in many forms. For Satou Rikido, it’s cake.)

“Huh?” is Yaoyorozu’s eloquent response.

She takes a moment to think, before sadly continuing. “If that’s the case, I’m afraid I can’t do it after all.”

“Why? You don’t love cake??” Satou almost shrieks. What a sad life that must be!, goes the baker-soul part of Satou’s sleep-needy brain.

“I mean, I do like cake, especially the ones you make.” Yaoyorozu sighs. “But ever since the teachers started making me consume large volumes of cake to practice producing many things at one go, I don’t think I can ever look at cake the same way anymore.” She puts her hand over her mouth. 

What a sad life that must be!, almost goes Satou. (Though, some part of him actually resonates…he does remember the day they stood side-by-side, equally traumatised, bonding over their newfound dislike for dessert.)

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Satou says sincerely.

Yaoyorozu continues, face getting very slightly greener. "And I don't think I can even look at cake at all now, having repeatedly sampled all of these factory-made-tasting cakes earlier on, in desperate attempts to troubleshoot my problem."

Satou rushes to get his rubbish bin over, on standby. Luckily, Yaoyorozu only looks nauseous.

Satou sighs sympathetically. “But if you don’t mind telling me…what are you making all this cake for?”

Yaoyorozu goes beet-red, seeming to want to say something but really at a loss for words, and it’s a new look on her, is what Satou thinks. He waits for her to continue.

“…it’s Todoroki-kun’s birthday tomorrow. Plus, he looked really conflicted after that kid said his blue left eye was ugly and uncool, and I was thinking of ways to cheer him up.”

Oh.

Satou has known it all along. The way she looks at Todoroki, flinching just slightly every time. The way she speaks about Todoroki, voice dropping just a few decibels softer than when she utters any other name.

And, frankly… he’s been rooting for her all along. (He overheard the girls the other day talking about something called…OTP, or something like that. If he ever has an OTP then he reckons it’ll be this. Because, where on earth can you find two living beings so compatible, really?)

The look on Yaoyorozu’s face is so conflicted, Satou’s heart sinks to the floor. He decides to prevent his ship from suffering the same fate.

What can he do to help, though? He puts a hand to his chin, stroking it slightly. He puts the other hand to his forehead, rubbing it vigorously, as if to make idea-genies appear. Think, Rikido, think. If the missing ingredient is love…

“If the missing ingredient is love, then you definitely have it in your possession.” Satou says decisively.

”Really?!” A glimmer of hope lights up in the once-forsaken night sky that is Yaoyorozu’s eyes.

“Yes, definitely. It’s just that…”

”…just that…?!”

“It’s just that we’re just going to have to put it in by hand.”

“Huh?” is Yaoyorozu’s eloquent response.

Approximately two-hundred grams of flour, hundred and twenty grams of sugar, hundred grams of butter, six eggs, and two hours later, Yaoyorozu and Satou have two slightly-overbaked chiffon cakes in front of them, one to test and one to gift.

They take a bite of the test cake.

“It’s…” Satou struggles to find the word.

“…not perfect,” Yaoyorozu finds the words for him. “But for some reason, it tastes right.”

“Yeah,” Satou grins, baker soul burning. “It’s full of love. I can taste it now.”

Yaoyorozu lights up. “I think I can taste it too!”

“And I know what could make this cake even better.”

Yaoyorozu doesn’t need to begin forming the question with her lips, before Satou disappears into the mini kitchen; shortly after, he emerges, brandishing a bottle of whipped cream, strawberries and a single blueberry. She appraises the new ingredients slightly.

“I think I understand the whipped cream and strawberries. Strawberry shortcake, right? But may I ask…” She pauses slightly.

“…What is with the single blueberry??”

Satou’s lips form into a soft smile. This single blueberry will be what is needed to nourish his one true pairing.

“This is his blue eye. I chose the most perfectly round and ripe blueberry so you can tell him how beautiful it is.”

At 3.06am, a no-longer-anxious (nor nauseous) Yaoyorozu heads out of Satou's door with one uneaten shortcake, filled with strawberries (and blueberry), impeccably adorned to resemble its upcoming recipient.

“How can I ever repay you,” Yaoyorozu’s eyes brim with tears, pulling Satou in for a hug.

“Ever happy to help, Yaoyorozu-san.” Satou’s eyes brim with tears too, from the prospect of his ship setting sail, and from the sleep deprivation. “You don’t have to repay me at all! Really.” Except maybe he could use a refill of the flour, eggs and dairy, goes the rational part of his brain.

“Really? At least let me reimburse you for the ingredients,” Yaoyorozu frowns.

“You don’t have to pay me money, remember? You just have to make the ingredients using your power.”

A light bulb seems to light up in Yaoyorozu’s brain. “I’ll make you ingredients any time you need, in future, for free!” Her face, too, lights up. “But at least let me pay a small tuition fee for the lesson today?”

“No tuition fee needed, Yaoyorozu-san!” Satou grins. “Just keep me updated on what he thinks.”

The next morning, at the bathroom sink, an agitated-looking Mineta accosts a tired Satou yawning while brushing his teeth, almost too sleep-deprived to notice him at all.

“I saw Momo-san enter your room at around midnight yesterday.” Mineta crosses his arms, eyebrow waggling in a haphazard way, perhaps conflicted with the torrent of equal parts envy and curiosity. “What were you doing?”

Having the most miraculous encounter of his boring life so far, is what Satou wants to say.

“Making friends,” is what he does say. “And setting sail my OTP.”

===========================================

11th January, 12.03p.m.

From: Yaoyorozu-san

Satou-san, I’m so nervous…😵💫

11th January, 12.04p.m.

To: Yaoyorozu-san

You can do this, Yaoyorozu-san! I’ve got your back! Don’t worry, the cake was amazing!

And still is!

Also, you can call me Rikido!

11th January, 12.06p.m.

From: Yaoyorozu-san

Okay, Rikido! But only if you call me Momo in return. 😊

I’m giving it to him now. Wish me luck!!!

11th January, 12.06p.m.

To: Momo

🍀I await your good news excitedly. 💪🏻

11th January, 4.07p.m.

From: Momo

Rikido!!! He really liked it 😊

And he actually cried and gave me a hug when I told him about the blueberry.

And…we’re together now.

How can I ever repay you.

11th January, 4.10p.m.

To: Momo

OMG! I’M SO HAPPY I COULD CRY!!

You can repay me…by the two of you being happy.

And send me regular updates on how you two are doing.

And come to me whenever you need to make some cake.

And maybe help me create some ingredients using your Quirk sometimes. (Just sometimes.)

And… keep being my friend.

I mean!!! Only if you want.

11th January, 4.15p.m.

From: Momo

I’ll be more than honoured to do all of the above!!!

And what are you talking about!? Aren’t we already best friends!?

Never underestimate an act of kindness. It may just find its way back to you. | ao3

===============================================

Five hours and the rain hasn’t relented.

Izuku decides to give up waiting, and makes a dash for it. Ten minutes later and he reaches the building’s lift, suit and spirits more than dampened.

Five years and the industry hasn’t relented. He’s been trying his best to make it, but perhaps he hasn’t got luck. Or maybe he hasn’t got talent. Probably neither.

Maybe it’s time.

He decides to give up…and something large, rough and white is suddenly in his face.

“You look like you need one,” comes a female voice from across what he realises is a towel. “You don’t have to return it, I have enough.”

When it’s removed from his face he sees a girl with shoulder-length auburn hair and bright, round eyes in almost the same shade. She’s dressed simply in a white Polo tee and work pants (perhaps she works at the laundromat, guesses Izuku). Her clothes may be plain, but they sure are way more immaculate than his, at least at this point in time.

(He doesn’t say anything; he fears the tears will spill out, rather than the words.)

“Alright,” she smiles as she finishes wiping his face. “You’re okay.” She then hugs him, getting a bit wet herself, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Hang in there, you can do it.”

=============================================

Ten years and the industry hasn’t relented. He’s still been trying to make it, because he’s still got neither luck nor talent.

But he’s okay. Because he’s making it, slowly but surely.

Had it not been the time he’d been offered a random kind act in the form of a small face towel, perhaps he’d still not have had the privilege of knowing that kindness still exists in the world. It was on that day that he’d secured his first deal, and even if he hasn’t had the same smooth ride as many of his peers, it had been a start, and it has been the foundation on which his business grew; the giant whose shoulders on which he’s standing.

His eyes drift to the small, white facecloth sitting folded on his table. He’s been using it for five years, and it’s now off-white rather than bleached-white. He doesn’t intend to give up using it any time soon.

Five hours and the rain hasn’t relented.

He’s in his office, somewhere way nearer to the city centre, somewhere between the middle and  the top of the building. Never thought he’d ever get there. He’s still far from the top, but it’s a far cry from where he had been in the basement ten years ago. Stroking something small, rough and white in its permanent spot at his table, he smiles and his heart aches a little as he realises how grateful he is.

His stomach growls, though, as he realises how hungry he is.

Maybe it’s time.

He decides to get some lunch…and out of the window he thinks he spots her, the same one, dressed simply in plain work clothes (the laundromat?) and way less immaculate than him at this point in time, clothes and spirits more than dampened.

Something small, rough and white is suddenly in her face.

“You look like you need one,” he says across what she realises is a towel. “You don’t have to return it, I have enough.”

“Alright,” he smiles as he finishes wiping the tears off her face. “You’re okay.” He hugs her, getting a bit wet himself, but he doesn’t care.