#{bantering}

“The others are cleaning up their mess. Would you like to head back before them?” Elias asks from behind. 

You shake your head. “I don’t mind staying. You can go ahead though.” 

He leans his back against the railing beside you. 

“No, I think I’ll stay too.” 

Mesmerized by the ripples in the water, you don’t notice the long silence... or his gaze.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” 

You look up at him. 

“About the mission, the details, the plans. You’re always so… on top of it.” 

He’s right. You used to ask questions. You tried to keep up. You tried to be a part of them. But at a certain point you knew that wasn’t possible. 

It’s not that you stopped trying. It’s that you chose peace. 

“No. I’m ok,” you say lightly, “I think I have enough information for the case files.” 

“Hmmm. That’s disappointing.” 

You raise a brow.  

“I always enjoyed watching our little detective unravel things.” 

It’s bait. But you won’t bite. You simply huff out a small laugh. 

“Well,” he glances down at you, intrigued. “Why the sudden change?” 

I felt stupid every time I thought we had gotten closer.  But you can’t say that. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I guess I just don’t feel the need anymore.” 

Elias nods slowly. 

“So you trust us?” 

You squint, searching for the best answer. 

“Not particularly.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

You blink, slightly taken aback. You thought those two questions were one and the same. 

You sigh softly. “Trust comes with action, Elias.” 

You don’t elaborate. You don't need to.

"So I won't earn it until I prove myself."

He hums. 

“That’s a shame."

"But," he taps his chin thoughtfully, "what if those secrets were to protect everyone?” he asks. “To keep the peace.” It isn’t a statement. It’s an invitation to debate. 

You ponder for a long while.  

“I never asked to be protected.” The words come out calm. Almost detached. “But maybe I can only say that because I don’t know how many times your lies have actually saved me.” 

You tap the metal lightly with your finger.

“And if that is true… it sounds exhausting.”

His head tilts. 

“Carrying all that alone.” 

For a moment he just stares at you— like you're something he’ll never quite understand.

His fascination curls into a small smirk. 

“It must be nice,” he teases, “not having to question everything.”

You smile back. 

“It must be nice,” you reply, “lying whenever it's convenient for you.” 

His eyes sharpen. He didn't expect that.    But he isn't done playing.

“I suppose when something troubles you, you simply write it in a report and move on.” 

“Actually,” you grin mischievously, “Unlike you, I have someone I go to for my troubles.”

That does it. For the first time that evening, his curiosity isn’t hidden. 

“And who is that?” 

You turn back to the ocean.

“It’s a secret.” 

His expression shifts, amusement flickering in his eyes. 

“Is this revenge?” 

“Revenge?" You laugh under your breath. "You can have secrets but I can’t?” 

“Oh, so this is what it feels like.”  A small, dangerous satisfaction grows in your chest.

He turns, fully toward you now.

“Inspector,” he says after a moment, “How about a deal? I’ll let you in on a little secret… If you tell me who it is.” 

You know it isn’t who the person is that interests Elias. It’s the fact that you have a secret at all. 

“I’m good. I don’t need to know.” 

His arm suddenly slides in front of you, taking up your side of the railing. He leans down slightly, bringing his face close to yours. 

He’s asking you to look at him. Not the sunset. Not the waters. Him. 

“Although you act like you don’t care,” he says softly, almost a whisper, “I’m sure there’s still a part of you that wants to know. Come on, Inspector, any question. The clash. Why we ran away. Why you’re in this position now. Ask away.” 

For a moment, you’re tempted. There are many things you’re curious about. And perhaps even more than that, you want to know how much Elias actually knows about you.

The two of you simply stare at each other in silence. Like a competition to see who’ll break first.

“Pfft.” Unable to control yourself, you laugh. 

“Just to know who I go to? It was that easy?”

He joins in, chuckling softly. 

Moments ago he felt untouchable. Grand. Like the ringleader and mastermind. Now he just feels... silly.

“Thanks for the offer,” you say, “But honestly, I’m not sure if I’d be able to trust any information you give me.”

“Ouch. How blunt.” 

He slowly turns toward the ocean, resting his arms against the railing. This time he watches the sunset with you. “But I suppose that’s part of your charm.” 

Slowly, the sun disappears beneath the horizon.

You think he's done...

“So… is it Jin or Haku?” 

You laugh.

The argument did not start like a storm. 

Afternoon light lay thin and pearled over the Butterfly Estate’s inner garden, the shoji doors pushed open to let air pour through the corridor. 

Reports and requisitions waited in careful stacks on a low table. 

Somewhere outside, a bell cricket sang one persistent note. 

It should have been ordinary: a few Hashira crossing paths, the day quieting into evening’s soft throat.

“It wasn’t difficult,” Giyu said, tone even, eyes lowered to the page in his hand. 

“Any competent slayer could have held the line.”

Sanemi’s head lifted like a dog catching a challenge. 

“What?”

Giyu glanced up once, misreading the particular tilt of Sanemi’s shoulders. “The demon was slow.”

“Oh,” Sanemi said, a laugh with no humor baring his teeth. “Oh. So suddenly you’re the expert on what anyone else could do.”

“It’s an observation,” Giyu replied, and the neutral calm in his voice struck like a match in dry grass.

The Wind Hashira closed the distance in three strides. “Say it again,” he snapped, breath gusting, scars sharpening as his jaw worked. “Go on. Say it in that dead fish voice like nobody’s listening.”

Giyu blinked, unflinching. “It was slow.”

“You…” Sanemi’s hand cut the air. 

The memory of the last mission burned behind his eyes: blood in dirt, children shepherded behind his back, the way his lungs had stung with cold air as he’d split wind to keep the demon’s attention on him. The way Giyu had passed like water through it all and said nothing. 

The way silence could feel like judgment.

Before the explosion could crest, soft sandals kissed tatami. 

Y/N stepped out of the shade, a ribbon of cool night in the heated corridor. 

She had a paper fan tucked at her waist, hair half-up with pins that caught the light, the star at her throat gleaming like a reminder. 

She took in the stance of the men: Sanemi forward and bristling, Giyu still as a drawn bow, and crossed the space that mattered.

“Enough,” she said, tone like velvet drawn thin over a blade.

Her lashes lowered, her gaze was very clear. 

She put herself between them as if the corridor had been designed for exactly this shape: her back to Giyu, her body facing Sanemi, her presence an axis both of them turned around without thinking.

Sanemi’s mouth opened. 

She leveled him with a look that made a lesser man swallow his words whole. “If you raise your voice at me,” she added quietly, “raise it from the other end of the estate.”

He huffed, throat working, the sound breaking into a mutter. “Tell him that.”

“I heard him,” she said. “And I heard you. Which is why we’re starting with you.” 

Her brows knit, beautiful and disappointed. “You are a Hashira. If you dislike what someone says, say so. Don’t set yourself on fire to prove you’re wind.”

Sanemi bristled. “Did you hear what he-”

“I heard you’re reacting instead of thinking,” she cut in, the calm of her voice colder than a shout. “You don’t get to break everything because you feel something.” 

She tapped one manicured nail, perfectly, dead center to his chest. The poke wasn’t hard; it landed like a bell struck true. “Show some grace to your fellow Hashira. And to yourself.”

Behind her, Giyu was a quiet presence…too quiet, Sanemi realized a breath too late. 

He could feel the Water Hashira’s calm like surface tension against his back, steady as a hand at a spine, and when Y/N stepped in to shield him, the corner of Giyu’s mouth ticked up. 

Small. 

Smug.

Sanemi stared, incredulous. “You see that?! He’s…he’s pretending! Look at that smug bastard!?!”

The words bounced off her shoulders. 

She didn’t turn. She only narrowed her eyes at Sanemi, the fan at her waist shifting like a warning.

Giyu’s small smile vanished the instant Y/N half glanced back. 

He stared down at her with polite emptiness, head tilted by a millimeter, as if curious about a sparrow.

Y/N’s brow knit. She weighed the two men, then tapped Sanemi’s sternum again. “Don’t lie when you’re bad at it. And don’t shout in my face.”

“I’m not?!” He faltered, caught between outrage and the way her voice made his bones behave. He jabbed a finger past her shoulder at Giyu. “He’s lying with his face!”

“Sanemi,” she said, the single word like silk pulled firm.

For a moment he looked very young, out in a storm with his fists up to stop the rain. He shut his mouth. She let the quiet sit, then softened by a breath. 

“Apologize to me for raising your voice.”

His throat worked. “…Sorry.”

“Good,” she said, and it was, somehow. 

She stepped back half a pace, creating space without surrendering ground. Sanemi exhaled, still vibrating, jaw ticking.

At her back, Giyu’s knuckles ghosted the fabric at her sleeve, not a touch, just the whisper promise of one. “Y/N,” he said, as if remembering his own voice. 

“I need help writing the report. From the last mission.”

Sanemi flung an arm. “Oh, now you speak.”

She clicked her tongue, one soft sound that scolded without ceremony, and reached to Giyu, her fingers closing around his forearm, the gentlest link of chain. 

“Let’s go.” 

She dipped her chin to Sanemi in a calm, imperious farewell that somehow did not feel like victory; it felt like a line drawn for his sake too. “Eat something.”

As they moved past, Giyu looked back over his shoulder. The glance was brief and surgical. 

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly; a playful, taunting curve touched his mouth, there and gone, as if to say next time, bring your sword instead of your temper. Then he turned, letting her lead him, their sleeves brushing.

Sanemi blinked, stunned into laughter that didn’t know where to go. “What…Did you see…”

Obanai, lingering by a column, clicked his tongue. “Indecent.”

Sanemi scrubbed a hand down his face. “I hate this place.”

˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Giyu’s room faced the maple court. 

Evening had lowered itself like a shawl across the branches; lamplight turned shoji paper to warm honey. 

The neatness of his space had always felt monastic: tatami without scuff, inkstone aligned with brush, futon folded with respectful edges. 

He set the report pages down and knelt. 

She knelt beside him, close enough that he could feel the shape of her, the quiet heat of her through fabric. 

The scent of her hair threaded the air: jasmine and something faintly sweet he could never name without sounding foolish.

“Header first,” she murmured, reaching past him for the brush. 

Her shoulder slid against his; his breath caught as if the contact had cut a knot. 

She pretended not to notice, dipping the brush and laying the first stroke. “Date, locale, purpose.”

He tried to watch the paper. 

He watched the small sigh of her mouth instead. 

The world shrank to two hands and a sheet of rice paper, to her voice marking details, to his heartbeat measuring seconds he would not give back.

Her sleeve ticked his forearm again. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said softly, the warmth of her voice turning the edges of the words to silk. “you’re very cute.”

He turned to look at her. 

She leaned closer, cheek nearly aligned with his jaw, her breath tracing his ear like a strand of warm rain.

He felt it: the small, involuntary twitch that ran through him, as if she’d found the spot at the back of his neck that made him honest.

He leaned back a fraction to catch his breath; she followed, a soft nip at his ear, a ghost of teeth: teasing, almost shy.

“But did you have to tease him that hard?” she whispered, lips grazing his skin on the word hard. 

“He’s going to explode.”

Giyu blinked up at her absently, undone by the nearness and the softness and the sense that he had just been seen, perfectly. “You knew…?”

She tilted her head, devastatingly pretty, lashes dropping and lifting. “Of course I knew.” 

Her fingers found the end of his tie; with one gentle pull, it slid free, and his hair fell loose around his shoulders: darker now, softer in the lamplight.

She took a breath like a decision and leaned in, kissing him once: light, teasing, the press of a promise. She did it again, slower. Then again, the slightest pull at his lower lip as if testing a thread for strength.

Something inside him leaned hard into the slipstream.

He caught her waist and lifted, turning with the clean ease of practice until she ended in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hem of her uniform brushing his thighs. 

The move startled a soft sound from her, half gasp, half laugh, and she swayed toward him on instinct, hands hooking at his neck.

“Why…” he began, already breathless, the question not making it to the world.

“Because you looked so…” she started against his mouth, the rest of the sentence drowned when he kissed her like a man who had spent weeks standing waist-deep in a river and suddenly remembered he could dive.

It went messy quickly. 

His fingers slid into her hair and found the roots, gentle but firm, tugging to angle her, to ask without words if he could have more. 

She gave it, lips parting under his with an unguarded sound he wanted to keep forever. 

She tasted like tea and clean breath and something like summer dusk. 

He could feel the shape of her smile in the kiss, and then the smile broke and turned into a caught little exhale when his hands smoothed down the sides of her ribs and paused, reverent, at the warm notch where fabric parted for the hakama’s slit.

She nipped his ear again because it made him go helpless. 

He groaned quiet, shocked at himself, and kissed along her jaw, gathering every small sound she made, every tremble in her breath, as if they were offerings he had been starving for. 

Her fingers tugged at his hair in return, delicate and greedy at once, and he thought, wildly, that he would let her pull him anywhere she wanted to go.

“Giyu,” she said into his mouth, a plea and a prayer, and he answered by kissing her slower, deeper, until the silence between breaths felt like another body in the room.

The report lay abandoned, ink drying mid-character.

When they finally parted to breathe, her eyes were heavy-lidded, glassy at the edges. 

“You’re dangerous,” she breathed, the words caught somewhere between helpless and elegant, a balance that would have brought a wiser man to his knees.

“So quiet and then…” She broke on a little laugh, cheeks flushed. “So unkind to my composure.”

His hand cupped her jaw, thumb petting once at the soft corner of her mouth, and she kissed the pad of it without thinking, eyes warm and wicked. 

The gesture did something to him; he swallowed hard, closed his eyes for a heartbeat to keep from saying anything that would not fit back into a cup later.

Across the courtyard, a night breeze moved the maple leaves. The room filled with that whisper. 

“You should write,” she teased, voice rasped thinner now, breath brushing his lip with every word. “Before you forget the details and make me do it all.”

He managed a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “If I write now,” he murmured, “I’ll write your name on every line.”

She looked at him, soft and startled, as if he’d taken something she had been holding too long and said it out loud. 

Her smile returned, different, a little tremble at its edges that made him want to be better than he had ever been. “Don’t,” she said. “You’ll make me dangerous too.”

He reached for the brush because the world asked them to keep living in it. 

She stayed where she was for a moment longer, studying him like a constellation, then slid to his side, hip to hip, one hand still looped loosely at the back of his neck as if to anchor them both. He wrote in a neat, disciplined hand, and sometimes the strokes wavered because she leaned in and kissed his jaw once, twice, just to feel him shiver.

When the header was finished and the first paragraph laid like a quiet path across the page, she set the brush aside and reached for his hair, smoothing it back, fingers combing gently as if training water to remember which way to flow. 

He let his eyes close for three breaths, then opened them to find her staring, softer than the lamplight, conspirator’s smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

“You were very mean to Sanemi,” she said: playful verdict, soft sentence.

“I was,” Giyu admitted, unrepentant. He looked down. “He’ll live.”

“He will.” She leaned in, lowering her voice into his ear: gentle, bright mischief. “And you’ll kiss me as penance.”

He turned his head, letting his lips graze the curve just beneath her ear, a nod that almost became a kiss. “I was going to do that anyway”

She stilled, breath catching: the glamour of humor dissolving into something clearer, cleaner. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” she whispered. 

He sat back enough to see her face. “I don’t know how to do anything but mean it.”

Silence again. 

Soft, charged. 

The night had thickened outside; the estate made the small, mortal sounds of people existing safely. 

Y/N drew in a breath that trembled at the start but steadied by the end. “Then kiss me later,” she said lightly, because they were responsible warriors. 

“And finish your report, Water Hashira.”

“Yes,” he said, obedient and content.

They worked. 

Sometimes she leaned, and he forgot a word and found it later. Sometimes he looked up, and she pretended she hadn’t been watching his mouth. 

The world stayed very simple on purpose: ink, paper, steam lifting from cups when he finally returned with tea, the small clink of porcelain, the lamplight forgiving them every time their hands brushed.

Later, when the report dried and the tea cooled and the first sleepy cricket changed its song, he reached for her without looking and found her hand waiting. 

Fingers laced, their arms rested easy on the tatami between them. She tilted her head onto his shoulder and closed her eyes as if she’d done it a hundred times; his breath went careful, then deep, then steady.

Somewhere on the other side of the estate, Sanemi complained to anyone who would listen about smug water and unfair stars. 

Somewhere else, Mitsuri told Obanai it was all so romantic. 

Here, in the quiet honey of the room, they did not need witnesses. He turned his head and pressed his mouth once to her hair like a seal.

“You’re growing very bold, Tomioka,” she said softly, drowsy and glowing, repeating herself simply to savor it. “It’s very cute.”

“Mn,” he replied, which meant only because it’s you, and felt her laughter bloom, muffled against his shoulder.

Outside, the maple leaves breathed. 

Inside, the last of the day exhaled. 

The ink on the report shone and then settled. 

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple; she only groaned in response, half protest, half contentment.

"You survived," is what Hitoshi is greeted with when he comes back the next day and he gives the barista his most winning smile.

Which mostly means he looks like a deranged idiot, but whatever.

"Aw, you remember me," he coos, uncaring of the blazing rage that gets directed his way. If the guy didn't want Hitoshi to be a teasing asshole then maybe he should be a little bit nicer. "Sure did, though. The same thing again, if you wouldn't mind."

"I would, actually," the barista says and now that Hitoshi knows he'll be a regular here he makes it very obvious that he's looking for the guys nameplate.

"But that's not how you get customers to stay, Bakugo," Hitoshi says once he found it and he sees Bakugo's eye twitch.

"Your ugly mug is going to scare customers away, so maybe I don't want you to come back," he shoots back and Hitoshi can't help the little delighted smile.

It's not often that people respond like that to his teasing and his prodding and to have this random barista react in the same vein is giving Hitoshi more will to live than any amount of coffee possibly could.

"Caffeineate me properly and maybe I won't look like this anymore."

"Unlikely, those eyebags seem to be a permanent disfigurement."

"Ouch," Hitoshi mutters even as he watches in delight how Bakugo makes the same horrifyingly strong coffee for him again.

"I'm going to make this for you one more time and then I'm going to cut the espresso down," Bakugo threatens as he puts the cup down but he doesn't let go of it. "What name do I put down?" he asks, glaring at Hitoshi as if he personally offended him and Hitoshi briefly looks around the shop.

There are basically no other customers around at this time of the day and he turns back to Bakugo with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't think we're going to get my order confused," Hitoshi mildly says and Bakugo huffs out a breath.

"Fine. Troll doll it is," he decides and puts that name boldly on the cup.

When he does end up putting fifteen shots in there, Hitoshi doesn't even complain.

~*~*~

"Last time, eyebags," Bakugo warns him the next day and Hitoshi pouts at him.

"Taking away my coffee and my troll doll status? Harsh."

"Make better life decisions and maybe you'll get either back," Bakugo shoots back, filling Hitoshi's cup.

When he puts it down on the counter, Hitoshi reaches for it, but Bakugo doesn't let go.

"Last time, eyebags, I mean it. Do not come in here tomorrow and whine at me to make you the same again, I'm warning you."

"Mh, sure, hot stuff," Hitoshi says, leaning against the counter and batting his eyelashes at Bakugo. "We'll see about that tomorrow."

"Guess we will," Bakugo grumbles as he lets go of Hitoshi's cup and that wasn't an agreement to change the order but Hitoshi has yet worn down anyone.

One grumpy barista is hardly a challenge for him.

~*~*~

"Nooooo, what are you doing, that only has twelve espresso shots in it," Hitoshi cries out, flopping over the counter as if he's allowed to do that and for a split second he fears Bakugo is going to upend the entire cup over his head.

But in the end Bakugo only almost crumples the cup in his hand before he puts it down on the counter right at Hitoshi's head with more self-restrained than Hitoshi thought possible.

"Take it or get the fuck out," Bakugo says as if he couldn't care less and immediately Hitoshi's hands shoot out for his cup because it might be short three shots but it's still the best coffee he ever had.

"Thought so," Bakugo smugly says and rings him up and Hitoshi has to admit that maybe he won this round.

~*~*~

"You're being unusually cruel to me," Hitoshi says the next day when he comes in and Bakugo only puts in ten shots. "You're not even properly weaning me off."

"What are you, a baby? Get your fucking life together."

"Or what? Are you threatening me?" Hitoshi coyly asks, looking Bakugo up and down and then laughing out loud when Bakugo makes the most scandalised noise.

"Fuck you, troll doll," he snaps out and Hitoshi lets out a satisfied sigh.

"You might have taken my caffeine from me but at least you've given me my troll doll status back," he mutters as he inhales the heavenly scent of the coffee. "Small victories," he decides and happily leaves a spluttering Bakugo behind.

~*~*~

The next time Hitoshi comes in, he hasn't slept for approximately forty-eight hours and he feels accordingly.

Going by how big Bakugo's eyes get, he must look like it, too and Hitoshi makes a whiny sound before he even speaks.

"Please. Have mercy. Fifteen," is all Hitoshi manages to say but instead of moving and giving Hitoshi what he needs, Bakugo is frozen to the spot.

"I should tie you to your bed and force feed you sleeping pills before you give yourself a heart attack. What the fuck is wrong with you, zombie face?"

"Awwwww," a new voice cuts in and a red-haired head pokes around a door Hitoshi has honestly never noticed. "Baku-bro, you care about him!" the guy coos out and Hitoshi slow-blinks at the outlandish statement, his processing powers way below his normal speed, but Bakugo doesn't seem to have the same problems because he almost explodes in his anger.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, shitty hair," he screeches out and lunges for the other guy, which ends in a little scuffle Hitoshi is more than happy to watch.

This is better entertainment than any TV show.

When Bakugo has finally let go of the other guy, who wisely retreated back into whatever hole he crawled out of, Hitoshi hits Bakugo with his best puppy eyes and whispers out a pathetic "Please? Caffeine?"

"Stupid fucking idiots and their stupid desires to fucking die," Bakugo grumbles as he gets to work and Hitoshi doesn't dare to blink in fear of missing how many shots Bakugo graces him with today, but he seems to be in a benevolent mood because Hitoshi counts fifteen.

"Get fucking lost, loser," Bakugo says as he hands Hitoshi his coffee. "I don't take money from pathetic people like you."

"Could have saved so much money," Hitoshi mutters, clutching the cup close and burning his mouth when he takes a too big gulp way too quickly.

"Serves you right," Bakugo snorts out and then practically shoos him out of the shop.

~*~*~

It goes on. Some days Bakugo cuts his caffeine consumption down, sometimes he acquiesces to Hitoshi's demand of fifteen shots and some days they snark so much over the counter that Bakugo clearly doesn't keep count and Hitoshi forgets to pay attention, too.

It's all fun and games until one day Bakugo threatens to give him decaf next time Hitoshi annoys him and now that Hitoshi can't let stand.

So he prepares himself.

~*~*~

The next day Bakugo moves to the right side instead of the left and just that change in routine lets Hitoshi know that he's making good on his promise of giving him decaf.

Hitoshi is outraged, but he's also ready.

"I didn't even say anything," he says, because Bakugo specifically tied that punishment to annoying him and Bakugo eyes him over his shoulder.

"You're here. That's annoyance enough," he mildly says but Hitoshi spots the small smile around his mouth and he knows that he enjoys their little spats just as much as Hitoshi does, so really, this is an unjust punishment, all things considered.

"Rude," Hitoshi decides and patiently waits for Bakugo to hand him the cup.

Then he takes the top off, practically feeling Bakugo's eyes burn into him, and this, too, is a deviation of the usual routine.

Hitoshi takes his coffee black—there's no need for him to take off the cap.

"What are you doing?" Bakugo suspiciously asks when Hitoshi reaches into his bag and pulls out an energy drink, which he cracks open and then pours into the mug without breaking eye contact with Bakugo.

It takes him a moment but then he lets out an enraged yell before he flings himself over the counter, knocking the concoction over, hands reaching for Hitoshi's throat.

"You," he hisses out in a rage and then shakes Hitoshi so hard his teeth clack together. "How dare you? How dare you?!" he screams. "You did not just disgrace my coffee like that, you absolute fucking heathen, I should ban you for life!"

Hitoshi laughs and then laughs some more when Bakugo's eyes blaze and it takes him a while to be able to speak again.

"What, I can't alter my coffee?"

"You abso-fucking-lutely cannot," Bakugo hisses out and flings a hand out, accusingly pointing at a stone slate that is mounted on the wall.

Do not alter the drinks that are made in these hallowed halls, it says and Hitoshi almost chokes, he's laughing so hard.

"What the fuck, Bakugo, why do you have that?"

"Because it's a rule, you idiot, you do not alter my drinks, ever. What you just did is a disgrace and punishable by death!"

"You're not just a barista here, are you?" Hitoshi asks, going lax in Bakugo's hands and Bakugo blinks at him, clearly caught off guard by his question.

"I'm the fucking owner, you moron."

"Should have figured," Hitoshi mutters and mourns all the days he could have asked Bakugo out without risking putting him into a difficult position.

As the owner he can tell Hitoshi to fuck off without any worries.

"Go on a date with me? A non-coffee date?"

"You think after what you just did I'd want to be anywhere near you?" Bakugo bites out and Hitoshi looks down at the practically non-existent distant between them.

"Seems like that to me," he easily says and Bakugo takes his hands back as if he burned himself. "So. Date?"

"I don't even know your name, fuckface," Bakugo spits out and Hitoshi laughs before he leans in close.

"You could have just asked," he whispers but Bakugo's glare only intensifies.

"I did, you asshole and you didn't tell me. So if you want to go anywhere with me, you better tell me."

"Fair enough," Hitoshi admits, because yeah, he did that, actually. "Shinsou Hitoshi."

"Troll doll, got it," Bakugo gives back and Hitoshi lets out a startled laugh.

"Do I get a first name?"

Bakugo glares at him for a moment before he moves back behind the counter, getting a mop to clean up the mess they just made.

"Be here at seven and pay for dinner and maybe you just might," he says and Hitoshi's grin is so wide it feels as if his face is going to split in two.

"Deal."

(He does get a first name. And then a phone number. And an address. And a key. And a ring. And a husband. Hitoshi got incredibly much, considering he went only in for a coffee.)

You stare at the text messages Benjamin sent in the group chat. You are quick to open your agenda app to see if you are free to help your friend. Before you can even text Benjamin that you're available, and will come over soon, he calls you. You pick up.

"Help!" Benjamin's panicked voice sounds from the other side of the line. "If I have to tackle this couch alone for one more minute, I'm gonna kill someone. And since the couch and I are the only things in the room, it's probably gonna be me!"

You stifle a laugh. "I was just about to text you that I'll come over. Stay there. Don't move, and don't kill yourself."

"I'll try." Benjamin whines dramatically. You roll your eyes as you hang up on your friend, and grab your headphones and jacket.

Within two minutes, you are outside your building and walking to Benjamin's apartment. He moved into an apartment building off campus this summer. A couple of weeks ago his couch—which was already on the verge of breaking—broke, and he had to order a new one. Not that he minded; he loved shopping for anything. He'd always join you whenever you would run errands.

It takes no more than ten minutes to get to Benjamin's apartment building, though, because it is quite close to campus. Plus, you are a fast walker, so you are always a couple of minutes faster.

You ring the doorbell and Benjamin lets you into the building. After riding the elevator, you walk to Benjamin's apartment. He is already waiting in the doorway and gives you a big hug once you're within reach.

"Oh thank God you're here!" He exclaims, hugging you so tight that it is getting hard to breathe. "You are truly the only reliable friend I have around here."

"I'm happy to be of help, babe." You choke out a laugh, pulling out of the embrace, and walking past Benjamin into his living room.

“Now, let’s see what this evil couch is about…”

************************************************

30 minutes later

"How did you manage, out of all couches in the world, to buy the most complex and pain in the ass one?!" You huff, a drop of sweat running down your forehead. You are sitting crisscross applesauce, hunched over, trying to figure out the way this stupid couch is set up.

You managed to get halfway before getting stuck. Step 17 was the devil in disguise, and it had you developing lower back pain and a stress induced headache. Still, you were determined to figure it out. Benjamin asked you for help, and if the help couldn't manage to assemble this couch, you knew he would leave this unfinished for weeks.

"The people at the store said it was easy!" Benjamin protests with a sigh.

"Yeah, maybe for people who sell couches for a living. Not for broke students who prepare all their food in the microwave!" You say, frowning at the couch. Benjamin's killing comment from earlier isn't seeming as dramatic as it did before. You might just throw this couch—or yourself—out the window.

There's a faint knock on the front door. You aren't sure if there is even someone there, but the way Benjamin skips to the door washes the doubt away.

"Hey! What are you doing here?!" Benjamin's voice sounds slightly distressed. You look up to see who he let in, and your face falters immediately at the sight of Harry walking into the living room.

"You said you needed help, so I—" Harry stops talking once he spots you too, and he sighs. Your eyes widen. He has the nerve to actually sigh? What a douchebag!

"I'm going to the bathroom." You say, glaring Harry down as you move out of the living room. You hear some footsteps behind you, and you know that Benjamin is following you. You let him enter the bathroom with you, and turn around as he closes the door.

"I can't believe you would let him come over while I'm here!" You cross your arms. You are quite upset with Benjamin, but even more so with Harry. The sole sight of his smug face sets you off. He annoys you to no end.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know! I texted him, and he never responded. He just comes over without warning a lot. This wasn't intentional, I swear." Benjamin explains, and you can tell that he's sincere. Benjamin can be almost as much of a pain in the butt as his stupid couch, but he would never intentionally hurt you. But Harry would, and he did.

"I just..." you take a deep breath before you make the confession you've been bothered with for a while now. "Harry hurt me, a lot. And you're still friends with him..."

It's Benjamin's turn to sigh. He grabs your arms and levels with you, searching for your eyes.

"Harry is on the bench." He tells you, like you are supposed to know what that means.

"You know we're building you a couch, not a bench—"

"No, dumbass!" Benjamin interrupts you. "Harry's on the friendship bench. He was demoted to second string. He ain't playing in the game that I call my inner circle."

You sigh. "Okay, could you just leave the metaphors for a second and tell me what you mean—"

"I punched him." He shrugs as if it is as simple as ever. You, however, have your mouth hanging wide open.

"You punched Harry?"

"Of course I did. What he did to you was beyond shitty, and he totally deserved it." Benjamin confirms, and your heart sinks at the fact that you doubted his loyalty to you in the first place. "But Harry has been one of my best friends since high school. And what happened— well... let's just say that the story is not totally black and white."

That makes you feel a bit offended. "What is not black and white about this situation? Dylan cheated, Harry participated."

"I agree, that part is black and white. That's why I punched him." He nods his head. "Now, you can go home, and I will try and assemble this stupid couch with him. I totally understand that you don't want to stay here."

"No!" You say angrily. Benjamin's eyebrows crease into a frown, almost as surprised as you by your drive to stay here.

"But—"

"Why?! So he can brag about the couch that I basically put together?!" You murmur as you cross your arms, eyes squinting a bit at the thought of him walking around with that inflated ego of his. There is absolutely no way he is getting another something of yours, again!

"Y/N, it's just a couch—" Benjamin tries to argue, but you won't hear of it.

"This is not about the stupid couch!" You blurt out. This shuts him up. He stares at you for a few seconds with this look in his eyes that reads 'go home, don't do this'. But you don't feel like listening, so you walk past him, out of the bathroom and back into the living room.

"I don't think this is a good idea!" Benjamin calls out from the bathroom.

"Too bad!" You call back. Benjamin is right on your heels and right next to you by the time you stand in front of Harry again. He has already seated himself in the place where you were sitting just now. He's got the manual in one hand and a screw driver in the other.

"I fixed the problem. You were using the wrong screws." Harry says, the comment more directed at Benjamin than at you. But you take it personally anyway, because you are the one who selected the screws. You walk over to him and snatch the manual out of his hands.

"I read it five times, I definitely used the right—" upon reading step 17 for the fifth time, you finally see the name of the screws you were supposed to use. Your brain tends to mash up words after a while, and all the screws' names really read alike.

When you look up from the piece of paper, you see Harry smirking at you. He knows he's right, and he knows you know he's right, and that makes you incredibly angry. He shouldn't be allowed to be right, ever. Not in front of you, at least.

With a groan, you sit yourself down next to Harry and snatch the screwdriver out of his hand before burying your nose into the manual again. You mutter a small profanity under your breath, and Harry just scoffs at the sound of it.

This is gonna be a long evening...

************************************************

"Fuck." Harry curses, mainly to himself, when the leg of the couch doesn't stay in place once again. He has tried three times now, not letting you help him.

"I told you to—"

"Shut up." Harry growls, not even sparing a glance at you. He is heavily concentrating on his failing work.

"This could be solved quicker if you'd just listen to me." You tell him, reaching towards the sofa table where you've put all the screws and other necessary stuff for building this couch.

"No. This could be solved quicker if you'd just let me look at the manual." Harry responds. You squint at him, even though he can't see you. He'll feel the hate of your withering stare nonetheless.

You don't say anything, though, keeping yourself as you sort out the screws that lie in front of you. It has been an hour of sitting with Harry and trying to piece this couch together. So far you have had the upper hand, mainly because you have the manual.

Benjamin tried to help the first 30 minutes, but after being snarled at too many times, he resigned to cleaning his kitchen. So now you are sitting alone with Harry.

"Okay... done. What's next?" Harry asks, looking at you and the manual in your lap. You don't return the glance, still focused on counting the amount of screws you need.

"Wait."

Harry rolls his eyes. "If you'd just give me the stupid manual—"

"Damn it! Now I lost count." You look up and glare at Harry. "Could you shut up for a second?"

"Nope. Give me the manual." He crosses his arms. Leaning against the wall behind him. You shake your head. There is no way he is getting this piece of paper.

"No."

You go back to counting the screws, when all of a sudden the manual is snatched away from your lap. Your mouth falls open and your eyes follow the way Harry's hands take it away. You are about to cuss him out, when Benjamin's voice announces something from behind you.

"Guys, I have a class in twenty minutes, so I have to go. C'mon, I can finish the couch another time." He says and you don't miss the relief in his voice. He's probably already happy that his apartment didn't blow up in the first ten minutes of you and Harry being in the same room.

"It's fine. I can finish it up. Won't take long, now that I've got the manual and everything." Harry offers with a smile. Jaw clenched, you swallow his stupid comment and also turn to your friend.

"I'll stay too. Have to finish what I started."

There is no way in hell you're letting Harry get away with acting like he built this whole couch by himself, when it was actually just the step 17 and about five others after that.

"Oh, that's very sweet, but I don't know if—"

"We won't kill each other, I promise." I try to reassure him, hoping to get some backing from Harry about this.

"We won't?"

You turn around and give Harry your greatest death stare.

"I'm just saying, you were being pretty aggressive with that screwdriver just now." He puts his hands up defensively. You sigh, redirecting your attention back to your friend.

"Fine. I promise to refrain from impaling Harry's head with a screwdriver until we're outside of the apartment." You say.

"Yeah, that sounds more believable." Harry murmurs approvingly.

Benjamin looks at the two of you, thinking it over for a bit. Everything about his face reads that he thinks this is a bad idea. You don't blame him the slightest, but you let your eyes plead him to let you do this anyway. You need it. The exact reason why, you don't know. But... you just need this.

"Okay." Benjamin finally says, earning a smile from you. "Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. I'll be back in about two hours."

"Aye aye captain." You joke, giving your friend a hug before returning to the floor alongside Harry. You hear the rattling of the house keys Benjamin grabbed from the counter, and watch as he walks to his front door.

"Don't get blood on my new couch." He shouts just in time for the door to slam shut. You take a deep breath, the fact that you are alone with Harry now really kicking in.

It's fine. You can do this. He sucks.

"Can you tell me how many screws I needed again?" You ask, attempting to be as polite as you possibly can to the guy your boyfriend cheated on you with.

"I don't know, can I? Oh wait, of course I can. Because I have the manual." He taunts, flicking the pages to step 25. He reads and reads, and a smirk forms on his face as his head lifts up.

"Guess."

"Don't be an asshole. Just tell me, I want to get this over with." You say, your head tilting. The look in your eyes radiates seriousness, and for a moment you think Harry understands how you're feeling.

"Erm, that wasn't a guess, that was just words."

If it was physically possible to exert steam from your ears, you would've looked like an old train. You groan and lean forward to snatch the manual away from Harry, but he is quick to move it out of reach. He holds it over his head.

"Aw c'mon, it was just a joke!" Harry teases even further. You are seeing red with rage and it takes everything to not scream every foul word in the book at him.

"It's not funny!" You try to grab the paper again, but Harry is too swift for you.

"It kind of is."

"No it's not! Nothing about this is funny!" You suddenly snap. "I don't want to be here with you. I just want to finish building this stupid couch and go home, so please give me the manual."

"Then why are you still here?!" Harry inquires firmly, a deep frown knitted onto his face.

"Why are you?!" You fire back, frustrating grown with each second that your eyes bore into his.

"I asked you a question, Y/N. I told Benjamin I'd do it myself, you cannot stand me. There is no logical reason for you to still be here, so why the fuck are you?"

"Because I can't let you take another thing from me!"

You blurt out confession before you have a chance to stop yourself, and your cheeks instantly go red with embarrassment. Harry's mouth hangs slightly open at the collection of words that just left your mouth. You avoid his eyes burning onto your skin as you try to steady your breathing. Your heart is pounding out of your chest.

"Just give me the stupid manual." You mumble, snagging it from his unsuspecting hands. You open the little book to your page, but the hiss that leaves Harry's mouth has you looking up at him. Your eyes widen at the sight of blood.

Dripping from Harry's hand is quite a bit of blood. Shit, you gave him a huge paper cut. Guilt washes over you, and you rush to the kitchen and back to give him some paper towels. Out of instinct, you wrap the towels around his hand. You are closer to Harry than you would normally be, but it's an emergency—one that you caused—so there's a necessary reason for it.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to— let's get you to the kitchen." You put some pressure on his small wound and drag him to the kitchen. Harry doesn't say anything, but he lets you lead anyway. It is like your confession has shut him up, which is very rare because Harry never shuts up.

You put Harry's injured hand under the faucet and let the water wash away the blood. You get a better look of the cut and can deduce that a little bit of bandage would be best to keep a bit of pressure on it for now. You tell Harry to keep his hand in the same place, and reach for the first aid box you bought Benjamin as one of his housewarming gifts. This one was more of a joke, but it comes in handy now.

By the time you've collected everything you need, you turn off the faucet and dry Harry's hand with some new paper towels. It is completely silent between the two of you as you dap the towels onto his skin. But you can feel Harry's stare. It doesn't surprise you very much when he speaks up.

"I'm sorry."

Your body stops everything it was doing and takes in the apology for a few seconds, then resumes back to drying Harry's hand

"I'm gonna put some bandage around your hand. It'll keep pressure on the cut. You'll be able to switch to a band aid after a while." You casually explain, choosing to ignore his words. You don't really have the mental capacity to deal with it right now.

"Y/N, I'm not just saying it. I mean it, I'm sorry." Harry almost pleads. You look at him and hate the sincerity that flashes through his eyes. You'd prefer it if it wasn't there. It's gonna turn out to be bullshit anyway; he shouldn't be saying it like he means it. "What I— we did was stupid, I shouldn't have done that. I was just... I was in love, and I thought—"

"I don't want to listen to your excuses, Harry." You interrupt him. "You may have your reasons, but you did what you did. It already happened, you can't talk yourself out of it."

"I'm not trying to talk myself out of it."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to tell you the truth." Harry grits through his teeth.

"So what? So I can feel bad for you about stealing my boyfriend?!" You respond, the condescension in your tone dripping over the words you speak.

"You stole him first!" He growls very loudly. You are taken aback by the sudden aggressiveness.

"What?" The questions almost comes out like a whisper. You are utterly lost. What is this guy talking about? Harry huffs, looking away from you. He is clearly embarrassed.

"Nothing."

"No, tell me." You demand, wrapping the bandage around Harry's palm. "You owe me, at the very least."

Harry sighs, shaking his head. His eyes flick between yours and the his wounded hand. He exhales deeply before finally beginning with talking.

"We were... sleeping together, Dylan and I. It was casual; he said he didn't want a relationship, that he wasn't ready. Then about three weeks after saying that, he started dating you."

You don't open your mouth, instead focusing on processing the information that Harry is throwing your way, which is proving to be a bit difficult. You shake your head.

"That's shitty of him." You simply say, deciding to not want to offer him any pity. It is indeed a fucked up thing to string someone along and then date someone else, but it doesn't excuse what Harry did.

You focus on finishing up with the bandage on Harry's arm, and smile at your work. You could definitely be a nurse if you wanted to.

"Okay. Let's go back to that devil of a couch." You say, and the air feels a bit lighter now. It isn't so heavy with unresolved tension as it was before. There still is loads, but it is easier to breathe than before.

"Alright." Harry agrees, walking behind you to the living room.

************************************************

One and a half hour later

"I'm never doing favors for anyone ever again." You say, staring wide-eyed at the couch you and Harry finally managed to put together. It took you long enough—thanks to Harry—but you're finally done.

"Gotta agree with you on that one." Harry nods, hands on his hips as he analyzes the couch.

"Of course you do. I'm always right." You shrug, and Harry rolls his eyes.

The past hour and a half have been strangely good for you and Harry. You still hate him, and you are pretty sure he feels the same way about you, but there is kind of a non-negotiated truce now. That doesn't keep you from seizing every opportunity to insult him. You haven't lost your edge.

You flop down on the couch, and Harry follows suit. You sit in silence, staring at the white wall in front of you. That's when you see something on the sofa table, and you can quite literally feel the blood drain from your face.

In the table lay a ziplock bag of screws. Ones that you were supposed to put somewhere in this couch, but you didn't. All freaked out, you start looking for the instructions again.

"Where's the manual?" You question, aimlessly scanning the room. When your glance goes past Harry, you see the little white book in his hand. You lean forward to grab it, but he moves it away from you very quickly.

"Come on. It wasn’t funny the first time, it’s not funny now.” You tilt your head and reach out your hand, hoping that your motherly tone will make him put the piece of paper back in your hand. But he doesn’t, only shrugging at your tiny lecture. Your lips break into a slight smirk, and you heave a sigh.

“Fine. You want to play foul, then foul it is.”

Then, in a matter of seconds, you’ve thrown yourself over Harry, grasping the manual. You have managed to get a hold of it, clearly having caught him off guard. But that doesn’t hold for long, as he’s regained his senses quickly and puts an arm around your waist, lifting you up and throwing you off the couch. You land on the rug with a small thud, and although it doesn’t hurt much, there is fire in your eyes when they meet Harry’s cocky face. He’s holding up the manual behind him as he laughs at you lying on the ground.

Without thinking for another second, you charge at him, jumping on him and snatching the manual out of his hands. You lean back to get away, but almost fall backwards. That is until an arm around your waist catches you. You are pulled into Harry and his action to save you leaves the both of you very close to one another. You are still breathing heavily from your ‘attack’, but then you feel something else.

The beating of your heart at the proximity between you and Harry; it stresses you out to be this close to him. Suddenly, it becomes apparent, too apparent; Harry’s fingers are dug into your waistline.

You blame the way your body reacts to the fact that you haven’t gotten laid in a month, yet you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from Harry. He shares your troubles, his gaze fixated on you like you could fade away at any second.

Your eyes widen ever so slightly when Harry leans forward. A couple inches, but forward nonetheless. No matter how radical and ridiculous your mind finds this action, your body doesn’t do a thing to stop it. There is a spark that radiates off Harry and enters your veins through the touch of his fingers, the heat of his breath, and the feel of his stare.

His eyes dart from yours to your mouth, asking without asking, as he inches closer with every few seconds. You feel those sparks morphing into a flame as Harry’s lips brush yours ever so slightly, and your heavy eyes flutter shut.

“I’m back!”

You jump off Harry’s lap in an impressive short amount of time, just in time for the door to shut and Benjamin to walk through the door. His eyes travel to the counter, where a partly bloodied paper towel still lies. A gasp leaves his lips.

“YOU STABBED HIM?!”

His eyes fly to you and Harry, and he sighs deeply at the sight of the both of you unharmed, well… mostly.

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d stab him.”

“Why did you think she was the one who stabbed me?”

You and Harry responded at the same time. You flick Harry a look before explaining the situation to your friend.

“I accidentally gave him a paper cut.” You point to Harry’s bandaged hand, which he is holding up. “But thanks for thinking I’m vicious enough to stab someone, I guess.”

“Yeah, and thanks a lot for thinking I’m not.” Harry adds with a frown, his arms crossed. Benjamin stifles out a laugh.

“Well, thanks for the couch. I owe you guys.” He smiles, pulling you into a hug. “D’ya wanna go for a drink together?”

“No!” You call out as soon as Benjamin finishes his question, earning a pair of confused looks from the two boys. “I— uh, I have to go. Assignment. I have to do an assignment.”

You stumble over your words and steps as you grab your jacket and headphones, heading for the front door.

“Okay… will I see tonight?!” Benjamin shouts the question which reminds you of Tyler’s birthday party tonight. Tyler is a friend you got to know through Benjamin. Almost hooked up with him once.

“I’ll let you know!” Is all you say before walking out the door, shutting the door behind you. You rush to the elevator, not wanting the boys to catch up with you. You put on your headphones, taking a deep breath before putting play on the music.