Chapter Text
“What’s a coffee shop?”
“A place where they sell coffee, silly.”
“...oh.”
“Anyway, I always went to this one coffee shop to do my homework for school. It was my favorite place to go to study.”
“Why?”
“Because there wasn’t enough there to distract me from actually working. Until one day, when...well, that sort of changed.”
“How?”
Kirishima has always prided himself on taking his coffee black. It’s something that makes no sense to be proud of and yet he is, and it’s something that bewildered his friends when they were all still new.
“Eijirou Kirishima, the sweetest guy in all existence, drinks black coffee.”
He doesn’t think that’s entirely fair. Another source of pride for Kirishima is how optimistically kind he’s become, but he also lives with the actual sweetest guy in all existence. So.
And while, sure, Kirishima normally prefers his food and drinks to be packed with flavor, which would logically mean he ought to like something more akin to a latte or frappuccino or something, he doesn’t. There’s just something about that bitterness, that bold bite that smacks him in the face that Kirishima likes, craves. It wakes him up, kicks his heart rate, pumps his blood, makes him feel marginally more alive for the short time that the caffeine courses through his body. He grimaces at the first sip every time, but he’s drowning in the darkness by the end of each cup, savoring every drop.
Plus, coffee is supposed to boost one’s mental and physical performances when taken in moderate, regular doses. Which, as a university senior in a world of quirks...well, Kirishima needs all the help he can get.
“Large blonde roast, black?”
Kirishima grins at the barista, Hayashi. “Am I that predictable?”
She rings him up with a good-natured roll of her eyes. “You’ve been coming here at least twice a week for almost three straight years. I think I know your order.”
“Hey! I ordered a latte that one time!” Truthfully, he was pressured by his friends to branch out, but Hayashi doesn’t need to know that.
Giggling knowingly anyway, she takes his money. "You know, there are at least two other coffee places between here and the university campus. Why do you come out all this way?” Hayashi leans on the counter separating her and Kirishima slightly, eyes betraying a flicker of hope.
Damn.
“Well,” Kirishima begins with a vague lift of his shoulders, “the others always look too crowded for me. I need somewhere to spread out to study right. Plus, who knows? Maybe I’ll find my Prince Charming on these quiet streets one day.” He gives her a playful wink.
Thankfully, Hayashi is quick and good. “Maybe,” she says without missing a beat as she backs away and grabs an empty cup. “I have seen some nice-looking guys in here before, but I get first dibs,” she teases.
When she hands Kirishima his coffee a moment later, the shop door literally explodes behind him.
He turns and finds that, aside from the front door being shattered and two tables and a mug display being violently overturned, there’s actually pretty minimal damage. But drawing Kirishima’s attention is the person sprawled out on the floor just a few feet away. They’re dressed in a very clear costume; bright orange, skin tight, and horribly revealing as the wearer shifts to find their feet, revealing a flat and hairy chest from the partially unzipped top. More or less a jumpsuit with a thousand pockets, the costume is one thing. Scales covering any exposed skin in spite of the body hair is another.
Before the person is even fully upright, Kirishima knows.
It’s a villain.
The term is being used more and more in the media these days to describe those using their quirks to join and add to the exponential climb in individual crime rates. The police have been struggling to keep up as people continue to break laws regularly, and quirks have only expounded on the chaos in the decades since their inexplicable appearance. And unfortunately, while terrifying, while dangerous, while often deadly, villains aren’t exactly a novelty anymore. Businesses, vehicles, even health plans now offer villain-coverage. They’re practically the norm now, something that pricks at the fabric of society with each passing year, unravels the carefully woven rows of what can be expected and what cannot.
Hayashi shifts, pressing where Kirishima is sure a panic button exists under the counter.
The villain fully stands then, eyes opening and making Kirishima want to recoil because they’re just like a lizard’s.
“Oooh,” the villain hisses, literally freaking hisses, eyes darting past Kirishima and landing on Hayashi. “Pretty.” And then he lunges.
Hardening as best he can, Kirishima leaps in the way, taking the full impact that’s less of an impact and more of a dull scrabbling at his chest. There are tiny claws where the villain ought to have fingernails, and while they don’t actually hurt, they are shredding through Kirishima’s shirt like razor blades, useless against the way his quirk hardens his skin to impossible levels. Bringing his hands up between himself and the villain, Kirishima thrusts outward laterally to break their contact, then headbutts the scaly bastard as hard as he can. The villain drops like a bag of rice.
“Not bad,” comes a soft voice.
Directly behind the fallen villain, almost taking his place, is a vigilante.
A hero.
Dressed from head to toe in black that clings without being too tight, the hero doesn’t move, seeming to wait beneath the covering mask that makes them look like a living mannequin. Kirishima can tell the material around the hero’s eyes, nose, and mouth is slightly different, likely giving the person underneath the ability to see and breathe.
The official hero uniform.
Kirishima’s mouth is hanging open like a starstruck moron. “Uh...thanks.”
Slipping into a crouch, the hero withdraws three thin strips, almost zip-ties but thicker, from a small pack at their back. They make quick work of securing the villain’s ankles and wrists, then using the third strip to bind all four limbs together. Gloved hands are moving deftly, and Kirishima thinks that maybe the material of the gloves are different than the rest of the hero’s suit, too, but he can’t be sure because the shock of everything is making Kirishima stand frozen, just blinking as he watches. The hero straightens, and they’re close enough that Kirishima can hear them breathing, only barely not panting. It seems like they’re staring at one another, or maybe Kirishima is just thinking they do, but the hero hasn’t moved their black and blank face from being directed at Kirishima, who knows he’s gaping as a response. He opens his mouth, ready to thank them more appreciatively.
Without another word, the hero twists, sprinting away and out of sight.
Sirens sound in the distance, draw closer.
There’s a vaguely hysterical cough somewhere Kirishima can’t see, and Hayashi’s voice is quavery. “Y-you can have that one.”
“You met a real hero?!”
“I don’t know if I’d call it meeting. They just said, ‘Not bad,’ and then took off.”
“They complimented you?!” Midoriya squeals, the high pitch harsh in Kirishima’s ears.
He chuckles. “C’mon, quit being such a fanboy and let me shower already.”
Green eyes still shining with a thousand questions that Kirishima has exactly no real answers to, Midoriya complies, moving from where he’s been blocking Kirishima’s bedroom door. “S-sorry! I just- I’ve never known anybody to actually speak to a hero and it’s just so cool and-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Kirishima says as he steps past. He’s grinning, though. “It was pretty cool to see one so close. Wish I could’ve seen them in action, though. Now that would’ve been sweet.”
Though he nods, Midoriya is already mumbling, eyes trained on the floor as he rambles unintelligibly. Kirishima only catches a few words, still enough for him to know that the rant is just Midoriya cycling through all the hero quirks he knows through his obsessive news-watching. It’s a speech Kirishima knows well, and he smiles fondly as he shuts the door on his distracted roommate. He really needs a shower.
The whole crew, more the combining of Kirishima’s and Midoriya’s crews really, will be at their little apartment tonight, a party that Kaminari suggested as a celebration for the heat of summer beginning to die down. Todoroki called it a poor excuse for a party. Kaminari still managed to convince Jirou, who turned Yaoyorozu, and then it was a huge snowball effect that left Kirishima and Midoriya expecting something like twenty people in the next hour or so.
Not that Kirishima minds. Quite the opposite, in fact. He can thrive on the loud energy of a good party, relish in the company of the friends he’s managed to make in the last three years. He showers and dresses quickly, choosing bright, bold colors and comfortable fabrics, running his hands through his hair to create that wild-but-controlled display he’s come to love. Kirishima smirks at himself in the mirror, exuding nothing but radiant confidence, even to himself. He’s beautifully remastered. His former self would have never pictured what he’s finally become, and it feels good.
Let the party begin.
“May I have a large blonde roast, black?” Kirishima croaks.
The barista behind the counter today is one he doesn’t normally see, a taller girl that might be younger, fresher out of high school than he is, with a name tag that reads ‘Jinja.’ She hands him his change, gives him his coffee, and nods politely to the next person in line. Kirishima slinks over to his usual empty table near the window, clutching at his cup like a lifeline.
He really shouldn’t have taken Sero’s bet on if he or Kaminari is more of a lightweight. Kirishima won, but it doesn’t feel very important as the morning sun dances through the tree branches outside and burns his retinas. Dropping his bag on the table, Kirishima groans, collapsing into a chair.
No more drinking. Ever.
His phone chimes.
Kami
Heard you won [disappointed emoji] are you dead? Bc I know I am
You
Kinda dead. But I have a bigass paper due Wed and only like half of it done
Kami
So your studying?? Talk about dedication lol I’m swooooooning
You
Uni’s expensive bro! And coffee is cheap lol
Setting his phone down, Kirishima figures he ought to do what he came to do, headache be damned. With many moans and groans and whines and whimpers, his laptop comes out on the table alongside three textbooks and a Mexican sporting magazine, definitely looking like a workspace of sorts when he’s done. After opening the texts to their marked pages, clicking at his essay document so it’ll load, Kirishima slouches, head dropping to the chair back. He’s totally earned a break.
He grabs at his coffee blindly, refusing to lift his head and straining his neck only the necessary amount to breathe in that first sip.
Hot. Bitter. Angry.
Kirishima cringes at the punch, returns for another sip. The taste is just as strong but less fierce on his tongue. He sighs contentedly, finally sitting up to start working properly.
And someone is standing right in front of him.
“Holy crap!”
Kirishima jerks so violently that his cup smacks the table with a loud thud. It’s a small victory that it doesn’t spill or crash to the floor in an ungraceful heap like its owner. The chair shoots out several inches as Kirishima’s back hits the ground, legs pushing out and skull cracking on the table leg.
Something very pitiful slips past his lips.
“What the fuck?” comes an unfamiliar voice.
Opening his eyes blearily, Kirishima finds a pair of feet near his face. They’re wearing well-worn running shoes, connected to pale legs that obviously benefit from regular use; the tone in the calves is striking when Kirishima reaches them, eyes still trailing upward. Surely they’re on par with an Olympic sprinter, he thinks. Dark shorts come next, hanging on a hips that are hidden by a burnt orange tee shirt above. There’s an emblem of some kind on the chest, but Kirishima is more engrossed with how built the muscles have to be beneath to be so noticeable under loose clothing. It could be the arms, exposed to the mid-bicep, showing off how flexed that body is by how clenched its fists are. Even the neck is toned, one vein seeming to stick out more prominently than the rest as it snakes up through a chiseled jaw, pink lips pursed tightly, with blood-red eyes that scorch into Kirishima from under an explosive mop of unruly blond hair.
The stranger growls, actually growls like an animal, teeth showing briefly as his eyes, locked now with Kirishima’s, narrow. The dude is furious. And Kirishima, in all his hungover haze and glory, is captivated. This guy is something else.
Angry. Bitter. Hot.
“Did you just curse at me after giving me a concussion?” Kirishima manages at last. He hasn’t moved from his crevice of shame on the floor.
Neither has the guy from where he stands three feet away. “All I did was fucking walk by you, you damn freak.”
“That’s quite a mouth on you.” Kirishima quirks his lips.
“Ex-fucking-scuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The guy suddenly kicks Kirishima’s chair, knocking it into his ankles. Kirishima hisses, jerking into a sitting position and whacking the top of his skull on the underside of the table. He slumps back to the ground with a mournful mewl. Maybe he was wrong when he texted Kaminari. Maybe Kirishima is dead. He lets his eyes fall closed.
“You fucking idiot.”
Kirishima just hums, but the sound snaps into a sharp cry of surprise when fingers twist in the front of his shirt and yank, hard. By some miracle, Kirishima’s head misses the table as he’s jerked to his feet. The angry stranger’s face is barely a foot away. The hand still gripping Kirishima’s shirt shoves, roughly knocking him back into his chair, and his poor head is pounding, swimming, fuzzy in more ways than one. His heart is worse.
But Kirishima musters a smug scrunch of his nose and cracks open an eye. “Awh, you do care.”
“Fuck you!”
And with a series of stomps that seem to shake the very earth below them all, the angry stranger storms away, slamming the cafe’s new metal door with a fervor that visibly startles Jinja. Kirishima exhales, deflating deep in his chair, gelatinizing properly. After several steadying breaths to help his fluttering nerves and weak system, he reaches for his phone.
Kami:
(10 minutes ago) Well drink enough of that gross shit for me [nauseated emoji] I’ll stick to water and greasy food thx
You
Bro I think I just met someone
Kami
WHAT???????????? DUDE SPILLLLLL
You
He scared me and I fell out of my chair and hit my head and then I tried to flirt but I think he got the wrong idea bc he kicked my chair and yelled at me but then helped me up?? Then he pushed me down and told me to fuck off and left
Kami
Dude wtf
That
Makes no goddamn sense
You
I bet he’s a nice guy underneath [grinning emoji with big eyes]
Kami
He sounds like a terrorist
Your just a masokist or whatev lol
Or just THAT much of a sucker for blue eyes
You
Hey! His eyes were red! So he’s full of love obvi
Kami
God your hopeless lol
So what’s loverboy’s name?
You
Uh....don’t know
Kaminari’s face-palming emoji says enough. Claiming the need to work, Kirishima closes his phone and drags his laptop closer. The screen is painfully bright against his eyes, which are so dry that it feels like he’s blinking over loose gravel, and the soft humming of the laptop’s fan agitates his brain. Kirishima’s essay seems to vibrate over the white of the document, blurring horribly as he takes another sip of coffee. The drink is still bitter on his tongue but tolerable, just as it always is by the third or fourth sip. An acquired taste.
Kirishima wonders what sort of coffee the angry stranger drinks. It’s only then, as his imagination relives those livid sunset eyes practically promising to murder him, that Kirishima realizes the angry stranger wasn’t holding any coffee.
“He sounds scary.”
“He was.”
“Why did you like him?”
“There’s not a good reason that I liked him at first except that I thought he was really pretty.”
“Pretty?”
“Yeah. But there’s more to him than that, I promise.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
.