Chapter Text
The relentless summer sun is finally setting as you walk on the streets, arms laden with bags of produce and sweat running down the back of your neck. The afternoon heat has everyone sequestering themselves in the shade of home or the cold of the public pool. Summer has been intense this year — mercury levels soaring and drenching the city in a thick, lazy haze.
Your bags bump against your shins as you walk, filled to the brim with your purchases from the farmers’ market. The daikon radishes are white and perfectly firm, in sharp contrast to the vibrant colours of the tomatoes and scallions next to them. You got a good haul this time, you think, pleased. You even managed to snag a bottle of the home-pressed orange juice that’s been getting a lot of praise in the market lately.
Rounding the corner, you can’t help your instinctive smile when you spot the clean, sleek design of your restaurant. Elements has come a long way — once just an idea in your head, now a flourishing establishment that you run with your best friend, Ichika, in the heart of the city’s business district. Climbing up the staircase, you push the door open with your shoulder, calling out a greeting to the staff wiping down the tables and windows as you pass.
Unlike the cream exterior, the dining room is a burst of colour - brightly lit, blue and white tiles juxtaposing against the green of the plants and the rich orange-brown of the furniture. It was one of the things you were most insistent on back when you first designed it. I want the space to be exciting and fun, you had said to Ichika as you both scribbled down notes for the restaurant.
You make your way to the locker room and stride forward in all your heat-worn glory. Ichika must be in the office right now, going over the records of today’s staggering lunch rush - the rush after which you had immediately left for your beloved market. There’s the normal amount of hustle and bustle for pre-shift times, staff readying themselves for the night ahead. Whatever can be prepared in advance is dealt with beforehand to ease the load of the next few hours. Dinner service is, without a doubt, the busiest time for Elements, more so in the summer. Your restaurant isn’t geared for fine-dining - you focus more on creating multi cuisine or fusion dishes - and as a result, most of your customers are the general public, although you do get the occasional high-profile ones.
You pull your black chef jacket - the one that marks you as head chef - over the t-shirt you’re already wearing, mentally listing out the reservations you have for tonight. There’s the distant sound of the rest of the staff - the clangs of metal utensils being set into position.
“Good evening, chef!”
You startle, hand bracing against the lockers for support as your vision swims. Kaito, your high school part-timer, gives you a grin as he comes into view, “We’re done setting up everything.”
Your youngest employee has always been one of your most enthusiastic. It makes you fond and protective in equal measure — his interest in the work is obvious and you’re determined to give him a better, healthier entry into the food service industry than the one you had. He’s only on plating and kitchen aid duty for now, given that you deemed him too inexperienced to actually work with the more dangerous equipment. He does enjoy bugging you to allow him to use the stoves though.
Smiling, you turn back to the mirror, fixing a bandanna on your head. “Good work. I’ll be down to the kitchen as soon as I’m done checking stuff over here.”
Glancing at your bags, Kaito asks, “Do you want me to put these in the pantry?”
“Yes, please. I’ll pick them up when I'm going home.” Your shoulders slump. “You can go ahead.”
Kaito hefts your haul into his arms, wobbling a bit before he steadies. He steps in front of the door, then pauses, giving you a look reminiscent of a puppy, “About the staff dinner tomorrow - can we have curry rice? With the egg salad?”
You snort, “Sure, as long as we have the stock for it. Why don’t you go and check?”
The way Kaito’s eyes widen is immensely amusing, as is the way he bolts. Shaking your head to clear the last of the dizziness, you head to the dining hall while tying the knots on your apron.
You’re at your place in the kitchen when the first customers of the night arrive.
The kitchen is nothing like the dining area, save for the walls. There’s a lot of stainless steel everywhere, from the counters to most of the pots and pans, but the walls are painted over with colourful, abstract designs. This was Ichika’s idea, you tell the new hires whenever they ask, she wanted the kitchen to look exciting too. A quick scan reveals that the ingredients are all prepped and ready, the dishes are clean and ready for use and your team is in position.
“Let’s do this, kitchen staff!” you announce, as per tradition, grinning. You receive a chorus of cheers and a thumbs up from Satoshi, your sous chef, in response.
You pick up the first ticket and read it out in a loud, clear voice. It’s a whirlwind from that point on - frying salmon; combining penne with the rich, red arrabiata sauce; calling out orders as your crew moves to work on them; cooking a steak until it reaches perfection. Cooking has always been exhilarating — you blend everything together, watch the food shape into something new. Each completed dish sends a rush of pride and satisfaction into your chest. It's fulfilling. The night is moderately busy, and your crew is doing a good job too.
Two hours later, you’re working on a soup. Condensation drips from the lid of the pot as you stir the contents within - chicken and mushrooms in a creamy base - when Yumehara, one of your new waitresses, bursts into the kitchen and yells -
“PRO HEROES IN THE RESTAURANT!”
“WHAT,” Kaito screeches at equal volume.
“Which ones?” Satoshi asks, still shaping a bunch of summer rolls.
“There’s a huge group - Deku and Dynamight and Shouto and Uravity and -” she dissolves into incoherent, high pitched babbling, but you aren’t paying much attention to that.
Lightheaded, you hold on to the counter; the soup’s heat lowered to a simmer. There’s no reason for you to meet them in person, you’ll be fine. The heat is almost suffocating - it makes you sweat unpleasantly, trickles of warm liquid running along your spine. The smell in the air - the tang of spice and the flavour-rich aroma of meat - something that you’re completely used to seems…overwhelming today. Odd.
You cut into the conversation before you lose yourself to your thoughts, voice firm and loud, “Yumehara, calm down. It’s not the first time Pro Heroes have come here. Treat them like any other customer or ask Ichika to get someone else to do it. Kaito, pay attention to the salad. Act professionally.”
Yumehara nods vigorously and strides back to the dining area while Kaito starts plating the potato salad, meticulous in the placement of the chives. Satoshi snorts at the sudden turnaround, glancing at you only to furrow his brows.
“Hey, chef, are you okay? You look…well, not good.”
You wave a careless hand and give him one of your classic ‘I’m Fine, Really’ consolations, but he stares at you, deadpan, as if you have just insulted his intelligence - he has known you ever since the restaurant first opened, after all.
Now that he’s mentioned it, you can feel the waves of dizziness hit you with more force - you blink rapidly to clear your head, working more on autopilot than anything else.
It only takes fifteen more minutes until you almost hack your fingers off with your knife while trying to chop an onion.
Satoshi catches your forearm just in time, giving you a stern glare, and pushes a glass of water in your hands (when did he bring that?) before frog marching you to the back door.
“If you’re not feeling well, you should’ve said so!” He scolds, sounding eerily like your mother, “Go sit outside for now, we’ll handle the rest of the orders.”
Immediately, you protest, “But the kitchen -” but Satoshi shuts the door, leaving you to sulk.
You plop the glass on a nearby vegetable delivery crate, making the water splash inside, a tiny sea of its own. Someone, probably a customer, is outside talking on the phone. That rules out throwing a fit to be let into your kitchen. You can see the headlines already - Local chef screams after being kicked out of own restaurant. You close your eyes and let out a groan, quitting immediately because it only aggravates your wooziness.
Annoyed, you kick a stray pebble and when it lands in front of the storage shed, you feel a stroke of pure genius.
They can’t stop you from taking inventory.
With that victorious thought, you stumble over to the shed, tripping over your own feet twice before you press a hand to the cool metal. You fish out the storage keys from your pocket - it’s a good thing you forgot to put them back after lunch - and attempt to fit the right one in the keyhole.
Emphasis on attempt.
The keys seem to split into three sets, held in three right hands, in front of three keyholes and you finally think fuck it, and kick the door as hard as you can with an almighty yell of frustration.
“Excuse me,” a voice comes from behind you. “That’s a staff-only area.”
You whip around to see a red and white blob, but the sudden movement is too much for your poor head. Your feet wobble as your steps begin listing to the left and say, slightly indignant, “But I am staff...Chef.”
The world spins and begins to fade at the edges and you are dimly aware of the arm wrapping around you, stopping your fall.
You open your eyes to the sight of Pro Hero Shouto looking at you, stars twinkling in the sky behind him.
Admittedly, it takes you a few seconds to place him. He's crouching beside you, grey-blue eyes staring into yours when you finally realise that it's Todoroki Shouto, Number Four Pro Hero in Japan.
A loud voice cuts through your jumbled-up thoughts. “You’re awake!”
Ichika's sitting there on your left, looking immensely relieved. You aren't as dizzy as before, you note, blinking at her like an owl.
“Are you alright?” Shouto asks, in that trademark way that most heroes talk to civilians, slow and reliable. “You fainted a few minutes ago.”
You sit up gingerly, nodding. Your proximity to the Pro sets off alarm bells in your head and you dart your eyes towards Ichika in a bid to hide it. Ichika…who’s noticed the glass you left on the crate.
“When did you last drink water?” she asks, turning back to you with her hand on your shoulder, preventing you from screaming and running away from the situation you’ve been avoiding for years.
You wince, “Right after lunch, I think,” and look away from the disapproval on her face.
Ichika huffs, “Dehydration,” and says to the hero, with a grateful smile, “thank you for helping her, I can handle it from here.”
You spend the ensuing it’s no problem and I hope you enjoy the rest of your meal tracing the thread count in your slacks with intense scrutiny; if you’re lucky, it’ll pass off for lingering vertigo.
The moment Shouto is out of earshot, Ichika reprimands you at rapid-fire speed, holding your hand and guiding you inside. She issues quick instructions to the wait staff, and you —
— you’re quiet.
She releases you at the front of the house with a bottle of chilled water and a bunch of snacks - colourful plastic wrappers that crinkle loudly in the grasp of your arms.
Ichika orders, “Make sure you drink all of the water - or at least as much as you can - and you can take care of the cashier, too.” She notices your silence, then, and her expression softens into the one she always has whenever you’re sick, “Hey, don’t worry. Just eat up and you’ll feel better.”
Ichika squeezes your shoulder and heads off. Leaning back in your seat, you stare at the ceiling.
You weren’t supposed to meet any of the canon characters.
You’ve been avoiding them all your life - ever since you started to remember your last life at the age of six.
To say it was shocking would be an understatement. Six year-old you saw the world in double; Then and Now. It wasn’t clear to you how you knew you were in another world; you grew up here and it was normal, familiar. But when you woke up from sleep one night, sweaty and terrified, with images of burning forests and collapsing cities behind your eyelids, something clicked into place. Your parents were left wondering what happened to their only child when you started to ask about things that didn’t exist - another family, a quirkless world and a specific half-remembered manga.
How do you tell someone that you know what's going to happen in the near future? How do you say that you know that a bunch of kids are going to fight in a war? How do you tell someone that their entire life - everything they've ever been through - was created for entertainment?
The answer? You don't.
You take that knowledge and bury it. You avoid anything that's linked to it. You don't mention it, not even once, even when you know it influences so much of your perspective. Even when you mourn for the life you've lost.
So, you did everything you could to pretend that you knew nothing. That meant avoiding the characters, which would be easier given that you had no inclination for Heroics. Only, it was impossible to avoid Pro Heroes entirely - you were guilty of owning an All Might plushie yourself.
Your plan worked, though. Your parents were relieved beyond measure, glad that you were acting as you normally would. You kept your head down and when the war-torn days of Japan’s collapse came by, you were huddled in one of the shelters, nervous but safe.
None of that seems to matter anymore, though. Not when the Universe is forcing you to meet the characters.
You pop another lemon gummy bear into your mouth, swirling the citrusy sweetness around your mouth until it disappears. You’ve made your way through most of the snacks, and the bottle of water is half-empty already. Your fingers dance along the edge of the keyboard tapping a tune against the spacebar. Handling the counter is easy after years of experience and your best friend is usually the one to manage it - but Ichika probably wants you to feel like you’re working, instead of lounging about in the office.
Sometimes, it's like she knows you better than yourself.
Your ears perk up at the sound of multiple footsteps and chatter. Standing up, you dump all the empty wrappers into one of the drawers, simultaneously wiping your fingers on a tissue. Your lips shift into the perfect customer service smile, just in time for the Pro Heroes of the Golden Generation to make their way to the counter.
Ingenium leads the pack, an arm moving up and down as he talks to Froppy. Following them are the other Class A graduates - Uravity, Deku, Cellophane. Red Riot and Dynamight bring up the rear of the group, the blond complaining about something while Red Riot grins. There’s more of them, but your attention is directed towards the woman in front of you.
Creati steps forward, all long-limbed grace and confidence that she seems to exude from every pore. She gives you a warm greeting and you feel your heart jump into your throat, fingers twitching faintly. You swiftly carry out the payment, handing her back the black credit card (ohmygod a black card, you think in awe) and the receipt with a cheery, "Please visit us again!"
Their group begins to move forward while you put the credit card machine back into its place. You enter the payment number onto the computer, noting the Pros’ voices get fainter with the distance. You turn back to the front, only to jump when you meet Shouto’s heterochromatic eyes.
“Do you feel better now?” he asks bluntly, stepping forward. His expression is somehow unreadable but reassuring at the same time, like one of those male leads in romance movies. It’s probably why the internet calls him the Ice Prince. Other than his quirk and ridiculous good looks, of course.
“Yes,” you reply, smiling again - a perfectly cordial expression. “Thank you for helping me.”
He nods. He’s decked in casual clothes - an unbuttoned navy blue shirt over a plain white tee and jeans. The sleeves are rolled up to expose his unfairly attractive forearms, and you force yourself to look back at him, inhaling sharply when you do. He’s…still looking at you, gaze trained on your face, like he can read you to figure out if you’re telling the truth.
You blink and he’s bowing, body angled towards the exit.
“Thank you for the meal. Please take care.”
You respond like you normally would, but it is clumsier than you expect, the words stalling on your tongue before they leave.
The moment Shouto leaves, you flump back down on the chair, certain that the last few minutes were some of the most stressful in your entire life. You rub your eyes and sigh.
There’s still a pair of piercing grey-blue eyes at the forefront of your mind.