Chapter Text
Shouto had first shown up one dreary night during the last week of September, when the rain was hammering against the poor pane windows with the thrum of a thousand tiny drums, and the activity at the bar had been much lower than normal. But really, that could be said about any Wednesday shift. Slow, boring, with only the occasional drunkard to check up on here and there.
The door chimed to announce his arrival, and you called out a brief greeting, busying yourself with washing a few glasses. The man took a seat at the bar, directly in front of you, and you tried not to let your fatigue shine through your usual 'costumer service' facade as you took his order without much of a hassle.
You didn't recognize him at first, strangely enough - the bi-colored hair should've been a dead giveaway, but you often get too absorbed in your work to pay much attention to the physical features of the costumers you serve. And he'd been wearing a hood, so only his bangs had poked out from beneath the dark fabric, the warm glow of the bar casting a dark shadow across his face. The first thing you had noticed about him though, was his voice. Smooth and silky, but with a grainy edge that hinted at the kind of exhaustion only a 9-5 office worker could empathize with.
Humming to yourself, you scour the shelves to find a nice bottle of sake - simplistic, and oddly fitting for a guy who seems like he's going to drop dead on his feet. He'd ordered it without so much as a glance in your direction, too caught up in his own little world to notice or care much about what you’re doing.
You're about to just fill the cup and pass it to him, nice and cordially, but something compels you to at least try and cheer up this somber, mystery guy. You've long since mastered a good amount of flair bartending tricks - they were great for tips on busy weekend nights - but usually reserved them for wealthy looking couples and large parties. This guy could be an exception, you suppose.
Coughing a little to get his attention, you wait until he's glanced up, then work your magic. Bottle in one hand, glass in the other, you flip the bottle once, grabbing the cup underhanded while you do so, then re-grab the neck of the bottle. Swinging it around your head, you then raise your glass to meet the sake where it rests on your shoulder, and allow them to both roll smoothly down the length of your arm until they reach your wrist. One quick hand repositioning later, and the drink has been poured and served.
The stranger says nothing, just staring down at the alcohol.
You start to worry, big time. Does he think you're just trying to impress him? Wring him of his money for tips? Fuck, you really should've thought this one through.
But then he just chuckles quietly, and takes the drink. "Thank you,” he murmurs.
"You're, uh, welcome. I..." you trail off, unsure if what you're about to say could be seen as rude or inappropriate. "...I hope you feel better."
He seems to pause at that, like your words have resonated with something deep inside of him, then takes a sip of his sake. You go back to cleaning.
The guy stays for a long, long time. Until closing, actually.
You've had your fair share of creeps try to stake you out until the end of your shift, ready to follow you home from the shadows outside. Luckily, you live in the apartment directly above the bar since you’re good friends with the owner. Not that you'd ever let your address be known to the creeps of course, but it means you can easily remain in the safety of your workplace for as long as you'd like. Needless to say, you know the smell of danger when it presents itself.
This guy is giving zero red flags, which honestly surprises you. He's not staring at you at all, or even paying you any mind. He's just sitting there in his own thoughts, glass of sake polished off long ago, staring off into the distance. He’d rejected your offer for a refill, content to just sit and brood. Normally, you would've kicked him out by now. There's another server present that could easily help, currently chilling in one of the break rooms.
But you don't.
You just stay at the bar. It just... feels like he needs it. The kind of company that isn't outright social, but a warm presence in the back of one's mind.
Or maybe he's just waiting out the storm.
One AM rolls around relatively quickly, and you've polished every surface at least two times over by that point. Sighing, you turn to your silent companion, and fold your hands behind your back.
"Sorry sir, but... we're gonna be closing for the night."
He snaps to attention, head rising to meet your gaze. Then, he pulls down his hoodie, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously. "Apologies. I... got a bit caught up. How much do I owe you?"
You're too stunned to speak at first. And yet again, surprisingly not because the number two hero in Japan is sitting mere inches away from you. No, you're entirely mesmerized by his eyes. They're striking. Heterochromatic, one a brilliant teal and one a stormy grey, speckled with chips of crystal ice that could set you adrift for hours if you allowed them to.
And then your line of sight travels up his face, to the infamous burn scar, then the fluffy white and red hair that's been plastered across half the billboards in the city. It hits you like a rock to the skull, a weird panicky realization that you just nonchalantly and unknowingly stood next to one of Japan's most famous men for the better part of three hours. Yet instead of saying something along the lines of "oh wow, you're Shouto!" or "I didn't recognize you! Can I get your autograph?" Or even just not mentioning it at all, your simple, feebleminded plebeian brain decides to settle on:
"You have breathtaking eyes."
He blinks.
You blink.
...
You did not just say that.
Shouto’s mouth quirks upwards to something akin to a smile - you immediately assume he's about to either laugh at you or just flat out leave in disgust - so before he can say anything, you slap his bill down onto the counter with a low bow and a rushed apology, then take his glass and rush into the bar kitchen like your ass is on fire.
Running to the sink, you set the glass down inside and brace your hands on the edges, letting out a silent scream of agony - (you just met Shouto, and your first words to him were basically a pick-up line????) - before splashing some much-needed cold water onto your burning cheeks. This is the type of event that's going to keep you up at night even decades from now, when you're alone in the retirement home, lying in bed, remembering how much of an insane fangirl you made yourself out to be in front of a revered pro-hero.
Taking a few steady breaths, you finally pump yourself full with enough self-induced adrenaline to shakily creep back out to the bar to collect his payment - if he even left it, that is.
He's gone when you re-emerge, just as you expected. But there is some money, so at least he had the generosity to pay. Mentally slapping yourself for your word blunder, you start to count the bills. Then recount them. Then count them again.
He left a ten dollar tip. For a three dollar drink.
There must be some mistake, because there's no way that your little fiasco compelled him to do something like that. Did he just feel bad for you? Pity your antics? Or was he... genuinely flattered?
That last option seems odd, because you've seen him on TV hundreds of times. He gets compliments every day, probably even from just walking down the street. So why would this be any different? Could it be because you tried to cheer him up?
You overthink it for the rest of the night.
-----
The next time you see Shouto is a week later, around the same time at night. He's not wearing his hood, so you instantly recognize him the second he steps through the door. You want to hide, duck under the counter and pretend like you're not here, but that would be stupid and childish.
You are sometimes stupid and childish, yes, but not to that extent. And if he's back, at least it means he's not repulsed by you. So putting on your big girl pants, you greet him as normally as possible. Your voice only warbles a little.
"Hey! Nice to, uh, see you again."
He pauses, like he's unsure of what to say. Now that you're able to get a clear look at him, you realize he is far more intimidating in person than on TV, the swell of his biceps visible through the fabric of his shirt. Your palms start to sweat as you wait for him to say something, anything at all.
"...Hello," he finally replies in an even tone. It's not a particularly friendly response, but not one of malice either. You'll take what you can get.
You watch warily as he takes a seat at the bar again, already preparing a glass. "Same as last time?"
Shouto nods. "Yes, please."
Grabbing the bottle of sake, you hesitate, then turn back to him a bit awkwardly. "Would you, uh, like to see another trick today?"
He just stares at you for a few moments, expression unreadable. You can feel sweat beading beneath the collar of your shirt as the seconds tick by, agonizingly slow. Then, his mouth does that thing again where the corners just barely twitch upwards. A hint of a smile. "Why not?" He sounds mildly amused, like you're a toddler begging him to come see a "cool trick," (which is actually just a poorly executed handstand.)
Shit. Now you feel all nervous about it. Steadying your breathing, you try a fancier flair this time, flipping the glass a few times on its own before juggling the bottle and the cup intermittently. Shouto seems somewhat impressed, but you're quickly learning he's more than difficult to pick up on. So you up the ante, throwing the bottle and lifting the glass so the sake lands on top of the rim without much force, spinning a few times before you go back to juggling them. It's a trick you'd spent a few months perfecting, and had landed you a hefty tip a few months ago with a business man and his wife who just adored your little act.
Shouto's eyes have widened considerably, and you feel a surge of pride for getting a bit more of a reaction out of him. Catching the bottle and glass in their normal positions, you pour out the alcohol and slide the drink over to him with a grin.
He chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that causes your heart to beat faster under your blouse. You chalk it up to the success of having impressed the Shouto himself.
Taking a long sip of his sake, those heterochromatic eyes snap to yours. "That was... breathtaking," he murmurs with a hint of mirth to his tone.
Your smile falls, and mortification takes its place as his pointed word choice resurfaces the recollections of last week, returning once again to haunt your mind.
"I'm, uh..." you stammer, twisting and wringing your hands together as you search for the proper words to apologize. "...I'm so sorry. About last week, for what I said. It was incredibly rude of me."
You're met with a confused stare, one of Shouto's eyebrows raised as he takes in your words like you're speaking to him in tongues. "There's no need to apologize.”
Blinking, you offer him a confused stare of your own. It takes him a moment to elaborate, when he realizes you're not sure as to why he's let you off the hook.
"It's.. not common that people like my eyes," he finally explains after another sip, appearing a bit uncomfortable.
Internally, you're both laughing at his claim and simultaneously cursing out whoever made this man think that his eyes are anything less than gorgeous. But you manage to reign yourself in this time, and simply ask: "How come?"
"It's not popular. The two colors. They’re... usually seen as a birth defect."
He says nothing more, and you know better than to pry with a curt tone like that. Starting to clean, you debate with yourself for a bit, then let the impulsive thoughts win and turn back to him with a lopsided grin. "Well, you already know how I feel about it so... maybe it's more popular than you think."
You're not given much of a verbal reaction, but his gaze brightens just a little, and you let that warm your heart as you continue to tidy up. He leaves sooner this time, an hour later, and you blush when he hands you his payment with another ten dollar tip attached. "I can't-" you try to say, but he just cuts you off with a wave of his hand.
"Consider it my fee for watching the juggling act. I liked it."
He leaves you standing there, flustered and confused.
-----
Shouto starts to visit more often. You eventually tell him your schedule for his convenience - it's become clear that he hates the attention he gets in public spaces, one time recanting a terrible experience in which he'd shown up on a busy Friday night. He was unaware that you weren't scheduled, and also apparently unaware that the bar is a very popular joint on weekend nights. As expected, he’d been swarmed by clamoring fans for an hour straight, unable to leave due to the high density of costumers all but forcing him back in. Poor guy.
It’s nice though, because you’re really starting to look forward to your shifts now. And Shouto is starting to look less and less tired each time he comes in.
Some nights he's not very talkative at all, only offering a blunt greeting and goodbye. Other nights he asks you things about yourself - your life, dreams, and aspirations. He's got a relatively obtuse way of speaking, but you don't mind it one bit. He also doesn't care when you tell him you're quirkless, an oddity in today's society, and it makes you feel... valued, for once. You really like that.
In return, you'll often do some more flair bartending for him, and ask him questions of your own. Sometimes he answers them, other times he doesn't. But you can tell he appreciates your interest all the same.
And when he flashes one of those rare smiles - a real one, not just the faint wisp you usually see - you get this giddy feeling in your chest. It often carries with you for the rest of the shift, torments you in waves of blushing madness when you're lying in bed. He's a handsome guy - too handsome for anyone's good, really, with a face carved out of marble and blessed by the gods themselves apparently. That, coupled with his striking eyes, probably makes anyone weak in the knees at a first glance. You're not alone! It's not weird to feel this way! It's just natural. That's all.
Then there are the nights that are bad. Very bad. He'll come in, bruised and battered more often than not, and either incredibly angry or entirely emotionless. Either way, you're never able to get a word out of him on those nights. He'll take his sake, and either leave in ten minutes or remain sitting there until you close up shop. The first time that had happened, you'd feared he'd been seriously injured, panicking the second he'd stepped foot into the bar.
He'd caught your wrist with a steel grip when you tried to reach for his purpled jaw, eyes flashing a dark warning that had made you retract immediately, an ice cold fear seeping into your veins.
It had been a bit of a sour reminder - Shouto isn't truly a part of your world. He saves lives every day, lives in fabulous luxury and wealth, and has relationships you'll probably never live to hear about. Real, meaningful relationships. Maybe even a partner he goes home to every night, like the pro hero Creati who’s often by his side, their images flashing across the TV on the opposite end of the bar or plastered onto tabloid magazines at the grocery store.
For some reason, that last part irks you. Sends a pit that festers in the bottom of your stomach every time you think about it.
Because you, on the other hand, are more likely akin to an apartment neighbor in his life: someone meant for small talk and the occasional drink. Not for anything deeper.
After that incident, you never tried to touch him again.
But from time to time, on those harder nights, you'll talk to him. About your day, random facts you've read about, the rude costumers you'd encounter on the weekends. He usually doesn't mind, just listens to your ramblings and drinks all the while. Other times you can just tell he needs the silence, so you let him be as you tidy up or serve the rare costumer here and there.
Speaking of which, you've also become rather adept at chasing away anyone who tries to pester him, citing privacy clauses that don't really exist or once even claiming to be the bartender and bouncer of this establishment - Shouto had stifled a laugh at that. You can’t imagine you’re the most intimidating person on Earth, especially in a society of super-powered citizens, but you'll try your damndest to be when needed.
No matter what though, every night ends with him leaving you a ten dollar tip, regardless of whether it’s good or bad. Sometimes he tips fifteen. Originally you'd fretted about it, but he'd shut that train of thought down a long time ago, giving you a dispassionate glance as if to say, do you honestly think I'm struggling with money?
You're acquaintances. Maybe even friends. Either way, something very special you’ve begun to hold dear to your heart. You still catch yourself staring into his mesmerizing eyes more times than you’ll care to admit, sure, or admiring his well-toned physique, but it’s all normal. You’re just happy to be a small part of his life, and vice versa.
Then, it all starts to shift.
-----
"What's this?" You ask, clutching nervously at the bouquet of flowers Shouto has clumsily dropped into your arms.
"Gardenias," he replies simply, taking his usual seat.
Flushing crimson, you begin to search for a place around the counter to store them, but to no avail. "What- what for?"
He just shrugs. "A lady was selling them down the road for a good price. I was on my way here, so I decided to pick one up." He frowns when he sees your little dilemma. "I... apologize, I realize now that you don't have much space for them."
You're about to reassure him that all is well when suddenly, an idea strikes you. Turning to him, you scan the room briefly - there's only the usual drunkard and a young couple - before motioning for Shouto to lean in closer, a finger pressed against your lips. "I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Don't tell anyone, ok?”
Cocking an eyebrow, he inches forward. Voice hushed to a whisper, you continue. “…I live right above the bar. I don't want anyone knowing, for uh, obvious reasons."
He nods gravely, like you've just shared the country's nuclear passcodes with him. "I understand."
Glancing around the bar again, you turn to him with a pleading look. "Do you think you can... hold the fort while I go run these upstairs? They're beautiful, and I don't want them to wilt right away." Shaking the flowers in your arms for emphasis, you grin. "Thank you so much, by the way, it's... a lovely gift."
Is it your imagination, or... is he blushing? Before you can properly entertain the idea, Shouto waves you along. "Take your time."
"Are you sure?" Is the stupid question that comes out of your mouth. He rolls his eyes, then allows a flame to flicker and extinguish in his left palm. Right! He has a quirk and is literally the number two hero.
For some reason though, the little power display sends a strange jolt of electricity down your body, directly between your… nope! Moving on.
Point taken, you thank him again and rush into the actual kitchen and towards the back where the stairwell lies. It's strange though, you think to yourself as you climb. Isn't there a bouquet shop a few blocks from here? Why would someone choose to do business on the street with competition that close?
Oh well. You choose not to dwell on it, fumbling to pull out your apartment keys while also balancing your precious gift from Shouto. Once inside, you scour your cabinets for a vase and, upon finding one, fill it with water, delicately placing the flowers inside and fluffing up their pearl white petals.
A gift. From Shouto. Wow.
Smacking your bright-red cheeks, you call yourself back down to Earth with a stern reminder: he doesn't see you that way. Get yourself together!
He’s… out of your league.
You have to stand there for a few moments, staring at your pretty flowers from Shouto, in the middle of your empty and dark apartment, before you’re ready to go back down.
The bar is safe and sound, just as you left it. Shouto offers you a gentle smile when you return, propping up his chin on one hand while you re-button your uniform.
”Was everything ok?” You ask, tidying up a few of the beer bottles.
"Don't worry,” he replies. “there were only two villain attacks on the bar while you were gone. I stopped them."
Pausing, you stop to look at Shouto like he's grown two heads. He never jokes. Ever. Laughs at yours, yes, but the man has never cracked anything more than a cheeky jab once or twice. It's so out of character for him that you can't help but burst into laughter, fits of giggles that don't die down until he taps your wrist, squinting at you like you're insane. "I didn't think it was that funny."
"From you, it was," you tease, readjusting your bun and returning to work. The realization strikes, as you're washing the dishes long after he's gone, that he touched you. It was a tap on the wrist, yes, but he touched you. Of his own free will.
For the second time tonight, you have to smack the blush out of your cheeks.
You must be losing your mind.
And then the next day, when you're not scheduled to work, you decide to take a stroll down the street. It's strange, because there’s no woman selling flowers to be found. You can't imagine she'd just pack up and leave after one day.
But in the bouquet shop, when you pass by the big front windows, there are several Gardenias on display. And not for a cheap price, either.
Weird.
-----
Shouto’s been acting a bit stranger. He’s still his normal, quiet self of course, but there’s something a bit different in his demeanor that you can’t quite put your finger on.
For one, he’s been touching you a lot more as of recent.
Not anything indecent by any means! The thought of him… actually touching you is something that 100% definitely should not cross your mind, ever. And it doesn’t. Never does. Except for sometimes when you’re alone in your bed at night, keening into his imaginary touch-
Haha. No.
Really, it’s just a few small gestures here and there - sometimes he allows your fingers to touch when you pass him his glass, or even presses your nightly tip into your palm with his own, slender fingers curling around your skin in a way that makes your entire body shudder.
And then one time, he’d interrupted your normal ramblings to lean across the counter and brush a stray eyelash from your cheek, his right hand ice cold against your heated face. That little action had caused your bodily systems to crash for the rest of the night, regrettably. You’d dropped a glass almost immediately after, and the whole thing had just been... painfully embarrassing.
His touches key you in to an interesting detail you hadn’t really payed much mind to before - how different his hands feel, depending on which one he uses. His left one is, obviously, always warm, whereas the right consistently holds a chilled quality that at first reminds you of a corpse. Over time, you begin to equate it to more of a cool breeze.
It’s a far nicer comparison to think about.
But despite this newfound progress, he still avoids your own attempts to create contact like the plague, shying away from a hand that strays too close or outright leaning in the opposite direction. So you respect his boundaries and allow him to approach on his own time, not too miffed about his strange habits. If you were a pro hero, you suppose you'd also be wary about letting people touch you. Especially with the things you'd probably experience out in the field.
In better news, Shouto has also started to actually open up, revealing more information about himself past those of his mundane adventures to the pharmacy or a funny advertisement he’d watched on TV the night before. You learn he has siblings - a sister and two brothers, one estranged. You later come to find that said brother is a supervillain, which had been revealed during a semi-emotional conversation resulting from one too many glasses of sake.
He also has many friends from his U.A. days, often meeting up with the current number one hero Deku for lunch, or even going to the gym with the explosive pro hero Dynamight. You listen carefully to hear about any sort of lover - maybe Creati, perhaps. But if he has a love life, he never mentions it.
You’re secretly hoping he doesn’t. But with someone of his looks and stature, you’re probably out of luck.
The most tentative thing he reveals to you is, well, his loneliness. He doesn’t outright state it, obviously, but you can easily infer the fact from how longingly he talks about hanging out with his friends, like they're moments that lie few and far in between, and his blatant distaste for the hero events and galas that he’s forced to attend. All appearances and marketing, no social interaction whatsoever.
Thinking about your quiet little apartment, you can’t help but empathize with him. You both live in entirely different worlds, but there’s a sort of connection that links you two together, something unspoken and tender and sad all at once.
“You… live alone too?” He inquires one night after you’d mentioned being frightened of a noise down the hall, reciting your little stumble that left you with a sore ankle and moderate bruise. You laugh, but are unsure as to why. There’s a sort of tension hanging in the air that you can’t quite identify.
”Uh… yeah. It’s just me. And your flowers now, so that’s a plus!” Your attempt to lighten the mood falls pathetically flat, so with a resigned sigh, you begin to explain the mundane complexities of your life. “…My dad lives a few cities away. I don’t see him very often.”
Shouto frowns. “Why are you here alone?”
Shrugging, you busy yourself with a rag, wiping away a few spots of grime on the counter you hadn’t spotted before. “There was a good university in this area. Almost got my degree, too. But… we ran out of money to pay for it. So my dad moved back home to support me, but it just wasn’t enough.” You start to scrub harder, unwanted feelings of regret and anger bubbling back to the surface after laying dormant for so long. “I took a job here instead. Didn’t want him slaving away for something like that. I was already friends with the boss, so she gave me an apartment for cheap, as long as I did my work right. And it really does pay well here, but… I haven’t been back to university since.”
…
You didn’t realize the terrible silence that had fallen until it sinks its uncomfortable claws deep into your neck, a vice that curls around your spine and refuses to let go. He's not saying anything, of course he's not saying anything. Why would he?
“I’m… sorry,” you finally stammer, forcing a chuckle that sounds hollow even to you. “that was a lot. I’m fine, so don’t worry!”
Shouto’s expression doesn’t change. He just examines you for a few moments, then pulls out his phone and hands it to you expectantly.
”Put your number in. If…” he trails off as if he's embarrassed by his own boldness, a pink twinge to his cheeks. “…if you need anyone, or if you’re unsafe, feel free to call me.”
The situation doesn’t quite register with you for a few moments, because holy shit, Shouto is asking for your number. And then you mentally slap yourself sideways for thinking this is anything more than a friendly gesture, or a security measure on his part. Of course he wants to help, he’s a hero! It’s his job.
”No,” is your trigger reaction, an apologetic smile gracing your lips. But it sounds far too harsh, so you backtrack instantly, softening your tone. “no, I couldn’t. You’re already so busy, and-“
He reaches over and places a hand on top of yours, the one still clutching at the rag like a lifeline. It shuts you up real quick. You want to savor this moment forever, feel his warm calloused palm intertwined with yours, stare into those eyes until you both become one with the Earth again-
“Ok,” you answer, voice barely more than a whisper. He pulls his hand away. The magical moment has ended.
Entering your number with trembling fingers, you catch a glance at his contact list when handing it back - maybe not so accidentally. Surprisingly, there are only a few listed: your number at the top, “Mom,” “Fumiko,” “Natsuo,” "Bakugo," “Midoriya,” and “Dad :(”
The last one almost makes you laugh, but you hold it in. You know it's Endeavor from the way he's talked about his father in the past - to be honest, you can't blame him. The guy definitely wins the "worst father of the year" award in your books.
Shouto leaves for the night with a small wave of his hand, and you have to stop yourself from grinning like a madwoman and allowing the sink to overflow as you wash the dishes, completely over-excited to officially have his number. Sure, it might just be because you live alone as a quirkless person and he wants you safe, but he made you a part of his contacts, and for him, that seems to be a pretty big deal. Surely that counts for something, right?
Lying awake in your bed that night, you almost fall off the mattress in a scramble for your phone when it chimes with a notification.
From: unknown number
- hello. This is Shouto. I wanted to check and see if I have the right number. My apologies if I do not.
So polite! How typical of him. You type back a response immediately.
From: you
- yes! It's me! Thank you for giving me your number.
You resist the urge to bang your head against the wall immediately after sending that message - "thank you for giving me your number"? How fucking desperate can you sound?
From: Shouto
- It's no problem. I just want to ensure that you are alright. Feel free to message me anytime.
From: You
- Thank you for wanting to keep me safe :)
Shit, was that last message a bit on the blunt side? Should you delete it and send something else??
From: Shouto
- for you, anytime.
Oh. Oh god. Maybe he doesn’t realize how that particular phrasing comes across, because you’re now rolling around in your bed and kicking your feet, pillow clutched tight against your chest.
Face burrowed in fabric, you finally allow yourself to admit it, staring at his name on the top of your phone screen.
You have a massive fucking crush on Shouto.
————
One night, when the bar is entirely empty and you’re only an hour away from closing time, Shouto tells you the story behind his scar.
You’d made sure to never ask about it before, positive that encroaching on such a subject would not only be rude and insensitive, but also a possible deal-breaker for your friendship. It’s also just a well-known fact to almost everyone, fans and haters of him alike - don’t ask Shouto about his scar. Ever.
Before he’d told you, you’d always speculated it had been some villain attack gone wrong, either from adolescence or childhood.
You’d have never expected it to be from his own mother.
It snows outside as he talks, December finally casting her icy spell over the city and foretelling of a chilling winter to come. And by the time he's done narrating, voice hushed and somber, your tears have already begun to stain the wooden countertop of the bar as the snow taps against the windows with a soft thrum. For him to have gone through all that - now you can see why the more glamorous aspects of hero life don't appeal to him. And also, probably why he has such a strong aversion to being touched.
He seems genuinely shocked that you're crying, immediately moving to grab you a tissue from inside his coat, but you just wave him off and wipe away your tears with your hand.
"I'm ok," you tell him. "It was just... emotional."
Shouto looks a bit uncomfortable, fingers drumming absent-mindedly against the counter as he searches your face for any trace of sarcasm or disdain.
"I'm sorry you had to experience that," you say in earnest. "I can't imagine how... terrible it must've been." And it's the truth - what he just told you is undeniably fucked up. Not just what happened with his mother, but the entirety of what his father did as well - you've never hated someone so much in your entire life.
The drumming stops. He's not looking at you anymore, staring straight ahead with an unreadable expression.
"Don't. It... it was a long time ago."
It sounds almost like an excuse borrowed from someone else, a justification as to why he shouldn't still be caught up over it even after all this time. You can tell it pains him to recall the horrific memory - his voice had trembled when he'd spoken to you about it, often threatening to crack altogether - and for some reason, that makes you feel for him the most.
"You know... some scars don't heal for a long time," you murmur, folding your hands on top of the counter. "and that's ok."
He doesn't say anything, but you can see the wetness in his eyes, the way his fists clench as he pointedly ignores your gaze. It's the most vulnerable state you've ever seen him in. You give him another glass of sake - on the house - and let him be. Not a word is spoken until he gets up to leave, the scraping of his stool piercing the thick silence that had settled like a blanket over the bar.
"Thank you." His eyes linger on yours. It seems like he wants to say something else, add onto his words. But he doesn't.
You're not sure why, but it disappoints you.
Shouto leaves, his usual tip resting on the counter, and you watch him go with a gut wrenching feeling that starts to fester from within your heart. For some reason, it feels different this time - like there's something terribly wrong with the situation at hand that you can't quite figure out. You have the urge to call out to him, beg him to stay, but you don't.
You're just the local bartender, a minuscule part of his massive world.
He doesn't come back to the bar for a long time.
-----
Three weeks pass, and the only anticipation you have about work anymore is the growing feeling of dread that persists and eats away at your soul when you don't see his familiar silhouette outside the bar door.
You tried to text him, a few weeks back, but hadn't gotten a response. At first, you worried it was something you had said or done that drove him away. The anxiety alone made you sick to your stomach, and you ended up calling off work for three days because of it, lying pathetically on the bathroom floor and sobbing your eyes out.
You'd never cried that hard over a guy in your entire life.
Then the news had broken, and it all made a lot more sense: there'd been a massive villain attack a few cities over, and almost every hero had been called to action. It resulted in an all-out war. The destruction you'd seen on the news had been absolutely devastating.
The TV sometimes shows flashes and snippets of Shouto and other pro heroes on the job from official news channels, featuring reporters brave enough to go near the chaos. So that's it then. He's just busy, you tell yourself again and again. Incredibly busy. Dangerously busy.
Nothing you try to convince yourself of makes you worry any less. What if he gets injured? Or worse, what if... what if he doesn't ever come back to the bar? Come back to see you?
It's too much to bear. So you go into auto-pilot, serving costumers, eating, sleeping, then doing it all again the next day.
Christmas Eve has rolled around, which means for once, you close early. To be expected, there aren't any patrons tonight. Those lucky enough to not be at work are probably spending time with their families and friends, enjoying a warm dinner surrounded by company and love.
You think of the chicken sandwich waiting upstairs in your fridge, in the middle of your cold, empty apartment.
Your boss wishes you a Merry Christmas before she steps out, handing you the keys so you can lock up on your way upstairs.
It's quiet in the bar. The TV is quiet. Everything is quiet.
Is Shouto even thinking about you? Does he miss you? Will he still care, when all of this is over? Realize his life is too short to be wasting it at a bar with a quirkless nobody? It's all too silent, too empty without him. You want to scream.
The bell jingles to announce an entering costumer, beating you to the punch. Exasperated beyond belief, you're about to outright announce that the bar is closed, fed up with absolutely everything at this point, but the words die in your mouth when his eyes meet yours.
Your heart stops. For half a second, you imagine rushing over to him, tears streaming down your cheeks, and all but throwing yourself into his arms. The perfect romantic cliché you'd been dreaming of every night, dampening your pillow with tears as you desperately wished for him to come back into your life again. Maybe you weren't a big part of his, but it felt like he took up most of yours.
But you don't throw yourself at him. Or say his name, or confess your stupid undying love.
You do cry, though.
Fighting through the tears streaming down your cheeks, you make your way behind the bar, hold up a glass and ask with a choked back sob, "same as usual?"
Shouto smiles. Then he laughs, a desperate, hearty laugh that resonates through your body and warms you to your core. You start laughing too, still crying, and then you're both cackling like lunatics in the middle of the bar on Christmas Eve.
Things go back to normal after that.
He'd apologized for being gone, promised it was nothing you'd done - in fact, he'd admitted that throughout the battles and hard nights, the only thing he could think of was a nice glass of Sake and the warmth of your smile, words that had left you stammering and blushing like an idiot. He also brought you a gift.
You start to fret, not admitting that you weren't sure you'd ever see him again to even give him a gift, and now thoroughly embarrassed you have nothing to present him. But if he minds, he doesn’t say it. And then you’re suddenly holding a small box in your hands.
"A... Christmas present. And an apology," is his explanation as you unwrap the little package.
Inside lies the most beautiful and soft pair of gloves you've ever had the fortune of laying your eyes and hands upon. An iridescent white, much like the color of the flowers he’d bought you so long ago - they’d long since wilted, but you'd kept a single dried flower in your living room as a memento - with a hand stitched seam and faux leather material that protects the puffy soft fibers beneath.
“Shouto, they’re… they’re stunning.” Fresh tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you glance up at him, gloves clutched to your chest. “I- I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t have a gift for you.”
Leaning across the bar, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, those enchanting eyes briefly darting to your parted lips - do you dare dream that he might be thinking about it too? - before he pulls away, seemingly contented with the windblown expression on your face.
”Don’t worry about it.”
You inform him that you will worry about it, very much mind you, but he just laughs at your feeble promises to repay him.
He tells you a bit about what happened, how it had been a code red emergency and the agency had all but confiscated his phone throughout the whole ordeal. They’d eventually driven the villains back enough to warrant a well deserved rest for many of the top heroes, just in time for Christmas. The attack overall has been mostly stifled. There’s only a few stragglers remaining at this point, nothing a few B-rank heroes can’t manage.
It turns out Shouto can’t stay long - he needs to see his mother now, as she’s been worried half to death from the news about the attacks - but promises to visit again soon, collecting a glass of sake on the way out.
”Keep it,” you assure him when he tries to give it back. “it’s quite literally the least I can do for you. Think of it as your own special cup!”
He seems to really like that.
-----
Without fail, Shouto brings that glass to the bar every single time he visits. Insists on using it, actually, then insists on washing it himself. As if it's some sort of priceless heirloom passed down through the generations, rather than the offspring of a plexiglass box set from 2004.
You'd gotten him a few real gifts, of course. Some nice herbal teas to split with his mother, (he'd mentioned once that she was a fan of the stuff,) a cozy scarf you'd spotted at a boutique downtown, and your own batch of gardenias to round it off nicely. He'd flustered so easily when you'd presented him with the gifts, a brilliant scarlet hue gracing his cheeks as he'd thanked you profusely.
Funnily enough, it still seems like the impromptu glass gift had made the biggest impact on him; but you're pleased to note that he often comes in wearing the scarf, or comments on just how much his mother enjoys the tea.
After his return on Christmas Eve, things had somewhat gone back to normal. Shouto is sometimes gone a few more nights out of the week, and there are still occasions where he's quieter than normal, but you're just happy he's a part of your life again.
Thinking back to your visceral reaction to his sudden absence - both mental and physical - you're starting to seriously worry about what to do with your rapidly strengthening feelings for him, a pro hero who is more than likely off the market. Plus, if he even liked you that way - and that's a big "if" - would he even want to pursue a relationship? Especially with the stresses of his work and personal life, you'd more than likely be either another casualty waiting to happen, or a burden to his hopeful future.
So you stay quiet. Tell yourself it's better this way, shut down any hopeful thoughts that are conjured in your mind, even when your heart aches in the middle of the night. You're insanely lucky to even be considered his friend! Wishing for more would be greedy.
But... things feel confusing at times.
One day, a man comes to sit at the bar a few seats away from Shouto's. That in itself isn't out of the ordinary, no, there's plenty of people who sit at the bar now and then, even during the obscenely late and strange hours that he visits.
What's strange is what happens when he starts hitting on you.
You'd played it off cool at first, deflecting the harmless flirting with a laugh and acting as polite as possible. Shouto had been quieter than usual throughout it all, sipping his sake with a stony face.
"So," the man finally says after maybe one too many shots, his words slurred as he stares at you through half-lidded eyes. "I know you've been liking me. 'N what you're hearing from me. So... how's about you come back to my place? I'd love to see you out of that tight little uniform."
Out of the corner of your eye, you swear you see Shouto’s jaw clench. Turning your head, you give him a brief warning stare as if to say, "it's ok, I've got this."
Crossing your arms, you return your focus to the man and finally drop your costumer service mask. ”Apologies, but no.”
The guy frowns, like he’s not quite able to process your outright rejection. “Th’ fuck you mean, ‘no?’”
You roll your eyes. Then take a step away from the bar, just as a precaution. “It means exactly that: no. And if this continues to be an issue, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
”Fuckin… bitch,” the asshole grumbles - how charming. “Showin’ off and leading good men like me on. Have fun sleepin’ alone you frigid bitch.” He pauses to take another shot, the last one you’d offered to give him before realizing he would more than likely pass out after another. Looking back, you wish you'd let him drink himself asleep. “You need a real man to knock some sense into ya," are the next swoon-worthy words out of his mouth. "Bend you right over this here counter and fuck some god damn logic into that shriveled brain-“
The bar countertop is suddenly frozen over with a sheet of jagged ice that spikes up dangerously close to the man's face. You and him both jump backwards, startled beyond comprehension - he nearly topples out of his chair, actually.
Shouto is still staring straight ahead, right fist flush against the counter where the ice has stemmed from. Before you can say anything, much less react, the man is up and out the door, stumbling all the way. You realize he must've recognized Shouto and fled out of fear.
Hands on your hips, you turn to the offending hero with a glare.
"Ok, first of all, thank you, because that was..." You trail off, electing to not use the words 'hot as fuck.' "...it was kind, but I could’ve handled that guy myself without the dangerous ice spikes. You are lucky nobody else was in here to witness that. But more importantly,” you gesture wildly to the now frozen solid counter, voice bordering on hysterical. "how the fuck am I going to get rid of this!?"
He seems to snap out of his stupor, head whipping to face you, then to the result of his little outburst. It's strange, but he seems genuinely shocked at the sheer amount of ice he'd "accidentally" produced.
Left hand raised, he begins to melt it with a few quiet apologies, lips pressed together in a thin line. Fuck, he's lucky you can't stay mad at him - especially not when he looks like a kicked puppy. Sighing in resignation, you grab a few dry rags and begin to mop up the puddles left behind by the melting ice, relieved to see that the counter has sustained no real damage. Your boss would've been less than pleased.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why..." he apologizes again, searching for the proper words to continue, then settling on: "...he was making you uncomfortable."
Shrugging, you bring the now drenched rag to the sink and wring it out. "Lots of people make me uncomfortable every day, Shouto. I've interacted with worse creeps than him. So next time, let me take care of it." After taking out another dry rag, you offer him a smile. "It’s not that I don’t want your help, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate what you did back there. But I’m a big girl, ok? I grew up quirkless, so I can throw a pretty mean punch.” You start mopping at the counter again. “Plus, I’d hate for you to get charged with battery or attempted assault. Claims against famous heroes make people a lot of money, you know.”
Shouto still seems off-put, eyebrows scrunched. “But what if… what if you can’t handle it?”
You know what he’s implying - the scenario in which you encounter someone far more powerful and dangerous. Someone you can’t just ward off with a few police threats or a solid punch.
Looking him in the eye, you lean back with a grin. “If I need you to help me Shouto, I’ll be more than willing to ask. That's what I have your number for, right? I’m not stupid - everyone needs to be saved sometimes.”
Your answer seems to reassure him, and he goes back to melting the ice with a far less grave expression.
And oops - there is one new crack in the counter that you hadn’t noticed before. Shouto starts offering to pay for a new one on the spot, phone already pulled out, but you reassure him it’s fine - nobody will notice. Nobody but you, of course. Remnants of irritation have worked themselves back into your system, but you stifle them as best you can.
Man, he’s lucky he’s cute.
He blinks owlishly at you. Then a smug smile tugs at his lips. "You... think I'm cute?"
Holy fuck, did you say that out loud? Slapping a hand over your mouth, you start to mentally curse every god in existence. Why you? Why now?
Somehow, Shouto doesn't seem pissed, or grossed out, or even upset at all. He just studies your face with a curious gaze, still smiling. "You think I'm cute." It's a statement of fact now, one that has your cheeks burning a furious red.
"I- So what?" Your tone sounds painfully petulant, even to your own ears.
"Cute," he announces again, like he's testing how the word rolls off of his tongue. Burying your face in your hands, you allow your head to fall to the counter with a dull thud.
"If you're going to continue embarrassing me about this, could you at least do it from farther away?" You ask with a muffled voice. He taps you lightly on the head, briefly catching your attention. Raising your head, you give him a pained glance. "What?"
He's got this funny grin, like there's some sort of inside joke you'd missed about all this. Then: "How cute?"
Thanks to his stupid hero reflexes, he easily dodges the rag you hurl at him. "Motherfucker!" You yell, starting to laugh as you aim another in his general direction. He frowns at your swear, like you've just gravely insulted him. And you sort of did, but you didn't think he'd take it personally.
"I have fucked no mothers."
His tone is so dead serious that you have to pause your little fight to comprehend it, then pause it again due to you doubling over in fits of hysterical giggles. "Shouto- it's..." you cackle, one hand on the counter to support your weight. "...it's an expression."
He crosses his arms. "I know that, and your "expression" is inaccurate. I am not a 'motherfucker.'"
This guy is so dense. You fucking love him so much. But you can't say that, so you just throw another rag at him. Then a soap bottle, because you know he'll dodge that one too. He just laughs and deflects it with a small puff of icy mist.
When he gets tired of your attempts to hinder him with cleaning supplies, Shouto finally closes the distance between you two with a frightening speed - damn all these superheroes and their stupid unfair superpower privileges - and vaults over the bar counter to grab ahold of your wrists, pinning them to the cabinets behind you. Both of your chuckles die down as the mood shifts from fun to something entirely different.
Because holy shit, he's on your side of the counter now. It was always like some sort of unspoken barrier between the two of you, but now that he's breached it, you're unable to tame the racing of your heart - this is the closest proximity the two of you have ever shared.
Your tongue instinctively swipes over your bottom lip, mouth feeling painfully dry - his eyes seem to zero in on the pink muscle the second it breaches the seal of your lips, then remain on your mouth. God, his chest is nearly touching yours, you can hear how hard he's breathing, and it all just feels so hot and dizzying that you might faint on the spot.
His hands flex around your wrists as the tips of his shaggy hair brush against your forehead; you are once again reminded of just how easily this guy dwarfs you, broad shoulders blocking out a significant amount of the light in the bar as his unfairly handsome face remains just inches from yours.
"Shouto-" you breathe, voice heavy with want and need-
The door chimes to announce the arrival of a costumer, and you two fly apart within milliseconds, faces flushed as you adjust yourselves to an appropriate level of... whatever the fuck normal is supposed to be after something like that.
Shouto somehow makes his way back over the counter without arousing too much suspicion - the guests elected on sitting in a booth, and with no other servers scheduled for tonight, you're required to serve them yourself - and when you two finally share a glance, a few minutes later, you both end up needing to look away out of sheer embarrassment and mortification.
If someone hadn’t stepped in, would he have… kissed you? Gone further?
That particular incident isn't spoken of again.
-----
Shouto still doesn't let you touch him. That is, until you do it with the gloves on. He'd asked to make a trip outside one night, the weather being unusually warm for January. Shocked, you'd asked him to repeat himself so you could ensure that you weren't dreaming, and when he'd confirmed his query, you'd all but begged your boss to clock out early. She'd accepted easily, urging you to go off and have fun. With a spring in your step, you'd collected your coat and gloves and practically bounded after him out of the bar, carefully placing the latter into your pocket.
A light drizzle falls as you walk, dampening the concrete beneath your feet and catching in the lights of the street-lamps overhead like flickering stars. You'd expected this experience to be far more nerve wracking - he'd never invited you out of the bar before, and your dumb brain immediately had interpreted his suggestion as a date, which made you incredibly flustered. But now, strolling by his side, you feel... relaxed.
At ease.
There's still those ever-present butterflies of course, but it's different. Better.
You can't resist the smile that stretches across your face as a sweet melody from a violin flows cuts through the air. Its source, you and Shouto approach to find, is a distant coffee shop on the corner, well-known for its live music and tasteful decorations. Your boss had mentioned it a few times in the past, but failed to mention how marvelous it truly is - straying closer, you feel as though you've been transported back into the Victorian era, delighted to find such paradise so close to home. You'd never had much time for a social life or random wanderings, too busy working and studying to reapply for university.
There's a decorated arch leading to a small courtyard on the side of the coffee shop, and you motion for Shouto to follow with a giddy laugh. The courtyard is like a giant garden with a stone circle in the center. Even in the dim light from the shop, you can still make out the minuscule details of every flower, cooing over as many as you can.
The violin continues to play, and the rain starts to fall a bit harder.
"Would you like to go inside?" Shouto asks, a hint of concern to his voice. "I'd hate for you to get sick from the rain."
Turning back to him, you can't help but stare for a few moments. He looks absolutely ethereal, surrounded by flowers and plants with a dim glow that shines around his silhouette like a halo. The violin has picked up a new tune, like something you'd expect to hear in a ballroom-esque setting. A few more instruments begin to accompany it. Whether it's from the music, Shouto, the weather, or just the location in general, you're not sure. But a surge of liquid courage shoots through your veins, and so, you hold out a hand to him expectantly.
He seems... confused. Rolling your eyes, you hope the nighttime darkness shrouds the redness in your cheeks. "Dance with me."
Those heterochromatic eyes flicker back and forth between your face and outstretched hand, showing a glimmer of fear that you don't easily miss. Composure drooping, you realize your mistake. Shit. He... he doesn't want you to touch him.
The music is still going, and fuck, it all feels like such a wasted opportunity. Like a present opened the day before Christmas, magic lost. You ruined it all, didn't you?
Wait.
Present.
Dropping your hand, you start to fumble around in your pockets. Out come the gloves, as beautiful as the day you unwrapped them. Slipping them on hastily, you try again, praying that he won't shoot you down a second time - you're not so sure your poor heart can take another rejection. "There," you announce, like you've discovered the cure for cancer, wet hair sticking to your face. "now you have no excuse."
He's still silent, and shame starts to bubble up from within your chest. You just had to push him, didn't you? Demand something even when he'd made his boundaries clear long ago.
Then, much to your surprise, Shouto suddenly advances towards you with a soft chuckle. "No, I suppose I don't," he replies, and then his fingers wrap around yours, separated by nothing but a thin layer of leather. "And it would be a shame to see you wet those gloves for nothing."
Despite the fact that you were the one who asked him to dance, it appears he's far more confident about it than you are, a hand on your waist to firmly guide you as you begin to sway in time to the music. The rain is pouring down now, drenching you two to the bone, but you could care less. All you can feel is him.
And then the bastard ups the ante, pulling you into a box-step type of footwork that has you stumbling across the slick stones. Giggling, you try to keep up as best you can, but your movements are sloppy in contrast to his. Raising your arm high above your head, Shouto spins you - slowly at least - and you manage to keep your balance, still laughing as the two of you continue to waltz.
The tempo picks up and, is it your imagination, or is he clutching you tighter now?
When he reels you in from another spin, you're more than a bit startled upon seeing how close his face is to yours, eyes boring into you with an intensity that makes you shiver. Raindrops roll down his perfect porcelain skin, and you dare to lift a gloved finger to wipe them away - in vain, of course, but the gesture means something. Makes him exhale under your touch.
You're starting to get the hang of the footwork - maybe a bit too late, as the song is nearing its final crescendo, but you're having a blast either way. Shouto's hand positions shift, and then he's dipping you low to the ground. You arch your back to accommodate the sudden change, allowing an arm to fall back in what you only hope is a dramatic pose - in reality, you probably look quite silly, soaking wet and stiff from cold, but in the moment, you feel like royalty. The song is fading. He spins you one last time, then draws you near - so incredibly close, that you can feel his warm breath puffing against your lips.
Silence in the courtyard.
You never want this moment to end.
It does of course, when he realizes just how cold you are - not everyone can regulate their body temperatures on demand, Shouto - and he helps you back to the bar with a large hand supporting your lower back the entire way, giving unwarranted yet appreciated advice on how to starve out a cold. You're freezing, sure, but it's a small price to pay for a moment as magical as that was.
Shouto smiles a lot more after that - examining you with thoughtful eyes when he thinks you're not looking.
You allow your brain to run away with the fantasies now.