They can't get to the restaurant fast enough. Katsuki fights - and has been fighting - the urge to blast off into the air so he can go scream on a rooftop somewhere since they left the exhibit. If one were to include his emotions during their time at the lights exhibit, he's felt this way for longer. And if one were to count the time before that, he's felt this way for the majority of his life, but whatever.
Back to the present.
The fanfare surrounding the paid lights display was one thing, considering every single extra crammed inside paid to be there, but the nightlife on the streets was just obscene overkill. Crowds — of not just couples, but groups! Groups. As in: we as a group organized a mixer on Christmas Eve, like, six months in advance because we are the epitome of desperate and had to make sure our holiday social lives look good on social media so nobody pities us for being inconveniently single during the season or thinks we're not generally popular – flood the streets taking selfies or gawking at the decorated public parks and lines of lights suspended between street lamps. They're toxic; dangerous; mindless like a bunch of idiot, intertangled jellyfish floating in a cold and bioluminescent sea. Some of them even hold hands or fall into one another's arms or, for fuck's sake, kiss in public. Like, right in front of him and Fuyumi and God and everybody.
Cringe, thinks Katsuki, because he is a violent prude and massive hypocrite. Not that he'll admit it about himself. But if asked, he'll freely admit it about everyone else. In fact, he'll offer that little tidbit up even without being asked. He grumbles it into his scarf like it's his own little secret.
Fuyumi, who is just a step behind him, perks up. "Hm?"
In front of them, a man with wood for skin holds the hand of a woman with sharp teeth and frightening eyes. It's uncannily wholesome in contrast to their intimidating bodies, but somehow they make it look natural. Katsuki wants to blow the entire block to smithereens. Instead, he merely takes a sudden turn down a lit alley.
"Quit draggin'!"
This better be worth it, thinks Katsuki, as he half-leads half-loses Fuyumi through the throng and to the next block where their destination waits. He practiced the route from the lights display to the restaurant in the week leading to this moment.
It's not as if he was nervous or anything. That would be stupid.
The two of them approach the front of the restaurant. It's a German place spilling over two levels at the foot of a grandiose luxury hotel – and it is absolutely decked out to the nines with Christmas shit. Katsuki can count three trees glittering through the windows and atop the outdoor balcony from his place as a lowly middle-class pedestrian minor. There's probably, like, twelve more of them jammed in there along with enough lights and reflective crystals to illuminate a whole new city – and that's not including the huge chandelier he can see glowing through the two-story front window.
"Oh, wow," says Fuyumi. "Is that where we're going?"
Her smile is no wider than it usually is – it's a kind one meant to conceal any sadness or unpleasantness and offer comfort like she's still in her classroom handling kids and Katsuki low-key hates it – but her ice-grey eyes glitter with the refracted light of the city like joyful mirrors.
Those eyes. Those damn big eyes. They tear him up inside in a way he's not certain is reasonable or normal. Deku's are bad enough; Fuyumi's have more than just vapid do-gooder bullshit behind them.
"I'm not sure I've ever had German food," continues Fuyumi. "I can't wait to try so many new things!"
She beams at him. It's encouragement; it's praise of his choice delivered in a way not so direct that it sets him off in a fit of nerves and denial. He hates that he knows what she's doing. And since it's only half-successful since he can see through it — which makes him even more tightly wound so it isn't actually successful at all — Katsuki reminds himself not to deflect by bitching in defense of his wallet. Because stingy people suck.
God, but it's hard. He knew what he was getting into when he left it to Momo Yaoyorozu to get him a table "somewhere halfway presentable", in his words, but it's a good thing he never shared Deku's propensity for spending all of his money on useless shit and therefore had any kind of savings. Otherwise he'd really be fucked.
Fuyumi takes a picture of the restaurant exterior. Her fingers pinch and poke the screen for the perfect angle and lighting balance. Nothing vamps for time while Katsuki pulls himself back together quite like trying to capture shots with high-contrast artificial light at night and telling oneself the automatic settings make a damn bit of difference, apparently.
"I don't think I've ever heard of this place before! I wonder if dad ever had an event here?"
Wonder if my dad had an event here, Fuyumi says. Yeah. Yeah, because unfortunately, yes, okay, sure, fine, Enji Todoroki, number one Pro Hero Endeavor, is so fucking rich he might see this place as a good locale for a low-key business lunch. Sure. Whatever. Rich people. Fucking goddamned rich people and their champagne problems, which somehow Katsuki feels like he's in any way equipped to fix.
"Who even cares?!" Katsuki spits.
Fuyumi magnanimously takes another photo – except Katsuki comes up behind her and starts messing with the camera manual settings from over her shoulder to give her a halfway-decent shot before the blown-out lighting quality drives him insane. Keeping his mouth shut as he watched her take photos of the lighted tree was bad enough.
"Fuckin'—! If you're gonna do it, do it right! Die, you stupid—!"
Fucking Endeavor. Fuck him. None of this is supposed to be about him. The whole point of this exercise was that, for one night, Fuyumi could forget he even existed.
"That looks a lot better," comments Fuyumi of her newly balanced phone display. Another indirect compliment. Damn her.
"Hnmph."
Who is Katsuki kidding? He was already fucked the moment he opened his mouth to ask a favor of Princess Ponytail Momo Yaoyorozu. He was fucked when he picked up the phone and had the nerve to dial her number. No — he was fucked when he realized that she was first and last hope because, no matter how famous of an ass he makes of himself on public television, there is no way some punkass kid without a Hero paycheck and basically zero extra-industry connections is going to score a dinner reservation a week before Christmas Eve.
Katsuki returns the phone to Fuyumi in a fit of delicate fury. She smiles appreciatively and takes another round of photos. He's fairly certain he's in a few of them, but damned if he'll turn his head to look. Pisses him off as much as it makes him feel fragile and gooey-soft like a baby caterpillar trapped under a magnifying glass.
Yeah, okay, Endeavor's rich and famous. That's an indisputable fact. Sure. Doesn't mean shit for this, though. Except for the fact that, if anything, Katsuki would probably be required to sign liability paperwork if he is recognized at all.
Worse, or at least almost as bad, is the likely look on Momo's face when she heard Katsuki's request. He's not sure which is more humiliating: Momo concealing laughter behind her hand, or her dark eyes softening and shimmering with sympathetic epiphany and secondhand romantic excitement. And, okay, she swore she wouldn't tell anybody, and if Katsuki were to take anyone at their word it would be her, but what if she told Jirou? Or, more likely, what if Ears overheard?! They wouldn't blab beyond their little circle, exactly, so Fuyumi would be safe from public backlash, but they'd also live their lives knowing that Katsuki Bakugo asked for help because he couldn't figure his shit out himself.
This better be worth it, repeats Katsuki to himself.
He pulls his head out of his ass long enough to glance at Fuyumi, who practically glows in the cold air from within the hazy winter-fog of her breath and the artificial light bleeding from the phone screen in front of her face. She's excited — or at least acting like it. No, she means it. She better mean it. Fuyumi damn well better be having a good time because Katsuki's the best at everything he puts his mind to do and this isn't an exception. He won't accept it being an exception.
Except the moment she teared up from looking at that one bigass tree. And when he showed up before she was ready and humiliated her at the door. And also the multiple times Katsuki yelled at her.
God.
God. Katsuki was fucked when he felt the need to act on his own selfishness while even entertaining the idea that any of it included compassion for a woman he barely knows. He's not Deku, or even like Deku, and he never will be.
This better be worth it, repeats Katsuki to himself a third time – like he can threaten the universe.
The universe responds with the reappearance of the wooden man and his frightening demon girlfriend. They stop point-blank in front of him to give one another a kiss. And, all at once, the world according to Katsuki Bakugo's point of view changes color. If it wasn't Christmas-themed-bull-flag-red already, it is now.
He gets his ass in the restaurant, Fuyumi's hurried catch-up pace be damned, and shoves his — color balanced and night optimized — phone display of reservation information into the host's face. They're seated in short order without a single fight between himself and any of the staff, because despite public opinion he's not an animal. Katsuki even takes Fuyumi's coat and pulls out her chair with a single possessive swipe before the damn host can even put his gloved hand on the gold frame and velvet cording. Take that, smarmy waiter! And take that, extra at the next table over who didn't even take his date's jacket!
While he's at it, take that, fancy-pants know-it-all Momo Yaoyorozu!
Katsuki throws himself into his chair and plants his elbows on his knees like this place is a front and he's the gang boss calling the shots. He's wearing the silken shirt and gold watch to fit the part, anyway, so he may as well put the fear of Katsuki Bakugo into these idiots. It's crass and disrespectful, but it makes him look bigger than he is; like he's in charge and can do whatever he wants. Because he can. Because he's in control here.
So take that, stupid fucking couples outside who just wanna hold hands and make out like it's a goddamn cosmic sign that Katsuki is stuck with his inability to be anything but a fuck-up for the rest of his life!
His palms are sweating, and, despite the outside chill from a moment ago, his coat isn't helping.
Take that, Mitsuki Bakugo, with those nosy comments about what her son is doing with his evening; if he has friends! Take that, Endeavor, who can't get his head out of his ass long enough to be there for his daughter! Take that, giant light-up All Might, who thinks any of this is worth smiling about!
And take that, Deku! Take it! Take it, fucking shithead bitchass useless nerd!
"Bakugo-kun?"
Katsuki's head pops up from its bowed vantage point over his shoes. He sees smoke. Oh, he's started popping off sparks. It smells like burning sugar-sweat and displaced aggression; smells like teen spirit. Fuck.
He snarls. "What?"
"If you,"– and Katsuki swears if the next part of her sentence is are nervous or don't have the money to pay for this or don't want to be seen with me, he'll blow the entire restaurant to fancy little bitty charred bits –"don't feel well or don't like German food, we don't have to stay here. We can pay the seating charge and leave."
She doesn't even make the mistake of offering to pay the seating charge herself with the inadvertent insinuation that Katsuki is too cheap to do so. It's infuriating. Fuyumi doesn't even set him off correctly like he's been conditioned to expect: like a callously oblivious idiot of a green-haired lit match. He's in a car on a rollercoaster that's been denied the big drop. Instead, he's come to a full stop and offered a chance to get off the ride. Oh, God, he can get off the ride.
So he disembarks, but not without shaky legs and not without some hysterics. "NO. THOSE EXTRAS OUTSIDE CAN GO EAT SHIT 'CUZ I'M STAYING RIGHT HERE," Katsuki says.
Meanwhile, the extras inside look up from their candle-lit tables to send him a glare. It's in case he needs a karmic reminder that he is the biggest piece of shit in the world, probably, except Katsuki could care less about their opinions. But unfortunately, their feedback drives home a point that reflects poorly in the eyes of his date, who does have an opinion that matters.
Fuyumi blinks at him over the single votive set in the center of the table between them. Katsuki looks stupid. He knows he does, because he feels stupid.
He exhales mightily. "And I'm hungry," he finishes.
Fuyumi doesn't miss a beat. She picks up the conversation and her napkin in one fell swoop. "Have you ever had German food before?" she asks. "Can you tell me what's good?"
"Get whatever the hell you want," Katsuki says of the menu.
It doesn't matter that he spent three hours looking up reviews and information on this menu to be able to pronounce the dishes correctly while simultaneously calculating how much money he'd need to bring to pay for them. Nor does it matter that he's also researched what foods patrons found gross and too foreign — like sauerkraut — or especially favorable – like kielbasa. Doesn't matter a damn bit if he can't figure out how to open his mouth and make it come out as a cohesive thought. What he also can't say is: I'm gonna figure out a way to give you the whole world if it kills me, alright, so just let me. Because for once, someone should let him give what he means to give.
For once.
Fuyumi ducks her head with a conspiratorial grin. "What if I just got dessert? Do they have ice cream?"
Ice cream. Ice cream? They're at a fancy-as-shit cuisine-specific place and she wants ice cream? Katsuki glares at her. "Hah?"
"I like ice cream," she says.
"Freak," he mutters. "It's the middle of winter."
She gestures to Katsuki's winter clothes. "Are you still cold, Bakugo-kun?"
They're off before she can finish her sentence. He sheds his coat onto the back of the chair and rips off his scarf in one fell swoop; a challenge met and gauntlet thrown all in one.
"Like that matters," he says. The goosebumps on his forearms say otherwise. He crosses them and tells himself it makes him look more threatening even though the truth is he's desperate to keep his body heat close to his core.
Fuyumi giggles.
Katsuki feels the humiliation of it like electric pinpricks on his skin.
"You makin' fun of me?! HAH?!"
He hadn't been telling a joke. His benevolent opinion of her plummets to his shoes like a body from a balcony. She may as well have pulled out a knife and shanked Katsuki in front of the entire restaurant. He can hear the creak of the roller coaster in his mind start again.
Fuyumi reaches for her water; eerily cool in the face of his hotheaded fury. "Shouto never thought to tell me you were funny."
"WHAT'S THAT S'POSED TO MEAN?!"
"It's not an insult," she says. "I think that's another reason Shouto likes you. It's a good thing. It's a good thing to be able to make people laugh."
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT HALF-AND-HALF THINKS!"
"Well, I like that you can make me laugh," Fuyumi offers. "I like that about you."
The dangerous creaking in Katsuki's mind stops. Everything stops.
"I like you," she assures. "Does that matter?"
Katsuki doesn't quite know what to say to that. People don't generally like Katsuki. They say and think a lot of things about Katsuki, he knows, but never that they like him.
He stares intently at Fuyumi with unwavering eye contact because the first to break in a battle of wills is the loser — okay, maybe not the loser, exactly, because Katsuki is overcome with a fit of something he refuses to call embarrassment and cuts his stare away from Fuyumi to instead rest literally anywhere else — because it is, admittedly, not the strongest reflection of one's inner convictions.
Katsuki finds the window. Outside are more couples. Big shocker. But there's also one obviously single guy in the mix wearing a big, puffy coat that drapes all the way down to his ankles. Katsuki is almost positive the guy's a flasher — or something. The voice in his head telling him this sounds, unfortunately, like Endeavor, and Endeavor's proactive take on crowds of people also sounds a whole hell of a lot like profiling. Katsuki knows he shouldn't step in unless this guy actually whips off his coat and does something nefarious in doing so. Like showing off his whole dick and realizing what a massive mistake that is when it subsequently freezes off in the winter weather.
But maybe he's just creepy and is waiting on his equally creepy date.
The waiter discreetly refills their drinks and leaves a basket of bread. Several other patrons ask one another if it's possible to be moved to a different table farther away from Katsuki and Fuyumi.
Like there's any empty tables on Christmas Eve in Japan, Katsuki thinks.
God, this sucks. Katsuki isn't sure if he made the right decision to ask for the night off from his internship or not. Whether he gave a reason or refused to elaborate, Endeavor's condescending opinion of him probably dropped even lower; Burnin' will cheerfully insinuate that he's a slacker as "motivation"; Todoroki won't do a damn useful thing in training with his flame; and Deku is probably snooping for Katsuki's whereabouts since he noticed his absence – which was probably before their shift even started.
If Deku somehow manages to do that stupid thing where he and Katsuki end up in the same place at the same time, Katsuki will kill him. Even if Deku's frustratingly familiar presence would take a massive social load off Katsuki's shoulders, Katsuki will kill him dead.
"Ooh," says Fuyumi. "Pork schnitzel. Sounds kind of like katsudon, I think. Maybe I should get that."
Ah. Deku's favorite food. The fucker found him without even being present at all. Katsuki has no choice but to hunt him for sport.
He reaches for his water so he doesn't have to elaborate on his opinion beyond the bare minimum. "Get the Rouladen and Kartoffelknödel."
Fuyumi's eyes flick up to him and then back to the menu. It's a flash of silver in the sun.
"Gesundheit."
Katsuki snorts water out his nose. Just a little.
Fuyumi coyly covers her mouth with the menu. "See? Now I made you laugh."
"I didn't laugh!" Katsuki argues — because nothing's as ironclad in a disagreement as the power of a well-timed nuh-uh. His nostrils burn incriminatingly. "I sneezed! That's different!"
"I see," responds Fuyumi. She pushes up her glasses. "In that case, gesundheit."
This time, Katsuki does smile. A little — behind the obstinate hand pressed against his face as he leans his elbow on the armrest of his chair. Fuyumi does the same behind her menu.
Their corner of the restaurant falls quiet. It's natural. It's nice.
The waiter returns with a white towel over one arm and an impartial gleam in his eye. Katsuki takes a shine to him for his professionalism, but still mentally classifies him as standoffish and judgemental. Dick.
"I would like the Rouladen with the Kartoff— eh, the," Fuyumi consults the menu once more before defaulting to the description, "the potato dumplings, please."
She listened. Katsuki doesn't feel warm inside at that. Not even a little bit.
"Lieberwurst with the hottest mustard you got," he says. He juts out his lower jaw. "And get her some ice cream after that."
He pointedly focuses on the window with the weird guy until the waiter leaves with the menus so he doesn't have to look at Fuyumi's reaction. The dude's still standing around in his stupid coat like he wants to be suspected of something, but he's still not actively causing trouble. It forces Katsuki to glance back at the table.
Fuyumi's eyebrows are raised and her mouth slightly parted like she's either shocked or has an opinion to share. Her eyes sparkle in wide-eyed surprise.
Katsuki growls. "What? Not good enough for ya?" He clicks his teeth. "You got somethin' to say, then say it."
Fuyumi's hair twirls around her face as she shakes her head. When she stops, it falls like wings against her shoulders.
Katsuki narrows his eyes.
"You're sittin' there thinkin' about the German cheesecake," he accuses. "You want an authentic experience."
Fuyumi's cheeks flush, and Katsuki knows he is a bully to his core because the rush of joy it brings him has got to be unnatural.
"Wh-what?!"
Katsuki rolls his eyes. "That or stollen."
Fuyumi's head shakes again, but this time more vigorously and with even brighter cheeks. Katsuki's got her pegged. Definitely. He can smell the stink of embarrassed fear and exposed secrets from a mile away.
I win, he thinks.
Fuyumi, meanwhile, laughs nervously. "That's okay! I don't—!"
"'SCUSE ME, WAITER!" Katsuki slams his hand against the table call button, but since the waiter's back is turned to them, it's just as expedient for him to call himself. "STOLLEN FOR THE LADY."
Fuyumi sinks into her seat with jaw agape – before her hands fly up to cover it.
"Bakugo-kun!"
If she thinks she's wriggling out of this so easily, she's delusional. He sneers.
"AND THE CHEESECAKE, WHILE WE'RE AT IT!"
"That's wasteful! I can't eat all of that! "
"Oh, yeah?" He grins in challenge. "'Cuz your dinners at home say that's bullshit."
Fuyumi's entire body changes color from her neck to her ears. Her face practically glows against her white hair and the soft, muted rose-pink of her dress.
"Bakugo-kun!"
Katsuki's fist makes a dull, decisive thud against the pressed linen tablecloth. He leans into the table so he's all but in her face.
The single votive underlights him in a dramatic shadow like they're discussing a mafia deal and not their dinner order. "You want it or not?!"
Somehow, Fuyumi turns an even wilder color as she sinks behind her hands. Katsuki's wild eyes also grow even wilder because don't you fuckin' dare run from me! Not after this! Not after you let me in before!
"HAH?!" Katsuki presses. His foot hits the center post of the table to give the dishes a good, rattling scare.
Fuyumi looks up – and her flustered expression and neutral smiles both fail her. She glares at him. It's brief, but it's there. Katsuki's heart soars at the honesty of it – finally, what she really thinks is about to surface! – and then plummets just as fast because oh shit what she really thinks is about to surface.
He swallows. Not that he's nervous or anything. But if he's wrong about this – not that he's ever wrong – it'll be his responsibility to shove down everything he just ordered before she can shove it down from obligation. Hell, he'll probably do that for part of it anyway since she probably isn't lying that she can't eat all of it at once, but if she gets to at least try everything she wants, it will have been worth it.
Oh, and there's still the damn Christmas cake he snuck into her refrigerator. Fuck. What is it with this holiday and sweets? Katsuki doesn't even like sweets. Fuck Christmas.
"I've," Fuyumi's eyes slide to the side beneath her furrowed brow, "never had stollen or German cheesecake," she finally admits. Her face is composed, but her cheeks are still pink.
It's hard, keeping the smug smile off Katsuki's face. Or it would be, maybe, if he bothered trying. He leans back in his chair and lets his self-satisfied self radiate with giddy, toothy glee. He doesn't miss the admonishing, exasperated smile that answers on Fuyumi's face. She hides her face in her hand so she can laugh, but Katsuki doesn't mind it so much anymore.
Because I fucking won! he thinks again – more emphatically this time.
"Betcha ain't had French food, neither." It's not a stretch to assume that Enji Todoroki and his traditional-ass, absentminded, pigheaded-one-note, obliviously-unconscientious self would hold fast to Japanese custom and aesthetics and not bother even considering introducing his family to any kind of variation from it, even in food. "Or Greek. Or Italian."
"I've had gelato and Italian ices," Fuyumi counters.
"So not real food. Just sugar n' shit."
"I told you – I like cold things," she defends. Her glass clinks in her hand.
"Any dumbass with eyes can see that." He rolls his own for emphasis. "You like anything else?"
Katsuki is getting ahead of himself, he knows. Except, no, he's not. These are fair questions. They're supposed to make small talk on dates. It's his business if he has intent to do something with the answers or not.
"I like movies," Fuyumi says.
Katsuki lifts an eyebrow.
"I think romances are fun," she expands.
"Ugh." He pulls a face and sticks out his tongue as if to gag. "Nevermind," he says.
Fuyumi winks. "I like to watch them and eat ice cream at the same time."
"Lame," critiques Katsuki. His own glass rattles as he flicks it.
"Sometimes, I even put on a cold face mask, too. And deep-condition my hair."
"Super lame," he gripes.
"I think you could benefit from indulging in the things you like once in a while, Bakugo-kun. You might find it very relaxing."
"Yeah, or maybe I got cooler shit to do with my time than watch sappy movies and eat."
Fuyumi's head tilts. "What do you like to do, Bakugo-kun?"
Katsuki stiffens. He's been dreading this line of conversation – and most every other one, if he's being honest – that would inevitably crop up. He has hobbies, sure, but separate from the fact that most of them involve his to-be career – which is a massive topical landmine – he has never been very good about talking about himself in specifics. He's exceptional at anything he does. That's obvious. But the little details shit like talking about his success in specifics is, well. Other people are supposed to do that. Deku is supposed to do that. It's how it's supposed to be, because it's the only way Katsuki knows he's done it right: if Deku is singing his praises. Unimpeachably exceptional is his baseline standard and any time he has to point that out about himself, it's embarrassing, and a little rude, and also an avenue for too much interpersonal vulnerability. People might know he needs the praise to orient himself in the world. People might figure out he's—!
It's too much. Reaching out like that is too much. It's something unapproachable. It's also something he can't back away from once it happens.
"Besides being a hero," Fuyumi prompts, because of course she can see right through him. She's trying to be gentle, but in actuality that makes this harder. He hates it.
Ego notwithstanding, speaking to other people in general is not his strong suit. Never has been. Those stupid mock interviews he has to do for school or the real ones with the media throw him into a tailspin and send him into a hissing, raging fit. Why can't people watch what he does and draw their conclusions based on that instead of asking him to explain it to them? Don't they have eyes?! Why do they need to know more about him than he wants to share?! Why are people so fucking stupid and nosy?!
For no particular reason, he – suddenly, maybe, almost, kind of, possibly, in an abstract way like this is a thought experiment – wants to find and antagonize the shit out of Deku. It's not that he misses him or his habit of babbling to other people like he's got verbal diarrhea – usually about Katsuki – so that Katsuki doesn't have to say anything, or his knack for drawing Katsuki's attention so he can yell at Deku while comfortably ignoring any onlooking extras. Not at all.
"I go places," he grumbles. "By myself. Hiking." That's a shitty answer, and he knows it. "In the mountains." There. Better.
Not better. Something shifts. He's screwed up. Fuyumi's face changes ever so slightly. There's a chill he can't place, and it's not from her quirk.
What was wrong with that answer? Where the hell did he screw this one up?!
"That sounds nice," Fuyumi says, quietly, eventually. Like a concession. "I've never really understood the, um. Fixation with mountains. Do you, you, um, have any favorite trails?"
Katsuki knows what this is. He is being led, and he is being humored. He hates it.
If he were the kind to blush when upset, he would, but instead he only roils within his own skin – ignites inside until everything inside expands and expands and expands until he explodes. He digs his nails into his thighs. Where did I screw up? He doesn't know. There's something he doesn't know.
Outside the window, the suspicious man in the long coat checks his watch, and then glances at the nearby public clock adorned in red bows and fake garland.
"Ashitaka-yama," Katsuki bites out. It's the trail he travels most often. Proximity. "And Fuji-san."
"Yes. The most famous." Fuyumi closes her eyes. "The tallest. The highest peak. That's your favorite."
"I go wherever I want," Katsuki says, jutting his jaw forward. "Don't matter where. I'm always gonna come out on top."
Fuyumi smiles. It's thin. "You're ambitious in everything you do, aren't you?"
Ambitious. Ambitious. There it is. Like fucking Endeavor. Elephant in the room.
Fuyumi's voice fades like a ghost as her eyes mist under the candlelight. The flame dances at the wick like a distant star. "I'm sure."
"Shut up," Katsuki says. It's the first real ire he's given her, directly, all night. It's the wrong move and not really what he wants to leave as a parting shot, but, goddamn it, his own honesty is his undoing beyond all intention. "That ain't why. But so what if it was?"
That renders Fuyumi quiet — for a moment. Her face may have hardened behind her illuminated glasses. It's hard to tell. It's enough for him to work with. It'll have to be enough.
She asked for Katsuki's favorites, not his singular favorite. That is another answer entirely: it's not as tall, and it's a shorter overall distance, but it's more difficult. It's partially responsible for the area's consistently shitty weather because it holds the clouds in place, but it also breaks tsunamis and storms. Not as many people go there as Mt. Fuji. It's pretty. And at the top are seven ponds, including Midori-ga-ike; a green pool sitting in a crater. It makes the entire mountain more grandiose for how it reflects everything around it. Katsuki only had the opportunity to go once, when he was younger, but he won't forget the view of the mountain off the water even if he tried.
There's no particular reason for that at all.
Fuyumi relents. "Bakugo-kun, I–"
"It's Haku-san."
Fuyumi pauses. Her lips are pursed like there's a lemon behind them. She swallows her next statement, very literally; tilts her head; and graces Katsuki with another chance to be anything other than a massive jackass. "Why?"
Haku-san: the white mountain. Whether in winter or not, from a distance, it's the color of snow. In the fall, the leaves were auburn and wine, like bits of fire bursting through the pale sky. It's distant, and quiet, and tranquil, and a protector of the area. Not that Katsuki can articulate a word of that to save his life.
And not that the setting of a mountain he saw then means anything now, of course. Doesn't correlate to a damn thing. Nope.
But there's no time for Katsuki to flub this answer because several things happen almost all at once. Outside, the man in the coat throws the thing open with a yell. Immediately, Katsuki throws up his hands and fires a concentrated explosive shot over Fuyumi's shoulder. It melts a hole through a single window pane – collateral – and makes direct contact with the side of the man's head. He collapses in a heap. The patrons inside the restaurant and immediately on the outside street scatter and yelp like frightened mice. Then, Endeavor himself appears from the sky like a phoenix descending and lands almost in tandem with the man's body.
Because of course he's abso-fucking-lutely here. His flames stir up the slush and snow in clouds of billowing steam around his deep-blue uniform. Katsuki can sense more than see the confusion reflected in his ice-blue eyes at his target's sudden fall.
Fuyumi remains in her seat, facing away from the window, and frozen in place. Only her hair moves in the aftermath of the moment; a silver-auburn waterfall beneath the dim overhead light.
Endeavor sweeps over the unconscious body. Some stray gas dissipates into the air from around the torso. Hell if Katsuki knew what it did, exactly, but it wasn't flammable. If it was flammable and the guy wanted to be a human bomb, he'd have been leaking it out of his coat slowly instead of concentrating it at one point around himself. And if that were the case, Katsuki never would have fired on him. The Flame Hero never would have landed by him with his thematic quirk blazing, either.
Endeavor takes in the whole street. He finds the window and the pane with the melted hole in it. His bright eyes find Katsuki, and Katsuki feels them bore into him like two darts stabbed into his chest. Recognition sparks within the mess of heroic conflagration wrapped around Endeavor's face.
That's two times I got the drop on you, old man, Katsuki thinks as loudly as he can. There's almost no point in not screaming it aloud across the restaurant anymore. Almost. And situational sensitivity be damned – he'll hold this over Endeavor's head for the rest of their natural lives and then some.
Now leave, Katsuki wills. Musty old asshole.
Predictably, Endeavor doesn't listen. He takes a step towards the window. Katsuki can see the moment of confusion dawn as he examines the type of restaurant; Katsuki's clothes; the table; the back of a woman's head – his daughter's head, though he doesn't know that. Yet.
Fuyumi starts to turn.
"Don't," growls Katsuki. Because if Fuyumi turns around to discover that her father manifested after following the stink of the psychological bullshit he saddled them both with for this entire evening and then some, Katsuki might start trying to open fire on him next. "Took care of it. Just some extra making an ass of themselves."
Speaking of asses, Todoroki and Deku appear in the street on the other side of the window a moment later. Immaculate fucking timing – just when Katsuki isn't in a position to make good on his own internal threats regarding them. Deku's face screws into a look of analytical confusion before he starts looking around in much the same manner as Endeavor, except his big green cow eyes find Katsuki almost immediately because Deku is practically hard-wired to look at Katsuki. His mouth forms a word Katsuki knows all too well: Kacchan!
Katsuki feels the full spectrum of human emotion in response to that one nickname being uttered by that one Deku. But he keeps his response simple by drawing an outstretched thumb across his throat in a clear severing motion.
Deku's eyebrows raise. His lips quibble. He takes a step forwards and tilts his head as if to ask, but why, Kacchan? like a brain-dead baby. Halfway-stupid-and-halfway-smart Todoroki turns to Deku in dull-faced curiosity, none the wiser to Katsuki's presence but just shy of finding out through Deku. Peachy.
Katsuki violently points to the far-off distance of the street in the opposite direction of the restaurant and shakes his head. Not here. Not today. Shut the fuck up and leave or I'll kill you earlier than I said I would.
Instead of leaving, Deku points to Todoroki questioningly, and Katsuki is convinced he must have been dropped on his quirkless head during some stretch of their childhood when Katsuki wasn't looking. Todoroki perks up at the attention of Deku's dumbass finger, and then finally thinks to look where Deku is looking. Because of course Todoroki's figured out to do so now instead of committing to the idiot bit and maintaining any kind of consistency. Katsuki can practically hear the dumbfounded oh from those stupid lips when he's spotted.
I hate you, Katsuki thinks with gritted teeth.
Even more incredible is the absolutely gobsmacked look on Endeavor's face — and Katsuki has no doubt in his mind that he's identified the silhouette of his daughter in the chair in front of Katsuki, because Katsuki himself may as well not exist. His huge hands lie powerlessly at his sides and his face is slack. Even the mess of flames around his head calms and stutters in chilled surprise at the sight.
But then they are back before anyone can dwell on it or take a well-timed candid photo of his extinguished and exposed face. Endeavor turns to his two interns and sends them on their way to some other sector, or another block, or anywhere. Katsuki can see Deku and Todoroki argue by craning their heads towards Katsuki once again before Endeavor stomps his foot and shouts, SHOUTO!
This does nothing except inspire Todoroki to dig his fucking heels in and do literally the opposite of what he's been told.
And as much as Katsuki can respect Todoroki's karmic decision to use his father the way a tapeworm does its host and pay him just as much positive attention, it's all a little much for public consumption – particularly since the bystander extras are watching and saying things like, "Woah! It's Endeavor! Is that his son from the Sports Festival?" and "Endeavor works hard even on holidays, huh!" or "He stopped that villain so fast I didn't even see what happened! Incredible!"
"I DID THAT, NOT HIM, YOU COLOGNEFART SWILL!" Katsuki exclaims, because there's no fucking point in keeping up any sort of pretense. Hell Spider wishes it had his precision. He lets off an explosion in his palm just to drive the point home.
Fuyumi turns around to look out the window. Katsuki's heart drops to his shoes.
"GODDAMN IT! WHAD' I JUST TELL YA NOT TO DO?!"
But it's too late. Fuyumi has already seen her father and brother. Shouto doesn't see her — he is already leaving in an obvious huff with a placating Deku at his heels, but Deku himself turns to give one last look at Katsuki – or tries to. Endeavor steps directly into his line of sight and surely scolds him in that gruff, brief, pointed way of his.
Katsuki doesn't know what to make of it. Doesn't know what to make of the broad, sloping back separating him from Deku with the sort of resolution he'd always imagined All Might would embody, eventually, the more he knew about the both of them and how awful Katsuki is – but this time the intention is in the reverse of what he imagined. He doesn't know if he's saddened by it, or angered, or vindicated, or distraught. Either way, the tables have turned. This is Katsuki's secret to keep from Deku under the urging of a questionable adult figure. This is his private life away from the boy who knows — is supposed to know — everything about him.
Beyond the window, Deku reluctantly leaves to follow Todoroki. The undulating planes of windswept hair on the back of his head reflect the multicolor clash of the surrounding Christmas lights in electric pinks and golds and blues. He walks away. Deku is walking away.
It hits Katsuki all at once: of course he would unwittingly go and covet some piece of Endeavor's bullshit legacy much the way Deku inherited All Might's. And he'd barrel headfirst into it himself, without asking for details first, without telling Endeavor, because Katsuki made the same mistake he always has: he thought he could do this on his own. Of course. Of course he's still the second-best-consolation-prize-first-Endeavor to Izuku's untouchable All Might. And of course he wasn't enough of a man to act on his promise to be better to Deku — and better than Deku — by telling him about any of this.
"Shit. I gotta," says Katsuki, rising from his chair. His hands are unsteady. "Gotta go deal with this." He spies the waiter standing shock-jawed with their food from the corner of their eye. "Eat your food."
However, unlike Deku, instead of a quirk made from the wishes of the dead and retired, Katsuki is party to the life and opinions of a living, breathing woman with the power to change her reality without a host as conduit. It's not actually about him.
"Wait," Fuyumi rebutts. Her attention is wholly on her father.
Her hand reaches out and settles over Katsuki's before it leaves the table. It's thoughtless; like absently holding down a hat when the wind threatens to take it away.
Katsuki heels under her hand. Like a frightened animal. Fuyumi didn't ask. She didn't offer like Kirishima or pity him like Deku. She just took it. He's sweating so badly he can smell it. It's cold. He's cold. Fuyumi's pale hand is warm by comparison. She doesn't know what she has done. He doesn't know what she has done. Katsuki can only stand halfway in and halfway out of his chair while Endeavor looks at the two of them, holding hands; looks at his daughter, who is looking back from the outside through the glass. God-knows-what passes between the two of them while Katsuki tries and fails to process anything other than white noise and the rushing roar echoing in his ears.
It hurts. Whatever this is, it hurts.
Fuyumi stands and moves towards her father. Her hand slides from Katsuki's before he can even think to push her away, raise hell, and save face — because in front of them is the one man that he, well, it's arrogant to say Katsuki can to protect Fuyumi from her own father, the number one pro Hero Endeavor, but that's kind of what this is about, isn't it?
His palm pops. The world comes back into focus with a flash of bright heat. The tablecloth beneath his hand catches on fire. He hadn't even meant to catch sparks, let alone give them any fuel.
"SHIT!" He roars. A few of the extras at the neighboring table shriek at the display.
Fuyumi whips her head around and covers her mouth when she sees a flame eating a charred hole in the white linen. Katsuki tips his water glass over it and it extinguishes with a crisp hiss. The two of them stare at the resulting wisps of smoke, and then one another.
"What th' hell're you thinkin'?!" He blurts, because he can't think of anything better to say. "You TRYIN' to cause a scene?!"
Because he is a massive fucking hypocrite.
Fuyumi turns to him with wide eyes; like pools in the center of her face. Then she turns back to the window. Endeavor is gone. Instead, only a couple sidekicks remain to put cuffs on the unconscious guy in the long coat. They finish and make themselves scarce, too.
The crowds inside and outside the restaurant settle. Eventually, the recorded Christmas music playing overhead filters through the festive interior in some charade of calm normalcy. Fuyumi remains standing; keeps watching. She looks out into the decorated, crowded night for a long time. Katsuki swallows. He can't see Fuyumi's face, and it only makes him more on edge.
Also, the fucking extras are staring and whispering at one another behind their hands. He jams his hands into his pockets and scowls.
"WHAT TH' HELL'RE YOU LOOKIN' AT?! HAH?!" he scolds.
"Bakugo-kun," Fuyumi utters. It runs him through like an ice pick over his heart.
Bakusatsuo: Massive fucking screwup. That's him. He wipes his hands on his pants and gathers Fuyumi's coat.
"Fuck this. We're gettin' outta here," he says, foisting it over her shoulders. If he could cover her face without throwing it over her head, he would.
To his surprise, she throws the coat back at him.
"No, thank you," Fuyumi says. It's stern. "Our food is out; I'm hungry." Her smile is tight. "It's such a nice place. It would be a shame to let this go to waste." Her smile grows even tighter. This is the kind of challenge Katsuki knows it's unthinkable to turn down even if he wasn't the single most competitive asshole on the planet. "Or aren't you hungry anymore, Bakugo-kun?"
She takes her seat. Her skirt settles gracefully against the chair and the back of her legs; a rose in winter. She puts her napkin in her lap and bids the waiter — who looks half-lost as to what to do with the situation despite his earlier detachment, the ass — over with another plastered smile.
Katsuki pouts — and crosses his arms, and looks around fruitlessly for something to break, and then covers his shame with the nastiest, most distasteful face he can conjure — before sitting to mirror her. He puts his napkin over the burned hole in the tablecloth and reminds himself not to chew out the waiter when the man has the presence of mind to offer Katsuki a new one.
If Fuyumi wants to finish this dinner, they'll finish this dinner, goddamn it. Katsuki's not about to let some pretentious European food and gossiping Christmas couples best him.
The two of them eat in silence. Like two characters trapped onstage until the scene's over for the amusement of a live audience. Someone is probably filming them.
It's a wonder they haven't been kicked out. No, rescind that. It's not. He knows why they haven't been kicked out: they've been recognized. Either Fuyumi has been recognized as Endeavor's daughter, he has been recognized as Endeavor's intern, or it's in some more nebulous sense where they've simply been tied together as with Endeavor. Damn him.
Katsuki finishes his sausage. It's not near hot enough to burn his insides in cosmic punishment. Fuyumi finishes her Rouladen practically simultaneously and the waiter brings the desserts out in short order. And to think: Katsuki thought he could do something nice for her by ordering extra dessert. Fucking sweets. Fucking Christmas.
Katsuki gives Fuyumi all of the ice cream but splits the stollen and cheesecake between the two of them without a word. He wishes he could fling it all into the center of the sun.
He risks a glance at Fuyumi. She's a statue made of ice perched above her bowl but for the near-mechanically even rhythm bringing her spoon to her mouth. He can't see her eyes beneath her illuminated glasses — damn those things — but he knows what the atmosphere feels like when someone is crying, and he doubly knows what it feels like when it's all his fault.
Etiquette be damned. He shoves the remainder of his cheesecake into his mouth in one bite. He eats the stollen in three, and then reaches for her portion. She doesn't stop him. He doesn't push her to try it.
When she finishes her ice cream, Katsuki gets to his feet, throws on his coat while she puts on hers, and makes a beeline to the counter to pay.
The host bows his head and leans in. "Endeavor has settled it," he says.
Katsuki sees red even brighter than what he saw when he stormed into this place. Endeavor thinks he's the big man, does he? Thinks he can condescend like this, huh?! He thrusts his wallet back into his pocket and wills himself to breathe in an even cadence.
Humiliating. This is humiliating. If he thought owing Momo a favor was bad, this is worse. Katsuki is not Endeavor's guest and he's definitely not his son. He's not even his son's friend. Today, he's not even his intern on staff. He's nothing. Endeavor has no right to stick his nose in Katsuki's business or pay his bill. They have nothing to do with one another in this context.
That flaming fuck. That complete fiery fucker.
Fuyumi joins him at the door. They walk out together — her with her head held disingenuously high and him with his face half-obscured except when some idiot pedestrian cuts in front of either one of them and receives the ire of his nastiest snarl. He is a feral dog and the world's shittiest date, but he is loyal and he is going to get Fuyumi home if he has to cross every person in the damn city to do it.
The artificial city lights obscure and illuminate them in alternating colors and shadows like they're walking through a rainbow. Fuyumi doesn't say anything as they cut through them, and Katsuki doesn't press. He only grinds his teeth and wipes his hands and curses under his breath so only his scarf can hear him. It's snowing.
They make it to the empty stretch of road between suburbia and her estate, and Fuyumi throws back her head and laughs.
He whirls on her with eyes and outstretched hands ablaze. "WHAT?! WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY?!"
Fuyumi flinches — and Katsuki is sensitive to it until he realizes it's because of the noise rather than fear, and then more sensitive to it because he thinks she's laughing at him — but only picks up her glasses and wipes her eyes. And her nose. Her laughter runs parallel with her sobs.
"I can't believe," she gasps, "you set the table on fire." Her chest tightens as she gasps for air. Her lips quirk up before flattening back into a grimace.
She's trying to make him feel better. Instead she succeeds in making Katsuki more upset. His temples throb like there's a swarm of angry bees in his veins.
"YOUR DUMB ASS HELD MY—!"
Katsuki turns away before he says the rest. It's stupid. It's so stupid that something so small gives him so much trouble. He exhales a cloud of white frustration over his scarf.
They keep walking and don't look at one another. They can't. The spare streetlights illuminate their way one gold puddle at a time. They drift together and apart like two beaten leaves floating down a creek and into an icy, quiet lake.
Finally, Fuyumi tries to break the silence. "You've gone to a lot of trouble, Bakugo-kun,"she whispers. "You've done a lot for me today."
"Don't you dare fuckin' thank me when it didn't amount to shit!" He stomps down the air at the last word, because God, he is going to explode if he doesn't let it out somehow.
Fuyumi closes her eyes. It's placid and for his benefit. He hates that she does it. He hates that she's still doing things for him, even now, in this situation, when all he's managed to do is hurt her.
"...So you gonna tell me off, or what?" Because he can't say he's sorry. Really. He can't. If he does that, all that will come out of him is his own opinion of himself. Nobody deserves to have to listen to that.
Fuyumi shakes her head. It's slow. She keeps his pace down the street until they make it to the gate of her estate. The name Todoroki stares down at them from its bronze casing. The light snow piles in the gate's corners and crevasses like dust settling in a long-closed room where people and things only go to be forgotten and ignored. It's where Fuyumi is going until she and her brothers are packed up and sent somewhere else; somewhere not as loaded with baggage, but somewhere just as lonely.
Katsuki has no idea what to say or do in parting.
Fuyumi does. "Bakugo-kun," she says. "You've done so much for me. But," she tilts her head, though not particularly at him, "will you humor me with one more thing?"
He grunts. It's a lot less transparent and desperate than if he were to say, yeah, anything, so go ahead and name it so we can get this over with.
At first Fuyumi doesn't move or do anything at all, and Katsuki isn't sure if he heard his assent or not. Then, all at once, she turns to him and shoves him in the chest as hard as she can. He takes a step back in surprise and just about gives it back to her twice as bad until it hits him: this is the thing she wanted.
Fuyumi shoves him again. And again. She punches him in the chest with the sides of her fists and her forearms, and though it hurts, it doesn't really hurt that much — but at the same time hurts like a bitch only because Katsuki has never been good at absorbing grief without deluding himself that it either isn't his business or that there's something he can do about it. It's his hubris.
Fuyumi bites her lip and hits him again with the side of her fist. It's way too gentle for Katsuki's liking. He shoves her back.
"That all you got?!" he taunts. He grabs her hand when she tries to swat at him and makes her work to pull it away. "You think that's worth anything?! THAT'S IT?"
She swings back harder. Harder. And then she does it again. Her thumb is inside her fist, but so long as she doesn't break it Katsuki supposes now isn't the time to mention it.
"THINK YOU'RE TOUGH?! THINK YOU'RE HOT SHIT?!" he goads. "THOUGHT YOU WERE TRYIN' TO HIT ME, NOT FIX MY SHIRT!"
He pushes her away by her flushed forehead. Fuyumi's mouth screws into an ugly frown and she rushes forwards with a messy, strangled scream while her fists follow to pummel Katsuki's chest; his arm; his ribs. In her fury, the silver-white strands of her hair flare over her head and tangle into unkempt knots. He shoves her again.
"FUCK YOU! YOU WANT A PIECE A' ME, YOU GOTTA EARN IT!"
Fuyumi comes at him again, pushed by a second wind and renewed outrage. She socks Katsuki in the stomach, and then the side. He grits his teeth and takes it.
"THAT IT? THAT ALL YOU GOT?!"
Her next wild flurry comes with a series of shrieks and grunts until, finally, she tires herself out and leans into him like a building giving way in the aftermath of a storm.
They stand together. Katsuki waits, stupefied and furious, as Fuyumi pants into his chest over wet, choked sobs. He neither pushes her away nor pulls her in. He just lurks — emanating pale clouds of smoke and sweat like a mountain enrobed in a raincloud sky with her autumn-and-ice hair at his chest.
She smells like lavender and mint.
Around them, the snow falls with an insensitive gentleness and tranquility like all of this is just as well; just another earthbound feature to cover over in quiet whiteness before the morning brings it to light. Katsuki can see it on his eyelashes in the seconds before it melts away from the heat of his head.
Fuyumi steps away. She bows.
He… chokes.
"Thank you, Bakugo-kun," she breathes, and then slips through the gate and past her front door. It closes behind her with a dull wooden roll and a click as she resets the lock.
Only Katsuki's wide, shocked eyes pursue. His mind is a mess of chaotic static and hazy white fog. Whatever confusing tantrum she'd just unleashed on him transferred into his bones; his muscles; his heart. He latches onto the first cohesive thoughts that surface from the gulag and holds them tightly.
Primarily: I don't accept this.
He takes a step back on shaking legs.
I won't accept this.
His hands explode. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he's screaming, and cursing, and then still screaming. This isn't a failure of an exam, or an assignment, or some idiotic practice exercise. This is a failure to help someone who needs it. This is a complete failure at the very thing to which he swore to obtain absolute victory.
I can't accept this!
Endeavor knows. Deku knows. Deku knows that Katsuki has kept a secret from him, and for what? He was supposed to help Fuyumi, not hurt her. He's, what, furious? He's furious? There's something wet and hot on his cheeks. His brain and body feel numb.
How do I fix this?!
He's furious!
I have to fix this!
He throws his hands through his hair in useless frustration. Instead, all he succeeds in doing is spreading sweat through the strands and making himself that much more volatile. Whatever still remains on his palms after, he eliminates in a single, massive explosion before throwing the resulting smoke like a baseball. It dissolves in the air to mix with the unaffected snow, because despite how much he hates it, there's no stopping the goddamn snow.
He turns his body around in a violent, jerking twist before he lets even more smoke and light loose in the direction of the house, and he would have kept up his useless destruction if not for the flabbergasted Natsuo Todoroki watching him from the road.
A printed bakery bag hangs from his gloved hands. There's a Christmas cake inside. Katsuki just knows it.
I forgot to tell Fuyumi I left a fucking Christmas cake in her fridge!
They stare at each other like two people both caught in the middle of doing something they shouldn't before Natsuo opens his fat mouth.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
The snow settles in his white hair like it belongs there. He stands perfectly, stalwartly, and resignedly acclimated to the crushing, defeatist atmosphere of his home while Katsuki hunches over in freshly crumpled inadequacy. Katsuki makes the snap-quick decision that the two of them are rivals for life, just as Katsuki is with every other male Todoroki in this damn city.
Natsuo even has the balls to look incensed and confused rather than utterly destroyed the way Katsuki does, damn him. "And what are you doing?"
Whatever breakdown gripped Katsuki a moment ago fell under the lock-shut gate of a new, grimacing scowl. This isn't the time or the place. Not in front of Fuyumi's chucklefuck brother.
"Leaving," growls Katsuki, but it's more threatening than a smartass quip should ever be. He storms away from the gate and in the direction Natsuo is standing. Unfortunately, the station is that way, so he can't avoid him.
Katsuki stops beside him. Natsuo gapes like he can smell the sweat coating Katsuki's hair and palms. Hell, he probably can.
"Leave her alone for a little while," Katsuki mutters.
"What? Why?"
Katsuki doesn't grace him with elaboration. He's done enough damage for one night. Instead, he slinks off into the night like a ship disappearing into the horizon over a dark sea, loaded with his thoughts and hungry to trade them for something new, and better, and worthy of presenting upon his return to port.
—
Author's Note: Welp! Sorry about the delay for this part, all three of you reading. I appreciate everyone who has taken a look very much, and everyone who has left their thoughts even more.
This site isn't as popular or as receptive in terms of fan interaction for my recent stuff. I'm not sure if that's because of the demographic in relation to the content I produce, or what, but I'm considering not posting here anymore and sticking to Ao3. Basically, if you don't want to follow me there, say something! While the content I write is primarily for me, I also do this to chat with other fans (even ones that hate my work, if I'm being honest.)
Regardless, thank you again to those that read and those that review!