It was a Thursday, a Thursday afternoon at that, a day that Eijiro Kirishima could only consider to be the worst out of the week. Hump-day had come and gone, Friday and the weekend were far into the future, and all hope of this week being swell had vanished. Even with the help of his favorite hairband, the humidity had caused his flashy red hair to lie flat, leaving him slightly miserable, unusual for his normally bubbly persona.

The flower shop also hated Thursdays. Most customers came in on the weekend, or even Monday, so business was slow, and Kirishima found himself with nothing to do except wipe down the counters for the fifth time that hour. He'd had one customer all day, to the point he told his one incredibly shy employee to go ahead and go home for the day.

Kirishima sighed. He considered closing early and simply heading home since he wasn't making any money, but the flower shop was his only source of income, and it didn't cost him anything to stay open. His father had owned the store, a gift for his mother years ago, but it had been given to Kirishima in a miserable state of decline and Kirishima kept it to remind himself of everything he'd accomplished in bringing it back from the brink. At least, that's what he told himself. Besides, closing early wouldn't be very manly.

College, Kirishima groaned internally, letting himself settle on the counter and hide in the crook of his arms. He'd still have to maintain his position at the store, as well as his classes, and his... Nightly activities. But college was his dream. This particular college, UA, was the most prestigious in all of Japan, super manly, and very exclusive. Just attending opened up all sorts of doorways, and could make you a prime candidate for nearly any job in the country. Graduating with honors would allow enough fame and fortune to do anything.

Almost all the graduates joined high-tier business corporations near the school. Others, like Hizashi Yamada, became television celebrities, radio hosts, or models-though Kirishima wondered why you had to go to an expensive college to do that. As far as he could tell, all the students had one thing in common: every single one of them had a quirk.

A quirk was a special ability, a superpower of sorts, and about ten percent of the population had one. Actually, people speculated that that number was much higher, since most people didn't register or boast their quirks, and most of the ones that did wore masks.

And no one ever agreed how expensive the school was. They gave out scholarships all the time, seemingly at random, and an application wouldn't even be considered without a recommendation from a "qualified former student." Kirishima had no idea what that meant. But, he could settle for the community college on the other side of town.

A news report running on the television caught his attention with its bright explosions, and he turned up the volume, knowing instantly what this would be about. A fight had broken out hours ago downtown, and three heroes had appeared on the scene shortly after.

Heroes were an everyday part of life in the world, just as much as quirks, and though the police had no idea the identities behind the masks, they'd learned to work alongside them. The police weren't allowed to use their quirks against "villains," but the anonymous heroes could, and didn't hesitate, despite the danger they put themselves in by doing so. It was why Kirishima liked them so much. He thought they were very manly, even the women.

Dynamight had been the first one on the scene, making an explosive entrance right into the villain's stomach with a strong right hook and a crazed grin. Granted, the villain towered over the panicked pedestrians around him at easily twenty-six feet tall, but that made his stomach a wide target and he still lost his lunch all over poor Grape Juice.

Personally, Kirishima didn't care for Grape Juice too much-he could stand to have a bit more chivalry. Shoto had been helpful, though, freezing the villain still while Dynamight pounded him with his fists and explosions until he deactivated his quirk and shrank back to a much more manageable size.

When the fight was over, Shoto seemed to say something to Dynamight that ticked him off, and the cameras promptly shut off. The media tried to paint heroes in as good a light as possible, and Dynamight had an explosive temperamental personality that matched his quirk. He had a tendency to scream extremely creative profanities at reporters and fellow heroes.

Kirishima sighed, flicking off the TV and trying to ignore his pounding heart. He felt silly, crushing on a super celebrity he'd never met, not technically, but damn that manly man looked good in combat leather and grenades.

It's just an innocent crush, he had to remind himself. Nothing serious.

The clanging of the bell near the door startled him out of his thoughts as the glass pull door flew open, almost pulled off its hinges by the young blonde man that held its handle. Kirishima found himself biting down hard on his tongue to keep from blushing any harder.

Growling at the door, a well-built ash-blonde man just under six-foot (shorter than Kirishima, but still pretty tall) stomped towards the counter. Thick leather boots, ripped tank top, chains hanging from camo fatigues, face covered in piercings, this man just oozed bad-boy vibes, and Kirishima would be lying if he said that was anything less than his type.

Kirishima soured, wondering where that thought came from. I don't have a 'type.'

'His type' slammed a five thousand yen note down on the counter, striking red eyes boring into Kirishima's. "Tell me how to passive-aggressively say 'fuck you' in flower," he demanded loudly.

Kirishima blinked. What the hell kinda question was that? Instead of answering, Kirishima turned around towards his display of carefully sorted, color-coded arrangement flowers on his tiny chilled storage wall and grabbed a red vase from under the table. This would be a customized arrangement, then, something he specialized in.

"To start," he began, silently grateful for the hours he thought he'd wasted on the internet, reading outdated historical botany textbooks and literary archetype symbolism that would finally pay off, "orange lilies are a great way to express how much you hate someone. Foxglove mocks the beauty of the flowers by reminding that they're insincere, these geraniums are for expressing stupidity, and meadowsweet is for their uselessness." He worked while he talked, pulling stems from their bundles and assorting them in the vase. "Finally, to tell someone how truly disappointed you are in them, yellow carnations." Kirishima turned around, presenting his finished bundle of color to the customer. "Of course, the meanings will go over most people's heads, but it might bring you some satisfaction to know them anyway."

The blonde stood still, an unnoticeable blush dusting his cheeks, struck by Kirishima's pure enthusiasm in his work. He cleared his throat. "That sounds exactly like what I'm looking for," he managed, his voice unused to speaking calmly.

Kirishima grinned, his stunningly white shark-like teeth glinting in the soft afternoon light. He pulled the flowers out of the vase and swiftly tied them with a smooth practiced movement. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Yeah..." The blonde hesitated, his faint, dusted blush becoming a bit more noticeable. "Could you also find me something that says 'thank you?'" His tone was softer and polite, so unlike his aggression when he'd barged in.

Kirishima wasted no time turning back around to glance at his arrangements. 'Thank you' was not an uncommon request, but every customer was different. They were usually very pink, but this one didn't strike him as the pink type.

"Let's go with peach," he decided, reaching into the roses, "and a little yellow. Soft colored roses represent gratitude, as do bellflowers," he added, reaching for the other plant. "Sweet peas and hydrangeas are a must, of course. And something a little bolder to top it off..." Kirishima hesitated, his hand hovering over the gerbera daisies. No, too romantic, too intimate, but the bouquet needed just a little red and darkness to bring it together. Kiri shrugged, threading a few through the other flowers. "Voila," he finished.

His customer may have smiled just a bit. "That looks perfect," he said softly, just to himself. "How much do I owe?" He added, louder, as Kirishima tied his flowers.

Kirishima thought, tempted to give a discount for the fun, but some of the flowers were rather pricey, and they were all fresh. "How's your budget?" He inquired.

The blonde rolled his red eyes. "Just gimme a price. I can afford whatever you can throw at me."

"Approximately fourteen thousand yen," the redhead admitted.

"Done," he responded to the challenge, slapping the rest of his total onto the counter. He grabbed the 'fuck you' bouquet and turned to march out of the store.

"Wait!" Kirishima called after him, trying not to laugh. "You forgot your-"

"Keep 'em," the blonde smirked, leaning cockily against the doorway, the light from outside casting a rather attractive silhouette around him. "They were for you." He stayed just long enough to watch a vibrant blush floor itself onto Kirishima's face before he turned and walked out the door.

Kirishima stood there, frozen, for a moment longer, looking at the door. He wished he'd managed to grab the hottie's name. That had been flirting, and while Kirishima didn't often pick up on subtle tells, that had hammered into his heart and made him weak in the knees for a second. Looking at the cash on the counter, the redhead could tell that the man had overpaid. A lot.

He blinked, coming back into reality, and the blush returned at full force with a strangled noise akin to a squeal. He snatched them almost haphazardly off the counter, along with the red vase he'd arranged both bouquets in, and darted upstairs, to his apartment above the shop. He didn't need the after-purchase care that most flowers did-they hadn't been out of the water for long.

The apartment was rather tiny for a man of Kirishima's size, an open layout studio loft, but it was all Kiri needed. The door opened into his living room, occupied by only a couch, a coffee table, and a glitchy television he rarely used anyway. It opened to a kitchenette and dining space in the far right corner, and the left wall offered him his bedroom, in a raised nook that was probably supposed to be an actual other room that the builders had forgotten to make a doorway for.

His bedroom held the window for the fire escape, an open-wall closet shuttered by wooden blinds, and the doorway to the other bathroom, but that was fine. He never had guests.

The carpets didn't match the drapes, the couch was wearing though, and he rarely ever used anything in the kitchen other than the microwave, but it didn't matter. He loved it here all the same. This was home.

Kirishima set the vase on the windowsill in his bedroom, a place of great honor among flowers, and flopped onto his bed with its gaudy gray camo-print duvet. He needed to call his best friend and confide in her about the many, many things he was feeling on this wonderful Thursday afternoon.

But eventually, he remembered that he'd left the money just laying there on the counter downstairs and that the store was still wide open, so he ran back down the stairs and locked up his wares before dialing the famed Mina Ashido.