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Izuku, at age four, learned that not all men are created equal — but at age ten, he'd learned how to make his own way in life.
It started with a small, local corner shop. The place was the primary target in a villain attack, and it showed; the windows had been blown out, with glass scattered over the floor and embedded in the walls. The serving counter had been spattered with varying shades of grimy brown mud, and the wood was cracked and splintered.
Izuku passed it every day on his way home, and he couldn't stand the sight.
What had once been shiny, broad, and brand new had swiftly been destroyed, and for what? A villain's agenda? A martyr of their own making?
Izuku just couldn't help it if he stepped in one day and offered the owner, a young woman of her own right with strong eyes and drooping shoulders, his hand and a wobbly smile. He couldn't help it if he found himself sitting by the counter every day, sweeping up the remaining shards or restocking the shelves. He felt like he was meant to be there, helping another person in the quietest of ways.
Izuku's mother had always said that kindness was his first nature.
He was quirkless, sure, but he wasn't widely disliked anymore. Ms. Yanami, the owner of the coffee shop and a top hero's sidekick (boy, had he practically jumped for joy when he found out), had swiftly taken him under her wing and made sure no one else would pick on him — and even though the kids at school weren't all that much nicer, the adults in his neighborhood sure were.
At fourteen, he got his first job working behind that familiar counter. UA wasn't out of his sights, but with his community around him, suddenly it just hadn't seemed so important; why would he go to a hero school when Ms. Yanami had already ensured that he had his provisional license, the best teachers in the district, and the potential to help others where he stood? Besides, UA wouldn't accept quirkless individuals into the hero course.
Izuku graduated online high school and college early, with honors and plenty of credits in both, and then he went on to become manager of the small coffee shop. While he wasn't making bank, he wasn't poor, either, and he most certainly didn't want for anything — except for maybe the latest All Might merch.
The corner shop, quiet as may have been, most certainly wasn't without its perks, either. He saw his Auntie Mitsuki often, and his Uncle Masaru too; Kacchan had never stopped by, but that wasn't a shock to him, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to see him anyways.
Which is why when Kacchan came in, on a cool autumn day, with a red scarf slung over his shoulder and a tall boy by his side, Izuku froze. He wasn't really sure if he should run, take his order, or beg Ms. Yanami to take his place at the coffee counter while he took an impromptu bathroom break.
He ended up doing neither of those, and instead, just tugged his cap further down onto his head and stayed silent. The pair of heroes wandered down the aisles of pre-packaged goods and directly towards him.
Izuku was still mentally preparing himself by the time they finally stopped in front of the counter, the blond man dropping his card on the counter. "Two Americanos, one iced, one hot," he drawls, his voice rich and bitter like the cold, biting wind. "Add a 50% tip for yourself on top of that if you can manage to find some pepper flakes for mine."
The barista swallows back the lump in his throat and finally speaks up, nimble fingers tapping the order into the kiosk. "That'll be $10.58, and five minutes."
Kacchan nods and swipes his card back up with a glance to Izuku, who finds himself grateful that the blazing red eyes don't study him for more than a second out of sheer fear of recognition — but the blond doesn't seem to see him at all.
Which, in Katsuki's defense, he supposes that he has changed lots; where his hair was greener as a child, it had darkened into a near-black with age, and his chronic habit of late-night reading had resulted in a strong glasses prescription, rendering his face virtually unrecognizable behind the combination of bulbous square lenses and the shadow overcast from his cap.
His eyebags probably don't help either. Nor does the hastily-applied eyeliner.
It's only when Katsuki and his friend sit down in a corner booth that Izuku finally takes a sharp inhale, one hand clutching his chest and the other the counter. He swears that his heart had nearly stopped out of fear of being recognized, but thankfully, it's still beating.
Making the coffee is background noise as Izuku's thoughts thunder in his skull. Did Kacchan really not know who he was, or did he just not care? Was he really that unrecognizable?
He stops himself from stepping out into the center area by a mere breadth, vaguely — just barely — remembering to sprinkle a generous helping of chili pepper flakes onto the iced coffee, alongside a stick of cinnamon and, as Izuku scrunches his nose, a dash of mustard.
He places it onto the table and then swiftly scrambles away, back towards the safety of the counter, where Izuku very determinedly does not look back at the pair. He thinks he knows what he'll see — disgust, concern, fear — but when he finally gives into the temptation, he sees none of it.
Katsuki, sat in the side of the booth facing the counter, is smothering a grin with his mug, the stick of cinnamon brushing against his cheek and leaving a shimmery smear. He can't see what the blond's friend is doing, but he imagines it's something similar.
Even after almost a decade, Izuku still knew how the other liked his coffee. Even after almost a decade, Izuku had not forgotten his dumb little puppy crush.
Katsuki doesn't stop coming in. Sometimes it's with his parents, who, much to Izuku's chagrin, won't stop giving the barista knowing looks and smug grins — or, worse, pitying pats on the shoulder. Sometimes he comes in with friends, like the red-haired man from his first visit, and sometimes he comes without.
It's always when he comes alone that it's the most awkward, because that's when Izuku has nowhere to look at but the man in front of him, and when Izuku started looking, he never found himself able to stop.
Honestly, pure luck had kept the blond from noticing that every time he came in, Izuku already had his order prepared and stickied with a little note. Sometimes he wrote basic things, just a small "have a nice day!" or a "nice outfit!" Other days, though, when he was feeling particularly brave, he would comment on the hero's recent fights he'd seen on the news.
Izuku very rarely felt brave in front of the other man, but sometimes, he managed to muster up the courage to speak to him, his voice low and closer to a mumble than actual speech. It was usually just a hello.
Despite that, though, Katsuki did seem to enjoy his company — after getting his drink, the blond would continue to linger by the counter, asking quiet questions or pointing out new items on the menu that he found interesting or wanted to know the ingredients of.
Izuku is so fucked.
He hopes the blond never remembers him, even if it hurts him to be forgotten. He doesn't know if their relationship, as it is currently, would ever survive if the disaster that was their old dynamic resurfaced.
So Izuku takes a deep breath, pushes the brim of his cap down over his eyes, and smiles.
"The regular, sir?"