Chapter Text
Children, Katsuki decides, are a goddamn mistake.
His eye twitches, temples pounding at the ear-piercing scream of a wail the brat lets out a couple of meters away from his shitty little stand. Fucking hell, the little shit has some lungs on him. His mother’s beside herself trying to calm him down, which, good fucking riddance. She better feel guilty. Her brat’s gonna give Katsuki a goddamn migraine and he’s not even an hour into his shift, here.
He swirls his brush into the pad of paint. Looks at the kid kicking her sandaled feet in his chair. “Sit still,” he says, voice gruff. She just blinks at him and doesn’t so much as slow down. Katsuki sets his jaw and decides it doesn’t matter—if she moves too much and it looks like shit, that’s her and her parents’ problem. He sure as shit isn’t giving out any refunds.
“I wanna look like a fairy,” she tells him again. Katsuki resists rolling his eyes, if only just, and starts slathering paint on her tiny face.
The place is busy as shit today—par for the course on a Saturday. Which. He loathes with every fiber of his being. Honestly, if Katsuki had a choice, he’d be doing literally anything else. But he’s got classes to pay for, so here he is, trapped in his shitty little corner painting snot covered faces of screaming children in a gallery already echoing with shrieks and laughter.
“—are super duper cool! What’s your favorite shark?”
“Tiger sharks!”
“Yeah? Tiger sharks are awesome! Mine’re the pajama catsharks—they look like they’re wearing pajamas! Didja know they can sleep upside down?”
Katsuki does roll his eyes at Deku’s annoying chatter. The dumbass nerd talks a mile a minute while he paints the shittiest shark Katsuki’s ever had the displeasure of looking at onto this poor bastard kid’s face across the cart from him. Busy days like this require two of them, another fact Katsuki loathes. He hates sharing his paints and brushes. Deku, at least, knows to not steal the pallet he’s working with and makes his own fucking colors, but some of their asshole coworkers don’t give him the same courtesy.
He plops his current brush into the cup of filthy, plum colored paint water, and grabs a fresh paintbrush. The design he’s going for is abstract as shit, because the kid wants to be a fairy. So. He goes for pinks and purples and whites, decorates her cheeks with swirls and stars and hearts, and tops off the look with some glitter because kids are annoying as fuck for glitter. Her parents coo over the look, snap some pictures, and help her off the chair.
“Okay, sweetie, let’s go see the mermaids. You wanna see the mermaids, right?”
“Yeah! Mermaids!” The kid darts across the gallery towards the large touch pool, parent in tow.
The touch pool dominates the space and pulls most of the crowd. There’s some educator on microphone droning out instructions and facts about the animals in the tank—mostly stingrays, here. It’s a large pool, with a deep end where the fish can get away from people, and a large swath of space where people can lean up against the side and reach in to pet them or whatever. Katsuki’s never bothered to participate. He has little interest in touching fish, thanks.
‘Course, right now, they also have the mermaids.
Katsuki eyes the one sitting with his elbows on the ledge, face split in a wide grin that’s too damn pretty for his own good. There’s a kid down below gazing up at the guy mermaid in utter wonder, which, seems to please the mermaid because his too pretty grin brightens, and he leans over the edge, says something to the kid. Katsuki’s stare lingers on thick, glistening, muscular arms for seconds too long, throat strangely tight and stomach swooping. A burning, sunset stare sweeps across him, and Katsuki loses himself in it for seconds too long before a rude as shit harrumph tears his focus back to his shitty job, and he fights to keep from snarling at the bitchass woman who gets way too fucking close to his face.
“My son wants his face painted. How much for a stingray?”
Gods above, he wants to shove his face into the tank and scream. Can he do that? He steels himself, schools his expression into something passive.
“Full face paintings are three thousand yen, half a face is twenty-two hundred yen, a character or animal is fifteen hundred.”
The woman makes a mean looking face, harrumphing again. She looks down at her kid, some short little squirt with a fugly bowl cut, and crosses her arms. “This is too expensive. Are you sure you want it? Because if I pay for this and you cry wanting it off ten minutes later, I’m never buying you anything again.”
Fugly bowl cut kid looks up at his mom with round, wet eyes, lip wobbling in a pout. His bitch of a mom huffs and goes to rifle around her obnoxiously oversized purse. “Fine. But don’t cry at me that you want it off!”
Katsuki tips his gaze to the ceiling, where these large, abstract sort of decorations shaped vaguely like stingrays dangle from thin wires. They’re supposed to be artistic, Katsuki thinks. Currently, they’re just covered in dust. Likely because they’re too damn high for anyone with a duster to fucking reach them, so they’re left dangling there over the touch pool, forgotten.
Maybe if he survives this shitty shift, he can forget, too.
~*~
Lunch is not at all a reprieve from the fucking insanity of downstairs.
Katsuki’s wedged at the lunch table with some prick on the left way too fucking close—the downside of how this godforsaken room is set up—and Deku slouched in front of him, one hand clutching at his curls and the other tugging on his bottom lip as he reads the textbook spread open on the table in front of him. He’s bent with his face so close to the pages, it’s a goddamn miracle the fucker can even read it, muttering enough nonsense Katsuki thinks he might go fucking insane. He jabs his chopsticks at his tonkatsu, face twisting into a scowl, and kicks Deku’s stupid shin beneath the table.
The bastard yelps, jolting upright with wide eyes. “Kacchan!”
“Stop muttering and eat your damn food, ya’ dumb fuck,” he spits. “I’m not gonna listen to your stupid face whine about being hungry again because you spent the whole damn thirty reading instead of eating.”
Deku huffs, freckled cheeks puffing, and scratches at his head. “Sorry—I have an exam this week, and I won’t have time to study tonight. Ochako-san and I are going to see that new All Might movie coming out tonight.”
There’s this disgusting lurch inside his chest Katsuki clocks as jealousy, which, makes him almost wanna lean over and puke because ew, what the fuck. Him? Jealous? Of fucking Cheeks? Disgusting, how fucking dare his body try and betray him like that, especially over Deku, of all people. He shoves the feeling away in favor of anger, and jabs his chopsticks in the air at Deku’s stupid face. “The fuck do you mean, you and Cheeks are going? We’re supposed to go on Friday!”
They’d talked about going this past Thursday when it premiered, a longstanding tradition of theirs, but with their respective class schedules, it wasn’t feasible. Friday, though, very much is—neither of them have a shift, and neither of them have any classes on Saturday, which means there’s still plenty of time to get any assignments done over the weekend. Or. Well. Okay, so Katsuki has a shift on Saturday, but that’s besides the fucking point.
Besides. He’s on top of all his projects and assignments. Obviously.
Deku, at least, has the decency to look abashed, rubbing at the back of his neck and ducking his head. “S—sorry, Kacchan, I know, but, well, Ochako-san said she really wanted to see it too, and I—I mean, you know I’m still gonna wanna see it again, so I—I thought it would be okay to go with her too, y’know? And tonight’s the only night we’re gonna be able to see each other for a little bit because she’s gotta go home next week for her mom’s birthday, a—and—”
He kicks Deku’s shin again, scoffing. “Jesus fuck, breathe, idiot. You don’t have to keep yammering how much you’re up your stupid girlfriend’s ass—I get it, it’s whatever.” Katsuki jams another piece of tonkatsu in his mouth, chewing loudly because fuck niceties—if the asshole next to him is allowed to elbow him every five seconds, he can chew however he damn well pleases. “Just don’t bail on Friday, or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Deku’s face goes cherry red, and he stammers, hands flailing hard enough he jostles the name badge hanging from his wrinkled polo. “Wh—Kacchan, you can’t just—you can’t just say stuff like that—!”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Am I fucking wrong?” He’s not fucking wrong, and they both know it, evidenced by the way Deku blushes even harder, damn near choking on his own spit. Katsuki grins, victorious, and leans back in his chair, gaze bouncing across the many posters and bulletin boards plastered across the break room walls.
Most of the shit on the bulletin boards are for the aquarium’s regular employees more than them—detailing shit like benefits and facility updates or whatever. And, like, sure, it’s useful information, Katsuki supposes. But he’s not exactly eligible for the health insurance, given that his employer is a contracted vendor and not the actual aquarium. They’re allowed to partake in a lot of the same perks regular employees get as far as like, luncheons run by HR or whatever, but he and Deku and everyone else who works for the two shitty little art stands aren’t real aquarium employees.
Even their name badges show the distinction—instead of the aquarium logo like all the other fucks in this room, he and Deku have their parent company name printed in its place: Torino Face Paints and Caricatures.
“Man, I’m starving!”
Katsuki’s head turns at the loud voice that booms over the chatter, and he catches sight of an all-too-familiar face—the guy mermaid beelines for one of the large fridges along the back of the break room, his obnoxiously bright, fire-truck red hair dripping onto the thick, hooded jacket all of them usually wear when between shifts in the water. Another mermaid giggles into her hand right behind him, her face crusted in so much pink glitter and rhinestones, Katsuki wonders how the fuck she can actually see.
“Yeah, I know,” she chirps, “I could hear your stomach grumbling the whole way up!”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Shitty Hair—because yes, his hair is shitty and not at all pretty, shut up—quips back. “It’s my own fault for sleeping through all my alarms and not eating breakfast, I know, thanks, Mina.”
Glitter Bitch throws her head back and laughs, her own pink curls bouncing with the motion. They’re dry—a telltale sign she’s been one of the meet-and-greet mermaids of the day. “Sorry, sorry, I just don’t get how you can sleep through twelve alarms! C’mon, Kiri, that’s insane!” She latches onto his broad shoulder and reaches around him to pull out a pink, cutesy bento box, before whipping around and plopping into the chair directly next to Deku. Her bento clatters onto the table, and she shoves the massive sleeves of her jacket up to her elbows.
Shitty Hair throws a scoff her way before turning his attention back to the fridge. And, Katsuki doesn’t stare at his ass. Nope. He can’t. Not that he’s even trying to, fuck off. Besides, there’s nothing to stare at—the coat’s the fugliest, most misshapen thing he’s ever had the displeasure of looking at. He does catch sight of bare, hairy calves before jerking his gaze into the depths of his own bento, face heating for no discernable reason.
Today’s lunch is katsudon, rice, and a small spring salad mix. Katsuki usually meal preps, because like hell is he gonna eat a bunch of garbage when he can cook quality food his damn self. So his fridge is filled with several identical, organized containers that he packs into a bento box the morning of. He’s halfway through chewing a bite of salad when the chair to his right scrapes the floor, and a fucking paper bag hits the table next to him.
“Hey, man,” Shitty Hair chirps, slumping down into the chair with that damned, too-bright grin stamped onto his lips. “How’s it going, today?”
Belatedly, Katsuki notices the glitter glittering around Shitty Hair’s eyes, and he swallows sharply, damn near choking on salad of all fucking things. He coughs into his elbow, eyes watering, and skewers the asshole with a glower. “Fucking fantastic,” he wheezes. Across from him, Deku makes a weird noise. Katsuki elects to ignore it in favor of chugging water.
“Yeah? Sure is busy here, today, huh?” The paper bag crinkles, and Shitty Hair pulls out a pathetic looking, half smooshed sandwich Katsuki can’t help but wrinkle his nose at. Shitty Hair takes a giant bite, lips smacking as he chews, and hums. “I almost thought the crowds weren’t gonna end!” The fuckhead’s mouth is full as he talks, so the words come out muffled and slurred, and Katsuki has the displeasure of noticing some jam stuck to the corner of Shitty Hair’s mouth. He pries his gaze away and jabs at another chunk of katsudon instead, huffing.
“No shit. There’s too many fucking people in here.”
It’s the understatement of the century. This is absolutely one of the busiest days they’ve seen this year—if Katsuki were to guess, he’d say it’s a six thousand guest day, minimum. Which is fucking crazy. Then again, it tends to be insane when it’s mermaid time, so he probably shouldn’t be surprised.
‘Course, apparently Shitty Hair decides he’s funny, because he throws back his head and laughs, loud and boisterous, and the sound of it rings in Katsuki’s ears. And, look, Katsuki’s well aware that Shitty Hair’s not actually a fucking mermaid—mermaids aren’t fucking real after all, but he finds himself drawn to the sound like it’s a siren song anyway. He’s. He’s not gawking. He’s not! It’s just, Shitty Hair looks…stupid, with the way his damp hair falls, the way light catches on the glitter he wears. That’s it. It’s got nothing to do with the way Katsuki’s heart rattles around like a loose pringle inside his chest. Nope, not at all.
“You’re a funny guy, Bakugou,” Shitty Hair says, eyes crinkling around the edges. Katsuki pointedly jerks his gaze back to his lunch with a huff. He jabs at his food. Ignores the way Deku stares at him all googly eyed.
“Yeah, I’m fucking hilarious.”
Deku keeps staring. Katsuki kicks him again, face splitting into a wicked grin at the yelp he gets.
Yep, he sure is a class A comedian, right here. Katsuki stuffs more food in his mouth and chews, snickering to himself.
He doesn’t dare look at the annoying, fake ass mermaids sitting beside him again.
~*~
8:00AM classes are the bane of Katsuki’s existence. Genuinely, whatever fuckface decided that was an appropriate time to hold classes is on his short list of people to deck on sight, no questions asked. Like. Katsuki goes, because he’s paying a shittonne of money to fucking be there, but he’s pissed as hell about it and will make it everyone else’s problem.
Of course, in order to be awake enough to actually function, he’s gotta stop for coffee. Which. Means getting up that much earlier. A small price to pay, he supposes, but it pisses him off all that much more. Because it means he’s here, dragging his feet across the cobblestone pathway into the main student hub where the singular coffeeshop is on campus. Why there’s only one, Katsuki has no fucking idea, but it’s inconvenient as shit.
It’s early enough not many other people are out and about—another tally mark to his point that 8:00AM classes suck dick. And not in the fun way.
He shoots a glower up to the massive, imposing building towering taller and taller with every step. Yueii University is one of the most prestigious universities in the country—most universities are smaller and super specialized, but not Yueii. No, this place went big and hard, and has some of the best programs across the board. Including their fine arts program, the one he’s enrolled to.
As such, the campus is fucking massive, and they’ve got amenities out the wazoo. Including this giant student hub, where there’s all sorts of restaurants and conference spaces and study rooms and whatever the fuck else.
Katsuki stalks up to the large, glass door and grabs the smooth, metal handle, tugging the door open. Cool air conditioning blasts him in the face, accompanied by the aromas of savory and sweet smells alike. He stalks inside, adjusting the strap of his backpack, and beelines to the coffeeshop on the right.
The coffee shop's not exactly good as far as coffee goes. Half the time the shit tastes burnt, and Katsuki has to grin and bear it. But it’s his only option, because there’s not any coffee shops on his route to university, and he can come here right before his first class. So it could be worse, he supposes.
It could be better, too, but whatever. Coffee’s coffee, even if it tastes like shit.
Katsuki’s gaze catches on the flickering, neon sign hanging over the doorway—Coffee Beanz—and his nose wrinkles the second he steps inside. Yep, shit smells burnt, again. Eugh. He crosses the short distance to the counter, where some asshole who looks like he’s not even awake yet stands behind the register, dark purple bruises under his eyes matching the peek of purple hair coming out from beneath the black beanie on his head.
“Welcome to Coffee Beanz, what can I get for you?”
“A medium coffee, light on the creamer.” He fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, not even waiting for the total to toss down the appropriate amount of yen. Perks of getting coffee everyday? Memorizing how much money he’s wasting on shitty tasting caffeine.
The asshole rings him up without comment. Katsuki doesn’t wait for his receipt—he doesn’t need one. No, he steps off to the side in favor of glaring into the display case at all the stale pastries they’ve got on display. He stuffs a hand into his jeans’ pocket and wrinkles his nose. There’s no fucking way any of that shit’s fresh. He squints at one of the chocolate pastries, convinced it’s the same one that’s been sitting in there since Monday. The swirl pattern’s too fucking specific for it to be a fresh one.
Beanie boy putters around behind the counter. He’s the only fucker unlucky enough to be on shift today, and he’s slow as shit doing the simple job of pouring hot coffee into a coffee cup. Whatever. Katsuki isn’t gonna bitch about it.
Yet.
No, his mind wanders off to the report he’s gotta finish for his Art History class. They’ve been tasked with writing a report about the western influence on art in Japan or whatever, and Katsuki’s eyeballs deep in all sorts of articles and shit for the damn thing. It’s one of those major assignments that pulls a significant portion of their grade outside of tests, and it’s a pain in the ass. He’s making decent progress on it, though. He’s definitely ahead of his classmates, for sure.
“One medium coffee.”
Katsuki blinks. Oh. Right. Coffee. He steps forward and swipes it off the counter with a grunt, before turning on his heel and stalking back out the shop. One sip is all he needs to confirm the coffee is, in fact, shitty today.
A real good omen for the day.
There’s a loud bang from across the way. Katsuki’s gaze snaps to the line of restaurants, brow knitting. Some poor bastard’s on their knees in front of the tiny ass sushi place, a whole platter on the floor with them. He wrinkles his nose. Well, that sucks dick. Also not in a fun way.
And then he runs into a fucking wall.
He stumbles back, coffee slipping from his fingers and splattering onto the floor and all over his combat boots.
“Oh, shit, dude! I’m sorry!”
Katsuki blinks. Stares. His coffee cup rolls in a semi-circle, trailing his shitty tasting, very much needed coffee along with it. “Fuck.”
“Are you okay?”
He looks up, and his heart drops right out of his chest and splatters onto the floor right alongside his spilled coffee. Because staring right back at him is none other than Shitty Hair himself. And, gods above, does his hair look even shittier than usual—his obnoxiously bright hair is gelled into these wild spikes off his head, which, Katsuki can’t even fathom how long doing that shit must’ve taken. His face twists into a mean sneer, and he scoffs, stooping to swipe his busted cup.
“God fucking dammit, you dick—you made me spill my coffee!”
“I’m really sorry, dude. Here, I can go get you a fresh cup, make it up to you!” Shitty Hair rubs at the back of his neck, the smile he wears teetering onto a grimace. There’s a flicker of satisfaction licking at Katsuki’s insides—the asshole should feel bad. He just made Katsuki lose out on his very fucking precious caffeine, for fuck’s sake.
Katsuki scowls, gaze bouncing over Shitty Hair’s shoulder to the glass doors. More people are beginning to pour into the place, now, which. Is fucking fantastic, because soon enough, there’ll be dozens of feet tracking through this damn coffee puddle. But cleaning it up isn’t something he’s got time for—shit, does he even have time to get another cup? He stuffs a hand in his pocket, yanks free his phone, and, sure enough, time’s a flakey bitch that’s ditched him here to suffer. A sigh tears from him, and Katsuki shoves his shitty, busted cup into Shitty Hair’s freakishly broad, muscle-y chest. “You can throw this shit away and get outta my face—I gotta get to class. Thanks for fucking up my morning, asshole.”
He stalks around Shitty Hair and beelines for the doors, irritation crackling hot and volatile just beneath his skin. May the gods help whatever fuckfaces try to get in his way, today, because Katsuki’s hands itch for a fight. He gets a whole two steps before Shitty Hair pipes up again, calling out, “Wait—just tell me what you want, I’ll bring it to Chemistry class later.”
And, what the fuck? Katsuki whips around, hackles raising. “The fuck are you talking about?”
Shitty Hair blinks. “Um. Bringing you a coffee? Because I kinda owe you?”
“You take Intro to Chemistry?”
Shitty Hair raises his brows. “Um, yeah. We’re in the same class, dude—ten a-m with Mitarai-sensei. I usually sit, like, two rows behind you.”
What the actual fuck. Katsuki can only stare, mind a mess of unspooled yarn. Somewhere there’s a thread of logic that tells him this shouldn’t be all that surprising. He doesn’t pay attention to the people around him, like, ever—why the fuck would he? Katsuki’s not here to gawk and daydream, he’s here to get a goddamn degree. And that means having his game face on and paying attention to the lecture.
Besides, most of these stupid, required classes have a bajillion fucking people in them. Shitty Hair’s one face in a sea of a hundred others, it’s no wonder he didn’t fucking notice the dumbass. Still, he can’t help but feel thrown for a loop because he sees this idiot several times a week, how the hell did he not notice him before now?
“What kinda coffee do you want?”
The question draws him out of his spiral. Shitty Hair appraises him with raised brows, ruined cup cradled in his hands and coffee staining his shitty, red converse. Something swoops strangely in his gut, and Katsuki huffs, rolling his eyes.
“Medium coffee, light on the creamer.”
He spins on his heel and stalks to the doors, leaving Shitty Hair to gouge his back with an inquisitive, unwavering stare.
~*~
“Hey, can you get me into the aquarium this weekend?”
Katsuki jerks his gaze up from his art history textbook to fix the idiot sitting across from him—stupid, half-and-half Todoroki Shouto—an incredulous look. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Todoroki’s wrapper crinkles, and he blinks down at the koppepan in his hands, shrugging. “I was gonna try and ask Sero to come with me.” He peers at Katsuki with lips pressed into a frown, the puckered, scarred skin around his left eye wrinkling. “Do you think he’d think it’s a date, if I asked?”
Jesus Christ. Katsuki scoffs and drops his stare back to his textbook. He’s trying to get a head start on the reading for next week. Key fucking word being try. “I’m not having this fucking conversation with you. And why the hell are you asking me and not Deku?”
Todoroki hums. “I didn’t think about it until now.”
Katsuki has to restrain himself from slamming his head onto the textbook. Gods, Half-and-half is stupid. How in the fuck he’s been roped into willingly hanging out with the idiot, Katsuki questions every damn day. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, lets out a huff. “No, I am not getting you into the aquarium—we get, like, ten free tickets a year and I am not wasting them on your dumb ass when you can’t even figure out how to fucking ask a guy out.”
And, look, is it a hypocritical thing to say when he himself is pitifully single? Maybe, but Katsuki at least isn’t pining like a shitty loser and tripping over himself trying to give out cues or whatever, so he thinks he’s got a leg up here.
There’s more crinkling, and Todoroki takes another bite of his weird koppepan—seriously, the shit he chose has mint fluff and chocolate chips in it, which looks disgusting—crumbs and filling spilling all over this tiny ass, metal table they’re crammed around. He frowns again, this time at the open textbook. “I wonder if Kayama-sensei will give us a quiz on this section or not.”
A good fucking question, actually. Katsuki shrugs a one shouldered shrug, gaze scanning down the page. They’re learning about the Renaissance right now—aka the most stereotypical, well known era of art. ‘Course, their professor at least keeps it interesting and, like, relates shit in the world to shit happening in Japan, and what the influences are or whatever. It makes the class at least a little more tolerable, because Katsuki finds it interesting.
‘Course, this is only an intro level course, so they’re going over every damn world era of art because of course they are. Something, something, it’s standard curriculum, something.
“She might. But she’s unpredictable as shit, so.” He shrugs again, reaching for one of his sticky notes to scribble down a note to slap onto the page. His textbook is riddled with sticky notes, which he usually takes and combines into his notebook later. It helps him remember important concepts.
“—definitely just failed that lab practical.”
“Aw, come on, I’m sure you did just fine!”
A pair of noisy students stroll past their shitty table, voices echoing as their irritating whining bounces off all the concrete walls. Katsuki’s eye twitches. He fucking hates this building. It’s the science building—a place he’s cursed to come twice a week for his required science courses.
Here’s the thing. Katsuki doesn’t hate science. He’s actually pretty fucking good at it, but he’s good at everything, so that’s a moot point. Art’s just his major of choice, because his goals align with that coursework. But there’s an air of superiority some of these assholes carry, being in STEM. He’s seen it every fucking time one of them learns his major—the way they raise their noses and start bragging as if Katsuki’s somehow incapable of running circles around them and their shitty, advanced science courses. (He could, is the irony. Oh, gods, he could, and it pisses him the hell off that anyone would ever insinuate otherwise.)
Todoroki’s also got a science class, same time as Katsuki’s—though the idiot took something stupid like Earth Sciences or whatever. Aka one of the classes associated with non-STEM majors. It’s not out of a lack of smarts—when it comes to coursework, Todoroki gets A’s by fucking sneezing. No, it’s part of his scheme to piss his piece of shit dad off, apparently, information Katsuki’s been subjected to over the course of his career at this godforsaken university.
Apparently, it’s part of the whole reason he’s chosen an arts major. Which. Sure is a choice.
Katsuki glances at his phone. Shit. Class starts in ten minutes. He snaps his textbook shut, bending to swipe his backpack off the floor. “Talk to Deku about your stupid tickets, he loves giving that shit out,” he says, stuffing his shit into his bag. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Fuyumi’s making dinner later this week—she said you’re welcome to come over again.”
He rolls his eyes, pretends there’s no warm, fuzziness gurgling in his gut at being included. “Whatever. Text me.” And then he turns on his heel and stalks through the crowded hallway towards his lecture hall.
The lecture hall for his Chemistry class is one of the massive ones that can fit, like, a couple hundred students. It makes sense—this is Intro to Chemistry, one of the staple courses a lot of science majors need for their degrees. But because there’s so many fucking people, Katsuki tries to get in a little early to make sure he gets his preferred seat. Second row from the front, so he can see and hear easily without being too fucking close, and on the end so he’s only gotta be next to one person.
Most people stick to the seats they chose on day one. The unwritten rule, or whatever. But there’s been a handful of times Katsuki’s had to bare his teeth at some asshole in his seat, and while he’s not afraid to do so, he’d rather just skip the interaction altogether.
Besides, being on time is being late according to his old man.
Thankfully, the hall is mostly empty when he slips in, aside from the handful of extra early fucks dozing in their chosen seats and the professor unpacking his shit up at the lectern. Katsuki strolls to his own seat with hands shoved deep into the pockets of his joggers, slinging his backpack off his shoulders and sliding into his chair. It hits the floor with a hefty thump—he’s got a shittonne of books on him, today. It’s a heavy class day. Art History, Chemistry, Chem Lab, which sucks up three hours of his life, Drawing II, and Calculus are all crammed into today’s class schedule.
He prefers it that way. Makes commuting to campus worth it. More bang for his buck, or whatever.
Out comes his notebook and his macbook, as well as a pen. Katsuki prefers to write his notes by hand—he’s got a decent shorthand, and it helps him understand what the fuck is being taught better. The laptop is mostly for additional resources, because this professor puts slides up online despite not really using them during the lecture. Around him, more and more students file in, their voices dissolving the short stint of peace in quick order.
Katsuki’s jaw twitches. He fucking hates these giant classes.
It’s when he’s bent over his notebook, scribbling out the date and lecture number, when a shadow drapes across the table. Katsuki goes rigid, pen stilling and hackles raising. He doesn’t dare look up, because fuck whoever’s dared to try and disturb him before class—he sure as shit isn’t in the mood for shitty, idle chit-chat like all the fuckers around him.
“Here you go, man.”
A coffee cup enters Katsuki’s line of sight. His gaze jerks up, then, and he’s graced with a wide, sunny smile that makes his eyes hurt from looking at it. Shitty Hair rubs at the back of his neck, apologetic. “Sorry again,” he says. “Really didn’t mean to put a damper on your morning, dude—guess I was just distracted.”
Katsuki fixes his stare on the coffee. Sure enough, that’s his usual order printed on the sticker plastered to the side of it. His hands twitch, and his heart flip-flops strangely inside his chest. “Whatever,” he mutters, forcing his gaze back down to his notebook. The kanji blur out of focus. His jaw twitches.
Shitty Hair hovers for seconds too long, shifting in place with an awkwardness that’s palpable enough Katsuki could fucking punch it, before sighing so softly Katsuki thinks he mishears.
“Well, seeya around.”
He leaves, the loss of his shadow strangely stark. Katsuki’s gaze wanders back to the coffee cup, a scowl twisting onto his features. The back of his neck prickles—he has to grip the damn table to keep himself from whipping around. Rustling and chatter fill the lecture hall, and a glance at the time shows class starting in less than a minute. Katsuki fiddles with the pen in his hand. Squints at the coffee.
And, well. He’s not gonna fucking waste a free cup, especially when he was cheated out of his morning caffeine.
“Good morning, everyone!”
The hubbub of voices quiets at their professor’s booming greeting. He’s a portly man, their professor—short and graying, with a thick mustache and well-trimmed beard and rosy cheeks. The bastard’s always cheery and smiley, and it’s annoying as fuck. But, he knows his shit, so Katsuki can’t complain too much, even if he’s too damn enthusiastic about chemistry.
Mitarai shuffles a stack of papers, beaming out at the hundreds of students. “I hope everyone’s had a good week! I have with me here the last tests all graded—which may or may not put a damper on some of yours’ day. But! I figured we could spend the first half of class going over any questions you may have!”
Great. Another boring as shit class. Katsuki bites back a huff, propping his chin on his hand. He’s not worried about his test scores. Chemistry is fucking easy—the whole reason Katsuki chose this for his science credit’s because he likes it the most out of all the options, and the course itself is a breeze. Like. It’s only a touch more advanced than the chemistry classes he took in fucking high school, going further into depth on several aspects, which he likes. Part of him wishes it was harder—it’d make for a more exciting challenge if it was.
So when he gets his test back, it’s no shock at all to see the A grade in red at the top corner of his test.
Katsuki reaches for the coffee. Takes a sip.
He turns around.
It’s too damn easy to spot Shitty Hair—his obnoxious, red spikes stick out like a beacon in the dead of night. He’s two rows back, exactly as stated, except instead of bright and chipper like Katsuki’s used to seeing, he’s all…hunched, test clutched tightly in hand and expression pinched with distress.
Something inside his chest twists, sharp and sudden, and Katsuki twists back around to stare blankly at the front of the lecture hall, mind filling with static.
The static doesn’t leave, not until long after class has well and truly started.
~*~
Walking into the aquarium is always a weird fucking experience.
Maybe it’s the whole, knowing what’s behind the curtain aspect of it all. Katsuki doesn’t know for sure—he has his doubts, mainly because he’s never really given two shits about this place before working here. Hell, the only reason he even works here to begin with is because Deku decided to suggest it when he was bitching about how expensive his textbooks were this year.
A valid thing to bitch about, because he’s almost positive the board or the bookstore or both decided to try price gouging that shit this year. And, like. Look. Would Katsuki’s folks trip over themselves to pay for his shit? Yes. Unfortunately. They’re embarrassing like that. But Katsuki’s a whole ass adult, alright—he can pay for his own shit. Even if that means working part time at a goddamn face painting stand.
He eyes the building as he stalks his way to the front doors.
Fatgum’s Aquatic Wonderland is a caricature of a place—the sign decorating the front of the building is of a jolly man in fishing gear, of all fucking things, bucket hat and waders and all, with a cartoony shark leaping up out of the water and grinning next to him and the name of the place written with kanji made of fugly, gold neon lights.
Inside the front lobby isn’t much better. There’s a tiny little security checkpoint, often right outside the door unless it’s too cold, where bored looking extras wearing bright yellow polos with kanji spelling security stamped across the back check bags and strollers and his damn bento box, because apparently bentos are suspicious. And then they’re all ushered into the front lobby, which is decorated to look like a fucking fish market. Wooden floors with colorful stickers in the shape of fish help point guests to ticketing, where rope stanchions lead those guests to the faux market stalls of the ticketing windows. Various netting and fishing equipment hangs from the ceiling, and there’s a large waterfall fountain dominating the central space, with a couple of benches for guests to sit on. A few signs advertise some of their encounters and tours, to boot.
Katsuki pivots to the right, bypassing all of it to flash his badge at one of the lobby employees and stalk his way to a cloaked door to back of house.
The noise of the lobby cuts off the second the door thumps shut, and Katsuki lets out a breath. Fucking christ, it’s too damn loud out there. It’s not even fucking busy, but the hubbub of guests and the damn waterfall always makes Katsuki wanna gouge his eardrums. Here, at least, the only noise is the occasional jumpscare on one of the many tvs hanging in the employee areas with aquarium news and shit scrolling through a slideshow. A lot of it’s the same kinda shit that’s plastered all over the bulletin boards in the break room, except all condensed into a slide-show format.
There’s also a gaggle of gift shop employees hovering around the time clock and giggling about something or another. Katsuki rolls his eyes, stalks past without another glance.
He doesn’t need the time clock—perks of being employed by a vendor. Or. Maybe not a perk, because Katsuki’s cursed to log his times into this ancient, hard-bound notebook in ink. Which. Is fucking insane, actually, and a sign his employer is from the goddamn stone ages.
A fact that’s not all that far fetched, given how old the fucking bastard is.
The hallway curves around a bend, giving way to a series of offices—mostly the administrative wing, guarded by the office administrator and her bright, bubbly greetings—which he swings past. There’s the employee bathrooms, several wet floor signs thanks to the shitty mermaids and divers constantly coming to and from them, and the locker bay for employees to borrow and store their shit while on shift. Katsuki rarely ever uses one. He doesn’t often bring anything more than a lunch, and that can usually be kept in the breakroom fridge.
‘Course, the locker bay isn’t empty—no, Katsuki rounds another corner to hear an all too familiar voice drifting out into the hallway.
“—don’t get it. I failed so bad, Mina. Like, this is gonna fuck my grade and maybe affect my scholarship, bad.”
Katsuki slows. Stops. Stares at the floor. There’s a series of wet footprints shining underneath fluorescent lights—a diver was here recently. He bites the inside of his cheek. His shift starts soon. He needs to go put his shit in the fridge and help Deku unpack their cart.
“What, are you really saying there’s not a way to make it up? I mean, if this class is required for your major, they’ve gotta give you a way to dig yourself out, right?”
Shitty Hair barks a sharp, serrated laugh. “Oh, sure—if I get an A on, like, every single test and quiz and homework assignment from here on out. Y’know, something I can’t do when I don’t even understand the material now!”
“Oh, Kiri…maybe you can find a tutor?”
“Maybe.”
The hollowness in the answer strikes a dissonant chord—it’s wrong, so damn wrong, and Katsuki can’t put words to why. And, irritation crackles to life beneath his skin, because why the fuck should he even care about how sad and pathetic Shitty Hair sounds? He glares at those wet footprints, wills himself to move.
“Or, I dunno. Maybe I should give up on this nursing thing. I mean, the only reason I chose this program was because it’s supposed to be easier than a pre-med track—if I’m already struggling, how am I meant to actually get a nursing degree?”
Katsuki’s feet choose then to listen to his brain, and he bolts from the scene, Shitty hair’s words ringing in his ears. ‘Course, he only makes it to the edge of the locker bay entry before his shitty, stupid body decides turning to look is a good idea, and Katsuki’s graced with the sight of Shitty Hair’s back to him, shoulders slumped and hair falling loose against his shoulders. Immediately, a flash of his dejected expression in class yesterday blinks across his mind’s eye, and Katsuki’s mind goes all static again.
It’s only when he’s on the freight elevator sailing down to the depths of this godforsaken building that his stupid brain manages to come online. He grimaces, tries to shove Shitty Hair’s sad as fuck face out of his head.
Their little carts that serve as their stands—because yes, there’s two of them—live tucked out of the way on the giant loading dock. Which. Is basically a giant storage-slash-sorting place for all the deliveries the aquarium gets. It’s a big fucking space, with a giant ass garage door that opens up to a delivery bay equipped with everything from a couple of forklifts to a box muncher machine to a tiny little desk where the loading dock manager hangs out.
He gives Katsuki a friendly sort of nod as he strides past, his radio crackling to life on his desk with the standard radio traffic of a day at this place.
Katsuki passes dozens of large shelving racks, turns a corner, and ducks into a little cubby, where Deku’s already wheeling one of the carts out.
“Hey, Kacchan! It’s just us today—Aoyama-kun called out.”
God fucking dammit.
“I am not doing the caricatures.” He hates caricatures. Or, rather, he enjoys drawing them—he just hates dealing with the way people react when he does. Like, what the fuck do they expect him to do, draw them all cutesy?! It’s called a fucking caricature, for fuck’s sake, it’s supposed to be exaggerated! But, no, apparently he’s too insulting half the time when he runs that stand.
Face painting is twice as annoying to do, but he gets bitched at less when he does it. So. Pretty easy choice in his book.
Deku snorts, the asshole, and unclips a radio from his belt, holding it out to him. “Of course, Kacchan. Here.”
He takes the radio, twisting the knob to turn it down because like hell is he gonna put up with the annoying ass chatter coming from the damn thing, and takes the cart.
“Oh, say hi to Kirishima-kun for me, will you?”
Katsuki whips around, brow knitting. “Hah?”
Deku’s grin is riddled with mischief, a sight that has his hackles raising. The bastard leans on the caricature cart, tilts his head. “Kirishima-kun—you know, the mermaid you were staring at during lunch the other day?”
Oh. Oh, Deku wants to fucking die, doesn’t he? Katsuki goes rigid, face on fire, and there’s a wild impulse to shove the cart forward and launch himself at the shithead—an impulse he’s gotta suck in a breath and tamp down because he cannot go getting himself fired if he’s gonna keep supplying his wallet. So, instead, he hisses, “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” and angrily speed-pushes his cart towards the freight elevator, Deku’s annoying as shit giggles echoing through the loading dock behind him.
They get on the elevator together. Katsuki refuses to look at him, choosing instead to glare at the glowing buttons. Their elevator is short lived, and the door slides open on floor two. Katsuki shoves his cart out and beelines through the back of house area, ignoring Deku’s little irritating tittering.
Thank fuck they’re going in opposite directions—the caricature cart hangs out closer to the large ocean exhibit, while his cart’s station is the ray touch pool. Deku’s laughs quickly fade into the thrum of pumps and equipment, which rear up around Katsuki in a tangle of pipes and cylinders and other strange mechanical things. Off to the left, he sees one of the employees tinkering with some of those massive cylinders that make up some of the life support for the many aquatic systems here. Katsuki has no fucking clue what any of it does, but it’s interesting, at least.
He sticks to the designated walkway. For several reasons—one, the tangle of equipment on either side is not conducive to getting from point A to point B, two, he’s on a tight fucking schedule and needs to get his shit set up before open, and three, he’s got zero desire to be screamed at by one of the life support or engineers or whoever else wouldn’t take too kindly to him dicking around where he shouldn’t be. So he pushes his little cart until he reaches the double doors, and goes to prop one open so he can get through.
Set up is easy. Quiet. The gallery’s empty beyond himself and the educator staffed to work the touch pool. It stays that way well into opening, with only a smattering of guests wandering through. Katsuki spends the time dicking around with his paint, swirling mindless patterns up and down his arm.
‘Course, most guests are probably waiting for the mermaids to come out.
The first mermaid out is the meet and greet mermaid, and that one’s usually out right at opening. 10:00AM to 4:00PM every fucking day. Katsuki thinks there’s more than one working that shift, but he’s not a hundred percent sure. The only reason he knows the schedule to begin with is because so many guests ask him all the damn time.
Which in turn, is how he knows the mermaids in this gallery get in the water at 11:00AM sharp.
The minute 11:00AM rolls around, one of the divers materializes in the gallery to slip behind a hidden doorway, reappearing with none other than Shitty Hair himself perched on this stupid as fuck looking cart—it’s got what looks to be a wooden cube attached to it to make a seat, but otherwise looks like a standard cart. Katsuki guesses it works well enough. The mermaids sit on the cube, holding the ends of their tails, and get wheeled to the low wall of the touch pool, where they can transfer to the ledge and slip into the water. Today’s no exception—Katsuki eyes Shitty Hair’s tail, which is red today, as he’s wheeled over to the tank. He smiles this shitty, wan smile at whatever the diver tells him before slipping down into the water.
The radio on Katsuki’s stand crackles to life. He returns to painting his arm.
Guests start streaming in after that. Katsuki gets a couple of kids rotating in and out of his chair—the requests are all pretty fucking easy, today, mostly just the standard fare. Pirates, sharks, stingrays. Mermaids. The occasional penguin or seahorse. He falls into the rhythm of painting, or tries to.
For some fucking reason, he finds himself glancing over to Shitty Hair. And, every time, he looks…wrong, somehow. Like the life’s been sucked right outta him. His smiles are all forced, movements mechanical. Any time guests wander away, he rests his chin against the edge of the pool, staring out into space all forlorn and shit. It’s got something weird and heavy sitting uncomfortably inside Katsuki’s chest. He doesn’t know what it is, but it steadily pisses him off the deeper it lodges itself.
It’s after painting his third mermaid he finally snaps.
His brushes clatter into the water cup the second the kid leaves, and Katsuki whirls around, marches right up to the edge of the touchpool. Crosses his arms.
Shitty Hair doesn’t even notice, all lost in his annoying moping.
“Oi. Dumbass.”
The dumbass in question startles, tail flailing and water splashing. Several stingrays scatter, panic-flying across the tank. Shitty Hair curses, floundering, and sputters. “Holy shit, man, you can’t do that! You scared me!”
“Pay better attention, then,” he snaps back. “I literally just walked right up to you—you’d have seen me if you weren’t all dumb and mopey.”
At this, Shitty Hair shrinks, lowering down into the water. “Ah. Sorry. I, uh. I guess I’m a little off my game today.”
No fucking shit. Katsuki grinds his teeth, throws a glare up at the dusty ass rays decorating the ceiling. His hands twitch, an urge to reach up and rub at his sternum damn near overwhelming. God fucking dammit. “You need a tutor. Right?”
Shitty hair blinks at him. Water droplets stick to his eyelashes. Katsuki wonders how a guy like him can have such pretty, long ones.
“What?”
“I overheard you talking to your annoying, pink-haired friend. You’re failing chemistry.”
There’s a splash. Shitty Hair scratches at his glittery cheek. “You heard that, huh? Uh. Yeah, I didn’t do so hot on that last exam. S’a pretty unmanly score.” The chuckle he lets out is annoying and not at all what it should sound like. “I’ve, uh, never been real good at tests. My dad always joked I’m not cut out for ‘school stuff’. Honestly, he’s probably right, heh.”
Katsuki can only stare, because what the actual fuck. It’s an insane thing to say as a joke, and frankly, it pisses him off. He lurches forward, grips the side of the tank, and leans over Shitty Hair, face twisting into a scowl. “Listen, fuckface—I’m tired of watching you mope and shit. It’s annoying. So, unless you wanna prove your shitty old man right, you’re gonna meet me at the library at noon tomorrow, and I’m gonna tutor your dumb ass until you bleed out of your ears. Capiche?”
Shitty Hair gawks at him, face flushed and eyes wide. “You. You wanna tutor me?”
“That’s what I just fucking said! You want the help, or not?”
“Yes!” He grasps the side of the tank, fingers a hairsbreadth from Katsuki’s. “Gods, yes, please!” A smile, real, genuine, and too fucking bright, splits his face, and the weird feeling in Katsuki’s chest loosens. “Thanks so much, Bakugou, holy crap! You’re a real life saver for this!”
Heat scorches at his own face, and Katsuki shoves away from the tank, hands shoving into his pockets. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Just don’t be fucking late, or you’re buying me coffee.” He turns on his heel, stalking back to his shitty little face painting stand, heart rattling around the inside of his ribs, and tries not to think too hard about the whys of it all.
There’s no why’s to think about, anyway. He just. Got sick of watching Shitty Hair mope. That’s it.
Besides. He’s fucking great at chemistry. How hard can teaching someone even be?