"Oh fuck." Katsuki muttered under his breath, feet stomping in a pounding rhythm down cobblestone streets. Another fat drop of water landed on the back of his hand, and then a third on the tip of his brutal nose. "Oh, jesus fuck."
His run grew more desperate as rain started to pour down faster. Of all the days for the weatherman to be completely fucking wrong, of course it was this one. Of course it was the one where he had dragged thousands of dollars of equipment out to a park in the middle of fucking nowhere— it's like the meteorologist tried to fuck up today.
As he hunched over to shield his camera gear, Katuski wondered if he could sue.
And of course, of fucking course no building seemed like viable shelter. The rain was really starting to come down: what was once a few drops of warning was now soaking Katsuki through his jacket. He sprinted down what seemed to be a residential street (huge houses, nice cars. Rich fuckers.) and skidded around the corner to finally be affronted by a neon "OPEN" sign.
"Thank god," he was still able to get out through his panting. His speed didn't diminish until he had slammed through the storefront door, bell jingling violently above him. Katsuki squinted, his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and without a second thought he was slapping his palms against every piece of equipment. Camera bag, dry. Lens bag, dry. Tripod, filters, cables—
"Hey there!" Sudden noise broke Katsuki from his paranoid checking, and for a second he can't even really tell where it came from. The violent pull from his equipment-focused reverie force his eyes to focus on the the actual physical space he had forced his way into.
It must be a bookstore. After all, that's basically all that was in there, shelves of them staring Katsuki in the face. Most were neat, in their presumably alphabetized place, but there were several piles of hardcovers sitting on the floor, on counters, even atop the shelves themselves. Katsuki wondered what kind of fire hazard a place like this was, all wood-paneled walls and old paper.
There was something playing somewhere in the store, ambient sound that didn't quite fill the entire space. Then again, maybe the rain was just too loud for him to hear it— it was pounding against the windows, and young tree branches danced violently against each other. Summer thunder rumbled in the distance, more a greeting than a threat.
(Even though Katsuki was definitely taking it as a threat— one to to his equipment, his wallet, and most importantly, his well-being. Being forced to take cover in a strange place and potentially interact with strangers? How many Nuremberg principles does that defy?)
Oh, speaking of greeting: some guy was giving him one. At least, that's what Katsuki thought was happening, and his ears desperately tuned toward the brash voice.
"Trying to get out of the rain?" A face materialized behind what looked like the front desk, atop it piles and piles of books. "Riot Books" in large script stood proudly behind some guy, whose spiky red hair almost distracting from his blinding smile. "I can grab you a towel if you wanna dry off!"
Katsuki was suddenly extremely aware of how tight his clothes were sticking on him, and how cold the wet fabric was on his skin. Even as a shiver went through him, Katsuki muttered, "Uh, no. I'm fine."
The clerk— he guessed he was a clerk— shrugged, smile unwavering. "All right. You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like, though. There's a reading nook in the back and we got an espresso machine and stuff." He said espresso the American way— expresso — and Katsuki had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
"Thanks," he was able to drag out of his mouth. He didn't really know what to do, so he chose to do one of the many things he did best: stand there, and scroll on his phone. He was halfway down his insta feed before the clerk moved from behind the desk. The red-haired main— and boy, was it red, and spiky, and garish and bright— piddled around, pulling books from a pile at the front and restacking them in the back.
Pretty soon, Katsuki realized he was more interested in watching the clerk work than scrolling through instagram. And pretty soon after that, Katsuki realized the clerk was walking towards him, bearing a towel. His eyes narrowed as the man got closer, friendly smile growing on shitty-hair's face.
"You still look pretty wet." He offered the towel, and reluctantly Katsuki took it from him. "Don't want to catch cold!"
Now that he wasn’t half-obscured by books, Katsuki was able to get a good look at this guy. He was about his height, maybe a little shorter.
And his hair was even worse up close, spikes of red popping up by their own volition, it seemed. The guy almost looked like he had horns, and he paired that with all-black everything, down to heavy combat boots. Katsuki admired the goth-chic aesthetic, and this clerk wore it well. Like, not too well. But well.
Katsuki would never have guessed someone who dressed like this would have a smile like that, though. Bright enough to make him squint. I mean, little dimples and everything. Okay. The clerk was cute. Too cute.
And he was really, really close right now, and Katsuki was starting to get very uncomfortable. He snatched the towel out of Ron Weasley's hand and scoffed as a different sort of thank you, immediately hiding behind drying his own unruly hair. He took his time wiping his face down, praying the clerk was getting the memo and walking away (and also praying that the guy was really good at walking away silently, cause Katsuki wasn't hearing jack shit).
Alas. A peek from behind the towel revealed him still standing there, still grinning. Who is this guy, Jack Nicholson's better-looking son? Katuski's eyes darted everywhere to avoid his line of sight, and he kept toweling himself down. Damp thigh led to damp knee which went to pretty wet calf, and finally his gaze landed on a small stack of paperbacks right behind to him. A stack, Katsuki quickly realized, that was soaked.
"Oh, shit." Katsuki threw his towel down on the pile, rubbing frantically. He takes his embarrassment out on the wet paper, trying not to let his frustration show in his voice— as if he could really be heard behind the clinking and clanking of the camera shit still hanging from his frame. "I fucked up your books."
The clerk was slow to recognize what was going on, confusion the emotion that finally broke the hold on his grin. Katsuki felt his eyes boring into the back of his now very dry head, and his cheeks burned. Finally, the guy laughed a little, and said, "Oh! No worries. That was the recycling pile. Thanks for drying them, though!"
Katsuki stood, and tugged the damp towel between his hands. He still can't really look at the guy. "Probably shouldn't stack them there on a rainy day anyway," he batted towards the clerk.
"Or, people coming in on a rainy day should take better advantage of towel offers." Ketchup head was smiling again, but there was a hard confidence behind his eyes. Katsuki feels a different kind of discomfort— one that's a friend to admiration. And a third discomfort appears when the clerk tugs the towel out of Katsuki's hands, knuckles brushing as he does. Katsuki's throat closes up a little, and for a moment he wonders if he's allergic to the clerk at the bookstore.
"Whatever," he says, as though it'll clear his throat. Behind him, he hears the storm raging. He watches the clerk turn around and head back to the desk before calling, "Hey, did you say you had coffee?"
"Yes!" The towel dropped with a damp plop, and the clerk is beckoning him towards the back of the shop. Katsuki shifted his equipment higher on his shoulders and followed, wide load barely making it through narrow bookshelves. The place smelled like a library, all old paper and Pinesol, but as they neared the back, earthy warmth filled Katuski's head.
It's the reading nook he mentioned, Katsuki realized quickly. And nook it was: shelves had been rearranged to create a little fort in the furthest back corner of the building. One small window let in some light, but plenty of lamps lent warmth to the space. Three couches were squeezed in— one for each wall— and pillows and beanbags galore.
No one was in the reading nook, save for him and the clerk, now pouring two cups of joe.
Being back here almost felt like being in a basement, that sense of being hidden away even under tall ceilings and narrow windows running up their height. Katsuki guessed it was because it was so dark outside. From the little window, the stormclouds made it look as if hours had past— and, they had, but not quite as many as the sky made them look.
The rain had calmed a bit, at least— but only a bit. Instead of violent knocking against the windows, it sounded more like the tapping of a loose ceiling fan blade. If he were home, Katsuki was sure he'd be asleep. It's probably for the best he couldn't make it. Being awake, even in some random bookstore, is a little more productive than catnaps.
"It’s still pouring out there," Katsuki heard the clerk saying, and he wondered if his own thoughts were so obvious on his face. The blond dropped his equipment on the couch before accepting a warm mug into his calloused hands. "I don't blame you for sticking around. Especially if you think you might melt."
“Har har har.” Katuski let a fake laugh fall from his lips, but honestly, Darth Maul’s joke was pretty funny. A more genuine smile played on his lips, against his will. “I wouldn’t mind it wasn’t carrying this shit, honestly. Worth more than I am.”
The clerk circled around Katsuki to the couch boasting the pile of camera shit. “That’s quite the set up,” he said, leaning in close to peer at it. Katsuki tensed up, but the guy never reached out a hand to touch. “What were you shooting?”
Katsuki rolled his eyes, thinking back to the dull greens of the park. The trees didn't quite have the luster necessary to stand out against an ice-blue sky (though that issue, he guessed, was solved with the rain). “Uh, landscape bullshit. It’s as exciting as it sounds.”
“Sounds pretty interesting to me, actually. Some of my favorite books in here are just photo collections.” Big Red grinned up at him, still leaning over his camera gear. There was a curiosity in his eyes, as if he were waiting for Katsuki to ask, well, you wanna see some?
So he did, saying, “Well, you wanna see some?” more gently than he had ever asked anything before.
(It still wasn’t that gentle).
The clerk’s eyes lit up like the Price is Right: ding ding ding! Ask the right question, win the prize. And it seemed the prize was the guy standing really close to Katsuki, now, eyes trained his iPhone as Katsuki scrolled through the gram again.
“Wow,” the guy was muttering over his shoulder. “Woah, click on that one!”
Katsuki clicked, enlarging a photo he took just the week before. Only three hundred some-odd likes, pretty modest, but he actually liked this one: lens flare, sunset, dramatic mountains in the background. It looked like the earth was on fire, and it was beautiful.
The clerk seemed to agree. “Damn, that’s something else. You really have some skill.”
Oh, that discomfort was back again, along with the allergic reaction (hot cheeks, closed throat, and now elevated heart rate). He felt like butter left on granite, softening. It was almost like the compliments were actually getting to him. He hated it.
“Explosive Shots by Bakugo, huh?” The clerk said, grin growing as he looked up at Katsuki, who refused to wither under his gaze. The redhead was undeterred, nudging Katsuki gently with his elbow. “What a name.”
He rolled his eyes— but that smile from before was back on his face, beating out the Bakugo-brand glower. “Somehow it doesn’t deter the bridezillas.” His words dripped with disdain, and the clerk laughed.
“Bakugo is a hell of a name, too.” The guy stepped away from Katsuki, and he realized how much he had been leeching off the clerk’s warmth. He reached a hand out, and offered with it: “I’m Eijiro. Eijiro Kirishima.”
“Katsuki,” he filled in as he met Eijiro’s outstretched hand. It was softer than his, by quite a bit. But Katuski noticed bandages, decorating his fingers with peach-cloth rings. Paper cuts, huh. A danger of the industry.
Eijiro doesn’t seem to be in any rush to break their handshake, which had quickly become a more static hand-hold, and Katsuki feels the weight of the moment on his shoulders and suffocating his mind. He knows he has a slim window in which he can free himself from paralysis, but his mind can’t seem to move quickly enough. He thinks back, he tries his best, and Katsuki asks: “So… what’s your favorite picture book?”
Their hands drop, and the moment lifts as soon as Eijiro answers: “Goodnight Moon.”
The clerk laughs at his own joke, and laughs properly. It’s ugly laugh, too loud and showcasing too many teeth, and it could be contagious. Katsuki huffed a little through his nose as confirmation that yes, he did hear the joke, and Eijiro caves, saying, “Let me grab my real favorite.”
Eijiro sprints towards the front of the bookstore, leaving Katsuki alone with his coffee and his thoughts. The blond leans against a shelf, almost surprised when it doesn't bend with his weight. It's like it was growing up from the floor itself, a tree’s second life.
Peering up, Katsuki can't see where this shelf ends. He assumed there was some ladder around for the shelves back here, so tall and still impossibly full. Katsuki kind of hoped it was one of the rolling ones, like in the movies. He remembered watching Beauty and the Beast once as a child, and that was his favorite part— when Belle swung along a tome-laden wall with reckless abandon, standing on the precipice of a ladder rung. It looked fun as fuck.
He'd have to ask Eijiro to try it out, one day. If he had one of those ladders, that is. And if Katsuki cared to come back, of course.
Eijiro’s voice broke through his thoughts— for like the thousandth time that day, it felt like. It must be because he’s new, or maybe his voice is just that brash… weird. Katuski is usually better at ignoring others.
“I honestly don’t know what the is, we lost the dust cover ages ago.” The clerk was saying, turning a wide, pine-colored book over in his hands. “But it’s super cool. It’s a road trip in the 70s, all the colors are awesome.”
Eijiro started flipping through the pages, slow enough to show it off but too quickly for Katsuki to feel like he was satisfied by any of it. “Wow,” was all he could say. Televisions, motels, dusty towns— all painted vibrant colors of forty years ago. Bright blue sky was contrasted with avocado and mud red, and it was beautiful.
“Do you know who’s stuff this is?” Eijiro asked softly, as though he were afraid to disturb the man in the book behind the camera.
“Uh, not off the top of my head,” Katsuki answered quickly, mind still half-immersed in the photos. Embarrassment burned on the back of his neck. He desperately racked his brain for a singular memory from photographic history classes, but then he remembered he never really went.
Eijiro chucked fondly, another page flipping under his delicate thumb. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Just wondering.”
“His stuff is nice, though.” Katuski said, and with a smile, Eijiro turned another page. Another photograph— this one of a pale-pink payphone bolted to textured metal, really cool juxtaposition, and then one of an old television on a red, red floor. They continued to flip through the book in silence, and minutes pass before Katuski realized it was silent.
His eyes sneak a peek out of the little window in the reading nook, and his suspicions are confirmed: it’s clearing up. Clouds are still covering the sky, but they’re friendlier now, and let a little sunlight through. A surreptitious check of his watch, now, and Katsuki sees he’s been here for almost two hours. Was that too long?
(Could he stay longer?)
Katsuki’s gaze finally found the store clerk again, who seemed to have followed his thought— watch check wasn’t as sneaky as he thought. Eijiro raises his brows, expression illegible, and Katsuki finds a way to mutter: “Looks like I’m free to go, I guess.”
“Looks like it!” There was a strange dimness to the clerk's words, even with him looking just as cheerful. Katuski wondered if he were imagining it. Are hallucinations an allergic reaction thing? “Need any help carrying?”
“Uh, no, I’m good. Thanks.” Katsuki looked down, his lean frame camouflaged in lumpy bags and gangling tripods— one of which looked like it had a little mud on it. He scowled.
Eijiro's offer seemed foolish to Katsuki anyway, since he has his own things to carry: mugs now tattooed with coffee rings, and the nameless photo book. He follows Katsuki back towards the front, and fills the silence easily with his words and his gentle tapping against the hardcover in his hands. “Got any plans for the afternoon? I think I’m gonna flip through this old guy again.”
Ding . Katsuki’s phone made a violent ringing sound, one he was unfamiliar with. In all the jostling, he must have turned the volume up. A quick glance revealed text after text from roommate, and Katsuki tried to scan them quickly while still listening to Eijiro.
Denki Kaminari: dude where are you Denki Kaminari: are you napping Denki Kaminari: ok if youre asleep youre not seeing this but Denki Kaminari: hitoshi and i are getting sushi later Denki Kaminari: youre coming with us Denki Kaminari: hello Denki Kaminari: ok you dont nap so are you dead Denki Kaminari: look you usually check your phone once in a while Denki Kaminari: r u mad about sushi we can get something else Denki Kaminari: mexican???? Denki Kaminari: nvm hitoshi just wants sushi Denki Kaminari: bro Denki Kaminari: bro Denki Kaminari: bakugo Denki Kaminari: bakuBRO lmao Denki Kaminari: ok well meet us at wasabi at 6pm ig Denki Kaminari: if youre alive. i guess
A few quick swipes of his thumb and Katsuki is letting Denki know he’s one-hundred-percent alive by way of "fuck off" and "pick me up a california roll" before looking back up at the bookstore clerk. He could feel an apology forming in his eyes, but he wasn't really sure what for.
"My roommate." He explained, holding the phone up for Eijiro to see before realizing the screen had turned off. "I guess… my plans are sushi.”
Eijiro threw his head back, envy coloring his smile. "Sushi! I haven't had any in ages, I need it soon"
"We should get some.” The words spilled out of Katsuki’s mouth, more naturally than anything had ever spilled out before. Eijiro’s eyes widened, and Katsuki qualified his statement with a mumbled: “Sometime."
“Yeah, I'd like that.” Eijiro’s laugh was so natural, his deer-in-headlines eyes hiding behind it gracefully. “I’d force myself along if I wasn’t working, my afternoon is gonna get boring.”
“I mean, you have stuff to read.” Katsuki replied, feeling dumber with every word. He could feel a glare forming, internal disappointment worn brazenly, and he hoped Eijiro didn’t take it personally. “And... I bet you do a lot of that.”
Another bright laugh, but this one was tinged with longing, falling off in a sigh. “Honestly, yeah. Mostly because no one ever really comes in."
A twinge of pity, but Katsuki shook it off quickly. He didn’t like feeling pity for people in general, and he felt like this guy would be particularly unappreciative. He shrugged, and said: "I don't read ever. I kind of wish I still did"
"Well, if you need a recommendation, I'm happy to give it.” And he did look it, dimpled cheeks stretched wide. Katsuki stared, and Eijiro took the silence as invitation, his quick footsteps the RSVP. He was quick on his feet and knew the shop well, and before Katsuki realized it, Eijiro was shoving an olive book into his hands.
“One of my favorites!” Eijiro said, and Katsuki purportedly stared down at the book, though his eyes were more fixated on how the clerk’s knuckles brushed against his own, again. “Let me know what you think!”
"Thanks." The Kite Runner was emblazoned on the front, but Katsuki hardly took notice, eyes falling to stickers down the spine: $20 crossed out, $13.80 crossed out, $9 crossed out, and finally a bright red $4.30. He started patting around for his wallet: "Oh, what do I owe you?"
"It's on the house," Eijiro said encouraging, hand waving nonchalantly. "Buy one coffee, get one book free!"
"Okay. Thanks." The clerks words pushed the book to Katsuki's chest, and he clutched it against the array of straps that decorated him. The blond man stood for a moment, holding Eijiro's gaze awkwardly. And then, with a curt nod, Katsuki got the hell out of dodge.
His walk home was uneventful, clouds above him shading him but not threatening any more showers, thank god. Still, he felt something hanging over him, looming as heavy as the thunderclouds before. Katsuki slipped the book in the outer pocket of his camera bag, in case what he was feeling was some sort of barometric pressure thing.
Whatever it was, the evening was strange because of it.
He thought a lot about his time at the bookstore. Nothing seemed to be able to take his mind off of it— not Denki lusting over his weird friend Histohi, or Denki pining over his lame friend Hanta, or even his really yummy California roll. Katsuki was acutely aware of the softcover in his bag, and he lingered in coffee-stained memories of Riot Books. It felt like a dream, or maybe more like a concussion. Katsuki was pretty lightheaded.
It was plain old fucking weird.
Luckily, there were only a few hours left in the day, and Katsuki was pretty sure he could survive that long with whatever TBI he had sustained. Editing the landscapes from earlier proved a decent distraction, at least until night. By 8, the call of the paperback was too tempting a siren, and Katsuki settled in to bed with it, lights low and pajamas on.
His fingers traced along the title, imprinted on the thin cardboard. The Kite Runner . The cover promised nothing, but it was a sickly green— Katsuki really expected more of a romp through the flower fields, if he was being honest, but it seems even a perpetual smiler can appreciate more grim literature.
Katsuki peeled open the book, and he began to read. It’s slow at first, but a bright voice in his head started to read along, and soon Katsuki fell back into his old habit with ease. The words flew by, Amir was just winning the kite-flying tournament by the time Katsuki felt his eyes begging to close.
He resisted, and the narrator in his mind resisted even more, pushing further into the story. But with the bookstore coffee out of his system, it seemed futile to resist. Still, he kept reading, even as his mind meandered. His imagination walked him back to Riot Books, guided him to the nook in the back, and invited Eijiro’s voice to take over reading.
Woah. Eijiro’s voice reading? Bubbles of discomfort, embarrassment started floating up his ribcage, but he was too sleepy for them to make it further before popping. Eijiro’s unreal voice made The Kite Runner his (admittedly fucked up) lullaby, and it was nice.
His breathing slowed, his grip on the pages loosened. Katsuki finally let himself relax, eyes fully falling closed with ease and book cradled in the crook of his elbow. And right before his mind closed for the night, Katsuki remembered he didn’t even pay for his coffee, anyway.