REMINDER: Lunch with Tensei, 11:00

Tenya pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning softly. “Oh, goddammit…”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Tensei. Tenya values his close relationship with his older brother above everything else, and their weekly lunch outings are bright spots in his dull, boring life. But his head still hurts, and he doesn’t feel like changing into something more presentable, and he just knows Tensei is going to have a field day over him getting hungover for the first time since college.

While he knows Tensei won’t be too upset if he cancels, doing so at this stage is a major inconvenience to his older brother. Knowing him, he’s already halfway to their chosen café. It’d be rude to make him go back home.

Tenya sighs. Maybe his nap will have to wait, after all.

“I didn’t think you were capable of getting hungover.”

Tenya groans, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “It can’t be that obvious, can it?”

Tensei lets out a laugh. “Guess last night must’ve been fun, huh? How much of it do you remember?”

“Please don’t be mean to me today. My cat did enough of that for the both of you.”

“Miso was cranky because you didn’t come home at curfew, huh?”

“I will go home,” Tenya bluffs.

“Uh-huh.” Tensei’s wheelchair comes to a stop at the crosswalk. “You were safe, though, right?”

“Of course. It’s not like I was the one who had to worry about someone putting something in my drink.” Tenya looks both ways after the signal turns, then begins to cross the street. “Really, I was only there for my friend’s sake.”

“Right. And this friend―”

“She does not, and I cannot stress this enough, swing that way,” Tenya interrupts.

The conversation drifts to what Tenya does remember clearly of the previous night’s events. His makeover at the hands of his ex and her current boyfriend. His nervous chatter with girls who sounded sweet as sugar, but looked like they could kick his ass. His enjoyment of Tsukuyomi’s performance, despite having little exposure to the punk scene. 

Inevitably, the conversation turns to the nice young man whose face he can only vaguely remember. Tenya remembers buying more than a few drinks―oh dear, did Sero(?) make it home safely?―but he has zero clue what they even talked about. Music? Work? Oh, God, did he start rambling about his fucking cat?

“Sounds like a sweet guy,” Tensei says as they approach the café. “You get his number?”

Whether he was too drunk or too nervous at the time to ask, Tenya isn’t sure, but he regrets it. Sero did seem quite nice. Even if nothing came of it, he would’ve loved to hear him talk more about film and music and art and… everything.

Tenya lets out a sigh. “No, actually. I didn’t think to ask.”

Somehow, Tenya feels as if they’ve met before.

It probably wasn’t a very notable encounter. Maybe they bumped into each other at one of Yaoyorozu’s holiday parties. Maybe they’ve passed each other on the streets a handful of times. Maybe he’s an old classmate from college. Regardless of where they were or when it may have been, Tenya is certain that he has seen Sero Hanta prior to meeting him at Tartarus.

This is silly, Tenya thinks to himself. Why are you so concerned about whether or not you’ve seen him before? That hardly matters, now.

Except Tenya doesn’t like not knowing the answer to a question, especially if it’s likely within arms’ reach. Of course, as hungover as he is, trying to find that answer is easier said than done. Ugh, why did he allow himself to drink so much?

Tenya shoots a glare at his little tyrant. “Oh, as if you’d do any better. They would’ve eaten you alive.”

“Mrowwr.” Miso steps away from his food bowl, padding over to the bright pink cat tree Ochaco had insisted upon getting when they graduated from temporary guardians to permanent cat parents. He hops up to his favorite perch, curls up into a tight little ball, and closes his one good eye.

“Horrid little creature,” Tenya says fondly, picking up Miso’s empty food bowl.

Hungover or not, Tenya can’t allow himself to slack off too much today. After all, oversleeping had cost him a few precious hours.

Shower first, Tenya decides. Everything else can wait.

One very satisfying shower later, Tenya emerges from his bathroom with a towel around his waist. The smudged makeup is gone. His hair is free of pomade. The thin layer of dried sweat that has been present on his skin since last night is gone. Though he’s still feeling some of the effects of his hangover, his symptoms have eased into something more manageable.

Tenya goes about his morning routine, sans proper lighting to avoid exacerbating his headache. He dresses himself in a t-shirt and a pair of joggers, clothing suitable for running errands and napping off the last dregs of a hangover. He brushes his teeth and combs his hair, not bothering to fuss too much about his appearance. He makes a mental list of the chores he needs to take care of, from buying his groceries to planning out this week’s meals―

There’s a soft ping from his phone. Tenya raises an eyebrow. Surely he hadn’t forgotten something, had he?

Tenya walks over to his nightstand, where his phone is charging upon the solid, wooden surface. The screen is (brightly!) lit, displaying a 100% charged message directly below the current time. His lock screen―a picture of Miso cuddled up with his scraggly-looking teddy bear―is obscured by a single notification.

Here's the polished version of chapter two! Some minor changes have been made in terms of phrasing and grammar errors that slipped through the cracks have been taken care of.

Emotional Rent Control will be going on a two-week break! Chapter 3 will begin on February 26, 2024.

Characters are depicted as 18+ in this fic!

Hanta has this down to a science―be out of work by 7:00, on the train by 7:15, and home by 7:30. Shower fast. Change faster. Hork down the onigiri Rikido brought into work without choking on it. Do his makeup on the train ride to Tartarus, shoulder his bass, probably hit a salaryman on his way out, and be there just in time for Kyoka to rip him a new one.

“Ow! Hey, c’mon―”

“Han, what the hell! You said you’d be here by eight!” Kyoka pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fuck, dude, you didn’t even answer any of my texts. We thought something happened, you fucker!”

Hanta blinks. He shoves his hand into his pocket, wincing when he finds his phone isn’t there. “Haha… oops?”

Kyoka looks like she’s going to smack him again. Thankfully, the fact that their opening act is nearing the end of their setlist saves Hanta… for now, anyway. “You know, you wouldn’t forget your shit if you didn’t cut things so close in the first place.”

“Hey, I bring the stuff that matters,” Hanta points out, flipping open the latches of his bass case. “No broken fingers, no sprained wrists, and I’ve already tuned her.”

“Still, Hanta…” Kyoka’s expression softens ever-so slightly. “I get it. You need the hours. But I already told you, I’m fine with giving you my share of the merch sales―”

“I’m not taking your cut,” Hanta says firmly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but I promise I won’t be doing this much longer. Just a few more weeks, and I’ll have enough saved up so I can quit. We go on tour, we get our name out there, we make enough to not have to wait tables or mop puke-covered floors for a while.”

Kyoka opens her mouth, then closes it. She heaves out a long, tired sigh. “We’ll talk about this later, Hanta.”

Ugh. Hopefully, Denki will get her drunk enough to forget to have that conversation. Or Hanta could schmooze someone into getting him so shitfaced she’ll feel bad about opening up that can of worms. Either works.

Hanta steps in to help their opening act with moving their gear off-stage, taking the time to observe the crowd they have tonight. The turnout is great, easily the biggest crowd they’ve had so far without losing that close, intimate vibe of the basement shows they performed when they were starting out. He can pick out a few familiar faces, too―Rikido from work, Hizashi from the record store, and a handful of groupies that have been going to their shows since the very beginning. Further back, over at the bar where Mina is mixing drinks, he sees Kyoka’s girlfriend, Momo.

And she’s not alone, apparently.

It’s clear that Momo knows the guy she’s talking to. Someone she knows well enough to feel comfortable drinking with, though he doesn’t seem terribly interested in the tallboy in front of him. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to display big, powerful arms. Despite his physique, he almost looks a little on edge at the bar, like a total fish out of water…

…until another guy tries to touch Momo, and he shuts that down with little more than a stern glare.

Wait a second. Hanta has seen this guy before.

Momo’s a scrapbooker. She’s constantly taking pictures and working in her well-stocked craft room, putting together elaborate scrapbooks that she’s all too eager to show Hanta and his bandmates when they come over for midnight breakfast. She’s got pictures of everything―their shows, date nights, and lame-ass office parties with cheapshit alcohol.

He doesn’t remember the guy’s name. It was mentioned off-hand once or twice, but he’s usually a lot more put-together in the photos of those office parties. Carefully-styled hair, red eyes behind half-frame glasses, impeccable posture, and from what he hears from Kyoka and Momo, incredibly serious.

No wonder he looks so out of place. Dude’s cosplaying as punk. What a fucking poser.

Momo waves from the bar, a brilliant smile gracing her features. Hanta can see Kyoka return the gesture from the corner of his eye, no doubt smiling like a lovestruck idiot. Shit, if he didn’t know her so well, he would’ve thought they’d only been dating a couple weeks, not nearly four years.

Hanta’s attention goes back to Glasses. Now that he recognizes him, it’s easier to see just how… uncomfortable he looks. Noise might be getting to him. Maybe he doesn’t do crowds? Whatever the case, he can at least say that Momo’s joke of a guard dog can pull off one hell of a disapproving stare.

He’s pulled back into the present when Kyoka’s voice blasts through the stage speakers, cranking the energy of the bar up to eleven. The roar of the crowd before them is an adrenaline shot, wiping out the exhaustion from his day job.

Hanta grins. His heart beats to the rhythm of Eijiro’s bass drum. His lungs fill with electricity. His body begins to move of its own accord, every action a natural reaction to the music that fills this shitty little dive bar.

Everything else disappears. Hanta forgets about his shitty day at the diner. He forgets about his bare-bones shoebox apartment. He forgets about the stack of bills on his shitty excuse for a desk, and his beat-up budgeting notebook, and the pile of possessions he’s planning to sell to make rent next month. None of that matters here and now.

It’s just Hanta, his friends, and their dream.

Tsukuyomi’s set is over far too soon. Within seconds of the stage lights going dark, Hanta is hurled back down to reality. Adrenaline continues to pump through his veins as they tear down. Despite the chatter of the patrons, Tartarus suddenly feels too quiet. Those who were just here for their show are either heading out or lined up in front of the cramped little merch table.

It was a good show. Great show. Fucking kickass show. But it’s over now, and that means thinking about which bill to put his cut of merch sales toward and whether or not Hanta will have enough left over for groceries. He can’t keep relying on Rikido’s (delicious, comforting, warm-n-fuzzy flashback-inducing) leftovers for the rest of his life.

That’s easier said than done when you’re in a band with Denki Kaminari.

As soon as their shit is packed up and secured in Mezo’s van, Denki throws an arm around Hanta’s shoulders. “Dude! That had to have been our best show yet―”

“You say that every show.”

“Isn’t that the point? I mean, it shows we’re getting better!” Denki practically drags Hanta along as they walk past the stage, completely ignoring the fact that it’s his turn to help Mezo at the merch table. “Like, Han… look how far we’ve come! Next thing you know, we’re gonna be on our first world tour.”

Denki isn’t wrong. This was their biggest crowd yet. The line at the merch table is the longest it has ever been. The remaining patrons who probably weren’t even there for Tsukuyomi in the first place seem interested. Still… he can’t let himself get too comfortable. Their success isn’t guaranteed, and one wrong move could―

“Denki! Hanta! You all sounded phenomenal.”

Momo Yaoyorozu is very much the odd one out in their friend group. She comes from stupid amounts of money. She’s always dressed in pretty, trendy clothes. She doesn’t know much of anything about their scene (though she’s come a long way during the time she and Kyoka have been dating). But despite being from a completely different world, Momo has never once treated Hanta or his friends as if they’re beneath her.

“Thanks, Yaomomo!” Denki says, taking the open seat next to Kyoka. “Sooooo, who’s your friend? You and Kyoka decide to spice―”

“You say one more word,” Kyoka interrupts, “and nobody’s going to be able to find your body.”

Denki shuts his mouth. 

Glasses looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and die at Denki’s attempt at humor. He clears his throat, offering a stiff greeting. “Tenya Iida. I work with Yaoyorozu-san.”

“Since Mina was bartending tonight, I asked Iida-san to accompany me!” Momo beams. “I’m quite pleased to report that I haven’t had any issues with drunken patrons all night.”

Yeah, because the dude’s built like a brickhouse. “Hanta Sero. The idiot blond―”

“Hey!”

“―is Denki Kaminari.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Iida replies. His tone is polite, but his body language says that he’s uncomfortable. Uncertain.

Poser or not, the guy doesn’t deserve to have every tiny move he makes scrutinized. Besides, if Momo vouches for him, maybe he is a decent guy. Hanta can play nice, at least for tonight.

“Good to meet you, too,” Hanta replies. He takes the open seat next to Iida, hoping to save the poor guy from having to respond to any more of Denki’s incredibly personal questions.

“Anyway,” Denki says, taking the hint, “I was just talking with Hanta about tonight’s show. You fuckin’ killed it, Kyoka! Nobody could tell you had laryngitis for the last week or so.”

“Denki,” Kyoka says, making a pinching motion with her fingers. “This close.”

“Your fingers are touching.”

“Then you’d better be really fucking careful about what you say next.”

From there, it’s business as usual. Hanta scores a few free drinks from Mina. Kyoka and Denki have a debate that’s every bit as entertaining as it is ridiculous. Shit, even Iida seems to be getting more comfortable with them, occasionally interjecting with his own interesting (and funny) thoughts.

And then disaster strikes.

…Okay, maybe “disaster” is too dramatic. Honestly, the fact that the line at their merch table is still ridiculous almost half an hour after their set ended is pretty good. Really fucking good. But it’s just Fumikage and Mezo at the table, and they’re fucking drowning.

“...Wait. Denki, you ass, it was your turn to help―”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to be over here this long, I swear!”

Momo raises her hands in a placating manner. “Oh, please don’t fight! Honestly, I didn’t think so much time had passed, either.”

Kyoka sighs, taking a moment to collect herself. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. But you need to go over there now. They need help bad.” She rises from her seat. “Babe, I’ll be back. I should get over there, too.”

Momo smiles, standing up. “I’ll help, too!”

“Yaomomo,” Denki starts, “you don’t need to―”

“I want to. Really, it’s no trouble at all.”

…And now he’s alone with Iida. Cool!

Hanta debates joining his bandmates at the merch table. There are a lot of people―probably too many if the look of irritation on Mezo’s face says anything―but it feels weird being alone with Iida. It’s not like he can spend the night talking Mina’s ear off. She’s got actual work to do.

Then again… it seems like a pretty dick move to just ditch Iida. Even if he doesn’t know the guy personally, he’s Yaomomo’s friend. He kept a bunch of creepy dudes from touching her or spiking her drink. It’d be shitty to throw him to the wolves.

“So…” Hanta says. “You, um… you ever been to Tartarus before, Iida?”

“God, no,” Iida says. “Honestly, I’m not a fan of crowds.”

Ah. No wonder he seems so uncomfortable. “Y’know, neither am I.”

Iida’s eyes widen with surprise. “Really? Your performance on the stage suggests otherwise.”

Hanta laughs. “It’s different when I’m up on the stage, man. It’s… I dunno. I guess it’s hard to put into words. Good thing I don’t write our lyrics, right?”

That gets a small laugh out of Iida. “Well, I’m certain you’d make a far better lyricist than I.” His posture seems to relax a little, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile. “Could I buy you a drink, Sero?”

Hanta finds himself returning the smile. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.

This is a polished, slightly edited version of the original thread I posted here. I don't know when I'll start posting this fic to AO3, but it'll likely be once I know we're approaching the end of the story.

Title is from "Emotional Rent Control" by Cheekface.

Tags: SeroIida, Quirkless AU, Tech Support Operator Tenya, Punk Musician Hanta, Background MomoJiro, Background Kacchako, Past IidaChako, Amicable Exes

Tenya Iida considers himself a patient man. He has to be, for his line of work.

How he wound up working a mind-numbingly menial tech support job with all the time and effort he put into his degree is baffling to him, but Tenya tries not to complain too much. The work itself is repetitive (“Is your computer plugged in? Did you turn your device on?”), but it pays his bills.

And it isn’t like there aren’t little things that make it bearable. It’s a short, ten-minute walk from his apartment. His office is situated across the street from a café that makes the best cup of coffee he has ever had. To top it all off, his coworkers are delightful.

There’s Izuku Midoriya, who sits in the cubicle to Tenya’s left. Though he’s prone to rambling, he’s the exact sort of person who would drop everything to help someone in need, no matter how little he knows them.

There’s Denki Kaminari, located in the cubicle to Tenya’s right. He’s nice enough―and deceptively intelligent―though he’s a chronic oversleeper, always showing up anywhere from ten minutes to an hour late.

And there’s Momo Yaoyorozu in the cubicle behind Tenya, separated by a walkway roughly two meters across. She’s arguably even more overqualified than he is for this job, yet she remains perfectly humble and approachable.

Tenya is quite fond of his coworkers, but he’s a very reserved person. He’s not the type to seek out much adventure, and when he does, he needs plenty of time to recharge. He is, to put it lightly, not the type of person many people go out of their way to hang out with.

So it’s rather surprising when Yaoyorozu, of all people, flags Tenya down as he’s leaving the office to ask him to accompany her to the show her girlfriend’s band is putting on at a dive bar, of all places.

“Surely Kaminari would be better suited for this type of outing,” Tenya says. “I, ah… I’m not quite sure I’d fit in very well with, um…”

“Kaminari is in Kyoka’s band,” Yaoyorozu explains. “I would normally go with another friend, but she’s actually working the bar and won’t really be able to help with some of the more… persistent patrons.”

Tenya frowns. It’s true, Yaoyorozu is a beautiful woman. But that certainly doesn’t grant anyone license to continue to flirt with her even after she’s made it clear that she’s taken, no matter how inebriated that individual may be. The idea of going out to a dive bar, surrounded by cacophonous music and drunken patrons, sounds miserable to Tenya. However, he isn’t the type to let down a friend in need. “All right, then. I’ll gladly assist, if you don’t mind me sticking out.”

Yaoyorozu lets out a soft laugh. “You’ll be fine, Iida. Despite the reputation some dramas give them, the punk scene is very welcoming. They care less about how you look and more about how you act.”

That’s not as reassuring as you might think, Tenya wants to say. He knows his reputation at the office―uptight, strict, and loud―but maybe he won’t actually have to talk much to people. Maybe it’ll even help with some of the more obnoxious drunks.

Yaoyorozu gives him the date and time of the show, which he promptly pencils into his planner―next Friday, 8 PM at Tartarus.

“Thank you again, Iida,” Yaoyorozu says, offering him a brilliant smile. “I really appreciate it!”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Iida assures. “Do give Jiro my regards.”

They part ways from there, Yaoyorozu heading for the train station and Tenya beginning the short walk to his apartment. As he passes busy shops, he begins to think. Thinking, naturally, turns to overthinking.

Yaoyorozu said he’d be fine as he is, but wouldn’t showing up in his everyday clothes draw unnecessary attention to them? Tenya can’t very well go to a punk show in a button-up and nice slacks. It’s a dive bar, not one of those absurdly expensive fine dining restaurants.

When he gets home, he tries to find something that might make him stick out less in his closet. To his frustration, all Tenya finds is reasonably-priced business casual clothing―black button-up shirts, a quarter-zip sweater that he received from work, polos that make him look less like a punk and more like he should be covered in body oil and making a fool of himself on one of those American reality television shows.

Tenya sighs. He might need help. If not to keep people’s attention off of him, then to at least ensure he doesn’t make a fool of Yaoyorozu in front of people he presumes she knows well enough.

Thankfully, he might know just the person to talk to.

When Tenya Iida met Ochaco Uraraka back in high school, he knew that he would have a friend for life.

They love each other, even if that love has changed over the years. For a time, they even dated―it was a happy enough relationship, and at one point, Tenya was convinced he’d marry Ochaco. But even when the romance died off and they had that long, painful conversation on the couch in the apartment they used to share, they cared about each other. They still care about each other.

So that’s one of the reasons he shoots Ochaco a long, rambling text message that he wouldn’t blame her for skimming through. Tenya has always had her back, even with little things, so he knows she’ll have his, too.

The other reason? Her current boyfriend―fashion designer Katsuki “Dynamight” Bakugo, known for his very distinct style. A style that Tenya is pretty sure fits the definition of punk.

Two days after reaching out to her, Tenya sits with Ochaco in the living room of the apartment they used to share, chatting idly over tea. Aside from some of the aesthetics, not a whole lot has changed about the place―Ochaco still uses his method of organization for the books on her shelf, the furniture layout is mostly the same, and there’s still photos from their outings with friends and family hanging up on the walls.

Tenya smiles. It’s nice to know that despite how things ended, they still share some affection for one another.

“Soooo,” Ochaco says, taking a sip of her tea. “Who’s got you so worried about how you look?”

“It’s not what you think,” Tenya says. “A friend wants some help keeping… ah… people too inebriated to take ‘no’ for an answer at arm’s length.”

“That’s sweet of you, but that doesn’t totally answer my question.”

“Her girlfriend is in this punk band, and they’re playing at Tartarus in a few days―”

Ochaco raises an eyebrow. “Tartarus? Tenya, hun, no offense, but isn’t that going to be a bit much for you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Tenya says. “I’m going to have to spend the weekend in bed to recharge my social batteries. But Yaoyorozu is a friend of mine, and I’d hate to hear that her experience at one of her girlfriend’s gigs was ruined by someone not keeping their hands to themselves.”

“Right. Okay. And you’re concerned about how you dress because..?”

“It’s ‘cuz he’s gonna stick out more than he usually does,” Bakugo says as he enters the room with his supplies. “Ain’t that right, Glasses?”

Tenya sighs heavily. “Yes.”

Ochaco nods. “Fair enough.”

Bakugo is a lot of things―rude, snarky, arrogant―but he’s exceptionally talented in so many ways. Were it not for the fact that humans have physical limitations, Tenya believes he’d see the man in more than just fashion magazines. Bakugo’s ego is obnoxious, but he can’t say it’s entirely unwarranted. If Tenya could do half the things he could do at that level of skill, he would probably also have an insufferable ego.

Besides, he’s wonderful toward Ochaco―treats her like royalty―so Tenya is certain there must be something truly special inside Bakugo that makes putting up with his flaws worth it. He just hasn’t seen it yet.

What Tenya does see is some level of professionalism. As soon as Bakugo begins his work, much of the snark is lost. He asks relevant questions as he takes measurements, stepping away to scribble something down in a well-used notepad here and there.

“When’re you supposed to meet up with whatsername?” Bakugo asks.

“Yaoyorozu and I are supposed to meet up around 7:30 on Friday, a little before the show starts,” Tenya says.

“Right. We’ll swing by your place around 5, then. That should give us enough time to get you ready.”

“I only need an outfit, Bakugo, not an entire makeover.”

“You need someone to make sure you don’t look ridiculous,” Bakugo says. “And if you need alterations, you’ll be fuckin’ thankful to have me around. Cheeks probably wants to see your dumb cat, too―”

“Don’t be mean to Miso!” Ochaco calls out, “And he’s mine, too! Tenya and I still have joint custody!”

“You’re talkin’ about a fuckin’ animal, not a child!”

“He’s still our baby!”

Bakugo rolls his eyes, but Tenya can see a sort of fondness in his expression―a rare look at the Katsuki that he once believed didn’t actually exist. “Whatever. Anyway… that work for you, Glasses?”

Tenya nods. “That should work fine for me. If anything changes, I’ll be sure to let you know. Thank you very much for your time.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Bye, Tenya! Give Miso kisses for me!”

If there is a higher power, then Tenya wonders if he did something to offend it.

First, his alarm didn’t go off. Tenya had groggily woken up with exactly twenty minutes to drag himself out of bed, get dressed, and run to work. He didn’t even have time to stop for a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich from the café across the street.

Next, he had his most frustrating customer to date―an elderly woman with absolutely no technical mastery who outright ignored Tenya’s attempts to help her troubleshoot her problems, then berated him when her computer wouldn’t work. He almost accepted Shinsou’s offer of a cigarette when he finally got off the phone with her and stepped outside for some air before assisting his next customer.

Then, there was a mix-up with his lunch order. Tenya still ate the food, because at that point, he hadn’t had anything yet, but he had really been looking forward to some beef stew after so much of his day went horribly wrong.

He wants nothing more than to lock himself in his apartment, flop down on his bed with his cat, and watch his guilty pleasure dramas. But toward the end of the day, he’s reminded of plans he made with Yaoyorozu. Tenya has to go to a loud punk show tonight.

The temptation to find an excuse not to go is strong, but Tenya doesn’t go back on his word without good reason. Besides, Yaoyorozu asked him for his help, and he isn’t the type to leave a friend in need hanging.

“Who pissed in your cereal, Glasses?”

Tenya winces. He had hoped when Bakugo and Ochaco came over, his irritation wouldn’t be so obvious. “Apologies. It’s, ah… been a long day.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Ochaco says. She hoists Miso―a small, gray cat with a torn ear and missing an eye―into her arms. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nothing much to talk about, I suppose,” Tenya sighs. “Minor mishaps, all in all, but no less infuriating. I just hope my social battery holds out tonight.”

Ochaco lets out a sympathetic sound. “Tenya, I’m sure your friend would understand if you’re not up for this tonight.”

Tenya knows that Ochaco is right. Yaoyorozu is far too kind and caring to force someone into a social situation that might be too overwhelming for them, but that’s precisely why he needs to go. He will not let down a friend, even if he’s running on fumes.

“I’ll be fine,” Tenya says. “Now, Bakugo, what have you brought with you tonight?”

The outfits Bakugo threw together all share three qualities―they’re tight, made with dark fabric, and are very much things Tenya absolutely would never wear of his own free will. Jeans so distressed he’s certain they’ll fall apart if he moves just the wrong way, chains that make rattling sounds with every step he takes, spikes so sharp he’s terrified he’ll take someone’s eye out. He turns down the fishnet shirt, the tripp pants, the harness he’s almost certain was purchased from the local sex shop, anything that feels too over-the-top.

Eventually, Tenya settles on something closer to his comfort zone―a white top with the sleeves cut off, tight black jeans distressed at the knee, and a studded belt that might also be from the local sex shop. Though it’s modest compared to the other outfits Bakugo picked out, he still feels like a fish out of water with his arms exposed like this.

“With guns like these, nobody’s gonna mess with you,” Bakugo says. “Not unless they’ve got a death wish.”

“Bakugo, I don’t intend on starting any trouble,” Tenya says.

“They ain’t gonna know that. Besides, it ain’t gonna kill you to show some skin. Maybe taking someone home tonight and having them―”

“Katsuki,” Ochaco says, “unless you want an hour-long lecture, I’d stop there.”

Bakugo rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Cheeks, you doin’ his makeup or what?”

Tenya blinks. “Pardon?”

“I won’t go overboard, I promise! Maybe you’ll forget you even have it on.” Ochaco sets Miso down, who objects strongly with the loudest, creakiest meow he can manage. She picks up her makeup bag, motioning for Tenya to sit.

“Is this really necessary? I hardly think―”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

Tenya lets out a sigh. “Oh, all right.”

Ochaco lets out a squeal of delight, shoving him toward the couch. “C’mon, sit down!”

“Could you at least tell me what you plan on doing?”

“Nope!” Ochaco gently takes off Tenya’s glasses, setting them down on the coffee table. She situates her makeup bag between them, scooting in close. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Tenya sighs. “I do.”

“Then do me a favor and hold still.” Ochaco starts digging into her makeup bag. “The less you move, the faster we can get you on your way.”