Chapter Text
“This is really stupid. Unbelievably stupid. Mom might not even want this, anyways, with how she’s been going on about that recent diet fad.” Izuku rolls his eyes skyward, worrying a lip between his teeth. “I should trash this disaster and bring a salad.”
He sighs with exasperation, staring back down at the mixing bowl with a grimace. He doesn’t want to waste the ingredients he’s already combined. How could he have gotten this far into the process without making sure he had enough of everything?
All he needs is another third of a cup of sugar. Just a third.
Maybe the recipe could survive the loss? He rummages through his cabinets again, hoping he’s overlooked a spare bag somewhere. He’s already scavenged the last of his sugar jar by the coffee mugs. He checks online for reasonable ingredients that he could use in exchange, but none of them sound quite right. As a last-ditch effort, he skims the comment section below his chosen recipe and groans in misery as he spots no less than three users forewarning doom if the required sugar isn’t precisely measured.
(He suspects those users are being unnecessarily dramatic, but he’s not sure he’s willing to risk it.)
He (probably) isn’t going to cry over a failed dessert.
He doesn’t really relish the idea of bringing a salad to his mom’s house for dinner. The whole reason behind the fancy, delicate (terrible idea) dessert was to spoil her a little.
He sighs, wiping the remnants of flour from his fingertips on his apron. He can just hit up the bakery on the way to her house.
The waste of ingredients is fine.
(Not like the waste of his skills thanks to ridiculous job requirements.)
No big deal.
His mom won’t care what she’s missing out on, so long as he stops by with his cheerful self.
(Just like his occasional employers don’t care what they’re missing out on, so long as he keeps sending in his work.)
(It’s fine.)
The tiniest thump next door startles him from his brief moment of self-flagellation and his brain clicks in a new direction. A vaguely terrifying direction, but it just might work.
He can…ask.
He can knock on his neighbor’s door and ask for a cup of sugar. People do it all the time in the movies!
He blinks at the absurdity of his reasoning, reconsidering how idiotic it may (or may not) be. The weekend at this time of day is probably the best time to intrude on a neighbor he hasn’t met. Asking for a cup of sugar with a promise of sharing the end result might be a great way to make a new acquaintance, anyways, right?
All of the neighbors on his floor are absurdly quiet, although he’s pretty sure he’s heard a cat once or twice. Sometimes he isn’t even certain there is anyone living in the apartment next to his, but the sound a moment ago gives him reason to believe otherwise.
He might get lucky, and it’ll be some adorable old lady that dotes on her eight cats and knits scarves for a dozen grandchildren.
He picks up the measuring cup and sighs at it one final time, gathering his resolve to head next door armed with his most charming smile. Maybe she’ll at least take pity on his novice attempts at baking even if she’s not keen on making a new acquaintance with the hopeless guy next door.
(He leaves his door open a crack so he can quickly escape in case it turns out to be an angry old man with an attack dog.)
He’d really rather not impose on someone unnecessarily, but before he has a chance to psych himself out of an awkward attempt at meeting someone new, he’s already knocked three times on the neighbor’s solid wooden door. He swallows back his nerves, glancing down the hall at the two doors on the other side of the hallway.
His unusual working hours means he has never met or seen the other few (supposed) tenants on his floor. Are they all working odd schedules, avoiding neighbor interaction, hiding their own dark secrets behind thick wooden doors reinforced with extra locks?
Maybe he’s projecting a little.
The door cracks open and the jingle of the security chain draws his attention back just in time for him to plaster on a brave (super charming) smile, but he doesn’t see anything at first until he realizes that the face peering out at him is much higher up than the little old lady (or angry old man) he has been picturing for the last five minutes.
The mysterious (tall) neighbor stares down at him with one shadowy eye through the darkened gap in the door and Izuku feels himself shrink just a little bit as his smile strains along the edges. “I-I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but…”
The door shuts quietly in his face, and Izuku feels his heart sink. The smile drops off his face entirely.
That was quick, he thinks. It usually takes a glance at his ID or the inevitable ‘What’s your quirk?’ part of introductions before he experiences solid rejection like this.
He represses a sigh, because of course it would be just his luck to meet someone that could spot his kind with nothing more than a glance. He turns a glare down at his bright red shoes before turning to head back to his apartment. Few people know to look for those as a clue, but that doesn’t mean no one knows to look.
The chain rattles behind his neighbor’s door before it’s pulled open again, and he looks up in surprise at the violet-haired male standing in the open door, suddenly unsure whether he should be pleased that the neighbor is willing to hear him out, or wary that this very tall stranger is shrouded mostly in shadows and glaring down at him in clear suspicion.
Izuku swallows nervously and rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Hey. Um. I’m your… neighbor. Next door.” He points to the left with his thumb before lifting the partially filled measuring cup.
“This is really dumb, and I’m so sorry for bothering you, but I was hoping you might have a tiny bit of sugar, so I don’t have to toss the entire recipe that I idiotically started mixing before I…realized…”
He trails off as the neighbor lifts a lavender eyebrow with clear incredulity.
Izuku bites his lip in nervous anticipation and tries not to shrink even further as his neighbor stares him down for what feels like an entire minute, apparently sizing him up as his unblinking gaze sweeps him from head to toe. Without saying a word, he gives a sharp flick of his head for Izuku to follow him into his apartment. He turns left and disappears into the kitchen.
Izuku carefully toes off his shoes just inside the door. The apartment’s lights are off and blackout curtains hide the early afternoon sunlight, so the only light illuminating the short walk to a pantry is what spills in through the open front door. The kitchen light flicks on and Izuku blinks against the sudden glare of illumination as his neighbor drops a hefty bundle of what looks like a grey scarf across the kitchen counter, obscuring several dark items scattered across the flat surface.
It’s nearly the peak of summertime, so the sight of a scarf is an interesting detail.
Maybe he’s perpetually cold?
Izuku drags his attention away from the summertime scarf and looks toward the rustling noises as his neighbor rummages through a cabinet for sugar, but then something in his peripheral vision causes him to do a double take. He surreptitiously glances back to convince himself he had just imagined it-
Nope.
Peeking out beneath the edge of the scarf is clearly the handle of a knife (and definitely not the variety used for just cooking) right next to what looks like the matte black grip of a firearm. Izuku tears his gaze away and presses his lips together to cut off the sudden urge to drop into muttering speculation as he works out dozens of ideas that suddenly ping through his brain. He doesn’t want to reveal that he noticed, nor does he wish to spook his neighbor, but he knows he hasn’t quite gotten a handle on thinking out loud despite the years of garnering weird looks from people that have overheard him.
His neighbor could just be some kind of security professional or a collector. Maybe he’s a cop. No reason to jump to conclusions.
It’s fine.
He’s not nosy, and all he’s here for is some sugar.
(It’s fine.)
Aside from the few items he’s pointedly not gawking at, the kitchen is almost painfully sparse, with nothing more than a half-full coffee pot and a single mug sitting by the empty sink. His neighbor turns back in his direction with a neutral expression as he brandishes a bag of sugar.
Under the spill of bright kitchen light, Izuku can see dark marks under pale violet eyes that match his gravity-defying hair. He looks exhausted as though he hasn’t slept well in a very long time. Izuku idly wonders if maybe he shouldn’t be drinking coffee if he has trouble sleeping.
The neighbor blinks placidly, and Izuku belatedly realizes there’s a hand outstretched for the measuring cup. “Oh! Here. Thanks so much. I can bring some of the completed recipe by for you, later, if I don’t completely ruin it in the meantime?” He laughs, feeling a bit unnerved by the lack of response, but then his neighbor shrugs indifferently as he pours sugar into the container with a steady hand. That wasn’t a no, he thinks, and then he really hopes he doesn’t bomb the recipe.
Izuku wrings his fingers together as he looks over his neighbor with curiosity. His hair and eyes are the only visible splash of color against his monochromatic outfit. His clothes look well-worn but are in good condition, baggy enough to be comfortable for lounging while hiding his general physique. Izuku estimates the guy must work out based on the width of his shoulders and the muscle definition along one bared forearm.
“Have you lived here long?” Izuku asks, wondering if the drawn-out silence might be due to excessive shyness (doubtful), a quirk limitation (possible), or an unspoken wish to encourage Izuku to leave as soon as possible (most likely).
His neighbor doesn’t answer as he hands back the filled measuring cup.
Izuku clutches the sugar to his chest with a trembling smile. This is going so badly. “Well, it was nice meeting you. I really appreciate this.”
His neighbor shrugs again with an audible sigh like he can’t wait for this cheerful interloper to get out of his home.
Izuku hurries to the door and haphazardly stuffs his feet back into his shoes, casting a quick glance at the darkened interior that he hadn’t seen on his way into the kitchen. Pale light from a laptop screen creeps along a blank living room wall, revealing the slim silhouette of a folding chair and card table.
Either his neighbor has recently moved in, or he embraces a super-minimalistic lifestyle.
“Ehm,” he says, swallowing down his nerves as he steps into the bright hall outside the apartment and pauses to look back at the still-nameless neighbor now gripping the door handle with an inscrutable expression. “Please, if I can return the favor sometime in the future? I’m in number two, next door. Thanks so much!” He bows as the door shuts quietly between them, and Izuku cuts off a sigh at the disastrous mess of their awkward first meeting.
At least he hasn’t sneezed or tripped and spilled sugar all over the floor.
Yet.
He stares down at the precious recipe ingredient that has already caused so much trouble and hurries back to his apartment to finish baking.
(It’s fine.)