A/N: this fic probably does not contain accurate representations of katsudon
Good food. Really good food.
Izuku smells it as he opens the front door – a mixture of spicy with just the right amount of sweet. It's familiar even though it isn't; something he could put a name to if he wasn't so exhausted.
He steps in quietly; shuts the door without sound and removes his muddied sneakers. There are three pairs of house-slippers at the entrance – Sero's, Denki's, and Kirishima's.
Kacchan's are missing – he must be in the kitchen. No one else is at home. Izuku gulps.
He runs a hand through his curls, squares his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, Izuku slips on Denki's pair – the closest in size – and makes his way to the kitchen.
He should say hello, he muses. It would be rude not to. After all, Kacchan was on duty early in the morning, when Izuku stopped by to tell them about the emergency call and ask if he could stay the night.
They haven't seen each other in months, besides.
Still, Izuku is surprised that Kacchan is cooking. But then again, it isn't really that surprising – he was always a good cook. Yeah, Kacchan probably cooks for the other three, too. Probably curses as he does, but. Well. That's Kacchan, isn't it?
Izuku smiles to himself as he rounds the corner. Sure enough – there he is. And a nameless emotion – a mixture of nostalgia and something so wistful it hurts – knocks the breath from Izuku's lungs.
Kacchan's back is turned to Izuku as he stirs a large pot on the stove. He's dressed in baggy sweats that have no business being so flattering, a custom-print Ground Zero apron tied loosely around his waist.
Yeah, Izuku thinks, shuffling across the tile – this is Kacchan. The man he knows so well and yet can't help feeling that he doesn't know at all. Izuku licks his lips, unsure how to break the silence.
He feels suddenly very much like an intruder; like the guest that he is. Not meant to see Kacchan in the comfort of his own home, like –
"The fuck? You thought I didn't know you're staying the night!?"
Izuku jumps as Kacchan whirls around. He brandishes the ladle; sauce flies, splattering onto the countertop and microwave.
Izuku squeaks and backpedals until he collides with the refrigerator. Magnets fall to the floor in protest, and the cold metal makes Izuku shiver.
"Uh," he stammers, "h-hi."
Kacchan scowls. He gives him a quick once over, raking a sharp gaze up and down Izuku's stocky frame. When their eyes meet, he snarls.
Izuku swallows thickly. He tries not to squirm under the weight of Kacchan's attention before realization hits him like a slap. Izuku flushes crimson; his neck is hot beneath the thin cotton of his worn t-shirt.
"Oh, um, I said all that out loud, huh?" he asks, voice so high-pitched that it doesn't sound like his own. Izuku's hand finds his hair, cards nervously through dense green curls. He giggles, and then wants to kick himself.
Kacchan grunts and rolls his eyes as if Izuku is a lost cause. Which he is, isn't he?
"You never fucking change, do you, Deku?" he grumbles, turning back to the pot on the stove. "Damn nerd."
Izuku sighs, then a smile tugs at his lips. He isn't the only one.
He studies Kacchan's back – the outline of his chiseled shoulders and tapered waist – and the blush, which had started to fade, returns with vengeance. His name feels different when it's Kacchan who says it, after all.
"So, uh, are you making dinner?" he says, sidling a bit closer. Izuku hopes it isn't too shameless of him to ask. But he can't resist; his mouth has been watering since he walked in, and now, he's certain that Kacchan is making katsudon.
"Fuck no," Kacchan bites – and Izuku's shoulders sag. He overstepped his boundaries, definitely. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Kacchan beats him to it –
"It's too late for dinner. Who the hell eats at midnight? It's not good for your health."
Kacchan glares at Izuku like he's a villain, a criminal for not taking proper care of his body – the tool of his trade. And okay, yeah, today has been a pretty bad day. But it isn't like he always does this. Izuku's smile falls, and then his stomach decides to growl. He flushes.
"Um, uh. I didn't get a chance to eat today," he stammers, staring at his toes. It sounds like he's searching for excuses, even though it's the truth.
"They called me here this morning and the mission lasted longer than it was supposed to, uh, I could've done better, but at least no one got seriously injured, and – and," Izuku trails off as he realizes he's rambling, and the red on his cheeks extends to the tips of his ears.
"So, um," he finishes with a whisper.
When Izuku glances at Kacchan, he rolls his eyes again. "Yeah, I was keeping track of that shit," he says.
Izuku's eyes widen. Oh, Kacchan was – was worried about him? No, probably just monitoring the top-priority mission – a lot of pro-heroes often do. Still, warmth pools inside Izuku's chest, giddier than it should be.
"Anyway," Kacchan mutters, as he scoops rice into a bowl and pours stew over it, "so you're hungry and all that." He gives Izuku an unreadable glare.
"S' fine. It's worse if you don't eat anything than eat late."
And then Kacchan is holding the big bowl of steaming katsudon in front of Izuku, his hands fully extended. Izuku stares at it. Blinks twice. There's an awkward second, before –
"Here!" Kacchan snarls. Izuku tears his gaze away from the food to look at Kacchan. His face is dusted with pink; ruby-red eyes too bright in the dim indoor light. "Eat it, for fucksake!"
Izuku's eyebrows furrow. Oh, it smells impossibly good. But he's not meant to eat this. Right?
"But – but I thought?" Izuku's eyes dart between Kacchan and the katsudon right under his nose. "I thought this isn't dinner?" he splutters.
"Hah!?" Kacchan yells, and the pink across his cheeks deepens to become scarlet. He grips the bowl so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
"The fuck, Deku!? You sayin' I went through all the trouble of making this shit, and you don't wanna eat it!?"
"What? No! Nonono!" Izuku gushes. Heat creeps up his neck until he's sure that his blush mirrors Kacchan's.
The last thing Izuku wants to do is offend him. Though apparently, it's already too late for that. Not that Izuku knows what he did wrong. Everything, he guesses.
Izuku fidgets. But he also really, really does want Kacchan's katsudon. And it would be rude to refuse food offered with so much – so much passion. Izuku's blush darkens. Kacchan does everything with passion.
Their fingers brush as Izuku accepts the bowl. And that's when he realizes –
"Oh. I'm sorry for troubling you."
It's Kacchan's turn to splutter without words. He stares at Izuku like a deer caught in headlights before yelling again.
"What!?" he shouts, even though Izuku is inches away. "Ain't no fucking trouble! I wanted to cook this, so I fucking did. You got a fucking problem, nerd!?"
Kacchan fires explosions from his palms before crossing his arms over his chest. His face is burning red – rage, there should be no question about it.
And yet, standing in front of Kacchan with an apron tied around his waist, a bowl of homemade katsudon warming his own hands, Izuku can't help but think that maybe. Just maybe.
He shakes his head and smiles, wide and brighter than the sun. "Thank you, Kacchan," he says.
Izuku holds Kacchan's angry gaze. "It's my favourite!" He pauses for a moment; chews his lip as he considers. "Haha, it's almost like you knew!"
Izuku doesn't mean anything by it. At least, he's pretty sure that he doesn't. It's just him being, well, him. A blabbermouth who can't filter his thoughts.
But Kacchan bristles.
"How the hell would I know you like this!?" he screams, loud enough that Izuku starts and thinks Kacchan might actually throw a punch. Except, he doesn't. His mouth clamps shut, and he grinds his teeth.
Kacchan glares at Izuku like he wants to incinerate him on the spot, then licks his lips and whips around with hunched shoulders. Izuku's jaw drops.
Kacchan is blushing. He's totally blushing. His chin is ducked but it couldn't be anything else – Kacchan's cheeks, his ears, the back of his neck until it disappears into his oversized hoodie. They're all blazing violent crimson.
"Fuck," Kacchan groans. "Just fuck off, Deku."
Oh. Oh.
Izuku makes his way to the table on wobbly legs, and his voice shakes when he murmurs a quiet "Itadakimasu".
Kacchan starts doing the dishes, banging pots and pans as if they've personally affronted him.
Still, Izuku swears he can feel burning eyes watch him eat. And though Kacchan is never looking at him when Izuku sneaks glances in his direction, pink lingers on Kacchan's face.
Izuku's blush doesn't quite fade either – his cheeks are flushed from start to finish as he helps himself to Kacchan's homemade katsudon that's dinner-not-dinner, trouble-not-trouble, but definitely one of the best things he's ever eaten.
The next morning, Izuku will wake up before the others, fold his blanket, dust the couch, and tiptoe to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
In a corner of the countertop, he'll see a forgotten receipt – dated the previous evening, listing every ingredient for katsudon.
He'll beam, turn beet red, fold it carefully, and tuck it into his pocket.
The next time Izuku happens to spend the night at his friends' place for a mission, - staying at a hotel won't cross his mind - he'll bring all those ingredients with him.
He'll smile sheepishly as he asks Kacchan to make katsudon again.
Kacchan will glare at Izuku, then the overstuffed grocery bag, and say –
"That'll make a shit-ton. You gonna eat all that?"
Izuku will blush and stumble over his next words even though he's practiced –
"No, uh, I thought. Um, we could eat together?"
And Kacchan's cheeks will be just as dark as Izuku's when he grabs the bag and stalks to the kitchen, muttering curses under his breath.
But he'll make katsudon.
And they'll have dinner. Together.