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“How did you enjoy dessert, sir?”
Katsuki throws his napkin onto the table and fixes his impeccably-dressed server with a scowl.
“Fuckin’ obvious, ain’t it?” he grumbles, indicating to his plate. The three-tiered rectangular sorbet has been barely touched, only the tiniest dent made in it using the edge of a spoon before all hope of finishing it was abandoned.
The server nods along, only the tiniest glint in his eyes indicating annoyance at Katsuki’s foul mouth. “I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask why it wasn’t to your taste?”
Katsuki hands the tiny, pathetic excuse for a dish (seriously, what is this? A teacup saucer?) back to the server. “This the sorbet made with nitrogen?”
“Indeed. Liquid nitrogen was used to flash-freeze the flavour components into individual layers,” the server recites. “Tart lemon at the bottom, earthy zucchini in the middle and sweet strawberry on top. A mille-feuille of classic springtime ingredients presented in a subversive style.”
“It was tasteless,” Katsuki says.
The server sneers, looking Katsuki up and down. His ruffled blonde hair, his stretchers, his eyebrow slit, his pitch-black hoodie and ripped jeans. “The distinguished culinary concept at ‘Le Printemps’ is to distil the essence of spring itself into each and every mouthful. To convey to the customer the fleeting nature of the season that brings both life to our natural world. And, much like the enjoyment of a wholesome meal, that the given life likewise proves to be merely fleeting.”
“As is my visit here,” Katsuki says, reaching for the bag stowed beneath his seat. “Can I get my jacket?”
The snobbish expression evolves into indignation. “And what about your bill, sir?”
“The paper already covered any expenses,” Katsuki dismisses.
“Paper?” his server repeats.
Katsuki slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Yeah, The Yuuei Times . I’m their senior restaurant critic.”
He really does try not to smirk too much when the server’s face blanches a ghostly white. Instead, he carefully plucks his denim jacket from the man’s arms.
“And let your bosses know, from me,” Katsuki continues, “that if they want to be truly ‘conceptual’, they should conceive food that tastes like something.”
A sharp breeze cards through Katsuki’s hair. He curses under his breath, hugging his jacket close to shield his body from the crisp Tokyo nighttime air.
Another day, another so-called ‘esteemed’ restaurant that favours flashiness and concept over flavour. Which, in Katsuki’s book, is a pretty vital step in becoming a successful restaurant.
‘Why the fuck does Aizawa send me to these places?’ he muses bitterly, turning a street corner. ‘ Is there not a single gourmet restaurant left in Tokyo that actually serves good food?’
Just last week Katsuki was sent to three different restaurants, each one boasting an experimental, ‘boundary-pushing’ take on an à la carte menu. Each dish was as pretentiously awful as the last: a squid dish that had been caramelised, vacuum-sealed and presented to him on a stick as a ‘Squid-Pop’; a deconstructed lasagne that was literally tomato sauce, cheese, and pasta laid side-by-side on the plate; a panna cotta that had been set in a hand-shaped mould, which he was then encouraged to high-five at the table; an empty clam shell that was filled with nitrogen flash-frozen ‘vapours of the sea’, which he was literally expected to inhale (he walked out on that one).
This job at The Yuuei Times is a rare catch. Katsuki knows that, it’s why he fought so damn hard for it. Not many people can say they get paid to dine at five-star restaurants and sample some of the most cutting-edge cuisine in all of Japan.
However, recently, with every restaurant visited, every hope that swells only to be extinguished once a dish is presented, every mouthful that turns sour with disappointment on his tongue, every condescending server who waffles on about a ‘concept’ they don’t expect him to understand…
Katsuki feels hollow .
He knows he should leave each establishment with a full belly, appetite quenched and satisfaction accumulated.
But… he doesn’t.
More often than not, he walks out of a restaurant at god-knows-what time at night, a rattling cage where his stomach should be and an emptiness thrumming in his veins.
(Not hunger. Emptiness ).
He used to pick up something on the way home. A konbini sandwich, quick and cheap savouriness that bursts on the tongue only to fizzle out within seconds, of no more substance than the ‘vapours of the sea’ ( seriously… how fucking pretentious can you get?). Nowadays, he forgoes it altogether. That’s his plan tonight as he ducks down a narrow side street, awash with the glow of paper lanterns and neon signs.
This neighbourhood is known for its independent bars and eateries. There used to be a tonkatsu spot here that Katsuki would visit infrequently. He doesn’t know when it closed, exactly– all he knows is that he once sought it out after yet another unsatisfying night at work, craving featherlight batter and juicy, moreish pork, only to be greeted with a ‘UNIT TO RENT’ sign.
He stalks past the building, which now houses a run-of-the-mill pub. Raucous laughter erupts from inside, undoubtedly salarymen clinking overfull glasses to toast another job well done.
‘Why drink yourself stupid when you gotta work tomorrow?’ Katsuki thinks.
Then he freezes in his tracks.
Sniffs.
Onion. Ginger. Garlic. Cardamom. Turmeric.
Something unplaceable.
Almost against his will, Katsuki’s head turns.
Directly to his right is a small, unassuming shop, the entrance gently lit by a single lantern just above the door frame. The kanji painted on the lantern reads ‘Curry House’, with a sign just beneath emblazoned with ‘Authentic Southern Indian Cooking’. There’s also a little cartoonish doodle alongside the words that Katsuki vaguely recognises to be Crimson Riot, an old school superhero from the ‘90s.
Normally, Katsuki would scoff at such amateurish details and move on. But that scent is coming from inside, that intoxicating marriage of spice, warmth and rich, rich savouriness. It calls to him, a siren song of aromas and, before he knows it, his hand is pulling the sliding door open.
The interior is utterly tiny, all modest wood surfaces. There are no tables to speak of, merely a square bar at the centre of the room surrounded by stools. The inside of the bar area leads directly into the back which, judging by the luscious fragrance wafting towards him, houses the kitchen. It’s partitioned off by a black curtain patterned with a garish flame design.
Katsuki glances at the walls, which are adorned with framed photographs. He squints at the one closest to him– two women, one with dark hair and beautiful brown skin, standing on a tropical beach, smiling widely and clasping hands.
“Oh!”
Katsuki startles. The ugly curtain has been parted and a young man stares at him. Instantly, his eyes zero in on this guy’s awful crayon-red hair, kept out of his face by a white headband. It’s borderline offensive to the eyes and yet Katsuki has to struggle to tear his gaze away from it.
The man’s young, maybe around Katsuki’s age, with tanned skin, muscular arms and a relaxed slant to his broad shoulders. He’s dressed in a simple black robe with a rich red apron tied around his waist, a cloth in one hand and a spray bottle in the other.
“Sorry dude, didn’t hear you come in,” the man apologises, darting behind the curtain and re-emerging moments later empty-handed. “Welcome to Riot Curry House. What can I get for you?”
‘Fucking stupid name’, Katsuki thinks.
“Gimme a beer,” is what leaves his mouth.
“Asahi?”
“Tch. Fine.”
The guy goes to rummage behind the bar. “Take a seat, my man.”
Katsuki does, even though he knows better, even though he knows he’s got a 9am meeting with Aizawa in the morning, even though he’s already dined on a three-course meal tonight–
The guy hands him his beer and a glass. “Are you eating tonight?”
Katsuki’s stomach grumbles. Loud . Humiliation burns in his cheeks.
Red looks startled, then laughs good-naturedly.
“Guess that answers that. I gotta be honest, I’m almost cleared out in the kitchen and, since it’s nearly closing, I don’t really have time to whip something up. Sorry about that, just check out the menu and see if there’s something you’d like. “
Katsuki glances at the wall. There’s a chalkboard hanging just above the end of the bar on that side, covered with a thin layer of white dust that suggests it’s been wiped and not cleaned properly. There are a handful of dishes written on there, almost all of which are crossed out, and the prices are very reasonable. The only options that remain are coconut rice, a side of roti and something that simply reads ‘Maai’s Dal.’
“Not much to choose from,” Katsuki notes.
The guy doesn’t seem offended. “Well, you weren’t the only hungry salaryman in Tokyo this evening,” he grins.
“I ain’t a salaryman,” Katsuki snips. Then his stomach grumbles again, so before the idiot can open his mouth to comment he says; “Gimme the dal.”
Red nods. “You want a roti with that?”
“Whatever.”
“Comin’ right up.”
He ducks into the back kitchen. Katsuki sips his beer. It’s ice cold. God, he can’t remember the last time he had a beer. Usually, the places he reviews insist on overcomplicated and expensive wine pairings, baulking if he requests just a glass of tap water.
It’s not long before Red emerges from behind the curtains. “Hope this is to your liking,” he chirps, placing a steaming bowl down in front of Katsuki.
It’s full to the brim with what looks like lentils in a rich red sauce, finished off with some roughly-chopped coriander. Scents of garlic and ginger, tomato and caramelised onion, cumin and garam masala– they intermingle and pirouette in the air. A small side dish of roti appears in his line of sight, the man’s hand whipping out of sight before Katsuki has a chance to truly notice it. And the roti– the roti . It looks so pillowy and soft, exhaling steam and patted painstakingly dry of any cooking oil.
A sudden, encompassing want grips his heart like a vice.
“Dig in,” Red invites cheerily.
Katsuki dips his spoon in the bowl and scoops up some dal. Brings it to just below his nose– is that coconut?
Puts it in his mouth.
“Hey, Kats! Wanna guess where we’re going for my birthday meal?”
Warm. Nourishing.
He’s eight years old, grumpily walking down a street in his hometown, his parents in tow. His mom has just tried to hold his hand in public to piss him off. It worked.
Spice. Chilli heat.
“Here it is!” his mom announces, ushering Katsuki and Dad towards a modest-looking restaurant. Katsuki glowers– he’d fought to go to the mapo tofu place round the corner, but Mom had broken out the ‘my birthday, my choice!’ card so they had to come here. Ugh.
But when the door opens, the waft of air brings with it an unplaceable aroma, one that warms Katsuki from the inside out.
Earthiness. Nuttiness.
A couple of servers place a multitude of dishes on their table. Katsuki sees a medley of hues, ranging from rich brown to bright crimson to vibrant green and pure white. A basket of flatbreads is placed at the centre, huge and bursting with heat.
The scents are unlike anything Katsuki has ever smelled before.
It’s…
“Hey, Kats,” his dad says. “Have you tried this?”
He’s holding one of the bowls, what looks like a steaming curry filled with a kind of grain, maybe– or is it nuts? Katsuki narrows his eyes at it, but it smells so goddamn good .
It’s…
Mom isn’t watching, too busy nattering with their server, so Katsuki dips his spoon directly into the dish. Dad doesn’t tell him off, but his lips tighten like they always do when Katsuki toes the line of insolence.
Katsuki puts the spoon in his mouth–
It’s…
And there’s a spark.
Katsuki feels it. Something he hasn’t felt for a long, long time.
(Something he thought he’d lost).
His taste buds, revelling. His stomach, clamouring. His heart, warming.
Slowly, carefully, as if in a stupor, Katsuki has another spoonful.
There it is again.
Contentment. Enrichment.
Pure, honest satisfaction.
Because it’s incredible. It’s so, so good. Just like the first time Katsuki tasted this type of cuisine, a memory long forgotten that’s now been spurred back to the surface. A joy that once permeated every inch of him in less than an instant, settling back in his bones as though it never left.
Katsuki takes another spoonful. Another. Another. Another .
Wait, the roti. Katsuki grabs it and rips out a chunk with his teeth. It’s piping hot, almost scalding on his tongue, but fresh and light and oh so good.
For a while, Katsuki just eats.
He doesn’t dissect.
Doesn’t critique.
Doesn’t pass judgement.
He just eats .
Before he even realises what’s happened, his bowl is empty, the side plate is practically licked clean, and gentle hands are removing the crockery from his space.
“Man, you were hungry,” Red chuckles.
Katsuki doesn’t know if he can force his tongue to cooperate. Doesn’t know if he can distil the multitude of what he’s feeling into words.
“Where did you learn to make that?” is what leaves his mouth.
Red smiles, bright and true. “It’s my mom’s recipe, actually. She’s originally from Goa and this is the dal she used to make all the time when I was a kid. I often had wrestling practise after school and would come back hungry, so she and mama wanted to make sure I was fed pretty quick once I got back.”
He leans an arm on the counter, a wistful smile overtaking his features. “It’s one of the few permanent menu items. She and my mama live in Chiba, so I don’t get to see them all that often. I dunno… I guess it makes me feel closer to them, even though they’re far away.”
A spark.
Red catches his gaze, then blinks hard, like he’s shaking himself free of a daydream. “Sorry, man,” he laughs sheepishly. “Can I get you anythin’ else?”
Katsuki really does consider saying fuck yes, give me all you’ve got for a hot second, as Red dashes into the back and reappears again in a flash. Then he checks the time on his phone and reality steamrolls him flat as a pancake.
“Can’t,” he grunts, ignoring the flicker of disappointment in his belly. “I should be getting home. Got work in the morning.”
Red nods sympathetically. “The ol’ 9-5, eh? What do you do?”
Katsuki could tell the truth. He could tell this guy he’s just fed The Yuuei Times’ most infamous food critic. The guy who can count the five star ratings he’s given in his career on one hand.
The guy who just experienced a satisfaction for a meal he hasn’t felt in countless years.
But he doesn’t.
“I’m a journalist,” Katsuki says carefully. Red nods sagely.
“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “You want your bill then, Mr…?”
“Bakugou,” Katsuki says. “Bakugou Katsuki.”
“Bakugou Katsuki,” Red repeats with a smile, turning and heading into the back.
He reappears about a minute later, bill in hand. Katsuki snatches it from him, a frown knotting in his brow.
“You didn’t add on the beer,” he points out.
“Did I?” Red says breezily. “Guess you can pay for it next time.”
“Who says I’ll be back?” Katsuki retorts, slapping a 2000 yen note onto the bar top.
Red snatches up the cash. “Guess I’m optimistic,” he grins, waltzing to the register.
“Don’t bother,” Katsuki calls, grabbing his bag. “Keep the change, it’ll cover the beer. I’m not gonna be in your debt.”
“It’s only a couple hundred yen,” Red points out, but he pockets the note anyway. “But thanks, man. Get home safe, alright?”
“Like anyone would have the stones to jump me,” Katsuki grumbles. Red laughs at that, a full-on belly laugh, like Katsuki’s just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“I’ll bet,” he chuckles. Then he raises a hand in goodbye, his smile wide and showing off each of his sharp and perfectly white teeth. “Until the next time, Bakugou.”
Katsuki nods and turns to the sliding door. Stops.
“What’s your name?” he says.
A pause.
“Kirishima,” comes the soft answer. “Kirishima Eijirou. I’ll see you soon?”
There’s a hopeful note to the question.
Katsuki doesn’t know if he’ll be back. He knows he wants to, desperately wants to, but he’s a fucking busy man. A busy man who eats out 5 days a week as is.
Warm. Nourishing.
Spice. Chilli heat.
Earthiness. Nuttiness.
A spark.
“That dal,” Katsuki says, mouth dry. “It really was fuckin’ exceptional.”
A pause.
“That a yes?” Kirishima presses. Katsuki rolls his eyes, even though he knows the idiot won’t see it.
“Moron,” he sighs, before opening the sliding door and walking into the biting cold of a Tokyo night.
(Not that he notices it. Not when every inch of him is aglow with contentment, a brand new name etched in his mind).
It’s over a month before Katsuki finds himself at Riot Curry House again.
The situation is laughably similar to the first time around. Katsuki was sent to review yet another up-and-coming gourmet eatery, this time situated directly in the centre of Shibuya. The place was called Magma and its USP was to evoke the sense that their food had been cooked in the heart of a volcano, supposedly to ‘enrich their already-astounding dishes with a charring and unique minerality unlike anything that can be tasted in the city’.
Katsuki thought it was unique, alright. Unique in that everything tasted burnt to shit. He left after one bite of the main course.
So he wandered through the streets of Tokyo, cold and desperately hungry and especially angry. Before he knew it, Katsuki found his feet propelling him to the metro line unlike the one he usually took to get home and getting off on a stop that certainly wasn’t his. It was raining, too, his trademark black hoodie doing little to protect the spikes of his fringe from the opening of the heavens.
Still, Katsuki is a man on a mission. A hungry one. Which is why he now finds himself standing at a familiar porch, bathing in the glow of vibrant neon intermingling with mellow lamplight. The scent is ambrosial and blanketing every inch of him, even though he hasn’t set a foot inside yet, softly inviting him to part the sliding door and step in.
When he does so, he sees he’s not the only customer this time. There’s some broad-shouldered guy wolfing down something from a bowl, dressed in gym gear and rocking the dumbest silver dye job Katsuki’s ever had the misfortune of witnessing in his life. His eyes widen as he sees Katsuki, cheeks puffing ridiculously as he chews.
“Oh, h’y!” he calls obnoxiously, voice thick. Katsuki feels ill. “K’rishima, y’ got an’ther custom’er!”
“Awesome!” comes a familiar cheery voice, before Kirishima pokes his head out of his curtains at the back. His hair’s still cartoonishly red, swept out of his eyes by that dumb white headband.
His eyes light up in recognition. “Heeey! Bakugou, right? I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever show your face here again.”
“Already regretting it,” Katsuki mutters, glaring pointedly at the asshat chomping in the corner. Silver Head frowns, opening his mouth as if to snark something right back at him ( god , he can see the food stuck between his teeth. What an animal).
“Awww, don’t mind him, Tetsu!” Kirishima laughs, stepping out into the bar area. His getup is the same as before, black robe with a crimson apron tied around his waist. Really, he looks as if he never left that night Katsuki first met him. Like he’s been preserved in stasis in his humble bar, awaiting Katsuki’s return.
(Okay. Maybe that’s a bit much. Even Katsuki’s not that delusional).
“Tetsu here’s my gym buddy,” Kirishima explains. “He was super awesome when I moved to the area and helped me find my footing while I was starting my business. So, as repayment, every week he gets a post-workout meal on me.”
“Didn’t ask,” Katsuki grumbles. He beelines for the nearest barstool, the same one he claimed on his previous visit. “What’s on tonight?”
“Take a look,” Kirishima says, nodding to the chalkboard. “Business was a little slower today so nothing’s sold out. I would personally recommend today’s special.”
Katsuki raises an eyebrow when all he sees scrawled on the blackboard is ‘curry of the day.’ “The hell is it?”
“Such a gentleman,” Kirishima says lightly. “Today I’ve rustled up a Keralan fish curry. ‘S a very fragrant dish, made with a light coconut milk base with ginger, coriander, green chilli and my own secret recipe spice mix. The fish I’ve chosen is pollock but you can use pretty much any white fish you want. I don’t wanna blow my own trumpet but it’s pretty damn good. Right, Tetsu?”
“F’ck yeah!”
Katsuki’s losing the will to live. “Whatever,” he says.
Kirishima nods. “Some basmati rice, too?”
“I don’t care.”
“‘Course. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Beer,” Katsuki instructs, tugging off his sodden hoodie. “Sapporo, if you got it.”
“I’ll check.”
Kirishima ducks down to rummage in his bar fridge, reappearing with an ice cold bottle and beer glass in his hands. “Fresh out, I’m afraid. I’ve got Kirin?”
“It’ll do,” Katsuki grumbles, taking it from him. Kirishima rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness to it.
“I’ll be just a minute,” he says, ducking behind the curtain into the back of the shop. Katsuki does everything he can to avoid laying eyes upon the hulking silver-headed monstrosity to his left and occupies himself with some more of the frames on the walls. He recognises some of the photos he looked at before, plus some he didn’t notice the first time around: Kirishima flexing goofily with friends; Kirishima on a tropical beach, feet in the water and gloriously tanned; Kirishima stood with the beautiful brown-skinned woman, seemingly listening to her instructions as she stirs something in a large saucepan. There’s lots of photos of that woman and her partner, too. Kirishima’s parents, Bakugou remembers, recalling the redhead’s wistful words during his previous visit.
Every inch of the place screams of home . Comfort. A kind of familial cosiness that is a far cry from the clinical, overly-fussy establishments Katsuki normally dines at. Then again, Katsuki can’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed sitting out in a public place.
“Here ya go!” Kirishima announces, snapping Katsuki out of his reverie. A steaming bowl of amber-hued curry is placed directly under his nose. He can see chunks of fish bobbing to the surface, scattered with roughly chopped-coriander. It’s fragrant, alright, so potently aromatic that Katsuki feels a cavernous ache swell inside of him, his stomach practically screaming to be filled.
It smells so good that he doesn’t even attempt to play it cool, digging his spoon into the bowl the second it’s placed in front of him.
He breathes in the aroma. Fiery ginger singes his nostrils, making his eyes water. But there’s a potent richness, an enticing zesty creaminess that is so incredibly enticing. Before he’s even thought about it, the spoon is in his mouth.
Instantly, the flavours burst on his tongue. Rich coconut milk, cut through by potent chilli heat and wrapped in a blanket of sweet garlic. Coriander, kashmiri chilli, fragrant curry leaves, soulful ginger, brought together by beautifully flaky white fish. Paired with fluffy rice, the whole thing is…
“Good?” Kirishima asks as Katsuki digs in again with gusto. Katsuki grunts, much too preoccupied with his meal.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Kirishima says warmly. “Done, Tetsu?”
“Sure am!” Silver Head calls. God, has he ever heard of an inside voice? “Tasty as fuck, bro!”
“Awww, shucks,” Kirishima laughs. “Took me forever to nail the spice mix on this one but customers seem to be really liking it. Can I get ya anything else?”
“Naw,” Silver Head says around a yawn as he gathers his things. “Itsuka’s got a 5am shift, she’ll kill me if I wake her up too late.”
“Gotcha. Good to see you, man.” Kirishima raises his hand.
Silver Head bumps their fists together, so hard that Katsuki feels his own knuckles rattle in sympathy. “Thanks for the grub, bro!”
“Any time!”
With an enthusiastic wave, Silver Head slides open the door and out into the Tokyo streets. The momentary biting cold reaches Katsuki in his seat, causing him to frown and hug his hoodie tighter against his body to dispel any oncoming shivers.
The door shuts. A gentle warmth swells in the atmosphere once again.
Kirishima chuckles quietly, then takes the moron’s bowl and goes towards the curtain.
Katsuki’s mouth moves before he can stop it.
“Where did you train?”
Kirishima halts and looks at Katsuki curiously.
“Japan Culinary Institute?” Katsuki probes. “Cordon Bleu Tokyo? Or one of the smaller, privately-owned academies?”
Kirishima shakes his head. “None, dude. I never went to culinary school.”
Katsuki’s brain short-circuits.
“Are you kidding me?” he says in disbelief. “You’re not professionally trained ?!”
Kirishima laughs bashfully. “I mean, I learned a lot from my mom? She used to cook every single day, all traditional southern Indian food from scratch. I would help her out in the kitchen if I was home and she taught me tons of recipes, so I’ve been cooking since I was a kid really. Once I did get to college I was dirt poor, so I started making meals for other students. It was all out of my tiny apartment kitchen, it used to drive my roommate nuts . It was just a few menu items that I charged dirt cheap for, but it got really popular and people seemed to love it. I guess that was the prototype for what ended up being my shop here.”
“What was your degree?” Katsuki prods.
“Business management,” Kirishima says, pulling a face. “Wasn’t really for me, but I had a great time at college. Once I graduated I landed a sales job here in Tokyo. It was cool at first, moving to the big city. I was a small town Chiba boy through-and-through, still am, so the bright lights and the bustle and the sheer volume of people was a novelty. And I liked my coworkers, despite the long hours. But…”
Kirishima sighs, leaning against the edge of the counter. Katsuki stays silent, spooning the curry into his mouth. Punchy zest kindles in his throat.
“Somethin' felt missing,” Kirishima admits. “I was homesick, for a start. And because I was so busy I couldn’t really call my moms much. The work was okay but nothing special, y’know? I was bored as hell most of the time. I spent most of my life commuting between my apartment and the office, exhausted and wondering if this was my life now.”
Katsuki glances down into his bowl. Fluffy white rice swimming in coconut milk, stained ochre with spice. Delicate chunks of fish.
“Then I started cooking again,” Kirishima continues. “At first, just to feel closer to home and my moms. Then I started doing my meals business on the odd weekend. There were lots of older folks in the neighbourhood I was living in so I would do cheaper rates for ‘em. Before I knew it word got around and I was doing good business. And I was enjoying it. I absolutely loved seeing people’s faces light up at just the scent of one of my mom’s recipes. Hearing them say how much they enjoyed it, how it was real comfort food for ‘em.”
A smile graces his lips, soft with recollection.
“I already had some savings from when my grandparents passed, and then just started saving every yen I could from my day job and still did my meal service every single weekend. I didn’t really go anywhere for, like, a year , didn’t see my friends. They were so pissed that I had to miss all our meetups, but I knew it had to be done. And then, finally, I had enough saved up to quit my day job and invest in my business.”
“I worked out of my own kitchen for the first few months. Takeout only, seven days a week. I started to employ food couriers for delivery, but that was expensive as hell. I knew I wanted a shop of my own. Then, eventually, I lucked upon this unit that was going for a reasonable price. And here I am, a year later.”
The room fills with comfortable silence. Kirishima glances at Katsuki, his cheeks flushing pink.
“Ah, sorry. Here I go, just blabbing my life story. How about you? You said you’re a journalist, right?”
Katsuki grunts in affirmation.
“What’s your area?” Kirishima asks curiously.
Honestly, Katsuki is no liar. It’s what makes him such a damn good reviewer, after all. He wasn’t lying when Kirishima asked him about his profession before– he is technically a journalist– but he was evading.
Now, though, there’s no wiggle room. No chance of evading.
(Off with the bandaid).
“I’m a restaurant critic.”
Kirishima stares at him. He laughs. Hard.
Katsuki stares right back. Kirishima’s laugh dwindles.
Stops.
“You’re joking,” Kirishima accuses.
“You think I tell jokes?”
The colour leaves Kirishima’s face.
“Dude,” Kirishima gasps. “You’re– you’re a critic? For what– I mean, who– ah, I dunno how you–”
“The Yuuei Times.”
“The Yuuei Times?!”
“There an echo in here?” Katsuki mumbles, feeling his cheeks flush.
“Dude, that’s–” Kirishima sucks in a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I mean– god, that’s the most prestigious arts & culture paper in the city!”
“I know,” Katsuki says, folding his arms. “I’m their senior critic.”
“Senior critic,” Kirishima repeats weakly.
“Relax, Shark Boy,” Katsuki snorts. “I’m off duty. I came to eat, not critique.”
Kirishima’s shoulders visibly relax as he exhales. “O-okay. Cool. That’s cool. Not that it wouldn’t be cool if– it’s fine. Yeah. So fine.”
Katsuki reaches for his wallet. “I’ll get the check.”
“R-right. One sec.”
The redhead grabs his bowls and ducks into the back, emerging moments later with his bill.
“That’ll be 2,201 yen,” he rattles off. Katsuki pulls out a 2,000 yen note and a 500 yen coin.
“Keep the change,” Katsuki says. “And I’m not taking no for an answer this time, either.”
Kirishima accepts the cash, a nervous grin on his face. “You’re a cool guy, you know that?” he says, taking the money over to the cash register.
“That doesn’t get said to me often,” Katsuki admits, shrugging on his jacket. “Not in my line of work.”
“I can imagine,” Kirishima chuckles. “Sorry about, y’know, freaking out a little. I had a critic come a little while back, who, ah, said my food was ‘too rustic’. As if that’s not the whole point of my restaurant. I get it, I’m not exactly Michelin-star worthy. I’m not gonna offer a gourmet experience or anything. It’s just the food I grew up with, y’know? And that’s not gonna please the crowds that want a more inventive, boundary-pushing, exceptional–”
“But do you love it?” Katsuki interrupts.
Kirishima looks surprised for a second, head tilting as he processes the question.
He hesitates. Something warm swells in his crimson eyes.
Pride. Passion, maybe.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I really do.”
Katsuki nods, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“I get sent to gourmet restaurants every day of the working week,” he says plainly. “And none of them hold a candle to what you’re doing here.”
Kirishima flushes a brilliant red to match his hair. “You think?” he whispers.
“I
know
,” Katsuki emphasises. “Your shit’s top notch because you fucking care about it.
Really
care. Own that, alright?”
He turns away to head out the door, pausing as his hand hovers before the handle. “But get some Sapporo in. Kirin tastes like piss.”
He hears the hearty laughter burst out from behind him as he steps out into the freezing Tokyo night. It follows him, echoing in his ears alongside his steps, a melody that finds its percussion in the smattering of raindrops against concrete.
“I’ll see you next time, Bakugou,” he’d called after him. “I’ll see you next time.”
Yeah , Katsuki thinks. Next time .
Katsuki finds himself at the shop’s doorstep less than a week later. Kirishima greets him with a bright smile and a hearty wave, as if he’s genuinely happy to see him. Katsuki perches on the same bar stool he did the previous time, and the time before that, as the redhead eagerly talks him through the day’s menu.
The food is exquisite, as always. The conversation even moreso, not that Katsuki would admit to that so easily. And, just as before, he leaves at the toll of midnight with warmth in his stomach and a lightness to his step that hadn’t been there before.
He goes the following week. And the next. And the next, and the next, and the next, until he realises it’s become sewn into his weekly routine without any conscious decision on his part.
It’s… it’s nice , though. To have somewhere to go to. A place he knows won’t leave him feeling emptier than when he first arrives. Where the glow of the lanterns that line that entrance immediately eases any tension that’s built in his shoulders, the strifes of the working day fading from his mind like dying candlelight. Where he can walk inside and it feels like stepping into a home away from home, where a cold drink will be pressed into his hands the second he takes the seat that has wordlessly been assigned as his.
A place where he is always met with a smile that stretches from ear to ear, one that crinkles at the corners of warm crimson eyes. Where his meal is served with a story, told in hushed tones and with expressive hand gestures. Where the colour red feels, in itself, like an invitation to unwind, an incentive to sit back, relax and bask in oral history.
Katsuki returns, time and time and time again. And, thanks to Kirishima’s changing menu, each visit brings with it a new experience, a dish that invariably possesses an aroma that makes Katsuki’s mouth water and thaws his taste buds with comforting heat, rich spice and heart .
Kirishima reels him closer, each and every time. Closer to his heritage, to the history that binds each menu item together. Each new dish brings with it a story, an experience once had and now shared with another.
Katsuki begins to open up more, too. He’s still pretty ambiguous by most societal standards, but Kirishima seems to see past it. And week after week, Katsuki catches himself sharing more and more: the first job he held at sixteen, as a server at his neighbourhood cafe (let’s just say it wasn’t… a natural fit for him); the meal he ate the night he found out he’d been accepted on the most prestigious journalism programme in the country; the chilli hot chocolate his mother would make for him when they went to their cabin in the mountains for their winter vacation.
Kirishima listens along with a tilted head and a soft smile, hanging onto Katsuki’s every word.
So that’s what their routine becomes. Learning more and more about each other, week after week, one meal at a time.
And… yeah.
Nice.
One night, Katsuki steps inside the shop and discovers it is glowing from every angle.
Fairy lights have been artfully arranged across each wall, bathing the photo frames that hang there in a serene glow. They’ve also been strung around the front of the bar itself, creating an inviting radiance that would tempt any sceptic inside. Garlands of vibrant pink and orange flowers hang amongst the lights, their hues only standing out even more amidst fantastic illumination and dramatic shadow.
“Bakugou!” Kirishima calls excitedly. Katsuki snaps his head around and sees the redhead beaming at him from behind the bar.
“Come in, come in,” he says, bending over to stuff a box of what looks like oranges beneath the bar. “And welcome to the Diwali celebrations!”
“Diwali?” Katsuki repeats, taking his usual seat at the bar. There are a few lit candles scattered across the counter in multicoloured glass holders, dousing the wood in a kaleidoscopic wash. Hope a fire warden doesn’t drop by tonight, he thinks.
“The Festival of Lights,” Kirishima rattles off, “My mom is Hindu so we’ve always celebrated it every single year. Speaking of, I’m afraid the shop will be closed until next Monday– Diwali actually begins tomorrow, then I’m taking the five days off to travel home and celebrate with my family back in Chiba.”
“‘S fine,” Katsuki grunts, accepting the bottle of Sapporo that Kirishima slides in his direction (they stopped bothering with the formality of a glass ages ago). “The paper’s booked out my schedule next week anyways. Way too many new restaurants are springing up at the moment.”
“Been anywhere good this week?” Kirishima asks, folding his arms and leaning on the bartop.
“Hardly,” Katsuki snorts. “They forced me to go to a Brazilian barbecue place on Tuesday. They served the meat on katanas and invited me to slice it off with a wakizashi.”
“Y-you’re kidding ,” Kirishima splutters.
“Dead serious.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a prime steak skewered on a longsword,” Kirishima smirks, “Buuuut I do have a dessert on today’s uber-special Diwali edition menu. Can I tempt you?”
Katsuki wrinkles his nose. He usually doesn’t go much in for sweets and he’s been served some fucking dreadful ones in recent months. Then again… Kirishima has yet to serve him something he hasn’t enjoyed.
“If it ain’t shit,” he relents.
“Charming,” Kirishima scoffs, but there’s that customary grin on his face as he dips into the back. He reappears mere moments later, a smaller dish than normal in his hand.
“Gulab jamun,” he says in a sing-song voice, placing it on the counter. “Lemme know what you think!”
Katsuki peers. They appear to be crispy fried dumplings, steeped in syrup and very, very strongly scented. ‘Cardamom for sure’ , Katsuki thinks, but also something sweet and floral, robust and spicy that he can’t quite place yet.
He takes one. It’s warm.
He bites into it.
The first thing that hits him is the cardamom, citrusy and nutty and sweet without being cloying, followed by a robust earthiness. The floral taste isn’t as overpowering as Katsuki feared, instead a delicate sweetness that ties each flavour together in a neat little ribbon– wait, rose! And… saffron? Best of all is the centre– oh, the centre. Warm and gooey and melt-in-the-middle, leaving behind a subtle, milky aftertaste.
It’s unlike anything Katsuki’s tried before.
Except–
“‘S good,” he says, crunching down the rest of his piece and reaching for another. Kirishima watches him closely, leaning his elbows on the counter with his chin in his hands.
Katsuki meets his gaze. “What?” he prods.
“Nothin’,” Kirishima says. “Well. It’s not nothing . It’s just… nice. Seeing how much you appreciate everything. Makes me appreciate it more, too.”
Katsuki hums, swallowing. “Reminds me of something,” he admits quietly. “My grandmother on my mom’s side– she would always make this spiced fruit cake around the New Year. It didn’t taste like this, not at all, but she used her own special shichimi mix. I could never work out what all the spices were when I was a kid, I’d spend a fuckin’ hour eating my slice because I wanted to guess everything that was in it.”
“Did you ever get it right?” Kirishima asks, his eyes soft.
“Almost,” Katsuki reminisces. “I was always off by a couple. Drove me nuts.”
He pauses. Savours the lingering tastes dancing on his palette.
Sweetness. Nuttiness. Spiciness.
“When she was dyin’,” he says. “I musta been… ten? Anyway, she gave me a piece of card. A recipe for her fruitcake. She’d handwritten it herself that morning, she said, ‘cause she’d always done it by memory before. She wanted me to have it. So I could make it myself after… y’know.”
A comfortable silence blankets them. Katsuki’s stares at the candles, aglow in their glass holders. The flames leave hypnotic afterimages each time he blinks.
“Have you tried making it?”
Katsuki looks at Kirishima. His expression is open, inquisitive.
“No,” Katsuki says. “I could never bring myself to.”
“Why?” There’s no judgement in Kirishima’s voice. Just genuine curiosity.
“Because it wouldn’t be the same,” Katsuki muses. “The flavour. The experience, too. I’ll never reclaim what it was that made it special.”
Kirishima seems to puzzle this over, frowning thoughtfully.
“I get that,” he says eventually. “It’s a way of preserving her memory, right?” Katsuki nods. “I guess,” Kirishima continues, “No matter how religiously you follow her recipe, it’s never gonna be the same. That’s not a bad thing, though. Life goes on, changes happen, but that doesn’t mean our previous experiences leave us. Like what I cook here– I make it, but it’s guided by my memory of how my mom made it. Just because something changes, it doesn’t mean it’s forgotten. The essence of what it was will always be preserved in what it
becomes
.”
Katsuki stares at Kirishima. The redhead blinks back at him, then flushes a deep crimson to match his hair.
“Ah, man,” he chastises, “I gotta stop talkin’ your ear off like this–”
“Do you want to come for dinner at mine?”
Kirishima freezes. He stares at Katsuki, mouth slightly agape.
‘Wait,’ Katsuki thinks, ‘What the fuck did I just say?’
“Not now, obviously. Or for a little while, I get you’re fuckin’ busy,” he perseveres, even though he doesn’t know what he’s doing, what’s even
possessed
him, “Just– you’re always apologising for talkin’, because you seem to think I’ll find it unprofessional even though I literally don’t give a shit, so… if we meet up on a day you’re not working, then you don’t have to worry, alright? We can just… talk.”
He scowls down at the gulab jamun. He doesn’t want to see the pitying expression on Kirishima’s fucking face when he declines. When he struggles to find an excuse not to come. When he lets Katsuki down, gently as he can, like he would an overexcited child who overstepped their boundaries. When–
“I close early on Sundays.”
Katsuki’s head swivels.
Kirishima is smiling.
“I work seven days a week,” he continues lightly. “But I close early on Sundays. So we could do something then, once I’m back from my vacation.”
Despite the fact his mind’s racing a mile a minute, Katsuki somehow manages a jerky nod.
“I’m cooking,” he says curtly, pushing on as Kirishima opens his mouth to protest. “I mean it. You’ve provided for me more than enough already. I’m returning the fuckin’ favour.” And that’s that.
Kirishima beams, his eyes shining. “I look forward to it,” he says, and it sounds so painfully sincere.
Sweetness.
Katsuki nods once more, then averts his eyes to the gulab jamun. Tosses another into his mouth.
Kirishima’s just watching him, his chin in his hands and a stupid grin on his face.
“Stop staring,” Katsuki mutters, shoving the plate towards him. “Take one.”
Kirishima blinks at him, then obliges.
“Happy Diwali, Bakugou,” he says warmly, popping the sweet in his mouth.
And as Katsuki sits there, marking the festival with a peaceful, glowing feeling that illuminates him inside and out, he can’t help but concur.
He’s fucked.
He’s so fucked .
What the hell was Katsuki thinking? Did the years of consuming liquid nitrogen finally flash-freeze his brain?!
Why the hell has he, someone who’s paid to eat , offered to cater for Kirishima, who’s paid to cook?!
Katsuki is in the midst of a silent meltdown, stirring the pot on his stove over and over and over and reevaluating his life decisions, when his doorbell rings.
Shit.
“It’s unlocked!” he calls. The door creaks open.
“I’m here!” comes Kirishima’s cheerful voice. “Smells great!”
“Shoes off!” Katsuki yells.
He hears a low chuckle, then the shuffling of shoes being kicked into his genkan.
Kirishima appears moments later, an easygoing smile on his face. His hair’s not in those ridiculous spikes for once, instead lying flat against his head. The red seems richer, somehow. Perhaps it’s Katsuki’s lighting, or perhaps it’s the crimson hue of his t-shirt tricking his eyes.
“I know you said you’ll cook,” he begins, holding a tupperware box aloft, “Buuuut I’ve been recipe testing the past couple days and didn’t wanna waste these.”
‘A likely story,’ Katsuki thinks, but he accepts the box and peers inside. It’s filled with neat squares of what looks like some sort of fudge, only a light cream colour and scattered with crushed almonds.
“Barfi,” Kirishima answers the unspoken question. “Made from condensed milk, so they’re pretty sweet. It may not be your thing.”
“Won’t know ‘till I try,” Katsuki states plainly, shutting the lid. “Thanks.”
“No problem. What’s cooking?”
“Curry and rice,” Katsuki says as evenly as possible.
Kirishima nods, leaning against a counter. “Sounds great. I’ve never had Japanese curry much. My mama would cook it sometimes if mom was busy or not feeling well, but she tended to make it too salty. Yours will be amazing!”
Katsuki snorts, stirring in the pot. “You haven’t even fuckin’ tasted it.” Kirishima shrugs.
“I have faith in you,” he says, like it’s that fucking easy.
(Something hot prickles in the back of Katsuki’s neck).
“Plates are in that cupboard,” he orders gruffly, indicating. “Table’s just through there. Go and make yourself useful.”
Kirishima obliges happily whilst Katsuki stirs his curry and hopes, prays, bargains that this whole thing hasn’t been one huge mistake.
Katsuki’s heart is in his throat as he places a steaming plate down in front of Kirishima.
“There’s more in the kitchen,” he mumbles. “If you want seconds, of course.”
“Awesome!” Kirishima says, grabbing his chopsticks eagerly.
“I ain’t even sat down yet,” Katsuki mutters, but there’s no bite in his tone. He takes his seat at the table, so that he’s sat directly opposite Kirishima.
The guy’s looking down at his plate, eyes shining with something akin to awe .
“Oh,” he whispers, “it smells so good, man.”
What a fucking weird guy. He hasn’t even tasted Katsuki’s cooking yet and he’s already singing its praises.
“Don’t just stare at it,” Katsuki snips. “Eat.”
“Right!” Kirishima claps his hands together, his smile so genuine it hurts . “Thank you for the meal!”
Katsuki tries . He really does.
He tries so hard not to watch like a hawk as Kirishima dives his chopsticks into the curry.
Tries not over-analyse the way the redhead brings it to his nose to breathe in the scent.
Tries not to see how his eyes light up with something , something Katsuki can’t quite place.
How, without further ado, he brings the food to his mouth and tastes it.
Katsuki knows this recipe. Knows it like the back of his hand.
It’s his Dad’s.
Taught to Katsuki when he was still just a bratty kid, when he was barely tall enough to reach the stove.
“This has been in my family for generations,” Dad had said in a hushed voice. Like it was something to be truly revered. “My mother taught it to me. Now, I’m gonna teach it to you. Does that sound good?”
He’d talked Katsuki through it, from start to finish. Let him peel the potatoes, chop the carrots. Stir the curry block into the boiling water.
It’d turned out magical .
And as Kirishima tastes it, this quintessence of Katsuki’s history, his family’s history–
As Katsuki’s heart pounds, pounds, pounds like a drum–
As fear ascends in his stomach like the rising tide–
Kirishima closes his eyes.
Chews.
His eyes open.
And there’s a spark.
“Bakugou,” he says softly, reverently. “It’s delicious, man. So, so good.”
Katsuki scarcely breathes. Scarcely thinks .
All he knows is that he’s leaning over the dining table and capturing Kirishima’s lips in his.
Warm. Nourishing.
Kirishima’s leaning forwards, smiling against his lips.
Spice. Chilli heat.
Katsuki gently cups his face. Places his hand on Kirishima’s forearm.
Earthiness. Nuttiness.
He doesn’t know what they are, exactly. What this moment means, if anything. What this will become . Whether this is mere affection or toeing the line of… of something else altogether.
(Sue him. He hasn’t exactly thought this through).
However, as Katsuki is swept away in a kiss that tastes like his father’s curry, of his past and his present and whatever may come next, having found what he once thought was lost–
He knows one thing for certain.
Warm. Nourishing. Spice. Chilli heat. Earthiness. Nuttiness.
Home.
They’re both exactly where they belong.