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“I guess… I dunno…” Katsuki replied, slouching against the back of his chair. He hadn't blown up any stress toys in a few sessions, and this one was pushing its luck. The toy's squish mildly satiated his discomfort, but the poor little dinosaur’s eyes popped out with each squeeze. Katsuki felt kind of bad for it.
“I see. And you'd like to work on that?”
Another squeeze to the dino. Despite having been attending therapy for several years now, there were still days that made Katsuki feel unsteady and irritable. He was still doing his best to find outlets to express that anger without yelling at anyone.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about why it's hard for you to say ‘I love you?’” his therapist asked gently. Normally, if it were anyone else, that question would've set him off. But Dr. Hirai had proven herself an exception over the years, and Katsuki had immense respect for her. She was calm enough to handle his temper and tenacious enough to push him into uncomfortable territory when he needed it.
“Not really. It just is.”
They both knew he was thinking about bloody battlefields, explosions, and things that haunted him in the night.
“Well, maybe you just need to work up to it. There are other ways to express your love for someone.”
“Like… love languages?” Katsuki replied, trying and failing to keep the disdain from his voice.
“Exactly. Some people buy gifts, and others show physical affection, like hugs. Some people might clean or do the chores to take care of their loved ones. It could even be as simple as leaving an encouraging sticky note on a friend's desk. I'm certain you've caught yourself doing similar things for your loved ones before, Katsuki.”
He scoffed a little, but Dr. Hirai was undeterred and fixed him with a knowing look.
“You may not think it, but you show people you love them all the time, Katsuki, even if you don't realize it. I know because of how much you talk about the people who are important to you, the details you remember about them. Just because your love is quiet doesn't mean it's not there.”
“I don't think anyone who knows me would describe me as loving.”
“I beg to differ,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea. “But, if saying ‘I love you’ is too much, then find a smaller way to tell the people around you how much you care for them. You like to cook, don't you? I believe you've mentioned that once or twice.”
Katsuki's ears burned. How dare this woman he was paying to know him well actually know him well?
“It's relaxing, I guess.”
“Alright, so start there. Sometime this week, cook something for a person you care about.”
Katsuki considered her advice for a moment, dino toy momentarily relieved from its cage of death. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? He cooked all the time. Back in high school, after the war, he even made group meals multiple times a week.
He nodded silently in agreement.
“Though,” Dr. Hirai added, standing from her chair, “If I had to guess, you probably already do that. You've just never thought of it that way.”
The slight pink on Katsuki's face told her all she needed to know.
Ok, so all he had to do was force all of his concealed affection into his cooking. That seemed… ridiculous. Katsuki practically shook off the idea as soon as he left therapy until the following week. He came home for the weekend, a rare luxury for a rising pro hero, but he'd scheduled it last month and plenty of rookies were scrambling for the chance at a downtown Tokyo shift.
“I'm home, old people!” Katsuki called as he entered, respectfully removing his shoes instead of kicking them off against the wall like he would've done as a kid. There were still scuffs in the paint if one looked close enough. His mother appeared around the corner the next instant, happy and soft in the way she only was after he'd been gone awhile.
“Hi Kats,” she greeted, reaching up on her tip toes to ruffle his hair. He still wasn't used to being taller than her despite the fact he was twenty-five. “Your father is in the studio. The concept for our new line debuts in two weeks, and well… You know how he gets.”
“How you both get,” Katsuki chided, taking note of the bags beneath her eyes. They were incredibly minor, her skin as youthful as ever, but he knew how deceptively Mitsuki wore exhaustion. “How much sleep you been gettin’?”
“That's my line.”
“None. You already know the answer,” he shot back, but his tone was fond. “Villains keep us running up and down twenty-four-seven.”
“Mmm,” she agreed, huffing when Katsuki wouldn't let her take a bag.
“I can carry my own stuff, Old Hag. Go tell Dad I'm here so maybe he'll take a five second break.”
“Alright, alright,” she sighed with a wave of her hand. She padded off into the basement to get Masaru, unaware of Katsuki's eyes still glued to her back. He'd called his mother “Old Hag” all his life; he wasn't ready for the day that became reality instead of a joke.
He moved his belongings up to his childhood bedroom, then headed back downstairs into the kitchen which still did not contain his parents. He checked his phone to find a predictable text from Mitsuki:
Almost finished with design. Be up soon.
Katsuki smirked. That meant they'd be at least another hour. He wandered about the kitchen a moment before it hit him that they most likely hadn't eaten since lunch, if not breakfast. Katsuki knew how they got right before a new release— rushing around all the time, chugging caffeine, not sleeping until past midnight. It was as if they wanted to die before seventy.
Well, Katsuki wasn't letting them die on his watch. Fortunately for him, his parents were known for keeping a well-stocked kitchen. Katsuki moved around the area with familiarity that dated back to when he was a toddler and Masaru was teaching him to cook for the first time. He remembered it like it was yesterday.
Katsuki had to use a stool to see over the edge of the counter, little hands grasping a wooden ladle. Masaru cupped his own large hands over Katsuki's, gently guiding him as they poured the pancake batter onto the griddle. He'd been worried his quirk might activate accidentally, since he didn't have great control of it yet, but his dad kept his palms steady and calm.
“See, Son? Not too hard.”
“I knew it would be easy!” Katsuki lied.
He remembered the song Masaru had hummed as they flipped each pancake, one by one.
“Whistle while you work~”
And when they were finished, three plates of fluffy pancakes topped with strawberries were waiting on the counter. Next to them sat a small, handmade card.
“Do you know why we got up this morning to cook, Katsuki?”
“Because it's Mother's Day?”
“Yes, and cooking for Mama shows her how much we love and appreciate her.”
“Oh.”
Then Mitsuki walked into the kitchen in her white robe, her hair wet from a shower that didn't seem conveniently long to Katsuki at the time. She gasped in delight and what he now understood to be fake surprise, her hands coming up to cup her cheeks.
“Happy Mother's Day, Mama!”
Katsuki found himself smiling at the memory as he went about making the negimaki, slicing the beef into perfect, balanced pieces the way his father had taught him to do. Back in his U.A. days, his classmates had always marveled at his skills with a knife. They'd always assumed he cut so efficiently because he was angry when in reality, the opposite was true. Katsuki was rarely ever more relaxed than when he was cooking.
Next came the scallops, which he wrapped the beef around before securing a toothpick through each roll. After marinating them and getting his skillet going, he also started a pot of rice, knowing that his parents probably needed the carbs. Soon the rolls were brown on the outside but still pink within, except for Mitsuki's. He left hers on the skillet a bit longer since she had never been a fan of rare meat. The rice finished at almost precisely the same time (as he planned), so he began to pull out some plates from the cabinet and plate the rice in careful, round portions. Then he laid the negimaki on each dish, coated them with the excess teriyaki sauce, and set the plates down in their respective places: to the right for Mitsuki, to the left for Masaru, Katsuki across. It was the way they'd eaten their meals his entire childhood.
He texted his parents who had obviously gotten too caught up in their designing process again. When that didn't work, he simply walked over to the doorway by the staircase and hollered, “DINNER'S READY!”
Mitsuki's head whipped around the corner, a pencil stuck behind her ear.
“What? Kats—”
“I said, dinner is ready. Come eat before you both waste away to dust and I have to vacuum you off the carpet.”
Both his parents emerged from the basement with pencil smudges on their knuckles and glitter stuck to their clothes, a sure sign that Japan's newest trend was probably sitting in their studio.
“Hi kiddo!” his father called, giving Katsuki a hug like he always did. His mother ruffled his hair once more.
“You didn't have to make dinner, Kats!”
“Thank you, Son.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes and shrugged noncommittally, like dinner was second nature, like it was an afterthought. But when his parents took their respective seats, and Mitsuki commented on how Katsuki cooked hers just how she liked it, and Masaru noted that he'd used his favorite kind of teriyaki sauce, it became glaringly obvious that couldn't be farther from the truth.
The meal said everything Katsuki himself couldn't say unless he was delirious in a hospital room: I love you, I care, I'm here.
A few weeks later, Katsuki found himself cooking for a very special occasion. His best friend, Kirishima, was planning to propose to his long time girlfriend, Mina Ashido. Katsuki had known both of them since high school, when they were both still hormonal teens who were absolutely terrible at flirting and went on cheap, cheesy dates. And while they did get on his nerves 99% of the time, he was truly grateful he was alive to see their next chapter.
Kirishima was proposing at the park near U.A. where they'd had their first date, and along with the ring, he also wanted to give Mina her favorite dessert, ichigo daifuku. The dish wasn't difficult to make and could easily be bought at a store, but Kirishima begged Katsuki to make it because “everything tastes better when you make it, Baku-bro!” Despite his initial exasperation (Kirishima was a bit dramatic), Katsuki was honored that his best friend wanted him to help with his proposal.
So, in the morning, he went to the local market and bought two cartons of fresh strawberries, careful to select a batch that wasn't bruised. He also picked up some anko, shiratamako, and red food coloring. The last item wasn't necessary for the recipe, but Katsuki never did anything halfway. He wanted the desserts to fit the occasion, so he decided to dye the outer shell pink.
Mina was going to freak out.
Kirishima was planning to propose that evening, which gave him adequate time to prepare the dessert, but Katsuki bought extra of everything in case something went wrong (not that he expected it to). He turned on one of his favorite playlists and set to work a little after nine.
This dish wasn't nearly as complicated as some of the things he liked to cook, but it still required careful attention to turn out just right, especially when it came to shaping the mochi. First, he cut the stems off the strawberries, then covered them one by one with the anko. He mixed his sugar, shiratamako, and food coloring together in a separate bowl and microwaved it until warm, then proceeded to cut the newly formed mochi into precise rectangles. The mochi stuck to his fingers to an absurd degree, which was annoying. Katsuki sighed, pressed down the irritation, covered his hands with more cornstarch, and continued. He molded the mochi around each coated strawberry, slowed by the fact his right hand could still be clumsy even after all these years.
When he was finished, he was left with over twenty bright pink strawberries all neatly stacked in a little container to give Kirishima. Without permission, a dumb smile crept across Katsuki's face. He could practically see Kirishima's excitement when he saw the daifuku and hear Mina's scream of delight. The poor guy would be lucky if his girlfriend paid attention to the ring at all instead of immediately diving for the dessert.
Nah, that wouldn't happen. Mina would definitely shriek for joy before her boyfriend even had the chance to hit one knee, Kirishima would cry like a baby, and later Katsuki's phone would light up with a text:
She said yes!!!!
This time, Katsuki could almost feel the love in his touch as he gently popped the cover on the container and headed to his room to get ready for work, daifuku still sitting on the countertop.
There was one glaring problem with this whole “cooking is Katsuki's love language” thing Dr. Hirai had suggested. Because if cooking for people was how Katsuki showed his love, then he'd basically been writing Izuku Midoriya love letters for years.
The whole affair had started innocently enough; Izuku, a college student at the time, never took a break from studying long enough to eat proper food. He'd been that way as a hero, too, always running himself ragged and skinny if nobody made sure he ate. Katsuki hated the sight of a worn out Izuku, and no, that didn't have anything to do with the weird feelings that floated around his chest anytime Izuku looked at him too long.
During university, Katsuki would drop by after his shifts, before his shifts, whenever, to give Izuku food. Some breakfast, a snack— whatever it took to keep the nerd from pounding an energy drink and calling that a meal. Once Izuku began working as a teacher at U.A., Katsuki imagined their arrangement might change. Izuku would either bring a lunch or eat at the cafeteria. Simple.
The idea definitely didn't make Katsuki a little sad.
But no, Izuku Midoriya might be the world's greatest hero, but he was the world's worst at getting lunch, apparently. One of two things always happened: either Izuku forgot his pre-made lunch at home, or he didn't budget enough time to make it to the cafeteria and back before his next class because he got sidetracked. And so, once again, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight found himself taking time out of his jam-packed schedule to cook and deliver lunch to the teacher.
And, well, he made Izuku everything— yaki udon, gyudon, tonteki; whatever he could fit in a bento box alongside some rice and vegetables. Katsuki discovered that he liked trying out new recipes and Izuku liked eating them, and while the teacher definitely had his favorites, he insisted that anything Katsuki made was amazing. If he had a little extra time, they'd eat lunch in Izuku's classroom together.
Katsuki pretended he didn't spend most of that time watching Izuku eat instead of eating his own meal.
He'd memorized the way his eyes crinkled when he particularly loved a dish, the way his cheeks flushed slightly when Katsuki accidentally made food with more spice than he could handle, how he always tried and failed to grab for his drink discreetly.
Katsuki loved cooking for him.
Katsuki loved him, too, but he was too much of a coward to say that, to risk ruining the special bond they had. He'd rather die again, heart cracked open and all, than ruin that. So he poured everything— his love, his care, his concern, his devotion— into small gestures, into the everyday meals he faithfully prepared like a lovesick fool.
Perfectly proportioned, fluffy egg-fried rice with vegetables on top. Noodles that were spicy enough to have some kick but not so much Izuku had to reach for a drink with every bite he took. Taiyaki that was slightly burnt and filled with chocolate. Once, when Katsuki was feeling a little too bold and reckless, he even slipped a few pieces of white chocolate into Izuku's bento for dessert on White Day. The nerd didn't get the hint, as usual, which left Katsuki feeling both relieved and disappointed.
In truth, Katsuki never really expected to get caught, and certainly not over a meal as simple as his katsudon.
It was a special day they never named aloud: the day the last ember of One For All died out. There was no fanfare or bittersweet goodbye, only quiet acceptance. There was only Katsuki's phone lighting up at two in the morning with a shaky call from a subdued Izuku.
“It's gone, Kacchan. One For All. It's finally gone.”
So now, every year on November 17th, Katsuki and Izuku got together for what Katsuki dubbed “All Might Day.” The date didn't have any special connection to their mentor, but Izuku always accepted the flimsy excuse to hang out without question since he didn't like to be alone on the anniversary. It wasn't anything fancy; typically, they met up at either Katsuki's or Izuku's place and binged a bunch of old All Might movies and documentaries. Oh, and Katsuki always made katsudon.
This particular “All Might Day” seemed to be following their usual tradition perfectly. They met up at Katsuki's apartment at 5:30, he started the food in the kitchen while Izuku rambled about his day, and they ignored the phantom of One For All that seemed to linger in the air.
Katsuki was coating the slices of pork in panko, content to listen as Izuku ranted about his students. He'd only been a teacher for about five seconds, and there were days it showed, especially when he let a bunch of teenagers get under his skin.
“I am being so serious, Kacchan, the kid wanted his hero name to be Daddy Shouto. Like, ‘Oh no, don't worry! DADDY SHOUTO is going to save us!’ Honestly, it's a mockery of heroism.”
“You realize you're talking to the guy who picked Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight.”
“That's different! And now you make it a cool abbreviation, anyway,” Izuku huffed with a flick of his hand. “One girl wanted to be Uravity's Wife. I am not joking. She got up in front of her classmates with that written on her whiteboard.”
“You should make ‘em run laps or something for wastin’ your time,” Katsuki replied as the pork cutlets began to fry. He started his onions in a separate skillet, so Izuku had to talk louder to be heard over the sizzling.
“You know what? I should.”
“That or you and I run them around a bit in training. We could try X-Catapult with the suit just for the sake of scarin’ em.”
“Kacchan.”
“What?”
Izuku had his chin propped up on one hand as he leaned against the counter-top, peeking over the rims of his glasses with that look which made Katsuki feel like he was dying all over. He immediately wiped the nitroglycerin from his hands on his apron, because if that touched the grease things would get very explosive very quickly.
“Nothing. You just make me laugh.”
“Oi, you mocking me?”
“Never!”
Later, when they were seated on the couch with fresh bowls of katsudon, Katsuki was queuing up the first All Might documentary. It was from his early career, when he was just a rising rookie hero and not the Symbol of Peace. Katsuki and Izuku liked to watch the films in chronological order of release, you see.
Izuku had fully shed his work clothes and was now clad in an oversized All Might hoodie and blue sweatpants, his glasses set on the low table in front of them. His socked feet were propped up on the corner, an annoying habit that Katsuki didn't waste his breath to chide anymore. He was eating his food slowly, like he always did when he wasn't scrambling for time, but there was something different. His expression was keen and focused, fixed on the katsudon as if it were the most interesting meal he'd ever had instead of one he'd eaten a thousand times.
“What's up with that weird face, Nerd? I can tell you're thinking, you know. Too much smoke.”
“Oh haha,” Izuku replied, squinting his eyes as he gently cradled the bowl in his hands. He studied it for a few more moments, and then with his eyes still trained on the bowl asked, “Isn't katsudon usually made with leftover cutlets?”
“...What?”
“Like leftover pork cutlets from another meal, that sort of thing. That's how my mom always made it.”
“What are you even getting at? You wish the pork cutlets were some crusty leftovers, ya freak?!” Katsuki scoffed, moving to turn on the movie with a playful eye roll. He stopped when he saw that Izuku's thoughtful expression had only grown more intense.
“No, Kacchan. What I'm getting at is that you always buy it fresh, just to make katsudon.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do! I know because you have to bread the cutlets with panko, and every time you complain about how it feels on your hands.”
“Okay?! So I buy the pork for katsudon! What's it to you?”
Izuku's eyebrows knitted together as he tapped his chopsticks against the side of the bowl. Then he looked up, and his curious gaze locked onto Katsuki like a rifle. He could practically feel the red dot on the center of his forehead. It was the closest Izuku had inspected him in years, possibly, and all over a simple bowl of katsudon.
“W–what?”
“You don't even like pork that much, do you?”
“Izuku, what the hell—”
“You buy it just for me, don't you, Kacchan? You buy it, despite the inconvenience, to make something which is supposed to be convenient, just because you know it's my favorite.”
Katsuki could sense the heat rising up his neck and curling around the shell of his ear as his heart picked up speed.
He'd been caught.
Izuku smiled softly and set the bowl on the table as if it were a delicate prize. He turned to face Katsuki, his legs folded in front of him crisscross like a small child.
“Now that I think about it, you do this with every lunch you make me.”
“Do what?” Katsuki replied stiffly, trying to bite but ultimately coming up empty.
“Do things you don't have to do. Go out of your way for me. I mean, you've been making me lunches for years! They look so perfect I have people ask me all the time who made them. You don't cook anything too spicy, and if I eat less of a side or meal you immediately swap it for another. You drive me to work if it's raining because you know the bus makes me paranoid. You chase reporters away whenever they try to bring up Tenko in an interview. You even…”
He paused, and now Katsuki could see the pearly tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
“You even came up with ‘All Might Day’ so I wouldn't have to be alone on the anniversary of losing One For All. Did you know you're the only person who knows the exact date?”
Katsuki shook his head, his ears ringing as he tried to pinpoint where this conversation was headed. What should he say? What should he do? He wanted to show the people around him that he loved them since he never said it, and look where that had gotten him. Now, Izuku had him backed into a corner with no way out that wouldn't burn their friendship to ashes.
“I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you, Kacchan, for all you do for me. For noticing. I know you're not all sentimental like me, but—”
“I am,” Katsuki interjected, much to his own mortification. Izuku stared at him like he'd grown three heads. “I just… I ain't good with people like you are, or with words. So I…”
Katsuki's voice grew quiet in that vulnerable way he loathed but the people around him seemed to adore.
“ ‘S how I know to express it.”
“Express… what, Kacchan?” Izuku whispered, and his tone was so hopeful that Katsuki might throw up. Because surely he wasn't hoping for this. He just wanted Katsuki to admit that he cared, as if that wasn't obvious. He didn't want Katsuki's love. Not after their past, after everything Katsuki did to him. Surely, surely, he didn't want all of Katsuki's big, ugly, almost wordless…
“Love,” Katsuki breathed, terrified of that single, silly word which most people doled out like candy. “ ‘S how I tell you I love you, ‘Zuku.”
There was an earth-shattering silence, a beat where Katsuki was certain he'd just destroyed the best friendship he'd ever have. Because with them, the way they were, there was no way Izuku would interpret such a quiet confession platonically. If Katsuki had wanted to say he loved Izuku like a brother, he could've clapped him on the shoulder after a tough battle and said “I love you, bro,” the way Kirishima had done to him thousands of times.
Katsuki's thousands of thoughtful, carefully prepared meals were not that.
He hadn't even realized his hands were quivering until Izuku was easing his own bowl out of them so he didn't drop and shatter it. He placed it on the table next to his own, expression soft but unreadable.
This is it. This is where he's going to tell Katsuki that he's thankful but doesn't feel the same and Katsuki would never get to cook for him again because all of his food was tainted with bleeding, aching, yearning love.
“Kacchan,” Izuku began, his tone so sweet and open that it made Katsuki's eyes start to water, “You love me?”
He was full-on shaking now, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His right hand started to ache like it always did when he got particularly stressed.
“Mmm. I– I couldn't say it— didn't mean to say it, ‘Zuku, I'm sorry—”
“You didn't mean to say it as in you don't mean it?”
“No! No… I do. I do mean it. But I don't wanna lose you.”
“Why would you lose me, Kacchan?” Izuku asked, a little incredulous, and for a moment Katsuki wondered if somehow he was dense enough to think this was a friendly conversation.
“Because you might not feel the same! Because I don't deserve you, after everything. I mean, what kind of weak person waits so long to apologize? What kind of weak person can't even say three basic damn words?”
“You're not weak, Kacchan, and if anyone ‘deserves’ me, it's you. You, who sacrificed everything and still find ways to give more pieces of yourself. But the only thing that matters is I love you, Kacchan. I really do.”
“But I can't say it like other people, Izuku, I—”
“You just did, and you already have. You've told me you loved me every day for the past… what is it, seven years?”
“That doesn't count.”
“It doesn't count?! Kacchan, I have people constantly asking if my wife makes my lunch.”
Katsuki flushed and glanced away, unable to withstand the earnest gaze one second longer.
“ ‘S nothin.”
“It's not nothing! It's everything, Kacchan, don't you get that? If anything, I'm an idiot for not noticing sooner.”
“You're not an idiot—”
“You gave me chocolates, homemade chocolates, on White Day, Kacchan. Don't think I didn't notice that, because I did, and also that's not how it works because I didn't get you anything for Valentine's Day.”
“Oh so now you're on the technicalities of when I can give you chocolate?”
Izuku huffed and smiled fondly at Katsuki's teasing.
“Kacchan can give me chocolates whenever he wants.”
The warmth on his face grew hotter as the confirmation that Izuku did not somehow misconstrue this as platonic hit him. That meant Izuku loved him in the same way he loved Izuku.
Wait, what?
“So you're not… pissed, or anything?”
Izuku's deadpan face nearly made Katsuki burst into laughter.
“No, I am not pissed that the man I've loved my entire life loves me and wants to cook me food. Really, Kacchan?”
“Hey! You're telling me you wouldn't have been scared to confess first?!”
“Okay, okay, you're right. I was. Suppose that's why we haven't been dating all this time, huh?”
“Dating?”
“Oh, is my boyfriend not the one making my lunches every day? That's just some random guy?”
“Shut up you jerk—”
Izuku flopped down on top of him in a giggling mess, tangling limbs as he somehow managed to curl himself around Katsuki like an affectionate snake. And Katsuki, totally unprepared and not used to the physical affection, worried he might explode.
“Don't tell my mom, but your katsudon is better than hers,” he whispered. Katsuki could feel the hum of his voice against his own ribcage. It felt like being covered in a weighted blanket, that is if the blanket was your incredibly attractive, muscly, dorky best friend. Katsuki defaulted to his usual defense strategy: false confidence.
“Duh. Of course it is.”
Izuku laughed again, this time gently prying open Katsuki's fingers to interlock them with his own.
“Maybe you should start a gourmet cooking show, Kacchan.”
“Can it.”
“You can yell at everyone like that one Australian guy!”
“Izuku.”
“Fine, fine. I only want Kacchan cooking for me anyway.”
Katsuki coughed a little at the implications of that sentence.
“What?”
“Nothing! I'm starting the show now.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Oh wow, I've never seen this one, would you look at that?”
“Izuku!”