Chapter Text
It’s not that Shouto doesn’t like spicy food. He can appreciate the sharpness that spice adds to a dish, the enhancement of flavors, the slight burn that rises in the mouth. It’s more that Shouto doesn’t really know how to handle spicy food, because he grew up on a strictly regimented diet that favored the most traditional of Japanese foods, most of which never had anything spicer than ginger to season them. He’s used to subtle flavors, delicate flavors, flavors that bloom from contrasts in texture, flavors that precisely balance each other to create a perfect harmony.
He is not used to food that thinks it’s perfectly fine to suckerpunch everything from his nasal cavity down to his esophagus with a sensation that can only be described as severe burning, and he really, really, really wishes Izuku would remember that before he does things like participate in a spicy ramen challenge with Bakugou. Unlike Shouto, Izuku’s tolerance to spicy food is, like most things involving pain, absolutely unreal, and he does not seem to have registered that spiciness, unlike normal food flavors, likes to stick around the mouth.
In fairness, Shouto is also mostly unaware of this until Izuku kisses him after thoroughly trouncing Bakugou in said spicy ramen challenge. Three whole bowls of noodles and fiery broth devoured compared to Bakugou’s two, and Izuku doesn’t even feel the need to douse his mouth with an entire litre of milk afterwards. It doesn’t occur to Shouto that this might be a problem until Izuku’s lips are pressed firmly against his, and Shouto only gets a moment to enjoy the contact before his mouth is on fire.
Shouto gasps and shoves Izuku away unceremoniously, ignoring the hurt look on Izuku’s face in favor of furiously wiping his mouth against the sleeve of his sweater. “Izuku, your mouth is still spicy from the ramen!” he hisses, and Izuku blinks at him, hurt swapping out for surprise on his face.
“Really?” Izuku licks his lips. “I don’t taste it.”
“Do you taste anything right now?” Shouto asks. The spice isn’t coming off, and he’s willing his eyes not to start watering from two seconds of indirect contact with spicy food. He’d like to pretend he has at least somewhat of a tolerance built up.
“Mmm, not really. Actually, my whole mouth is still kind of numb.” His lips (which Shouto sees are still bright red-orange from the broth, now that he’s paying attention) curl into a smile. “Did that kiss really bother you?”
“You know I don’t like spicy food,” Shouto says, somewhat defensively.
“But you didn’t even eat spicy food. You just touched a mouth that did.” Izuku’s grinning now, and Shouto takes a step back, wary. He knows that grin; it’s the one Izuku wears when he’s trying to act innocent but is planning something at least mischievous, and likely diabolical. Shouto thinks he picked it up from Kirishima.
“Spiciness lingers,” Shouto says, stepping back again only for Izuku to move forward. “You just said your mouth was still numb from it.”
“I ate three whole bowls of that stuff; of course my mouth is still numb.” The worst part about it is that apart from a red face and sweat beading up around his hairline, Izuku seems almost unaffected by the spiciness. His tolerance for pain is at once awe-inspiring and terrifying, and in this moment, Shouto kind of hates him for it. He retreats another step, and absolutely does not gasp when his back hits a wall. Izuku moves forward, still grinning.
“What are you doing?” Shouto asks, glad that his voice doesn’t betray his apprehension.
“You know,” Izuku says, far too casual for Shouto’s liking, “the best way to get used to spicy food is to just eat it more often. You’ll never build up a tolerance if you don’t.”
“I don’t want to”—Shouto’s eyes go wide as he registers Izuku leaning in—“Izuku, don’t you dare—”
Izuku kisses him, full on Shouto’s still open mouth. Shouto’s still not quite over the part where he goes weak-kneed and slack-jawed whenever Izuku kisses him, so it takes his brain a few seconds to catch up, by which time Izuku has run his tongue fully across Shouto’s lips. A strangled noise escapes from Shouto’s throat, and he pulls back with the sharp jerk. Izuku lets him go, but Shouto’s lips are already burning, and to his horror, its started spreading to inside his mouth.
“I hate you,” he groans, bringing his useless sweater sleeve up to rub furiously as his lips. Izuku breaks out into full on laughter. “You bastard, you know how much I hate spicy food, you are the worst —”
“I’m sorry!” Izuku gasps, not looking very sorry at all. “I’m sorry, it’s just, you made it way too easy—”
“The worst,” Shouto repeats through a hiss, his mouth crying out for relief. He pushes past Izuku, who doubles over, still laughing.
Natto, Shouto thinks furiously. The next time he eats natto , he’s going to stuff his face with as much as he possibly can, and then he’s going to kiss Izuku until he begs for mercy.