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It's 1:37 am, and the lights are on in the kitchen. There's sound as well: Izuku can hear the chopping even before he's even finished going down the stairs. There's the whisper of footsteps and a clatter of plates, and so Izuku knows who's there even before he sees him.
It's weird, really-- that Izuku would know him blind, that Izuku would know him at the end of the world-- but when Izuku turns the corner and sees Katsuki at the stove, everything settles. The war, and the villains, and the ghosts, and the tomorrows all fall as if into dreaming. Now, the only ones awake are Izuku and Katsuki at this godawful hour.
Izuku drags himself closer to the stove. His feet fall loud and deliberate into a silence broken only by the pot's cooking so that when Izuku comes to stand by Katsuki's side, he doesn't flinch.
Katsuki never flinches around Izuku. Not really. He's too perceptive and Izuku's too gentle, but that kind of caution is what they both owe to their history-- and if they got past it, that has to mean something, right?
"You make enough for two?" Izuku asks.
"Of course, idiot." Katsuki sneers. More softly: "I always do. Get some bowls, would you?"
Izuku reaches up to the cupboard that has all the ceramics and gets two bowls. He places them on the kitchen table then proceeds to root around the counter for the right chopsticks. Izuku sets the table for the lonely two of them and, even as he finishes placing two cups of water, he doesn't forget to put on some water to boil for Katsuki's tea.
All the while, the pot on the counter is growing more and more fragrant. Katsuki's even set up another pan on the stove to fry, and the meat is just now beginning to sizzle.
Izuku's low craving is now culminating into an avid hunger-- and his stomach responds in kind.
"Impatient fuck," Katsuki says when he hears something comparable to a demon of hell bellow from the confines of Izuku's stomach. "Goddamn strength users. Do you really need to eat, what, 3000 calories everyday?"
Izuku chuckles and thinks back. He used to track his diet religiously, but he fell off the habit when... everything happened.
"Last I remember, it was actually 5000 calories," he says, flexing just a little bit. "Now I just eat whenever I'm hungry. Which is often. And in egregiously large quantities. I feel the need to restate that I have the body mass of a champion powerlifter."
"Show-off." Katsuki flips the katsu on the pan. "Good thing I'm making a lot. Why are you here, anyway?"
Izuku does not hesitate: "The vibes."
"It is taking me an unimaginable amount of willpower," Katsuki starts. He sighs. "To not undo that whole redemption thing and just punt you out of the window."
"Fine," Izuku concedes. "I've been trying out this new strategy."
Katsuki raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"I call it the vibe," Izuku starts. "But weaker minds might call it clinically diagnosed anxiety and PTSD, so yeah."
"The vibe-- God-- this is really how you deal with your trauma? We have a therapist, don't we?" Bakugo sighs and Izuku can feel him rolling his eyes.
"We do," Izuku says. "It's just-- the last time I went was before this whole war thing. I'm not itching to go back there again."
"Why?" Katsuki asks, and it's a really, horrifyingly sincere question.
"You know why."
And that's a really, horrifyingly sincere answer. One that Katsuki can't rebut.
In the worst decision made ever in the history of the universe, the school mandated both Izuku and Katsuki to go to the same therapist. Whether this was a clerical coincidence or a deliberate act of vegeance by some higher power (Aizawa), the end result was that every week they spent an hour in a nice, neutral-colored office talking about their feelings and a second hour waiting for the other to come out.
This means that every week-- because Katsuki had the earlier slot-- Izuku would see him come out of the office either shouting or crying. Both, if he was in a mood. One time (okay, several times) explosions were involved.
Izuku never asked what happened in those sessions but Katsuki complained about it anyway. Tear tracks on his cheeks he'd say, Had to talk about the fucking sludge villain. or Fuck, do you remember that camping trip from hell-- I do. or Of course I can't fucking sleep, but she didn't have to point it out like that.
Then when Katsuki fell quiet and looked at Izuku in the way that meant he was asking but Izuku didn't have to answer, Izuku would say: Oh yeah. We talked.
Which is really funny because they never talked.
Well, the therapist talked. And Izuku, too, at least in the beginning of every hour. He'd say, Hi hello good morning yes I'm fine, or any permutation thereof.
But then the therapist would ask a question that was deeper than just What did you have for breakfast today? Then Izuku would shut up. He'd start playing with the stuffed dolphin on the table in front of him, and he would not answer when the therapist asked the same question or when the therapist asked him a different question. Or asked him anything at all.
Izuku would wait until the time was up, and they never talked.
"Sit down," Katsuki says. It's now, and the food's done cooking. Katsuki sets a plate of katsu on the table and places a big pot of vegetables and curry beside it. He produces rice from the rice cooker.
For his part, Izuku gets the tea and pours one out for Katsuki.
"Thanks for the food," he says before digging in.
It's delicious, as Katsuki's cooking is wont to be. The chicken's soft on the inside and crispy on the outside, and the vegetables are tender. The curry's made up of honest-to-God cumin and turmeric and whatever else because Katsuki doesn't spring for premade curry cubes, so it's this mélange of flavors that's vibrant yet inexplicably comforting.
It's also spicy as fuck. After a few bites, Izuku is forced to fetch the milk from the fridge.
"Loser," Katsuki comments because that's just who he is.
"Shut up," Izuku says. He drinks from the glass of milk. "Kacchan, pass me some more?"
As Katsuki's reaching across to give him the pot, Izuku catches him by the forearm.
"The fuck?" Katsuki questions. "You want the curry or not?"
Izuku says nothing. Instead, the hand holding Katsuki's forearm goes further, higher, to pull at the sleeve of Katsuki's shirt. The shirt slips slightly to reveal the strap of what looks like a black tank top underneath.
He looks at Katsuki. Katsuki looks back.
"How long have you worn your binder today?" Izuku asks. He lets go of the forearm.
"Fuck off." Katsuki ladles some of the curry onto his plate.
"How long?"
Katsuki shovels food into his mouth. His gaze is set solely on his plate.
"Kacchan, you know you shouldn't--"
"I know!" he starts. "I'm not trying to ruin my fucking body. I know I shouldn't wear it for too long, and I already wore it from the morning until the afternoon."
"...but?"
"But..." Katsuki looks at him. Pins the frame of Izuku's soul with the red of his eyes. "You, of all people, know how important it is to be in control of your own body."
That's the crux of it, right?
Every pain and every ache and every ugly scar. Every victory and every loss and every tear and every late night spent and every early morning. Izuku has fought and he has nearly died and he's living for that one day where he can throw a punch and call it his.
And while Izuku won't ever pretend that he understands what Katsuki goes through every day that he wakes up and sees that he wasn't assigned the correct sex, Izuku does derive some sense of solidarity-- if only because both of their bodies have never truly belonged to them.
"Yeah." Izuku sighs. "Still. That's not good for your chest."
"The fuck do you care?" Katsuki rebuts, more as a reflex than anything. "It's my chest."
"I care."
"For my chest?"
"For my best fucking friend, Katsuki," Izuku says. "Which is you, by the way, in case you're too dumb to see it. You're taking your binder off after we eat."
A moment passes. They eat quietly.
"You and your savior complex," Katsuki mutters.
"You can borrow one of my big hoodies if it'll make you feel better."
"Your goddamn savior complex," he finishes.
There isn't much fuss after that. Katsuki has a second helping, and Izuku has a third helping-- and a fourth, but who's counting? They talk and sometimes Izuku has to pour out some milk again.
In the end, it's 2 am. It's the two of them, like it always was and like it's always been; two plates, an empty pot, Katsuki's tea and all of their sins on the table.
"I'll wash," Izuku says.
"Like hell you will. I'm washing the dishes." A moment later, Katsuki adds, "Asshole."
"It's my turn to wash since you cooked," Izuku explains. "Also, try and stop me. I'll flick a finger and you'd probably explode."
"Fuck you. You're not that strong."
"I am, though. Go change into something more comfortable, Kacchan."
Katsuki leaves the room grumbling and stomping. He ostentatiously storms off and leaves Izuku at the sink. Izuku turns the faucet on and cleans.
It's tedious-- because washing the dishes is never truly pleasant. He always prefers to rest after a good meal, and putting your hands in sudsy water and scraping off bits of sauce isn't exactly restful. Privately, Izuku thinks that one of the first things he'll do when he gets hero-rich is hire someone to do all the dishes for him.
But it's calming, in its own way. The cold water makes the ache in his hands and arms throb weakly, but the plate under his palm isn't splitting. That means he hasn't lost his control. That means he's still useful, and that's all Izuku really wants, anyway.
So Izuku is washing the dishes, and he's in the process of drying them when Katsuki comes back. He's wearing one of Izuku's oversized hoodies. Izuku's grinning about it, just a little bit.
"Shut up," Katsuki says, without prompting.
"I didn't even say anything?"
"You were thinking it."
They settle near each other. Katsuki sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea while Izuku cleans up. He's putting back the cups and plates back into their proper cupboards and cabinets, and Katsuki's not shouting or cursing or insulting him, so it's a good moment: an armistice on their usual banter.
"Izuku."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
Katsuki sips from his tea. He replies, "For everything. For every moment in this hour. For every moment that you've stuck by me in the past, in the now and in whatever future will happen."
Izuku pauses. "Why don't you speak as poetically as that every day?"
"Fuck off."
"I'm serious!" Izuku laughs. "...and thank you. By the way. For the meal. Have a good night."
"It's been the best night in a while," Katsuki confesses. He finishes his tea.
It's 2 am, and the lights turn off in the kitchen.