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“Is it almost ready?” Shouto is sort of shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s from excitement or from the fact that he hasn’t eaten in 32 hours.
“Almost.” Momo’s voice is quiet, distracted. Her attention is trained entirely on the bowl in front of her. “Dilute with…6 parts water.” She maintains laser focus as she carefully brings a tablespoon measure of water from the sink. Repeats it five more times, stirs with the end of a chopstick. “Oh!” her head snaps up. “I forgot about the noodles.”
Shouto wants to curl into the fetal position and cry when she strains out a gluey, overcooked mass of what were previously beautiful udon noodles. He’s so hungry, and Momo had assured him she could make something as simple as udon soup.
She’s got a bowl of vegetables on the side, too, and she had put a little water in the bowl and microwaved it with plastic wrap over it, assuring Shouto that this is how she always cooks steamed vegetables. He doesn’t recall seeing her season them either.
“Oh, they’ll still be okay.” Momo pokes at the noodles. “I think if I rinse them under cold water it should be just fine!”
Shouto doubts that.
When she lifts a clump of the half-disintegrated noodles into the bowl of diluted mentsuyu, he swallows. The vegetables make a lovely plopping sound as she tops off his meal with them.
Momo pushes the bowl towards Shouto, smiling, but there’s a semi-hysterical look in her eyes, like she knows she’s done something horrible but hopes he won’t call her out. It has to be something homemade. She can’t cheat and manifest it with her quirk, and it’s a pity, because Momo has never had to assemble a home-cooked meal in her life.
“Thank you, darling,” Shouto forces out. “It…it looks filling.” Her smile wavers.
He chokes it down, because he’s either skipped or puked up every meal he’s attempted in the last day and a half, and hunger is indeed the best seasoning. (Some salt wouldn’t have gone amiss.)
It’s ironic that the grade-A sashimi from his favorite sushi place made him vomit, and somehow this starchy, watery lump isn’t kicking his gag reflex into overdrive. His stomach stays calm. Shouto actually eats the entire bowl, and it’s awful—truly awful—but it’s food, and he is able to consume it.
“Thank you for dinner,” Shouto says. He’s honestly grateful, because at least his appetite is diminished now.
He can’t take another twelve and a half days of this, though. There’s no way. Twelve and a half days of Momo’s well-intentioned and misery-inducing attempts at nourishing him. But the woman whose quirk had hit Shouto had been clear that there was no way to remove the effect early. It had to run its course, and that would take two weeks from moment he got caught up in it.
“I’ll find some good recipes, don’t worry, okay?” Momo insists, a distraught furrow between her brows. “I just need some practice!”
She looks so earnest, so eager to make him happy, and Shouto crumbles. He is a weak man.
“Ah. It was just what I needed, Momo. Don’t worry too much.”
Shouto has become more tactful over the years, but he’s still honest to a fault and his tone can’t ever fully hide his true feelings. He can’t tell for sure, but he thinks Momo isn’t buying his reassurances, and that means a hug is in order. Shouto is great at giving hugs, especially now that he’s not physically weak with hunger—whatever the cost of that. And sure enough, Momo wriggles happily against him when he pulls her into a tight hug, kisses the top of her head right in front of the dent her hair tie left behind.
Maybe she just had a rough go on the first cooking attempt.
-
Breakfast is rice and miso soup and tamagoyaki.
That ends up as some sort of leathery, dry scrambled egg mass, and the rice has a lingering, bitter taste. Momo had measured the water incorrectly somehow, so it burned onto the bottom of the pot and infused that blackened flavor into everything, but they’ll both be late for work if she starts over now.
“I always just buy those instant rice packs for the microwave, but I don’t want to risk making you sick if it isn’t homemade,” she explains herself as she spoons some into his bowl. “Here, the miso soup should cover up the taste!”
It almost covers up the taste. It’s just a shame that what it covers it with is also unpleasant. Shouto doesn’t know how she messed up the dashi—there’s three ingredients, and the miso she used is the same brand he always buys. Maybe it’s the fact that she thought dried basil from a spice jar was a good topping substitute for green onions?
Shouto isn’t much of a cook himself. He’s competent enough, but he doesn’t have nearly enough faith in his knowledge to give Momo instructions, and she’s trying so hard that he can’t bring himself to openly criticize her process. It feels ungrateful, relying on her for every morsel of food that passes his lips, and then also micromanaging how she goes about doing it.
So instead, he continues to watch as everything that can go wrong, does. It has to be Momo—if anyone else cooks the food he can’t eat it. She was the last person to touch him before he got hit with that civilian woman’s quirk by accident, and now he physically can’t stomach anything but Momo’s cooking.
-
Shouto is dreading opening his bento. He’s in the agency break room with Midoriya, who has maybe the most delicious looking cafeteria sandwich Shouto has ever laid eyes on.
“You brought a bento today, Todoroki-kun?” Midoriya seems intrigued. Shouto usually always has soba from the cafeteria, or he picks up takeout while he’s out on patrol.
“Momo packed it for me.”
Midoriya’s eyes go wide and full of wonder. “Oh, that’s so sweet.” He clasps his hands together in front of his chest. “How thoughtful of her! I didn’t know that Yaoyorozu could cook.”
Midoriya’s expression turns unreadable when Shouto opens the lid. Cold vienna sausages, cut into uneven chunks. Another round of her unseasoned microwave vegetables. The remainder of the burnt rice from breakfast.
There’s a little note taped to the inside of the lid.
I hope you eat well today, my love! I have one of my mother’s recipes to try for dinner. Be safe during your patrol <3
–
Shouto supposes he should be thankful that Momo was the last person who touched him before the incident. It would be far worse if it had been an accidental brush with a stranger. If they couldn’t even find the person who did, and he had to just deteriorate for two weeks straight until his hard-won muscles started to atrophy and he alienated himself from all of his loved ones because of the overwhelming hanger.
But why couldn’t Bakugou have been the last person to touch him?
That would have been perfect. Bakugou is an excellent cook.
Or Fuyumi; she makes him cold soba every time he visits her and she has it down to a science. Or Midoriya or Kirishima—even Denki knows a few tried and true meal prepping techniques.
And Momo hasn’t gotten any better. It’s incredible, because she’s the most intelligent person Shouto has ever met in his life. She could list the molecular breakdown of the food if he asked her, but she’s never had to actually cook it before, and it shows. Even after two years of living on her own, she survives off of pre-packaged ready-made food and takeout.
It’s four days in, ten to go, and Shouto’s performance at work is dropping. He can’t bring himself to eat any more than is strictly necessary, what with the flavors and textures being so off-putting. He’s lacking energy during his hero work, and it’s only a matter of time before it causes a problem.
–
It causes a problem on the sixth-day of quirk-induced torment, when Shouto faints on patrol. A picture-perfect princess faint, as he is wont to do. He sees it later on camera, the way he wilted gracefully into Midoriya’s arms in front of the crowd that gathered after their minor villain takedown.
Midoriya had already been on the edge of intervening in Shouto’s daily nutrition after the third time he bore witness to the contents of his bento. Dry chicken breast and yet another round of over-boiled noodles—he couldn’t even tell what type they were originally. It only marginally got better when he heated it up with his quirk.
And then the fainting incident. Midoriya had fanned him aggressively with a magazine one of the onlookers gave him, and half-carried Shouto back to his apartment even though he insisted he was recovered enough to walk by himself. He had deposited Shouto on the sofa, texted Momo to let her know he was ill, and then stepped out into the hallway to make a phone call.
–
“Thank you for coming,” Shouto says as he lets Bakugou into his apartment.
He doesn’t know what Midoriya had done to convince Bakugou, and frankly, he doesn’t want to. He’s seen them do unspeakable things right in front of him, so what happens behind closed doors could very well be appalling to witness. Regardless, he owes both of them a great debt.
“It has to be Momo,” Shouto explains as he trails after Bakugou, who marches into his kitchen like he owns the place. “If you make the food I’ll get nauseous and it’ll just come right back up.”
“Izuku told me,” Bakugou says. He’s rolling up his sleeves. Momo stands at the counter, hovering nervously. She looks uncomfortable being put on the spot, and Shouto feels a surge of guilt. She had agreed readily—even seemed excited by the prospect of learning—but her confidence can be a tenuous thing, and Shouto hates the thought of this whole accident shaking it.
Bakugou waves away Momo’s offer of tea or sparkling water, and eyes the piece of paper in her hands.
“This is my mother’s recipe.” She presents it proudly. Shouto can see Authentic Italian Lasagna printed at the top of the page. It seems a bit ambitious, perhaps. He’s glad Bakugou is here.
Bakugou’s eyebrows climb higher and higher as he scans down the page. Momo shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable at his continued silence, and Shouto steps closer to rub a soothing hand along her arm. She doesn’t have experience with this, and she’s trying her best; he has to remember that. Shouto’s first attempts at cooking once he’d moved out of Heights Alliance had been equally disastrous.
They both watch in silence as Bakugou’s frown deepens with every line of the recipe he reads.
“Your mother cooks this?” His eyes flick up to Momo.
“Well—no, she said she got it from a friend, but I don’t recall her ever making it. Our housekeeper usually…” Momo’s face is very pink. “She usually…cooked. My mother doesn’t…”
“Thank god,” Bakugou mutters. “This recipe would have poisoned you as a child. Throw it away.”
Shouto peeks at the printout it from its place in the trash can, sees ketchup and cheddar cheese on the ingredients list, and doesn’t need to read any further to know that Bakugou is correct.
They start over with one of Bakugou’s recipes, which he seems to just be doing by memory. “I’m simplifying it, so you should be able to recreate it at any time, or apply the principles to another dish.” He’s writing down a list of ingredients for her, and a minimalist step-by-step process. “Now, start with the sauce. You’ll need onions and garlic.”
Momo peels an onion under Bakugou’s watchful eye, and cuts it in half. The moment that he turns around to look in their cupboard is the moment she starts chopping.
“Oh my god—” Shouto lunges forward, grabbing Momo’s wrists before she can slice her finger off. He’s so glad he hasn’t witnessed her trying to do this before, yet also terrified at how long she might have been using kitchen knives unsupervised. “Don’t—Momo, darling, don’t put the round part of the onion down. Flip it over, please.”
“Oh!” She smiles at him, bashful, and lets him guide her hands into setting down the knife and turning the onion cut-side down.
Shouto has to use his quirk to cool himself down after that burst of adrenaline.
“What the fuck, Ponytail?” Bakugou is staring in horror. “This is worse than I thought. Fuck. We’re backing up to remedial-level instruction.” Bakugou is huffy as he shows her how to hold the knife properly, how to curl her fingers and brace the onion so she can’t accidentally make herself into an amputee. “Are you sure you graduated first in our year?” he grumbles.
Shouto frowns at the back of Bakugou’s head. He’s being a bit harsh unnecessarily. Momo is taking the instruction very well once he shows her how.
“Don’t talk to my girlfriend like that,” Shouto says. He sees Momo’s cheeks go violently pink from the corner of his eye, and Bakugou rounds on him.
“Listen, Halfie. Do you wanna eat? Or do you want to starve for the next eight days?”
(Shouto is appropriately cowed.)
They form a delicate balance of Bakugou ordering Momo around and Shouto trying to defend her from excessive criticism while she stirs together ricotta and herbs and and par-cooks pasta. And in the end, it works. Shouto's mouth is watering by the time she lifts it out of the oven and sets it on the stove with the care and focus one would employ when handling a newborn child.
“Momo, I love you,” Shouto says. His stomach is growling and his eyes are brimming with tears when she places about a third of the contents of the entire baking dish on a plate for him. The lasagna is the best thing he’s eaten in a week, no contest, and Shouto shovels down so much of it that he has to lay down on the couch for a nap afterwards. He’ll continue thanking her, and make it up to her thoroughly later, when he’s able to keep his eyes open.
It can’t be a long nap, but when Shouto startles awake, Bakugou is talking Momo through another recipe. His tone is much more gentle when he thinks Shouto is unconscious. He really does do anything to rile Shouto up—at least that hasn’t changed since high school.
Shouto drags himself off the couch, wraps around Momo in a hug, and starts to drift off again. Her hair is silky. She’s warm and comfortable and she smells like floral bath products, plus she made him tasty food, and she’s the perfect napping spot, even standing up. Perfect. Shouto adores her—
“Oi, Icyhot, wake the fuck up.” Bakugou snaps his fingers an inch from Shouto’s face. “I’m leaving. It’s up to you to make sure the building doesn’t burn down from now on.”
“Hm?” He blinks. “Yeah.”
Bakugou lets himself out, and Shouto closes his eyes again.
“Thank you for making dinner,” he says, and it’s mostly audible from where he’s suffocating himself in her hair. Momo is soft and comfortable, and he’s still unwilling to move.
“It was all Bakugou-san,” she says, but there’s that mixture of pleased and bashful that creeps into her voice around the edges. Just like him, she’s always had difficulty accepting compliments. Their upbringings and personalities have more in common than people think at first glance.
“He helped, but you still did everything. And now you’ll be able to do it again by yourself.” This would not have been anywhere close to possible without Bakugou, but Shouto feels this strange flutter of pride that Momo actually made all of that. And it was good. Better than good.
He gets a little bit funny about people taking care of him, still. He loves it. Takes note of it when it happens.
“Just wait, I have three other recipes to try. He gave me pointers and everything, so I’ll be fine.” Momo sounds far more confident in her reassurance this time.
–
Things improve dramatically after that. Shouto is sustained by leftover lasagna for breakfast and lunch, and Midoriya is overjoyed to see something edible in his bento box when they meet in the agency’s break room.
Momo works methodically through the detailed instructions of Bakugou’s nikujaga recipe that evening, and turns out another delicious dinner.
The night after that involves a video call in the kitchen when there’s too much room for interpretation in Bakugou’s singapore noodles recipe and Momo starts to get stressed out. Bakugou’s barked instructions are even more irritating through the phone, but it also makes Shouto feel fond. It’s because Bakugou cares about the outcome, and that’s nice in some way.
Shouto still tells him not to talk to Momo like she’s stupid before he hangs up on him, and silences his phone so he can’t hear when Bakugou calls back to yell at him.
–
On the last day, Shouto is ready for the quirk to be gone.
The food has only gotten better as Momo gains confidence and builds a repertoire of skills. He’s been going to the grocery store and washing dishes after she cooks, but it still feels so one-sided that he can’t take it anymore.
Momo makes cold soba for the last night, and Shouto’s chest feels paradoxically warm about the whole thing. He’s so weak for people doting on him. Especially when Momo smiles and brushes his hair out of his eyes to look at him, kisses his cheek before she nudges the tray closer to him.
He’s probably been healthier this last week than he has in years—not an instant noodle packet or convenience store snack in sight. Just home-cooked food for three meals a day. (Maybe tomorrow he’ll eat candy for lunch.)
And the routine has grown on him. A lot. Momo has stayed at his apartment for almost two weeks now for simplicity’s sake, and the thought of her going back to sleeping at her place, only meeting up when they intentionally schedule it—well. He doesn’t really like that. His apartment is spacious enough for both of them. And it’s nice when he gets home and the lights are already on, or when he arrives before her shift ends and gets the bath ready and she kisses him and tells him how sweet he is.
He likes Momo here. And Shouto wants to cook dinner for them tomorrow, let Momo take a break from cooking. He’s learned quite a lot by watching, and he’s actually eager to test it out, maybe try his hand at one of his sister’s recipes.
Momo is puttering around his apartment, though, grabbing her phone charger and the multitude of knit sweaters that have accumulated on various surfaces throughout the last two weeks, because contrary to popular opinion, they’re both a little messy.
“You can still stay tonight,” Shouto mumbles, elbow deep in soapy water and trying to keep the pouty tone out of his voice. “I know you won’t have to make me breakfast tomorrow but I don’t mind if you want to hang out. I can—I can make you breakfast.”
She likes pancakes, he knows that. Fluffy American-style ones, and he’s watched a few youtube cooking tutorials now, and he feels very ready to give it a go.
Momo pauses, lets her cardigan slip back down over the arm of the couch. “Are you sure?” She pushes back the little pieces of hair that have escaped her ponytail. “I thought you might like some alone time now that you won’t need me to cook.”
Shouto shrugs one shoulder and pouts at the dishwater.
“I like when you’re here. Even if I don’t need you to make me food.”
(She stays.)
–
Shouto wakes to the smell of rice cooking. It’s disorienting, for a minute. The other side of the bed is rumpled and creased, but the sheets are cold.
Momo is in the kitchen. Miso soup and rice on the stove, and her hair is down—probably a fire hazard, but she’s wearing his shirt and rolling tamagoyaki the rest of the way up, and it’s all so domestic that Shouto feels like he’s getting very gently punched in the throat by happy feelings. He’s such a heavy sleeper, and this is one of very few times that it feels like a curse. His grands plans at returning the favor have been thwarted.
"I was gonna cook for you,” he says when he reaches her.
Momo startles, and laughs at his grumpy expression. “I woke up early,” she claims. “Don’t pout. Just because the quirk has worn off doesn’t mean I can’t still take care of you.” Her fingertip pokes into the center of his chest, and she rises onto her tiptoes to kiss him. “You can make me dinner.”
The day morphs into a best-of-both-worlds state, where Shouto starts with Momo’s breakfast, gets a candy bar and his favorite takeout curry for lunch, and finishes the day with his own culinary efforts. It's a relief to just eat whatever he wants again, but the quirk hadn't been all bad.
Momo unlocks the door with the spare key—now hers—and comes in while he’s messing with the stove, still only half-dressed after his shower.
“Put on a shirt, honey,” Momo says, flicking his bare shoulder. “You might burn yourself.”
Shouto lets a small burst of flame dance along the left side of his body, humming absently. “Can’t have that.”
She purses her lips like she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of laughing, and peeks around him to see what he’s making.
He serves them a reasonably-successful rendition of oyakodon for dinner. It’s not as good as Momo’s cooking now, but he’s got a good teacher going forward.