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お握り onigiri
Short grain rice balls wrapped with crispy seaweed. Speckled with furikake. Filled with love.
Some of Katsuki’s favourite memories with his grandma took place in the kitchen. She would come visit them every weekend, always with a new recipe to try out. Very few things excited him then—schoolyard fighting, winning, the new All Might movie—but these moments would coax a softer, more childlike joy out of him.
She would lean over to whisper in his ear what they would make today, as if it were a conspiracy only the two of them were a part of. Katsuki, ever so impatient, would usher her into the kitchen, ready to take on a new challenge. The old hag would snap at him for his lack of manners, while his dad would only smile. His grandma would laugh, putting her wrinkles on display, but she would comply easily with his demands.
As he looks at his restaurant, he recalls how he got here.
“The triangle is the hardest shape to recreate with your hands,” his grandma says as she molds the rice.
Katsuki clumsily attempts to follow what she’s doing, except the rice consistently comes out in the form of a cylinder more than anything else.
“Gently,” his grandma guides. She drops her onigiri onto a plate, leaning over to cup her hands over Katsuki’s. Together, they move into a “c” position. “Don’t squeeze too hard.”
“’S annoying,” Katsuki grumbles, thumbs digging into the soft grains, trying to beat the rice into submission. A few pieces drop onto the plate, and Katsuki’s annoyance grows.
“You need to be careful with it, or it won’t cooperate.”
“It’s already not cooperating!”
His grandma laughs. She helps him lightly pinch one corner of the rice ball into a triangular shape. “That’s because you’re being too harsh. People can taste the love you pour into food, and right now, you’re only giving anger.”
“Huh?” Katsuki asks, not really understanding what she means. Life has always been like that for him. Raw power and confidence deliver better results than anything else.
Not in cooking, apparently.
“Cooking is about care,” his grandma says gently. “We make meals because we want to nourish our bodies and the bodies of others. Is that not love? To empower someone by providing essential nutrients?”
“Love,” Katsuki repeats faintly, easing his grip on the onigiri.
“Yes, love. It requires a gentle touch.” Her thumbs overlap with his, firmly pressing into the middle of the rice ball and breaking it in half. “If we treat it too harshly, it cracks. Food can only do its job when there’s love given to it.” She pushes Katsuki’s hands to meet, squeezing the rice into a ball again. “Love repairs hunger, loss, sadness.”
“People can really feel it when you’re angry while cooking?” Katsuki asks, his tone almost timid as he wonders if his grandma is playing a joke on him.
“Yes, Katsuki,” she says with a smile. “It’s a good rule of thumb: pour your heart into everything you do, but only give it to someone who handles it gently.”
Understanding settles in his bones, even when it takes years for him to decipher the truth behind those words.
Katsuki glances at the restaurant sign, Kokoro o Komete, meaning “with all one’s heart,” and unlocks the door to get ready for the day.
雑煮 ozoni
Dashi broth, clear, turned muddy. Kirimochi, puffy and golden. Scarlet red carrots for a burst of colour. Simple, but delicious, enough to make that bastard eat his words.
The bell above the shop’s door rings, signalling the entrance of a new customer. Katsuki makes his way out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, to greet them at the counter.
Immediately, his vision is overtaken by a wild head of purple hair, shaggy and layered, with bangs. He carries the winter chill with him from outside. The man’s eyes are equally bright and hypnotic. White pupils catch the light, seeping into the purple irises and acting like beacons for Katsuki. His expression is eerily blank, but surprisingly, it only adds to the mysterious allure surrounding him.
He looks tired as hell, especially with those eyebags decorating his face, but there’s something about his gaze that causes Katsuki’s heart to beat faster. As if he can see through Katsuki’s very being.
He isn’t sure if he likes that or not.
A cough breaks him out of his trance, and he realizes he’s been at a standstill with the other guy.
“What can I get for ya?” Katsuki asks in his usual gruff voice, trying to mask his momentary lapse in attention.
“Real question is: what can you not get for me?” the other man teases, eyeing the menu above Katsuki. His voice is deep and smooth—richer than any chocolate Katsuki has ever tasted, but just as complex and lingering. “That’s an impressive list you got there. Not usual around these parts.”
It takes him a second to parse through the words as he snaps himself out of those unnecessary thoughts. But once it does, a familiar spark of competitiveness ignites in his chest.
“’M not like those losers who need to specialize in one dish.” He scoffs at the thought, staring the guy down, waiting to see if he’ll rise to the bait. “They’re nothing more than chump change. I can do everything,” he declares proudly, pointing a thumb at his chest.
The man’s gaze drifts away from the menu to meet Katsuki’s. That carefully controlled facade hasn’t broken once throughout their interaction, but there’s a flash of something in the man’s eyes that sends a thrill down Katsuki’s spine.
“Yeah? Show me,” he challenges.
Katsuki’s mouth curls into his signature feral grin. “Prepare to get your ass served.”
鮭串焼き salmon kushiyaki
Perfectly crisp salmon pieces licked by the flames of a charcoal grill. Shichimi togarashi that explodes on your tongue with the first bite. Skewered onto bamboo paddles; easy to eat. Please eat.
The shop has been closed for the past hour, but Katsuki refuses to lock up. There are things that need to be done around here anyway. Dishes must be washed until they sparkle, tables need to be wiped down, and he has to get the kitchen ready for tomorrow.
If he lingers longer than necessary in the kitchen to keep the salmon kushiyaki on the grill warm, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
Still, it doesn’t stop Mina from giving him a knowing look when he tells her to head home for the day.
“Have fun with Shinsou,” she says in a sing-song voice, leaving the shop in a flourish.
“Fuck off,” Katsuki grumbles, even though she won’t hear, and closes the door.
He moves back to the grill, turning the skewers over and watching the salmon crisp into a perfect shade of brown. Once the shiitake are tender, he removes the skewers and places them onto a plate. He fiddles with it for a bit, positioning them in a way he likes before he deems the dish to be done. Katsuki reaches for the shichimi togarashi sitting on the countertop and sprinkles it all over the food.
Reluctantly, he puts the shichimi away and lets his hands drop to his sides. He takes a breath and admires the vibrant orange of the salmon peeking through the browned outer layer under the kitchen lights, scored through with black lines from the grill grates. The mushrooms rest between the salmon pieces, small and unassuming, but balancing the meal. They prop up the salmon and separate them from one another—allowing each one to shine in the light.
It feels like no time has passed when the distinct chime of the bell rings through the shop, but the sound makes the tight knot of anxiety in Katsuki’s chest loosen. He takes the plate and heads to the counter.
There, he’s greeted with a sight that has become painfully familiar over the past few weeks. The lines of Hitoshi’s face are creased with weariness, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight as though he’s about to meld himself into the counter.
Katsuki gently sets the plate down in front of him. “Eat.”
“Thanks,” Hitoshi mumbles, and Katsuki decides not to call him out for his half-assed manners.
But a few seconds pass, and Hitoshi doesn’t pick up a skewer. Then a few more seconds. Still nothing.
Katsuki sighs, watching how Hitoshi’s head stays bowed. His bangs cast shadows over his face, hiding his expression from Katsuki. Maybe if they were closer, Katsuki would reach out and brush his hair to the side, tilt his chin up, and tell him it’ll all be okay.
A kernel of hope in his heart is the only thing that keeps him still—tells him that one day, time will shave the distance between them.
After all, it helped Shinsou turn into Hitoshi. Memories of past meals, Hitoshi’s regular presence, and the easy banter between them flicker across his mind briefly. He hopes one day, they will have the kind of closeness that allows him to reach out.
“Hitoshi,” Katsuki says, pitching his voice low. “You have to eat.”
Hitoshi sighs, running his hands through the already frazzled mess of hair. “I don’t want to.”
A “please” sits on the tip of Katsuki’s tongue, but he swallows it down. “Eat,” he repeats, pushing the plate closer to Hitoshi.
“I suck,” Hitoshi announces, ignoring Katsuki’s request completely. “The deadline keeps coming closer, and my editor is on my ass about it, and I just... don’t have the words.” He laughs, dry and bitter. He looks up at Katsuki, eyebags standing out in stark relief as his eyes hold a type of tension that makes Katsuki’s heart hurt for him. “Isn’t that fucking ironic? A writer who can’t write.”
“Everyone gets stuck sometimes,” Katsuki replies, trying to be as gentle as possible.
“Not you,” Hitoshi fires back. “You find ways to be better. To keep creating. You never get stuck.”
“Don’t be pissy,” Katsuki admonishes and decides to just bite the bullet. They’ve been circling around this topic for weeks—Katsuki doing his best to be delicate, and Hitoshi doing his best to dodge any line of questioning. “What crawled up your ass and died?”
Hitoshi glares at him, annoyance curling the corner of his mouth. Katsuki doesn’t care that he’s broken their unspoken rule. He glares back, refusing to throw in the towel.
The space between them is charged with a weird energy Katsuki can’t identify. Butterflies flutter in his stomach at being the recipient of Hitoshi’s undivided attention, and he almost forgets what they were doing.
Almost.
“They want me to write a romance novel,” Hitoshi says dejectedly, breaking eye contact.
Katsuki blinks. “What?”
“Apparently, the sales for romance novels have been booming. My company wants me to try my hand at it so they can get more money. But they’ll never say that outright. Instead, they keep talking about my ‘wasted potential.’”
Katsuki struggles to come up with a reply. This is so far out of his depth, and he’s never really been a comforting kind of guy. Then, there’s the added layer of this being the most words Hitoshi has said to him in weeks, and while Katsuki is so unbelievably happy at the change, he wishes it didn’t come at the cost of Hitoshi’s sanity.
But it seems as though Hitoshi doesn’t need him to respond just yet. The small rant opens up a floodgate of emotions, and Hitoshi starts to vent in earnest. “As if literary fiction isn’t a huge fucking category! As if it doesn’t dominate the market! Romance is great and all, but it’s never been my thing. I can’t say that, though, or I’ll be out of this dumb job. And I don’t—”
He abruptly cuts himself off, a blush blooming on the tips of his ears. He sighs, running his hands through his hair again. A few strands stick out awkwardly, reducing Hitoshi from the amazing novelist Katsuki knows him as to... just some guy trying to figure out life like the rest of them.
“I don’t mean that,” he says quietly. “This job is great, and I love writing. It’s just...” he trails off.
“It’s just, what?” Katsuki prompts when a minute has passed, and no explanation comes.
Hitoshi’s shoulders inch up further, his stare boring holes into the counter. “I’m not, um, experienced.” His voice is slightly above a whisper. “With that stuff.”
“Stuff,” Katsuki repeats, not following.
“Y’know,” Hitoshi replies, waving his hand in a vague gesture.
Katsuki’s brows furrow in confusion. “Know what?”
Hitoshi groans, pushing the plate away and pressing his face onto the counter. “I can’t believe you’re gonna make me say it. I don’t have a lot of experience with romance and stuff.”
His words come out muffled, but Katsuki manages to catch the gist of it. “Oh.”
Hitoshi laughs. “Yeah. Oh.”
“That’s... okay,” Katsuki offers awkwardly. He clears his throat and attempts to bring back some normalcy into their conversation. “But get your face off my counter.”
Hitoshi obliges slowly, and Katsuki sees how the blush has now spread to his cheeks. The sight does something funny to his chest.
He sighs, batting whatever feelings he has towards Hitoshi’s blush away. “You don’t need experience. You just need the right inspiration.”
Hitoshi frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You want to be fucking creative, don’t you?”
Hitoshi nods.
“That means trying new things. For me, a lot of my menu items are inspired by other people.” He pointedly drags the plate back in front of Hitoshi. “So stop getting bogged down by the shitty details. Instead, find something that inspires you.”
Hitoshi’s brows knit together, his expression turning contemplative as he eyes the food. “Huh.”
Satisfied now that it seems some of the weight Hitoshi’s been carrying has been lifted, Katsuki knocks on the counter. “But first: eat.”
It takes a few seconds, where Katsuki simply watches him, before Hitoshi tentatively picks up a skewer. He glances at Katsuki and then takes a bite.
Immediately, his eyes light up. He wastes no time in taking another bite. Hitoshi’s posture straightens, shoulders rolling back slightly as he begins to devour the food.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at the reaction, and he chooses to hole up in his kitchen to give Hitoshi some privacy. But the relief washing over him lightens his steps until Katsuki feels like he’s walking on air.
花巻寿司 hanamaki sushi
Plum rice, petal-soft, pink like new love blossoming. Carrot at the center, bright, grounding. Spinach spilling out the edges. Crowded like springtime. Still, he’s here.
Katsuki has a love-hate relationship with spring.
The weather is beautiful and rejuvenating, shaking away the dredges of bone-deep tiredness that winter carries over. It breathes new life into Katsuki and his cooking—replacing warm, hearty meals with refreshing, bright dishes.
Unfortunately, spring also means peak tourist season in Japan. He doesn’t usually mind tourists. Spring is all about change, and Katsuki enjoys meeting people from all walks of life—a fact that surprises his staff since he’s apparently such a “stick in the mud about rules and structure.”
But really, he appreciates the liveliness and curiosity they have. He doesn’t want to interact with it directly in any capacity, but he likes how it fills the space of his restaurant with chatter, laughter, and smiles.
Being a restaurant owner, though, means he has to field stupid questions daily. While Japanese folk understand the implicit rules that govern districts like Katsuki’s, visitors expect the same treatment they would get back home. It annoys him, to put it simply. Grinds his gears like nothing else when people demand shit from him that he’s unwilling to give.
Truly, the only thing that’s keeping him steady in the face of all of this is Hitoshi stuffing his face with hanamaki sushi. A cup of hojicha tea sits close by, steam curling delicately over Hitoshi’s features. The roasted aroma floats gently between them.
“Um, excuse me.”
Katsuki turns away from Hitoshi to look at the customer. He braces himself for the question that’s been haunting him for the past week.
“Do you offer delivery?”
“No,” Katsuki responds succinctly.
“Oh, but—”
“No.”
“You don’t have any—”
“No,” Katsuki repeats, glaring daggers at the customer. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hitoshi tucking his smile into the next bite of sushi.
The customer looks a bit startled at Katsuki’s aggressiveness, but they quickly leave. He exhales raggedly through his nose and prays for patience.
“You’re gonna lose sales, y’know,” Hitoshi says cheekily.
“Whatever,” Katsuki mutters. He decides to take hold of the situation and rips up a piece of the empty receipt paper. Then he pulls out a black marker and tape and gets to work.
With big, blocky letters, he writes in his best English, “NO DELIVERY.” He tapes it haphazardly to the register and ignores how Hitoshi’s smile grows.
Just in the nick of time, too, because the next customer strolls up to the counter. “Do you—”
Katsuki taps the sign twice, scowling at them.
“Oh, sorry.” At least this one seems sheepish, but Katsuki’s anger doesn’t dissipate. He crosses his arms and glares down at the person fidgeting uncomfortably.
They rapidly look between Katsuki and Hitoshi—who’s slightly turned in his seat, watching the scene with rapt attention—before finally landing on Hitoshi with a pleading expression. Hitoshi merely shrugs, shoving an entire piece of sushi in one bite, cheeks puffing out in a chipmunk-like fashion. He gestures at his mouth to explain why he can’t talk, and the customer’s face falls when he realizes he won’t find any sympathy from Hitoshi. Katsuki barely resists a smile.
“Um, I’ll just...” the customer trails off, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door, and then scurries away.
Hitoshi catches Katsuki’s gaze and laughs. The sound is a balm to Katsuki’s brain, instantly smoothing out the rough edges of his anger. He can’t help but relax, arms falling to his side once more.
The corner of Katsuki’s mouth curves slightly when he sees Hitoshi double over, hand coming up to cover his mouth.
Hitoshi’s laugh has always been a tasting menu to Katsuki. It gets quieter when he’s tired. A little giggly when he’s drunk or excited. Breathless when something’s really funny. No more than a small puff of air when Katsuki remembers something he likes, as if he can’t fathom Katsuki going out of his way to think about a random customer.
The problem is that Hitoshi has never been just another customer to him. His presence warms Katsuki’s life more than the oppressive heat of the stove. When Katsuki experiments in the kitchen, he wants Hitoshi to have a bite of the food first, even if his mouth isn’t trained to pick apart flavours or textures like the rest of Katsuki’s staff. The idea of having him feels unreachable, but Katsuki would stand across the counter from Hitoshi for the rest of his life if he could.
So, yeah, he loves Hitoshi’s laugh. Adores the list that sits in his brain, cataloguing each of his reactions. Tasting menus are supposed to take you on an adventure. They give you a glimpse of the chef’s vision—their creativity, culinary skill, but most importantly, the experiences that have cultivated their cooking style.
Hitoshi’s laugh offers Katsuki a small peek into his life while keeping a distance. It sends him for a loop each time, but Katsuki wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
Even if the thing he wants the most is right there. Just outside of his grasp. Just on the other side of the counter.
親子丼 oyakodan
Eggs simmered in a rich, umami sauce, as yellow as the sunlight filtering in through the shop. Poured over a bed of fluffy rice. Meant for comfort. I’ll be here.
Sunlight spills into the restaurant from the window, thick and in waves, carrying heat that wraps around Katsuki even with the air conditioner on. The rays are blinding if you stare directly at them. But here, in the dimly lit shop, with the sounds of a ticking clock and Hitoshi’s soft breaths as his only companions, Katsuki finds he doesn’t mind it.
The restaurant has been closed for a while, the sharp scent of the cleaner tickling his nose as a reminder. Katsuki stopped keeping track of the time weeks ago. It’s become a common sight to find Hitoshi napping on the counter, cheek smushed against the tile, mouth parted slightly. Each time, he wakes up abruptly, an apology already on the tip of his tongue.
As if Katsuki gives a shit about that. As if Katsuki would want Hitoshi anywhere but here, close enough to watch over. As if Hitoshi isn’t a fucking vision like this—his silhouette backlit by the sun. The warmth of the rays shouldn’t work with Hitoshi’s colouring, but they paint his eyelashes in gold flecks, skin adopting more of a pink tint, and it almost looks like there’s a halo around him, and Katsuki keeps the sight close to his heart.
Katsuki isn’t a man who believes in powers greater than him. He is a master of his own fate, and a skilled one at that. But he’s grateful to whatever force brings Hitoshi here every day, even when writing is slow, even when deadlines seem far-fetched, even when it looks like a single stiff breeze would knock him down where he stands.
He’s got a big, fat, gay crush on you, bro, Denki said to him a week ago. That’s why he comes here every day.
It can’t be possible, right? Things couldn’t be that easy.
And! Mina interjected. You don’t even let us interact with him. He’s such a cutie pie, Katsuki. Don’t keep him from us!
You like him too, don’t you? Eijirou added. You don’t let anyone stay in the shop after hours, much less a customer.
Katsuki had to look away after that to the sounds of his staff—his friends, his brain reminds him—hooting and hollering at the confirmation. A ragtag group of idiots, they are, but they seemed so happy for Katsuki, and he couldn’t find it within himself to deny the statement.
But just the thought of that is overwhelming in the best-worst way possible, and he has to divert his attention back to the menu before he does something stupid like count all the micro-cuts on Hitoshi’s stress-bitten lips, or play with his hair, or just fucking—
Kiss him! his brain chants. Kiss him! Kiss him!
He scrubs a hand aggressively over his face and focuses on the paper in front of him. For a while, the scratches of the pen on his notebook work to soothe him, until Hitoshi’s breath hitches and he jerks awake. His eyes are glassy with disorientation, there’s a faint red mark on his cheek, and his hair is sleep-ruffled.
Katsuki’s stomach ties itself into knot after knot. God, how can a grown man be cute? This is fucking ridiculous.
Hitoshi wipes his eyes to remove the traces of sleep. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately after. “I fell asleep again, didn’t I?”
“’S not a big deal,” Katsuki mutters, clicking the pen closed.
Hitoshi tracks the motion. “What’s that?”
“Just curating some menu items,” Katsuki replies off-handedly, putting his notebook away in the shelf below the counter.
Hitoshi leans forward eagerly in his seat, a twinkle in his eye. “Will I ever get to read it?”
Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “What do you know about food?”
Hitoshi shrugs. “I’m just curious.”
“Sure,” Katsuki finds himself saying. “When you show me your novel, I’ll show you my menu.”
Hitoshi’s shoulders slump in resignation, bottom lip jutting out in what looks dangerously close to a pout. Fucking ridiculous. Katsuki’s heart can only handle so much. “That’ll take forever.”
Katsuki huffs out a laugh, going to the kitchen to take out the oyakodon sitting in the oven. “Patience is a virtue. One that you don’t have.”
He sets the bowl down in front of Hitoshi and cracks a pair of chopsticks, the snap of the wood loud in the quiet space, before handing them to him.
Hitoshi’s expression turns indignant. “I’m patient! After all, I—” he cuts himself off abruptly, shoving a huge chunk of food in his mouth.
“You what?” Katsuki asks, confusion creasing his brow.
Hitoshi swallows a little early, judging by his wince afterwards. “After all, I deal with you.”
Katsuki scoffs. “Uh-huh, because I’m the annoying one.”
“Recognizing the problem is the first step to solving it,” Hitoshi replies, nodding sagely.
Katsuki flicks his nose for that. “Shut the fuck up and eat.”
He watches Hitoshi chew happily for a few seconds before he realizes. “You can sit at a table, y’know,” he says, waving a hand at the empty restaurant. “Not like we don’t have the space.”
Hitoshi hums in thought. “Depends. Will you sit with me?”
Katsuki feels like he’s about to die with the way his heart trips over itself in its race to climb up his throat, jump out of his mouth, right into Hitoshi’s hands.
“Maybe another time,” he manages, voice coming out choked. “Got a few things to do in the back. So.”
Hitoshi nods easily. “Then I’ll stay here.”
ベニイモ steamed beni imo
Deep purple, as vibrant as Hitoshi’s eyes, with a creamy flesh. Honey-sweet like Hitoshi’s laughter. It’s noon, and the shop is bustling, and I can’t stop thinking about Hitoshi. I miss him. I miss him.
“Katsuki,” Hitoshi calls out softly.
He freezes where he stands, the chatter of the restaurant dulling into white noise.
“Katsuki!” Denki shouts from the kitchen. “Need you here!”
“In a minute,” Katsuki yells back, eyes trying to find a bright head of purple hair among the crowd.
In the corner of his eye, Hitoshi appears, lingering just past the long line of customers. There’s a huge smile on his face, and he’s holding a white box.
“C’mere,” Katsuki beckons. The customer in front of him squawks in protest, but Katsuki only shoots him a look to shut him up.
Hitoshi rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he walks over. “Sorry, I’m holding up the line. I’ll just drop this off.” He offers up the box, and Katsuki takes it.
“No,” Katsuki says, too fast. Hanta, who’s manning the order line, turns slowly to look at Katsuki incredulously. “What did you want to say?”
Hitoshi throws a tentative glance at the impatient customer behind him. “Um, I finished my book. I got you a maneki-neko to celebrate.”
Against his will, Katsuki laughs. “Why are you giving me a gift? I should be the one handing this to you.”
Hitoshi tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, the tip red. “I couldn’t have done it without you. So I just wanted to say thanks with a gift.”
Katsuki’s chest warms, and the smile fighting its way to his face almost wins if it weren’t for Hanta jabbing him in the side. His elbow digs painfully against Katsuki’s ribs, but his attention refuses to stray from Hitoshi.
“Hey, Shinsou!” Hanta says, pushing into his space and blocking Katsuki from view. “We’re holding a celebration here at the restaurant for the Beni Imo festival. You wanna come?”
“But... we’re not in Okinawa,” Hitoshi points out.
Hanta’s grin doesn’t falter. “I know, but some of the locals requested it, so we’re bringing it to Musutafu.”
Hitoshi catches Katsuki’s eye and smiles—just a small thing, but it reduces Katsuki into a flustered mess. “When is it?” Hitoshi asks, not looking at Hanta.
Hanta’s grin grows. He taps the banner Mina made below the register. “Saturday evening.”
Hitoshi’s face falls slightly, not enough to notice if you’re not looking for it. Katsuki’s always looking. “I can’t make it then. My editor is throwing me a party to celebrate my book.”
Katsuki shoves Hanta away. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“What?”
“I’ll deliver the food to you,” Katsuki clarifies. “After the party.”
Hanta’s eyes are wide, mouth hanging open. Hitoshi glances at the “NO DELIVERY.” sign still on the register and then at Katsuki. Hitoshi bites his lip like he’s suppressing a smile. “Okay.”
He makes his way out quickly after leaving his address. When Katsuki turns to Hanta, he just blinks stupidly.
“You’re so gay, dude,” he says after a moment, and then calls for the next customer.
すき焼き sukiyaki
Thinly sliced Wagyu beef, tender enough to fall apart. Sweet soy bubbling slow. Steam clouding the air between us. Raw egg, golden and delicate, coating every bite. Shared from the same pot.
The bag is a heavyweight in Katsuki’s hand. Not any heavier than the thoughts running through his head, though. The full force of what he’d done only hit him after the festival, and his hands had already started moving before he could stop it—prepping the ingredients for sukiyaki, packing his portable burner, carefully placing some of the beni imo tarts and matcha ice cream into separate containers.
Now, he’s standing here, in front of Hitoshi’s house, too scared to knock.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to because the door swings open a second later. Hitoshi joins him outside.
Katsuki’s heart lurches violently. If he thought the sunlight did wonders for Hitoshi, he couldn’t even begin to describe the ethereal quality moonlight gives him. His pupils glow, irises incandescent against the light spillage. The shivers racking Katsuki’s body in the cold, dark evening dissipate. Hitoshi’s presence is bright, burning the chill away.
“Katsuki,” Hitoshi says, jolting him out of his reverie.
“Yeah,” he replies, voice thick. “I’m here.”
Hitoshi doesn’t tease him for the response, choosing to open the door instead. “Come in.”
Hitoshi gives him a brief tour of the place, guiding him to the kitchen area. Katsuki makes quick work of unpacking. He deposits the ice cream into the freezer for later. Then, he pulls out the prepped ingredients for sukiyaki and his portable heater, bringing them to the low table in the center of Hitoshi’s living room.
Luckily, sukiyaki is meant for a more cozy family-style dinner, so it doesn’t take Katsuki long to get the sweet soy sauce broth bubbling in a pot. After that, it’s just Katsuki manning the food, slowly adding the beef and vegetables. Hitoshi flutters between the living room and kitchen, handing Katsuki whatever cookware and cutlery he needs.
“Oi,” Katsuki calls out to him from the living room.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi yells back from the kitchen.
“You see that white box in my bag? Bring that here.”
Hitoshi does, eyes wandering to the sukiyaki. The rich, sweet aroma cracks and pops in the air nicely, filling Katsuki’s lungs with each inhale. It soothes some of the traces of anxiety.
Hitoshi sits across from him at the low table, taking a deep breath in. His eyes close, and the smile gracing his features can only be described as serene. “God, that smells amazing.”
“Gonna taste even better too,” Katsuki says, stirring the pot gently.
Hitoshi opens his eyes, the smile not leaving his face. “Yeah, I bet.”
He points to the container he brought with him. “May I?”
Katsuki nods to tell him to go ahead. Hitoshi opens the box gingerly as if the offering is something delicate and not an over-glorified take-out container. When he looks at the contents, Katsuki can practically see the way his eyes sparkle with genuine awe.
It’s... sweet. Cute, even. Katsuki’s heart beats faster at the naked display of contentment. Hitoshi’s not usually this open—not someone who's easy to read. The urge to reach over and kiss the living daylights out of him gets stronger with each passing second.
Hitoshi’s gaze flicks up to him briefly before going back to the food. “Can I take a picture of this?” he asks quietly.
Katsuki’s brows furrow in confusion as he processes the question. When has Hitoshi ever taken a picture of his food before?
“Why?”
It takes Hitoshi a second too long to answer. “Um, I want to post it.”
Katsuki raises an eyebrow at that. “You don’t use social media.”
“I have an account,” Hitoshi replies petulantly, arms crossed as he diligently stares at the food.
Katsuki scoffs. “Yeah, an empty account. No pictures. No bio. I’m pretty sure you don’t even have a profile picture.”
Hitoshi looks at him again, his expression unsure. “I... want to keep this memory.”
For a moment, the honesty catches him off guard. He eyes Hitoshi, who keeps shifting in his seat. “Bullshit.”
Hitoshi blinks. “What?”
“I call bullshit. You look like a cat that did something stupid and knows it’s about to get caught.” Hitoshi makes an indignant noise at that, but Katsuki ignores him. “Out with it.”
Hitoshi opens his stupid, gorgeous mouth again, because god forbid he ever let Katsuki win a fucking argument for once. “I—”
“Out with it,” Katsuki repeats, cutting him off.
He watches in real time as Hitoshi deflates, eyes going downcast. A blush blooms on the tips of his ears. He looks uncharacteristically shy, and Katsuki’s curiosity only grows.
Hitoshi takes a breath, steeling himself for something, and meets his gaze again. “Okay. Okay, I’ll tell you the real reason. As long as you promise not make fun of me.”
“I’m not promising shit,” Katsuki says reflexively. “Especially if you did something dumb.”
“Ugh,” Hitoshi groans, running a hand over his face. “Why do I even bother?”
Katsuki can’t help but smirk at that. The corner of Hitoshi’s mouth ticks up from what his hand doesn’t cover.
“What is it?” Katsuki asks, trying to get them back on track.
Hitoshi drops his hand and stands up, walking over to the kitchen. Katsuki turns off the heater, letting the lingering warmth finish cooking the meal. Then, he follows Hitoshi to the kitchen.
When he gets there, Hitoshi is rummaging through a cupboard for a few seconds before pulling out a book. He stares at the cover, grip tightening every so slightly.
“Remember how you told me you get inspiration for your dishes from other people?”
“Yeah.”
Then, he turns to Katsuki and hands it to him.
“Open it,” Hitoshi says, leaning against the island countertop. He hugs himself tightly as he watches Katsuki.
“I won’t laugh,” Katsuki grumbles, standing by the counter opposite to Hitoshi, near the sink. He opens the book instead of looking at whatever face Hitoshi’s making right now.
Nothing prepares him for what he sees on the first page. Or the second. Or the third.
“This is...” Katsuki trails off.
“A scrapbook,” Hitoshi says quietly.
“A scrapbook,” Katsuki echoes faintly.
This incredible, kind, beautiful man in front of him made a scrapbook of all the food Katsuki had cooked for him. Each page is dedicated to a specific dish—complete with a picture and a blurb at the corner describing Hitoshi’s thoughts on it.
For a simple omurice dish topped with Katsuki’s signature hot sauce, Hitoshi wrote:
I’m a big baby when it comes to anything spicy, but the flavour blends in so well with the others. There’s a hint of sweetness to it that makes the hot sauce have a stronger kick. It brings out the tang in the soy sauce and pairs beautifully with the omelette. Each topping sits on a bed of rice—intricately placed and so very Katsuki. I would expect nothing less from the best.
Even the zosui Katsuki scrounged up after the restaurant closed for the day, because Hitoshi looked sick and Katsuki was worried, gets its own entry:
A standard dish for when you’re feeling unwell, but Katsuki somehow manages to elevate it past that. The dashi broth is creamy but light. The vegetables are cut into small chunks—easy to digest, while still providing essential nutrients. Every sip delivered a burst of energy into my body. Incredibly soothing and delicious. Feels like a warm hug. Or better yet, like home.
Every page has at least one remark about Katsuki:
I told Katsuki the other day that I love melon pan. He handed me this on my visit today. There are only so many words in the dictionary that I can use to describe his cooking before I sound like a broken record. Nonetheless, I’m a man on a mission, humbled and forever indebted to my friend’s caliber for the culinary arts.
The bread is sweet, light, and airy. It melts in your mouth with every bite. I can’t help but run my finger through each gridline, mind unencumbered by frivolous things like thoughts, drifting away from this plane of existence on a soft cloud. None of it, though, compares to the warmth in my chest as Katsuki watches me eat. Or the way his eyes softened when he handed the melon pan to me. The boyish smile on his face when I told him I loved it plays on repeat in my head.
He sets the scrapbook on the countertop by the sink.
This is it. This is what his grandma meant about finding someone who will be gentle with his heart. The care and admiration Hitoshi holds for him is laced within every word, every carefully placed photograph, every page.
“Katsuki?” Hitoshi calls out, alarmed.
He feels... treasured. The scrapbook carries so much love that Katsuki thinks he might burst at the seams if he tries to keep it all inside. Hitoshi overflows with a kindness he’s rarely known. Emotion lodges thick in his throat, and he struggles to reply.
Tears well up in his eyes quickly, and he can’t control the shakiness of his breath. His mouth wobbles as he tries to stifle a sob.
Katsuki wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and releases a hoarse laugh. “I’m okay.”
“But you look—” Hitoshi’s arms unwrap themselves from his torso, moving as though he’s about to reach for Katsuki.
Except Katsuki gets there first.
His mouth seals over Hitoshi’s in a messy, desperate kiss. A thrill runs through him now that he can finally experience those soft, plush lips pressed against his own. He lifts Hitoshi up on the island, lightly nudging his legs apart so he can push into Hitoshi’s personal space.
Hitoshi makes a startled noise, his mouth unmoving for a second, before he melts into it, kissing back with equal fervor. His fingers thread through Katsuki’s hair as he lets out a happy sigh.
Katsuki can’t help but want more. He nips Hitoshi’s bottom lip, savouring his gasp, and introduces his tongue. He chases the hints of wine in Hitoshi’s mouth, probably from the party. It’s bitter, strong, but still sweet, and Katsuki can’t get enough of it. It’s better than anything he’s ever tasted.
Every muffled noise stokes the fire building in his gut. His hands grip Hitoshi’s hips, jeans giving way under the rough press of Katsuki’s fingers, and he pulls him closer. Hitoshi’s thighs clamp around him, and Katsuki groans when Hitoshi tilts his head just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss.
The kind of delirium fogging up his mind is incomparable to any high Katsuki’s experienced before. Mastering a new dish, his restaurant’s opening day, his first official customer—none of it measures up to sheer giddiness filling his chest.
Hitoshi breaks the kiss with a sharp gasp, and Katsuki dives in again. He gets one more kiss in—nothing more than a peck—before the hands on his cheeks forcefully pull him away.
“Give me a second,” Hitoshi says in between breaths.
His cheeks are coloured with a rosy blush. Eyes glossy as if he’s trapped in a daze. Katsuki wants.
It takes a few more breaths before Hitoshi speaks again. “Why did you do that?”
Katsuki’s never been good with words. At least, not in the way Hitoshi is. But he finds that the next few come easily to him.
“Because you made me the scrapbook.”
Hitoshi’s gaze travels over his face, searching for something. “You’re not upset?”
Katsuki leans in for another kiss—a simple soft drag of their lips. Hitoshi’s eyes close, like he can’t bear to keep them open.
“Of course not,” Katsuki murmurs when they break apart, enamoured at the way Hitoshi’s eyes flutter open, how he leans slightly into Katsuki’s space. The purple irises are vivid and enticing up close.
Hitoshi’s thumbs stroke his cheekbones. “So... what is this then?”
“I’m happy,” Katsuki blurts. “And I like you. A lot.”
The smile on Hitoshi’s face blooms slowly, stretching his cheeks out wide. His eyes crinkle at the corners, almost curved into half-moons.
Hitoshi brings Katsuki closer. “I like you too.”
They kiss again. Softer, this time.
The same smile greets him when they part.
“Good,” Katsuki murmurs against Hitoshi’s lips. “’Cause I’m not letting you go.”
Hitoshi huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, me neither.”
抹茶アイス matcha aisu
A single scoop of matcha ice cream. Creamy, sweet, the kind of thing you long for after a grueling day. A smear of red bean paste intertwined. Red for happiness. Red for passion. Red for love.
They’re sitting at the low table again, the cookware washed and packed away. The warmth it left behind sits comfortably in their stomachs and in their hearts.
Their knees knock into each other as they share the matcha aisu. Hitoshi pesters Katsuki by biting into the ice cream to watch him flinch, teeth clanking against the metal spoon obnoxiously.
“Stop doing that!” Katsuki chides for the tenth time already, only for Hitoshi to laugh at him. He rolls his eyes but gives up the fight. “Say, when did you start the scrapbook?”
“Soon after the day you made me kushiyaki.” Hitoshi’s gaze drifts away from him for a second. “I don’t know. Food just felt... different with you. When you told me that you’re inspired by other people, it gave me the words I was lacking for so long.”
“And... that’s the only thing I inspired?”
Hitoshi’s expression becomes teasing. “You want to know if I wrote my story about us, don’t you?”
Katsuki focuses on taking another bite of the ice cream, the cold hitting the backs of his teeth. He shrugs.
“I’ll show you the book,” Hitoshi promises. “You can decide for yourself. You’re going to show me the notebook?”
The sweetness of the matcha coats his tongue in a thick layer.
“Yeah, I will.”