Archive of Our Own

Izuku tugged his hood over his head and wandered aimlessly down the street. It had been a long day of editing his video backlog and recording voiceovers in the stream-of-consciousness review style his viewers had come to expect, and Izuku's exhaustion was catching up to him. He just needed to get something into his stomach.

He trudged forward, not sure what he was looking for, eyes glazing over the sea of neon signs advertising restaurants, every display boasting late-night specials. Only a few cars passed, leaving the sound of the wind and Izuku’s trademark red shoes crunching through leaves on the pavement. Nothing caught his attention. He briefly entertained the idea of yakitori before he remembered he’d already had it last night. And the night before that was gyudon leftovers, and the night before that was instant noodles.

His viewers would be shocked to see him eating so poorly. Izuku sighed. If only they knew just how abysmal their favorite food influencer’s eating habits were when he was off-screen. (They probably would be surprised to see him like this, too, no effort put into taming his messy hair and a dark oversized hoodie picked specifically to mask his presence. Right now, he dressed for comfort, not for the camera.)

Musutafu was large enough to boast several high streets and neighborhoods with a strong food culture, and Izuku had a schedule to keep up with. Not enough new content, and his channel was dead in the water. Monetization from past videos might be enough to keep him afloat, but longevity was an issue. The life of a content creator was only as good as its last video and its next five. He quickly exhausted neighborhoods of their new restaurants, and found himself venturing further and further out to maintain a good flow of new content. Which left little time for himself.

Eventually he gave up on his overwhelmed sense of sight and relied on his nose, letting it lead his listless body off the main road and down an alley. He sniffed the air in the hope that it would sate his grumbling stomach, and found himself standing outside of a nondescript restaurant with a simple sign on the front: Dynamight.

Izuku had lived in this neighborhood for years, but he'd never so much as heard of this place. Surprising, for someone who pored over new restaurant lists and bookmarked every one that caught his eye. It must be kept intentionally under-the-radar.

He knocked on the wooden door tentatively before sliding it open to reveal the restaurant. The place was empty, save for a blond man standing behind the bar—presumably the chef.

This restaurant was small, intimate. Counter space only. It certainly wouldn't fit more than a handful of parties. But that made sense for a place like this, where you were meant to savor your food in quiet company, enjoy the ambiance. No need for raucous crowds. The back shelves were filled with sake bottles and other liquor, but this was a place to enjoy your meal, not to get wasted.

“Table for one," Izuku mumbled.

The chef waved him over to a seat but shot a pointed look at the hood still on Izuku’s head—a demand to unhood himself as a sign of respect.

Izuku sighed and tugged his hood off, bracing himself for a sound of recognition, but the chef had no reaction. That was close. Internet fame had its downsides when he just wanted to enjoy his meal, not to film a video about what he was eating. He still got a little startled when people recognized him at all, but that didn’t stop crazed viewers from ambushing him over dinner and trying to grab a selfie together and launching straight into picking his brain about where the industry was going.

“Tonight's menu," the man said gruffly, nodding towards the blackboard.

Izuku glanced over at a short list of Japanese staples, accompanied by charming drawings of each dish. Was that the chef’s work as well? There were a handful of appealing options, but he let his stomach decide for him. "Katsudon,” he blurted out.

There was no chance it would be like his mother's, not after all these years of trying to find something that even remotely resembled hers, but it was worth a shot.

“Coming right up," said the chef.

Izuku admired the chef as he worked, appreciative of the determined set in the man’s eyebrow. He hadn’t seen a one-man kitchen operation in a while; most of the restaurants he’d partnered with lately were multi-unit concepts or, at the very least, full kitchens gunning for Michelin stars. It was nice to eat somewhere a little more low-key for a change.

The chef was a master multi-tasker, spooning rice into the bowl and simmering onions while waiting for the cutlet to fry. No matter how big the splatter, the man never flinched. Everything was under control.

Before Izuku knew it, the chef set the bowl of katsudon in front of him. “There ya go.”

Izuku reached for the notebook he always had with him, but decided against it. His hunger outweighed his compulsion to take notes about the dish. He could sketch it from memory after eating.

Upon examination, the bowl looked straight out of a textbook. The panko crust was nice and crisp, with no trace of excess oil; the pork katsu was sliced to an even thickness that would put a ruler to shame, topped with a delicate cluster of meticulously chopped green onions; and the egg beneath lent a silky glaze that was almost tantalizing. Just beneath the egg sat a bed of fluffy rice.

He licked his lips and picked up the katsu with his chopsticks, readying himself. Then he closed his eyes and took the first bite. The crispy texture gave way to juicy pork that was a pleasure to chew, and the dashi was a little sweeter and lighter than other restaurants’—it was just like the one his mom used to make.

Holy shit. Izuku let out an involuntary moan.

He heard a snicker from across the counter. Right, the chef was… probably watching him. Not like there was much else to look at around here.

Izuku flushed and opened his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered. But he couldn’t be too sorry when it was so good.

He scarfed down his food without a word, as if he'd never had a meal in his life before. Maybe there was an element of truth to that. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal made by someone else since his mother had died all those years ago, and this felt so much like home.

He marveled at the flavor once more, shaking his head as he continued to shovel katsu, egg, and rice into his mouth. The comforting flavor took him back to late nights when his mom would come home after long shifts and still take the time to prepare his favorite meal for dinner. It tasted like… well, it tasted like love.

Every bite recalled a different childhood memory—holding his mom’s hand as a toddler, asking to go to the park with his friends, watching World Heroes’ Mission nonstop and pretending to be the main character, insisting on katsudon for dinner for the fourth night in a row.

The nostalgia that flooded in overwhelmed him in the best way, a positive reminder of where he had come from and just how much he’d been loved. He didn't realize the tears of relief dripping down his face until one struck his rice bowl.

“Glad you like it," the chef said with a chuckle. “But that shit isn’t meant to make you cry. It's just katsudon.” He shook his head, a glimmer of a smile on his face.

“They’re happy tears!” protested Izuku, clutching the bowl.

“Find a better excuse,” barked the chef with a sharp laugh.

Katsuki had never been one for gimmicks.

Save the fancy presentation and subtle flavors for someone more patient. He believed that food should speak for itself. And that strong perspective showed in every aspect of his restaurant—the open kitchen for all customers to see, the simple menu written on the blackboard, the focus on high-quality ingredients sourced from local vendors he trusted, down to the lack of flashy advertisements to grab attention (who needed them when you had a sign above the door and good ol’ word of mouth?). No tricks, no nonsense. Just some damn good cooking.

It was late on a Tuesday night when a tousle-headed man with green hair slunk into the restaurant. The usual crowd of salarymen had already come and gone, and Katsuki had expected to close up shop in a matter of minutes. But a customer was a customer. “Come on in.”

The guy was wearing a hoodie that loosely resembled an outfit from a series Katsuki had watched as a kid. Katsuki squinted at it, eyeing the distinctive ears and green striping. No way he’s repping World Heroes’ Mission, he mused as the customer took a seat. No one even knows what that is anymore.

He'd ordered one of Katsuki's specialties, the katsudon (how could it not be, when it shared a character with his own name?). Katsuki hadn’t expected the guy to lose his goddamn mind when he started eating. He knew his cooking was excellent, but was it literally jaw-dropping, tears-streaming-down-your-face good?

Well, the guy needed a break. He looked like he’d been about to drop from exhaustion when he came in; Katsuki had offered up the barstool at the right time. But that didn’t excuse him from zoning out mid-bite: “Chew your food!” Katsuki barked, amused at the image.

Katsuki cleaned up his workstation as the man finished eating. No point in staring at a customer mid-meal, no matter how stupidly cute he was. He fixed his eyes on the counter and scrubbed ferociously, only looking up when the customer cleared his throat.

“Sorry to spill my life story, but…” The man started rambling on about childhood memories, something about his mother’s recipe. He wasn’t a bad storyteller. Katsuki followed along with rapt attention, but started collecting the bottles of shoyu just to look busy. “And so it just feels like a chapter of my life that I haven’t revisited in years. Like I turned the pages ages ago and moved on to another book entirely. But something about this dish just takes me back.”

The corner of Katsuki’s mouth turned upward. He wasn’t typically one for chatting with customers, but he could appreciate the feelings evoked by food. It was part of what had drawn him to cooking in the first place—making a statement with something he’d created with his own two hands. “Come in any time. No reason those chapters of your life story can’t just continue here.”

The green-haired man sitting at the counter brimmed with joy at Katsuki’s words, making him almost embarrassed he’d said them in the first place.

Friends in the industry—bartenders, mostly—often spoke of how their craft inspired vulnerability in customers, how they heard personal details they wouldn’t have otherwise shared. But Katsuki had never experienced the phenomenon firsthand, not until now.

“I’ll definitely be back,” the customer promised. “Now that I’ve had your katsudon, I can’t guarantee that I can live without it ever again.”

Katsuki shook his head, amused by the exaggeration. “It’s a permanent item, you can’t miss it.”

“Great! Then I’ll have to make myself permanent, too.” The man paid and left in a daze, like he was still half daydreaming thanks to the food.

Katsuki wasn’t one for introspection. But he wouldn’t hate it if that guy came back. And he’d have to come back. He’d said he would. And if not for the food, then at least to come collect the notebook he’d left behind.

“This ain’t a lost and found,” he grumbled, flipping through the pages. It had to have been from that customer with the hoodie. Katsuki was meticulous about everything in his restaurant, clearing the table between each seating as a good chef-owner should.

He skimmed through the notebook to find detailed sketches of dishes, with copious notes in the margins and arrows pointing to various elements. Lamb tart, it read. The tartare sits on a fantastic crust, with a phenomenal meringue topping. One of the better tartares I’ve been served.

He flipped through, intrigued. Each dish listed a restaurant and its city, from Musutafu to Fukuoka to Los Angeles and Vancouver. Was this guy a chef scoping out the competition, even from thousands of miles away?

Katsuki’s nose wrinkled. He hadn't pegged the guy as someone in the industry; the customer had been way too fascinated by Katsuki's every little toss of the pan. These obsessive sketches and notes had to be for something.

Well, if the notebook was important at all, he'd come back for it.

Izuku came back, as promised. He even sat in the same seat as last time, although it was a little earlier in the night so he shared the counter with a few other customers.

“Sorry I didn't come back immediately! I was really tired that night so after I left your restaurant I went straight home and crashed, and it wasn't until the day after that I realized I'd left my notebook behind, but I looked around that morning and couldn't find this place at all—the alley gives off such a different feeling at night, it’s like entering a parallel universe! Then I tried looking you up on the Maps app but couldn’t find a listing, I guess you don’t maintain a social media presence. Ah, sorry I'm talking a mile a minute, I just—”

“It's fine,” the chef cut in, reaching below the counter and handing him the notebook. “Saw all your sketches, not bad stuff. You’re not a cook sniffing out secret recipes or something, right?” He loomed menacingly over the counter, both hands balled into fists.

“Oh gosh, no! I'm just a consumer.” Izuku said offhandedly, forcing a camera-ready laugh.

The chef didn't push the matter. “You've got that hoodie on again.” He nodded at what Izuku was wearing. “World Heroes’ Mission, right?”

Izuku beamed. “You know it?” The show was decades old. Those who recognized the hoodie thought it was childish, and those who didn’t, thought it was some kind of cat cosplay. Either way, people tended to avert their eyes in public, so it was a good cover to avoid getting noticed. But for the chef to remember the series…

The chef made a sound of disbelief that Izuku had to ask. “Best damn show UA Network ever aired.”

Izuku scrambled to unclip the pen from his notebook and pointed it at the chef. He felt himself slipping into interview mode. “Favorite character?”

“Deku, obviously,” he answered without skipping a beat. Another huff. “Who else would it be?” He wrinkled his nose like the question genuinely mystified him.

“Uh, did we watch the same show? Kacchan was the best!”

“That guy was an asshole,” the chef dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “Didn’t have to yell all the fuckin’ time, but he did it anyway.”

Izuku shook his head, determined to correct him. “He was such a smart strategist, and incredibly passionate about the job! The yelling was just a way for him to channel all that energy and emotion.”

“Doesn’t excuse him from bein’ a total fuckhat, but if that’s what you’re into…” The chef shrugged.

Conversation flowed smoothly from there. Izuku learned that his newfound fellow fan's name was Katsuki, and that he'd opened up this shop shortly after leaving Seam, a more traditional restaurant not too far from here.

Katsuki learned a little bit about him, too—that his name was Izuku, that he lived in the neighborhood, and that he was hooked on his katsudon.

Izuku had found amazing restaurants before, but things changed so quickly in the restaurant industry. One never knew when places would close suddenly, unable to keep up with rising leases and ever-changing supply concerns. It was a good thing for Izuku’s career—always something new to investigate and share with the world—but it also meant feeling like he never really belonged anywhere.

It was nice to come back to Dynamight, where entering through the sliding door felt like coming home.

He wondered if Katsuki thought it was weird that he’d started to show up so often. The katsudon was amazing, obviously, but how many times a week could one eat that same dish? Izuku was putting it to the test.

Hopefully it wasn’t too obvious that he wasn’t just there for the food. He liked watching Katsuki work behind the counter, his intense focus and the way he didn’t shy away from the hot flames. He liked the rough way he greeted customers as they walked in, the low gravel of his voice. He liked how Katsuki would tease him for ordering the same damn dish every time, but still make it without complaint. There was something special in those interactions with the chef.

On the occasion he was too busy with work and couldn’t make it to Dynamight, Izuku would stare longingly out his window, wondering who was sitting in his seat at the counter that night—Kirishima the butcher, who was a vendor for the restaurant? Satou the pastry chef?—and whether they’d catch one of Katsuki’s rare unguarded smiles. He couldn’t tamp down his annoyance on those nights.

There were other nights where the restaurants Izuku worked with were over-eager for him to try an assortment from their menu, rendering him too full to order even a chicken karaage appetizer from Dynamight’s later on. Those were the worst—he entirely lost his justification for showing up. He wondered if Katsuki too would keep glancing over at the door, expecting his favorite katsudon recipient, only to be disappointed.

It was a nice thought.

It hadn’t taken Katsuki long to realize that he’d started to look forward to Izuku’s visits.

Izuku brought such a refreshing perspective to everything, and managed to hold his own when it came to vocabulary around food. It amazed Katsuki, honestly, that he could rattle off culinary details and Izuku’s eyes would never glaze over. If anything, Izuku would probe him for more specifics (why wouldn’t that technique work on certain types of food? had he ever considered fermenting an ingredient that ought not be pickled?) It was clear that Izuku respected his craft, and Katsuki didn’t feel guilty about letting out a sharp laugh and allowing his attention to slip from food preparation to the guy smiling across the counter at him.

Izuku was the ideal customer, no contest. Back at Seam, Katsuki had seethed at how impossible it was to see customers’ reactions from where he was caged in the back of house. So obviously, when he’d managed to scrounge up enough money to start his own place, Katsuki had insisted on a counter-style restaurant. (Who gave a shit if small restaurants couldn’t support larger parties? Dumbasses shouldn’t try to throw parties with him behind the counter. That wasn’t what he was here for.) With counter-top seating only, he could keep careful watch over everything that made its way to his customers, focus on what he did best—cooking good shit—and see people light up when they tasted a real meal.

That being said, he’d always thought talking to customers was overrated. What could they have to say that was more interesting or more important than the food he was preparing? But for the first time, he found himself grateful that the counter made it so easy to interact with guests.

Izuku just got it. He understood the nuances that Katsuki was trying to convey with his dishes, had some kind of sixth sense letting him cut straight to the heart of whatever Katsuki was aiming for. The underlying fire driving Izuku’s curiosity could have powered a wok.

And he never let Katsuki off the hook. If Katsuki said something out-of-pocket without meaning to, he didn’t have to apologize, per se (it would take a hell of a lot more than a dirty look to pry one of those out of him), but Izuku would call him out on it. It was a humbling experience. Something he’d rarely experienced with close friends, much less a customer who was only there for his food.

Whenever Izuku paid the bill and shuffled toward the door to the alley from which he’d entered, it started to feel like Katsuki was stuck behind the counter. He watched the door as Izuku slid it shut on his way out, with a little more energy than he’d used to open it. Katsuki felt good about those moments—it meant his food was doing something right, powering someone who needed it. But at the same time, all those hours spent shooting the shit, and it still never felt like enough time with Izuku.

Izuku loved how easy it was to talk to Katsuki, how smoothly they flowed from discussions about preferences in food texture to supply chain issues to shows and movies they enjoyed (more than once, they chatted about character development in World Heroes’ Mission, and Izuku had balked once he realized he’d stayed well past closing time).

“So.” Izuku’s eyes flew up to Katsuki’s. “How do you spend your time… outside of here?”

The awkward phrasing made Izuku smile. He hadn't expected Katsuki to be curious enough about him to ask questions. “Mostly work. Honestly, you could say I’m a little bit of a workaholic.”

“That why you bring that notebook around everywhere?” Katsuki nodded at where it was laid out on the counter.

“Aha, you caught me.”

“So what’s it all about?”

“I review restaurants. These days, it’s mostly fine dining, but I do a little bit of everything. I started off with long-form written reviews, but I mostly stick to video now.”

“One of those influencers, huh?” It sounded like a challenge.

“That’s me.” He stared up at Katsuki, ready for a scoff or change in expression.

But Katsuki simply nodded, as if the pieces were finally falling into place.

“It feels like everyone on the street knows my name now. Sometimes if I don’t have a hood or mask on, I get swarmed,” Izuku said with a sheepish chuckle. “That’s why I had my hood on, that first night. I thought you might recognize me, actually.”

“Huh?! I’m not into that social media stuff.” There was the scoff.

“That’s fair. Probably for the better, honestly,” mused Izuku. “It can lead to some nasty comparisons.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m the best.” Katsuki jabbed a thumb toward himself.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Izuku agreed.

It had been so easy to fall into this routine. Some restaurants pretty much forced him to keep his phone in his pocket, where even the thought of a bright screen disturbing the dim lighting and intimate atmosphere felt illegal. There, he resigned himself to filming in silence and more voiceovers later to make up for it, listening to the grating sound of his own voice and trying not to delete it all.

Dynamight was different. Izuku didn’t need to be ‘on’ when he walked through that sliding door. He could relax and enjoy himself wholeheartedly, without needing to memorize or write down the dishes he’d ordered, what stood out about each one, how the staff worked together or treated him. He was just a customer, there to enjoy a hearty meal.

And what a great meal it always was. Katsuki’s restaurant might be a solo operation, but Izuku was never disappointed. Consistency in all the details, from the egg to the doneness of the rice, and he never plateaued. Katsuki was always innovating—Dynamight offered an ever-evolving list of specials, with a menu based on seasonal ingredients. But Izuku always ordered the katsudon. (While some folks might have a separate stomach for dessert, his was devoted to katsudon.)

When Katsuki finally lost his patience and demanded he try something else on the menu, Izuku branched out and started to order a side dish to go alongside his favorite. He enjoyed the miso gindara, and couldn’t deny that the braised burdock root and carrot was excellent. Even Katsuki’s chawanmushi was to die for. But he couldn’t bring himself to order the vegetable dishes, and the chef immediately took note.

“For someone so green, you certainly avoid it in your meals,” Katsuki scoffed. “Have you ever met dietary fiber?!”

“There are green onions in your katsudon,” Izuku pointed out with a smile.

Katsuki’s response—slamming both hands down on the counter and visibly holding himself back from throwing the spatula at him—was as entertaining as Izuku had expected.

After too many failed attempts, Katsuki stopped asking if Izuku would order a vegetable dish. “I’m thinking of adding this as a special,” he said in a low voice, eyes darting to the other customers. He shoved a plate of blanched spinach with savory sesame sauce over the counter. “Off-menu for now. Lemme know what you think.”

Izuku set it in front of himself and stared warily at it. A quick nibble revealed it was nutty, sweet but not cloyingly so, and easy to eat. “Not bad… for a vegetable,” he conceded.

Katsuki gave a little hmph of satisfaction.

When reviewing the bill, Izuku caught a mistake: “Ah! You didn’t add the sesame spinach to the bill.”

“Oh? Must have forgotten.” Katsuki gave a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t worry about it.”

But this began to happen nearly every time Izuku dined at Dynamight, and none of the trial dishes were ever added to the menu. (Or his bill.) Izuku was forced to conclude that “not bad for a vegetable” wasn’t the enthusiastic reaction the perfectionist Katsuki was looking for—so he’d keep trying new recipes.

On occasion, he felt guilty that he was monopolizing so much of the chef’s attention. Every time he showed up, it felt like Katsuki’s focus was solely on him. It didn’t matter how busy he was or how many other people were present, he fulfilled each ticket with nonchalance and efficiency before returning to his conversation with Izuku.

“Sometimes the food just doesn’t measure up to the atmosphere or ambiance that the business is trying to create,” Izuku confided in the chef. “I always feel bad about those, and the review ends up mostly about the table service or what they were trying to accomplish.”

Katsuki shrugged. “That just makes them bad chefs.”

“I can’t say they’re bad,” he protested.

A snort. “Why not?”

“Because of… what I do, there’s an unspoken expectation that I provide mostly positive feedback about the restaurants I try.” Izuku continued on, ignoring the skeptical look on Katsuki’s face. “Sometimes it feels like I have a moral obligation to keep my mouth shut, if I don’t love the food. Better than potentially destroying someone’s business just because their food isn’t to my taste.”

Katsuki considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “All the great service, dim lighting, and fancy plating in the world doesn’t mean shit if the food is bland.” Of course he’d be a food-first person. Dynamight had an unmistakable ambiance, but it wasn’t meant to be the first thing guests paid attention to. That much had been clear as soon as he’d walked in.

Izuku agreed wholeheartedly. “Do you have any favorites in the area? Anywhere you try out when you're off?” He was curious to know more about his life, so reticent was Katsuki to volunteer any information without being probed.

“Never felt the need,” Katsuki said, shaking his head. “I can cook great food right here, why go anywhere else?”

“That's true, a lot of chefs have an ego,” Izuku murmured. The aside was mostly to himself, but it was overheard. (“Oi!” was followed by loud protests and a whole lot of defensive posturing.)

“There are a lot of great restaurants out here doing interesting stuff. Even if you’re not planning on branching out into other cuisines, it’s a cool way to expand your palate and see what flavors others in the industry are incorporating.” Izuku went on to talk in earnest about some tried-and-true favorites, from the place recreating classic American breakfasts (he loved pancakes) to the one that offered a tasting menu that changed seasonally. “You really should try it sometime!”

Katsuki looked up at him from where he was dicing green onions. “Yeah, not a bad idea,” he said. “But only if you’ll be my personal guide.”

The smirk shot at Izuku went straight through his heart. Could he stop doing that—!

“Of course,” Izuku stammered, grabbing his napkin to wipe up the water he’d knocked over. “I’d be happy to show you around!” As if Katsuki was brand new to the area or something…

Is this a date?

Izuku hesitated, thumbing at the end of his sleeve. He really liked Katsuki, and he was almost certain he’d picked up on some positive signals over the weeks he’d been eating at Dynamight, but he’d been wrong before. He’d become so comfortable dining there, and chatting with Katsuki had become one of the highlights of his week. If Izuku showed up overdressed and Katsuki realized he’d misinterpreted it as a date, it could ruin everything. He could already imagine the awkward glances they’d shoot at each other, leaving Izuku to slink out of dinner with embarrassment and lose his favorite restaurant on the planet to his own wishful thinking.

Then he remembered the smirk on Katsuki’s face when they’d made these plans. How he’d insisted on going “only if you’re my personal guide.” That had to count for something.

Izuku pushed the self-doubt out of his mind and headed out the door. The train ride was too quiet, too short, not enough to calm his racing heart.

They’d agreed to meet at the restaurant on Katsuki’s day off. Izuku was visibly nervous and he knew it, trembling whether with anxiety or trepidation or excitement.

He arrived in front of the restaurant to find Katsuki waiting at the door. He braced himself, and Katsuki picked up on his nervousness immediately. “You’re quaking in your boots,” Katsuki laughed. “You scared of me or somethin’?”

“I’m not wearing boots!”

He rolled his eyes but grinned. “Nice to see you all dressed up like this for me,” Katsuki said, plucking at Izuku’s sleeve. He dusted off his arm—Izuku hadn’t noticed anything there—and took it in his own before guiding him into the restaurant. Izuku stiffened at the sudden contact, then settled into his warmth. I guess there’s my answer—this is pretty date-y.

Katsuki’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “So is this the kinda fancy-pants place you normally spend your time?”

“I’m not a snob or anything! But yes, this is my usual beat.”

Katsuki looked around, examining their surroundings carefully. It was as different as they could get from Dynamight, with a sleek interior and a full staff, complete with a coat check and a host stand. They were led to an intimate table spaced just far enough from the others to keep conversations private. Izuku flushed, suddenly all too conscious of impending judgment. Is it too much?

He hadn’t thought about ambiance at all. He’d picked it for the food, especially after Katsuki’s comment from last time. It has to be somewhere with flavor that really punches through, and continues to showcase new facets as you keep chewing. Nothing that starts to recede once you get used to the taste.

The menus arrived, giving Izuku something else to focus on besides his own self-consciousness. He was delighted to find that the other man had done some research before coming (“No way we should settle for the 9-course, the 13-course includes their signature lamb shoulder.”) After he placed their order and finally looked up, he saw that Katsuki was watching him intently. Katsuki wore a black button-down, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing a classic silver analog watch on his left wrist.

Izuku couldn’t look away. Seeing him in an outfit like this was a treat for the eyes, and he let himself indulge without shame.

“What’s all the staring for?”

“Sorry! I just—I’m not used to seeing you out of the apron, I guess.”

Katsuki smirked. “Play your cards right, and you can see me out of more than just the apron.”

Izuku blanched. He hadn’t prepared himself for a Katsuki with a less than professional demeanor. The chef had already been attractive enough, with his disarming stare and his candor and his demand for total honesty. And now he was openly flirting with Izuku, implying that there might be something to look forward to after dinner?

Izuku found he didn’t… dislike it.

“You were right,” Katsuki acknowledged, spooning the broth into his mouth and savoring every bit of it. “This place is good.”

“I’m glad I was able to pick a good one for you!” Izuku normally put all of his attention toward the food on the table, but his eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to his dining companion. Every bite, every new dish that the servers brought their way, every whiff of food, Izuku couldn’t tear his eyes away from Katsuki’s face as he took in each new sensation. Maybe this is what it feels like to be on his side of the restaurant counter. Just as satisfying to watch his reactions as it was to eat the meal himself—especially since he’d already enjoyed this meal, and wanted to make sure that Katsuki liked it just as much.

Katsuki caught his eye mid-slurp and shot him a wide grin. “I’m just glad to finally be on the same side of the counter,” he said. Izuku found himself feeling more shy than usual, avoiding the intensity of his stare.

When their next course arrived, Izuku pulled out his phone to take a single shot and pocketed it again quickly.

“How’d you get into that stuff, anyway? Taking videos of yourself for the whole world to see and all.” Katsuki examined him closely. “You don’t seem like the attention whore type.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Izuku drily. “I kind of fell into it, honestly.” He thought back, unsure of how much to share. He didn’t want to inundate Katsuki with too much. But he’d already cried at his counter over katsudon, what was one more intimate detail? “So I think I already told you, but my mom died when I was young.”

Katsuki nodded solemnly.

“There’s a local program to help support orphaned children, keep them from falling through the cracks later on,” Izuku spoke as if he hadn’t been one of those children. “It’s called One For All. It operates kind of like a mentorship program? They pair up each kid with someone fairly far into their career and hope you’ll learn from them. You meet every few weeks, and they give you life tips, encouragement, all of that.”

“Pretty damn great opportunity for kids. If you ignore the prerequisite being dead parents and all.”

Izuku grinned despite himself. “Yeah, so I got paired with this man named Yagi Toshinori. He was a food critic at the time.” He noticed Katsuki straighten at the mention—a flicker of recognition? “I’m not entirely sure why, but he really took a liking to me.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Even from the beginning, Toshinori had talked about how astute Izuku’s observations were in regards to flavor profile and pairings. “The program was only supposed to be ten months, but after it wrapped up, Toshinori kept inviting me out, said he wanted to continue being a part of my life.” Izuku smiled wistfully at the memory. “We started with local places, real holes-in-the-wall, but once I got more comfortable with dining out, he introduced me to the world of fine dining.”

Toshinori had been the one to encourage Izuku to share his thoughts with the world. With his mentor’s gentle prodding, Izuku spent his high school years reviewing local restaurants as a regular column in the school newspaper. Izuku felt the most fulfilled when he could help locals discover the beauty of a fantastic new spot right in their backyard. Not chains or restaurants secretly backed by private equity, but mom-and-pop shops that deserved time in the spotlight.

It had been a gamble when Izuku posted the first video with him mumbling under his breath about ingredient freshness and interpreting how the chef managed to execute classic French techniques for viewers who didn’t have a culinary background, but it paid off.

Katsuki gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “Yagi Toshinori is incredible. He was the one to inspire me in my career, too.” He went on to say he’d followed Yagi’s career from his days as a renowned chef to later, when the man had pivoted to more of a figurehead and executive chef-owner role. Even when he’d started working under Hakamada Tsunagu, Katsuki had stubbornly stood by one of Yagi’s principles: good technique should be invisible, not the whole damn point.

Izuku gaped across the table, struck by Katsuki suddenly sharing so much about his personal life and early influences. “I can't believe you know of him!” His cheeks hurt from how wide he was smiling, hearing about his mentor’s earlier career from someone else he admired just as much.

“It'd be harder to not know about him, working in this industry. You'd have to be living under a rock for two decades.”

“I dunno, I've met some chefs who lay pretty low…”

“It’s all about the fundamentals,” Katsuki insisted. “And Yagi championed that movement. If you wanna be the best, you have to get the basics right. No cutting corners, no shortcuts, just good food that anyone can respect.”

Izuku nodded. “I love it when places surprise me,” he said wistfully. “The ones that don’t seem to care about their appearance at all but serve food that blows you away.”

Katsuki watched him intently. “That’s what I aspire toward.”

“You’re at the top of your game. I’ve been reluctant to tell people about it, though,” Izuku admitted. “I love recommending great food to people, but there’s a tradeoff involved.”

Katsuki raised an eyebrow at that, clearly unfamiliar with the concept.

“Not that I’m trying to brag about my reach or anything… But I don’t even have to record a video about a restaurant for it to blow up in popularity. Even a stray post mentioning the place’s name is enough.” He sighed. “Once it’s out there in the world, the restaurant can get overloaded with people interested in it. Almost like a ‘hug of death’ where the sudden influx of customers ends up tanking the place. They get flustered and can’t handle the rush, or they start having to cut corners so they don’t end up selling out by lunchtime, stuff like that. So I’ve kind of just… kept Dynamight as my little secret.”

Katsuki grinned at him. “Worried you’re gonna have to fight your own viewers for a seat at the counter?”

“What if I didn’t even make it to the counter?! That would be torture.” Izuku groaned just imagining it.

By the look on his face, Katsuki was content to watch him suffer. But then he spoke. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” he vowed. “I’d stick a ‘reserved’ sign on there for you whenever you felt like swinging by.”

“That’s…” Izuku grasped for words, now more than ever feeling grateful for Katsuki. He'd never been treated like a regular before. He held the idea in his mind—coming by at any time, only to slide open the door and return to his seat, especially when there were so few to begin with. And for Katsuki to make it so clear that he had a place to come back to… Izuku let his smile grow. “You’d do that for me?”

“Hell, I’d keep you at my counter all day if I could.”

Izuku felt a lump rising in his throat at the words. It wasn’t Katsuki without his point-blank honesty, but he sure knew how to shoot straight through Izuku’s defenses.

“Oi, you better not be turning on those waterworks,” Katsuki warned. “Just enjoy the moment, I ain’t sayin’ it again.”

Izuku laughed—there he was.

Some other tables were making their way out, and Izuku glanced at the clock. It was getting late. Ugh, and he’d been enjoying their time together so much. There was a softer look on Katsuki’s face that Izuku had only caught glimpses of back at Dynamight, except this time it was directed only at him.

“I’ll get the bill,” Izuku said, reaching over to place a hand on Katsuki’s arm. “I’m the one who suggested we go out, after all.” He only wished it weren’t over already. Everything that Katsuki had shown him tonight was irreplaceable, a memory that he wanted to let linger on his tongue for a little longer.

“Sure,” Katsuki answered noncommittally, folding his hands behind his neck as he leaned back in his chair and watched Izuku work through the last of their dessert, a creme fraiche panna cotta with blood orange syrup.

But when the server came by with the check, he swooped in and handed her his credit card before Izuku had a chance to set down the spoon and open his wallet.

“You—!” Izuku was shocked.

“Me? What about me?” Katsuki responded, teeth gleaming.

“I can’t believe you paid! It was my idea for you to come here,” he whined, pulling down on his cheeks with the pads of his fingers.

“And my idea for you to come too,” responded Katsuki with a shrug, batting the protest away with ease.

“If I’d known you were gonna pay, I definitely wouldn’t have picked the 13-course option!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Katsuki’s triumphant look never let up. “You can pick up the bill on our next date… if you can grab it in time, that is.” It was a challenge.

Our next date. Izuku hadn’t thought about that. He stared openly at Katsuki, who had said it with such confidence, with the surety that there would be a next date despite this one not even being over. A grin blossomed on his face. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Better get picking.” There was a crinkle of amusement by Katsuki’s eyes, a flicker of a promise.

“It'll be a good one,” promised Izuku. Now that he understood Katsuki's food preferences more than ever, he was already running through his mental database of restaurants. There was the place that served spicy ramen just down the street, and the one that focused on regional Italian, which really wasn’t something commonly found in their area, and the Szechuan spot where Katsuki would undoubtedly order the spiciest option with numbing spices…

Katsuki noticed his reverie and chuckled. He reached across the table to take Izuku’s hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “I wouldn't expect anything less.”

Izuku leaned in to interlace his fingers with Katsuki’s, letting the warmth settle in his heart just as the food had settled in his stomach. After all his years wandering in and out of dining rooms searching for the latest and greatest, it seemed he’d found something he hadn’t necessarily been looking for: a door to come back through, a seat always free for him, and a chef who wanted him to stay.