Work Text:
Izuku needed more eggs.
He also needed a shower, a change of clothes, and, probably most importantly, to clean up the mess of eggs on the kitchen floor. But even as the yolks seeped into his slippers, all he could think was, I can’t make katsudon now.
Izuku was sick. He had been sick for two days. He had a headache so painful that he thought it might be for the best if his eyes just exploded to relieve the throbbing pressure. He had forgotten entirely what it felt like to have two working nostrils. His skin ached with fever, sensitive to the brush of even the softest of his clothes. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, though honestly he didn’t know if that was the sickness or because he hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.
Which was why Izuku was in the kitchen when he wanted to be in bed. He needed food. And the only thing that would cure him, the only thing that he wanted to eat right now was his mother’s homemade katsudon. The delicious, warm katsudon that his mom always made to celebrate special occasions or to cheer him up when he was down. One bite and the pain of any scraped knee or cold instantly disappeared.
His mom’s katsudon was definitely magic. And Izuku knew, with all the intelligence of a foggy brain deprived of sleep and nutrients, that this was the answer to the uncurable disease that had befallen him.
But Izuku was alone in his new apartment in Tokyo, two hours away from his mom and her healing katsudon. And now he was eggless, after trying to make the dish himself and dropping the eggs when a wave of vertigo hit him so bad that he had to grip the countertop with both hands to stay upright.
Tears welled in his eyes as his toes curled against the unpleasant stickiness of eggs in his slippers. Taking care of yourself while sick was hard. He wouldn’t have katsudon and he needed to clean this mess before he could go back to bed. He wished someone were here to help.
With a loud sniff, Izuku slowly bent to wipe up the eggs. When he got better, he needed to take Uraraka up on her offers to go out more so he could make more friends in the city. Being alone sucked. He knew Uraraka would be here if she could, but she was in Okinawa with her girlfriend on their first vacation as a couple. Izuku hadn’t even told her he was sick; he didn’t want her to worry about him at all.
What luck, his only friend in the city out of town while he was inching closer and closer to his deathbed.
It was as Izuku was pulling himself up, gripping the counter tightly to keep himself steady, that he realized, Oh. He could have the eggs delivered!
That was the great thing about Tokyo, he thought as he quickly snatched up his phone, squinting against the brightness of the screen. There were plenty of delivery services that could help.
Izuku briefly considered ordering a ready-made katsudon meal from a restaurant, but quickly dismissed it. That would satisfy his craving, yes, but that wouldn’t heal him. It needed to be homemade, like his mother’s.
(It made perfect sense in his fever-addled brain. A sick Izuku was not a logical Izuku.)
After placing an order for a batch of new, unbroken eggs that would be delivered in the next hour, Izuku shuffled over to the couch and collapsed in relief. He would soon have his katsudon and destroy this sickness.
Izuku shut his eyes for what felt like only a moment, but he must have dozed off. He startled awake to the sound of his doorbell ringing.
Groggy, head still fuzzy and pounding, Izuku looked at his phone. A notification from the delivery app informed him that his delivery person, Bakugou Katsuki, had arrived with his eggs. Izuku grinned. Perfect.
The nap didn’t help. After pushing himself off of the couch, Izuku had to pause for a moment to let the room stop spinning before he made his way, slowly, to the door.
The doorbell rang again.
“I’m coming!” Izuku called, approaching the entryway. He glanced out the peephole on instinct, just to be sure it was the delivery person there. Sure enough, a man holding a shopping bag stood in front of his door, hand raised as if to ring the bell again. Before he could, Izuku pushed open the door.
And immediately froze.
Standing there was the most handsome man Izuku had seen in his life. The delivery man—Bakugou Katsuki, as the app had stated—was only an inch or two taller than Izuku, but so much…thicker. A black t-shirt tastefully hugged his defined torso, accentuating his pecs and biceps. It wasn’t too tight, not clinging to every muscled ridge as if he were trying to peacock his assets. But it was perfect, showing off his wide shoulders that tapered into a narrowed waist. Well-fitting jeans suggested equally strong thighs, and scuffed black boots completed the look.
A throat cleared and Izuku realized he had been staring for much too long. His face heated, and he knew it wasn’t from the fever. His eyes darted up to Bakugou’s face, catching a smirk before he said, “Delivery for Midoriya Izuku?”
Even his voice, deep and rough, made Izuku’s stomach swoop.
Suddenly Izuku was very aware he was at the door in day-old, rumpled clothes he used as pajamas: a pair of very well-worn gray sweats, stained with paint from when he had helped his mom repaint her apartment, and an old, superhero t-shirt that definitely had a few holes in it. He grimaced, thinking of the state of his hair, matted by sleep and greasy from fever-sweats.
Bakugou cocked an eyebrow above gorgeous, piercing crimson eyes.
Oh! “Um, yes, that’s me,” Izuku stammered out. “Thanks.”
He needed to get back inside as quickly as possible. Hopefully he’d wake up tomorrow all better, this awkward interaction nothing but a faint fever dream.
Izuku reached for the bag. His fingers were brushing Bakugou’s when a wave of vertigo washed over him. He stumbled forward, trying to catch himself on the door but missing. Instead, he fell straight into Bakugou’s chest, solid and warm beneath Izuku’s cheek.
Bakugou’s arms instinctually came up to steady Izuku, one hand firmly clasping Izuku’s arm, the other catching the bag before these eggs met the same fate as their predecessors.
Izuku flushed. Oh, no, he literally almost fainted the moment he touched Bakugou. What was he, some sort of Victorian-era maiden? Or, worse, it felt like he was setting up a very cheesy porno. Izuku tried to gather his strength to steady himself, to push himself back up and make his way into his apartment and try to forget this entire interaction.
It didn’t work. His head fell forward onto Bakugou’s shoulder, forehead brushing his neck. He’d just rest here a moment, yes, then he could go inside and make plans to quit his new job and move back in with his mother, erasing his entire existence from this city.
“Oi!” Bakugou exclaimed, grip tightening around Izuku. Izuku couldn’t help the small moan that escaped. Why did just being held when he felt so sick feel so nice? “What’s wrong? You’re burning up. Do you need a hospital?”
No, no hospital. Izuku was only a little sick. He didn’t have anyone to take him to the hospital and he was not having this handsome man see him carted away in an ambulance for swooning.
Izuku gritted his teeth, gathered all his strength, and pushed away from Bakugou’s chest. He fell back against the doorway, the doorjamb the only thing keeping him up. “No, no, I’m fine. Just a bad cold.”
Bakugou cocked a brow, expression unsure. His hands still hovered in the space between them, ready to catch Izuku if he fell again.
Maybe that’s why the next words tumbled out of Izuku’s mouth, completely driven by his fevered mind. “Just, could you please help me to the couch? I’ll be fine then.”
Bakugou’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Izuku with those wide, red eyes.
Izuku stared back.
It took a moment before what he had said clicked. When it did, Izuku flushed. Did he just invite this man, this stranger, inside his apartment? To his couch? Oh, he really was making this all seem like the setup to a porno.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“No,” Bakugou cut off Izuku’s shocked rambling. “With the state you’re in, I think I’d feel better if I see you inside before I leave.” He leveled a serious gaze at Izuku. “You are inviting a stranger into your house though, moron.”
Izuku could only blame the fever for what he did next. He raised a hand, patting Bakugou on the cheek. “You don’t look like a murderer. And the app told me your name, Bakugou-san. So, you’re not a total stranger.”
There was a beat, where Bakugou continued to look at Izuku in wild disbelief, and then he sighed. “Idiot.”
He stepped forward, wrapping a thick arm around Izuku’s waist and shuffling them both inside. After politely removing his boots at the entrance, he half-carried Izuku the short distance to the couch and gently lowered him onto the cushions.
Izuku sighed once he was semi-horizontal once more, closing his eyes for a moment.
He opened them to catch Bakugou starting to set the eggs on the table in front of the couch before seeming to think better of it. Bakugou glanced around Izuku’s small apartment and headed to the kitchen, putting the eggs inside the refrigerator.
Izuku watched as Bakugou looked around the kitchen, at the mess of ingredients still scattered on the counters. Faintly, Izuku felt he should feel embarrassed by the mess, but he didn’t mind anymore. He had already almost fainted in front of this man, and he looked horrible. How much worse could the state of his kitchen affect things?
“What were you trying to make?” Bakugou suddenly asked.
“Katsudon,” Izuku replied, pressing a hand to his forehead in an attempt to relieve the pressure. “My mom always made it when I was sick. I can’t make it as good, though, and I dropped the eggs.”
Remembering caused Izuku’s eyes to water. He wanted katsudon. He wanted his mom. He wanted to feel better, dammit.
Bakugou stared at him for a moment. Then he took out his phone, quickly typed something into it, and looked back at Izuku.
“Okay. Okay, you want some katsudon?”
Izuku lowered his hand, looking up at Bakugou with watery eyes, lips trembling. “Yes.”
Bakugou frowned, concern causing a crease between his eyebrows that Izuku wanted to brush away. “Okay. You just stay there. Don’t get up. You look like you’re gonna pass out and crack your head open. I’ll make you some katsudon.”
Izuku’s eyes widened, excitement and relief both blossoming in his chest. “Really? Oh, thank you, Bakugou-san! It’ll be so nice having someone else cook for me. It’s so hard taking care of yourself when you’re sick! Uraraka usually would, but she’s on vacation with her girlfriend, and I just moved here so I don’t know anyone else.”
Bakugou was staring at him again with that dumbfounded expression. He groaned, running a hand down his face. “Just Bakugou. Or Katsuki. And please, text a friend, text that Uraraka or someone to show me you have some survival instincts. I’m not a murderer, but never, ever let someone into your house and let them make you food. And especially never let them know you’re basically alone in the city!”
“Mmm, okay, Kacchan,” Izuku mumbled, a wave of exhaustion hitting him so hard he stumbled with Bakugou’s name. Bakugou blushed, but continued to stare intently at Izuku until he pulled out his phone.
Izuku pulled up his messages with Uraraka.
Bakugou Katsuki is hot and he is in my apartment and making me katsudon (っ˘ڡ˘ς)
He is not a murderer.
I hope you’re having the best time and enjoying the beach and the weather and each other (ﾉ´♡´)ﾉ*゜
Izuku held out his phone to Bakugou as proof once the messages were sent, though there was no way Bakugou could read the messages from across the apartment. Still, he nodded in approval, turning back to the counter full of ingredients. Izuku watched his back, his muscles visibly bunching and shifting beneath his shirt as he chopped and mixed, diced and fried… It wasn’t long before sleep tugged Izuku back under.
✧✦✧
Izuku awoke to the smell of home, the scent of warm katsudon curling through the air. He knew it was magic; the smell alone was enough to clear his sinuses.
“Mom?” he mumbled. He started to roll over and realized, that wasn’t correct. He was on his couch. His own couch, meaning…
“Sorry, Izuku, it’s me.”
Izuku blinked the grogginess from his eyes as everything came rushing back. The eggs, the delivery, Bakugou. Izuku’s head still pounded, and he felt flush as he recalled fainting against Bakugou and Bakugou carrying him to the couch where he passed out again. But he did feel slightly better than before.
Now Bakugou stood over him, holding a tray with a bowl of steaming katsudon, cold medication, and a glass of water. Izuku’s stomach rumbled. Bakugou grinned.
“Here.” Bakugou waited until Izuku shuffled into a sitting position before carefully balancing the tray on Izuku’s lap. “Medicine first.”
Izuku complied, not even sure where Bakugou had found the medication. He was sure he had run out after the first day. A small voice in the back of his mind protested taking pills from someone who was essentially a stranger, but the package was sealed. And he could have just as easily drugged the food, and Izuku was eating this katsudon, poisoned or not.
Pills taken, he turned to the katsudon. It looked just as delicious as it smelled, crisp fried pork sitting atop a bed of egg and rice. Pieces of green onion were artfully garnished atop the pork. Izuku’s stomach growled again and he hastily picked up a piece with his chopsticks.
He took a bite. Flavor burst across his tongue, rich and heavy, better than anything he’d eaten in days.
“Oh,” he groaned. “It’s just as good as my mom’s.”
Izuku quickly shoveled in another bite, cheeks round as he glanced up at Bakugou. Bakugou was still looking at him, ears now pink.
When he noticed Izuku staring, Bakugou cleared his throat. “Good. Good, I’m glad you like it.”
Izuku nodded, taking a quick sip of water before turning back to the meal. He felt himself getting stronger, getting better with each bite he took.
It was gone quicker than he would have liked. Izuku couldn’t help but let out a pathetic whimper as Bakugou took the empty bowl from him, taking it to the kitchen. He missed that katsudon. He couldn’t say it was better than his mother’s, he’d feel too guilty, and his mother’s katsudon had the benefit of nostalgia on its side. But Bakugou’s katsudon was definitely on a different level. It was so freaking good.
Izuku settled back into the couch. Now that his stomach was full, and the medication was starting to take effect, he was feeling sleepy again. He tugged the blanket up to his chin, watching Bakugou through heavy eyes. He was washing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen. Taking care of it so Izuku wouldn’t have to. Something warm blossomed in Izuku’s chest.
He would never have this again, Izuku realized sadly. The katsudon, he corrected inside his head. Definitely just the katsudon, he firmly told himself as Bakugou finished wiping down the counters and turned back towards Izuku, a soft expression on his face.
“You’re looking a bit better,” he said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Izuku’s forehead. Izuku greedily leaned closer, closing his eyes and nuzzling into Bakugou’s big, warm palm. He could blame it on the fever, claim he didn’t know what he was doing if Bakugou asked.
Bakugou didn’t question it at all.
Instead, he lingered for much longer than necessary, his thumb smoothing down Izuku’s hair, before he pulled away.
“You still should get some more rest. And um, here’s my number.” Izuku’s eyes popped open to see Bakugou place a piece of paper on the table. “Call or text if you need anything else while you’re sick. …Or when you’re better, whatever.” Bakugou’s cheeks were so red, Izuku worried he had passed his fever to Bakugou. He should have worn a mask.
A beat had passed in silence, and Bakugou was turning to leave.
“Thank you!” Izuku blurted, embarrassed by how long it was taking him to process everything, to respond. “Thank you so much, for helping me, for the katsudon. I know this isn’t really what you were expecting when you came to deliver my eggs.”
Izuku tried to push himself up, to get up to walk Bakugou to the door, but Bakugou waved him off.
“I told you, you better stay down until you feel better. I’ll lock up on my way out.” Izuku obliged, falling back onto the cushions with a small thump. Bakugou headed to the door, and then quickly turned back, leveling a glare at Izuku. “Do not let any more strangers into your apartment, no matter what they look like.”
Izuku nodded, already starting to drift once more.
✧✦✧
The next day, Izuku woke up sprawled on his couch, blanket kicked to the floor, feeling infinitely better than he had in days. That was how much homemade katsudon could heal a person, he thought as he sat up without stumbling at all.
Wait, katsudon…
He glanced at the table to see the slip of paper the delivery man, Bakugou, had left. The slip of paper with his number scrawled on it.
It was real. Everything that Izuku was remembering right now—ogling over Bakugou’s muscles, falling into his arms, inviting him inside—had actually happened.
The fever might be gone, but Izuku felt his face warm.
His mother would kill him if she ever found out he had let a strange man into his home, told him he had no friends or family close by, and ate food that he cooked!
Oh, crap, he told Uraraka!
Izuku dug around for his phone, finding it lodged in between the couch cushions where he had discarded it last night. Multiple missed calls and dozens of messages filled the screen, all from Uraraka. The messages started off demanding to know who Bakugou was and what Izuku meant, but as the night went on with no response, they changed to begging to know if Izuku was okay and threatening that if he didn’t answer soon she would be on the next plane home.
So much for not worrying her on vacation. He mentally sent an apology to Toga for the chaos he caused.
Izuku glanced at the time. It was early, very early. Which made sense; he had passed out early. Hopefully Uraraka had fallen asleep at some point after her last message, so instead of calling he sent her a message, apologizing for scaring her, assuring her he was okay, and promising to explain everything when they next talked. He even sent a selfie as proof of life.
She didn’t respond, which either meant she was asleep or on a plane. Izuku sincerely hoped it was the former.
With that taken care of, he turned to Bakugou’s number.
He needed to apologize to him. He needed to thank him again. He really made a fool of himself in front of that man. That really hot man who was exactly Izuku’s type—no. No thoughts like that. Bakugou was a delivery man who went above and beyond doing his job. Izuku would leave him a great review. But first…
Hey, this is Izuku, the sick guy from last night! I wanted to apologize again for everything.
I’m normally not like that, I swear! I can send you a tip, if you’d like.
Izuku wasn’t expecting a response right now due to the hour, so he was surprised when his phone chimed barely a moment after he had tossed it aside.
The only one of us who needs a tip is you: Don’t let strange men into your house while you’re incapacitated.
Seriously, you’re lucky it was me who delivered your food.
Izuku snorted. Before he could reply, another three texts came through in quick succession.
You haven’t let anyone else in, right?
That’s not why you’re texting, right?
Are you in trouble?
Izuku’s cheeks heated and his chest warmed at the concern evident in the texts, and the speed at which Bakugou had sent them.
No, I haven’t let anyone else in. And I’m feeling much better! Thanks to your amazing katsudon.
Damn right it was amazing.
I can’t say it was better than my mom’s, but it’s up there.
Izuku thought for a moment, then before he could think again, sent:
I miss it. I wish I could have it again.
A beat passed in silence. Izuku worried he’d gone too far. But then a reply came through:
Are you free this weekend?
Izuku smiled, running a finger across the screen. Maybe he would get to have Bakugou—the katsudon—again after all.