Work Text:
Prologue
Izuku
Two Days Earlier
The apartment smelled like toasted seaweed and salmon.
Katsuki stood at the counter, already halfway through packing two lunches while the rice cooker clicked softly behind him. It wasn't something they'd ever talked about doing. It had simply... happened. One day, they'd both forgotten to eat during patrol, and after that, Katsuki had started making enough for two every morning.
Izuku insisted on helping.
He also insisted on cutting vegetables into shapes that wasted perfectly good food.
"You made the carrots stars again."
"They cook faster."
"They absolutely do not."
Izuku grinned over his shoulder. "You can't prove that."
"I don't have to."
Katsuki slid grilled chicken into two containers before dividing the rice evenly between them. Broccoli. Carrots. Enough protein to keep Izuku from crashing halfway through the afternoon.
He snapped the lids shut.
"There."
Izuku wandered over, still buttoning the cuff of his shirt. His hair refused to cooperate, curls sticking up in every direction despite obviously having been brushed.
"You didn't have to pack mine," he said automatically.
"I know."
"I could've grabbed something later."
"You won't."
"...Probably not."
"Exactly."
Izuku laughed quietly, accepting the container anyway.
"Thanks, Kacchan."
He smiled when he said it—unforced, unguarded, just Izuku. Katsuki leaned over long enough to press a quick kiss against his forehead before grabbing his own bag.
"Don't forget it."
"I won't."
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By one in the afternoon, Izuku realized he wasn't hungry.
Not unusual. Some patrol days were like that—too many rescue calls, too much paperwork, too much adrenaline sitting heavy in his stomach. He set the lunch on his desk and told himself he'd have it later.
Later turned into another emergency, then interviews, then reports. By the time he looked at the clock again, it was almost seven, and the food was still sitting exactly where he'd left it.
He stared at it for a long moment before quietly placing it back into his bag.
It wasn't spoiled. He could eat it at home.
Except that by the time he got there, Katsuki already had dinner on the stove, and the lunch stayed in his backpack.
Tomorrow, he'd remember.
He had to.
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Katsuki
The apartment was unusually quiet.
Katsuki sat at the kitchen table long after Izuku disappeared into the bedroom, the untouched lunch container still in his hands. He hadn’t moved it. Couldn’t. It looked too ordinary to feel like this much—rice, chicken, broccoli, a packed lunch from that morning, a quick kiss at the door, a sleepy thank you. Nothing about it had felt wrong then. Now it felt like evidence of something he hadn’t seen forming right in front of him.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows while the clock above the stove ticked too loudly, filling in for everything else that wasn’t being said. Katsuki didn’t know how long he sat there before the bedroom door creaked open and bare footsteps crossed the hardwood behind him.
“Kacchan…”
He looked up. Izuku was wearing one of his hoodies, sleeves swallowing his hands, stopping a few feet away like distance could soften whatever was coming. Katsuki hated that instinct immediately, pushing the lunch container aside as he said, “I ain’t mad.” Izuku nodded once, too quick, too careful.
“I know,” he said.
“Liar,” Katsuki replied, not sharp, just exhausted. “’Cause if you knew that, you’d be sittin’ next to me already.”
Izuku’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to.”
That did it—something tight in Katsuki’s chest giving out under the simplicity of it. Twenty-one years of knowing each other, of fighting and rebuilding and existing in the same space until it had become second nature, and somehow Izuku was still negotiating permission like he could be disqualified from being here.
“When did you start thinkin’ you had to ask permission to sit beside me?” Katsuki asked quietly.
Izuku didn’t answer right away. His shoulders pulled in slightly, protective, as if the question itself were something he might fail. When he finally spoke, it came out small. “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
Katsuki frowned. “I found three lunches.”
“I know.”
“You’ve barely eaten all week.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been tellin’ me you already ate.”
“I know.”
Each repetition softened further, not defensive, just collapsing under its own weight. Katsuki scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to keep his own frustration from tipping into something worse. “Izuku.”
“I know,” he said again.
“When I asked if somethin’ was wrong—”
“I know.”
“When I asked if you were okay—”
“I know.”
It wasn’t an argument. It was an apology that had been rehearsed too many times and still hadn’t changed anything. Izuku’s fingers twisted together until his knuckles went pale as he added, barely audible, “I thought if I could fix it before you noticed… then you wouldn’t have to know.”
The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was full in a way that made it hard to breathe around. Katsuki stared at him, and something sharp and ugly formed under his ribs—not anger exactly, but fear threaded through disbelief, because this wasn’t sudden. It was accumulation. Stalled lunches. Careful excuses. The slow disappearance of someone trying to make himself smaller so nobody had to carry the weight of noticing him.
A month ago, Izuku had asked about scars. Katsuki hadn’t thought much of it then. Now he did, because it wasn’t about scars at all. It was about the way Izuku looked at himself like something already past the point of needing care.
“How long?” Katsuki asked finally.
Izuku didn’t answer. Not refusal. Not defiance. Just not knowing. And that was worse.
Katsuki stood.
Izuku tensed immediately, bracing on instinct, as if in expectation. Idiot.
Katsuki crossed the space between them and stopped right in front of him, close enough that Izuku had to look up, close enough that there was nowhere else to go. “I ain’t mad at you,” he said, quieter now. “But you’re gonna stop actin’ like you gotta fix yourself before you’re allowed to exist around me.”
Izuku’s breath caught. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I don’t care what you were trying to do,” Katsuki cut in, steady but firm. “You don’t get to disappear in front of me and call it protectin’ me.”
That made Izuku flinch slightly, shoulders tightening. “I thought it would be easier.”
Katsuki gave a short, humourless exhale. “Yeah? And how’s that working out?”
No answer.
Katsuki reached out, catching the edge of his sleeve, not pulling him closer, just anchoring him in place. “You ever think I’d notice even if you tried to hide it from the whole world?”
“I don’t want you worrying,” Izuku said quickly.
“I already am,” Katsuki replied.
That shut the air down for a moment. Izuku went still, eyes fixed downward. Katsuki didn’t let go. “And I don’t need you bein’ perfect. I need you here.”
“I am here,” Izuku said, but it didn’t land like certainty.
“No,” Katsuki said. “You’ve been half here for weeks and thinkin’ I wouldn’t feel it.”
Izuku swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” Katsuki said, then softened just enough to keep it from cutting too deep. “You don’t get to decide you’re a problem I don’t need to see.”
That quieted everything again, but differently now—less heavy, more fragile.
“I just didn’t want to make it your burden,” Izuku said.
Katsuki looked at him for a long moment, then exhaled. “You’re already mine, dumbass.”
Izuku flinched, but not away from the certainty behind it.
“You don’t get to opt out of that after twenty-one years,” Katsuki added. A beat. Then quieter, “And I don’t want you to.”
Something in Izuku’s posture loosened, just slightly, like a held breath he didn’t realize he’d been keeping. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he admitted.
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed immediately. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
A faint, broken laugh escaped Izuku before he could stop it. “Probably.”
Katsuki finally let go and stepped to the side instead of in front of him, lowering into the chair beside him rather than looming over him. The shift was deliberate—same space, less pressure. “You’re eatin’,” he said.
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.”
A pause.
“And tomorrow too,” Katsuki added. “And the day after that. And if your head starts tellin’ you otherwise, you’re tellin’ me instead of listenin’ to it.”
Izuku hesitated. “I don’t know if I can just—”
“I didn’t ask if you could do it alone.”
That ended the argument cleanly. The rain kept falling. The clock kept ticking. The world kept moving like nothing had changed. But Izuku finally shifted, dragging his chair closer and sitting beside him instead of across from him—careful, uncertain, but there.
Katsuki didn’t comment. Just opened the lunch container again and said, “Eat.”
This time, Izuku did.
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Katsuki woke to the apartment already moving.
Not loud, not chaotic—just the steady rhythm of morning settling in. The rice cooker hummed softly, a pan simmered on low heat, and something clinked faintly against metal in the kitchen. He lay there for a moment longer than usual, staring at the empty space beside him before pushing himself up and following the sound down the hallway.
Light spilled from the kitchen doorway.
Izuku was there, back turned, completely focused on breakfast like nothing had happened and everything had been carefully put back into place anyway. He wore Katsuki’s shirt again—too big on him, slipping slightly off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up unevenly like he hadn’t thought about it at all. Bare feet on the kitchen floor, hair still soft and messy from sleep, moving with quiet precision as he stirred miso soup and checked the rice.
He didn’t notice Katsuki; that alone mattered.
Izuku hummed under his breath as he worked, that soft, unfocused sound he made when his mind was half in motion and half somewhere else. The kitchen smelled warm—steam from the rice, miso, breakfast starting to come together—but underneath all of it was Izuku himself. Mint, clean and sharp like fresh air through open windows, and something softer beneath that, earthy and grounding, like chia and warm skin after sleep. Soap lingered faintly too, familiar and domestic, blending into something that didn’t feel separate anymore, just him.
Katsuki stepped in quietly—still nothing. So he crossed the space and wrapped his arms around Izuku from behind. No warning, merely contact.
Izuku startled—shoulders jumping, breath catching—but Katsuki tightened his hold slightly, chin settling on his shoulder like it had always belonged there. “Morning, Izuku,” he muttered.
Izuku froze for half a second, then recognition softened the tension out of him in stages. He carefully set the spoon down so nothing spilled and stayed still, then slowly leaned back into him as his body had already decided this was safe before his thoughts caught up. “Morning, Kacchan,” he said softly.
Katsuki stayed where he was, arms firm around Izuku’s waist, holding him steady without pressure. He breathed in once—mint, chia, soap, warmth—and let it settle before speaking again, quieter now. “We’re talkin’ about last night, Izuku.”
Izuku paused, not pulling away, just listening. Katsuki didn’t loosen his grip. “Don’t dodge it.”
“I’m not,” Izuku said after a moment, voice softer. “I just… didn’t know how this morning was going to feel.”
Katsuki hummed low against his shoulder. “And?”
Izuku leaned back slightly more into him. “It feels calmer than I expected.”
“Yeah?” Katsuki murmured.
“Yeah,” Izuku answered.
The kitchen stayed quiet except for the soft simmer of food and the occasional sound of rain against the window. Katsuki didn’t rush the silence. Just held him there, grounded and steady, letting the moment exist without filling it too quickly.
After a while, Izuku spoke again, quieter. “I didn’t realize how much I was avoiding it.”
Katsuki exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. I did.”
“I know,” Izuku said, then corrected himself gently, “I mean… I know you noticed.”
Katsuki didn’t comment on the wording. Just tightened his arms slightly. “You still think you gotta fix everything alone, Zu?”
Izuku shook his head faintly. “No. Not like before.”
A pause.
Then, honestly: “I’m trying not to.”
That landed in a way neither of them needed to explain.
Katsuki stayed holding him a second longer, chin still resting on his shoulder, then finally shifted just enough to glance at him. “You sleep okay, Izu?”
Izuku hesitated, then nodded. “Better. I didn’t wake up as much.”
“Good,” Katsuki said simply.
Izuku’s hand lifted from the counter after a moment and settled over Katsuki’s forearm where it crossed his middle—light, grounding, not holding him back, just there. “I didn’t realize how much I was avoiding it,” he repeated quietly, like saying it again made it more real instead of less.
Katsuki clicked his tongue softly. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Izuku gave a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. Not defensive. Just tired in a way that was starting to loosen instead of tighten.
Katsuki held him a little closer. “You still eatin’ with me, Izu?”
“Yeah,” Izuku said immediately, no hesitation this time. “Of course.”
“Good,” Katsuki muttered. “Stay here with me while I cook, yeah?”
Izuku’s mouth curved faintly, small but real. “Yeah.”
Katsuki huffed like it was obvious he’d say that. But he didn’t move away, and Izuku didn’t either.
·· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Epilogue
Katsuki
Three Months Later
The city stretched out beneath them, glass and steel glittering in the afternoon sun. Lunch breaks had become a habit—not in the agency, not at a café, but on rooftops, far enough above the noise that neither of them had to think for twenty minutes.
Katsuki dropped onto the edge of the building with practiced ease, pulling two lunch containers from his bag before tossing one toward Izuku.
Izuku caught it one-handed.
"Thanks."
"Tch."
They sat in comfortable silence while a light breeze tugged at their hair. Katsuki cracked open his own lunch, and Izuku did the same.
For a second, Katsuki just watched from the corner of his eye, no hesitation, no staring at the food like it was asking something impossible of him. Merely hungry, Izuku picked up his chopsticks and immediately dug in—rice, salmon, broccoli, carrots cut into stars. Within minutes, nearly half the container was gone.
Katsuki blinked.
"...Damn."
Izuku looked up, cheeks already full. "Hm?"
"You inhale it or somethin'?"
Izuku swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck with an embarrassed laugh.
"I... didn't realize how hungry I was."
"No shit."
Another bite, then another. By the time Katsuki had barely made a dent in his own lunch, Izuku was scraping together the last few grains of rice.
He paused.
"...Can I have one of your carrots?"
Katsuki stared at him.
"...You serious?"
"They're star-shaped."
"They're all star-shaped."
"I know."
A smile tugged at Katsuki's mouth before he could stop it.
"Dumbass."
He reached over anyway, dropping a few extra carrots into Izuku's container. Izuku beamed.
"Worth asking."
"Greedy."
"Says the guy who packed enough food to feed three people."
"'Cause one of us forgets he's got a stomach."
Izuku's smile softened.
"I don't anymore."
The words were quiet, simple and honest. Katsuki looked at him for a long moment before bumping their shoulders together.
"Good."
No grand speeches, no promises that tomorrow would be easy, just the afternoon sun, the wind high above the city, and two heroes sharing lunch on a rooftop.
Izuku closed his container with a satisfied sigh.
"I'm still hungry."
Katsuki barked out a laugh.
"There he is."
"What?"
"The bottomless pit I fell in love with."
Izuku's face flushed bright red.
"K-Kacchan!"
"Hah."
Katsuki handed over the last salmon in his own container anyway. Izuku accepted it without arguing, without apologizing, without trying to give it back.
He simply smiled, whispered, "Thank you," and took another bite.
Watching him eat had never felt so ordinary—Katsuki hoped it would stay that way forever.