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From time to time, when Katsukiʼs in a rush, he thinks Shouto takes things extra carefully and extra slowly just to annoy him. Just because he can.
Because he knows that Katsuki isn’t gonna leave or anything, since the sunk cost fallacy applies at this point. He’s invested way too much in this man to quit on him now.
(And he really loves him and all that vomit-inducing Hallmark card bullshit. He...cares.)
Like right now. Shoutoʼs just moving the mapo tofu around with his hashi, stirring the sauce around to get a better look at whatʼs in it. But he wonʼt just get on with it and take a fucking bite. He won’t, he refuses, even if he sees Katsuki standing there tapping his foot and letting out pointed little sighs.
Stubborn ass.
Even when Shouto finally does it, lifting a choice piece of tofu into his damn small mouth, sucking on it pleasantly before starting to chew, he doesnʼt give his verdict until Katsuki practically leans over him and demands it. “Well? Whose is it?!”
“The last bowl was Fuyumiʼs. This one is yours.”
“You sure about that?”
Shouto stares at him for a second. “I’m sure.”
Damn it. Katsuki slams his fist down on the table. Shouto barely reacts.
(It doesn’t bother him when Katsuki does this. Katsuki even asked.)
Thatʼs four for four over the last few weeks.
Shoutoʼs always been able to tell the difference between Katsukiʼs mapo tofu and his sisterʼs. Even when they both use her exact damn recipe.
Katsuki just doesn’t get how heʼs doing that.
Even when Katsuki went to her house and babysat her screaming brat just so he could spend a half hour with her and watch her make it, in case sheʼd written her recipe down but left some minor, habitual thing out.
Even when Katsuki thinks he might actually be going crazy.
“Can I eat this one?” Shouto asks, unbothered by Katsukiʼs abject and practically irredeemable failure. “The one you made.”
“No,” Katsuki snaps, picking up the bowl. “Itʼs not good enough.”
“I think—”
“It’s not.”
He brings Fuyumiʼs version for Shouto to eat. And he watches him tuck into it in silence.
Despite his terrible mood, Katsuki does love the stuff, so he motions to Shouto that heʼd like to be fed a bite or two.
Shouto feeds him off his own plate, from the same hashi heʼs eating with, and every time Katsuki chews on the tofu and the spicy numbing taste washes over his tongue, he remembers that long ago dinner at the Todoroki house.
It tasted just like this. He thought heʼd finally matched it.
“I hope you didnʼt throw yours away,” Shouto says.
“Why do you care?” Katsuki pouts.
He gets this way when his pride has been wounded.
Heʼs supposed to be a damn good cook.
(He’s supposed to be a lot of things. And he’s not even half of them. It keeps him up at night, and sometimes it just makes him feel cold. Colder when Shoutoʼs not there.)
“You made it for me,” Shouto says. “And itʼs good food.”
“I didnʼt toss it. You can have it when Iʼm not around.”
He doesn’t throw out perfectly edible food. Even if it’s not good enough. Just for the principle of not wasting it.
He just doesn’t want to have to watch Shouto eat it and know that it doesn’t taste right. He wouldn’t be able to stand it.
The first time they did the blind taste test Shouto did tell him that both dishes were equally good. He was about to tell Katsuki how heʼd determined the difference too, but that was a step too far.
It was Katsukiʼs job to figure out where heʼd come up short.
The only way to set things right was to make up the difference at any cost.
Now though, heʼs tempted to ask. It wonʼt be giving up exactly, just an update to his strategy. A necessary retreat.
Life’s a chess match.
“Okay. Howʼd you know which one was mine?”
“Last time when I was about to tell you, you told me if I spoke another word I would live to regret it.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Oh.”
See. There it is again. Shoutoʼs taking all this extra time and for wha—
“There was nothing different about the dish,” Shouto shrugs. “They taste equally good. I told you that the first time but maybe I wasnʼt specific enough. They tasted the same.”
“If youʼre backtracking now just to save my feelings you can get fu—”
“When I have ever been anything less than direct with you?”
Never. Not even—Shoutoʼs always been direct with him.
Always.
(Some people might take that level of bluntness as rudeness, but Katsuki’s knows Shouto better than they do. Unless heʼs rightfully pissed, heʼs trying to be kind.)
Sometimes thatʼs painfully annoying. Sometimes it makes Katsuki do stupid shit like fall head over heels in love with him. Occasionally, it’s both at the same time.
But it doesn’t make sense. “Then howʼd you know which one was mine?”
“Your face,” Shoutoʼs left hand comes up to stroke Katsukiʼs cheek. “When youʼre the one who made the dish, you look more excited for me to try it. It’s in your eyes. Thatʼs how I knew, even if I was judging them blind.”
“My fucking face?!”
Shouto presses a warm kiss against his cheek, as if thatʼs an answer. As if that does anything but make Katsuki giddy as hell.
“Does that bother you?” Shouto asks.
Katsukiʼs still smarting with the betrayal that his own face would give him away like that.
Thereʼs also the matter of that kiss. And the way Shoutoʼs looking at him. Taking his time to read Katsuki from cover to cover, front to back. Extra careful and extra slow.
(Like he’s the most important thing in the world.)
Katsuki taps his other cheek with his finger so he can get Shouto to even the kisses out and make ‘em symmetric. Itʼs something he thought of ages ago to get kissed twice as often without looking fucking needy. He’s so glad Shouto actually bought that.
But he’s happy. It’s settled then. Heʼs a good cook.
He got the recipe a hundred percent right.
“Nah, doesn’t bother me,” he says, accepting his undisputed victory cheek kiss and another on the mouth. “Sʼfine.”