Chapter 1: A Mother’s Milk
The fire cracked and popped, a low, heart-thumping rhythm beneath the whisper of the winter wind outside. The living room was a landscape of worn comfort, bathed in the orange-gold pulse of the flames. Light licked over the well-chewed corner of a stuffed rabbit, glinted off the glass eye of a forgotten action figure, and warmed the soles of mismatched socks scattered like fallen leaves.
In the center of the couch, buried under a faded quilt, Hizashi breathed.
His long blonde hair was a messy cascade over one shoulder, held back from his face by a simple clip. In the firelight, his green eyes were soft, half-lidded, fixed on the head of white curls nestled in the crook of his arm. Izuku’s wine-red eyes were closed, his long, pale lashes dusting his cheeks. His lips moved with a slow, steady, rhythmic pull. A faint, contented sigh escaped him with each swallow, a tiny puff of air against Hizashi’s skin. A single pearl of milk escaped the corner of his mouth, tracing a slow path down his chin before Hizashi’s thumb, calloused from years of guitar strings, caught it with a gentle swipe.
“There you go, sweet pea,” Hizashi murmured, his voice a low hum, a radio tuned to a private, calming frequency. It was a voice that had once commanded airwaves, full of booming energy and exclamation points. Now it was reserved for this: the quiet hours, the soft songs, the murmurs against a curly crown. His other hand rubbed slow, wide circles on Izuku’s back, feeling the delicate shift of shoulder blades beneath a thin cotton pajama top.
The peace was a living thing, fragile and deep.
It shattered with the slam of the front door and a blast of cold air that snaked into the room.
“I’m telling you, the recipe is fundamentally flawed! You can’t balance that much acidity with just sugar, it’s gonna taste like candy-ass vomit!”
Katsuki’s voice was a firecracker in the hallway, followed by the heavy thump of boots being kicked off.
“Your palette is about as subtle as a hammer, Katsuki. The note of yuzu is supposed to be sharp. It’s a palate cleanser.” Hitoshi’s reply was a dry, tired drawl, closer to the living room archway. He appeared first, a tall shadow with messy purple hair, his eyes ringed with familiar exhaustion. He dumped his bag by the door and shuffled in, collapsing into the armchair opposite the couch with a groan that ended in a yawn. “Hey, Mama. Hey, Izu.”
Hizashi offered a warm, tired smile. “Hi, honey. Long day?”
“Band practice. Drummer’s got the rhythm of a seized engine.” Hitoshi’s gaze flickered to Izuku, then away, settling on the fire. It was a casual, accepting glance. Nothing to remark upon. Just his brother, and his mom. The way it always was.
Katsuki stormed in after, his spiky hair looking windswept and wild. He carried the cold on his jacket and the fierce energy of a debate not yet finished. “It’s not sharp, it’s aggressive! You wouldn’t know balance if it—“
He stopped. His red eyes, identical in color to Izuku’s but blazing with a completely different fire, scanned the scene. The couch, the quilt, the nursing child—no, the nursing young man—in their mother’s arms. His jaw worked. A flicker of something complex—protection, understanding, irritation—passed over his features. It settled into a familiar, mild scowl.
“He’s still eating?” Katsuki asked, his voice dropping several decibels.
“He was hungry,” Hizashi said simply, his fingers still making those endless circles on Izuku’s back. Izuku had flinched at the noise, his suckling pausing for a worried second, before settling back into rhythm at the sound of his mother’s voice and his brother’s familiar tone.
“Tch. At this rate, he’ll be going to college with a lunchbox and a bib.” Katsuki grumbled, but he was already moving to the kitchen. They heard the fridge open, the clatter of a pot. “You eat yet, Mama? Or were you just on the menu?”
“I’m fine, Katsu. Your dad should be home soon. He’ll pick something up.”
“He’ll pick up jelly pouches and cat food if we leave it to him,” Katsuki yelled from the kitchen, the banging of pans underlining his point. “I’m making katsudon. You’re eating. All of you. Hitoshi, stop decomposing in the chair and set the table.”
Hitoshi sighed, a long-suffering sound, but he pushed himself up. As he passed the couch, he reached out and ruffled Izuku’s hair. Izuku’s eyes fluttered open at the touch, looking up, dazed and full of soft light. He made a small, happy sound around his mouthful, a muffled “Hi ‘Toshi.”
“Hey, kid.” Hitoshi’s smile was slight, but real.
The front door opened again, this time with a quieter click. A wave of cold air, and then Shouta Aizawa filled the archway, his long dark hair pulled back in a sloppy bun, his capture weapon hanging loose around his shoulders. He looked, as always, like he’d just fought his way out of a dumpster and needed a twelve-hour nap. His tired eyes swept the room, inventorying: Hitoshi heading to the dishes, Katsuki angrily blessing pork cutlets in the kitchen, Hizashi on the couch, Izuku in his arms.
His gaze lingered there. No surprise. No judgment. Just a quiet, profound acknowledgment.
“Hey,” he said, his voice gravelly with the day’s wear.
“Welcome home,” Hizashi said, the warmth in his voice deepening.
Shouta grunted, shedding his boots and outer layers. He moved to the couch, not to interrupt, but to be near. He sat on the edge, beside Hizashi’s legs, and reached out. His large, scarred hand didn’t go to Hizashi, or to Izuku’s head. It went to Izuku’s foot, where it peeked out from the quilt. He held it, his thumb rubbing over the arch through the sock. A grounding touch. A connection.
Izuku’s eyes opened again, focusing with more clarity this time. “‘Daddy,” he mumbled, milk-drunk and serene.
“Izuku,” Shouta replied. “Did you have a good day?”
Izuku nodded, dislodging himself for a moment. He took a shaky, wet breath. “We… we watched the birdies. At the… the feeder. A blue one. It was… puffy.”
“A blue jay,” Hizashi supplied softly, smiling. “It was very puffy. It argued with a sparrow.”
“Loud,” Izuku agreed, his words soft and slurred. He nuzzled back, seeking instinctively, and Hizashi guided him, adjusting the quilt. The rhythmic sound resumed.
Shouta watched, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him. Hizashi saw the minute relaxation in his husband’s shoulders, the almost invisible softening around his eyes. This was Shouta’s peace, too.
“Katsuki’s declaring war on the kitchen,” Shouta stated.
“He’s making katsudon. You’re banned from entering.”
“Sensible.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the fire, the pull of Izuku’s feeding, and the controlled chaos from the kitchen. It was Hizashi who broke it, his voice barely above a whisper.
“He tried to walk to the window today. To see the birds better.”
Shouta’s thumb stopped its motion on Izuku’s foot. “And?”
“Made it three steps holding the couch. His legs… they just folded. Like they always do. He didn’t cry.” Hizashi’s voice hitched, just once. “He just sat there on the rug and looked at his feet with this… this confused look. Like they’d betrayed him. Again.”
Shouta absorbed this. He looked from Izuku’s peaceful, feeding face to his socked foot in his hand. “Did you talk about it?”
“Of course we talked about it.” Hizashi’s tone wasn’t sharp, just weary. “I held him and we talked about how legs are tricky and his are still learning. How it’s okay. He said… he said he wished they’d learn faster.”
Shouta nodded. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and ran a hand over his face. “We should call the physiotherapist again. See if there’s anything new. Anything we’re missing.”
“We’re not missing anything, Shou. We’re doing everything. It’s just… his pace.”
“I know.” Shouta’s voice was rough. “I know.”
From the kitchen doorway, Katsuki appeared, a dish towel over his shoulder. He’d been listening. His scowl was back, but it was thoughtful now. “His new braces came last week. The fancy carbon fiber ones. He hates them.”
“They pinch,” Hizashi said.
“Everything pinches. They’re supposed to help. He wears them for ten minutes and gets that look.” Katsuki crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “We need to make it not a big deal. Distract him.”
“Your brother is not a culinary problem to be solved with a distraction, Katsuki,” Shouta said, though there was no real reproach in it.
“The hell he isn’t. Everything’s a problem to be solved. You don’t coddle a sauce, you fix it. You don’t sigh at a weak stock, you reinforce it.” Katsuki’s red eyes glinted. “Tomorrow. I’ll get him in the kitchen with me. Standing at the counter. He can stir something. He likes stirring. It’ll keep him upright longer. Give his legs a job to do besides failing him.”
It was a typical Katsuki solution: practical, aggressive, and born of a love so fierce it had to be translated into action.
Hitoshi, placing bowls on the table, snorted. “So your plan is to bribe him into physical therapy with food. Shockingly, that might work.”
“It’s not a bribe. It’s a tactical application of positive reinforcement.” Katsuki shot back, vanishing back into the kitchen with a final, “Five minutes! Stop feeding the baby and get ready to eat, adults!”
Izuku had slowed, his suckles growing lazy and intermittent. His eyes were closed again, his breathing evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of near-sleep. Hizashi shifted slightly, whispering, “Okay, sweet pea. That’s enough. Let’s get you cozy.”
With a practiced, seamless motion, he broke the latch, gently tugging Izuku’s mouth away. Izuku whined softly, a faint, distressed sound in the back of his throat, his hands fluttering. Hizashi quickly rearranged his clothing, then lifted Izuku, settling him upright against his chest. Izuku’s head lolled onto Hizashi’s shoulder, his mouth searching, smacking sleepily.
“Shhh, I’ve got you. You’re just sleepy.” Hizashi patted his back, gently at first, then with a firmer, rhythmic pressure.
A minute passed. Then a soft, gasping burp escaped Izuku, followed by a profound, milky sigh. He went completely boneless against Hizashi, a dead weight of utter contentment.
Shouta stood. He bent and, in one smooth motion, slid his arms under Izuku, lifting him from Hizashi’s embrace. Hizashi let him go, his arms feeling suddenly, achingly light and empty. He watched as Shouta cradled their eighteen-year-old son against his chest, Izuku’s white curls tickling his stubbled chin. Shouta’s large hand spanned the entire back of Izuku’s head, holding him secure.
“Come on, problem child,” Shouta murmured, his voice a vibration in his chest that Izuku instinctively curled into. “Table time.”
He didn’t put Izuku in a chair. He carried him to the table and sat down, arranging Izuku in his lap, against his chest. Izuku, in the foggy space between feeding and sleep, simply nestled there, a familiar fixture.
Hitoshi took his seat. Katsuki brought the pot to the table, steaming and glorious, followed by a bowl of rice. He served Hizashi first, piling his bowl high. “Eat.”
Then he served Shouta, careful not to jostle Izuku. Finally, he served himself and Hitoshi. They began to eat, the conversation turning to Hitoshi’s music theory class, Katsuki’s upcoming pastry exam, Shouta’s thoughts on a case at work. Normal family dinner talk.
Izuku stirred halfway through, blinking owlishly at the table. Shouta, without missing a beat in his conversation with Hitoshi about chord progressions, picked up his own chopsticks, scooped a small bite of rice and egg, and held it to Izuku’s lips. “Here.”
Izuku opened his mouth, accepted the bite, chewed slowly. He swallowed, then opened his mouth again, like a little bird. Shouta fed him another, then a tiny piece of pork. It was effortless, a secondary action to his primary focus on his family and his food.
Hizashi watched, his own food warming him from the inside out. This was their life. This intricate, tangled, beautiful tapestry of need and care. It wasn’t always easy. The world outside that door had questions, judgments, a pace they couldn’t match. But in here, by the fire, they were a self-contained universe.