Chapter 2: Baking Session
The kitchen smelled of brown sugar and vanilla, a warm, comforting blanket of scent that clung to the air. Saturday morning light streamed through the window over the sink, cutting bright rectangles across the checkerboard linoleum. Katsuki stood at the counter, a commander surveying his domain. Ingredients were lined up with military precision: flour sifted twice, eggs at room temperature, butter softened to the exact consistency of cool clay.
His red eyes, however, weren’t on his mise en place. They were on the doorway.
“Come on, slowpoke. The frosting isn’t gonna whip itself.”
Izuku peeked around the doorframe, his white curls a messy halo. He was dressed in soft, gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that swam on his slight frame. His wine-red eyes were wide, unsure. One hand gripped the wall for balance.
“Kacchan said… stand?” Izuku’s voice was small, tinged with a familiar anxiety.
“I said help,” Katsuki corrected, his tone gruff but not unkind. He walked over, his movements deliberately unthreatening. “You’re gonna decorate. But you can’t decorate from the floor, unless you’re a damn beetle. So up you go.”
He didn’t ask. He simply moved, his hands firm and certain. One arm slid behind Izuku’s back, the other under his knees. Izuku let out a tiny, startled “oh!” as he was lifted, his arms instinctively looping around Katsuki’s neck. He was light, too light for an eighteen-year-old, a bundle of bones and soft cotton.
Katsuki carried him to the counter, not to a chair, but to the cleared space next to the mixing bowl. He set Izuku down gently, so he was sitting on the cool laminate surface, his legs dangling. “Alright. Now, we’re gonna stand you up. Just for a bit. Hold onto the edge.”
Izuku’s fingers, pale and slender, gripped the counter’s lip. His knuckles whitened. Katsuki positioned himself directly in front of him, a solid wall of denim and muscle.
“On three. One… two…” On two, Katsuki’s hands were already on Izuku’s waist, hauling him upward with steady pressure. Izuku’s legs unfolded, trembling as they took his weight. A sharp gasp hissed through his teeth.
“I got you. Look at me, not your feet.” Katsuki’s voice was a low, steady command. His grip was immovable. “Feet flat. Feel that? That’s the ground. It’s not going anywhere.”
Izuku’s eyes, wide with effort, locked onto Katsuki’s. He was breathing in short, panicky puffs. His legs shook, a violent, visible tremor that traveled up his entire body.
“They’re… they’re wobbly,” Izuku whimpered.
“Everything’s wobbly before it’s strong. Now shut up and hold on. We’re just gonna stand here. That’s the job. Stand and watch me mix.”
From the living room, the first notes of a piano melody drifted in. It was something simple, a gentle, repetitive progression, soft and meandering. Hitoshi, keeping his promise.
Katsuki kept one arm braced across Izuku’s chest, a living safety bar, while his other hand reached for the electric mixer. He plugged it in, clicked the beaters into place. “See? You’re standing. I’m mixing. Multitasking.”
The whir of the mixer filled the kitchen, a loud, distracting buzz. Katsuki focused on the bowl, watching butter and sugar cream into a pale, fluffy cloud. He could feel every tremble and shudder that ran through Izuku’s frame. He adjusted his stance, taking more of Izuku’s weight subtly, letting him feel the support without it being obvious.
“Too loud?” Katsuki asked over the noise.
Izuku, his face pressed partly against Katsuki’s shoulder, shook his head. His grip on the counter was ferocious.
The mixer stopped. Katsuki scraped down the bowl. “Eggs next. You wanna crack ‘em? Or you gonna be a wimp?”
It was a challenge. Izuku loved helping. He loved being given a job. A flicker of determination cut through the fear in his eyes. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion.
“Alright. But you gotta let go with one hand. I’m not letting you fall, you drama queen.” Katsuki shifted, his securing arm tightening. “Go on. The bowl’s right there.”
With a trembling hand, Izuku reached for the ceramic bowl of eggs Katsuki had placed within reach. His fingers fumbled, but he picked one up. He tapped it, too gently, on the rim. Tap. Tap.
“Harder. It’s not a goddamn soap bubble.”
Izuku bit his lip, focused, and gave it a decisive whack. The shell cracked cleanly. He maneuvered it over the bowl and pried it open with his thumbs. The egg plopped in, perfect, no shell.
A tiny, breathless smile touched Izuku’s lips.
“See? Not completely useless.” Katsuki’s praise was buried in an insult, but Izuku’s smile widened a fraction. He cracked the second egg with more confidence.
The process was slow. Agonizingly slow for someone with Katsuki’s natural tempo. He added flour and milk in alternating batches, his left arm never leaving its post, a constant, warm pressure against Izuku’s chest. Izuku’s legs never stopped shaking, but the tremors changed from violent spasms to a constant, fatigued quiver. He was standing. He was focusing on something other than the impossible task of holding himself up.
Hitoshi’s piano melody shifted, flowing into something a little more structured, a lullaby with a walking bass line.
“Your personal soundtrack,” Katsuki grunted, spooning batter into cupcake liners. “Pretend you’re in a shitty movie.”
“‘S nice,” Izuku mumbled, his forehead now damp with sweat from the effort. “Hitoshi plays… good.”
“He’s adequate.” Katsuki slid the tray into the preheated oven and set the timer. The smell of baking cake began to slowly permeate the vanilla-scented air. “Okay. Mission one accomplished. You can sit.”
He didn’t wait for Izuku’s legs to give out. He simply bent his knees, his hands back on Izuku’s waist, and lowered him smoothly to sit on the counter again. Izuku’s body slumped with immediate relief, a long, shuddering sigh escaping him. He looked down at his own legs with a mix of resentment and wonder.
“They feel… hot.”
“That’s called muscles. You might be meeting them for the first time.” Katsuki turned to the fridge, pulling out bowls of buttercream frosting he’d made earlier—vanilla, chocolate, and a vibrant pink strawberry. He arranged an array of sprinkles, edible glitter, and piping bags. “Now the real work. Decorating. You sit right there. No standing required.”
He boosted Izuku around so his legs were in the sink, his back against the window, giving him a stable nest at the corner of the counter. Then he placed a cooled cupcake on a small plate in front of him.
“Here. Your canvas.”
Izuku’s eyes lit up, the previous struggle forgotten. He picked up a small offset spatula Katsuki gave him and dove into the bowl of pink frosting. He spread it with intense concentration, his tongue poking out between his lips. It was messy. He got more on his fingers and the counter than the cake.
Katsuki watched for a moment, then picked up his own piping bag fitted with a star tip. With swift, confident motions, he began creating elaborate swirls on his cupcakes, perfect rose shapes that seemed to bloom from the paper.
“You’re just slapping it on like spackle,” Katsuki observed.
“Is good,” Izuku insisted, now pressing a handful of rainbow sprinkles into his pink mound. They went everywhere.
“It’s a massacre. Here.” Katsuki put down his bag, moved behind Izuku, and reached around him. He covered Izuku’s smaller hand with his own, guiding it. “Slow. Even pressure. You wanna make a swirl, not a volcano.”
He guided Izuku’s hand in a slow, rising circle. A clumsy, but recognizable, swirl of pink frosting emerged. Izuku giggled, the sound bright and surprised. “It’s pretty!”
“It’s passable.” But Katsuki didn’t let go immediately. He stayed there for a second, his chin almost resting on Izuku’s curly head, ensuring the next swirl was a little better. The scent of Izuku’s baby shampoo—still the same brand he’d used for years—mixed with the sugar in the air.
Hitoshi wandered in, drawn by the smell or the quiet. He leaned against the doorframe, his purple eyes taking in the scene: the battlefield of sprinkles, Katsuki’s uncharacteristic patience, Izuku’s radiant, frosting-smeared face.
“Looks like a unicorn threw up in here,” Hitoshi said.
“Your face looks like a unicorn threw up on it,” Katsuki retorted automatically, finally releasing Izuku’s hand. “Go make yourself useful. Get the glitter.”
Hitoshi pushed off the doorframe and fetched the vial of edible gold glitter. He handed it to Izuku. “Don’t inhale this. Dad will have my ass if you get glitter lung.”
Izuku took the vial with reverence. He carefully shook a tiny pile onto his palm, then, with a puff of breath, blew it across his cupcake. It caught the sunlight, a sudden, dazzling shower of gold against the pink.
“Wow,” Izuku breathed.
For a while, they worked in a contented silence, broken only by the timer’s beep for the next tray. Katsuki moved it, his rhythm uninterrupted. Hitoshi stole a plain cupcake, tearing off the bottom and eating it in two bites.
It was peaceful. It was normal.
Then Izuku shifted, a small, restless motion. His earlier concentration faded, replaced by a faint, fretful expression. He put down his third, lopsided creation and squirmed slightly against the counter.
Katsuki noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Nuffin’,” Izuku murmured, but his cheeks had flushed a delicate pink.
“Don’t ‘nothing’ me. You gotta go?”
Izuku’s flush deepened. He looked down at his lap, then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. A wave of helpless frustration washed over his features.
Hitoshi straightened up, his sleepy demeanor sharpening. “You need Mama or Dad?”
Izuku shook his head, his curls bouncing. He looked miserably at Katsuki. It was a silent plea, born of years of routine. He was dressed for this. It was expected. But the act of it, the admission of it, never lost its sting of humiliation, even here, in this safe kitchen.
Katsuki’s jaw tightened. He saw the shame. He hated it. He hated the world that made his brother feel shame for something he couldn’t control. Without a word, he turned off the oven, wiped his hands on a towel, and moved.
“Alright. Break time.” His voice was devoid of its usual bite. It was just… matter-of-fact. “Hitoshi, keep frosting. I’ll be back.”
He didn’t lift Izuku this time. Instead, he offered his arm. “Come on. Lean on me. We’re walking.”
It was a shorter, more daunting distance than from the doorway to the counter. Izuku’s legs were already fatigued. He slid off the counter, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees buckled instantly. Katsuki was ready, his body taking the weight, his arm a steel band around Izuku’s torso.
“One step. Just one.”
Izuku whimpered, but he tried. He dragged one foot forward a few inches. It was less a step and more a desperate shuffle. The piano from the living room had stopped. The house was quiet, holding its breath.
Another shuffle. Then another. Each one was a monumental effort, a battle against gravity and his own uncooperative nerves. They moved like that, in painful slow motion, out of the kitchen, down the short hall to the bathroom. Katsuki didn’t rush him. He didn’t mock him. He just was there, an unyielding scaffold, his breathing even and steady against Izuku’s temple.
At the bathroom door, Katsuki paused. “You good from here?”
Izuku nodded, his face now buried in Katsuki’s shirt, hiding his expression. He could manage the final steps to the changing table they kept in there, the one with the soft pad and the stacks of clean diapers and wipes.
Katsuki helped him the last few feet until his hands could grip the table’s edge. Then he stepped back, giving space but not leaving. He leaned against the doorframe, looking out into the hall, granting a semblance of privacy for the parts Izuku could handle himself. He listened to the rustle of clothing, the small, frustrated sounds.
After a minute, a soft, defeated sigh came from inside.
Katsuki pushed off the doorframe and entered. He didn’t make a production of it. He’d done this a thousand times. He efficiently, gently, helped Izuku finish, his movements clinical and swift. He cleaned him up, taped a fresh diaper into place, pulled the soft sweatpants back up.
Throughout it all, Izuku was silent, his eyes squeezed shut, tears of humiliation and fatigue leaking from the corners.
“Stop it,” Katsuki said, his voice low. He snapped the waistband lightly. “This isn’t a big deal. It’s maintenance. Like changing the oil in a car. You think I get emotional about changing my bike’s oil?”
“’M not a bike,” Izuku whispered, his voice thick.
“No shit. You’re a person. And this is just a thing your body needs. That’s all.” Katsuki hoisted him up, sitting him on the edge of the changing table so they were face to face. He grabbed a wipe and roughly, but not unkindly, scrubbed the leftover frosting from Izuku’s cheeks and fingers. “The standing? That was the big deal. That was the work. This?” He gestured vaguely. “This is nothing. Don’t waste good feelings on nothing.”
He saw the words weren’t quite landing. He let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Look. You stood for twelve minutes. You cracked two eggs without getting shell in the batter. You made three cupcakes that look like a toddler decorated them, but hey, it’s a style. That’s what matters. This?” He tapped Izuku’s hip through the sweatpants. “This is background noise.”
Izuku opened his eyes, his wine-red gaze searching Katsuki’s fierce red one. He saw no pity there. No disgust. Just a bedrock of absolute, unwavering fact. To Katsuki, it was just a thing. A problem solved. The shame, in Katsuki’s presence, began to feel silly, unnecessary.
A small, tentative sniffle. Then a nod.
“Good.” Katsuki lifted him again, this time carrying him back to the kitchen. He didn’t set him on the counter. He carried him straight to the living room, where Hitoshi had resumed playing, something slow and sweet.
“Your turn,” Katsuki announced to Hitoshi, depositing Izuku on the sofa amidst the stuffed animals. “I gotta finish the last tray. You’re on babysitting.”
Hitoshi didn’t stop playing. “He’s not a baby.”
“He’s covered in glitter and smells like frosting. Close enough.” Katsuki stalked back to the kitchen, the sound of his aggressive whisking soon filling the air once more.
Izuku curled into the couch, the physical and emotional exhaustion of the morning settling over him like a heavy quilt. Hitoshi’s music wrapped around him, a gentle soundscape. He reached for a worn stuffed rabbit, pulling it to his chest, his eyes drifting shut.
He could still feel the phantom pressure of Katsuki’s arm across his chest. Solid. Unbreaking. He could smell the sugar and the faint, clean scent of his brother’s detergent. In the quiet, with the piano notes falling around him like soft rain, the memory of his shaky, trembling stand felt less like a failure and more like a secret triumph. A few inches conquered. A few minutes earned.
From the kitchen, the rich, promising smell of the final batch of cupcakes bloomed, mixing with the music, weaving into the very fabric of the warm, sunlit house. It was the smell of patience. It was the smell of a different kind of strength.