Chapter 1: Again and Again, and Again and Again
The apartment smelled like burnt toast and jasmine tea. Izuku curled tighter into the corner of the worn corduroy couch, knees drawn up, fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his grandmother’s crocheted blanket. The TV flickered silently – some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures, all drifting tentacles and bioluminescent glows – casting shifting blue shadows across the room. Across from him, Kyoshi paced. Left to right. Right to left. The rhythmic thud of his socked feet on the hardwood was the only sound besides Izuku’s own shallow breathing.
"You were gone," Kyoshi stated, his voice deceptively calm. He stopped pacing, facing the window, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark sweatpants. The streetlight outside haloed his silhouette. "For hours."
Izuku swallowed, the dryness scraping his throat. "I told you. Work ran late. The system update crashed everything. We all had to stay." His voice came out thin, almost a whisper. He pulled the blanket higher, trying to shrink into its faded floral pattern. The scent of Kyoshi’s cologne, usually comforting, now felt cloying, mixed with the sharper tang of anxiety sweat.
"Hours." Kyoshi turned slowly. His face was in shadow, but Izuku could see the line of his jaw, tight. "And your phone? Dead again? Convenient."
"It died," Izuku insisted, hating the tremor in his words. "Around four. I plugged it in as soon as I got to my desk, but it took forever to charge enough to even turn on. I texted you the second it did." He gestured weakly towards his phone, lying face-down on the coffee table amidst scattered art books and an empty mug. He’d sent that text: System crash nightmare. Phone died. Just charging now. Be home asap. Sorry. He’d hoped the 'sorry' would soften it.
Kyoshi stalked closer, stopping just in front of the couch. He loomed. Izuku instinctively flinched back, bumping his head lightly against the wall. Kyoshi’s gaze flickered to the movement, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned down, bracing his hands on the back of the couch, caging Izuku in. His eyes, usually warm brown, looked black in the low light. "Four missed calls, Izuku. Four. And texts that just… vanished into the void." His voice was still controlled, but there was an edge now, like a knife being slowly unsheathed. "What was I supposed to think? Huh? That you were just working?"
The accusation hung heavy. Izuku knew the script. Think I was cheating? Getting drunk? Lying to you? The unspoken words thickened the air. "I was working," Izuku repeated, forcing himself to meet Kyoshi’s eyes. The fear was a cold stone in his gut. "Shirakawa-san can vouch for me. The whole team was there. Ask anyone." He sounded pathetic, pleading. He hated it.
Kyoshi stared at him, unblinking. Izuku could smell the faint, sour note of beer on his breath. Had he been drinking before Izuku got home? "Maybe I will," Kyoshi murmured, his voice dropping lower. Dangerously soft. "Or maybe I just need you to understand how it feels. Waiting. Not knowing. Imagining… things." He straightened abruptly, turning away with a sharp pivot that made Izuku flinch again. He resumed pacing, faster now, the thudding steps punctuating the silence. "You know how my day was? Absolute shit. Presentation bombed. Tanaka ripped me a new one in front of the whole department. Came home," he gestured sharply around the cluttered, cozy room – the overflowing bookshelf, the thriving spider plant on the windowsill, the framed photo on the mantel of them laughing at the beach last summer – "to an empty apartment. Silence. Nothing."
Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to say he was sorry Kyoshi had a bad day. He wanted to get up and make him tea. He wanted to disappear. He stayed frozen. "I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry your day was bad. Really."
"Sorry?" Kyoshi whirled back, his control fraying. His voice rose, sharp and jagged, cutting through the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Izuku! Sorry doesn't erase the fact that you ignored me! You left me hanging! Again! What am I supposed to do? Tie a fucking bell around your neck?" He slammed his open palm down onto the small dining table beside the couch. The empty beer bottle standing there wobbled violently, tipped, and crashed onto the wooden floor. Amber liquid and shards of glass sprayed across the boards, the sharp, acrid smell of stale beer instantly cutting through the jasmine and toast.
Izuku gasped, instinctively pulling his bare feet up onto the couch cushion, curling into an even tighter ball. The sudden violence, the shattering noise – it sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. Fear, cold and metallic, flooded his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to push down the panic.
Kyoshi stared at the mess, his chest heaving. The anger seemed to momentarily startle even him. He ran a hand through his dark, slightly tousled hair, the gesture agitated. A beat of heavy silence stretched, filled only by Izuku’s ragged breathing and the faint gurgle of the fishtank filter in the corner.
Then, Kyoshi sighed. A long, shuddering exhalation. When he looked back at Izuku, some of the fury had drained, replaced by a familiar, chilling weariness. "Look at that," he muttered, his voice rough but lower now. "Look what you made me do." He didn't move to clean it up. He just stood there, looking down at the broken glass, the spreading puddle of beer. "Cleaning it up is the last thing I want to deal with right now. My head is pounding."
The shift was dizzying. From rage to weary victim in seconds. The blame settled onto Izuku’s shoulders, heavy and suffocating. You made me. My headache. The mess is your fault. The unspoken words were louder than the shout. Izuku felt a familiar, crushing weight of guilt press down. Maybe Kyoshi was right. Maybe if he’d charged his phone earlier, or found a way to call… Maybe Kyoshi’s bad day had just boiled over because Izuku wasn’t there to absorb it. The good Kyoshi, the one who brought him coffee in bed, who held him when he was sad, who made his dads laugh… that Kyoshi wouldn’t have done this. This was the stress talking. The pressure. He didn’t mean it. Not really.
Kyoshi took a step towards the couch again, slower this time. He crouched down in front of Izuku, ignoring the glass shards only inches away. The proximity made Izuku’s skin prickle. Kyoshi reached out, his hand moving towards Izuku’s face. Izuku tensed, bracing for… something. But Kyoshi’s fingers only gently brushed a stray curl off his forehead. His touch was warm. Almost tender.
"Hey," Kyoshi said softly, his eyes searching Izuku’s face. They held a flicker of the old warmth, laced with a contrition that felt genuine in that moment. "You okay? I didn't… you didn't get hit by any glass, did you?" His thumb traced lightly under Izuku’s left eye.
Izuku shook his head mutely, the conflicting emotions – fear, residual panic, the treacherous pull of that familiar, affectionate touch – churning inside him. He felt fractured. "N-no," he managed.
"Good," Kyoshi murmured. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Izuku’s temple. The gesture was so intimate, so normal, it made the previous ten minutes feel like a bad dream. "God, your hands are freezing." Kyoshi took both of Izuku’s hands in his own, rubbing them gently. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled. It's just… you scared me. And the day was hell. I was worried sick." He squeezed Izuku's hands. "Forgive me?"
The plea was soft. Needy. It tugged at the deep well of Izuku’s empathy, his ingrained need to soothe, to fix. The anger was gone, replaced by this vulnerable regret. It was the switch that always disarmed him. How could he stay scared, angry,