Chapter 2: Then I’ll grab the Kitchen Scissors
The soft hum of the bedside lamp cast a warm, forgiving glow across the bedroom, painting long shadows against the patchwork quilt tangled around them. Kyoshi sat propped against the headboard, legs stretched out, while Izuku curled between them, his back pressed against Kyoshi’s chest. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the occasional clink of ice shifting in the damp washcloth Kyoshi pressed gently against Izuku’s wrist.
"Hold still," Kyoshi murmured, his breath warm against the shell of Izuku’s ear. His free hand smoothed over Izuku’s side, thumb tracing absent circles just below his ribs. "It’ll help the swelling."
Izuku didn’t reply. His breath hitched slightly as the cold seeped into his skin, sharp enough to make him flinch before settling into a dull, bearable ache. He kept his eyes fixed on the half-finished painting on the desk—vibrant blues and greens streaked with gold, something he’d been working on before… before.
Kyoshi exhaled, slow and deliberate, his fingers tightening just slightly around Izuku’s wrist before loosening again. "You’re shaking," he noted, voice low. Not quite a question.
Izuku swallowed. He hadn’t realized.
Kyoshi shifted behind him, pulling the cloth away to inspect the mottled purple bruising. His fingertips ghosted over the marks—lighter now, though still stark against pale skin. "Better," he decided, tossing the washcloth onto the nightstand before reaching for the tube of bruise cream beside it. The cap popped open with a soft click.
The scent of menthol and something faintly medicinal cut through the room, sharp and clean. Izuku closed his eyes as Kyoshi smoothed the cream over his cheekbone, the touch unexpectedly gentle. Too gentle. The kind of touch that made his chest ache in a way the bruises never could.
A tear slipped free before he could stop it, trailing hot and silent down his cheek.
Kyoshi stilled. "Hey," he murmured, swiping the tear away with his thumb. His voice softened, edged with something like regret. "Don’t cry. You know I hate it when you cry."
Izuku sucked in a shaky breath, forcing his eyes open. The ceiling blurred above him. "I know," he whispered.
Kyoshi sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before resuming his careful ministrations. "I didn’t mean to—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. A beat passed before he exhaled, the tension bleeding out of him. "You know how I get. You know I don’t *want* to hurt you."
Izuku did know. That was the worst part.
Kyoshi’s hands stilled again, hovering over his skin. "I’ll make it up to you," he said suddenly, voice brightening with forced cheer. "How about this? Invite your dads over. This weekend. We’ll cook for them—that yakitori recipe your Papa likes. I’ll even let you pick the wine."
Izuku stiffened. The thought of Shouta and Hizashi sitting at their table, laughing and clueless, while the ghost of Kyoshi’s hands still lingered on his skin—
"You don’t have to," he said quickly, voice thin. "They’ve been busy lately. And—and you said you hated hosting."
Kyoshi’s arms tightened around him. "I want to," he insisted, pressing another kiss to his temple. "It’ll be good. Normal." His fingers trailed down Izuku’s arm, squeezing reassuringly. "You miss them, don’t you?"
Izuku hesitated. He did. Desperately. But the idea of sitting across from them, smiling like nothing was wrong, while Kyoshi’s hand rested possessively on his thigh—
"Yeah," he lied softly.
Kyoshi hummed, satisfied. "Then it’s settled." His fingers curled around Izuku’s, lifting them to his lips. "I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise."
The word settled like a stone in Izuku’s stomach. He knew that tone—the one that meant Kyoshi believed it, in that moment. The one that made it so much harder to remember the way the beer bottle had shattered against the floor just days before.
Kyoshi shifted, nudging him gently until Izuku turned to face him. His expression was open, almost boyish—the version of him that had once made Izuku’s chest flutter with something like hope. He cupped Izuku’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. "I love you," he said, quiet but firm. "You know that, right?"
Izuku’s breath caught. He wanted to believe it. Needed to.
So he nodded.
Kyoshi smiled, small and relieved, before pulling him in. Izuku let himself be held, let his face press into the familiar curve of Kyoshi’s neck, let the warmth of him chase away the lingering chill.
Outside, the city hummed on, oblivious. The bedside lamp flickered once before steadying, casting them both in its forgiving light.