Chapter 3: And cut myself to slivers…for you
The sharp rap at the door echoed like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Izuku flinched, his hand freezing mid-air as he adjusted the vase of sunflowers on the small dining table. Kyoshi’s chuckle, low and warm, sounded behind him.
"Relax, bunny," Kyoshi murmured, his breath brushing Izuku’s ear as he smoothly slid past him towards the door. The casual endearment, usually a comfort, now felt like a brand. "They’re just your dads."
Izuku forced his fingers away from the vase, wiping them nervously on his jeans. He could feel the faint, persistent throb beneath the careful layers of concealer on his left cheekbone. Kyoshi had applied it himself earlier, his touch clinical, almost detached, as he blended the beige cream over the fading yellow-green bruise. "Make sure it’s seamless," he’d instructed, his voice devoid of the warmth he’d shown moments before while promising this dinner would be perfect. Seamless. Like the cracks in their life.
Kyoshi swung the door open, his face instantly transforming into a beacon of welcoming charm. "Shouta! Hizashi! Right on time!" His voice boomed with genuine-seeming delight. "Come in, come in! It smells amazing, doesn't it? Izuku’s been slaving over the stove."
Hizashi Yamada surged through the doorway first, his signature bright yellow scarf trailing behind him like sunshine. "Kyoshi! My man!" He enveloped Kyoshi in a brief, back-slapping hug before turning his radiant energy towards Izuku. "Izu-baby!" He swept forward, arms wide.
Izuku braced himself, forcing a smile onto his face that felt brittle as old porcelain. "Hi, Papa." Hizashi’s hug was crushing, full of unconditional love and oblivious warmth. Izuku buried his face momentarily in his Papa’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of bergamot and hairspray, a scent that screamed home and safety. It was almost enough to make the tears welling behind his eyes spill over.
"Let the man breathe, Zashi," Shouta Aizawa’s dry voice cut in as he followed, shutting the door quietly behind him. His dark eyes, perpetually shadowed but sharp as flint, scanned the room before settling on Izuku. A flicker of something – concern? Assessment? – passed through them, gone so fast Izuku couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. "You look tired, kid."
Kyoshi’s arm snaked around Izuku’s waist before he could respond, pulling him firmly against his side. The grip was possessive, anchoring, just a fraction too tight. Izuku felt the pressure against his ribs, a silent reminder. Behave. Smile.
"He’s been working hard on this dinner," Kyoshi interjected smoothly, his thumb rubbing a small circle on Izuku’s hipbone. The gesture looked affectionate. It felt like a shackle. "Wanted everything perfect for you guys. Didn’t you, bunny?"
Izuku nodded, the movement stiff. "Yeah. Just… busy week." He gestured weakly towards the kitchen. "The yakitori’s almost done. Shouldn’t be long."
Hizashi beamed, already shrugging off his coat. "Smells incredible! Just like your Papa used to make!" He bustled towards the kitchen, peering in. "Oh! You didn’t burn it this time!"
"Papa!" Izuku protested weakly, the familiar teasing easing a tiny fraction of the knot in his stomach. Shouta offered a rare, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips.
Kyoshi chuckled, steering Izuku towards the small living area. "Why don’t you two grab a seat? Izuku, love, get your dads some drinks?" His tone was light, conversational, but the underlying command was clear. Move. Perform.
Izuku extricated himself carefully from Kyoshi’s grip, feeling the phantom pressure linger. "Of course. Beer? Wine?" He moved towards the fridge, his movements slightly jerky. He could feel Shouta’s gaze lingering on him as he bent down.
"Beer’s fine, kid," Shouta said, settling onto the worn but comfortable sofa. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, just… observant. Like he was cataloging details without knowing why.
Kyoshi perched on the armrest near Shouta, effortlessly commanding the space. "So, Shouta, how’s the new batch of hellions at UA? Still causing you premature grey hairs?" He grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Or have you finally perfected your patented 'Sleeping Bag of Doom' intimidation tactic?"
Shouta grunted, accepting the beer Izuku handed him. "They’re… energetic. Present Mic here keeps them awake." He nodded towards Hizashi, who was now enthusiastically describing the perfect sear on the chicken skewers to an imaginary audience in the kitchen.
Izuku handed Hizashi his beer, then Kyoshi his usual craft IPA. He kept his head slightly angled away from the brighter light near the kitchen doorway as he sat down in the armchair opposite Shouta. The concealer felt heavy, greasy. Did it match? Was the texture noticeable? Could the faint discoloration bleed through?
Kyoshi emerged, carrying a platter of perfectly grilled yakitori skewers, the aroma of ginger, soy, and charred meat filling the cozy space. "Dinner is served! Dig in before it gets cold!" He placed the platter on the low table with a flourish.
The next hour unfolded in a blur of clinking chopsticks, shared laughter, and comfortable conversation. Kyoshi was masterful. He drew Hizashi out about his latest radio show segment, listened intently to Shouta’s dry observations about hero politics, and seamlessly steered the conversation whenever it drifted towards Izuku’s work or recent activities, deftly deflecting with anecdotes or compliments. "Izuku’s been so focused on that new project," Kyoshi would say, or "He’s been amazing helping me organize the storage closet – total lifesaver." Each deflection felt like a stone added to the wall hiding Izuku’s reality.
Izuku played his part. He laughed at Hizashi’s jokes, nodded at Shouta’s insights, passed dishes, refilled glasses. He kept his left cheek subtly turned away whenever possible. He felt like an actor in a play he hadn't auditioned for, reciting lines written by someone else. The warmth of his fathers’ presence, their easy affection for Kyoshi, was both a balm and a corrosive acid. They loved him. They thought Kyoshi was wonderful. They saw the carefully constructed facade and believed it was the whole house.
He caught Shouta’s gaze again, just once, as Kyoshi was animatedly recounting a funny story about a mishap at his own job. Shouta wasn’t looking at Kyoshi. He was looking at Izuku. His dark eyes held a quiet intensity, a silent question Izuku couldn’t decipher and dared not answer. Izuku quickly looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of chicken around with his chopsticks. His heart hammered against his ribs. Did he see? Does he know?
The moment passed. Shouta’s attention shifted back to Kyoshi’s story, a faint, amused huff escaping him. Relief, cold and shaky, washed over Izuku. He hadn’t seen. He couldn’t have.
As dessert plates were cleared (a store-bought cheesecake Hizashi declared "divine"), Kyoshi stood, stretching languidly. "Well, gentlemen, as much as I’d love to keep you hostage all night, I know you both have early starts." He clapped Shouta on the shoulder. "Thanks for coming. Really means a lot."
Hizashi bounced up, pulling Izuku into another tight hug. "Dinner was fantastic, Izu! You’ve outdone yourself!" He kissed Izuku’s forehead. "Don’t be a stranger, okay? Call your Papa more!"
Shouta rose more slowly, his gaze sweeping over Izuku once more. "Take care of yourself, kid," he said, his voice gruff but carrying its usual bedrock of concern. "Get some rest. You look worn thin."
Kyoshi slid an arm around Izuku’s shoulders again, pulling him close. "Don’t worry, Shouta. I’ll make sure he gets plenty of rest." His smile was wide, reassuring. The grip on Izuku’s shoulder was firm. Possessive.
Izuku managed a small, tight smile. "Thanks, Daddy. Papa. Drive safe."
They saw them out, Kyoshi’s hand resting warmly on the small of Izuku’s back as they waved from the doorway. The moment the door clicked shut, the cheerful facade evaporated like smoke. Kyoshi’s posture shifted instantly, the relaxed charm hardening into something sharper, colder.
He turned, his eyes locking onto Izuku’s. The warmth was gone, replaced by a flat, assessing stare. He stepped close, invading Izuku’s space. His hand shot out, fingers rough as they gripped Izuku’s chin, tilting his face harshly towards the hallway light. Izuku froze, breath catching.
Kyoshi leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper that scraped against Izuku’s skin. "That bruise better not show through tomorrow." His thumb pressed hard against the concealed mark on Izuku’s cheekbone, making him gasp. "You understand? Seamless."