Chapter 6: Someone who Loves you wouldn’t do this
The fragile cocoon of sleep shattered with a crack. Pain, bright and hot, exploded across Izuku’s left cheekbone. His eyes flew open, disoriented, vision swimming in the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds. Kyoshi loomed over him, a dark silhouette against the dim room, his hand still raised, his breath coming in short, angry rasps.
"Why the fuck didn’t you wake me up earlier?" Kyoshi’s voice was a low, guttural snarl, devoid of the honeyed affection from hours before. The scent of sleep and stale breath washed over Izuku.
Izuku scrambled backwards, sheets tangling around his legs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The phantom gentleness of the night before – Kyoshi’s possessive embrace, the murmured 'good bunny' – evaporated like mist. The space beneath his eye throbbed, a hot counterpoint to the icy dread flooding his veins. The room, their cozy sanctuary with its patchwork quilt and smiling photos, instantly constricted. Walls pressed in. Air vanished.
"I... I did," Izuku stammered, his voice thick with sleep and terror. He instinctively pressed his palm against the stinging heat on his cheek. "I tried. Ten minutes ago. You... you mumbled and rolled over." He remembered the hesitant touch on Kyoshi’s shoulder, the soft "Kyoshi, alarm," whispered into the quiet. The way Kyoshi had just grunted and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
"Bullshit!" Kyoshi snapped, swinging his legs out of bed. He stood, a tense column of fury radiating heat. "I have that presentation with Tanaka-san at nine, Izuku! Nine! It’s quarter to seven now! Do you have any idea what happens if I’m late? Any idea at all?" He stalked towards the bedroom door, yanking it open with unnecessary force. The faint scent of last night’s abandoned coffee cups drifted in. "I need time! To think! To prepare! You know how I get!"
Izuku knew. He knew the crushing pressure of Kyoshi’s job, the volatile senior Tanaka-san, the way deadlines transformed Kyoshi into this unrecognizable storm. He also knew the slap, the shouting – they were Kyoshi’s pressure valves, and Izuku was the convenient release. He pushed himself up, the quilt pooling around his waist. "I’m sorry," he whispered, the apology automatic, ingrained. "I called your name. I swear. Maybe you just slept deep..."
Kyoshi whirled back from the doorway, his eyes flashing. "Deep? How the hell am I supposed to sleep deep when I’m carrying the weight of this entire fucking project?" He took a step closer, his finger jabbing towards Izuku. "And don’t give me that wounded bunny look. It doesn’t work this time. You screwed up. Again." He gestured sharply at the nightstand clock. "Make coffee. Strong. Now. And make it fast. We’re already behind because of you."
He vanished into the hallway, footsteps heavy and rapid towards the bathroom. The sharp click of the lock echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence.
Izuku sat frozen for a heartbeat, the imprint of Kyoshi’s fingers burning on his skin. The throb in his cheek matched the frantic rhythm of his pulse. He could already feel the tell-tale swelling starting, knew the skin would bloom purple and green by lunchtime. Another mark to hide. Another lie to layer over the truth for his fathers. Hizashi would fuss. Shouta would watch, those too-perceptive eyes missing nothing. He pushed the thought away, a fresh wave of shame washing over the fear.
He forced his limbs to move. Slid out of bed. His feet were cold on the floorboards. The walk to the kitchen felt endless, the cheerful quilt on the bed now seeming like a cruel mockery of comfort. He filled the kettle, his hands trembling so badly he sloshed water onto the counter. Wipe it up. Fast. He measured the coffee grounds – extra, like Kyoshi demanded when he was stressed. The familiar routine was a flimsy raft in a churning sea.
The kettle screamed. Izuku jumped, nearly dropping it. He poured the boiling water, the rich, bitter aroma of coffee filling the small kitchen, doing nothing to soothe the acid churning in his own stomach. He stirred it, the spoon clinking too loudly against the ceramic mug – Hizashi’s hand-thrown pottery, a birthday gift. A perfect couple, his daddy always said. Kyoshi’s a keeper.
Kyoshi burst back into the kitchen, hair wet and tousled, a towel slung low on his hips. He moved with a frantic energy, snatching his shirt from the back of a chair. "Is it ready? Where is it?"
"Here," Izuku said softly, pushing the steaming mug towards him across the counter. "Careful, it’s hot."
Kyoshi grabbed it, ignoring the warning. He took a quick, scalding sip, hissing slightly. "Damn it, Izuku! Too hot!" He slammed the mug down. Coffee sloshed over the rim, splattering onto the counter and the sleeve of Izuku’s worn t-shirt. Izuku flinched back from the heat and the sudden violence of the gesture.
"Sorry! I said it was—"
"Just shut up!" Kyoshi cut him off, scrubbing a hand over his face. The anger seemed to recede slightly, replaced by a frantic anxiety. "Just… just shut up and let me think." He paced the small space between the counter and the table, muttering fragments of his presentation under his breath. "...Q3 projections… Tanaka’s pet project… market volatility…"
Izuku stood still, a statue of tension, watching the spilled coffee seep into the wood grain of the counter. He dabbed at his t-shirt sleeve with a dishcloth, the dampness spreading cold on his skin. He kept his head slightly lowered, his hair falling forward to shadow the reddening mark on his cheek. The familiar script was playing out: the explosion, the blame, the frantic aftermath where Kyoshi’s stress consumed everything. Izuku’s role was to be invisible. To absorb. To fix the coffee spills and hide the bruises.
Kyoshi stopped pacing abruptly. He looked at Izuku, really looked at him, for the first time since the slap. His gaze lingered on the side of Izuku’s face. A flicker of something – annoyance? Guilt? – passed through his eyes, quickly smothered by irritation. "Put some concealer on that," he ordered, his voice clipped, already turning away to gulp more coffee. "Before your dads see it and start asking questions." He set the mug down harder than necessary. "They adore me. Don’t ruin that with…" He waved a dismissive hand towards Izuku’s face. "...your carelessness."
My carelessness. The words landed like stones. Izuku just nodded, mute. He fetched the small tube from the bathroom cabinet, his fingers numb. In the mirror, the mark was already vivid – a stark, livid red against his pale skin, the outline of Kyoshi’s fingers faintly discernible. He dabbed the thick, flesh-toned cream over it, the coolness a small relief against the heat. The act felt like painting over rot. Hiding the evidence of the prison. You’re mine, Kyoshi’s voice from the night before echoed in his mind, twisting into something sinister.
Kyoshi reappeared, now fully dressed in his sharp work suit, tie hanging loose. He grabbed his briefcase and keys from the small desk, shoving papers inside. He barely glanced at Izuku, who was meticulously blending the concealer at the edge of the bathroom door. "I’m out. Don’t wait up. This could go late." He paused at the front door, his hand on the knob. "And Izuku?" His voice was lower now, almost conversational, but it carried an icy undercurrent that froze Izuku’s blood. "Next time? Wake. Me. Up." The words were spaced, deliberate, a threat disguised as a reminder. "You know how I get when I’m stressed."
The door slammed.
Silence crashed down, louder than Kyoshi’s shouting. Izuku stood frozen in the bathroom doorway, the small tube of concealer clutched like a talisman in his trembling hand. The smell of coffee and Kyoshi’s expensive cologne warred with the faint, lingering scent of lavender from the bedroom. The apartment felt vast and hollow, yet the walls still pressed in. The mark on his cheek pulsed beneath the makeup. The untouched coffee mug sat cooling on the counter, a dark ring staining the wood.
He walked slowly back into the bedroom, drawn to the window. Down below, he saw Kyoshi stride purposefully to his car, a picture of confident efficiency. No sign of the monster who’d shattered the dawn. Izuku leaned his forehead against the cool glass. He closed his eyes, the ghost of Kyoshi’s hand still burning on his skin, the echo of his command – You know how I get – vibrating in the hollow silence of the apartment, in the hollow space where his own voice used to be. The sun was rising, casting long, accusing shadows across the patchwork quilt. He counted the seconds, the minutes, until it would be a reasonable time to call Shouta. To pretend everything was fine. The silence was broken only by the frantic buzzing of his phone, still silenced in the nightstand drawer. Shouta’s name flashed, persistent, unseen. Izuku didn’t move. He just watched the street below, Kyoshi’s car disappearing around the corner, taking the storm with him, leaving only wreckage in its wake.