Chapter 7: You really are the Winner
The cool glass against Izuku’s forehead did little to soothe the throbbing heat beneath the concealer. Below, Kyoshi’s sleek car vanished around the corner, leaving only the quiet hum of the city waking up. The silence in the apartment was thick, oppressive, broken only by the frantic, muffled buzzing coming from the nightstand drawer. Shouta’s calls. Again.
Izuku turned, the movement stiff. He crossed the short distance to the drawer, pulling it open. The phone screen pulsed with relentless urgency: DAD CALLING… DAD CALLING… Five missed calls. Texts too: Just checking in. Everything ok? and Call us back when you can, kiddo. Worry radiated from the words. Guilt, cold and sharp, twisted in his gut, sharper than the ache in his cheek.
He couldn’t call back. Not yet. His voice would crack. They’d hear it. Shouta always heard it.
He needed to see. Needed to assess the damage before facing the world. He drifted back to the bathroom, flicking on the light. The fluorescent glare was unforgiving. Leaning close to the mirror, he carefully blended the edges of the concealer covering his left cheekbone. The makeup felt greasy, inadequate. Beneath it, the skin was an angry, mottled red, already darkening at the epicenter of the slap. The outline of fingers was faint but unmistakable if you knew where to look. He knew. He always knew. His fingers brushed the tender spot, a flinch rippling through him as he remembered the crack, the explosion of light behind his eyes.
Then, another memory surfaced: Kyoshi’s hand, iron-hard, clamping around his upper arm when he’d flinched back from the hot coffee splash. The shove against the counter edge. He’d been too focused on the burning liquid on his skin to register the deeper pain then. Now, he pushed up the sleeve of his worn t-shirt.
Two distinct marks, like smudged charcoal, were blooming just above his elbow. Perfect ovals from the pressure of Kyoshi’s thumb and fingers. He prodded one gently. A dull ache radiated outwards. More to hide. More lies to layer.
He needed long sleeves. Thick ones. And the concealer needed another layer before work. He turned away from his haunted reflection, heading towards the bedroom closet. Just as his fingers brushed the soft fabric of a dark hoodie, the unmistakable sound of a key rattling in the front door lock froze him mid-motion.
No. Kyoshi wouldn’t be back. He couldn’t be back. Not yet.
But it wasn’t Kyoshi’s sharp, impatient turn of the key. It was a familiar, slightly fumbling sequence followed by the cheerful boom of Hizashi Yamada’s voice cutting through the tense silence like a sunbeam through storm clouds.
"Izuku! Sweetheart! Surprise!" The door swung open. "Hope we’re not interrupting anything scandalous this early!"
Shouta Aizawa followed, quieter, his dark eyes already scanning the small living area that bled into the kitchen. He carried a small bakery box. "Brought pastries," he stated simply, his gaze landing on Izuku, who stood frozen in the bedroom doorway, one arm awkwardly half-raised towards the closet.
Panic flooded Izuku’s system, icy and immediate. The concealer on his face felt suddenly glaringly obvious. The bruises on his arm felt exposed, even hidden under the thin cotton sleeve. He forced his lips into a smile, hoping it didn’t look as brittle as it felt.
"Papa! Daddy!" His voice was too high, too tight. "Wh-what are you doing here?"
"Just passing by after Dad’s early appointment!" Hizashi beamed, already bustling into the kitchen, radiating warmth in his bright yellow sweater. He enveloped Izuku in a brief, strong hug. Izuku stiffened, praying the concealer wouldn’t transfer, praying Hizashi wouldn’t feel the tension coiling his muscles like springs. "Thought we’d bring breakfast, check in on our favorite boy. You’ve been quiet lately. Everything okay?" Hizashi held him at arm's length, his expressive eyes searching Izuku’s face with open affection and a touch of concern.
Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs. Just passing by. Shouta’s missed calls suddenly made terrible sense. They hadn’t just been checking in; they’d been coming over. Because he hadn’t answered. Idiot. His own silence had summoned them.
"Everything’s great, Papa," Izuku managed, ducking his head slightly, letting his hair fall forward. "Just... surprised. Wasn’t expecting company." He extricated himself gently, moving towards the kettle. "Tea? I’ll make tea." A task. A distraction. Something to hide his trembling hands.
"Tea sounds perfect, sweetheart," Hizashi said, pulling out chairs at the small table. Shouta placed the bakery box down and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. His gaze was steady, observant, lingering on Izuku’s quick, jerky movements.
Izuku filled the kettle, his hands shaking so badly water slopped onto the stovetop. He grabbed a dishcloth, scrubbing frantically. Calm down. Breathe. Just breathe. He fetched the teapot – the blue-glazed one Shouta liked – and mugs. His fingers fumbled with the tea canister, nearly dropping it.
"You seem jumpy, Izuku," Shouta remarked, his voice low and calm, but cutting through Hizashi’s cheerful chatter about the bakery queue. "Everything really okay?"
Izuku kept his back turned, arranging mugs with excessive care. "Fine, Daddy. Really. Just... didn’t sleep great last night. Kyoshi had a big presentation this morning. Stressful." He poured boiling water into the pot, steam clouding his vision for a moment. Stressful. Such a small, clean word for the crack of a hand across his face, the grip on his arm.
"Ah, work pressure!" Hizashi nodded sagely. "Poor Kyoshi. He carries so much. But he handles it so well! Always so put together. Where is the champ, anyway? Off dazzling Tanaka-san already?"
Before Izuku could formulate an answer, the front door lock rattled again. The sharp, efficient turn this time was unmistakable. Kyoshi.
Izuku’s blood turned to ice. The teapot wavered in his hand. Kyoshi never came back this early. Unless… unless the presentation went catastrophically wrong. Unless the storm hadn't left; it had merely circled back.
The door opened. Kyoshi stepped in, his tailored suit impeccable, his tie perfectly knotted now, briefcase in hand. His expression was one of mild surprise shifting smoothly into the warm, charming smile he reserved for Izuku’s parents.
"Hizashi! Shouta!" Kyoshi’s voice was rich with pleasant surprise. "What a wonderful surprise!" He strode forward, effortlessly projecting confidence and warmth. "Apologies, I just forgot a critical file." He held up a slim folder. "Wouldn’t want Tanaka-san thinking I’m unprepared, right?" He chuckled, a warm sound that filled the apartment.
He moved towards the small desk, placing the folder in his briefcase. As he turned back, his eyes swept the room, landing on Izuku, who was frozen near the counter, teapot still hovering over Shouta’s mug. Kyoshi’s smile remained fixed, perfect, but his eyes – for a fraction of a second – flickered. They zeroed in on Izuku’s face, on the slightly uneven texture of the concealer near his hairline, on the way Izuku held himself rigidly, protectively. Kyoshi’s gaze sharpened, a silent, cold warning slicing through the domestic scene. Don’t fuck this up.
Izuku felt the look like a physical touch, colder than the slap. A shiver raced down his spine. He forced himself to pour the tea, his knuckles white on the pot’s handle.
"Tea? Kyoshi?" Izuku asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Ah, no time, bunny," Kyoshi said, the pet name sounding jarringly affectionate in the charged air. "Tanaka-san waits." He crossed the room towards the door, pausing near Shouta and Hizashi. "Truly lovely to see you both. Izuku’s lucky to have such attentive fathers." He clapped a hand on Shouta’s shoulder companionably. Then, his gaze slid back to Izuku. "Everything alright here, sweetheart? You look a little pale."
It was a loaded question, wrapped in concern, delivered with a smile. A test.
"I’m fine," Izuku whispered, setting the teapot down with a small clatter. "Just tired."
Kyoshi’s expression softened into understanding sympathy. "Long night," he murmured, for the parents' benefit. He moved towards Izuku. "Come here." It sounded like a loving request. An order wrapped in velvet. Izuku took a hesitant step forward. Kyoshi reached out, his hand landing not on Izuku’s shoulder, but firmly, deliberately, on his left upper arm – directly over the forming bruises beneath the thin sleeve. His grip was strong. Reassuring to an observer. An iron vise grinding into the tender flesh for Izuku.
Izuku gasped, a tiny, involuntary sound swallowed instantly. Pain flared, hot and nauseating, radiating from the pressure points. He flinched, his eyes widening slightly as he met Kyoshi’s gaze. Kyoshi’s eyes held his, cold and unreadable, his thumb pressing harder for a brief, excruciating moment. Remember who you belong to.
Hizashi beamed. "See? Told you Kyoshi takes good care of him, Shouta!"
Shouta’s eyes, however, narrowed almost imperceptibly. He watched Izuku’s flinch, the slight paling beneath the concealer, the way he subtly tried to lean away from Kyoshi’s grip without seeming to pull away. He said nothing. Just sipped his tea, his gaze sharp and thoughtful.
Kyoshi released Izuku’s arm, the sudden absence of pressure almost as shocking as the grip had been. He brushed a strand of hair from Izuku’s forehead with a tenderness that felt like a violation. "Rest today, okay? Don’t overdo it." He turned back to Hizashi and Shouta, all charm again. "You’ll see he takes it easy, won’t you? My little bunny pushes himself too hard sometimes." He winked, a picture of affectionate concern. "Gotta run! Presentation awaits! Great seeing you both!" With a final, dazzling smile, Kyoshi was out the door, closing it softly behind him.
The cheerful facade vanished the instant the lock clicked. Izuku stood rooted, the ghost of Kyoshi’s grip burning into his arm, a counterpoint to the throbbing in his cheek. The scent of Kyoshi’s cologne lingered, cloying.
Hizashi sighed happily, picking up a pastry. "Such a good man. So attentive." He took a bite. "You do look a bit peaky, sweetpea. Maybe Kyoshi’s right. Slow day?"
Shouta set his mug down slowly. His dark eyes were fixed on Izuku, seeing too much, seeing the tremor Izuku couldn’t quite suppress, the way his hand unconsciously cradled his bruised arm. "Izuku," he said, his voice quiet but cutting through Hizashi’s crumbs. "That arm. Did you hurt it?"
Izuku’s breath hitched. The room seemed to tilt. He forced another smile, brittle as glass. "What? No, Daddy. It’s nothing. Just… bumped it on the counter this morning. Clumsy." He gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. "Reaching for the coffee." He picked up the teapot again, desperate for something to do, his hands shaking violently now. "More tea?"