Chapter 2: Domestic Warfare
The Aizawa dining room was a museum of controlled chaos. A large, scarred oak table, its surface etched with decades of homework, forgotten coffee rings, and one memorable incident involving Katsuki’s attempt at flambéing without proper ventilation, dominated the space. Mismatched chairs—a sturdy leather armchair for Shouta, a sleek modern one Hitoshi had dragged home, two rickety painted ones Izuku had rescued and refurbished in clashing neon hues, and a plain wooden one currently holding a very tense Kaito—were gathered around it like a war council.
The air was thick with the sublime, savory perfume of Shouta’s katsudon. Steam rose in lazy curls from the deep bowls, carrying notes of crispy panko, rich dashi, and sweet onion. It was a smell that meant home, safety, and a parental stamp of approval Kaito was still quietly reeling from.
He was also reeling from the text message on his phone, face-down on the table beside his bowl. 98%. Top of the class in Advanced Organic Chemistry. A small, private victory that had sent a bolt of pure relief through him.
Izuku, who had been vibrating with possessive energy since Kaito had shown him the message, was currently draped over Kaito’s shoulders like an expensive, talking stole. His chin was hooked over Kaito’s head, his arms looped loosely around his neck, fingers playing with the collar of Kaito’s shirt.
“You’re so smart,” Izuku purred directly into his ear, his voice a low, vibrating hum that bypassed Kaito’s brain and went straight to his spine. “My pretty, pretty boy. All that brain, all that brawn. It’s unfairly hot. I’m considering intellectual property theft.”
Kaito stared resolutely at his bowl, a faint pink tinge rising on his cheeks. “It was just one test, ‘Zuku.”
“Just one test,” Izuku echoed, mocking his modesty. He pressed a kiss just below Kaito’s ear. “Top of the class. My genius. You know what that means, right?”
Across the table, Katsuki was aggressively slicing a pickled radish into microscopic slivers. “It means he can correctly identify a hydroxyl group. Try not to swoon into your soup, Izu. It’ll dilute the broth.”
“Don’t be jealous, Kacchan,” Izuku singsonged, not looking away from Kaito’s reddening ear. “Just because your greatest academic achievement is knowing the Maillard reaction doesn’t mean you can harsh our vibe.”
“My greatest achievement is not murdering you in your sleep for calling me that stupid nickname,” Katsuki grumbled, but there was no real heat in it.
Hitoshi, slumped in his chair like a languid cat, plucked idly at an imaginary guitar string on the table’s edge. “Let him have his moment, Kats. It’s cute. Like watching a golden retriever try to understand a compliment.”
Shouta took a long, slow sip of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he observed the scene. He said nothing. He was a monument to parental endurance.
Izuku’s lips brushed the shell of Kaito’s ear again, his breath warm. “It means you’re gonna get it good tonight,” he whispered, the words meant to be private but carrying in the sudden lull of brotherly bickering. “Aren’t you, baby? A reward for that big, beautiful brain.”
Kaito’s fork clattered slightly against his bowl. The pink tinge deepened to a respectable scarlet.
“Izuku,” he murmured, a weak protest.
“Mm-hmm,” Izuku continued, undeterred, his voice dropping into a husky, theatrical register. He was performing now, fully aware of his audience, savoring Kaito’s flustered reaction and his family’s predictable responses. “You’re gonna fuck my pussy so hard tonight, ain’t that right, baby? Gonna make me forget my own name. Gonna make me scream so loud Mr. Whiskers files a noise complaint.”
The silence that followed was different from the last one. It was heavier, charged with stifled laughter and anticipatory glee.
Katsuki stopped slicing. He pointed his knife at Izuku, his expression flat. “Okay. One: graphic. Two: the cat is deaf in one ear from when you blasted that hyper-pop crap last week. Three: we’re eating. Have some decorum, you feral gremlin.”
Hitoshi snorted, a soft, quick sound. “Decorum left this family around the time Izuku tried to explain deconstructivist tailoring using the Thanksgiving turkey as a model.”
“The giblets were a statement!” Izuku insisted, finally lifting his head to glare at his brother, though he didn’t disentangle himself from Kaito.
“The statement was ‘I shouldn’t be allowed near poultry or philosophy,’” Hitoshi drawled.
Shouta set his beer down with a deliberate clink. All eyes shifted to him. He picked up his chopsticks, gathered a perfect bite of rice, egg, and pork, and ate it slowly. He chewed. He swallowed. He looked at Kaito, who seemed to be trying to will himself into invisibility.
“Kaito,” Shouta said, his voice perfectly even.
“Y-yes, Shouta?”
“I assume, given the… celebratory nature of the evening’s planned activities, that you’ve reviewed the structural integrity of Izuku’s bedframe. The last time there was this much hype, we had to replace two slats and I had to have a very awkward conversation with the carpenter about ‘dynamic load testing.’”
Kaito made a small, choked sound. The scarlet on his face was now a magnificent, full-body crimson. He looked like a thermometer about to explode.
Izuku, however, beamed. “See? Daddy’s practical. He’s a problem-solver.” He squeezed Kaito tighter. “And for your information, we reinforced it after the last incident with the bracket. We used your power drill. It’s a fortress.”
“I wondered where my Makita went,” Shouta muttered, taking another bite.
“You’re all insane,” Katsuki declared, throwing his hands up. “This is a dining table. A place for food. For conversation about normal things, like the fucking weather, or the fact that Hitoshi’s band sounds like a broken elevator playing a synth!”
Hitoshi’s eyes gained a glint of malice. “At least my creative output doesn’t require a fire extinguisher on standby. Remember the ‘Dragon’s Breath Chili Oil’ incident? The EPA still has this address flagged.”
As the twins descended into their familiar, bickering rhythm, Izuku turned his attention back to Kaito, who was mechanically shoving food into his mouth, possibly hoping it would suffocate him.
“Ignore them,” Izuku whispered, his tone shifting from performative lust to something genuine and warm. “They’re just jealous because their love lives are less… acoustically significant.”
“I can hear you,” Hitoshi said without breaking his argument with Katsuki about the proper scoville unit threshold for “culinary art” versus “assault.”
Kaito finally managed to speak, his voice low. “Do you have to… narrate the previews? In front of them?”
“Yes,” Izuku said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s fun. You get all…” He traced the burning tip of Kaito’s ear. “…like this. And they get to remember that I have a smoking hot boyfriend who aces organic chem and can bench press me. It’s a public service, really.”
“It’s torture,” Kaito breathed, but a tiny, helpless smile was tugging at his lips.
“It’s family,” Shouta interjected, having polished off his bowl. He leaned back in his chair, surveying his sons and their guest. The harried author, the patron saint of exhausted patience. “Torture is just our love language. Katsuki expresses affection through threatening arson, Hitoshi through sarcastic commentary, and Izuku through graphic sexual prognostication. It’s how we know we care.”
He focused on Kaito again. “The point is, you got a 98. That’s impressive. You worked for it. That deserves recognition.” A slow, deliberate blink. “The method of recognition is, admittedly, louder and more anatomically specific than I’d prefer at my dinner table, but the sentiment is… clear.”
Kaito looked at Shouta, then at Izuku’s smug, beautiful face, then at the twins who were now arguing about whether a sous-vide machine was “cheating.” The tension in his shoulders began to seep away, replaced by a dawning, comfortable acceptance. This was the noise. This was the chaos. This was where Izuku came from, and by some miracle, he was being let inside.
“Thank you,” he said, to Shouta, to the room. “For dinner. And… everything.”
Izuku kissed his cheek, a loud, smacking sound. “You’re welcome. Now eat up. You’ll need your strength. I have plans. Complex, multi-stage plans involving minimal clothing and that silicon-based lube you pretended you didn’t buy last week.”
Kaito choked on a grain of rice.
Katsuki stood up abruptly, grabbing his empty bowl. “I’m done. I’m going to go scrub my brain with steel wool in a kitchen that, for the record, is a sanctuary of discipline and quiet!”
“Your kitchen sounds like a minor earthquake full of swear words!” Izuku called after him as he stomped away.
Hitoshi unfolded himself from his chair, giving Kaito a slow, two-fingered salute. “Good luck with the… structural engineering. Try to keep the seismic activity to a dull roar. Some of us have a midterm on Baroque counterpoint tomorrow.” He drifted out after his brother, the phantom guitarist.
Shouta remained, finishing his beer. He looked at the two of them, a unit, Izuku still wrapped around Kaito who was now finally eating in earnest. A quiet settled, filled only with the clink of Kaito’s chopsticks and the distant, aggressive clatter of Katsuki doing the washing-up.
“He’s a good kid,” Shouta said, out of nowhere, his gaze on Izuku. “You fluster easy, but you look him in the eye. You don’t shy away from him. Even when he’s being… a lot.”
Izuku went still, his cheek resting on Kaito’s hair. He didn’t sass back.
Kaito swallowed his food, setting his chopsticks down. “He’s… everything. The ‘a lot’ is the best part.”
Shouta’s mouth quirked. It was almost a smile. “I know.” He stood, collecting the empty dishes. “Don’t stay up too late. He has a nine AM critique on his portfolio. If he falls asleep in class because you melted his neurons, I’m holding you responsible.”
“I’ll have him tucked in by a reasonable hour,” Kaito said, with a surprising steadiness.
Shouta paused at the doorway, a stack of bowls in his hands. “See that you do. And Kaito?”
“Yes?”
“The 98. That’s yours. You earned it. Be proud of it.” A beat. “Just maybe be proud a little more quietly after ten PM.” He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving them alone in the warm, lamp-lit dining room.
The second the kitchen door swung shut, Izuku spun Kaito’s chair around. He planted himself in Kaito’s lap, straddling him, hands cradling his face. The earlier theatrical lust was gone, replaced by a fierce, sparkling pride.
“You did it,” Izuku said, his voice soft, his wine-red eyes searching Kaito’s. “I knew you would. My genius.”
Kaito’s hands settled on Izuku’s hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles through the thin fabric of his jeans. The flustered tension was gone, burned away by the strange, affirming ordeal of the family dinner. What remained was a deep, swelling warmth.
“You’re insufferable,” Kaito murmured, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Izuku’s.
“You love it.”
“I do.” He kissed him, then. It was slow, deep, and tasted like pork cutlet and soy sauce and home. When they parted, Izuku was smiling a real, unguarded smile.
“So,” Izuku said, shifting in his lap, feeling the evidence of Kaito’s interest press against him. “About those plans…”
Kaito’s gaze darkened, but not with embarrassment. With intent. He stood up effortlessly, lifting Izuku with him, prompting a gleeful squeak.
“The bedframe,” Kaito said, his voice low and rough by Izuku’s ear as he carried him from the dining room, “is a fortress. You said so yourself.”
Izuku’s laughter echoed down the hallway, bright and anticipatory. “Yeah, baby. It is. So let’s go test the hell out of those walls.”
From the kitchen, as the bedroom door closed firmly down the hall, Katsuki’s voice growled, “I HEARD THAT! I’M TELLING!”
Shouta’s dry reply was barely audible. “Tell the wall, Katsuki. And for god’s sake, that’s a ladle, not a weapon.”