Chapter 4: Kitchen Confessions
The walk home from campus felt different. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the smell of damp leaves and distant chimney smoke, but Kaito moved through it with a new lightness. The confession in the cafeteria had been a pressure valve, releasing a tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged. His friends’ stunned faces, their hesitant but genuine curiosity—it hadn’t broken their world. It had just expanded it to include his. He’d texted Izuku a brief, flustered summary, which had been met with a torrent of emojis and a voice note of Izuku cackling with delight. My nerd is officially out of the nerd closet! he’d shrieked. Now get your gorgeous ass home. I have velvet.
The Aizawa house was a welcome beacon, its windows glowing gold against the early evening dusk. As he pushed the door open, the familiar sensory orchestra welcomed him: the rich, earthy scent of Shouta’s perpetually brewing coffee, the faint, sweet smell of fabric softener from the laundry room, the underlying note of citrus cleaner that never quite conquered the lived-in chaos. From the living room, he could hear the aggressive shing-shing-shing of a swordfight from whatever historical drama Katsuki was watching.
“Kaito? That you?” Shouta’s voice, a low, tired rumble, came from the kitchen.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Brace yourself,” Shouta called back, not raising his voice. “The menace is in a creative frenzy. There’s glitter on the ceiling. I don’t know how.”
Kaito toed off his shoes, a smile tugging at his lips. Home. He dumped his backpack by the stairs and followed the sound of the coffee machine.
The kitchen was a battlefield of inspiration. Bolts of fabric—the promised crimson velvet, a shimmering emerald satin, a charcoal-gray wool—were draped over chairs and piled on the table. Scissors, measuring tapes, and tailor’s chalk lay scattered among the usual debris of mail, cookbooks, and a half-assembled Lego model of a starship that Hitoshi had abandoned weeks ago. In the center of it all stood Izuku, barefoot, wearing a pair of black leggings and one of Kaito’s old, faded science fair t-shirts. His white curls were piled into a messy bun held up by a pencil, and he was frowning at a piece of pattern paper spread on the floor.
Shouta leaned against the counter by the sink, cradling a large, chipped “World’s Okayest Dad” mug. He looked, as always, like a man who had achieved enlightenment through sheer exhaustion. He gave Kaito a slow blink of greeting.
Izuku’s head snapped up. His wine-red eyes, narrowed in concentration, instantly softened, then ignited with playful heat. “Well, well. The campus heartthrob returns. How’s the brain trust? Recovering from their seismic shock?”
Kaito felt the blush, his old faithful companion, begin its warm crawl up his neck. “They’re fine. They think you sound cool.”
“Accurate,” Izuku said, straightening up. He stretched, the hem of the t-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of his stomach. “I am cool. I’m also starving. Daddy, when’s food?”
“When someone decides what ‘food’ means,” Shouta said, taking a long sip. “Your brother texted ‘bring home protein’ which could mean a side of beef. Hitoshi said ‘edible.’ You’re currently vibrating at a frequency that suggests you’ve forgotten to eat since breakfast. And Kaito looks like he could metabolize a whole chicken. I’m open to suggestions that don’t involve me deciphering hieroglyphics.”
“Katsudon,” Kaito said, almost automatically. It was comfort food. Safe.
“See? A man with a plan.” Shouta pushed himself off the counter. “I’ll start the rice.”
As Shouta moved to the pantry, Izuku closed the distance between himself and Kaito. He moved with a feline grace, his earlier frenetic energy focusing into a slow, deliberate prowl. He didn’t stop until he was inches away, tilting his head back to look up into Kaito’s face. Kaito could smell the unique Izuku-scent: vanilla lotion, the sharpness of polyester thread, and something sweet, like grape soda.
“You told them about me,” Izuku murmured, a smile playing on his lips. His voice was low, for Kaito alone.
“Yeah.”
“Everything?”
“Not… not everything. Just the good stuff.”
“All of it’s good stuff,” Izuku whispered, and then his hands were on Kaito’s hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of his jeans. With a surprising strength, he backed Kaito up until the backs of his thighs hit the kitchen island counter. “Even the filthy stuff.”
“Izuku,” Kaito breathed, a warning that was no warning at all. His hands came up to rest on Izuku’s waist, feeling the soft cotton of the t-shirt, the firm warmth beneath.
“Shhh, I’m conducting a post-study analysis,” Izuku said, his voice dropping another octave into that purr that went straight to Kaito’s spine. He applied gentle pressure, and Kaito, pliant, let himself be guided up to sit on the cleared edge of the counter. Izuku immediately stepped between his knees, crowding into his space. The world narrowed to the heat of Izuku’s body, the glint in his eyes, the sounds of Shouta quietly clattering pans behind them.
“Long day of being brilliant,” Izuku continued, his hands sliding up from Kaito’s hips to his abdomen, tracing the muscles there through the fabric of his shirt. “All those formulas. All that logic.” One hand drifted lower, palming Kaito’s thigh with an intimate possessiveness. “Your big, beautiful brain must be so tired.”
From the stove, Shouta turned on the fan. It whirred to life with a steady, droning hum.
Kaito’s mouth was dry. “It’s… it’s okay.”
“It needs a break,” Izuku insisted, leaning in. His lips brushed the shell of Kaito’s ear. His breath was hot. “Fuck studying.”
Kaito’s grip tightened on Izuku’s waist.
Izuku’s voice, though still a whisper, was now pitched to carry, clear and deliberate over the fan’s hum. “I want you to study this instead.”
He punctuated the sentence with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, grinding himself against Kaito’s thigh. The contact was blunt, impossible to misinterpret. Kaito’s brain short-circuited. A choked sound escaped his throat, and he was sure his face was the color of the pomegranate sitting in the fruit bowl.
There was a click of a stove knob. The fan droned on.
Then, a slow, deliberate scrape of ceramic on granite.
Kaito, his vision hazy at the edges, managed to turn his head a fraction. Shouta had not turned around. He was methodically coating pork cutlets in flour. But on the counter between his workspace and theirs, he had slid a single, foil-wrapped condom. It traveled a smooth six inches and came to a stop beside Kaito’s trembling hand.
The gesture was so casual, so utterly mundane, that it bypassed shock and landed directly in the realm of the profoundly surreal. It was like he’d passed the salt.
Izuku, who had seen it too, let out a delighted, muffled giggle against Kaito’s neck. His shoulders shook. “See?” he whispered, his savage mirth vibrating against Kaito’s skin. “Supportive.”
Kaito stared at the small, square packet. His mortification was a living thing, a creature with claws scratching up his esophagus. But underneath it, rising like a tide, was something else. A wild, incredulous laugh bubbled in his chest. This was his life. This bizarre, perfect, impossible life.
Shouta spoke, his back still to them, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “The rice will take twenty minutes. The cutlets, ten. If you’re going to defile my kitchen counter, I’d appreciate a ten-minute warning for sanitization. Also, Izuku, if you get glitter on him, you’re washing his clothes.”
Izuku pulled back, his eyes sparkling with unrepentant joy. He plucked the condom off the counter, held it up, and gave his father a sarcastic little salute. “Ten minutes, aye-aye, Captain. C’mon, lab rat.” He hopped back, tugging Kaito by the hand. “We have an important, time-sensitive experiment to run. Daddy’s timing us.”
Kaito, still dazed, slid off the counter, his legs momentarily unsteady. He glanced at Shouta, who finally glanced over his shoulder. There was no judgment in the man’s deep-set eyes. Just a profound, weary amusement, and a flicker of something that looked like… fondness. He gave Kaito a nearly imperceptible nod.
That nod said everything. I see you. You’re part of this chaos. You’re family. Now get out of my kitchen.
“Go,” Shouta said, turning back to his flouring. “And close your door. Katsuki’s home, and his sensitivity to what he calls ‘disgusting love sounds’ is only matched by his volume when complaining about them.”
Izuku cackled, pulling Kaito out of the kitchen and into the hallway. As they passed the living room, Katsuki’s voice boomed from the couch. “Finally! Take that shit upstairs! Some of us are trying to watch honorable warriors die with dignity, not listen to you two sound like a stuck pig!”
“You’re just jealous, Katsuki!” Izuku sing-songed, not breaking stride.
“Of that? I’d rather get dysentery!”
Hitoshi, slouched in an armchair with a textbook, didn’t look up. “Seconded. The historical inaccuracies in this show are less painful.”
Then they were up the stairs, in the sanctuary of Izuku’s bedroom. It was, as always, a beautiful disaster. Fabric swatches covered every surface, sketches were taped to the walls, and a half-dressed mannequin stood in the corner like a silent, one-breasted guardian. Izuku kicked the door shut with his foot, the click of the latch a definitive sound.
The playful, performative energy melted away. Izuku turned, his back against the door, and looked at Kaito. His expression softened into something private, real. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Kaito echoed, his voice rough.
“You okay? That was… a lot in the kitchen. Even for us.”
Kaito ran a hand through his hair. A breathless laugh finally escaped. “Your dad… he just…”
“Yeah. He does that.” Izuku pushed off the door and came to him, winding his arms around Kaito’s neck. “He likes you. He trusts you. In his own weird, deadpan way, that was a blessing. A weird, latex-based blessing.”
“It was something,” Kaito agreed, resting his forehead against Izuku’s. The scent of him was clearer here, without the overlay of coffee and cooking oil. Just Izuku. “And you… ‘study this’?”
Izuku grinned, unashamed. “Inspired. You looked so serious coming in, all thoughtful after your big day. I wanted to make you blush. Mission accomplished.” He brushed his nose against Kaito’s. “But now we’re here. And we do have…” he held up the condom, “…about nine minutes left, according to the paternal countdown clock.”
The blush returned, but it was a different kind of heat now. Less panic, more anticipation. This was their space. Their rules. Kaito’s hands found Izuku’s hips, fingers slipping under the hem of the stolen t-shirt to touch warm skin. “We don’t have to… we can just…”
“Oh, we’re going to,” Izuku said, his voice dropping back into that thrilling, possessive murmur. “I bought velvet for you. I’ve been thinking about you all afternoon. About how you sounded on the phone, all proud and flustered. I want you. Unless you don’t…”
Kaito answered by kissing him. It was deep and hungry, a release of all the built-up tension from the kitchen, from the cafeteria, from the long day. Izuku melted into it, making a soft, approving sound against his mouth. The condom fell from his fingers, forgotten on the floor.
Clothes became obstacles, discarded in unceremonious piles on top of fabric samples. The reinforced bedframe, that infamous symbol of their shared life, didn’t so much as creak as Kaito laid Izuku back on the rumpled sheets. The evening light filtered through the window, painting Izuku’s skin in shades of gold and grey. He was a vision, confident and open, his wine-red eyes dark with desire.
“Nine minutes,” Izuku breathed, pulling him down. “Make ’em count, genius.”
And Kaito, who excelled at focus, at diligent study, applied himself to this new, infinitely more captivating subject with all the fervent passion he possessed.
Later—considerably later than ten minutes—they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing in the quiet dusk. The only sounds were their slowing heartbeats and distant noise from downstairs.
“So,” Izuku said, tracing idle patterns on Kaito’s chest. “The brain trust. You’re really okay?”
“Yeah,” Kaito said, and he meant it. “It feels… better. Like you’re not a secret. You’re just… my reality. A really loud, really sexy reality.”
Izuku pinched his side, making him jump. “I am not loud.”
“You are. In the best way.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Kaito’s stomach growled, a loud, protesting rumble.
Izuku giggled. “Oops. We missed the katsudon bell. Daddy’s probably fed our portions to Katsuki.”
As if on cue, there was a soft knock on the door, followed by it swinging open a crack. Shouta stood there, holding two steaming bowls balanced on a tray. He didn’t enter, just leveled his gaze at the two of them in the bed.
“I reheated it,” he said, his voice flat. “Counter’s sanitized. Glitter containment appears to have been successful.” He set the tray down on Izuku’s cluttered desk. “Eat. Then sleep. Your brother is now watching a documentary about deep-sea anglerfish, so the metaphorical coast is clear for ‘disgusting love sounds,’ but I’d appreciate some moderation. I have a chapter to edit.”
He turned to leave.
“Daddy?” Izuku called, propping himself up on an elbow.
Shouta paused at the door.
“Thanks. For the… you know. The snack.” Izuku’s grin was wicked.
Shouta looked at the bowls, then back at his son. A long-suffering sigh, the foundation of his personality, filled the room. “You’re welcome, problem child.” His eyes flicked to Kaito. “Both of you.”
He closed the door.
Kaito looked at the bowls of katsudon, the steam still curling in the dim room. He looked at Izuku, whose hair was a wild white corona on the pillow, smiling like he’d won the lottery. He listened to the muffled, bizarre sounds of anglerfish narration drifting up the stairs.
He was a nerd. He was a boyfriend. He was, somehow, part of this family. His face didn’t even flush this time. He just smiled, wide and unreserved.
“C’mon,” he said, throwing back the covers. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”