Of Starburst Scars and Yellow Radios

Izuku was standing in the hallway. Inko was in the kitchen; she’d had the day off, and had promised that they could eat an extra big dinner and watch movies.Her small radio—antique and yellow, an anniversary gift from Hisashi—was on the counter next to her. It was playing a song, the volume just loud enough to block out the sound of Izuku’s quite breathing. Something in French. Something that sounded romantic—a song that would be in one of the black-and-white foreign films that Inko watched late at night, after Izuku’d gone to bed. The ones with too many scenes of people whispering and kissing and staring into each other’s eyes, and not enough heroes.Inko was singing, quietly. She sounded happy. Light, in a way that she never sounded when she talked with Izuku.And Izuku wondered. If he never came home—if she’d never even had a son—would she sing more often?