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Chapter 14: The Wedding Planning

The first thing Hitoshi became aware of was not light, or sound, but touch. A gentle, rhythmic pressure smoothing over his scalp, fingers carding through his perpetually messy hair. It was a familiar, deeply comforting sensation. He swam up from the depths of a thick, dreamless sleep, the kind that followed total exhaustion.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through his mismatched curtains. The room smelled faintly of lavender laundry detergent, old books, and the cloying sweetness of the vape juice he’d been using last night. Leaning against his headboard, a book open but ignored on his thigh, was his papa.

Hizashi was a vision of morning calm. His spectacular blonde hair was loose, a river of gold cascading over one shoulder and down the front of his silk kimono robe, which was patterned with subtle, dark peonies. He looked down at Hitoshi, his green eyes warm and knowing, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Morning, kitten,” Hizashi said, his voice a low, melodic hum. “There you are.”

Hitoshi sighed, a long, contented exhalation. He didn’t speak. He just shifted, sliding his head more fully onto his papa’s lap, nuzzling his cheek against the slick, cool silk. Hizashi’s fingers immediately resumed their work, scratching lightly at his scalp, tracing the shell of his ear where multiple silver hoops hung.

“Mmm,” Hitoshi managed, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“You were dead to the world,” Hizashi murmured, his free hand picking up the forgotten book—a dense-looking text on hybrid neuro-chemistry. “I heard you stumble in at, what, three? Everything in one piece?”

“Yeah,” Hitoshi rasped. He cleared his throat. “S’all good.”

“And the concert?” Hizashi prompted, his fingers now working on a particularly pleasant spot just behind Hitoshi’s ear. “How was the infamous… what were they called? Vomit Catharsis?”

A lazy smirk spread across Hitoshi’s face, his eyes still closed. “Visceral Catharsis. And they were awesome. The bassist signed my tit.” He said it with the same casual tone another teen might use to say ‘he signed my ticket stub.’

Hizashi didn’t miss a beat. He chuckled, a rich, unfiltered sound. “Which one? The tasteful script over the heart, or the big ugly one on your ribs?”

“Ribs. It’s already kinda smudged. Sweat. Mosh pit.”

“A testament to a night well spent,” Hizashi declared, his fingers trailing down to massage the tense line of Hitoshi’s neck. “You’ll have to show me later. I appreciate the commitment to commemorative art.”

Hitoshi hummed again, melting further into the touch. The soreness he’d been unaware of while asleep began to announce itself in various places: a deep ache in his lower back, a specific tenderness in his thighs, a general feeling of being thoroughly, pleasantly used-up. He stretched his legs under the duvet, joints popping, and groaned.

“Ugh. I’m so sore, papa.”

“From the moshing?” Hizashi asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“From the afterparty,” Hitoshi corrected, blunt as a hammer. He opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling where a faded glow-in-the-dark star constellation was peeling off. “Let five guys fuck me. Backstage. Was a whole thing.”

The statement hung in the sunny, lavender-scented air. There was no shock, no judgment, only a pragmatic and clinical curiosity from Hizashi.

“Five,” Hizashi repeated, his massage never stopping. “Ambitious. Logistics alone are impressive at your age. Were they all in the band?”

“Two were. The drummer and the roadie. Other three were just… there. Fans, I guess. It got blurry.”

“Consensual blurry, or concerning blurry?” Hizashi’s voice was even, but there was a steel thread running through it. It was the professional asking, but underneath, the parent listening very, very closely.

Hizashi gave a firm squeeze to his shoulder. “Good. Hydrate. Take the supplements I left on your desk. The ones with electrolytes and zinc. You’re going to need them.” He paused. “Protection?”

“Of course,” Hitoshi said, a flicker of teenage indignation in his tone. “I’m not a moron. They had a whole gross bucket of condoms next to the free beer.”

“Excellent. A model of depraved responsibility.” Hizashi leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “My little slut.”

It was said with utter fondness. Hitoshi preened under it, the praise warming him more than the sunbeam now crossing his legs. This was their language. Raw, uncensored, and underpinned by an absolute, unshakeable certainty of care.

“Where’s Daddy?” Hitoshi asked, changing the subject only because he was curious, not because he felt any need to shift away from the previous one.

“Downstairs. Eating breakfast and scowling at the financial news on his tablet.” Hizashi’s tone was light, affectionate. “You wanna go say hi? Cuddle with Daddy? He missed you last night. Grumbled about the quiet.”

Hitoshi considered it. The image of his father, immense and stern in his tailored dressing gown, sitting at the vast kitchen island, was appealing. Shouta’s hugs were different—less gossamer touch, more enveloping solidity. But the thought of moving his aching body down two flights of stairs felt Herculean.

He shook his head, his hair rustling against the silk. “Wanna stay with you. ’M cozy.”

“I’m honored,” Hizashi said, and he sounded like he meant it. He set his book aside entirely and used both hands to work on Hitoshi’s shoulders. His fingers were strong, trained in anatomy. They found the knots of tension from a night of physical exertion and pressed into them with unerring accuracy.

Hitoshi hissed, then sighed in relief as the muscle slowly unclenched. “God, you’re good at that.”

“It’s my job to understand bodies, kitten. In all states of stress and pleasure.” He worked in silence for a minute, the only sounds the rustle of fabric and Hitoshi’s gradually deepening breaths. “Izuku’s still at the Thornes’. He’ll be back after lunch. He sent a picture this morning.”

“Yeah?” Hitoshi mumbled.

Hizashi pulled his phone from his robe pocket with one hand, thumbed it open, and held it so Hitoshi could see. The photo was of Izuku, a blurry, ecstatic white form mid-leap, chasing a sprinkler arc across an emerald lawn. Rex was in the background, a dark, watchful silhouette under a tree. The caption from Andrew read: Morning energy. Rex is refereeing.

“He looks happy,” Hitoshi observed.

The door pushed open then, not with a knock, but with the silent, assured pressure of someone who owned every space they entered. Shouta filled the doorway. He was, as predicted, immaculate in a charcoal grey dressing gown, his long dark hair tied back. He held a large tray in his hands.

“I heard voices,” he said, his voice that low, grounding rumble. He took in the scene: Hitoshi sprawled across Hizashi’s lap, the cozy disarray of the room. His dark eyes softened imperceptibly. “Brought reinforcements.”

The smell hit Hitoshi then: rich, dark coffee, butter, maple syrup, the savory punch of bacon. His stomach growled audibly.

Shouta set the tray on the end of the bed. It held a carafe of coffee, three cups, a towering stack of pancakes, a bowl of fresh berries, a plate of crispy bacon, and a small vase with a single, perfect orchid in it. Because even room-service breakfast required a floral arrangement.

“You’re a god,” Hitoshi said, pushing himself up onto his elbows with a wince.

“I am aware,” Shouta replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. He poured coffee, adding just the right amount of cream and two sugars to one cup—Hitoshi’s—before handing it over. His movements were efficient, precise. “How’s the fallout from the cultural event?”

“He let five strangers fuck him backstage,” Hizashi supplied cheerfully, accepting his own black coffee from Shouta.

Shouta took a sip from his cup, his gaze settling on Hitoshi. There was no disapproval in his face, only a sharp assessment. “Efficient. Were they worthwhile?”

Hitoshi shrugged, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. “The drummer was. The roadie had hands like a mechanic. The other three were… forgettable. A means to an end.”

“The end being?” Shouta asked.

“The story,” Hitoshi said simply, and took a gulp of coffee.

A faint, proud smirk touched Shouta’s lips. He understood that. The experience as currency. The narrative value. He reached over and snagged a piece of bacon, offering it to Hitoshi. “Eat. You’re burning through resources you haven’t replenished.”

Hitoshi took the bacon, biting into the salty, fatty crispness with a satisfaction that was almost primal. Hizashi fixed him a plate, cutting the pancakes with practiced ease, drizzling syrup, scattering berries.

For a while, they just ate in comfortable silence, a triad of contentment in the sunlit room. Shouta’s presence completed the circuit. Where Hizashi was liquid affection and open conversation, Shouta was solidity and silent vigilance. He watched Hitoshi eat, noting the shadows under his eyes, the careful way he moved.

“You need a bath,” Shouta stated finally. “Not a shower. A bath. With the Epsom salts. Your posture is atrocious.”

“You’re buying me a new bathtub?” Hitoshi asked, his mouth full, knowing full well how the game was played.

“The one in your en-suite is inadequate. It’s a standard size. I’ll have the designers in next week. A soaker. With jets. And built-in chromotherapy lighting.” Shouta said it as if commenting on the weather.

“Can it be black? Like, matte black stone?”

“If you want a bathtub that looks like a sacrificial altar, yes,” Shouta said drily. “It’s your bathroom.”

Hitoshi grinned, shooting a look at Hizashi, who just shook his head with a smile, sipping his coffee. This was the rhythm. The ask, the immediate, extravagant granting. The reaffirmation of their place in a world where desire and acquisition were seamless.

Hitoshi finished his pancakes, pushing the plate away and slumping back against Hizashi. The food and coffee had warmed him, but the deep muscular ache was still there, a throbbing reminder. “Papa was telling me about Izuku’s big romance.”

“It’s progressing,” Shouta said, setting his cup down. “Andrew is a man of quality. His management of Rex is impeccable. The hybrid’s discipline is remarkable. He didn’t even try to mount Izuku in front of us. Respectful, but clearly invested.”

Hizashi stroked Hitoshi’s hair. “We’re thinking of a winter ceremony. Something intimate but obscenely expensive. Maybe at the chalet in Gstaad.”

“Izuku in the snow would be photogenic,” Shouta mused. “The white on white. Rex as a dark contrast. It has aesthetic merit.”

Hitoshi listened, letting their plans wash over him. He loved Izuku, loved the way his fluffy brother was clearly smitten. The transactional underpinnings of the match didn’t bother him; that was just how their world worked. Everything was transactional. The key was finding transactions where everyone got what they genuinely wanted.

“Katsuki texted,” Hitoshi said, digging his phone out from under a pillow. The screen was cracked—a souvenir from last night. “He says his friend’s pool is ‘lagoon-sized’ and the pool boy has a tattoo of a seahorse on his ass. He’s considering requesting a private swimming lesson.”

Hizashi laughed. “That’s my boy. Direct. Is the pool boy of acceptable quality?”

“Katsuki said ‘he’s okay, for a proletariat’,” Hitoshi read off, snorting.

Shouta’s expression was one of mild, paternal amusement. “Ensure he remembers the rules. Discretion, and screening.”

“He knows, Daddy,” Hitoshi said, though they all knew Katsuki’s version of discretion was often just not livestreaming his exploits.

Hizashi shifted, gently encouraging Hitoshi to sit up. “Alright, up. Into the bath you go, before you solidify into a permanently slouched position. Daddy’s right.”

Hitoshi groaned but complied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle protested. He stood, stretching, his borrowed band t-shirt riding up to reveal the smudged, black signature over his ribs, the dark lines of his own tattoos peeking from the waistband of his boxers.

Shouta’s eyes tracked the signature. “Adequate placement. The ink they used is cheap, though. It’ll be gone in a week.”

“The memory is eternal,” Hizashi intoned dramatically, standing and smoothing his robe.

Shouta rose as well, collecting the tray. “I have a conference call with Singapore in an hour. The new bath is ordered. Specifications will be sent to you for approval.” He leaned in and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the top of Hitoshi’s head. “Don’t spend the entire day in the water. You have a tutor coming at three for the calculus you’ve been ignoring.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Hitoshi said, leaning into the kiss.

Shouta’s hand cupped his cheek for a second, a rare, unscripted gesture of pure affection. Then he was gone, a looming, elegant shadow withdrawing from the doorway, tray in hand.

Hizashi linked his arm with Hitoshi’s. “Come on, you walking testament to teenage decadence. Let’s get you submerged.”

They walked down the hall to Hitoshi’s bathroom. It was already large and marble-clad, but as Shouta had declared, it was ‘standard’. Hizashi started the water, pouring in a generous amount of lavender and eucalyptus Epsom salts from a crystal jar. Steam began to fog the mirrors.

“In you get,” Hizashi said, leaning against the vanity.

Hitoshi shed his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor—a habit that drove their housekeeper silently mad. He caught his reflection in the fogging glass: pale, lean, a canvas of ink, metal, and the temporary marks of a good night. He lowered himself into the deepening hot water with a hissed exhalation that turned into a long, grateful moan as the heat enveloped his aching body.

“See?” Hizashi said, smiling. He perched on the wide lip of the tub, not bothering with a towel. “The human body is a temple. A very fun, very corruptible temple, but a temple nonetheless. It needs maintenance after revelry.”

Hitoshi sank up to his chin, his hair fanning out in the water. He closed his eyes. The heat was unlocking the clenched knots, one by one. He could feel his papa’s gaze on him, not scrutinizing, just… present.

“Papa?” he said after a while, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled room.

“Yes, kitten?”

“Is it weird that I don’t… want what Izuku has? Like, the mate thing?”

Hizashi didn’t answer immediately. He trailed his fingertips through the water, disturbing the floating bubbles of salt. “No,” he said finally, his voice thoughtful. “It’s not weird. It’s just different wiring. Izuku is a creature of profound attachment. He needs a center, a sun to orbit. His happiness is in belonging, in being possessed. You,” he flicked a bit of water at Hitoshi’s cheek, “are a creature of experience. You collect moments, sensations, stories. Your happiness is in the curation of a fascinating life. Neither is superior. They’re just different expressions of desire.”

Hitoshi opened one eye. “You think I’ll ever want just one person?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. If you do, it will be because you find someone who is, in themselves, a more fascinating collection of experiences than any multitude could provide. And they’ll have to be exceptional to capture your attention for more than a season.” Hizashi’s smile was wise and a little sly. “And they’ll have to pass the most rigorous interview process known to man, conducted by your father and I.”

Hitoshi laughed, the sound bouncing off the marble. “Yeah, good luck to them.”

He soaked until his fingers pruned, the steam clearing his head, the salts doing their work on his muscles. Hizashi stayed, talking idly about a new art exhibit, a scandal at a rival family’s charity gala, the merits of different pillow fills. It was the mundane soundtrack of their privileged life, and to Hitoshi, it was the sound of absolute safety.

Later, wrapped in a plush, black robe, his hair dripping onto the floor, Hitoshi stood at his bedroom window. He watched the gardener meticulously tending to the rose maze far below. He thought about five strangers in a dank, beer-sticky room. He thought about Izuku chasing water across a perfect lawn under Rex’s watchful eyes. He thought about a matte black bathtub being designed just for him.

He felt the lingering ghost of his papa’s fingers in his hair, the firm pressure of his daddy’s kiss on his head.

He wasn’t sore anymore. He was sated. He was home.

Downstairs, he could hear the faint, steady murmur of his father’s voice on the conference call, the unflappable tone of someone commanding a universe from a quiet study. Somewhere in the house, a phone chimed—likely a text from Katsuki with a seahorse-related update.

Hitoshi picked up his own phone, snapped a picture of his foggy bathroom mirror, and sent it to the group chat with his brothers. The caption read: Post-purge purification. Dad’s buying me a coffin tub.

The replies came in seconds.

From Izuku: Pretty! Rex say hi! He lick phone!

From Katsuki: About time. My bathroom here has jets that are pathetic. Tell Dad I need an upgrade too. Also, the seahorse has a boyfriend. Boring.

Hitoshi smiled, tossed the phone on his bed, and went to find his papa. He knew he’d be in the sunroom, probably sketching ideas for a Baroque-ruin-meets-tattoo-parlor birthday party on his tablet. He wanted to see the sketches. He wanted to be near that specific, brilliant warmth.

The day stretched ahead, slow and luxurious, a soft blank space between the intensity of the night before and the structured demand of the tutor later. It was his to fill with stillness, with small comforts, with the unshakeable certainty that he was, in every way that mattered, profoundly and permanently owned. Not like Izuku was owned. But owned nonetheless. By the love that asked for nothing but his happiness, and by the fortune that ensured it was always, effortlessly within reach.