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Chapter 6: The Red Room Negotiations

The master bathroom was a temple of steam and serenity. Hizashi stood before the broad, backlit mirror, his waist-length blonde hair a river of spun silk over the shoulders of his black silk robe. The only sound was the gentle shush of a boar-bristle brush moving through the strands with practiced, meditative strokes. He had just begun to section his hair for a complex braid when a distinct, loud groan punched through the quiet, followed immediately by a high, excited yip that echoed off the marble.Hizashi paused, brush suspended. A slow smile tugged at his lips. He set the brush down, quickly weaving the half-finished braid into a simple, secure plait which he tied off with a velvet cord. Then, barefoot, he padded out of the bathroom and across the expansive bedroom towards the open door of the walk-in closet.

The closet was a monument to curated luxury. Rows of tailored suits in varying shades of charcoal and black hung in silent ranks.Shelves held stacks of cashmere sweaters folded with military precision. Glass cases displayed watches under soft, individual lights. The air smelled faintly of cedar, bergamot, and fine leather.

In the midst of this ordered splendor, Shouta stood frozen, a picture of utter dismay. He was in his usual home attire—soft grey sweatpants and a worn black t-shirt that strained across his chest and shoulders. In his large hand, he held a single, burgundy Oxford shoe.Its companion lay abandoned on the plush cream carpet.

Izuku was sprawled on his back beside the fallen shoe, a picture of canine bliss. His fluffy white tail thumped a happy rhythm against the carpet. His pale blue eyes were half-lidded in satisfaction, his pink tongue lolling out as he panted gently. One of the shoe’s laces was conspicuously frayed, the elegant leather near the toe scored with a series of tiny, sharp punctures.Shouta let out another groan, deeper this time, a sound of profound, weary suffering. He turned the damaged shoe in his hand, inspecting the ruin. “You,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble directed at the blissful hybrid on the floor. “You were five million dollars.Five million.You’re not supposed to do this. You’re a work of art, not a… a chew toy factory quality control officer.”

Izuku simply blinked up at him, his ears twitching, and let out a soft, contented “Mrrp.”

Hizashi leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his smile widening into a full, amused grin. “I think,” he said, voice laced with playful accusation, “that this is a user error, darling. You made him like this.”

Shouta shot him a look of pure betrayal.“I made him? I bought him a custom-made teak chewing gym last week.It has suspension ropes and a built-in treat dispenser. It cost more than a compact car.”

“And yet,” Hizashi purred, pushing off the doorframe and gliding into the closet, “you leave your two-thousand-dollar Stefano Bemer Oxfords on the floor where a puppy—a very beautiful, expensive, but fundamentally puppy puppy—can get them. That’s on you, daddy.” He knelt down, scratching Izuku’s exposed belly.Izuku’s leg kicked in joyful reflex.

“He’s not a puppy, he’s four,” Shouta grumbled, though the protest was weak. He looked from the shoe to Izuku’s innocent face. The anger wasn’t real; it was a performance, a ritual of exasperation that both of them understood.“And he knows better. Don’t you, ‘Zuku? You know Daddy’s shoes are not for chewing.”

Izuku rolled onto his stomach and crawled into Hizashi’s lap, nuzzling his face against his papa’s robe. “Sowwy, Daddy,” he mumbled, his voice muffled.

“He’s not sorry,” Shouta said, but he was already setting the ruined shoe down next to its mate. He crouched, his large frame folding with a soft sigh, and scratched behind Izuku’s fluffy ear. “You just like the taste of fine Italian leather, huh?You have expensive tastes, kid. Takes after your papa.”

Hizashi laughed, gathering Izuku into his arms and standing up, cradling the hybrid like a much younger child. Izuku immediately curled into the embrace, tucking his head under Hizashi’s chin. “Of course he does.He’s our son.” He looked at the shoes. “Order another pair.Or don’t. You have twenty.”

“Twenty-four,” Shouta corrected absently, rising to his full height. He gazed at the two of them, the sharp lines of his face softening.The closet, for all its cold luxury, felt warm with them in it. “And I already did.The order confirmation is on my phone. They’ll be here Tuesday.”

“See? Problem solved.” Hizashi shifted Izuku’s weight, pressing a kiss to his white hair.“Now. What’s on the agenda for my two favorite boys today?”

Shouta ran a hand through his own dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I’ve got a conference call with Zurich at two. Before that, I was going to take this little delinquent for a walk in the private park. Burn off some of that destructive energy.”

“Walk!” Izuku chirped, his tail wagging again.“Park! Sticks!”

“No sticks in the designer park, puppy. The landscapers will have a collective aneurysm,” Shouta said, but he was smiling now, a small, private thing that only Hizashi and the children ever saw.

The domestic peace was shattered by the abrupt, thunderous vibration of bass from down the hall. The rhythmic thump was unmistakable—heavy metal, something sludgy and dissonant. It was followed by the stomp of boots and the sound of Katsuki’s raised voice trying to compete with the noise.“—the fuck would I know? Just ask him yourself!”

Hizashi’s eyebrows arched. “Sounds like the cacophony committee is in session.”

Shouta’s sighed, a universal sound of fatherhood. “I’ll go.”

He strode out of the closet and down the wide hallway towards Hitoshi’s room. The door was ajar.Inside, the room was a study in organized chaos. Band posters obscured the walls—old school visual kei groups with elaborate makeup next to stark, black-and-white shots of Scandinavian metal acts. A small, sophisticated tattoo machine and pots of ink sat neatly on a sterile-looking tray on the desk. In the center of the room, Hitoshi was pulling a black skinny jeans over his hips, his torso bare and adorned with several intricate tattoos: a serpent coiled around his bicep, a spiderweb at his elbow, and across his ribs, the fresh, reddened outline of the skeletal dragon he’d described.The music blared from a high-end speaker in the corner.

Katsuki stood by the door, already dressed in athleisure wear, arms crossed. “He’s being a dick!” Katsuki yelled over the music.

Hitoshi, utterly unbothered, zipped his jeans and reached for a band t-shirt. “I’m not being a dick.I’m being factual.You have the emotional intelligence of a fucking hammer, Kats. You scared him off.”

Shouta reached in and flipped the switch on the speaker’s power strip.The sudden silence was deafening.Both boys turned. Hitoshi blinked, slow and calm.Katsuki scowled.

“We have soundproofing in the west wing for a reason,” Shouta said, his voice quiet but filling the new silence completely. “Use it, or use headphones.What’s the problem?”

Katsuki jerked his thumb at Hitoshi. “He had a thing with that guy, Riku, from his art collective. It lasted like, three weeks. The guy texts me last night, all ‘hey, is Hitoshi mad at me?’ and I, being a decent brother, say ‘I dunno, ask him,’ and now I’m the asshole because the guy got nervous and didn’t ask him out again!”

Hitoshi pulled his shirt on, the fabric rustling. He ran a hand through his shaggy, lavender-dyed hair. “You told him ‘I dunno, ask him’ in a voice that implied I was currently sharpening knives and thinking about his name. You have a resting murder voice, Katsuki. It’s not conducive to delicate social reconnaissance.”

“Delicate social—it’s a fuck, not a treaty negotiation!” Katsuki exploded, throwing his hands up. “If he’s scared off by my tone over text, he wasn’t worth your time anyway!”

Shouta pinched the bridge of his nose. “So.To summarize. Hitoshi’s romantic prospect is potentially derailed because Katsuki’s textual tone was interpreted as threatening.”

Hitoshi nodded once. “Accurate.”

“It’s bullshit!” Katsuki insisted, but some of the heat had left him. He was now arguing on principle.

“Katsuki,” Shouta said, leveling his gaze at his older son. “Your brother’s sex life, while I am endlessly grateful he feels comfortable discussing it openly, is his own domain.Your role as brother is support, not… bouncer. Unless asked to be a bouncer.”

A faint pink tinged Katsuki’s ears. “He did ask! He said ‘what do you think of Riku?’ and I said he seemed okay, but kinda meek!”

“And then you told the meek guy to confront your brother, who you’ve publicly described as having a ‘witchy, villainous vibe’,” Hitoshi added dryly, applying black polish to his nails with meticulous care.

“You do have a witchy vibe!It’s cool! He should have appreciated it!”

Shouta held up a hand.“The point is, the interaction is over. Hitoshi, if you like him, text him yourself.Be clear.Katsuki, you are hereby demoted from romantic intermediary. Your skills lie elsewhere.” He looked between them.“Are we done? I have a puppy and a park waiting.”

Hitoshi gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “We’re done.” He looked at Katsuki.“It’s fine.I’ll handle it. You’re still a caveman, but you’re my caveman.”

Katsuki grunted, the anger evaporating as quickly as it came.“Whatever. Just don’t bitch to me when he turns out to be boring.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You wanna go to that new ramen place for lunch?Before Dad’s call?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The conflict resolved itself, as they always did—a sudden storm that blew out to sea just as fast. Shouta felt a familiar surge of fondness for both of them: Katsuki’s fierce, clumsy protectiveness, Hitoshi’s calm, analytical acceptance of it. They were a perfect, unbalanced equation that somehow always summed up to family.

He left them to it, returning to the master suite where Hizashi was now dressing Izuku for the walk. The hybrid stood patiently on a velvet stool as Hizashi fastened a soft, leather harness over a cream-colored knit sweater. A delicate silver chain connected the harness to a matching collar, from which a small, diamond-encrusted tag gleamed.

“No leash in the private park, remember, puppy,” Hizashi was saying gently as he checked the fit. “But you wear this so everyone knows you’re ours.So pretty.”

“So pretty,” Izuku echoed, admiring himself in a full-length mirror.

The private park was two acres of manicured wilderness nestled within the Aizawa compound. Winding paths of smooth river stone meandered through copses of bamboo and gnarled pine, past a koi pond so clear the brightly colored fish looked suspended in air. It was utterly silent, save for the rustle of leaves and the patter of Izuku’s small feet on the path as he darted ahead, then back, then ahead again, his white hair and tail flashing like semaphores.

Shouta walked slowly, hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning not the beauty but the perimeter. The eight-foot wall, lined with discreet, state-of-the-art sensors. The canopy of ancient trees that prevented any sightline from nearby skyscrapers.It was a fortress.It had to be.

Izuku trotted back, holding up a perfectly ordinary twig. “Stick!” he proclaimed proudly.“A fine stick,” Shouta agreed, taking it.He examined it with mock seriousness. “Excellent grain.Very chewable. But remember, we’re a ‘leave no trace’ family in the park. We admire, we don’t acquire.” He tossed the twig gently into a bush.Izuku giggled and chased after it.

Izuku ran back, this time with a pale pink cherry blossom petal stuck to his nose.“Daddy!Smell!”

Shouta crouched down, his knees popping. He gently plucked the petal from Izuku’s nose and held it. He took a deep, exaggerated sniff.“Mmm. Beautiful.” He looked into Izuku’s wide, pale blue eyes.The eyes of a child.A beautiful, expensive, vulnerable child. “You know Daddy and Papa would never let anything bad happen to you, right, ‘Zuku?”

Izuku nodded immediately, earnestly.“Daddy big.Daddy strong. Papa smart.” He said it as simple fact, a law of the universe.

“That’s right,” Shouta whispered, his throat tight. He pulled Izuku into a hug, feeling the hybrid’s small arms wrap around his neck, the fluffy ears tickling his cheek. The love was a physical pain, a glorious, terrifying vulnerability.He would burn down entire media empires for this.He would ruin lives. He wouldn’t hesitate.

They walked a while longer, the shadow of the message receding under the practical sun of Shouta’s resolve. By the time they returned to the mansion, the routine had reasserted itself.Katsuki and Hitoshi had left for ramen. Hizashi was in his study, a light-filled room adjacent to the bedroom, speaking softly into a headset—a client session.

“—and when he enters you from behind, the angle is different, remember? It’s not just about depth, it’s about the pressure on the anterior wall. If you want more clitoral stimulation in that position, you need to adjust your pelvic tilt, sweetheart. Here, let me diagram it for you…”