Chapter 3: Nighttime Rituals
The evening had settled like a soft blanket over the house. The scents of sugar and vanilla from the afternoon’s baking had faded, replaced by the clean, quiet smell of laundered sheets and the faint, ever-present hint of baby powder. Down the hall, behind the closed door of Katsuki and Hitoshi’s room, the low thrum of a bass guitar and the clicking of a video game controller created a muffelled backdrop.
In the master bedroom, the light was warm and dim, cast by a single ceramic lamp on the nightstand. It painted the room in pools of gold and long, gentle shadows. The bed was a vast landscape of rumpled linen, already indented by the familiar shapes of its occupants.
Hizashi sat propped against the headboard, his long blonde hair loose and spilling over his shoulders like a waterfall of pale silk. He’d shed his day clothes, wearing only a simple robe of dark blue satin that lay open, untied. The soft fabric draped around his frame, and in the low light, the gentle, familiar curves of his body—the soft swell of his breasts, the slight roundness of his belly from carrying three sons—were unobscured, natural, and unremarkable in this private space. His green eyes were soft, watching the scene before him with a deep, liquid contentment.
On the bed before him, Izuku lay on his back, a small pale island against the dark blue duvet. He was dressed only in a fresh, thick diaper, its white material stark against his skin. The day’s exertions had left him pliant and quiet, his wine-red eyes half-lidded as he watched his mama. One thumb had crept into his mouth, and he suckled it slowly, a soft, rhythmic sound.
Shouta emerged from the en suite bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips, his long dark hair damp and clinging to his neck and shoulders. Water droplets traced paths down the lean muscle of his chest. He looked, as always, like a man who had just been dragged from a cave of perpetual exhaustion, but his dark eyes, when they landed on his husband and son, were sharply focused, clear with an emotion he rarely voiced. He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor, and pulled on a pair of black briefs before climbing onto the bed. He settled on his side, head propped on his hand, his body a long, relaxed line beside Izuku.
“He’s already zoning out,” Shouta observed, his voice a low rumble. “The standing really took it out of him.”
“Katsuki texted me. Said he managed almost fifteen minutes,” Hizashi said, pride coloring his whispery tone. He reached out and ran a fingertip down the center of Izuku’s tiny chest, from the hollow of his throat to the top of his diaper. Izuku’s skin pebbled, and he squirmed, a faint giggle escaping around his thumb.
“Fifteen minutes of full-weight bearing is significant,” Shouta said, his analytical mind filing the data away. “His quads were firing. Saw them trembling from the doorway. That’s good. That’s new.”
“Our big boy,” Hizashi cooed, his voice dropping into that melodic, intimate register reserved for this room, for these moments. He leaned forward, his hair falling like a curtain around them. “Were you a big, strong boy for Kacchan today? Hmm?”
Izuku pulled his thumb from his mouth with a soft pop. A string of saliva connected it to his lip for a second before breaking. “Stood,” he murmured, his eyes seeking Hizashi’s. “Kacchan holded me.”
“He did, baby. I know.” Hizashi’s hands descended, not with clinical purpose, but with playful affection. His fingers walked like spiders up Izuku’s sides, tickling the delicate ribs.
Izuku squealed, a sudden, sharp sound of delight, his legs drawing up instinctively. His laughter was breathy and uninhibited, a pure, childlike noise that seemed to bounce off the walls of the quiet room.
“There it is,” Shouta murmured, a faint, almost invisible smile touching his lips. He didn’t join the tickling, but he watched, his gaze a physical weight of absolute attention.
Hizashi dipped his head lower. He blew a loud, wet raspberry directly onto Izuku’s bare stomach. The sound was ridiculous, obscene in its silliness. Izuku shrieked, his body bowing, hands flailing to push at Hizashi’s head, not to remove him, but to be part of the game. His fingers tangled in the blonde hair.
“Again! Mama, ‘gain!”
Obliging, Hizashi blew another, and another, marching a line of raspberries from Izuku’s navel to the dip of his hip bone. Each one elicited a new paroxysm of giggles, each one louder than the last. Izuku’s face was flushed pink, tears of mirth gathering in the corners of his eyes. He gasped for air between laughs, his entire being consumed by the simple, overwhelming sensation.
Shouta watched the play, his tired eyes missing nothing. He saw the way Izuku’s legs, so weak and trembling hours before, now kicked with uncoordinated joy. He saw the complete trust, the surrender to the pleasure of the moment. He saw the love in Hizashi’s eyes, a love so vast and accepting it had long ago rewritten every definition of normal.
The tickling subsided, fading into gentle strokes. Izuku lay panting, a blissful, spent smile on his face. His eyes were heavy. The burst of energy had burned the last of his reserves.
Hizashi adjusted his position, shifting closer. He lifted Izuku easily, arranging his small form against his chest. Izuku’s head nestled automatically into the crook of Hizashi’s arm, his face turning inward. His small hand came up, patting lazily at the soft skin of Hizashi’s breast.
“M’hungry,” Izuku mumbled, his words slurring with impending sleep.
“I know, sweet pea. It’s time.” Hizashi guided him, his movements practiced and effortless. There was no hesitation, no flicker of oddness. It was a ritual as old as Izuku himself, a function of care, of nourishment, of profound connection.
Izuku latched on with a soft, contented sigh. His eyes slid completely shut. The only sounds in the room were the quiet, rhythmic suckling, the slow sigh of Shouta’s breathing, and the distant, muted soundtrack of the twins’ room.
Hizashi leaned back into the pillows, one hand cradling Izuku’s head, the other resting on his diapered bottom, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. He looked across at Shouta, his expression serene. “He did so good today.”
“He did,” Shouta agreed. He reached out and traced the shell of Izuku’s ear with a single, calloused fingertip. “Katsuki was good with him. Firm. No nonsense. It’s what he needed.”
“They all have their ways,” Hizashi said, his thumb stroking Izuku’s fuzzy scalp. “Hitoshi with his music. Katsuki with his… demanding encouragement. They love him.”
“They do.” Shouta stated it as the fact it was. He let his hand fall to Izuku’s leg, his broad palm covering most of the small thigh. He could feel the slight, toneless muscle beneath the skin. “The pediatric neurologist’s report came in today by email.”
The air in the room didn’t tense, but it focused. Hizashi’s green eyes flicked to his husband’s face. “And?”
Shouta’s voice was flat, clinical. “No change. No degeneration, which is the main thing. But no significant neurological development either. The pathways for gross motor control are still… dormant. They reiterated the suggestion for intensive, daily physical therapy. Possibly braces for his ankles.”
Hizashi listened, his face unreadable. He looked down at Izuku, who was nursing lazily, halfway to sleep. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Shouta said slowly, his gaze fixed on Izuku’s peaceful face, “that they measure progress on charts. They look for milestones. They see a body that is eighteen years old and they see a problem to be solved.” He paused, choosing his words with the precision he applied to everything. “I see Izuku. I see that he was happy today. I see that he felt safe enough to try standing because his brother was holding him. I see that he trusts us to feed him, to hold him, to love him exactly as he is. Forcing him into braces, into hours of painful therapy he doesn’t understand, to chase a milestone on a chart… that would be for us. To make us feel like we’re ‘doing something.’ Not for him.”
Hizashi let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You think we’re right? Just… letting him be?”
“I think we’re meeting his needs,” Shouta corrected softly. “All of them. Emotional. Physical. His need for safety, for love, for routine. His body may not be infantile, but his mind, his perception of the world… it is. We respect that. We don’t force a one-year-old to run a marathon. We hold their hands while they learn to walk. That’s what Katsuki did today. That’s enough. That’s everything.”
A single tear escaped the corner of Hizashi’s eye, tracing a path down his cheek. It wasn’t a tear of sadness, but of profound relief. Of being understood. “I just… I want him to be happy.”
“Look at him,” Shouta said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Is he not?”
Izuku had stopped nursing, his mouth gone slack. He was deeply asleep, his lips slightly parted, his breathing even. A tiny drop of milk glistened on his chin. He was the picture of perfect, sated peace.
Hizashi used the edge of his robe to wipe Izuku’s chin. He carefully shifted, detaching him and laying him down between them on the bed. Izuku stirred faintly, whimpering at the loss of contact, but Shouta’s hand settled firmly on his chest, a warm, heavy weight that stilled him instantly.
“My turn,” Shouta said. He sat up and reached for the changing supplies that were always, perpetually, on their nightstand. A stack of thick cloth diapers, a container of wipes, a jar of zinc ointment.
The process was methodical. Shouta’s large, capable hands made quick work of the tapes on the wet diaper. He cleaned Izuku with efficient, thorough strokes, applying the ointment to prevent rash, before folding and securing a fresh cloth diaper in place. His touch was neither overly clinical nor excessively sentimental; it was caring, precise maintenance. An act of love expressed through practicality.
Izuku slept through it all, his trust so absolute that even this intrusion didn’t rouse him.
Finished, Shouta disposed of the wet diaper in the lidded pail by the dresser and lay back down. He curled his body around Izuku’s, his front to Izuku’s back, enveloping the small form in his heat. Hizashi turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the sliver of moonlight through the blinds.
In the dark, Hizashi whispered, “He smelled like glitter and frosting when he came to me earlier. Before his bath.”
Shouta’s chuckle was a vibration against Izuku’s back. “Katsuki’s a messy teacher.”
“He is.” Hizashi shifted closer, his hand finding Shouta’s arm where it lay over Izuku’s waist. Their fingers interlaced over their son’s diaper. “Do you ever wonder… what he dreams about?”
“Probably cupcakes and tickles,” Shouta murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. “Or that damn stuffed rabbit. Simple things. Good things.”
Silence fell, deep and comfortable. The house creaked softly. From down the hall, the video game music finally stopped.
Just as sleep was about to claim them all, Izuku stirred. Not a wakeful stirring, but a deep, subconscious one. He pushed back against Shouta’s chest and then rolled, clumsily, towards Hizashi. In the vague moonlight, they could see his eyes were still closed, his brows knitted. A small, distressed sound escaped him.
“Mama…” it was a sleep-slurred whimper.
Hizashi didn’t hesitate. He opened his robe and drew Izuku close again. Izuku nuzzled blindly, found what he sought, and latched on once more with a soft, desperate sigh. It wasn’t for nourishment this time. It was for comfort, for the primal reassurance of heartbeat and warmth and scent. A pacifier for a soul that lived in a simple, sensory world.
Hizashi hummed, a low, tuneless vibration in his chest, and kissed Izuku’s forehead. “Shhh, baby. Mama’s here. I’ve got you.”
Shouta’s hand came up, resting on Hizashi’s hip, a connection across the small, sleeping form between them. His breath evened out, deepening.
And in the warm, milk-scented dark, held in the unbreakable cradle of their love, Izuku slept on, dreaming his simple dreams, perfectly safe, perfectly cared for, perfectly loved for exactly who he was in that moment—not a patient, not a case study, but their baby.