Chapter 5: Bath Time Bonding
Steam curled in lazy tendrils from the surface of the bathwater, softening the edges of the master bathroom into a warm, hazy dream. The air was thick with the scent of chamomile and lavender from the bath oil Hizashi had poured under the tap, a ritual as ingrained as any other in their nightly routine. Soft, golden light from the dimmable sconces glowed against the ivory tiles, catching the shimmer of moisture on the porcelain tub.
Shouta leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, a silent observer. He’d just finished his rounds, checking the locks on the doors, turning down the thermostat for the night, ensuring the twins were settled—Katsuki now aggressively studying a sauce textbook in his room, Hitoshi lost in his headphones, composing. This, here, was his final and most important check.
In the center of the room, Hizashi knelt on a thick, memory foam pad beside the large, clawfoot tub. He’d rolled the sleeves of his soft cotton henley up to his elbows. Izuku sat in the warm water, which came up to the middle of his chest. He was a small, pale shape against the white porcelain, his cloud of white curls already beginning to dampen and cling to his forehead and neck. His wine-red eyes were wide, fixed on a floating yellow rubber duck that bobbed serenely near his belly.
“There we go, sweet pea,” Hizashi murmured, his voice a low, melodic thread in the steamy quiet. It was a voice Shouta had heard shift from radio-booth boom to this—a focused, tender register meant only for these moments. Hizashi cupped water in his hands and let it trickle over Izuku’s slender shoulders. “Nice and warm. Just right.”
Izuku made a soft, pleased sound, a hum that ended in a sigh. He slapped a hand down on the water’s surface. The splash was contained, a little eruption that wet Hizashi’s forearms and chin.
Hizashi didn’t flinch. He smiled, a small, private curve of his lips. “Oh, a big splash! Are you a little frog tonight?”
“Frog,” Izuku parroted, the ‘g’ sound soft and muddy. He splashed again, this time watching the droplets arc through the air.
Shouta watched the careful, practiced movements of his husband’s hands. Hizashi took a washcloth, a soft, terrycloth square, and lathered it with a bar of gentle, unscented soap. He started with Izuku’s neck, washing in gentle circles behind his ears, along the delicate line of his jaw. Izuku tipped his head back, compliant, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. The trust was absolute, a physical surrender.
“He’s sleepy,” Shouta said from the doorway, his own voice a quiet rumble.
Hizashi glanced over, his green eyes catching the light. “Bath-time sleepy. It’s the warmth. Melts all the busy thoughts right out.” He returned his attention to Izuku, working the cloth down one thin arm. “Even if the busy thoughts are just ‘duck’ and ‘splash’.”
Shouta pushed off the doorframe and entered the room, the tile cool under his socks. He pulled the small, worn rocking chair closer to the tub and sat, the wood creaking familiarly under his weight. From here, he could see the intricate map of freckles across Izuku’s shoulders, the way his spine made a delicate row of pearls under his skin.
Hizashi took Izuku’s hand in his, unfolding the tiny fist. He washed each finger individually, tracing the cloth along the seams of skin, over the miniature knuckles. He paid special attention to the space between each finger. Izuku’s hands, though the size of a young child’s, had a certain delicate boniness that was entirely his own. They were often held in loose fists, a default state that required this gentle, nightly encouragement to open.
“Between the toes is next,” Hizashi said, as if narrating a soothing documentary. “That’s a very important job. Can’t have any sneaky dirt hiding there.”
He guided Izuku to lean forward slightly, supporting his chest with one firm hand, while using the other to wash his back in smooth, sweeping strokes. The action was so ingrained it was almost meditative. Shouta found himself matching his breathing to the rhythm: the dip of the cloth, the soft swirl on skin, the trickle of water.
“Katsuki seemed… settled,” Shouta offered after a long silence, broken only by the drip of the tap and the slosh of water.
Hizashi’s smile widened a fraction. “He was, wasn’t he? Once he stopped fighting it. I think he surprised himself.” He rinsed the soap from Izuku’s back, his hand shielding the boy’s face from the cascading water. “He loves that little ritual. He just forgot he was allowed to.”
“He views care through a lens of competency,” Shouta said, his analytical tone softening the observation. “If he can’t master it or quantify its purpose, it challenges his self-concept. Patty cake falls outside his current metrics.”
“It’s just love, Shou,” Hizashi said simply, dipping the cloth again. “It doesn’t need a metric.”
“I know. He’s learning that. The blocks were a suitable compromise—destruction with a purpose.”
Hizashi chuckled. “My little engineer of chaos.” He gently turned Izuku onto his back, cradling his head in the crook of his arm over the tub’s edge. “Okay, honey, hair time. Nice and still for Mama.”
This was the part that required the most focus. Izuku didn’t fear water, but he disliked the feeling of it on his face, the momentary blindness and breath-holding of a rinse. Hizashi had developed a technique. He used a small, plastic pitcher with a soft, rubber spout. He filled it with clean, warm water from the tap.
“Look at the duck, Izuku. Keep your eyes on the duck,” Hizashi instructed, his voice calm and sure.
Izuku’s gaze locked onto the yellow toy. Hizashi began to lather the mild, tear-free shampoo into his scalp, his fingers massaging in slow circles. Izuku’s eyes fluttered, a sign of pure pleasure. He loved the scalp massage.
“See? Nice,” Hizashi cooed. “So nice for your head.”
Shouta watched the concentration on his husband’s face. The way his blonde hair, tied back in a loose tail, fell over one shoulder. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes, etched there by laughter and decades of sunny radio studio lights, now more often by smiles like this one—smaller, more precious. This was the Hizashi few people ever saw. The broadcaster’s charisma was folded away, replaced by a profound, unwavering attention.
“Ready for the rinse? Duck’s going for a swim,” Hizashi narrated. He positioned the pitcher’s spout at Izuku’s hairline. With his other hand, he held a dry washcloth folded over Izuku’s brow, shielding his eyes. “Here we go.”
The water cascaded over the white curls, turning them dark and slick, carrying the suds in a foamy river down the back of Izuku’s head and into the tub. Hizashi’s movements were efficient and swift, minimizing the time Izuku had to feel vulnerable. One pitcher, then a second, until the water ran clear.
“All done! Good job, superstar.” Hizashi pressed a kiss to Izuku’s damp forehead before wrapping him in a soft, hooded towel that had been warming on the radiator. He lifted him from the water in one smooth motion, the towel swallowing his small form. “Oh, you’re a little burrito. A clean, warm burrito.”
Izuku shivered momentarily, then relaxed into the plush terrycloth, nuzzling against Hizashi’s neck. The scent of clean skin and lavender rose from him.
Shouta stood and gathered the second, larger towel. He spread it on the closed lid of the toilet, creating a padded surface. Hizashi laid Izuku down on it, keeping the hooded towel around his torso like a cape.
“Dada’s turn for lotion,” Hizashi said, reaching for the bottle of hypoallergenic moisturizer from the shelf.
But Shouta was already taking it. “I’ve got it.”
He squeezed a pearl of lotion into his palms, rubbing them together to warm it. Then he began at Izuku’s feet, his hands, large and calloused from years of weapon-grip and combat training, moving with a surprising, deliberate gentleness. He massaged the lotion into the small, high-arched feet, over the ankles, up the calves. The muscles there were soft, underused, lacking the definition of someone who walked regularly. Shouta’s touch was both practical and therapeutic, encouraging circulation, checking for any signs of tension or coldness.
Izuku kicked his leg lightly, a contented wiggle.
“He’s in a good mood,” Shouta observed, moving to the other leg.
“Bath always puts him in a good mood. It’s sensory without being overwhelming. He likes the containment of the water.” Hizashi leaned against the sink, watching them both, his expression soft. “You’re good at that.”
“It’s a procedure. Like maintaining equipment,” Shouta said, but the analogy was hollow and they both knew it. His thumb smoothed over Izuku’s knee.
He worked his way up, lifting Izuku’s hips to lotion his back, then turning him carefully to do his chest and arms. Finally, the most delicate part. Hizashi handed him a tube of zinc-oxide cream. Shouta’s mouth settled into a thin, focused line. He carefully patted Izuku’s skin dry between his legs, his movements clinical and respectful. There was no diaper rash—they were too vigilant for that—but the skin was sensitive, perpetually sheltered. He applied a thin, protective layer of cream with the efficiency of a medic, his touch devoid of any sentimentality during this specific task, which somehow made it feel more sacred.
“All secure,” Shouta stated, finally. He reached for a fresh diaper—plain white, unfastened it, and slid it under Izuku. He powdered, fastened the tabs with a precise symmetry, and then pulled up the soft, cotton training pants that went over it, decorated with little cartoon clouds. They were for containment, yes, but also for dignity. A simple boundary.
Hizashi had laid out the nightclothes on the radiator: a long-sleeved cotton pajama set with footies, the pattern tiny, sleeping moons and stars. Together, they dressed him, maneuvering limp, lotion-slick limbs into the fabric. Izuku was mostly asleep now, his breaths deepening, his body pliant and heavy.
Hizashi gathered him up, settling into the rocking chair with Izuku cradled against his chest. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his henley. Izuku, guided by instinct and routine, nuzzled close, latching on with a soft, tired sigh. The only sound was the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair and Izuku’s quiet, suckling swallows.
Shouta cleaned up. He drained the tub, rinsing away the suds and the floating duck. He wrung out the washcloths, hung the towels on the heated rail, wiped the condensation from the mirror. These were his tasks, the closing of the ritual. When the bathroom was restored to order, he sat on the edge of the tub, facing his husband and his youngest son.
The golden light painted them in a Rembrandt chiaroscuro. Hizashi’s head was bowed, his long blonde hair a curtain around Izuku’s face. His expression was one of such profound, uncomplicated peace that it made Shouta’s own guarded heart feel too large for his chest.
“He’s almost out,” Hizashi whispered, his voice a husk of sound.
Shouta nodded. He watched the slow blink of Izuku’s eyes, the gradual stilling of his jaw. When the sucking slowed to occasional, sleepy flutters, Hizashi gently broke the latch, buttoned his shirt, and adjusted Izuku onto his shoulder. He rubbed slow, concentric circles on his back.
A minute passed. Then a soft, damp burp echoed in the quiet room.
“That’s my boy,” Hizashi murmured.
He stood, and Shouta was there immediately, his hands outstretched. “I’ll take him to bed.”
The transfer was seamless. Izuku’s head lolled onto Shouta’s shoulder, his warmth and weight and the scent of clean baby a familiar anchor. Shouta supported his diapered bottom with one arm, his other hand cradling the back of his head.
“I’ll be in soon,” Hizashi said, beginning to tidy the lotions and potions on the shelf.
Shouta carried Izuku down the hall to the nursery. The nightlight, a galaxy projector, was already on, casting slow-moving swirls of blue and green stars across the ceiling and walls. The crib was a sturdy, wooden thing with high, padded sides. But next to it stood a smaller, bedside crib, the one they still used. It was easier for the nightly checks, for the moments when Izuku woke and needed a hand on his back or a whispered reassurance.
Shouta laid him down on the fresh, flannel sheet. Izuku stirred, whimpering faintly at the loss of contact, his hands flexing.
“Shhh,” Shouta breathed. He pulled the weighted blanket up to Izuku’s waist, then tucked a plush rabbit beside him. He rested his own hand on Izuku’s chest, over the soft moons on his pajamas. He left it there, feeling the steady, slow drum of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath. He stood like that for a long time, long after Izuku had sunk back into deep sleep.
In the dim, star-dappled light, Shouta allowed himself the thought he never voiced. The world outside was chaotic, cruel, demanding. It asked for progress, for milestones, for definitions and diagnoses. It would not understand this room, this ritual, this love.
Here, they had built a different world. A world where time was not a linear march but a gentle orbit. Where care was not a means to an end, but the end itself. Where an eighteen-year-old heart beat the same rhythm as a toddler’s, and that was not a tragedy, but a fact as neutral and beautiful as the stars drifting across the ceiling.
Izuku sighed in his sleep, a puff of milky breath.
Shouta finally withdrew his hand. He adjusted the rabbit, his fingers brushing the impossibly soft fur of its ear. He turned and walked to the door, pausing on the threshold for a final look.
Down the hall, he could hear the faint, resonant notes of Hitoshi’s guitar, a new melody searching for its shape. From Katsuki’s room, the clatter of a pan—probably a gesture of frustration at a difficult recipe. The house was alive, humming with its own unique harmony.
He pulled the nursery door until it was almost closed, leaving it open just a crack, just enough for the light from the hall to stripe the floor. A beacon. An invitation. Always.
Then he went to find his husband, to share the quiet of their completed ritual, and to prepare for the peace of the night, knowing every soul under this roof was safe, was clean, was loved.