Chapter 8: Car Ride
The morning of the trip dawned grey and cool, a low blanket of cloud holding the promise of rain. Inside the Aizawa house, the usual calm had been replaced by a quiet, purposeful frenzy. Suitcases, a bulky diaper bag, a cooler, and a folded pack-and-play sat by the front door like a small, patient army.
Katsuki was already in the car. He’d claimed the left-side rear seat twenty minutes prior, using the pretense of needing to organize the snack bag—a meticulously curated collection of sliced fruits, rice crackers, and homemade onigiri wrapped in wax paper. In truth, he hated the last-minute flurry, the inevitable forgotten item, the fussing. He sat with the door open, one foot on the driveway pavement, scrolling through his phone. The car, a slate-grey sedan, was reliable but showed its age in the fine cracks on the leather seats and the faint, perpetual scent of coffee and the lemon-scented cleaner Hizashi used.
“He’s treating it like a damn military campaign,” Hitoshi’s voice drifted from the house, dry and amused.
“Somebody has to,” Katsuki shot back without looking up. “Or we’d be stopping every five minutes because someone’s thirsty or someone else is bored.”
Hizashi emerged from the front door, a large woven bag over his shoulder and Izuku in his arms. Izuku was dressed for comfort in soft, fleecy leggings and a long-sleeved shirt with a cartoon rabbit on it. His white curls were a messy halo. He looked sleepy, his head heavy on Hizashi’s shoulder, a thumb nestled in the corner of his mouth.
“Okay, my love, into your seat,” Hizashi murmured, his voice a gentle sing-song. He leaned into the car, carefully maneuvering Izuku towards the central infant car seat that was permanently installed. It was a high-backed, supportive model, rated for much larger children, chosen for its postural support rather than its age guidelines. The buckles clicked softly in the quiet morning.
Izuku fussed, a low whine building in his throat. He didn’t like the transition from the warm house to the cool, confined space of the seat. “Mama… no…”
“I know, sweet pea, but we’re going on an adventure. To the mountains! You’ll see big trees and maybe a river.” Hizashi’s hands were swift and sure, tightening the harness, checking the chest clip. He smoothed Izuku’s hair. “Dada’s going to drive, and Kacchan and Toshi are right here with you.”
He planted a soft kiss on Izuku’s forehead, then straightened up and stepped back. “Alright, Hitoshi, you’re in.”
Hitoshi slouched out of the house, his guitar case in one hand, a threadbare hoodie tied around his waist. He gave Katsuki a look as he slid into the right-side rear seat. “You’re taking up an unfair amount of legroom.”
“I’m not a fucking contortionist,” Katsuki grumbled, but he shifted his snack bag to the floor.
Shouta followed, locking the front door with a definitive click. He carried two travel mugs of coffee. His movements were economical, tired but focused. He placed one mug in the cup holder on the driver’s side, then got in, adjusting the seat and the mirrors with quiet precision. He reached for the GPS mounted on the dashboard, his long fingers tapping the screen.
Hizashi took the passenger seat, letting out a long sigh as he settled. He placed his woven bag at his feet—a mobile nursery containing diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, a small blanket, and a insulated sleeve for a bottle. He glanced back, a warm, assessing look taking in all three of his sons. “Everybody good? Izuku, honey, you comfy?”
Izuku sniffled, but gave a small nod, his fingers plucking at the straps of his harness.
The engine turned over with a subdued rumble. Shouta reversed out of the driveway, the car dipping slightly with the motion. As they pulled onto the quiet suburban street, the reality of the four-hour journey settled over them.
The silence lasted about seven minutes.
“This is fucking cramped,” Katsuki announced, shifting his shoulders. His knee was pressed against the back of the center console. “When are we getting a bigger car? A van, or an SUV. Something where a person can breathe.”
“When you get a full-time job and contribute to the vehicle fund,” Shouta said, his eyes on the road. His tone wasn’t sharp, just factual.
“My culinary finals are my job,” Katsuki retorted. “And I do contribute. Who paid for all the damn snacks?”
“The snacks we are now trapped in a small metal box with,” Hitoshi said, leaning his head against the window. “It’s like being in a moving pantry with an angry badger.”
“You wanna walk, zombie-boy?”
“Children,” Hizashi said, but there was no real chastisement in it. He was used to this, the constant, grumbling soundtrack of their twins. It was, in its own way, comforting. He looked over at Shouta. “Route looks good?”
“It’s the route,” Shouta said. “Highway for three hours, then mountain roads. We’ll stop at the rest area near the two-hour mark.”
The suburbs gave way to commercial strips, then finally to the open, flat expanse of the highway. The grey sky began to spit a fine, misty rain, and Shouta turned the wipers on to their slowest, intermittent sweep. The rhythmic thump-thump became part of the car’s soundscape, along with the steady hum of the engine and the low murmur of a classical radio station Shouta had selected.
Izuku was quiet, watching the world blur past his window. His eyes were wide, taking in the rushing lines of guardrails and the towering shapes of trucks. After half an hour, the novelty wore off. He began to squirm.
“Mama?” his small voice piped up.
“Yes, baby?”
“Uh… wet.”
Hizashi didn’t miss a beat. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned in his seat, his movements fluid. “Okay, darling. It’s okay.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a changing pad, a fresh diaper, and a packet of wipes. “Katsuki, can you help?”
Katsuki, who had been staring sullenly at his phone, shoved it into his pocket. “Yeah.” It wasn’t a question, just an acknowledgment of a necessary task. He leaned over and began to unbuckle Izuku’s harness with a practiced ease that contrasted with his earlier irritability.
“Hold on, Shouta, we’re doing a change,” Hizashi said.
“Pull over?” Shouta asked, though he already knew the answer.
“No, it’s fine. We’ve got it. Just drive steady.”
It was a well-coordinated, if awkward, ballet in the confined space. Katsuki lifted Izuku out of his seat, settling the small body sideways on his lap. Hitoshi, without being asked, took the used diaper and the wipes from Hizashi, ready to bag them. Hizashi spread the changing pad over Katsuki’s legs and Katsuki laid Izuku down. Izuku gazed up at his brother, completely trusting, his legs kicking slightly.
“Just a quick change, buddy,” Katsuki muttered, his voice dropping into that private, soft register. He unsnapped the leggings and eased them down, along with the saturated diaper. The familiar, slightly sweet smell filled their corner of the car. Hitoshi handed a wipe to Hizashi, who cleaned Izuku with efficient gentleness. Katsuki held the fresh diaper ready, sliding it under, then fastening the tabs with a careful check of the fit. He redid the leggings, snapping them closed.
“All done,” Hizashi smiled, stroking Izuku’s belly. “Good boy for telling us.”
Katsuki didn’t immediately put him back. He held Izuku against his chest for a moment, just sitting with him. Izuku nestled in, his head under Katsuki’ chin. Hitoshi sealed the soiled items in a scented bag and stuffed it into a larger grocery sack they’d designated for trash.
“You’re gonna spoil him,” Hitoshi remarked, but he was watching the two of them, his purple eyes soft.
“Shut up,” Katsuki said, but he didn’t sound angry. He finally eased Izuku back into the car seat, re-securing the harness. Izuku went willingly, now comfortable and dry.
The car settled again. The rain picked up, a steady drumming on the roof. An hour in, the complaints about space had faded into a resigned quiet, broken only by the radio and the occasional rustle of someone reaching for a snack. Hitoshi had plugged in his headphones, his eyes closed. Katsuki alternated between looking out the window and checking his phone.
Izuku began to fuss in earnest. It was a low, cranky sound, building towards a cry. He was bored, confined, and probably hungry in a way the rice crackers Hitoshi had fed him wouldn’t satisfy.
“He’s getting hungry,” Hizashi said, interpreting the cues instantly. He looked back. His green eyes met Shouta’s for a brief second in the rearview mirror. A silent conversation passed between them. The rest area was still forty minutes away. Izuku wouldn’t last.
Shouta gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Okay,” Hizashi said, turning to face the front again. He unclipped his seatbelt once more, this time with a different intention. He maneuvered himself, shifting his weight and pulling his legs up onto the seat. It was a contortion, but one born of long practice. He undid the buttons on the side of his loose, soft nursing top, adjusting the fabric discreetly.
“Katsuki, hand him to me, please.”
Katsuki understood. He unbuckled Izuku again, lifting him carefully over the center console. Hizashi received him, cradling him in the space between the passenger seat and the dashboard. It wasn’t ideal, but it was safe, with the car moving at a constant speed on a straight highway. He helped Izuku latch on, one arm securely around his back, the other bracing against the dashboard.
The change was immediate. Izuku’s fussing melted into soft, contented swallows. The car filled with a profound, peaceful silence, deeper than before. The only sounds were the swish of the wipers, the hum of the engine, and Izuku’s gentle nursing.
Hitoshi had taken one earbud out, watching the rain streak the window. Katsuki stared resolutely at the headrest in front of him, a faint pink tinge on his ears. It was an intimate moment, but not a sexual one—it was a fundamental, biological intimacy, as natural in their family as breathing. It was the solution to a problem, the calming of a storm.
No one spoke for a long time. Shouta drove, his gaze fixed on the wet road, his hands relaxed on the wheel. The tension from the cramped quarters, the bickering, it all seeped away, replaced by a collective, weary acceptance. This was their reality. The accommodations, the adaptations, the silent understanding that some needs couldn’t wait for a rest stop.
After twenty minutes, Izuku was asleep, milk-drunk and serene. Hizashi carefully adjusted his clothing and gestured for Katsuki to take him. Katsuki leaned forward and gathered Izuku, now a dead weight of sleep, back into the rear seat. He didn’t put him in the car seat immediately. He just held him, letting him sleep against his chest, a living, warm blanket.
“You’re gonna get a stiff neck,” Hitoshi whispered.
“Mind your business,” Katsuki whispered back, but he didn’t move.
They reached the rest area. Shouta pulled the car into a slot near the grassy edge, away from the main flow of trucks and families. The rain had softened to a drizzle.
“Everyone out,” Shouta said, cutting the engine. “Stretch. Use the bathroom. We’ve got twenty minutes.”
The sudden stillness was jarring. Katsuki finally laid Izuku back in his seat, buckling him in. The little boy didn’t stir. Hitoshi unfolded himself from the car with a groan, popping his back. Shouta and Hitoshi headed towards the bright lights of the service building.
Katsuki stood outside, leaning against the wet car, taking deep breaths of the damp, petrol-tinged air. Hizashi came around and stood beside him.
“You okay?” Hizashi asked, his voice low.
“Fine,” Katsuki said. Then, after a pause. “It’s just… a lot. Sometimes. In the small space.”
“I know.” Hizashi bumped his shoulder gently against his son’s. “You did great. You always do.”
Katsuki shrugged, but the praise settled him. He watched a family with two screaming toddlers run through the rain towards the doors. “Their kid is older than Izuku,” he said, almost to himself.
“Biologically,” Hizashi corrected softly, following his gaze. “Not in any way that matters.”
Katsuki nodded. That was the core of it, the unshakeable truth their entire world was built upon. It justified everything—the car seat, the diapers, the nursing, the secrecy. It was the bedrock.
Shouta and Hitoshi returned, carrying fresh coffee and a bottle of water. “Back in,” Shouta said, his breath making a small cloud in the cool air.
The final leg of the journey was quieter. The mountain roads were winding, demanding Shouta’s full attention. The world outside grew darker and greener, the trees crowding the edges of the asphalt. Izuku slept through it all, lulled by the motion and the full belly.
It was nearly dark when Shouta turned onto a gravel road, the car’s headlights cutting swathes through the deep twilight. They crunched along for a mile before a rustic, A-frame cabin came into view, its windows glowing with warm, golden light—the management had turned the lights on for their arrival.
Shouta parked. The silence that followed the engine’s stop was immense, filled with the sound of a nearby creek and the sigh of wind in tall pines.
“We’re here,” Hizashi said, his voice hushed with relief and something like awe.
The process of unpacking began, slower now, everyone stiff and tired. Katsuki unbuckled Izuku, who woke up disoriented and whimpering in the sudden cold.
“Shh, it’s okay, we’re at the cabin,” Katsuki said, pulling his own hoodie off and wrapping it around Izuku. He carried him towards the lit porch, Izuku’s face buried in his neck.
Hitoshi hauled out the guitar and the cooler. Shouta and Hizashi handled the suitcases and the pack-and-play.
Inside, the cabin was warm, smelling of pine logs and clean linen. A great stone fireplace dominated the living area. It was perfect.
As Shouta started a fire and Hitoshi investigated the small kitchen, Hizashi laid out the pack-and-play in the corner of the main bedroom, making it up with Izuku’s familiar sheets and blanket. Katsuki stood in the middle of the main room, still holding Izuku, who was now looking around with wide, curious eyes at the unfamiliar shadows dancing on the wooden walls.
“Home for the weekend,” Katsuki said to him, his voice rough but gentle. “You like it?”
Izuku looked at the crackling fire, then up at his brother’s face, illuminated in the orange glow. He gave a slow, sleepy smile. “K’chan.”
It was enough. For now, in this quiet space away from the world, with the mountain night closing in around them, it was more than enough. The cramped car, the long drive, the relentless adaptations—they were the price of admission to this moment of peace, and as they all began to move through the cabin, claiming spaces and settling in, it was a price every single one of them would pay again without hesitation.