Chapter 3: Gallery Intervention
The living room held the dense, quiet warmth of a late Sunday afternoon. Sunlight, thick and golden as honey, slanted through the west-facing windows, catching the faint motes of dust that drifted in the still air. It painted stripes across the deep burgundy leather of the sofa and glinted off the glass coffee table, now free of condom packets but bearing new artifacts: a half-empty bottle of artisan lube next to a stacked tower of erotic manga, their covers depicting exaggerated, colorful entanglements.
Shouta occupied the center couch, a mountain of relaxed muscle in soft black joggers and a faded grey tank top. The intricate sleeves of tattoos on his arms were fully visible, the ink seeming to shift in the low light. A bowl of ridged potato chips sat on his stomach, rising and falling with his breath. In his hand, a cold bottle of craft IPA dripped condensation onto his thumb. On the massive flat-screen, a soccer match played with the volume low, a murmur of frantic commentary and crowd noise that was more rhythmic backdrop than focused entertainment. This was his sacred sliver of time between a heavy leg-day session at the gym—the pleasant ache still humming in his quads—and the inevitable, messy return of his son from his date.
He heard the key in the deadbolt before the door opened. The sound was wrong. It wasn’t the fumbling, cheerful rattle that usually preceded Izuku’s entrance; it was a single, sharp, vicious twist. The door slammed against the stop with a crack that made the windows shiver.
Shouta didn’t move, but his eyes slid from the screen to the hallway entrance.
Izuku stormed into view. He was a tempest in tight black jeans and a sheer, ruffled blouse that had clearly been chosen with seduction in mind. His long curls, usually a carefully arranged cascade, were windswept and chaotic, as if he’d been running his hands through them in agitation. His face, so often arranged in a mask of pretty, smug contentment, was a storm cloud. His cheeks were flushed, not with pleasure but with high, angry color. His full mouth was a thin, trembling line.
He didn’t look at his father. He stalked across the plush rug, his boot heels hitting the hardwood with decisive, punishing clicks. The scent of his favorite jasmine and pear perfume cut through the room, chased by the sharper, acrid smell of upset. He disappeared down the hall toward his bedroom.
A moment later, his door slammed. Hard.
Shouta took a slow sip of his beer, the hops bitter on his tongue. He set the bottle on the coaster with a soft clink. He picked up a chip, ate it, brushed salt from his fingers. The game continued, a player missing an open goal. He didn’t react.
Five minutes passed. The only sounds were the distant murmur of the crowd and the low, rumbling purr of the black cat, Bastet, who had materialized from the shadows to curl around the base of the coffee table, indifferent to human dramas.
Then, Izuku’s door opened again. His footsteps were slower now, a defeated shuffle. He reappeared, transformed. The date-night outfit was gone, replaced by one of Shouta’s old university hoodies, a massive grey thing that swallowed his slight frame, hanging past his thighs. His hair was twisted up into a messy bun, secured with a claw clip. His face was scrubbed clean, pale and stark without its usual subtle makeup. He looked about twelve, and utterly miserable.
He trudged to the sofa and collapsed onto it, not at the opposite end but right next to Shouta, his body folding in on itself. He drew his knees up to his chest, buried his face in them, and let out a long, shuddering huff that was more sob than sigh. The hoodie’s sleeve fell over his hands.
Shouta waited. He muted the television. The silence in the room became profound, broken only by Bastet’s purring and the faint, ragged sound of Izuku’s breathing.
He reached for his beer again, took another swallow, and spoke into the quiet, his voice dry and calm. “I take it the date went well?”
Izuku groaned, a low, guttural sound of frustration that vibrated through the leather cushions. He lifted his head. His eyes were dry but bright with a furious, wounded sheen. “I ended it,” he said, the words clipped and hot. “The slut suggested an open relationship.”
Shouta’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. He set the beer down. “Did he.”
“Yeah.” Izuku spat the word. “After the museum. We were at that stupid fusion tapas place he loves. He waited until I had a mouthful of fucking edamame hummus.” He shook his head, a sharp, jerky motion. “Just dropped it into the conversation like he was suggesting we get a different brand of toothpaste. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking… I think exploring an open dynamic could really help us grow.’” Izuku’s impression was pitch-perfect, a mocking, deeper tone dripping with faux-enlightened arrogance. “Grow. What does that even mean? Grow a fucking collection of dick?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Shouta’s mouth. It vanished instantly. “And what did you say?”
“I swallowed my hummus, looked him right in his stupid, pretty face, and said ‘Absolutely not.’” Izuku’s chin trembled, betraying the steel in his words. “Then he had the nerve to look hurt. Started on this whole speech about how it’s not about lack of attraction, it’s about embracing abundance, that he loves our connection but humans aren’t meant to be monogamous, it’s a social construct.” He threw his hands up. “He quoted a podcast at me, daddy. A podcast.”
“A cardinal sin,” Shouta murmured.
“So I asked him,” Izuku continued, the words gaining speed, tumbling out in a heated rush. “I said, ‘Kaito, is this because you’ve already got someone in mind? Or is this just a fancy way of saying you want to fuck other people but keep me around for when you’re bored?’” He blinked rapidly, the first sign of genuine tears threatening. “He didn’t answer. He just got all quiet and patronizing and said I was being ‘emotionally reactive’ and that we should ‘sit with the idea.’ So I stood up. I told him we were done sitting. And I left.”
He fell back against the couch, spent, the anger collapsing into a hollowed-out hurt. “I paid for my half of the tapas with my app before I called the car. I wasn’t gonna let him buy my fucking chickpea bites after that.”
“Good,” Shouta said, the single word solid and approving.
Izuku turned his head to look at his father. The bratty confidence was gone, stripped away, leaving something raw and young underneath. “Am I being emotionally reactive? Is it… a social construct? Am I just being a naive, possessive slut?”
Shouta shifted, turning his body to face his son fully. He moved the chip bowl to the table. “First,” he said, his tone losing its dry edge, becoming grounding, “never use another person’s manipulative vocabulary against yourself. ‘Slut’ is your word. You get to define it. He doesn’t. ‘Emotionally reactive’ is therapy-speak used by people who want to pathologize your perfectly valid anger. It’s a way to win an argument by making your feelings the problem, instead of their shitty proposal.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. He pulled the hoodie sleeves further over his hands.
“Second,” Shouta continued, “yes, monogamy is, in part, a social construct. So is marriage. So is money. So is the concept of ‘dating.’ All human relationships are constructs. That doesn’t make the feelings they generate, or the commitments made within them, any less real.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his tattoos stretching. “The question isn’t whether it’s a construct. The question is: is it the construct you want? Right now?”
“I don’t want to share,” Izuku whispered, his voice small. “I know I’m… active. I like sex. I like looking. But with him… I didn’t want to look. I wanted it to be just us. That was the whole fucking point.” A single tear escaped, tracking a quick path down his cheek. He swiped at it savagely with the hoodie sleeve. “What if he’s right? What if I’m not enough? What if one person never is for someone like me?”
The room held its breath. Shouta looked at his son, this beautiful, complicated boy wrestling with the very demons Shouta had tried to arm him against. He chose his next words with immense care, abandoning all clinical distance.
“Izuku, listen to me. The desire for an exclusive romantic and sexual partnership is not a failure of imagination. It’s not a weakness. It’s a preference, and a valid one. For some people, an open relationship is a liberating, joyful choice. For others, it’s a slow poison. It requires a foundation of radical honesty, security, and communication that most people, especially teenagers quoting podcasts, don’t possess.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Kaito’s proposal wasn’t about ‘abundance.’ It was about hedging his bets. He wants the security and comfort of a primary partner—you—while pursuing the novelty and excitement of others. It’s a fundamentally selfish ask, disguised as progressive enlightenment. He wants you to do the emotional labor of dealing with his infidelity, but with your permission, so he doesn’t have to feel guilty.”
Izuku stared, his eyes wide.
“You are enough,” Shouta said, his voice dropping, becoming almost rough. “The problem is not your capacity. The problem is his. He has the emotional capacity of a thimble, and instead of doing the work to grow it, he’s trying to change the rules of the game so his limitations don’t matter. He’s telling you his cup is small, and rather than getting a bigger cup, he’s asking you to be okay with him spilling water all over the floor.”
A wet, choked laugh burst from Izuku. “That’s a gross analogy.”
“It’s an accurate one.” Shouta finally reached out, not touching him, but resting his hand palm-up on the cushion between them. An offering. “You ending it wasn’t ‘emotionally reactive.’ It was efficient. You identified a fundamental incompatibility and you removed yourself from the situation. That’s maturity. That’s self-respect. That’s you hearing your own gut, which was screaming ‘hell no,’ and listening to it.”
Izuku looked at his father’s hand. Slowly, he uncurled one of his own from the sleeve and placed it in Shouta’s. His fingers were ice cold. Shouta closed his warm hand around them, a solid, unchanging anchor.
“It hurts,” Izuku admitted, the truth finally laid bare.
“I know.”
“And I’m pissed. I wasted a really good outfit.”
“You can wear it again for someone who deserves the show.”
They sat in silence for a long minute, the sound of the purring cat filling the space. The muted players ran soundlessly across the screen.
“What do I do