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Chapter 2: The Late Night Confession

The mall on a Saturday afternoon was a symphony of controlled chaos. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, blending with the murmur of a hundred conversations, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, and the distant, tinny melody of a children’s play area. Shouta hated it. The sheer, overwhelming stimulus of it all felt like sandpaper on his nerves. But Hizashi had decreed a need for ‘seasonal renewal,’ which translated to new pillow covers and curtains, and Shouta would walk through fire for that man, let alone a brightly lit department store.

He pushed the cart with a kind of resigned focus, a silent anchor in the stream of bustling shoppers. The cart was still empty save for the patterned fabric samples Hizashi had been collecting, a rainbow of linens and cottons draped over the side.

A few feet ahead, Hizashi was a beacon of sunlight in the artificial glow. He wore a loose, cream-colored sweater that made his hair look even brighter, his hand wrapped securely around Izuku’s smaller one. Izuku, in a red jacket and tiny jeans, was a live wire of excitement, his head swiveling constantly, trying to take in every shiny thing, every colorful display.

“Remember the rule, green bean,” Hizashi said, his voice carrying easily over the ambient noise without being a shout. He’d perfected that. “The cart, or my hand. No wandering.”

“I know, Daddy,” Izuku said, swinging their clasped hands. “I’m holding tight!”

They passed a kitchenware section, and Hizashi paused, eyeing a set of ceramic bowls with a delicate maple leaf pattern. “Ooh, Shou, look. These would be beautiful for autumn.”

Shouta nudged the cart closer. “We have bowls.”

“We have functional bowls. These are beautiful bowls.”

“They’re also probably thirty dollars a piece,” Shouta said, though he was already reaching out to touch the smooth glaze. He knew how this went. Hizashi would admire, Shouta would calculate, and then Shouta would find himself secretly buying one as a gift next week, just to see that delighted look on Hizashi’s face.

“Spoilsport,” Hizashi sighed, but he was smiling. He gave Shouta’s ponytail a gentle tug as he walked past, leading Izuku further into the home goods labyrinth.

They reached the textile zone. The air changed, becoming softer, muffled by stacks of towels and towering shelves of bedding. The lighting here was warmer, designed to make whites look creamier and colors more inviting. Hizashi moved with purpose, his long fingers flicking through hanging curtain panels, feeling the weight of fabrics.

“Too heavy,” he murmured, dismissing a rich velvet. “We want light. Something that lets the morning in.”

Shouta leaned on the cart handle, watching him. There was an art to how Hizashi did this. It wasn’t frivolous. It was about crafting an atmosphere, a feeling for their home. For their sanctuary. Shouta, who was content with a futon on the floor and a single lamp, found it endlessly fascinating.

Izuku was less fascinated. He’d been patient, but the allure of fabric swatches was wearing thin. He fidgeted, hopping from one foot to the other, his grip on Hizashi’s hand becoming a series of tugs.

“Daddy, can we go see the toys?”

“In a bit, buddy. Let Daddy find the perfect sky-blue first.”

They drifted past aisle after aisle of domestic dreams. Shouta’s mind began to drift, lulled by the monotony. He was mentally running through the dojo’s inventory lists when he felt the cart jolt.

Izuku had planted his feet, his entire body leaning against Hizashi’s hand like a small sailor trying to steer a ship.

“Daddy. Look.”

His voice held a new kind of urgency, a breathless awe that cut through Hizashi’s fabric contemplation. Both adults followed his pointing finger.

They had strayed to the edge of the home store, where it bled into a more general gift section. There was a shelf of plush toys, presumably meant as cute decor for children’s rooms. Among the pastel sheep and smiling dinosaurs sat a particular plushie. It was small, orange, and round with a beige sack-like body, a stitched-on smile, and a distinctive pull-cord on its head.

Izuku bounced, the motion vibrating up through Hizashi’s arm. “Daddy! Daddy! It’s Pochita! Can I have one? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?”

The words were a torrent of excitement. But they landed in the space between the two men with the force of a thrown brick.

Hizashi stopped. Not just paused, but went completely still. His head, which had been tilted towards the curtains, slowly turned. First to look down at Izuku, whose eyes were huge and pleading, fixed on the plush dog-thing. Then, even more slowly, he turned his head to look at his husband.

Shouta, who had been zoning out, was now acutely, painfully present. He felt the blood drain from his face, then rush back, heating his skin. He looked at the plushie. Pochita. The name was unmistakable. He looked at his son’s ecstatic face. Then he met Hizashi’s eyes.

Hizashi’s expression was unreadable. The usual easy smile was gone, replaced by a placid, terrifying calm. His green eyes were sharp, focused entirely on Shouta.

“Shouta.” His name was spoken softly, almost gently. It made the fine hairs on Shouta’s neck stand up. “Have you been letting him watch Chainsaw Man?”

The air in the warm, soft-textiled section seemed to freeze. The cheerful mall muzak faded to a distant buzz. Shouta’s mouth went dry. He opened it, but no sound came out. He was a man who faced down aggressive drunks at the dojo without flinching. One look from his husband turned his spine to liquid.

“I…” he began, his voice a rasp. He cleared his throat. “He… it was just a few clips.”

“Clips.” Hizashi repeated the word, letting it hang. He hadn’t moved a muscle except for his lips. He still held Izuku’s hand. “What kind of clips, darling?”

Izuku, sensing the shift in the atmosphere but misunderstanding its cause, piped up. “The yellow man gets big and has chainsaws! And he goes brrrrrr brrrrrr!” He mimed revving a chainsaw with his free hand, complete with sound effects.

Hizashi’s eyelids lowered slightly. He looked back at Shouta. “The yellow man. With chainsaws.”

“It’s… the animation is very dynamic,” Shouta tried weakly, gripping the cart handle until his knuckles turned white. “He saw me watching a fight scene. Just one. He was curious.”

“He is four years old, Shouta.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because the show you just admitted to letting our four-year-old son watch features graphic dismemberment, body horror, and a level of psychological trauma I wouldn’t recommend to most teenagers.” Hizashi’s voice was still quiet, still calm. It was the calm of deep, still water over a very cold abyss. “We agreed. We talked about this. Gory media is a hard limit. Not because of adult themes—I don’t care if he walks in on two cartoon characters fucking—but because of the violence. The visceral violence. We agreed.”

Each word was a precise, gentle tap of a hammer on a nail. Shouta felt each one. He wanted to sink into the polished floor. “It was one time. He was sitting with me. I didn’t think…”

“That’s the problem,” Hizashi said, and finally, he moved. He let go of Izuku’s hand and took two steps towards Shouta. He didn’t tower over him—their height difference wasn’t that severe—but he seemed to fill the entire aisle. He placed his hands on the cart, on either side of Shouta’s death-grip, caging him in. “You didn’t think. You got excited about something you like, and you shared it without thinking about what it contains.”

The shame was a hot, corrosive wave. Because Hizashi was right. Absolutely, infuriatingly right. He’d been tired one night after Izuku was asleep, clicked on an episode, gotten engrossed in the sheer chaotic motion of it. Izuku had wandered out for a glass of water, crawled into his lap, and Shouta, in a moment of lazy, selfish weakness, hadn’t changed it. He’d just held him and kept watching, rationalizing that the kid was mostly asleep anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Shouta whispered, his eyes dropping. He couldn’t hold that green gaze. It saw too much.

“Look at me.”

The command was soft. Undeniable. Shouta’s head lifted as if pulled by a string.

“This isn’t about making you feel bad,” Hizashi said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming something intimate and intense between them. “This is about our son. His brain is like soft clay right now. What we put in there matters. I am not angry you like a show. I am disappointed you broke our agreement. I am worried about what he might have seen.”

“It was just the fights. The Denji and Bat Devil fight. And part of the… the eternity devil.” Shouta cringed even as he said it. The eternity devil was body horror incarnate.

Hizashi closed his eyes for a long second. A breath moved through him. When he opened them, the sharp edge had softened, replaced by a weary concern. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We’ll talk about it. Later. Not here.” He finally stepped back, the physical pressure easing. He ran a hand through his hair. “But for now, the answer is no, Izuku. You cannot have the Pochita plushie.”

Izuku’s face, which had been watching this exchange with growing confusion, crumpled. “But… but why? Daddy, I’ll be good!”

Hizashi crouched down, his height bringing him to Izuku’s level. He took his small hands. “I know you’ll be good, baby. That’s not it. That show… the show Pochita is from, it’s not for little boys. It’s too scary. Appa made a mistake letting you see it. So we’re not going to get toys from it, okay?”

“It’s not scary! It’s cool!” Izuku insisted, his lower lip trembling.

“The things in it are scary for your brain, even if they look cool,” Hizashi said, his voice gentle but immovable. “It’s a daddy and appa rule. No Chainsaw Man. Do you understand?”

Izuku looked at Shouta, eyes pleading for an ally. Shouta, his heart breaking, shook his head minutely. “Daddy’s right, Izuku. It was my mistake. The rule stands.”

The betrayal flashed across Izuku’s features. A single, fat tear rolled down his cheek. He didn’t throw a tantrum. Their child, raised on structure and clear expectations, simply accepted the verdict with a devastating, quiet sadness. He nodded, swiping at his cheek with his fist. “Okay.”

Hizashi pulled him into a hug. “Thank you for understanding, my brave boy. How about we go look at the regular plushies? The animal ones? I saw a really big, soft fox back there.”

“Okay,” Izuku mumbled into his shoulder, his enthusiasm for the shopping trip thoroughly punctured.

The next hour passed in a strained, polite simulacrum of their earlier outing. Hizashi selected pillow covers—a cheerful sunflower pattern for the living room, simple navy blue for their bedroom—and a set of sheer, white curtains that would indeed let the morning light flood in. He did it all efficiently, with little of his usual commentary or joy. The silence between them was heavy, charged with everything left unsaid.

Shouta was miserable. He felt like he’d shattered something precious, a fragile trust that was the bedrock of their parenting. He stole glances at Hizashi’s profile, finding it closed off, thoughtful. He loaded the bags into the cart, his movements automatic.

They paid. They walked through the mall towards the parking garage, Izuku now riding silently in the cart, clutching a consolation prize—a fluffy, non-demonic sheep plushie. The silence stretched, brittle and uncomfortable.

In the car, Izuku fell asleep almost instantly in his car seat, exhausted by the emotional whiplash. The drive home was quiet, filled only with the whisper of tires on asphalt and the soft hum of the heater.

Shouta stared out the passenger window, watching the city blur past. He felt a touch on his knee. Hizashi’s hand, warm and familiar. He didn’t look over.

“We’re okay,” Hizashi said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll talk when we’re home.”

That simple touch, those quiet words, didn’t fix the knot of guilt in Shouta’s stomach, but they kept it from tightening into panic. Hizashi wasn’t shutting him out. He was… processing. And he was including Shouta in that process. It was more than Shouta felt he deserved.

Back at the apartment, they moved through the familiar routine like ghosts. Shouta carried the sleeping Izuku to bed, removing his jacket and shoes, tucking him in with the new sheep. Hizashi put the shopping bags in the bedroom and started the kettle.

When Shouta emerged from Izuku’s room, the apartment was dim, lit only by the kitchen light and the city glow from the balcony. Hizashi was sitting at the kotatsu, two steaming cups of tea before him. He’d changed into soft gray lounge pants and one of Shouta’s old band t-shirts. He looked young, and tired, and utterly in charge.

“Sit.”

Shouta sat, cross-legged, facing him. He kept his eyes on the grain of the wood table.

“Look at me, Shouta.”

He did.

“Tell me what happened. Start to finish.”

So Shouta did. He spoke in a low, halting monotone. The tiredness, the lapse in judgment, the rationalizations he’d built in the moment. How Izuku had seemed more fascinated by the colors and movement than frightened. How he’d asked questions—“Why is he yellow?” “What’s that string?”—that Shouta had answered with vague, non-gory truths. He didn’t excuse it. He just laid it out, a pathetic, shameful confession.

Hizashi listened. He didn’t interrupt. He sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving Shouta’s face.

When Shouta finished, the silence returned, but it was different now. Cleansed of the unknown.

“Okay,” Hizashi said finally. He set his cup down with a soft click. “First. You messed up. You know you messed up. I can see that. The guilt is eating you alive.”

Shouta nodded, a jerky motion.

“Second. This isn’t a catastrophic, unforgivable failure. It was a lapse. A bad one, but a single one. We are human. We will make mistakes. This is our first child. We are figuring it out.”

“You wouldn’t have made this mistake,” Shouta mumbled.

“Maybe not this one. But I’ll make others. Different ones. When I do, I need you to pull me up, just like I’m pulling you up now. That’s the partnership.” Hizashi’s voice was firm, absolute. “Third, and most important. We need a system. A check. Because your judgment flies out the window when you’re tired and you see something that excites you. You hyperfixate. It’s one of the things I love about you. But it can’t apply to what Izuku watches.”

“What kind of system?” Shouta asked, a flicker of hope cutting through the shame.

“You run it by me. Always. No exceptions. Cartoon, anime, live-action, a damned nature documentary about spiders—if you haven’t seen it together before, you text me. ‘Hey, is this okay?’ It takes two seconds. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” The answer was immediate, fervent. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Hizashi reached across the table. He didn’t take Shouta’s hand. He placed his palm over Shouta’s wrist, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse there. “Now. The punishment.”

Shouta’s breath hitched. He’d been expecting this. It was their way. Accountability had a shape in their relationship.

“You’re going to take the next three nights of Izuku’s bedtime routine. All of it. Bath, stories, the whole thing. I’ll supervise the first night to make sure you’re properly explaining why we don’t watch scary things, in terms he can understand. You’re also going to find a child-appropriate anime you’re both genuinely excited about, and you’re going to watch the first episode with him this weekend. You’re going to rebuild that trust with him, and show him that cool stories don’t have to be scary.”

It was a good punishment. Constructive. Parenting-focused. It ached in its appropriateness. “Okay.”

“And,” Hizashi said, his thumb stroking once, slowly, over Shouta’s inner wrist. “For me. You’re going to go the next week without initiating sex.”

Shouta’s head snapped up. That one… that one landed in a deep, private place. Their physical connection was his anchor, his validation, his most vulnerable expression of devotion. To have that control taken away, to have to wait for Hizashi’s permission… it was a denial that resonated with every fiber of his submissive need. His face flushed.

Hizashi watched the reaction, his green eyes dark and knowing. “You need to remember who you answer to, Shouta. Not just as a father, but as my husband. You broke a family rule. My rule. This is the consequence. Do you understand?”

Shouta’s throat was tight. He nodded, unable to speak.

“Use your words.”

“I understand,” Shouta whispered. “I’m sorry, Hizashi.”

“I know you are.” Hizashi’s hand moved from his wrist to his cheek, his touch shifting from judicial to tender in an instant. “The conversation is over. The matter is closed. We move forward. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good.” Hizashi stood, pulling Shouta up with him. He wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. Shouta melted into the embrace, his face buried in the familiar cotton-and-ozone scent of Hizashi’s neck. The tension that had held his body rigid for hours began to seep away, replaced by a weary, chastened relief.

“I love you,” Hizashi murmured into his hair. “Even when you’re a bonehead.”

A choked, watery laugh escaped Shouta. “I love you more.”

They stood like that for a long time in the quiet kitchen. Then Hizashi pulled back, his hands sliding down to grasp Shouta’s. “Come on. It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

In their bedroom, with the new navy pillowcases still in their bags on the floor, they prepared for sleep. The routine was familiar, but the dynamic had shifted. Shouta was hyper-aware of every movement, waiting for a cue. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, tied his hair back for sleep. Hizashi did the same, his movements languid and unselfconscious.

They slid under the covers. The space between them felt vast, charged with the new restriction. Shouta lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to reach out. He ached to. But the rule held him frozen.

He felt the bed dip. Hizashi turned onto his side, facing him. In the darkness, Shouta could just make out the glint of his eyes.

“Come here.”

The permission was a shock of warmth. Shouta didn’t hesitate. He turned and shifted closer, until Hizashi could wrap an arm around him, pulling him in so his back was flush against Hizashi’s chest. Hizashi’s chin rested on the top of his head. His breath was warm against his scalp.

“This isn’t a rejection,” Hizashi whispered, his voice a vibration against Shouta’s skull. “This is me holding you accountable. There’s a difference. Feel this.” He squeezed, just a bit tighter. “This is love, too. It’s just a different shape tonight.”

Shouta understood. The structure, even the denial, was a form of care. It was Hizasha keeping them, and their family, safe and intact. He let out a shuddering sigh, finally relaxing completely into the embrace. “Thank you.”

“Go to sleep, my shadow.”

And he did, cocooned in the arms of the man who ruled his world, the guilt slowly transforming into a hard-learned lesson, and the promise to do better.

The next morning, the sunlight through the old curtains felt accusing. Shouta woke first, tangled in Hizashi’s limbs. The memory of the previous day settled over him like a weight, but a cleaner one. The verdict was in. The sentence was being served.

He extricated himself carefully and padded to the kitchen. He started the coffee, a silent offering. He was scrambling eggs when Hizashi wandered in, hair a magnificent blonde cloud, his green eyes still soft with sleep. He came up behind Shouta, not touching him, just resting his chin on his shoulder to watch.

“Sunny-side up for Izuku,” Hizashi observed.

“He likes dipping his toast.”

“Mm.” Hizashi pressed a kiss, just a brush of lips, to the junction of Shouta’s neck and shoulder. It wasn’t a initiating kiss. It was a punctuation mark. A ‘good morning.’ Then he moved away to get the juice.

Izuku was subdued at breakfast. He picked at his eggs, eyeing Shouta with a mixture of residual hurt and curiosity.

“Appa?” he asked finally.

“Yes, buddy?”

“Are you in trouble?”

Shouta nearly choked on his coffee. Hizashi, across the table, simply took a slow sip of his own, one eyebrow arched.

“Yes,” Shouta said, deciding on honesty. “I broke a daddy-and-appa rule. So I’m in trouble.”

“What’s your trouble?”

“I have to do all your bedtimes for a while,” Shouta said. “And help you find a new, cool show to watch that’s just right for you.”

Izuku considered this. The idea of extra Appa time seemed to balance out the denial of Pochita. He nodded slowly. “Okay. Can we watch one with a hero? A nice one?”

“We can look today,” Shouta promised.

The day unfolded with a new normal. Hizashi took the lead on laundry, humming again, the tension from the mall largely dissipated. Shouta felt like he was walking on carefully negotiated ground, every action conscious. He researched children’s anime on his phone, making a list. My Neighbor Totoro was a given. Maybe Little Witch Academia. He texted Hizashi the list. The reply was swift: Totoro is perfect. The others look good. Run the first episodes by me before you watch.

It was the system in action. It felt strange. Necessary.

That evening, after dinner, Shouta began his penance. Bath time. He was usually the backup here, the fetcher of towels, the audience for splashing. Now he was in charge. Hizashi leaned against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, observing.

“Okay, Izuku. Let’s get your hair wet,” Shouta said, his voice more tentative than usual.

“Be careful of the soap in his eyes,” Hizashi commented, not unkindly. “Tilt his head back, like this.” He didn’t take over. He guided.

Shouta followed the instruction, his large, calloused hands gentle as he poured warm water over Izuku’s curls. He used a tiny amount of shampoo, working it into a lather.

“Tell him why we’re careful about what we watch,” Hizashi prompted softly.

Shouta took a breath. “Izuku, you know how sometimes you have a bad dream? About a monster?”

Izuku, his eyes squeezed shut against the water, nodded.

“Watching scary things before bed can put pictures in your head that turn into those bad dreams. Daddy and I want your head to be full of good pictures. Happy pictures. So we have to be picky about what goes in there. My mistake was putting a scary picture in there by accident. I’m sorry.”

It was a simplification, but it felt true. Izuku blinked up at him as he rinsed. “So no chainsaw man?”

“No chainsaw man. But we have other, super cool things to watch. Good stories that won’t give you bad dreams.”

“Okay,” Izuku said, and for the first time since the mall, he gave Shouta a small, forgiving smile.