Chapter 16: The Patriarch's Blessing
The afternoon sun slanted through the shoji screens of the Aizawa living room, painting long, lazy rectangles of warm light across the polished hinoki floor. The air was still, fragrant with the lingering notes of sandalwood incense from the morning’s meditation and the subtler, green scent of freshly wiped wood. A single vase on the tokonoma alcove held the last of the season’s cherry blossoms, their pale pink a delicate defiance against the deepening greens outside.
Hizashi stood by the large window that overlooked the quiet street, his silhouette framed by the light. He had been tidying the deep red futons, their fabric smooth and orderly under his hands, a daily ritual of care. But his movements had stilled. His hands, slender and graceful, were now clasped lightly under his chin, fingers intertwined. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escaped him, a sound woven from fondness and a quiet, profound recognition.
“Oh, Shouta,” he murmured, his voice a gentle ripple in the silent room. He didn’t turn. “My love, come look at this.”
From his customary place at the low lacquered table, where reports were spread in neat, precise rows, Shouta looked up. His black eyes, often sharp with focus, softened at the tone in his omega’s voice. It was the tone Hizashi used when Katsuki had mastered a difficult wrestling hold years ago, or when Izuku had presented his first perfectly formed batch of daifuku. It was a tone of cherished witnessing.
He set his pen down without a sound, the click of it against the inkstone barely a whisper. He unfolded himself from the floor, a motion of contained power, and crossed the room. The tatami mat beneath his feet, the one that demarcated his side of the space with its severe, uncompromising order, gave way to the slightly softer, more textured mat of the shared area. He came to stand behind Hizashi, not touching yet, but close enough that his shadow enveloped his husband’s slender form. He placed a broad hand on the curve of Hizashi’s shoulder, feeling the fine bone and warm silk of the yukata beneath his palm.
“What is it—” Shouta began, his gaze following Hizashi’s out the window. The sentence died, incomplete. “Oh.”
His expression, typically an impassive mask, underwent a subtle transformation. The stern line of his mouth relaxed. The intensity in his eyes didn’t diminish, but its quality shifted from assessment to absorption. A deep, quiet warmth bloomed behind his ribs.
Outside, under the cascading branches of the old cherry tree that stood sentinel between their home and the Takahashi’s, stood Izuku and Kenji.
The scene was a living echo of a thousand traditional paintings, yet vibrantly, clumsily young. The blossoms, past their peak but still clinging, formed a hazy pink canopy. Izuku’s borrowed indigo yukata—Kenji must have given him his spare to wear home from the market, a possessive, practical gesture—was a deep pool of color against the green. Kenji stood before him, a tall, steady figure in his charcoal grey.
They were facing each other, standing close. Too close for casual conversation. The space between them was charged, intimate.
Kenji’s hands were cradling Izuku’s face. It wasn’t a tentative touch. It was a gesture of ownership, of reverence, his thumbs stroking over the high arches of Izuku’s cheekbones. Izuku’s head was tilted up, his long black hair falling back like a curtain, his eyes wide and luminous even from this distance. His lips were parted in a smile that was sheer, unfiltered joy.
Then Kenji leaned in. He didn’t kiss Izuku on the mouth. Not yet. That would be too bold, too final for a doorstep in the open, even under the cover of blossoms. Instead, he began peppering kisses all over Izuku’s face. Quick, affectionate presses. One on his forehead, right between his brows. One on the tip of his nose, making Izuku’s eyes squeeze shut with a laugh they could see but not hear. One on each flushed cheek.
Izuku’s hands came up, fluttering for a moment before settling on Kenji’s waist, gripping the fabric of his yukata. He was surrendering to the attention, melting into it, his whole body curving towards Kenji’s alpha warmth.
Hizashi’s clasped hands tightened slightly under his chin. “He’s so gentle with him,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell. “But so sure. Look at his hands.”
Shouta saw. After the flurry of kisses, Kenji’s large hands slid down from Izuku’s face. They traveled over the slender column of his throat, the delicate slope of his shoulders, tracing the line of the yukata’s collar. Then they moved lower, palms smoothing down over Izuku’s back, possessive and firm. They came to rest, not on the small of his back, but lower, curving around the swell of Izuku’s backside. Kenji grabbed, his fingers sinking into the softness of the fabric and the flesh beneath, a crude, unmistakably alpha gesture. He pulled Izuku flush against him, erasing the last shred of distance between them.
Izuku didn’t pull away. He gasped, his head falling back against Kenji’s supporting arm, a motion of pure, trusting submission. He was letting himself be handled, be claimed in this small, physical way. It was a promise. A preview.
“Shouta,” Hizashi breathed, his voice thick with an emotion too complex to name.
“I see it,” Shouta replied, his own voice a low rumble. His hand on Hizashi’s shoulder squeezed gently. He understood what his omega was feeling—the dizzying mix of nostalgia, pride, and a faint, poignant ache. Seeing your child step into the world you prepared them for was a uniquely bittersweet victory.
“He’s not fighting it at all,” Hizashi continued, his green eyes shimmering. “He’s not shy or scared. He’s… he’s welcoming it. After the market today, with everyone’s eyes on them… he’s come home and he’s just… accepting his alpha. Letting Kenji hold him like that. It’s everything we…”
He trailed off, unable to finish. It’s everything we hoped for. The words hung in the air between them, understood.
Shouta watched as Kenji dipped his head, his mouth moving near Izuku’s ear. Whatever he said made Izuku shudder, a full-body tremor of response, and then bury his face against Kenji’s chest, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter or overwhelmed emotion. Kenji’s hands remained anchored on Izuku’s backside, holding him steady, keeping him close. It was vulgar. It was territorial. It was, in the context of their understanding, profoundly right.
“Kenji knows his place,” Shouta stated, his analytical tone returning, though it was softened. “He displays affection, but it’s framed by dominance. Public approbation at the market, private possession here. He’s marking the transition. It’s… correct.”
“It’s beautiful,” Hizashi corrected softly, leaning back just enough to feel more of Shouta’s solid presence behind him. “It’s young love, but it’s built on something solid. On tradition. He’s not just grabbing him like a brute. He’s holding him. He kissed his face, Shouta. His sweet face.” A tear finally escaped, tracing a clean line down Hizashi’s cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.
Outside, the moment began to dissolve. Kenji loosened his grip, his hands roaming back up to Izuku’s shoulders. He said something else, and Izuku nodded, still pressed against him. With obvious reluctance, Kenji took a small step back. He kept his hands on Izuku’s shoulders, then slid one down to take Izuku’s hand. He lifted it, kissed Izuku’s knuckles—a shockingly formal, almost courtly gesture after the crude intimacy of seconds before—and then released him.
Izuku stood for a second, looking dazed, beautiful, and utterly claimed. He smoothed his hands over the front of the borrowed yukata, a self-conscious, omega gesture of composing himself. He said something, his gaze lowered demurely now. Kenji grinned, that sharp, charming grin, and reached out to tuck a strand of Izuku’s hair behind his ear. A final, tender point of contact.
Then Izuku turned and began walking, floatily, towards their front gate. Kenji watched him go, his hands on his hips, his stance wide and satisfied. An alpha watching his treasure return to its vault.
Hizashi let out a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He unclasped his hands and turned within the circle of Shouta’s arm, pressing his face against his alpha’s chest. The fine silk of Shouta’s house yukata was cool against his skin. “Our baby,” he whispered, the words muffled.
Shouta’s arms came around him, enveloping him completely. He pressed his lips to the crown of Hizashi’s golden head. “He’s not a baby anymore,” he said, but there was no reproach in it. It was a solemn acknowledgment. “He walked through the market today as a bonded omega in the eyes of our community. He just allowed his alpha to handle him like a grown omega on our doorstep. He is what you made him, Hizashi. He is perfect.”
The sound of the front door sliding open, then softly shutting, echoed through the silent house. Light footsteps padded down the entry hall.
Hizashi quickly dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, pulling away from Shouta just as Izuku appeared at the entrance to the living room. The boy’s cheeks were flushed a deep, rosy pink that had nothing to do with the walk. His eyes were downcast, his long lashes fanning over them. He still wore Kenji’s indigo yukata, which was slightly too long for him, the hem pooling a little around his bare feet. He looked thoroughly kissed, thoroughly cherished, and utterly embarrassed to be facing his parents.
“Mama? Daddy?” he said, his voice a small chime. “I… I’m back.”
Hizashi, having composed his face into a serene mask of maternal calm, smiled. “Welcome home, my heart. Did Kenji-kun see you to the gate?”
Izuku’s flush deepened. He nodded, his fingers twisting together. “Yes, Mama.”
“That was polite of him,” Shouta said, resuming his seat at the low table. He picked up his pen, a clear signal that the emotional observation period was over and the normal household order was re-establishing itself. His voice was neutral, accepting. “The Takahashi family has always understood courtesy.”
It was a simple statement, but in the lexicon of the Aizawa household, it was high praise. It also implicitly approved of everything they had just witnessed. Courtesy encompassed the knuckle-kiss as well as the crude groping; both were part of the respectful claim of an alpha from a good family.
Izuku seemed to uncoil a little at the normalcy. The tension in his slender shoulders eased. “He… he lent me his yukata. Mine had a little stain from the soybean vendor. He said he’d get it cleaned and return it.” He gestured vaguely at the fabric.
“A practical solution,” Hizashi said, moving towards the kitchen area. “I’ll prepare tea. Come, sit. Tell me about the wagashi Madame Suzuki gave you. Did you try it?”
As Izuku followed his mother, his steps still light with residual happiness, Shouta watched him. He saw the way the boy moved now—with a new, subtle awareness of his own body, as if Kenji’s hands had left invisible maps on his skin. He saw the dreamy softness in his black eyes that hadn’t been there this morning. It was the look of an omega who had been physically affirmed by his alpha, whose place in the world had been cemented not just by words and rumors, but by touch.
Katsuki’s arrival an hour later was a blunt contrast. The front door slammed open.
“I’m home!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. He stomped down the hall, sliding into the living room with a gust of outdoor air and aggressive energy. He’d changed out of his yukata into loose training pants and a tight tank top that showed off the hard lines of his torso. His hair was damp with sweat. “Ugh, Eijirou’s such a beast. Made me run drills until I puked. It was awesome.”
He threw himself onto one of the futons, sprawling with an alpha’s casual ownership of space. His crimson eyes scanned the room, landing on Izuku, who was quietly helping Hizashi fold laundry, the borrowed indigo yukata a stark note amid their own family’s linens.
“Hey, nerd,” Katsuki grunted. “Still floating around on cloud nine? Saw Takahashi drooling all over you by the tree. Couldn’t you have done that somewhere less… public?”
Izuku’s head jerked up, his face flooding with color again. “K-Kacchan! We were just saying goodbye!”
“Looked like a whole lot more than goodbye,” Katsuki smirked, but there was no real malice in it. It was ribbing, an alpha brother’s way of acknowledging the event while cutting through the sentimental haze. “He was copping a feel right out in the open. Bold. I’ll give him that.”
“Katsuki,” Hizashi chided gently, without turning from his folding. “Language. And it’s between Izuku and his alpha.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Just saying, everyone’s gonna be talking about it tomorrow. ‘Did you see young Takahashi with the Aizawa omega? Hands everywhere.’” He put on a falsetto gossip’s voice.
“Let them talk,” Shouta said from his table, not looking up from his papers. His voice was a flat, final decree. “It was appropriate to the circumstance. The bond has been publicly recognized. A degree of physical affirmation is expected. It discourages… other interests.”
The room understood what he meant. It discouraged other alphas from looking at Izuku. It solidified the claim. Kenji’s public display, culminating in the scene under the blossoms, was a social strategy as much as an emotional one.
Katsuki let out a short, sharp laugh. “Damn. Cold, Dad. So it’s like putting up a ‘No Trespassing’ sign, but with groping.” He sat up, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Whatever. He’s strong. He can back it up. Eijirou said he saw Kenji at the gym last week putting up insane numbers on the leg press. He’s not just talk.” This, from Katsuki, was a significant compliment. Respect was earned through demonstrated strength.
Izuku, who had been burning with humiliation, now looked at his brother with a flicker of gratitude. Katsuki’s crude assessment had, in his own way, validated the interaction. It wasn’t just silly romance; it was a display of Kenji’s capability as a protector.
“Thank you, Kacchan,” Izuku whispered.
“Don’t thank me, idiot,” Katsuki muttered, looking away. “Just don’t go getting all weepy and weird about it. It’s normal. It’s what’s supposed to happen.” He stood, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfying crack of joints. “I’m gonna shower. Is there food?”
“Dinner will be ready soon,” Hizashi said. “Wash up thoroughly.”
As Katsuki lumbered out, the atmosphere settled back into its domestic rhythm. The incident under the cherry tree was absorbed into the fabric of their day, discussed, assessed, and filed away as proper and good.
Later, after a dinner where Izuku was quiet but glowed with a serene light, and Katsuki argued with Shouta about a new training regimen, Hizashi found himself alone in the kitchen, washing the final rice bowl. The house was quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of night insects and the distant hum of the city.
Shouta entered, his footsteps silent on the floor. He came to stand behind Hizashi again, this time wrapping his arms fully around his omega’s waist, pulling him back against his solid chest. He nuzzled into the fragrant golden hair, now unbound and flowing down Hizashi’s back.
“You were emotional today,” he murmured, his lips against Hizashi’s ear.
Hizashi relaxed into the embrace, his wet hands stilling in the warm water. “It just… it took me back. Seeing them like that. So young. So sure. It felt like watching a reflection in a deep pond, Shouta. A reflection of something from a long time ago.”
The end.