Chapter 9: The Omega Watches
The silence of the Aizawa mansion was a living thing, deep and resonant as the still water in the courtyard koi pond. It was broken only by the soft, rhythmic shush-shush of a broom on tatami from a distant room, and the low, persistent grumble emanating from the master bedroom.
Shouta Aizawa stood before a long, polished mirror framed in dark wood, a statue of impending displeasure draped in black silk. His furisode, pure and deep as a moonless night, should have bestowed an air of solemn dignity. Instead, it seemed to amplify his scowl.
“A reception at a ‘rustic barn venue,’” he muttered, the words dripping with acid. “What does that even mean? It means they’ll be serving potato salad from a trough and the bride will probably arrive on a hay wagon pulled by a blind mule.”
From behind him, Hizashi let out a soft, patient sigh. His fingers, delicate and precise, worked on the intricate knot of Shouta’s obi, a stark white sash that cinched the black kimono at his waist. Hizashi’s own kimono was the color of early spring leaves, a pale green that made his blonde hair seem to glow. A dark green dragon, expertly embroidered, coiled around the hem, a silent statement of subdued power. His expression was one of serene focus, though a faint, amused smile touched his lips.
“Now, Shouta,” he murmured, his voice a gentle counterpoint to his alpha’s gravelly discontent. “It’s their special day. We must be gracious.”
“Gracious,” Shouta repeated, as if the word tasted foul. “I’m being gracious. I’m putting on this monkey suit. I’m handing over an envelope of money that could fund a small municipal project. I am withholding my sincere opinion that this union is about as well-advised as performing self-surgery with a butter knife.”
In the doorway of the bedroom, Katsuki leaned against the frame, already dressed in his own formal wear. His furisode was a dark, violent red slashed through with black geometric patterns that looked less like decoration and more like claw marks. It suited him. He’d fought with the sleeves for ten minutes, finding them absurdly cumbersome, before Hizashi had descended and folded them with a practiced efficiency that brooked no argument.
He was watching his father with a mix of disbelief and burgeoning delight. “Damn, Dad. Tell us how you really feel.”
Shouta shot a glare at his son’s reflection in the mirror. “The groom,” he stated, pivoting to face the room, his movement making Hizashi’s hands pause briefly, “spent the entirety of the engagement party explaining the ‘hidden symbology’ in his tattoo sleeves. To a sushi chef. Who did not speak English.”
A snort escaped Katsuki. He folded his arms, the heavy silk rustling. “What’s the symbology?”
“Apparently, the koi fish represents ‘struggle,’ and the dragon represents ‘triumph.’” Shouta’s lip curled. “I suggested the barbed wire around his bicep likely represented ‘poor life decisions,’ but he seemed to miss my nuance.”
A giggle, quickly stifled, floated from the hallway. Izuku peeked in, his large black eyes wide. He was a vision in a soft pink furisode, the sleeves long and flowing, embroidered with delicate, falling cherry blossoms. The color complemented his dark hair, which Hizashi had spent an hour arranging into an elegant half-updo, allowing the wavy locks to cascade down his back. The formal attire accentuated his petite, hourglass frame, the obi highlighting a slender waist. He looked every bit the ideal omega youth, a picture of gentle beauty, currently ruined by the mirth he was trying to contain behind a small hand.
“Daddy,” Izuku breathed, half-scandalized, half-thrilled. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” Shouta said, deadpan. He turned back to the mirror, allowing Hizashi to resume his work on the obi. “The man is a walking midlife crisis that arrived twenty years early. He has the emotional depth of a puddle and the intellectual horsepower of a stunned wildebeest.”
Katsuki barked a laugh, uncrossing his arms and slapping his thigh. “A stunned wildebeest? Shit, Dad.”
Hizashi finished the knot with a final, sharp tuck. He smoothed his hands over Shouta’s shoulders, the gesture intimate and familiar. “There. Perfect.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper only Shouta could hear. “And you will be perfectly behaved, my love. For me.”
Shouta’s scowling reflection met Hizashi’s gentle green eyes in the mirror. A silent communication passed between them. The stern alpha’s shoulders, tense beneath the silk, dropped a fraction of an inch. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
“The bride is no better,” Shouta continued, though his tone had lost its sharpest edge, becoming more of a low, theatrical grumble. He addressed Katsuki and Izuku now, as if presenting a case. “She laughed like a startled seagull every time he spoke. When they cut the cake at the tasting, she fed him a piece and then squealed, ‘Omigod, babe, your face!’ It was cake. On his face. The revelation was not worthy of a cardiac event.”
Izuku’s giggles turned into full-blown, hiccuping laughter. He had to lean against the doorframe for support. He’d never heard his father, the pillar of stoic, alpha reserve, talk like this. It was like watching a granite statue complain about the weather in fluent, scathing sarcasm.
“What’s their… what’s their venue, again?” Katsuki asked, egging him on purely for the entertainment value.
Shouta closed his eyes, summoning strength. “The ‘Happily Ever After Ranch and Artisan Grange.’ I looked it up. Last month, it hosted a ‘Goat Yoga and Whiskey Tasting’ event. The wedding photos will undoubtedly feature a bewildered alpaca in the background.”
“I think alpacas are cute,” Izuku offered meekly, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
“They spit, Izuku,” Shouta stated, as if this were the ultimate condemnation of both the animal and the entire event. “It is an apt metaphor.”
Hizashi stepped back, surveying his alpha. He adjusted the fall of the black silk one last time. “You look very handsome. Very imposing.” He reached up and straightened a strand of Shouta’s wavy black hair. “You will be the most distinguished alpha there. By a mile.”
“I will be the only person there not wearing denim vest,” Shouta muttered, but he caught Hizashi’s hand and gave it a brief, almost hidden squeeze. The gratitude in the gesture was clear.
The family moved as a unit through the serene house. The scent of sandalwood incense hung lightly in the air, mixing with the faint, clean aroma of the koi pond that drifted through the open shoji screens overlooking the courtyard. The polished wooden floors gleamed under their tabi-clad feet. As they passed the basement door, the distant, familiar clank of a weight being set down echoed up the stairs—Eijirou, getting in a quick workout before he had to dress and meet them at the ceremony. Katsuki’s mouth quirked at the sound, a private, warm thought briefly cutting through his amusement.
In the genkan, they switched to their formal zori. Shouta helped Hizashi step up into his, his large hand firm under his omega’s elbow. The simple courtesy was as ingrained as breathing.
As they were about to slide open the main door, Shouta paused, his hand on the lacquered wood. He looked back at his children, who were still sharing amused glances. His black eyes narrowed.
“And the cake,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial growl. “I heard from a reliable source—the caterer’s cousin, who does their books—that they chose a ‘salted caramel and artisanal pickle ripple’ flavor profile.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Katsuki’s jaw dropped. Izuku’s hands flew to his mouth, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Hizashi closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. “Shouta, you did not.”
“I absolutely did,” Shouta said, a flicker of something dangerously close to vindictive triumph in his eyes. “I make it my business to know the caliber of disaster I am being forced to endorse with my presence and my yen.” He slid the door open with a sharp sound. The cool, late-afternoon air swept in. “With a face like his,” he added, stepping out onto the stone path, “the groom’s parents might’ve been siblings. The genealogy certainly suggests a limited pool.”
That was the final straw. Katsuki let out a loud, unfiltered guffaw, clutching his stomach. Izuku dissolved into silent, tear-streaming laughter, leaning into his big brother for support. Even Hizashi couldn’t stop the wide, amused smile that spread across his face, though he tried to hide it behind his long sleeve.
The ride to the “Happily Ever After Ranch and Artisan Grange” was a contained bubble of lingering mirth in the family’s sleek, black car. Katsuki and Izuku, squeezed in the back, would occasionally catch each other’s eye and another stifled snort would escape. Shouta sat in the passenger seat, staring resolutely ahead, his profile a study in dignified suffering. Hizashi drove, his hands steady on the wheel, the quiet peacemaker navigating them toward the culinary and social abyss.
The venue was, as predicted, a converted barn. Rustic chic. Strings of Edison bulbs were draped over weathered wooden beams. Bales of hay served as seating for some guests. And there, near the entrance, stood a confused-looking alpaca in a small pen, as if on cue.
“Oh my god,” Katsuki breathed, seeing it. “He summoned it.”
Shouta did not smile. He simply gave the alpaca a slow, appraising look, then turned his gaze toward the receiving line, where the happy couple stood.
The groom was indeed heavily tattooed, his suit tight across the shoulders. The bride’s dress was voluminous, adorned with what looked like hand-crocheted lace. They beamed with a kind of desperate joy.
The Aizawa family approached, a unit of devastating elegance and quiet power amidst the denim vests and floral sundresses. Shouta led, a tower of implacable black. Hizashi floated beside him, a vision of green serenity. Katsuki loomed behind them, a slash of red and black defiance, and Izuku trailed like a soft pink petal, eyes downcast in polite omega demureness.
“Aizawa-san! So glad you could make it!” the groom boomed, extending a hand. His handshake was overly firm, performative.
Shouta took the hand, his grip perfectly calibrated—strong enough to not be weak, brief enough to not be familiar. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice flat. It was not warm. It was a statement of fact.
“Your venue is… very unique,” Hizashi offered, his smile genuine and kind, effortlessly smoothing over Shouta’s starkness.
As the bride gushed about the “vibe” and the “energy of the wood,” Shouta’s eyes wandered to the distant dessert table. He leaned imperceptibly towards Katsuki, who had come up beside him. His voice, low enough not to carry, was pure, dry venom.
“See the cake? Three tiers. The pickle ripple is the dark striation. It looks like a geological fault line.”
Katsuki bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He nodded solemnly, not trusting himself to speak.
They moved into the barn-turned-ceremony-space. The service was long. It featured a poem written by the groom about his “soul’s journey,” read by a friend with a beatnik goatee. Shouta sat perfectly still, his face a mask of polite attention. Only the slight, rhythmic tapping of his finger against his knee betrayed his inner state.
During the exchange of vows, which included promises to “always honor each other’s truth space” and “co-create a universe of joy,” Izuku sneaked a glance at his father. Shouta’s eyes had gone slightly glassy, fixed on a point somewhere above the officiant’s head. He was, Izuku realized, mentally reciting Kendo kata. Probably a very aggressive one.
The reception was worse. The food was, as foretold, served from galvanized steel troughs on a long farm table. The potato salad was passable. The “artisan pulled pork” was suspiciously dry. Shouta picked at his plate as if defusing a bomb.
Eijirou found them then, having arrived separately. He looked uncomfortably broad in his formal wear, his crimson hair tamed with product but already beginning to rebel. His eyes lit up when he saw Katsuki, and he navigated the hay bales and rustic decor to slide into the seat beside him. Their knees touched under the long table, a solid point of warmth and familiarity.
“How’s it going?” Eijirou whispered, taking in Shouta’s stony expression and Hizashi’s placid smile.
“The pork is a tragedy,” Katsuki muttered back. “Dad’s about to declare a public health crisis.”
Eijirou’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Speeches came. The groom’s best man recounted a lengthy story about a college football game that seemed to have no point. Shouta leaned towards Hizashi. “If he says ‘the camaraderie of the line’ one more time, I am going to use this fork to open a vein. Mine or his, I haven’t decided.”
Hizashi placed a calming hand on his thigh under the table. “The fork is probably artisan. It would be a shame to blunt it.”
A ghost of a smirk touched Shouta’s lips. It was gone in an instant.
Then, it was time for the first dance. The couple swayed to an acoustic version of a pop song, gazing into each other’s eyes with profound seriousness. Other couples began to join them on the dance floor—a patch of plywood laid over the barn floor.
Hizashi turned to Shouta. “Shall we, my alpha?”
It was not a question. It was a gentle command. Shouta looked at him, at the serene expectation in those green eyes, and the rigid set of his shoulders softened minutely. He stood, offering his hand. He led Hizashi to the floor, and as they began to move—a slow, traditional box step that looked entirely out of place amidst the shuffling—the transformation was subtle but complete. Shouta’s focus narrowed solely to the omega in his arms. The barn, the pickles, the alpaca, it all faded. His large hand was possessive on Hizashi’s back, his lead firm but gentle. Hizashi followed perfectly, his body flowing against Shouta’s, a picture of graceful submission and deep connection. They were in their own world, a bubble of timeless tradition and unspoken love.
Watching them, Izuku felt a familiar, sweet ache in his chest. This was what he dreamed of. This silent understanding, this public devotion framed by unshakable propriety. His mama, so beautiful and poised, trusted completely in his daddy’s lead. And his daddy, for all his grouchy exterior, wielded that responsibility with absolute, protective care. It was the core of the world he yearned for.
“They’re kinda beautiful, in a terrifying way,” Eijirou whispered to Katsuki, nodding towards the dancing couple.
Katsuki grunted, but his eyes were soft. “They’re a pair, alright.”
As the song changed to something faster, Shouta guided Hizashi back to the table. His duty was done. He had danced with his omega. The event could now conclude, as far as he was concerned.
The evening wore on. The cake was cut. Shouta refused his slice with a polite, “I’m quite full, thank you,” his expression implying the very sight of it was a medical risk. Izuku accepted a small piece to be polite and took one tiny bite. His face froze for a second before he carefully swallowed and set the plate down, reaching quickly for his water. Katsuki caught it and smirked.
Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the Edison bulbs cast a jaundiced glow over the hay bales, Shouta gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to Hizashi.
Hizashi smiled and stood. “It was a beautiful celebration,” he said to the nearest table of guests, his voice carrying just enough. “We should be going. Thank you so much for having us.”
Their departure was as elegant as their arrival. They offered final, polite congratulations, Shouta’s so stiff they could have