Chapter 12: The Aftermath
The air in Izuku’s bedroom was warm and still, thick with the scent of vanilla diffuser and the faint, clean smell of expensive fabric conditioner. Afternoon sun filtered through the layers of pale pink and silver chiffon draped over the windows, casting everything in a soft, glittering light. Scattered across the floor, nestled among silken cushions and faux-fur throws, were three open textbooks, a laptop showing a half-finished slideshow on sedimentary rock, and two boys trying very hard not to look like they’d been teleported to another planet.
Noah, a lean boy with close-cropped brown hair and the perpetual, wary posture of someone who expects to be hit, was gently poking a crystal-encrusted snow globe that played a tinny version of a Beethoven symphony. Marcus, broader and already filling out his varsity jacket in the shoulders, was staring, transfixed, at a framed photo on the vanity. It was a selfie of Izuku and Shouta, taken in what looked like a private jet. Izuku was making a peace sign, his tongue out. Shouta, looming behind him, had his sunglasses on and was giving the camera a smirk that could curdle milk.
“This place is insane,” Marcus breathed, finally looking away from the photo. His voice was hushed, as if they were in a museum. “My whole apartment could fit in this room. Twice.”
“It’s just a room,” Izuku said, sprawled on his throne-like beanbag chair. He was wearing silk sleep shorts and an oversized hoodie that had clearly been stolen from Shouta’s wardrobe. It swallowed him, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips. He hadn’t bothered with a bra, the casual comfort of his own home a palpable barrier between him and his guests. He scrolled idly on his phone with one hand, the other buried in the long, obsidian fur of the cat, Lucifer, who was purring like a motorboat on his lap.
“Just a room,” Noah echoed, a disbelieving laugh catching in his throat. He gestured at the chandelier, a delicate thing of blown glass and dripping crystals. “Dude. That’s a fucking chandelier.”
“It’s pretty when the light hits it,” Izuku agreed, not looking up. “Can one of you pass me that bag of gummies? The red ones are the best, they taste like regret and artificial strawberries.”
Marcus grabbed the bag of imported Japanese gummies from the desk and tossed it over. The project—a joint Earth Sciences presentation on geothermal energy—lay forgotten between them. They’d been working for an hour, which in reality meant Marcus had written two bullet points, Noah had found a semi-relevant YouTube video, and Izuku had criticized the font choices on their template while eating snacks.
“So, you live here with your… dad?” Marcus asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. His eyes kept darting to the trophies that weren’t boxing-related—a sailing cup, a fancy-looking award for philanthropic work, a small sculpture that looked suspiciously like a genuine Picasso sketch.
“Mhm,” Izuku hummed, peeling a red gummy from the pack. “Just us and the cats. And Maria, the housekeeper, but she’s in Spain this week. And Karl, the chef, but he only comes for dinners. And the grounds guy, but I don’t know his name. He’s scary. Has weird eyes.” He popped the gummy in his mouth. “So, basically, just us.”
Noah and Marcus exchanged a look. They were on the boxing team together. They knew struggle. They knew early morning runs, splitting a shitty pizza three ways, taped hands and aching jaws. This—this perfumed palace—was an entirely different taxonomy of existence.
“Your dad must be, like, a CEO or something,” Noah ventured.
“Or a drug lord,” Marcus added, only half-joking.
Izuku finally looked up, his dark eyes wide and blank. “What? No. He’s just my dad. He does… business stuff. Boring grown-up shit. Talks on the phone, wears suits sometimes. Travels a lot.” He shrugged, a delicate movement. “He’s just big and loud and he buys me stuff when I ask. Mostly.”
This was a rehearsed vaguery, a cloud of nothing-answers Izuku had perfected. He knew, in a distant, abstract way, that his daddy was important. That people recognized him. But the specifics—the titles, the fame, the weight of the championships—were as irrelevant to Izuku as the chemical composition of his gummies. They were just facets of the landscape of his life, like the sun being bright or water being wet.
“Must be nice,” Marcus said, and there was no malice in it, just a kind of stunned resignation.
“It’s okay,” Izuku said, his attention drifting back to his phone. A notification popped up. A text from Tyler. Heard you destroyed that new girl. Legend. A small, smug smile touched Izuku’s lips. He typed back a simple, She was boring.
The dynamic in the room had settled into an odd, comfortable groove. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by the shared, grueling reality of their school project. They were starting to joke around. Marcus had imitated their Earth Science teacher’s lisp, sending Noah into a fit of silent giggles. Izuku had critiqued Marcus’s haircut (“It’s giving depressed army recruit”) and Noah’s shoes (“Those sneakers have seen more tragedy than a Shakespeare play”).
They were, against all odds, getting along.
Noah was in the middle of explaining a particularly convoluted point about magma plumes when the bedroom door opened.
It wasn’t a dramatic swing. It was just a smooth, silent inward glide, revealing the frame of the man standing there.
Shouta Aizawa filled the doorway. He wasn’t in a suit. He was in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else. The sweatpants were stained with what looked like paint or grease near the thigh. His torso was a map of hard-earned muscle and vibrant, intricate tattoos—a coiled dragon over one pec, kanji snaking down his ribs, a shattered hourglass on his abdomen. His skin gleamed with a fresh sheen of sweat, making the ink look alive. His black, wavy hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead. He held a half-empty bottle of water in one large, taped hand.
He leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes sweeping the room with a lazy, appraising curiosity that missed nothing. The dimple in his cheek appeared as a faint shadow.
“Hey, kitten,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. “Heard voices. Wanted to see if you and your… study buddies needed anything. Pizza? Those juice things you like? I’m making a run.”
He took a long swallow from his water bottle, his throat working. A drop of sweat traced a path down the valley between his pectoral muscles.
The change in the room’s atmosphere was instant and absolute.
Marcus, who had been leaning forward to point at the laptop screen, froze. His finger hung in the air. His jaw went slack. The color drained from his face, then flooded back in a violent, red blush that climbed from his neck to his hairline.
Noah made a sound. It wasn’t a word. It was a strangled, airless gasp, like a fish yanked onto a dock. His eyes, wide with a kind of primal recognition, were locked on Shouta’s face, then flicking down to the tattoos, the physique, back to the face.
The photo on the vanity had been impressive. This was a seismic event.
Izuku didn’t look up from his phone. He wiggled his toes, painted a glossy black. “We’re fine, Daddy. Marcus was just explaining volcano porn to us. It’s weirdly boring.”
Shouta’s lips quirked. His gaze shifted from his son to the two petrified boys. The charismatic, cocky expression settled over his features like a second skin. He raised a questioning eyebrow.
The silence stretched, taut and screaming.
Noah found his voice first. It was a cracked, high-pitched whisper. “What the hell?”
Marcus just stared. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“You…” Noah continued, his eyes like saucers. He pointed a trembling finger. “You’re… you’re Eraserhead.”
The name hung in the perfumed air. It was an invocation. A title that carried the roar of crowds, the smell of blood and resin, the glitter of championship belts.
Shouta’s smirk deepened. He pushed off the doorframe and took a single, casual step into the room. He was even bigger inside the space, his presence a physical pressure. Lucifer, sensing a superior alpha, leapt from Izuku’s lap and slunk under the bed.
“Guilty as charged,” Shouta said, his tone easy, flirty even. He nodded at them. “And you two are the school project, I take it.”
Marcus finally managed to speak. His voice was a strained croak. “You’re Izuku’s dad?”
“Last time I checked,” Shouta said, his eyes glinting with amusement. He looked at his son, who was now examining his cuticles. “You didn’t tell your friends about me, kitten?”
Izuku sighed, a long-suffering sound. He put his phone down. “It never came up. Why would it? Daddy, this is Noah and Marcus. They hit people for fun on the school boxing team. Marcus, Noah, this is my daddy. He hits people for money. See? Now it’s come up. Can we get pepperoni and extra cheese? And my juices. The yellow ones.”
The crude, blasé summary was like a bucket of cold water. It was so utterly, devastatingly Izuku that it broke the spell of awe, replacing it with a new, bewildered shock.
Shouta threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that seemed to shake the crystals on the chandelier. “Christ, you’re a brat.” He looked back at the boys, who were still statue-still. “Pepperoni and extra cheese work for you two? You look like you could use the protein. And maybe a stiff drink, but I’m not getting arrested for contributing to the delinquency of my kid’s… associates.”
Noah managed a jerky nod. Marcus just kept staring, his brain visibly rebooting.
“Good,” Shouta said. He finished his water, crumpled the bottle in one hand with a loud crack, and tossed it perfectly into a wastebasket across the room. “Be back in twenty. Don’t let him bully you too much. He gets mean when he’s hungry.”
He winked at them—a slow, deliberate, charming gesture—then turned and left, pulling the door closed softly behind him.
For a full ten seconds after the door clicked shut, neither boy moved or spoke.
The room felt different. The air itself felt charged, like after a lightning strike. The opulent belongings now seemed not just like signs of wealth, but of a specific, violent, globally recognized kind of power.
Marcus was the first to crumble. He slid off the desk chair and sat heavily on the floor, his back against Izuku’s bed. He ran both hands over his face. “Oh my god,” he mumbled into his palms. “Oh my fucking god.”
“Oh my fucking god.”
Marcus’s voice was a muffled prayer into his hands. He kept them there, as if blocking his vision could undo the last sixty seconds. The crumpled water bottle in the wastebasket seemed to glow like a holy relic.
Noah was still pointing at the door. His arm trembled. He looked at Izuku, who had retrieved Lucifer and was nuzzling the cat’s head. “Your dad,” Noah said, the words clicking into place with an almost audible snap. “Your dad is Eraserhead. The undisputed heavyweight champion. The guy who knocked out Viktor ‘The Sledgehammer’ Petrov in the third round last month. That guy. That’s the guy who just… asked if we wanted pizza.”
“I told you,” Izuku said, sighing as if explaining basic arithmetic to a toddler. “He hits people for money. You saw the tattoos. He’s not subtle.” Lucifer purred, kneading Izuku’s hoodie.
“Not subtle?” Marcus exploded, dropping his hands. His face was a canvas of incredulity. “Izuku, he’s Eraserhead. He’s the most famous boxer on the planet. He’s on billboards. His fucking walkout robe sells for, like, ten grand. I have a poster of him in my locker!”
Izuku blinked. He scratched under Lucifer’s chin. “Why?”
“Why?” Marcus sputtered, looking to Noah for support. “Because he’s the best! He’s a god! His left hook is literally studied in sports science classes!”
“It’s just a punch,” Izuku said, his tone flat and final. He reached for the gummies again. “He comes home sweaty and gross and he makes the whole hallway smell like a locker room. He ices his hands and complains about his knees. He’s just a dude. A really big, loud dude who brings me pizza.” He popped another red gummy. “You want a gummy or not? You’re being weird.”
Noah finally lowered his arm. He walked, stiff-legged, to the beanbag chair opposite Izuku and sank into it. He stared at his own hands—smaller, softer, untaped. “You don’t get it. You live with a legend. You see him every day. And you never said anything. Not once.”
“It wasn’t a secret,” Izuku shrugged. The hoodie slipped off one smooth, pale shoulder. He didn’t pull it back up. “You never asked what he did. You just assumed ‘business stuff.’ Everyone does. It’s boring. I’d rather talk about Tyler’s new haircut. It’s tragic.”
Marcus pushed himself off the floor. A new, frantic energy seized him. He started pacing in the small open space between the silken throws and the desk. “Okay. Okay. This is… this is an opportunity. Does he… does he ever give tips? Could we, like, ask him a question? About footwork? Or conditioning?”
Izuku made a face, a grimace of profound distaste. “Ew. No. Don’t talk about boxing with him. He’ll never shut up. He’ll start shadowboxing in the kitchen and knock over the fruit bowl. Again.” He looked at Marcus, a flicker of something like pity in his dark eyes. “You guys aren’t actually good, are you? Like, you just do it for gym credit or whatever?”
The casual brutality of the question hung in the air. It wasn’t mean-spirited. It was genuinely curious, which made it worse.
Noah flinched. Marcus stopped pacing, his pride visibly punctured. “We’re on the varsity team,” he said, defensively.
“That’s cute,” Izuku said, and it was clear he meant the opposite. He waved a dismissive hand. “My daddy fights grown men who get paid millions to give each other brain damage. You fight… other kids from, like, Riverdale High. It’s not the same.”
The door opened again.
All three of them jumped. Shouta shouldered his way back in, but this time he was carrying two large, flat cardboard boxes. The smell of baked dough, spicy pepperoni, and melted cheese flooded the room, instantly overlaying the vanilla. He’d thrown on a thin, black tank top, but it did little to obscure the landscape of ink and muscle beneath.
“Pizza’s up,” he announced, his eyes immediately finding Izuku. “And your juice box shit is in the fridge downstairs. Go get it yourself, you’re not a cripple.”
He dropped the boxes onto the cleared space on the floor between them. He didn’t leave. Instead, he folded himself onto the floor with a grunt, moving with a predator’s fluid grace despite his size. He sat cross-legged, opening the nearest box. Steam billowed up, wreathing his face.
“So,” Shouta said, pulling a gooey slice free. Cheese stretched into long, delicate strings. “Geothermal energy. You guys figure out how to harness the earth’s fiery rage for a better tomorrow yet?” He took a huge bite, watching them.
Noah and Marcus were frozen again, caught between the surreal normalcy of a pizza lunch and the mythic figure devouring it. They didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
Izuku shoved Lucifer off his lap and crawled forward on his knees, snatching a slice from the other box. He took a small bite, cheese dripping onto the oversized hoodie. “No. They got distracted. They’re all starstruck because you’re you. It’s annoying.”
Shouta chewed, swallowing. His gaze, sharp and assessing, slid to Marcus. “You. Pacing. You’re a fighter. Light-heavyweight, by the look of your frame. You carry your tension in your shoulders. You’ll tear a rotator cuff before you’re twenty.”
Marcus’s mouth fell open. A crumb of disbelief might have fallen out. “I… yeah. I mean, yes. Sir.”
“Don’t call me sir,” Shouta said, taking another bite. “Makes me feel old. Call me Shouta. Or ‘hey asshole.’ I’ve been called worse by better.” He pointed the crust of his pizza slice at Noah. “You. You’re the sparring partner. The technician. You’ve got the eyes. You watch. You learn. But you hate getting hit. It’s in the way you flinch before the punch even lands.”
Noah’s spine straightened. A slow, deep blush of shame and recognition crept up his neck. He said nothing.
Izuku rolled his eyes, a dramatic, swooping gesture. “See? Now he’s in coach mode. Told you. Boring.”
Shouta ignored him, his focus entirely on the two boys. It was an intense, laser-like attention. “You guys know who I am. Fine. You want a tip from the champ? Here’s one. Pizza’s good. But it’s shit fuel. Eat the protein, skip the greasy bread. And your friend here,” he jerked his thumb at Izuku, “is right about one thing. What I do and what you do aren’t the same sport. Mine’s a business. Yours is still a game. Remember that, and you might not get your pretty faces broken for free.”
He said it without malice. It was a simple, crude fact. He finished his slice in two more bites and licked the grease from his thumb.
Shouta’s eyebrow arched. He looked at Izuku, who was meticulously picking pepperoni off his slice and stacking it into a neat pile. “That up to you, kitten. These your friends?”
Izuku looked at Noah and Marcus. He saw the raw, hungry hope on their faces. He saw the way they looked at his daddy—not as a parent, but as a peak they could never climb. He shrugged, a small, elegant movement.
“They’re okay,” he said, his voice a study in casual disinterest. “They didn’t bow and say ‘ni hao.’ So they’re better than the last one.
He left, closing the door softly behind him for the second time.
The silence was different now. It was charged, electric with possibility. The geothermal slideshow was forgotten. The pizza cooled between them.
Marcus looked at Noah, a wild, disbelieving grin breaking across his face. Noah stared at the door, then at Izuku, who was now feeding his stacked pepperoni to Lucifer.
“Did that just happen?” Marcus whispered.
Izuku sighed, a long, exaggerated sound of suffering. “Great. Now you’re both going to be weird forever.” He wiped his fingers on his hoodie. “Can we please just pretend my dad is a boring accountant again? This is so much work.”