Chapter 13: Rope Burns and Revelations
The school gymnasium had been transformed. Gone were the smells of sweat and floor polish, replaced by the warm, competing aromas of fried dough, exotic spices, and sweet sauces. Streamers in a hundred national colours hung from the basketball hoops. Long tables lined the walls, each a chaotic, proud explosion of a different country: a mini-Eiffel Tower here, a sombrero there, a large poster of the Australian outback next to a detailed diorama of the Egyptian pyramids.
Izuku’s booth was a sanctuary of controlled elegance amidst the cheerful clutter.
He stood behind his table, a vision in a jet-black kimono so dark it seemed to swallow the fluorescent lights overhead. Fine silver threads embroidered delicate, falling cherry blossoms along the hem and across the wide sleeves. The obi around his slender waist was a deep crimson, tied in a complex, perfect knot at his back. His hair, usually a wild cascade, was pinned up in an intricate style with two lacquered kanzashi hair sticks, leaving a few artful strands to frame his face. He glowed.
His table was immaculate. A framed ukiyo-e print of Mount Fuji served as a backdrop. Neat stacks of origami cranes sat beside a small, authentic tea set. There were bowls of colourful daifuku mochi, delicate slices of castella cake, and a laminated photo album Izuku had painstakingly filled with pictures from his childhood trips to Kyoto and Tokyo. A continuous slideshow of his own photos—temples in snow, bustling Shibuya crossing, tranquil gardens—played on a tablet.
And it was busy. A constant, shifting crowd of students, teachers, and a few parents lingered at his station. They were drawn in by the visual calm, and then held captive by Izuku himself.
“This is… wagashi,” he explained to a group of freshmen girls, his English slow, deliberate, and charmingly accented. He pointed to the pastel sweets. “It is not so sweet like American candy. It is… subtle. For tea. Here, try.”
He served them small pieces with miniature paper napkins, his movements precise and graceful. He was in his element. This wasn’s just another project; this was a piece of him, a part of his history that he actually understood and cherished. His usual vapid disinterest had evaporated. His dark eyes were bright, engaged.
“The kimono is so beautiful,” an English teacher sighed, touching the sleeve of her own cardigan almost self-consciously.
Izuku beamed, a genuine, radiant smile. “Thank you. It is from Kyoto. The obi is… difficult. My aunt had to help me. I look like a rolled sushi first time.”
People laughed. He was adorable, and he knew it, using his clumsiness with the language as part of the charm.
Across the gym, by the German booth showcasing pretzels and a model castle, Noah and Marcus stood together. They were both out of their depth, representing countries they’d researched for two weeks. Marcus kept glancing over at Izuku’s booth.
“Look at him,” Marcus muttered, stuffing a piece of pretzel in his mouth. “He’s like a different person. He actually knows things.”
“Scary, right?” Noah said, his eyes on the origami. “He made all those cranes. My hands would’ve fallen off.”
“After meeting his dad,” Marcus said, lowering his voice, “nothing about that kid surprises me anymore.”
They’d become tentative fixtures in Izuku’s orbit since the pizza afternoon. They weren’t friends, not really. They were accessories, like Lucifer the cat. They carried his books sometimes. They listened to him complain about teachers and dissect the social standings of classmates they couldn’t even name. In return, they existed in the peripheral glow of his world. They hadn’t been invited back to the house. They hadn’t seen Shouta again. But the possibility hung in the air, a tantalizing ghost.
The crowd around Izuku’s booth thinned for a moment. He took the chance to adjust the tea set, his fingers checking the temperature of the ceramic pot. He hummed a J-pop tune under his breath.
Then, a new kind of silence began to spread through the gym. It wasn’t a full hush, but a wave of muted conversation, dropped tones, and the physical turning of heads. It started near the main doors and rolled inward, like ripples from a stone dropped in a pond.
Izuku, focused on aligning his plates of mochi just so, didn’t notice at first.
Marcus elbowed Noah hard in the ribs. “Oh, shit.”
Noah followed his gaze. His breath caught.
Shouta Aizawa stood just inside the gymnasium doors. He wasn’t in sweatpants or a tank top. He wore a men’s kimono, a majestic, pure black silk matching Izuku’s, but his was heavier, more severe. Silver dragons, not blossoms, coiled around the sleeves and climbed the left panel of the garment. The fabric was stiff, authoritative. It was tied with a stark white obi, the knot solid and masculine at his front. The kimono was open just enough at the neck to reveal the top of the dragon tattoo on his chest, a glimpse of dark ink against his skin. His black hair was tied back in a low, sleek ponytail. On his feet were traditional geta sandals, making him even taller, more imposing.
He looked less like a parent at a school function and more like a daimyo from a feudal epic who had wandered into the wrong century. He cut an astonishing, formidable figure.
He scanned the room, his expression one of mild, detached curiosity. Then his eyes found Izuku. The detached look melted, replaced by a warm, proud focus.
The murmur of the crowd intensified. Whispers hissed through the air like steam.
“Is that…?”
“No way.”
“Holy crap, that’s Eraserhead.”
“What is he doing here?”
“Is he Japanese? I thought he was, like, from Vegas or something.”
“Look at what he’s wearing…”
Izuku finally sensed the shift in attention. He looked up from his table, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance at the distraction. Then he saw his daddy.
His whole face lit up, brighter than it had all night. It was a transformation of pure, unfiltered joy. He didn’t see the world champion. He didn’t see the intimidating spectacle. He saw Shouta. He raised a hand and waved, a small, eager gesture.
Shouta began to walk across the gym floor. The crowd seemed to part for him instinctively. The geta clicked a steady, deliberate rhythm on the polished wood. He moved with a contained power, the kimono swaying with his strides. He acknowledged no one else, his gaze locked on his son.
He arrived at the booth. The few people lingering there took a half-step back, awed into silence.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, Shouta towering over the table, Izuku looking up at him, beaming.
Then Izuku spoke, his voice clear and happy, the words flowing in rapid, native Japanese. “You came! You’re late. I told you it started at six. Look, I did everything myself. Well, Maria helped with the food, but I arranged it. Do you see the cranes? I made one hundred. It took forever. My fingers are still sore.”
Shouta listened, his cocky expression softening into something genuinely affectionate. He replied in the same language, his deep voice a quiet rumble that seemed to vibrate in the space between them. “I see them. They’re crooked. A few of them look drunk. But the table is perfect. You look…” He paused, his eyes sweeping over Izuku in the kimono. “You look like your mother.”
It was a simple statement, heavy with a history Izuku only knew in fragments. Izuku’s smile didn’t falter, but it changed, becoming a little more knowing, a little softer. He preened under the compliment.
“The kimono fits you,” Izuku said, switching to a more critical tone. “But you didn’t tie the obi right. I can see it from here. It’s sloppy. You look like a gangster from a bad movie.”
Shouta barked a short laugh, the sound startling a nearby parent. “And you sound like your aunt. A bossy little magpie.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. The wooden structure creaked under his weight. He sniffed. “You made matcha?”
“Of course. The proper way. Not the bitter powder they sell here.” Izuku turned, his movements quick and sure, and poured a tiny cup of the vivid green tea. He passed it to Shouta across the table, using both hands in the formal manner.
Shouta accepted it the same way. He didn’t gulp it. He lifted it, sniffed the aroma, and took a slow, appreciative sip. He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he nodded. “Good. You remembered.”
The entire exchange, utterly mundane in its content yet profoundly intimate in its execution, had taken place in a bubble of Japanese. To the surrounding audience, it was a private performance. They saw the ease, the familial shorthand, the way Izuku’s brattiness was not just tolerated but expected. They saw the way Shouta’s infamous arrogance was nowhere in sight, replaced by a focused, paternal attention.
The spell was broken by a brave—or foolish—teacher, Mrs. Gable, who approached with a wide, nervous smile. “Mr. Aizawa! What a wonderful surprise! We’re so honoured you could join our International Night. Izuku’s booth is just marvelous, isn’t it?”
Shouta turned his head toward her. The softness vanished, replaced by the public persona: the charming, slightly cocky smile that didn’t fully reach his eyes. He answered in flawless, unaccented English. “The honour is mine. He’s worked hard. It shows.” He took another sip of tea. “The school has done a good thing with this. Culture is important. Respect for heritage. It’s often forgotten.”
His tone was pleasant, but there was a steel underneath it, a quiet judgement of anything less than proper respect.
“Oh, absolutely,” Mrs. Gable gushed. “We completely agree! Izuku has been a wonderful ambassador for Japan.”
“He was born there,” Shouta said, as if that explained everything. He looked back at Izuku, who was now glaring at a sophomore boy who was reaching for a third piece of mochi without asking. “Hey. Manners. Use the tongs, and ask first.” The boy jumped, muttered an apology, and scurried away.
Shouta’s mouth quirked in approval.
For the next half hour, Shouta remained at the booth, a monolithic, silent partner. He didn’t help serve food or explain traditions. He simply existed there, a towering testament to the culture Izuku was presenting. His presence acted as a magnet and a filter. The crowd grew larger, but it was quieter, more polite. People asked better questions. They used the tongs.
Izuku thrived. He was the sun, and Shouta was the powerful gravity holding everything in orbit around him.