Chapter 15: Linguistic Rewards
The night air at the festival was thick and delicious, a warm broth steaming with the smells of frying pork belly, sweet soy glaze, and the peculiar, comforting scent of crushed gravel and excited crowds. Strings of paper lanterns in crimson and gold bobbed overhead, casting a restless, fiery glow on everything below. The noise was a living thing—a cacophony of chattering families, the sizzle of takoyaki griddles, the tinny melody of a distant folk song from a stage, and the constant, rhythmic thump of taiko drums that vibrated in the chest.
Izuku moved through it all like a minnow through a sparkling stream, effortless and central to his own world.
The black kimono with its explosive, delicate cherry blossoms was a masterpiece. It was the one from International Night, the one Maria had fought him about. He’d won, of course. He’d worn it to bed for three nights until Shouta, grimacing at the potential for wrinkles, had physically peeled it off him and handed it to Maria for cleaning with a stern, “Just get it done.” Now, freshly pressed and perfect, it whispered around his ankles as he walked. The obi was tied in a complex, modern knot he’d seen on a pop idol, his waist cinched to an impossible hourglass. His hair, a waterfall of pure black, was loose except for two small sections braided and pinned back with lacquered cherry blossom pins.
He was, in his own mind and likely in reality, the prettiest thing in the whole park.
He clutched a small bamboo tray holding three pastel mochi, careful not to let the powdered sugar dust his sleeves. He’d already eaten two. One was for Daddy, though he’d probably only take a polite bite. Izuku didn’t mind; he’d finish it.
His current mission, however, was tea. Shouta had grumbled about the synthetic sweetness of the soda Izuku had bought him, saying it coated his throat. “Find me some real tea. Something bitter. Like my soul,” he’d said, a smirk playing on his lips as he’d reclined in his folding chair like a king on a makeshift throne. His size alone commanded a bubble of space in the crowd. People glanced, did double-takes, whispered. He ignored them all, watching Izuku with lazy, amused eyes.
So, tea. But the festival map was a confusing blur of icons, and all the signs were a mix of English and Japanese that jumbled in Izuku’s head. He saw a group ahead that looked like a good bet. Five guys, maybe university age, all clearly Japanese and dressed in a mix of casual yukata and one proper, dark blue kimono. They were gathered around a steaming bin of roasted sweet potatoes, laughing, speaking fast, comfortable Japanese. A source of local knowledge.
Izuku padded right up on his geta sandals. He didn’t hesitate. He tapped the shoulder of the one in the dark blue kimono. He was nice-looking, clean features, hair styled neatly. The guy turned, his expression friendly and questioning.
“Sumimasen,” Izuku chirped, his voice bright as a bell. He launched into his request, the Japanese flowing easily from him. “Could you please tell me where the proper tea stands are? Not the bubble tea, the real one. My dad wants bitter tea. He’s being difficult.”
The guy blinked, taking in the vision before him—the elaborate kimono, the stunning, expectant face, the tray of mochi. His friends quieted, their eyes shifting to Izuku. The guy smiled, a little dazzled. “Ah, sure. Yeah, you’re close.” He pointed past a stall selling plastic samurai swords. “Go past the sword place, then take the left path where the big willow tree is. There’s a whole section there with three traditional tea vendors. One does a really good hojicha. That’s roasted, kinda bitter. Your dad might like that.”
Izuku listened, nodding seriously, committing the instructions to memory. Past swords, left at willow. Simple. He beamed, a full, radiant smile that made the guy’s own smile widen in reflex.
“Arigatō, Oji-san!” Izuku said brightly, giving a little dip of his head.
The smile froze on the guy’s face. His friends, who had been watching with appreciative grins, suddenly fell utterly silent. One of them choked, stifling a cough into his fist. Another’s eyes went comically wide.
Oji-san. Uncle. A term of respect for an older man. A much older man.
The guy in the blue kimono looked stricken. He was twenty-five.
Izuku, oblivious to the nuclear social fallout he’d just triggered, simply continued to beam. He had the information he needed. He’d been polite. He’d thanked him. Job done. “Okay! Bye!” he sang, and turned on his heel, the skirts of his kimono swirling gracefully. He began to pick his way through the crowd, focused on avoiding puddles of spilled soda.
Back at the group, a slow tremor of disbelief broke the silence.
“Did he just…” one friend began, unable to finish.
“Oji-san?” another whispered, horrified.
The guy in the blue kimono ran a hand over his face, then down the front of his finely woven garment. “Do I… do I look old?” he asked his friends, genuine distress in his voice. “Is it the kimono? Does this kimono make me look like somebody’s uncle?”
“You look great, Ren!” a friend assured him, slapping his shoulder, but he was laughing too hard for it to be comforting. “He was just… fucking clueless, man. Did you see his face? He had no idea.”
“He was like a little anime character,” another snorted. “Pretty, but nothing behind the eyes. A beautiful, empty vase.”
Ren, the ‘Oji-san’, watched the retreating figure, the sleek black hair swaying. He sighed, a mix of insult and rueful amusement. “Yeah. A vase. A really, really pretty vase.”
Meanwhile, Izuku navigated the left turn at the willow tree. The sounds of the main festival muffled here, replaced by the gentle clatter of bamboo and the soft hiss of kettles. The air smelled of roasted grain and clean steam. He found the hojicha stand, ordered a large clay cup of the dark, fragrant tea, and balanced it carefully on his mochi tray.
He made his way back through the shifting crowd, a slow, ceremonial procession in his own mind. He spotted Shouta long before he reached him. The man was a landmark. He hadn’t moved from his chair, a solid monolith of relaxed power. A few bold fans had approached for pictures; Shouta had complied with a patient, detached air, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Now he was alone again, watching the river of people with a look of analytical boredom.
“Daddy,” Izuku announced, presenting the tray like an offering. “I got the tea. The roasted one. A nice Oji-san showed me where to go.”
Shouta took the cup, his fingers brushing Izuku’s. He took a sip, his eyebrows lifting slightly in approval. “Good. This is actual drinkable liquid.” He took another, longer drink. “What ‘Oji-san’?”
“One of the guys back there,” Izuku said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand before plucking the mochi meant for Shouta and taking a dainty bite. “By the potato cart. He was wearing a blue kimono. He was nice. He told me where to go.”
Shouta’s dark eyes slid from Izuku’s face to scan the crowd in the direction he’d indicated. He spotted the group. They were still clustered together, and as if sensing the weight of a champion’s gaze, Ren happened to look over. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Ren’s expression was a complicated puzzle of residual shock and recognition. Shouta’s was flat, unreadable. He gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod—not of thanks, but of acknowledgment. A territorial signal so subtle only another man would understand it: I see you. He’s mine.
Ren quickly looked away, saying something hurried to his friends. The whole group began to move off in the opposite direction.
Shouta looked back at Izuku, who was now licking powdered sugar from his fingers with a catlike concentration. “How old was this ‘Oji-san’?”
Izuku shrugged, the silk rustling. “I dunno. Grown-up. He had a nice kimono.”
“He was probably twenty-five,” Shouta said, a dry curl of amusement in his voice.
“So?” Izuku said, blinking. “That’s old.”
Shouta snorted, a genuine sound of laughter. “Jesus Christ.” He reached out and hooked a finger under Izuku’s chin. “You, my darling, dumb child, probably just shattered that kid’s entire self-esteem. He’s gonna be looking in mirrors for weeks.”
Izuku just nuzzled against the finger, confused but pleased he’d made Daddy laugh. “Why? I was polite.”
“Calling a guy in his twenties ‘Oji-san’ isn’t polite. It’s a declaration of war.” Shouta released his chin and took another drink of tea. “But it’s fine. Builds character. For him.”
“He was helpful,” Izuku insisted, his morality settled on the point of utility. “The tea is good, right?”
“The tea is perfect.” Shouta set the cup down on the grass beside his chair and stretched, his muscles rolling under the ink on his shoulders and arms. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt that strained across his chest, and dark trousers. He looked utterly out of place and completely in command. “You did good. Even if you emotionally crippled a stranger.”
Izuku preened, setting the empty tray down. He then simply climbed into Shouta’s lap, kimono and all. It was a practiced maneuver; Shouta shifted, making room, one arm coming around to anchor him as Izuku settled sideways, snuggling against his chest. He was a warm, scented, silken weight. People walking by glanced, smiled, or looked away awkwardly. A father and his teen son. It was unusual, but the intimacy was so blatant, so unashamed, it defied comment.
“This was a good idea,” Izuku mumbled into Shouta’s shirt, listening to the steady, strong heartbeat. “I like the lights. And the food.”
“You like being looked at,” Shouta corrected, his voice a rumble Izuku could feel. His hand came up to stroke the long, straight hair, smoothing it down Izuku’s back.
“That too,” Izuku admitted without a hint of guile. “A lady at the mochi stand said I looked like a doll. She asked if she could take a picture.”
“Did you let her?”
“Mm-hmm. I posed. Like this.” He lifted his head and arranged his features into a placid, empty smile, tilting his chin down and looking up through his lashes.
Shouta’s thumb stroked his cheekbone, wiping away a stray speck of sugar. “You’re better than a doll. Dolls don’t eat all their own mochi and then start on theirs.”
Izuku giggled, the facade breaking. He relaxed back against Shouta. They sat like that for a long while, a still point in the festival’s chaos. Shouta drank his tea,