Chapter 16: Teasing the Wolves
The school hallway between third and fourth period was a specific kind of hell. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering in a nauseating rhythm that made everything look vaguely green and sickly. The air was a thick soup of old sweat, adolescent body spray applied with a heavy hand, and the ghost of yesterday’s meatloaf that seeped from the cafeteria vents. Lockers lined the walls, a patchwork of dented steel and fresh, glaring yellow paint where some had been replaced. The sound was a physical pressure: a roar of shouted conversations, the screech of sneakers on linoleum, the thunderous slam of metal doors.
Izuku moved through it like a shark through chum, smooth and predatory in his own narrow lane.
The uniform shorts were, by any objective measure, a scandal. The pleated grey fabric, meant to fall modestly near the knee, had been taken in by Maria on the sewing machine at Izuku’s tearful, foot-stomping insistence. They now hugged the precise curve of his ass and stopped a breath short of mid-thigh. Every step was a calculated risk. The white dress shirt was untucked, the sleeves rolled messily to his elbows, the top two buttons undone. It was a look of careless rebellion that had taken forty-five minutes of meticulous fussing in front of his bedroom mirror to achieve.
He was carrying a single, battered sketchbook. The cover was plastered with stickers of cartoon cats and bleeding-heart flowers. He didn’t have many classes that required books; he mostly carried it to have something to hold.
His target was up ahead, a knot of broad shoulders and loud laughter near the water fountain. Tyler Robinson stood at the center, an easy sun around which other planets orbited. He was the football team’s quarterback, all golden-brown hair, sun-bleached at the ends, and a smile that seemed to have its own independent energy source. He was leaning against a locker, one foot kicked back, holding court. His friends—linemen mostly, big guys with necks as wide as their heads—chuckled at something he’d said.
Izuku saw the exact moment Tyler’s eyes found him. The trajectory of his gaze was a tangible thing: a slow, deliberate slide from Izuku’s face, down the exposed line of his throat, over the fitted shirt, lingering on the shorts, and finally back up. It wasn’t a glance. It was an inventory. A spark of pure, amused interest lit in Tyler’s blue eyes.
Izuku didn’t smile. He let his expression go placid, almost bored. He altered his course slightly, aiming himself directly at the group. The crowd of students seemed to part for him unconsciously, a combination of his unblinking focus and the sheer audacity of his outfit. He stopped when he was a foot away from Tyler, well inside his personal space. The chatter of Tyler’s friends died down into wary, knowing silence. They’d seen this play before.
Izuku looked up at Tyler, his dark eyes wide and guileless. He let his sketchbook drop to his side, held loosely by his fingertips.
“Like what you see, Robinson?” he purred. His voice was low, a ribbon of sound that cut under the hallway noise. He tilted his head just so, his black hair sliding over his shoulder like spilled ink. “Daddy says I shouldn’t tease starving dogs…” He paused, letting his eyes drag slowly down Tyler’s frame, taking in the letterman jacket, the strong lines of his shoulders, the way his jeans fit. “But you look so hungry.”
One of the linemen, a guy named Mick with a buzzcut, groaned and looked at the ceiling. Another snickered into his fist. Tyler himself didn’t move for a second, just let the words hang there, his smile deepening into something more private, more possessive.
Then he chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “Starving, baby. Absolutely fucking starving.”
In one smooth motion, he pushed off the locker. His hands came up and settled on Izuku’s hips, his thumbs digging into the pronounced curves just above the scandalous hemline. He pulled, and Izuku came easily, without resistance, until they were flush against each other. The sketchbook was now trapped between Tyler’s stomach and Izuku’s. Izuku could feel the heat of him through their clothes, the solid muscle of a athlete who trained every day.
“These new shorts?” Tyler asked, his voice dropping so only Izuku and the closest of his friends could hear. His fingers flexed, testing the fabric. “They’re committing a public service. I should write the principal a thank-you note.”
“Maria hemmed them,” Izuku said, as if sharing a great secret. He rested his free hand on Tyler’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart through the wool of the jacket. He wasn’t blushing; he was preening. “Daddy saw them this morning and just made this sound. Like a groan. He said ‘For Christ’s sake, kid, you’re gonna give someone a heart attack.’ Then he made me eat all my eggs.”
Tyler laughed, loud and genuine, his head thrown back. “Your dad is a prophet.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Izuku’s ear. “He’s not wrong. You wanna skip next period? We could go out to my truck. It’s private.”
It was a standard offer. Izuku considered it, not out of any real academic concern, but because he liked the game of it. He liked being wanted enough to be tempted away. He tapped a finger on Tyler’s chest. “I’ve got art. We’re doing pastel fruit. I’m gonna draw a really dirty peach.”
“You are a really dirty peach,” Tyler murmured, nipping lightly at his earlobe before pulling back, his hands still locked on Izuku’s hips.
“Get a room, you animals,” Mick grumbled, but he was grinning. He’d been Tyler’s friend since grade school and had long since accepted that Izuku Aizawa was a permanent, baffling fixture. The guy was dumb as a box of rocks about most things, but he had Tyler wrapped so tight it was almost funny. Almost.
“We’re working on it,” Tyler said, not looking away from Izuku.
The warning bell rang, a harsh, electronic bleat that spurred the hallway into a sudden frenzy of frantic movement. Locks clicked, bags were shouldered, the roar intensified.
Tyler finally released Izuku’s hips, but not before giving him a slight, possessive squeeze. “After school. My place. Dad’s gone ’til seven.”
“Okay,” Izuku agreed easily. He liked Tyler’s house. It was big and clean and always quiet. Tyler had a very comfortable bed and a Netflix subscription. He also always had the good kind of pretzels, the thick, salty ones.
“I’ll drive you,” Tyler said. It wasn’t a question. He knew Shouta wouldn’t mind; the man had a strangely trusting, almost dismissive attitude about Tyler. It was like he’d assessed him once, found him to be a relatively harmless, smitten puppy, and filed him away as ‘not a threat.’ It should have been insulting, but Tyler was smart enough to know that was the only reason he was allowed to exist in Izuku’s orbit at all.
“I’ll text Daddy,” Izuku said, already pulling out his phone, a sleek, black device with a glittery cat case. He tapped out a message with his thumbs, his tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration.
goin to tylers after school ok?
The reply was almost instantaneous. Shouta was probably between training sessions, sitting in his grim, functional office at the gym, drinking something bitter.
Don’t eat his junk food. You’ll spoil dinner. Be home by six.
Izuku showed the screen to Tyler. “See? Permission.”
“I love how he phrases it like you’re a stray cat he’s worried about overfeeding,” Tyler said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He began walking Izuku towards the art wing, his hand finding the small of Izuku’s back, a steady, guiding pressure. The crowds parted for them differently now—for Tyler’s athletic fame, for Izuku’s notorious, pretty disruption.
“I am a stray cat,” Izuku said matter-of-factly. “He found me. He feeds me. He brushes my hair. I’m his cat.” This made perfect, logical sense to him.
Tyler just shook his head, smiling. They stopped at the door to the art studio. The smell of turpentine and clay wafted out. “Six o’clock, then. I’ll have you back by curfew, sir.” He gave a mock salute.
Izuku stood on his toes and pressed a quick, dry kiss to Tyler’s lips. It was chaste, but it held a promise of later, of privacy. “Bye, Robinson.”
“Bye, Aizawa.”
Izuku slipped into the classroom as the final bell rang. Tyler watched him go, watched the way the stupid, perfect shorts moved, before turning and jogging towards his own class, the echo of his chuckle lingering in the now-quieting hallway.
The art room was a chaotic solace. Sunlight streamed through high, paint-smeared windows, illuminating galaxies of dust motes dancing in the air. Easels stood like skeletal soldiers around the room. Izuku’s assigned spot was in the corner, near a sink that was permanently stained with a rainbow of pigments.
His teacher, Ms. Alvarez, a woman with wild grey hair and fingers always stained with charcoal, was passing out still-life materials. Today it was, as promised, fruit. A bowl containing a green apple, a banana, and a peach sat on a draped pedestal in the center of the room.
Izuku took his seat, arranging his sketchbook. He picked up a pastel, a soft, dusky pink, and stared at the peach. Its skin was fuzzy and blushed, a deep cleft running down its center. He began to draw, his strokes surprisingly confident and fluid. He had no technical skill, no understanding of perspective or light source, but he had an innate, obsessive eye for shape and texture. His peach emerged voluptuous, almost obscenely rounded, the cleft dark and pronounced.
The boy next to him, a skinny kid named Leo who was actually talented, glanced over. He blinked. “Dude. Is that… is it supposed to look like that?”
Izuku looked at his drawing, then at the real peach. “Yeah. It’s a peach. See?” He pointed with his pastel.
“Yeah, no, I see it,” Leo said quickly, turning back to his own, more anatomically conservative apple. He’d learned not to question Izuku’s artistic vision. Last month, during the ‘emotional self-portrait’ assignment, Izuku had drawn himself as a glittery, weeping kitten in a storm. He’d gotten an A. Ms. Alvarez had called it ‘powerfully naive.’
Izuku happily shaded the curve of his peach, humming softly. He was thinking about Tyler’s hands on his hips. The solid warmth of him. The way his laugh felt, rumbling through his own body when they were pressed close. He liked it. It was different from the safe, all-encompassing heat of Shouta. This was a sharper, brighter heat. It was exciting. It made his stomach do funny little flips.
He didn’t think about what it meant, about ‘dating’ or ‘boyfriends’. Those were just words Maria used when she asked pointed questions. Tyler was just…