Chapter 3: High Altitude Rewards
The hum of the jet engines was a low, constant vibration in the bones, a white noise that felt like silence. Outside the panoramic window, the world was a black velvet blanket studded with the cold, indifferent diamonds of stars and, far below, the occasional slow-motion lightning flash of a distant city. Inside, the cabin was a pool of warm, amber light.
Shouta slouched in one of the wide, cream leather seats, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’d swapped his suit jacket for a worn, black cotton t-shirt that stretched tight across his shoulders. The stitches above his eye were a dark, neat line against the fading yellow-purple of the bruise. His tablet lay dark on the table beside him, fight stats forgotten. A glass of neat bourbon, its ice mostly melted, sweated onto a coaster.
Izuku was a sprawl of pastel and platinum against the dark. He’d changed into silk pajamas the color of mint ice cream, the shirt untied, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. He’d been fidgeting for an hour, moving from window to window, rearranging the throw pillows, complaining about the selection of movies. Now, he stood by Shouta’s seat, chewing on his lower lip, his eyes bright with a manufactured crisis.
“It’s just a detour,” he whined, his voice syrup-thick. “Two hours. Maybe three. We could see the Eiffel Tower lit up. I could get a crepe.”
“We’re not stopping in Paris,” Shouta said, not looking up from the empty space he was staring at. His voice was flat, final. The deep ache in his ribs made every breath a conscious effort, a dull reminder of Fury’s hooks.
“But why?”
“Because the plane is going to Milan. That’s where the runway is.”
“They can land other places, Daddy. That’s the whole point of planes.”
Shouta took a slow sip of the bourbon, the heat of it a familiar comfort tracing down to his stomach. “Izuku.”
It was the tone. Not angry. Not even impatient. Just a low, neutral sound that meant the discussion was a corpse. Izuku’s shoulders slumped in theatrical defeat. He didn’t want a crepe. He wanted to win an argument.
He studied Shouta’s face, the bruises, the stubble shadowing his jaw. A new thought, more interesting than Paris, seemed to dawn on him. He clambered onto the wide seat, knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of Shouta’s thighs. He wasn’t a small child anymore, but he folded himself into the space like he was, settling his weight squarely in Shouta’s lap. The scent of his lavender shampoo and something sugary—the half-eaten chocolate cookie he’d left on the table—wrapped around them.
Shouta didn’t protest. He let his head fall back against the seat with a soft thump, his hands coming to rest automatically on Izuku’s narrow hips, a gesture as habitual as breathing.
Izuku wriggled, getting comfortable, his silk-covered backside pressing down. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though they were the only souls on the plane besides the crew behind a closed door.
“You saw her, right?”
“Saw who?”
“The medic. The one with the dark braid. When that old guy was stitching your face.” Izuku’s eyes were wide, gleaming with scandal. “She was practically eye-fucking you the whole time.”
Shouta’s mouth twitched. Not a smile, but the ghost of one. He let his eyes close. The image surfaced: the sterile brightness of the locker room, the pinch and pull of the suture, Yamada barking about infection. And the woman, Anya or Anna, holding the gauze, her eyes not on his wound but on his mouth, then drifting down his bare chest with a clinical hunger that wasn’t clinical at all. “She was doing her job.”
“Her job was to stare at your abs? I didn’t know that was in the medical textbooks.” Izuku poked a finger into the hard muscle of Shouta’s stomach. “She asked you something when I went to the bathroom. What did she ask?”
Shouta opened one eye. Izuku’s face was inches from his, his breath sweet with cocoa. He was a pretty trap, all wide-eyed innocence and lethal curiosity. “She asked for my number.”
Izuku’s gasp was pure, delighted theater. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his fingers splayed. “She did not.”
“She did.”
“While you were bleeding? That’s… bold. Crass, even.” Izuku’s tone suggested he admired it. “What did you say?”
“I told her it was unprofessional.”
“And?”
“And she wrote it on a piece of sterilization paper and slipped it into my gym bag.”
Izuku dissolved into giggles, the sound high and bright in the hushed cabin. He rocked forward, his forehead bumping against Shouta’s good cheek. “You’re such a slut, Daddy. A walking, talking piece of meat. She probably watches all your fights. Gets off on it.”
“Probably.” Shouta’s hands tightened slightly on his hips, stilling his squirming. The pain in his ribs flared, a sharp, clean warning.
Izuku leaned back, studying his face. The giggles subsided, replaced by a grotesque, fascinated curiosity. “Are you gonna sleep with her?”
The question hung in the air between them, casual as asking about the weather. The jet hit a patch of mild turbulence, a brief, sinking lurch that made Izuku grip Shouta’s shoulders. The cabin lights flickered.
Shouta looked at his son. At the perfect, guileless blue eyes, the mouth still curved in a smirk waiting for salacious details. He saw the boy who designed his fight trunks with kanji on the back, the boy who cried against the ring apron, the boy who wanted to burn a stuffed lion. All the same creature.
He pulled Izuku closer, one broad hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling in the platinum silk of his hair. He guided him down until Izuku’s ear was near his mouth.
“Probably,” Shouta murmured, his voice a low rasp against the shell of Izuku’s ear. He felt the boy shiver. “Then I’ll just cut her off. She seemed like the attached type.”
Izuku shuddered again, a full-body tremble that wasn’t from cold. He made a small, choked sound—a laugh or a gasp—and buried his face in Shouta’s neck. His arms looped tightly around Shouta’s shoulders, holding on. “You’re awful,” he mumbled into his skin, the words vibrating. “A genuine bastard.”
“You asked.”
“I know.” Izuku tilted his head, his lips brushing the stubble along Shouta’s jaw. It was an accident. Probably. “She’ll cry. They always do.”
“They always do,” Shouta agreed, his tone devoid of anything. Not pride, not regret. It was a fact of nature, like gravity or the ache in his knuckles.
They stayed like that for long minutes, the jet pushing through the night. Shouta reached behind with one hand, fumbling for the seat control. With a soft whirr, the leather back inclined until they were nearly horizontal, a cradle in the sky. Izuku adjusted without breaking his hold, curling into Shouta’s side, one leg hooked over Shouta’s thighs. He was a warm, possessive weight.
“Does it hurt?” Izuku whispered, his fingers tracing the air near the sutures.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Shouta’s chest vibrated with a sound that was almost a laugh. He stared at the curved ceiling of the cabin. He thought about the woman, Anya. The desperate hope in her eyes. It was already tedious. He’d text her once, maybe. From Milan. A cold, efficient meeting in a hotel room paid for in cash. He’d use her, let her use the idea of him, and then he’d block the number. It was a transaction. One he’d performed a hundred times. The thought brought no heat, only a distant echo of the crushing loneliness that followed him out of the ring, a loneliness only this boy in his arms could momentarily silence.
Izuku’s breathing evened out, slow and deep. Just when Shouta thought he’d fallen asleep, he spoke again, his voice thick and dreamy.
“The trunks looked good. On TV. The gold didn’t glare under the lights like I was worried about. The commentator said you had ‘flair.’” He said the word with disdain. “He didn’t see the back, though. That’s just for us.”
“Just for us,” Shouta echoed, his hand moving in slow, absent circles on Izuku’s back.
“You’re not really a bastard,” Izuku murmured, half asleep now.
“I am.”
“Not to me.”
Shouta didn’t answer. He watched the reflection of the cabin lights glide across the dark window. He saw their distorted shape there: a massive, broken man and the delicate boy curled into him, a single shadow. The world outside was black and endless. In here, it was warm, and small, and owned.
Izuku’s hand crept up, his palm resting flat over Shouta’s heart. He could probably feel the slow, heavy beat of it. “When we get to Milan,” he mumbled, his words slurring with sleep, “I’m buying you a new coat. Black cashmere. To replace the one that reporter spilled champagne on. And you’re going to wear it to every show with me.”
“It’ll be ninety degrees.”
“I don’t care. You’ll look perfect.”
Shouta closed his eyes. The bourbon and the fatigue and the pain fused into a hazy blanket. The jet hummed. Izuku’s weight was a familiar anchor.
“Daddy?” The word was a sleep-soft sigh.
“Hmm?”
“The lion. The stuffed one. Can we really set it on fire?”
“Where would we do that?”
“The hotel balcony. In one of those big ashtray things.”
“We’d get arrested.”
“You’re Shouta Aizawa. They wouldn’t dare.”
The arrogance was a perfect mirror. Shouta didn’t have the energy to refute it. “We’ll see.”
It was enough of a promise. Izuku finally went still, his body going heavy and pliant in the embrace. His breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of true sleep.
Shouta lay awake in the dim light, holding his son. The ghosts of the fight played on the backs of his eyelids—Fury’s falling body, the roar, the taste of blood. The blank, eager face of the medic. The endless, hungry world waiting on the ground. All of it was noise. All of it was on the other side of a thick, soundproof glass.
Here, there was only the vibration of the engine, the smell of lavender and bourbon, and the profound, terrifying silence of being exactly where he was meant to be. He pressed his lips to the top of Izuku’s head, a kiss as soft and final as a verdict. Outside, the first faint hint of dawn began to bleed at the edge of the horizon, a thin line of bruised purple and gold, pulling them inexo