Chapter 5: Training Session Temptations
The fight film from yesterday’s gym session was a dull ache in Shouta’s bones, a welcome replacement for the sharp, electric pain of the night before. The suite was dark now, save for the erratic glow of the massive television screen mounted on the wall opposite their bed. The city lights of Milan sketched a silent, glittering panorama beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the drapes were half-drawn, turning the world into a muted smear of gold and blue.
They were a tangled mass of linen and limbs in the center of the oversized bed. Shouta was propped against a fortress of pillows, one arm slung behind his head. He wore a pair of loose, black sweatpants and nothing else, the tattoos on his chest and arms shifting like living shadows in the cinematic light. Izuku was plastered to his side, having commandeered Shouta’s right arm as a pillow. He was drowning in an oversized silk camisole the color of robin’s eggs, one thin strap perpetually sliding down his shoulder. His hair, a platinum river, was fanned out across Shouta’s bicep and the dark sheets.
On screen, cars chased each other through a neon-drenched city. It was some American franchise sequel, all slick surfaces and meaningless explosions. Shouta watched the movement, his brain processing it as footwork and poorly choreographed angles of attack. He was mentally critiquing the lead actor’s pathetic right hook when Izuku stiffened against him.
“Oh,” Izuku breathed, the sound barely audible over the roar of a fictional engine.
The scene had cut to a coastline. Rain was lashing down, and a man was emerging from turbulent, dark water. He was climbing onto a rocky jetty, hands scrabbling for purchase. The camera loved him, clinging to the water sluicing down his torso, the defined cut of his abdomen, the way his soaked trousers clung low on his hips.
“That’s Matt,” Izuku whispered, as if disclosing a state secret. He wriggled, pushing himself up a little to see better. The silk of his camisole rustled. “He’s the hacker. Or the love interest. I forget. But look at him.”
Shouta looked. The actor was conventionally handsome, all symmetrical features and artfully distressed stubble. He was shivering convincingly. “He’s going to get hypothermia. It’s idiotic.”
“It’s cinematic,” Izuku corrected, his voice taking on a dreamy, distant quality. He sank his teeth into his lower lip. The TV light played over his face, catching the dark blue of his wide, unblinking eyes.
Matt, on screen, was now running through the rain toward a cliffside safehouse, his bare back gleaming under the stormy gray sky. Every muscle flexed with pantomimed urgency.
Izuku let out a soft, high whine. He melted back into Shouta’s side, his body going liquid. “Mmm~ He’s so hot.” He nuzzled his cheek against Shouta’s arm. “I’m getting wet.”
The statement hung in the dark room, crude and matter-of-fact. It was as casual as him commenting on the champagne being flat.
A low chuckle vibrated in Shouta’s chest. He didn’t look away from the screen, where Matt was now dry and putting on a leather jacket with frustrating slowness. “Don’t leak on the sheets,” Shouta said, his tone flat and dry. “They’re Egyptian cotton. They stain.”
Izuku giggled, a wet, smothered sound against Shouta’s skin. “You’re so gross, Daddy.”
“You started it.”
“I’m just appreciating art. His physique is art. It’s like a… a marble statue. But alive. And sweaty.” Izuku’s hand, which had been resting on his own stomach, slid down to press against the thin silk covering his lower abdomen. He let out another little sigh as the actor on screen delivered a terse line of dialogue. “His voice is stupid, though. It sounds like he’s trying to cough up a hairball.”
“Focus on the visual then. Mute it.”
“No, the music is good. It’s all dramatic.” Izuku’s fingers twisted lightly in the silk. He was watching the screen with the intense, analytical focus he usually reserved for runway shows or glitter pen selections. “Do you think he waxes? Or lasers? It’s so smooth. You’re all… bristly.”
“I’m a mammal. He’s a CGI effect.”
“He is not! He’s real! I saw him in a perfume ad.” Izuku’s heel rubbed against Shouta’s calf under the covers. “He’s prettier than that medic lady’s tits, that’s for sure.”
Shouta’s thumb, which had been resting on Izuku’s shoulder, stroked absently over the protruding bone. “Different genre.”
“You didn’t even save the picture.”
“What was I going to do with it? Frame it? Use it as a gauge for my stitching?”
“Some men would.” Izuku turned his face, pressing his nose into Shouta’s side. He inhaled deeply, the scent of shower gel, linen, and the faint, indefinable smell that was just Shouta. “You’re not like some men.”
“Astute.”
The movie plunged into another action sequence, the room flickering with muzzle flashes and orange explosions. Izuku barely noticed. He was chasing a feeling, a warm, lazy buzz behind his navel that the pretty actor on screen had ignited. It was a simple, pleasant physical reaction, no more complicated than getting goosebumps from a cold breeze. He rubbed his thighs together slowly, the silk whispering.
“Does it feel good?” Shouta asked after a few minutes of silent, rhythmic stirring beside him. His voice was a low rumble in the dark.
“Hmm?”
“The… appreciating art. Does it feel good?”
Izuku considered this. “Yeah. It’s like… a tickle. But deeper. It’s nice.” He tipped his head back to look up at Shouta’s profile. “Doesn’t it feel good for you? When you see someone pretty?”
Shouta’s gaze remained fixed on the television, where cars were now crashing through a fruit market. “It’s a biological notification. Like getting hungry. It’s not an event.”
“You’re so boring.” Izuku pouted, but he settled back down. His hand was still a warm pressure on his stomach. “Matt wouldn’t be boring. He’d… write a poem about it. Or something.”
“He’d get sued for sexual harassment. Then he’d cry in his marble mansion.”
“Stop ruining him!” Izuku laughed, giving Shouta’s side a weak pinch, careful to avoid the yellowing bruise from yesterday’s bag work. “Let me have my fantasy. My dumb, wet, little fantasy.”
“Have it. Just keep the fluids contained. I’m not getting up to change the bed.”
“You would if I asked.”
“I’d make you sleep in it.”
Izuku smiled, victorious. He knew he wouldn’t. The movie’ climax was building, a symphony of screeching tires and compounding plot holes. Matt was kissing the female lead now, a desperate, rain-soaked clutch that looked uncomfortable. Izuku watched, his earlier flutter of excitement dampening into aesthetic critique.
“His technique is bad. He’s going to swallow her face. It’s aggressive in a bad way.”
“Not everyone has your refined sensibilities.”
“They should.” Izuku finally removed his hand, stretching his arm across Shouta’s abdomen instead. His fingers traced the ink there, familiar raised lines of tribal patterns and snarling animal faces. “Your stitches look okay. Not bleeding.”
“Told you.”
“I worry.” It was a simple declaration. Izuku’s capacity for worry was shallow but sincere, a puddle of intense concern that dried up the moment something shinier caught his eye. He skated his fingertip along the edge of the largest bruise, a sprawling thundercloud of purple and green across Shouta’s ribs. “It’s like a painting. A ugly, painful painting.”
“Don’t poke it.”
“I’m not poking. I’m assessing.” He leaned in, his breath warm on Shouta’s skin, and placed a soft, deliberate kiss in the center of the discoloration. “There. A healing kiss.”
“Medical science is baffled.”
“Shut up.” Izuku rested his chin on Shouta’s chest, looking up at him. The movie’s credits began to roll, casting a slow, white light over his face. “I’m tired of the movie. Put on the cat videos.”
“Your attention span is microscopic.”
“It’s efficient.” Izuku yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking thing that made his eyes water. “The fabric place opens at ten tomorrow. We have to be there when the doors unlock. The good rolls of silk jacquard go first. The vultures from the design school take everything.”
Shouta reached for the remote on the nightstand, his muscles protesting the stretch. He clicked off the television. The room was plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the faint ambient glow from the city below. The sudden quiet was a physical presence, soft and heavy.
He didn’t move to put on cat videos. Instead, his hand came to rest on the back of Izuku’s head, fingers sinking into the cool, thick silk of his hair. He massaged the scalp gently.
Izuku made a sound like a purr, his body going completely boneless. He was a warm, slight weight, his earlier arousal dissipated into the easy comfort of the dark. It had been a transient thing, a spark from a pretty image, gone as quickly as it came. Now there was just the steady rhythm of Shouta’s breathing beneath his ear, and the slow, soothing circles on his head.
“Daddy?” Izuku’s voice was muffled against his chest.
“What.”
“Are you going to fight that Russian guy? The one with the skull tattoo on his face?”
“Koslov. Maybe.”
“He’s ugly. His face looks like a dropped meat pie.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“If you fight him…” Izuku trailed off, his fingers curling against Shouta’s side. “I’ll design trunks with… with spiders on them. Or poison ivy. Something that means his face will look worse afterwards.”
Shouta’s mouth twitched in the dark. “Motivational.”
“I’m your creative director. It’s my job.” Izuku yawned again. “The cashmere coat place is near the fabric district. We can do both. And lunch. That place with the truffle pasta that made me hiccup.”
“We have a flight the day after tomorrow.”
“So? We can eat truffle pasta twice.” Izuku’s words were beginning to slur, sinking into the warm mud of near-sleep. “You need the calories. For training. For making ugly men look like… dropped pies…”
His breathing evened out, deep and slow. The nervous, giggling energy from the movie, from his own crude confession, had entirely burned out. He was just a boy now, overly spoiled and clingy, asleep on his father in a ridiculous hotel bed.