Chapter 6: Fabric Indecisions
The morning sun didn’t so much rise over Milan as it flooded the penthouse suite, a torrent of liquid gold that poured through the gap in the heavy linen drapes. It cut a precise, brilliant line across the rumpled expanse of the bed, illuminating dust motes dancing like drunken fireflies and heating the bare skin it touched.
Shouta was already awake. He sat at the grand piano he never played, a sleek black monolith near the windows, with a tablet in hand. He scrolled through fight footage, the glowing rectangle reflected in the polished ebony lid. He wore just his sweatpants, the morning light etching the hard lines of his back, the snake tattoo that coiled around his spine seeming to writhe as his muscles shifted. A half-empty cup of espresso, thick as crude oil, sat steaming beside him. The room was silent save for the faint, tinny sounds of gloves hitting mitts from his headphones.
In the bed, a mountain of duvets and pillows stirred.
Izuku emerged not with a stretch, but with a slow, deliberate unspooling. He pushed the covers down with his feet, kicking them into a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. The sunlight hit him full-on, transforming his platinum hair into a blinding white halo and warming his naked skin. He lay on his stomach for a moment, face buried in the pillow that smelled like Shouta’s shampoo, then rolled onto his back with a luxurious, cat-like arch.
He blinked slowly at the ornate ceiling, dark blue eyes still soft with sleep. The previous night’s cinematic lust was gone, replaced by a new, pressing dilemma.
With a sigh that was more performance than feeling, he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The air was cool on his skin. He padded, barefoot and entirely nude, across the sun-warmed hardwood to where yesterday’s shopping bags formed a small, expensive monument in the corner. He rummaged through the heavy paper, his movements languid.
Shouta sipped his espresso, watching the boy’s reflection in the window. He saw the curve of his back, the dip of his waist, the way his hair cascaded down like spilled milk. He didn’t turn. He just watched the reflection, his own face impassive.
Izuku dragged two large, heavy bolts of fabric over to the foot of the bed. He propped them up against the mattress, then stepped back into the sharpest beam of sunlight. He held the first bolt, a dense, patterned cobalt jacquard, against his right hip, letting it drape down his thigh. He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder at an imaginary mirror, scrutinizing his own reflection in the dark glass of the television screen.
“Daddy.”
Shouta didn’t respond. He tapped his tablet, pausing a looping clip of Koslov, the Russian, breaking a sparring partner’s nose with a vicious shovel hook.
“Daddy.”
A louder whine. A summoning.
Shouta pulled one headphone away, letting it rest on his shoulder. The sound of rhythmic pounding continued faintly from the other ear. “What.”
“I can’t decide.” Izuku’s voice was thick with a faux anguish. He shifted, now pressing a lush roll of emerald green brocade against his left hip. The gold threads woven through it caught the sun and glittered. “It’s a crisis. A legitimate crisis.”
“What is.”
“Which fabric makes my ass look better.” Izuku turned fully, presenting his backside to the room, holding the cobalt jacquard flat against one cheek. “The cobalt has structure. It’s bold. It says, ‘Look at this magnificent, sculpted masterpiece.’” He switched to the brocade. “But the emerald… it’s got a sheen. It’s decadent. It says, ‘This is a priceless treasure, please appreciate its luster.’” He peeked over his shoulder, his face a mask of profound torment. “Which one?”
Shouta finally turned his head. He looked from the fabrics to Izuku’s earnest, waiting face, then down to the curve of his ass, currently half-covered in shimmering green. He took another slow sip of espresso, letting the bitter heat sit on his tongue.
“Wear pants,” he said, his voice flat as stone.
Izuku’s jaw dropped. He flung the bolt of brocade onto the bed, where it landed with a soft, heavy thump. “That’s not helpful! That’s anti-help! That’s sabotage!” He stomped a bare foot, the sound muted on the rug. “I’m trying to create art! Fashion is art! My butt is the canvas!”
“Your butt is going to get cold. The maid comes in twenty minutes.”
“Let her come! Let her see the struggle of creation!” Izuku struck a dramatic pose, one hand on his hip, the other holding the jacquard like a sceptre. “She’ll understand. She’s Italian. They understand beauty and drama.”
“She’s a fifty-year-old woman from Bergamo. She’ll think you’re a stronzo and over-starch my shirts in retaliation.”
Izuku deflated, the theatrical energy leaving him in a rush. He dropped the jacquard on top of the brocade and slumped onto the edge of the mattress, completely naked and suddenly looking every bit of his fifteen years—petulant and soft. “You’re no fun. You didn’t even look properly.”
“I looked.”
“You glanced. It was a clinical glance. Like you were assessing a suspicious lump.”
Shouta set his tablet down. He stood up, his joints giving a series of muted pops. He walked over to the bed, a towering silhouette blocking the sun for a moment. He looked down at the pouting boy, then at the two rich fabrics. He nudged the emerald brocade with his foot. “This one.”
Izuku’s head shot up, eyes wide. “Really? Why?”
“The cobalt is trying too hard. It’s screaming. The green just sits there and knows what it is. It’s arrogant. It’s better.”
A slow, radiant smile spread across Izuku’s face. It was like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. He snatched up the brocade and hugged it to his chest, the rough texture against his bare skin. “See? That’s all I wanted. A thoughtful, aesthetic opinion. Thank you.” He beamed up at Shouta, all brattiness forgotten. “You do have a good eye. For a Neanderthal.”
“Your praise is overwhelming.” Shouta reached down and ruffled his hair, messing up the perfect platinum waves. “Now put some clothes on. We’re going to the district. You wanted to be there when the doors open.”
“I do! The vultures!” Izuku sprang up, dropping the fabric. He darted to his suitcase, a colossal leather thing spilling silks and cashmeres. He began pulling things out with reckless abandon. “I need the ivory silk trousers. The ones with the wide leg. And the cream sweater. No, the ochre one. It compliments the emerald for later. And my boots. The ones with the little heel that make me almost 5’4”. I need every millimeter.”
Shouta watched the whirlwind, a tiny storm of exquisite cloth and flying hair. He finished his espresso, the cup clicking softly on the piano lid. “Hurry up. I’m not explaining to a maître d’ why we’re late for breakfast because you were having a heartfelt dialogue with your backside.”
The fabric district was a sensory onslaught after the hushed opulence of the hotel. Their driver dropped them at the edge of a narrow, cobbled street that thrummed with a chaotic, vibrant energy. The air was a tapestry of smells: diesel exhaust from a passing scooter, the rich, dry-dust scent of raw wool bales, the pungent tang of dye vats from open workshops, and everywhere, the smell of coffee and baking bread.
Izuku was in his element. He’d settled on the ochre sweater and the ivory trousers, his hair tied up in a messy, perfect bun with two elegant lacquered sticks. He looked like a princeling slumming it. He clutched a list written in glitter gel pen on hotel stationery.
“First, the jacquard for the vest. Then, the lining for the coat. Then, the buttons. The buttons are paramount, Daddy. Paramount. A garment is only as good as its closures.”
“Fascinating,” Shouta muttered, his eyes scanning the crowded street. His presence carved a bubble of space around them. People glanced, did a double-take at his size and the familiar, grim set of his face, and subtly moved aside. He looked utterly out of place, a predator in a marketplace of artists and merchants.
The first shop was a cavernous space, shelves reaching to a dusty ceiling, stacked with bolts of fabric that formed a kaleidoscopic maze. An old man with magnifying glasses perched on his nose presided over a towering wooden counter. Izuku marched right up.
“Buongiorno!” he chirped, then immediately lapsed into rapid, earnest English, pointing to his list. “I need the silk jacquard with the peacock feather motif. The one you showed the Cavalli people yesterday. You said you had five meters left.”
The old man, whose name was Giorgio, looked from Izuku’s eager face to Shouta, who loomed behind him like a bored bodyguard. He grunted. “For you? It is… expensive, ragazzo.”
Izuku didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head and smiled, a sweet, blinding thing. “My daddy is Shouta Aizawa. The boxer. He just got paid seven million dollars for twenty-eight minutes of work in Las Vegas. We can afford your jacquard, signore.”
Shouta closed his eyes for a brief second. A faint, almost invisible twitch touched the corner of his mouth. Giorgio’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Shouta with new eyes, not seeing a thug, but a walking bank vault. He vanished into the shelves.
“You can’t just lead with the seven million,” Shouta said under his breath.
“Why not? It’s efficient. It cuts through the crap. Look, he’s already getting it.” Izuku leaned his hip against the counter, swinging one foot. “Besides, it’s true. You did. And then you bought me that awful vintage car I can’t even drive yet.”
“It was an investment.”
“It’s neon pink and has eyelashes on the headlights. It’s an investment in my happiness.” Izuku accepted the heavy roll of fabric from Giorgio, his arms straining. The pattern was breathtaking, iridescent blues and greens woven into a intricate, avian fan. “Perfetto. We’ll take it all. Daddy, pay the man.”
The next three hours passed in a similar blur. Izuku was a laser-guided missile of taste and impulsive desire. He felt linings between his fingers, holding them to the light. He argued with a button-maker about the exact shade of horn. He rejected an entire batch of cashmere because the nap “felt sad.” Shouta followed, a silent, imposing shadow who produced a black credit card with mechanical regularity. His role was to carry bags, to stand where Izuku pointed, and to occasionally give a grunt of opinion when directly ordered to.
“Do these mother-of-pearl buttons look tragic with this charcoal