Chapter 7: Emerald Temptations
The restaurant was a cathedral of quiet money. The air was chilled and scentless, scrubbed of everything but the faint, expensive aroma of truffle oil and polished leather. Their booth was a plush, velvet-lined alcove, a stage within the larger theater. Shouta slouched in the corner, one arm draped along the back of the banquette, his posture a study in contained power. He’d forgone a jacket, his dark shirt stretching across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to expose the intricate ink wrapping his forearms. The low light glinted off the silver in his watch and the simple hoop in his ear.
Izuku was a riot of controlled chaos beside him. He’d insisted on wearing the first mock-up of the emerald brocade vest, even though the tailor had begged him to wait for the final fitting. It was too tight across the back, pulling slightly when he moved. His hair was down, a waterfall of platinum over one shoulder. And perched, slightly askew, in the elaborate updo on the other side, was the sequined boxing glove tiara he’d commissioned as a joke in Paris last season. It was absurd, a tiny, bedazzled red leather fist nestled in his pale hair, and he wore it with the solemnity of a crown jewel.
“He’s looking again,” Izuku murmured, not looking up from the architectural dessert construction between them. It was a sphere of dark chocolate, perched on a nest of spun sugar, with a single gold leaf clinging to its side. He’d already demolished his own pistachio mille-feuille.
Shouta didn’t turn his head. His eyes, dark and lazily alert, tracked the room in the reflection of his water glass. “Who.”
“Diagonal. Two o’clock. The one with the jawline that could cut this custard.” Izuku dipped his spoon into the creamy center of the chocolate sphere. He brought it to his lips, his tongue darting out to catch a drop of vanilla-infused crème anglaise from the side of the silver. It was a slow, deliberate motion. Then he let the spoon slide fully into his mouth, his lips closing around it, his dark blue eyes lifting and locking directly on the target.
The guy was maybe twenty-five. Sharp suit, expensive but not trying too hard. Sandy hair artfully messy. He was with another man, just as polished, their conversation low and intimate. A date. But his attention had drifted, snagged on the blinding, tiara-wearing anomaly in the booth.
He watched Izuku swallow. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his mouth before he turned back to his companion.
“He’s on a date,” Shouta said, finally taking a sip of his bourbon. The ice cubes clinked, a sharp sound in the cushioned quiet.
“So? His date has the posture of a disappointed accountant. I’m doing him a favor. Offering a moment of beauty in his dreary evening.” Izuku stabbed the chocolate sphere again, cracking the shell. Lava of dark chocolate and cream oozed out. “Do you think he’s a model? He has the cheekbones for it.”
“I think he’s a finance guy with a good dermatologist and a personal trainer he’s probably fucking.”
“Even better. Practical. Stable income.” Izuku licked his spoon clean, then pointed it vaguely in Shouta’s direction. “You’re just jealous because no one is looking at your jawline tonight.”
“My jawline is paying for this eighty-euro chocolate tumor. My jawline is content.”
The waiter, a ghost in a tailored suit, glided over to refill their water. His eyes flickered to Izuku’s tiara, then away, professionally void of judgment. As he retreated, the sandy-haired guy stood up from his table. He said something to his date, a hand briefly on his shoulder, and began threading his way through the room towards the restrooms.
His path took him right past their booth.
The restaurant was a maze of well-spaced tables, but the aisle here was narrow. He moved with the confident ease of someone used to occupying space. As he passed, his thigh brushed the edge of their tablecloth. His hand, dangling loosely at his side, skimmed over the velvet curve of the banquette—and his fingertips grazed the bare skin of Izuku’s shoulder, just above the emerald brocade.
It wasn’t an accident. The contact was too slow, too deliberate. A whisper of heat and pressure that lasted half a second too long.
Izuku didn’t flinch. He let out a tiny, almost inaudible sigh, his eyes falling shut for a heartbeat. When he opened them, they were glazed, fixed on the ruin of his dessert.
The man didn’t break stride. He disappeared around the corner towards the back of the restaurant.
The silence at their table thickened. Shouta took another drink, the bourbon burning a warm path down his throat. He watched Izuku, who was now staring at the spot where the man had vanished, a faint pink flush rising on his neck.
“Well,” Shouta said, his voice a dry rustle. “That was subtle.”
Izuku shifted. The brocade vest strained. “He touched me.”
“I have eyes.”
“He touched me. In public. While his boyfriend watches.” Izuku’s tone was one of awe, as if he’d witnessed a rare celestial event. “That’s… bold. That’s cinematic.”
“It’s rude. And tacky.” Shouta set his glass down. “His boyfriend probably has a boring fetish. Likes to watch. Or he’s planning a murder and needs an alibi.”
“You have no romance in your soul.” Izuku fanned himself with the dessert menu. He was vibrating, a faint, eager tremor in his hands. A minute ticked by. The boyfriend at the diagonal table scrolled through his phone, looking bored.
Izuku placed his napkin neatly on the table. He adjusted his tiara.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announced, his voice a little too high.
Shouta leaned back, crossing his arms. The tattoos on his forearms shifted, dragons and abstract patterns knotting and unknotting over muscle. He looked at his son—the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, the idiotically wonderful tiara. He saw the thrilling, stupid danger in his eyes, the complete lack of calculus for consequence.
“Okay,” Shouta said.
Izuku blinked, as if he’d expected an argument. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Go on.” Shouta’s expression didn’t change. It was flat, accepting. Almost amused.
A slow, dazzling smile broke across Izuku’s face. He slid out of the booth, the tight vest riding up. He leaned over, planting a quick, smacking kiss on Shouta’s stubbled cheek. “You’re the best daddy in the world.”
“I know. Don’t be long. They’re bringing the digestifs.”
Izuku nodded, already floating away. He moved through the restaurant with a gliding, purposeful step, the sequined glove in his hair catching the candlelight. Every head turned, just for a second. He was a beautiful, walking secret.
Shouta watched him go. He picked up his bourbon again, drained it, and signaled the waiter for another. His gaze drifted to the boyfriend at the other table, who was now watching Izuku’s retreating back with a pinched, confused expression. Shouta gave him a slow, deliberate nod. The man looked away, flustered.
The new bourbon arrived. Shouta swirled it, watching the amber liquid cling to the crystal. The restaurant sounds receded—the clink of cutlery became distant, the murmurs a meaningless ocean roar. He felt a familiar, hollow tension in his gut, the same feeling he had in the ring when an opponent circled, looking for an opening. A protective, predatory stillness.
He counted to one hundred and twenty in his head, his breathing even.
The bathroom was down a softly lit corridor lined with abstract art. It was a single, spacious, marble-clad room—a palace of porcelain and polished nickel. The door was heavy.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of sandalwood soap. The sandy-haired man was leaning against the sink bank, arms crossed, as if he’d been waiting. He’d undone the top button of his shirt.
Izuku closed the door. The lock engaged with a soft, final click.
“Hi,” the man said. His voice was smoother than it had any right to be.
“Hi,” Izuku breathed. He leaned back against the door, feeling the cold brass of the handle press into his spine.
“That’s quite a… thing. In your hair.”
“It’s a tiara.”
“I see that.” The man pushed off the sink and took a step closer. His eyes were a pale, watery green. He looked at Izuku like he was a complicated dessert he’d ordered. “You’re with the fighter. Aizawa.”
“My daddy.”
A flicker of something—recognition, recalculated risk—passed behind the green eyes. It was chased away by raw interest. “Daddy. Okay.”
He was in front of Izuku now, close enough for Izuku to smell his cologne—something citrus and sharp, overlaid on the warmer scent of his skin. He didn’t touch him. Not yet.
“You licked that spoon like you wanted to start a war,” the man murmured.
“Did I?” Izuku’s heart was a frantic bird in his chest. This was it. This was the feeling. The illicit, glittering danger. “I was just eating dessert.”
“Sure you were.” The man’s hand came up, fingers hovering just beside Izuku’s cheek, near the stupid, wonderful tiara. “He knows you’re in here.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s just… out there? Drinking?”
“Probably.”
The man laughed, a low, disbelieving sound. “You are a very strange kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Izuku said, with a petulant tilt of his chin.
“You absolutely are.” But the man’s hand finally made contact, his thumb brushing Izuku’s lower lip, smudging a trace of chocolate cream. “A very, very pretty one.”
It was happening fast and slow all at once. The man’s mouth was on his, and it was nothing like the cinematic, slow-burn kisses Izuku imagined. It was hungry and practiced, all tongue and pressure and the bitter taste of espresso. A large, warm hand slid down Izuku’s side, over the brocade, squeezing his hip. Izuku melted into it, a little sound escaping his throat. His own hands came up, clumsy, grabbing at the man’s expensive shirt.
The man broke the kiss, breathing heavily. His pupils were wide, swallowing the pale green. “Fuck. You’re… responsive.”
Izuku just blinked, dazed. The man’s hands were everywhere, unraveling him. One slid to the back of his neck, under the heavy fall of hair. The other went to the fastening of his tailored trousers.
“Wait,” Izuku gasped.
The man stilled. “Wait?”
“My… my vest. It’s tailored. Don’t rip it. The fabric is from Giorgio, it’s a peacock jacquard, he’ll kill me.”
A stunned silence filled the marble room. The man stared at him, his desire momentarily derailed by sheer bewilderment. Then he snorted, a real, unexpected laugh. “Jesus