Chapter 8: The Walk of Shame
The hotel suite was a monument to muted luxury, all cream carpets and brushed nickel, but the bathroom was their own lived-in cathedral. Sunlight, thin and pale from the Milanese afternoon, streamed through a high skylight, cutting through the steam that still curled from the twin showerheads. The air was thick with the humid scent of lavender and the sharper, chemical tang of Izuku’s glitter nail polish, the bottle discarded on the lip of his sink. One of Shouta’s towels, a vast grey thing, hung crookedly on the heated rack, damp from his earlier rinse.
Izuku was perched on the cool marble countertop between the two sinks, his legs swinging. He’d toed off his glittery heels, and the sequined boxing glove tiara was now sitting proudly next to the gold-plated faucet like a holy relic. He hadn’t stopped talking since the car ride home.
“—and he laughed. Not in a mean way. In a ‘oh my god, you’re a genuine alien’ way. But it was a hot laugh. Like his voice got all gravelly right here,” Izuku pressed a finger to the base of his own throat, his face flushed. “He said I was ‘responsive.’ What does that even mean? Like a touch-screen? Is that a good thing?”
Shouta stood in the middle of the room, his back to Izuku. He was pulling his black shirt over his head, the fabric dragging against the stubble on his jaw. His back was a tapestry of ink and muscle, old scars from gloves and careless elbows silvery against the darker designs. He tossed the shirt towards a linen hamper; it missed, landing in a heap on the floor.
“It means you make noises when you’re groped,” Shouta said, his voice muffled by the fabric before his head emerged. “It’s not a complicated review. ‘Responsive.’ ‘Verbally expressive.’ ‘Prone to squeaking.’ Same category.”
“I do not squeak.” Izuku’s blush deepened. He watched his father’s hands go to his belt buckle, the heavy metal click echoing in the tiled space. “It was more of a… gasp. A surprised gasp. Because his hands were really warm. And he knew how to use them. You could tell.”
“Thrilling.” Shouta undid his trousers, letting them drop. He stepped out of them, kicking the bundle aside. He stood in just his boxer-briefs, the defined lines of his body stark in the clear light. He ran a hand through his messy black hair and walked to the large, glass-walled shower. He turned the nearest knob; water roared to life, hitting the tile with a forceful slap. Steam began to billow more thickly.
“Are you listening?” Izuku whined, leaning forward. The tight brocade vest creaked in protest. “I’m having a romantic epiphany and you’re just… doing shower things.”
“I’m multitasking. Your epiphany is entering one ear, bouncing around the empty space, and filing itself under ‘Izuku’s Temporary Bullshit, Volume Forty-Seven.’” Shouta tested the water with his hand, adjusting the temperature. The steam fogged the glass near his fingers. “The guy was a finance bro with wandering hands and a boyfriend with poor self-esteem. The only epiphany you should be having is about the structural integrity of that vest. You’re turning blue.”
Izuku looked down at the emerald fabric, indeed straining across his chest. He pouted. “It’s fine. It’s dramatic. He liked it. He said it was ‘peacock jacquard.’ He knew!”
“He repeated the words you said to him thirty seconds prior. That’s not knowledge, that’s a working memory. C’mon, baby, strip and get in. You’re sweaty from all that illicit bathroom tension.” Shouta slid his boxer-briefs down and stepped under the spray without looking back. The water sluiced over his shoulders, darkening his hair instantly, running in rivulets down the channels of his back.
Izuku huffed, but he began the laborious process of unbuttoning the vest. His fingers, tipped with chipped gold glitter, fumbled with the tiny silk-covered buttons. “It wasn’t just groping. There was… a conversation.”
“A conversation.” Shouta’s voice was flat over the sound of the water. He reached for a bottle of oakmoss shampoo, squeezing a generous amount into his palm.
“Yes! He said I was a ‘very strange kid.’ And I told him I wasn’t a kid.” Izuku finally got the vest open and shimmied out of it, laying it carefully over the towel rack as if it were a sleeping animal. He started on his trousers. “And then he said, ‘You absolutely are. A very, very pretty one.’” Izuku repeated the words in a low, attempted mimicry of the man’s smooth voice. It came out sounding squeaky. He stepped out of his trousers and stood in just his silk boxers, the pale skin of his thighs goosebumped in the humid air.
“Groundbreaking dialogue. They should put that on his headstone.” Shouta was vigorously scrubbing his scalp, suds raining down his neck. “So he acknowledged you’re jailbait, called you weird, and then stuck his tongue down your throat. The poetry of it all is staggering.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Izuku padded to the shower door, his boxers clinging to his hips. He hesitated, then slid them off, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. He opened the glass door; a wave of hot, lavender-scented steam engulfed him. “It was the atmosphere. The danger. His boyfriend was right out there! We were in a public bathroom in a three-star Michelin place.”
“And you were worried about your vest.” Shouta rinsed his hair, water streaming down his face. He opened his eyes, blinking the droplets away. He looked at Izuku, who was standing just under the edge of the spray, his platinum hair already darkening at the ends. “Priorities. I respect it.”
Izuku moved fully under the other showerhead, the hot water a shock and then a blessing on his skin. He sighed, tilting his head back. “It’s not like what you do,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter against the water’s roar.
“What I do?”
“You know. The groupies. The… the people after fights. That’s just… fucking.” Izuku said the word with a casual, crude simplicity. He reached for his own bottle—something vanilla-scented and expensive. “This was different. It had… a story.”
Shouta barked a laugh, a short, surprised sound. He turned to face Izuku, water running down the planes of his chest, over the tattoos on his pectorals and abdomen. “A story? Baby, your story was: saw a guy, made eye contact, licked a spoon, followed him to the can, let him feel you up. The end. That’s not a story, that’s a Tuesday.”
“It’s more than you have!” Izuku shot back, lathering his hair. The vanilla scent mixed with the oakmoss, creating a strange, heady perfume in the steam. “You don’t even know their names. You call them ‘Red’ or ‘Tattoo Sleeve’ or ‘That Bartender from Helsinki.’”
“And they call me ‘Champion’ or ‘Oh God’ or ‘Please.’ It’s a fair exchange. No lies, no ‘stories.’ Just mutually understood physical transactions.” He soaped his arms, watching Izuku. “You want a story, I’ll give you a story. After the Kobayashi fight in Tokyo, there was a woman who—”
“I don’t want your gross stories!” Izuku interrupted, though a flicker of curiosity was in his eyes. He rinsed his hair, squeezing the water out. “I want my own. And today was the start of one. Maybe he’ll come to the next fight. Maybe he’ll break up with the accountant. Maybe he’ll send me flowers.”
Shouta turned off his showerhead, the sudden silence loud. He reached for a towel from the warm rack, wrapping it around his waist. He leaned against the tiled wall, watching Izuku, who was still under the spray, eyes closed, lost in his fantasy.
“He won’t,” Shouta said, not unkindly.
Izuku’s eyes snapped open. “You don’t know that.”
“I do. Guys like that? They want the thrill of the secret. The dirty little encounter in the nice place. The risk is the point. Following up? Getting involved with the famously spoilt, famously underage son of Shouta Aizawa? That’s not a thrill. That’s a career-ending, bone-breaking liability. He’s probably telling his boyfriend right now that you came on to him and he politely declined, just to spice up their own boring sex life.”
Izuku stood still, the water pouring over him. The pink flush from the heat couldn’t disguise the hurt that tightened his features. It was a child’s hurt, raw and immediate. His lower lip trembled. “That’s… that’s not true. He liked me.”
“He liked the idea of you for five minutes. There’s a difference.” Shouta pushed off the wall. “And it’s fine. It’s better than fine. You got your kiss, your handsy moment, your ‘story.’ Now it’s done. No messy follow-up, no weird texts, no drama. Perfect.”
“You’re such a cynic.” Izuku’s voice was small.
“I’m a realist. And my realism buys you the vests and the tiaras and the eighty-euro chocolate balls. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t swoon over your finance prince.” Shouta opened the shower door, the cooler air rushing in. “Now hurry up. We’ve got that ridiculous photoshoot for the charity calendar in an hour. The one where I have to hold a kitten and look ‘approachable.’”
Izuku didn’t move. He looked down at the water swirling at his feet. “He really did have warm hands.”
Shouta paused, a larger towel in his hands. He sighed, a long, slow exhalation. He walked back to the shower entrance and held the towel open. “I know.”
“And he smelled good. Not like your cologne. Like… lemons and salt.”
“Citrus and vetiver. Probably Tom Ford. Basic, but effective.” Shouta gestured with the towel. “C’mon. Out.”
Izuku finally turned off the water and stepped into the embrace of the towel. Shouta wrapped it around him, rubbing his arms briskly through the thick cotton. Izuku stood there, letting himself be handled, his head drooping forward.
“It was a good story for a little while, wasn’t it?” Shouta said, his voice a rumble close to Izuku’s ear.
“Yeah,” Izuku mumbled into his father’s chest. “It was a really good story.”
“Then keep it. Just don’t expect a sequel.” Shouta let him go and chucked him under the chin. “Now. The kitten calendar awaits. You get to pick which kitten. Try not to pick the one that looks like it’s planning a murder.”
Izuku managed a wobbly smile. “The murderous