Chapter 9: Glitter & Grit
The final bell’s shrill scream was still echoing through the polished halls of Saint Ignatius Preparatory when Izuku Aizawa emerged from the calculus room, a headache already brewing behind his eyes. Numbers slithered off the page like eels; he’d spent the last forty minutes drawing elaborate filigree in the margins of his notebook. He adjusted the strap of his leather bookbag—more a fashion accessory than a practical item—and began his procession down the main hallway.
He was a moving exhibit. A cream-colored, cable-knit sweater dress that hugged his waist and flared over his hips, sheer tights patterned with tiny roses, chestnut-brown Mary Janes with a chunky heel that click-clacked authoritatively on the linoleum. His platinum hair, brushed to a state of liquid shine, flowed down his back like a cape. He held his chin high, offering vague, pretty smiles to the waves and stares he attracted, a prince surveying his indifferent kingdom.
He was almost to the double glass doors leading to the student lot when a heavy arm dropped across his shoulders, pulling him into a wall of warm, muscled side and the sharp, athletic scent of Axe body spray and fresh sweat.
“Hey, Aizawa. Looking sharp today, pretty boy.”
Izuku didn’t stumble. He was used to this. He tilted his head up, his dark blue eyes meeting the grinning face of Tyler Robinson. Tyler was everything Izuku wasn’t: tall, broad, his brown hair cropped short, his jaw square, his letterman’s jacket a testament to his varsity status in both football and wrestling. He was handsome in a straightforward, uncomplicated way, like a puppy trained to fetch trophies.
“What do you want, Robinson?” Izuku asked, his voice laced with a sly sweetness. He made no move to shrug off the arm.
Tyler laughed, a loud, genuine sound that turned a few heads. He pulled Izuku a fraction closer, his grip firm and familiar. “What, can’t a guy say hi to his favorite walking art installation?”
“You can. You just never do unless you want something.” Izuku shifted his books in his arms. “Is it my English notes? Because I summarized The Great Gatsby as ‘rich guy is creepy, dies sad.’ I don’t think Mrs. Pellegrini will accept that.”
“Nah, my GPA’s already on life support. I’m after a different kind of ticket.” Tyler steered them both towards the doors, his stride forcing Izuku into a quickstep. The afternoon sunlight flooded in, harsh and golden. “You wouldn’t have any spare tickets for your dear old daddy’s fight this month? The big one at the Stadio Giuseppe Meazza? I heard they’re sold out, like, instantly.”
Izuku blinked. The fight. Right. The Carnera bout. The posters were all over Milan. Shouta’s face, stern and battered, glared from every bus stop and newsstand. Izuku’s life was a series of events orbiting his father’s profession, but the profession itself was background noise—the loud, violent soundtrack to his more interesting dramas. He knew the dates, the venues, the after-parties. He didn’t know the opponents’ names unless they were particularly handsome.
“Maybe,” Izuku said, drawing the word out. They pushed through the doors into the cacophony of the pickup zone. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, shouted conversations, and the blaring bass from someone’s open car window. “Why? You suddenly a boxing connoisseur?”
“My dad is. It’s all he talks about. He’s had a man-crush on your old man since, like, the Klichko fight. It’s embarrassing.” Tyler’s smile turned conspiratorial. “Come on, Izuku. Do me a solid. I’ll owe you.”
Izuku stopped walking, forcing Tyler to stop with him. He looked up, tapping a glittery nail against his chin. “What kind of ‘owe me’? Like, you’ll carry my books for a week?”
“I’m already carrying your books.”
“You’re leaning on me. That’s different.”
“Fine. A week of book-carrying. And I’ll get you those limited-edition pastel sneakers you were drooling over online. The ones that look like Easter eggs threw up on them.”
Izuku’s eyes lit up. “The Valentino Rockstud pumps in mint?”
“Whatever they are. The stupidly expensive ones. My cousin works at the boutique, he can hook me up with a discount.” Tyler gave him a little shake. “So? Tickets? Two. Good seats. Not the nosebleeds where you need a telescope to see the blood.”
The noise of the pickup line swelled around them. A minivan honked. Someone shouted a name. Izuku savored the moment, the power of having something someone else wanted. It was a warmer, more tangible feeling than the fuzzy memory of the finance guy’s hands.
“I’ll have to ask Daddy,” Izuku said, his tone implying it was a mere formality. “But I think I can manage. For you.” He fluttered his lashes, a gesture so practiced it was nearly sincere.
Tyler’s grin widened. He leaned down, and before Izuku could process it, planted a firm, warm kiss on his cheek. It was dry, brief, and sent a completely different kind of static through Izuku than the bathroom encounter had. This was friendly, public, a transaction sealed.
“You’re the best, Aizawa. A total princess, but the best.” Tyler released him, clapping him on the back. “I’ll walk you to your car. Gotta make sure my investment gets home safe.”
Izuku touched his cheek where he’d been kissed, a slow smile spreading. “You’re coming over? Daddy’s doing a light training session in the home gym before his evening run. It’ll be loud.”
“I like loud. And your dad’s fridge is always stocked with better protein shakes than mine.” Tyler fell into step beside him as they navigated through the throngs of students.
Across the looping driveway, leaning against the driver’s side door of a matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon that looked like it ate smaller cars for breakfast, was Shouta. He wore simple grey sweatpants and a tight black tank top that left nothing to the imagination about the topography of his chest and arms. His tattoos were on full display. He had his phone in one hand, but his dark eyes were scanning the crowd.
He’d been spotted. A cluster of freshmen, their uniforms still awkwardly new, had formed a semi-circle around him, phones held aloft. One brave girl was talking animatedly, her face flushed. Shouta wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either. He offered a few short nods, signed the back of a chemistry textbook someone thrust at him, and allowed a series of rapid-fire selfies, his expression one of practiced, bored tolerance.
He looked, Izuku thought with a familiar surge of possessive pride, like a panther tolerating a group of particularly yappy squirrels.
As Izuku and Tyler approached, Shouta’s eyes found them. He gave a final, curt nod to the freshmen, who scattered giggling. His gaze swept over Tyler’s arm, which had found its way back around Izuku’s shoulders, and then to the faint, pleased blush on his son’s face.
“Looks like you’re popular,” Izuku sing-songed as they reached the SUV.
“It’s a burden,” Shouta deadpanned, pushing off the car. He pocketed his phone. “Robinson.”
“Mr. Aizawa,” Tyler said, his tone shifting into respectful ease. He removed his arm from Izuku. “Looking huge. Fight camp treating you right?”
“It’s treating me like a prisoner being worked to death for public amusement. So, yes.” Shouta’s eyes flicked to Izuku. “Get in, baby. We’re blocking the flow of overpriced minivans.”
Izuku moved to the back passenger door, but Tyler beat him to it, opening it with a flourish. “Your chariot, milady.”
Izuku rolled his eyes but climbed in, arranging his dress carefully. Tyler shut the door and rounded to the other side, sliding into the back seat beside him. Shouta got behind the wheel, the car settling under his weight. The engine purred to life, a low, powerful vibration.
As they pulled out of the school lot, weaving through the chaos, Izuku leaned forward between the front seats. “Daddy. Tyler needs a favor.”
“Does he.”
“Two tickets for the Carnera fight. Good ones. Not the nosebleeds.” Izuku reached out to poke Shouta’s shoulder. “I told him you could manage it.”
Shouta glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting Tyler’s expectant look. “Your old man still a fan?”
“Sir, yes sir. It’s all he talks about. He’d lose his mind.”
“He’s the one who cried when you won the Unified title in Vegas,” Izuku added helpfully. “The one who sent the giant fruit basket shaped like a glove. We ate the pineapple for weeks.”
Shouta remembered. The fruit basket had been absurd. “Fine. Two tickets. You’ll have them by the end of the week.” His tone said it was no more consequential than ordering coffee.
“Thank you, sir. Seriously, you’re a legend.” Tyler relaxed back into the leather seat, smiling. “Izuku said you’re training later. Mind if I watch? I’m trying to up my conditioning for regionals.”
“Sweat and grunting. Be my guest.” Shouta’s attention was on the road, but his voice carried a dry amusement. “Just don’t ask me for pointers. I charge for those.”
The drive to their penthouse apartment in the Porta Nuova district was short. The silence that filled the car wasn’t uncomfortable. Tyler had been here countless times—for study sessions that devolved into video game marathons, for pool parties on the massive terrace, for the simple fact that the Aizawa residence was, objectively, the coolest place any of Izuku’s friends had ever been.
The private elevator opened directly into the living area, a vast space of concrete, steel, and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city’s sleek skyline. The dominant features were a professional-grade boxing ring, set up under hydraulic lights, and a sprawling sectional sofa littered with velvet cushions and at least three sleeping cats.
“Home,” Izuku announced, kicking off his Mary Janes. They skidded across the polished concrete. One of the cats, a fat Persian named Toshinori, opened a single yellow eye and then ignored them.
Shouta was already moving towards his bedroom, presumably to change. “Gym in ten. Don’t touch the speed bag, Robinson. The tension’s perfect.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tyler called after him, but he was already gravitating toward the ring, running a hand along the taut ropes.
Izuku flopped onto the sofa, careful not to disturb the cats. He peered up at Tyler. “You’re really just here to watch my dad sweat?”
Tyler turned, a smirk on his face. “That’s a bonus. Mostly I’m here because my house has the emotional warmth of a dentist’s office and your house has a snack wall.” He jerked his thumb towards the kitchen, where a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit was indeed stocked with everything from imported