Chapter Text
Mr. Matzah had a way of turning ordinary Tuesday mornings into low-grade horror movies.
He stood at the front of the classroom like a game show host who’d gotten bored of prizes and decided to hand out consequences instead. Behind him, the whiteboard still had yesterday’s half-erased notes—Operant Conditioning and Schedules of Reinforcement—ghosted in blue marker. The overhead lights hummed. The radiator clicked. Everyone smelled faintly like wet winter coats because New York never did “dry” this time of year.
And on his podium sat a medium-sized cardboard box, taped shut, with a bright yellow sticky note slapped onto the lid.
DO NOT SHAKE.
That note, of course, meant at least three people had already tried.
Mr. Matzah tapped the box twice with his knuckles, waiting until the room quieted the way it always did when he got that look—part amused, part about-to-ruin-your-life.
“Alright, Psych 2,” he said, voice smooth like he was about to read them a bedtime story instead of sentencing them to social death. “We’ve talked about developmental stages. We’ve talked about attachment styles. We’ve talked about the difference between knowing what’s healthy and doing what’s healthy.”
Groans rippled through the class.
“Today,” he continued, unfazed, “we’re moving into applied learning.”
He pulled a second sticky note off the side of the box and held it up between two fingers like evidence.
PARTNER DRAW.
A chorus of immediate complaints erupted.
“No.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m switching classes.”
“Does ‘applied learning’ mean you’re making us do community service?”
Mr. Matzah smiled like a man who kept his joy in other people’s suffering. “It means you’re going to experience something very real. Something very… demanding.”
Touya Todoroki didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the energy to waste on panic until it was truly necessary.
He sat in the third row, close enough to the front that he could hear without trying, far enough back that no one bothered him unless they had to. His hoodie was black, his notebook was neat, and his pen was already in his hand—habit, not enthusiasm. He stared at the box like it might sprout legs and walk away.
He’d heard rumors.
The baby project.
He’d also heard that Mr. Matzah had upgraded it this year.
Touya told himself rumors were the currency of bored teenagers. Rumors were usually exaggerated.
Then again… Mr. Matzah’s smile wasn’t helping.
“Here’s how it works.” Mr. Matzah flipped open a clipboard like he’d been waiting all semester for this moment. “Inside this box are everyone’s names. You’re going to come up, one at a time, draw a name, and—if you draw yourself—you redraw.”
Someone in the back muttered, “Can I redraw if I draw my ex?”
Mr. Matzah didn’t even glance up. “No.”
Laughter.
Touya’s eyes drifted, against his will, to the left side of the room.
Keigo Takami was sprawled in his chair like gravity was optional for him. He had his varsity jacket thrown over the back, sleeves shoved up, hair a bright mess of blond that always looked like he’d just stepped out of a wind tunnel and decided it worked. He wasn’t taking notes. He wasn’t even pretending to. He was flicking a pen between his fingers and grinning at whatever his friends were whispering like class was just another place for him to be adored.
Touya hated that grin.
Not because it was attractive—he refused to grant it that.
He hated it because Keigo wore confidence like it was a law of nature. Like the world owed him a good time, and it usually paid up.
“Takami,” Mr. Matzah called, glancing at the roster. “You look restless. You can go first.”
Keigo shot to his feet so fast the chair legs squealed. “Finally. I was gonna start chewing my desk.”
“Please don’t,” Mr. Matzah said dryly. “Those are expensive.”
Keigo sauntered up the aisle with the easy swagger of someone who’d never apologized for taking up space.
Touya’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t look at Touya as he passed, but he did cut too close. Like he wanted Touya to move just because Keigo existed. Touya stayed exactly where he was.
Keigo brushed by anyway, shoulder clipping Touya’s hard enough that Touya’s chair shifted. The corner of Touya’s desk dug into his hip.
His pen slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the floor.
Touya caught himself on the desk edge, heartbeat spiking for a split second—his chair tilting, balance gone—and for a ridiculous moment he pictured himself eating linoleum in front of the whole class.
Keigo didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn.
He just lifted his hands in a lazy, mock-innocent gesture as he reached the front. “Oops.”
The word was light. Casual.
Like Touya was a chair leg he’d bumped.
Touya’s vision went sharp at the edges.
A couple kids snickered. Someone whispered, “Damn.”
Touya bent down and picked up his pen, slow, controlled. He took a breath through his nose.
Don’t. Not in class. Not in front of everyone. Not with Mr. Matzah watching like a hawk in human form.
He looked up.
Keigo was leaning over the box, one hand braced on the podium, the other fishing inside like he was drawing a raffle ticket.
Touya told himself it didn’t matter.
It was a partner draw. It was random. Touya could get paired with literally anyone else.
Keigo pulled out a folded slip of paper and opened it with the showmanship of a magician revealing the last card.
His eyebrows jumped.
“Oooooh,” he said loudly, holding it up. “I got—”
Mr. Matzah raised a finger. “No announcing. You keep it to yourself, Mr. Takami. We want the suspense.”
Keigo’s smile widened anyway like the suspense was his personal brand. He tucked the slip into his pocket and turned to saunter back down the aisle.
Touya didn’t move this time. He stared straight ahead at his notebook, like if he focused hard enough he could erase Keigo from the room through sheer spite.
Keigo passed again, close enough Touya could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive—and the damp cold in his jacket.
This time Keigo didn’t bump him.
Which almost annoyed Touya more.
One by one, students went up. Some came back smirking, some groaning, some immediately whispering to their friends like they’d just been given insider stock tips. Mr. Matzah kept a tally on his clipboard, marking off names, watching the room with the satisfied patience of a man assembling a social experiment.
Touya stayed still.
He hated the way the tension crawled under his skin the closer the list got to the end.
He hated that he was even thinking about Keigo.
And he really, really hated that the universe seemed to enjoy messing with him.
“Okay,” Mr. Matzah said after what felt like an hour but was probably fifteen minutes, “we have… one name left.”
The class collectively leaned forward.
Touya felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Mr. Matzah’s eyes flicked toward him. “Mr. Todoroki.”
Of course.
Touya’s chair scraped quietly as he stood. He didn’t rush. He didn’t drag his feet either. He walked up the aisle with the same calm, expressionless stride he used when he wanted people to leave him alone.
At the podium, he stared down at the box.
It was smaller up close. The tape was neat. Mr. Matzah had written something on the side in marker, but it was turned away.
Touya slid his hand in and felt around.
There was only one slip of paper left.
He pinched it between two fingers and pulled it out.
He unfolded it.
And he froze.
TAKAMI, KEIGO.
The room erupted.
“No way!”
“BRO—”
“That’s evil!”
Keigo made a noise from somewhere behind Touya that sounded like a laugh and a choke at the same time.
Touya folded the slip back up slowly, like if he did it carefully enough he could refold reality along with it.
He turned.
Keigo was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head now, grin back in full force like Christmas had come early and brought him exactly what he wanted.
Their eyes met.
Keigo’s grin sharpened into something smug. “Well. This’ll be fun.”
Touya didn’t blink. “For you, maybe.”
Keigo’s eyes flicked over Touya like he was assessing a challenge. “Aw, don’t be like that. I promise I won’t knock you over again.”
Touya’s smile was thin and mean. “That would require you to notice other people exist.”
“Ouch,” Keigo said, putting a hand to his chest in fake pain. “Mr. Matzah, he’s bullying me.”
Mr. Matzah, who had been watching the entire exchange like it was the highlight of his week, cleared his throat. “Now that you all have partners,” he said, voice bright with danger, “you’re going to sit with them.”
More groaning. Chairs scraped. Bags shifted.
Keigo stood with a dramatic sigh like he was being asked to do charity work. He sauntered over to Touya’s row, and—because the universe had a sense of humor—Touya’s seat assignment ended up with Keigo right beside him.
Keigo dropped into the chair like it belonged to him.
Touya didn’t scoot away. He didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Mr. Matzah waited until the room had mostly settled again. Then he reached under his podium and pulled out a second box.
This one was smaller. He shook it once.
It rattled.
The class went silent.
Touya’s fingers tightened around his pen.
“This,” Mr. Matzah said, “is where it gets interesting.”
A girl near the window raised her hand. “Please tell me that’s not—”
“Oh, it is,” Mr. Matzah said cheerfully. “In this box are your parental roles.”
A chorus of “NO!” hit the ceiling.
Mr. Matzah ignored it. “One of you will be assigned ‘Mom.’ One of you will be assigned ‘Dad.’ The roles affect your responsibilities. You will be graded accordingly.”
“Graded differently?” someone squeaked.
“Yes,” Mr. Matzah said, like it was obvious. “Life isn’t fair, class.”
Touya’s head snapped up. “That’s—”
“Accurate?” Mr. Matzah supplied.
Touya shut his mouth, because… yeah. Unfortunately.
Keigo leaned closer, voice low enough only Touya could hear. “If I get Mom, I’m suing.”
Touya didn’t look at him. “If you get either role, the baby is suing.”
Keigo made a soft laugh, like he couldn’t help it.
Touya hated that too.
Mr. Matzah started walking between desks, holding the box out for each pair. “Draw,” he instructed. “One slip per person.”
The box reached Touya and Keigo.
Keigo immediately shoved his hand in first, like everything was a race he needed to win. He pulled out a slip and unfolded it with theatrical dread.
His face fell.
“No,” he said. “No, no, no—”
Touya slid his hand into the box next, not reacting, pulled his slip, unfolded it—
MOM.
Touya stared at the word.
His mouth twitched.
Keigo slapped his slip down on the desk in front of Touya like it had personally betrayed him.
DAD.
Touya looked at it.
Then looked at Keigo.
Keigo was glaring at the paper like if he stared hard enough it would change.
Touya leaned back in his chair and, very calmly, said, “Well. This is perfect.”
Keigo’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”
Touya’s voice stayed flat, but his eyes were sharp. “Are you going to make it realistic by abandoning your kid you never wanted, then paying hush money in return while you get famous?”
The class went dead silent for half a second.
Then—like someone had lit a fuse—laughter exploded.
Even the kids who never laughed in class cracked.
Someone up front wheezed, “OH MY GOD.”
Keigo blinked, stunned, then snapped his head toward Touya like he couldn’t decide if he was offended or impressed.
Mr. Matzah made a noise—half laugh, half cough—that he tried to disguise by clearing his throat.
“Todoroki,” he said, biting down on a grin, “that is… wildly inappropriate.”
Touya didn’t move. “But accurate.”
More laughter.
Keigo’s ears went a little pink. “Okay, first of all—”
Mr. Matzah lifted a hand. “Mr. Takami, you can plead your case to your therapist. Now. Roles assigned.”
He turned back toward the front, still smiling. “Which brings us to…”
He reached behind his podium again.
And this time, when he pulled out what was hidden there, the room didn’t groan.
It went quiet in the way you go quiet when you see something that looks too real to be a joke.
Mr. Matzah held up a baby.
Not a doll.
A baby.
It had a soft knit cap on its head and a tiny hospital bracelet around its wrist. Its skin wasn’t shiny plastic—it had texture. The cheeks were slightly flushed like a real infant. Its eyes were closed in a peaceful sleep. Its fingers curled around nothing.
Touya’s brain stalled.
Keigo went, very softly, “…What the hell.”
Mr. Matzah cradled it like it weighed something. Like it had warmth.
“It’s called a RealCare infant simulator,” Mr. Matzah said, voice casual, like he wasn’t holding the classroom’s collective nightmare. “It cries. It needs to be fed. It needs to be burped. It needs diaper changes. It needs to be rocked. It tracks your response time. It tracks how long you ignore it. It tracks how much you shake it.”
The room made a horrified sound.
Touya’s stomach dropped. “It tracks shaking?”
“Yes,” Mr. Matzah said pleasantly. “So don’t do that.”
Keigo leaned back, mouth open. “You—this is—are you allowed to—”
Mr. Matzah shifted the baby slightly, and for a second Touya caught the side of its face.
The shape of the nose.
The soft curve of the mouth.
And—this was ridiculous, it had to be, it had to be his brain being stupid—
The baby looked… familiar.
Not like a real newborn. Like a newborn version of—
Touya swallowed.
Mr. Matzah carried the baby down the aisle, letting each pair look for a moment as he explained the rules. “You’ll have the baby for one week,” he said. “You’ll switch off nights according to the schedule I give you. Your roles—Mom and Dad—determine who is primary caretaker and who is secondary. You will each write a reflection journal. You will each complete a developmental chart. You will each present your findings at the end.”
He stopped at a pair near the window and let them peer in. The baby’s eyelashes were so tiny it was unsettling. Someone reached out to touch its hand and immediately withdrew like it was a trap.
Mr. Matzah moved on.
Touya’s heart beat a little harder as the baby got closer.
Keigo had gone oddly quiet beside him, which was alarming on its own. Keigo Takami quiet was like Times Square without tourists.
When Mr. Matzah finally reached their desk, he paused.
He looked between them.
His eyes twinkled with something that felt suspiciously like satisfaction. “Ah,” he said. “Mom and Dad.”
Touya didn’t react. Keigo made a face like he’d swallowed a lemon.
Mr. Matzah held the baby out slightly, angled so they could see its face.
Touya’s breath caught.
The baby really did look like them.
It was subtle—just enough that Touya couldn’t tell if it was coincidence or Mr. Matzah being a psychopath with a sense of humor. The hair was darker than Keigo’s but lighter than Touya’s, soft and wispy under the cap. The lashes were pale. The mouth had Touya’s shape when he frowned. The nose—Keigo’s, maybe. The cheeks were flushed like it had just been outside in winter.
Keigo leaned in, eyes widening. “Okay. No. That’s—why does it look like—”
Touya, because he couldn’t help himself, murmured, “Because the universe hates me.”
The baby’s eyelids fluttered—maybe from the movement, maybe just programmed.
Touya’s shoulders went tight.
Mr. Matzah’s smile widened. “Your infant is assigned to your pair. You will pick it up at the end of class, along with your supplies. Car seat. Diapers. Bottles. The works.”
Keigo stared at the baby like it had just blinked and called him “Father.”
Touya stared too long and had to force his eyes away.
Mr. Matzah straightened. “And one more thing.”
The room quieted again.
Mr. Matzah’s tone shifted—still warm, but firm enough that it anchored the chaos. “This project is graded on responsibility. Not popularity. Not excuses. Not your schedule. Not your athletic commitments, Mr. Takami.”
Keigo lifted a hand. “Hey—”
“Not your workload, Mr. Todoroki,” Mr. Matzah added without looking at Touya.
Touya’s jaw clenched.
“You are both capable students,” Mr. Matzah continued. “Which means I expect you to act like it. This isn’t about playing house. This is about understanding how stress affects behavior, how sleep deprivation affects decision-making, how attachment forms, how resentment builds, how support systems matter.”
He let that hang for a beat.
Then, like he couldn’t resist, he added, “And yes. It’s also about humility.”
The bell rang right on cue—loud, jarring, cutting through the tension like a knife.
Everyone exploded into motion.
Kids crowded around the front where Mr. Matzah started handing out instruction packets. Someone shouted, “Do we have to name it?” Another yelled, “Can I drop out?” Someone else asked, “Is this legal?” and Mr. Matzah, without missing a beat, said, “In a spiritual sense? No.”
Touya gathered his notebook slowly.
Keigo stood up too fast, chair scraping. “Okay,” he said, voice low as he leaned toward Touya, “we need a plan.”
Touya slung his bag over his shoulder. “Your plan should’ve started with not shoving people.”
Keigo paused, eyes flicking to Touya’s face like he was actually seeing him for the first time today. “I didn’t—” He stopped himself, then, annoyingly, did something that almost resembled sincerity. “I said oops.”
Touya gave him a look. “Wow. Nobel Peace Prize behavior.”
Keigo huffed a laugh through his nose. “You’re… you’re kind of mean.”
Touya stared at him. “You’re kind of a lot.”
Keigo’s grin tugged at the corner of his mouth again, but it wasn’t as smug this time. It was more… intrigued. “Yeah, well. You’re stuck with me.”
Touya’s response came automatically. “Unfortunately.”
They reached the front at the same time.
Mr. Matzah handed Touya a thick packet with their names on it—Pair #7: Todoroki / Takami—and then slid a set of keys across the podium like he was running a rental service.
“These are for the car seat,” he said. “Don’t lose them.”
Then he looked at Keigo. “Mr. Takami, you’ll sign out the infant at dismissal. And remember—your infant has an ID sensor. Only you two can ‘care’ for it. If someone else tries, it logs it.”
Keigo blinked. “So I can’t just… hand it to my mom’s nanny?”
Mr. Matzah’s smile was sweet and deadly. “You can. It will still log it.”
Keigo made a strangled sound.
Touya flipped open the packet and scanned the first page.
IMPORTANT: DO NOT IGNORE CRYING. RESPONSE TIME IS GRADED.
He closed it.
He felt Keigo watching him.
Touya didn’t look up. “If you flake,” he said quietly, “I’ll bury you.”
Keigo’s voice came out just as quiet, and for once, not joking. “I’m not gonna flake.”
Touya finally looked at him.
Keigo’s eyes were bright—always were—but there was something else there now. Not cocky. Not careless.
Nervous.
Touya couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse.
The crowd thinned as students filed out.
Mr. Matzah lifted the baby carefully into a car seat carrier on the front table, along with a diaper bag stuffed to bursting. He checked a clipboard, then nodded at Keigo. “Alright, Dad. Come get your child.”
Keigo stepped forward like he was approaching a bomb.
Touya stayed a half-step behind him, arms crossed, posture stiff.
Keigo reached down and curled his hands around the carrier handle.
The baby’s head lolled slightly inside, so real it made Touya’s skin prickle.
Keigo lifted the carrier.
The weight made his shoulders dip a fraction.
His expression—genuine, startled—was almost comical.
He looked down at the baby.
Then up at Touya.
Touya raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Keigo swallowed. “It’s… heavy.”
Touya deadpanned, “Congratulations. You’ve discovered physics.”
Keigo made a short laugh, but it sounded strained. “Okay. Alright. We can do this.”
Touya snorted softly. “Who’s we?”
Keigo’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger—more like he was matching Touya’s energy, refusing to be intimidated. “We,” he repeated, voice firming. “Because you’re the Mom.”
Touya’s mouth twitched. “And you’re the Dad.”
Keigo nodded toward the baby, then the diaper bag. “So let’s not kill it.”
Touya stared at the infant’s tiny face again.
That weird, impossible resemblance.
His chest felt tight in a way he didn’t like.
“Fine,” Touya said. “Don’t drop it.”
Keigo lifted his chin. “I’m not dropping it.”
Touya started walking toward the door with him. “Don’t shake it.”
“I’m not shaking it.”
“Don’t ignore it.”
Keigo shot him a look. “I’m not—why are you listing crimes like I’m about to commit them?”
Touya didn’t look away. “Because I don’t trust you.”
Keigo’s lips parted like he wanted to argue.
Then he exhaled and, for once, didn’t go for the easy joke. “Okay,” he said instead, quieter. “Fair.”
They stepped into the hallway, the noise of passing students swallowing them up. People turned to stare immediately—because Keigo Takami carrying a baby was a spectacle no one could ignore.
Someone whistled.
Someone else called, “Congrats, dad!”
Keigo flipped them off without looking, still gripping the carrier like it might explode.
Touya walked beside him, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, posture tight, eyes forward like he didn’t know this idiot.
But he was aware of Keigo’s presence the entire time.
The way Keigo adjusted the carrier when it shifted.
The way he kept glancing down at the baby like he didn’t trust it to stay asleep.
The way his jaw clenched every time someone laughed.
By the time they reached the front steps, the winter air hit Touya’s face like a slap. Gray clouds hung low. The campus lawn was damp, half-frozen, and the big stone building of their high school loomed behind them like a castle designed by someone who hated joy.
Keigo stopped at the curb where black SUVs lined up for pickup—because of course his ride was here already.
A driver in a dark coat stepped out of the first one, opening the back door without a word like Keigo was royalty.
Touya stared, unimpressed. “Wow.”
Keigo shifted the carrier, glancing at Touya with that half-smile that usually meant trouble. “What?”
Touya nodded at the SUV. “Do you keep that parked outside your ego?”
Keigo snorted, and the sound was oddly… real. “Listen, I didn’t ask for the family money. It just happened to me.”
Touya rolled his eyes. “Tragic.”
Keigo hesitated. Then—like he was making a decision he didn’t want Touya to see him make—he said, “So.”
Touya waited, wary.
Keigo rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “We gotta figure out where the baby stays. The schedule says—” He glanced down at the packet tucked under Touya’s arm, then back up. “It’s a week. It cries at night. It’s gonna be… a lot.”
Touya’s expression stayed flat. “You’re stating facts.”
Keigo’s eyes flicked over Touya’s face again, searching. “Do you want to do it at your place?”
Touya’s stomach tightened for reasons he refused to unpack. “No.”
Keigo blinked. “No?”
Touya’s voice was clipped. “My place isn’t— it’s not— no.”
Keigo didn’t push immediately, which surprised Touya.
He looked toward the lawn, toward the parking lot, then back at Touya like he was trying to read something Touya wasn’t offering.
Finally, Keigo said, carefully, “Okay.”
Touya’s jaw loosened a fraction, still defensive. “Okay?”
Keigo nodded toward the SUV. “We can do it at my house.”
Touya stared at him.
Keigo’s cheeks flushed faintly, whether from cold or something else Touya didn’t care about. “I’ve got space,” he added, like he needed to justify it. “And… like, it’s quieter. And the baby crying won’t bother a bunch of people. And my driver can take us to school with it in the morning. And there’s… land. So if we need to walk it around or whatever, we can.”
Touya’s first instinct was to say no out of sheer principle.
His second instinct was to say no because the idea of being trapped in Keigo Takami’s mansion for a week sounded like psychological warfare.
His third instinct—small, inconvenient—was the fact that Touya really did not want this stupid fake baby screaming through thin apartment walls with neighbors banging on the ceiling.
Touya exhaled slowly through his nose.
Keigo watched him, unusually still.
Touya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to make me regret agreeing to this.”
Keigo lifted his free hand like he was swearing an oath. “I swear.”
Touya held his gaze a beat longer.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded once.
Keigo’s shoulders dropped like he’d been holding his breath. “Cool. Great. Awesome. We’ll—” He cleared his throat, then tried to regain his usual confidence. “We’ll do the week-long project at my house.”
Touya stared at the baby one more time.
The tiny face. The weird resemblance. The too-real lashes.
Then he looked back at Keigo, who was trying very hard not to look terrified while holding their shared responsibility in both hands.
Touya’s mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile.
“Fine,” he said. “Dad.”
Keigo’s grin flickered back to life, and for a second, it looked less like arrogance and more like relief.
“Alright then,” Keigo said, shifting the carrier carefully toward the SUV. “Mom.”
And as the driver held the door open like this was the most normal thing in the world, Keigo paused—looked at Touya again—and added, voice lower, almost private:
“We can do this.”