Chapter Text
The betrayal Shouta Shouta felt when he found out was actually insane. Because first of all— his husband absolutely knew better. Second of all, his son absolutely knew better. Third of all, they hid it from him for three weeks
Three.
Weeks.
And the ONLY reason Shouta even finds out is because one night Hitoshi comes home late after patrol, exhausted and sweaty, muttering about needing a shower before collapsing face first into bed.
Shouta’s half asleep on the couch grading papers. Doesn’t even look up initially. Just hears boots kicked off, gear hitting the floor, Hitoshi grumbling under his breath.
Normal.
Then Hitoshi bends slightly to grab something from his bag and his shirt lifts.
And there it is.
Black ink disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats.
Shouta freezes. “what the fuck is that.”
Silence.
Hitoshi stops moving. Slowly turns his head, and immediately realizes the game is over.
Meanwhile from the kitchen, Hizashi actually fucking bolts. Like physically SPRINTS. Grown ass man by the way. Which confirms everything instantly.
“Hizashi.”
“LOVE YOU BYE—”
“Get. back. here.”
Hitoshi is just standing there, unblinking, staring straight at him. The audacity of this boy.
Shouta stands up slowly.
“Hitoshi.”
“…yeah?”
“What did you do.”
And Hitoshi—traitorous little shit that he is—actually has even more audacity to look mildly smug. “Got a tattoo.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why’d you ask, old man.”
“I swear to god–”
“It’s good work though.”
“That is not the point.”
From somewhere in the hallway Hizashi yells: “IT LOOKS SICK SHOUTA.”
“I AM GOING TO DIVORCE YOU.”
“YOU SAY THAT EVERY MONTH YOU BASTARD!”
Shouta rubs a hand across his face and stares blankly at his son who lifts up his shirt to proudly show off his crime. And see, the tattoo is insane. Because of course Hitoshi didn’t get something safe and small.
No.
This dramatic bastard got a black dragon curling over one hipbone, claws stretching over his side, body winding upward across his back in intricate lines before disappearing halfway up his spine.
It’s beautiful.
Which somehow makes Shoata even more annoyed. “You got a full spinal tattoo at nineteen.”
Hitoshi shrugs. “Its a pelvic tattoo, father.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Shouta turns to Hizashi, “You took him.”
Hizashi who also had at least 36 tattoos on him, puts his hands on his hips, completely unashamed. “Yes ❤️”
“You are a terrible influence.”
Hizashi gasps dramatically. “Excuse you, I am an excellent influence. The artist gave us matching discounts!”
Shouta goes dead silent. Very slowly: “…matching.”
Hitoshi bites the corner of his lip trying not to smile. Because yes. They got tattoos together. Not matching designs— God no, Hitoshi would rather die— but matching placement themes.
Hizashi’s disappears beneath his collarbones and shoulder, all loud intricate audio-wave inspired inkwork mixed with neon color accents. And Hitoshi, sitting beside him at nineteen years old in a tattoo chair for six hours straight, got the dragon.
Apparently without flinching once.
Which makes sense because this man’s pain tolerance is demonic.
Hizashi later admits the real reason he took Hitoshi wasn’t even rebellion. It was because Hitoshi spent months researching artists, healing methods, ink quality, nerve mapping, professional regulations.
Like a damn dissertation.
And one day Hizashi just looked at him and went. “You already decided huh.”
And Hitoshi had shrugged without looking up from his laptop. “Pretty much.”
So Hizashi looked at his son— this kid who spent most of his life having absolutely no control over his own body or environment— and thought: Yeah. Okay. Let him choose this one thing entirely for himself.
Shouta sighs. He wasn’t exactly mad. He was just pissed off. A key difference, mind you. He rubs his temple “you couldn’t have chosen a smaller one to start?
Hitoshi Shinso is sitting upside down on the couch armrest eating instant noodles straight from the cup completely unbothered.
“It is small.”
“Don’t fuck with me, that thing takes up half your god damn torso.”
Hizashi, who moved to the kitchen counter to start the coffee machine, yells immediately “THAT’S BECAUSE THE DETAILS NEED SPACE, SHOUTA.”
And before Shouta can say anything else, Hizashi proceeds to do a little twirl holding coffee like he’s not the root cause of all evil in this household. “Our son is an artist.”
“Our son looks like he runs an underground fight club.”
“He basically does.”
“Oi—”
Meanwhile Hitoshi is over there slurping noodles like none of this concerns him whatsoever.
“You couldn’t have made him get one that’s age appropriate for nineteen?”
Hizashi looks genuinely offended by that. “Age appropriate? Shouta, our son takes more medication than adults twice his age. What do you mean age appropriate?!”
“You know what I mean.”
“I literally don’t.” He was smirking.
Shouta turn slowly toward Hitoshi, who immediately knows he’s been sold out.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Hitoshi—
just lifts both hands lazily like hey, what exactly would you like me to do about it now? The tattoo already exists. The dragon is already permanently crawling up from his hip.
Criminal.