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Ichimonji Hayato had fought monsters, trained until his muscles burned, and survived more explosions than he could count. None of that, apparently, prepared him for the horrors of morning sickness.
“Ughhh, Takeshi, this is worse than any Shocker cyborg!” he groaned, hanging dramatically over the futon.
Hongo, already dressed for patrol, crouched at his side and handed him a glass of water. “Drink. Complaining won’t help.”
“It might,” Ichimonji muttered between gulps. “If I complain loud enough, maybe Shocker will surrender out of pity.”
Hongo only sighed, shaking his head. He had faced down kaijin with less noise.
Despite his bravado, Ichimonji refused to slow down. He tried sparring with Tachibana, only to nearly topple over when his balance shifted. He insisted he could still ride his motorcycle, until Hongo physically took the keys.
“You’re grounded,” Hongo said firmly, tucking them into his pocket.
“You can’t ground Rider Two!” Ichimonji snapped, pointing dramatically.
“I just did.”
Ichimonji sulked for hours afterward, but Hongo noticed the way his hand rested protectively over his stomach whenever he thought no one was looking.
When the others found out, it was chaos.
Taki blinked once, then twice, before bursting out laughing. “You? Pregnant? I thought Takeshi would be the one!”
“Why does everyone assume that?” Ichimonji shouted, red in the face. “What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Hiromi leaned in with an amused smile. “Well, you’re not exactly the quiet, nurturing type.”
Ichimonji puffed his chest out. “I can nurture! I’ll be the best dad you’ve ever seen!”
Meanwhile, Hongo stood calmly at his side, one hand on his shoulder. “He already is,” he said simply, silencing the teasing.
The months went on. Ichimonji alternated between dramatics—“Takeshi, if I eat one more rice ball, I’m going to turn into one!”—and genuine awe. At night, he would sprawl across their futon, Hongo sitting with a book nearby, and start talking to his belly.
“Hey, kid, you’re gonna like motorcycles, right? I’ll teach you all the Rider poses. Don’t let your papa Takeshi tell you Riders have to be serious all the time.”
Hongo would glance over the book, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He never interrupted.
When the first kick came, Ichimonji shouted loud enough to startle the neighbors.
“TAKESHI! THEY KICKED! RIGHT HERE, FEEL IT!” He grabbed Hongo’s hand and pressed it urgently to his stomach, bouncing like a kid at Christmas.
Hongo felt the faint flutter, quiet and strong, and his eyes softened. “…They’re strong already.”
“Of course they are.” Ichimonji grinned, pride blazing. “They take after me.”
Hongo didn’t argue—but he didn’t remove his hand, either.
The delivery was chaos, much like Ichimonji himself. He shouted, cursed, demanded to know why Riders had to go through this of all things. But when the baby finally cried out, all the noise stopped. Ichimonji lay back, drenched in sweat, staring at the tiny life in his arms.
He laughed, shaky and unguarded. “Look at you… already tougher than your old man.”
Hongo leaned close, resting a steadying hand on his. “Stronger than both of us.”
Ichimonji glanced at him, eyes suspiciously wet. “Don’t you dare start crying before I do.”
Weeks later, anyone watching would see Ichimonji holding their baby up in the air, demonstrating Rider poses with far too much enthusiasm, while Hongo sat in the corner with a camera.
Click. Another secret photo.
Hongo’s face softened as Ichimonji shouted, “Rider… BABY!” and the child waved a tiny fist in approval.
For all the chaos, all the dramatics, Hongo couldn’t deny it,this, too, was the strength of Riders.