ok I know I seem insane for watching project hail mary for the fourth time in 10 days but I got to watch it with the directors commentary tonight and itâs incredible how much thought and love went into this film by EVERYONE. the directors, ryan gosling himself, the sound department, costumes, set production, cameras. everyone has so much pride and the story is so beloved by all. anyway here are some of my favorite things from the commentary
no one knew how to pronounce eridani (air-id-ah-ni or air-re-deni) so they just literally never said it in the film
the âgood luckâ at the beginning is supposed to have been written by the astronauts on the ISS who delivered ryland to the hail mary
the mop ryland was dancing with was called moppy ringwald
when ryland calls stratt after successfully breeding astrophage and he says âcarl and I made a baby,â that was ryan gosling calling sandra hĂŒller on her day off and she had no idea thatâs what he was going to say. that âwhatâ was her genuine first reaction
the scientist whom ryland called a stagnating waste of carbon was the bearded guy sitting next to him and stratt in the initial phm meeting
the idea of the soundtrack being so hopeful was supposed to be like there were two different planets cheering him on
when ryland is sitting on the beach in that donât-go-crazy room and sees a figure walking towards him, thatâs him on erid at the end. heâs seeing himselfÂ
among the markings on rocky were the petrova line mission patch, his rank, family crest, and wedding band
rocky always stamped his claw on the ground twice for a question
they wanted to make it so that eridani could have different tones. so it could be a given series of keys for one word and then you could change the frequencies for happy, sad, scared, etc.
after rocky wakes up and asks ryland if they caught the taumeoba and ryland shakes his head no and then yes, the directors went âwhat an odd thing to doâ
ryan gosling wrapped all the gifts that ryland gave to rocky himself
the entire reason that exchange panel was put on rockyâs ball was so that ryland could pass him the little beanie earth
the movie starts with an upside down shot of ryland waking up. the epilogue starts with a right-side up shot of ryland waking up. he also makes his bed and brushes his teeth to show how time has passed LOL
their headcanon for explaining the rocky nature of the beach is that the eridians tried to emulate sand but got the scale of the grains wrong
rocky had them create a beach, and wave machine for the beach, and a tree for ryland so that he felt closer to home, but rocky was all he needed for that
CONTENT àŠ she/her pronouns & fem & afab reader, reader has a quirk & hero name (Mist), ex-hero!reader, pro-heroes, heavy angst, yearning, intense situations, high up places (building, bridge, cliff), reader has a background & a complex personality
WARNINGS àŠ trauma, emotional detachment, apathy towards death, conflicting emotions, themes of death & suicide, death threats, bullying, depressive & spiraling thoughts, reader receives ridicule & scorn as a hero
A/N àŠ ngl iâm a little nervous with this story because itâs pretty heavy. but if youâre here, thank you for reading and i do really hope you enjoy this new fic iâm working on :) that being said, please make sure to read the warnings lol! the heaviness comes very quickly
SUPPOSEDLY, EVERYONE HAS A FIRE WITHIN THEM. One that blazes according to their will. One that flickers in the depths of their being, whipping with each fluctuating emotion and fueling the very essence of their life.
Itâs the feeling of being alive, even if it has the potential to burn you, exposing you to equal parts of fulfillment and sorrow.
Why is it that people take that risk?
You used to believe that happiness can only exist when thereâs sadness. A balance of some sort. And maybe thatâs the reason why itâs worth burning, because in the face of endless turmoil, you know there will be a light at the endâhappiness in the end. What do they say? What doesnât kill you makes you stronger?
The notion makes you laugh.
For the revelation came astoundingly clear to you one day, when the fire scorched and nearly burned you alive: itâs easier to live as cold ashes than to roar furiouslyârecklessly. Because when sadness creates happiness, the reverse is bound to happen, where happiness creates sadness, resentment, and pain. Itâs a way of protection, from being swallowed whole by the fire when you detach yourself from these emotions.
It doesnât change how deathly cold it feels, but you do get used to it, the flicker of life that lacks inside of you. It gets easier with time because you notice it less the more you get accustomed to it.
It becomes your new way of living.
With your hood down, you walk the streets with your eyes pointed forward, but your gaze lingers on nothing. Itâs rather cold today, the air hardening your bones in a way that lets you know itâs here to stay, unthawing and still.
Itâs a feeling that you welcome.
At this time, the city is quiet, just barely waking up in its early morning hours. Few people are out and about on their way to work or on a stroll. They move with a direction in mind, with intention. You are here, with neither.
You keep walking.Â
With one foot planted in front of the other, thatâs as far as any of your direction goes. Clinging to the edge of the sidewalk, it should startle you when someone manages to bump into your body on the wide and empty sidewalk, but you barely bat an eye.
A grunt before you hear, âWatch where youâre going.â
Your eyes remain forward as your body sways, shoulder tingling from the impact. You donât respond, not even when they grumble louder, something about how young folks donât have any manners these days. It doesnât garner a reaction out of you.Â
So, you keep walking.Â
One foot in front of the other, watching shop owners roll their gates up and briefcases swinging from stressed fists.Â
Itâs become a practiced mindset: the sounds all going in one ear and out the other, the motions all passing through your vision without any meaning to them.Â
From up ahead, a newspaper boy skirts around frames, leaves of gray spilling from his hands. The papers bounce with his pace, fast and loose, and you almost think that itâs intentional when one slips from his stackâa meant-to-be occurrence in a rather sickening way.Â
The paper flutters in the frigid air, blowing aimlessly until it lands right at your feet. It makes you pause, passively.
THE THREE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE GOLDEN EAGLE AGENCY, AND TWO YEARS SINCE THE RETIREMENT OF PRO-HERO MIST. HER SCANDAL AND LAST FAILED MISSION STILLâ
Your eyes dart upwards, not caring to read the rest of it. Maybe two years ago, you would have. Maybe two years ago, your hands would have reached to the ground and crinkled the ashen paper in both curiosity and dread. Maybe that fire in you would have burned in either anger or disappointment.
There are a lot of maybes, but you donât indulge in them. Instead, you keep walking.
You walk and walk and walk. With no direction, with no intention, with no meaning. You donât linger on the words, because itâs easier to move when they donât dwell restlessly in your head. Because moving has only become possible after youâve numbed every and any attachment.
Itâs the only protection you have that works; itâs easier to snuff out the emotions than to let yourself feel. Because feeling leads to caring, and caring allows too many opportunities for one to burn. Allows the flame to blaze furiously and vulnerably to winds and terrain you cannot control.
The bigger the fire, the more itâll attract. And as long as there is no kindling to begin with, the embers wonât catch. Everything hurts less this way.
The only thing you allow to roam free is your body. At least, itâll seem like there is direction, even if you know there isnât. And eventually, it brings you somewhere to rest, somewhere high above the ground where thereâs no longer a road for you to keep planting your feet in front of the other.
These are the only places that bring you some semblance of quiet, where the voices donât dare to even reach you. And with an empty mind, you stay where the air feels the coldestâthe stillest.
You stay until the sun dips below the horizon, and the next day greets you much the same.
â50/50
The first time you meet him, itâs on the roof of one of the highest skyscrapers in the city.Â
In broad daylight, perched on the edge of the building with your legs dangling off the side. Your hands are tucked underneath your thighs, as your gaze sweeps over the tops of buildings and ant-like people swarming the streets below.Â
A gust of wind breezes by, strong enough to sway your body, but it doesnât faze you. If anything, this feels familiarâit always does, reminds you of the days when your feet would catch nothing but air, when you swung from ledge to ledge with rock-hard mist wisping from your palms.
Though it must be a scary sight to others. You donât think of how this could look until you hear him.
âMiss,â a calm voice echoes from behind, and your eyes instinctively shut at the sound.Â
Itâs an easily recognizable voice to anyone in this day and age. A deep and low timbre you remember hearing during police debriefings. One that was never directed at you personally, but always managed to catch the whole precinctâs attention. Deep and clear-cut, with maybe an ounce of awkwardness in it.
People usually feel relief from hearing his voice, but in this moment, it only tells you that youâve wandered far today. Far enough to the part of the city where his duty lies.
You donât turn your head, clearing your throat before speaking your thoughts aloud to the sky in front of you.
âShould I consider it an honor that they sent the number two Hero? Or offended that they think I canât handle myself this high off the ground?â
âNeither,â you hear the voice say, and the acute carefulness in it makes you laugh inwardly. Itâs funny, you werenât actually planning on taking any of his answers seriously. Not like there was genuine curiosity behind asking the questions.
But they really did send someone, you end up thinking. They really thought you would try to kill yourself.
You wouldnât. Probably. The probably doesnât help your case, but you simply allowed your body to roam freely. So what if it falls? In your head, there are only two choicesâtwo percentages if falling was what you ended up doing, if you were ever at deathâs door: 50/50.
A 50% chance that youâd accept it, that youâd let your eyes close as you free-fall knowingly.
A 50% chance that youâd save yourself, that furls of mist would release from your fingertips to catch your flailing body.
50/50. You would either die or live, and with chilling apathy, you think that neither outcome could go wrong.
Another gust of wind blows by. Goosebumps arise on your skin as you shiver, one hand sliding from under, scraping against the concrete, to rub at your bare arm.
âIt is rather cold up here,â the man continues, steady and a little coaxing, as if approaching a wild animal and refusing to back down. Still a faceless voice from behind. âWould you like to come inside with me?â
âDo you think Iâll jump?â you ask absentmindedly.
âThe elderly couple who called in thinks so.â
You shift your head ninety degrees, looking sideways. Halfway to seeing him, but not fully committing to it. Your eyes meet gray concrete instead. âIâm asking if you think I would.â
Silence, a beat too quiet save for the wind. It rustles your shirt before traveling chillingly underneath it. All before,
âIâd hope you wouldnât.â
Thatâs a new line, you canât help but think. Everyone else hopes otherwise.
A smidge of something close to annoyance breaks in your voice; youâre not exactly sure where it stems from, or why itâs coming out, but you try to contain it. âYouâre not answering my question.â
Without hesitating, he says directlyâplainly, âMy answer is noâŠâ
Not said as a hope anymore, but more as a fact. As if he knew in his bones that you wouldnât.
Itâs astounding how confident he sounds; he doesnât even know you. It makes you finally turn your head fully over your shoulder, having to stifle your surprise when you realize how close he is, barely a foot separating you two.
The ledge youâre perched on is a raised wall that borders the roof, so you meet him squarely in the eye despite his tall height. There he stands, in all his heroic glory, wrapped in a sturdy navy blue suit.
Now, gray concrete is replaced by a gray iris, and another one of sea glass to pair with it on a rigid face. How notorious: that left side of red hair meeting the right side of white hair, split cleanly down the middle. You hold his gaze, not looking away, watching as red and white strands cross over his face from the breeze.
And in that low and clear-cut voiceâone that was never directed at you personally, but is, without a doubt, in this momentâTodoroki Shoto, one of the nationâs prized heroes, says:
ââŠYou wouldnât.â
His answer makes you pause, because it wasnât said as a taunt. It was said as a simple answer to a question. It was spoken as if he knew you, spoken with a belief that you wouldnât, spoken with such clarity and confidence that it makes you wonder how you truly look in his eyes.Â
âŠWho is this guy?
This wouldnât be how he would coax someone who may actually be suicidal, right? Surely not. Itâs brazen, even for him. It doesnât even try to convince.Â
Try me, youâre tempted to say. Partly because you know it would evoke a reaction. Partly because you're not afraid to prove him wrong.
You donât, because you donât care enough to do either. Instead, you bring your legs up from the ledge, twisting your front so that it faces the building. But thereâs hardly any room to place them, so each leg settles on either side of his broad body, just hovering over his hips.Â
Itâs a disbelieving intimate position; you essentially cage him in, your bodies close enough to graze, and it takes an active effort not to touch him.
The Pro-Hero doesnât move back, but you see his fingers twitch out of the corner of your eye. His peculiar, heterochromatic gaze remains steady on yours, refusing to break eye contact.
You tilt your head to one side.Â
âCan you move,â you say monotously, leaning forward so your face is mere breaths away from his. A challenge that he doesnât back away from.
You can feel his warm exhales from this close, can see the saturated flecks in his irises, and the texture of his burn scar. Another notorious feature of his. It borders the entirety of his left eye, thick discolored skin that healed with time but remained stubbornly bumpy.
People always said it was his most defining feature, and it takes a little more effort not to stare at it. âYou wanted me to go inside, right?â
âNo,â he says pointedly. âI asked if youââ
Before he can finish his sentence, your palms jerkily lift and lay themselves flat on his rigid chest, shoving hard. It forces him back a couple of feet more than you thought it would. The recoil isnât bad either, and you hardly flinch as you bounce back a few inches, hardly fazed as if there wasnât a threatening death of a two-thousand-foot drop behind you.
Rather, itâs his movement that makes you flinch.
The Pro-Heroâs arm flies up, grasping firmly onto your forearm as if you were actually flung backwards into the impending abyss, and tugs. Tugs you so hard that your breath hitches when he yanks you clean off the concrete ledge and into his chest, arms tight on either side of your tumbling body.Â
The smell of smoke immediately engulfs you, his body hot and cold to the touch, even over his hero suit. You reflectively shove your way out of his embrace, looking at him with accusing eyes, and speaking with an even more accusatory tone.
âThat was not neededââ
âYou were going to fallââ
âDid you think that Iâd want your help?â
At your question, his eyes turn hard, eyebrows pinched low. He seems frustrated as he pauses, opening his mouth to retort.
But you donât bother to hear his answer this time, skirting your way around his body, opting not to shove him again. Because something told you that if you were push again, heâd probably pull, again. You donât want to see itâto feel it, so you leave. You leave the number two Hero on the roof all by himself without so much as a glance back.
Your steps are heavy as the metal door slams shut behind you, echoing in the hollowness of the empty staircase. Itâs only until you sneak out the back alley, away from the rest of his team waiting idly on the sidewalk, that you mull over what just transpired.
No matter how much you try not to think about it, his words repeat themselves in your head. A river that ends up right where it started. And you canât stop the annoyance that comes with itâthe minuscule size of curiosity that you refuse to acknowledge.
âYou wouldnât.â
The thought makes your eye twitch, your fists clenched tighter than youâd like to admit. Because who the hell did Todoroki Shoto think he was? To have his presumptions. To think you wouldnât. To say it so definitively with such a confident look on his face as if it should mean something coming from him.
Itâs irritating how two words, one sentence, can cause this much discomfort to rise inside you. It wound your muscles, squeezed your heart. To the point that your hand hastily crawled up to wrestle with the sudden suffocating fabric of your shirt.
The feeling sickened you, pointlessly so.
â50/50
You donât truly remember much of what happened leading up to your retirement as Pro-Hero Mist. They say that if an event is traumatic enough, your brain desperately tries to protect you by blocking it out. You figured thatâs why the past was a hazeâa blurry mar in your cycle of memories. Frankly, youâre thankful for it; it's a wonderful thing not to be able to remember the darkest parts of your life.
Because now, two years had passed since then, and only your version of the story remains in your head:
You had quit being a Hero because there was no need to be one.
The fact is straight to the point. Clean-cut. Almost a saving grace in its simplicity when you think about what the tabloids still drone on and on about:Â
Mistâyouâwere jealous of a rising young Hero, Golden Eagle, and tried to slander them by making false allegations that their new agency was selling civilian information to villains. You were resentful, delusional, and so in over your head that you became reckless and injured civilians in a sorry excuse of a rescue mission.
Your attitude was already unbecoming of a Heroâunkind and too blunt. Adding that on top of maliciously spreading lies and your wretched carelessness, itâs better off that you had quit.Â
These two versions of the story couldnât be more different, and it serves as a reminder of how the world turned its back on you in the blink of an eye.
Because the competency you were once praised for turned into being a dangerous threat to society. The renowned Hero that even managed to break the Top 20 in her debut year, Mist, died along with the flames of the last mission she did. Replaced by ashes that left a burnt taste in peopleâs mouths. A fire that once burned bright, that eventually became snuffed, as if it was never lit.
Mist, the Hero who could save anyone, turned into Mist, the disgrace of a Hero who has no shame.
Mist, the savior of our people, one rope at a time, turned into Mist, the Hero that doesnât deserve a pedestal in our society.
Mist, the brave, turned into Mist, the delusional lunatic. The jealous bitch. The rising threat.
The Hero that the world is better off without.
If you put it like this, maybe you did remember far more details than youâd like. But you see it more as ghosts that used to haunt you. Now, you donât pay them any mind.
Because it didnât matter in the end. The people got what they wanted, and that was for you to step down. To retire. To quit.
You can admit that it hurt at first, felt like knives dipped in poison, stabbing you at every turn. No one really tried to believe in you, even when you claimed with your full chest that your evidence was real, that you were trying to protect and do your duty as a real Hero.
No one believed you.
On top of that, your reputation as a Hero was already unsteady: a Hero, but not quite heroic enough. A little too unkind. Reliant, but seemed heartless. According to the press, there was never anything resembling close to a smile on your face. People were intimidated by your infamous expression that looked like it could give less than a damn.
That scandal was just the nail in the coffin, a tipping point in the otherwise unstable scale that no one bothered to balance. They couldnât care less. In fact, they probably reveled in your damnation, used the opportunity to finally put someone else in the spotlight. Someone that they felt was more deserving.
Those in your life turned their backs, and those on the side spat on you with venomous words.Â
What can you do?
You remember hurting. You remember feeling stuck, like you were in this hopeless pit surrounded by vipers leering with their fangs at you. You remember feeling scared and thinking heartache can only happen when you care this much. And why should you care this much?
All of Japan practically threw you in after all, with nothing less than wisps of air to pull you back up. Maybe they thought you would be fine; itâs your quirk, you emit it from your very fingers, so why help? Youâre tough, right? You didnât actually care about being a Hero, right? You couldnât have, not with that attitude.
Maybe you couldâve tried harder to fight back; after all, civilians' lives were at risk. But people often overestimate a Heroâs resolve. Itâs hard to protect others when you feel like you canât protect yourself. Itâs hard to protect the very people who hate you, the very people who donât want your protection.
It didnât matter that you cared. You had heart, you knew you did. It just didnât matter in the end becauseâ
No one believed in you.
It hurt. So much.
In the face of vipers in this dark and meaningless pit, you chose neither to fight nor climb out. If anything, you knew you would be met with the same fangs even if you did climb out. And that would be after putting in the stinging effort.
So you sat, huddling in on yourself for survival, stilling your being to complete and utter silence. If you knew you were stuck, if you were going to get bitten, that you were going to die, why not spare yourself the terror beforehand? Why not ignore everything and numb yourself to complete indifference?Â
It hurts to live, and it hurts to die. It all seemed the same at this point. So, you decided that death seems less scary if you donât care about dying. And living seems less scary if you donât care about living.
You realized that caring can become a choice too. So, you chose to stop caring. To numb yourself so that even if the vipers touched you, you wouldnât feel the pain.
It all made perfect sense in your head.Â
Perhaps in this life, you were simply unlucky to cross paths with that wretched Eagle, but at least now you knew the worldâs true colors. In its darkening hues of black and grays, it revealed the heinous things one can do and say.
You can at least count your stars for that one.
â50/50
That pit is the reason why you like high places. For a second, you feel like you can breathe, and you can pretend that all that hissing and biting is beneath you. The escape is freeing, less suffocating in many different ways, if only for a moment.
The second time you meet him, itâs on a bridge that crosses over one of the largest rivers in the city.
In the cool evening chill, perched on the edge of the metal beam with your legs hanging in the air. Your hands are braced on either side of you, as your gaze sweeps over the soft ripples of the waves, the sun reflecting off the water in rows of glitter.
The sunset is nice here. The sounds, not so much. Tires rolling over the asphalt rush behind you in increments. And you saw from earlier: the car parked in the shoulder with its hazards on, the apprehensive look on the womanâs face behind the window, as she looked straight at you while clutching a phone to her ear.
It was only time before your quiet was interrupted.
âMist.â
Your old name sounds brittle to your ears, calm but heavy with his voice. It causes your spine to perk up just the slightest.
Passively, you think: Him again? Your gaze doesnât move from the water as his presence draws nearer. Only this time, heâs unable to come directly behind you with the beams barely having a platform to sit, let alone stand.
You like the distance it creates, and you listen to your own voice come out blank, a little bit hoarse. âDidnât you hear? I told everyone I didnât want to be associated as a Hero anymore. That name no longer exists.â
âIt existed at some point.â
You turn your head over your shoulder to eye his figure standing where metal meets concrete. The Hero must see or feel something you donât notice, because he cautiously follows up with,
âI wonât call you that.â
Your head swivels back forward, closer to ignoring than acknowledging him. Itâs a few passing seconds before you hear a crystalline sound resonate from behind, and feel a chill not brought on by the evening. Ice quickly materializes next to you as your eyes flit over to his body, settling beside you on the beam.
âIt is rather cold up here,â he states, looking at you with his mouth set in a straight line. As if on cue, a gust of wind breezes by. You sway, but donât steady your position. Goosebumps prickle your skin, but you donât rub at them.
âYouâre here,â you say curtly.
âA civilian called. Claimed a woman is planning to jump from a bridge.â
You donât blink. âA bold claim.â
âWould it be true?â
âCanât say.â
Heâs quick to respond. âIâm quite glad she called in.â
Still refusing to look at his figure, you question him absentmindedly. âWhy? I thought you said I wouldnât?â
The Hero seems to ponder over your question, silent. For a second, you think heâs about to make up an excuse, perhaps about how you never know or that he came just in case. But you flinch as something drapes over your shoulders, and it makes you quickly look down.
Fabric itches your skin; you see it fluttering around your body before comprehending what it is. It blocks the wind immediately, but thatâs an afterthought as his chest hovers near you.Â
The Hero fixes a stiff blanket over your equally stiff shoulders.
The warmth that no doubt came from his quirk is like a fireplace at your side. It makes you wonder if he did that on purpose: coming up on your right. You push the thought out of your head.Â
His voice, low and smooth, speaks next to your ear before pulling back. A respectable distance. âYes, I did say that, and I still believe in it.â
Why?
You bite your tongue before the question comes out, looking at him in that same accusatory manner as before. Heâs only doing his heroic duties, but it's rather bothersome; a fake performance to a crowd that couldnât care less.
The wind ruffles the standardized EMT blanket that he placed over you. You neither push it off nor try to keep it on, even as itâs on the verge of blowing away.
The scene flashes in your mind if it did. If the fabric lifted off of you and danced with the wind, flowing its way softly into the gentle waters below. It would probably land with a soft plop; you probably wouldnât hear it from this far up. A body would be vastly different.
âWhat should I call you?â he interrupts your thoughts, still looking at you.
You donât think before you say your name. It comes out unconcerned and emotionless. A simple answer to a simple question. He repeats it to himself a few times, quietly, and you deliberately ignore how natural it seems to roll off his tongue. As if heâs tasted it before.Â
His quirk emanates from afar, an unwelcoming heat felt through the rough blanket.
His tone is still careful as he says, âFirst, a building. Now, a bridge. Why?â
âThe sunset is nice here.â
âIt is,â he responds, nodding. He breaks his view of you to look over the river, and you notice the way his two-toned eyes seem to gleam. Then suddenly, he asks, âAre there other things you find nice?â
âWhy?â
âIâm curious.â
You shrug, and the movement nearly sends the blanket off your shoulders.Â
It surprises you when you indulge his curiosity, if only to placate him. âNothing comes to mind.â
âWe all have preferences.â
âIâm indifferent.â
A purse of his lips just slightly before turning to you. âHow about soba? Do you eat them hot or cold?â
You wrinkle your eyebrows, blinking. Why on earth is he bringing that up now? âIt makes sense to eat them cold when itâs hot. And hot when itâs cold. I do that.â
He nods again, his expression barely changing. âThat does make sense. Though I eat them cold all year-round.â
âOkay,â you respond dryly, your face tight.
Heâs as awkward as people say. Everyoneâs probably heard of his cold soba obsession; itâs a well-known fact, you just donât understand why heâs mentioning this now. More so, why youâre even having this nonchalant conversation about soba as if you both werenât movements away from falling into a river.
Well, it might be obvious to him. He would catch himself easily. You still were at a 50/50.
âYou do choose to eat soba, yes?â
ââŠYes?â
He blinks at you. âDo you consider that indifference? I would say it is a preference.â
Irrational annoyance spikes within you, to a degree you havenât felt in a while. Because sure. Sure. Anything is a preference, you want to bite out. Itâs a preference to breathe, and a preference to eat. A preference to walk, and a preference to go in the first restaurant you see that just happens to serve soba. What of it? Why does he care?
You donât say all this, but the way his gaze flickers for a split second tells you your face mightâve shown more than what you meant to. He doesnât point it out.
âWhy are you here?â you canât help but ask.
âA civilian claimed a woman is planning to jump.â
âNo,â you sigh, a little more impatient than youâd like to admit. âI mean, why are you here? Iâm sure the number two Hero has better things to save. You said it yourself that you believe I wouldnât jump. Couldâve sent someone else.â
So why waste your time?
The Hero is quiet for another moment. Youâve noticed that thereâs this unpredictability with him: he either answers too quickly or too slowly. Either says whatâs on his mind instantly or thinks too deeply about his next words. Itâs an observation that makes you tilt your head; for what reason, you donât know. In fact, you donât want to know.Â
Is not wanting to know a preference too?
After a few seconds of silence, he then looks at you with a downward angle in his eyes. âWould you believe me if I said I wanted to talk to you?â
âTo convince me not to jump?â you bait him.
He shakes his head, a small movement. âTo talk to you,â he repeats.
âI donât know why thatâd be true.â
He shrugs. Another small movement. âI have my reasons.â
And what would that be?
You donât voice the question out loud. Just in case heâd think itâs a preference to ask.
The Hero gazes out into the horizon. âThe sun has set. Are you done here?â
You look in his direction and see that, indeed, the sun has gone down. Bright, warm rays replaced by the cool blue of the beginning night sky.Â
Yeah, I am done, guess itâs time to jump, youâre tempted to say. Partly because you want to see his reaction. Partly because you think it would be funny.
You donât. Instead, you bring your legs up from the beam, twisting your front so itâs perpendicular to the metal running alongside the bridge. You place your feet onto the bars and haphazardly push up, with little to no care for your swaying balance.
That crystalline sound chimes in your ears again, and you glance behind to see that heâs stood up as well, an emergency landing of ice formed underneath where you both stand now. An exhale forcibly escapes through your nostrils as you walk back to the cement of the bridge. You ignore the bystanders and his team from afar, and start back down the road from where you came.
The standardized EMT blanket that the Hero draped over your shoulders still hangs on despite ruffling wildly from the wind. You neither push it off nor try to keep it on, even if it was on the verge of blowing away.
You resist the urge to glance back.Â
And the blanket miraculously held on the entire time, only off because your hands wrenched it away the second you got home.
â50/50
Sometimes, you forget what your own voice sounds like.Â
Unless a personâs a fan of talking to themselves, people donât realize how their voice barely gets used unless it's to communicate with someone, to express themselves to someone. And they donât realize just how stagnant a throat can feel when that someone is no longer there.
Itâs as it goes: people donât talk to you, and you donât talk to them. You stopped reaching out when your phone calls only ever ended with leaving a pathetic voicemail, until they didnât go through at all. You stopped because disappointment hurts more when you keep hopelessly trying.Â
So, you rarely talked. There was no reason to.Â
Eventually, weeks would pass by without you using your voice, and when it did come out, it felt foreign in your own mouth: the pitch, the tone, the breathiness of it. That split second where you donât even recognize itâs you whoâs speaking.
Youâre only reminded when a stranger asks you a question, and a simple head nod or shake wouldn't suffice to answer. Your voice would come out hoarse and scratchy, always having to do a little clearing of your throat every time. Only the gods knew the last time you had a conversation that was actually filled with life.
When was the last time you even used it?
âŠProbably when you talked to that Hero. The incident on the bridge was well over a month ago.
You havenât seen him since. More so because you make it a point to not wander too far anymore, lest you run into him again. Itâs the only direction you take note of now, a direction that your feet avoid. It works to keep his face out of your mind and prevents that uncomfortable feeling of curiosity from rising again.
But sometimes you can feel it bubble up like acid, crawling into your throat at the sudden sight of him on a billboard or magazine. Your reaction would be immediate: you swallow it down hastily and force yourself to move on with your day. You donât think about it, you donât linger.
Today, your feet bring you to a grocery store across town, prompted by one look into your empty fridge this morning.Â
There isnât a fancy list to go off of; usually just rice and any kind of protein. You used to love trying out new ingredients and recipes. Now, you cook what you know, what is easy. The drive to put in effort seemed to have lessened over time.
You shop for a bit. Walk the streets a bit. People watch a bit.
Then, you go home, kicking aside the pile of worn envelopes lying in front of your door, sent by unfamiliar names. They always are, and theyâre more unassuming than they look, but you know whatâs inside. You learned early on that it wasnât a good idea to check those anymore, and theyâve piled up high now. An inky, toxic gate you have to pass before you can finally head inside.
You cook. You eat. You shower. You sleep.
It happens on autopilot; you hardly need to think about it, and it borders on a nearly out-of-body experience. As if you're watching from above, watching an NPC moving in a game, never straying and mindlessly doing what it's programmed to do.
The next day greets you very much the same.
â50/50
The third time you meet him, itâs on a cliff that overlooks the entire cityscape, a dense line of trees separating you and Musutafu beyond.Â
Itâs three months after the first encounter, and so early in the morning that dew still clings hefty on leaf blades. Youâre perched on a ledge of rugged rocks with your legs swinging in the air. The terrain is rough, jutting out precariously with free space underneath your platform-made seat. Your hands fall in your lap, as your gaze sweeps over the fog shrouding the forest.
Itâs quiet here except for the few hikers milling about, taking advantage of the sunless sky. It only takes one thoughâone person with one phone callâto hear that peculiar, deep, and frank voice again; a cautious voice above all else.
This time, it comes in the form of your last name. Your ears twitch at the call because you donât remember the last time youâve heard it laced without resentment.
He almost makes your name sound soft, almost needed.
âDo you normally like to hike?â the Hero asks from behind.
You donât turn around, and heâs met with silence because you choose not to answer either. Your lack of response is mostly due to you not knowing how to respond. Itâs not that you necessarily like to hike⊠your feet just brought you here, wandering like they usually do.Â
Itâs odd, you thought this area would be far enough away from his patrol route. At least, it shouldâve been.
The Hero speaks again. âIs it your preference to hike in the mornings?â
Now, this makes you peek behind your shoulder, finally acknowledging his presenceâhis presence that is quickly becoming a bother. You ask stiffly, fighting through the scratchiness in your throat, âWhy do you keep bringing up my preferences?â
âDoes that bother you?â he asks coolly, cocking his head to the side, the red strands of his hair crossing over the white ones. The sight makes you bite your cheek, not knowing if heâs feigning innocence or if heâs just that thick. Maybe it's the latter.
You turn your gaze back to the forest, but your vision just canât seem to focus on anything. Blurs of green and brown, while your ears raise at the sound of scuffling, suddenly too aware of your surroundings. Small pebbles of rock bounce off your lower back as you blink aimlessly in front of you.
A thick fabric drapes over your shoulders, alarmingly like last time, and your spine straightens. The heat of a body floats above your head as you glance down to seeâ
A black jacket.
âIt is rather cold up here,â he says from above, a little too close for comfort. It causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up pin-like.
You donât move, akin to a deer in headlights. âWhat is this?â
âMy jacket.â
Another twitch, this time in your fingers. âI see that. Why?â
âBecause I always find you in places that are cold,â he glances around, âHigh up, too.âÂ
Youâre caught in a moment of silence as your eyebrows slowly crinkle at his answer. Completely taken aback, you canât help but think to yourself, why?
What heâs insistently doing, intentional or not, goes beyond a Heroâs obligation. So, why is he doing this?
Why is he acting so nonchalant with you? Asking about your preferences as if that matters, putting jackets on you as if your non-existent relationship called for such familiarity. The attention is both unsettling and painfully bothersome.
Sighing, a breath leaves your lips in a continuous cloud, and you ignore the way he settles in beside you. Mimicking you by hanging his legs off the little platform youâve wordlessly claimed. You have to stop yourself from flinching when his body twists forward to face your front, big hands coming up to adjust the collar of his jacket.
Chest to chest, he messes with it from his awkward angle; his face nearly obscures your whole vision, but you make it a point to look past him. You donât move an inch during his ministrations, focusing on the forest behind him. His hair blows haphazardly, its colors contrasting the greens of the forest and the blues of the sky.
From this close, you can smell him. He actually does have the natural scent of a warm fireplace during the winterâsmoke and fire, mingling with crisp cold air.
Eventually, he decides his jacket is secure enough to withstand the wind and promptly draws away. From the corner of your eye, you see heâs rigid. Back as straight as a needle, palms steady on his knees. Not quite figuratively on edge, but most definitely attentive.
You donât want to see it, so you force your gaze away.
Silence envelopes you two. It wouldâve been awkward or uncomfortable if you allowed yourself to dwell on it. You choose not to.
Vaguely, more scuffling can be heard from behind, and you already know his team is waiting in the line of trees that borders the cliff, dutifully waiting for a sign from their boss. You can feel their hawk-eyes pecking you from afar.
He seems to realize that you noticed and mumbles, âI tried to convince them to give us some privacy.â
You reply blankly, âTheyâre doing a bad job at it.â
âThey like to take precautions.â
You shuffle a little in your spot, a crumble of rock rolling next to you from the movement. It rolls and rolls, tumbling down into the green abyss below. You stare after it, as if you could follow its path.
âHow are you?â the Hero mutters quietly, asking as if you two were old friends who randomly stumbled upon each other on the street. A question asked out of obligation, but still too familiar for your liking.Â
âGood,â you reply blankly, not giving it much thought.
âDid you eat breakfast yet?â
âNo.â
âWould you like to join me?â
âNo, Iââ
Before your sentence finishes, he reaches behind you, miraculously producing a tied plastic bag. Takeout, it seems. And for whatever reason he had that on standby, you really donât want to know.
âI brought soba,â he declares, as if it should mean something. You stare as he works to untie the bag, graceful fingers maneuvering the taut plastic. He coils one end, then pushes it through the hole from where it looped through.Â
He takes out the containers one by one, lays them side by side on the rocks between you two. âItâs cold soba,â he then tells you.
Not a word leaves your lips. In fact, theyâre pressed shut together. Tight. Tense. On guard.
Chopsticks are then brought out, and he takes the liberty of splitting yours and handing you them along with a container. The takeout tray splits into two sections: one filled with buckwheat noodles and the other filled with a dark tsuyu.
Your hands feel obligated to take them, and you almost hate the nod of approval he gives to himself.
Then, in this unwelcoming turn of events, Japanâs number two Hero starts eating cold soba next to you while sitting precariously on a cliff.
Youâre motionless. You shouldâve refused the tray to begin with, but you didnât, and five full minutes pass before you finally decide to move. You eat, because that is the only action that is familiar in your mindless program that has strayed, in the midst of whatever ridiculousness this Hero has brought with him.
You take a bite. You chew. You take another bite. You chew again. All while the Hero keeps glancing to the side to look at you. Observing you. Studying you. And for the first time in the past two years, you find yourself fighting to keep your tightly-held emotions at bay. Your fingers trembling as the thought repeats itself over and over in your head:
You know what heâs doing, and you really, really hate it.
The noodles taste like sand in your mouth, and you nearly spit them back out.
It hits like rapidfire, the emotions from all these odd, unnecessary occurrences of meeting him, this stranger. It rolls into one big ball of vile frustration because what Hero actually goes this far?
You hate that he keeps talking to you as if you two knew each other. You hate that he keeps bringing up your preferences as if they matter. You hate that he noticed it was cold and put his jacket over you. You hate that he brought food and that itâs cold soba. You hate that heâs checking to see if it is truly indifference as youâre eating his cold soba in the cold weather.Â
You hate that itâs been him who finds you here, where the air feels the coldestâthe stillest. It has happened three times too many.
Acid bubbles in your gut, and you know it's not just your stomach reacting to the food. No, itâs that uncomfortable feeling again: the unwelcoming curiosity. That unbearable warmth that seems to heat up your chest and settle disgustingly behind your ribs.
It all feels too much, and you sense yourself tensing up, huddling into yourself with round shoulders, around a heart that feels much too warm. It reminds you of that flame again, that wretched fire that used to burn inside you.
With shaky hands, you quickly set your container down on the rocks, not caring if the tsuyu splashes over the edge. Then, with swift movements, your feet climb up onto the platform, body hoisting itself upright before promptly turning away from the forest view.
Rock crunches underneath your shoes.
You hear him do the same, not wasting a single moment, lifting himself up faster with even swifter movements. A cool palm places itself on your shoulder before you throw it off wildly, turning to him with hard eyes.
His eyebrowsâone white, one redâimmediately pinch in the middle, guarded and confused.
âWas the soba not to your likingâ?â
âYou are not to my liking,â you state bluntly. The Hero doesnât blink at your outburst, only hovers his hand in the air for a second before it falls to his side. He purses his lips, and you find yourself speaking again.
âStop bothering me,â you grit out, finding that with each second passing, your annoyance only grows stronger. Amplified when you look at his worried face.
Why is he so nosy? Why is he so worried?
You fail to notice the vibrations that start from where your shaky feet stand.Â
And your tone is icy when you say again, âStop bothering me. And the next time you get a call about Mistââ
You fail to notice the bits of debris that start falling towards the edge, the subtle cracking of the earth splitting, even as the Hero starts looking around in alarm.
He reaches for you with that stupid warm hand. âWaitââ
You toss his open hand aside and throw his jacket to the ground, your head hot with rage that hasnât been felt in years. ââwhether itâs on a cliff, a bridge, or a building, tell them itâs fineââ
You donât even notice your own voice rising, too caught up in tearing off the concern this man has persistently shown you. Concern that you find is incredibly unnecessary and utterly smothering.
Your voice echoes across the forest, ââand tell them that sheâs not trying to kill herself. Oh, but I bet they would be real sad to hear about thatâ!â
The Hero urgently grabs onto both your shouldersâheterochromatic eyes blown wideâwith heavy palms trying to push you. âWaitâ We need toââ
His touch scorches you in that same unbearably warm way like before, traveling from your chest to where his hands touch your body. It sickens you, and you throw them off in a fury, steadying the swing of your body with two harsh feet.
You donât notice. Anything. Only feeling the irrational spike of anger that has pooled since your first encounter with the number two Hero. You know itâs just the tip of the iceberg, and you know itâs unfair to let it all out on him. But then again, maybe you want to push him away.
The trickling of emotions that emerge when youâre around him are enough to scare out any living daylight left inside of you.
You point an accusatory finger at his chest, pressing hard. âNo. You need toââ
âŠCrack!
Your heart stops as you stumble hard, then lurches out of your chest as the once-precarious now-turned threatening ledge breaks from underneath you. A gasp barely escapes your throat as you quite literally lose your footing, your foundation crumbling beneath your feet within seconds.
You donât have time to register anything except that the groundâthe cliff is cracking. Collapsing. Falling. Youâre falling. And the world slows down within those prolonged seconds as you forget whatever insult that was about to come out of your mouth.
Lightning-quick, the two choices strikes in your mind as your body is suspended in the air:
Two choicesâtwo percentages if falling was what you ended up doing, if you were ever at deathâs door: 50/50.
A 50% chance that youâd save yourself, that furls of mist would release from your fingertips to catch your flailing body.
A 50% chance that youâd accept it, that youâd let your eyes close as you free-fall knowingly.
50/50. You would either die or live, and with chilling apathy, youâve always thought that neither outcome could go wrong.Â
Because both choices are painful: it hurts to live, and it hurts to die. Because both choices are terrifying, and death is less scary if you donât care about dying, living is less scary if you donât care about living.
Because you donât know whatâs worse: staying in that devastating pit of vipers, or crawling out with your flesh raw and bleeding just to be met with even more venom. With more resentment. With more hate.Â
Because sometimes, you can still hear it in your head, the ghosts that used to haunt you, that still haunt you:
You donât deserve to act all high and mighty.
You donât deserve to be a Hero.
You donât deserve to live knowing what youâve done.
You should just die.
You wanted to, but then you didnât; you couldnât pinpoint why you were conflicted, so then you decided to let life choose. To let it bring you to whatever direction it thinks you deserve. Like this moment now.
Japanâs number two HeroâTodoroki Shotoâlooks at you with wide frozen eyes, his face shrouded in panic and twenty other emotions you choose not to decipher. Not like thereâs any time to.
You fall first since you were closer to the edge, slowly, along with the debris and the winds. You hear crystalline noises, the same ones that have tried to be a safety net in the past, back on that bridge when you couldâve fell.
Todoroki Shotoâs mouth is open mid-shout, but you donât know what heâs yelling about. You can only stare back.
His hand reaches out, warm palm and all, searching for yours.
All you have to do is reach out the same. All you have to do is grasp his hand, the other half of the 50/50.
And in that split second, you know which 50% has won when your arm doesnât move.
Your eyes shut.
And you let yourself fall.
â50/50
ending notes. thank you for reading! :) a couple of things i wanted to point out is that since this chapter is from readerâs pov, her inner monologue may come across as rather emotionless and stoic. which was actually quite a challenge to write because iâm used to a lot of /emotions/ in my works haha. oh and also she really only addresses/sees shoto as just a hero right now, so that explains the lack of his name in this chapter (which, too, is such a challenge to write!!! LOL)
A/N: Itâs been a while, but I had to write this idea down. I still find the thought of Shoto naming his son after his late brother so sweet!
Youâre sitting at the kitchen table, your hand protectively resting on your round belly, trying to stay calm as Touyaâyour twelve-year-old son with his fatherâs fiery red hair and the name of his deceased uncleâstands across from you, arms crossed. His gray and turquoise eyes flash with anger.
âMom, thatâs not fair! Iâm old enough! Iâve trained with you guys so many times! I can take care of myself!â
His voice cracks at the end, like it always does when he knows heâs pushing it but wonât back down.
You take a deep breath. Your quirk stirs under your skinâa faint crackle in the air that only Shoto would notice if he were here. But heâs not back yet from his last shift. And youâre on maternity leave. Again. This is the second time.
âTouya,â you say as calmly as possible, âyour dad said no. And I agree with him. A patrol isnât a training ground. There are real villains out there. And youâre twelve.â
âBut Dad was my age when he was already training with Grandpa Endeavor! And he pushed him way harder than you guys ever push me!â
The name Endeavor is rarely spoken in this house. And when it is, never positively. You see Touya immediately realize his mistake. His shoulders slump a little.
âI⊠I just mean⊠I just want to come along. Just once. Please.â
You shake your head. âNo. End of discussion.â
His eyes narrow. âYou donât get it. You treat me like a baby!â
âTouyaââ
âNo! Always no! Always too dangerous! I have a quirk! I can fight! But you never let me do anything!â
He turns and storms up the stairs. The door to his room slams so hard that the dishes in the cabinet rattle. You sit there for a moment, hand on your belly, feeling the little one kick. As if to say: Mama, calm down.
The front door opens. Shoto comes in, still in his hero costume, his white hair strands lightly frosted. He pauses in the hallway, hearing the too-loud silence.
ââŠSame topic again?â he asks quietly, having immediately assessed the situation.
You just nod.
He takes off his boots, comes over to you, and places his hands on your shoulders from behind. His left side warm, his right cool. Always that perfect balance that has calmed you from the start.
You sigh. âHe hates us right now.â
âHe hates the situation,â Shoto gently corrects. âNot us.â
You both fall silent for a while.
Then Shoto says: ââŠMaybe I should take him along just this once. A quiet patrol. Iâll stay with him the whole time.â
You turn to look at him. âShoto.â
âI know,â he says, raising his hand. âI know what Iâve always said. But⊠heâs like I was. And he reminds me of Touya⊠That stubbornness. If we always just say no, heâll go out on his own one day. And then itâs really dangerous.â
You look at him for a long time.
Heâs right. You both know it.
You nod slowly. âJust a quiet route. And he wears the tracker. And stays in sight at all times. Andââ
âAnd Iâll watch him,â Shoto finishes the sentence. âWith everything I have.â
The next evening, Touya stands in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the hoodie you specially got himâdark, inconspicuous, with small reflective strips. His red hair still glows like a signal fire.
Heâs trying to look cool, but you see his hands trembling as he zips it up.
Shoto kneels in front of him. âRule one: You stay with me at all times. Rule two: If I say âdown,â you drop into cover immediately. Rule three: No quirk use unless I explicitly say so.â
Touya nods eagerly. âGot it.â
You stand in the doorway, hand on your belly again. You wanted to come along, but Shoto gently but firmly refused. âYou stay here and rest,â heâd said. âWeâll be back in three hours.â
Now you bend down to Touya and press a kiss to his forehead. âBe careful and listen to your dad!â
He grins crookedly. âI will!â
Shoto places his warm hand on your cheek for a moment, kisses you softly. âWeâll be back soon.â
Then they leave. Father and son. One with white-and-red hair, the other with just red. Both with that calm but unyielding look.
You close the door and stand there for a moment before sighing and turning to find something to occupy yourself.
Three hours laterâexactly to the minuteâyou hear the key in the lock.
Touya bursts in, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. âMom! Mom, you wonât believe what happened!â
Shoto follows, much calmer, but you catch the small smile at the corner of his mouth.
âWhat happened?â you ask, heaving yourself up from the armchair.
Touya starts talking immediately, words tumbling over each other: âWe were downtown and there was this guy trying to rob a store, and Dad stopped him and I got to call the police, and then a little boy couldnât get his cat down from a tree and Dad lifted me up and I got the cat and everyone clapped andââ
He talks and talks until heâs out of breath.
Shoto steps beside you, arm around your waist. âQuiet patrol,â he says softly. âAlmost.â
You look at Touya, now sitting on the couch, eyes shining as he recounts how cool his father was.
Maybe it was exactly the right thing to give in just once.
Maybe he needs thatâto see that his father doesnât just say no, but also protects. That being a hero isnât just about fighting, but about responsibility too.
Touya looks over at you both. âThanks,â he says quietly. âFor letting me come.â
Shoto just nods.
You smile and hold out your hand. Touya runs over and hugs you carefully around the belly.
Shoto wraps his arms around both of youâwarm on one side, cool on the other.
pairing. todoroki shouto x fem!reader
wc. 13.7k (pls give it a chance pls im sorry lmfao)
genre/warnings. prince!shouto, orphan!reader, childhood friends to lovers to strangers to something else again, domestic violence/child abuse, mentions of food insecurity, canon typical violence, major character death, endeavor hating (sorry sue me), public executions, explorations of death and grief, angst with a happy ending
summary.
prince todoroki shouto is going to be king. it is the reality that he faces day by day, even as he is haunted by the memory of the first girl he ever loved.
he refuses to allow you to remain a recollection.
For years after you disappear, Shouto dreams of you in the dark.
The castle is rarely quiet, even in the deepest hours of night; thereâs always some sort of movement in the halls, the rustling whisper of maids or the subdued clang of guard armor. Having lived here for so many years, Shouto has learned to count time in footstepsâthe maids pass by every half hour, and the guards pass every fifteen minutes.
Shards of moonlight fall through the gauzy curtains that frame the tall, arching window across from his bed. Through half-lidded eyes, the moon blooms into view, the stars scattered like silvery petals around it. He has always appreciated the sightâbeautiful, sacred, unobtainable. He somehow likes that the feeling is so foreignâsomething inaccessible even to the flourishing touch of a prince.
You were always unique in that way.
He forces that thought away, the image of your smile still raw. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sightâ
A breeze slips through the half-open window, a heaving chill of a breath that fills the room. Shouto squeezes his eyes shut, tugging at his blanket until it brushes his chin. If he was smart, he would've slept three hours ago. He has lessons first thing in the morning.
He shifts to one side, then the other, and neither feels right; his weight settles uncomfortably over his arm, and his face starts to itch the moment that he gets in a comfortable position, and it's too hot under the blanketâ
No need to rush, Shoutoâ
A blaze licks up his neck. Only the panting huff of his breath is audible as he sits up. His shirt is loose against his chestâhe clutches the silk against his heartbeat, the pounding rhythm thudding against his fingertips.
Shouto? You're here!
Shouto! Let's go!
Shoâ
âFuck,â he curses quietly, a sheen of sweat layered over his forehead.
Behind the sheer darkness of his eyelids, muddled colors and shapes flash in succession: fields of sunflowers, the river brushing rocks, the towering trees of the forest, a lantern in the inky sky.
His fist clenches white-knuckled at his side, his other hand massaging the space between his brows.
A prince is strong. A prince is brave. A prince is collected, educated, and self-assured. Those lessons have been ingrained in him from a young age. He's sure it'll be written on his gravestone, too, perhaps even before his name.
When the sun rises, heâll have no problem acting the part. He will smile when the servants bring him his breakfast, heâll dress, and heâll take on every duty without complaint. He'll be someone worthy of the title of Prince, of heir.
But for now, this hollowness in his bones is stubborn, and the cavern of his chest sits vacant. Alone.
So the moon draws across the sky, and Prince Todoroki Shouto watches in silence.
/
The library is on the first floor. Shouto is six years old when he first takes advantage of this.
Though most might have considered it a miracle that he had not acted on such temptations until now, Shouto simply believes it to be in his nature. He has always been raised to be his father's sonâthe Crown Prince, the heir to the throne, and the third son of the royal family. He does not stray from tradition, does not argue, and does not misstep.
From the day of his birth, King Enji's proclamation had been clear: Todoroki Shouto would one day be King, and everything else in the world was secondary to that fact.
The moment that he learned to read, his father had plopped him down in front of that too-tall library table and dropped a towering stack of books in front of him. At the time, he wrinkled his nose, the musty scent of dust unappealing to his young senses.
(The punishment for that act had been swift and severe; he'd cried himself to sleep that night, clutching welted hands to his quivering chest.)
Princes are strong. Princes are brave. Princes are collected, educated, and self-assured. He lets his eyes trace those words, black ink fading onto cream pages. He isn't permitted to leave that chair until his eyes droop closed and the candle flame wanes and mere piles of wax remain.
Some days, it's language lessons, or arithmetic, or the basics of alchemy. Others, it's etiquette, or swordplay, or archery. No matter what he does during the day, he always ends up battered and bruised in the library when the sun fades, sitting up on his knees with his chin resting on the rough book pages.
Princes must learn in isolation, in the same way that Kings must rule. Because of this, Shouto only learns about his siblings through whispers and gossip in the castle halls.
Not all Princes are created equal; King Enji had insistently ingrained that idea into Shouto's brain since he began his lessons. Touya is no longer a Prince, and Natsuo is hardly considered one in the eyes of his father. And Princesses, like Fuyumi, are of no concern at all.
"In the grand scheme of the world, there is only the King," his father tells him one day, bruising grip circling Shouto's wrist. "Only those who understand this fact are worthy of the throne."
The cycle of praise and punishment is viciousâShouto learns from a young age that one always follows the other.
"You are a genius, My Prince. The kingdom is fortunate to be in the hands of such brilliance," his tutor tells him sweetly. He'll later be sent to bed with flaring, ruler-shaped wounds over his knuckles and the pale skin of his arms.
The castle keeps Shouto's world small, and he remains an unpolished pearl at the center of it allâeroded slowly, day by day.
That desperation and freedom-fueled ache, built up over years and years in a chest so small, cultivate the perfect storm that leads him to sneak outside that day.
Directly across from his table in the library is a towering, floor-to-ceiling window framed by thick velvet curtains that pool like blood on the ground. Because his studies are scheduled in the evening, Shouto hasn't looked at it muchâat this time, all that is visible behind the glass is inky darkness.
But today, the window has been left ajar, allowing a numbing chill to run down the skin of his armsâone of the maids must have forgotten to close it while cleaning up earlier in the day. If he were to report such a blunder to his father, he's sure that the maid would face harsh consequences.
I'll just close it myself, he reasons. It's a completely innocent conclusion, but he finds himself taking cautious glances toward the door anyway, wincing as he lowers himself from his chair and crosses the room in a few quick strides.
The heat of his panting breath fogs up the window, the lingering moisture stamped with the shadow of his hand as he presses it to the glass. It must have rained earlier in the dayâa scent of flora and earth clings to the air outside.
Even the slight pressure of his fingertips pushes the window open further, the glass swinging away from his touchâhe gasps at the motion, teeth unintentionally clenching together.
It's open. Wide-open. Wide enough that with a small bit of strength, he could hoist himself out.
He peers outside, letting his gaze trace the hedges at the bottom of the hill, streetlights flickering just past them like dying stars. He can hear the echo of chatter and laughter, no longer muted by layers of glass and stone.
He gasps without meaning to at the sound, so allured by the idea of that normalcy.
He takes another glance at the door. No one usually checks on him during his studies; he's never attempted to escape before, after all, so they have no reason to suspect him. And he isn't escaping, not reallyâhe's just getting some fresh air.
He'll be fast. No one will even realize he has stepped outside.
So he braces his hands against the window frame, pushes himself up, swings his legs over, and takes his first step into the grass. The breath he takes is long and stinging as it sinks into his lungs, threaded with the chill of the night air.
He's not dressed properly for this, fueled solely by the heat of the momentâonly thin cotton wards off the cold, and it's not very effective at doing so. Shouto draws his arms tightly around himself as he takes another hesitant step.
Natsuo and Fuyumi are allowed to go out into the town occasionally, provided that they take sufficient guards with them. Shouto knows this because their pealing laughter echoes through the walls upon their returnâthey talk about their shared purchases, sweet treats and candied apples. It's an experience with which Shouto is wholly unfamiliar.
"Your public debut must be perfect," King Enji reasons, shaking his head. "We cannot let the people see you in-person until we are ready."
Obscured by the night, Shouto finds himself face-to-face with the lofty hedges, mere steps away from the outside world. The leaves are perfectly manicured, thick greenery concealing the town that lies beyond. He considers the wall for a moment, lips pressed in a thin line as he tries to contend with the feeling of disappointment that sprouts in his chest.
He'd been bold enough to step outside, but not to go any further, not enough to disturb the boundaries that had been established for him since birth. The castle looms behind him, windows like judgmental eyesâhe should go back before anyone notices.
His stare lingers on a small crack in the hedges, a hole just large enough for a person to slip through. And still, despite his better judgment, he can't stop himself from sliding past the leaves, finally taking his first step on the other side.
He runs. He doesn't know why he does, but he runs once he's on the other side, feet pounding uneven stone as he follows the alleyway toward the town. There's a certain freedom in it, in the way the chilling breeze fills his lungs and tousles his hair. This area of the town seems to be empty at this time of night, anyway.
He finally stops in front of an unfamiliar building made of gray stone.
The grass that surrounds the building cracks under the breeze like old bones, dry and dying. Even the building itself appears tired and weary, the windows eerily shadowed, not a single brush of movement visible behind them.
You're crouched on the walkway that borders the square lawn, clusters of dandelions sprouting bright between the fence posts. It takes a few moments before you notice the young prince's presence, too absorbed in the dizzying yellows of the flowers.
When your gaze meets his, Shouto freezes. He sucks in a breath as your eyes drag over his clothes.
"Miss Mirko says we'll get sick if we go outside without our coats," you tell him, voice laced with soft accusation. He gives you a once-over, head tilted as he assesses the thin, ratty layer of cloth that you're referring to as your "coat". It's riddled with so many holes that he's sure his cotton nightshirt is doing a better job of staving off the cold.
Still, he nods slowly in response. "I won't get sick."
A pout rises to your lips, but you don't disagree. You're humming a song that Shouto doesn't recognize; something poignant and somber, like the piano waltz that they play during the Crownfall Parade. You focus your attention back on the flowers at your feet.
He wonders what you're thinking of, to be so engrossed in your own little world. A gaggle of drunkards exits the tavern past the alleyway, hiccuping and cheering, but you don't even flinch at the sound. Even as he crouches down next to you, frowning as he stares at the dandelions, you say nothing.
"Why are you outside?" Shouto tries. It's an appropriate question, he thinks; even non-royal children shouldn't be in the dark alone at night. "Won't Miss Mirko be worried?"
You shake your head. "She's sleeping. Looking after everyone all day makes her real tired."
The young prince cocks his head. "Everyone? Do you have a lot of siblings?"
There's a calculated pause in your song as you glance over at him, weary, like you're trying to figure out if he's making fun of you or not.
"No. Just a lot of orphans here," you finally say, nodding vaguely toward the building before you.
Shouto's eyes widen. At his young age, all he really understands is that orphans don't have parents. He wonders what might be so bad about thatâwithout parents, there is no expectation, no pressure. You get to live with lots of other kids your age and go out at night as you please, even when it's cold.
"You must have a lot of friends then, right?" he offers, poking at one of the dandelions; its petals are soft and fleeting under his touch. It's a flimsy thing, nothing like the full-bodied blooms that grace the palace gardens.
The streetlight overhead flickers once, then twice, leaving the lines of your face shadowed. You shrug.
"Dunno," you return, tone entirely neutral. "You probably have more, though, being the Prince and all."
He hadn't been expecting that response at all. Shouto's heart lurches, nearly heaving him forward; he has to brace a hand against the fence to keep his forehead from smacking against it.
"You know who I am?"
Your brow furrows like he's just said something absolutely stupid. "Isn't it obvious? Your clothes are so clean, and I don't think anyone else in the whole kingdom has hair like yours."
His hand instinctually jumps to his hair, strands of red spilling between his spread fingers. Thinking back on it now, his identity would be completely obvious to any passerbyâit's no wonder his father had warned him against leaving the castle walls. Anyone with working eyes would easily be able to get their hands on him.
"It's alright," you add, as if sensing his nervousness. "No one really walks by here, and I'm not gonna tell anybody."
He's not sure if he should trust you or not. Well, he's sure that he probably shouldn't considering that you're a stranger, but he has no choice; he'd already made his decision by coming out here.
"Alright."
When he thinks back on it later, Shouto can't really remember what else the two of you had talked about at all. Simple, arbitrary things most likely, like your favorite flower and your bedtime and what you liked to eat in the morningsâthe kinds of things that only six-year-olds would care about. But it was the first time he had ever spoken to someone else his age, so every aspect of the interaction was fascinating in its own right.
He glances back toward the palace, gaze tracing the towers that scrape against the murky sky. If he isn't incorrect about the guards' patrols, they won't pass the library window again for another five minutesâjust enough time to slip back inside.
You look up at him as he rises to his feet, brushing dust from his pants and trying to look presentable. "Going home already?"
Shouto wouldn't consider himself an expert in social cues, but he can't help but feel that it's disappointment that reflects in your eyes as you await his response.
"Yes."
Your head drops, attention directed back to the flower-lined fence.
"Okay," you say, words fluttering in the passing wind.
He lingers for a few more seconds, but you don't say anything more, so Shouto takes that as his cue to leave.
After a moment of hesitation, all he leaves you with is a quiet, "I'll be back sometime. If you're still here."
You don't deign to face him again as you deliver your response, though the smile on your lips is audible in your voice.
"I'm not going anywhere."
/
"The coronation is planned for next year, you know. Maybe even sooner."
King Enji's royal advisor, Keigo, tells Shouto this as he is getting fitted for the Crownfall Parade, which is due to take place in a few short weeks. The maids are quiet as they pull and tug at his tunic, rearranging the medals decorating his chest and adjusting the lay of his sash.
A black sash today, embroidered with the kanji of Touya's name alongside his mother'sâa sign of mourning.
Shouto readjusts his posture, settling into a sense of cautious hesitation; he's still unsure of the intention behind Keigo's words, though he suspects it can't be anything good.
"I'm aware," he replies, intentionally brisk.
The maids are exchanging heated glances behind his backâhe's sure this interaction will become the talk of the servants' quarters, though it doesn't particularly concern him. Practically every single movement he has made since he was born has been a source of gossip to them.
Shouto watches Keigo's shadow behind the folding screen that splits the changing room in half. His silhouette sharpens as Keigo takes a step forward.
"No dissent, then? That's rare for you."
Someone pulls a brush through the red half of his hairâShouto winces as the bristles scrape over the rough skin of his scar. As she unscrews the lid from a small pot of gel, he briefly considers asking her to leave his bangs down, then decides against it.
"I've known this was coming for years," Shouto sighs, brushing lint from his sleeve. It only happens a few times a year, but he never looks forward to occasions like theseâwhen finery is necessary and his collar sticks stiff to his neck. "I don't see why I'd have an argument now."
He isn't particularly fond of Keigo, and it's not simply because of his proximity to his piece-of-shit father. The royal advisor simply has a way of speaking that reflects knowledge beyond the human scopeâas though he's waded through every memory, every thought that has ever graced Shouto's brain.
Keigo's shadow spreads murkily, like spilled ink, as he takes a step back, starting to pace back and forth.
"Your father already told you, right? You'll have the freedom of choosing your own wifeâ"
"I know," Shouto interrupts through clenched teeth, sharply enough that even Keigo pauses mid-step. It's a warning, cautioning any continuation related to this line of questioning.
Even the maids' murmurs cease, though their ministrations don't; Shouto feels someone smooth a cape against his back, the weighted fabric brushing the floor by his feet.
"So you're okay with this, then? Because once that crown is on your head, there's no going back."
The words are breaching on something unsavory, a memory that Shouto has locked in the deepest recesses of his mind. He barely registers the feeling of something being woven into his hair, soft and velvety.
"What do you want me to say?" Shouto replies, jaw tight. "This has nothing to do with you."
Keigo doesn't reply for a moment, as if weighing the merit of his answer.
"It just seems as though you still have certain people on the mind. And I think it's holding you back from fully accepting this role."
Someone sucks in a sharp breathâit's not Shouto, but it may as well be with the way his heart clenches. Your name is on Keigo's lips, he knows, and the thought makes a grating sting crawl up his throat.
"Don't," Shouto whispers, fists clenching as he inches forward, "don't you dareâ"
The thick air in the room is saved by the sharp creak that echoes over the walls as the door is pushed open. Shouto tenses, curling a fist into the softness of his cape to ground himself; Keigo turns at the sound, awaiting a visitor.
"Good day, Sir Keigo," a maid greets, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room. Shouto can't see her past the folding screen, but he recognizes her voice well enough as she addresses him. "Your Royal Highness, your father would like to see you ready soon. Prince Natsuo and Princess Fuyumi are already prepared and waiting in the Great Hall."
Shouto lets his eyes flutter shut, already dreading whatever maddening advice his father will spout once he makes his way downstairs. He's in a foul mood as is, and he doesn't need the King to make it any worse.
"Yes, we'll be down in a minute," he answers loudly, trying to hold back the threads of irritation that weave themselves into his voice. "Thank you for letting me know."
The maid bids her goodbyes, and he lets a slow, uneven breath out of his nose as the door falls shut. His heart is pounding wildly, a shot of adrenaline running rampant through his veins. He flexes his fingers once, then twice, intentionally slowing the regular function of his body.
A prince is collected. A prince is collected. A prince isâ
He considers himself in the mirror as a distractionâthe sharp lines of his face, the even sharper wound of his own stare. His hair stands out even more in contrast to his dark sash and cape, the red-and-white partially concealed by a crown of black flowers.
"Your father simply wants to see you succeed, you know," Keigo starts, almost apologetic, like he knows he's already crossed the line. Shouto's teeth grit painfully. "If he recognizes you as a worthy kingâ"
"Don't." Shouto's voice lashes with frost as he steps out from behind the folding screen, jaw tight and gaze honed. "I'm not Touya. I don't give a damn about that man's approval. I never will."
Keigo can only watch in stunned silence as the prince stalks past him, brows furrowed and cheeks reddened, a line of maids following him out the door.
(Some of them give him disapproving glares, as if accusing him of upsetting the Prince on purpose. He deserves that, he thinks.)
Only when the door falls shut does he let out the soft sigh that builds in his throat.
"No," he murmurs, staring wistfully out the window. "No, you aren't."
/
Shouto is seven years old when he saves you for the first time.
Or, at least, when he thinks he does.
He'd been too afraid to attempt another escape for a while after his first oneâonce he returned to the castle, he'd been shocked by his own boldness, then readily accepted that it would likely never happen again.
Only a year later does that same sense of determination strike him once again. It's easier this time, but no less nerve-wracking, even as he takes the first step outside the walls.
When he returns to the orphanage building, you're not standing in the same spot that you were a year agoâthe fence is clear, the dandelions freshly weeded. He feels a bit silly when a sense of disappointment builds in his chest. It's not as though you had literally meant that you wouldn't move from that place.
The sound of splashing water draws his attention.
As far as he knows, there aren't any fountains this close to the wallâ they'd usually be closer to the town square, the plaza where most of the central business takes place. Creeping around the edge of the building, Shouto takes special care to remain in the shadows, unsure of what kinds of people might be lurking. Last time, you'd said that people rarely came through this way, but things can change.
There's a pond in the backyard of the orphanage, he finally realizes as he peeks between the slats of the fence in search of the source of the sound. There's a pond in the backyard of the orphanage, and someone is drowning in it.
His eyes widen, and his body moves before his mind catches upâone hand latches to the top of the fence, hoisting himself up slightly before he makes the full leap to the other side. He lands crouched, the force of the jump making his teeth grind together, before he breaks out into a full sprint.
"Get to the edge of the water!" he yells, uncaring of who else might hear. If his father would scold him for sneaking out, so be itâhe'd rather that than watch someone die.
He crosses the lawn in a second flat, and then he's leaping into the water and grabbing the figure tightly, hauling them toward the grass.
"What on earth are you doing?!" you screech, arms flailing wildly in his hold. He releases you with a sharp gasp when your elbow collides with his cheek, a throb blooming over his face. The moment you feel his grip loosen, you shove him away, and he lands in a heap in the muddy dirt. "How dare you try to steal my virtue! I'm a lady, you know!"
A heat spreads up his neck and over his ears at the implication that he'd been acting like some sort of ruffian. He'd gone all this way to save you, yet you're acting unbelievably ungrateful.
"YouâŠyou were drowning!" He wipes his face off with the hem of his shirt. "I saved you, you know!"
"As if," you counter with a scoff, gesturing to the water. Now that Shouto's really looking at it, he flushes when he realizes the stone-dotted ground is easily visible. "I can swim, and this pond's as shallow as they come! Don't tell me they don't teach you to swim back at the castle?!"
"Of course they do!" Shouto fires back, rising to his feet. "And they teach me to have manners with strangers! Which you don't!"
Your twin glares simmer with anger and irritationâShouto breaks eye contact first, trying to ignore the annoying way that you cheer as though you've won.
It's childish and petty and entirely unbecoming of a Prince, he thinks as he flops down into the grass. The dirt beneath him melts into mud as he squeezes the water out of his clothes, but he can't find it in himself to care. Instead, he watches the stars blink back at him from the darkening sky.
After a few moments, you sigh, clambering out of the water and lying down on the ground next to him, clearly having mutually exhausted yourselves in the heat of the moment and the ensuing argument. The crickets chirp to fill the quiet stretch.
"Sorry that I grabbed you," Shouto mumbles first, neck turning away from you.
You huff. "Sorry that I yelled at you."
That night, as an apology, you teach him how to skip a stone over water. Two weeks later, you show him how to pick out funny-shaped clouds and attribute objects to them. The next time, you share that you have a talent for drawing in the dirt with a stick, and he realizes that you have a lot more time on your hands than you let on.
You're odd; he knows that much.
But despite the ridiculousness of the pastimes that fill your days, Shouto finds that he can't stop himself from returning to you.
/
Shouto's mother dies when he is ten. It is the force that tilts his world off its axis.
Out of everything, the detail that he remembers the most is the painful rigidity of the mahogany floor. The night that she passed, he had knelt at her bedside, the pliant edge of the mattress giving under the tight grip of his fingers.
He had still been young back then, not notably strong, but he remembers feeling as though he couldâve torn that room apart. A quiet rage flickered in his chest, the silk bedsheets tugged sharp beneath his hand.
Fuyumi was crying over Natsuoâs shoulder. The sound echoed from the walls of the seemingly endless room. Shouto remembers hating his father in that moment for letting his mother remain somewhere so hopelessly vacant.
She liked painting. She liked reading. Hell, she wouldâve been satisfied to simply have her bed closer to the window, just so she could look out over the garden.
But instead, she died with her back against the wall, and his father never bothered to show his wretched face before she took her last breath. To this day, his mother's room remains relatively empty.
His father had ordered her quarters to be closed off and preserved; no one is supposed to be allowed entrance to that wing of the castle, but none of the guards dare raise a complaint to the Crown Prince as he walks past them, the thin stem of a snow-white flower clutched between his quivering fingers.
The doorknob is cold as he pushes the door open.
He's instantly greeted with the scent of fresh flowersâthere's a new crystal vase of them on the dresser, the petals perfectly illuminated by the shards of sunlight that stream unhindered through the windows. Every piece of solitary furniture is exactly as he remembers itâa bed, a dresser, a mirror.
Carefully, Shouto lowers himself to his knees at the bedside, running a finger over the bedframe's intricate, knotted wood edge. It's frigid to the touch, he notesâthe whole room is, despite the presence of the sunlight.
The position isn't unfamiliar to him. For weeks after she'd passed, he'd return here, burying his tears in her mattress as he chased the remnants of her scent. He never quite caught the last wisps of her; they had already been replaced with the scent of soap, any trace of her scrubbed clean.
After a moment of hesitation, Shouto leans forward, nose brushing silk as he drops the flower onto the mattress. His eyes flutter shut as he presses his cheek into the bed.
The sheets are fresh, he notes, devoid of dust. His father must be more attentive to this room than he cares to admit.
He wishes that he'd had more time to spend with his mother, but his lessons had always taken precedence over everything. Only in the calm of nightfall was he able to find time, but by then he was usually exhausted and inches from sleep. Still, he would ask her things that he couldn't ask anyone else: about the world outside the castle walls, about growing up.
He'd asked her once about her regrets as well. It had been one of the last things he'd been able to ask her.
âI could never regret having you, Shouto,â the Queen murmured. Her fingers stroked gently through his hair, parting fire from snow.Â
She always seemed most peaceful when her children were aroundâwhen she could braid the ends of Fuyumiâs hair or listen to Natsuo read aloud. Even when Touya had been around, heâd wrapped himself beneath his motherâs thick blankets, curled into her side.
Muted sunlight pooled in Shoutoâs lap and the wooden floor between his thighs, seated in the corner of the room where his mother was situated in a plush chair.Â
He looked up, the Queen practically glowing in his sight as she stared wistfully out the window.
âBut there are things I wish I had done.â
He doesn't know what kinds of things she wishes she had done, because, if he's being honest with himself, he hadn't even known his mother that well. He'd seen the library and the training fields more times than he'd ever seen her bedroom.
But he'd tried. For all the power that he'd had, he'd tried.
There's a hesitant knock at the door. Shouto turns toward the sound instinctively.
"I apologize for the intrusion, My Prince, but it's almost time to go."
The bedsheets fall out of his grip, settling down soft, soundless.
"Right," he answers, casting a final longing look over the room. "My apologies. I lost track of time."
If he tries hard enough, Shouto can almost imagine the shape of his mother sitting in this bed, sheets hoarded in her lap and a warm smile gracing her lips. She would've greeted him by name, throwing back the blankets and patting the spot next to her.
The doorknob is still cold by the time his fingers wrap over it.
And when he glances back at that four-poster bed with the stark white sheets, all he sees is a cage.
/
One night, Shouto meets you when your pockets are bulging.
He is fourteen years old and approaching you with a raised brow, the summer breeze pleasant and balmy. Your mouth is still full when your gaze flickers to him, a small smile rising to your lips.
"Good evening, My Prince," you greet teasingly.
Shouto shakes his head in faux disapproval, but doesn't comment on the title further; instead, he nods to your pockets. He hasn't seen you with this much food in months.
"You managed to buy all of that?"
Your smile dropsâhe instantly feels guilty at the reaction. Your shoulders hang, hair falling into a curtain over your face as though you're trying to curl in on yourself and disappear.
"The kids were so hungry today," you admit abjectly, looking away, words fumbling as your teeth sink into the bread once again. "I only took a little. I had to."
Your eyes wander in alarm as you await his reactionâyou're tense, like you're waiting for him to call upon the palace guards and imprison you on the spot. And even if he did, it seems like you would be prepared for that outcome.
(You're only eating half of a bread bun, he notices. You'll probably share the rest with Mirko later, too guilt-ridden to even desire a full stomach for yourself.)
Shouto doesn't think of scolding you; he can't manage the thought. All he can think about is the palace kitchen, constantly overflowing and careless in its abundance. That amount of food could probably feed the orphanage for months.
He takes his spot at your side, sighing as he drapes his wrists over the fence railing. You try not to look guilty as you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but your shoulders raise like you're holding your breath.
"I'm sorry," he finally mumbles. Your surprise is written clear over your face. "I wish there was more I could do to help you. My father says I'm not ready to be in charge of the financial ledgers. If I could allocate more gold to the orphanage, thenâ"
"I'm not expecting you to do that," you say, uneasy. "It's not your fault. Mirko says that if King Enji would give us just a little bit more money, we would be perfectly fine. Instead, he keeps funding projects for nobles to build their third houses."
Shouto thinks that sounds about right. In all of the lessons his father had imparted upon him, he'd been rather clear in his insistence that the Crown Prince cater to the nobles first before anyone else. It's useless to appeal to those who have nothing to offer you in return, he would say.
He sighs. "My dad's a bastard."
You nod. "Him and all those other self-absorbed nobles that you deal with."
You have that sorrowful look, like now he's the object of your pity, and Shouto doesn't understand it at all. You're cold and hungry and emaciated and somehow you still find the time to feel sorry for someone like him, who spends his days wrapped in goose-down blankets and eating lamb chops that slide off the bone.
(He had asked you about it, once. He had been thirteen years old, dragged into the shallow pond out behind the orphanage while the sky was still alight and the weather was still agreeable.
"Why do you feel bad for me?" he asked.
"It seems suffocating," you admitted. "I wouldn't want to live like that either.")
He fishes around in his pocket, presenting you with a small slice of chantilly cake wrapped in thin parchment paper. It's half-crushed from its journey, but the scent of sugar makes your mouth water nonethelessâa sharp breath slips past your lips at the sight of the fattened berries and fresh cream.
"Here," Shouto says. You look at him again for confirmation, and once he nods, your hand closes around itâtoo tight, the shape of your fingers carving themselves into the cake.
He watches you eat in silence, a soft smile tugging at the edges of his lip. The voracity with which you eat is only a reflection of your hungerâShouto wonders how long you've held back on account of the other children. Your appetite surely wouldn't be satiated by a single piece of bread.
"Sorry," you gasp after a moment, as if just remembering that he was standing there next to you. You hurry to rub the crumbs away from your mouth, but it only leaves a smear of cream over your chin. Shouto laughs lowly, shaking his head as he wipes the remnants away with his thumb.
Your stare melts into him, jaw dropping just slightly.
"Surely they teach manners in the orphanage too?" he jokes in a whisper, much to your chagrin.
"Of course they do!" you huff, too loud, turning away. Shouto has to fight the urge to chase that flustered expression on your face. "Probably way better than whatever they're teaching you in the castleâI was just hungry."
"Right, right," he agrees. He presses a thoughtful finger to his chin. "All they teach us nobles in the castle is, hm, what is it that you always say? 'How to suck our own dicks?'"
He mumbles it in an entirely serious tone that has you choking on a gasp, slapping at his shoulder. "Don't say that! You're the Crown Prince, they would lob my head off if they knew you learned that kind of thing from me!"
You're being dramatic, but the thought is sobering for a moment. Shouto genuinely wonders what would happen if the castle discovered that he had been meeting you like this. Would he be able to protect you from the fallout? Or would you suffer for the rest of your life, simply for the crime of knowing him? The fact that he can't seem to arrive at a distinct answer only has him worrying more.
Confusion reflects in your eyes as he grasps your shoulders, a serious expression on his face.
"I'll be the King who saves you," he says, an aching undercurrent to his voice. "If you can wait, I'll make sure that the orphanage is taken care of. I promise."
Even he himself is shocked by the declarationâonce the words leave his mouth, he's embarrassed by the drama of them, like he's about to go off to war and disappear. He can feel the blush blooming over his cheeks, and he wants to look away but there's something sticking in his stareâthe soft awe that reflects in your eyes, lips barely parting as you reply.
"Okay," you murmur, "I promise I'll wait then. We'll save each other."
It's Shouto's turn to look surprisedâhis head tilts, brow furrowing.
"Each other? You don't have to save me."
"But could I?" you offer, feather-soft. His heart pulses like fireworks in his chest. "If I wanted to, could I?"
(Shouto will consider your question for years afterward, right up until you disappear.
You couldn't, he will think, bitter. Neither of us kept our promise.)
/
"Your Highness, is the food not to your taste?"
The chef's smooth voice is cautious, as if already sensing the lit fuse in the prince's chest.
Shouto pauses, his fork scraping unpleasantly against the fine china dishâthe sound reverberates through the near-empty dining room, the long table lined with empty place settings.
"It's fine," he replies evenly, pointedly avoiding Fuyumi's stare from across the wide table. He hadn't had even the slightest appetite when he woke up, so feigning a meal had been his only option. "I'm just feeling a bit under the weather this morning."
Natsuo barely even seems to notice the conversation, too absorbed in scarfing down his vegetables. Most days, the older prince seems to prioritize getting away from family meals as quickly as possible.
Today, the head of the table sits vacant, the King himself away on business. If he had been here, Shouto is quite sure that Natsuo wouldn't have made an appearance at all.
"Oh, Your Highness," the chef hovers, peering over the high-backed chair. "Should I have someone fetch the doctor? It'd be best if he could take a lookâ"
Shouto can practically feel the man breathing down his neck; his face twists in irritation as he shoves his chair back from the table, an ugly creak resounding through the room.
The chef yelps and hops out of the way, and suddenly Fuyumi is standing as well, tossing her cloth napkin onto the table.
"Shoutoâ"
"I'm not hungry," he hisses out, making for the doors at the end of the hall. He can already feel a headache sprouting in the space between his brows. "Tell the royal advisor that I would like to be left alone this morning. I won't be attending any appointments today."
The chef splutters, glancing at Fuyumi for aid. She sighs in frustration as Shouto slips out.
"I'm sorry, I'll go after him," he hears, the words slightly muted through the walls. "Natsuo, you finish your meal. I'll be right back."
He picks up his pace, hands curling into fists. He doesn't need to hear whatever Fuyumi has to say about his father's ridiculous plotâhonestly, he can't fathom how she manages to interact with the wretched man with any semblance of civility.
He's halfway down the hall when the doors burst open.
"Shouto!" Fuyumi calls, shoes clacking against the marble floor. "Shouto, stop! How could you act like that? He was just worried about youâ"
A gruff, frustrated sound bursts from his throat; he has no desire to listen to Fuyumi's scolding. Turning sharply, he shoves past the first set of doors that he can find.
It's one of the many parlour rooms that line this specific wing of the castle, a place to retire with guests after enjoying a meal together. Shouto hasn't spent much time here, considering he never receives guests in the first place.
Just as he anticipated, Fuyumi follows him inside a few seconds later, panting from the exertion of her sprint. She regards the sight of himâsitting on the small sofa, wrists draped loosely over his knees as he hunches over.
"Shouto, why are you acting like this?" she demands, hands on her hips. She exhales slowly through her nose, awaiting an answer that never comes; Shouto doesn't even spare her a glance. "Is this because of what Dad told you? He thought you'd be happy, you know. I know a lot of what he did is unforgivable, but this is just his way of making amendsâ"
Shouto scoffs. "He acts like letting me choose my own wife is some noble deed that overrides every single thing he put us through," he spits, shaking his head in disgust. "But what about Mom? And Touya? When will they ever get to make amends? He killed themâ"
"Dad didn't kill themâ"
Fuyumi flinches as he whirls on her, suddenly enraged.
"How can you even call him Dad? Knowing what he did to Mom? And Touya? And," his teeth sting as he sucks in a breath, "and me?"
He still vividly recalls the bite of the King's slap, the crack of knuckles across his face. The power of a King is not in his tenderness, but in his authorityâthat's what he had been told all his life. But he has no desire to be a King like his father; he wants to reject that side of him completely.
The sofa tilts as Fuyumi takes a seat at his side, subdued.
"IâŠjust don't want to live hating anyone anymore," she mumbles. "If we could be a real family again, that would be the best outcome, for me. I know that maybe you don't feel that way, but that's just how I've always seen things, I suppose."
Shouto can't hate her for it. She hadn't been the object of his father's obsession, not like he and Touya had.
"âŠI see."
"But once you're King, it'll be up to you, Shouto. He doesn't have to control you anymore if you don't want him to. You can choose a wife who will make you happy, and you can live how you wantâ"
He swallows hard. "I can't."
"What do you mean?"
His lungs are squeezing. His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, and it still isn't enough to ground himâhis mind is floating elsewhere, into a memory of you where you're taking his hand and the breeze is warm.
"The one person who was supposed to be my wifeâŠisn't an option anymore."
Fuyumi's gaze softens. "You meanâŠ"
She doesn't dare say your name, not that she has toâShouto reacts nonetheless, squeezing at his heart, trying to catch his breath. There are eyes glowing in the dark of his mind, watchful.
"It was supposed to be her. I know it was supposed to be her, it's still supposed to be her."
He collapses to his knees, his fingers finding purchase in the plush carpet. Fuyumi quickly kneels with him, shocked; her hand lands over his spine, stroking slowly up and down.
There had been time. If he'd really tried and fought for you, you could've been engaged years ago, even before you disappeared. But he'd been too much of a coward to try.
"But this castle is a prison," he whispers. "How could I do that to her? Keep her here? Trapped? LikeâŠ"
He thinks of that four-poster bed, of the pristine room, near empty.
Fuyumi tenses at his side, obviously anticipating it even before he brokenly continues:
"Like Mom?"
It can't be you, but it can't be anyone else either. He's not so callous as to commit a different innocent girl to the same fateâa loveless marriage, shackles disguised as wedding rings. He can't be yours, but he won't be his father's, either.
Fuyumi's gaze is aimless as it rests on his face; Shouto somehow feels as though she's looking right through him. It makes him wish that Touya was still here, still in-line for the throne, but the only way that would be possible is if he had never been born.
(Vaguely, he thinks that that might not have been so bad.)
"She wouldn't be trapped. She would've been with you. If that was what you wanted, you could protect her."
"But the castleâ"
"âis only a reflection of its King," Fuyumi finishes, barely a whisper. "But that can change, Shouto. You can change, if you wanted to."
He begins to wonder if that's true, if any part of him has really changed since he was young. He'd always desired to rebel against his dad, but he'd never succeeded in any meaningful way; if anything, he'd only ever yielded to his father's wishes, too cowardly to toss away his title.
(He settles on the conclusion that he can't change. Not without you.
So Fuyumi can only watch as her youngest brother crumbles, alone despite the presence of her.)
/
Todoroki Shouto is sixteen years old when he first celebrates the Emberwake Festival.
Frankly, his father's birthday isn't a day he typically honors, especially not in the way that the kingdom's citizens doâwith food stalls and lanterns and dancing. He reasons that they don't know what his father is like behind closed doors, so he can't blame them for capitalizing on the holiday of their King. But based on his own experiences with the man, he would never consider it an occasion worth commemoration.
Only by your insistence had he even considered attending, after all.
So his father doesn't come to mind at all as he wanders the festival, a dark cloak pulled over his recognizable head of hair and your hand clutched in his. You have the air of someone who's experienced in this area, expertly weaving through the crowd as you point out your favorite stalls and activities.
"Ooh, this one has great candied apples. They're really expensive, but they're so sweet and yummy. Miss Mirko let us split one once," you explain brightly, glancing back out of the corner of your eye. Despite your past encounters, you have a child-like awe in your gaze, as though the entire festival is something fresh and novel. "Sorry, I know I've been talking your ear off. What do you think so far?"
Shouto hums. "It'sâŠloud."
Your smile grows wider, eyes crinkling at the edges. "I know, it always is. Is it too much? We can go somewhere else."
He shakes his head. "No. If this is what it's always like, then I want to experience it like this. I want toâŠdo things how you usually do them."
You look excited at the prospect of that, like he'd lit a fuse under you. With renewed vigor, you drag him through all the food stalls, pointing out grilled skewers of meat and vegetables and little cream-filled crepes. When you pass by a store selling paper lanterns, you buy one and resolve to send it off together.
("They're meant to be wishes for the King," you explain, taking a brush and dipping it in a spare pot of ink. "Since he never attends the Festival, he can see them from the castle. I'm sure you've seen them before."
"Yeah. But what should we write? To my dad?"
It takes a while for you to settle on something, the both of you too absorbed in brainstorming the worst curses that you can possibly think of.
In the end, you settle on something simple like "Fuck you.")
The further you lead him into the festival, the louder the music gets. When you finally emerge into the town square, there's a whirlwind of lithe bodies and smiling faces passing through his vision. They're engaging in some sort of folk dance around the fountain, bystanders clapping and cheering to the rhythm of the song.
You turn back to him, grinning.
"They teach you to dance back at the castle?" you ask. Shouto looks at you with mild alarm, like he can already tell where you're heading with this line of questioning.
"Somewhat. Mostly court dances, formal things like the Waltz."
You hum appreciatively. "Were you good?"
A thoughtful pause passes before Shouto replies. "No, not at all. I think my tutor's exact words were something like 'two left legs' and 'my ancient grandmother could do better', butâ"
"Right," you wince. "I think I get the idea."
You guide him to a quieter offshoot of the squareâa small alleyway that leads to a dove-topped fountain, spitting a slow trickle of water. Even from here, the festivities and music are easily audible, though there are fewer people milling about.
"Here, this is perfect," you urge, shuffling him into the right position, standing just across from you. Shouto looks at you like a fish out of water, posture stick-straight as he awaits further instruction.
The song picks up again, and you walk him through each step, looping your arm with his.
He starts out unbelievably stiff, but his tension seems to gradually melt away the longer that you teach him. You're laughing, the heady scent of smoke and incense clings to the air, and the music is so loud that he thinks his eardrums might burst, but Shouto can't help but take a deep breath and enjoy itânot as a Prince, but as the person standing by your side.
Even when the song ends, dancers and bystanders alike breaking into thunderous applause, he's only interested in the way with which you clap and cheer for him.
"Great job!" you pant, a sheen of sweat over your forehead. "But your cloak fell a little while we were dancing, soâ"
Shouto catches your wrist when you move to readjust the hood over his hair, face inches away from yours; you swallow thickly at the act, caught in the web of his stare. It's tender and soft as it paths over your features, like the slow drag of a flower petal.
You cough. "Youâ"
He releases you before you can say another word.
"Can we go somewhere quieter?" he asks, sighing. "I think I've had enough music for a day."
Even so far from the festivities, the pond's still surface reflects the sparking glow of the lanterns overhead. Shouto watches them, like a procession of swirling koi, the lines of them distorted by distance.
The orphanage windows are winking out one-by-one, the younger children being put to bed. You tell him that with such a fondness that Shouto wonders if you can really stand to leave the place once you turn eighteen.
"I'm surprised you've been to the festival so many times," he says to you absentmindedly, dragging a finger through the water. It ripples under his touch, splitting the lanterns into a million tiny shards of stars.
"Why?"
"I thought you hated my dad."
You shrug, taking a bite of the apple that hangs loose between your fingers. "I do. But the festival feels so far removed from him that I can still enjoy it. It's not like he attends, anyway."
Shouto nods slowly. Because of his father's influence, he'd never imagined that he would be doing something like this. He wonders about it, sometimesâwhat it might be like to really be your companion, to be freed of all his royal responsibilities and simply be a sixteen-year-old boy.
"Have you ever kissed someone before?"
The question catches you off-guardâyou instantly choke, spluttering and coughing as Shouto pats your back with wide eyes. When your airways clear, you turn to him with near-horror on your face.
"Why would you ask something like that? All of a sudden?"
He looks genuinely unsettled at your reaction, treading into uncertainty. "Is that not the kind of thing that people talk about at this age?"
You sometimes forget how little Shouto really knows of people your age; he's likely more familiar with stuck-up nobles three times his senior who only really care about putting in a good word with him for their own personal interests. Whatever topic he reckons to discuss with you is likely the result of something he read or conjectural maid-driven gossip.
"No, no, it is," you admit, giggling. Shouto merely stares, completely enraptured with the sound of your voice. "I guess it's just not the kind of thing that I thought that you would talk about."
He looks slightly proud at that, shoulders sitting straighter as if he had surpassed your expectations. "I know things."
Your face twists like you're holding back a laugh, but it doesn't work for long; soon enough, you're nearly cackling your lungs out, clutching at your stomach and flicking tears away from the corners of your eyes.
"You're funny, Prince," you gasp, the last few giggles crawling from your throat.
Shouto's expression is impassive as he replies, "Shouto."
"What?"
He frowns. "You can just call me Shouto."
The offer seems to freeze the breath in your lungs, your eyes wide.
You look down, lashes flutteringâhis gaze is drawn to the gossamer delicacy of the movement. He's seen you in just about every light by now, but he thinks he likes this one the most; the lantern light is fluid and dim, accentuating the curve and line of your face.
He shifts closer to you, grass tickling his palms, and you suck in a breath through your teeth. Your hands naturally find their way to his cheeks, thumb tracing his jaw. His breath mixes with yours, pupils blown wide with interest.
"Princeâ"
"Shouto," he murmurs against you. Your hands are still cradling his face, and he curls his fingers over your wrists just as he presses his lips against yours.
There are things that he'd never been taught in the castle. How to make a friend, for one, a real one. He'd only been taught certain social skills, though those were primarily related to finalizing alliances and navigating meetings with foreign dignitaries. Skipping stones had also been a mystery to him before he met you. Maybe everything had.
And kissing. Kissing had certainly never been covered in his daily lessons.
But his lips move against yours, and it's as easy as breathing air.
His heart is beating wildly out of his chest, the tips of his ears are molten hot, and your hands are pressed so firmly against his jaw that he's sure your fingertips will remain imprinted there. But it feels good, it feels right, and Shouto finds himself growing addicted to the sensation of you.
For a moment, his kiss grows more fervent, but your grip coils into the edge of his cloak to gently ease him back, your breath fanning hot over his face.
"No need to rush, Shouto," you murmur, his name on your lips like a reverent prayer. "It's a holiday. We have all the time in the world."
Todoroki Shouto returns to the castle at dawn with your warmth etched into his veins, into his very heartbeat.
(He does not know that this will be the last time.)
/
Shouto thinks that the First Crown Prince, Todoroki Touya, had simply been unlucky to be born to someone like his father.
Even before the cold January night of the Third Prince's birth, there had been rumors, whispers throughout the kingdomâgossip offered over breakfast tables, over bar tops.
King Enji had been unable to provide a sufficient explanation for why the lands began to fail. The people first felt the consequences in the loose hang of their clothes, in the tightening of their pockets. Backs were turned on family, on friends, on the royal family themselves.
Only by the whispers of forked tongues could the people find sufficient means to pass the hollow times.
"It must be Crown Prince Touya," they said, quiet exchanges occurring in taverns and shop stalls. "Once King Enji declared him the heir, everything went to shit. The gods reject him."
"Well, he inherited none of King Enji's power. His hair is snow-whiteâeven Princess Fuyumi's shows a bit of red."
Shouto's birth was the auspicious sign they had been waiting forâred-and-white hair, and blue and grey eyes. He was the perfect son of the formidable King and the graceful Queen. Touya's throne was ripped away in the span of a few days, his name not only forgotten but cursed.
He would disappear before Shouto turned six, leaving nothing but a scar on his brother's face.
The daylight sun is warm, but it does nothing to quell the chill in Shouto's bones as he proceeds through the town square.
He rides alongside his father at the head of the parade, sitting atop a brilliant white horse. Natsuo and Fuyumi are somewhere at the end, though he's unsure whereâhe'd barely caught a glance of the two before his father herded him away, rambling about his own personal brand of nonsense as usual.
The town square is only this quiet during Crownfall; there are only whispers and widened eyes that follow his movements, a blanket of melancholy settling over the place. Some are praying, while some simply watch the King with rapt attention. The crowd parts as they pass, a sea of people clambering over each other just to catch a glimpse of him, of his father.
All of it is suffocating.
It is a spectacle disguised as a mourning parade.
His father directs him to dismount in front of the Grand Fountain, an intricate statue of King Enji and his late wife staring aimlessly overhead. Shouto finds his gaze lingers over his mother's face for a few moments too long, bottom lip snagged under his teeth.
(They didn't carve her eyes right, he thinks bitterly. The statue looks nothing like how he remembers her.)
Though the parade happens yearly, it's the first time that the King has placed Shouto in charge of providing the opening remarks. It doesn't make much sense, when he really thinks about itâFuyumi and Natsuo had been far closer with Touya and his mother than he ever had. King Enji had made sure of that, after all.
But Shouto accepts his duty nonetheless, stepping forward into the sunlight, into the waiting gazes of the gathered crowd. They look to him in reverent silence, and the sight has his mouth feeling like sand.
He can't truthfully say anything about Touyaânot because he hates his brother, but because he knows nothing about him at all. His mother had told him that Touya was kind, but misguided, though anyone else might've said differently. Shouto isn't sure who his brother really was in the first place.
Still, his father had given him a script and he'd rehearsed it well enough, so he clears his throat in preparation to deliver a speech that is befitting a future King.
"My Prince!"
There's a sudden commotion. The crowd is crying out, surging forward in panic, and Shouto's hand jumps to his chest, curling into his sash. The guards look confusedâthey convene on King Enji first, desperate to protect the monarch. Shouto takes a step forward to join them.
Suddenly, an older woman seizes him tightly by the arm; he gasps sharply at the intrusion. Her breath is sour, teeth yellowed and rotting, but what draws his attention the most are her eyesâmilky and unseeing.
"My Prince," she hisses, a hand latching onto his shoulder, weighing down the fabric of his cape. "Please, please, you must help us. My village has been without food and water for monthsâ"
It's only another half-second before she is harshly wrenched away by the lingering guards, a series of shouts and protests finally reaching Shouto's ears. Only when her touch leaves him does he manage to suck in a breath, frozen in his own shock. The rasping, familiar sound of a blade being drawn echoes through the square.
Shouto's brow furrows, his instincts forcing him forward. "Leave her! She's an elder, she meant no harm to me."
No one seems to hear him among the general commotionâthe guards are pushing the rest of the citizens back, leaving a wide, empty radius around the fountain, and people are tripping and shoving each other in the chaos. The yelling doesn't cease for a single moment.
One of the guards speaks aloud, shoving the older woman to her knees.
"By the law of this land, you have been sentenced to death for treason against His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Todoroki Shouto, heir to the throne."
Frost unfurls in Shouto's chest; he steps forward, angered disapproval already edging off the tip of his tongue when someone grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him back. The guards surge forward to surround the woman as he stumbles, nearly tripping over his cape in the chaos. The wreath of black flowers that had been so delicately woven into his hair flutters uselessly to the ground, crushed underfoot.
He whips around, teeth bared. "What are youâ"
"Stop, Shouto," King Enji demands, bruising grip tightening onto his arm. Shouto winces at the feeling, trying to shake his hand away. "Let them carry out the law."
"She didn't even do anythingâ"
"She had the nerve to grab the heir of our kingdom with her filthy hand," the King hisses. "That means nothing to you?! She could've killed you."
With one last unrelenting tug, Shouto pulls himself away from his father, eyes ablaze. "She was telling me her concerns. She was desperate, you have no idea what she said to me."
A vein bulges from the King's forehead. "You still don't understand anything. I won't have the future king acting in such a flippant manner."
A scream rings out, and a wet thud followsâShouto tries to turn back to the old woman, but sheâs too enclosed by the guards to be seen. Despair hollows out his chest, and suddenly his mother's stone gaze feels judgmental and weighted.
I'll be the King who saves you.
Somehow, he feels that such a choice was never his to desire.
Everything is numbâthe heat of his father's grip, the screams that sting at his ears, the sunlight that pricks at his eyes. King Enji's voice sounds again, a low rumble from his chest. It's barely audible against the cacophony of the crowd, but Shouto hears it nonetheless.
He no longer has the energy to fight back.
"You will be King, Shouto," the King says, a declaration that has the Crown Prince fighting the urge to vomit. "There is no one but you."
/
Shouto is seventeen when he loses everything.
His father tells him that he will be King within the next five years. It's still a sizable wait, all things considered, but he is on the precipice of fulfilling his promises to you. It will have been a long time coming.
He throws himself into his studies, hoping that maybe he can ascend to the throne even sooner. Even when it makes him sick, he yields to his father's wishes and acts as the son he's always desired. He sees you less and less because of that, but he figures you'll understand his absence the moment that he has enough power to provide for you.
He'll never get the chance to explain that to you.
When his eyelids drag open that morning, there is no sunlight to greet himâthe window across from his bed remains darkened and silent. A flurry of footsteps races past his door; the muted sound of horns becomes audible in the distance, and Shouto sits up, tossing his blankets aside.
The hallway is alightâarmored guards are hurrying in either direction, leaving Shouto completely unnoticed as he steps out of his room. He makes it to the Great Hall before anyone stops him, the marble floor freezing against his bare feet.
"Your Highness! Prince Shouto!"
Turning at the sound of his name, a Guard Commander greets him, the insignia of the royal family emblazoned over his cape. Shouto waves him away when the man bends at the waist, bowing deeply.
"Forget the pleasantries," he urges, glancing around at the ongoing commotion. "What's going on?"
The Commander rises back to full height, looking solemn.
"That old orphanage near the South end of the castle burned down, with all the kids still in it."
In Shouto's mind, each word is practically in slow motionâhe watches the older man's lips, each exaggerated syllable like another dagger to his heart. He finds it impossible to even comprehend the meaning of the words.
"All of them?" he chokes out.
"All the caretakers, too. No survivors at all." The older man shrugs as he says it, completely unaware of the abyssal cavity that carves itself into Shouto's chest. "We're glad the castle walls weren't damaged and you're safe, My Prince. The fire was so huge and it's so close byâ"
"Are you sure?" Something in Shouto's chest bares its teeth; his fingers are curling into the Commander's collar before he can stop himself, bringing them practically nose-to-nose. "Are you sure there were no survivors? Don't tell me what you think, tell me what you know."
The guard nods blankly, shocked at the outburst. "Yes, My Prince. We searched every bit of those ashes. No one would have gotten out of that alive."
Bile rises quick up Shouto's throat; without another word, he shoves past the doorway, a palm forced over his mouth, his other hand clutching his stomach.
No survivors at all.
Someone grasps for his shoulder; he barrels straight through them, ignoring the calls of his name. He takes a wrong turn down the hall, tears blurring his eyes, and has to turn back. Everything dims into faded, indistinct shapes, a dizzying array of unfamiliar colors. He bumps into a side table, sending the vase sitting on top crashing to the ground.
A prince is strong.Â
(Shoutoâs legs give out the moment he steps into his bedroom. He doesnât manage to catch himself, and his spine crumples painfully as he slides against the solid wood of his door.)
A prince is brave.Â
(He wonders if you were afraidâif you were in pain when the flames first licked at your skin, if the hopelessness rendered you motionless within the blaze.)
A prince is collected, educated, and self-assured.
(He cries so hard that his pillowcase soaks through completely, his chest burns, and his throat twists in a silent scream. He cries until his shirt is soiled with his own vomit, then cries until his eyelids are too swollen to open.)
At first light, he tears past the castle hedges, the honed branches flinging back across his cheek, across his armâit leaves a trail of blood in its wake. He doesn't feel it, not yet, not until he rushes to that familiar placeâyour familiar placeâstains of dried tear tracks glimmering in lamp light.
He hopes for a lie. Some sort of elaborate prank that the entire castle had been in on, aiming to catch him unaware. It would've been cruel, but kinder than this realityâa reality in which you are gone, and he has nowhere left to turn.
Shouto is seventeen years old when you're reduced to ash, and his entire world along with it.
He is still seventeen when falls to his knees before his father's throne, forehead pressed to the blood-red carpet.
His teeth are gritted so tightly that he thinks he may never smile again, and his stomach is churning despite his lack of breakfast. The advisors exchange hurried whispers, unsettled by the sight of their future King looking so pitiful.
"Raise your head, Shouto," King Enji demands, an air of confusion in his posture. His fingers are curled white-knuckled over the armrests of the throne. "I don't understand your obsession with pursuing this."
"There's someone I'm looking for," Shouto pants. The sweat that clings to the back of his neck cools fast in the freezing room. "Please give me something. Anything. Any resources you give me, I will use. Please let me do this. I promise I will take care of it on my own."
"Begging is unbecoming of a King," King Enji says.
"I'm not a King yet," Shouto answers.
Todoroki Shouto is seventeen, still just a Prince, when he curls like a child at the feet of his father.
(He will send out search parties into the surrounding forests, and when they come up with nothing, he will send them out further. Neighboring kingdoms will receive correspondence with a sketch of you attached and a clear instruction to contact Prince Todoroki Shouto should they ever catch a glimpse of your face.
For years, Shouto will stop every courier he sees and ask them if they've heard anything. He will try to ignore the pitying smile on their faces as they shake their heads.
Nothing will ever come of it, but Shouto will never stop hoping. Even when no one else does.)
/
Even as the coronation date grows inevitably closer, Shouto will feel no excitement or anticipation, only loneliness.
Even when his father begins to soften at the edges, words of regret leaping from his tongue, Shouto will be unable to forgive him.
Even though his efforts bear no fruit, Shouto will continue to dream of you for seven years.
/
Prince Todoroki Shouto is twenty-four years old when he first sees a ghost.
The coronation date is set. His father is looking at him with proud, rapturous eyes and his mother's grave is still cold. He's forgotten the sound of Touya's voice and he hasn't seen Natsuo or Fuyumi in weeks.
In other words, nothing went the way he wanted it to. He had resolved a long time ago to be the kind of prince who saves, and he had failed in every regard. Even now, he's unsure if he will ever be a King of worthy measure. He's a man in false, gilded robes, the silk traitorous against his skin.
But his fate has been written for him since he was born. Every single person who could've changed this outcome is gone, and Shouto isn't strong enough alone. His entire life he's simply been carried along the current of others' whims, dazzled by the idea of his own distorted strength.
It's hard not to drown in that anguish when there's no one left to tell him otherwise.
He returns to the former orphanage, the land now razed grey and black, a flat patch of ashes. A stone memorial sits in the center of the lot, but nothing elseâit had been destroyed so completely, so thoroughly that it borders on intentional. The pond has been dried and emptied, reduced to a meaningless trench in the ground.
This time, he isn't hiding. His father had allowed him to come here alone, hoping the experience would be the final flame necessary to burn away the parts of him still bound here.
And perhaps it would've been. He wonders if something deep inside of him had been prepared to let go of youâcoming here had simply been his final resolution in that process. To witness your final resting place, and then release you completely.
(He wonders if he hadn't been the only one cursed by your memory this whole time.
Had you been able to rest soundly, knowing that he suffered at the thought of you? Or were you just another person that he had touched and ruined?)
A shadow thins in the distance, moving to leaveâShouto follows it without meaning to, simply drawn to the motion in the stillness. And he sees it then: the line and curve of a familiar face.
"Stop!"
His demand is desperate, bordering on hopelessnessâhe convinces himself that he must be dreaming. There is no feasible way that you could be standing in front of him right now.
It's a true, full-bodied scream, the likes of which he has rarely heard from his own mouth. Princes are collected. They should not yellâtheir authority should speak in place of a scream. But Shouto still yells, because it's you, and you've never been one to consider the authority of a noble as something worthy of merit.
You take another few steps, each one slower, like you're being weighed down by the gravity of his stare. Finally, you come to a complete stop on the other end of the empty pond.
He feels like he could crumble. Time stops, the rhythm of his heartbeat freezing alongside itâwhen he draws a breath, it hurts.
His expression is that of a man laid bare as he murmurs, âYouâŠI searchedâI looked for you for years. IâŠI did everything I could to find you. Even when no one believed me, I looked for you. They said no one survived, the fire was so hot, they said you mustâve becomeâŠâ
Ash, he wants to say. Dust. A constant sting in the back of his throat, a lump of guilt and regret.
But each of those words is a blazing coal so painful that all he manages to whisper is, âGone. They said you were gone.â
Your smile is bitter. Shouto doesn't know what to make of it, make of you, and it hurts, because he swears that there was a time when he could easily pick apart every single piece of your expressions. And even if he couldn't, you would've told him yourself.
"I was gone," you reply, looking down at your feet. "Maybe just not in the way that you thought I was."
You toe at a patch on the ground like it'll burrow you out of here and away from this memory. He hates that you look so distraught at being here, when all he's dreamt of for the past seven years is standing in front of you again.
Did you not dream of me the way I dreamt of you?
âYou were the first person I ever yelled at,â he whispers, nearly sobs, and suddenly heâs thirteen years old again, swimming in this pond with his shirt soaked through and bangs sticking to his forehead. Your eyes are glowing in the dark and his heart is so unbearably hot in his chest that he thinks it will leave scorch marks on his lungs. "YouâŠyou called me Shoutoâ"
"I did," you agree quietly, shame written over your face. "Back then, I did."
Back then, you say. As if it had all occurred in another plane of existence entirely. As if he hadn't agonized over the memory for years, hadn't shed countless tears over the thought of your smile. You had always been his last inhibition.
You take a step back, and he takes one forward. All that's left to ask is:
"Why?" Your eyes flutter shut when his voice cracks, a pained twist in your expression. "Why didn't you come back?"
A few moments pass; you're not replying and he can't stand it. A vicious blend of anger and despair wells up in his chest, and he lets it build until it tastes like acid on his tongue.
"Answer me!" he demands, throat raw.
(It reminds him of his father's voice. He hates that, too.)
Your lip quivers as you murmur, "Because I was the only one left."
Shouto watches as you sway where you stand, nearly unearthed by the soft force of the wind, the memory sapping the strength from your legs. The breath that you suck between your teeth is audible.
"I said all those things about saving those kids and how useless the royal family was, and yetâŠI was there and I couldn't do anything for them. I was there and yet I was the only one who survived. I was there and theyâthey burned anyway. All of them. Except me. I couldn't face you after that, not with a version of me that was soâŠ"
Pathetic, you want to say. Inadequate. False-hearted and weak.
But it's too difficult to face those blue and grey eyes that are looking at you with subdued hope, so all you manage to whisper is, "Sad. IâŠI became a different person after that. You wouldn't have recognized me anyway. You wouldn't have been able to become King with someone like me holding you back."
Shouto steps forward, one hand curled over his heartbeat. "I would've," he declares, voice unsteady. "I would've recognized you anywhere. You could've come back to me as dust and I still would've known. AndâŠI would've welcomed any version of you. Even if you were sad, even if you were different. Because it was you."
He mourned Touya when he was six, his mother when he was ten, and you when he was seventeen and every year after that. He has swallowed enough grief for a lifetime, and his heart is so bursting that even another drop of despair will leave him ruptured, he's sure.
He cannot be ruptured. He will not.
Shouto closes the distance between you, and you don't stop him even when he takes your hand in his. He's warmer than he used to be, you note. His skin is hot and his eyes are ablaze and he looks nothing like he did when you first met.
"I'll be King soon," he tells you weakly, nearly an afterthought. "I'll do everything in my power. I'll be a King who saves you. If you trust me, I can give you everything."
"Your Highnessâ"
"Shouto. For you, it's Shouto."
Hesitant, you shake your head. "It was Shoutoâ"
"It is," he insists. "You can call me whatever you wish, but please don't walk away from me again."
It's your turn to look like you've seen a ghostâyou look conflicted and lost, unable to contend with the sight of a man so changed from what you knew.
This version of Todoroki Shouto will be King. He is strong. He is brave. He is collected, educated, and self-assured. He is the boy that you loved for the formative years of your life, the one that you missed for every second you were gone, and the man you will love for every moment after.
Shouto holds you. He's taller and broader than he was when you last knew him, and that only makes you feel safer. He holds you, and you feel like you're six years old again, poking at dandelions under the watchful moon.
(Todoroki Shouto is twenty-four years old when he becomes the Prince who saves you.)
/
Todoroki Shouto becomes King the day after he turns twenty-five.
Your hand is clasped in his, and you're smiling. You're healthy and well-fed and well-loved by everyone in the kingdom. You visit his mother's grave and tell her about her son's childhood escapades and misdeeds, a mischievous smile on your face. You pray by Touya's grave and you hug Fuyumi when you see her in the mornings. You play chess with Natsuo sometimes and you pout when you lose.
Shouto watches this, and it makes the crown on his head far more bearable.
The gold at your disposal is enough to fund every orphanage in the kingdom; the children that you sponsor will want for nothing. You want for nothing. You ensure that every citizen in the kingdom is taken care of, rich or poor.
King Todoroki Shouto is twenty-five when he saves you for the second time. And he is happy.
(You had saved him in every year of his life since he was six years old. He never tells you that, but he thinks it one night as he lies awake next to you, one arm draped over your waist. His heart beats in time with yours and he can't help but smile at how peaceful you look when you sleep.
So the moon draws across the sky, and King Todoroki Shouto watches you in silence.)
(this list is mainly ways non-locals can donate but by extension offers a lot of resources and places to volunteer in the Twin Cities + there are specific ways to donate time under the cut which can be adjusted to your local neighborhood)
Memorial Blood Center declared a blood emergency on Tuesday, Jan 13. MBC is the blood supplier for both tier 1 trauma hospitals in the metro area (Hennepin County Medical Center and North Memorial Health).
Reach out to your neighbors â especially if you know they are staying home right now â and ask if they need groceries or toiletry items. Offer to pick up prescriptions, give rides, or shovel their driveway. If you know them well, bring them a treat that you know they'll enjoy. Or just ask them how they're doing and let them know you are there to support.
Connect with any of the orgs above and see if they are looking for volunteers.
Connect with a church or mosque in your area. From u/MuddieMaeSuggins: "I know a lot of regular Redditors are not religious (myself included) but like it or not this is a where a lot of community organizing happens, especially in immigrant communities."
Connect with your local school's admin office and/or their PTA. It's ok to reach out even if you don't have kids at the school. PTAs are organizing mutual aid for school families, safe rides, school observers.
Find an official protest or other event via Indivisible, 50501, FREE AMERICA, or MIRAC. Students at many high schools are staging walk-outs; if your local school is doing this, reach out to school leadership or the PTA and ask how you can support as a community member.
Join the effort to stop Hilton from housing ICEÂ by booking hotel rooms and then cancelling at the last minute. This action can be done from home! The effort is being organized by Sunrise Movement, who are telling activists to target specific hotels one-by-one. More info:Â SHUT DOWN HILTON
Find people in your area who are actively monitoring ICEÂ and/or stationing themselves in high-traffic areas and ask how you can help. Check for local FB events where people are organizing and just show up.
At minimum, read the COPAL Handbook before you go out to observe. The DFL, Monarca, and other orgs have been hosting online trainings for constitutional observers (though these fill up quickly).
When you see ICE in action, start recording. Be as loud and as disruptive as possible: honk your horn, set off your car alarm, blow your whistle. Let people know that ICE is in the area. If you see someone being detained, try to get their name and a phone number to call their emergency contact.
If you do not feel comfortable observing ICE in person, there are ways you can support from home. Just ask the people who are organizing in your area. I have social anxiety, and I had never participated in any kind of political action before this past Saturday. If I can do it, you can!
Local organizers are requesting that people who help monitor ICE DO NOT participate in 1-to-1 mutual aid efforts, as these can put the families you are helping at risk.
If you have friends/acquaintances who are sympathetic but not politically active, reach out to them. Show them that they're not alone in feeling helpless. Pick a few low-commitment actions from this list and do them together.
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