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𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮

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; there’s 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 footsteps—the 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 sight—beautiful, sacred, unobtainable. He somehow likes that the feeling is so foreign—something 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 sight—

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 blanket—

No need to rush, Shouto—

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 chest—he clutches the silk against his heartbeat, the pounding rhythm thudding against his fingertips.

Shouto? You're here!

Shouto! Let's go!

Sho—

“Fuck,” 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, he’ll have no problem acting the part. He will smile when the servants bring him his breakfast, he’ll dress, and he’ll 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 son—the 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 vicious—Shouto 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 all—eroded 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 much—at 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 arms—one 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 day—a 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 touch—he 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 really—he'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 moment—only 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 return—they 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 eyes—he 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 that—without 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 passerby—it'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 mornings—the 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 minutes—just 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's—a 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 back—he'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 hair—Shouto 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 these—when 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 scope—as 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 wife—"

"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 breath—it'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 dare—"

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 is—

He considers himself in the mirror as a distraction—the 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 king—"

"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 one—once 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 ago—the 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 wall— 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 up—one 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 it—he'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.

"You…you 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 irritation—Shouto 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 could’ve torn that room apart. A quiet rage flickered in his chest, the silk bedsheets tugged sharp beneath his hand.

Fuyumi was crying over Natsuo’s 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 would’ve 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 flowers—there'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 it—a 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 notes—the 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.

“I could never regret having you, Shouto,” the Queen murmured. Her fingers stroked gently through his hair, parting fire from snow.

She always seemed most peaceful when her children were around—when she could braid the ends of Fuyumi’s hair or listen to Natsuo read aloud. Even when Touya had been around, he’d wrapped himself beneath his mother’s thick blankets, curled into her side.

Muted sunlight pooled in Shouto’s lap and the wooden floor between his thighs, seated in the corner of the room where his mother was situated in a plush chair.

He looked up, the Queen practically glowing in his sight as she stared wistfully out the window.

“But there are things I wish I had done.”

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 drops—he 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 reaction—you'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, then—"

"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 nonetheless—a 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 it—too 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 hunger—Shouto 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 castle—I 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 declaration—once 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 stare—the 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 surprised—his 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 dish—the 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 look—"

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.

"Shouto—"

"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 plot—honestly, 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 you—"

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 him—sitting 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 amends—"

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 them—"

"Dad didn't kill them—"

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 authority—that'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.

"I…just 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.

"…I 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 want—"

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 him—his 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 wife…isn't an option anymore."

Fuyumi's gaze softens. "You mean…"

She doesn't dare say your name, not that she has to—Shouto 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? Like…"

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 fate—a 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 castle—"

"—is 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 do—with 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's…loud."

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 to…do 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', but—"

"Right," you wince. "I think I get the idea."

You guide him to a quieter offshoot of the square—a 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 it—not 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, so—"

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. "You—"

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, sometimes—what 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-guard—you 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 fluttering—his 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.

"Prince—"

"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 kingdom—gossip 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-white—even Princess Fuyumi's shows a bit of red."

Shouto's birth was the auspicious sign they had been waiting for—red-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 where—he'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 it—Fuyumi 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 Touya—not 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 confused—they 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 eyes—milky 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 months—"

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 commotion—the 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 you—"

"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 anything—"

"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 follows—Shouto tries to turn back to the old woman, but she’s 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 numb—the 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 him—the 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 alight—armored 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 motion—he 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 by—"

"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.

(Shouto’s legs give out the moment he steps into his bedroom. He doesn’t manage to catch himself, and his spine crumples painfully as he slides against the solid wood of his door.)

A prince is brave.

(He wonders if you were afraid—if 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 arm—it leaves a trail of blood in its wake. He doesn't feel it, not yet, not until he rushes to that familiar place—your familiar place—stains 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 reality—a 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 else—it 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 you—coming 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 leave—Shouto 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 hopelessness—he 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 yell—their 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 it—when he draws a breath, it hurts.

His expression is that of a man laid bare as he murmurs, “You…I searched—I looked for you for years. I…I 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 must’ve become…”

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, “Gone. They said you were gone.”

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?

“You were the first person I ever yelled at,” he whispers, nearly sobs, and suddenly he’s 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. "You…you called me Shouto—"

"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 yet…I 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 they—they burned anyway. All of them. Except me. I couldn't face you after that, not with a version of me that was so…"

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. I…I 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. And…I 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 Highness—"

"Shouto. For you, it's Shouto."

Hesitant, you shake your head. "It was Shouto—"

"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 ghost—you 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.)

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