Examination in Foreign Dialects: Chapter 1
Category: BNHA
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pre-slash
Rating: Teens
Warnings: Implied child abuse
Part 1
Summary:
“I want nothing to do with any Todorokis, Shoutos or otherwise!”
“Lucky you have that option, then.”
“No, I don’t, Kyouka, for fuck’s sake.”
Shouto wakes, and knows he will not go back to sleep. He rolls out of bed, wrapping himself in his blanket, and hisses when his feet touch the floor. The cold pricks at his skin. He rubs his eyes and glances at the windows. Outside, the world is a dim blue-grey.
He tugs on a pair of boots with his nightclothes still on and shuffles to the balcony. The air is peppered with faint birdsong. His breath fogs. Along the valley and stern hills there lies a patchwork of snow, broken by the silhouettes of trees he does not know the names of.
Shouto has never set foot outside the Fire Kingdom before, let alone spent a season hundreds of miles away. His siblings dislike the heat - Natsuo tends to kick off his blankets at night, and Fuyumi cracks open her windows even in the dead of winter - but Shouto has always had more of his father’s fire in him. It is a silly thing to resent, a preference for heat or mild weather.
He huddles in his blanket and wonders if it’s too early to ask for tea. He could always consult Izuku; he’d been supportive during Shouto’s trial, even though he shouldn’t have, given that he’s Katsuki’s husband.
(Izuku’s face is sliced by the prison bars, but at least Shouto can see it. “He may not seem like it at first, but Kacc - Katsuki is a just king. He won’t go out of his way to see you punished if the evidence points to your innocence.”
“I don’t know if I can believe it. But I’ll take your word for it.”)
Shouto had meant it. He can count the number of people he trusts on one hand, and somehow Izuku is among them. He’s barely spoken to Izuku a handful of times, but something about Izuku invites you to put your faith in him. Shouto does not trust easily, has had wariness and a shrewd eye trained into him. It had taken him months to confess to Fumikage that his favourite food is cold noodles - and Fumikage is someone he had liked almost on sight.
A lump forms in his throat.
Fucking hell. He’s been fine till now. He had tolerated the drawn-out trial with only a doddery man of laws on his side while Katsuki bore a hole through Shouto’s forehead with his glare. Even after Shouto was ruled innocent, just yesterday, Katsuki didn’t speak to him at all - not that they’d have had the opportunity to speak anyway. Shouto had immediately been ushered by Izuku and some servants into a guest room with a bed too wide for one person and a fireplace piled with ash and half-burnt logs.
A cup of hot spiced tea, and what problems could one have left? Fuyumi had told him once, years ago. Shouto had thought it an inane statement and forgotten about it until now. He still thinks it’s inane.
But if he has the tea, maybe it will feel like Fuyumi is with him.
He gets dressed, wincing at his still-healing injuries, and heads out of the room. There are no paintings in the corridors like in his father’s palace, but occasionally he comes across a wall-length tapestry that looks like it was made at least half a century ago, going by the wear.
As he nears the central hall and turns a corner he collides with a wall that smells of ozone. “Woah!” says the wall, and steadies him by the shoulders. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“Iz - Your Royal Highness,” Shouto says and bows.
“I told you to call me Izuku. What are you doing up so early?”
Shouto’s stomach answers before he can. “I didn’t do that on purpose,” he offers. He had been given dinner in his chamber last night, but had sent it back almost untouched, still tense and reeling from the trial.
Izuku laughs. “I see that breakfast is in order. I haven’t eaten yet either. Come sit with me.”
He asks a passing servant for food and leads Shouto to a smallish room with murals spreading over the walls. The colours are faded and of a limited range, like they were put there hundreds of years ago. Bits of the walls are worn down or broken off. “It used to be a reading room,” Izuku says, sitting down on a cushioned chair by the corner fireplace and gesturing for Shouto to do the same in the chair’s twin. “Kacchan used to use it too, but he keeps getting busier and busier. Ah, let me get the fire.”
He starts to get up, but Shouto crouches down and lights it easily.
“Fascinating,” Izuku says as Shouto uses one of the pokers to stoke the flames. “I’ve never seen a fire Quirk before. Kacchan could technically use his for the same purpose as you just did, but it’s more of an explosion Quirk and really, really inadvisable if I should speak from experience. Are they very common in the Fire Kingdom?”
“I would not say they are common, but they are not rare.” Shouto gets up to take his own seat, at an angle next to Izuku. “And there are many forms of fire Quirks, some of which you could argue are not fire at all, but more of an energy that resembles fire.” The captain of the guard, Mei, had actually written a thesis on it, though Shouto suspects it had been more from spite than academic interest.
“That’s still more than what other kingdoms have. Strong Quirks tend to lean towards conjuring things, or controlling them. Or they are strength enhancing. It defies logic if you ask me, but elemental Quirks are more uncommon. I know only one person who has one.”
“When Haruto Todoroki - our line’s first fire user - ascended the throne, he set up elite schools specifically for fire Quirks. No doubt some users would have met there and married. It still happens.”
There is a sharp rap at the door, and at Izuku’s answer two servants come in carrying trays. In a blink the table is laid: white bread, hard cheeses, cured ham, and tea. There is no milk or honey. It seems that either Dragon folk do not take them with tea, or the ingredients are scarce in winter.
Shouto takes a sip.
“How is it?”
He wonders what Fuyumi would think; she’d scrunch up her nose while coming to a decision. He guesses she would find it interesting, though perhaps not to her taste. “The spices are a bit different.”
Izuku smiles. “Tea can be so personal.”
That is certainly something Fuyumi would say. Shouto voices this.
Izuku puts down his cup. “That reminds me. We’ll send a messenger to your family today to tell them about the ruling.” They had already sent one some weeks back, before the trial, informing them of Shouto’s predicament. Shouto wonders if his father had set something on fire when he’d been told.
He still needs to write to his mother and siblings, but the letters will have to be subdued, since they’re always checked. And getting their replies could take till spring, taking into account the steadily thickening snow. Even the winding river that leads into the town is half frozen over. Loneliness squeezes at him.
“No doubt they’ll be glad to hear it,” Izuku is saying.
No doubt Enji would be glad to know the marriage isn’t off the table and is thinking of all the ways I can get into Katsuki’s good graces. More than what pleases Enji, Shouto knows what displeases him. And Enji will be displeased if Shouto spends months here only for Katsuki to reject him.
It looks like it’s going in that direction anyway, he thinks, draining his tea and wondering if sending Katsuki a fruit basket would be enough to make him reconsider the marriage.
The door slams open and Shouto almost jumps.
“You’re eating breakfast without me!” a man whines. Shouto has seen him before. During the trial he had sat to Katsuki’s left; his bright red hair was hard to miss. Katsuki’s other consort, Eijirou.
Izuku pulls up another chair. “You were snoring when I got up.”
Eijirou marches up to Izuku and plants a fierce kiss on his cheek, before plopping down in the chair. He gives Shouto a smile and a nod and Shouto does a double take - Eijirou’s teeth seem to be pointed. Izuku and he exchange greetings and good-natured ribbing. Shouto takes another bite of his bread as Eijirou kicks Izuku’s shin, and chews as Izuku snatches the last of the ham from Eijirou’s hand and says, “You don’t deserve this!” They engage in a brief tussle, at the end of which the ham is catapulted onto a wall. It sticks for a moment and then flops sadly to the ground.
“At least it didn’t hit any paint,” says Izuku, thoughtful. “Kacchan would have had an aneurysm.”
Shouto mulls over that; Katsuki does not seem like a person who appreciates things like fine arts.
“Sleep well?” Eijirou asks, and it takes Shouto a moment to realise he is talking to him, since his attention had hitherto been on Izuku. He figures it’s not table conversation to say, No, I always have nightmares, so he says, “Yes.”
Eijirou’s expression softens. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time. And I’m especially sorry that it was partly at our hands.”
This surprises Shouto. He had expected Eijirou to fully support (and encourage) Katsuki’s disdain of him. Izuku is already devastatingly kind - it had not seemed viable that another person here is too. He feels wrong-footed, like he’s missed a step while going down the stairs. He fumbles to come up with an appropriate response. “You have provided adequate lodgings.”
Eijirou howls and smacks Shouto on the back. Shouto almost topples out of his chair with the force of it. Eijirou’s got an open, loud belly laugh and Shouto vacillates between envy and disdain; he used to get a crack on his knuckles if he so much as snickered in public, let alone make a joke. So he learned to express himself in other ways: a slight shift in his tone, a flit of his eyes, a tilt of his head. If he was sarcastic enough, Fumikage would duck his head to hide his sharp little smirk. Shouto revelled in it.
“That bad?” says Eijirou.
“No - ”
“We can’t have that! We’ve got some friends coming over later, I’m sure they’ll help you feel more welcome!”
“I - ”
“Do you play board games? We play a lot of sugoroku and ludo. Izuku loves chess, but we can’t beat him, so we refuse to play it when he’s involved. And Denki says chess makes his head hurt.”
Shouto has never played anything but strategy games, which he was taught because they were becoming of a prince and (supposedly) helped with battle tactics. He usually played against Yaomomo, early in the morning or so late that even the guards were nodding. She almost always won. He’s not sure he can play chess with these Dragonlanders without making a face like he’s having a miserable time. “I’ve never played ludo.” Or sugoroku, but Eijirou doesn’t need to know that.
Eijirou claps his hands together, grinning. “It’s settled, then! Today, say, a couple of hours after the midday meal? There’s a game room on the first floor of the castle.”
Shouto does not want to. But Eijirou invited him and if he says no it could reflect badly on Shouto and the Fire Kingdom and that would put their deal at risk. It’s not that Shouto ever expected to have a choice when it came to his marriage; he just didn’t think he’d be offered up without even knowing of the arrangement.
His stomach turns. He tells it to shut up and says, “I am honoured to accept.”
Eijirou grins and then returns his attention to Izuku. Shouto sits with his fists in his lap while they chat and fight over more food till the servants come to clear the plates and cutlery away.
He spends the rest of the day pacing a hole into the carpet in his chamber, mentally reciting dry statutory laws he’d had down pat years ago to calm himself down. Just do what you were taught, he tells himself. Be there on time, use the right terms of address, and don’t talk about anything but the weather. Can’t go wrong.
Only when he leaves to locate the room he finds himself walking in circles; the castle is far more like a maze than it seems at first glance: rough-hewed, unadorned stone on the outside with the major rooms in all the correct places. He dithers, walks around for what seems like another hour, before finally running into a servant and asking, harried, where he can find this elusive “game room”. She looks like she’s trying hard not to laugh, but leads him along. Wonderful impression, Shouto. Keep it up. An eligible husband, right there.
When they get there, he knocks and the door is wrenched open. “Your Highness!” exclaims Eijirou. “We’ve been waiting.”
Shouto fights back a wince and apologises in what he hopes is a sincere and profuse manner. Inside there are two unfamiliar persons: a woman in a leopard-skin cloak sitting cross-legged by the fireplace and shaking wooden pieces out of a pouch, and a blond man lolling in a rocking chair. Izuku is absent.
“These are Kyouka Jirou and Denki Kaminari, our childhood friends.”
The woman - Kyouka - smiles and nods her head, which is an odd way of greeting a prince, but it doesn’t matter because Shouto has a job to do. He can manage an introduction. He bows at the waist, deep enough to be respectful, but not enough to indicate she is of higher station than him. Even Enji could not have faulted it. “Good evening, Kyouka, Denki.”
Kyouka and Eijirou stare blankly at him, and it takes Shouto a moment to realise he used the Fire Kingdom’s standard polite honorific “-jan” instead of the Dragon Kingdom’s “-jun”. “Sorry, force of habit,” he says, resigned.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eijirou says brightly, slapping Shouto on the arm. He’s going to have a bruise there tomorrow.
They gather in a circle and place the ludo board in the middle. Eijirou explains the game, with Kyouka tossing in bits of advice or things Eijirou has forgotten to mention. They start to play, but it quickly dissolves into chit-chat and Shouto’s pretty sure Denki misses two turns without anyone noticing.
Shouto hovers at the fringes of their conversation. Usually he does not mind remaining silent, but now he finds himself feeling awkward. They joke about things that happened years ago. They talk about the light shows that happen in the town every summer. They discuss local politics that Shouto has no idea about. They insult Katsuki with a kind of long-suffering fondness, and Shouto boggles at how it is permitted, how Eijirou says nothing about the right way to address their king. Cultural differences aside, he is quite certain that calling your king “Lord Explosion Murder Dynamite” would be considered inappropriate anywhere. Denki laughs so hard he starts rolling all over the carpet.
“Are you two…” Shouto begins to ask, then trails off. He tries to find words that are both accurate and inoffensive. “Nobles?”
“Ha! No,” says Denki. “We’re both from the town. Known Katsuki since he used to wet his bed.”
Shouto imagines what would happen if his father were here and suppresses a hysterical laugh. He’s half enjoying himself just because he knows his father would hate listening to talk like this.
The door opens and Izuku sticks his head through the gap. His hair is dishevelled and he’s got spots of ink on his lips, like he’d been nibbling at a pen. He greets everyone, looks at Denki, and says, “Where did you get that tunic?” The tunic in question is some ghastly affair with little yellow lightning bolts peppered all over it.
Denki puffs up. “I embroidered it myself. Do you like it?”
“What - ah, what’s been the general response?” says Izuku.
Denki looks indignant. “You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“I’ll have you know, when I walked down to the square a bunch of women pointed at me and whispered,” Denki says proudly.
Shouto considers offering his opinion, and then decides he doesn’t want to offend one of Katsuki’s friends and give Katsuki another reason to eviscerate him. The thought makes him feel unexpectedly wretched. He had only spent a few days talking to Katsuki at Kamino Prison, in sporadic bursts, when he had the energy, and yet he’d felt that he’d known him a long time.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” says Kyouka.
“There, see! She agrees with me.”
“No, I don’t.”
Shouto stands up amid the laughter. “I think I’m going to retire. Thank you for the afternoon.”
“But you only just got here,” says Kyouka.
Izuku looks at him with concern. “Is everything all right?”
“It is. Please, as you were.” Shouto skitters out before he has to hear any more. In the hallway he takes deep breaths, leans against the chilled wall, looks up. The ceiling is high, unpainted, unadorned, an endless stretch of grey.
He finds his way back to his chamber. He opens the door and for some reason, looks around instead of flopping onto the bed the way he wants to. There is a sofa draped with soft-looking furs beneath the window. At the desk there are two chairs. The chest of drawers and closet are large enough for more than one wardrobe. Someone has lit the fireplace and it casts a genial glow about the walls and tapestries. He can’t imagine many people disliking it - bring in a friendly face and it would fulfill its purpose beautifully.
He closes the door and sinks to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and wishing that he were not here.
***
Shouto wakes to knocking, and it takes him a moment to reorient himself: he had fallen asleep curled up by the door. His neck hurts. “Who is it?”
“Izuku.”
Shouto heaves himself up. “Give me a moment.” He rubs the crust from his eyes, finger-combs his hair and washes his face and mouth in a basin, then yanks the door open, embarrassed. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Are you in yesterday’s clothes?”
“Ah. Yes, I fell asleep like this. I was tired.”
Izuku’s mouth thins. “I’m sorry if we made you feel unwelcome. I didn’t - you must be missing home terribly.”
He is correct, but Shouto won’t tell him that. Shouto bows, a little deeper than necessary. “I am grateful for your hospitality.” He is. He is. He knows it. He just doesn’t feel it yet.
“It’s the least we can do. Why don’t I show you around? We can get breakfast in town.”
“...In town?” It is a concept foreign to Shouto. He is only permitted to eat in the palace, if he is not on a hunting trip or scouting. He has eaten in teahouses and inns before, but only while travelling.
“There’s a lady who makes amazing steamed dumplings. If you want!” Izuku hastily adds.
“I’m not doing anything else.”
After Shouto gets dressed, Izuku says, “Let’s go to my chamber; I need some money.”
Shouto follows him, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, trying not to feel awkward. The knowledge that Izuku’s chamber is shared with both Katsuki and Eijirou makes him flush. He wonders if the servants have cleared all their things, all their rumpled clothes and empty cups and pens that have rolled beneath the desks and bedding, or if he’ll have to see how they live up close, see the echoes of their habits and little tics.
“Here we are,” says Izuku, pushing open an ornate door.
It’s certainly a bigger room than Shouto’s, but that may be because it’s meant for at least three people. Shouto is a bit taken aback by its ordinariness. He’s not sure what he expected; of course there would be a large bed and large windows and a sprawling carpet. One of the three finely painted wooden screens has a tunic and a pair of socks flung over it. There’s a pair of indoor slippers kicked off by a wall.
Izuku goes to a drawer by the bed and unlocks it, humming to himself. He looks perfectly at ease.
“How long have you lived here?” Shouto asks.
“Seven - sorry, eight years.”
“I’ve lived all my life at the palace, and I’ve had the same room for as long as I can remember. But I’ve never felt at home there.” As soon as he says this he is aghast. He is not supposed to speak of such things, let alone to a relative stranger.
Izuku makes a considering sound. He looks at Shouto, at his scar. There is no pity in his eyes, but there is a glint of sadness. Shouto wants to turn away so that Izuku won’t look like that anymore. “Does it hurt?” Izuku asks softly.
“No. I got it when I was five.”
Izuku’s gaze lowers to the ground and remains there for a moment, before flitting back up. “You’re all right with standing and eating? It’s just a cart, there are no chairs.”
Shouto is relieved at the change of topic. “Tough, but I’ll do it because you invited me.”
Izuku laughs. Sunlight catches in his curls. “He has a sense of humour! Who would have thought?”
Shouto looks at Izuku and he floats around the peaks of the mountains. Izuku is thunder gathered to a needlepoint. Izuku is the flare of sunlight on the edge of a blade. Shouto should look away.
“When did you two become friends?”
It takes impressive control for Shouto to not spring back or start. He doesn’t know if Izuku has as much trouble; his face bears no trace of surprise, though it has closed off, almost imperceptibly. “Your Majesty,” Shouto says.
Katsuki looks at Izuku. “What were you doing?”
Izuku’s smile is perfectly even on each side. “Just making small talk.”
“Hah? About what?”
Izuku taps his lips with a finger. “It’s between us.”
Katsuki gives Shouto a suspicious look, but then turns back to Izuku. “I’m taking Denki out to the market in the town hall. Idiot said he wanted sewing needles and coloured thread, for some damn reason. Tell Eijirou I’ll be out, would you?”
“Please spare Denki’s feelings,” says Izuku.
“Why the hell would I do that? It’s not like he spares my eyes with his awful clothes. We won’t be long, he knows what he wants.” He waves and leaves. Shouto watches him go, his eyes lingering on him.
Izuku puts his pouch of money in a satchel and slings it across his torso. “We should get going too.”
“Is this all right?”
“What?”
Shouto waves a hand. “You’re spending time alone with me. Don’t your husbands mind?”
“I’m not sure I follow. I want to spend time with you, so I am.”
“You make it sound very simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Izuku smiles. “Let’s go.”
Outside, Shouto’s bones ache from the cold. Their boots crunch in the snow. Smoke puffs from chimneys. It is very quiet. Shouto likes the anonymity. No one stares at him, no one talks to him except Izuku. He can duck his head into his collar and stare at passers-by and stick his hands in his armpits and no one can tell him to stop.
“Are the clothes we provided adequate?” asks Izuku. His cheeks and nose are red, and his mouth his hidden by his scarf. “I wasn’t sure if they were exactly your size.”
“You picked them out?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t have to go that far,” says Shouto, touched.
“I wanted you to be comfortable after that bloody nightmare. Kacchan got to sleep in his own bed, but you were just put in prison again.”
Shouto coughs. “It was not terrible.” He’s telling the truth. There had been a clean bed, and a window, and even a writing desk with books and paper and ink. He was allowed to bathe, even if the water was not always warm. They fed him three times a day: bread and vegetables and cheese.
Izuku tuts and shakes his head. “The clothes?”
“They’re slightly small, but there’s no need to change them.” His tunic sleeves don’t go all the way down to his wrists; he is taller than most people he has seen here. “The shoes and coat fit perfectly, though.”
Izuku says he is glad to hear it, and then points to a cart at a corner surrounded by a small huddle of people. “That’s it.” There’s a ruddy-faced woman standing behind the cart with her hair scraped back in a bun and her plump forearms bare despite the chill. Steam puffs and rises from behind the counter.
Shouto has no preference for the filling, so Izuku gets them a plateful of the chicken. There’s a bright orange chilli paste with it. The skin is wonderfully thin, the meat tender and lightly seasoned. It’s so hot he burns his tongue. The paste adds a bite that Shouto thinks he might not be able to appreciate as much in summer. It is simple, rustic food, and standing here and eating with Izuku, Shouto thinks it might be the best meal he has had in months.
Izuku asks for another plate, chatting with the vendor as she works, asking about her children, her mother, whether the hole in her roof had been fixed, and Shouto wishes he himself were that open.
They finish the second plate quickly, and Izuku prods the last dumpling towards Shouto, who shakes his head, not wanting to seem rude.
“Please,” says Izuku, “you’re our guest. I’ll feel bad if I take the last one.”
Shouto relents, feeling warm in the chest. His lips sting from the paste.
“Up for some more walking?” asks Izuku.
He leads Shouto through the streets, pointing out the mill and temple and brewery. Some of the buildings seem older than the others by several centuries. Shouto finds himself engrossed, trailing his eyes all over stone walls and tall carved pillars and crumbling wells. He pauses at what appears to be a graveyard. No one is there. Some of the headstones have no names or dates; others are scrawled over with shrivelled black vines. “You bury your dead?”
“Some people do. Cultural hangover from one of the northwestern invasions, though that kingdom crumbled a long time back.”
“I see.”
“We have some books on it in the castle library, if you’re interested.”
Shouto tries not to show his glee. “I could take a look, if you permit it.”
“I do.” There is a wry sort of look on Izuku’s face.
They trudge back to the castle, and in the great hall Izuku turns to Shouto. “I have some work, so I’ll be heading in the other direction. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you later.” Izuku leaves with a wave, disappearing through one of the low archways. Shouto shivers and pulls his coat tighter around himself. He begins to head back to his chamber. Along the way he passes a door on the left. There are voices floating through it. He ignores them, until he catches a Todoroki, and stops in his tracks.
“...is the prince you were offered, right?” comes a voice, muffled. It sounds like Kyouka.
There is a shuffle. Shouto’s heart hammers.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” That’s Katsuki.
Shouto presses against the wall, gripping the door’s wooden frame. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, he thinks, and then decides that he doesn’t care enough.
“Do you have an answer?” says Kyouka.
The wood beneath Shouto’s hand nearly cracks.
“He made a damn fool out of me - ”
“You don’t need his help for that.”
“Ouch, Kyouka.” Eijirou is there too, and there is a murmur that sounds like Denki. Shouto suddenly feels dirty, like a hired spy.
“ - and it’s a little too soon for me to think about it without wanting to blow him up,” Katsuki finishes.
Well, it’s good to know where Shouto stands. Maybe the fruit basket won’t work after all.
“Please don’t. Do you have any idea how valuable marrying a Todoroki would be?”
“I want nothing to do with any Todorokis, Shoutos or otherwise!”
“Lucky you, you have that option.”
“No, I don’t, Kyouka, for fuck’s sake.”
There is a pause. Kyouka says, “What do you mean?”
“The offer is...it’s too good. Kyouka, fuck, it’s so good. Those farmers at the border won’t have to go hungry in winter. More people can learn to read and write. There will be roads that will smooth out supply chains. I can’t say no to that. I’m just putting it off.” He sounds exhausted. Shouto wants to break Katsuki’s teeth. He wants to take a horse from the stables and ride back to his own kingdom, the dead of winter be damned. And maybe at home he’ll be thrashed but at least he will be wanted and at least he will know how deep to bow and which sauce goes with the bread and what to say when a commoner greets you.
There is more talking, but it is too quiet for Shouto to hear. He’s not sure he wants to.
Kyouka says something like, “Surely there’s room for you to be friends at least?” Her tone is gentle, but uncertain. “Izuku seems to like him. Eijirou too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You said you got along with him fine before…” Eijirou’s voice trails off.
“I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? Just fucking leave it.”
There is a taut pause, like the skin of a balloon about to burst.
Denki says, in a slightly desperate tone, as though trying to assuage the tense atmosphere, “What’s with his hair? I thought it was dyed, but apparently it’s his natural colouring.”
“I don’t know, I’ve certainly never seen the like before,” says Kyouka. There is more muttering. Kyouka’s voice drops lower, so Shouto has to strain to hear. “It’s probably untrue, but according to hearsay he was some kind of breeding experiment. There might even have been inbreeding - some royal families do that - but I’ve never heard anything of the sort for the Todorokis, so take that with a grain of salt.”
There’s frost creeping over Shouto’s cheek and fingers. He rips his hand away from the frame so he won’t damage it and leave incriminating evidence of his presence.
“Hey,” Eijirou says, in that way of his that is both chiding and reasonable, “if we have questions, we can ask him straight, yeah? No need to gossip like old men.”
There is a cluster of subdued, guilty-sounding murmurs.
Shouto can’t listen anymore. He stalks back to his chamber, only stopping himself from slamming the door at the last moment. At the desk he takes out a parchment and pen, nearly knocking over the inkwell, and after taking a moment to steady his hands, he begins to scratch out a letter.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pre-slash
Rating: Teens
Warnings: Implied child abuse
Part 1
Summary:
“I want nothing to do with any Todorokis, Shoutos or otherwise!”
“Lucky you have that option, then.”
“No, I don’t, Kyouka, for fuck’s sake.”
Shouto wakes, and knows he will not go back to sleep. He rolls out of bed, wrapping himself in his blanket, and hisses when his feet touch the floor. The cold pricks at his skin. He rubs his eyes and glances at the windows. Outside, the world is a dim blue-grey.
He tugs on a pair of boots with his nightclothes still on and shuffles to the balcony. The air is peppered with faint birdsong. His breath fogs. Along the valley and stern hills there lies a patchwork of snow, broken by the silhouettes of trees he does not know the names of.
Shouto has never set foot outside the Fire Kingdom before, let alone spent a season hundreds of miles away. His siblings dislike the heat - Natsuo tends to kick off his blankets at night, and Fuyumi cracks open her windows even in the dead of winter - but Shouto has always had more of his father’s fire in him. It is a silly thing to resent, a preference for heat or mild weather.
He huddles in his blanket and wonders if it’s too early to ask for tea. He could always consult Izuku; he’d been supportive during Shouto’s trial, even though he shouldn’t have, given that he’s Katsuki’s husband.
(Izuku’s face is sliced by the prison bars, but at least Shouto can see it. “He may not seem like it at first, but Kacc - Katsuki is a just king. He won’t go out of his way to see you punished if the evidence points to your innocence.”
“I don’t know if I can believe it. But I’ll take your word for it.”)
Shouto had meant it. He can count the number of people he trusts on one hand, and somehow Izuku is among them. He’s barely spoken to Izuku a handful of times, but something about Izuku invites you to put your faith in him. Shouto does not trust easily, has had wariness and a shrewd eye trained into him. It had taken him months to confess to Fumikage that his favourite food is cold noodles - and Fumikage is someone he had liked almost on sight.
A lump forms in his throat.
Fucking hell. He’s been fine till now. He had tolerated the drawn-out trial with only a doddery man of laws on his side while Katsuki bore a hole through Shouto’s forehead with his glare. Even after Shouto was ruled innocent, just yesterday, Katsuki didn’t speak to him at all - not that they’d have had the opportunity to speak anyway. Shouto had immediately been ushered by Izuku and some servants into a guest room with a bed too wide for one person and a fireplace piled with ash and half-burnt logs.
A cup of hot spiced tea, and what problems could one have left? Fuyumi had told him once, years ago. Shouto had thought it an inane statement and forgotten about it until now. He still thinks it’s inane.
But if he has the tea, maybe it will feel like Fuyumi is with him.
He gets dressed, wincing at his still-healing injuries, and heads out of the room. There are no paintings in the corridors like in his father’s palace, but occasionally he comes across a wall-length tapestry that looks like it was made at least half a century ago, going by the wear.
As he nears the central hall and turns a corner he collides with a wall that smells of ozone. “Woah!” says the wall, and steadies him by the shoulders. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“Iz - Your Royal Highness,” Shouto says and bows.
“I told you to call me Izuku. What are you doing up so early?”
Shouto’s stomach answers before he can. “I didn’t do that on purpose,” he offers. He had been given dinner in his chamber last night, but had sent it back almost untouched, still tense and reeling from the trial.
Izuku laughs. “I see that breakfast is in order. I haven’t eaten yet either. Come sit with me.”
He asks a passing servant for food and leads Shouto to a smallish room with murals spreading over the walls. The colours are faded and of a limited range, like they were put there hundreds of years ago. Bits of the walls are worn down or broken off. “It used to be a reading room,” Izuku says, sitting down on a cushioned chair by the corner fireplace and gesturing for Shouto to do the same in the chair’s twin. “Kacchan used to use it too, but he keeps getting busier and busier. Ah, let me get the fire.”
He starts to get up, but Shouto crouches down and lights it easily.
“Fascinating,” Izuku says as Shouto uses one of the pokers to stoke the flames. “I’ve never seen a fire Quirk before. Kacchan could technically use his for the same purpose as you just did, but it’s more of an explosion Quirk and really, really inadvisable if I should speak from experience. Are they very common in the Fire Kingdom?”
“I would not say they are common, but they are not rare.” Shouto gets up to take his own seat, at an angle next to Izuku. “And there are many forms of fire Quirks, some of which you could argue are not fire at all, but more of an energy that resembles fire.” The captain of the guard, Mei, had actually written a thesis on it, though Shouto suspects it had been more from spite than academic interest.
“That’s still more than what other kingdoms have. Strong Quirks tend to lean towards conjuring things, or controlling them. Or they are strength enhancing. It defies logic if you ask me, but elemental Quirks are more uncommon. I know only one person who has one.”
“When Haruto Todoroki - our line’s first fire user - ascended the throne, he set up elite schools specifically for fire Quirks. No doubt some users would have met there and married. It still happens.”
There is a sharp rap at the door, and at Izuku’s answer two servants come in carrying trays. In a blink the table is laid: white bread, hard cheeses, cured ham, and tea. There is no milk or honey. It seems that either Dragon folk do not take them with tea, or the ingredients are scarce in winter.
Shouto takes a sip.
“How is it?”
He wonders what Fuyumi would think; she’d scrunch up her nose while coming to a decision. He guesses she would find it interesting, though perhaps not to her taste. “The spices are a bit different.”
Izuku smiles. “Tea can be so personal.”
That is certainly something Fuyumi would say. Shouto voices this.
Izuku puts down his cup. “That reminds me. We’ll send a messenger to your family today to tell them about the ruling.” They had already sent one some weeks back, before the trial, informing them of Shouto’s predicament. Shouto wonders if his father had set something on fire when he’d been told.
He still needs to write to his mother and siblings, but the letters will have to be subdued, since they’re always checked. And getting their replies could take till spring, taking into account the steadily thickening snow. Even the winding river that leads into the town is half frozen over. Loneliness squeezes at him.
“No doubt they’ll be glad to hear it,” Izuku is saying.
No doubt Enji would be glad to know the marriage isn’t off the table and is thinking of all the ways I can get into Katsuki’s good graces. More than what pleases Enji, Shouto knows what displeases him. And Enji will be displeased if Shouto spends months here only for Katsuki to reject him.
It looks like it’s going in that direction anyway, he thinks, draining his tea and wondering if sending Katsuki a fruit basket would be enough to make him reconsider the marriage.
The door slams open and Shouto almost jumps.
“You’re eating breakfast without me!” a man whines. Shouto has seen him before. During the trial he had sat to Katsuki’s left; his bright red hair was hard to miss. Katsuki’s other consort, Eijirou.
Izuku pulls up another chair. “You were snoring when I got up.”
Eijirou marches up to Izuku and plants a fierce kiss on his cheek, before plopping down in the chair. He gives Shouto a smile and a nod and Shouto does a double take - Eijirou’s teeth seem to be pointed. Izuku and he exchange greetings and good-natured ribbing. Shouto takes another bite of his bread as Eijirou kicks Izuku’s shin, and chews as Izuku snatches the last of the ham from Eijirou’s hand and says, “You don’t deserve this!” They engage in a brief tussle, at the end of which the ham is catapulted onto a wall. It sticks for a moment and then flops sadly to the ground.
“At least it didn’t hit any paint,” says Izuku, thoughtful. “Kacchan would have had an aneurysm.”
Shouto mulls over that; Katsuki does not seem like a person who appreciates things like fine arts.
“Sleep well?” Eijirou asks, and it takes Shouto a moment to realise he is talking to him, since his attention had hitherto been on Izuku. He figures it’s not table conversation to say, No, I always have nightmares, so he says, “Yes.”
Eijirou’s expression softens. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time. And I’m especially sorry that it was partly at our hands.”
This surprises Shouto. He had expected Eijirou to fully support (and encourage) Katsuki’s disdain of him. Izuku is already devastatingly kind - it had not seemed viable that another person here is too. He feels wrong-footed, like he’s missed a step while going down the stairs. He fumbles to come up with an appropriate response. “You have provided adequate lodgings.”
Eijirou howls and smacks Shouto on the back. Shouto almost topples out of his chair with the force of it. Eijirou’s got an open, loud belly laugh and Shouto vacillates between envy and disdain; he used to get a crack on his knuckles if he so much as snickered in public, let alone make a joke. So he learned to express himself in other ways: a slight shift in his tone, a flit of his eyes, a tilt of his head. If he was sarcastic enough, Fumikage would duck his head to hide his sharp little smirk. Shouto revelled in it.
“That bad?” says Eijirou.
“No - ”
“We can’t have that! We’ve got some friends coming over later, I’m sure they’ll help you feel more welcome!”
“I - ”
“Do you play board games? We play a lot of sugoroku and ludo. Izuku loves chess, but we can’t beat him, so we refuse to play it when he’s involved. And Denki says chess makes his head hurt.”
Shouto has never played anything but strategy games, which he was taught because they were becoming of a prince and (supposedly) helped with battle tactics. He usually played against Yaomomo, early in the morning or so late that even the guards were nodding. She almost always won. He’s not sure he can play chess with these Dragonlanders without making a face like he’s having a miserable time. “I’ve never played ludo.” Or sugoroku, but Eijirou doesn’t need to know that.
Eijirou claps his hands together, grinning. “It’s settled, then! Today, say, a couple of hours after the midday meal? There’s a game room on the first floor of the castle.”
Shouto does not want to. But Eijirou invited him and if he says no it could reflect badly on Shouto and the Fire Kingdom and that would put their deal at risk. It’s not that Shouto ever expected to have a choice when it came to his marriage; he just didn’t think he’d be offered up without even knowing of the arrangement.
His stomach turns. He tells it to shut up and says, “I am honoured to accept.”
Eijirou grins and then returns his attention to Izuku. Shouto sits with his fists in his lap while they chat and fight over more food till the servants come to clear the plates and cutlery away.
He spends the rest of the day pacing a hole into the carpet in his chamber, mentally reciting dry statutory laws he’d had down pat years ago to calm himself down. Just do what you were taught, he tells himself. Be there on time, use the right terms of address, and don’t talk about anything but the weather. Can’t go wrong.
Only when he leaves to locate the room he finds himself walking in circles; the castle is far more like a maze than it seems at first glance: rough-hewed, unadorned stone on the outside with the major rooms in all the correct places. He dithers, walks around for what seems like another hour, before finally running into a servant and asking, harried, where he can find this elusive “game room”. She looks like she’s trying hard not to laugh, but leads him along. Wonderful impression, Shouto. Keep it up. An eligible husband, right there.
When they get there, he knocks and the door is wrenched open. “Your Highness!” exclaims Eijirou. “We’ve been waiting.”
Shouto fights back a wince and apologises in what he hopes is a sincere and profuse manner. Inside there are two unfamiliar persons: a woman in a leopard-skin cloak sitting cross-legged by the fireplace and shaking wooden pieces out of a pouch, and a blond man lolling in a rocking chair. Izuku is absent.
“These are Kyouka Jirou and Denki Kaminari, our childhood friends.”
The woman - Kyouka - smiles and nods her head, which is an odd way of greeting a prince, but it doesn’t matter because Shouto has a job to do. He can manage an introduction. He bows at the waist, deep enough to be respectful, but not enough to indicate she is of higher station than him. Even Enji could not have faulted it. “Good evening, Kyouka, Denki.”
Kyouka and Eijirou stare blankly at him, and it takes Shouto a moment to realise he used the Fire Kingdom’s standard polite honorific “-jan” instead of the Dragon Kingdom’s “-jun”. “Sorry, force of habit,” he says, resigned.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eijirou says brightly, slapping Shouto on the arm. He’s going to have a bruise there tomorrow.
They gather in a circle and place the ludo board in the middle. Eijirou explains the game, with Kyouka tossing in bits of advice or things Eijirou has forgotten to mention. They start to play, but it quickly dissolves into chit-chat and Shouto’s pretty sure Denki misses two turns without anyone noticing.
Shouto hovers at the fringes of their conversation. Usually he does not mind remaining silent, but now he finds himself feeling awkward. They joke about things that happened years ago. They talk about the light shows that happen in the town every summer. They discuss local politics that Shouto has no idea about. They insult Katsuki with a kind of long-suffering fondness, and Shouto boggles at how it is permitted, how Eijirou says nothing about the right way to address their king. Cultural differences aside, he is quite certain that calling your king “Lord Explosion Murder Dynamite” would be considered inappropriate anywhere. Denki laughs so hard he starts rolling all over the carpet.
“Are you two…” Shouto begins to ask, then trails off. He tries to find words that are both accurate and inoffensive. “Nobles?”
“Ha! No,” says Denki. “We’re both from the town. Known Katsuki since he used to wet his bed.”
Shouto imagines what would happen if his father were here and suppresses a hysterical laugh. He’s half enjoying himself just because he knows his father would hate listening to talk like this.
The door opens and Izuku sticks his head through the gap. His hair is dishevelled and he’s got spots of ink on his lips, like he’d been nibbling at a pen. He greets everyone, looks at Denki, and says, “Where did you get that tunic?” The tunic in question is some ghastly affair with little yellow lightning bolts peppered all over it.
Denki puffs up. “I embroidered it myself. Do you like it?”
“What - ah, what’s been the general response?” says Izuku.
Denki looks indignant. “You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“I’ll have you know, when I walked down to the square a bunch of women pointed at me and whispered,” Denki says proudly.
Shouto considers offering his opinion, and then decides he doesn’t want to offend one of Katsuki’s friends and give Katsuki another reason to eviscerate him. The thought makes him feel unexpectedly wretched. He had only spent a few days talking to Katsuki at Kamino Prison, in sporadic bursts, when he had the energy, and yet he’d felt that he’d known him a long time.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” says Kyouka.
“There, see! She agrees with me.”
“No, I don’t.”
Shouto stands up amid the laughter. “I think I’m going to retire. Thank you for the afternoon.”
“But you only just got here,” says Kyouka.
Izuku looks at him with concern. “Is everything all right?”
“It is. Please, as you were.” Shouto skitters out before he has to hear any more. In the hallway he takes deep breaths, leans against the chilled wall, looks up. The ceiling is high, unpainted, unadorned, an endless stretch of grey.
He finds his way back to his chamber. He opens the door and for some reason, looks around instead of flopping onto the bed the way he wants to. There is a sofa draped with soft-looking furs beneath the window. At the desk there are two chairs. The chest of drawers and closet are large enough for more than one wardrobe. Someone has lit the fireplace and it casts a genial glow about the walls and tapestries. He can’t imagine many people disliking it - bring in a friendly face and it would fulfill its purpose beautifully.
He closes the door and sinks to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and wishing that he were not here.
***
Shouto wakes to knocking, and it takes him a moment to reorient himself: he had fallen asleep curled up by the door. His neck hurts. “Who is it?”
“Izuku.”
Shouto heaves himself up. “Give me a moment.” He rubs the crust from his eyes, finger-combs his hair and washes his face and mouth in a basin, then yanks the door open, embarrassed. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Are you in yesterday’s clothes?”
“Ah. Yes, I fell asleep like this. I was tired.”
Izuku’s mouth thins. “I’m sorry if we made you feel unwelcome. I didn’t - you must be missing home terribly.”
He is correct, but Shouto won’t tell him that. Shouto bows, a little deeper than necessary. “I am grateful for your hospitality.” He is. He is. He knows it. He just doesn’t feel it yet.
“It’s the least we can do. Why don’t I show you around? We can get breakfast in town.”
“...In town?” It is a concept foreign to Shouto. He is only permitted to eat in the palace, if he is not on a hunting trip or scouting. He has eaten in teahouses and inns before, but only while travelling.
“There’s a lady who makes amazing steamed dumplings. If you want!” Izuku hastily adds.
“I’m not doing anything else.”
After Shouto gets dressed, Izuku says, “Let’s go to my chamber; I need some money.”
Shouto follows him, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, trying not to feel awkward. The knowledge that Izuku’s chamber is shared with both Katsuki and Eijirou makes him flush. He wonders if the servants have cleared all their things, all their rumpled clothes and empty cups and pens that have rolled beneath the desks and bedding, or if he’ll have to see how they live up close, see the echoes of their habits and little tics.
“Here we are,” says Izuku, pushing open an ornate door.
It’s certainly a bigger room than Shouto’s, but that may be because it’s meant for at least three people. Shouto is a bit taken aback by its ordinariness. He’s not sure what he expected; of course there would be a large bed and large windows and a sprawling carpet. One of the three finely painted wooden screens has a tunic and a pair of socks flung over it. There’s a pair of indoor slippers kicked off by a wall.
Izuku goes to a drawer by the bed and unlocks it, humming to himself. He looks perfectly at ease.
“How long have you lived here?” Shouto asks.
“Seven - sorry, eight years.”
“I’ve lived all my life at the palace, and I’ve had the same room for as long as I can remember. But I’ve never felt at home there.” As soon as he says this he is aghast. He is not supposed to speak of such things, let alone to a relative stranger.
Izuku makes a considering sound. He looks at Shouto, at his scar. There is no pity in his eyes, but there is a glint of sadness. Shouto wants to turn away so that Izuku won’t look like that anymore. “Does it hurt?” Izuku asks softly.
“No. I got it when I was five.”
Izuku’s gaze lowers to the ground and remains there for a moment, before flitting back up. “You’re all right with standing and eating? It’s just a cart, there are no chairs.”
Shouto is relieved at the change of topic. “Tough, but I’ll do it because you invited me.”
Izuku laughs. Sunlight catches in his curls. “He has a sense of humour! Who would have thought?”
Shouto looks at Izuku and he floats around the peaks of the mountains. Izuku is thunder gathered to a needlepoint. Izuku is the flare of sunlight on the edge of a blade. Shouto should look away.
“When did you two become friends?”
It takes impressive control for Shouto to not spring back or start. He doesn’t know if Izuku has as much trouble; his face bears no trace of surprise, though it has closed off, almost imperceptibly. “Your Majesty,” Shouto says.
Katsuki looks at Izuku. “What were you doing?”
Izuku’s smile is perfectly even on each side. “Just making small talk.”
“Hah? About what?”
Izuku taps his lips with a finger. “It’s between us.”
Katsuki gives Shouto a suspicious look, but then turns back to Izuku. “I’m taking Denki out to the market in the town hall. Idiot said he wanted sewing needles and coloured thread, for some damn reason. Tell Eijirou I’ll be out, would you?”
“Please spare Denki’s feelings,” says Izuku.
“Why the hell would I do that? It’s not like he spares my eyes with his awful clothes. We won’t be long, he knows what he wants.” He waves and leaves. Shouto watches him go, his eyes lingering on him.
Izuku puts his pouch of money in a satchel and slings it across his torso. “We should get going too.”
“Is this all right?”
“What?”
Shouto waves a hand. “You’re spending time alone with me. Don’t your husbands mind?”
“I’m not sure I follow. I want to spend time with you, so I am.”
“You make it sound very simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Izuku smiles. “Let’s go.”
Outside, Shouto’s bones ache from the cold. Their boots crunch in the snow. Smoke puffs from chimneys. It is very quiet. Shouto likes the anonymity. No one stares at him, no one talks to him except Izuku. He can duck his head into his collar and stare at passers-by and stick his hands in his armpits and no one can tell him to stop.
“Are the clothes we provided adequate?” asks Izuku. His cheeks and nose are red, and his mouth his hidden by his scarf. “I wasn’t sure if they were exactly your size.”
“You picked them out?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t have to go that far,” says Shouto, touched.
“I wanted you to be comfortable after that bloody nightmare. Kacchan got to sleep in his own bed, but you were just put in prison again.”
Shouto coughs. “It was not terrible.” He’s telling the truth. There had been a clean bed, and a window, and even a writing desk with books and paper and ink. He was allowed to bathe, even if the water was not always warm. They fed him three times a day: bread and vegetables and cheese.
Izuku tuts and shakes his head. “The clothes?”
“They’re slightly small, but there’s no need to change them.” His tunic sleeves don’t go all the way down to his wrists; he is taller than most people he has seen here. “The shoes and coat fit perfectly, though.”
Izuku says he is glad to hear it, and then points to a cart at a corner surrounded by a small huddle of people. “That’s it.” There’s a ruddy-faced woman standing behind the cart with her hair scraped back in a bun and her plump forearms bare despite the chill. Steam puffs and rises from behind the counter.
Shouto has no preference for the filling, so Izuku gets them a plateful of the chicken. There’s a bright orange chilli paste with it. The skin is wonderfully thin, the meat tender and lightly seasoned. It’s so hot he burns his tongue. The paste adds a bite that Shouto thinks he might not be able to appreciate as much in summer. It is simple, rustic food, and standing here and eating with Izuku, Shouto thinks it might be the best meal he has had in months.
Izuku asks for another plate, chatting with the vendor as she works, asking about her children, her mother, whether the hole in her roof had been fixed, and Shouto wishes he himself were that open.
They finish the second plate quickly, and Izuku prods the last dumpling towards Shouto, who shakes his head, not wanting to seem rude.
“Please,” says Izuku, “you’re our guest. I’ll feel bad if I take the last one.”
Shouto relents, feeling warm in the chest. His lips sting from the paste.
“Up for some more walking?” asks Izuku.
He leads Shouto through the streets, pointing out the mill and temple and brewery. Some of the buildings seem older than the others by several centuries. Shouto finds himself engrossed, trailing his eyes all over stone walls and tall carved pillars and crumbling wells. He pauses at what appears to be a graveyard. No one is there. Some of the headstones have no names or dates; others are scrawled over with shrivelled black vines. “You bury your dead?”
“Some people do. Cultural hangover from one of the northwestern invasions, though that kingdom crumbled a long time back.”
“I see.”
“We have some books on it in the castle library, if you’re interested.”
Shouto tries not to show his glee. “I could take a look, if you permit it.”
“I do.” There is a wry sort of look on Izuku’s face.
They trudge back to the castle, and in the great hall Izuku turns to Shouto. “I have some work, so I’ll be heading in the other direction. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you later.” Izuku leaves with a wave, disappearing through one of the low archways. Shouto shivers and pulls his coat tighter around himself. He begins to head back to his chamber. Along the way he passes a door on the left. There are voices floating through it. He ignores them, until he catches a Todoroki, and stops in his tracks.
“...is the prince you were offered, right?” comes a voice, muffled. It sounds like Kyouka.
There is a shuffle. Shouto’s heart hammers.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” That’s Katsuki.
Shouto presses against the wall, gripping the door’s wooden frame. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, he thinks, and then decides that he doesn’t care enough.
“Do you have an answer?” says Kyouka.
The wood beneath Shouto’s hand nearly cracks.
“He made a damn fool out of me - ”
“You don’t need his help for that.”
“Ouch, Kyouka.” Eijirou is there too, and there is a murmur that sounds like Denki. Shouto suddenly feels dirty, like a hired spy.
“ - and it’s a little too soon for me to think about it without wanting to blow him up,” Katsuki finishes.
Well, it’s good to know where Shouto stands. Maybe the fruit basket won’t work after all.
“Please don’t. Do you have any idea how valuable marrying a Todoroki would be?”
“I want nothing to do with any Todorokis, Shoutos or otherwise!”
“Lucky you, you have that option.”
“No, I don’t, Kyouka, for fuck’s sake.”
There is a pause. Kyouka says, “What do you mean?”
“The offer is...it’s too good. Kyouka, fuck, it’s so good. Those farmers at the border won’t have to go hungry in winter. More people can learn to read and write. There will be roads that will smooth out supply chains. I can’t say no to that. I’m just putting it off.” He sounds exhausted. Shouto wants to break Katsuki’s teeth. He wants to take a horse from the stables and ride back to his own kingdom, the dead of winter be damned. And maybe at home he’ll be thrashed but at least he will be wanted and at least he will know how deep to bow and which sauce goes with the bread and what to say when a commoner greets you.
There is more talking, but it is too quiet for Shouto to hear. He’s not sure he wants to.
Kyouka says something like, “Surely there’s room for you to be friends at least?” Her tone is gentle, but uncertain. “Izuku seems to like him. Eijirou too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You said you got along with him fine before…” Eijirou’s voice trails off.
“I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? Just fucking leave it.”
There is a taut pause, like the skin of a balloon about to burst.
Denki says, in a slightly desperate tone, as though trying to assuage the tense atmosphere, “What’s with his hair? I thought it was dyed, but apparently it’s his natural colouring.”
“I don’t know, I’ve certainly never seen the like before,” says Kyouka. There is more muttering. Kyouka’s voice drops lower, so Shouto has to strain to hear. “It’s probably untrue, but according to hearsay he was some kind of breeding experiment. There might even have been inbreeding - some royal families do that - but I’ve never heard anything of the sort for the Todorokis, so take that with a grain of salt.”
There’s frost creeping over Shouto’s cheek and fingers. He rips his hand away from the frame so he won’t damage it and leave incriminating evidence of his presence.
“Hey,” Eijirou says, in that way of his that is both chiding and reasonable, “if we have questions, we can ask him straight, yeah? No need to gossip like old men.”
There is a cluster of subdued, guilty-sounding murmurs.
Shouto can’t listen anymore. He stalks back to his chamber, only stopping himself from slamming the door at the last moment. At the desk he takes out a parchment and pen, nearly knocking over the inkwell, and after taking a moment to steady his hands, he begins to scratch out a letter.