Chapter Text
That Day started as any other, for Hanta. He woke before the sun, collected brown eggs from the two hens behind his home, picked a small handful of mint leaves which he crushed into hot water with honey. He sat beside his fire while he ate an ash cake and one of the eggs. Watched the sun finish rising as the birds began their day and the sounds of life started up around him.
Hanta stamped out the fire before donning his soft leather apron and walking across the village to open his shop for the day. The usual greetings were given on the way; a pat to the local stray, a wave to the children, a nod to the woodcarver with whom he worked closely. Hanta's heart was full, and his soul was quiet. He lived a peaceful life, content and simple and whole, or so it felt at the time.
He got to work quickly, slipping his tools into his belt and settling on his bench to continue weaving the length of cloth he'd started three days before. It was a complex one, this cloth; fine linen gingham he'd dyed with rhubarb and sumac berries. It was a gift, the customer - the town blacksmith - had told him, for her daughter's seventeenth birthday. So Hanta worked quickly, yes, but with extra care as well. His own gift to the blacksmith's daughter, he thought. Specially neat edges to make for cleaner hems, and an even beat to ensure it drapes smoothly.
Hanta's fingers moved deftly, throwing and catching the shuttle in time with his breath, and the sun slanted through his window, slowly creeping over the old wood floors, over his loom, over his fingers, catching dust motes dancing the whole time.
It was near noon, four feet of cloth finished, when a knock rang out through the young clothier's shop. Hanta set his shuttle down, cracking his back as he stood from his bench before moving to the door.
"Coming!" He called, brushing his bangs back from his face with a sigh.
And then, upon peering around the doorframe, Hanta damn near swallowed his tongue.
The man was seated on a tall cream-coloured horse, which was well-muscled and of proud neck. Its tack was of rich, tooled leather, and in the tack was an even richer-looking man, young and fair, with red and white hair and the saddest eyes - blue and brown - that Hanta had ever seen.
"Uh..." Hanta said. What a great second word of the day.
The boy cut him off, mercifully, gaze intense and brow sincere. "Are you the clothier of this village?"
Hanta couldn't stop looking, couldn't stop himself from trying to absorb every detail of the obvious wealth in front of him, greater than any wealth he'd ever had or would have in his simple life.
"Yes," He managed, much softer than he'd like.
"My name is Todoroki Shouto." Oh, his voice was deep, caused Hanta to cow, to curl his shoulders up to his ears. He wished he could look away from that uneven gaze. "And I've heard you weave silk like no other."
Suddenly Hanta felt much too hot in his thin tunic and loose pants. He felt the heat race up his face, across his cheeks and into his ears.
But the second sentence was lost on Hanta. "P-Prince Todoroki?" He ground out.
The Todoroki family ruled over leagues and leagues of land, with King Todoroki Enji being known far and wide as the most fearsome, the most ruthless, of leaders. Most knew of his four children, the first three of whom he'd rejected in favour of naming the youngest, Shouto, as his heir.
And there he stood, on a magnificent steed, in glittering costume, on one Sero Hanta's stoop.
Hanta didn't have long to gawk, however, for the Prince's face fell, and he dropped his reins in favour of folding his arms, clutching tight at the fine fabric that clothed him. He dropped Hanta's gaze, too.
"Um... yes. Prince Todoroki."
"What can I do for you, Prince?" Hanta offered in earnest, heart pounding and palms sweating where he clutched the doorframe.
A wince, on the Prince's part, a painful twist of his brows. "Please don't call me that." His voice dropped lower, softer.
Hanta found himself taking another step forward, if only to hear the Prince better.
"But I do need a silk scarf," He continued after a moment, "the finest in all the land. Can you provide, fair clothier? I can pay you handsomely." He looked at Hanta once more, eyes gentler, kinder.
But Hanta's chest was tight, his blood frozen, his limbs locked. Clumsily, he coaxed his tongue to working. "... me?" said on the tail of a breath.
"You." The Prince ensured. Another tiny smile. "I've heard only wonderful things, Master Weaver."
A new blush rushed across Hanta's face and he looked away once more.
"If I can't call you 'Prince' then you can't call me 'Master Weaver'. Deal?" Hanta offered shakily.
The Prince seemed to consider Hanta for a moment, tracing him with those deep eyes. His mouth twisted, whether in contemplation or displeasure, Hanta knew not. Eventually, he nodded.
"Deal." The Prince settled, moving to get off the fine horse. He extended his hand to Hanta, closing the few steps between them. "Call me Shouto, then."
"Hanta." The other replied, taking the Prince's hand.
"Hanta." He repeated.
Hanta shivered, just a small thrill running its fingers down his spine.
"Shouto." He said in return. The name felt heavy on his tongue.
"Do you accept, then?" The Prince asked, dropping Hanta's hand. "Will you make me a scarf?"
Hanta nodded solemnly, stepping back to bow his head. "The finest I've ever made."
He startled, however, when the Prince laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "No need to bow, Master Hanta. I'm asking you a favour here." His words were less stern than his face, but it still made Hanta cow self-consciously.
"But... you're-"
"Please don't say 'a Todoroki'."
Hanta paused. Held the Prince's uneven gaze. He took a long breath, then nodded. "I won't. But... you are royalty. And I'm..."
"A Master Artisan of whom I've heard praise all over this country and the next. It's what brought me to your door, wanting. No need to be humble, Hanta, when it's clear you're the true expert in your field."
Another bow, half-aborted when he remembered the Prince's command- or, suggestion, he supposed.
And as it were, Hanta had never been sure how to handle praise, so he simply nodded in recognition before stepping back into the shop, gesturing for the Prince to follow.
"I have one order to finish this afternoon, then I'm all yours." Hanta promised.
He settled back on his bench, muscles tight, unsure, and watched the Prince amble through the shop, steps long and slow. He paced the perimeter of it, his fingers running graceful over shelves and baskets and boxes of yarn and filament, fleeces and dried flowers, sewing thread and spare bobbins. Hanta watched the Prince pause to give the spinning wheel a push, watched his shoulders jolt as it squeaked.
The Prince shot a guilty sort of look over his shoulder, looking young and boyish, and Hanta found himself grinning.
"Don't worry, fair Shouto. This is a clothier's shop. Everything here is made for touching."
The Prince nodded in acknowledgement, but moved away from the wheel all the same, to rest beside Hanta's loom. He peered over his shoulder, face not quite passive as he took in the gingham being woven.
Hanta waited for a moment, but when the Prince didn't say anything, he took it upon himself, starting lowly.
"Have you ever seen cloth being woven before?"
A quiet pause, then a shake of his head. "No, Master Hanta."
"Would you like to? I should be able to finish this cloth today. You could watch. And you can tell me how you'd like this fine scarf of yours." He offered lightly.
A nod. "I would like that, Master Hanta."
Hanta grinned rueful, swatting at the Prince's shoulder. "None of this 'Master' stuff, I said."
The Prince smiled back, his own small, meek smile. "Tell me about this cloth you're weaving so perfectly."
And Hanta did. Slowly, at first, for fear of being boring or dragging on, then more animatedly as the Prince tucked in, listening intently with a rapt face and wide, honest eyes of blue and brown. Hanta told him of the gingham twill pattern, and of the rhubarb and sumac berries he'd used to dye it yellow and pink, and of the fine linen he'd spun yard after yard of the days before. He spoke until his face was flushed and his cheeks hurt from grinning, and he hadn't even realized he'd been weaving away the whole time.
By the time his voice petered out, he'd finished another half foot, and upon looking up, found that the Prince had fallen asleep right where he sat, on a little stool he'd pulled up beside Hanta's bench, face slack and peaceful and young, mouth parted softly and brows high and childlike. He was slumped a little, hands curled soft in his lap and feet curled together under him.
And panic flooded Hanta like never before. How absolutely self-centred and boring he must've been to have sent the Prince off to sleep right where he sat! How absolutely awful of Hanta to not have noticed! His hands fluttered by his sides indecisively before they settled on the Prince's shoulders.
At once the Prince startled awake, eyes flying open to meet Hanta's. His brows contorted in confusion for a second before the situation seemed to come back to him.
"Oh," He said, voice rougher than before.
"Pr- uh... Shouto?"
"Yes, um, I'm sorry." The Prince shook his head, eyes glazed-looking, blinking heavily. "I'm just a bit behind on my sleep. Do you have some place I could lie down?"
Hanta's cheeks coloured, and he warred with himself for a minute. His home was truly not fit for a Prince, let alone the most powerful in the land, but it would feel wrong to send him to the inn, Hanta reasoned.
"Uh... yes. Yes, I do. It's on the other side of town, though. Are you alright to walk? Or ride, I suppose?"
The Prince offered him a tight grin, one that didn't reach his eyes at all. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Hanta. Show me the way?"
"Of course, Pr- Shouto."
And Hanta did. He closed the door of his shop tight behind them, waiting for the Prince to grab his horse before leading them through the dirt and cobblestone streets towards his home.
"This village is small." The Prince mused as they entered the main square. It was indeed small. But just as Hanta was about to apologize, Shouto continued, quietly. "I like it."
Hanta snorted, and poked the Prince with an elbow, feeling a pressure ease in his chest. “Oh, then you’re going to love my cottage.”
The Prince eyed him, something guarded but curious in his face, and he allowed another small smile. “Something to be said about enjoying the little things?”
“Precisely.”
They walked the rest of the way in a companionable silence, Hanta's head hanging lower and lower as they left the main village, and even the dirt path behind it, to stop at his small wooden cottage, despite the Prince’s earlier comment. The roof and the floor were of thatched grass, and the land around it was full of washing basins, gardens, a chicken hutch, and a fire pit above which hung a large iron pot.
"This looks like a witch's home." The Prince mused as he tied his horse to a tree and took its saddle off. Hanta spun around to look at him with wide eyes, but there was humour and mischief, new and charming, in the Prince's face, and Hanta felt a smile grow on his own. "Is there something you're not telling me, Clothier Hanta? Perhaps a secret to your fine cloths?"
"Oh, I can't tell you that, Fair Shouto." Hanta quipped, flouncing past him to hang in the doorway of his cottage. "Though if you stay here long enough, you just may find out."
The Prince followed him inside, looking around the inside of the cottage curiously before settling gingerly on the straw mattress in the corner. "You're tempting me to do just that, Weaver, with such hospitality."
Hanta felt his cheeks burn, leaning on his chair to try to trick himself into feeling nonchalant. "I pray you're not joking." His tone was too soft, allowing the insecurity to slip through. Hanta's cheeks reddened further.
There was that sincerity back again in the Prince's brow, in the firm set of his mouth. It was reassuring, if nothing else. Not a lying face, but an honest one. "I'm not. You're kind. I appreciate it." A stifling pause, which Hanta did not know how to handle. "And I'm sorry again that I'm kiddish enough to need a nap, but I promise I'll tell you everything you want to know after I awake. Deal?"
"It's not kiddish," Hanta bolstered, "I believe you've travelled long and far. This country is many days' travel from your kingdom. And I accept your deal. Will you be able to find your way back to my shop or shall I wait here for you to awake?"
"No, please," The Prince said earnestly. "I'm sorry I took time out of your day already. Please go back to your shop, I'll be fine. I'll find you when I'm up and better."
"Stop apologizing, Prince,"
"Shouto." The Prince corrected.
Hanta looked at him for a long time, at the Prince sat on his poor bed in the corner of his small home. Something bitter like embarrassment or shame welled in him, but the Prince was kind, he'd already proven. Hanta tried to push it away, but it was easier said than done. When it became too much, Hanta turned with a tiny bow, barely more than an inclination of the head.
"Sleep well, Fair Shouto." He offered softly.
Then he started back towards his shop, head reeling and quiet all at once.