Work Text:
They’re doing this courting thing a little backwards.
Well—
Shouto is, at least.
Bakugou has been—surprisingly obedient. Obedient by Bakugou Standards, that is. Although Shouto admittedly shouldn’t have enough preexisting knowledge to base that observation on. He didn’t even know Bakugou Katsuki until three months ago. Three months. All the time they’ve shared together. Enough to fall. Enough to want everything Shouto thought he didn’t, before. Enough to want it desperately and irreparably and wholly, completely without shame.
He could use some of that probably. Shame. Bakugou would agree. But as it stands Bakugou is just a little, uh, preoccupied.
It might have something to do with the fact that Shouto is currently sitting on his lap. Probably. Shouto should ask. Just as soon as he gets comfortable, he should ask.
Bakugou’s hands come to rest on his waist. Tentatively, like he’s scared. Which just—it doesn’t fit. The reputation Bakugou has (the reputation Shouto chose staunchly not to believe on principle alone, in the beginning, no matter how scary Bakugou tried to look) doesn’t leave room for tentative, doesn’t have space for hesitation. And that’s what Bakugou is doing. Hesitating. Touching Shouto like he’s breakable.
“Don’t,” Shouto says, without even meaning to.
Immediately, Bakugou tries to pull away. Futile, with how close they are. With how much space Shouto is taking up. Shouto, taking up space. Bakugou’s responsible for that.
“I meant—,” Shouto says, “I mean, you can touch me. If you want.”
Bakugou swallows visibly. “Your highness,” he says through clenched teeth.
Shouto wants to poke at his cheeks until he stops tensing up. Which he probably shouldn’t, considering they’re in public. But he probably shouldn’t have sat on Bakugou’s lap either. He’s stopped caring about a lot of the things he shouldn’t do ever since he met Bakugou. He’s starting to think that’s a good thing.
They had been worried about declarations of war, at first. About impending bloodshed. And then it had turned out that big, terrifyingly fearsome barbarian king Bakugou Katsuki had come all this way with a proposal. A marriage proposal, to be exact. He had come with clear, unshakeable intentions to court Shouto.
Once he’d stopped blinking in surprise, Shouto had managed to open his mouth, masterfully pretend he couldn’t feel his skin warming up at the sight of Bakugou’s bare, perfectly-lickable chest, and say, “Are you certain?”
Bakugou had replied, in what now Shouto knows (and maybe loves, just a little bit) as regular Bakugou speak, “You got a problem with that, pretty boy?” only for his green-eyed advisor to openly kick him in the shin until he coughed, bowed, and amended, “Your royal highness.” (But not without winking, and that—well, that had made Shouto start thinking about saying yes, higher than average body temperature or not.)
Now—
Now Shouto is sitting on Bakugou Katsuki’s lap. For obvious reasons. (Reasons like it’s easier. It’s easier than trying to untangle the mess inside his chest.) “I like you,” he says evenly, before plucking a single grape off the stem and popping in into his mouth. In retrospect, there might have been a more appropriate time to do this. Perhaps not dinnertime. Dinnertime with his father sitting at the head of the table and gripping his fork like he wants nothing more than to snap it in half. Which is actually kind of—fun.
Shouto doesn’t remember having that much fun before Bakugou.
Or—
Any fun at all, really. Duty came first, always. Duty and honor and any other word big enough to hide the fear behind. The horrible, inescapable fear that if he didn’t encase his heart in ice, it would shatter.
And now it just—
It doesn’t matter. Bakugou could break his heart if he wanted. Shouto would let him. Would hand it over willingly.
It hits him all at once, like a wave rising up from the calm sea with the single intent of crashing into something, of dragging you along, filling your lungs up, up, up until you can’t breathe.
Oh, Shouto thinks. Oh.
Instinctively, he reaches for something to hold on to. For someone to keep him tethered. Bakugou, thankfully, is right there.
Shouto coughs. “I may—I may have had a certain realization,” he admits.
Bakugou arches an eyebrow at him. “That so, sweetheart? Was invading my personal space enlightening for you?”
He’s close. He’s so close. Shouto wants to give in to the urge to bury his face in Bakugou’s neck, to take his sudden revelation with him and never, ever emerge. Just sink into the warmth and safety of Bakugou’s body.
So. He does. Kind of.
“Maybe,” Shouto says, nodding into the crook of Bakugou’s neck. The urge to lick hasn’t gone away. Bakugou is warm. Endlessly warm. Enough to thaw all the frozen bits of Shouto.
“And what did you discover, your highness?”
Warm, Shouto thinks helplessly. Too warm. He’s about to overheat. About to combust. About to do something he can’t run away from. Not from Bakugou. Not—
All at once, Shouto stands up. Or—tries to. Does his best to untangle himself from Bakugou. From this boy who has crawled his way into the darkest, coldest parts of Shouto’s soul and made a home there, lit a fire. Slowly, carefully. (And Shouto knows now. Knows that Bakugou Katsuki is only ever slow or careful when he cares. When he cares about you. When he wants to learn the inside of your heart. Memorize it. Keep it.)
“Come with me,” Shouto says. Without waiting for an answer, he tugs on Bakugou’s wrist. Tugs at it, and runs out of the palace’s dining room. Runs. With none of the grace required of the Crown Prince and a lot of fear. But he does it. Bakugou’s hand in his, Shouto runs.
It’s not so bad.
(It’s not bad at all.)
…
There’s a spot. A spot Shouto likes, just secluded enough to make him forget about the weight of being alive. Of being, in general. An old swing, frayed rope the only thing holding the single piece of wood in place. He used to play there. Before. Before learning the significance of words like kingdom and hope and yours. He knows them now. He knows them, but—
“Oi, halfie.”
Shouto looks behind him. Bakugou is—he’s smiling. It’s small, but it’s definitely there.
“Help me?” Shouto says. Carefully, he takes a seat on the swing, a hand wrapping around the rope. It makes a small, cramped part of him feel just that little bit more solid.
“You’re making that face, aren’t you?” Bakugou asks. “That stupid, helpless face?”
Shouto blinks. “I thought you liked my face.”
“Spoiled little prince,” Bakugou says.
The warmth returns with a vengeance. Shouto swallows. “And if I am?” he asks. “Then what? You won’t marry me anymore?”
Bakugou leans down. When he speaks, his mouth brushes against Shouto’s earlobe. “You’ll have to do more than that to keep me away, my prince.”
Mine.
“Yours?” Shouto asks, mostly because he can.
Bakugou gives him a surprisingly gentle push. “If you want to be,” he says. “You can have anything, if you want it.”
Shouto’s teeth dig into the inside of his cheek. “Why?” he asks, because—because none of it is ever easy. Not for him.
“Why not?” Bakugou counters. Another push. Shouto could do this alone. He could do all of it alone. He doesn’t need— (but he wants. He wants, wants, wants.)
“Bakugou,” Shouto says.
“Yeah?”
“Will you—would you kiss me?”
It’s silent for a second. For an eternity. Shouto sits on the swing, grips at the rope until his knuckles turn white.
“Don’t ask for shi—for things you don’t want, sweetheart.”
“But I do want it,” Shouto protests. “I want it. I didn’t want—didn’t want anything before you. And now I want you. Please.”
It counts as pathetic, probably. As miserable and wholly improper of the crown prince. To beg. To beg to be loved. To be loved in return. Because he already loves. And that—
It was taught to him as a weakness. As something to exterminate.
“Shouto,” Bakugou says. Suddenly, he’s facing him. He’s on his knees on the grass that doesn’t get watered nearly as often as it should because nobody—well. Nobody besides Shouto ever comes here, and that’s why he loves it, and. And Bakugou said his name. For the first time. His hands are soft, not callused like Shouto would have expected. Shouto learns this because Bakugou cups his cheek, brushes a stray lock of hair behind Shouto’s ear and looks at him like he means something. Like he means everything.
Shouto licks his dry lips.
Bakugou’s eyes follow the movement.
“Are you scared?” Shouto asks. “Because I am.”
It’s such a slight movement that Shouto would miss it entirely if he weren’t so attuned to everything Bakugou does, but he is. He is, so he catches it when Bakugou nods. Bakugou, who doesn’t seem to fear anything. Bakugou, who laughs at Shouto’s dry humor and never says your highness like he means what is supposed to be meant by it and is, right now, touching Shouto.
“I’m fuckin’ terrified, sweetheart,” Bakugou says, and kisses him.
It’s—
Lacking any prior experience to draw a proper comparison from, Shouto settles on good. Or maybe even great. Fantastic. Life-changing. Earth-shattering. Good enough that Bakugou could ask him to flee into the night with him and never return and Shouto might just agree. Might take his hand and run further, this time.
Wouldn’t that be fun? Leave his responsibilities, his title and his name behind and just. Become Bakugou’s.
Wouldn’t that be—
Clumsily, Shouto tries to kiss back. “Bakugou,” he says. “Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou.”
“Say—say my name. Come on, Shouto. Please.”
Shouto feels like he might burst. “Katsuki,” he says. “Katsuki, I—”
“Fuck, just—just let me kiss you,” Bakugou says. And then kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him.
By the end of it, Shouto’s mouth is red and more than a little sore. He’s smiling. He can’t help it. “So,” he says, “do you find it appropriate to make an official proposal now?”
“Official,” Bakugou repeats.
Shouto nods. “Yes,” he says. “Official.”
“I could try,” Bakugou says.
Shouto really, really cannot stop smiling.
…
By the time someone manages to track them down, they’re both sitting on the dry, overgrown grass, Shouto leaning against Bakugou’s chest, Bakugou’s strong arms wrapped around his waist. (Fuckin’ tiny, he’d said, and instead of taking offense, Shouto had laughed. Had laughed because he could. Because there was nothing else he would rather do.)
Midoriya takes one look at him, and rubs worryingly at the back of his neck. He coughs. “Kacchan, they—they, uh, everyone is—they’re looking for you.”
This should be scary too. The part where the rest of the world comes barging in, where it ruthlessly bursts the quiet, the small bit of space they have just to be. It should be, but it isn’t. Bakugou is warm and solid all around him, and Shouto has absolutely no desire to change anything about it.
“We’ll be right there,” he says.
Midoriya’s gaze settles on their intertwined fingers, his eyes widen, then, he says, very softly, “Oh.”
Shouto can hear Bakugou’s smile. (He has to start thinking of him as Katsuki now, doesn’t he?) “Stop gaping,” he says.
Shouto swats weakly at his arm. “Be nice.”
“Anything for my future husband.”
At this, Midoriya places a hand over his mouth to stifle an audible gasp. “Heavens. I was right. Kacchan, you finally did it.”
“Finally?” Shouto asks.
“Shut up,” Bakugou hisses. “Both of you, equally annoying.”
Shouto pouts. “And here I was under the distinct impression you had romantic feelings for me.”
“I do,” Bakugou affirms. “Still want you to keep quiet.”
“I’m rather certain you can help with that,” Shouto says.
The world—
It can wait.
He’s got better things to do.
Things like kissing his future husband. And thinking about cake flavors. Yes. Cake flavors are important.