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As king, Shouto immediately learns that he prefers to do what feels right rather than what will be accepted by the prodding, judgmental eyes of his royal council.
With three years of a painfully peaceful rule under his gilded belt, Shouto is in the middle of soaking the soreness from his body when he is called to his first-ever emergency defense meeting.
Screaming echoes down the halls of the castle like rolling thunder before Shouto makes it anywhere near.
“—free them or else I’ll bring hell upon this land!”
There in the middle of the negotiations room of marble floors and vaulted ceilings and the whispered trickle of the porcelain snow leopard fountain, is a shirtless blond man Shouto’s eyes have never beholden. Restrained by two royal guards on each thick arm, the man thrashes and even bites, clanking the beads hanging from his neck in a melody of resistance.
Shouto takes a moment to study the sharp, angular tattoos encircling thick arms. He’s only read of barbarians in ancient magic scrolls, overheard tall tales slurred into glasses of ale at bars. They are not rare, but more elusive than witches and spirits.
On his right hand side is another man escorted by only one guard, smaller and far less aggressive but just as built with a healthy head of green curls and sunkisses splattered over his cheeks.
Shouto looks between the two. “What is going on here?”
Everyone begins yelling at once.
“Release me, you ugly assho—“
“Todoroki-sama, please forgive the disorder—“
“Shouto!”
“Please, we come in peace! This is a stressful situation for everyone and we just—“
But Shouto raises a gloved hand.
Everyone silences except the screaming man. Over the noise, he turns to his royal council—Enji, Iida, Aizawa—only to receive blank expressions in return.
“Iida,” he says to his lead soldier. “Please.”
In respect, Iida dips his head. “Your highness, we imprisoned two unidentified individuals after the botanist reported them wandering about the eastern forest—“
“—it’s not wandering if they are on their own damn land—“
“An hour ago, these two disarmed the guards on the southeast side of the castle and invaded, and the barbarian man here claims to be king of the prisoners—“
“Prisoners?! Those are my citizens!”
“Are the guards hurt?”
“Nothing lethal—I apologize Todoroki-sama, we gave them both a sedation tonic but it doesn’t seem to be taking. He claims that it’s illegal to—“
“Release them or I declare war!”
That causes his royal council to stir in their thrones, the guards to unsheath their swords, and even the very fountain to pause in its trickling.
Shouto raises a steady hand and studies the man in front of him. “You’re barbarian.”
“And you’re a fool,” the man spits.
Finally, Enji stands and stalks forward, furiously aflame. Though he stands an entire head taller than the barbarian king, he does not back down.
“You will not speak to my son in such a manner.”
Shouto‘s eye twitches. “Your name?”
Another ruckus. The barbarian gives the guard a steady run for his golden coins, jostling to and fro while he growls and thrashes.
“There’s no point in resisting,” he says softly. “My guards will not release you without answers.”
“His name is Ka—Bakugou,” the man with green hair replies soon after, eyes fixed on the ground, hunched in what must be guilt. “King Bakugou of the eastern barbarian clan. And I am Midoriya Izuku, his commander-in-chief.”
Bakugou’s head swivels over to him, and something close to rage—no, betrayal—clutches roots-deep in his face.
“King Bakugou,” Shouto repeats calmly, daring to take another step closer to the both of them, the silk tassels lining his boots swishing. “What brought you and Midoriya-san to my kingdom?”
For the first time, silence falls upon the room. A muscle in Bakugou’s strong jaw jumps, and for a moment, his beauty outshines the wrath in his very posture.
“The wrongful imprisonment of my people,” he says, and it may be due to the incessant yelling, but the rough timbre of his voice sends a guilty shiver down Shouto’s spine.
“Why did you attack my guards?”
Midoriya cuts in. “Attack is a strong wor—“
“Why did you arrest innocent people,” hisses Bakugou.
“Wander on foreign land without notice,” Aizawa’s calm voice douses the beginning flames of irritation licking at Shouto’s heels, “and you’re subject to their law.”
Bakugou scoffs. “The forest is my land.”
Another silence, this time awkward, settles over the room.
“There’s… the Todoroki kingdom has owned the forest for centuries,” Iida frowns.
“We are not in the interest of battling for land,” Enji roars. “Iida, please—“
“Father.”
“Um,” Midoriya interrupts. “I-if I may, your highness. I think there’s a bit of confusion here… the way that the barbarian clans claim their land is—“
“Don’t,” Bakugou interrupts. “What’s true doesn’t have to be repeated.”
Here is where Enji, as king, may have sentenced Bakugou and Midoriya to years of imprisonment for this frankly ridiculous performance. Perhaps out of spite to his enraged father, perhaps out of sympathy, here is where Shouto exercises hs power as king.
“Release them,” he orders.
His guards obey without hesitation, years of oaths being honored. Bakugou rolls his shoulders and sneers at Shouto like he’s the one who threatened war. The commander cradles his elbow and watches them both warily.
He lingers. Bakugou doesn’t seem like the kind to thank, and Shouto holds his sweltering gaze without fear.
“I will release your citizens if you agree to sit with me to mediate this issue on our claimed lands.”
But with a billow of his cardinal-red cloak, Bakugou is gone, only the fading sound of stomping footsteps fainting behind him.
Enji stands and leaves without so much as a glance to Shouto, but he is long past the point of minding his father’s approval. He dismisses his guards and finally, only he, Iida, and the barbarian’s commander remain in the sweltering haze of a meeting gone wrong.
He hadn’t chanced a close look at Midoriya, but now, Shouto soaks in all that this strange man is.
There is strength carried in Midoriya’s shoulders and a sharp mind shown in the weapons and tonics of choice clinking at his belt. His leathered green vest is worn, evidently well-loved, with claw marks on the lapel that make Shouto curious. But most of all there is softness reflected in the forest green of his eyes.
“As commander, I hold equal say in political affairs,” Midoriya offers. “We’ll accept your terms.”
Shouto nods to Iida, and without another word, he leaves to release the prisoners.
“You’re not barbarian,” is what leaves Shouto’s mouth after a scrutinizing once-over. After, his cheeks sting with regret at the way Midoriya’s eyes widen in surprise.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then why are you commander-in-chief?”
Midoriya shrugs, and it’s then that Shouto notices two things: one, that his right shoulder rests lower than the left, and two, that he still has a sturdy stature for such an ailment.
“I grew up next to their settlement. One day I was too curious for my own good and wandered in—they imprisoned me for two days until they were sure I was harmless. That’s how I met Kacch—King Bakugou, as children. I suppose I gained his trust over the battles we’ve weathered together.”
Outside of the stained glass windows, Shouto can see the barbarian king storming away from the castle, his two citizens in tow. For a moment he stops and turns, glares at the Todoroki castle like it would do anything back.
Behind him, Midoriya continues on as if talking to himself. “Those two days gave my mother the scare of her lifetime…”
“Barbarians are quite distrusting, it seems.”
“Everyone favors their own ideals above others, but yes,” Midoriya sighs. “For Kacchan—excuse me, his highness—actions speak louder than words. I can help you negotiate this as painlessly as possible.”
Shouto decides in that moment. Midoriya is someone worth respecting; though he is ailed, though he is not a born barbarian, he is still here; on behalf of his people, upsetting his childhood friend, lingering in the name of diplomacy. He likes this man, and feels called to trust.
“I’m not naive,” Shouto murmurs, as much as he longs to call for tea. “From birth I was raised around diplomats. I’m familiar with false olive branches.”
With a smile, Midoriya raises his hands in peace. “Though I dabble in magic, I don’t cast illusions. Both King Bakugou and I value honesty above all else.”
So does Shouto. When he doesn’t reply, Midoriya bows and exits. Perhaps he’s a bad king to not show him outside, but regardless, he watches Midoriya scramble across the courtyard garden and deep into the forest.
In bath water clouded with goat’s milk and adorned with dried yuzu, Shouto stares at his wavering reflection. At his waxy scar stretching thicker than leather, sinewy like the terrain just outside of the kingdom gates. In each ridge of healed skin, he sees the day that brought this scar, but most importantly, the boiling point of disregard that caused it.
Somehow (and Shouto suspects Midoriya played a part in this) a letter comes in the mail of Bakugou’s agreement to mediate the forest problem. There’s resistance even in the tight, neat lines of his handwriting, but what matters to Shouto is the effort.
As Shouto soaks in the tub, a hint of his resolve melts away. A long time ago he made a promise to himself to do what feels right, and today he hopes that compromise will make for progress.
For a commander-in-chief whose livelihood is literally made from truce negotiations and defense strategy, Midoriya goes awfully pale in the face at the rapid-fire arguments between Shouto and Bakugou.
Together, they’re louder than thunder, and the echo of their voices in the diplomacy room clap just as sharply. Bakugou’s aggression ignites a similar flame inside of Shouto, and though he is twenty-six, he yells across the table like a teenager.
“Deals are meant to be mutually beneficial,” he emphasizes. “How on earth is it in my best interest to give you the entire forest?”
“You don’t even utilize it!” Bakugou yells back. “We’ve foraged in that forest for years and have yet to see a single living soul there!”
“My botanist gathers sap from the hinoki thrice a year there, it’s a crucial piece to our healers’ magic—“
“How about a split in half?” Midoriya interrupts. “Everyone gets—“
“No!” Both Shouto and Bakugou scream in unison, and for once, this is the only thing they are in complete agreement upon.
“…Okay. Tea, anyone? I think I’d like some tea.”
Shouto is dozing off in his bath when something crashes onto his terrace.
Jolting awake, he waits for the telling caw of a young dragon. But in the silent of the night, all Shouto can hear is the clinking of weapons against someone’s belt. An intruder—but he doesn’t feel threatened.
He slips his robe on and ambles outside. Stepping barefoot into the thin layer of snow atop the marble terrace, Shouto’s suspicion is confirmed.
“I see how it is,” Bakugou says. There he stands in his shirtless glory, cradled by the shearling collar of his cloak. Something about the rumble in his voice reminds Shouto of the rolling tides at the shore that frames the end of the kingdom, or the earthquake that once upended his childhood home. “Did I wake you from your beauty slumber, your highness?”
“I was in the bath.”
“I don’t care for specifics,” Bakugou dismisses. “I came here for one thing.”
“You could have requested me at the entrance of the castle,” says Shouto. “I would have let you visit.”
“Don’t speak to me as a friend,” he snaps. “You write with ivory brushes… bathe in goat’s milk and flower petals… and sleep in silk,” he spits the last word like one of those abundant curses of his.
With a frown, Shouto clutches his robe. “You’ve been spying on me.”
“Impossible to spy on what is flaunted.”
“If this is about trade, I’m sure we can barter so—“
But Bakugou interrupts him with another growl. “You’re so willing to share your resources, mistaking my kingdom for poor. So why don’t you share how your people live?”
Shouto blinks. “What?”
“Are you stupid? Here: you live in luxury. But do your people suffer?”
“My people are not suffering, Bakugou,” he replies, affronted. “You don’t seem like an assuming man.”
But instead of honoring Shouto with an answer, he circles him like prey, a hand on the leathered mantle of the thick sword strapped to his back.
“Spar me.”
“…In my sleeping clothes?”
“If you so wish,” Bakugou smirks. “I’d love to tear your riches to shreds.”
“Bakugou… this is ridiculous.”
“A real king would accept my challenge,” he whispers, a sharp smile curling his lips, sinister in the moonlight. “Or are you scared?”
And that’s how their routine begins.
Despite the threats, Shouto is given a moment to retrieve his sword of choice and actual clothes. He cannot name why on earth he continues to rise to this man’s poking, but still, he’s breathless.
It’s beautiful, the way that Bakugou moves—precise, lightning-fast, he doesn’t waste a single breath or step, each detail counts toward his larger advance against Shouto. With every pivot, his muscles swell as a reminder that they’re incredibly befitting of a king. This is a fighting style Shouto is not familiar with, and it’s refreshing.
When the very tip of his sword nicks at Shouto’s chin, drawing warmth to the surface, he scowls. “You’re not paying attention.”
Shouto’s cheeks heat like the heathen he is. He’s guilty—though he’s been in ballrooms full of the nation’s finest princesses and dashing princes, no such beauty could ever come near Bakugou’s.
“I am,” he tells the partial truth. At least it’s not lying. “Perhaps if you visited me at a more reasonable hour, I’d be in full fighting shape.”
With a loud clatter against the marble terrace floor, Shouto’s sword is yanked from his hand. “The horrors of the world will never wait for you, your highness.”
That jagged sword is pressed to his chest. Shouto holds his breath, but Bakugou makes no move to murder him. He’s smarter—no, kinder—than that.
He grips the sword by its dull side. Under his fingers, he can feel that it’s hand-welded, forged with love.
These are the oddest things Shouto has experienced in his lifetime—to have a king of a neighboring kingdom absolutely detest him, and to have his right-hand visit for tea and herb-hunting.
“I brought my mother’s—oh.”
Midoriya’s face falls as his offering is immediately whisked away by Shouto’s guards, and he waves a comforting hand.
“I apologize, it’s policy,” he says. “They’ll allow me to have it after it passes the poison and magic tests.”
“Silly me,” Midoriya chuckles in that bashful way of his, wrapping his moss-green cloak tighter around himself.
In the trees that border the garden, baby dragons chirp and purr. It’s a beautiful day; the bushes are freshly trimmed, Fuyumi’s winter flowers are blooming, and Shouto lights an hearth next to their table with a quick flick of a finger. Izuku startles as a climbing vine shifts in the arch above them.
“Dryads,” Shouto notes.
“There’s dryads here?!”
“Throughout the entire kingdom. They’re quite friendly. That’s why the garden is so lush.”
“They love to give us grief. Perhaps we’re doing something to bother them?”
Momo glides in with sukiyaki and tea in delicate golden-rimmed mugs, and she and Shouto share a warm smile as she dips away.
“Look, this is poison-free.”
Despite that it’s just a tease, Midoriya turns pink. “Please, Todoroki-san, I would never. And this food—I can’t accept this! Wait, are those maitake?”
Shouto nudges the bunch of maitake to his side of the pot. “Midoriya, it would be far worse for you if you refused my sister’s cooking. She’s likely watching from that exact window up there. Help yourself.”
This man does not take much convincing.
Between gigantic bites, his new friend mutters about how their produce tastes differently, something about soils and axes and climates and taking some home. When he’s preoccupied by Momo’s ginger yuzu tea —oh my, this is so delicate, what is this— Shouto motions for Momo to prepare a basket of food and blends for him.
Blunt as he is, and perhaps a bit opportunistic—food is the way to a man’s heart, after all—Shouto asks, “How did Bakugou get those scars?”
Midoriya chokes on his tea as if it’s something forbidden. “Straight to the point, aren’t you…”
He is patient. Midoriya clears his throat.
“He, um. Saved me when we were younger. I fear I rubbed a centaur the wrong way and of course I wasn’t paying enough attention and… he was bedridden for months. It was horrible.”
A mint leaf lazily swirls in Shouto’s cup. It clinks as he sets it down.
“He cares much more than he lets on.”
“Yes,” Midoriya confirms. “I’m sure you’ve seen that as well.”
“He visits me to spar in the middle of the night, when the moon is highest,” says Shouto. “Is that a barbarian tradition?”
“What— really? That’s quite abnormal, he loves his sleep…”
Shouto asks more useless questions, curious to learn about what his new visitor won’t share, and Midoriya indulges him in his ramblings. He perks when his guards return Midoriya’s mother’s mochi, and quickly finds that the way to his soul is through this exact mochi.
“Too fucking slow.”
This time it’s hand-to-hand combat. Shouto is still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, but if this is the only way he can learn more about his new friend then he will simply schedule an afternoon nap.
Something about Bakugou’s hands on Shouto, even in violence, sets his heart aflame. He’s sharper, braver, faster—the world seems more in focus like he’s gained something he was missing for years. Both fortunately and unfortunately, he learns that Bakugou harbors explosion magic, so he explaining to do once the cleaning gnomes notice the scorch marks on his terrace.
“What are those scars from?”
More grunts. Shouto nails him right in the chest, and for that, Bakugou aims for his gut.
“A centaur.”
A partial truth. At least it’s not a lie—they’re similar in that way. When Shouto finally manages to hook an ankle behind Bakugou’s knee and take him down, they both still. In the snow-promising air, Shouto’s chilled cheeks warm as he finds his face inches away from Bakugou’s.
Since the moon is nearing the end of its cycle, there’s hardly any light to compliment Bakugou. But that doesn’t halt Shouto from admiring him—the red roses of his irises, petal-soft hair rustling in the wind, eyes blooming with intelligence and brightness.
“You remind me of something,” he blurts.
“What?”
It’s likely inappropriate to tell Bakugou he’s like a moonflower, something delicate that unfurls its petals only for only the moon then retreats at daybreak. So he keeps this to himself and instead says,
“…Aizawa.”
Before Shouto knows it, he’s flipped onto his back, and Bakugou is grumbling and sliding down the vines clutching the length of the castle.
Growing up, Shouto’s glowing curiosity was always dimmed by the shadow of his father. In the past few years, he has leant into the softness of indulgence; in seeking his citizens’ feared, burly dragon hybrid Eijirou deep in the kingdom woods who turned friendly, if not a fool at times. In milk and dried yuzu baths, which he finds are heaven to doze off in. And at times entertaining the kingdom children with his ice magic, letting them play in igloos shelters and thick piles of snow.
And tonight, Shouto decides, is a night to indulge in that curiosity. Everything this man says leaves him leaning in for more, every lunge inspires Shouto to train, every brush of their hands make him want to earn a full caress. So he trails after Bakugou down the vines and across the courtyard and into the forest, thin twigs snapping under his boots and disrupting the dryads’ peace, leaves and branches kissing his hair.
“Keep following me and I’ll cut you into pieces.”
Shouto frowns. “For… your wolves?”
“What the hell,” Katsuki’s hiss is sharper than that of a snake’s. He whirls and pushes Shouto by his neck against a tree trunk so roughly that the branches tremble, and its red leaves fall around both of them.
“Watch that fucking mouth of yours.”
There’s not much room to struggle against the way that Bakugou has their bodies pressed together, chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip, so Shouto blinks.
Red eyes that scorch more than fire pin him without a sliver of fear. Bakugou’s eyebrows are so blond that they’re almost as transparent as the fog embracing the forest floor.
Though his beauty is rugged and paralyzing, he smells like any other wanderer; of ashes and hinoki and faintly of sweat. For the first time, Shouto wonders how much his mouth would give if he closed the distance between them at this moment, if any salt clings to that top lip, but is not reckless (or brave) enough to actually do it.
For a brief, startling second, Shouto imagines what would happen if his father witnessed this moment for its truth: Shouto, staring and yearning to know the softness of Bakugou’s lips. Shouto, allowing himself to be pinned to this tree by another man—another king’s— hard body, breathing in his earthy scent.
He can only imagine the disapproving ghost of a deep, rumbling yell about their tradition, the breaking of the oath he whispered between tendrils of burning incense to his family and kingdom during his crowning ceremony.
So if Shouto indulges in this proximity, then by all means, name him a traitor. At least he’ll be loyal in the degree of his treachery, only for Bakugou.
“Is that a no?”
“Just how stupid are you?” Bakugou spits.
So then that must be a no. “I wouldn’t have asked if you had clarified. We don’t repurpose our prisoners—”
“Repurpose,” his nostrils flare, and Shouto’s second realization of the night is that he is being mocked. “You’re so stuck in that little royal bubble of yours.”
“I want to get out of it,” he tests the strength in Bakugou’s arm but finds it’s unwavering. Softly, he adds, “A great starting point would be your kingdom.”
“Never.”
Finally, Bakugou releases him, and Shouto immediately cools where his throat burns with his right hand. Disappointment sits at the bottom of his stomach like melted wax.
If there’s one thing Shouto has learned from being the youngest sibling, it’s how to get what he wants.
“I’ll ask Midoriya to show me, then.”
Those red eyes fix on him again, and Shouto’s heart races.
“I’ll have your imprisoned the moment one of your goddamn toes crosses the border.”
“He wouldn’t allow it.” He dares to inch closer. For once, Bakugou doesn’t sneer or back away. It feels like progress.
“He’s my commander. He does as I say.”
Thankfully, Shouto learned to read others early on in life. He learned how to see through lies as well, and can very clearly hear through that bluff. Midoriya Izuku is a man full of surprises, and something about him makes Shouto suspect that he’d be long imprisoned in a dungeon somewhere if he didn’t roam freely alongside Bakugou.
“And he is my friend. So are you, even if you deny it.”
A disgusted scowl twists Bakugou’s face. But in mere moments, he sees the resolve melt away, because he’s smart enough to know the truth in Shouto’s words.
“Fuck—“
To the right, there’s a rustle of leaves and then a scuffle, and Bakugou bears his sword before Shouto in the blink of an eye.
“Who is there?”
From the thick foliage, someone emerges—a child. Shouto relaxes instantly. The little boy is clad in pants and laced boots similar to Bakugou’s own but bears far less jewelry, only a single indigo bead hanging from the string around his neck.
“Bakugou-sama!” the little boy is in such a rush to bow to Bakugou that he instead trips and falls at his feet.
With a sigh, Bakugou picks the child up by his shoulders and places him on his feet again. Both out of respect and lack of knowledge (something to ask Midoriya at their next tea—can he speak to barbarian children freely?) Shouto steps back.
“What are you doing out of our lands?”
“Well, I—it was just, my mom, and I—“
“Kota.”
The child slumps. “I was tracking you.”
Bakugou crouches to be eye-level with the child. “Tracking me?”
“I wanted to see what a king does at night,” Kota stares at his feet, anxiously tangling his fingers. “So that I too can be a man like you.”
Silence. Shouto hopes that the darkness of the night hides his smile and yearns to see Bakugou’s face. This will serve quite the weight at he and Midoriya’s next tea, it seems.
“For how long?”
“Only to the edge of this forest! I did not follow you or your friend. I swear.”
“This,” Bakugou growls, “is not a friend. He could be an enemy, he is dangerous.”
Kota freezes. With a pang, Shouto is ashamed to find that it hurts more to be named not a friend than to be named dangerous.
“That’s why there’s a curfew,” Bakugou continues. “The night is no safe place for a child .”
The child nods fervorously. In the faint light, tears glitter at the corner of his eyes.
“If I see you out this late again, I’ll jail your family for three nights. Don’t make them suffer because of your recklessness.”
“I know, I’m so sorry!” the child bows so deeply that his necklace nearly touches the ground. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better fucking not. Get out of my sight.”
With that, the child scrambles in the opposite direction.
“Stupid fucking kid,” Bakugou grumbles to himself. “Spending too much time with Deku. Next time that fool is with you, tell him about how that child is taking after him. See how he fuckin’ sneaks around after that…”
“He seemed quite fond of you,” Shouto allows himself a full smile now. “It was adorable.”
“Disgusting, you—hey, get off my land! This is mine beginning at this tree, remember?!”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes you are, you’re stepping on my leaves!”
“Oh, are these important leaves? Ones you may need to, perhaps, ward off adoring children?”
“Fuck you.”
And without another glance, Bakugo returns to his kingdom. Alone in the middle of the forest, amongst flurrying snowflakes, Shouto feels warm.
Between the red-hot pokes of Bakugou’s sword upon his next visit, Shouto loses control of his mouth.
“Bakugou.” His voice echoes in waves across his bare balcony. Parrying the next jab, he sidesteps a frustrated kick. Shouto is able to predict what he’s going to do next now, and at that, he warms with something like pride. “Would you like to know what confuses me most about you?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
Another advance. Shouto’s sword blurs in a wide arc, but before it lands, Bakugou bars his own sword against it.
“It’s that you hide your kindness behind ferocity.”
“Shut up.”
So headstrong. So protective, nurturing, kind. Such hints that cause Shouto to yearn for more, to favor their arguments and spars over rest. Isn’t it a joke that even the moon favors Katsuki, washing his blond hair white, casting soft shadows over his sharper eyes.
“But even you have softness, don’t you?”
Bakugou takes that as an insult; suddenly, they’re both crashing to the ground, and Shouto is barely managing to keep Bakugou’s sword a few inches away from his throat.
“I said, shut up.”
“Why,” Shouto whispers. “Why can’t everyone know the king that I know?”
At that moment Shouto realizes he’s already dug his grave halfway, might as well finish the job. Then, something uglier, darker, more sinister than the pure moonlight dousing both of them washes over him: he wants this version of Bakugou to himself.
But he still has reflexes and a will to live, so he presses an open palm against the flat side of the blade. The sword trembles with the effort it takes to match Bakugou’s strength. Lips hidden behind the blade, Shouto feels nearly invincible, like the sword will absorb any chance of rejection, will forgive the sin and treachery that reside within.
“I’m not complaining. It’s what I like most about you.”
The whistling breeze stops, the blade between them no longer trembles. Only Shouto’s heartbeat, thundering in his ears, is louder than the fear quickly icing his veins.
“Why are you telling me this,” Bakugou mutters.
It’s one thing to say, but another to do. So, taking advantage of Bakugou’s slackened grip and a sudden burst of courage, he nudges the sword down so that there’s nothing between them, and kisses him.
Time seems to freeze again. The very snowflakes stop flurrying from the sky, he holds his breath, Bakugou’s hair is soft as silk, and he is being kissed back.
Shouto allows himself to touch; the sturdy shoulders beneath his hands, the tension in Bakugou’s neck, that angled jaw, the raised, healed skin under his tattoos. In his arms is beauty personified, and even though this moment must end, Shouto will bask in it for as long as he can.
When they part, he fully expects to be beheaded or screamed at. But Bakugou stares down at him, panting, cheeks a shade of rouge that compliments his eyes flawlessly.
“This is…”
“I know,” interrupts Shouto.
“This is—a terrible trap,” Bakugou sighs. “You’re just as incriminated as I am.”
“It’s no trap.”
“What is it, then?”
Honesty springs forth before all else. “A craving.”
For a few more moments, Bakugou continues to stare. It’s enough for insecurity to fester.
“Tell me,” he whispers. “If I’ve done something I shouldn’t have.”
He is not answered by words, but with action. This time, the kiss is evidently led by Bakugou; aggressive, quick, slightly painful. But it’s just as warm, so Shouto does not complain.
As king, Shouto immediately learns that he prefers to do what feels right rather than what will be accepted by the prodding, judgmental eyes of his royal council. For all of the good deeds Shouto has brought his people, of everything that seemingly felt right, nothing has ever felt more so than Bakugou.