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The armoured door snaps shut with a thundering boom, and Izuku knows he’s buggered this up.
Royally.
It’s not like he’s never had a plan of his go south—quite the contrary actually; and if you asked Kacchan, you would indeed receive a rather enthusiastic and meticulous retelling of the whopping six times Izuku’s leadership had led his Merry Band of Outlaws into rather… unforseen impediments.
Near misses, if you will.
(If you were lucky, you might even catch him speak quite smugly of one escape where they’d flown out of an important window using only the wind and the king’s very own bedsheets… But that’s a tale for another time, frankly.)
But with all of that said, today’s plan is one that should have gone right.
Because… they did everything right.
The blueprints, the scouting, the practice—Iida had actually gone against his own moral code in order to sneak in and map the royal palace using his training as a former knight, Kaminari had bloodied his hands on his new lute strings for weeks on end to master his craft, Uraraka had even taken to honing her cooking skills just so that Kacchan could dedicate every spare second preparing their equipement instead.
They had been a harrowing two months of preparation indeed, ones that had in return only granted eyebags and aching muscles to the infamous Outlaws of Yuuei Forest. After all, their usual good work of relieving the rich of a sou or two to… redistribute the funds more evenly—well that wouldn’t cease to matter simply because of all this added work, not when most children of Yuuei went to bed hungry more than half the days of the week under King Todoroki Enji’s senseless taxing…
No, the Merry Band’s work was an important one, and extenuating circumstances such as these could not excuse a plummet in its quality.
But while every passing day would see Ashido’s complaints get more creative and Kirishima’s smile grow less lustrous, not one of Izuku’s friends had ever given rise to doubts about their plan—about Izuku’s plan.
Because a Masquerade Ball held in the honour of one of the wealthiest nobles from one kingdom over was not an opportunity that could—nor indeed should—be passed up.
After all, even though their status quo could not in any way be deemed inefficient, the Comte de Bleumontagne’s twinkling wealth was fabled to be as grand as his military influence—which was in no way insubstantial in itself. And so, should the Merry Band secure even a fraction of said wealth, then surely the common folk would benefit from the fruit of their labour for months, if not years!
It is with those shining dreams of prosperity in mind that Izuku with his friends in tow had marched into the palace gates on the very night of the Ball, clad in a humbly decorated Volto mask with feathers on his head, flowery smelling cloth on his back—and a finely-made guitar in hand.
(This idea is one he must accredit to Kacchan, both in conception and realisation—that is, to present themselves as minstrels to the palace ball and dissimulate their weapons within musical instruments themselves. Izuku had never known a carpenter as ingeneous nor as skilled as he, to be able to hide an archer’s bow in a guitar, one dagger in a lute, poison darts in a flute and a shortsword in a viola.
Kacchan really was amazing.)
As expected, security had not been so tight when palace workers were pressed on time—as such, Izuku and his friends had not only walked in undetected but had indeed been ushered in by some frazzled-looking man with the fear of God in his eyes. Ashido and Kirishima, wearing the garb of performing dancers as they were, had been waltzed away in mere seconds as per the plan, and Izuku had quickly found himself staring down an unamused violinist—who took to their presence rather well once a goblet of wine and the promise of a few songs’ respite had been presented to him.
Soon enough, minstrels and pages and waiting staff had been brought to the Great Hall, few moments before guests themselves began arriving. It had been startling, to see such a boastfully lavish display of opulence in a single place. Statues of impressive detail had lined marble walls, a sea of masked dignitaries and nobles had slowly begun to ebb and flow even where dresses would take up the space of three people—pearl pendants and gold medals of honour had hung around important necks, bouquets of flowers and flutes of champagne had adorned white tables overflowing with deliciacies—and all of it had shimmered under the flickering flames of a dozen crystal chandeliers. The entire scene had been impressively colourful too, a picture doused in vibrant purples and pinks and greens and oranges—and Izuku had found himself somehow stunned, awed and a little nauseated at once.
Having grown up in a hut with only his mother, Kacchan and mice for company, such a scene had been frankly hard to comprehend.
But not so surprisingly, Iida had been the first to regain his bearings—no doubt accustomed to the higher-end circles through his previous life as a knight—and he’d struck up a gentle but plain tune with his viola. “Let’s get their pompous arses moving,” Kacchan had grinned then, seamlessly accompanying Iida’s tune with a harsh cadence on his drums.
(Plain drums, those ones. He’d said that when the fight came he’d either steal his opponent’s weapon or fight with his bare hands.
In Kirishima’s fond words, “Arrogant bastard.”)
Izuku, Kaminari and Uraraka had quickly fallen into step and soon, a pleasant mood had begun settling in. Lords and ladies and other persons of refined tastes had taken to dancing in some corner of the grand room, swishing and swashing along to their harmonious tunes. And as one dance had led to another, some entrancing thrum of anticipation had begun rippling through the Hall, both guests and minstrels alike waiting for the Ball to truly begin—
That is, for their royal hosts and guest of honour to make their appearance.
And as is the nature of such things, within that breathless atmosphere of waiting, Izuku’s mind had begun to wander to more agreeable thoughts… Rather, to more agreeable memories—ones of a restrained but honest smile, of a voice wrapped in velvet, of an aura to sway mountains and of eyes to bring down entire kingdoms.
Yes, tonight was a night for masquerades and grand thefts alike… But it was also one where Izuku would get to see him.
Oh, how his heart had raced at the mere thought.
And even as anticipation had coursed through his veins, music swelling and mask sticking to his face in sometimes uncomfortable ways—well the scene of it all had grown intoxicating enough for him to feel this mounting confidence within him, along with some quite peculiar feeling of… invincibility. As if tonight of all nights, standing within this veritable painting come to life, he might perhaps be allowed to be anyone he could ever wish to be—might rival even royalty itself.
Yes, as if tonight, anything could happen.
“Deku, keep the bloody cadence for pity’s sake,” had been Kacchan’s sharp words to quickly snap him out of his reverie.
Kaminari had guffawed then, plucking the wrong string in his giddiness. “Who wants to bet on what’s got our fearsome leader distracted? My money’s on the Prince.”
“You have no money,” Kacchan had countered dryly.
And if Uraraka hadn’t been busy playing her flute just then, Izuku would have been sure to wither under their collective teasing (for she could be as relentless as Kaminari sometimes)… But instead of dreading what could be, he’d counted his blessings and distracted himself from the heat in his cheeks with a quick call to order. Iida had then unwittingly concluded the conversation with a somewhat overzealous viola solo, and that had been the last of it then.
When english horns had begun blaring, however, Izuku’s fingers had unelegantly plunked his strings as his heart skipped a beat. There had been a hush of wonder within the crowd then and somewhere in the room, a crystal flute had shattered to the ground.
But he hadn’t cared. His eyes had snapped to the opening doors of the Hall and…
Well perhaps he should’ve felt somewhat nervous about the imposing silhouette the masked King cut in the backlit entrance of the Hall—or maybe even about the twinkling form in armour who couldn’t be anyone else but the Comte de Bleumontagne himself—
But Izuku had had eyes only for the third figure—a man in simple and tasteful dress the colour of the night sky on a summer solstice, wearing a tricorn hat and a Pierrot’s mask, one single lapis lazuli shimmering like a tear under his left eye. With the way he’d carried himself, poised and regal and the furthest polite distance from the King he could manage, Izuku had had no doubt who this was.
Shouto, Crown Prince of Yuuei and...
And.
His heart had beat faster and his mouth had stretched into what was assuredly a most embarrassing smile—yet Izuku hadn’t cared.
Because it had been almost a month since Izuku had seen him—clandestine, back pressed to marble and stealing glances within the Colonnade on the ground floor of the palace. They’d had an argument then, of course, though a rather mild one as theirs were wont to be. It had been their usual song too, a song they’d both commited to memory and somehow never tired of singing: where Shouto would urge Izuku to be prudent, to stop incurring the wrath of the King with the arabesque stunts he liked to pull—and where Izuku would ask Shouto to run away to the forest with him, to bask in freedom by his side and let them both live the life they so clearly yearned for.
Every time, Izuku would see the longing in Shouto’s eyes at the mere thought—the desire to be free from his Father’s grasp warring with the weight of the responsibility and love he felt for his people…
But every time, Shouto would shake his head. “Ask me again next time,” he would say.
And every time, Izuku’s heart would shatter like one of those crystal flutes.
(Oh, he was a man of principle of course, just as much as Shouto was indeed, and he certainly respected his choice… but he’d seen one too many unexplainable bruise on the Prince’s cheek or arm or chin to not feel dread every time he watched him return to the confines of the palace.)
Still, a shattered heart is a feeble obstacle to one so blindly in love, and Izuku is not foolish enough to not recognize it—
This love.
How could he not, really, when it sits comfortably in a pocket of his soul, rests like a pendant on his heart—when he wears it every day before donning his clothes, breathes it every second even before inhaling? His love for Shouto, between stolen glances and meetings behind thorn bushes, well it had grown like a plant grows from the earth—steadily, sneakily, until you realize that the sprout you’d once watered now towers over you, overshadows everything you do.
And it does, truly. Everything Izuku does has a part of Shouto in it now.
A feeble argument playing on repeat like one of Kaminari’s tunes—one born from requited love and mutual worry for each other’s wellfare could never fade such a love’s ardour.
So standing there, in this Hall filled to the brim with lights and riches and splendour, the only thing that could captivate Izuku’s mind, gaze, entire being—was him.
Shouto.
Authentic despite the mask, awkward despite the poise.
And of course, his wonder had not gone unnoticed. Kacchan had certainly let him have it when Izuku had gotten slack-handed on his guitar again—and even Kirishima, caught between the gowns of three ladies each one older and more shameless than him, had managed to lock eyes and wink at him.
None of it had managed to distract Izuku too long from the Crown Prince, however.
(He had that effect, you see: like a magnet in mineral waters. Nothing new there, of course.)
From then on, the evening had taken off, the atmonsphere livelier than ever. The floor had become animated with laughter and flowing dresses among the excited chatter of a crowd gossiping over this gentleman’s costume and that lady’s coiffure. Sometime during the course of the night, Ashido had managed to secure a dance with the Comte de Bleumontagne himself—one that had turned out to be quite eventful indeed, as she’d managed to fluster him, trample his cape and, incidentally, steal the key to his vault all in the span of a single tune.
Truly, a master of her craft.
Uraraka had taken it as her cue then to fetch the now drunken bards from earlier and propose a change of guard—even as Ashido had stalked forward to officially pay her compliments to the minstrels themselves for such a wondrous atmosphere.
Frankly, Izuku had barely felt her slip said key in his hand before she’d waltzed away, Kirishima on her arm.
And, steel in hand, he’d smiled some toothy smile behind his mask, the thrill of the chase daring him to use the stolen treasure as a guitar pick for a few dangerous bars. How exhilirating it had been!
After all, this had been it—a point of no return that would sign either fortune or failure for the Merry Band of Yuuei Forest.
Kacchan’s glare had weighed heavy and judgemental on his shoulders for all of two seconds before Kirishima had stolen everyone’s attention with a clap and clamour, declaring this next song to be in honour of his “other half, darling Oleander,” while bowing and kissing Ashido’s hand. She’d made a show of blushing some pretty pink colour then, one that had sent the crowd clapping and cheering at such a youthful display of affection.
And without any more prompting, Izuku had led his friends into a well-known volta, blood rushing through his ears with excitement. He’d felt so alive then, like he’d been about to jump off a cliff into a pool of clear water. Without noticing, he’d found himself scouring the distracted crowds for a pair of mismatched eyes, hoping for those eyes to be looking for him just as meticulously as he was.
One glance, he’d told himself, one glance and I’ll jump into fire without regrets.
And that is how he’d spent their swan song, searching aimlessly in lieu of watching the show his two friends were putting up in the center of the floor—one he knew was spectacular, as he’d seen Ashido spend the last month teaching Kirishima how to sway his body with every ounce of respectable sensuality he could muster. The crowd had cheered, clapped, oohed and aahed in all predicted moments but still—
Still, no Pierrot in sight—no admonishing glares nor fond greetings hidden within blank looks.
If asked, Izuku would’ve insisted he’d felt no disappointment when the final lyrical line of the piece had rung out—but then, it’s a good thing no one asked him at all, for fear of making him a liar.
The moment the music was over, he’d ushered the now drunk violinist from earlier into his own place, had clapped the man’s shoulder and murmured some nondescript sentence about getting his own fill of drinks before slinking away, his fellow Merry Band minstrels in tow. Distantly, he’d been able to hear a delighted thrum of wonder ripple through the room as Kirishima’s voice had declared, boisterous and love-struck, “Oleander my dear, will you do me the great honour of accepting this humble hand in marriage?”
And he’d snorted, amused. Chancing a glance at Kacchan, however, had made him catch the glimpse of a clenched jaw—and he’d patted his childhood friend’s shoulder good-naturedly.
From then on, they’d managed to pass from shining halls to the underbelly of the palace without much interference, only having to mention the desire for a quiet room to tune up whenever intercepted. It was an ingenious plan, he had to admit, to use the plausible eccentricities of minstrels as a cover—and he’d resolved to lift the ‘Swear Word Tax’ imposed upon Kacchan as appreciation for his good work.
(For a few days only though… Just so that Iida wouldn’t devolve into apoplexy at the inevitable onslaught of profanity.)
The five of them had slinked through one dimly-lit hallway after another until varnished hardwood gave way to polished stone, and the very air turned stale, cold and humid. Once in a while, droplets of what must have been water could be heard in the darkness, but down here, there was no other sound to accompany the echo of their footsteps nor the rustle of fabric from their costumes. This was the underworld of the palace—“Right under the East Garden Basin,” Iida had declared as he’d led them forward without a hint of hesitation in his step. It was a place where their cover as minstrels would not have been able to stave off suspicion, for only constables and ill-advised lovers, perhaps, strayed into these halls.
As such, it is a blessing that it hadn’t taken much longer for their party to reach a set of armoured bronze doors—ornate, heavy and, surprisingly enough…
Unguarded.
Iida had gotten flustered then, but after arm-chopping his uncertainty away, he’d assured them that this was the entrance to the Interim Vault—a room dedicated to housing the fortunes of the King’s guests during their stay in the palace. Izuku, of course, had remained skeptic in the face of such easy access to a place as important as this, as they’d not managed to tip off any guards beforehand…
But skepticism had not been reason enough to back away from a mission as promising as this.
So he’d clapped Iida’s shoulder, congratulated the quality of his work and set about dragging the massive door open with Kaminari’s help.
Oh, it was a mistake, of course.
Even then, he could feel in his bones how much of a mistake it was—but whereas Izuku could never have been accused of being of the greedy kind, he was dedicated body and soul to the people of Yuuei, selfless to a fault.
And selflessness is an admirable quality in a leader indeed—
Until it isn’t.
Which all brings us, dear reader, to now: where, three steps into the Interim Vault, the door snaps shut like it’s mounted on a spring, and unseen mechanisms whirr both ahead and behind them with an urgency that tells Izuku he must make a split decision right now lest he lose something very precious to him indeed, except—
Except he has no clue how to even start figuring out what’s coming, has no clue what these whirrs and ticks mean at all—and so he finds himself frozen solid like one of those alabaster statues from the garden upstairs—when time catches up to him and a bolt, wooden and whistling through the air, comes for his head with inexorable aim.
“Oh,” he says then.
Morbidly, he wishes he could’ve concoted more refined last words—
But then, he loses all notion of up or down or sideways indeed and…
“Deku you bloody cretin!”
Kacchan’s voice resounds like thunder, echoing through the room and rattling the walls of Izuku’s brain until he realizes that those words, they sound very solid indeed, very much part of the mortal world he thought he was exiting—and he realizes too that those words are spoken as if from right beside him, sounding very much…
Pained.
Those words are pained.
“Kacchan?” he asks faintly, worried and confused because he does not understand what just transpired at all and would very much like to be brought up to speed. He only receives one of Kacchan’s offended grunts in response, and just then he vaguely registers Kaminari exclaiming something from behind them, hears Uraraka stepping closer and—and notices that same mechanism from before start up again.
“Oh,” he says again, though this time he finds his body moving before he can register anything else, lunging forward to grab onto the closest things he can—which turn out to be Kacchan an Uraraka’s arms—and yanking down.
He cannot say whatever possessed him to do so but his instincts were clearly correct as he hears hollow thunks overhead, and a quick glance shows him a second volley of bolts embedded into the walls before which they’d been standing.
That’s how he understands: they’d just missed being skewered for what seems to be the second time in as many seconds.
And there will not be a third, he tells himself.
“Nobody move!” Izuku commands immediately. The silence that follows lets him believe that whatever situation they’ve landed in might just allow him a moment’s respite to take stock, and so that’s what he does.
First, he scans Kacchan’s frame for the injuries he’s sure to find, and indeed there is a steel-pointed bolt embedded into his arm—meat of the shoulder, really. Thankfully nothing that would deal permanent dammage if infection could be avoided. Distantly he registers that Kacchan had… that this bolt had been destined for him, and he cannot help but choke out Kacchan’s name in a sudden wave of grateful affection—
At which point he receives an earful and a thump on the head for good measure.
Figures.
Izuku doesn’t let himself dwell on it any further for now—and instead skims over the rest of his comrades. Uraraka is already tearing her minstrel’s costume to bandage Kacchan’s shoulder while Kaminari remains reeling from the three arrows embedded into his lute. Both are clearly unharmed, which is a blessing in itself, except that…
“Iida?” Izuku calls, anxiety seizing his lungs when he notices his absence, perhaps seconds too late. He scans the room once more but to no avail. It is not his eyes that allow him to locate their fifth member however, but his ears.
“—yone … ight?” comes the former knight’s unmistakable voice from outside the bronze door and…
Well seven bloody hells.
Izuku clenches and unclenches his fists at the blooming mess he’s just marched them all into, takes a breath and turns his head towards the door. After making sure his friend is safe through an inefficient exchange of words and a series of knocks, Izuku tasks him at last to try and get the door open once more.
They will do the same on their end, he tells him as he divests himself of his mask, his friends in tow.
Which all leaves him to figure out exactly what happened.
And so it is on his third sweep of the room that he finally sees the Interim Vault for the first time. The safe is in no sense small nor humble, easily spanning ten meters far and wide, with a ceiling that, by contrast, almost forces him to bow. At its end lies an altar over which a glinting coffer of gold shines boldly, brightly—promisingly. And on the walls are lanterns casting shadows onto evenly-spaced haut-reliefs—sculptures of phoenixes, with an ominous glint of steel between their open beaks.
No doubt were there mechanised crossbows behind their carefully sculpted faces…
The last element on which Izuku’s mind catches are the polished slabs the size of his feet that stretch throughout the entire room. A floor such as this is not truly something that might catch anyone’s attention as it is not particularly out of the ordinary—but it is the fact that Izuku can visually retrace his exact steps that is.
Evidently, Uraraka reaches the same conclusion as he does in that moment.
“The slabs,” she says then, tightening the bandage around Kacchan’s arm so the bolt won’t jostle around, “the second volley came out when I stepped onto one of the slabs and now it’s a step lower than the others. Almost like—”
“Like a switch,” Izuku concludes.
Frankly, if he weren’t trapped in the belly of King Todoroki’s palace surrounded by crossbows ready to shoot at a single wrong step, Izuku might marvel at the ingenuity of it all, might even ask to seek out the great minds who had imagined such a trap—
But this trap has currently caught his Merry Band and he would very much like to bring them to safety before attempting any of that, riches be damned—
“Don’t you bloody think about it, Deku.”
Izuku startles, then lets his gaze wander to Kacchan’s face. The eyes he finds there are burning brighter than he’s seen in a long while. “You damn well started this,” he bites through the pain, “don’t you half-arse it now, you minging bag o’ shite.”
That is what Kacchan says, but what Izuku hears is, ‘Do not let our efforts go down the drain.’
And… as a leader to his Merry Band, wouldn’t giving up on them—and on the people they’ve sworn to protect—be the greatest insult of all?
“Ehhh, how ‘bout we take a vote on this, huh?” Kaminari starts to argue then, no doubt sensing the changing tides of the conversation—at which point Kacchan threatens to bite his head off and Uraraka helpfully reminds him he can use his lute to protect them from incoming arrows—which does seem to settle his worries well enough.
That is how Izuku finds himself trudging through one slab after another, dodging bolts and skipping over uneven grounds within a ticking time box. He is loathe to admit, however, that the extent of the happenings is blurred in his memory under the sheer pressure he’d carried throughout the trek, but what he knows is this: in the end, he does manage to reach the coffers overtop the alter with hardly a scratch more on his back, the key Ashido secured does slide into the coffer’s lock with a satisfying click indeed, and most notably…
Well, when he opens the chest, it’s—
Empty.
None of the riches the Comte de Bleumontagne’s reputation had promised him, not even one gold sou to buy a few loaves of bread for the orphans who like to play on the Square.
Nothing.
“Well,” Kaminari calls expectantly after him, hope flying high in his voice as he awaits the verdict, “can we retire yet, chief?”
Uraraka scoffs amusedly, nudges Kaminari in the gut and fishes out drawstring bags made from deer she’d hunted last year. “Here, Deku! You can use those to lob the loot back to us so we can—”
She never gets to finish that sentence, for a loud bang interrupts her viciously, shaking the locked bronze door from the outside. It is only then that Izuku notices it has been a good moment since he’d heard Iida rattling the door, the tell-tale sign of him working on the locking mechanism—and whereas it had been somewhat of a comforting sound then, now… well now there is only the cacophony of what rather sounds like…
A fight.
“Iida?” he calls out tentatively, awaiting a response that only comes in the form of more banging, more thumps on the door and on the walls beside it.
That is how Izuku knows to reach for his bow. Thankfully, he’d kept his guitar on him as a shield while trudging forward—but now is the time for fighting, he knows, and so he tears weapon from instrument, a dissonnance of notes reaches his ears in response and he swallows the guilty panic settling low in his gut. Emotion will only cloud his judgement, he repeats himself, and he nocks an arrow from the body of his guitar before aiming for the door. “Ready your weapons,” he orders with a voice of steel, sparing a glance at his friends who, by all accounts, had already done so before being asked.
He huffs fondly, then sets his sights on the door once more. The banging recedes somewhat, but that is when the locking mechanism ticks and ticks and ticks with the promise of a very few precious seconds left before chaos devolves—and Izuku’s hand tightens.
“I’ll provide you with cover, you three run.”
“Like hell,” Kacchan spits.
“Veto,” Uraraka declares.
“No can do chief,” Kaminari shrugs apologetically.
And Izuku doesn’t even have time to feel indignantly touched that the door starts to drag open, inch by agonizing inch, until—
“Die!”
Kacchan slams his hand on one of the slabs still untouched next to him, making Izuku’s eyes widen in alarm as the phoenixes behind him prepare to spout bolts of iron and wood towards the door. In a moment, Kaminari rushes to protect his two friends, Izuku crouches below the line of fire and—
Through the open door, he catches firelight dance in a single lapis lazuli.
Oh God—no.
“DUCK!” he shouts with this earth-shattering certainty that his command will not be understood quickly enough—
But then by some miracle, the figure in the archway—the one he knows without a doubt to be the Crown Prince of Yuuei himself—proves him wrong in all the right ways. And oh, there are simply no words for the relief that washes over him the moment he watches his Prince emerge from the floor, unharmed.
No words at all.
In the incredulous silence that follows, only Kacchan’s bregudging, “Huh,” resounds…
And then the Crown Prince stands in the doorway, posture stiff and evidently fuming. “Fools!” he accuses vehemently, reaching for some lever hidden in the archway to pull it down. “Had I not warned you weeks ago? I should’ve let you all rot here, it would certainly have rid me of your utter stupidity.”
His words are cruel, certainly, but all Izuku can do in that moment is marvel at how lucky of a man he is to have fallen for Todoroki Shouto—because whatever he might say or present himself as, he went looking for them.
The Crown Prince worried and went looking for them.
The fact is only evidenced further when the eyes behind his mask rove over Izuku’s Merry Band with an urgency and care that betrays his kindness as he looks for injury that might need tending—then beckons them all forward with the assurance that the Interim Vault is now rendered harmless.
“But what about the loot!” Kaminari exclaims while getting to his feet—and Shouto silences him with a single glare that could, perhaps, bring down entire armies. It is Izuku, however, who delivers the gutting blow concerning the absence of said loot. The general reaction at the news is one of disappointed indignation, but thankfully it is cut brief in the face of more pressing matters: escaping. They make quick work of shedding their instruments and superfluous, flowy cloths to prioritize ease of movement, and quickly make for the door.
And when Izuku finally reaches Shouto’s side, words are scrambling for purchase in his throat, making him, embarrasingly enough, unable to form a single coherent sentence. He eyes him instead, scans him for signs of injury or pain of his own, and only when he finds none does he notice how the Prince has also divested the more recognizable parts of his costume in order to appear more nondescript.
That’s not to say the manner with which his sleeve shirt clings to his chest is… forgettable in the slightest, no.
But at the very least, he will not be singled out should he be seen keeping the company of outlaws.
And as for the mask he wears, well Izuku must admit it is an captivating thing, but one whose beauty shines in its tasteful discreeteness rather than ostentatiousness. Indeed, the most eye-catching jewel etched into it is the large blue tear embossed in its cheek, while the gentle silver swirls framing the face are only punctuated with smaller, more forgettable gems…
In sum, an intricate piece, yes, but not an eye-catching one—and that is a quality Izuku much appreciates in times such as these.
Frankly, he doesn’t know how long he stands there, mute and stricken—but Shouto, for his part, only conducts a quick examination of Izuku’s frame before turning on his heel and walking away without a word of acknowledgement.
To say the exchange does not hurt would be a lie, but then, now is hardly the time for elaborate reunions, is it…
A ready distraction from these unpleasant feelings presents itself in the shape of the three familiar faces he finds when he finally exits the Vault. Kirishima, still dressed in his flowing robes though lacking his mask, steps forward with a worry reflected on Iida’s face as well, some few steps behind him. “Bakugou, you’re hurt!” Kirishima exclaims, beelining for Kacchan with his arms outstretched.
But Kacchan stands taller then, rolls his injured shoulder.
“And you’re engaged.”
His tone is annoyed and cold, readily contrasting the warmth of Kirishima’s resulting laughter.
And then, from a little ways away, Ashido pushes herself off of a stone pillar to grin wickedly. “He certainly is! Oh aren’t I the luckiest gal in the world, eh Bakugou?” she exclaims, fanning herself dramatically.
Kirishima and Uraraka both devolve into delighted laughter, Kacchan scowls like the devil himself—and Shouto clears his throat, matter of fact.
“If you could focus,” he says primly, “I would hate for the guillotine to become our fate after having gone through such pains to ensure the exact opposite.”
Four soldiers lying prone on the ground seem to illustrate the lengths he speaks of, and so Izuku draws himself to his full height in response. “Shouto is right,” he says then, “do not let your guard down until we are well and truly out of harm’s way.”
He then extends a hand forward, eyes locking onto Shouto’s with a fondness he doesn’t know how to quell.
And he smiles.
“If you could lead the way, Your Highness.”
From behind his mask, Shouto looks at him for a single second with some unnamed emotion, then blinks. “Fool,” he repeats for Izuku’s ears only, graceful and cold, before stepping forward and doing exactly as asked.
Somehow, the word makes Izuku want to smile—so he does, then follows suit.
That is how the Merry Band of Yuuei find themselves on a rather cursory tour of the Todoroki Palace’s lower levels with none other than the Crown Prince as their guide. The immediate vicinity of the Interim Vault is what appears to be some stone-walled undercroft where sounds travel far and wide no matter how silently they walk. It is easy, then, to hear how Ashido recounts in hushed tones the way she and Kirishima had been facing the King’s wrath just a handful of minutes ago, as it was apparently not customary for “brazen, nameless ‘guests’ to so callously bring attention to themselves at a venue held by the Royal Family!”
If Ashido is to be believed, the King had then requested compensation in the form of their dowry and firstborn child—until Shouto intervened in their favour, distracting his Father long enough for the two to be forgotten and whisked away with him.
To Izuku’s ears, the story sounds at the least somewhat embellished, but he also knows that Ashido is not one to entirely fabricate things—which makes him look at the back of Shouto’s tricorn with a healthy dose of affection that only grows when the Prince speaks up as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
“Take up arms,” Shouto orders curtly, reaching for the handle of a door leading away from the undercroft. His eyes skim over their group and catch onto Izuku’s bow. “The King will have been alerted to your presence the moment the Vault’s doors were locked. Expect a fight.”
As if on cue, the handle of the door rattles under his fist, making him let go as if burned. Noticing how Shouto himself is unarmed, Izuku slides into place before him and nocks an arrow in time to shoot the first soldier unlucky enough to emerge from the door. The skirmish that follows is one that has adrenaline pumping through his veins and lightens his arsenal by four arrows, one where Kacchan knocks out a few opponents to gain a mace, as foretold, and one that lets Shouto obtain a sword from his felled enemy.
An absolute win, overall.
The sound of faraway footsteps resounds through the corridor ahead, and so it is decided that they must try for another exit—one they find on the opposing side of the undercroft.
In such a climate, Izuku knows that with Shouto at the head, it would be best for himself to bring up the rear, as any leader should in order to ensure all of his friends be present and safe—unlike what he’d done when they’d momentarily lost Iida… But when he looks back, Kirishima’s sturdy frame at the end of the line greets him, and he lets ease seep into his bones, curiosity and some unnameable other feeling glueing him to Shouto’s side.
“Did you truly expect we would not strike tonight, Shouto?” he finds himself asking between pants because—because surely he must know him better than that by now, right? Of course, had he been given the knowledge of how things would devolve, he would not have attempted such a fruitless endeavour… but he couldn’t have known.
An arrow whistles past their heads, a sentinel spawns from before them and Shouto knocks them out with a single, well-placed punch.
“I’d hoped you respected my judgement more than this, yes,” comes his answer somewhat nonchalantly, and the words as much as their delivery twist at his gut because—
How dare he say something like that?
“Of course I respect you, us being here has nothing to with that—”
“But it does!” Shouto exclaims, ripping the door to what appears to be the cellar of the palace, smoke and wine thick in the air. The motion attracts the attention of a cluster of guards drinking the night away, and another blur of punches naturally ensues. At one point, Izuku kicks a barrel into a drunk soldier—and later drives the tip of an arrow into another barrel so that wine splatters and distracts the men long enough for Iida to knock the butt of his sword into their necks.
He also distinctly remembers hearing Uraraka wring out a few notes from her flute, confusedly look at it, then try for another attempt and land a dart in the shoulder of a guard who falls to the ground with a dull thud.
The episode is an invigorating one, one that also give them access to a set of windows on the far wall of the cellar, wide enough for them to slink through and reach the East Garden on the ground floor… Which is how they manage to exit the palace walls at last.
But even though the fresh night air is a change welcome enough to lift his spirits, the scent of bellflowers and phlox and irises wafting brightly on the air—Shouto’s words bother Izuku enough to ask him to explain.
“Izuku,” Shouto says at last as he hoists Kirishima, the last of them, through the window. He only speaks again when he’s begun leading them through finely-trimmed boxwood hedges and primly cut lawns, a chorus of crickets accompanying some joyful waltz fluttering through the open palace windows. “This Ball is a ruse,” he says then. “The King knew de Bleumontagne’s fortune would appeal to you, which is why he announced the venue so far ahead—to give you the impression you were in control, that you could prepare. But where he could use the promise of riches to blindside you and the rest of our guests, my Father was in fact after something more valuable within the Comte’s possession—”
Shouto interrupts himself when lanterns and harsh voices shatter the gentle blanket of peace surrounding them. Iida urges them all to crouch and hide behind a hedge shrouded in shadow, and Kacchan even has the audacity to shush the Prince of Yuuei. The exchange of glares that ensues is one for the history books, but when Shouto resumes his explanation, it is through quiet whispers.
“De Bleumontagne is a man whose reputation was built first upon the success of his fortune, second upon the quality of his militia,” he says. “I’ve heard far and wide that a single of his men is worth ten infantrymen. And it is a militia in which he has managed to inspire legendary accounts of loyalty, if the letters we’ve exchanged hold any truth to them.”
Those words, though having taken an unexpected turn, bring a memory to the forefront of Izuku’s mind—the memory of a time a few months ago when, perched upon the rooftop of an hotelier’s balcony with hay digging into his sides and the smell of manure from the stables clinging to the air, Izuku had listened to Shouto entertain the idea of a coup d’état against the King of Yuuei, his Father.
It is only then that he understands.
“Allies,” he realises.
“Allies,” Shouto confirms with a passionate spark lighting his eyes, fueling his words.
Affection and admiration swell in Izuku’s chest then, just as much as indignation does. “Well then why not tell me?” he asks perhaps too sharply, for it earns him a shush of his own from his friends. “You keep me unawares and somehow expect me to know not to interfere with your plans? Tell me, should I have divined this knowledge?”
Shouto blinks at him for a moment or two, stunned into dumbfounded silence, until his eyes soften behind the face of a Pierrot. “You’re right,” he says, voice quiet as it tends to become when Izuku has managed to reach behind his walls. He thumbs the edge of his glove in a manner that broadcasts absentmindedness, and he nods. “You’re right,” he repeats softly. “Though you should know—”
“Oi bloody lovebirds,” Kacchan’s voice cuts in then, making Shouto physically recoil at the interruption, and Izuku feels his hackles raise on his behalf. Kacchan is unfazed, however, and continues. “My goddamn shoulder hurts and I for one think it’d be grand if we could escape before they bring out the hounds—so if you bloody well could, Your Majesty,” and he swings his uninjured hand towards the hint of trees peaking overtop the hedges some hundred meters ahead.
Izuku hears Ashido and Iida chew Kacchan out for him so he focuses his attention back onto Shouto. He catches him shake his head and clench his jaw, but the dissonnance between those displays of emotion and the mask’s unmoving complexion makes Izuku want to rip it off of him—if only to see his face, understand what he’s thinking.
Shouto doesn’t let him though. He twists on his heel, peers over the boxwood hedge behind him, then rises to his feet. “Come with me,” he orders briskly, and without much more preambule, he begins their trek anew.
Naturally, Izuku has no other choice but to follow.
This time, however, he lets every one of his friends pass through in order to bring up the rear. He cannot explain why it feels right to do so then when it did not earlier, but what he knows in that moment is that being away from Shouto does not feel like such an unbearable rift as it did moments before.
When he recieves a single backward glance the colour of trust, he knows the sentiment is returned.
Shouto leads the Merry Band both silently and efficiently through a labyrinth of primly trimmed hedges, with the assuredness of one clearly used to being listened to. He does not compromise their safety for urgency, however, and only leads them down paths of greenery once he’s ensured the coast is absolutely clear. Unfortunately, that sometimes translate into the occasional long minute of standing still, knees bent and bodies hunched as shouts intensify then recede, but any discomfort is forgotten the moment the East Wing Gardens give way to the lovely sight of the edge of the Forest of Yuuei…
That is: the King’s appointed hunting grounds, absolute and exclusive—and incidentally the Merry Band’s residence of choice.
(Something strange happens then as he eyes the border between lawn and trees, something that makes his gut twist with both longing and hope. Oh, it isn’t like he’s never laid eyes upon this exact sight before—quite the contrary, as he will have made the trek to and from the forest a number of times indeed under the pretense of some berry-picking trip or a hunting detour.
No, looking at that line, that which bafles him is rather more the obcene proximity between his and Shouto’s worlds...
It makes him itch, makes him want to shout at the sun and wish upon a star that somehow, someday they be granted an easy coexistence such as this.)
“You know the way from here, do you not?”
Shouto’s voice ahead breaks him out of his reverie, and Izuku consciously lets go of this complicated emotion to look up. He sees Uraraka smile and nod at the Prince, then part ways with a compliment on her lips that has Shouto blinking dare-he-say dumbly for a moment. Ashido steps forward then, refrains from throwing an arm around his neck as she would with anyone else and instead lays a friendly hand on his shoulder—one that Shouto accepts despite not being one for physical contact.
He does, however, side-step Kaminari’s rather bold attempt at a hug.
Iida’s goodbyes are filled with gratitude and distinctly lack the habitual, “Apologies for defecting the armed forces, Your Highness,” which makes Shouto’s eyes crinkle in return, a clear sign of gratitude for such progress. After him comes Kirishima, who gushes about the Prince’s manly rescue of himself and his darling Oleander—to which Shouto offers wishes of everlasting happiness and a long successful marriage.
At that, Kacchan steps forward in front of Shouto and snears.
“Bastard,” is what he says.
But Shouto only blinks. “I assure you I am not.”
And Kacchan scoffs, grips his injured shoulder irritably and stomps away to the sound of Kirishima’s good-natured laughter and reassurances.
Izuku cannot hide a private smile at the entire display, but the moment a pair of mistmatched eyes—one moonstone, one turquoise—settle on him with dread, he comes to the obvious realization that...
This is the time for goodbyes.
He feels his smile fall from his face and watches as Shouto’s eyes take on the shade of an emotion he cannot, for the life of him, decipher without the rest of his expression. And that all makes frustration bubble forth—because if they are to part ways again, he’d very much like the chance to properly behold his lover at least once.
“Let me see your face,” he requests softly. Gently, he reaches for the porcelain obstructing his view—and while Shouto makes no sound in response, he does not move away.
It is all the permission Izuku needs.
He expects to find those soft rosy cheeks he so adores, expects that button nose and the scar he so loves to pepper with kisses.
What he does not expect, however, is the way moonlight shines upon blooms of yellows and purples on Shouto’s cheekbone.
Bruises.
In that moment, Izuku would swear his heart stops.
It is not the first bruise he has witnessed on Shouto’s body, nor has he ever received a proper explanation as to the exact circumstances in which they appear… But though it would not be unreasonable to suppose they are simply the fruit of some too harsh tussle or of swordfighting practice, Izuku knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that it is rather a hand with clear intent that has imprinted those bruises onto Shouto’s skin.
Yes, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
It is in the way Shouto’s eyes dart to the left then—in the way he clenches his jaw and blinks like he’s trying to clear the memories away.
It is in the way he always stands the furthest polite distance from the King, in the way he never smiles unless freed from the confines of the palace.
“I’m going to kill him,” Izuku declares simply.
And oh does he mean it.
But Shouto tuts in much the same way. “You will do no such thing.”
He sounds resolute, certain. You are too good a person to resort to murder, he seems to say—
And though Izuku feels that he very well could, what he knows is that wasting precious time feeling this way would benefit neither him nor Shouto in the moment… So he takes a breath, slowly lifts a hand and lays the back of two fingers onto the cold bruise adorning his lover’s face instead. Shouto starts at the contact despite the feather-light touch, then quickly melts into it, eyes fluttering shut like he craves even the simplest of kind touches.
Izuku’s heart hurts.
“Come with us,” he whispers into the night. Standing there, on the line where his and Shouto’s worlds meet, it feels like this time, this request he’s broken his voice over might just be granted—if only this time.
(All it takes is one.)
The corner of Shouto’s lips lifts ever so slightly and Izuku molds his hand to his beloved’s face.
Gently, lovingly.
“Come with me.”
It is a plea, one that makes Shouto’s eyes shine. Under the moonlight, Izuku can catch every little way in which his emotions overflow—in the flutter of his nose, the press of his lips, the twitch of his eyebrows. It’s all there in glorious detail for Izuku to see, until—
Shouto shakes his head.
Plain and simple, harsh and painful.
He shakes his head and Izuku’s world shakes along with it.
But he’ll be damned if he lets that deter him, ever. After all, he’s long learned that Shouto will never put himself first in the affairs of the heart—and he’d long decided it to be his duty to do it for them both.
“Shouto,” he begins, gaze catching onto a single freckle at the corner of Shouto’s right eye—and it is one he hadn’t known existed at all, which for a moment makes him wonder what else he’s not been given the chance to discover. But, heart in his throat, he shakes his head. “Shouto,” he repeats, “you must know this, there are other ways to help our people!”
“Our people, yes…” Shouto counters, wrinkles between his brow, and his sentence is open enough for Izuku to hear the unsaid.
Our people, yes—
But not you.
And those words, though entirely silent, feel like the thrust of a sabre to Izuku’s heart, because…
Because—
(The Interim Vault seals their fate with a lock, flashes of bolts slash through the air, soldiers come for their heads—and yet.)
The only reason Izuku and his Merry Band of Outlaws have survived the night, he realizes with abject clarity, is because Shouto was there, in the palace.
Because he never ran away to the forest with him, all those times ago.
When he peers into those mismatched eyes, brimming with resolve as they are, Izuku sees it then—sees plain as day how Shouto, despite his situation, has no intention of ever chasing his happiness so long as there is the slightest possibility of his position ever being useful to them.
Of it ever being able to save him.
This is his doing, he realizes—his ideals, his methods, his goddamn resolve pushing them both into a corner.
And Izuku’s heart shatters.
His heart shatters because he knows that despite all of it—he could never give it up… Too many people rely on him now, too many mouths, too many hopes—
His life is no longer his own to lead as he pleases.
Shouto rests a hand on the junction of Izuku’s neck then, thumbs at his Adam’s apple with a tenderness and understanding that brings water to his eyes.
“You frighten me, Izuku,” he says.
And when Izuku looks up at him, at the raw emotion written in every line of his lover’s face, he aches.
“Rare are the days where I need not distract the King from rumors of your antics. You are reckless, devoted to our people to the point of zeal and your selflessness knows no bounds.” He speaks with a vibrancy and frustration that Izuku has never heard in his voice before, a countenance that shows him just how much pain Shouto has been withholding from him.
How much pain Izuku has caused him.
Yet despite it all, Shouto smiles a tiny little thing and lays his other hand at the nape of Izuku’s neck, squeezing once. “But I am a fool,” he continues, mouth pinched and eyes searching. He leans forward, gently rests his forehead against Izuku’s. “Yes, a fool,” he whispers, breathing air into Izuku’s lungs, “for I cannot help but love you for it.”
He says this—and Izuku’s breath hitches.
Stops.
His senses dull, words fail him and a tear drops from his lashes. To say he is overwhelmed would be too weak a term. But as time ticks on, Shouto’s hands remain warm and unwaveringly planted on the nape of his neck, holding him with the promise of a future yet out of reach.
A future Izuku promises he will never stop fighting for.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, entwined and basking in each other’s presence, but what he knows is how it ends—to the sound of barks in the distance, drawing closer, dangerous and loud.
It is Shouto who breaks their embrace then, jostling Izuku’s head when he turns in the direction of the ominous sound. Izuku cannot see his expression as his eyes are trained on the grass, but his vision is blurred still, so it’s not like he’d see him anyway.
“You should go,” Shouto declares evenly, softly.
It is clear neither one wants to part, but they are also both men of duty—and both must return to theirs. Izuku swallows, blinks some more until his vision clears, and comes to focus on the mask still loosely held in his hand.
Shouto must follow his line of sight then, for when he speaks, it is to say, “Keep it. It won’t be the year’s worth of prosperity you were probably hoping for but… perhaps a month or so.”
Izuku’s heart swells at those words, at the way Shouto reads him so easily now—and at the obvious care he holds for his people. His reach may not be that which he wishes for yet, but the entirety of Yuuei will certainly rejoice for years on end when Shouto is appointed King, Izuku reckons.
But until then…
“What if he finds out?”
Izuku doesn’t specify, but Shouto answers easily. “I hardly think the King will notice a missing mask he didn’t even commission.”
“No,” Izuku insists, firmly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. A foxhound barks closer yet suddenly, all Izuku can do is replay their escape in his mind’s eye, think of how reckless and dangerous it had been. “What if he learns of this? Of your helping us.”
His heart races then at the thought that he might have unwittingly brought danger to Shouto’s doorstep.
But Shouto only smiles softly at him. “I won’t tell him if you won’t,” he says lightly, like the mere idea isn’t even something worth entertaining. He squeezes Izuku’s neck, grounding him, and as the barks multiply in the night, Izuku realizes that he has no other option but to trust him.
He cannot help the tears that spill from his eyes, though.
“Go,” Shouto tells him then.
They can hear metal clinking on metal now, swords being drawn and what sounds like a hound tearing into some poor, whimpering prey. Iida hisses his name, a rabbit flees the gardens…
But Izuku’s feet remain rooted to the ground, saltwater bathing his cheeks.
There are so many things he wants to say—apologies, promises, one declaration already worn and known—but he cannot find his voice.
Still, Shouto smiles fondly at him, thumbs his tears away and kisses his nose.
“Go,” he repeats firmly.
And he presses a hand into Izuku’s back, pushing him away with such gentleness that he feels it would be an insult to not go along with it.
So he does.
He walks and leaves his heart behind—just like he’s done every other time before.
He’s barely made a handful of steps, though, that Shouto’s voice urgently calls his name, making him whirl around and blink so he can behold him once more. And when he watches him, Shouto is smiling still…
But there is something else in it now, something like hesitancy in the corner of his mouth. Izuku wants to kiss it away.
“Next time…” Shouto says, suddenly vulnerable, “will you ask me again next time?”
His expression is a fragile thing, one that makes Izuku’s tears suddenly dry up and his resolve harden. He sniffles, catches a whiff of irises on the air—
This time, words come easily.
“I will never stop asking.”
After all, those words, that song—it is their song.
He will always remember how, framed by moonlit perennials where their two worlds collide, Shouto smiles then, glowing in this quiet sort of happiness—with a twitch of his lips, a flutter of his lashes, a hint of colour in his cheeks.
He smiles, and Izuku swears that one day, Shouto will wear this smile every day of his life.
That is the promise he carries with him into the forest, one he will carry back to Shouto’s side again as well as everywhere else in between—
And it is one he swears—knows—he will live by for the rest of his life.
The hidden verse to his and Shouto's song.