Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I.

Izuku frowned at his reflection, trying to slow the frantic thudding of his heart as it echoed too loudly in his ears, his shoulders stiff beneath ceremonial silk while the room smelled strongly of polish and incense.

The distant promise of music drifted up from the ballroom below.

Uraraka Ochako chuckled softly behind him, reading his nerves with the ease of someone who had known him far longer than all is other helpers. “Easy, my prince,” she said gently, stepping closer to fix the fall of his robe and straighten the crown that had gone crooked during his pacing. “You’re going to be amazing.” She tilted her head, assessing her work. “There. You look stunning.”

Izuku blinked at the prince in the looking-glass. A white toga embroidered with gold sigils of old heroes clung to his frame and brushed the marble floor, the pale fabric stark against his freckled skin and green eyes. Leather sandals peeked from beneath the hem, laced carefully up his calves. His curls had been tamed into something halfway respectable, gathered and braided at the nape of his neck with thin threads of gold. A mask of ivory and sunlight concealed the upper half of his face, leaving only his mouth visible, tense and uncertain. There was a beautiful golden crown gleaming in his green hair, gem stones spilling onto his collarbones.

Uraraka nudged him with her elbow, grinning, her brown eyes bright. Her hair was tied back for once, and she wore a sundress instead of her usuall attire. “You should dress like this more often. None of those plain tunics you insist on wearing.”

He rolled his eyes, though his mouth twitched despite himself. Uraraka wasn’t like the other attendants, she talked, joked, teased him like he was still just Izuku, not the Crown Prince. They’d been friends for years, long before titles and ceremonies had settled so heavily on his shoulders.

With a quiet thank-you, Izuku stepped out into the hall.

Waiting there was General Aizawa Shouta, standing at attention in a dark purple formal uniform, a muted purple mask obscuring his tired eyes. His boots tapped constantly against the marble floor, betraying his impatience despite his composed posture. Medals lined his chest, earned through decades of defending the Kingdom of Alderfall.

Upon seeing Izuku, Aizawa straightened into a salute. 

“At ease, General,” Izuku said quickly, waving off the formality with a small smile. “It’s strange seeing you without your scarf for once.”

Aizawa rolled his eyes, and eyed his sandals. "How are you going to dance in those without falling on your face?"

"I have a plan."

"I hope it doesn't involve hiding in the library dear Prince."

Izuku winced. He had been caught hiding in the palace libraries on more than one occasion over the years usually wedged between tall shelves with a book balanced on his knees and his crown abandoned somewhere nearby while Aizawa’s voice echoed down the aisles calling his name.

"And the stables are closed too dear Prince. So if you were planning anything with your chambermaid, it's best you don't follow through."

Ah, there goes Izuku's plan...

Despite the sarcasm, there was no real bite in it. Aizawa had been assigned as Izuku’s personal shadow years ago—officially a guard, unofficially something closer to a weary mentor. He grumbled constantly, but he’d pulled Izuku out of more than one scrape, both political and literal.

The ballroom stretched out like a gilded dream, its high arched ceilings painted with frescoes of long-forgotten heroes and the gods who once walked among men, chandeliers dripping with crystal catching the candlelight and scattering it across polished marble floors so smooth that every step reflected like water; golden pillars lined the walls, engraved with the kingdom’s crest, and long velvet drapes in rich white and gold framed tall windows that looked out onto the palace gardens, where lanterns flickered in the evening breeze, and along the far side, tables groaned under platters of fruit, roasted meats, and delicate pastries, all glimmering beneath the soft glow of enchanted lamps hovering just above.

The masquerade was already in full motion.

At the center, upon twin thrones of carved ivory and gilded gold, sat King Yagi Toshinori and Queen Inko, regal yet relaxed amid the splendor.

Izuku bowed deeply before them.

Toshinori’s dark eyes gleamed beneath his crown as he leaned forward slightly, his usual big, warm smile tugging at the corners of his lips, the kind that could ease even the most anxious noble.

"You're late."

"Only by a minute, All Might," Izuku replied, rising. "The crown was being… uncooperative."

Inko’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. "It suits you, Izuku. You look every inch the prince tonight."

“I expect you to dance a lot tonight, young man,” Toshinori said, his voice both commanding and affectionate, sweeping a hand across the ballroom as if illustrating the grand night ahead. Queen Inko, elegant in her flowing white and gold robe, smiled softly beside him, her gaze steady on her son, a mix of pride and gentle amusement in her eyes as she reached for her fan and lightly fanned herself, letting the prince know he was both watched and loved.

"Don't forget, you are to become the next Symbol."

"Yes, Father." Izuku's tone was light, almost teasing. He seldom called the man his father, reserving the word for moments meant to fluster him, often coy and deliberately playful, a spark of mischief hidden beneath the formality of the court.

"Show the world you are capable."

"By dancing?" Izuku raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

King Toshinori chuckled, shaking his head. “And by not hiding in the library with your scrolls when half the continent’s heirs are circling you like hawks. Show them you can command a room without a sword in your hand, young man.”

“But if Lord Monoma tries to lecture me about his province’s superior vineyards one more time mid-turn, I’m faking a swoon, you can't stop me."

Toshinori barked a laugh despite himself, clapping a large hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “Do that, and I’ll carry you off the floor myself. Now go—before the vultures descend.”

He felt Aizawa’s presence settle just behind his left shoulder as he descended the marble steps, a silent, immovable shadow. Comforting, in its own severe way.

"By dancing?" Aizawa mimiced Izuku, his tone half-mocking. 

Izuku glared at the older man, “You try dancing and then lecture me,” he muttered, quieter this time, mostly for the satisfaction of having the last word.

Aizawa’s lips twitched into almost a smile, if one knew where to look. “I too was once young, problem child. I have danced enough.”

The words were delivered so deadpan that Izuku nearly missed the dry humor buried in them. He opened his mouth to retort when a bright, booming laugh cut across the ballroom’s murmur and orechestra.

“Well, well! If it isn’t my dear Prince and respected General!”

Izuku glanced up to see Yamada Hizashi leaning casually against the banister, a grin tugging at his lips. His usual easy warmth contrasted sharply with Aizawa’s rigid presence.

Hizashi Yamada—better known as Present Mic to anyone who’d ever heard him announce a tournament, strode up in a flare of golden fabric and louder-than-necessary jewelry. His long blond hair was pulled into an elegant tail tonight, but nothing could tame the sheer volume of the man himself.

Izuku’s face lit up, "Are stables open?"

"You have to dance, Prince!" Aizawa admonished, turning to press a quick kiss on Hizashi's cheek. "I was just telling him how much we had to dance."

Hizashi threw his head back and laughed again, drawing curious glances from a cluster of nearby nobles. “Oh, he has! Trust me, kid, he has.” He slung an arm around Aizawa’s shoulders.

“Back in the day, your grumpy General could cut a rug like nobody’s business. Waltz, gavotte, even that ridiculous volta the southern kingdoms love—he nailed every lift.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yamada.”

“What? It’s ancient history!” Hizashi grinned, his voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "And don't tell me you didn't enjoy a slow dance together."

Izuku rolls his eyes, "You know everybody in the Palace knows right? There's not need for you to keep it a secret."

“None of your business, dear Prince,” Aizawa drawled.

Izuku’s grin widened, stepping a little closer. “I am the prince!” he shot back, mock indignation in his voice. “This is my kingdom, General! Every fountain, every street, every… single one of my subjects is my business!”

"Hear, hear!" Mic, cheered.

Aizawa just groaned.

The first hour passed in a whirl of polite smiles, careful footsteps, and endless introductions. Izuku danced with Lady Yaoyorozu’s cousin, with the daughter of a northern duke, with a shy girl. He laughed at their jokes, complimented their gowns, and tried not to count the minutes until he could escape to the buffet table.

Eventually, his feet aching in the unfamiliar sandals, he excused himself and slipped toward the edge of the floor. Aizawa followed at a discreet distance, scanning the crowd with half-lidded eyes that missed nothing.

Izuku accepted a goblet of chilled water from a passing servant, spotting Ochaco’s familiar round face and warm smile as she balanced a tray nearby. She winked at him behind her simple servant’s mask, and he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.

“You vanished,” A voice said, to his left. “I was starting to think you’d escaped.”

Beside Izuku, was standing Yushiro Shouto, a tall, striking man of the same age as him, with dark black hair, and a strange red mark encircling his left eye. Izuku was wonderful friends with him now.

To everyone else, he was the prince’s enigmatic companion: a young noble of minor but ancient lineage, granted apartments in the palace for “services to the crown” that no one could quite specify. He dressed impeccably in muted silks of white and crimson and spoke rarely.

Their friendship hadn’t started easily; when Izuku was ten, he had found the boy sitting alone by the river, tears staining his cheeks. Determined to befriend him, Izuku had given him a home.  

He wished Yushiro had asked for a dance instead. 

"Hardly." Izuku leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough for Yushiro to hear. “I would have,” he admitted, glancing over his shoulder at the glittering ballroom and the throngs of nobles watching every step, “but I’m being watched."

Yushiro allowed himself the smallest huff of amusement. “You once outran half the palace guard through the catacombs when we were thirteen.”

“That was different,” Izuku protested under his breath, cheeks warming. “I had you creating ice diversions. And we were stealing strawberry tarts, not abandoning a national ball."

They fell silent.

“You’re brooding again,” Izuku murmured, nudging him with an elbow. “People will think I bore you.”

Yushiro’s gaze flicked down to him, the corner of his mouth lifting in the tiniest fraction of a smile, the one he saved only for Izuku. “You do bore me. Constantly.”

“Liar.” Izuku grinned, undeterred. “You’re just mad that Lady Yaoyorozu asked me to dance before she asked you.”

“She asked you because you’re the prince,” Yushiro said flatly. “She asked me last week and I declined.”

“See? Brooding.”

Yushiro looked around thoughtfully. "The General's gone off with Mic again. You could leave you know."

"For the stables?"

"For the stables." Shouto smiled.

When they were younger, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, Izuku would sneak out of lessons or banquets with some flimsy excuse, and Shouto would already be waiting by the paddock, two horses saddled and ready. No grooms, no guards and chastise them. Just the two boys racing across the moonlit fields, hooves thundering like heartbeats, wind tearing at their clothes and hair.

Riding with Yushiro had always been one of his favorite escapes.

Izuku huffed. “I considered it.”

"You've been here two hours almost. That's two hours more than last year, I'm almost impressed."

“Almost?” Izuku narrowed his eyes, leaning against the opposite wall to catch his breath. “I danced with seventeen noble daughters. Seventeen. How many have you danced with?"

"I hardly think this is a competition. I mean you are the Crown P—"

Screams erupted as chandeliers exploded in showers of crystal. The orchestra’s music fractured into discord. All the partners broke apart, covering their ears, shouting from the sudden pain.

Izuku’s hands ignited instinctively, green energy crackling to life around his fists, one of the few remnants of the ancient quirk passed down to him by the King. 

A deafening BOOM shook the entire ballroom, the first explosion detonating near the grand entrance. Flames flashed orange and white, but it was the thick plume of acrid smoke and choking dust that followed that truly turned the glittering hall into a nightmare.

A figure made it's way towards Izuku.

Aizawa’s voice cut through the panic, calm and sharp. "Prince, to me—now!"

But before Izuku could move, a gloved hand clamped over his mouth from behind and a sickly-sweet scent of nitroglycerin flooded his senses and the green light in his palms guttered out.

A cloth pressed to his face. His light sputtered out as the world tipped and fell away and the Crown Prince of Alderfall disappeared into the dark.

And the last thing he heard before the explosions claimed him was Aizawa’s furious roar echoing into the void.

Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die
I don't belong