Work Text:
Snow fell in a silent dance with the wind, whipping past the floor-to-cieling windows of the ballroom, a hypnotic background bringing nothing short of the same comfort as a fireplace. Thin strands of balled lights tangle around the bannisters of the grand staircases bordering the entrance and the balconies– both inside and outside– but their gathered daze of yellow did nothing to dim the transcendence of the room’s main chandelier. Hanging low, dozens of glinting silver arms holding blazed candles. If it hadn’t been a staple of the ballroom’s central design for centuries, standing as strong as the royal family themself, Bakugou would’ve thought it too gaudy to be safe.
Some parties, when the guests were too drunk and not cautious enough, entrusting their surroundings and physical safety to the staff of other families like they were lifelong confidants, he still thought that might be the day someone finally decides to sabotage it. The chandelier never falls though, and the King always throws another party like it’ll be the last. If he wasn’t getting paid for it, Bakugou would never dream of stepping foot into the castle itself, let alone such a pretentious room as this. But he had a job to do, so his foot tapped impatiently against the floor, purposefully out of sync with the high-strung live orchestra just because he could.
For almost an hour he had been waiting to actually do his job, forced to arrive at the scene of the party early to scope out the perimeters, secure the entrances and exits, and aid with whatever minor tasks were left to be finished that the King demanded of him. Unfairly early, considering the only thing needed to be secured under his job description never arrived to any party remotely on time. If he was anyone else, Bakugou would love to believe the common denomination that the prince was busy with his actual necessary duties that he needs to attend to for the sake of the kingdom and his family.
But he’s not anyone else and he’s particularly privy to the woes and flaws of the prince. He also has the misfortune of knowing the prince’s best friends with the same intensity and with near 100% certainty is sure that the tailor has kept him late on purpose, likely procrastinating his entrance because Prince Shouto might be the only person alive who hates these parties more than Bakugou himself does. Thankfully, Sero has proved himself more than enough for Bakugou to trust him with the prince and not worry when the star of the party has yet to arrive because he knows that no matter how much Shouto dreads his social appearances, he’ll always show up. To keep Bakugou company at his post, if nothing else.
They’re not friends, not really. They’re not allowed to be friends at least. The Queen is kinder towards Shouto’s “outsider” friends than the King is, though, and she’s at the head of the upper balcony observing the floor with a kind smile and it makes Bakugou hope his night won’t be too lonely. Most nights, his assigned post leaves him outside of Shouto’s door or his heel. These parties are special though, more social, more fun, more trusted to be safe. Shouto gets to be tailored and done-up and have a few hours to himself while Bakugou gets pulled away for simple manual labor, like he’s a general guard and not the prince’s personal. He hates the waiting.
What he hates more though, was Shouto’s insistence that he not bother with his usual uniform whenever a party is thrown. For him to dress as the nobles do, not quite as extravagant as the royals, but far too much for a guard. He doesn’t look like he’s working. Despite that being the point, it only makes him more paranoid that without the visual of a guard on his heel, the chance of an attack on the prince is increased. Not that he has any tangible reason to worry about it past a passing hunch.
A few nobles, new to the Todoroki family’s parties or simply too unobservant, clearly are fooled by his attire and don’t recognize him as they ask him to dance. It’s happened at each party since Shouto made him drop the uniform and it’s honestly his least favorite part of those nights. All short, grubby hands and opulent jewelry that doesn’t belong on their fat necks, expensive gowns and too-new and too-shiny shoes, and beady eyes like rodents. The rats in the dungeons are likely kinder. At least the nobles smell better, if nothing else. Bakugou would still rather befriend the rats.
When the music swells, the violins grow frantic and melancholy, and the bass’ hold their lines, that’s the first sign that Shouto has finally decided to show up. The second sign is the crowd-wide swaying that slows to a stop as all the partygoers pause their festivities of the holiday season in apprehension for their Crown Prince’s entrance. The third is Shouto himself stalking out onto the upper balcony next to his mother, bowing lightly to the crowd before he scans the room for Bakugou and descends the staircase he’s standing near.
Gliding down the steps effortlessly, Shouto extends a graciously small smile to any noble who manages to catch his eye on the way down. Eyes of the entire room watch batedly until his foot taps the floor at the bottom of the stairs and the music returns to its regular pace, the dancing resumes. Bakugou’s eyes never leave Shouto’s figure. For the job, he reasons, for the safety of the prince and nothing else.
“Sir Bakugou,” Shouto greets him with a small dip of his head and the slightest, smallest, infuriatingly invisible, would-be grin on his face. A fraction of a second long quirk of his lips, a tiny raise of his eyebrows, a specific shine to his eyes that could only mean mirth, and the slip of a formality he never offers friends. He’s a teasing bastard. But Bakugou would be damned if he didn’t offer back the same hand.
“Prince Shouto,” he replies in his best, sugary-sweet, works-wonders-on-elders tone, with a straight-backed bow at a solid forty-five degree angle. Nearly a winning move, but Shouto remains looking unimpressed when Bakugou peeks back at him after straightening up. There’s only one solution really. Bakugou turns his head around, left, right, up to the balcony, behind. The eyes have dissipated, a break in the attention that Shouto magnetically draws, the moment is theirs.
His fist flies out faster than Shouto can blink in a silent question, knocking the prince’s shoulder maybe a smidge too rough for the size of the crowd as Bakugou makes sure to add even more dripping sweetness to his tone as his corrects himself, “My sincerest apologies your royal highness, my hand must’ve slipped.” Shouto glares as he rubs a hand over his shoulder, but he can’t hide the way they soften the longer Bakugou laughs to himself. He’s known the prince far too long to not be able to read him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be protecting me from physical attacks?”
“I am.”
“I could’ve given this shift to Kirishima, he would never hit me.”
Bakugou huffs another laugh, rolling his eyes, “like you’d want to spend all night listening to him.”
Humming noncommittally, Shouto hovers around Bakugou like a hummingbird to a feeder, standing idly and shifting his weight to the beat of the music like a nervous habit. It’s not endearing. Shouto eventually shrugs like a depraved agreement, but he squares his shoulders and stares back at Bakugou with a challenge in his eyes after. A joke, like everything else they do.
“Don’t be so presumptuous as to act like your company is all that bright instead.”
“Stop making me your first choice and I’ll stop presuming,” Bakugou fires back. He does love these nights between them, despite the waiting and the manual labor and the vulturous eyes all around them, the soft flickers of candlelight above their heads and the steady glow of the bannisters lights behind them bask their moments in gold. Savored, precious, just for the two of them. The music crescendos and filters off, builds and slows, there’s solos and full body portions and not once do his eyes leave Shouto. The falling snow outside feels like enough of a cushion for him to be honest with the fact that Shouto never looks away from him either.
It’s almost comfortable enough for Bakugou to forget he’s supposed to be working, but he’s long since resigned himself that that’s more Shouto’s doing than any fancy ballroom lights or background music. He’s used to the banter, to easier conversation, after so many years of following Shouto around day after day, of learning his routines and memorizing what makes his life easier and what makes it harder. Bakugou isn’t particularly a fan of any royalty, but he thinks he’d go to war for them still, if Shouto was the one who asked him.
“You look nice tonight,” Shouto whispers, giving him only the slightest glance up and down, changing the topic with a strange ease of confidence that Bakugou still isn’t sure where he got it from. He grunts a response, tearing his eyes away from the prince in front of him and back to the other things he’s supposed to be watching too. The balcony, where the queen sits. All the doors. The bushes outside the window, even covered in snow. The crowd nearest to Shouto. He cycles through them like a routine, but none of them catch his eye and his breath like Shouto does. Stunning in the delicate light, with a backdrop of sweet flurries, early enough in the night for him to still look soft and boyish and young.
Just as Bakugou’s gaze flits to the frown growing on Shouto’s face, the prince asks him, "Would it kill you to relax?"
"Probably,” he replies, but his eyes don’t move, “Likely it would kill you too, that's rather the point." He hopes it might make Shouto laugh, if not leave it alone. Instead, the prince only sighs and extends his hand towards Bakugou, palm facing up towards the grand ceilings, frown flickering into something softer, something he’s more scared to name.
"I'll risk it, dance with me."
Bakugou almost laughs. It feels a little sick, somewhere deep in his stomach. Sick and tickling and rotten, bubbling and fierce.
“I’m working, Shouto.”
“You work for me, I think I’m allowed to command you a break.”
Bakugou sighs, staring at Shouto’s hand– unwavering, uplifting with confidence, like he knows too well how Bakugou hates saying no to him, “I work for your parents, Sho.”
The frown comes back, just a little bit, but his hand stays, “Mother’s the only one here tonight. She won’t care.”
“I rea–”
“Please?”
Bakugou doesn’t speak, doesn’t nod, doesn’t look him in the eye. But he lifts his hand and places it gently over Shouto’s in quiet resignation, an answer they both knew was coming sooner or later. The snow keeps falling, the music keeps playing, the nobles keep dancing. Simply now, Bakugou and Todoroki are dancing with them. Even more unprofessionally than dancing in the first place, Bakugou places his other hand not still clasped in Shouto’s on the other’s waist, pulls them closer together, looks down at his attire, and pretends he’s just another noble who gets to entertain the prince for a night.
After the party drones on into the night, quietly ended by guests leaving one by one until only staff remain, Bakugou nudges Shouto’s head off of his shoulder and walks him back to his room, hoping the familiar question burning at the back of the prince’s throat stays swallowed until another night, his heart feeling a little soft and a lot too attached. He helps Shouto undress and step into his sleeping wear like they’ve done it a thousand times before, despite it being far from Bakugou’s job to do so and then lays him down in bed. It’s not the first time he’s done so and won’t be the last, but he knows neither of them will mention it in the morning.
Daring seems to be a fitting role for him that night, so Bakugou decides to lean closer before he departs to his own room far across the castle for the night while another guard takes their station at Shouto’s door, brushes the hair off of Shouto’s forehead, and leaves him with a gentle kiss to his temple; a promise in everything but the words. And when he reaches the door, Bakugou pretends he’s too far away to hear Shouto asking him to stay, but he makes another promise– just to himself, in his own mind– that the next time will be different.