Archive of Our Own

. . . 22 years ago.

The Kirishimas hold the West in a steadfast hand. Their soldiers, reliable and strong, are known for their defense; time and time again, opposing kingdoms’ attempts at an overthrow have proven futile. It is the safeguard of robust military strength and Kirishima rule that allows the townsfolk to faithfully depend on the crown and put resolute trust into its luster. The kingdom is revered by others as the “Mountain Empire”—for no one can make them waver, not ever.

The Bakugous grasp onto the East with a dynamic fist. Like their royalty, their kingdom is one that commands attention. “Explosive,” it is with such an epithet that the Bakugou reign is more than adequately surmised as a volatile regime of pride and glory. The Bakugous are one feared by enemies and admired by supporters. There’s a spark of fervor that thrums in the East, something indubitably estimable about how the Bakugous set the hearts of their kingdom aflame. Their strive for excellence is irrefutable.

All however—the esteem of royal reputation, the weight of noble responsibility—dissipates like evening mist into a local pub’s shadows. Two figures are chatting amongst themselves at a table in the back, faces shrouded in worn, canvas hoods; slipping into a state of unnotice with ease, no one pays them any mind. Accompanying the duo are two glasses of beer, topped off with foam, sitting on the tabletop between them.

(In truth, it is the bard performing that night that is getting all the attention: they sing some tale of a wondrous beast, one of the skies and the sea and the land. A Great Animal, they say. A creature incredible in stature, equally powerful and formidable. The crowd delightfully eats up the story, captured by the playful song.)

“Queen Bakugou Mitsuki, it is a pleasure,” a deep voice says, gravelly and warm in tone. The man has his hand extended in greeting, which the woman in front of him kindly takes in her own, shaking it twice before letting go. A stark difference can be felt in their palms. While one is worn, rough with the calluses of battle—firm both in confidence and grip—the other is soft, smooth. Deceptive to those who don’t know her true nature, all sharp eyes and wit.

Here, however, they are the hands of friends.

“Oh Hiroto, or shall I say, King Kirishima,” Mitsuki laughs, more akin to a hearty cackle than anything. “Just Mitsuki is fine, you know this! You know I don’t care for titles between friends.”

Hiroto chuckles. They go through this exchange every time. They both know that he will heed her request and call her Mitsuki only for the rest of the evening, before bringing back the titles the next time they see one another: it is simply out of respect. That is how Hiroto is, despite their years’ worth of familiarity.

“How is Masaru?” he asks.

Mitsuki grins. “He’s well! You know him. His dedication is damn endless.” She swoons, chest swelling in pride. “Masaru wants to make sure our kingdom is strong, that our family is strong. He wants to begin our son’s training soon. Especially with the persistence of that piece of shit rebellion league—”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard whispers.”

“Indeed,” nods Mitsuki. “The rumors are hard to ignore. At first, it was a mere couple instances of hullabaloo in small towns, as I’m sure you are aware. But there’s something spurring them on… As if they’re trying to gather power all for one person. The attacks have been getting bigger, Hiroto, I just know it.”

Mitsuki brings her beer to her lips for a sip. “Masaru doesn’t tell me the details, he says he doesn’t want me to worry,” she continues with a conspiratory whisper. She giggles. “Little does he know that I’ve been reading over his shoulder this entire time. What is a queen, a wife, if I do not do what I can to support my kingdom and my husband, right Hiroto?”

“I’m sure that he appreciates it, even if he doesn’t know it.” Hiroto chuckles. “To have your partner watch after you—and in this case, quite literally watching over your shoulder—is a blessing.”

“Absolutely. And your queen? How is the sweet thing?”

Hiroto takes a swig of his drink. “As beautiful as ever, Mitsuki. As gentle as ever,” he smiles. His cheeks are flushed, both from the alcohol and a wistful blush. “I treasure every day I have with her, and I can’t wait to treasure each day even more—it is not long until we will have a little one in the castle, after all.”

Mitsuki gasps. “Oh my. Is the child so soon?’’

“This October,” Hiroto replies, giddy.

At the news, Mitsuki lets out a squeal, smacking Hiroto on the arm. “Hiroto!! Oh my goodness!” Hiroto’s arms reddens at the site of impact, and he flicks Mitsuki’s hand away. The action makes her laugh, when suddenly her eyes light up and she bangs a fist on the table. “Listen, Hiroto—I’ve got the best idea.

“Let’s unite our kingdoms.”

. .

. . . three years later.

k.e : two, turning three years old | b.k : five years old

A blond boy peers over the edge of a cradle: he is the first outsider, beyond the Bakugou king and queen, to welcome the new heir to the Kirishima throne. Behind him is a long line of those hailing from other kingdoms who stand in wait to do the same. The Todoroki and Yaoyorozu families are only two of the highly-regarded names among them.

Of all who have gathered today to celebrate the Kirishima heir’s birthday, this little blond boy is the first one to greet her.

He’s five; his princely attire is frumpled from fidgeting in the carriage ride on the way over and his rather energetic run around the castle the instant he felt solid ground beneath his feet. Looking at the not-so-newborn child, she is surrounded by extravagant comforts—a crib plush and positively lush with red silks and pillows and an abundance of stuffed animal toys (the one in her hand, her favorite, seems to be a shark).

She babbles. She’s two, turning three, with black hair that barely kisses the tops of her shoulders. Above her, the Bakugou boy dangles a necklace that his mother, the Queen, told him to bring as a gift. Enraptured by the shiny trinket, the child’s tiny hands paw at it as the boy laughs. It is a pretty golden thing delicate only in appearance, his mother having had the foresight to recommend a strong, enduring metal to the craftsman, especially due to the fact that it is to be a young child’s forever gift.

It is at that moment that the necklace catches noon’s light, when the sun is at its highest.

For upon the necklace rests a pendant. It is exquisite, a hand-welded sun and moon entwined in one another. The moon, a waning crescent on the left, carries a bold depiction of the sun in its hold on the right—each image is outlined in gold, encasing an interior made of alluring, iridescent crystal.

Dangling it above the princess, the pendant shifts its captured light and creates a rainbow.

—

. . . the summers.

k.e : seven years old | b.k : nine years old

The first summer comes, and she meets it. Well, more accurately, she meets him, with a curtsy as polished as a seven-year-old can make it to be. There is a fumble in the footwork as her father, King Hiroto, nudges her forward. Nonetheless, the curtsy still manages to be dainty and polite: the bow of her head in acknowledgement is gentle, in the same likeness of a flower who turns to bow towards the sun.

Her grin is toothy and earnest. In all honesty, she does not understand what “marriage” is quite yet. She figures it’s like playing house back home, make-believing with the kids of the cooks and the maids and the gardeners and other castlekeepers. House is about taking care of people, of her friends and family. This boy is a new friend, and when she sticks her hand out for him to take, like how her etiquette teacher taught her back home, she is ready to play with him too—to welcome him into her castle.

The boy in question scrunches his nose in distaste.

He stares at the outstretched hand in silence, not making a move; he stiffly stands next to his mother as if he’d rather be swallowed by his clothes—a loose white garment and deep forest green cloak—than be here in this moment. Chewing the inside of his cheek, it is clear that he is trying his best to hold his tongue (and for those who know him, they would say that the presence of restraint is a kind of blessing in itself). Before the silence stretches for too long, Queen Mitsuki coughs, and hits him upside the back of his head.

Reluctantly, the boy takes a step forward.

He looks at the princess, taking in the sight of her: her black hair that hits just below the shoulders, pin-straight in the way it falls, and her dress, frilly, light pink, and spotless. The boy thinks of his own shoes; he doesn’t need to look down to know that his own are covered in mud. The stark difference between him and her annoys him.

Tch.

Begrudgingly, he takes her hand in his. He presses a kiss to it, like how his mother told him to. It’s chaste, but he hates it nonetheless—immediately he gags in that nine-year-old boy way, a blegh coming from his throat with a grimace as he wipes his lips on the arm of his long sleeve.

When she sees him gag like that, her smile wobbles a bit before it drops. She harshly wipes the back of her hand on her dress, the itchy dress that she hates wearing, actually, but had worn out of both her father’s request and her own eager want to make a good first impression.

She believes in being nice. This boy isn’t nice.

With a huff, she turns her back away from him and faces her father instead. She wants to leave, to escape the scene, maybe head towards the carriage so they can move on to unpacking or, even better, move on to some other, more exciting means to occupy their time—preferably somewhere else, somewhere far, far away from here.

Unfortunately, her father shakes his head. With warm eyes and a nod, he encourages her to give a greeting instead. Behind her, something similar is happening with the boy: his mother giving him a pointed look that leaves no room for argument.

They both would much rather get chicken pox than be subjected to this.

The boy, being two years older, takes it upon himself to concede first, showcasing an insincere hand over his heart and a slight bow at the waist, topped off with a grin that is more akin to a grimace: “So happy you could come, Princess Kirishima Eiko of the Western Isles.”

Said princess gives a smile as sharp as her name suggests. “So happy to be here, Prince Bakugou Katsuki of the Eastern Borderlands.”

. .

The courtyard is clear. The spot he has chosen has enough room for him to move freely, without worry; it is far enough from the castle for him to get some time alone, but also close enough that his mother does not feel the need to call for a watchful eye. Gently, a breeze threads a hand through his hair, ruffling it as he shifts his stance, as he digs his heels into the grass underneath his feet.

It is not cicada season, so the trees are a hum quieter than they could be—nonetheless, the here-and-there tweetering from the audience, the birds in the branchly pews, are enough company, right alongside the right-hand man in his palm.

His sword.

Katsuki turns over the hilt in his hand. It is well-crafted, a brilliant gold. The detailed engraving is something subtle to the casual onlooker, yet eye-catching to a keen observer: an explosive composition of daffodils and sparks.

His father told him that the blade was made to be perfectly balanced. Forged with the best materials by the best swordsmith in the kingdom, just for Katsuki.

A birthday gift fit for a crown prince.

He remembers undoing the wrapping paper, excitedly ripping through the intricate folds that had been precisely and tenderly composed the night before. He can still feel, clear as a cloudless day, the unsheathing of the sword from its leather holder for the first time, and how his jaw dropped in awe. He remembers tracing the steel with his finger, slow and careful, after his mother had scolded him to be wary of the blade. He remembers seeing himself in its reflection, and the sight of his mother and father proudly standing behind him.

To be honest, Katsuki still has trouble wielding it. But he refuses to let the difficulty get under his skin; he’s still learning, after all. The sword is heavy in his hand with the weight of promise, of a kingdom’s future, of a regime that will be his.

He wants to be like his father, a man who is quiet in manner but bold in power, and equally vehement in action. His father, the man who is the only one that can truly handle the brash personality of Katsuki’s mother, who is the smoldering embers to her blazing fire. King Masaru is a spearheading force, a leader who no soldier would hesitate to follow into battle.

That’s why Katsuki is training, extra training even—here, by himself, on a quiet part of the castle grounds. Practice, practice, practice; that’s what his mother says.

And Katsuki wants to be the best.

He breathes, the swell of air in his lungs clearing his head and allowing him to focus. He feels the ground beneath his feet, solid, firm, and positions himself, arm outstretched and sword in hand in front of him.

Parry. Parry. Thrust.

Katsuki pauses. There’s a rustling. He can hear it coming from behind him. He shakes his head; perhaps he’s mistaken. He presses his lip into a thin line and ignores it.

Parry. Parry. Thrust.

A rustling. There it is again.

Parry. Parry. Thr—

Katsuki turns fast; a cutting woosh follows him as the sword carves into the air. Blade outstretched, he stands upright to make himself taller, more confident, ready to slice without hesitation into the offender cutting into his training time. (Quite honestly, if the sword is ineffective, the pissed-off look in Katsuki’s eyes may be glaring enough. And if his hands are shaking a little… Whoever is claiming so is obviously a liar.)

When his eyes focus, another set of eyes stare back at him.

Crimson ones, open and bright.

Oh. His lip curls in disdain. The princess.

The princess has her hands up, arms pulled into her chest as if not wanting to take up more space than necessary. It’s obvious that she did not mean to catch Katsuki off guard, but that does little to squander the annoyance that curdles in his chest, nor does it cause falter in where his blade currently hovers—an inch away from her face. Biting her lip, she looks afraid that he’ll cut off her tongue.

It is only after a beat of hesitation that her lips part slightly, and she speaks.

“Father told me to come over here,” she says as an explanation. Her hands remain where they are, gesture placating. Her words are said with a slight huff, showing her lack of desire to be here at all. She had been acting like that for a handful of weeks now (they both have, really), since the start of summer. Though their parents kept pushing them to be friends, neither could care less about fostering such a friendship.

Katsuki glares. The stare burns for another moment before he scoffs, finally bringing his sword down. The gesture is slow and steady. Mirroring him, Princess Eiko lets her hands fall to her sides as well.

“Whatever,” Katsuki mutters. He grits his teeth and gestures for Princess Eiko to sit down.

Dropping herself onto the grass, she sits, cross-legged and cross-armed with a pout. Katsuki rolls his eyes. Turning from her, he goes back to practicing. Tch, what a bother.

Parry. Parry. Thr—

Peace and quiet unfortunately lasts only a flawed few seconds. It is in the moments that follow where Katsuki’s attention finds falter.

The cracks in his concentration are at the hand of none other than his reluctant, one-person audience. Beside him is the catalyst: a sudden exclamation of “Wow!! So cool!!!”, in a giddy burst.

Seriously?

Katsuki huffs in annoyance. He wants to ignore her; if he closes his eyes, really squeezes them shut, he can pretend she isn’t there.

And yet, there is a curl of delight in his chest. It swirls and pulls at his scowl, and instead he smirks at the princess with a cheeky grin. He cannot help himself; he’s smug.

Katsuki juts out a thumb and proudly sticks it to his chest, “Of course it’s cool. I’m the best around here.” He sheaths his sword back into the leather scabbard that rests on his hip. Both are definitely too big on him at this age, but neither he or Princess Eiko comment on it because swords are cool. “And I’m the strongest.”

Princess Eiko tilts her head. Her previous excitement is gone, replaced by something else. “Hmm.” When Katsuki searches her face for an elaboration, she does nothing more than blink up at him, and ask, “Really?”

“Did you not see me?”

“I mean I did,” she says, her tone pulling at the last word. Though she is simply sitting neatly, blinking at him with an innocent expression, the lilt in her voice does well to pull a rise out of Katsuki. His jaw clenches.

Matter-of-factly, she continues on, “I just don’t know if I believe you’re the strongest, Prince Katsuki.” As she speaks, the princess fiddles with her shoes, her little hands holding onto the tips of her feet. Absent-mindedly she moves them back and forth, pulling them apart then tapping them together. It’s annoying. It makes him want to grind his teeth.

Face burning, Katsuki sputters, indignant. “Of– of course I am! My dad says I’m the best.”

Princess Eiko’s expression stays the same. It’s clear that she does not believe him. Instead she adds, quieter, as if to herself, as if an afterthought: “Swords are cool though! And– and, manly.”

“That doesn’t have to do with anything—”

“It does! I am so manly,” Princess Eiko interjects. It comes so quick that Katsuki does not have room to question the latter. With a glint in her eye, she crosses her arms and pushes forward. “I bet I’m better, actually. I bet I could beat you.”

Katsuki puts his hands on his hips. He scoffs. I doubt that, Katsuki thinks, taking a moment to flick some stray blond locks out of his eyes before he stares the princess down.

“Do you even know how to, you know,” he starts to ask, raising his eyebrow. Already, his tone is taunting. “Fight? Wrestle? Hunt? Box?” He puts his hands on his knees as he crouches down to meet her at eye level. The grin on Katsuki’s face does nothing to hide the mocking tone as he reiterates the first from the list, “Fight?”

The corners of Princess Eiko’s lips turn upward. Unbothered, she nods.

Before pushing herself up, she carefully takes off her shoes, one by one, then her socks. Her bare feet touch the grass with playful steps. Wiggling her toes, she feels the ground beneath her; from there, she jumps into a fighting stance with assured confidence.

It’s not perfect. However, Katsuki some elements of her stance are recognizable, similar enough to what his own trainers have taught him in the past. He squints, mulling it over in his mind. There’s something missing.

To Eiko’s confusion, Prince Katsuki abruptly turns and walks away. Luckily, the daze does not last long; a couple moments later, he returns with what appear to be two wooden swords.

“Here,” Katsuki grunts, tossing one sword to Princess Eiko. She catches it in the crooks of her elbows with a bit of an oof escaping her lungs. “These are the swords I practice with during training.”

“Thank you,” she says politely. Taking it in her hands, immediately the energy changes: she holds the sword in front of her chest, ramped up and ready to go. “Let’s do this.”

Katsuki takes off his scabbard and drops it to the ground, shifting into a stance of his own—until Princess Eiko’s voice stops him.

“Oh!” Princess Eiko gasps. Her eyebrows have shot up to her forehead, and she’s hurriedly tugging at his sleeve towards her to keep him from taking another step. He freezes, dropping his sword. “Be careful, you’re going to trample the flower.”

Startled, Katsuki looks behind him. Amongst a sea of grass stood a single flower—though the castle grounds were clear here, the apparent exception was a single daisy. Had Princess Eiko not stopped him, he likely would have trampled all over it, crushing it thoughtlessly beneath his heel.

With a gentle touch, she plucks it from the ground.

“Here,” she says, holding it out to him.

Katsuki scrunches his nose, not moving to take it. Instead, he stares at the flower as if it is nothing but a weed. “Why did you pick that?” he asks. Prodding on, “It’s just a flower, why does it matter?”

“Well, at least it won’t get squashed,” Princess Eiko replies. “It’s very pretty.” She turns the daisy over in her fingers, looking at it from all angles. The petals are soft, in shape and to the touch. “And it’s more than that too. It’s nice, it’s soft. It reminds me of the sun,” she adds, letting her index finger linger on the flower’s yellow center.

She turns back to him. “And we can still keep it safe,” she says, smiling. “It’s better to take care with these kinds of things than be clumsy. Or else something will get hurt.” She has a stupid, toothy grin. As she places the delicate flower just behind Katsuki's ear, her finger grazes his skin. “See?”

He scoffs. “Whatever.”

When she looks down to adjust her dress, he lightly touches the daisy, as if to check that it’s secure. By the time they make eye contact once more, his hand has already returned to his side. He picks his wooden sword up from where he dropped it on the ground.

Meeting her gaze, Princess Eiko’s eyebrows are furrowed, now. Challenging.

“You’re a meanie, Prince Katsuki. And meanies go down.”

Katsuki sneers, posture reeking in confidence. His hands gesture in a ‘come over’ motion. “Show me what ‘cha got, Princess.”

(The duel quickly devolves into a game of tag instead. They chase after each other—at one point, they replace their swords with miscellaneous sticks they randomly come across on the castle lawn. They continue switching them out with larger and larger ones that they find, the sticks comically waving in the air as they stay on each other’s heels.

Katsuki maniacally laughs when he bonks Princess Eiko on the head, and Princess Eiko wrestles Katsuki to the ground with a yell in retaliation.

When they go back inside, Princess Eiko’s shoes are perfectly pristine. Queen Mitsuki scolds Katsuki for once again dirtying his shoes.

Behind his mother’s back, Katsuki sticks his tongue out at Princess Eiko. With spite, she mirrors him and does the same.)

—

k.e : eleven years old | b.k : thirteen years old

The second summer comes, and Katsuki is in the treehouse with a friend, Prince Midoriya Izuku. The use of the term “friend” is loose, though, for Izuku is more like an annoying younger brother to Katsuki than anything else—even the use of the name “Izuku” lacks hold; really, Katsuki’s mouth only ever utters “Deku” in its place.

Today, Izuku ran away after the funeral proceedings. Katsuki followed.

The funeral was for Izuku’s father, none other than King Yagi Toshinori of the Midoriya kingdom.

King Toshinori’s namesake was “The Symbol of Peace.” For during his reign, he was a champion of might—war and crime kept at bay. He stood as a testament to his citizens’ trust in peace, the weight of the kingdom shouldered upon him in the same way that Atlas, with all his strength, holds up the sky. Above all else, King Toshinori was a protector of his people.

And of his people, his beloved family was first and foremost.

King Toshinori made sure to take on the heavier weights of royal duty so that his wife, Queen Midoriya Inko, would never have to face a day of worry or stress. He felt that the dear loves of his life, his wife and his son, deserved a life of comfort and luxury.

Izuku looks up to his father; his dream is to save and protect people, as his father did. All in all, King Toshinori was both a king and a man of the home—his treasures were neither the affluence of his crown nor scepter, but his precious family.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to the general public, King Toshinori suffered from a chronic degenerative sickness.

And as he aged, his condition got worse, and as his condition got worse, Queen Inko took on more of the duties her husband hoped to protect her from.

And just a few days ago, King Toshinori passed—taking his last breath, with his wife and son at his bedside. Each holding a hand of his in one of their own.

Now, Queen Midoriya sits alongside Queen Bakugou Mitsuki. And together, in the same castle, they are finding comfort in one another—for in the meantime, the Midoriya and Bakugou royal families have united under the same roof. Together, under the Bakugou name, their lands have informally come together; even prior to the Midoriya Kingdom’s loss, the Midoriyas and Bakugous were close.

As friends, the two queens understand each other’s troubles deeply. And the gravity of that understanding has been especially felt during these past few days; for Queen Mitsuki herself had lost her own husband, two years prior, in the toils of battle.

Queen Mitsuki urges Katsuki to look after Izuku. In the same vein, Queen Inko hopes that Izuku finds a friend in Katsuki, who can relate to Izuku’s loss.

And that is why Katsuki and Izuku find themselves building a treehouse together. By their own design (with a sprinkle of professional input as well as physical assistance from royal carpenters and attendants alike), they make a playplace of their own.

It’s not much. It’s one room, sitting on the top of the trunk of the strongest tree that they could find that was not too far from the castle. A retractable rope ladder hangs downward, dangling on the outside of the brave opening in the far-side wall they call a “door.” It serves well as a getaway for the times they want to escape for a while.

This is one of those times.

The only sound for the past hour has been sniffling; Izuku has his legs pulled into his chest, his head hidden in his knees. Though Katsuki can’t see the tears for himself, he knows that Izuku has likely soaked through his trousers. Deku has always been a crybaby, after all.

He can’t blame him.

Though it happened in the dark of Katsuki’s room, and once or twice, into his mother’s shoulder, the cascade of turbulent tears was Katsuki too, back then.

Maybe that’s why Katsuki speaks up first. “Are you okay, Deku?”

Izuku’s head pops up at the question. And there it is: bloodshot eyes and red-flushed nose. There are tracks on his freckled cheeks where tear after tear would race. Meekly, Izuku manages a “Yeah,” in an obvious attempt at normalcy. Izuku tries to follow up with a smile, too, but it is dull and fails to reach red-rimmed eyes. “N-no,” he eventually cries, his voice warbling as more tears spill over. Izuku’s chest heaves as his breaths start to hiccup. “No, no I’m not.”

Katsuki has seen Izuku cry plenty of times, but never like this.

He carefully scooches closer to Izuku, and awkwardly pats him on the shoulder. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be. It just shows how much you love him.” He’s not really good at comforting, but he’s trying. He then nudges Izuku’s shoulder with his own; it’s not a hug, but it means just as much as one. “Your dad was really cool.”

“Thanks Kacchan,” Izuku smiles. It’s soft. Unlike the previous, however, this one is sincere. “Your dad was really cool, too.”

They sit in comfortable silence. As the minutes pass, Izuku gets more and more of his breath back, and the tension in his shoulders lessens. Though the tear tracks remain, they are a bit drier, even if just for now.

“Oh, I forgot about this.” Breaking the quiet, Izuku shuffles to grab an item tucked into the corner of the treehouse. A breeze slips into the room as he returns back to his spot, up the ladder, through the “window,” i.e. the big gaping hole in the wall next the door. Kneeling next to Katsuki, Izuku does his reveal: unfurling a homemade sign.

NO GIRLS, it reads, scrawled large and messy. Their calligraphy teacher, had they seen it, would most definitely have been disappointed—but that does not matter. Izuku gets up and drapes the sign over the window ledge with a flourish, allowing it to declare its clear and blatant warning to any potential trespassers.

“Now Princess Eiko can’t get in,” Izuku says. It’s quieter than Izuku’s normal exclamations, but Katsuki can still hear the subtle pride in his voice. “What do you think, Kacchan?” Giddiness remains in how Izuku’s green eyes shine. Though Izuku is only three months younger, moments like these often make Katsuki feel like the gap is more distant. Not feeling a verbal response, Katsuki simply nods in acknowledgement.

Though. There is something about Izuku’s words that is not quite right. And Katsuki always does things right—so this, he’ll address.

“Oi, Deku. It’s not ‘Eiko’ anymore,” Katsuki interjects. He says it as if it isn’t a big deal, and perhaps it really isn’t. “She goes by ‘Ei’ now.”

Izuku tilts his head. It makes him look like a curious puppy. He watches as Katsuki traces shapes on the wooden floor. “Oh, really? Why, Kacchan?”

Katsuki pauses.

It marked the day of the Kirishimas’ arrival. That morning, their ship, with its signature bold red sails and all, made its unfortunate reunion with the Bakugou Kingdom’s port.

Katsuki knew this fact because he had been the lucky recipient of a cruel awakening at the crack of dawn: a painful pinch to the ear by his mother, yanking him out of his dreams and out of his bed. She had Katsuki assist with some final preparations—checking in with the kitchen staff, doing an extra fluff of the guest room pillows, etc.—before they were to head over to the port. After a rushed morning and followed by a sluggish wait for their royal guests, at least the blaze of the sunrise had been a pretty sight.

The same could not be said for his current company, however.

Actually, she was a dreadfully ugly sight to see.

“You smell like sea salt,” remarked Katsuki. He was standing in Princess Eiko’s doorway, his back against the frame. His arms were crossed to his chest as he actively absolved himself from helping the princess with unpacking. He had already carried a bag or two, wasn’t that enough?

“Well Prince Katsuki,” Princess Eiko replied, tone dripping with unbothered drawl. “That is what happens when you travel by sea. The ocean can’t help but stay on your clothes a little, she’s clingy like that.”

“Oh, you would know. Try leaving me alone this summer, could you?”

“Boohoo,” Princess Eiko’s eyes rolled. “Our parents plan practically every hour of every day here, I couldn’t escape you if I tried. Besides, I bet you would get bored without me here.”

Bored? Katsuki scoffed. “As if. Have you forgotten whose kingdom you are visiting? You are the one who would get bored. We both know you don’t really know anyone else here, that’s why you follow me around.”

“I do not!”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

Looking down at his nails, Katsuki’s snark took on a singsong lilt. “Do too, Princess Eiko.”

Abruptly, Princess Eiko stopped unpacking. At the lack of a reply and sudden absence of shuffling around, Katsuki looked up. But there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Princess Eiko’s face was expressionless.

After another moment, her hands moved. She kept unpacking her various belongings and clothes. Plainly, she spoke up, her voice quiet. “Don’t call me that, please.”

Katsuki raised an eyebrow. “Hah?”

“Don’t call me that, please,” she repeated, a little louder. A little stronger. “I’d prefer ‘Ei,’ rather than ‘Eiko.’”

Katsuki huffed, breaking his gaze away from her. Ei, rather than Eiko? He didn’t get it, it didn’t seem much different—but he didn’t see the need in questioning it either. That was too much effort to exert for an extra. ‘Ei’ was enough, and easier to say, anyhow.

“Whatever,” he conceded. “Call me Katsuki then, and let’s drop the titles. I don’t really care for that formality shit, anyways.”

By the time he looked back up at her, she was already on the other side of the room. Her back towards him, she was putting her clothes away in the provided wardrobe as she softly hummed a tune.

Katsuki stood up straight. He had completed the bare minimum of what his mother told him to do for the Kirishimas; he figured he could retire to his room for the day.

Before he left, he just barely thought he heard it: briefly, how the humming broke for a, “Thanks Katsuki,” before returning back to song.

Katsuki turns to Izuku and just shrugs. “Beats me.”

Not knowing what to reply, Izuku simply accepts the curt answer and nods. “If you say so, Kacchan.”

What happens next is fast—a split second of surprise, as if summoned because her name had crossed his thoughts.

Ei, unannounced, bursts into the treehouse. Katsuki and Izuku had forgotten to pull up the ladder after climbing up, allowing an unsuspecting, passing princess to see it as an invitation to climb up and push herself through the door. In the chaos, the sign in the window unceremoniously falls to the ground outside, completely disregarded.

When Izuku lets out an ear-piercing scream in surprise, what can Katsuki do but snicker?

(They kick her out afterwards.)

. .

The downsides of a royal upbringing are only ever truly known by the people who live it. Said downsides include, but are not limited to, the following: arithmetic lessons, etiquette classes, mandatory dresses and corsets, and history lectures that come in an abundance. The required schooling covers a plethora of facets of royal life, an overwhelming amount of expectation pushed into the hour-by-hour, day-to-day itinerary.

Schooling, to Ei’s dismay, also means reading.

When Ei huffs, a stray strand of hair blows out of her eyes. Reading has never held her attention, so. She has no particular care for it. The subject of the literature itself is irrelevant, she has yet to be privy to a book she more than tolerates, much less genuinely enjoys. Who needs to learn about the complicated politics of imports and exports, or the history of old people doing old people things?

As a future representative of the people, Ei’s answer is No one, that’s who. She has successfully evaded her evening tutors for that exact reason—and she would much rather wander around than be subjected to such boredom for several hours.

Well, perhaps she spoke too soon.

Leering over her are shelves upon shelves of books. A seemingly endless collection of texts all in one place—the scent of aged paper wafts through the air, making Ei’s nose crinkle. With the force Ei shuts the door with, loudly behind her back, the sound echoes. As it travels through the expanse of the room she’s in, recognition is all the more apparent: where else can she be, than the Bakugou castle library.

The ceilings stretch tall above her. Her lips part in awe; she almost expects to see the blue of the sky when she looks up. Rather, in its place, is a mural that stretches wall to wall, capturing the likenesses of great minds and philosophers in earnest brush strokes and oil paint. All around the room’s perimeter, a number of ornate sconces around the room give the library a cozy kind of glow.

It’s beautiful architecture, really. A bookworm, perhaps, would have found it impressive. A dream, even.

Ei, though? As she looks around, taking in the myriad of titles upon the numerous shelves, she can feel her lips twitching into a grimace. This is her nigh—

Her eyes stumble upon the sight of a table in the corner. She audibly gags, the sight much worse than the endless sea of books.

Ei takes back what she was going to say earlier. This is her nightmare.

“Oh, eww.”

Katsuki’s head jerks up at the comment. The single candle light in front of him on the tabletop isn’t much, but she can see that it does enough to illuminate his face: how it highlights the way his lip automatically curls, how it mirrors her disgust. “Hah? What are you doing here?” he asserts. It comes out as more of a snarky command than a question. He then smirks, taking on a condescending tone. “Oh, did the baby get lost?”

Ei rolls her eyes. She’s only two years younger than him, but he never fails to hold those two years above her head.

“I’m not a baby,” she mutters under her breath. Quickly, she whips back at him, “What are you doing with all that?” and gestures to the spread of books in front of Katsuki as she approaches the table. She shakes her head. That is much too many. “Books are so boring. Though I suppose you enjoy them because of that—because you’re so similar.”

He snorts at her reply. Not because it’s funny (it was a cheap shot, really, and not even a good one), but because of course she does not like to read. It makes sense why, during lessons, instead of reading along, Ei doodles in the margins of her notes.

Turning his attention back down to his book, Katsuki goes on to the next page and continues with his work. Without looking up, he says, “Yeah? Maybe you just can’t comprehend them. Maybe you should take a hint and learn to read.”

Ei’s lips push into a pout. Simply put, it’s just that nothing seems to hold her attention; to her, all stories are bedtime stories with the way they make her fall asleep. Ei bites her tongue and huffs, holding back a childish retort of, I do too know how to read, and instead takes the seat across from Katsuki. Even as the chair screeches along the floor, echoing against the walls of the empty library, Katsuki doesn’t spare her a glance.

The only sound that remains is the occasional flip of a page, and the scratch of graphite against parchment.

Though that doesn’t last for long.

Ei has never been fond of allowing Katsuki a moment of peace. Getting under his skin is her favorite pastime, and Ei makes it her personal responsibility to burst the bubble of quiet.

“So…” she starts. With her arms crossed on top of the table, she leans in to peer at Katsuki’s work as she asks her question. She’s disappointed but not surprised at the results: nonsense notes and text that looks dreadfully dull. “What ‘cha doin’?”

Clearly disturbed from his reading, Katsuki bristles. Taking a breath, he holds himself still, not bothering to meet her gaze, and making himself calmly turn to the next page of his book. When she just sits there, continuing to wait expectantly for an answer, he clicks his tongue against his teeth in annoyance.

“Tch. I’m learning,” he sneers. “I like to learn, actually. Though I don’t know how much you can relate to that, with a head as dense as stone.”

Ei blows a raspberry at him, sticking out her tongue. Katsuki rolls his eyes in response.

“I am the heir to the Bakugou throne. Someday, I am going to be king,” he continues. Subconsciously sitting up a bit straighter, he adds, “I have to– I want to be the best, like my father. Deku’s father, too.”

Admittedly, it is a nice sentiment. One that sticks, like lingering morning dew—like resonance of sound within a chamber.

Me too, Ei wants to say. Well, not your father, but I have someone I admire too. There is a tangle of words, of memories of ancestors and kingdom strongholds, caught in her throat. She may complain about all the work, all the lessons and the training, but. She relates more than he thinks.

All she manages is a cough.

A beat passes. Ei thinks that that is going to be the end of it, in all honesty. The energy feels just a bit different, and her mind is admittedly blank of any questions she could bug Katsuki with. She has even begun her second-favorite pastime of choice: drumming her fingers on the nearest surface.

Unexpectedly, Katsuki waves away the fog of the lull with a sigh, and speaks up. “What do you like to read?”

Ei’s tapping stops. Her head tilts to the side, confused. “What do you mean?” Did they not just talk about this? “I don’t like to read anything.”

“I mean outside of the classroom, idiot,” Katsuki says. “I’ll find you something you’ll actually like…” As he talks, he gets up from his seat and heads to a shelf across the room. Running his finger across the spines of the books in front of him, he has a certain kind of expression on his face, a deliberate kind of touch. Calculating. Searching. “…Reading isn’t complete shit. Even if you hate something, easing into it—that’s the way to go. You have to start somewhere. Figure out what you like, what you don’t. And then maybe, you’ll find yourself not just liking it, but loving it.” He turns around and smirks at Ei. “Plus, maybe you’ll get out of here and let me do my work in peace.”

“Yeah okay,” Ei snorts, not believing him. “Bad move to reveal your plan though, Sir Boring.” She then shrugs, not quite knowing what to say. “And I still don’t know, to be honest. I don’t read much, remember? So I wouldn’t know what I like to read outside of the classroom, since I. You know. Don’t read. Something cool, I guess? Something, I don’t know—something manly.”

Katsuki exhales. Ei thinks it almost sounds like a breathy laugh. The mutter that follows is so quiet, Ei can barely make it out under Katsuki’s breath: “I never know what you mean by that…”

In the end, the search only takes another minute or two. It feels like forever. To occupy herself, Ei has regulated her energy towards tapping on the table again. A few times she even switches it up, sometimes fidgeting in her seat or playing with her hair.

Finally, Katsuki tosses a book in front of her. The sound the book makes when it smacks the table makes Ei flinch.

“Here,” he says. “Now, don’t bother me.”

Her lips pressing into a frown, Ei has her doubts in the selection given—especially since Katsuki, of all people, has chosen it for her. She is not sure she trusts his taste, is all she is saying.

With great reluctance (and with raised eyebrows), she pulls the book towards her to take a closer look.

On the cover is a dragon. The creature is the empowering center focus of the piece, an enrapturing presence so large in composition that its tail reaches to curl around the book’s spine. Ei traces the drawing, lips slightly parted—beneath her fingertips, she can feel the pebbly bumps of scales. The subtle texture incorporated in the art is fascinating. The illustration reminds Ei of the other day, of how their tutor described magma: a captivating sea of reds, oranges, and yellows, an imposing sight with an all-consuming strength.

In the image, the dragon is blowing fire. The flames themselves go as far as to lick the edges of the cover; amongst them, the flames have a gold detail that catches gleams of candlelight. As she stares, Ei adjusts the position of how she holds the book in her hand, almost as if she is afraid she will burn.

Sat upon the dragon’s back is a rider. They are depicted as nothing more than a silhouette, but from the way they are carrying themselves, the outline of a fur-lined cape on top of confident, broad shoulders, the way they hold their sword high above their head—it is strikingly clear that the person is heroic, fearless.

“Wow,” Ei murmurs. It’s very manly.

Perhaps his taste isn’t the worst. He managed to pick something kind of cool. She opens her mouth to thank him, but when she sits up a little more to meet his gaze, the eye contact is not reciprocated. Instead, she finds that Katsuki has already resumed his work.

Ei shakes her head. I take it back, he’s a boring know-it-all.

And because it’s clear that Katsuki won’t entertain her any longer, Ei cracks open the book.

So, she reads. Time gets lost in between the pages; seconds hold themselves in the pauses of anticipation where Ei holds her breath—minutes hide in the paragraph breaks, gone long enough to reach metamorphosis, to fly off and pass the hours by.

In turn, Ei loses herself in the story, a whimsical tale of a dragon and a battle. Of a promise, and love. Ei did not realise that reading could mean this: a whirlwind arrangement of words to tell of something fantastical. That reading was more than mindless drivel of historical events and seemingly arbitrary dates. There’s something of a rush; it’s different from when she’s training with her sword, or learning how to throw a punch.

It’s nice. She likes it.

With time, she finds herself asleep. Drowsiness’ sneaky hand lets her eyelids fall, slowly but surely, like snow off of a sloped roof. Having fallen asleep while still sitting up, her neck is in a position that will definitely ache come morning.

It is not until the sunlight gives the library windows a taste of dawn, gentle and warm, when King Hiroto finds Ei. Lightly, he coaxes her awake with a shake of her shoulders.

She’s still a bit groggy. Coming to, she becomes aware of the weight of a heavy blanket across her back; how warm, she thinks. Ei rubs her eyes. Unconsciously, she snuggles even more into the blanket, pulling the edges inward to wrap tighter around her as she yawns. Cozy, now even cozier.

The table in front of Ei is completely clear. No evidence remains from her library companion the night before, all save for a fizzled, nearly depleted candle and her book: closed and neatly moved aside, a bookmark perfectly set between the pages to mark her place.

. .

The Bakugou carriage is ornate in design; wood painted an obsidian black with accents of white, gold, and deep forest green. The top of the carriage is open to the air, making it a lovely means of transport for shorter trips such as this—both sun and breeze following them, keeping them company as they continue on their horse-drawn journey forth to the Bakugou seaside port.

From the castle, through the woods and past the town, the familiar rumble of carriage wheels and clacking of horseshoes are a call to the townspeople. Eagerly, the folk of the Bakugou Kingdom peek out their windows and step outside their doors, cheerily waving as the royal families ride past them.

The seating arrangement is this: King Hiroto and Queen Mitsuki at the front, bodies turned towards their children, who are sitting next to each other in the backmost row. Every so often, the parents break from looking out of their respective carriage sides to do a checking glance—making sure that the children are upholding royal etiquette, i.e. waving and smiling politely at passersby, just as King Hiroto and Queen Mitsuki are. Maintenance of a proper royal image, by showing manners to one another, of course is also a given.

(The second their parents look away though, Katsuki holds up bunny ears behind Ei’s head. Ei kicks Katsuki in the shins in retaliation.)

It does not take long before they reach their destination.

King Hiroto extends a hand to his child, helping Ei step down from the carriage. Right behind her is Queen Mitsuki, followed by Katsuki, who stomps down the steps with his hands shoved roughly into the pockets of his trousers.

All around them are townspeople and nobles—each have come to see the Kirishimas off. The crowd, slowly, parts for the departing family; at the gesture, both the King and Princess share matching kind smiles and shake the hand of as many people as they can. One mother even holds out her baby, and King Hiroto takes a moment to both congratulate the mother and make a silly face at the newborn. The baby giggles, and the mother coos as she brings the babe back to her chest.

Eventually, King Hiroto and Princess reach their ship. It is named The Aiya, after Ei’s mother. They turn to look at the crowd one final time; with their right hands raised, they wave. From the dock, the townspeople loudly bid their farewells.

It’s evident. The betrothal of the Kirishima and Bakugou crown heirs is no secret. Rumors, although publicly unconfirmed, have been spread like dandelion seedlings in the wind: it is far from unfathomable that people would wonder and whisper about why the Kirishima Kingdom’s King and Princess have made such an extended stay upon, now, two occasions.

Even at the present, the breeze carries said whispers, lingering in the hushed tones not too far from Queen Mitsuki and Prince Katsuki.

Though Katsuki wishes it was far from him.

Far, far from him.

“Long before they met, they were destined to be wedded, you know,” they say, “Though it’s clear that they dread the summertime something awful.”

“We need a royal wedding! Can you imagine, two lands, united? Oh, how I’d love an invite.”

“With some luck, we could get a holiday—or perhaps, some lower taxes!”

Katsuki’s skin definitely does not bristle with each comment. And his eyes definitely do not roll.

He is definitely not bothered by the comments about his life and an arrangement and marriage he does not want, with a girl that does nothing but annoy him. He’s not.

Sure, there are moments that are borderline tolerable. But that’s the extent of it. It means nothing.

How is he supposed to rule with her—some random girl, some random extra his mother delusionally believes he should marry?

It’s a coincidence that he had a slingshot in his pocket, and now his hand.

It’s a coincidence that a tomato hits the side of the boat, narrowly missing a direct hit on the royal court.

In an instant, red splatters. It is all across Ei’s cheeks. The shock of the impact sucks the air out of her lungs, the tomato had landed a breath away from her: hitting the boat’s edge, and getting not only red juice, but tomato flesh all over the surrounding surfaces. Hurriedly, in an attempt to save face, she wipes her cheeks with the back of her dress sleeve.

Unfortunately, there is still some that lingers on her clothes, her face, her hair. It’s sticky, and Ei’s lip curls.

Back on the port, Katsuki shoves the slingshot in his pocket. No one seems to be the wiser. In the same breath, Ei’s demeanor, previously friendly and polite, hardens like stone into a sharp glare. There is no need for verbal confirmation when the look, the taunt, the jeer, in Katsuki’s eyes says it all.

Ei grits her teeth.

He cups his hands around his mouth, making his voice nice and loud so that she can hear him from where she stands.

“Red looks good on you,” he calls with a smirk. “Too bad you aren’t a redhead.”

Ei fumes, refraining from a response. Instead, she turns swiftly and wastes no time boarding the ship, her father following suit after casting the crowd a bashful, placating smile and final wave. A couple more minutes pass before the Kirishimas’ ship sails westward, and Katsuki chuckles to himself as he mentally replays the look of Ei’s face when it was red with both tomatoes and anger.

The glee is cut off by a jab into his side by his mother.

She addresses the incident with irritated restraint, mindful of those around them still lingering. “Now Katsuki,” she starts, speaking through gritted teeth. She eyes him from her peripheral vision; though it is as piercing as a direct glare. “Was that the kind of respect you’re showing?”

Katsuki simply stares forward, watching as The Aiya becomes smaller and smaller as it fades into the horizon. Once it completely disappears, he turns around to head back to the carriage. He’s ready to leave.

“I have no care for some ugly princess, mother. Don’t expect me to marry her.”

—

k.e : fifteen years old | b.k : seventeen years old

The third summer comes, and here they are, dressed to the nines. Each of them stand adorned in a myriad of velvets and silks; though they are a bit dusty, the fabrics are beautifully dyed in a number of vibrant hues. Their outfits are flagrantly complemented by the glint of gold accents and accompanying jewels that rest upon their neck, wrists, and every single one of their fingers. Altogether, it’s equal parts lavish and ridiculous, in that unnecessarily fanciful kind of way.

It’s a shame that there is no party of sorts to attend.

In reality, this is no ballroom. There is no party, no event. The “kids”—well, they are teenagers, adolescents now—are in a rarely used wing of the castle. The wing is not abandoned, per se; however, the periods in between its visitors coming and going are just long enough for dust to settle.

Outside, it thunders. The rain is unfortunately a tempermental drummer boy: pelting drops form a seemingly ceaseless thrum against the castle’s window panes. Dripping in gold and precious stones is no match for the drip of inclement weather, and how it has washed out the chance of having a possible day spent out in the outdoors.

And thus, here they are. Extravagant and… “Stylish.” Their styles of choice are admittedly a bit dated for wear, but that is to be expected when the outfits are derived from the findings within a forgotten armoire of an unused room.

And when the princess talks you into playing dress up.

(Katsuki wanted to say no, he did. But Ei was insistent in her pleading, and Katsuki’s mother had chastised him in the beginning of summer, saying that he had to be kinder to Ei, for the Kirishimas are their guests. She said that meant letting Ei do some things, even if Katsuki did not want to.

Plus, Deku went all starry-eyed at the treasure trove of a wardrobe too, so he had two sets of puppy dog eyes being used against him.

So Katsuki agreed. Begrudgingly.)

Ei has her hair braided. Diverging from her typical style (pin-straight locks that fall at the waist), her dark, ebony hair has instead been wrapped around her head like a woven headband and pinned to stay.

Her ensemble is consciously masculine; she picked—for fun, she had said—trousers rather than a gown, a man’s loose blouse as opposed to a fitted corset. On the other side of the room from Katsuki, with a flourish and a giddy laugh, she casts away a sheet to unveil an ornate chair. He watches as she throws herself upon it, sitting on it as if it were a throne, her legs spread apart rather than politely crossed over the knee as princesses are taught to do. Scepter in hand, and a crown crookedly on her head (the armoire really did have everything), she playfully dons herself “king.”

“The Western Isles are my stronghold,” she states, speaking from her chest. Her tone is a little deeper, and immediately, she grabs the attention of everyone in the room. She raises her chin and her scepter. “There is no beast powerful enough to move a mountain.”

Somehow, it suits her.

A laugh comes from Izuku, who matches her energy and puts on some playful theatrics. Though Katsuki and Ei still butt heads, she and Izuku get along well enough.

Starting with a deep bow in front of Ei, Izuku says, “What should we do, King? Especially when the beast is so…” He straightens up, and turns to look directly at Katsuki with a glint in his eye and a snicker. “Hideous.”

Ei smirks. “Poor thing. He’s truly a gremlin, is he not?”

Izuku has easily become invested in playing dress up, much more than Katsuki. As they play, he dons more accessories than one can count, with a dusty royal mantle on his shoulders to match. It’s obviously too big, but Izuku doesn’t care; he’s having fun.

Katsuki, on the other hand, had been thrown some kind of matted cloak with a startling resemblance to a lion’s mane. When assigning roles, Ei said that Katsuki would be the best one to play the “monster,” due to how often he growled in real life.

Izuku wholeheartedly agreed.

Tch. Dumb bastard.

Katsuki scowls. He manages a “grr,” albeit a halfhearted one. It’s followed by a listless lift of his hand in a poor imitation of a claw.

Ei tsks. Shaking her head, she replies, “Oh come on, Katsuki. That was awful. You are the saddest monster I have ever seen.”

Biting the baiting taunt, Katsuki retorts, “Oh, really now?” Raising his eyebrows, he takes a couple steps towards her. He stops when reaches her makeshift “throne.” One by one, he places a hand on each armrest. Leaning close, the cloak over his head casts shadows on his face, his teeth bared into a sharp grin. “Is this a better monster for you, Ei?”

With a giggle, she boops his nose with her scepter.

Katsuki backs up, “What the fu–”

Izuku laughs, while Katsuki’s ears burn as he scowls.

All in all, it’s not the most boring thing—though, Katsuki would much rather hang himself out on the stocks than admit so out loud. Yet, regardless of how he feels, their time is suddenly disrupted by an unwelcome guest.

A castle guard, sent by Katsuki’s mother to check in. And the guard’s arrival suddenly becomes the focus of the afternoon, the star of the show.

“It’s dreadful that we have to stay indoors,” drawls Ei. Her scepter, previously inseparable from her grasp, now lays at the foot of her pretend throne, forgotten on the floor. She drags her index finger across the attending guard’s armored bicep. The display is hardly subtle. “But at least there is a silver lining.” She punctuates the wordplay with a wink.

For some reason, it makes Katsuki grimace.

He doesn’t quite know what it is. But there is something about the exchange that is fucking annoying. Thinking it over, Katsuki does vaguely recognize the castle guard: a new recruit, specifically the one with the thick silver eyelashes. The guard had only recently started training with the Bakugou military, likely Katsuki’s age or a bit older. What Katsuki doesn’t get is why some extra is so interesting.

Watching the interaction continue from across the room, Katsuki’s lips press into a thin line. Playing dress up was Ei’s idea, and she’s not even paying attention.

“—Battle safety is manly, you know,” Ei continues, with a flirty lilt to her tone.

Bitterness pulls at Katsuki’s lip. He could not care less about status and formalities, yet his skin bristles—shouldn’t the guard be a bit more respectful? In his royal opinion, the silver extra is standing a bit too close to the Kirishima heir.

Before he can linger on it further, a giggle bubbles from his right side. “Ooh, what do we have here! You have a liking for Princess Ei, don’t ‘cha Your Highness? Or are we still in denial?”

Immediately, Katsuki rolls his eyes. He knows exactly who the voice belongs to: none other than Lady Ochako. She probably snuck in behind the guard.

Lady Ochako joined the Bakugou castle staff as an attendant of the Queen three years ago; her role has since morphed into, as Katsuki’s mother puts it, being Katsuki’s keeper—aka, keeper-of-keeping-Katsuki’s-head-on-his-shoulders. Roughly two years older than Katsuki, she has grown into a friend and confidant who Katsuki can put his trust in. Often, he sought Ochako for advice because she is down-to-earth, doesn’t take shit, and generally provides valuable perspective and insight.

“Often” and “generally” being the key words at play. Today was not one of those days.

Avoiding her sly gaze, Katsuki crosses his arms. He grunts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ochako doesn’t falter. She smirks, unbothered by Katsuki’s attitude. “C’mon, admit it, Katsuki. The jealousy is coming off you in waves.”

“Yeah, Kacchan,” pipes in Izuku from Katsuki’s other side. Katsuki raises a brow, silently asking where he came from, to which Izuku just smiles innocently. Katsuki playfully elbows him in return.

When Ochako waves to Izuku in greeting from next to Katsuki, Izuku’s face reddens. Turning back to Katsuki, his words stammer a little, but Katsuki doesn’t notice. “Fe– ‘Fess up, you’re not good at hiding it.”

“Oh please,” Katsuki scoffs, oblivious to Izuku’s blushing state (if he had noticed, he definitely would not have missed the opportunity to tease). Rather, Katsuki’s gaze has yet to break away from Ei. “You both are a pair of dumbasses.”

. .

It’s clear to Ei that there is something calculating in Katsuki’s carmine gaze, in the way that he is not quite meeting Ei’s eyes. Instead, there is the ever so slight cock of his head, the nearly missed furrow between his eyebrows. His eyes pierce like an arrow, staring at a spot right above her head.

“Haircut?” he asks. The arrow hits.

“Yeah,” Ei confirms, sheepish. She rubs at the nape of her neck, feeling the bristle of the short hair beneath her palm. What was long, silky black hair is now cropped short all across her scalp. It’s not quite a buzz cut, it’s a bit longer than that, but it’s close.

Admittedly, she is still not quite used to the change. When she had done it last night, impulsively with a sword in front of her bathroom mirror, she was surprised at how much she liked it—how she liked it a lot. Her father was supportive, as well: in the morning, with a gentle, less shaky hand and smaller, more fitting blade, he helped her clean up the jagged edges in the better visibility of the daylight.

She doesn’t know why she feels so nervous now.

“I thought it would be best for, you know,” Ei makes a vague hand gesture. “Training. This way, it’s out of the way.”

Katsuki’s expression is deadpan, not revealing any particular emotion. “It’s shitty.”

“Hey!” she exclaims. How rude, Ei thinks. Though she crosses her arms, her shoulders relax, just a bit. The swearing brings a feeling of normalcy, and for some reason, she feels less nervous. “For a prince, you have always had such a foul mouth.” Shifting between pointing at Katsuki’s blond locks and her own, she indignantly compares their hairstyles. “Besides, you can’t deny that our hair is pretty similar now.”

“Oh, whatever. I still think it looks like shit.” Katsuki rolls his eyes, his feet shifting into a fighting stance. “Let’s just do this.”

They spar. Moonlight makes itself known through the training room’s open windows, falling onto the floor like a stage’s spotlight. Tonight, the two of them are dancers, but there are no eyes of an audience here: none other than Katsuki’s on Ei’s, and Ei’s on Katsuki’s.

It’s red against red. It’s sword against sword.

It’s quick feet: a shuffle to the left, a stab at the right. It’s a dodge, a bluff. A glint of steel in the dark. It’s the air that Ei feels on her face, the back of her neck—it’s Ei’s scar, the one just above her left eye, from when she first wielded a sword, being truly visible for the first time.

Because within Ei, something is rising; deep within her, her past reservations have begun to melt into something a long time coming, even if she can’t put a finger to its name quite yet. It’s energetic, it’s vapid, and Ei wants to burst with something. Adrenaline courses through her veins, like wildfire through dry grass, like molten lava through earthy fissures—her smile refuses to falter for even a second, a mouthful of teeth sharp and ready to bite.

“Is that all you got?” taunts Katsuki. His chest heaves with each intake of breath as they stand toe to toe, blade against blade, in the middle of the floor.

“Nah,” Ei laughs. It’s deep, coming from her chest. “Not even close.”

The fight continues. Metal strikes metal. Instruments in a cacophony of sound.

When Ei watches her opponent, taking in his every move, there is something inside her that burns. Hate, obviously, she tells herself, as she deflects another hit.

Like how she hates his strategy and mind, how he has remained a volatile opponent because of it: intelligent in his approach, agile and skilled in his maneuver. Not a single soldier, in either of their respective armies, compares to his skillset.

Like how she hates his inclination to be headstrong and stubborn, as well as his admirable refusal to never settle for less than perfection.

Like how she hates his endlessly persistent drive to become better and better. And how the sight of his passion, his drive, drives her forward. How he inspires her to be a better fighter, a better member of the royal court.

Ei knows that he will be a powerful leader. She has no doubts on the matter.

When Ei stares at how a drop of sweat rolls from his temple to his collarbone, her cheeks burn.

At this point, the two of them have sparred against each other countless times. When she catches a familiar move into feint and manages to block his strike in retaliation, she laughs.

Katsuki’s brow lifts just the tiniest bit in surprise, his eyes widening by the smallest sliver: just barely-there signs giving away Katsuki’s notice of Ei using his own move against him. If she looks hard enough, Ei thinks that she catches a slight upturn at the corner of his lip.

Tonight, Ei feels strong. And without the weight of her hair upon her shoulders, she holds her head up even higher.

An opening. A swipe. A body meeting the floor.

A clatter of a fallen sword hitting the ground.

Ei’s foot sits on Katsuki’s chest, prodding into the space between his ribs. She can feel his shaky exhales beneath her. In the fact that they are both utterly winded, making up for lost breath, they are one in the same.

Ei presses the tip of her sword to Katsuki’s neck. Her triumphant smile is blinding. Her teeth look even sharper in the moonlight.

Ei leans in, and smirks. “I think I win again.”

. .

The air tastes of salt. Not far ahead of them lies the expanse of the sea, a patient character who prods at the shore in wait for the journey to come. All around them are the townspeople, gathered together at the port once again, surrounding the royal families in anticipation for the Kirishimas’ third departure.

What differs this time is a blink-and-miss-it moment. The telltale sound of a drop into the ocean, the lingering ripples of a fallen object into the sea.

A toss of a slingshot overboard.

It happens the instant she steps foot onto the ship, when her back is turned and with the flick of her wrist; artfully hidden from the crowd, just a bit too quick for anyone to truly notice.

And when she casts a look over her shoulder, she is immediately gratified by the sight—

Red. All over her unsuspecting victim.

Katsuki’s face is contorted into the most volatile expression, and it’s hilarious. She had perfectly pegged him on the shoulder with a tomato, where it somehow had managed to splatter on him and him only. Next to Katsuki, Izuku is reacting frantically, aggressively trying to dab at Katsuki’s clothes with his sleeves. When Ei sees Katsuki clench his fists, she hides the laugh that threatens to escape her lips behind a trained elegant hand.

Call the tomato-flavored gesture Ei’s “farewell gift,” if you will.

Grimacing, Katsuki shoves Izuku’s hands away, and uses his shirt collar and the back of his hands to wipe the offending vegetable splatter off of his skin. Katsuki meets her gaze, unblinking. He draws a line across his neck, as if threatening to slit her throat, his teeth bared in indignation. “Don’t bother coming back,” he seems to mouth, the snarl of his words all bite and sharp angles.

Ei blows a raspberry. She can’t take him seriously, graciously following up with a cheeky smile. From where she stands on the ship, Katsuki’s face seems to be clean, and for a moment, he almost looks amused, rather than irritated.

Though she can tell that he has wiped the tomato off of his face, for some reason it’s as if there is a lingering wash of color on Katsuki’s cheeks. Perhaps they have been stained red. Briefly, she wonders if he had actually managed to get it all off.

Katsuki huffs and looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets. Nevermind, he’s irritated. Ei rolls her eyes and smirks. Whatever, he deserves it.

Standing beside her father, she waves goodbye to the townspeople—the crowd getting smaller and smaller as the ship sails further and further from the shore. Once the town melts into the skyline, and even the turrets of the Bakugou castle are no longer in sight, she turns and snickers to herself.

Her father sighs. He puts his hand on top of her head, ruffling her newly short hair. “So you and Prince Katsuki still don’t get along, eh?”

“Oh I despise him, father,” she says with a laugh.

The idea is preposterous, after all.

—

k.e : nineteen years old | b.k : twenty-one years old

.

.

“He’s so immature, father. For as long as I remember, you and Queen Mitsuki have pushed for this wedding. Is the effort not futile?”

“Well, my dear. Let’s look at it this way: surely there is no harm in meeting him just once more.”

.

.

“I can do much better, mother. I am as sure of it as the sun rises in the east, that any extra will be better than that Kirishima.”

“Is that so, now? Regardless, I do not want to hear it. You can survive at least one more summer—now, go ahead and prepare yourself for their arrival. The welcome ball is tonight, and they will be here soon.”

.

.

The fourth and final summer comes, and here they stand: several steps apart in the middle of the dance hall, with their parents not-so-discreetly hiding behind the heavy oak doors to watch the interaction unfold. On the far side of the room, a small ensemble plays a classical symphony that reverberates through the chamber. There are people mingling around them, but the pair pays them no mind: for here, the moment is theirs alone.

It is as if there is a string between the crown heirs, a red thread that has been following through the fabric of their lives, leading up to this moment—the moment where the string is pulled taut. When they stare at one another, speechless.

With each step they take, they are closer to meeting in the middle. With each step, the thread shortens ever more.

It is Katsuki who speaks first. A whisper of a thing.

“Ei…”

“–jirou,” Ei—Eijirou—cuts in quickly. His body slips into a bow in an instant, far deeper than necessary, as if to avoid Katsuki’s gaze even if only for a mere second longer. He does his best to swallow his sheepishness when he comes back up. “Prince Kirishima Eijirou of the Western Isles, your majesty.”

Katsuki doesn’t reply right away, and in that moment, Eijirou takes the time to drink in the sight of him.

Upon Katsuki’s shoulders rests a royal mantle—from his recent coronation, Eijirou knows. And though it’s loose, the mantle doesn’t hide the fact that Katsuki’s shirt is a bit tight, with a little skin on display—a bit of collarbone. Katsuki has gotten stronger, for sure.

Eijirou’s not complaining. He knows that Katsuki has always devoted himself to being the best person he could be.

He has always admired Katsuki for it.

On his hip, Katsuki still has the sword his father gave him all those years ago. The only difference is that now it suits him; it’s no longer too big for him, like back when they were kids.

Eijirou thinks back to when they would spar together: he used to tease that Katsuki wasn’t really the best swordsman in the kingdom, but having fought him himself, Eijirou knows that Katsuki puts up a hell of a fight. Katsuki’s swordsmanship is excellent, but his strategy and wit is in another league in itself.

To a casual onlooker, Katsuki’s skin looks smooth, soft. But as Eijirou looks closer, he can catch a number of cuts and nicks. What looks like calluses on his fingers—from hard work and training, no doubt. Maybe even from wrestling with Izuku, Eijirou thinks, smiling to himself. He wouldn’t be surprised. Though Katsuki would deny it, Eijirou wouldn’t: Katsuki always has had a soft spot for Izuku. It’s one of the things Eijirou likes about Katsuki. It’s sweet.

Sometimes, Eijirou thinks Katsuki might have a soft spot for Eijirou, too.

Eijirou’s eyes linger just a little longer. Simply put, Katsuki’s radiant. In every sense of the word. His hair is golden in a way that reminds Eijirou of an angel.

‘Angelic’ may be the last word a person with common sense would use to describe Katsuki; however, for Eijirou it is an immediate claim of truth, like instinct. For who could look at the cut of that jaw, the elegance in his poise and cheekbones, the slim waist that Eijirou could easily wrap around with two hands—and not think, heavenly?

Eijirou’s mouth feels dry.

Eijirou takes the opening to push forward. Shyness aside, he holds out his hand as an offering. A smile too. (If his other hand shakes, just the slightest bit, at his side, no one notices but him.)

“May I have this dance?”

Eijirou’s smile sets something alight in Katsuki; Katsuki feels warm, in his cheeks and in his chest. Katsuki doesn’t know if he wants those sharp canines on him, or if he wants to see them in a lazy smile beside him when he wakes up in the morning.

Both, Katsuki’s mind helpfully supplies, why not both?

It’s clear that Ei– Eijirou is different now. Not that Katsuki is complaining.

Memories of name changes and impulsive haircuts fleet across his mind. Eijirou has always been one for change, to take things into his own hands.

Different is good.

Eijirou stands taller than him, though not by much; Katsuki’s chin does have to tilt up a little in order to meet his gaze eye-to-eye. When did that happen? What does four years do to a man?

Eijirou’s shoulders are broad: his strength, his muscle, an obvious labor of love and hard work. Katsuki cannot refrain from the way his eyes trace over Eijirou; he may have lost the softness of his features, but what remains is the strength of a man who has found himself. Confidence comes off of him in waves, and Katsuki finds himself allured by the tide. The deep timbre of Eijirou’s voice is Katsuki’s siren song.

And perhaps the most blatant change of all, Eijirou’s hair is no longer the deep-set black it was before, but rather, it is a fiery, burning red. The sides are shaved shorter, while the front pieces are spiked tall, like a crown in itself.

It suits him. The color matches Eijirou’s eyes.

Under that smoldering gaze, what choice does Katsuki have, but to submit?

And thus, Katsuki lets Eijirou take the lead—and Katsuki’s hand.

They step towards one another, meeting in the middle of the open floor. The way that they dance is like a fight, challenging.

Dominating.

Katsuki’s challenging nature has long been one of Eijirou’s favorite parts.

It begins with them holding each other close, chest to chest. They fall into practiced positions of past summers, from when their dance teachers would force them to partner up so that they would know their way around a ballroom. Katsuki has his right hand on the small of Eijirou’s back, while his left hand is laced into Eijirou’s right hand.

“Do you even know how to dance?” Katsuki whispers into Eijirou’s ear. His breath tickles Eijirou’s neck. “If I can recall, you would always step on my feet during lessons.”

“Why?” asks Eijirou. Their movements together are nimble, working around one another as they glide across the dance floor together. Eijirou adds a little push in his hold, in his footwork. There’s a teasing lilt as he says, “Do you have doubts, your majesty?”

Katsuki scoffs. “Doubts, you say?”

He swings Eijirou out, inner hands still intertwined as their arms on the outside billow out like wings. By the time Katsuki and Eijirou reunite in the middle, not only do they have one another in each other’s arms once more, but they have the attention of everyone in the room. As Eijirou spins back into Katsuki, Katsuki pushes him in a deep dip.

Katsuki leans in closer and smirks. “Show me what ‘cha got, Prince Shitty Hair.”

“Of course. But please,” Eijirou grins, leaning in as well. Their faces are close; briefly, Eijirou’s eyes drop to linger on Katsuki’s lips, before letting crimson meet carmine again. When he does so, Eijirou lets his grin melt into a smirk that mirrors Katsuki’s own. As Eijirou pushes his body back up into a standing position, he whispers close, grazing Katsuki’s ear, “Let the prince lead.”

Eijirou guides Katsuki’s hand to rest on his shoulder while he puts his own hand on Katsuki’s waist. There is a slight shift in the way their movements operate, one that Katsuki concedes to: and yet, there is still a balance—though it is a dance of tension and power, it is a dance of equals.

The orchestra plays on. And when the music swells, it is in time to the rise of the beat of hearts in their chests.

“You are looking… Stronger,” remarks Katsuki. The comment hangs like fruit, if Eijirou is willing to taste. Katsuki continues, teasing with an almost sultry lilt, “...than the last time I saw you.”

Eijirou hums, continuing to lead their dance. “Well, your majesty, it is not manly to avoid training.” He grins, raising an eyebrow. With a sleight of hand, Eijirou plucks at the tension hanging between them, and bites. There’s a glint in his eye as he leans in just a bit closer. “You look… strong, as well. Think you can keep up?”

Katsuki grins.

With a flick of Eijirou’s wrist, Eijirou and Katsuki each separate one of their hands as Katsuki spins out, left arm outstretched. Katsuki’s open hand almost tempts admiring onlookers to touch, though as Eijirou holds Katsuki’s right hand in his, the intent of claim is clear and present.

Eijirou guides Katsuki as he moves in a grand circle in the center of the ballroom floor, both of them laughing as he whirls through the movement—the swing rustles Katsuki’s hair, and their laughs intermingle with the song in the air.

As the circle comes to a close, Katsuki spins back to Eijirou, a brief reunion before Eijirou parallels Katsuki’s earlier move. With a hand on the small of Katsuki’s back, he pulls Katsuki into a dip as the final notes of the orchestra fade out.

When the music stops, they are oh so close. Separated by a mere breath, if someone were to tap one of them on the shoulder, they most certainly would fall into one another. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen—instead, their foreheads meet as they laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. And when Katsuki opens his eyes, he notices the glint of a gold pendant he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

A glint like the wink of a wishing star, a tease like two decades worth of promise.

Katsuki is one to know what he wants, and this moment is no different. Standing straighter, a declaration is instant: the words “Arrange the marriage!” is a proclamation that seems to echo throughout the entire castle wing. As the last syllable leaves his lips, the parents, who had their ears pressed to the door, giddily stumble into the room.

Queen Mitsuki snaps her fingers. Immediately, castle attendants begin to file in, arms full of bouquets and a several course feast in celebration. There’s daffodils, there’s lilies, there’s dish after dish followed by an array of desserts.

It’s all in quick succession, faster than Eijirou can contest.

For next to Katsuki, unacknowledged, is Eijirou. Standing quietly, lips parted.

He wants to say something.

As people pass by him, carrying in decorations or murmuring their congratulations, Eijirou can feel the flush in his face. And the warmth that he feels in his chest at the thought of being at Katsuki’s side, though it is different from the heated frustration from when he was young, is not unfamiliar. But there is also a twinge in his gut: this is just a bit too quick, isn’t it?

Because, is this how it happens? Eijirou has known, for a while now—a part of him has been soft for Katsuki. He’s admired him from afar for years. He thinks about Katsuki’s strength and power, his brilliance. But in the same breath, his mind recalls every time Katsuki told him to leave him alone, to every time he called Eijirou “annoying” and “shitty hair.”

His heart nudges forth other memories. Softer, playful ones—of banter, of every time Katsuki played along with his plans for the day, of sparring together—that feel like affection, like a blanket in a cold library.

But is that enough?

Is that enough to know that Katsuki’s feelings and his own are one in the same?

All around Eijirou and Katsuki now is still a vapid rush, an all-too-overwhelming extravagant whirlwind that is too quickly shifting the plates of their lives before Eijirou can even get his metaphorical feet on the ground to stand on.

It’s happening too fast.

It’s all too much.

Eijirou steps away from Katsuki. He lets go of Katsuki’s hand, putting a bit of space between them.

“Wait!” Eijirou shouts.

Everything halts.

“What?” asks Katsuki, cocking his head to the side. He doesn’t seem to notice Eijirou’s apprehension. Turning to face Eijirou, he tugs at the gold chain around Eijirou’s neck so that they are at eye level.

“You’re all I ever wanted…” he continues, letting his eyes drag over Eijirou’s frame before meeting his eyes again. Katsuki smirks, before leaning closer to Eijirou’s ear. “You’re hot as fuck.”

Eijirou snorts. He gently pushes Katsuki off to make him let go of the necklace, but makes the move to take Katsuki’s hand back in his. It’s deliberate distance, but it’s not a rejection. “Thank you, your majesty,” he replies, the last two words coming out in a sarcastic drawl. He smiles, nice and easy, eyes bright. Eijirou just wants one answer before putting his heart on this arrangement’s dotted line. “But what else?”

“Fuck…” Katsuki winces, as if he had not meant to say the word out loud. At the comment, Eijirou’s grip loosens, just a bit. Katsuki genuinely seems confused at the question. When he repeats it, it comes out hesitant. “What… else?”

Eijirou’s shoulders stiffen. His previous smile now presses into a thin line, sharp teeth biting at the inside of his bottom lip. He lets Katsuki’s hand fall.

Eijirou tries again for an answer. “Are my looks all that matter to you?”

From behind the pair, Queen Mitsuki speaks through gritted teeth. “Katsuki,” she urges, voice thin and pointed like steel. “What else?”

The entirety of the ballroom is quiet, waiting with bated breath.

“I, uh…” His mind is blank. Words, if any, feel lodged in his throat.

Dammit, what is he supposed to say?

Frantically, Katsuki’s eyes dart around the room. Behind Eijirou, a few paces away from where his mother stands, are Ochako and Izuku. Izuku is making some enthusiastic “thumbs up” motions, while Ochako seems to be trying to do some encouraging romance-themed charades.

Katsuki doesn’t know what to say. His skull feels like it is harboring a swarm of a thousand bees, his mind has no words other than a static, thrumming buzz. His tongue feels heavy, and after a beat, he manages four words.

“What else is there?”

(Izuku winces; Ochako shakes her head, making an “X” with her arms. King Hiroto and Queen Mitsuki share disappointed looks, and Eijirou casts disappointed eyes towards the floor.)

The silence in the ballroom is deafening.