Shoto Todoroki Oneshots

The Lost Prince Pt.5

After finishing his tea he bathed and got dressed, knowing his mother would be keeping an eye on him due to his suspicious behaviour. Katsuki getting sick, Katsuki sleeping in late, Katsuki smiling, all of this was very atypical of him, and no doubt the old hag noticed. Putting on his normal annoyed expression, he made his way to the large dining room to find that, thankfully, most of the guests had eaten and were no doubt snooping around the castle comparing pieces of art and the amount of gold on display. 

He divulged himself in the food, extra hungry due to sleeping in, but the food didn't taste as amazing as it did last night. The fresh local flavours, the brilliant company, it was like something from a dream; the only way he would know it wasn't was by going back and taking Shoto out again. But this time he wanted to do something better, to show Shoto even more things. 

Thankfully he didn't have any plans today meaning he could spend his time by himself thinking. He found himself wandering the halls alone, having told Kirishima and Sero that they were free to do as they wished today, they didn't need to hang around with him. As he walked, he could admit that the art pieces and decoration around the castle was eye-catching, but the display of wealth when it could so clearly be used elsewhere was annoying. To be fair it was hundreds of years old, but even his parents had made their castle modern, more practical and less overbearing. 

He ended up discovering a large library, so big its bookshelves spanned all the way across the walls and right up to the ceilings. There were shelves scattered in the open space as well as plush seats and low tables to sit at. There were two roaring fireplaces at either side, giving the room a dim and warm glow, sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains. Above the bookshelves lay portraits of the family going back generations, all the way to when Musutafu was first established, after the end of the war that united Yueii as one kingdom. He recognised names and faces, pausing to look at a portrait of the current King Todoroki and his family. 

Enji was sitting on a large throne, his wife Rei standing at his right, hand resting atop his shoulder. The eldest, Touya, was on his left, medals decorating his suit that showed his successes during his time in the army. Then there was Fuyumi, the only daughter, standing on the step just below her mother, their faces reflecting serenity. Next to Touya was Natsuo, the third eldest. And finally-

Bakugou frowned, taking a step forward to peer at the child in Enji's lap. The boy must have barely been a year old, his limbs small but eyes wide and bright. There was plenty of hair on his head, the colours being unmistakable. A shiver ran through him as he peered into mismatched blue and grey eyes, white and red hair just long enough to reach past his eyebrows. 

It was Shoto. His Shoto. The Shoto who stayed at home, tending to his garden and animals. The Shoto who couldn't go to school or go out in public. 

The longer he stared the more sick he felt, his breath getting trapped in his throat as he stumbled backwards as everything shifted into place. It couldn't be coincidence, the features were too particular for that, and it explained why Shoto's parents hadn't felt the need to change anything about him since nobody knew what the youngest Todoroki sibling looked like. No, they weren't his parents, they were his kidnappers. Bakugou had found the missing Shoto Todoroki of the Todoroki royal family, the son who had been missing for 13 years...

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Two days passed with Shoto constantly staring at the garden gate. Two days of wondering when his next taste of freedom would be, two days of wondering when he would get to see Katsuki again, to feel the man's hand against his, his warm breath and soft lips and-

He shook his head and refocused on his dough, preparing to make a batch of raisin scones that would go well with rosemary and thyme. He thought he had heard a knock at the gate but brushed it off as his imagination, knowing he was probably beginning to hear things he had let his hope grow so wild and out of control. Instead he listened to the thud of the rolling pan as he stretched out the dough, of his hands kneading the mixture together until it was soft and airy.