Chapter Text
Morning mist draped itself over the estate, soft as a sigh, brushing against the first tender blooms of spring. Upon the Viscount’s land, a greenhouse stood proud and gleaming, its glass panes catching light as the servants began to move out. Gardeners knelt in the soil, coaxing flowers awake with stable hands moving with practiced ease. Within the estate itself, laundry maids aired linens and swept away the remnants of night.
You sit alone in the foyer, clad in a loose robe drawn comfortably around your figure. Tsuyu, your maid, had already delivered your morning tea. Earl Grey, if you recall correctly. You dropped two cubes of sugar into the cup and stirred until they vanished, the porcelain clinking softly. The foyer was made by your father’s design; commissioned for your mother during her bluer years. It was a place meant for calm and reflection, away from the burdens of reality.
You slouched into the chair, fingers idly sifting through the letters Tsuyu had arranged so carefully from important individuals, friends, and acquaintances. The heady scent of jasmine and orange blossom filled the air, all coming from the powder residue still in your hair. You take a sip from your tea before steeling your nerves, reaching into the important letter pile.
The first envelope bore the royal family’s seal, presumably regarding the debutante ball.
You let out a low sigh, take another sip of tea, and open it.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Miss [Surname] [Name], you are cordially invited to attend the debutante ball hosted by the Royal Family. We are looking forward to your debut in society and hope you will achieve a successful match this season!
~ Warm regards, Todoroki Fuyumi ~
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
A broad smile bloomed across your face, your heart fluttering wildly. Like a child given a piece of honey-soaked bread, you couldn’t contain your excitement.
The door opened.
Your smile softened instantly into something polite and befitting of a Viscount’s daughter. A young man with verdant green hair stepped inside, dressed in servant’s attire. In his hand was the folded newspaper of the day. Though his expression remained neutral, there was something sharp and uneasy glinting in his eyes.
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊
Dearest gentle reader… It has come to my attention that the late Duke Yagi Toshinori – more affectionately known as All Might for his battle prowess during his time on the field – might not be as pious as he appears to be. Whispers among soldiers suggest that the lord has fathered a bastard child from wedlock. A whore who was, in fact, his servant many moons ago. And whatever happened to the whore and its spawn? Why, it seems the once great lion aided their escape, spiriting them away to the countryside to avoid scandal. To the estate of our Viscount [Surname] family, no less!
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊
The words were audacious. Inflammatory. Hearsay dressed as truth.
Lady Whistledown was a captivating beast — sharp-tongued and relentless. These days, her columns were little more than horrendous scandals and rumors… though you couldn’t deny she was sometimes correct.
But this? This went too far.
Lord Toshinori had been a great man, a hero crowned by his own merits. That was how he became All Might.
You turned slowly toward Izuku.
His face had gone pale, panic flickering beneath his carefully controlled expression. He avoided your gaze, cheeks flushed a sickly pink from anxiety. He said nothing, and yet you found yourself drowning in unasked questions.
Your eyes returned to the paper.
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊
After the recent death of the Duke’s passing, one must wonder… Wherever shall all that wealth and prestige go? He has never taken on a lawful wife, and no true heirs were ever produced. You must be thinking, “It couldn’t possibly be that mongrel born of muddied blood?” Well, dearest gentle reader, you would assume correctly. For Midoriya Izuku, a mere servant boy, has been elevated to the title of duke within a night!
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊
There is something utterly disgusting about realizing the truth; about realizing the moment of normality and contentment was shattered by little more than whispered ink. You straightened unconsciously, unease crawling beneath your skin.
You glanced at Izuku again, noting the tension in his shoulders. It had been there for weeks. You had assumed it was nerves over your debutante season.
Now you know better.
His eyes were hardened with the desperation of a man whose truth had been torn into spectacle.
“Izuku?” The name felt heavy on your tongue, awkward as it left your lips. “Did you know?”
He turned fully toward you, posture stiff to the point it was almost regal, but he didn’t speak a word.
The silence said everything.
Your eyes drop down to the newsletter once more, your heart sinking further into your chest, a low dread eating away at your psyche.
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊
With the new season underway and title in tow, this young man, who would have once been passed over as an ordinary lump of coal … Has now been refined into a dazzling emerald worthy of inciting wars. Perhaps he may even draw a future diamond’s attention, should fortune favor him as richly as his green garb suggests. This author can only hope the new duke survives the watchful wolves within the ton…
– Yours truly, Lady Whistledown –
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊
You part your lips, a dozen questions poised on the edge of your tongue. Just as the words ‘Izuku’ formed on your lips, a sudden cold epiphany lingers in your mind. You look at him. Really look at him; the boy who’s worked in your home for the last fourteen years— the boy who waited on you hand and foot, who once waded into a lake without hesitation to retrieve your drifting boat and guide you safely back to shore.
He’s a duke. He’s… he’s—
You scramble to your feet, turning fully to face him. He is no longer the boy you teased into games or coaxed into laughter during childhood. He is a man now. Even in this fragile moment, his shoulders seem broader, his presence heavier with an unspoken authority radiating from him.
A silent commanding force.
“My lord, I—”
“Don’t!” Izuku snaps, the sharpness of his voice tapering almost immediately into something strained and fearful. “…Just don’t. Not right now.” He turns his face further from you, a hand coming up to cover his eyes.
“... Y-you knew— you… You’re Duke Yagi’s son?” All pretense of grace that was drilled into you by your tutors and the many long hours of etiquette simply fizzle out of existence. The rigid tension in his shoulders loosens slightly, as though he’s forcing himself to breathe.
“... Yes, I am.” He mutters, facing you. The wide-eyed boy you recognize fades into the eyes of a young man— a young Duke. You suddenly feel exposed, scandalously so, standing before him. You hastily pull your robe tighter around yourself.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“…A duke’s illegitimate son serving as a household servant would have made for quite the scandal,” he replies quietly. “If the truth had come out, your family’s reputation would have suffered. I could never do that to you.” His eyes hold yours, the shy boy— the gentle man you knew is gone. In his place stands a man marked by bitter resentment and inheritance alike.
“…What now?” The words slip from you before you can stop them, and immediately, you feel foolish for asking. Shame curls in your chest—shame for teasing him, for treating him casually, for standing so improperly dressed before someone now far above your station.
Perhaps you had grown too comfortable in his presence over the years, but you never felt the need to maintain your mask in front of Izuku. He had seen you with a muddied dress and had comforted you after your father’s harsh reprimands. He was there to keep company when you failed to properly care for a butterfly the two of you had caught together. He was always there, especially in your worst moments.
Yet you can’t help but feel off-kilt.
The dynamic you two shared is shattered in the face of his new title. He is no longer your quiet caretaker or childhood constant. He is a man with power that is coveted by many and feared by others. And you cannot help but feel reduced once more, like a rose poised to be plucked for another’s pleasure.
“Now…” he begins slowly, “I do not know. I do not know how Lady Whistledown discovered my heritage, nor why she would glorify what should be a scandal. I do not know what to do with the power given to me by a man who was little more than a stranger for most of my life.” His jaw tightens. “But what I do know is that by this time tomorrow, my mother and I will be moving into a home that does not feel like my own. And I don’t know how I feel about that.”
You study his hardened expression, the vein standing out along his neck as he speaks. You don’t want him to go—but you are not about to argue with a duke. You swallow the bitterness rising in your throat. If his words are to be true, you should send him off with something.
As always, you are powerless to claim the path you truly desire.
“Then… why don’t you take this before you leave?” you say softly, nodding toward a sketch of a pair of rabbits resting on the table beside your half-finished tea. “I just finished it.” You watch as he looks at the drawing, and the slightest smile crosses his face.
He takes it.
“I must go, my lady,” He spoke before bowing and walking out of the door.
Your breath catches as the door closes behind him, the soft click echoing far louder than it should in the quiet foyer.
For a long moment, you remain standing, hands clenched in the fabric of your robe, staring at the place where Izuku—the Duke—had been. The air still feels charged, as though his presence has altered something fundamental in the room. The jasmine and orange blossom now seem cloying, too sweet for the heaviness settling in your chest.
Slowly, you sink back into your chair.
Your gaze drifts to the abandoned tea, long since gone lukewarm, then to the scattered letters on the table. The royal invitation lies atop them all, pristine and expectant. A debutante ball. A season meant for beginnings, for alliances and futures carefully arranged.
Yet all you can think about is the boy who once trailed after you with scraped knees and earnest apologies, who laughed too loudly when you laughed first, who stood between you and every small childhood fear as though it were his duty alone.
A duke.
You press a hand to your chest, steadying yourself. Whispers will spread quickly now, faster than even vines in spring. The ton would circle him like carrion birds, eager to test his worth, his manners, and most importantly, his weaknesses. And you… You would be expected to play your part too. Smile. Curtsy. Pretend this revelation had not unsettled you.
Your eyes flick toward the window, toward the greenhouse shimmering faintly in the distance. Change had come whether you wished it or not, uninvited and merciless.
You reach for the newspaper once more, fold it carefully, and slide it beneath the stack of letters. There will be time to reckon with the scandal later.
For now, you exhale slowly, deliberately… and straighten your posture like this doesn’t break a tender, gooey part of your heart.
Tomorrow, Izuku Midoriya would leave this estate not as a servant, but as a duke.
And nothing, you realize with a quiet ache, would ever return to how it once was.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
Izuku tells himself not to look back.
The words had slipped from his mouth too easily. I must go, my lady. Polite, distant, and more importantly, safe. They were words befitting a duke, not the boy who once followed her through the gardens with dirt on his knees and laughter in his throat.
A month since parchment and seals reduced his life to inked certainty. Duke of Sendai. He has had time (far too much time for his liking) to sit with the weight of it, to practice saying the title in his head until it no longer felt like a cruel joke.
Anyone else would have rejoiced. Anyone else would have seen wealth, power, freedom.
Izuku had seen distance.
Sendai was far- nearly ten days’ travel at a measured pace via horseback. Ten days away from the only home he had ever known. Away from the halls whose creaks he could map in the dark. Away from the family who never bore his blood, yet raised him all the same.
Away from her.
His fingers curl instinctively around the folded sketch in his breast pocket as he walks, careful not to crease it further. He does not look at it. He cannot afford to again when the mere thought of those soft pencil lines, the gentle familiarity of her hand, threatens to splinter the careful composure he has been forcing upon himself since this morning.
Duty calls. That is what he tells himself.
Rounding the corner, he spots Tokihito at once, the head butler standing tall despite the years pressing into his shoulders, delegating tasks to the other servants with quiet authority. He dons a cream dress-shirt and brown overcoat, all perfectly pressed to perfection. A fixture as constant as the estate itself.
“Tokihito, if you have a moment!”
The older man turns, owl-like eyes softening behind his spectacles. “Izuku,” he says, voice gravelly and worn with age. “The viscount has received your letter of resignation.” He pauses, expression tightening. “It pains me deeply to see you leave, after all these seasons working together.”
Izuku bows deeply, more out of respect than obligation. “Forgive me, Tokihito. I must leave for Sendai at once. As the new duke, I will need to attend to any duties and debts the former duke left behind.”
A glint of light passes through Tokihito’s lenses as he studies him more closely, as though searching for the boy beneath the title. “I see,” he murmurs. “Did you manage to say your farewells to Miss (Surname)?”
Izuku hesitates.
“I did,” he answers carefully. “Though understandably surprised, I believe she took it with relative smoothness.”
The lie tastes faintly bitter. Smooth is not the word he would choose for the way her eyes widened, or how her voice faltered when she said his name. Smooth does not account for the way his chest still aches at the memory of her standing there — too close, too familiar, and suddenly unreachable.
Tokihito inclines his head. “She has always been stronger than she appears.” A pause. “As have you.”
Izuku offers a small, practiced smile. “You honor me.”
They part shortly after, and Izuku continues down the corridor alone. Each step feels heavier than the last, as though the manor itself resists his departure. He passes doorways filled with memories. The servants’ hall where his laughter once echoed, the back staircase leading to the greenhouse he used to take two steps at a time, the window where sunlight would catch dust motes in the afternoon.
He should be grateful.
That thought presses insistently at the edges of his mind. Grateful for the title. For the security. For the fact that his mother will never have to bow her head again or fear being cast aside. Grateful that his father, however distant and flawed, had at least ensured this much for his family.
Others would kill for this blessing.
So why does it feel like something precious is being torn from him?
He pauses briefly at the servants’ entrance, resting a hand against the cool wood. The estate hums around him, alive and unchanged, even as his place within it disappears. This life—this version of himself—ends the moment he steps beyond these doors.
Izuku straightens.
A duke does not linger. A duke does not mourn what must be left behind.
Still, as he steps forward, his fingers brush the folded sketch once more, and for a fleeting, treacherous moment, he allows himself to remember what it felt like to belong.
Then he exhales, squares his shoulders, and walks on—duty, leading the way.