❛ izuku ┆ spring in the workshop ❜ route, part I
spring comes early to the west wing.
outside, the palace is still shaking off winter—patches of frost clinging in the shadow of walls, bare branches reaching up like ink strokes against a pale sky. inside the workshops, it’s always warm. tiny sun-charms hum in glass jars. copper kettles puff steam over cups of neglected tea. somewhere, something ticks.
you pause outside the heavy oak door marked 'ROYAL ARTIFICER – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.'
you know this door. you remember it from the game: an early optional visit, a tutorial for crafting and upgrades. if you knocked at the wrong time, you’d get a scene of the princess recoiling from an explosion with soot on her face and the words 'AFFECTION +5' in the corner of the screen.
your fingers hover over the brass handle. no affection bars this time. no numbers. just your own pulse tripping over itself. you take a breath and knock.
for a moment, there’s only the muffled clank of metal on metal, the murmur of voices further down the hall. then a thud, a curse, something scraping, and—
“j–just a second! don’t—uh—don’t touch the handle yet, it’s—ah—wait, okay, now it’s safe!”
same timing. same words. the line plays exactly like it did in the game, but it hits different when you’re the one waiting in the corridor with your palm hovering over hot metal and your heartbeat trying to pound out of your throat.
the lock clicks, and the door swings open on a rush of warm air and oil and metal.
izuku midoriya fills the doorway, only half-present. the other half of him is back over his shoulder, eyes flicking to something glowing on a workbench even as he bows.
“your highness,” he says, breathless, cheeks already pink. “i wasn’t expecting—um. hi. i mean. good afternoon.”
he’s exactly as you remember him and not at all.
the game gave you a sprite: a short-ish man with messy green hair, bright eyes, goggles pushed up onto his head. this izuku is taller, shoulders broader beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeves, ink stains on his fingers where a sprite would’ve just had a few dirty pixels. there’s a smudge of grease on his cheek and a burn mark on the cuff of his glove from where he clearly grabbed something he shouldn’t have.
he’s also real, which is new. so is the way his gaze snags on your face, widening in quick concern.
“are you feeling better?” he blurts. “after the—after the fainting spell? i heard—you didn’t hit your head, did you? any dizziness? blurred vision? nausea?” his hands flutter as he talks, like the questions are trying to escape faster than his mouth can manage. “i—i mean, not that i was eavesdropping, but the royal matron told the quartermaster that court was dismissed because you—”
“izuku,” you say his name gently, and he freezes like someone hit pause on him. you watch the realisation sink in: the princess using the royal artificer’s given name, no title, no distance. a slow crimson flush climbs his neck.
“i mean—royal artificer midoriya,” you correct yourself, if only because his ears look like they might combust. “sorry. habit.”
habit from a world where you tapped through his dialogue trees at two in the morning and muttered at your screen when he gave you his tragic backstory. habit from saving over your files again and again to try to get him his best possible ending.
he stares at you for a heartbeat too long, then shakes himself and steps back.
“no, it’s—izuku is fine,” he stammers, gesturing you in. “if—if you want. i mean, you’re the—of course you can call me whatever you like. your highness. please come in. watch your step, there’s—uh—gears. everywhere. sorry.”
there are, in fact, gears everywhere. the workshop is as chaotic as you remember: tables crowded with blueprints, tools, and half-finished devices; walls lined with shelves of labelled parts; a chalkboard covered in overlapping diagrams and formulas written in three different colours. the air smells like hot metal, paper, and something faintly floral.
you spot the source of the last scent in a chipped cup by the window: spring blossoms from the palace gardens, crowded together in a makeshift vase. one stands taller than the rest, its stem propped up with a strip of copper wire.
there’s no game label above it, but you know what it is.
'princess’s favourite,' izuku had written in his notes if you inspected his desk in the original route. 'picked it on the way back from the throne room today. she looked tired.'
“you really should have more assistants,” you say lightly, stepping around a crate of clock springs. “this seems like... a lot for one person.”
izuku runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it further.
“they tried,” he admits. “but i kept—uh—forgetting they were there. or asking them to hold something for ‘just a moment’ and then four hours passed, and they fell asleep standing up. so now they just send apprentices to fetch things and leave me to the—” he gestures vaguely at the chaos. “to this.”
“the kingdom’s little inventor,” you say, letting the title roll off your tongue.
his head snaps up. “who calls me that?” he demands, scandalised. “is that—do people—?”
“some of the courtiers,” you say, “behind their fans. they think it’s cute.”
“cute,” he repeats, flat. “they think the new defences on the north wall are cute.”
there it is—just a flicker, but enough. the core of him you always loved and feared a little in his later routes: that sharp, focused anger when people underestimate him. when people underestimate what he could do.
you tuck that reminder away and move closer to the workbench he keeps glancing at. “so what are you working on that nearly burned my hand off?” you ask.
he makes a strangled noise. “it wasn’t going to burn—well, it might have.” he hurries to your side, crowding close enough that your sleeves brush. “it’s a safety latch. for doors. dangerous ones. i was calibrating the heat triggers when you knocked, and i didn’t want you to—” his voice trails off as he realises how that sounds.
“you didn’t want me to get hurt,” you finish for him.
“y-yes,” he says quietly. “exactly.”
on the bench lies a circular device the size of your palm, copper and steel layered together like petals, faint lines of red sigils etched along the edge. it’s connected to a glass tube filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid that throbs with internal light.
you reach out, then stop yourself. “may i?”
“of course,” he says instantly—and then, less instantly, “wait. one second.”
he picks up a small metal rod and taps it gently against the side of the device. there’s a soft chime, and the glow in the glass tube dims to a safe, steady pulse.
“okay,” he says, smiling, hand hovering near yours like a net in case you stumble. “now you can touch it.”
the metal is pleasantly warm under your fingers, like sun-soaked stone. that warmth spreads up your arm, over your shoulder, settling somewhere just below your collarbone.
“what does it do?” you ask.
izuku lights up. he launches into an explanation full of words like “heat thresholds” and “self-sealing locks” and “reactive arrays tuned to your magical signature, your highness, so only you can pass without triggering it.” his hands move as he talks, tracing invisible diagrams in the air. every few sentences, he glances at your face to make sure you’re following, adjusting his language when your brow crinkles.
you could listen to him for hours.
“and this is for... my doors?” you ask when he pauses.
“y-yes,” he says. “your chambers. and the council room. and the—anywhere you spend a lot of time.” he hesitates. “i know we have guards, but steel can be bypassed, and men can be bribed and—sorry, i’m not saying your guards are—uh. i just like the idea of—of additional layers. for you.”
for you. not for the crown. not for the king. for the princess.
“and does it only keep dangers out?” you ask casually. “or could it... keep something in?”
he blinks. “well, the base design is for external threats,” he says, slipping into technical mode. “but with a few adjustments to the rune sequence, it could be inverted. i mean, theoretically. if there were, say, a cursed artefact that needed to be contained, or a dangerous specimen, or—” his eyes flick to you and away. “or if there was a very important person who kept wandering into places she shouldn’t be, your highness.”
“i like to see my own palace,” you say. “is that a crime now?”
his lips part as if to protest, then press together. “no,” he says finally. “of course not. you should go wherever you like.”
he says it like he believes it. he says it like it’s a law of nature.
and underneath, deep down where his voice doesn’t reach, something curls: a quiet little question of how far “wherever you like” will be allowed to go. how far he’ll let you fall before he steps in and builds a cage with cushions and calls it safety.
you set the device down carefully. “well, today i’d like to be here,” you say. “if you don’t mind the distraction.”
his entire posture brightens, like someone opened the shutters on him.
“distraction?” he repeats, scandalised again. “you’re—you’re the reason half of these projects exist.” he gestures around the room. “the defensive brooch, the carriage latches, the—”
you spot it before he can stop you: a small, delicate object perched on a higher shelf. a little clockwork dragon, etched copper scales gleaming in the light, wings folded tight against its sides.
your breath catches. “that’s—”
the first time you played, you saw it in a cutscene: a festival, a shy boy offering a metal dragon that bowed and called the princess “princess” in a tiny voice. a little charm of a moment, easily missed if you were focused on the main story.
here, the dragon’s glass eyes catch yours. something clicks in its chest. with a soft whirr, it lifts its head and bows.
“princess,” it says, voice smooth and clear. “you came back.”
izuku makes a mortified sound.
“i—i didn’t mean for it to—sorry, it reacts to your presence, i tuned the—” he scrambles for a stool and reaches up, hands careful as he takes the dragon down. “it’s just a prototype. from years ago. i keep meaning to dismantle it for parts, but i—”
“don’t,” you say, sharper than intended.
he stills, dragon cradled in his hands.
“don’t dismantle it,” you repeat, softer. “please.”
his eyes search your face, trying to read whatever made your voice change. after a long moment, he nods.
“okay,” he says quietly. “i won’t.”
he sets the dragon gently on the workbench between you. it flicks its tail. little gears hum. “princess,” it says again. “you’re safe here.”
you swallow against the sudden thickness in your throat.
izuku smiles, visibly relieved by your agreement to his work’s premise, not the truth beneath it.
“you are,” he insists, more firmly. “i’ve been updating everything since the last—” he stops. the last raid. the one that, in too many routes, ends with the palace walls breached and the royal family slaughtered or scattered. “anyway. if there’s anything else that would make you feel safer, tell me. i’ll build it.”
you think of the crown on your head, the king on the throne, the oracle in his tower, the dragon knight in the sky, the black flame in the shadows. you think of all the things no one can build a cage strong enough to keep out.
“thank you, izuku,” you say, “for looking out for me.”
his cheeks go pink again. he fidgets with the strap of his glove.
“it’s my job,” he says. “and i—um. i like having a princess who visits my workshop instead of just sending orders on parchment.”
“that’s because you give me interesting things to look at,” you tease. “not just numbers and reports.”
“if you want more detailed reports, i can absolutely—”
he cuts himself off, breath hitching.
you meet his eyes. “will you show me everything you’re working on for me?” you ask. “not just what the court is allowed to see. all of it.”
you can almost hear the gears turning behind his eyes, the calculus of protocol versus desire, secrecy versus the thrill of finally, finally getting to share. then his shoulders drop. he exhales.
“okay,” he says, voice gone soft and earnest. “i’ll show you everything.”
he hesitates, then adds, just a little too quickly, “as long as you promise to stay until i’m done.”
a small flag plants itself in your chest. a line drawn, barely visible, but there. you smile like you haven’t seen the routes where that promise becomes a lock.
outside, the first real spring breeze rattles the workshop windows. somewhere distant, a dragon cries out over the palace roofs. A bell tolls the hour in the temple tower.
in the west wing, surrounded by gears and copper and the warm glow of sigils tuned to your heartbeat, the kingdom’s little inventor starts to show you the blueprints he doesn’t show anyone else.
you watch them, and him, and somewhere under the ticking of clockwork and the murmur of his explanations, you hear it: the soft click of a first flag slotting into place.
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