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Shōta’s never been the biggest fan of parties.

Too many stupid people doing stupid things in too small a space.

Hell, if it weren't for the physical manifestation of the old adage that ‘bad things come in threes’ that Shōta calls his social circle he’d have happily skipped his own graduation and every single birthday afterward just to avoid all the fuss.

Besides, despite how much grief he gets about it, it’s not like he’s the only one.  The vast majority of Unders that Shōta knows, or at least the ones he bothers to acknowledge, also prefer to stay far from any kind of spotlight in general.

Limelight heroes were, for the most part, obligated to at least appear to be a different breed.

They were supposed to be outgoing and approachable, marketable and consumable, unless their entire shtick was that they very decisively were not.

However thoughts on heroes who made a cold or rough attitude a part of their brand have changed over the years, especially after the entire mess with Endeavour had come to light.

Still, for as long as Shōta can remember the public debate had raged on without end over whether or not it should be considered poor taste for heroes to do things like have a party in the immediate aftermath of defeating a villain.

One-half of the population supported hero’s rights to celebrate their victories and milestones just like everyone else.

What right, the other half of the argument tended to go, did heroes have to celebrate a single battle when people were dead?  When lives had been destroyed and there was so much rebuilding and recovery still left to be done?  When there was still so much work to be done?

Shōta, for all that he personally disliked parties, was logical enough to realize that reality operated in somewhat of a gray area in the matter.

Heroes were people too, and their achievements and victories also deserved praise, deserved celebration. Plus, things like fundraisers still needed to happen and for the Limelighters various sponsors often needed to be appeased.

It was the reality of the business side of the heroics industry, the side that Shōta was thankful he was mostly exempt from.

Except, of course, for when one of his idiots tried to drag him to some event they thought he just had to attend.

Or, as happened most often, Nedzu decided that making Shōta’s evening miserable was an excellent and productive use of his own time.

So, again, Shōta’s opinion fell into that more logically gray area where the issue was concerned.

He didn’t think that every single villain capture deserved a ticker-tape parade, but he also understood the necessity and desire to celebrate one’s achievements even if he, personally, didn’t share that drive.

Shōta remembers the day that changed things, noticeably, tangibly, for everyone.

The war had been a long and bloody affair.

Too many villains crawling out of the shadows, not enough heroes willing or able to step up, and a public who seemed determined to forget that, at the end of the day, both sides were only human.

Mostly.

Shōta still has nightmares sometimes about some of the things he’d seen the League employ and deploy across the various battlefields.  The things he’d fought, the things he’d been forced to kill.

That year had been a collective nightmare for the entire country, the maker and breaker of many a life and heroic career.

But, in the midst of it all, had been them.

All Might, the legend and Pillar himself, and Dekiru, his mysteriously appearing but so obviously, achingly, kind-hearted apprentice.

So much of the war had been televised and live-streamed and the entire world had watched those two lead the charge.  Had watched them bleed and break over and over again on battlefield after battlefield.

And then the entire world had watched them get back up.

Had watched them pull one another to their feet and then push each other forward.

Time after time.

Together, the Symbol of Peace and the quickly budding Symbol of Hope, had always kept fighting, had always kept smiling.

All for the sake of a country, a people, who’d been so willing to turn their backs on them.

Shōta had been run ragged himself, trying to balance keeping his idiot students alive as they tried to rush head-first into anything that even resembled a fight, while also doing his part out on the various fields and operations.

But even then, even when he’d ended more nights bloody and exhausted than not, he hadn’t been ashamed to admit that he’d been bitterly grateful that UA wasn’t a direct target.

That All Might and Dekiru seemed to be the main focus of the League.

His class at the time had been strong of course, and they’d come to mean more to him than any class before or since, but they’d also been fractured.  Disjointed.  Unable to pull completely together until it was almost too late.  Too many clashing personalities and no one true focal point beyond Shōta himself to draw them all in together.

The catalyst had ended up being Todoroki of all students.  He had almost died, targeted by Dabi and determined to go it alone with only half of his quirk as he’d been at the time.

It had only been Dekiru’s timely intervention that had prevented Shōta from having to bury one of his students.

And, Shōta knows, it had been whatever he’d said to Todoroki in the aftermath of that moment that had sent the boy limping back to UA with a fresh blaze of determination in his eyes, fire sparking from his fingertips, and Dekiru’s name a rallying cry on his lips.

The class had come together harder and stronger than ever before after that.

Something that Shōta had never actually managed to find the chance to thank the young hero for. 

Shōta had kept an eye on Dekiru after that though, far more often than he’d ever been willing to admit to anyone, one part out of concern and one part out of a fascinated sort of interest.

Dekiru was … bright and compelling in a way that made it difficult for even a proud and studied miser like Shōta to look away from.

The things Dekiru had said, the way he’d fought and rescued with a single-minded sort of determination to save, had made Shōta feel inspired in a way that he hadn’t felt for a very long time.

And, Shōta knows, he and his class hadn’t been the only ones.

Once Dekiru had gained traction?  Once he started appearing without All Might, handling battles and coordinating rescues on his own?

Once his first interview had been aired and the public had seen him, covered with blood and dust but oh so earnest and sweet as he answered the reporters' questions with a shy sort of rambling and calls for cooperation and kindness above all?

Once he’d stared down the lens of that camera, a soft smile on his face but fire in his eyes, and vowed to fight, vowed to die if necessary, for them, for the people, for civilians and other heroes and even the villains themselves because that’s what heroes do?

There’d been a measurable uptick in enrollment in various hero schools where, only weeks before, they’d hit an all-time low.  More than a few previously retired heroes had gotten their licenses renewed with Dekiru’s name on their lips as inspiration, and aid had poured in from around the world.

Every step Dekiru took, every comment, every interview, every rescue, every battle, and every act of unconditional kindness had ended up being the epicenter of more.

People stepping forward and reaching out in turn like ripples in a pond.

It had chaffed that, in the end, Shōta had been just another spectator when the final battle had raged.  Had ended up glued to a screen in the down moments, itching to move and go and help, but unable to do anything of the sort.

Shōta had had other responsibilities, as had been obvious with the way his class had huddled around him whenever they could.  That and with the dorms that had been implemented and the fact that the summer schedule was always different for hero courses even without a war, they’d all been in place to man the UA battle stations when the campus had been turned into a fallback point and triage center.

Besides, all auxiliary forces, first responders, civilian volunteers, and foreign and domestic heroes alike, had been forced to withdraw shortly after it had begun.

So Shōta hadn’t been the only one forced to be on the outside looking in and hating that fact.

Based on Nedzu’s threat and damage estimate it had been determined that their manpower would be better spent focusing on civilian rescue and evacuation, on shoring up what infrastructure they could, and battling what remained of the Nomu that had been unleashed upon the country.

And, most importantly of all, they’d been ordered to just stay out of the way.

‘Please,’ Dekiru had pleaded down the coms at the final debriefing before the battle, sounding desperate and young, ‘we can’t fight if all of you are in danger.’

In the end, Shōta was forced to admit that Nedzu and Dekiru were both correct.

The battle had been beyond brutal and the average hero had had no place near it.

Had no right to be there on that proving ground that hosted a clashing of two old titans alongside the dueling of two young gods.

The Villain and His Heir versus The Hero and His Hope.

Shōta doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the quiet that had swept the nation, the world, when the final blows had landed.

Everyone had held their breath waiting for the smoke to clear, waiting to see which ruling pair would be left standing in the end.

Which future the world would be receiving.

And there, kneeling in the rubble, had been All Might, right arm little more than tattered strings of meat from the elbow down, alive and grinning.

Cradled in All Might’s one good arm, bloody but alive, battered and wounded but so obviously beaming back, had been Dekiru.

The reporters who’d stayed as close as possible, using quirks and tech alike to transmit the scene out to the world, had rushed forward.

“Oh,” Dekiru’s voice had been thin and wavering but the sound of it even over broadcast had snatched everyone’s attention in a way that had been almost unsettling.

Shōta’s included.

“What is it, my boy?” All Might had asked, voice achingly fond even as an old man in a yellow cape had landed beside him and immediately went to work bandaging up the remnants of his right arm.

All Might had shown no pain though, hadn’t even flinched despite the way what remained of his mangled limb had been handled.

Everyone had been able to see that the tears streaming down his face as he stared down at his young apprentice, attention so openly riveted on Dekiru’s face, had been nothing short of tears of joy.

“We’re gonna miss the party,” Dekiru had slurred, eyes welling up in what had quickly become iconic tears.  “Mama’s going to be so … disappointed.”

“She’ll understand,” All Might had soothed, face creased with such love it had been almost painful to look at.

“Was gonna have a p-party,” the word had been partially slurred, “All Might-s-sensei w-was gonna, gonna come.  Never had a real ‘irthday party ‘efore.”

“I’ll come to the next one,” All Might had said, solemn and sacred as an oath.  “And every single one afterward, for as long as I live.”

“P-Promise?” Dekiru had been fading out by then.

“Always my boy,” All Might had said, finally shifting to stand, Dekiru cradled in his left arm and the bandages on his right already beginning to turn red.  “Always.”

All Might had carried Dekiru off that battlefield and toward the approaching ambulances with the kind of dignity and grace that not even Shōta had been interested in poking holes in.

Confronted with both the definitive end of the war and Dekiru’s birthday falling on the same day, the entire county, hell the majority of the world, had collectively thrown the young hero a party.

The next day the entire world had gotten to watch Dekiru, bandaged practically head to toe, stand beside a beaming Yagi Toshinori and cry.

Even Shōta had thrown back more than one drink in his honor.

In the end, it changed the way that the general public looked at heroes and heroic celebrations in general.

Especially where Dekiru was concerned.

Even now, years out from that, Shōta isn’t surprised at all that the day of the final battle, and thus Dekiru’s birthday, is now a national holiday with a quickly evolving festival culture popping up around it.

This brings Shōta to where he is now, nursing a cocktail at his table in Hero Hall, the mid-sized convention center that serves Ultra City, aka former training ground Theta.  The walled-off city had been opened up for housing and various other facilities during the war and just never shut down afterward.

If someone had told him eleven years ago he’d one day be living in a city that was designed and ultimately run by Nedzu, who had maniacally declared himself mayor, and he’d be happy about it?  Shōta would have sent them to be evaluated for head trauma.

Or possibly given them actual head trauma.

It’s been years now though and if Shōta’s being completely honest, living in Ultra City is easily the most pleasant housing situation he’s ever had.

UA’s mini-city is not only fully functional and hero-focused but it’s also self-contained which is worth more than Shōta can openly express.

Even if that means he’s living in close proximity to a wide variety of other heroes and an unsettling number of former students.

And that there’s been a massive uptick in the number of party invitations Shōta has to turn down these days.

Honestly, if this was any other occasion Shōta probably would have skipped out on this one too.  He could have spent his evening face down in the living room of his apartment in Ultra Prime, the luxury apartment building that Nedzu had forced him into all those years ago, doing his best to avoid the festive chaos that’s engulfed the nation.

Although …

Shōta takes another sip of his drink, attention trained on the wide shoulders of the figure currently mixing fresh drinks out of the options that are laid out across one of the long marble countertops that line the wall across the room.

The open bar and buffet with robotic staffing was obviously Nedzu’s doing and Shōta has no doubt that he’ll be collecting various kinds of blackmail as the night goes on and the alcohol starts flowing even more freely.

Nedzu and his no doubt underlying plans aside, this particular party has a number of ... perks to it that Shōta was willing to stick around for.

There’s a snicker from beside him and when Shōta cuts a glance to his left Hizashi just grins at him, blond brows wiggling ridiculously above the thick rim of his casual glasses.

Shōta ignores him, tosses back the rest of his drink, and goes back to what he was doing.

He watches his target turn, a tray of drinks balanced on one hand, and head back towards their table.

Izuku gets waylaid more than once on his way back of course but he keeps moving, tray still perfectly balanced.  But he does end up with a small line of followers behind him by the time he makes it back.

“Picked up a few strays, my boy?” Yagi asks, face creased in a smile even as he takes what’s so obviously a fruit smoothie from Izuku with an amused and indulgent look.

“Toshi-sensei,” Izuku whines just a bit, ears turning red as he shoots a half-hearted glare in his mentor’s direction.

Yagi just laughs and lifts his glass in a mock salute.

“Sensei,” Todoroki, Shōto now Shōta supposes for a variety of reasons, says softly, ponytail swaying as he dips his head in a nod to the table as a whole.

“Yo Shōta!” Kaminari says with a wide grin, one hand coming up to flash a peace sign in his direction.

Shōta turns his head slowly and just looks at him.

“Eraserhead-sensei,” Kaminari mumbles, hand dropping down and face going ashen.

A seat or so down Nemuri giggles and across from him, now laying out the drinks to the rest of the table, Izuku has a small smile as well.

Shōta takes his drink with an arched brown and then leans back in his seat, feeling unexpectedly smug.

When he takes a sip that smug feeling grows because, despite it looking like the simple mixed drink he’s been nursing all night, it very obviously has little to no actual alcohol in it.

Shōta had made a small throwaway comment weeks ago between the two of them in the staff room, just a harmless bit of information traded during a late-night grading session around Izuku’s new desk, and yet he remembered.

Had remembered and taken into account how Shōta doesn’t drink often and normally stops at one because it doesn’t really affect him, while mixing an entire table worth of drinks.

Just like Shōta had remembered that Izuku himself has a fondness for fruity drinks and has a metabolism that runs fast enough that getting drunk also isn’t in the cards for him anymore without some truly dedicated effort.

“Old man,” Hitoshi greets, already slumping down into the only free seat at the table.

“Brat,” Shōta answers, head turning once again to dead stare Kaminari away from where he’s reaching towards the empty chair to Shōta’s right.

Kaminari scuttles away to lean against the back of Hitoshi’s chair instead.

Shōta already has Hizashi on one side of him.  He’d rather fight another Nomu barehanded than get stuck between him and Kaminari.

Besides, that seat is already taken.

Izuku rounds the table and slips into the chair a few seconds later with a small huff, smiling slightly at Shōta as he does.

Shōta resolutely ignores the betrayed look Kaminari shoots him and the intrigued look Hitoshi is suddenly wearing.

This is absolutely none of the brat’s business.

Any of them.

“We were just talking about that fight with Plasmashriek the other day,” Kaminari says.  “Cause, like, electricity is sort of my thing but even I wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with her.  That fight was wicked!”

Izuku blushes just a bit, one scarred hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck bashfully.

“Indeed,” Shōto volunteers then, shooting a soft smile in Izuku’s direction.  “It was very impressive.”

Shōta doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being furious over how rare that still is or proud of the progress the kid, man now, has made over the years.

However, a part of Shōta can’t help but think that Shōto needs to find a different direction to aim all of his obvious devotion in.

“She had to have pushed you to almost 100%,” Uraraka says then, arms coming up to chop in front of her in a mirror to Tenya’s that will always amuse Shōta to no end.  “You were zipping across the sky like bam boom kapow!”

Shōta’s waiting for the wedding before he starts calling her and Asui by their first names, if only to see the looks on their faces and how hard Tenya will blush when Shōta claims them as his new nieces-in-law.

“Ah,” Izuku makes a little noise in the back of his throat and beneath the table his feet shuffle just a bit in a way that immediately captures Shōta’s attention.  “Y-Yeah, she sure was … tough.  Pushed me real hard.”

Shōta is struck by the sudden realization that Izuku is lying.

Or, at the very least, he’s hiding something.

Down the table Yagi laughs, the deep sound immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

“Don’t be ridiculous, my boy,” Yagi grins at Izuku, something mischievous written across his sunken features.  “We both know she didn’t come anywhere close to pushing you to 100%.”

“Toshi-sensei,” Izuku’s voice has more of a warning note in it than earlier.

But it’s too late.

“Not even close huh?” Hitoshi drawls, something calculating and sly in his expression.  “Wouldn’t mind seeing you go full throttle.  Didn’t get a good view of it last time and we were all worried about, ya know, everyone dying.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table, everyone obviously thinking back to the legendary fight with All For One and Shigaraki, but Shōta is too busy watching Izuku to bother paying attention to it.

Izuku shifts again, teeth flashing for a second as he chews on his bottom lip.

And, just like that, Shōta knows.

“We’ve never actually seen you go 100%,” Shōta says, aware of how all the eyes at the table, but most importantly Izuku’s, have immediately zeroed in on him, “have we?”

The betrayed look Izuku cuts in his direction is honestly adorable.

“Bullshit,” Nemuri speaks up then, slapping a hand down on the tabletop.  “You mean even in that fight you weren’t at full power?”

And Izuku …

Izuku hesitates.

“Of course he wasn’t,” Yagi answers instead, every inch the proud papa as he grins and tips his smoothie in Izuku’s direction.  “I hit my limits and then went beyond.  But Izuku?  It wasn’t possible for him back then.  And now? Well, now he worries about scaring people.”

Izuku buries his face in his hands with a low groan that has Shōta shifting in his seat beside him.

Around them the table bursts out into a flurry of noise.

“You should show us then,” Hizashi speaks up, leaning around Shōta to look directly at Izuku.  “We’re all heroes here, we don’t scare easy.”

“Yeah yeah,” Kaminari agrees loudly from where he’s draped over Hitoshi’s shoulders. “What sensei said!”

“Come on broccoli,” Hitoshi calls, “you’re not gonna scare us off.  You’re one of ours now, remember?”

Shōta agrees with the majority of that statement if not completely with the spirit of it.

Izuku isn’t going to scare him off, although he’s free to do so with the majority of the others, and he does have a place with them, with the tight-knit group that had formed at UA that year and endures to this day.  Especially since he’d taken over for Calculate this past year and has single-handedly revived UA’s analysis department.

But …

It’s different.

Izuku is a lot of things, including occasionally a brat, but one of Shōta’s kids?

No.

All of Hizashi’s ‘dirty old man’ jokes aside, Shōta does actually have lines he wouldn’t cross.

Izuku drops his hands, brow furrowed and mouth twisted in that anxious way of his that always makes Shōta want to smooth the lines out with his thumb.

Or his tongue.

“Remember what I said,” Yagi’s eyes are soft and warm as he stares at Izuku then.  “If they be true.”

Izuku pauses.

Takes a breath.

Nods.

“Alright,” he says, shoulders straightening.  “If you all really want to see it then we’ll have to go outside.”

“You looking to run, bunny?”  Shōta can’t help but tease in a low aside as the rest of the table starts shoving their way up out of their chairs.

Kaminari takes off at a run, arms waving above his head, as he obviously moves to gather the rest of the hall.

“From you?”  Izuku asks.  “Maybe a little.”

Shōta’s not sure he likes that.  At least, not in this context.

“I’d find you,” Shōta tells him, one part warning, one part reassurance, and entirely serious.

“I know,” Izuku smiles then, soft and warm despite the apprehension Shōta can see so clearly in his expression.

Well, Shōta thinks as Izuku finally stands from the table, isn’t that something?

~~~

It, as most things with UA in general and this group of people in particular do, turns into an entire spectacle.

Which is how Shōta finds himself standing on the slight hill that overlooks the lawn of the event hall with a few dozen other heroes scattered on the green below him as Izuku paces a small rut in the ground a dozen or so yards away from the crowd.

Hizashi has, somehow, been roped into playing MC and is already in his element busy hyping the already buzzing crowd up.  Not that it likely took much effort for him to take on that role.

“He’s still such a nervous thing,” Yagi, always surprisingly quiet on his feet for such a large man, says from Shōta’s left.

“A part of his multi-faceted charm,” Nedzu replies.

When Shōta turns he’s somehow unsurprised to see that Nedzu is perched on Yagi’s bony shoulder.

“You wanted this to happen,” Shōta feels the need to point out the obvious.

“It’s for his own good,” Yagi tells him, a wry twist to his mouth.  “He’s too used to hiding, my Izuku.  I’m not getting any younger, Aizawa-kun.  I’d like to make sure he’s being well and truly seen before it’s my time to go, despite how invincible he still thinks I am somehow.”

Shōta’s never been the biggest All Might fan, although Yagi isn’t exactly terrible, but even he can’t help the way his stomach drops a little at the idea of this man, retired from heroics now for years and years, being well and truly gone.

“Although,” Yagi cuts an appraising look down at Shōta then, “I suppose I don’t have to worry too much about that anymore.”

Shōta keeps silent.

Because, again, that isn’t anyone’s business but his own.

“The footage will be deleted?” Yagi asks after a slight pause.

“I disabled all recording devices in the immediate and surrounding area as soon as he agreed to the demonstration.  My own will auto-delete after thirty minutes or if it moves more than a foot away from my person,” Nedzu replies, patting at the tie pin he’s wearing that Shōta knows is actually a small body camera, before he reaches into his vest to pull out what looks like a small windup mouse.  “And I brought along a scrambler that will ensure no other personal devices will be able to record for the duration either.”

“Thank you,” Yagi huffs out a breath, tension noticeably shifting out of his frame.

“I would never endanger Izuku-kun without his permission,” Nedzu says with surprising sincerity.

Shōta suddenly gets the impression that whatever is about to happen is actually far more serious than he’d initially thought it was.

“You said he could not reach 100% back then,” Shōta can’t help but ask, mind clicking back over the details he’d previously dismissed.  “Not did not or would not.  You said could not.”

“As astute as always, Aizawa-kun,” Yagi smiles again.  “And correct.  Young Izuku wasn’t capable of reaching his full potential when we faced off against that man.  We estimated afterward that his power output was actually somewhere in the 60th percentile that day.”

A shiver traces its way down Shōta’s spine.

Sixty percent.

The power Dekiru had shown that day had, just like All Might and their two opponents, been truly staggering.

To know that what the world had seen was just barely over half of what he was capable of …

“What would have happened if he’d tried for 100% that day?” Shōta asks.

A part of him thinks he might already know the answer.

He hopes he’s wrong.

“If Izuku had pushed himself to 100% in that battle?” Yagi shakes his head sadly, mouth twisting harshly.  “He would have unraveled at the seams and then … detonated.  The result would have been catastrophic.  And fatal.  For him and for anyone caught in the blast radius.”

Shōta’s heart skips a beat.

He’s moving before he thinks about it.

A wide palm comes down on his shoulder before he makes it more than a step away.

“Easy now,” Yagi soothes.  “There’s no need to get upset about things, Aizawa-kun.”

“This is reckless,” Shōta hisses as he twists enough to glare at Yagi.

But Yagi, much to Shōta’s irritation, simply laughs while on his shoulder Nedzu remains quiet, which is a telling gesture in and of itself.

“Izuku managed to hit 100% less than a year after that day,” Yagi says before Shōta can move to force his way out of the loose hold the man has on him.  “With no damage done to himself, might I add.”

Shōta pauses.

“It was a … transformative thing to witness,” Yagi’s expression is soft, almost wistful.  “Izuku’s control is flawless now and he knows his quirk inside and out.  His body simply needed the time to catch up.”

“Why the hesitance then?” Shōta presses.  “If it’s actually safe?”

“Oh, I never said that,” Yagi’s grin is surprisingly shark-like.  “Izuku might be safe from the backlash of his quirk now but there’s a reason why he moved everything outside.”

Yagi’s grin drops in the next second though, something melancholy washing over him.

“A dear friend of mine was with us the day Izuku managed to hit 100% for the first time,” he reveals.  “Mirai was never fond of Izuku, which of course said more about him than my boy, but when it happened…”  Yagi huffs out a heavy sort of sigh.  “Mirai was … frightened.  The things he said to and about Izuku before I dragged him away and banned him from Izuku’s presence … well.  We don’t speak anymore, never will again as far as I’m concerned, but my boy has been hesitant to show his full power to anyone since.”

“A truly wise decision on his part, unfortunate circumstances aside,” Nedzu speaks up then, that familiar manic gleam of fascination shining in his eyes.  “What we’re about to witness is, I suspect, unlike anything the world has seen before, although it has long been theorized.  There would be far too many interested parties trying to poach our young hero from UA’s walls if his true power were to be known.  Not to mention the villains that would take it as less of a deterrent and more of an invitation or a challenge.  Not that there’s not already a delightful amount of all of that going on as is.”

And Shōta …

Shōta doesn’t want to believe they’re saying what he thinks they’re saying.

“You,” Shōta pauses, takes a second to wrap his head around what he’s about to say, “you’re talking about Singularity.”

“Oh no,” Nedzu shakes his head then, paws kneading at the knees of his suit.  “Where our courageous young Dekiru is concerned?  I am talking about nothing short of ascendancy.”

Before Shōta can say anything to that bombshell of a statement, Yagi perks up, attention swiveling back towards Izuku like a dog called to point.

“He’s starting,” Yagi announces.

Across the green, over the heads of the various gathered heroes, Shōta sees familiar jade lightning begin to spark in the air.

The crowd cheers, dozens of heroes carrying on like the children they not so secretly still are.

Hizashi and Nemuri very much included.

“Come on Dekiru!!!” Rings out above the noise.  “Show us what you got!!”

Shōta huffs out a laugh at the sight of Uraraka floating just above the crowd, tethered like a balloon by Hitoshi’s capture scarf, two fingers in her mouth as she whistles bawdily.

The lightning grows.

“He’s taking it slow,” Yagi murmurs almost to himself.  “Still so afraid of their fear, my boy. Damn you, Mirai.”

There’s a tangible sort of pressure in the air now that Shōta has long become familiar with.  Sparring against Izuku after classes are done for the day has been his favorite pastime for the last six months or so now.  It always leaves him exhilarated and breathless in ways he’s never really felt before.

And then …

The power grows.

And grows.

A rising electric tide the likes of which Shōta has never felt before.

“There you go,” Yagi murmurs.  “Almost halfway there, my boy.  Now, time to show them the rest.”

Shōta’s breath catches.

Less than half.

Less. Than. Half.

And still, the power swells.

There’s a tangible pause and then the pressure in the air seems to abruptly double.

Izuku, standing tall and proud in the center of the yard, is little more than a whirlwind of jade lightning.

The crowd goes silent.

Shōta sees it when the first of them collapses down onto their knees.

Beside him, Yagi pulses with a faded golden light.  For a split second Shōta can almost see him as he once was, like an afterimage of All Might, The Hero, has been superimposed overtop of him,

Shōta blinks and it’s gone, only Yagi Toshinori is left standing there with Nedzu, eyes wide and fur beginning to bristle, sitting on his shoulder.

“Brace yourselves,” Yagi warns, his one good hand coming up to press against Nedzu’s legs.

It’s telling that Nedzu, appearing as ruffled as Shōta has ever seen him outside of battle, actually lets it happen,

Shōta has enough time to shift his stance, one hand coming up out of habit to tangle in the lengths of his capture scarf only for his fingers to stutter when they encounter nothing but air.

Serves him right for allowing Hizashi to bully him into leaving it behind for once.

There’s another tangible sort of pause.

In the center of the lawn the lights that have swallowed Izuku pulsate.

And then …

With a sound like shattering glass, they explode outwards.

Kneel.

The word seems to ring out across the very air itself, not so much heard as it is felt as the shockwave ripples across the lawn.

The heroes that have gathered to witness this drop like flies, driven to their knees by the sheer power that’s now saturating the air around them.

Shōta understands now just what Nedzu meant when he talked about ascendancy.

Besides Yagi and himself, only a few remain upright as far as Shōta can tell.

Hizashi and Nemuri as well as Hitoshi and Shōto are all still standing, hunched but upright, in the sea of kneeling figures.

Clinging to Yagi’s shoulder, Nedzu lets out a bark of mad laughter.

But Shōta?

Shōta feels breathless, feels flushed and needy, body drawn tight and cock pulsing thick and heavy against his thigh.

He feels as if electric fingers are dragging sweetly down the length of his spine, a tease and a promise if only he proves brave and bold enough to take up the invitation.

And by all the gods and the devils too does he want to.

Unable to help himself, Shōta takes a single step forward.

Even over the distance and even though his physical form has been all but lost in the array of lights, Shōta feels it when Izuku’s attention abruptly swivels toward and then locks onto him.

Another pulse ripples across the grounds.

Shōta stares back, hands dropping down to his sides, fingers splayed and palms exposed.

It’s like being stared down by the eye of a hurricane, like a force of nature has knelt down to his level and it’s up to him to prove that he’s worthy of such an act.

It’s exhilarating.

It should be terrifying.

But Shōta …

Shōta just …

Wants.

“Almost,” Yagi whispers, face turned upwards into the rippling waves of light with an almost blissful expression.  Like he’s experiencing a long-awaited homecoming of some sort.  “One final push.”

Then, just as abruptly as it had spread outwards, the rippling waves of light contract inwards, back towards Izuku who is hovering a few inches over the now cratered ground.

But even without Yagi beside him, Shōta would know that it wasn’t over.

Shōta has seen his fair share of Blackwhip in action.  Has been on the receiving end of the eldritch tentacles and just how quick and clever Izuku can be with them during a spar and how easily he can use them for mundane tasks outside of training or a battlefield.

But what erupts from Izuku is like nothing Shōta has ever seen before.

Tendrils of golden light spear the sky, writhing around Izuku like the branches of a great tree or the tentacles of some ancient leviathan risen from the deep.

They shoot forward, spreading out across the sky and dipping down towards the gathered crowd, with a few stopping to investigate certain people.

Someone in the kneeling crowd screams.

Another claws at the ground in an attempt to move away.

More than one hero is crying, faces turned upwards towards the tentacles, awe in their expressions as the golden light trails gently over them.

From a distance Shōta hears the bark of Hitoshi’s delighted laughter as a tentacle ruffles its way through his hair, causing the strands to stick up even more than they normally do.

The golden tentacle that had dipped down towards Shōta brushes softly against his cheek.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ a voice, multilayered and resonating but still so achingly familiar whispers sweetly across Shōta’s mind. ‘Please.  Won’t hurt. Would never hurt.  Not you. Never you.’

The tentacle withdraws, a tangible sort of melancholy rippling off of it.

Shōta’s moving in the next second and this time Yagi doesn’t try to stop him.

He reaches up and wraps a hand around the tentacle before it can completely retreat.

Shōta jolts sharply as soon as his hand closes around the surprisingly solid length of it.  It feels like he’s stuck his tongue to a live wire in the best sort of way.

The tentacle splits, tiny tendrils sprouting off to wrap around Shōta’s wrist and each of his fingers until his entire hand is ensnared.

He doesn’t mind.

Instead, Shōta just feels … renewed.

Feels ten years younger.

Feels rested and ready to take on the world and then some.

Invincible.

And, Shōta realizes in a flash, so sweetly in love with Izuku that it takes his breath away.

“Come on now, don’t be an idiot, Izuku,” Shōta isn’t ashamed of how winded he sounds.  “I could never be afraid of you.”

Shōta raises his ensnared hand and presses a soft kiss against the latticework of golden light that’s wrapped around him.

Shōta blinks and Izuku is there in front of him.

Standing so close to him, no longer blinded by the corona of golden light that was surrounding him, Shōta can finally see Izuku as he actually is.

Gorgeous.

Glorious.

As close to divine as this reality can hold.

Skin bare from where the lash of his power has eaten away at the non-treated civilian clothes he was wearing, Izuku is a walking work of kintsugi art.

Every scar that was once there is now a spider web of golden light.

His eyes are an abyss of lightning.

And on his head sits a crown of eight multi-colored lights.

For the first time since this all began Shōta has the urge to kneel.

To worship.

But then he’s always been contrary.

And what faith he’s ever had has never been subservient in nature.

“Do you mean it?” Izuku asks, voice that same multi-layered, multi-toned symphony of sound.

But still him.

Still Izuku.

Still the man that Shōta …

“Have I ever lied to you?”  Shōta asks instead of answers.

“All the time,” Izuku says.  “But I like your logical ruses.”

When Izuku smiles Shōta thinks he sees creation dripping from the corners of his mouth.

He wants to catch it with his own.

So he does.

Izuku makes a sound like a bell chiming and then he’s kissing back.

Izuku’s tongue sends fresh sparks down Shōta’s soul as it moves to meet the press of Shōta’s own.  More golden tendrils leap forward to wrap around Shōta’s body like Izuku is desperate to be closer to him.

Like he’s terrified that Shōta is going to change his mind and leave.

Shōta breaks the kiss and pulls back just a bit.

Izuku whines, a warbling sort of noise that itches at the back of Shouta's brain.

"You're stuck with me now," Shōta tells him.  "If you want to be."

"Yes," Izuku answers, flatteringly breathless, galaxies and jade lightning storms swirling in his eyes. "Always.  If you want."

Shōta grins.

Kisses him again.

In the background Yagi barks out a delighted laugh.

Shōta doesn't care.

He's too busy sipping sunshine from the mouth of a supernova.