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Every evening at eleven, as close to on the dot as he can make it, Shouta walks through the halls of the 1-A dorm of Heights Alliance and checks his students are asleep.
Roll call is always at eight. His students are allowed to lounge in the common room until ten, but he does the headcount every day to be certain they're all still alive and present. After that, he engages the perimeter alarms to catch anyone unauthorized leaving the building. Soft curfew is at ten-thirty, and though he knows a lot of them like to go to bed earlier than that some of them need the reminder to slow down and stop what they're doing. That's also when he turfs any remaining stragglers out of the common room to send them back to their respective floors. By eleven, Shouta just goes along and checks they're not making noise to any level he's able to hear from the corridor. Usually, all his students are surprisingly good at keeping to time, a fact that's pleasantly at odds with their general level of boundless energy as a class.
Shouta goes up the stairs, strolling along the second floor. The rooms are all silent. Shouta's glad. The cultural festival is tomorrow, and god knows his students are going to need their rest if they're going to perform for the whole school and all those who come to watch. He goes up another floor, walking along the boys' side, and hears nothing as he reaches the end of the corridor. He turns, crossing to the other set of rooms, and walks past the end room and back towards the first. Shouta's about to step back onto the stairs when he pauses, just outside the room on the girls' side closest to them. He draws back to look at the nameplate. It's Jirou's.
Shouta can hear music coming from inside, a twanging, vibrating noise that thrums through the door. Lightly above, there's faint humming. Shouta recognizes, briefly, the melody of the song his students have been working on for the past month. Jirou must be practicing for the festival. He reaches out to knock gently on the door, and waits for his student to open the door.
The humming goes silent, like someone's cut it off completely. Shouta doesn't move. After several seconds there's still no response, so he knocks again. There's the brief sound of clothes shifting, of a mattress creaking, and then he hears a breath. The door clicks and opens just enough to see Jirou's face. She's dark-eyed, red-faced, and there are blotchy patches of color on her cheeks. She's clearly been crying, undeniably, and Shouta can see the wet tear tracks shining like reflective glass on her cheeks. They're fresh. There's a worn strap over her shoulder, black leather, and he sees the purple glint of her bass below it.
"Sorry for the noise," she says quietly. "I didn't — realize how late it was."
"Jirou," Shouta murmurs, staring. "What's wrong?"
Her jaw tenses, a muscles ticking in her cheek. "Nothing, sensei."
"Are you sure about that?"
Jirou takes a breath. "I'm —"
Her face screws up then, and she cuts herself off and bites down on her lip. Her eyes squeeze shut. She exhales, shakily. Shouta's heart drops.
"I'm just nervous," she admits, one hand moving up to clutch at her elbow, other arm pressed tight against her side.
"About tomorrow?" Shouta frowns, eyebrows drawn together with concern.
"Yeah," says Jirou. Her voice breaks slightly, and she inhales sharply through her nose at the sound.
"What are you worried about?" he asks, as gently as he can.
Jirou screws up her nose, mouth pursed. Shouta recognizes it as her attempt to calm down, but a new tear escapes her eye and cuts its way through the drying tracks already covering her face anyway. "I'm — not good on stages."
"That's understandable," says Shouta. "I understand, Jirou. Your first time in the spotlight like that can always be difficult."
Jirou looks down. "I… it's not my first time, though. I've been up there before, in middle school, and I did it all the time. It's… I hate it. I get —" She breaks off, biting down hard on her lip. Shouta notices then that it's swollen, like she's been worrying at it all day. "— so scared. And then I freeze up. I don't want to freeze up tomorrow."
"You won't," Shouta tells her, and she raises her gaze to meet his again. "You know the song inside out, Jirou. You'll do fine."
"But how do you know?" Jirou retorts, and something like frustration sparks in her eyes. "Everyone always says that. It's the default. You don't actually know I can do it, you just…" She trails off, and shrugs.
Shouta looks at her, this kid who's come to be his responsibility, this kid who's telling him she's nervous and clearly wishing someone could help. He should send her back to bed, tell her to get rest for tomorrow, but it doesn't feel right. He thinks through it for a few seconds, running his mind over it, and abruptly makes a decision.
"Come with me," Shouta says, and Jirou startles, shock slamming into her expression.
"What?"
"I have an idea," he tells her.
"But — it's after curfew," Jirou says, eying him with lowered brows.
Shouta shrugs. "I won't tell if you don't," he says. "You need a boost to your confidence."
Jirou is silent for a few seconds, studying his face. "Okay," she agrees eventually, and promptly shuts the door in his face.
Shouta squints, and takes a step back.
Several seconds later, the door opens fully and Jirou slips out. The tears are gone from her cheeks, and one glance down at the damp sleeve of her baggy hoodie confirms where they've gone. Her eyes are still red, but there's a set to her jaw and a jut to her chin that tells him she's drawn up her strength to hold her for now.
"I'm ready, sensei," she tells him, and shuts the door behind her.
Shouta nods. "Alright, then," he responds.
They take the stairs down quietly, Shouta walking without sound like he's grown so easily able to do. Jirou seems surprisingly adept at it, shadowing his steps without much disturbance, though he supposes that comes with the territory of being in possession of a enhanced-hearing quirk. They reach the common room and walk through in sync and silence.
Shouta digs out his phone from his pockets when they get to the front door, snapping the back open and retrieving the card attached securely to it. He holds it between two fingers, lifting it up to the reader affixed to the wall. The alarm system lets out a beep. He types his code in as he always does, and pushes the door open with his foot before catching and holding it with his other arm. Jirou raises an eyebrow. He tilts his head sideways, nodding towards the door, and lets her go first; then, he replaces his card and reattaches his case and walks through the doorway. Shouta shuts the door with a firm, secure click, tugging at the handle to make sure it's closed. When he's satisfied he steps away, and nods at Jirou, who's watching him.
"Let's go," he says, and sets off.
Jirou keeps pace beside him, long strides to make up for her shorter legs, arms crossed tightly. The thickness of hoodie makes her arms look puffed-up. "Where are we going, sensei?"
Shouta hums. "You'll see."
The campus is cold at this time, the dark sky hovering above them and UA stretching lifeless ahead. Shouta jams his hands in his pockets. Jirou pulls the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands. They walk past the entrance, past the corridors where their classroom lies, and then Shouta stops outside a large, glass-fronted building. Jirou squints up at it in the darkness.
"Is this the auditorium?" she asks.
Shouta smiles, the expression invisible as he turns to key in to the building. "It is." He lets Jirou through in the same way as before. The door shuts behind them, and they're plunged into pitch blank.
"Uh, sensei?" says Jirou from somewhere ahead of him. "It's… very dark in here."
"That's fine," Shouta tells her. "We're about to fix that. Stay where you are."
He moves behind the wings on memory, squeezing between the ceiling-mounted acoustic panels hanging down like monoliths, and navigates over to the lighting control panel. Mentally, he counts in his head — bluelights left, bluelights right, bluelights in the back strip — and there's the switch for the working lights. He thumbs it. A click sounds through the room. Shouta hears a noise of surprise come from Jirou, and he returns to the stage to see the lights above the stage humming to life. Dimly, they increase in brightness until they're shining down on the stage evenly.
Jirou raises her eyebrows. "Fair enough," she says. Shouta spreads his hands in response.
His student looks around for a second, taking scope of the stage. It's so different in the dark of night, Shouta knows, with the stage otherwise empty and the world surrounding them still. Eventually, Jirou turns her dark eyes on him.
"So what are we doing here, sensei?" she asks. "I already know what the stage looks like. We've been practicing here."
"Yell something," Shouta says.
Jirou stares at him, squinting and jutting her neck forwards. "What?"
"Yell something."
"I — why?"
Instead of answering, Shouta strides to the center of the stage. There's a thin gray cross in the middle of stage front to mark where Jirou's going to need to stand tomorrow, as well as matching marks for Tokoyami and Kaminari. Yaoyorozu and Bakugou's instruments are already set up, sitting there motionless, waiting for their purpose. Jirou watches him go open-mouthed, staring at him. Shouta supposes he might seem like he's having a breakdown of sorts, right now.
He stands on the cross, and looks out into the dark, empty audience seats, and yells, "Fuck!"
Jirou bursts out into laughter, and the sound of it warms Shouta's heart. He turns round, one eyebrow raised, and steps off the cross.
"Your turn," Shouta says.
Jirou covers her mouth with one hand, the other wrapped around her torso. "You're not supposed to swear, sensei," she says through howling laughter. "Aren't you meant to be responsible?"
Shouta lifts one shoulder in a shrug, turning his palm up. "Only within curfew hours," he says, and Jirou snorts another laugh.
"Okay, I'll go," she says, and moves over. She plants her feet on either side of the cross, looks up, and says, "Fuck."
Shouta shakes his head. "Not loud enough. You have to mean it."
Jirou laughs again, but the sound is more brittle. Shouta can see the tenseness to her jaw. "Okay," she says, and then, "Fuck!"
"Still not loud enough," Shouta says. "You're tense."
Jirou reaches up, and fiddles with one of her earjacks. "I mean — I get nervous. On stages. That's what we were talking about."
Shouta makes a humming sound. "And that's what we're here to get past. Once you shout sufficiently loudly, we're going back."
She looks agitated, frowning at him. "I —"
"All you have to do," Shouta continues, and Jirou shuts her mouth, "is breathe. Just breathe. Take stock of where you are, take a second to compose yourself, and then just breathe and go."
"Just breathe," Jirou repeats.
Shouta nods at her. He's learned these words, repeating them over years and years and years at Hizashi during special appearances and interviews and radio shows. "Just breathe," he confirms. "Stay in the moment. Try not to worry."
Jirou looks at him, and shrugs. "I can try," she says, "I guess."
His student shifts on her feet, circling her shoulders, and then looks up. Shouta sees the cowl of confidence drape over her, the surety of her position on the stage, the way she just breathes.
"Fuck!" she hollers, and the sound echoes of the walls and reverberates in the silence. Jirou draws back, looking surprised at her own volume. She lets out a laugh.
"There you go," says Shouta, mouth quirked up to one side in a half-smile.
"I can't believe that worked," says Jirou, in awe. "That was really cool."
"You should try again," he tells her, and she grins.
They spend another ten minutes yelling into silence. Shouta joins in a few times, though most of it is Jirou, and gradually she becomes more accustomed to shouting at nothing. When they stop, her shoulders are drawn and her back is straight, and she stands on the stage with loose confidence. Shouta can only hope her newfound surety carries over to tomorrow.
This kid is going to go far, he thinks, and grins despite himself.
"How are you feeling about that stage now?" Shouta asks.
Jirou grins out at the empty seats. "Weirdly good, actually. Thank you, sensei."
"Come on," says Shouta, and she looks at him. "You need sleep. Let's go back to the dorms."
———
Kyouka breathes in, breathes out, and loops the strap of her bass around her neck.
"You're going to do great, Jirou!" cheers Uraraka, smiling widely at her.
Kyouka sends her a half-smile. "Thanks, Uraraka."
Momo's voice chimes in from behind, and Kyouka turns to see her flashing twin thumbs-up from behind her keyboard. "We've got this!"
"Hope so," Kyouka agrees, laughing slightly.
She sees Bakugou nod, then sniffs. "Our band's the best there's ever been," he declares, spinning his drumsticks between his fingers deftly. "We're going to beat all the other idiots at this festival."
Kaminari lets out a laugh. "Maybe not the best ever, Kacchan."
"Call me that again and this drumstick is going through your face," Bakugou retorts, without skipping a beat.
Kaminari sticks out his tongue.
"The curtain is going up," Tokoyami says, nodding. Kyouka feels her eyes widen, and she turns back to face the front as the heavy material does, indeed, start to move.
The curtain rolls up. The audience spreads before her. Kyouka freezes.
The lights burn, hot and bright, and Kyouka squints against them. Her heart hammers in her chest. She swallows against the dryness in her mouth, past the lump in her throat. Eyes pierce her skin, staring from the audience and from her classmates around her and from her mom and dad, sitting ready and waiting in the front row. Her mom's hands are clasped. Her dad is smiling. Kyouka feels sweat bead on her brow and trickle down her back. Her hands freeze, fingers ready and waiting in position on the neck of her bass, one gripping her pick and the microphone before her like lifelines. Cheering fills the air, almost tangibly loud, and she takes an involuntary step back like the sheer force of the sound has shoved her away.
"Jirou," whispers Kaminari from behind her. "Jirou."
Kyouka inhales, her lungs suddenly too shallow. She can see individual faces in the crowd staring back at her, whooping and cheering and yelling. They're all looking right at her, standing onstage, the one to count her class in. She's the one their performance rests on the shoulders of. She's the one who has to kick it all off. The space stretches around her, the seats towering above, her classmates suddenly so far away. Kyouka is all alone, by herself in the middle of the room, under the burning lights. The roar of the crowd presses against her ears.
Someone clears their throat, and the direction it comes from is jarring. Kyouka's head jerks round of her own accord, staring to the right. The wings stretch open and tall, tilted away from the audience. Between them, black-clothed and motionless, is a figure.
That's when she notices.
Aizawa is lounging upright with his hands in his pockets, looking straight at her. Kyouka stares as he locks eyes with her, and draws one hand up to cup around his mouth.
Just breathe, he mouths. His hand comes down to form a thumbs-up, and her eyes go wide.
Just breathe, she thinks. Just breathe.
Kyouka breathes in, breathes out, and looks behind her. Bakugou is watching in the darkness with narrowed eyes from the drums, and she gives him a firm nod. His face splits into a vicious grin. The lights above them go out. The heat disappears from her skin. The crowd goes silent.
Kyouka smiles.
Bakugou yells, "One, two, three, four -"