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It starts, as always, with Monoma’s irrational need to one-up 1-A. It’d make sense if this had been the aftermath of a joint training exercise or even a petty hallway encounter with someone as ill-tempered as Bakugou, but…
“You want to get revenge,” Itsuka says slowly, “for their concert?”
“Did you know they were running late?” Monoma asks, wide-eyed and vaguely hysterical. “They were meant to start earlier, at least half an hour before us—but apparently one of them got into a fight! And with a villain that was going to target the school, no less!”
He’s progressed to mouth-frothing rage at this point, a state that sees Pony blinking and handing a tissue over to him without comment, but Monoma only manages a distracted thanks before he’s yelling, “They had more audience members than we did! Because of their little stunt, they pulled away people who would’ve otherwise watched our masterpiece!”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional—”
“I don’t care if they had the perfect reason to act out,” Monoma shrieks. “We’re going to show them that we celebrate our event’s success in style!”
“Because, of course,” Kamakiri drawls as he passes by, “we’ll have all the time in the world for parties when we have school. But oh, that’s right—we get homework from school. Which you should probably focus on, Monoma, unless you want to be the only person stuck in remedial again.”
It’s a fair point to make, and under normal circumstances it’d work—but because this is also Kamakiri, he doubles back to sling an arm around Monoma’s shoulders and ask, “You’re not gonna invite any of them, are you?”
“They can hear all the fun we’re having and die from jealousy, for all I care,” Monoma replies with a broad smile.
And as Monoma and Kamakiri lean in to whisper conspiringly, Pony scooting closer to eavesdrop on their conversation—Itsuka sighs, gets up and says, “You’d better be studying in half an hour’s time, Monoma, or so help me…”
“Sure, mom,” Monoma replies, and barely manages to duck her Quirk-enlarged fist.
Their little chat probably won’t amount to anything—Monoma’s revenge plans are varied and colourful, but there’s hardly any that come to fruition. As much as he’d hate to hear it, most of his suggestions have far more bark than any sort of bite.
He’ll get over it, Itsuka reassures herself as she makes her way to her room. Once classes resume, he’ll be back to worrying over his marks instead of 1-A’s achievements.
“Why,” Shihai deadpans.
“Why—oh, they’ve started already!” Manga says delightedly, two exclamation marks appearing above his neck. “I hope they’ve left some decorations for me—I’m sure I told Monoma to let me put up the streamers.”
“But our common room,” Shihai says, eyeing the glitter strewn across the floor with a faint curl of his lip. “Innumerable sparkles, like the number of our sins.”
“Uh, you sure you’re not Shiozaki in disguise? That was… weirdly religious of you, Kuroiro.”
“If only he were,” Shiozaki herself says as she walks past them, “religious, that is, and less inclined to sin.”
“We’re all irredeemable heathens,” Shihai calls to her retreating back with a smirk, and has the pleasure of seeing her twitch when he adds in a carrying voice, “even you, Ibara-chan!”
It’s a pity that she’s used to their godless ways, really, because then Shihai might’ve gotten more than just a twitch out of her. By the time he’s done snickering over her affronted expression, though, Manga’s long gone—and there’s someone else standing beside him. Someone that has a box of decorations tucked under her arm… and a horribly expectant look on her face.
“No.”
“But I haven’t said anything yet!” Setsuna chirps with a growing grin.
“You have a box with you,” Shihai dryly points out, “that is full of tinsel and fairy lights.”
“Well, what do you know,” Setsuna replies with a gleam in her eyes, “you’re pretty observant! Not to mention one of the tallest people in the class, which is awfully convenient—”
“And useless to you, because I’m going to go up to my room now,” Shihai says over Setsuna. “My sanctuary in this glitter-infested hell, far away from whatever horrifying witchcraft half our class is ensnared in.”
“Gee, you are pretty dramatic when you get going, huh?” Setsuna asks, tapping her lower lip with a light furrow of her brow. “But what if I had an offer you couldn’t refuse?”
Shihai’s well aware that Setsuna’s just baiting him—nothing she could offer would get him interested in the way Monoma’s snickering to himself in a corner or the barely-human babble between Pony and Manga as they dance around the common room. It’d be prudent to follow in Shiozaki’s footsteps, leave the rest of his mad classmates to their evening revelry—
But then Setsuna’s tugging him down to whisper in his ear, “I heard Kinoko’s pretty excited about our little party tonight—she even went shopping for a new dress last weekend.
“Can you imagine how she’d look?” Setsuna laughs in a way that Shihai just knows is at his expense, but he’s too busy admiring his toes to care about the expression on her face. “And you know, I’ve heard she’ll try and bust out a few moves on the dancefloor tonight.”
“It’s a large enough room,” Shihai grumbles as irritably as he can. “She can dance wherever she likes in it.”
“True, but who’d have the honour of dancing with her?” Shihai makes the mistake of tensing up at her words, and Setsuna runs a hand up his arm before purring, “I could put in a good word for you, you know… and all you’d need to do is help me just a little bit in return.”
It’s a low blow and Setsuna knows it—that’s definitely more than a hint of sharp teeth when Shihai sneaks a glance at her face. Shihai is well aware that he’s being played for a fool and that Setsuna could be making it all up…
But what if she’s telling the truth? Shihai can’t help thinking. What if Komori ends up dancing with someone else because of my pessimism?
Shihai likes to think of himself as a practical—if somewhat negative—intellectual, but…
“I’ll leave you blinded in the shadows if your words are a lie,” Shihai hisses, and does his best to ignore Setsuna’s knowing wink when he snatches away her box and stalks deeper into the common room.
“So,” Sen sighs, tugging at his leather jacket, “mind telling me what this is all about now, Kousei?”
“You mean, you can’t see everything that’s going on?” Tsuburaba throws an arm around Sen’s shoulders and gestures expansively with the other. “Man, I know the glitter’s a little much and all, but all the food. And then, of course—”
“—there’s your obsession with pretty girls,” Sen finishes in a monotone, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his lips when he rolls his eyes at his friend. “You know you’re not going to get anyone to dance with you by hanging around me, right?”
“But you’ll leave if I don’t hold onto you!”
Sen sighs again at that, fighting another eyeroll for his friend—but Tsuburaba’s right, even if he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. They’re wasting a perfectly good Friday night in their living room, dress codes ranging from his own barely passable smart casual to Pony’s full-blown cocktail dress, and it’s all because of Monoma’s damnable immaturity. That idiot can say what he likes about 1-A, but at least they’re not trashing their common room for the sake of some baseless party.
At least I’d be studying now, Sen thinks forlornly, instead of standing around like this.
Not even Honenuki’s wryly amused smile from across the room lifts Sen’s mood.
It could be worse, he supposes—there’s snacks lined up on one side of the room, and Sen’s fairly certain Rin snuck in some of his aunt’s imported Chinese sweets. Everyone else in their class had been dragged into the party, though it’d taken the combined efforts of their class president and Bondo to get Shiozaki to step foot into the common room, and everyone was mostly behaving themselves. Even if he didn’t care all that much for it himself, Sen can admit that it could be worse.
So when Yui walks over to stand near them, arms cradling a plate almost overflowing with tomatoes, Sen lets himself nod back when she nods at them.
Unfortunately, Tsuburaba catches the motion.
“Are you making plans to dance without me,” Tsuburaba hisses, eyes wide with affected betrayal.
“Look, I’m not interested in partying—”
“It’s the ikemen appeal,” Tsuburaba sighs over Sen’s vaguely exasperated comment, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. “You and your pretty face… God, why have you forsaken me like this?”
“Isn’t that Tokage over there?” Sen almost rips Tsuburaba’s sleeve when he tugs at it and nods in Setsuna’s direction. “Nobody’s asking her to dance—you know she’ll say yes if you offer.”
“Yeah, but she’s pretty,” Tsuburaba moans, slumping against him with a fake sob. It’s moments like these that make Sen wonder why they’re friends, but…
“If you’re not going to ask her,” Sen says in the least exasperated tone he can muster, “I will.”
And at the perceived threat from 1-B’s ikemen—honestly, why—Tsuburaba shoots him a wounded, squinty-eyed look before he steels himself and begins heading over to Setsuna.
It’s tempting to sneak back to his room and do something more productive with his evening—but Sen’s been around Tsuburaba enough to know how he’ll react once he can’t find Sen. It’s troublesome enough that he sighs more loudly than he’d intended, even as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall—
Which is probably why Yui pauses after finishing off her latest tomato and drifts a little closer to him.
But what’s the point? Sen’s not interested in casual conversation, and he’d never really pegged Yui as the sort to enjoy it either. He raises his brows at her, mouth opening to interrupt whatever she’s going to say before he has to interrupt her mid-sentence, but then…
“Are those flash cards?” Sen asks when he spots the notes stacked in her hand.
Predictably enough, Yui nods.
“And you…”
“Study with me,” she murmurs, low and quiet in a way that almost gets drowned beneath Monoma’s hollering and the offensively loud music.
Sen’s eyebrows creep a little higher at that, eyes widening from their usual lazy appearance—but then he snorts, levers himself off the wall and nods. After all, he’s meant to stay… but Tsuburaba never said anything about having to party.
“Thanks,” Sen tells Yui, and misses the way she colours up a little at his words.
Maybe this entire evening won’t be a write-off, Sen lets himself think, and settles into an out-of-the-way armchair with the barest of smiles.
“Your entire class is a write-off!” Neito cackles, ducking beneath Kendou’s arm before she can clothesline him with it—which is rude and entirely uncalled for, but who cares when a few losers from 1-A on the other side of the screen? “I bet you’re all just sitting in your common room,” he adds with a sharp grin, “lounging around like tasteless commoners!”
“D’you really think we care?” Bakugou snaps off-camera, but Neito can see the longing in Aoyama’s gaze.
Or maybe it’s his ever-present desire to stare into the camera. Neito doesn’t really know with him, even if he does, occasionally, think he might sympathise with the sentiment.
But he’s probably staring at all the festivities he can see beyond Neito’s beaming visage, because they’re having the time of their lives. There’s at least four of his lovely classmates learning square-dancing, of all things, and he’s almost certain he’d spotted Kinoko twirling around a faintly blushing Kuroiro.
And if their resident lord of the shadows could enjoy himself in such festive times? Then Neito—and his classmates, of course—were already vastly superior to 1-A in the partying department.
“I say, it seems highly irresponsible for your class representative to allow such activities to occur!”
Neito recoils as half a face takes up the entire screen—but then the person steps back to reveal 1-A’s loud, stuffy class representative. Before he can so much as jeer at Iida for his attitude, though, there’s a sharp whack to the back of his head and a hand deftly plucks the phone from his hand.
“Maybe it’d seem irresponsible to you, Iida,” Kendou says above Neito’s loud sniffle and louder protest, “but isn’t it nice to wind down every now and again? We’re heroes in training, sure, but we’re also students. A little fun doesn’t hurt anyone.”
There’s a moment when the music stops and Neito blinks at Kendou, but then…
“You’re actually agreeing with me?”
Kendou turns to blink back at him.
“I mean—of course you agree with me!” Neito exclaims, slinging an arm around her shoulders and grinning down at the phone. “See, our excellent class representative—unlike you—is a far better-adjusted human being than a pseudo-robot like you could—urk!”
“Right, we’re gonna put out this dumpster fire before it can spread,” Awase grumbles, dragging Neito back by his collar. “You’re so high-strung, I swear—would it kill you not to mouth off like an idiot?”
“It’s a show of superiority, Awase!” Neito sniffs, smacking Awase’s hand away and staggering to his feet. “That we’re more human than 1-A!
“Look at all the fun we’re having!” Neito declares, sweeping his hands to take in the entire common room.
The dancers busting moves in the empty space they’d created by pushing the tables and chairs back. The snacks lined up on the largest table, which a few of their classmates were steadily working their way through. Another table with a portable radio someone had lugged out from their room, armchairs scattered around the room for others to rest in and watch the festivities…
“1-A may have had their concert,” Neito says, “but we have a party—a gathering of like-minded, more enlightened souls!”
“You almost had me until you spewed out that last part,” someone huffs behind him, and Neito turns to see Kendou shaking her head at him. “Honestly—just forget about 1-A and ‘have fun’ with the rest of us, alright?”
Neito rolls his eyes and opens his mouth—but before he can get a sharp retort out, a new song plays on the radio. A few people groan at the French ballad, pausing mid-dance to turn and demand another song, but—
“I,” Neito calls out as he strides onto the makeshift dance floor, “am going to show you all the wonders of cha-cha!”
He misses the way Kendou and Awase exchange glances and wry smiles behind him—but with a few curious classmates clustered around him, with the party in full swing and one of his favourite songs playing, Neito smiles and begins to demonstrate his own moves.
It’s nothing fancy, but it’s his. It’s their party, their moment to unwind and congratulate themselves on a job well done—and we’re better than 1-A no matter what anyone says, Neito thinks to himself, and almost doesn’t save himself from faceplanting in time.