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Hero galas had never been your thing. They were too loud, too bright, and carried far too many expectations for someone who preferred the shadows. You weren't even a blip on the popularity charts, a fact you took immense pride in—right up until Nemuri Kayama decided you needed a "social life." Now, you were standing in a crowded ballroom, feeling exposed in a dress that was definitely several inches shorter than anything you’d ever chosen for yourself.
“Nem, seriously. Why am I here? This is the opposite of my thing,” you muttered, surreptitiously tugging at the silk hem for the tenth time that hour.
Nemuri only giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, hush! Loosen up a little, [Nickname]. Have some fun! Who knows, you might actually meet someone who isn't a suburban mid-tier villain.” She poked the tip of your nose playfully before handing you a glass and steering you toward a corner of the room that looked slightly less congested.
“Midnight! Took you long enough!”
The voice was unmistakable. Hizashi Yamada, better known as Present Mic, beamed at you both. Even in a formal setting, his energy was deafening. He spotted you shying away behind Nemuri, and his grin widened.
“My, my, who’s the plus-one?”
Nemuri gave you a gentle nudge forward. You introduced yourself, offering both your civilian and hero name. Yamada grabbed your hand in an enthusiastic shake that nearly rattled your teeth.
“Yamada Hizashi! Great to meet ya! Any friend of Kayama’s is a friend of ours!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the string quartet.
You raised a skeptical brow at the ‘ours,’ and your gaze drifted to the man slumped in the chair beside him. He looked like a dark smudge on the polished floor of the fancy ballroom—tired, minimally dressed up, and deeply annoyed.
“And that,” Yamada continued, dragging the man upward by the elbow, “is the Underground Hero, Eraserhead!”
The man let out a weary sigh. His red eyes, rimmed with a faint dark undertone that suggested a chronic lack of sleep, bored into yours. “Aizawa,” he corrected flatly.
“Life of the party, isn't he?” Yamada laughed, elbowing his colleague. Aizawa didn't even flinch; he just looked more tired.
You offered a curt, sympathetic nod. “I get it. I’m already looking for the nearest fire exit.”
It seemed the universe finally decided to do you a favor. A fast-tempo song kicked in, and Yamada immediately whisked Nemuri toward the dance floor, leaving you and Aizawa alone at a small table tucked into the shadows.
You sat down carefully, pressing your legs together to keep the dress from riding up further. The silence between you was heavy, but strangely, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who both realized they were trapped in the same circus.
“So… uh…” You cleared your throat, still a bit intimidated by his sharp, evaluating stare. “Where do you know Kayama from? You three seem close.”
Aizawa didn't respond immediately. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the room with clinical efficiency before settling back on you. “U.A. High,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “She was a year ahead of Hizashi and me.”
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. At least he was talking. “Small world for heroes, I guess.”
He gave a noncommittal hum, and the two of you lapsed back into silence. It was a perfect match of social exhaustion. While the rest of the room blurred into a haze of neon lights and loud laughter, your little corner felt like a bunker.
“We’ll be starting the keynote speeches shortly! Please, find your seats!” an announcer boomed.
The reprieve was over. Nemuri and Yamada returned to the table, Nemuri instantly nudging your shoulder with a knowing smirk. The speeches were exactly what you expected: long, self-congratulatory, and filled with statistics about crime rates that you already knew by heart. Your mind drifted, your gaze wandering until it caught Aizawa’s. He looked just as annoyed as you felt.
When the music started back up—a slower, rhythmic beat this time—Nemuri stood and offered you her hand like a suitor. You drained the rest of your glass for courage and let her pull you toward the floor.
Back at the table, Yamada leaned back, watching the two of you weave through the crowd. “That girl is a bit shy, isn’t she? Pretty, though. Kayama seems to really like her.”
Aizawa didn’t look away. His eyes followed you as Nemuri spun you around. For a split second, the guarded, tired expression on your face that he resonated with had vanished, replaced by a genuine laugh that reached your eyes.
“She’s logical,” Aizawa muttered, his voice barely audible over the music. “And she’s not wrong about the fire exits.” He took a slow sip of his drink, ignoring the strange, warm pull in his chest that he chose to blame on the cheap whiskey.
The song faded into a smattering of polite applause, and you took the opportunity to slip away from Nemuri’s side before she could rope you into another round. Your lungs felt tight, the artificial floral scent of the ballroom becoming a bit too much to bear.
On your way toward the heavy glass doors at the back of the hall, you snagged a fresh glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray—liquid courage for the trek back to the table, or perhaps just a peace offering for yourself.
The balcony was a relief. The night air was crisp, cutting through the humid heat of the party and chilling the skin of your shoulders. You leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the city lights of Musutafu, finally letting your posture slump.
Back at the table, Yamada watched your retreating form, then flicked his gaze to Aizawa, who was staring intently at the bottom of his glass.
“You know, Shouta,” Yamada said, his voice dropping the performer’s volume for once. “It’s dark out there. Probably a lot of tripping hazards for someone in heels and a dress that tight. A hero really ought to make sure a guest is… secure.”
Aizawa leveled him with a look of pure exhaustion. “She’s a pro hero, Hizashi. I think she can handle a balcony.”
“Maybe. But she looked like she was heading for an exit, not a view." Yamada nudged him, a rare spark of seriousness in his eyes. “Go on. You’re both miserable in there. Be miserable together out there.”
With a grunt that wasn't quite a 'no,' Aizawa pushed back his chair.
You didn't hear the door open, but you felt the shift in the air. The scent of sandalwood and coffee replaced the ballroom’s perfume. You didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.
“The fire exit is three doors down to the left,” Aizawa said, his voice low as he came to stand a few feet away from you, leaning his elbows on the railing.
You let out a soft laugh, taking a sip of your wine. “Caught me. I was just catching my breath before I made a run for it.”
“Smart move,” he muttered. He wasn't looking at the view; he was looking at the way you seemed to finally fit into your own skin now that the cameras weren't on you. “You don't strike me as the type who enjoys being the center of attention.”
“I’m not. I prefer the work where people don't feel the need to clap,” you admitted, looking over at him. “I assume you’re the same? I don’t see Eraserhead on many billboards.”
“The limelight is a waste of potential,” he said simply.
Silence fell between you again, but this time it was comfortable—the kind of silence found between two people who understand the weight of the job. From inside, the muffled sound of a slow, rhythmic melody began to drift through the glass. It was a soft, swaying beat, stripped of the booming bass that had made your head ache earlier.
You caught yourself tapping your fingers against your glass to the rhythm. Aizawa noticed. He didn't say anything at first, but then he straightened up, adjusting his cuffs.
“Yamada thinks you’re unsafe out here,” he said, though there was a trace of dry humor in his tone. “Something about the heels.”
You glanced down at your shoes and then back at him, a challenge rising in your chest. “Oh? And is the Underground Hero going to perform a safety check?”
Aizawa stepped closer, the space between you narrowing. He wasn't a dancer—anyone could see that—but he held out a hand with the same steady, unwavering groundedness he used in a fight.
“It’s calmer out here,” he noted. “And there’s no one watching.”
You set your glass down on the stone ledge and took his hand. His palm was calloused and warm, his grip firm. He placed his other hand on your waist, careful and respectful, while you rested yours on his shoulder, feeling the rough fabric of his black button-up.
You moved slowly, barely more than a gentle sway to the faint music. There were no flashy turns, no dramatic dips—just a steady, rhythmic motion in the dark. For the first time all night, the dress didn't feel too short, and the lights didn't feel too bright.
“You’re not half bad, Aizawa,” you murmured, looking up at him.
His gaze dropped to yours, his expression softening just a fraction—the closest thing to a smile you’d seen all night. “Don't tell Nemuri. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
You mimed zipping your lips shut, a soft chuckle escaping you as Aizawa let out a small, relieved sigh.
The song ended, and the two of you parted, moving back to your respectful distance and lifting your wine glass to your lips.
The low whine of the metal door caught both of your attentions, and your guard was quickly lowered when Nemuri poked her head through.
“Thought I'd offer to give you a ride home before Yamada and I go bar hopping,” she stated, a smug grin on her face as she glanced between you and the pro.
You started to make your way over to the door, Aizawa following closely behind. Just before you went through, you felt a card being pressed into your hand. You gave Aizawa a look before Nemuri grabbed your hand and tugged you along to the exit with Yamada in tow.
Stepping into your home, you made quick work of kicking off your heels and flopping onto your couch. You pulled out the card Aizawa had given to you, a simple business card that had a work email and phone number on it. You pursed your lips before flipping the card over, neatly written digits plastered on the back. With a smile, you typed the phone number into your messages, your fingers heaving over the keyboard.
You: Thanks for the dance, hero ;)