"HARDER!"
In the center of the ring, two men circled each other, sweat glistening under the harsh lights. Their bare feet whispered against the canvas. Every muscle stayed tense, every glance measured. Shorts and white hand wraps were all they wore, the wraps coiled around their fists like a second skin.
Shoda's eyes missed nothing. To him, this was a kind of game — whoever had the faster reaction time, the stronger punch, and the wits to use both would win. He waited, poised, until his opponent's shoulder twitched. A choice, telegraphed.
Right jab. Time seemed to stretch. The punch snapped out, but Shoda slipped it with a practiced tilt of his head, his hand darting up like a snake to snare the man's wrist. In one blur of motion, he yanked the arm forward and drove his elbow up into the man's jaw. The crack echoed through the arena. His opponent crumpled.
Shoda stood over the fallen man, chest heaving, victory and euphoria surging through him in equal measure. He'd never thought of himself as a fighter, but the harder he pushed, the more natural it felt. Almost instinctual now.
Yu approached, his expression as stern as ever. Shoda had come to realize that sternness was the only expression Yu owned.
"I told you to hit him harder," Yu said, his voice flat, eyes barely flicking to the unconscious man as trainers rushed in to help.
Shoda frowned, annoyance flickering across his face as he reached for his water bottle. "He's out cold. Why does it matter how hard I hit?"
Yu's gaze sharpened. "You think a villain stays down just because he fainted? You hit with everything you have — every time, even when you know you're already stronger."
Shoda met his stare, defiance hardening his jaw. "My job is to subdue. Not destroy."
For a moment Yu said nothing. Then the corners of his mouth twitched upward, almost a smirk. "You'll understand one day. There's more to fighting than you realize." A pause. "But good work. You're learning fast — maybe too fast. Only a week and a half left until your festival."
The tension eased as Yu's tone shifted, the air between them lightening. Shoda realized, not for the first time, that Yu's lessons always came before his emotions — that the man's faith in his own teaching was unshakable. He believed his words would sink in eventually. No matter what.
"Yeah…" Shoda squeezed the empty bottle, resolve settling into the line of his shoulders. "It is."
Yu watched him a moment longer, then flicked a towel at Shoda's face. "Starting tomorrow, we work your quirk into your combat." He turned and strode off, leaving Shoda alone with his thoughts.
A teenager of average height stepped into the ring just as Yu left, flashing a devil-may-care grin full of razor-sharp teeth. Lean but athletic, his black hair spiked in every direction, his crimson eyes gleamed with mischief. This was Shinra Kusakabe, a student from Shiketsu High — known as much for that pointed grin as for the way it unsettled even the vilest villains.
"Yo, how you doing, angel?" Shinra called, his tone teasing as he sauntered over.
Shoda peeled the towel from his head, already bracing for the nickname that had stuck since his win streak began. Outside the ring he looked harmless enough, but the moment a match started, something in him shifted — earning him the name "fallen angel" among the gym regulars.
"I told you to stop calling me that," Shoda said, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. His popularity had climbed fast since he'd joined the gym, thanks in part to his unbroken record — but the nickname was a constant needle, a reminder of the duality others saw in him.
Shinra laughed, bright and genuine. "Hahaha, sorry, but it fits! Your face gets downright scary in the ring, and that's saying something, coming from me." His grin widened, teeth glinting, as if he relished the challenge of an opponent whose intensity matched his own.
"Yeah, whatever," Shoda muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stood. "What do you want?"
"A few rounds. Obviously," Shinra said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Shoda chuckled, then, without warning, launched a lightning-fast punch. Shinra barely tilted his head aside in time; an intense feeling grew inside him, but the grin never left his face.
And just like that, it began.
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"I wonder how long he's going to take," Kendo muttered, tapping her foot against the concrete. She'd gone with a simple light-yellow sundress, a bit of jewelry, and a small purse to match, nothing dramatic, but she'd clearly put thought into it.
Minutes ticked by. She checked her phone twice, then a third time, before a familiar figure came into view across the street, wearing a nervous smile like it was part of the outfit. Her irritation evaporated on the spot, not that she'd ever admit that.
"Explain," she said, doing her best impression of someone who was still mad.
Shoda reached into the pocket of his black hoodie and pulled out a single sunflower. "I got you a gift." The smile that followed was more smirk than smile.
Kendo's eyes widened, a blush creeping up fast. "Oh — thank you." She glanced around like someone might be watching, then took the flower and turned it over in her hands. It was almost suspiciously perfect. She tucked it behind her ear. "So? How do I look?"
Shoda didn't answer right away. He just closed the distance between them, smirk still in place. "I knew it'd suit you."
It was an ordinary day, all things considered; nothing on the schedule but training, and today he decided to change pace a little bit. Hanging out with Kendo. A date, if either of them had bothered to call it that out loud.
"You look nice," Kendo said as they started walking toward the mall. Shoda, predictably, had gone with his usual uniform: black hoodie, white undershirt, baggy black pants with some white detailing on one leg, white sneakers.
"You look better," he shot back, eyes flicking over her with a little too much appreciation to pass as casual. Beautiful, he thought, and didn't bother arguing with himself about it.
The mall was doing its usual weekend thing, too crowded, too loud, and smelling like a fight between five different food court vendors. Kendo looped her arm through his without asking permission, which Shoda decided was less a romantic gesture and more proof she didn't trust him not to wander off.
"So," she said, "where first? And don't say anything related to heroes or training."
"I wasn't going to say any of that"
"You were thinking it."
"You'll never know, I guess"
She playfully rolled her eyes as she steered them toward a clothing store, which he took as further proof she'd planned this whole outing down to the minute.
Hours later, Shoda was holding four bags he had not agreed to hold.
"I don't remember consenting to this," he said, adjusting his grip as Kendo emerged from behind a rack holding up a jacket that looked, to his untrained eye, identical to the last six she'd tried on.
"You didn't have to." She held the jacket against herself, checking the mirror. "Opinion?"
"Looks good."
"You said that about the last one."
"It also looked good."
"You're not even looking."
"I'm always looking." He said it flatly enough that it took her a second to realize it wasn't actually about the jacket. Her ears went faintly pink, and she turned back to the mirror a little too quickly.
"Flattery won't get you out of carrying the bags."
"Worth a shot."
They ended up at the food court minutes later, Shoda considerably more burdened and considerably less annoyed about it than he expected to be. Kendo picked at a plate of takoyaki like she was defusing a bomb, one skeptical piece at a time.
"You've been staring at it for five minutes," Shoda said.
"I'm building trust with it."
"It's an octopus ball. It's not going to betray you."
"That's exactly what a food that's about to betray me would say." She finally ate one, chewed, and gave a small, satisfied nod like she'd won an argument with the takoyaki. "Okay. Acceptable."
"High praise."
"I don't hand it out often." She glanced at him over her cup, something softer creeping into the teasing. "You're better at this than I expected."
"At eating?"
"At this." She gestured vaguely between them. "Have you been trained?" she dropped her voice into a flat monotone, "'Someone else?'"
Shoda smirked. "I will happily and proudly say, I am a virgin through and through and have never been in a relationship before"
"I see." Giggling at his reply, she continued eating, 'hmmm, where should I drag him next' She began thinking, and then her eyes wandered around until they reached him.
"Are you a plain-colored type of guy?" She asked as she analyzed his outfit. "Yeah, I'd say so. Why?" He asked; however, the grin that grew on her face made him slightly nervous.
"I see." Kendo giggled at his reply and went back to her food. Hmm. Where should I drag him next? She let her eyes wander, scanning the food court, the storefronts, and eventually, him.
"Are you a plain colored type of guy?" she asked, studying his outfit with the focus of someone conducting a professional inspection.
"Yeah, I'd say so. Why?"
The grin that spread across her face made him distinctly nervous.
"No reason." The grin did not go away.
"That's not a real answer."
"It's the answer you're getting." She stood, brushing crumbs off her lap, and held out a hand for him to take. "Come on."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
"That's also not a real answer."
"I'm on a roll today." She tugged him up before he could formally object, and he found himself, bags in tow, being marched past three stores he had no interest in and directly into one that made his stomach drop the second he read the sign.
A boutique. The kind with mannequins wearing color combinations that looked like they'd personally offended someone.
"Absolutely not."
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"You didn't have to. I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one you're doing right now."
Kendo blinked at him with practiced innocence, already drifting toward a rack of shirts in colors he was fairly sure didn't have official names. "I just think," she said, holding one up, an orange so aggressive it bordered on a public safety concern, "that you'd look more handsome in something that isn't black, white, or the absence of color."
"I look fine."
"You look like a light switch."
"That's oddly specific."
"I've had time to think about it." She pressed the shirt against his chest, tilting her head, entirely too pleased with herself. "Oh, this is happening."
"It is not."
"Shoda."
"No."
"I got you a flower this morning. Wait, I mean, you got me a flower this morning."
"That has nothing to do with this."
"It has everything to do with this. Reciprocity." She was already pulling him toward the fitting rooms.
"I hate that you're winning."
"I always win." She shoved the shirt into his hands and pushed him toward a fitting room with the satisfaction of someone who considered the argument thoroughly closed. "Chop chop. I want a fashion show."
By the time they left the mall, Shoda was down three arguments, one dignity, and up two more bags he had zero memory of agreeing to carry. He'd stopped counting somewhere around bag five.
"For the record," he said as they walked toward the station, "I didn't buy anything orange."
"You bought the orange one."
"I was coerced."
"You tried it on. You looked in the mirror. I saw you look."
"That was a hostage situation."
"You smiled a little."
"I did not."
"You did. Small smile. Right corner of your mouth." Kendo tapped the corner of her own mouth for emphasis, entirely too satisfied with herself.
"I don't have a 'right corner of my mouth' smile. That's not a thing people have."
"You have several. I've been cataloguing them."
Shoda opened his mouth to argue; however, he found out that he genuinely did not know how to respond to being cataloged, and closed it again.
The sun was starting to dip by the time they got to the platform, throwing everything a little orange and gold, which Kendo pointed out was extremely on theme, and which Shoda decided not to dignify with a response. The train ride was short, mostly empty, the kind of quiet that made the city outside look like it was moving in slow motion.
"You're quiet," Kendo said, nudging his shoulder with hers.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
"Whether the orange shirt was actually a hostage situation or if I have bad judgment."
"It's both. They're not mutually exclusive."
"That's what I said about training and hanging out with you."
"Don't compare my fashion sense to the cruelty you call training"
"I wasn't. I was complimenting your consistency."
Kendo squinted at him like she was trying to figure out if that had been a compliment or an accident. Shoda, for his part, wasn't entirely sure either, which was becoming something of a pattern with him. He decided, as a policy, to just let people assume he meant things on purpose.
By the time the train pulled into her stop, the conversation had wandered through at least four topics that made no sense next to each other, one debate about whether takoyaki counted as a full meal or a snack, and a solid two minutes where Kendo tried, and failed, to teach him a hand-clap game she swore every kid her age had learned in elementary school.
Regardless of what the topic was, they both enjoyed it, with non-stop smiles from both of them.
"You're hopeless," she said, giving up after his third failed attempt.
"I can most likely disarm a man twice my size."
"Congratulations. You still can't clap in rhythm."
"Those are unrelated skills."
"Are they, though?"
They stepped off together, the sky properly orange now, and started the short walk toward her place, Shoda still weighed down like a pack mule and, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't mind at all.
Kendo's whole demeanor radiated satisfaction, the easy kind that came from a genuinely good day, and something about that made Shoda far happier than he was willing to admit out loud.
"Are you nervous?" Kendo asked, walking beside him, one hand tucked behind her back holding onto her purse strap.
"Yes." He answered honestly, eyes still on the sky above them, orange fading into a deeper blue.
She meant the sports festival, obviously.
"That's very calm nervous for someone nervous."
"I don't know what other kind of nervous there is."
"There's the kind where you talk too fast. Or the kind where you can't sit still. Or the kind where you buy way too many bags of things because your brain is trying to distract itself." She glanced pointedly at the bags in his hands.
"That was coercion. We covered this."
"We covered it. I didn't agree with it." She smiled, small and a little teasing, though there was something softer underneath it now. "You'll do fine, you know. At the festival."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually. I've seen you train. You're annoyingly good at hitting people."
"That's a strange thing to find reassuring."
"I contain multitudes."
They reached her door before he had a real response to that, the porch light already on, throwing a small warm circle onto the step. Kendo turned to face him, purse and bags now held in front of her, rocking slightly on her heels in the specific way of someone stalling.
"Thanks for today," she said. "Even the part where you complained the entire time."
"I wasn't complaining the entire time."
"You complained about the shirt, the bags, the hand-clap game, and the takoyaki."
"The takoyaki earned its complaints."
"It did not; it was delicious, and you know it." She was smiling now, the real kind, the kind that made the porch light feel unnecessary. "Get home safe. Text me when you're back."
"I will."
She lingered a second longer than a normal goodbye required, like she was waiting for something, though Shoda, still working off a delay of about two full seconds on most social cues, didn't quite catch it in time. By the time it clicked, she'd already laughed under her breath, shaken her head, and let herself inside.
"...Was I supposed to do something there?" he asked the closed door.
The door, unhelpfully, did not answer.