Chapter Text
The sky over U.A. is painfully blue, the kind of color you only notice when you’re about to leave something behind.
Rows of chairs line the courtyard. The stage is too small for the amount of pride in the air. Banners ripple in the spring breeze: “Class of the Rebuilding Era — Plus Ultra.”
Kendo fixes her tie twice. Monoma rehearses his grin in a hand mirror. Shiozaki mutters quiet prayers. Tetsutetsu cries openly and blames “seasonal allergies.”
Kosei is late.
Sen pretends to be surprised.
Kosei arrives jogging, hair slightly windblown, diploma ribbon in his teeth. “Sorry! Lost a bet with the vending machine!”
Sen just sighs. “Of course you did.”
Kosei grins, bright and unrepentant. “You’re lucky I’m cute when punctuality fails.”
“Lucky’s a word for it.”
Principal Nezu’s speech lasts seventeen minutes and includes the words “heroic elasticity,” “statistical improbability,” and “infinite potential.”
Vlad King follows. He talks less like a teacher and more like a proud dad trying not to cry in front of the news cameras.
Aizawa gives exactly four words when it’s his turn at the mic: “Don’t die. Stay kind.”
Everyone claps anyway.
When it’s time to call names, the students cheer for each other so loudly that the announcer eventually gives up on decorum.
Monoma insists on bowing twice.
Kendo salutes.
Pony waves both flags and hands.
Shiozaki glows.
When Kosei’s name is called, the wind picks up just enough to scatter the cherry petals like applause.
Sen’s turn follows. He walks across the stage steady and smiling, pretending the world hasn’t just blurred a little.
-
The courtyard devolves into hugs, selfies, and the occasional emotional tackle.
Kendo corners Vlad first. “Thank you. For everything.”
He waves her off gruffly. “Just doing my job.”
Her eyes soften. “You did more than that.”
Monoma poses beside the results board one last time. “I’ll autograph it later for historical accuracy.”
Shiozaki leads a small group prayer under the tree line. Pony translates it into clumsy English for Camie, who claps like it’s a concert.
And off to the side, beneath a half-shaded balcony, Kosei and Sen sit shoulder to shoulder, watching the petals drift.
“You ever think,” Kosei murmurs, “we’ll stop calling it rebuilding?”
Sen glances at him. “What else would we call it?”
Kosei smiles. “Living.”
-
As dusk falls, Vlad calls them together one final time.
“No more grades. No drills. Just names.”
He starts the list, voice steady.
“Kendo Itsuka.”
“Present.”
“Monoma Neito.”
“Still fabulous.”
“Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu.”
“UNBREAKABLE!”
“Shiozaki Ibara.”
“Present, by grace.”
“Kaibara Sen.”
“Here.”
“Tsuburaba Kosei.”
Kosei raises a hand, grinning. “Here and ventilated.”
The class laughs. Vlad shakes his head but doesn’t hide the smile.
“Then,” he says, “Class 3-B—no, Heroes of the Rebuilding Era—you’re dismissed.”
The next morning, the dorms are quieter.
Beds stripped, desks cleared, windows open.
Kosei leaves behind a note taped to the wall vent:
If the air feels weird, adjust it. Don’t call me—I’m on vacation.
Sen finds it hours later and laughs until he forgets to feel sad. He folds the note carefully, tucks it into his wallet.
Outside, the wind shifts east, carrying cherry petals down into the city.
Their hero office is small—barely more than a converted apartment with too many plants and not enough budget—but it hums with energy.
A brass plate by the door reads:
“Balanced Pressure Agency.”
Sen still insists he didn’t agree to that name.
Kosei’s behind the front desk, hair pulled back, blueprints scattered like organized mayhem.
Sen’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, calibrating a drone that refuses to hover straight.
“Did you refill the humidifier?” Sen asks.
“Emotional or physical one?”
“Both.”
Kosei grins. “Yes.”
The first call of the day comes from the city watch—a mild structural collapse, no casualties, just a mess. Routine work.
They suit up in practiced rhythm: harness, gloves, communicator, banter.
Kosei pauses at the window before they leave, watching the way the morning light drifts through the curtains.
“It’s a good day for air,” he says.
Sen rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Every day’s a good day for air with you.”
“Obviously.”
-
They cross paths with old faces.
Kendo’s running her own rescue coordination branch, clipboard permanently attached to her hand. She never raises her voice, but somehow everyone listens.
Monoma does press conferences now—charisma weaponized, PR terrified, fanbase inexplicably enormous.
He still drops by unannounced. Always brings pastries, always critiques the office lighting.
Shiozaki teaches at a hero academy in the next district. Her classroom smells like jasmine and clean chalk. She keeps one of Kendo’s old training gloves on her desk.
Pony travels between agencies, her optimism as indestructible as Tetsutetsu’s skull.
And sometimes, Lady Nagant appears on a distant rooftop—no rifle, no orders, just watching, then gone again.
Midoriya pretends not to see her. Pretends not to smile every time the wind shifts right after.
-
Every Thursday, Sen buys too much tofu. Every Friday, Kosei forgets to turn off the lab fan.
They argue about music, share one coffee cup, keep the same ridiculous calendar note repeating weekly:
“remember to breathe (again).”
Sometimes, when work runs late, Kosei dozes off on the couch mid-blueprint. Sen throws a blanket over him, then stays up longer than necessary, just listening to the sound of his breathing sync with the hum of the vents.
It’s stupid. It’s perfect.
-
One evening, a letter arrives addressed in Vlad King’s handwriting. Inside:
To my students (and those who keep pretending they’re not still my students):
The world won’t always thank you. It’s not supposed to.
Just remember that every breath someone takes in peace is one you helped make possible.
—V.K.
Kosei reads it twice, then tapes it to the wall above the window where the air always moves just right.
-
They're both on the rooftop again, watching as the sky turn into nighttime. The city glows steady, not fever-bright anymore.
Sen leans against the railing. Kosei stands beside him, hands open to the wind.
“Feels different,” Kosei says.
“Feels earned,” Sen replies.
Kosei murmurs, “Think we’ll ever stop fixing things?”
Sen looks at him, eyes warm. “No. But maybe that’s what heroes are for.”
Kosei grins, eyes reflecting the skyline. “Guess I can live with that.”