Shota Aizawa
The UA reunion had been tedious. Two hours of small talk, handshakes with colleagues he'd actively avoided, and former students approaching with too-familiar greetings. Aizawa stopped counting how many times someone said
But Mic's arm locked around his shoulder like a vice before he reached that door.
It might.
Somehow, 'one after-party' had translated to standing in someone's living room, surrounded by former students now turned Pro Heroes with agencies and rankings. Laughing in clusters. Passing bottles. The music was too loud, the lights too dim, and the alcohol in his cup was cheap—some vodka-based nightmare that burned going down and sat wrong in his stomach. He'd nursed the same drink for an hour, using it as an excuse to keep his hands busy, his expression blank. Around him, the party had devolved from 'catching up' to something looser. Too many shots later, the games started. That's when he stopped paying attention and real problems began.
Hizashi grabbed his arm—again—and physically steered him toward the circle forming on the living room floor.
Someone explained the rules, poorly. Something about closets and seven minutes of whatever happens.
Blah blah blah.
The bottle spun. Once. Twice. Aizawa stared at the ceiling, calculating the structural integrity of the window behind him. Could he jump? Third floor. Survivable.
It landed on him first. Of course it did.
The second spin felt longer. Deliberate. As if the universe was conspiring against him in real-time. When it stopped, pointing at a figure across the circle, something twisted in his gut. He recognized that face. Hour, from his first class. His first year teaching, back when he was still figuring out how to be a teacher instead of just an underground hero with a sleeping bag and a death wish.
Hands grabbed and hauled him with the kind of coordinated effort that suggested these people had done actual Hero work together. The door swung open, followed by the shove into a walk-in closet that smelled like designer coats and someone's cologne.
Definitely going to murder Mic when this ended.
Then the realization hit like a bucket of cold water—he wasn't alone. Shota pressed his back against the wall, feeling hangers dig into his shoulder blades. The space was larger than a standard closet but not by much. Two people could stand without touching, but only just. Only if both stayed very still. He could hear breathing. Not his own, but his stude—
Former student.
The correction sat heavy in his chest.
Seven minutes. He could survive seven minutes.
But this was hell.
Remember when you expelled that kid?or
Man, your classes were BRUTAL.He just wanted to go home—had his escape planned for 10 PM sharp.
But Mic's arm locked around his shoulder like a vice before he reached that door.
You're not leaving!
I am.
You're NOT. Shota, you never come to anything! One after-party. Just ONE! It won't kill you.
It might.
Somehow, 'one after-party' had translated to standing in someone's living room, surrounded by former students now turned Pro Heroes with agencies and rankings. Laughing in clusters. Passing bottles. The music was too loud, the lights too dim, and the alcohol in his cup was cheap—some vodka-based nightmare that burned going down and sat wrong in his stomach. He'd nursed the same drink for an hour, using it as an excuse to keep his hands busy, his expression blank. Around him, the party had devolved from 'catching up' to something looser. Too many shots later, the games started. That's when he stopped paying attention and real problems began.
Hizashi grabbed his arm—again—and physically steered him toward the circle forming on the living room floor.
Seven Minutes in Heaven. Classic. You're not gonna bail on this!Aizawa genuinely considered breaking his fingers, social fallout be damned. Being known as 'the teacher who made Present Mic cry at a reunion after-party' seemed a small price to pay.
Someone explained the rules, poorly. Something about closets and seven minutes of whatever happens.
Blah blah blah.
The bottle spun. Once. Twice. Aizawa stared at the ceiling, calculating the structural integrity of the window behind him. Could he jump? Third floor. Survivable.
It landed on him first. Of course it did.
The second spin felt longer. Deliberate. As if the universe was conspiring against him in real-time. When it stopped, pointing at a figure across the circle, something twisted in his gut. He recognized that face. Hour, from his first class. His first year teaching, back when he was still figuring out how to be a teacher instead of just an underground hero with a sleeping bag and a death wish.
Hands grabbed and hauled him with the kind of coordinated effort that suggested these people had done actual Hero work together. The door swung open, followed by the shove into a walk-in closet that smelled like designer coats and someone's cologne.
Definitely going to murder Mic when this ended.
Then the realization hit like a bucket of cold water—he wasn't alone. Shota pressed his back against the wall, feeling hangers dig into his shoulder blades. The space was larger than a standard closet but not by much. Two people could stand without touching, but only just. Only if both stayed very still. He could hear breathing. Not his own, but his stude—
Former student.
The correction sat heavy in his chest.
This is ridiculous,Aizawa muttered to the darkness, exhaling slowly through his nose.
Seven minutes. He could survive seven minutes.
But this was hell.
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