Music pounded so hard the windows rattled. Somebody had dragged two speakers in from God knows where and wired them into the TV, and now the bass was vibrating through the floorboards like the building was trying to escape the party.

Every surface was covered. Chips, mochi, pizza boxes stacked like a card castle, a bowl of punch that glowed faintly under the blacklight strips somebody had taped under the couch. Empty cans, half-empty cups, a single shoe on top of the fridge.

And on the TV screen, Just Dance was losing.

A green-haired boy in All Might pajama pants was losing worse. Every one of his limbs was going a different direction. His arms windmilled. His hips betrayed him. The screen flashed MISS. MISS. MISS.

The narrator took a long, slow breath like she was about to say something into a microphone.

Cmere.

LOOK AT THESE DAMN FOOLS.

Y'all survive a whole WAR just to act like this? A war. Blood, sweat, tears, All for One, the whole nine yards. Gah damn. Lord have mercy on my soul.

You were sprawled across the couch beside Katsuki while the chaos unfolded around you. He had not moved in twenty minutes.

His drink was untouched. His eyes were on the ceiling. His mind was somewhere in a support-gear schematic.

LOOK AT THIS NERD. Everybody else gettin' drunk, somebody finna throw up in a plant, and this boy over here giving a damn TED TALK.

Trouble has a name tonight, and tonight, trouble is looking at Katsuki Bakugo.