Nothing Left to Manage

Evening · The Grand Dynasty Ballroom

The Grand Dynasty Ballroom — crystal chandeliers burning low, the room thinned to its final third

The ballroom has quieted to something between a party and an aftermath — chandeliers dialed back to amber, most of the formal clusters dissolved into smaller constellations of two or three, the string quartet replaced by a single pianist working through something unhurried in the far corner. Megi steps through the east entrance and the room doesn't stop, exactly, but it registers: a few heads turn, a few don't bother to hide that they're looking. Denki is the first face she finds — not because he moved toward her, but because he is the one person in the room who is very deliberately not looking at the door, sitting sideways on a settee near the decanter table with his yellow blazer pushed to his elbows, the matte black grounding band catching the low light, and the particular stillness of someone who decided not to watch for her and is failing at it. Todoroki is across the room near the tall windows, standing with a glass he hasn't touched, and his gaze finds her the moment she clears the threshold — just a fraction of a second, steady and unhurried, before he looks back at the dark garden glass.

Denki Kaminari: "Hey. You're back."

Izuku Midoriya: "Megi — I'm glad. I wasn't sure if you'd come back down tonight."

"Yes. I'm sorry, I-" She stops, before walking to Denki, "...I owe you an apology. For disappearing. If you can forgive me, if you want to, I would be so, so very happy to walk with you tonight so that we can have the rest of the night. But, if not, I completely understand."

The apology lands before she finishes it — she stops herself mid-sentence and just walks toward him, and that's the whole argument. Denki goes very still for one beat, the deliberate not-watching-the-door entirely abandoned now, his yellow blazer catching the amber chandeliers as he turns to face her properly. The settee cushion shifts when he swings his legs down. Something in the line of his shoulders loosens, slow, like a breath he'd been holding since before she came in through the east entrance. Across the room, Todoroki's gaze lifts from the dark window glass — steady, unhurried, one full second — and settles back. Dabi, leaning near the far column with his coat hanging open, clocks the direction she walked and doesn't move. The pianist in the corner keeps working through the same unhurried phrase, as if the whole room agreed not to make anything of this.

Denki Kaminari: "Hey — you don't have to be so sorry. You came back. That's already the part that counts. And yeah. I want to walk with you. Obviously. The courtyard's still clear if you want somewhere with actual air."

"I would love to." She offers her hand.

Megi's hand goes out between them — open, unhurried, an offer rather than a demand — and Denki looks at it for one full second before he takes it, his fingers closing around hers with the same careful deliberateness he brings to everything that matters to him tonight. He rises from the settee in one smooth motion, the yellow blazer settling at his elbows, the matte black grounding band a dark line at his wrist where their hands meet. The room's amber chandeliers wash them both in the same low gold, and from the tall windows Todoroki's gaze passes over her once — steady, unhurried, then back to the dark garden glass without comment. Dabi, at the far column, does not move, but his head turns a single fraction and stays there. The pianist in the corner keeps working through the same unhurried phrase, and the ballroom does not stop — but it registers, the way rooms always do, the smallest shift in weight and direction.

Denki Kaminari: "I already forgave you. That part's done. The only thing left is the walk."

Izuku Midoriya: "Goodnight, Megi — take care of each other out there."

Pull aside

She doesn't have to say where — her hand extended is the whole answer, and Denki takes it without asking. He laces his fingers through hers as they drift away from the last amber cluster of guests, past the decanter table, into the quieter end of the ballroom where the chandeliers barely reach and the pianist's unhurried phrase softens to something that isn't quite music anymore, just texture. The heel of his thumb settles against the back of her knuckles — not gripping, just present — and when they find a column to stand beside, away from the remaining line of sight, he turns to face her properly for the first time all evening. His yellow blazer is pushed to the elbows. The matte black grounding band catches the low light at his wrist, just beside where their hands are joined. He looks at her like he's been waiting to do exactly this since she walked in through the east entrance and found him very deliberately not watching the door.

Denki Kaminari: "Okay. Just us. Hi."

"Hi," She smiles, soft, genuine, "I'm glad you said yes. I wanted to see the rest of what you wanted to show me."

The smile lands on him like the first bar of a song he already knows by heart — soft and genuine and aimed directly at him, no performance in it, and Denki goes very still for one breath the way he does when something actually reaches him. His thumb moves once against her knuckles, slow. He looks at her the way he's been trying not to look at her from across the room all evening — open, all the way open, yellow blazer pushed to his elbows and the grounding band catching the amber edge of the chandelier light from thirty feet away. Something loosens in the line of his jaw. He doesn't say anything for a beat, just holds the smile back at her, and then the grin arrives — not the performed one, the other one, the one that goes quiet and warm at the edges and doesn't quite know what to do with itself. He lifts their joined hands an inch off the air between them, a small motion that is half a question and half an answer, and tips his head toward the far end of the column where the light barely reaches.

Denki Kaminari: "Okay, hi. Good. Yeah, I — I really wanted to show you, so. You're already doing the right thing. Keep trusting me for like four more minutes."

She squeezes his hand gently, "I'll trust you for however long you need. Partner."

The word lands between them — partner — and something in Denki's face does the thing it does when reality catches him off guard: not a grin, not a performance, just a beat of stillness where everything he was about to say quietly exits and the actual truth steps in. His fingers press around hers — once, deliberate, the grounding band warm against her wrist — and he steps in closer, the last foot of amber shadow between them collapsing without ceremony. He's near enough now that she can see the collar pins catching what little light reaches this corner, and the way his chest moves when he inhales like he's deciding something. Then he reaches into the breast pocket of the yellow blazer with his free hand and sets something small and folded on the column ledge beside them — a single page, creased into quarters, the kind of thing you write three times before you stop editing it — and doesn't let go of her hand to do it.

Denki Kaminari: "I had a whole thing planned. A speech, kind of. I practiced it this morning in the mirror which is — yeah, that's exactly as embarrassing as it sounds. But you just said 'partner' and I think I lost the whole script, so. What I actually want to say is — I wrote it down because I kept running out of nerve. It's yours if you want it. No obligation. I just didn't want to hold it anymore."

"...I would love to read it."

He looks at her for one full beat — something in his expression doing what it did earlier, the performed ease going quiet and the actual thing surfacing underneath — and then he reaches across with his free hand and lifts the note from the column ledge, holds it out between them. It is small in his palm. One page, folded into quarters, the crease lines soft from being handled and rehandled, and his name is not on it; it was never meant for anyone else. He doesn't let go of her hand to offer it — just holds both things at once, the note in his open palm and her fingers laced through his, waiting without rushing, the amber light barely reaching this corner of the room and the pianist's phrase unwinding somewhere far behind them.

Denki Kaminari: "So. I rewrote it three times. The first version was way too long and the second one was trying too hard to be cool, which — yeah. Third one I just wrote what was actually true and then I stopped editing because I was going to ruin it. It's not long. I just — I want you to know I meant every word exactly as it's written, not as a performance, not as a play. Just as the thing that's true."

"I'd love to read it. Let me see?"

He turns his hand so the note rests flat across both their palms at once — his beneath, hers receiving — and when her fingers close around the paper he doesn't let go of her other hand, the one he's been holding since they left the candlelight. The fold is soft, almost worn, the kind that happens when you open and re-read and re-fold something more than twice. Inside, the handwriting is his: the letters lean a little, unhurried, the kind of print-script that lands somewhere between careful and just letting it go. It is not long. It says: I don't know how to do this right and I've stopped pretending I do. What I know is that every time you look at something the way you actually see it — not the way you're supposed to — I feel like I figured out the whole point of showing up. I don't want to be the person you're glad about in a tally. I want to be the person you reach for when the room gets too loud. That's it. That's the whole thing. — D. He watches her read it. His thumb settles against her knuckles — once, slow, the grounding band warm at his wrist — and says nothing at all while the words do what they were written to do.

Denki Kaminari: "I know it's not — I know it's short. The first draft was two pages and I burned it because it sounded like I was writing a legal brief. That's what's actually left when I took everything else out."

She reads it, really reads it, before holding it to her chest. She releases his hand, just long enough to wrap her arms around him and hug him. "Denki, I- I don't know what to say..."

She holds the note to her chest first — a small, deliberate press, the paper catching the red of her sash against her palm — and then her arms open and close around him before she's fully decided to do it, the note still between her fingers where they meet at his back. He goes perfectly still for one half-second, the kind of still that means he wasn't expecting it and isn't going to waste it, and then his arms come around her completely — both of them, unhurried, one hand settling between her shoulder blades and the other at the curve of her back where the leather jacket ends and the silk begins. The yellow blazer is warm from the ballroom air and from him, and the grounding band presses faintly against the small of her back through the fabric, steady and real. His chin finds the top of her head. He doesn't say anything yet. He just holds on.

Denki Kaminari: "You don't have to say anything. You really, really don't. I just — I needed you to know, that's all. That's the whole job it was doing."

"Then...I know. All the way to my bones, Denki. I know."

The words land somewhere below speech — all the way to my bones — and she feels him breathe in against her crown, slow and unsteady, the kind of breath that is not quite control. His hand at her shoulder blades tightens once, the yellow blazer warm under her fingers where they press against his back, and the folded note between them makes the smallest sound as the paper catches between their bodies. He doesn't pull back. He doesn't fill the space. He just holds on, his chin settling more firmly at the top of her head, and for a moment the only thing in this corner of the ballroom is the soft ambient gold and the distant thread of the piano and the fact that he is not performing anything at all — no grin, no deflection, nothing between him and the word she just gave him. Then his hand moves: not stepping back, not adjusting the embrace but sliding the smallest distance up her spine, deliberate and careful, the grounding band warm through the silk of her dress, as if he is making sure she is real and not something he wanted hard enough to invent.

Denki Kaminari: "Okay. Good. That's — yeah. That's the whole thing I didn't know if you'd say back to me, and you just said it, and I'm — I'm not going to pretend I know what to do with it except keep holding on for another second."

"Then, hold me. I want to be honest, I need...time. Time to think, time to talk, time to...to take care of some things. But, I know now that I have you in my corner."

His hand stills against her spine — not pulling away, not adjusting, just going quiet where it rests, the grounding band a steady press of warmth through the silk. She can feel him breathe around what she just said, the yellow blazer rising once, slow, and when he exhales it goes all the way out like something he had been holding up without meaning to. His chin lifts from her crown — not stepping back, just making room to see her without losing the contact — and when she looks up his face is doing the thing where everything performed has completely gone and what is left is just him, the collar pins catching the last of the amber, his eyes soft and direct and not asking for anything she hasn't already given. The note is still pressed between them, caught in the fold of her arms at his back, and he makes no move to reclaim it.

Denki Kaminari: "Okay. Yeah. That's — I'm not going to rush you. I mean that in the least cool way possible, like, genuinely, take whatever time you need. I'm not going anywhere."

"Thank you, Denki, I- just staying means so much, and...everything you've done has been...other people may not think it's cool, but I think it's amazing. The badge. The ballroom. The...being here."

The words land one at a time — the badge, the ballroom, the being here — and you feel him go very still, not the kind of still that means he is bracing but the kind that means he heard every word and is letting it sit somewhere it will actually stay. His hand has not moved from the middle of her back. The amber light barely reaches this corner, and the pianist somewhere behind the columns has shifted into something slower, almost absent, as if the whole room decided to give this one spot its quiet. When he finally exhales it comes out uneven, not performed — just the real shape of what that cost him to hear from her without deflecting it into a joke. He pulls back just far enough to look at her properly, still close enough that the yellow blazer is warm against her arms, and something in his face has gone completely unguarded in a way that has nothing to do with the grin and everything to do with the person behind it.

Denki Kaminari: "Nobody has ever — okay, I'm going to need a second because I was not prepared for that exact sentence and I'm trying really hard not to make it weird by crying in a ballroom at an imperial gala."

🎬 Stay quiet — just look at him

The quiet she gives him is not empty — it has weight, and he feels it. His eyes don't move from her face, and for once there is no grin standing guard at the corners of his mouth, no self-deprecating footnote waiting to be dropped before the moment can get too real. He just looks at her, the collar pins catching a last thread of amber from somewhere above the column, the yellow blazer warm and still between them. His hand stays at the small of her back — not a move, not a claim, just proof he is here — and something behind his expression shifts the way a room shifts when a window is finally opened: not dramatic, just suddenly different air. The grounding band is a steady press of warmth through the silk of her dress, and when his throat moves it is not to speak first, only to swallow the thing he nearly said before he decided it did not need saying out loud.

Denki Kaminari: "Nobody's ever — okay. Nobody's ever listed them before. Like that. Badge, ballroom, being here. In order. I think I'm going to remember the way you just said that for a really long time."

She blushes a little, "...I hope so. I hope we both get the time to remember all that."

The blush lands before she can organize a thing to say about it, and she watches it happen in real time — him tracking it, the collar pins catching amber, nothing on his face performing anything anymore. She said I hope so and he heard it land the same way the note did, the same way the badge did, like something she handed him without quite deciding to, and he is not going to waste it by moving. The folded note is still somewhere between them, warm from both their hands. Outside this column the ballroom continues — distant piano, the low acoustic weight of the room — but here it has gone very quiet in the specific way that means neither of them wants to be the one to break it first.

Denki Kaminari: "Yeah. Me too. I'm going to hold onto that one for — yeah. Both of us. All the time we need."

She leans her head into him, "...and the first two drafts probably would have been fine, too, Denki. If I don't have to be...perfect...neither do you. Just be Denki for me."

She leans her head in against him — not collapsing, just choosing — and something in his chest does the thing where it forgets to stay still. His hand at her back doesn't tighten but it doesn't move either; it stays exactly there, grounding band warm through the silk of her dress, the yellow blazer soft against her cheek. The comment about the first two drafts lands somewhere between his ribs and doesn't bounce off the way he's so practiced at making things bounce. He's quiet for a beat — a real one, not a performance of considering — just holding the fact that she said that, that she offered him the same imperfection she just asked for herself, and he doesn't have anywhere to put the size of it so he just lets it sit.

Denki Kaminari: "The first draft opened with 'Hey so I know this is weird—' and the second one had a diagram. An actual diagram. Of feelings. With a key. I think — I think I've spent so long trying to get it exactly right so nobody could look at it and find the part where I'm not enough. And you just — you said 'just be Denki' like that's the whole answer. Like that's enough to bring."

She suppresses a small giggle, not wanting to laugh at him when he's trying so hard, "A diagram?" She asks softly, "Of what?"

The suppressed giggle escapes anyway — small and warm, tucked against the yellow blazer — and she feels him go immediately self-conscious, the hand at her back shifting just enough to betray it. He doesn't pull away, but something in his posture does the thing where it wants to, and then decides against it. The amber light catches the edge of a collar pin when he tips his chin down to look at her, equal parts mortified and — underneath that — something that looks a lot like relief that she asked the question at all instead of pretending she didn't hear it. The folded note is still warm between them, and he is not performing any of this.

Denki Kaminari: "...Footwork. It was an etiquette footwork diagram. For the waltz. Because I hired a tutor — privately, don't — anyway, I kept blanking on the box step under pressure and I thought, what if I just mapped it out, labeled the beats, made a key— And then under the key I wrote 'in case I step on her and she decides I'm not worth the orthopedic bill' and that was when I realized I had maybe gone too far with the diagram."

She suppresses a giggle at it, trying not to laugh when he's clearly laying his heart out, even if it is objectively funny. She looks up toward him, "That's always been enough. What did the diagram look like?"

The suppressed giggle escapes anyway — small, warm, tucked against the yellow blazer — and she feels him clock it immediately, that chin-down mortification warring with something else underneath, something that looks almost like gratitude that she asked what instead of why. He shifts just enough that she can read his face properly — still flushed, still self-conscious — but he doesn't pull back, and his hand stays exactly where it's been this whole time, steady at the small of her back through the silk. The amber light barely reaches them here, and the distant piano has gone even quieter, as if it understands it is not the event. When she says that's always been enough, something in him goes very still for exactly one beat — not performing the stillness, just briefly unable to figure out what to do with a sentence that size — and then the corner of his mouth pulls sideways in spite of himself.

Denki Kaminari: "Okay, so — in my defense — it was extremely organized. It had labels. It had a legend. The legend had a footnote. The footnote said, and I quote, 'weight transfer on beat three is the villain of this entire waltz and I refuse to let it embarrass you on live broadcast.'"

She blinks, "...we were going to dance?" She asks genuinely, "Oh, oh, Denki, please tell me we still can? It doesn't have to be anything fancy or anything, it can just be music from your phone, but...oh, can we?"

The question lands in him somewhere between the sternum and the throat, and his whole face does the thing where it forgets to perform — the chin comes up, the collar pins catch amber, and for one full second he just stares at her like she handed him something he had already decided he wasn't allowed to want. His hand at her back shifts exactly one degree, not pulling her closer, not letting go, just — recalibrating. The distant piano has gone quiet, the ballroom thinned to its evening bones, and the column's shadow wraps them in enough dark that the nearest camera angle would catch nothing but yellow blazer and linen. He holds her eyes, and then — slow, unstoppable, the grin that is not performing anything at all spreads across his face, and he reaches into his blazer pocket with his free hand and comes out with his phone.

Denki Kaminari: "Okay. Okay — yes. Yes, we absolutely can, I — hold on, give me two seconds, don't move, do not move — I had a whole playlist. I made it three weeks ago. I told myself it was 'general event planning'. It was not general event planning."

She stares, before smiling, "Three weeks- Denki, we didn't even know each other three weeks ago..."

The number lands between them — three weeks — and she watches it hit him somewhere behind the eyes, that particular stillness that isn't performing anything. His phone is still in his hand, the playlist glowing up at the both of them, but he's not looking at it anymore. He's looking at her the way he looked at the note when she pressed it to her chest: like something he was absolutely certain he was going to have to explain away just became real without his permission. The amber light barely clears the column's edge, and the distant sound of the ballroom is so thin by now it's almost just the two of them and the chandelier breathing, and he exhales once — slow, deliberate — and the grin that comes after it is not the armor version.

Denki Kaminari: "Three weeks. I know. And I had a whole thing I was going to say about that — something clever, something with good timing — and you just looked at me like that and now I've got nothing. Just — yeah. Three weeks. And somehow I already made you a playlist and a diagram and a badge, and I was outside your door, and I — I think I figured out pretty fast that you were the kind of person worth making a fool of yourself over."

She bites her bottom lip against a smile, "Then, the feeling is mutual. Even though for the record- off the record- I don't think you're making a fool of yourself."

The words land soft and certain, and something in his face does the specific thing it only does when she means it — the grin falters not because it fails but because something realer is trying to come through underneath it, and for once he lets it. His phone is still lit in his free hand, the playlist sitting there patient as a promise, and the hand at her back doesn't move an inch. He holds the fact of what she said for one full beat, turns it over, finds it solid all the way through — and then exhales through his nose in something that is not quite a laugh and not quite relief but lives precisely in the gap between. The column's shadow holds them still, and the ballroom's distant amber barely clears his collar pins when he tips his chin down to look at her — not performing the look, just wearing it.