The moment Midnight finished, Izuku dodged. Ojiro flipped forward, slamming his tail against the ground and used the thick, lengthy muscle to launch himself at Izuku. His heel just barely scraped Izuku's forehead as he leaned backwards, avoiding the brunt of his opener—but not evading it entirely.

By twisting his tail, Ojiro landed on his leading foot and pivoted, perfectly turning back to bat aside Izuku's roundhouse. Izuku sent a barrage of follow-ups; axes, butterflies, and even an attempted knee—but Ojiro took them all in stride. Side-stepping the axe, striking Izuku's leading ankle, and coiling his tail around his stomach, Ojiro dismantled Izuku's assault with near-perfect pace. He wasn't too quick, wasn't overeager, and he wasn't hungry to counter. Instead, Izuku realized, Ojiro seemed almost enthused, of all things, at being attacked.

Ojiro uncoiled his tail in one awful whip, nearly catching Izuku's bare ribs. He predicted it well, and shoved his elbow between it and his ribs. By a narrow margin, Izuku kept his breath, and before Ojiro could readjust his weight distribution, Izuku struck back.

Leaning into his tucked elbow, Izuku threw his weight diagonal and flipped, tearing his heel through the air. It almost met between the junction of Ojiro's neck and shoulders, but he'd forgotten about the boy's arms. They crossed just before impact, taking the damage instead of his shoulder—but at a cost. The force of Izuku's kick shattered his guard.

For a brief second, Ojiro was guardless and off-balance. If Izuku'd been on stable ground, he could've hospitalized the guy then and there—but he wasn't. Breaking Ojiro's guard hadn't been easy. Using just his leg to overpower Ojiro's arms was hard, and in doing so, he'd flown off course. However, even while Izuku found himself falling, there was one split second where the world was clear.

Ojiro, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Izuku, sideways, hand outstretched, with nothing between it and Ojiro's gut. Lungs full of air, heart full of passion, head filled with adrenaline—

He could've unloaded a battering ram of smoke into Ojiro's chest, won the round, and called it there. Hell, a thick bundle of blackwhips could've done the same. Both were possible; in that brief moment, Izuku felt he was on top of the world. Not untouchable, but unlimited—vast and brimming with potential. If he really wanted to, he could've won, there and then.

Instead, he tucked his hand under him and used it to spring backwards. The distance gave him the chance to reorient himself—and for Ojiro to regain his bearings. He should've put his guard back up, having seen Izuku's past ranged attacks, but for reasons just as mysterious as Izuku's, he didn't bother.

"Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?" Ojiro said, his voice an octave higher than it'd been speaking to Midnight. There was a thinness to it that hadn't been there before. He was doing a fine job of hiding his queasy lungs, but Izuku could tell. He was doing the same.

Izuku's mind flipped through a thousand hours of hard-fought bouts with Sir Nighteye, and later Mirio, Setsuna, and the Todorokis. It was like a scrapbook of his life—he saw his friends and teachers and family, yet there were pages torn out, missing entirely or just blank. There was a truth missing from his head.

Sprinting forward, Izuku capitalized on Ojiro's question. Sprinting forward and low, he swiped Ojiro's right foot out from under him. Before his balance collapsed, Ojiro stabbed the fluffy end of his tail into the ground, holding himself upright. Izuku tried to get Ojiro's other leg too, but he kicked off the ground and used his tail to hold his entire weight. Cartwheeling with his tail alone, Ojiro landed some two meters out of Izuku's reach—a distance he was loath to cross, given the outstretched tail between them.

A little fear, however, wasn't worth just standing around and waiting for danger. Just before Ojiro lifted his tail from the ground, Izuku sprinted forward. Planting his leading foot on Ojiro's tail, he took three more rapid steps before throwing his whole weight through his knee and into Ojiro's dumbfounded face. Hard-earned calluses on Ojiro's palms softened the blow, but the attack still sent him staggering back, and with a quick follow-up, down.

Ojiro caught himself, but he was clearly seeing stars as he staggered upright. He blinked twice in Izuku's direction before shaking out his hands and popping his jaw. When Ojiro's eyes finally focused, Izuku's breath caught. There was something new.

Something exciting—and familiar.

Throwing his tail to the side, Ojiro generated enough torque to throw himself across their gap and rocket his shoelaces into Izuku's unguardable ribs. The speed at which he spun took Izuku entirely off guard, and he needed every molecule of strength to throw himself aside. It could only soften the blow so much, however.

When Izuku hit the ground, he hit it hard—but Ojiro wasn't done. Without a second to rest, Izuku felt Danger Sense flare like red needles at Chernobyl. Rolling over, he just barely avoided a concrete-shattering blow by Ojiro, and then a second. Each tail-slam left the whole length of his mutation buried an inch deep in cracked concrete. It came away slightly white, dusted with crushed powder—but when Ojiro tried striking Izuku again, his sheer speed would peel the dry crumbles off with air resistance alone.

The necessity of his panic-rolls made pausing for breath difficult, but not impossible. When the third strike cracked the ground next to his head, Izuku took a deep breath and kicked himself back the way he came, throwing off Ojiro's groove and putting good distance between them—at the cost of breathing concrete dust. Even as he juked Ojiro, a coughing fit wreaked havoc through his chest. He managed to stand, but with tears threatening his eyes, he could only trust Danger Sense.

He threw himself away just in time, avoiding what might've been a game-ending strike—but in relying on the quirk alone, he hadn't the faintest plan for a counter, or even a basic recovery. Before he knew it, his vision flashed black and four coin-sized knuckles cracked against his jaw. His lower right rib ate a heavy palm-strike, quickly matched by a sharp elbow digging into his opposite pec. Finally, a knee to Izuku's stomach sent him on his ass, and Ojiro's tail came crashing down across his whole torso, forcing empty his lungs and pinning him down.

Both of them just remained there, not moving. Ojiro breathed like a black horse on a summer solstice. Izuku didn't—couldn't—breathe at all, with the weight on his chest. Instead, he just laid there, smarting all over and head swimming, with only the surprising heat of Ojiro's tail grounding him. Even still, he felt light; like a bubble was building inside him.

Placing his hand against Ojiro's tail, he tilted his head out from under the massive thing and met Ojiro's eyes. They were just as vibrant and alive as they had been. In the distance, he noticed Midnight jogging towards them, asking if Izuku was surrendering, doing her duty—but he didn't care. Not right now.

"...Your…" Izuku said, just barely squeezing out the words with what little he had. "...Heart. Bigger… for tail—more… energy… circulation."

That wasn't all, either. Likely, his lungs and stomach were equally inflated, alongside his bone density and spinal thickness. He'd need those things to support what was essentially a human-sized fifth appendage. It wasn't just good genetics that made him look sturdier—his quirk probably mandated it, and in turn artificially enhanced his base combat skills.

But… that left weaknesses. Izuku could name many, but exploit almost none. To make room for those larger organs, others were certainly shrunken. Ojiro probably had digestion issues with a shorter intestinal tract. His blood probably didn't filter well, with a smaller liver. Worst of all, his pancreas was more than likely smaller and prone to failing. If the boy's tail wasn't crushing him against the ground, he'd recommend Ojiro to visit Shimisuka for their full-body scan, then a endocrinologist, and maybe a dietitian.

As things stood, however, with Izuku on the wrong side of a man-sized slab of warm, powerful flesh, there was one thing he could do. Though Ojiro clearly trained his tail enough to build up thick calluses, it was a massive surface area with what Izuku suspected to be naturally flimsy, elastic skin. Where he'd placed his hand, Izuku felt the thick, nearly inhumanly powerful pulse of blood through a primary vein. All of this ran through his brain in a half-second.

A cut here could be fatal, Izuku thought, but he needn't be so lethal. All it took was…

Izuku ghosted the tips of his fingertips against the vein, and like magic, Ojiro wrenched back his tail, gasping. Instantly, Izuku took in a huge breath and scrambled away on all threes, running until Ojiro stopped laughing.

The moment Ojiro's self control came back, Izuku felt the air change. He stood and turned, facing where Ojiro pinned him down, expecting annoyance or perhaps a reluctant smile. Instead, he saw pure, primal mortification. Ojiro clutched his tail like he'd been scandalized, and Izuku supposed he had—but the burning crimson cheeks and the sweat pouring down his forehead were a bit much.

"In the Second Event, when King Izuku Midoriya let loose, I think some of us were worried that he was no King at all," Present Mic said, his announcer's tone worming its way into Izuku's ears. "I myself worried that, under those soft curls and freckles, he was actually a monster!"

The words, while at first not registering, then hit him like a kick between the legs. Glancing up at the announcer's booth, Izuku searched for the blonde man, but found nothing. His voice was coming from somewhere else.

What on earth was he saying? Izuku thought, suddenly very, very conscious of the crowd. His eyes rolled over the spectators, searching them for giant blond swoops and dark shades—but found nothing. Him? A monster? Why—

Oh, Izuku thought, feeling a sharp, chilling pain pierce his chest. Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh hellfire. He heard the shock in Present Mic's words, the quiet fear, the malice—he heard it all. The way the words left him, the way they affected the crowd, the way they landed in his ears and forced their way through, eating at him.

Present Mic was alluding to what he'd done—what he'd done to All Might, what he'd done on the train, how he'd hurt Sashimi. He was going to reveal it here—after Nighteye went behind his back—after all this time—on live television—while Setsuna was listening—while…

"I thought I'd known him, too…" Present Mic continued, his voice growing grave. Izuku almost threw up blood then and there. He wanted to bash his head against the ground, pluck out his eyes, drain himself of life. "...But I never knew he was a tickle monster!"

…

"Th-that was vile!" Ojiro said, as if from across a long tunnel. His voice echoed in Izuku's ears like in a cavern, repeating over themselves quieter and quieter each time. He could only bring himself to react as they faded to little more than whispers and memories. When he turned his neck, he felt like a chick breaking from its shell. He was so stiff that every movement felt less like the fluid movement of a human and more like the unholy animation of a millenia-old statue.

When every piece of him was shattered and reforged in order to face Ojiro, he didn't know how to feel. He was not the same person who he'd just been, and absolutely not the same statue. Izuku felt he'd finally solved the ship of Theseus.

Ojiro gripped his tail tighter, as if offended by the lacking response. His cheeks transcended mere red—they seemed to be shifting into a hue darker than humans were capable of seeing. Something beyond the human visual spectrum.

"I'm not—" Ojiro began, before spinning to face the crowds. "I-I'm not ticklish! That was just a fluke!"

The spectators screamed. Or perhaps laughed. They were indistinguishable from one another, at that moment. Blood consumed his ears; the ferocious pounding became his whole world. Drums and war and bombs—none could quite rival the strength of his heart as it screamed in his ears.

His trance broke with a single, ice-cold sweat drop. It crossed his forehead first, unnoticed, before curving around his eyebrow and stinging his eye. With a start, Izuku shook his head and blinked, failing to hide the shiver that wracked him.

He could still hear his heartbeat, could still feel it in his fingers and the tip of his tongue, but it was fading, going, gone. His fingers twitched, shooing off Midnight before tucking into his stomach. Without a plan, thought, or anything weighing him down, Izuku ducked low and sprinted at Ojiro full-speed.

The boy's scarlet expression turned serious as Izuku closed in, and without preamble, he too resumed their fight. His tail whipped through the air, cracking the ground where Izuku'd been half a second prior. Sidestepping the strike, Izuku got as close to Ojiro as he dared before slamming on the breaks. With all the accumulated momentum, Izuku scraped his knuckles on the concrete and uppercutted Ojiro's guard. Had it hit dead on, it might've broken him—but Ojiro was good. Too good.

Ojiro countered with an early elbow, blocking Izuku's uppercut with his sturdy arm—yet, Izuku's speed was still enormous. The contact flung Ojiro's arm straight up, leaving his side exposed even as Izuku withheld a scream. His fingers felt wrong, crooked—but the pain was less than what burned in his chest. Ignoring the pain, Izuku snagged Ojiro's shirt, pulling him close before throwing his knee into the boy's unguarded ribs.

The knee landed, but not with the full strength Izuku sought. Just at the contact, Ojiro shoved his other forearm into Izuku's throat. Even a half-strength, off-balance shove was enough to throw Izuku off, if aimed at his adam's apple. Gagging, Izuku staggered back and nearly ate a swift butterfly kick. Ojiro's shoe burned as it scraped past Izuku's ribs, but his shirt diminished the damage, letting the blow slide off.

Before Ojiro could land, Izuku stalked back into Ojiro's inner circle, rapping his knuckles against his under-arm. Ojiro showed no signs of pain, however, and immediately launched back a flurry of lighter, faster attacks once he found his footing. He rarely punched, but they did come. He chopped the air next to Izuku's neck, tried palming his nose, and almost shoved his fingertips in between Izuku's ribs. Izuku evaded what he could and took what he couldn't, retaliating at each.

Catching the chop, he pulled the arm between and shoved his elbow into Ojiro's stomach. Wrenching himself free and reversing the grip, Ojiro held him tight as his other palm crashed against Izuku's cheek, turning his leftmost vision blue-white. Feigning shock, Izuku let Ojiro overreach for his ribs, only to hook the boy's unweighted leg and fall backwards, pulling the boy with him. Landing on his back, Izuku pulled his knees to his chest and kicked, launching Ojiro up and over him.

Twisting his tail mid air, Ojiro landed on his feet—or at least, one foot. He stayed in a kneel, clutching his chest with one hand and openly breathing heavily. His tail rested around him in a circle, occasionally twitching.

Izuku drank in each sweet breath, wiping the sweaty smear of Ojiro's palm off his cheek. Blinking, the world slowly reformed in his left peripheral, the blueish-whiteness fading to purple, then red, and then to the regular world. Just as his vision returned, however, he spotted Ojiro's shoulder's curl inwards.

The ice-cold dread in Izuku's chest turned burning-hot too quickly as Ojiro moved. Using his crouched leg and coiled tail both, Ojiro sprang out and flipped forward, bringing his tail down with devastating force. Too surprised to move, Izuku half-blocked, half staggered sideways. Ojiro's tail crushed his guard and slammed into his shoulder, crumpling and flinging him aside like a ragdoll.

Landing in a mess of limbs, Izuku should've just laid there. Ojiro was the real deal; strong, determined, and skilled. He should've just nursed his wounds—but as he thought of Present Mic's taunt and his pounding heart, he found himself rising, standing, and dashing back, numb to whatever damage he'd taken.

He didn't know how to handle the rush of feelings flooding him, right now. Shame and fear and anxiety mixed with determination and perseverance and… something. Izuku damn near had a meltdown at the utterance of a few vague words, yet now he was dodging, striking, and predicting Ojiro's moves without a single thing weighing him down.

It was only here he felt safe, weirdly enough. Fighting like a madman. If he lingered too long, thought too hard, he wanted to vomit. Palming Ojiro's ribs, fighting through his bruises, and throwing himself at the martial artist before him felt… comforting.

He loved Dr. Fujimaki. The man did a million things for him; he helped Izuku through his worst times and his best, but Izuku couldn't kick him. He couldn't evade a returning punch, or retaliate with an elbow-strike. Likewise, though he could kick Nighteye and he could dodge a counter, he couldn't speak to him. Nighteye simply couldn't speak through his fists, the way Izuku wanted. It wasn't a personal thing; rather, Nighteye fought in the past. There was no passion in his strikes—that was reserved for spontaneity, and that was simply not how Nighteye operated.

At least, Izuku supposed, as Ojiro's tail nearly took him under the ribs, until now. What could've happened, down in that basement, for Nighteye to reveal Izuku's secret? They confronted Nedzu, they meddled with the Sports Festival, and they all learned what kept Izuku locked in perpetual torment.

Why?

Izuku's secret was a part of who he was, what kept him safe. It may keep him a step away from everyone else, but if that step wasn't there, then Izuku wouldn't just be a single step away, but a hundred. A thousand. If people knew he'd been the one behind All Might's death, he'd be more than lonely, more than an outcast, he'd be an exile. Excommunicado.

Of all the U.A. staff, Izuku'd trusted Present Mic most of all. Now, every word the man said sent hairs raising along his neck. He'd begun trusting Aizawa, yet his cold stare felt burned into his back. Even people like Vlad and Midnight could've been allies, at one point…

…Mirio had been his friend, too…

Ojiro kicked Izuku in the ribs, sending him three paces backwards, but before Izuku could hesitate, he threw himself four paces forwards. He struck the blond three times in a blink, each doing little damage alone but collectively sending Ojiro on the backfoot. Slapping aside his left arm, Izuku leaned into an elbow-strike before seizing Ojiro by the throat and shoving him. Once off-balance, Izuku almost finished him by striking him dead in the chest with his heel. Instead, Ojiro caught Izuku's ankle with two hot hands and threw his tail aside, giving him the momentum necessary to pull Izuku off his feet and throw him halfway across the Stage.

How long had he gone since he'd fought like this, with someone? Who so clearly conveyed themselves through each touch, each blow? Months, easily. It left him feeling raw and queasy; like overstimulated country ears, unused to the noises of the big city. Yet, the need to speak, to convey and communicate and break free of his shell felt so strong he was ready to pop. With each kick, punch, strike, or blow, or elbow—whatever it was, Izuku grew more and more pent up. He wanted to be as honest as Ojiro. But he was not. He couldn't be.

Instead, Ojiro hounded him, throwing Izuku around and beating him over and over, not hiding an ounce of himself throughout.

Izuku felt his exhilaration at their good fight, and his fear of overdoing it. He found himself liking Ojiro more and more—the boy feared overperforming against a cripple, yet still refused to hold back. His feelings were so clear, he might as well have spoken them.

"And there goes Midoriya! Look how he flies—and notice how he still hasn't used his quirk! What is he cooking? What tricks could he be planning, what traps could he be laying? Whatever the strategy is, he's certainly taking a beating for it!" Present Mic said, breaking through to Izuku between heartbeats. The man's voice left him on edge, making his nose wrinkle.

He was wrong, Izuku thought, as Ojiro turned Izuku's world upside down with a tail-swipe. There was no plan. No tricks. No smoke and mirrors. No cloaks and daggers. Izuku gained nothing from refraining from using his quirk. In fact, he had everything to lose.

The bubble that began gathering in his chest earlier was now too large to ignore. It pressed against his lungs and heart, aching in his chest with one single need: to pop. Yet, not one hour ago, Izuku'd let loose, and he'd nearly killed and gotten killed at the same time. Was he even capable of letting loose, without hurting someone?

Slowly, Izuku stopped fighting back. He ran head-first into Ojiro, fist aimed and legs cocked—yet he stopped pulling the trigger. Gaps in Ojiro's guard grew more and more apparent, yet Izuku simply… stopped taking them. Ojiro's tail caught his leg, spinning him overhead. His elbow printed itself against Izuku's ribs in the same spots, over and over. His palms began making their mark all over Izuku's body—even the few spots that he guarded with his life. Danger Sense screamed at him to dodge, and sometimes he did…

If he couldn't be honest to Shoto, even knowing his secret was rapidly spreading, how could he be honest to anyone? How could he give anyone a fair fight, if every time he let Blackwhip out, it ran rampant and out of control?

When had it all gotten away from him?

Ojiro socked him in the jaw, and his thoughts scattered to the four winds. The punch hurt—really, really hurt. His teeth cut open his inner lip, and even as he staggered back, shocked at the blow, copper and iron began pooling in his mouth.

They just stood like that, for a second. Izuku, with his bleeding mouth, staring at Ojiro's outstretched hand in surprise. They hadn't much gone for one another's face, but that wasn't what left Izuku so stupefied. Instead, it was the rage. Ojiro's hands had grown warmer and warmer throughout their fight, but until now, they hadn't been more than hot. This time, they were searing, and the pain it brought his cheek still lingered, hissing in the breeze.

Ojiro was furious.

"You seem so skilled! So why?" Ojiro asked, his eyes narrowing as his tail-tip flicked. "Why do you fight like that?"

Izuku blinked, still frozen. Though he spoke quietly, his cadence was on fire; just behind his tongue, he was just barely leashing a spout of flames. For a second, he wondered if he was referring to how Izuku hadn't lifted a finger against him in almost a minute—but then his tail flicked again, cracking the ground.

"Do you even want to be here? Why'd you even come here, if you didn't want to win?" Ojiro continued, gesturing at Izuku like he was some captive beast, put in a carnival cage. "You so proudly asserted that you were going to 1Z, yet here you are, not even trying? I got so excited—you're the best fighter in class, and I was finally going to get my moment. I was going to test my mettle and see where I stacked up—yet you're not even trying!"

"No," Izuku said, staring at the thick calluses dotting Ojiro's white knuckles. He squeezed each fist so hard—Izuku wouldn't want to shake his hand. "You're the best fighter in the class, Ojiro. The way you've incorporated your tail so cleanly into your martial arts… How could I leverage my own quirk against you? It wouldn't be fair—"

"Don't give me that!" Ojiro said, cutting him off. Spittle flew out of his mouth as he stepped forward, uncurling one finger to prod Izuku's chest. "Not fair? You're missing a goddamn arm—and that isn't even the worst part! You're not trying to beat me regardless. I haven't felt a damn thing from anything you've thrown my way!"

Izuku eyed the dark fingerprints bruising the boy's neck, the way angry welts dotted his forearms, and how his shoulders quaked. It was untrue, obviously—but the sheer venom in Ojiro's voice kept Izuku from commenting. Instead, he tried to see what the boy meant—and it didn't take long to see that, either. Ojiro's eyes were on fire. Alive. Fighting.

"...I…" Izuku said, pulling off Ojiro's finger and stepping back. There was so much he wanted to say, but even as the pressure in his chest grew to an agonizing intensity, all he did was look away and study the crowd. Above them, he saw himself and Ojiro on the massive screens. With the way they each postured themselves, it was clear he was being scolded—and that Ojiro wasn't done. On the big screen, he saw Ojiro surge forward before he felt his hands grip Izuku's collar.

"You what? What's wrong, man? Did you just want to make me look like an ass? You're practically a punching back—fuck, you were basically one even before you stopping fighting back! Midoriya, you may hit like an eighteen wheeler, but that doesn't mean anything if you don't have cargo. Where's your passion? Where's your want? Where is your need?"

Izuku couldn't get any words out, with how hard Ojiro shook him. He tried grabbing the boy's wrist, but before he could even wrap his hand all the way around, Izuku found himself on his tip-toes. Ojiro pulled him up and close, staring at Izuku so intensely that he couldn't look away even if his life was on the line. The heat from his eyes drew him in, burning him, yet holding him steady. Something pulled taut in his chest, and the closer Ojiro drew him in, the more he felt—the more he feared—that the boy's heat would melt the thin twine holding him together.

"You know how to fight, despite your arm! You're a whole anomaly, but that skill is wasted on someone who doesn't want to use it! I feel nothing from your fist. You've given me no passion, no enthusiasm, no excitement—not rage, or anger, or even desperation! I came here for the spar of my life, yet you're just… you've just—"

The thread snapped.

Izuku kneed Ojiro in the stomach, forcing him to bend over. The moment Izuku's heels touched the floor, Izuku slid his foot back, locked his leg, and used every molecule of his strength through his arm, cracked his knuckles against Ojiro's jaw.

The boy splattered against the ground like wet paint. Izuku let out a long-suffering breath, unstable and heavy as Ojiro twitched. He blinked white before fidgeting once, and stood.

Ojiro stared at him, only moving to nurse his face and spit out blood. Otherwise, he stood as a mannequin, little more alive than a statue. Izuku wanted to feel bad; he'd sucker punched the guy, but…

It felt amazing. His chest stopped hurting so much. His fingers still ached and felt wrong in his hand, but with one tight squeeze, three knuckles popped and the pain faded. With one spit, he emptied his gums of blood.

He studied his hand. Rough fingers, more calluses than skin, with knotted joints trained to endure punishment—and to dish it out. With Smokescreen, he hadn't needed to condition himself as he had—but he did anyway. Why?

Fighting Nighteye wasn't fulfilling. It was technically mesmerizing—working around his precognition, reaction time, and technique were fun puzzles, but there was no emotional gain. Not like there was against a friend like Mirio, Shoto, or… Setsuna. When was the last time he'd willinging given himself to an opponent, and taken what they'd given back? Sashimi? Aizawa? Endeavor?

A shiver crawled over his back. No. None of them satiated that need in his chest, that thing that needed feeding but was always starving. It'd been months—back before U.A., when he was still fighting Setsuna blindfolded and battling Shoto on the weekends. So much had happened since then, and so little sparring, that he'd simply… closed himself off.

As the thought crossed his mind, Ojiro's demeanor switched. He slid into a fighting stance, upturned fist by his hip and open-palm facing Izuku. A little blood trickled from the corner of his lip. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't flat, either. The fire flared, but didn't grow hostile. The boy was seeing something.

Izuku thought back to the tip of Setsuna's finger, pointing at him. He thought back to Shoto's text, and his confused face as Izuku choked on his words. He thought back to Katsuki, red-faced and cursing him that morning. He thought back to the promise he'd made to himself, under the dunes. Finally, he thought all the way back, to choppers and copper and screams—and to a promise between wielders of One for All.

Up until this very moment, he hadn't the faintest clue how he'd make due on those promises. He hadn't realized it, at first—that determination alone wouldn't have been enough.

He still wasn't ready, Izuku realized, as he slid into his own stance. As he was, it was all a childish impossibility. Leading low with his right foot, Izuku kept his elbow pointed at the floor and he hooked his pointer finger under his chin.

But now, as he stared into Ojiro's eyes, he understood what he needed to do to become ready.

[x]

Kirishima and Uraraka glanced at one another as Izuku and Ojiro clashed. Something was different; they couldn't quite hear what Ojiro said to Izuku, but after that punch, one thing was obvious: Izuku's priorities shifted.

Izuku ducked under Ojiro's tail and plunged his fist into the other boy's liver. Kicks and chops and grapples missed him by hairs, and with each miss, he retaliated in full. A kidney punch, a thigh kick, a collar chop, and everything in between came Ojiro's way.

The blond didn't take the beating lying down, however. Even as Izuku got his second wind, Ojiro was still a close-quarters beast. He ducked and weaved several blows himself, and managed to even land a few—but nothing put Izuku down for long.

On the other hand, every blow Izuku landed seemed to cripple Ojiro. One kick left Ojiro favoring his left foot. One elbow had him bent over, desperate to guard himself. One hammer fist him screaming.

Kirishima stood. A few others joined him, but he paid them no mind. People crowded him as he took to the bottommost seats—the closest to the fight—yet no one said anything. As he drew closer, however, it was like Izuku upshifted his gear. The proportion of his dominance expanded by a magnitude as, somehow, his speed tripled.

Izuku screamed something as he threw six unguarded blows into Ojiro's chest, and Ojiro screamed back. It was brutal. As the fight continued on, it became clear who the victor would be; especially when considering how Ojiro put down his guard. Yet, the fight continued.

Despite Izuku's demonic approach, Ojiro didn't go down. Even as Izuku's strikes began bouncing off his body and echoing into the spectators, and even as Ojiro let them, he didn't go down. Ojiro ate crippling blow after crippling blow and still had room for more. Despite accumulating more damage as Izuku shook his off, Ojiro too was speeding up.

His huge tail sliced through the air nearly as fast as his heels. His palms became pistons, exploding in and out at the slightest gap in Izuku's armor. His skull became a butterfly, riding the wind of Izuku's attacks and avoiding them with precognitive ease. Izuku threw four kicks at Ojiro; Ojiro evaded three and ate one, before countering with three kicks of his own. It was a vicious cycle; one demanded by Izuku's aggressiveness and unkempt by Ojiro's perseverance. Their speeds were incomparable, yet Ojiro still, through some unseen power, kept going.

It clicked for Kirishima before it did for anyone else. Izuku's body attained a green sheen when he bent a certain way, revealing a thin haze of smoke surrounding him. The smoke enhanced him, making him hit harder and faster—and he wasn't done. As the time between exchanges shortened further and further, Izuku's pathing grew more dramatic. He glided across the concrete using smoke under his feet, arcing more and more aggressively until his kicks became undeniably familiar. As his speed picked up, he began kicking like Ingenium Jr.

Ojiro began blocking with his arms and tail both, and with each contact, it became a guarantee that either boy might scream. Kirishima strained his ears, trying to understand what they were saying, but a voice behind him interrupted.

"Wait," Uraraka said, barely audible over the excited crowd, "he's started using his quirk!"

Her recognition spread like a wildfire, and soon, everyone in their section perked up. More bodies pressed against him, trying to get a better view on the fight. The big screens were not adequate, for something like this. What they witnessed with their bare eyes was bigger, somehow, than the enlarged versions overhead. More special. Larger than life.

This was more than a fun skirmish between two future heroes; this was a quirk-sanctioned mixed martial arts battle between two prodigies.

And while one was clearly the better martial artist…

"You, Mashirao Ojiro!" Izuku said, shouting so loud that Kirishima didn't even have to try and hear, "are a master in the making!"

But, Kirishima realized, thinking back on those earlier screams, they hadn't quite been in pain. They'd been screams of excitement.

…The other was the more passionate fighter.

Izuku's shirt ripped open as four black ropes sprung from his shoulders and arced out. Each took hold of the Stage's four corners, and in one fluid, snapping motion, went taut.

Izuku and Ojrio screamed as Izuku planted both feet on Ojiro's chest and kicked, using Blackwhip to maximize his momentum and send Ojiro flying out of the ring. Twisting in the air, Ojiro landed in a kneel and slid two meters further, digging two dark trenches where his knee and shoe tore up the grass.

Even from this distance, Kirishima could see how the boy shook like an autumn leaf in the breeze. The world held its breath as he pitched forward.

And then let out a cheer as he caught himself. On shaking legs, Ojiro managed to stand, turn to the crowd, and bow.

He'd gone down, Kirishima thought, but god damn, he went down like a man.

"Yikes," Shinso said, catching his ear. Glancing at the tall boy, he noted how his skin took on a slightly paler shade. "Remind me to not get on his bad side again."

"Of all people, of all of us, I mean," Uraraka said, drawing his attention to his opposite shoulder. "I didn't expect it to be Ojiro to get through to him."

As Kirishima watched Izuku match Ojiro's bow, an odd feeling bubbled up within him. A mix of pride and… something less pleasant. He was happy for Izuku, but if that performance was what it took for him to get his butt into gear…

Could Kirishima have pushed Izuku like that? Could he even have pushed Ojiro like that? Ojiro, the one person in class who shouldn't be able to touch him?

His thoughts turned to his next opponent as Izuku left the stage, stepping aside to make room for the medics coming Ojiro's way.

If he wasn't even confident in fighting Ojiro, how would fighting Katsuki Bakugo go?

"And with that spectacular finish, we get another glimpse at the monster within! Can our King earn his throne, or shall we crown someone else? After one more match, we'll be taking a thirty minute intermission before the second cour. Please remain patient for a while longer!" Present Mic said.

Kirishima closed his eyes. About forty minutes. Would his head stop spinning before then, or would he have to face 1Z's attack dog with a headache?

[x]

AN: Been like three weeks but I'm back. If you were curious, I was having writers block, so I had to take a single week off-then i got COVID. in TWENTY TWENTY THREE as a ONLINE STUDENT. Ole' grandpa went into the hospital, my dad visited and brought it back. So I'm sick until christmas day-oh yeah CHRISTMAS HAPPENED, and I took that monday off because it was CHRISTMAS-then you'll never guess it, but my birthday was the following week, so I took THAT day off too, and the following day i still had writers block. Thank the spirit of christmas future that i finally locked in yesterday and had my first good writing day in almost two months. So, hopefully, we'll be going back to normal schedule.

PS: This chapter was full of references i forgot i wrote. Madara being the main one, but I sadly deleted a really funny scene where Izuku compared Ojiro somersaulting with his tail to a Slinky. I miss slinkies.

review!~

edit: i yapped so much that i forgot to actually post