Chapter Text
Perched high above the city, carved into polished stone and glass, the academy stood like something untouchable, distant from the chaos below, as if art itself required separation from the ordinary.
People didn’t just apply to U.A Academy.
They auditioned,. And even that word felt too soft.
Auditions at U.A Academy were known all throughout Japan, whispered about in studios, passed between dancers like urban legends.
Three rounds, no second chances, and absolutely no sympathy.
The first was technique. You were expected to walk in already excellent.
The second was adaptability. They would break your habits, push you into unfamiliar styles, watch how you reacted when you are stripped of comfort.
And third… the third was where most people failed.
Presence. Not confidence, or skill, but something else. Something harder to define.
The kind of presence that made a room quiet when you moved.
Thousands of auditions, not just in Japan but people worldwide would travel just for a chance to get in. Dozens made it past the first round. Fewer survived the second. And by the end, only a handful remained.
Those who were accepted didn’t celebrate, not really. Because everyone knew, getting into U.A Academy was not the achievement, it was the beginning. Because when you step food into the most prestigious dance academy in all of Japan, top 5 in the entire world, you don’t have time to celebrate, you start to work.
The academy itself was divided. Not officially, not in any way written down. But everyone knew.
Different wings, different studios, different philosophies.
The academy would teach multiple different dance genres, each student auditioning for one specific one, one dance that they’ve practised their entire life. Their teaching would include dances such as Contemporary. Ballroom and Latin, Jazz, Hip-Hop, Tap, Folk and Cultural, Ballet and so much more. However despite their wide range of dance courses, only 15 students would be accepted for each course. The training would take three years, and whilst year one students would go into year two, a lucky new 15 will be accepted to start their journey.
And although most students held certain judgements towards other courses, there was no bigger rivalry than the Ballerina’s and the Hip Hop sensations. It makes sense, the two completely contradict one another, however this meant that students would often hear or be the cause for snarky remarks.
The Ballet Division lived in the east wing, all mirrored halls, pale lights, and silence that felt almost sacred. Precision lived there. Discipline. Perfection. Every movement measured. Every line intentional. There was no room for error, only control.
The Street Division occupied the west wing, open spaces, scuffed floors, music that bled through the walls. Energy lived there. Expression. Freedom. Mistakes weren’t pushed, they were turned into something knew.
They both trained under the same name. Wore the same crest. Represented the same academy.
But they were not the same. And they knew it.
“You see them this morning?” A voice echoed through the west wing studio, music low in the background, the air already warm with movement.
“They had the whole hallway blocked again,” another replied.
“Of course they did,” a third snorted. “Wouldn’t want the rest of us ruining their perfect little lines.”
Laughter broke out, easy and familiar.
At the centre of it, Kirishima stretched his shoulders, rolling out tension as he leaned back against the wall. “They take themselves too seriously”, he said, shaking his head, “Its just dancing.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that!” Sero grinned, spinning a piece of tape in-between his fingers, “You’ll start a war.”
“Already did,” Mina chimed in, bouncing lightly on her toes. “Pretty sure we’re always at war!”
“More like a Cold War,” Jiro corrected, adjusting her earbuds. “Lots of judgment and very minimal actual interaction.”
Kaminari skipped through the doors of their studio, his backpack two extra speakers away from overflowing, “You guys talking about how we hate the preppy’s?” He laughed.
“Speak for yourself,” Sero said. “Some of us have connections.”
Jiro smirked. “Yeah, some of us do.”
Kirishima snorted, “Traitors.”
“Call us open minded” Jiro shot back.
“Open minded or just delusional?”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are,” Kirishima said easily, pushing himself off the wall. There was no hesitation in it. No doubt.
Ballet to him had always looked stiff, controlled, restricted. All that effort just to look effortless. All that discipline just to hide it. What was the point? “They are all just stuck up assholes.”
Sero and Jiro raised a brow.
“I mean sure, stereotypically, but you’ve not exactly talked to many ballerinas before, so how would you know?”
“I don’t need to speak to them,” Kirishima shrugged, “I can see it.”
“And what do you see?” Kaminari asked, interest peaked.
Kirishima smirked slightly, “People who are too scared to mess up.”
The music suddenly kicked up, their teacher, who goes by the name Present Mic, walked in with more energy than a caffeinated toddler. “Alright party people! I wanna see you bust out your warm ups by the count of five! One, Two, FIVE!”
The music kicked up even more, the room shifted with energy rising and bodies moving. And just like that, the conversation dropped.
Because this? This is where they belonged. Where movement wasn’t controlled, it was felt.
Later in the evening, the halls of U.A Academy were quieter. The kind of quiet that came after hours of training.
Kirishima walked alone through the halls, water bottle in hand, still warm from rehearsals. He wasn’t thinking about ballet. He never did. Not really. It just didn’t matter to him.
Until, he passed the east wing, and the door was open, just slightly.
Music spilled out. Soft, delicate, different.
Kirishima almost kept walking. Almost.
But something made him glance inside, and that was the moment everything shifted.
Inside, a single dancer moved. Sharp, precise, but not stiff. Not controlled in the way Kirishima had always dismissed. There was power in it. Tension. Something coiled just beneath the surface. Every moment deliberate, but not empty. Never empty.
And when he turned, just slightly, the light caught him.
Blonde hair, sharp eyes, focused and unreachable.
Kirishima didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t look away, or more so… couldn’t look away.
Because that wasn’t what he expected. That wasn’t what ballet was supposed to look like.
“…What the hell,” he muttered under his breath. But he didn’t leave, didn’t walk away, didn’t even blink.
Because for the first time, ballet didn’t look stiff or controlled. It didn’t look boring, it looked…impossible.
And he couldn’t stop watching.