The reception was held under a massive, open-sided tent strung with more lights and paper lanterns that swayed in the salty breeze. The formal, reverent atmosphere of the ceremony shattered gloriously, replaced by a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the thumping bass of a playlist curated jointly by Denki and Mina—a chaotic mix of pop anthems and classic rock.

True to Katsuki’s unspoken decree, the catering was a monument to glorious, greasy indulgence. Towers of crispy karaage, platters of glistening yakisoba, juicy burgers, and baskets of golden fries circulated endlessly. It was a deliberate, joyous rejection of pre-wedding diets and sensible choices. “We’re ingesting our yearly limit of oily carbs tonight,” Katsuki had grumbled earlier, piling his plate high, and Izuku had just laughed, stealing a fry from his mountain.

As the night deepened and the cake was reduced to crumbs, Mina produced a box of classic party games with a villainous gleam in her eye. “It’s time to loosen those tailored seams, heroes!”

A massive Twister mat was unfurled on the dance floor. What began as a silly game among their friends quickly escalated into a spectacle of pro-level flexibility, competitive grumbling, and sheer absurdity.

“Right hand, green!” Mina called, cackling.

Katsuki, already bent over, growled as he stretched his arm across Eijiro’s broad back to reach a green dot. Izuku was twisted beneath him, one leg hooked around Ochaco’s waist for balance, his ivory jacket long discarded and his shirtsleeves rolled up.

“Left foot, yellow!”

A collective groan went up from the tangled knot of limbs. Izuku, trying to move his foot, wobbled dangerously, his face pressed awkwardly into Katsuki’s side. “K-Kacchan, I’m going to—!”

“Don’t you dare fall, Deku!” Katsuki barked, but he was grinning, his own face flushed from exertion and the generous amounts of whiskey he’d been sipping.

The resulting “retarded positions,” as Katsuki later described them, were immortalized in a series of increasingly compromised photos. There was one of Shoto contorted serenely between Hanta and Momo, one of a beet-red Tenya trying desperately to maintain both his balance and his dignity, and the crowning shot: Katsuki nearly upside down, supported only by one hand and one foot, with Izuku splayed beneath him, both of them laughing so hard they were crying.

After the inevitable collapse of the human Twister tower, they fell into the sand just outside the tent, a heap of breathless, happy limbs. Someone passed around a bottle of expensive, smoky bourbon.

Izuku, head resting on Katsuki’s thigh, took a swig and coughed, his eyes watering. Katsuki snatched the bottle from him, his touch gentler than his scoff. “Lightweight.”

“Your lightweight,” Izuku mumbled, smiling up at him, his semicolon necklace catching the light.

The alcohol melted the remaining edges off the night, softening everything into a warm, golden haze. Stories were told—embellished, heroic, deeply embarrassing. Katsuki’s parents arm-wrestled Inko, who won, to Mitsuki’s loud, proud fury. Aizawa was found asleep in a deck chair, a paper lantern casting a soft glow on his face, a half-empty cup of sake in his hand.

The party began to wind down, guests departing with loud, sloppy hugs and promises to visit soon. Eventually, it was just the two of them, sitting on the wooden steps leading down to the dark, murmuring ocean. The fairy lights were the only illumination now, reflecting in Izuku’s tired, blissful eyes.

Izuku leaned heavily against Katsuki’s side, smelling of salt, jasmine, whiskey, and home. “Best day ever,” he sighed, the words slightly slurred.

Katsuki looked down at him, at the veil that was now messily tucked into the circlet sitting lopsided on his green curls, at the smudged eyeliner and the contented curve of his mouth. He thought of the frantic drum solo in his chest at the altar, the way it had settled into this steady, powerful rhythm, synchronized with the waves and with Izuku’s breathing.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. He pressed a kiss to the top of Izuku’s head, right where the silver circlet rested. “It was alright.”

Izuku elbowed him weakly. “Liar.” He tilted his head back. “You cried.”

“Shut up. You cried more.”

“I did,” Izuku admitted happily. He fumbled for Katsuki’s hand, their new rings clinking together softly. “Think we can do it all again tomorrow?”

Katsuki huffed a laugh, staring out at the infinite, dark horizon. “We’ve got the rest of our lives, nerd. We can do whatever the hell we want.”

And as the last of the lanterns flickered above them, guttering out one by one like dying stars, they sat in the comfortable, quiet dark, two silhouettes against the vast, singing night, full of greasy food and good whiskey and a future so bright it made the past seem like a prelude.