Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘I regret it, Kaminari.’

The cursor blinked mockingly at him. The blonde stared at the words, his chest tightening as if guilt was pressing down on him. He didn’t hit “Send.” Not yet.

He doubted he ever could.

-

“Yoyoyo, chat! It’s been too long, I swear!”

Denki’s voice rang out as the stream went live, bright and chipper. 

The camera framed him perfectly, seated in front of a dual-monitor setup glowing with RGB lights. His hair was a little less spiky than in his hero days, swept to the side with more length, but the boyish grin he wore was as infectious as ever. His backdrop was cozy—a mix of shelves lined with figures and posters and a bass guitar propped against the wall.

He had grown up a lot from his days at U.A., but it wasn’t like he became unrecognizable. The hints of who he used to be were still there in the details—the mischievous sparkle in his golden eyes and his grin curved just a little too wide when he was teasing. It was easy to imagine him still suited up, and sparks crackling at his fingertips, charging headfirst into a fight with that reckless energy he’d always been known for.

But that wasn’t him anymore. Nowadays, lazing around in yesterday's clothes and gaming into the early hours was more his speed. The Denki Kaminari of now wasn’t chasing villains through city streets or pushing himself past his limits. He was chasing high scores and perfecting his latest tracks, streaming his life to an audience that adored him for reasons entirely separate from his past. And he liked it that way.

“Alright, alright, chat,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, his hands resting on the edge of the desk. “What’ve you guys been up to while I’ve been MIA? Did y’all seriously survive without me? Be honest.” His grin widened as the chat exploded with exaggerated pleas of abandonment.

[BUNNY39]: “Barely! Do you even care about us, Bolt?!😭”

[ZAPFANGIRL]: “He finally came back with the milk!!!”

[HYPEREDITS]: “Denki, pls tell me the rumors about the album dropping are true???”

“Milk jokes? Really? I thought I raised you better than this.” He wagged a finger at the camera, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “And as for the album, my lips are sealed. But, hey—good things take time, right?”

[FLOWERG7RL]: “Are you ever gonna go back to hero work?”

[squidwardtentencalls]: “Thought you were like... the hero back in the day.”

The electric blonde paused momentarily before snorting loudly, covering his mouth with his hands and laughing even louder.

“Back in the day?! Chat, you hurt me! Who was it that said I ‘was a hero back in the day’?--”

Getting comically close to the camera, he pointed dramatically, a playful pout on his lips. “I will have you know that I am only 22 years old. 22 ! So no, okay, I have not reached ‘unc’ status yet.”

He straightened back up, rolling his eyes as he chuckled. His eye had a playful glint, but it didn’t quite reach the rest of him. He quickly returned to the game, clicking around to start a new round. The comments rolled past him as usual, but he deliberately ignored them. He focused on the screen, fingers moving fast across the keys.

[SUSHIKING11]: Seriously, man, I miss seeing you in action. You were so good at it!

He ignored the words completely. 

Instead, he leaned back, running his hand through his hair and focusing on the game. "Alright, alright, chat. Enough talk, time to win this round. Let’s go!”

The game continued, and its noise filled the space—beeps, digital gunshots, explosions. Denki was lost in the rhythm, the keyboard clicking and matching the beat of his thoughts. His audience continued to drop donations and questions, but he kept his energy up, pretending none of the past bothered him.

He pretended because it did. It bothered him.

They ask, of course, but you couldn’t tell him that the people watching now had actually cared to know why he even left in the first place. Either way, he had no idea what he could say in response. Hell, he didn’t even know what to tell his own family when he decided to ‘retire’ at the spry, young age of 20.

He sighed under his breath, eyes flicking to the chat for a split second before focusing back on the game. The comments about his past hero work? He’d learned long ago just to let them roll off. He didn’t need to address them. The game, the donations, the bright little usernames— they were all distractions from the parts of his life he didn’t want to deal with. And yet, it was the only thing that felt normal anymore.

He grinned to himself, fingers dancing across the keyboard. The countless games he played? The support from his online fanbase?  It was his safe space. It was what he loved.

He loved it no matter how many harsh comments he received or prying questions he received. Denki loved interacting with new people daily and had a massive, positive effect on others.

The constant chatter of the stream faded into the background as he focused on his next move, gliding effortlessly into the next round. For a brief moment, everything felt in sync. There was a fluidity to it all—his reactions, the precision he shot, the deep focus in his chest, and the comforting hum of the keyboard beneath his fingertips.

A donation pinged, and he barely glanced at it as he read the message, his lips curling into a playful grin.

[GAMER_GIRL69]: “You really are better at this than being a hero, huh?”

He huffed a little laugh and quickly responded, his voice light and teasing. “Don’t get me wrong, being a hero was fun and all, but... this?” He motioned broadly to the setup around him with a grin. “This is where the real action is.”

As the game picked up, he felt his body loosen, the tension in his shoulders fading with each shot he landed. The adrenaline was different here. It wasn’t life or death, and it wasn’t the weight of saving someone’s life hanging in the balance. But it felt good. It felt right.

He was still helping .

His fingers tapped rhythmically, moving faster as he maneuvered his character through the digital chaos.

Despite the madness on the screen, there was a certain peace in this. The noise of his past faded increasingly the deeper he got into the game. And even though a small part of him wished he could forget that there was ever a “before”—when he had been “Chargebolt, the Pro Hero,” when people relied on him—it felt too far gone to even matter now.

Because now, people relied on him differently. They needed him to be “Chargebolt, the Musician and Steamer,” ready to stream at 8 pm on the dot every other night, because that was his job.

He had his audience now. They needed his energy, jokes, and bright personality to lighten their nights. He had traded one form of helping for another, and despite how different it was, it still gave him a sense of purpose.

Denki was wanted. He was needed. And that was something.

Yet he knew. Nothing could ever compare to the look in someone's eyes when you save them.

That split second when they realize they're going to be okay. The tension melts away when their whole body relaxes, replaced by a deep breath of relief. It was intoxicating. He used to live for that feeling—the rush of being needed, of being the one who made a difference.

But that was before.

That was before the weight of failure started to stack up. Every time he stepped in to help, he’d failed just a little more. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been able to save people; it was the constant reminder that he wasn’t enough. The time he couldn’t get there fast enough. The time his powers short-circuited in the middle of a rescue, leaving someone hanging. The times he just barely missed being there in time to prevent the worst from happening.

It was never just one person. It was the accumulation of it all—the people who relied on him and his inability to always be the hero they needed. Each failure had chipped away at him, leaving a deep, gnawing ache that never fully disappeared.

Just as nothing could compare to how it felt to be the reason someone was still kickin’, nothing could truly heal the fractures in your mind when you’re the reason someone wasn’t. It could never be just one person’s death. It was all of them. The faces. The names. The seconds ticked by when he could have been better.

The memories always returned when he was alone—when the lights were off, when the cheering from his fans had faded, and he was left with nothing but his own thoughts. The guilt never stopped gnawing, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

Most nights weren’t like this– but it happened frequently enough for it to be a stable issue in his mind. Any slight thing could trigger him, sending him right back to one of those countless moments where a life slipped through the cracks of his fingers.

Back when he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a shiny new hero costume made especially for him, Denki had thought he could handle anything. He'd been told so many times that he was strong, that he was capable, and that his powers were something special. The world was his to protect, and he believed it— believed that no matter how tough the fight, he could always find a way to make it right.

But now? Now, those moments felt like distant echoes haunting him. Every time he wore that costume, it had been a promise—an oath never to fail, always to show up, to always be enough.

But he hadn't been enough.

He’d been too slow. Too distracted. Too... stupid .

There had been moments where, despite his best efforts, despite pushing himself to the brink, he hadn't been able to save someone. The faces of the people he couldn't save flashed before his eyes, unbidden, a parade of failures he couldn't escape. The split seconds that felt like hours, the moments when everything had been in his hands, only for him to drop it at the worst possible time.

Sometimes, it was the little things—the moment the panic in someone's eyes shifted from fear to resignation. The split second where they stopped reaching out for help and simply accepted that they wouldn’t make it. The words they’d never get to say— the people they’d never see again.

He could still hear their voices in his mind. Feel the weight of their trust in his hands. And every time, no matter how often he told himself it wasn't his fault, it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t stop it.

And that was the hardest part.

Denki swallowed hard, shaking his head as though he could physically shake the thought from his mind. He didn't have time for this. Not now. Not when his viewers were depending on him. Not when he had to keep up the damn act.

With a quick inhale, Denki plastered on his signature grin, tilting his head playfully toward the camera. “You guys are way too quiet! Where’s the hype? I just landed a double headshot for crying out loud. Show me some love!” he teased, voice full of exaggerated indignation.

The chat obligingly erupted with emojis and exclamation marks, and Denki let out a chuckle, the sound almost masking the tightness still lingering in his chest. He wasn’t sure if the excitement was for him or because his audience really liked the distraction of his streams. Maybe it didn’t matter. He’d be there anyway.

[HYPEREDITS]: “Alright, alright, Chargebolt! You’re cracked today!”

[LOVELYSOCKS]: “Don’t let it get to your head, dude. You’re still trash sometimes!”

“Sometimes?” Denki gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Chat, you wound me. Guess I’ll just have to prove myself!”

His fingers moved deftly over the keys, pulling off an impressive maneuver in-game that had the chat blowing up with cheers. The noise of his success and the stream overlay lighting up with donations and congratulatory messages felt good. It felt steady.

Maybe this isn’t a long-term thing, Denki thought fleetingly as the chaos of the game enveloped him. Streaming filled the gaps. Kept him busy, distracted– content . But contentment wasn’t the same as fulfillment, and he wasn’t naive enough to think he’d found his forever in this setup.

He could only wish it were that easy.

The screen flashed as another round started, his focus sharpening. He didn’t need to dwell on what came next or what he might do if the novelty wore off. That wasn’t a problem for today.

That was a problem for future Denki. The Denki of today was willing to be easily pacified by a few victory crowns and the constant chatter of his stream.

“Alright, chat, place your bets—how fast am I carrying this squad to a win?” Denki smirked, leaning into the mic for dramatic effect. The comments erupted in playful banter, some agreeing, others trash-talking his skills.

[ZAPFANGIRL]: “I got 10 bucks on you dying first, Bolt!”

 [FLICKERL1GHTS]: “Nah, he’s cracked tonight. I’m calling MVP!”

Denki laughed, the sound genuine despite the nagging thoughts in the back of his mind. “Y’all have so little faith in me! Guess I’ll have to show you who’s boss. Watch and learn, babies.”

His words were playful, but his hands moved with practiced precision, guiding his character through the map. The noise of the game, the flashing lights, the steady scroll of messages—they all blurred together, a constant buzz of energy that filled the emptiness he tried to ignore.

Because deep down, Denki knew he was still running.

Running from the weight of his failures, the questions he didn’t want to answer, and the reality he didn’t want to face. Streaming wasn’t a long-term thing because it didn’t need to be. It was a reprieve— a way to keep moving without standing still long enough to let the past catch up to him.

He grinned at the camera as he landed another flawless play, the chat exploding in excitement. For now, this was enough.

It had to be.

Chapter Text

‘We were just young and dumb. It’s taken me so long to admit it.’

The words were painful to write. Painful to acknowledge. He hated that they felt true, hated how his pride recoiled at the simplicity of the truth.

Katsuki wasn’t used to admitting he was wrong.

–

The hum of the city was always louder after a mission, but it felt muted tonight—too quiet for his liking. His feet, heavy and worn from the fight, hit the pavement with an almost mechanical rhythm. Eijirou kept pace beside him, a casual air about him as usual, but Katsuki felt the familiar ache in his muscles, the tension in his bones that wouldn't go away.

They’d wrapped up another villain threat in the city. Nothing too catastrophic, but just enough to remind him why he’d started doing this in the first place. Heroes didn’t get to rest— not when there was always more to be done.

“Yo, you good, man?” Eijirou asked, glancing sideways at him. His voice was calm, but Katsuki could hear the concern in it. He hated it.

The hesitation before he began, the slow pacing of his words; as if not to startle him. He hated it.

“I’m fine,” Katsuki grunted, but the words didn’t feel right as they left his mouth. He wasn’t fine. He was exhausted. The deep kind of tired that stretched into his bones and wouldn’t let go. He wanted nothing more than to drop onto his bed and sleep for a week. But no. He had work to do. Always. He had to keep proving himself.

Prove what, exactly?

“You’ve been pushing it hard lately,” Eijirou said, his voice a little firmer now. “You need to slow down, man.”. Katsuki shot him a quick look, eyes narrowing.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, more forcefully. “We’re not done. Not yet.”

Eijirou didn’t push further, but he didn’t drop the concerned look either. Katsuki felt it—felt the weight of it. His friend knew him too well. But it wasn’t time for a break. Not yet. He couldn’t afford to stop. Not when there was so much left to prove.

Eijirou’s laugh broke the silence, but it was light, easy. “Just don’t burn yourself out, man. You know we’re a team, right?”

A team.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. He didn’t need a team. He didn’t need anyone. He had himself. He only had himself.

“If you need me to take over some of the load, you let me know,” Eijirou continued, his voice warm and casual, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

But to Katsuki, it wasn’t that simple. Every time he thought about slowing down, about asking for help, it felt like he was admitting defeat. He’d come too far to be weak. Too far to show anyone that he wasn’t as strong as they thought.

No, if he stopped now, what would that make him? Useless. A failure.

And he couldn't— wouldn't — be that.

“Whatever. Fuck off.”

Eijirou chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Katsuki didn’t bother looking; he could feel it, the shift in the air between them. That damned mix of understanding and disappointment. The kind of look that made Katsuki’s stomach churn. He fucking hated it.

Feelings like this, feelings in general were always worse right after a villain take down. Katsuki knew it wasn’t Eijirou’s fault. How could it be? Yet it didn’t stop the hate that swelled up in him, like a bright red balloon. All the while, he’s the one with a needle.

“Alright, man,” Eijirou said, his tone deliberately light, letting the conversation drop. “Just saying. I’ve got your back if you need it.”

I don’t need it, Katsuki thought bitterly. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders tense, eyes fixed ahead as they continued walking. The agency building loomed in the distance, its lights cutting through the dark like a beacon. Their shared project. Their shared dream.

It was his dream too. When did it stop being his dream, and more of a chore? Letting out a sharp breath, he berated himself mentally. It’s been over two years and he still can’t help but let his thoughts wander over to a certain electric blonde that couldn’t seem to catch a grip.

When he was younger, all he could think about was becoming a hero. Hell, when he was younger, being a hero wasn’t just a dream—it was a certainty. He’d imagined himself on billboards, trophies lining the walls, the world chanting his name like it was a battle cry. Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight. Or whatever stupid name he had come up with that week.

Katsuki scoffed at the thought now. It felt... childish. Back then, it was all about winning. About proving to everyone—himself included—that he was the strongest. That he didn’t need anyone, because needing people meant you could lose them. And losing wasn’t an option.

But somewhere along the way, it had shifted. Being the strongest no longer meant getting top-notch grades and shoving it into some extras faces. No. It meant facing a villain who didn’t really care if you went home that night or not. It meant bleeding out in the street and hoping the backup came in time. It meant taking hits that left you broken, battered, but still standing because the moment you didn’t, someone else paid the price. Being the strongest wasn’t about winning anymore—it was about surviving. It was always about surviving, and he had been too blind to see it.

And every now and then—like now—it brought him back to him.

Denki Kaminari. That spark of energy that never quite stayed contained. That idiot who always had a stupid grin plastered across his face, who joked too much, who cared too much. Who had left without saying goodbye.

The memory hit him like a sucker punch. Katsuki’s teeth clenched as his pace quickened, his boots striking the pavement hard enough to echo. He didn’t want to think about it—about him. Not here. Not now. Not ever, if he could help it.

“You ever think about why we started all this?” Eijirou asked suddenly, his voice breaking through the silence. Making Katsuki slow down.

He stiffened. “What kind of dumb question is that?”

Eijirou shrugged, unfazed by the edge in Katsuki’s tone. Spending the better part of a decade with a guy would do that to you. “I dunno. Just… stuff like tonight makes me think about it. Why we became heroes in the first place, y’know? Why we wanted to do this so bad.”

Katsuki scoffed, his breath fogging in the cool night air. “What, you getting soft on me, Red? You don’t like busting heads anymore?”

Eijirou laughed, but it was quiet, almost hollow. “It’s not that. I still love the work. But… I guess I’ve just been thinking about how much it takes out of us. How much we’ve given up to do this. The.. people we’ve lost.”

Katsuki stopped walking. Eijirou took a few more steps before realizing, turning back to face him. The red of his hair caught in the streetlights, a sharp contrast to the shadows in his expression. His features were hard, trying not to let what he truly felt slip through the cracks. But Katsuki knew better.

He saw how his brow twitched, how his gaze didn’t seem to reach the usual warmth it always held. The way he bit the inside of his cheek– despite how much it must have hurt. 

All of it– the implication of it–

It pissed him off.

It pissed him off more than he cared to admit.

Katsuki could feel his hands tightening into fists in his pockets, his nails biting into his palms, the heat of anger surging up his arms. He didn’t want this—didn’t want to feel this. But the truth of it was in Eijirou’s eyes, in the subtle shift of his expression. It was there, and it was impossible to ignore.

The way Eijirou had been looking at him, like he wasn’t just worried about a mission, about the job. No, this was something else. Something deeper. Something real . Like Katsuki wasn’t just the tough, reckless hero he had always been—but something fragile. Something that could break.

And that thought? That idea? It was fucking infuriating.

“You don’t get to talk about giving up,” Katsuki said, his voice low, rough. “Not to me.”

Eijirou’s eyes widened, just for a moment, before they softened. “Katsuki—”

“No,” Katsuki snapped, taking a step closer. “We don’t stop. We don’t look back. That’s the deal. That’s what it fucking takes. You don’t like it? Then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and bitter, even as Katsuki regretted them the second they left his mouth. Eijirou flinched, but only slightly, his face a mix of surprise and something else Katsuki couldn’t name.

He immediately hated himself for it. Hated how the words had just spilled out, how they tasted like ash in his mouth. But he couldn’t take them back now. He couldn’t take back any of it. Because he meant it.

He was waiting for it. The rebuttal. The sharp retort. The challenge. Something to break the silence, to fix the tension that had thickened between them in the span of a few seconds. He was waiting for Eijirou to argue, to demand an explanation, to fight back. Anything that would distract from the growing pit in his stomach.

But it didn’t come.

Eijirou just stood there, quiet. His brow furrowed slightly, but his lips were sealed. The weight of his gaze was heavier than the silence itself, and it felt like Katsuki was being pulled into a void, like he was being swallowed by the quiet between them.

“Eijirou...” Katsuki’s voice cracked, but he didn’t know what he was trying to say. The words felt like they were stuck in his throat, clogged by something far too complicated for him to untangle.

Despite the years that passed, he was still that overconfident kid who got on the news because he had been unlucky enough to come across that slime villain. Childish. Weak. Worthless .

Slowly, Eijirou nodded.

It wasn’t a nod of agreement. It wasn’t a nod of understanding. It was something else, something unreadable, and it left Katsuki feeling even more off-balance. The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching too long, too loud, like the kind of quiet before a storm.

“Okay,” Eijirou said finally, his voice calm but tight, like he was forcing the word out against his better judgment. His jaw was tense, and his shoulders shifted slightly, as if he was physically restraining himself from saying more. “If that’s how you feel.”

Katsuki froze. His chest tightened, and his teeth ground together as those four words settled heavily in the space between them. No fight, no retort—just those calm, cutting words. If that’s how you feel.

Eijirou’s brow furrowed deeper, his lips pressing into a thin line, but his eyes didn’t leave Katsuki’s face. He stood still, rooted in place, the subtle rise and fall of his chest betraying his steadying breath. His hands, which usually hung loosely by his sides, flexed almost imperceptibly, curling into fists before relaxing again. It was like he was bracing himself, holding back emotions that threatened to spill over.

Katsuki’s stomach churned. He hadn’t expected that reaction. He hadn’t expected this.

“It’s not—” Katsuki started, his voice coming out rough and sharp, before he stopped himself. His hands clenched tighter in his pockets, nails digging into his palms. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, a steady drumbeat of anger, frustration, and something uncomfortably close to shame. “It’s not—” What ? His throat felt tight, the words choking him. It wasn’t the truth? It wasn’t what he meant? He didn’t even know anymore.

“I’ll always be here. Even if I feel like quitting, or like I’m not enough.” he began softly, the usual warmth in his voice dimmed but still there, beneath the weariness. “Because they need me.”

Eijirou’s voice had never sounded like that before—so quiet, so raw. It threw Katsuki off in a way he hated to admit. The words weren’t loud or commanding; they didn’t need to be. They carried the weight of someone who had given too much of himself for far too long. Just like him.

“..Because they need me.”

He repeated, his eyes were fixed on something in the distance, his expression unreadable. The usual brightness in his gaze, the spark that always seemed to remind Katsuki why they fought so damn hard, had dimmed. In its place was something far heavier. The kind of weariness that couldn’t be shaken off after a night of rest—it had settled deep in his bones.

Katsuki stared at him, and for the first time, it wasn’t like looking at the unshakable Eijirou he knew. The one who laughed in the face of danger, who smiled even when things were at their worst, who always found a way to keep going no matter what. This wasn’t the same person.

Suddenly, Eijirou seemed older—aged beyond his years in a way that made Katsuki’s chest tighten. The hard lines of his jaw and the slump of his shoulders spoke of a weight Katsuki hadn’t noticed before. His best friend, his rock, looked like he was crumbling.

And Katsuki didn’t know what to do with that.

“..Right.”

The word left his mouth before he even realized, mumbled and barely audible. It didn’t carry it’s usual bite, its usual defiance. It was weak. Numb. Katsuki nodded as if on autopilot, his head moving without his brain’s permission, still trying to process the moment.

His anger had deflated completely, as if the tension that always sat coiled in his chest had finally snapped under the weight of Eijirou’s words. But what replaced it wasn’t relief—it was something far worse. A deep, hollow sense of melancholy that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

Katsuki didn’t look at Eijirou, couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, his eyes fixed on the cracks in the pavement beneath their feet, as if they held the answers he was searching for. But they didn’t. Nothing did.

“…You’re a real idiot, you know that?” Katsuki muttered after a long moment, his voice quiet but rough. The edge of his usual temper wasn’t there; it was something softer, something resigned. He let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging slightly, betraying his exhaustion.

Eijirou didn’t respond right away. When Katsuki finally glanced at him, he saw the faintest trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t the grin Katsuki knew, the one that lit up rooms and carried an unshakable confidence. It was tired, small, but it was there.

“Yeah,” Eijirou said softly, his voice steady but lacking its usual brightness. “I know.”

Katsuki’s stomach twisted at the admission. He wanted to say something—anything—that would snap Eijirou out of it, that would pull him back to the guy he used to be. The guy who had stood beside him, unwavering, even when Katsuki had been at his worst. But for once, Katsuki didn’t know what to say.

The silence between them wasn’t as heavy as before, but it still pressed against Katsuki’s chest, making it harder to breathe. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing toward the agency building. They were close now, the lights cutting through the darkness like a reminder of the world waiting for them. The world that demanded too much, took too much.

“…C’mon,” Katsuki said finally, his voice gruff as he started walking again. He didn’t wait for Eijirou to follow, but he didn’t need to. He knew Eijirou would. He always did.

As their footsteps fell into rhythm once more, Katsuki felt the tension lingering between them. It wasn’t gone, not by a long shot, but it was different now. Softer. Like the edges had been worn down just enough to keep moving forward.

And maybe, for now, that was all they could do.

Chapter Text

‘I miss the way you used to smile at me. I wonder if your dimples are the same, or if you still have a laugh that could fill a room.’

He grimaced as he typed, knowing that there was no way he'd ever repeat this in person. His pride got in the way, after all.

–

Shuffling outside the office, Kaminari groaned into his hands, debating whether or not he even wanted to head in. It was like this every time, without fail, almost like a routine of sorts before he ultimately gave up and walked in with a confident grin he couldn’t even muster a second prior.

Take the hero out of hero work, but you couldn’t take the performance out of the hero. He still had that polished smile ready to flash at anyone, though he doubted Dr. Tanaka was fooled by it anymore.

He glanced at the door, its frosted glass bearing the familiar, clean lettering: Dr. Emiko Tanaka, Licensed Therapist. It wasn’t threatening, but it didn’t have to be. Denki had been coming here for years now, long enough to know the script by heart: polite check-ins, probing questions, the kind of silences that were designed to make him squirm.

It wasn’t like he hated Dr. Tanaka. She was patient, sharp, and never gave him that condescending tone that some people used when they talked to former heroes— though he was sure she saw him as more of a little kid than anything close to heroic. That grated at him sometimes, but not enough to stop coming back.

What he couldn’t stand was how every session felt like peeling back layers he’d rather leave untouched. No matter what he said—or didn’t say—it always circled back to the same things: regrets, guilt, and the kind of memories that clung to him no matter how far he tried to run from them.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his fingers brushing against a stray guitar pick. A nervous habit, keeping it there, but it grounded him. Still, it didn’t make the heaviness in his chest any easier to ignore.

The faces came to him in flashes—some faded, some vivid. Strangers, friends, teammates. People who had leaned on him in ways he couldn’t handle. People he’d let down.

Is this what moving on is supposed to look like? he wondered bitterly. If it was, it felt a lot like standing still. 

Sometimes he couldn’t help but think it would just be easier to give up. Like a castaway, adrift at sea with no real chance to make it out alive, he considered allowing the current to take him, push him under and allow himself to forget about his woes and suffer no longer.

Even as the thought whispered it's seductive promise, something—call it stubbornness, or maybe just a flicker of instinct—kept his head above water. He was still here, wasn’t he? Still breathing, still trying, even if the effort felt like dragging himself through quicksand most days.

His therapist’s voice echoed faintly in the back of his mind, a patient reminder from some past session: “You’re allowed to rest, Kaminari. Rest doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it just means you’re human.”

Rest. The concept felt foreign, almost laughable. How could he rest when his mind never stopped? When the shadows of what could’ve been—of what he had once been—clung to him like stubborn static? Rest wasn’t a solution; it was avoidance. And yet, wasn’t avoidance what had kept him afloat all this time?

He grumbled, holding a hand stubbornly across his face, shielding it from the light and public. Thoughts like these were the reason he still had to attend these sessions. That, and he would probably actually go insane with someone to talk to on the occasion.

He had become a recluse of sorts, no longer in contact with any of his friends and rarely talking to his family. The only stable relationships he had were online. Denki was alone without these appointments.

The realization stung, though he’d never admit it out loud. His friends had always been his safety net, a vibrant patchwork of personalities that had kept him grounded in the chaos of hero work. And now? Silence. A self-imposed exile, born of shame and exhaustion.

The isolation gnawed at him, a constant hum beneath the louder noise of his thoughts. He hadn’t set out to sever ties with everyone—there hadn’t been a dramatic falling-out or some singular, catastrophic moment. It was quieter than that. A gradual unraveling, like threads pulling free from a fraying seam, until one day he realized he was the only one left.

Even then, he didn’t reach out. Not to his old friends, not to his family. What would he even say? Sorry I disappeared. It’s just… everything felt like too much, and I didn’t know how to tell you . No, he couldn’t do that. Not when he wasn’t even sure they’d still want to hear it.

He let out a hollow laugh, dropping his hand from his face. He was the only one who’d stand right outside his therapist’s office and spiral like this, wasn’t he?

With a sigh, Denki glanced at the clock on his phone. Five minutes past the hour. Dr. Tanaka was probably waiting patiently inside, like always. He wasn’t late—not technically. But standing here, just outside the threshold, felt like a familiar form of self-sabotage.

Denki shifted on his feet, his sneakers scuffing against the pavement as he toyed with the idea of just turning around. He’d done it before—skipped a session at the last second, convincing himself that it wasn’t worth the effort. But those days always ended the same: with him staring at the ceiling of his cold, dingy apartment, wondering why he was so determined to make things harder for himself.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he took ahold of the door, walking forward because turning back meant staying exactly how he was. It would never get better, and as silly as it sounded, a small part of him hoped for a day where he wouldn’t curse himself for breathing.

The door creaked open, and the faint smell of lavender greeted him. Dr. Tanaka always kept the office feeling warm, inviting, like she was trying to counterbalance the weight people carried through the door. It wasn’t a cure, but it helped—sometimes.

Denki stepped inside, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. He gave the receptionist a quick, distracted wave, not even glancing up as he made his way to the small waiting area. His body moved on autopilot, like muscle memory guiding him through the motions.

Taking a seat on one of the worn but comfortable chairs, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers found the guitar pick in his pocket again, flipping it over and over as if the rhythm would drown out the static in his head. It no longer conforted in the way it used to. 

Why do I even bother? The thought crept in uninvited, laced with bitterness. He hated the way it stuck, the way it curled up in the corner of his mind and refused to leave.

Before he could spiral too far, the door to Dr. Tanaka’s office opened. She stepped out, her calm presence filling the space as she glanced over at him with a small, welcoming smile.

“Denki,” she greeted, her voice steady but not overly cheerful. She didn’t push too hard, and he appreciated that more than he’d ever say out loud.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, managing a weak grin. The act felt hollow, but it was something. He stood up, pocketing the pick and shoving his hands into his jacket as he followed her into the office.

The room was just as he remembered—simple, with muted tones and a few personal touches. A bookshelf crammed with titles he’d never read. A framed photo of what he assumed was her family. The worn leather couch he’d spent too many hours sinking into, trying to avoid her sharp gaze.

As he sat down, Dr. Tanaka took her usual seat across from him, clipboard in hand. She didn’t speak right away, giving him space to settle, to breathe.

“So,” she began after a moment, her tone gentle but deliberate. “How are you feeling today?”

Denki shrugged, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. “Same as usual, I guess.”

It always started like this. 

She nodded, scribbling something down before setting down her clipboard.

“Anything new, or exciting since last week?”

Denki huffed out a soft laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Exciting? Yeah, if you count beating a boss in a game after three hours of rage-quitting.”

Dr. Tanaka’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “That sounds like it took some persistence.”

“Sure, if you call stubbornly banging my head against a wall persistence.”

She didn’t rise to his deflection, her gaze steady and unyielding. “And outside of gaming?”

Denki shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. He hated these questions, the way they made him think back, take back the thin veneer of normalcy he tried so hard to maintain. “Not much,” he muttered. “Streaming, working on some music, the usual.”

“You’ve mentioned before that creating music helps,” she said, her tone inviting rather than pressing. “Have you been doing more of that lately?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But it’s not the same as it used to be. Feels… hollow sometimes, I guess.”

“Hollow?” Dr. Tanaka leaned forward slightly, her expression open but curious.

“Yeah,” Denki said, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “Like, I’ll sit there with my guitar, trying to get something out, but it’s like I’m just going through the motions. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just… burnt out or something.”

“Burnt out,” she repeated thoughtfully. “That’s something we’ve touched on before. Do you think it’s just about the music, or does that feeling show up in other parts of your life?”

He frowned, her words poking at a sore spot he wasn’t ready to confront. Then again, when would he ever be ready? “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s like… nothing feels as good as it used to. Like I’m stuck in this loop, and no matter what I do, I can’t break out of it.”

Dr. Tanaka didn’t say anything right away, letting his words settle in the air. Finally, she asked, “When was the last time you felt differently? When was the last time something didn’t feel hollow?”

Denki blinked, the question catching him off guard. His mind flickered through memories like a reel of film, searching for an answer. And then, unbidden, a face surfaced—a sharp grin, ash-blonde hair, and eyes that burned like fire. One he wanted so desperately to get burnt by.

One he did get burnt by.

He froze, the breath catching in his throat.

It always came back to him in the end.

Dr. Tanaka’s gaze was steady, but her silence was patient. She waited, giving Denki space, as if she knew this wasn’t something he was ready to share yet. But he couldn’t shake the image that flashed before him—the way Katsuki’s smirk would flicker with something deeper, more unspoken, than any of the words they’d ever exchanged. That damn fire in his eyes.

He was always so passionate; even when breaking his heart.

It always came back to him. The feeling of something unsaid hanging between them, heavy and unmovable. The words they never finished. The way things had shifted so damn suddenly, like a storm that caught him off guard, tearing everything apart.

“I—” Denki stopped, swallowing hard as his throat tightened. “I don’t know,” he muttered, the words coming out shakier than he intended. “It was… a while ago.”

It was at UA, after all. Where Denki just had to push for something that wouldn’t happen. Not in this lifetime.

“You’re thinking of someone,” Dr. Tanaka observed gently.

His heart skipped a beat. There was no point in hiding it; she had already seen through him, like always. Denki didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.

“I’m guessing this person matters,” she continued, not rushing him, but pressing just enough. “What’s the connection?”

Denki let out a breath, his hands digging into his jacket pockets as if that might ground him. He hated how weak he felt, but even more than that, he hated how easy it was to fall back into that hole. Into thinking about him.

He shifted in his seat. “I don’t… I don’t really know how to explain it.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of it was heavier than anything he’d said in a while. “I thought… I thought we could make it, you know? Even when everything went to hell, I thought we could still be okay. But we weren’t. Not really. And… now?” He laughed bitterly, his hands tightening into fists. “Now I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing.”

It had been years, but he was still obsessed. He constantly went over the memories in his mind, as if they had just happened to him. He wondered if he had plagued Katsuki’s mind in return.

Dr. Tanaka didn’t push further, though the question hung in the air like a fragile thread. “How do you feel about this person now?”

She asked, despite knowing. Denki had been seeing her for years— Katsuki had definitely come up before.

Denki leaned back in the couch, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the ceiling. The answer was right there, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak it. Not out loud. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered again, the words barely there. “I just… wish I could go back. Fix it. Maybe… maybe everything wouldn’t feel so hollow if I could.”

He parted his trembling lips, the words at the tip of his tongue. Admitting it made it more real.

“I miss him,” Denki finally said, the confession tumbling out before he could stop it. “So, so bad. I miss them all— but he..” His voice was small, fragile, almost like it didn’t belong to him. 

“I thought… I thought I’d moved on, you know? But it’s like everything comes back to him, even when I try to forget. Even when I tell myself it’s not worth it anymore.”

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, the admission hanging in the air, heavy and undeniable. He had never said it out loud. Not to anyone, not even to himself fully. But there it was, raw and exposed in the quiet room, like a wound he couldn’t keep hidden any longer.

Dr. Tanaka didn’t say anything for a moment. She simply observed, letting the weight of his words settle in, before she gently prompted, “What do you think you miss about him? The person? Or what he represented?”

Denki’s eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned back into the couch, trying to focus through the haze of emotions flooding him. “I don’t know. Maybe both. He was… always so sure of himself. So driven. He made me feel like I mattered, even when I knew I didn’t.” He let out a shaky laugh, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “But then everything changed. And I don’t know if it was me, or if it was him. I just know that… we never got the chance to figure it out.”

The words felt like a slow release, like air escaping from a balloon he didn’t realize was so tightly wound. But they didn’t make him feel any lighter. Instead, it just felt like opening a door to a room he’d tried so hard to keep locked away.

He missed his friends— his life.

He missed how Kyouka and he would banter back and forth about the dumbest things, her dry wit always cutting through his over-the-top antics like a razor. She never let him get away with anything, but it was never mean—not really. It was grounding, in a way he didn’t realize he needed until it was gone.

He missed Mina, too, with her endless energy and that contagious laugh of hers. She had a way of making even the worst days feel lighter, dragging him into dance-offs or ridiculous pranks that never failed to make him smile.

Eijirou’s unwavering optimism came to mind next, the way he’d always been quick with a “You’ve got this, bro!” or a slap on the back that made Denki feel like he could take on the world, even when he knew he couldn’t.

And then there was Hanta, who always knew exactly how to diffuse tension with a well-timed joke, and Momo, who’d listen to his rambling ideas with a patience that sometimes felt too good to be true.

Each memory felt like a small cut, sharp and aching, but he couldn’t stop them from flooding in. He missed all of it—every laugh, every argument, every quiet moment in between.

But the one face that lingered, the one that always lingered, was Katsuki’s.

It wasn’t the loud, explosive side of him that came to mind first. It was the moments in between—the subtle ways he’d show he cared, like tossing Denki a water bottle during training without a word or staying just a little longer to make sure he was okay after a rough day. Katsuki had never been good with words, but his actions had spoken louder than anything else.

But those moments were gone, scattered like ash in the wind, and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t reach out and gather them back.

The reality of it all pressed down on him, an ache that felt as fresh as the day he walked away. He’d told himself he was doing what he needed to survive, but had he really survived at all? Or had he just been existing, letting the days blur together in a shitty attempt to escape the hurt?

“I miss all of them,” Denki admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I miss who I used to be when I was with them.”

Dr. Tanaka nodded, her expression soft but attentive. “Have you ever thought about reconnecting with them?”

Denki let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s been too long. I’ve screwed up too much. They’re probably better off without me dragging them down.”

“Or maybe,” she said gently, “they’re waiting for you to reach out. Maybe they miss you just as much as you miss them.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile hope he wasn’t sure he could trust. But deep down, buried beneath the layers of guilt and doubt, a part of him wanted to believe she was right.

“Then why haven’t they?”

He hated them.

He hated how Kyouka would kick him when he was down, calling him out with her sharp words when all he wanted was to be left alone. She never sugarcoated anything, never gave him a break, and it always stung more than he’d admit. She thought she was helping, but sometimes it just felt like another weight added to the pile he was already carrying.

He hated how Mina, with all her sunshine and warmth, had stopped checking in. She used to drag him out of his funks, out of his apartment, but eventually, she just… stopped. As if she’d given up on him, too. How easily she could brush things off, always telling him to “cheer up” like it was that simple. Her optimism felt like a slap in the face, a reminder of everything he couldn’t be anymore.

And Eijirou—he hated how kind he was, how much he believed in him, even when Denki didn’t believe in himself. It was unbearable, knowing he couldn’t live up to that faith. It made him feel smaller, weaker, like every bit of encouragement was just another reminder of how far he’d fallen. It had felt genuine once, like a light in the dark, but now it just seemed naive. If Denki couldn’t believe in himself, why had Eijirou ever bothered?

But more than anything, he hated him.

Katsuki .

He hated how Katsuki’s words cut the deepest, sharper than Kyouka’s, more unforgiving than anyone else’s. He hated how Katsuki had been the one person he thought might understand—how he saw glimpses of something softer, something real, hidden behind all the anger and bluster. He hated that he’d reached for it, only to have it yanked away when he needed it most.

He hated the silence.

And he hated himself for hating them. Because deep down, he knew the anger wasn’t real. It was just easier to be angry than to face the truth:

He missed them.

He missed them so much it hurt.

 Denki spat bitterly, eyes darkening with contempt and hurt. He wanted to believe but he knew better.

She didn’t react to his bitterness, her calm demeanor unwavering. “That’s a valid question,” she said evenly. “And maybe there’s a part of them asking the same thing about you.”

Denki’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists in his lap. “That’s different,” he muttered. “I… I left. I shut them out. They don’t owe me anything after that.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed, her tone gentle. “But relationships aren’t about owing each other. They’re about connection, understanding, and forgiveness. The people who care about you might just be waiting for a sign that you want that connection again.”

He shook his head, frustration bubbling just under the surface. “It’s not that simple. They probably moved on. They’ve got their own lives—hell, all of them are still heroes. What would they even say to me now? ‘Oh, hey, Denki, great to see you wasting away in obscurity’?”

His words were dripping with self-loathing, the bitterness in his voice cutting sharper than he intended

She didn’t reply immediately, her silence stretching just long enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat. When Dr. Tanaka finally spoke, her voice was calm but resolute.

“Do you really believe that’s how they’d see you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Or is that how you see yourself?”

Denki froze, the question hitting him like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

“I don’t—” he started, but his words faltered. Did he believe his friends would judge him? Or was he projecting the judgment he’d been carrying for himself all this time? He had always been self-deprecating.

“They’re heroes,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “They’re out there saving lives, doing what we all set out to do. And I’m… what? Streaming video games and writing songs no one listens to? How could they not look down on me?”

“.. I dedicated my life to it and failed. Because I’m scared .”

Dr. Tanaka leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady but compassionate. Pity was never something he saw in them. Sometimes he wishes he would, so he could lose faith in her too. “Maybe they’d see someone who’s found a way to keep going, even when the path they were on became too much. Someone who’s still figuring things out. That doesn’t sound like a failure to me, Denki. That sounds like resilience.”

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Resilience. Sure. That’s one way to spin it.”

She didn’t push back, letting the silence settle between them again. It was a tactic he’d come to recognize—giving him space to process instead of overwhelming him with words.

Finally, Dr. Tanaka said, “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. But maybe it’s worth asking yourself: If the roles were reversed—if it was one of them who stepped away and felt like they couldn’t come back—what would you want them to do?”

Denki blinked, the question catching him off guard. His immediate instinct was to say he’d reach out to them in a heartbeat, that he’d want to remind them they weren’t alone. He loves them, after all.

But the thought of applying that logic to himself? Of believing his friends might feel the same way about him? It felt… impossible. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that someone would honestly go out of their way to help him when they weren’t explicitly paid to do so.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I guess I’d want them to know… they could come back.”

Dr. Tanaka gave a small nod, her expression thoughtful. “And what makes you think they wouldn’t want the same for you?”

Denki didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have a rebuttal. Just the faint, fragile possibility that maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t burned every bridge he thought he had.

Chapter Text

‘I should’ve told you that I was scared. Scared of losing you. And now, I don’t know if there’s any chance to fix what’s broken.’

Katsuki paused, his fingers lingering over the keyboard. The words felt heavy, like they carried a weight too difficult to bear. His pride urged him to erase it all, but something deeper, something unspoken, kept him from doing so. He needed to see this through.

-

He grunted, lifting a particularly heavy box and setting it on the counter with a dull thud. Dust floated in the air around him, settling on the once shiny wooden floorboards. Katsuki ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaling sharply as if trying to push away more than just the clutter.

Despite the boxes and general mess, he kept his apartment extremely clean—cleaner than anyone would expect for someone who barely seemed to spend time there. Everything had its place, and anything out of place was swiftly dealt with. But even Katsuki couldn’t ignore how much junk had accumulated in the corners, untouched and forgotten, relics of a life he hadn’t sorted through in years.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, shoving another box aside. His hands brushed against a layer of grime on the box’s lid, and he grimaced, reaching for a rag to wipe it clean. It was just another reminder of how long it had been since he’d let himself think about the past—about all the things he shoved away, hoping to forget.

Dusting it off, his hand froze over the box, his eyes narrowing as he read the label scrawled in messy handwriting: UA Stuff. Next to it was an arrangement of colorful stickers and doodles.

His lips twitched, almost forming a smirk before it disappeared just as quickly. “Figures,” he muttered. He didn’t need to guess who had slapped those ridiculous stickers on there. Only one person had the audacity to turn his crap into a damn art project.

The words stared back at him like a challenge, dragging up memories he’d buried long ago. Katsuki clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the edge of the box as if debating whether to open it or shove it into a corner again.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair again, this time more aggressively. He knew exactly what was inside—old notebooks, a few photos, and maybe even a stray training uniform he never bothered to toss. Pieces of a time when life was simpler, when his biggest problems were bruises and proving himself better than the rest.

He hated how much of a mess he’d let himself become since then

With a resigned sigh, he tugged open the lid, the stale smell of dust hitting him immediately. Inside, a few notebooks sat on top of an assortment of smaller items. His gaze landed on a bundle of photos tucked into the corner. Katsuki reached for them before he could second-guess himself, thumbing through the stack with a scowl that deepened the further he got.

Each image was a punch to the gut—a young Mina grinning like an idiot, Eijirou throwing up peace signs, Yaomomo and Kyouka standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Hanta slumped on the common room couch. And then, of course, there was Denki. Always Denki.

One photo in particular caught his attention: a blurry shot of the whole group crammed into a booth at some cheap diner. Kaminari sat closest to the camera, his face half-lit by the glow of a neon sign outside. He was laughing, his head thrown back, and Katsuki could practically hear the sound of it—too loud, too carefree, and entirely too contagious.

“Why the hell do I still have this?” Katsuki growled, gripping the photo tighter than necessary. But no matter how much he wanted to toss it back into the box or crumple it in his fist, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he stared at it, his chest tightening in a way that pissed him off more than anything.

Despite grumbling, while he did it, he gently put all the photos back into the box, his movements far more careful than he wanted to admit. Each one was like a tiny landmine, waiting to set off memories he’d tried so damn hard to bury. He hated how much they still got to him—how much he still got to him.

As he continued to shuffle through the contents of the box, something heavier caught his eye—a thin, battered scrapbook with a label slapped haphazardly across the front. The handwriting was unmistakable, messy but dramatic in it’s flair, like someone had been trying way too hard to make it look cool.

"KATSUKI, DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE DAY YOU FINALLY PULL THAT STICK OUT OF YOUR—"

The last word was scribbled out, replaced with: "WHEN YOU’RE LESS OF A K UNT." A poorly drawn frowny face with lightning bolts for eyebrows glared up at him from under the text. Next to it was a heart, with the words “JK!! LOVE YOU!” 

His thumb brushed over the words, the “LOVE” written just a little bigger than the rest, like the person had second-guessed themselves halfway through writing it. Katsuki’s chest tightened again, that stupid ache creeping in like it owned the place.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he stared at the label. “Damn idiot,” he muttered, flipping the scrapbook over in his hands like it might explode if he opened it.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had left this in his possession. He could practically hear Kaminari’s voice in his head, teasing and carefree, but always just a little too loud. Always pushing just a little too far.

His fingers hesitated on the corner of the cover. Part of him wanted to toss it back into the box and forget he’d ever seen it. But another part, quieter and harder to ignore, wouldn’t let him. His grip tightened on the edge of the book before he finally flipped it open.

The first page hit him like a punch to the gut. The scrawled caption in Kaminari’s handwriting read: “First day at UA! Don’t screw it up, losers!”

In the center of the page was a group photo of Class 1-A, all of them gathered in front of the dorm building. Katsuki was standing off to the side, arms crossed and scowling at the camera. Denki was front and center, flashing double peace signs and grinning like an idiot. Katsuki could hear the memory, faint and far away—Eijirou yelling at him to stop looking like a “grumpy old man,” Denki cracking some dumb joke about the camera breaking from Katsuki’s glare.

Despite himself, he snorted, the sound rough and low. The corners of his mouth twitched upward slightly, a fleeting smirk that faded just as quickly as it appeared. Katsuki shook his head, crumpling the memory like he had so many others.

Katsuki’s eyes quickly flickered to the next thing, and he was greeted by an explosion of color and chaos. Pages crammed with Polaroids, ticket stubs, scribbled notes, and captions that were equal parts sarcastic and heartfelt. The next photo was of their dorm common room, taken on one of their countless late nights. The caption read: “Katsuki glaring at the TV because we beat him at Mario Kart again. Never gets old.”

Rolling his eyes, he continued flipping through the pages with an almost desperate urgency. Each memory brought a new wave of emotions—some bitter, others unbearably sweet. Denki’s handwriting sprawled across the pages in uneven loops, narrating inside jokes and moments Katsuki had tried so hard to forget.

He reached another section near the middle where Denki’s handwriting grew sloppier, more emotional. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out he had left the captioning until the last minute. A photo of Denki, Eijirou, and Yaomomo on a beach trip during summer break stared up at him, with the caption: “Suki didn’t like the sand :/ lolol”

Katsuki clenched his jaw at the sight, the familiar burn of irritation simmering beneath his skin. That caption, written in Denki’s unmistakable, teasing tone, felt like a jab, despite the humor.

His fingers trembled as he flipped the page, his gaze falling on another photo—a candid shot from a festival, the bright lights of stalls casting uneven shadows across their faces. This time, it was him and Denki standing side by side, awkward smiles plastered across their faces as they held up a crooked banner they’d hastily made. The words read: “Class 1-A Heroes in Training!” Denki’s handwriting filled the margin: “Who let us near this thing?”

Katsuki’s breath caught for a second, the sharp sting of memory threatening to overwhelm him.

He didn’t want to remember. Alarm bells were going off in his mind, warning against him looking even a page further. But a part of him– one that now lay deep within, urged him to continue. To look at what he was missing.

He kept flipping through the pages, faster now, determined to bury the past again, no matter how much it fought back. His hands trembled slightly as the edges of the paper scraped against his fingertips, each turn revealing a snapshot of a time he thought he’d left behind. Laughter frozen in ink, faces he hadn’t seen in years, and a younger, less battered version of himself stared back at him, taunting.

“Stupid,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Why the hell did I keep this?”

The problem with the past was that it never stayed buried.

The faster he went, the more he realized how… personal the pages had become. Instead of having the class, or even their close-knit group of friends– it was them .

A dried flower was taped to one page, the edges frayed and faded. Next to it, a short note read: “For your desk! You said your place was boring, so here. It’s not boring anymore. -D”

Katsuki’s throat tightened as he stared at the delicate flower, it’s stem bent in an awkward curve. He remembered Denki handing it to him with a smirk on his face, claiming that “Only the fairest of maidens shall accept my gift of a rose!”. It made his face heat up. He also remembered how he kept it on his desk until it began to wilt. Denki scooped it up after that, stating that he’d have to do some emergency surgery, and Katsuki hadn’t seen it since.

It wouldn’t be stupid to assume it went well.

Flipping the next page, Katsuki found a ticket stub from a small, local concert they had gone to together. Denki’s clumsy handwriting had scrawled along the edge: “Blasty’s first real rock show!” with a few poorly drawn lightning bolts surrounding the text. Katsuki let out a low, almost involuntary laugh, shaking his head.

The next page had a snapshot from a night they’d spent at a small amusement park. It was grainy and slightly out of focus, but unmistakably them—Katsuki with his arms crossed and a scowl, and Denki practically vibrating with excitement beside him, eyes wide and toothy grin nearly taking up half the frame. Beneath the photo, Kaminari had written: “Who knew you’d look so cute at midnight?” followed by a winking face.

Katsuki’s fingers curled into the edges of the page, his knuckles turning white. He remembered that night—too loud rides, too much noise, and Denki’s relentless chatter. It had been overwhelming, but… it had also been fun.

He flipped through more pages, finding tickets from obscure little movies, random trinkets from street fairs, and scribbled notes that were far too sentimental for Katsuki’s taste. Yet, as much as he hated admitting it, each one held some part of a memory that wouldn’t leave him, no matter how tightly he tried to lock it away.

Finally, near the back, he found another photograph, smaller this time, of them sitting on a bench at a quiet park. It was quiet, and simple, yet somehow felt more genuine than anything else in the scrapbook. Denki leaned in close, his face pressed up against Katsuki’s with a wide grin, and Katsuki looking off to the side, both looking incredibly flushed.

“Just in case!” Denki’s familiar scrawl read beneath the photo, accompanied by a lightning bolt, followed by, “You’ll thank me later.”

Katsuki stared at the words for a long moment, his chest aching. He hated how much Denki’s thoughtfulness still managed to seep under his defenses, how even after all this time, he couldn’t forget those moments. 

His mouth felt dry.

The next page was blank, save for a small note written hastily in the corner:

“If you’re reading this, I guess you caved. You better remember everything! And congrats on becoming a hero, Katsuki. We did it together, didn’t we?”

His face softened, a flood of emotions washing over him and prickling against his skin. The emotions swirled within him—anger, longing, regret—all tangled together into a mess he couldn’t quite untangle. How easy it had been to push everything away, to pretend it didn’t matter, to pretend that he didn’t matter.

A sharp breath hitched in his throat as he closed the scrapbook, the weight of the past pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. “Damn it,” he muttered, voice low and gritty, as though saying the words aloud might somehow release him from the memory.

But it didn’t. Nothing would ever erase the way Denki had weaved himself into every corner of Katsuki’s life—every triumph, every mistake, every quiet moment shared. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how far he ran, the memories were always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

God, it made him sick how badly he wanted him back.

Katsuki sat in silence, the scrapbook resting heavily on his lap. His fingers traced the edges of the worn cover as his mind continued to churn through the memories. A grand realization hung on the edge of his thoughts, like a key to unlocking something long buried—a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

But before he could delve deeper, his phone buzzed on the table beside him. The sharp vibration broke his train of thought. He glanced at the screen, brow furrowing as a familiar name flashed on the caller ID.

“Kyouka?” he answered, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Hey!” Her voice was upbeat, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions he was feeling. “You still coming over, or did you get lost in another one of your brooding sessions?”

Katsuki grunted in response, pulling his hand back from the scrapbook. Pink tinted his cheeks freely, seeing as no one could spot his embarrassment from over the phone. That’s exactly what he was doing. “Yeah. I’m coming,” he muttered, his tone sharp enough to mask the flicker of guilt.

There was a pause on the other end, her amusement clear despite the distance. “About time. We’re all here waiting, you know.”

He wants to snap back, tell her that they didn’t really care, that who he wanted to be there wasn’t. But he didn’t.

He sighed, a hollow sound that resonated in the quiet of his apartment. “Right. Be there soon.”

He hung up, setting the phone down with a soft thud, and shoved the scrapbook back into its box. The magnitude of the past remained, but for now, it was buried once again beneath the surface.

–

“Heyy! Katsuki, come in!”

Katsuki barely had time to knock before Mina threw the door open, her grin impossibly wide as she bounded toward him with her arms spread wide.

He raised a hand, planting it firmly on her forehead to keep her at bay. “Don’t even think about it, Raccoon Eyes,” he grunted, pushing past her and into the house.

The faint hum of chatter and laughter filled the air, warmth radiating through the cozy space. Once a week, or more if they felt like it, the group would gather at Mina’s house. It was like a second home for all of them—unspoken rules of comfort and familiarity binding them together. Her unrelenting cheer and open-door policy made it the perfect meeting spot. Tonight was no different—music drifted from the living room, accompanied by the sound of familiar voices.

Mina let out an exaggerated whine, trailing after him. “You’re so mean! One hug won’t kill you, you know.”

“Keep it up, and you’ll find out what will,” he shot back, kicking off his boots by the door.

She snorted, shaking her head in amusement, used to all his quirks. Giving him a pat on the back as she walked past, Mina quickly walked away before he could say anything else.

The smell of food and the sound of laughter filled the air, the chatter of familiar voices filtering in from the living room. Katsuki followed the noise, his eyes scanning the room as he stepped inside.

“Katsuki!” Eijirou’s voice boomed over the noise, a wide grin splitting his face as he raised a drink in greeting. “You made it! Thought you were gonna ditch us for a second there.”

“Yeah, right,” Katsuki muttered, brushing past him to drop into a chair. “Like I’d let you idiots hog all the food.”

“Katsuki Bakugo! Get your ass outta that seat and come help set the table!”

A loud voice interrupted, followed by a chorus of “Oooohs” from the room. Katsuki turned his head slowly, glaring toward the kitchen where Mina was standing, hands on her hips and a devilish smirk on her face.

“Don’t think just because you’re a big-shot hero, you’re getting out of table duty,” she teased, waving a stack of plates at him like a weapon.

“Yeah, Katsuki,” Hanta chimed in, barely containing his laughter. “Don’t make Mina come over there.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes and let out a sharp huff, dragging himself to his feet. “Fine, but if anything happens to these plates, it’s on you, Pinky.”

“Duly noted,” Mina said with a mock salute.

As he trudged into the kitchen, Kyouka clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for taking one for the team, man.”

Katsuki just grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and grabbed the plates from Mina, ignoring her triumphant grin. The warmth of the room, the easy banter, the chaos—it was all so familiar. It grounded him, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

And yet, as he placed the plates on the table, a pang of something sharp and uncomfortable hit him. He didn’t miss the way the table felt just a little emptier, like there was someone missing from the mix.

Someone who would’ve joined in on teasing him, who would’ve been the first out of their seat to offer Katsuki a hug in greeting—way too enthusiastically, too. Denki always had a way of making his presence known, whether Katsuki wanted it or not.

He could almost hear his laugh—bright and obnoxious, cutting through the chatter with ease. He’d have been right there, balancing a spoon on his nose or cracking some dumb joke that Katsuki pretended not to laugh at.

The thought made his chest tighten, and Katsuki clenched his jaw, trying to shove it down. He didn’t have time for this—he didn’t want to have time for this.

“Earth to Katsuki?” Mina waved a hand in front of his face, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Tch, I’m here, aren’t I?” he snapped, quickly averting his gaze.

She raised a brow, skeptical but clearly deciding not to push. Instead, she smirked and motioned toward the table. “Good. ‘Cause a little birdie told me, you forgot the silverware.”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, glaring at her. “How ‘bout I shove a fork—”

“Save it!” she cut in with a laugh, shoving a stack of napkins into his hands. “Now get your head outta your ass and help. Dinner’s ready.”

He grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, stomping toward the table to finish setting it. The familiar banter let him fall into an easy mood, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he focused on the task. For a little while, it was enough—enough to drown out the buzzing in his head and the ache in his chest.

The smell of food wafted in from the kitchen, and the sound of Mina teasing Kirishima about something dumb made him smirk despite himself. It felt normal. Comfortable, even.

But as he placed the last napkin down, his gaze drifted to the empty seat at the table. The one no one ever seemed to fill, like they all silently agreed to leave it untouched. His smirk faded, replaced by a faint scowl.

Even after all these years, they still saved him a seat.

“Oi, Katsuki, quit spacing out and grab a drink!” Kirishima’s voice broke through his thoughts, followed by the clinking of glasses.

“Tch, I’m comin’,” he muttered, thoughts clearly elsewhere as he went through the motions, filling his plate and taking a seat at the table with the rest of them.

Mina had taken it upon herself to cook dinner for them, and the spread was impressive, if a little chaotic—steaming plates of curry, stir-fried vegetables, and a pile of crispy tempura that was already being decimated by Hanta and Eijirou. Kyouka quietly took her time, unlike the other two, and Mina couldn’t be more pleased.

“Damn, Mina, you actually outdid yourself,” Hanta said through a mouthful of food, earning a sharp jab to the ribs from her.

“Chew first, then compliment,” she scolded, though the grin on her face gave her away.

Katsuki barely touched his food at first, poking at it with his chopsticks as the conversation swirled around him. Not because it wouldn’t be good– Mina was a beast in the kitchen, nowadays at least. They were loud, like always, bouncing from topic to topic with the kind of energy that used to annoy the hell out of him but now felt strangely comforting.

It wasn’t until Mina shot him a pointed look that he actually started eating. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, grumpy. You better eat, or I’ll personally shove it down your throat.”

“Like hell you will,” he snapped back, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost betraying a smile.

Still, even as he ate and grumbled along with their teasing, the emptiness lingered in the background. He couldn’t stop his gaze from flickering back to the empty seat. Couldn’t stop the memories from creeping in.

This table used to feel full. Whole. Complete. Now it was like something was missing, and no amount of noise or banter could fill the space left behind.

“You finally ready to admit you miss him?”

Katsuki’s grip on his chopsticks tightened, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. He didn’t dare look up, keeping his gaze fixed on his plate.

Kyouka leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. She always did like pushing buttons—his especially. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“Shut it,” he growled, his voice low and sharp enough to cut through the chatter at the table. The others paused, their eyes darting between the two of them.

But Kyouka didn’t back down. She never did. “What? You think we don’t notice the way you get all weird when his name comes up? Or how you keep looking at the seat like he’s gonna walk through the door?”

“Kyouka, maybe chill—” Kirishima started, but Katsuki was already standing, chair scraping against the floor as he shoved away from the table

“I’m not doing this,” he muttered, storming toward the kitchen under the weight of their stares. His hands shook slightly as he gripped the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself.

The room behind him fell quiet for a moment, until Mina broke the silence with a forced laugh. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

“You think?” Kyouka shot back, though there was a trace of guilt in her voice.

In the kitchen, Katsuki braced himself, his hands gripping the edge of the sink as he stared out the window. The streetlights outside flickered faintly, their glow cutting through the wintery night, but it did little to calm the storm inside him.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He hadn’t meant to react like that, but the mention of Kaminari always left him raw. His defenses crumbled too fast, too easily, and he hated how transparent it made him. He was a hero, dammit. 

And the worst part? They were right.

Kyouka had always been sharp with her words, her tone carrying an edge that dared you to push back. Katsuki knew that about her, knew it was just her way of coping, of avoiding her own feelings. But tonight, her words cut deeper than usual. He could tell she missed Denki too—damn near all of them did.

He let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but the memories wouldn’t stop. They seemed to be coming at him all at once lately, like some cosmic joke at his expense. First the scrapbook, now this? It was as if the universe had decided it was time for him to face it, whether he wanted to or not. 

His hands clenched tighter around the counter. He didn’t need this. Not now. Not when he’d spent so much time trying to move on.

And yet, no matter how much he tried to shove it all away, it was there, like a crack in the foundation he couldn’t fix. Because the truth was simple, whether he wanted to admit it or not:

Denki had left a mark on him, and it wasn’t going away.

Katsuki clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as if the sting would ground him. He wasn’t about to sit here mourning someone who hadn’t even died. Denki was still out there, somewhere. He was alive, laughing, probably causing a ruckus just like he always had.

And yet, it didn’t feel that way. Not to Katsuki. Not when the gap he’d left felt as deep and painful as a wound that refused to heal.

“..Hey”

A voice spoke softly next to him, smooth and gentle. Usually, Katsuki would bristle at being spoken to like that— too kind, too considerate—but there wasn’t much he could do about Hanta’s refusal to add some inflection to his voice.

“Hey.”

A firm hand gripped onto his shoulder, but Katsuki still refused to turn around. He let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders tightening further. Hanta didn’t press, though, giving him space as he sat quietly beside him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Hanta said after a moment. “I just… wanted you to know you’re not alone.”

After a beat, he continued, his voice softer, almost wistful.

“He was my best friend.”

Katsuki’s lips pursed as he thought back to how close Hanta and Denki were. They were practically inseparable, doing everything together—from their wild experiments to their late-night hangouts. It felt unnatural not having that bond anymore, not seeing them in sync.

After a long pause, Katsuki finally spoke. “Why did he do it, Hanta?”

Hanta remained quiet for a moment before answering, his voice steady yet gentle. “I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “I don’t think any of us really do.”

Katsuki clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Then why bring it up?”

“Because,” Hanta said, his tone unwavering, “even if I don’t understand why he did it, I know he’s safe. That’s what matters. And whether or not he wants to talk to us about it… well, that’s his choice.”

Katsuki’s eyes met his as they narrowed in curiosity.

“How do you know he’s safe? He’s been talking to you?” He pried, his voice littered with hope.

Hanta hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting away slightly. “I’ve… seen his streams,” he finally admitted, his voice low, as if admitting a secret he wasn’t sure he should be sharing.

Katsuki’s brow furrowed in confusion. “ Streams ? What streams?”

“Denki,” Hanta explained, his voice quieter now, “he streams now. Plays games, and makes music. He doesn’t talk about it much, and I only found out because—” Hanta paused, unsure if he should continue, but knowing Katsuki deserved the truth. “Because I’ve been keeping an eye on his stuff. I wasn’t sure if he’d want anyone else to know, but… I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists at his sides. “You’ve been watching him? Without telling anyone?”

“I wasn’t spying,” Hanta quickly defended, though his voice was still calm. “I didn’t know how else to find out if he was really safe. He wasn’t talking to any of us. No messages, no calls. So, yeah—I checked his streams. But that’s all I’ve done.”

There was a long silence between them, the weight of Hanta’s admission hanging in the air.

“Why?” Katsuki finally asked, his voice sharp. “Why even bother with that? If he didn’t want us knowing, he wouldn’t have let you.”

Hanta sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess… I just didn’t want to lose him completely. Not like this. I need to know he’s okay.”

Katsuki’s expression softened just slightly, though the bitterness in his voice remained. “Did he ever say anything about… us? About me?”

“No,” Hanta admitted, shaking his head slowly. “He doesn’t talk much about that stuff. Just focuses on his music or gaming. But he’s happy. That’s what matters, right?”

“… Give me the username.”

He didn’t reply to Hanta’s question, instead meeting it with a demand.

Hanta hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering toward Katsuki’s intense expression. He wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, but he also couldn’t deny that Katsuki had a right to know.

“Are you sure?” Hanta asked quietly, his voice laced with caution. “It’s… personal. He might not want you to—”

“I don’t care,” Katsuki snapped, cutting him off. “Just give it to me.”

There was a long pause before Hanta finally sighed and dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He unlocked it and handed it over without another word, his usual smirk replaced by a look of quiet understanding. His gaze softened just slightly as he watched Katsuki take the phone, the tension in the room thick enough to cut through.

“It’s his old hero name,” Hanta said, his voice low but steady.

Katsuki’s fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, the weight of the device suddenly feeling heavier in his hand. Frustration and longing churned beneath the surface, bubbling over as his jaw tightened. Slowly, deliberately, he typed the username into the search bar, each keystroke deliberate, almost reverent.

The results loaded quickly, a sea of streams, social media pages, and profiles flooding the screen. Katsuki’s eyes scanned the names and thumbnails, catching glimpses of the familiar grin he hadn’t seen in years. His breath hitched as the reality of it sank in, his chest tightening with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name—or didn’t want to.

His eyes hardened as he stared at the screen, his heart pounding in his ears. He gripped the phone tighter, willing himself not to cry.

He’d thought he could keep the past buried. But here it was, staring back at him through a screen, refusing to be ignored.

“He’s okay.”

Hanta watched Katsuki closely, giving him the space he needed. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of their breathing and the distant sounds of the evening outside.

“He’s okay,” Katsuki whispered again, more to himself than to Hanta. His voice cracked slightly, the weight of the moment sinking in deeper than he thought it would.

Hanta gave a small nod, his expression warm and understanding. “Yeah. He’s safe. And you know, that’s the most important thing.”

Katsuki sat in silence for a moment longer, letting the realization settle deep within him. Despite the ache in his chest, a small, flickering ember of relief began to grow.

Looking up from the screen, his eyes met Hanta’s. 

“Thank you.”

Pulling in the taller, a tight embrace was formed between the two. Hanta returned the embrace without hesitation, his grip firm but gentle, as if offering the support Katsuki needed. The silence stretched between them, but it was comforting—no need for words when the weight of understanding was already shared.

After a few moments, they pulled back slightly, their eyes meeting once more.

“Anytime,” Hanta said softly. “We’ve got you.”

Katsuki nodded, his throat tight but his expression a touch softer. Despite all the frustration and resentment he’d buried about Denki leaving, he couldn’t ignore the relief settling in his chest. Knowing Denki was okay, even if from afar, was a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

“Alright, man,” Hanta said after a beat, his usual grin creeping back onto his face. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, and that food isn’t going to eat itself.”

Katsuki snorted, already turning to head back toward the others. 

“Of course you are”

Chapter Text

‘Sometimes, I still see flashes of you in a crowd. I wonder if the same happens to you.’

His finger hovered over the backspace key.

-

“Alright, guys— we gotta get settling down! It’s like, what? 5 AM?”

Denki’s voice was bright, a little too bright, masking the exhaustion that weighed on him like a lead blanket. His smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, just enough to pass as genuine as he leaned back in his chair, stretching with an exaggerated groan.

Maybe he was playing it up too much, but his chat didn’t mind.

The chat on his screen flooded with messages— playful jabs about him never sleeping, demands for “one more game,” and strings of donations that pinged loudly in his headphones. Denki’s eyes flickered toward the top of the list, where a familiar username sat, highlighted in bright letters. It had been there almost every night lately, their donations piling up in amounts that made his stomach twist.

GroundZero27 .

Denki swallowed hard, the smile faltering for just a split second before he forced it back into place.

He had been streaming for hours, yet he had seemed to be there since the very beginning. It started off small, with enough money to buy an in-game upgrade, but it quickly escalated. It scared him.

“Oi, oi! Don’t think I didn’t see that!” He pointed directly at the camera, letting out a nervous chuckle. “You’re gonna run yourself broke, dude. Chill out with the donations, yeah? I don’t wanna owe anyone a kidney or somethin’.”

The chat erupted in laughing emotes and teasing comments, but Denki didn’t stick around to read them all, scared of what he might find. He cleared his throat, reaching forward to shut down his stream before he could overthink it.

 “Alright, I mean it this time! Thanks for hanging out, losers. Catch you in the next one— and don’t forget to touch grass.— or don’t, I don’t judge!”

He ended the stream with a click, the sudden silence in his room hitting like a wall.

Denki slumped in his chair, letting his head fall back as he stared at the cracked ceiling of his tiny apartment. For the last few hours, the screen, the voices, and the noise had kept him company, filling the space with something close to comfort. Now, with nothing but the hum of his PC and the faint buzz of a flickering lightbulb, the emptiness crept back in.

“Five AM, huh?” he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes.

The screen's glow reflected on his face as he reopened the laptop next to his monitor, skimming over analytics and his chat replay without seeing any of it. His gaze drifted back to GroundZero27; the name burned into his mind.

It had started a few weeks ago. He couldn’t help but immediately recognize the name, his heart squeezing in his chest. It wasn’t odd to have hero fans in the chat; almost everyone was, but...

“Why…” he whispered, but his voice trailed off. He knew better than to ask questions that didn’t have answers.

Denki curled back in his chair, dragging his hands through his hair. His nerves tingled faintly, and that ever-present static hum under his skin flared up just enough to make him clench his fists.

It didn’t make sense. Katsuki didn’t watch streams. He barely touched social media back in school, and now, as a Top 3 hero? He wouldn’t have the time. So why—

Denki slammed the laptop shut, cutting off his own spiral. The room fell into an oppressive silence, save for the faint buzz of his quirk.

“It’s probably just a coincidence,” he muttered, even though the words sounded hollow.

It was a coincidence that donated nearly every night. A coincidence that always showed up with the same name he’d never managed to forget.

He wanted to ask why, confront the screen, and demand answers from the stupid username. But what would he even say? Hey, are you the guy who used to yell at me during training? Thanks for the money, I guess.

The thought made him laugh bitterly.

Katsuki wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t remember. He had his hero work, his perfect life, his perfect path. There was no way he’d be sitting behind a screen at five in the morning, watching him .

Right?

Turning around slightly in his chair, he examined the rest of his office, grimacing at his own decoration choices.

The room was small and cluttered, the walls covered with cheap soundproofing foam that didn’t quite do its job. Posters of bands he used to love—ones he hadn’t listened to in years—hung crookedly, curling at the edges. A corner of the room was dominated by a guitar stand, where his old electric guitar sat gathering dust, strings slightly out of tune.

Denki let his eyes linger on it for a moment too long before turning away. Not today, he told himself. He never played anymore, not when the crackle in his nerves threatened to fry the amp, or worse, remind him of everything he used to be.

He could only write these days, although whenever he started to put pen to paper, it became just as uninspired as he was.

Before he allowed himself to rot his life away sitting in his office, Denki willed himself to get up and out of the dingy room. He pushed himself to his feet, his joints aching from hours spent slumped in the same position. He stretched half-heartedly, rolling his neck until it popped, then shuffled toward the kitchen. 

Kitchen was generous—his “apartment” was barely more than a glorified shoebox, with a bed crammed against one wall and a small kitchenette on the other, taking the only real room for his ‘job’.  He rummaged through the fridge, his hand hovering over a couple of half-empty takeout containers before settling on an old monster can. His stomach turned at the thought of actual food.

He shook the can, checking how much was left, and took a long drink, leaning back against the counter. The quiet consumed him, every creak of the building and hum of the fridge ringing louder in his ears. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

The first sip was cold and bitter, but it kept his hands busy. Kept his mind quiet, even if only for a second.

Denki stared at the faint reflection of himself in the microwave door across from him, the dim light above casting tired shadows across his face. When did I start looking this… empty? He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar yellow strands limp and in need of a cut.

The silence was suffocating.

But it wasn’t truly silence.

Electricity buzzed throughout his entire body, quiet moments like these louder than ever. It was a constant hum beneath his skin, like static on an old TV—one he could never turn off. Once, the feeling had been a comfort, a reminder of power, of purpose. Now it felt like noise he couldn’t escape.

Denki clenched his fists, forcing the crackle to fade. It wasn’t gone—never gone—but it dulled enough for him to think, to breathe. He set the empty can on the counter with too much force, the clang reverberating through the tiny space.

“This is pathetic,” he muttered, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Denki let the clang of the empty can echo through the tiny space before shoving himself off the counter. The weight of his own silence pressed down harder than he could handle. He hated being alone, hated the quiet that made everything so loud.

He wandered back to his desk, hands stuffed in his pockets. His chair squeaked as he flopped down, eyes flicking back to the still-open tabs on his monitor. The chat replay scrolled endlessly, filled with memes, inside jokes, and far too many colors.

Denki hesitated, his finger hovering over the mouse. He knew he shouldn’t. He should close the tab, shut the laptop, and crash for a few hours. But the name stared back at him, daring him to look closer.

“Just a coincidence,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the hum of his PC. 

He clicked the username anyway.

The profile was sparse. No picture, no bio, nothing that gave any clue about who they were. The donations were the only trace they left behind, each one carrying some vague message like Nice moves or Keep it up, Sparky.

Sparky.

Denki's stomach twisted, and his hand clenched the mouse so tightly it creaked. No one had called him that since—

“Nope,” he muttered, cutting the thought short. He slammed the laptop shut, stood up too quickly, and knocked over an empty water bottle. The clatter made him wince, but he didn’t stop. Grabbing his jacket, he yanked it on and headed for the door.

He needed air. He needed to move. To do anything but sit in that suffocating room with his overactive thoughts. The cold night air bit at his face as he stepped outside, his breath visible in the dim glow of a street lamp.

The city was quiet this late—or early—but it didn’t matter. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his feet carrying him aimlessly through the streets. He passed shuttered shops and darkened windows, the occasional hum of a passing car the only sound.

This wasn’t the first time he’d forced himself out of his apartment at ungodly hours, hoping the chill air and empty streets would untangle the mess in his head. He walked without direction, his boots scuffing against the uneven pavement, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.

A distant horn echoed faintly, followed by the soft rumble of tires on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a streetlight buzzed faintly, struggling to stay lit. Its flickering cast long, uneven shadows across the buildings, giving them an almost skeletal quality.

Denki’s shoulders hunched against the cold as he trudged forward, his breath visible in short puffs. He didn’t expect anything from these early-morning walks—no epiphanies, no sudden peace. All he wanted was to feel like he wasn’t suffocating.

He passed a convenience store, its fluorescent light spilling weakly onto the sidewalk. A lone figure stood outside, leaning against the wall, their cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. The person looked up briefly as Denki approached, but their eyes flicked away just as quickly, disinterested.

Denki kept walking, the faint scent of tobacco lingering in the air behind him. He tried not to dwell on it, but the interaction—or lack thereof—still gnawed at him. He used to be noticed, recognized. People would wave or call out, sometimes hesitantly, sometimes excitedly.

People wanted to see him– take pictures with him, or just chat happily. He used to have friends, ones who would reach out and ask to hang out at his place, even when he wasn’t in the mood to say yes. They’d show up anyway, arms loaded with snacks and dumb movies, dragging him out of his funk whether he wanted it or not.

Or maybe it was the opposite. After all, he couldn’t really remember the last time he hung out with someone without asking first. 

But that was a long time ago. It’s not like his memory was the best, anyway. It could all just be a cruel trick from his mind, trying to sour all he had left of his old life. The memories.

Now, he was just another face in the crowd, and the realization settled like a weight in his chest.

As the streets grew quieter, he found himself turning down an alleyway. The space was narrow, wedged between two old buildings with peeling paint and graffiti tags. He wouldn’t usually stop in a place like this, but something about it called to him. Maybe it was the solitude– or the way the muffled city sounds felt distant here.

He leaned against the cold brick wall and slid down until he was sitting, his knees bent and his head tipped back. Above him, a strip of sky peeked between the rooftops, dotted with faint stars.

The world carried on without him. Somewhere out there, people were laughing with friends, wrapping up shifts at work, or heading home to loved ones after a night shift. But not him. Not anymore.

The buzz of his phone in his pocket brought him back to the moment. He pulled it out, squinting against the light as he unlocked it. Notifications were piled up as usual—sponsorship emails, stream analytics, and the occasional spam promising miracle solutions for problems he didn’t have.

He was about to toss his phone aside when a new notification caught his eye.

From: Bakugo Katsuki
Subject: Kaminari.

Denki froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. The sender’s name stared back at him, impossibly real.

But there it was, in all its glory. The name he sought after, the one he thought about at night when he was too cold and tired to fight away the longing.

A rush of memories hit him—the late-night study sessions, the reckless hero missions, and the laughter shared in moments of vulnerability. They had been simply classmates at first, but something more had always simmered beneath that. Something Denki couldn’t ignore. A bond that neither could quite shake, no matter how far they drifted apart.

He wanted to block him, pretending he hadn’t even seen the email. 

But his thumb wouldn’t move. It hovered there, trembling slightly, caught between the weight of the past and the reality of the present. He couldn’t ignore it—not completely.

“Fuck!” 

Slowly, he opened the message.

Chapter Text

From: Bakugo Katsuki

To: Kaminari Denki

Subject: Kaminari.

Kaminari,

I’ve rewritten this stupid email so many times now I’ve lost count. I’ve been sitting here, staring at the screen like some kind of idiot, trying to figure out how to start this. How to talk to you after all this time. I don’t want to be a pussy and give you a baseless apology, you deserve more than that.

The truth is, I don’t think there’s a “right” way to say any of this. So, I’ll just say it: I regret it.

I think back to all those nights, and all I can feel is regret. You were so kind to me—too kind. Far kinder than what I deserved.

I was a shit friend. Or whatever we were. 

Back in our third year, when things were starting to go to shit between us, I should’ve handled it better. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I shouldn’t have acted like what we had wasn’t important. Like you weren’t important. But I did. I told myself it was better for both of us, that it wouldn’t matter in the long run. That I couldn’t afford distractions.

But you weren’t a distraction, Denki. You were the one good thing I let slip through my fingers. And I didn’t just lose you as—whatever the hell we were trying to be—I lost you as a friend, too.

I  remember how you started pulling away after that. How you got quieter, stopped showing up to stuff, stopped smiling as much. At first, I thought you were just pissed at me, and honestly, I figured I deserved it. But then you left. Hero work, UA, all of us. You cut us all out.

And I was mad. At you. At myself. Mostly myself.

But I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even when me and Red opened our agency, even when the work started piling up and I barely had time to think about anything but missions and paperwork. You were always there. Somewhere in the back of my mind, like this itch I couldn’t reach.

I’d see something stupid—like those terrible energy drinks you used to stockpile—or hear some kid blasting your music on the train, and there you were again. Just… there. Every damn time, Denki. Like my brain didn’t know how to let go of you, even when I told it to.

I’d catch myself thinking about how you’d always find a way to make us laugh, even when shit was hard. Or how you’d annoy the hell out of me with your dumb jokes, but somehow, I never really minded. Not deep down. I thought about the way you used to look at me, like I was worth something more than my stupid temper or my stupid ambition.

I always blamed myself after you left, thought it was fair if you hated me, but they didn’t deserve it. I hate how when reminiscing on the past we have to skip over stories that include you so we don’t open up old wounds. How during Christmas everyone still gets you a gift, just in case.

It’s not like we talk about it, either. No one says your name out loud anymore. It just hangs there, this unspoken thing that we all feel but can’t bring ourselves to acknowledge. Every time Mina pulls out one of those goofy holiday games or Eijirou suggests karaoke, there’s this pause—like we’re all waiting for you to jump in, to make some dumb comment, to just be there.

But you’re not.

And I think that’s what hurts the most. The empty space you left behind, the way it’s shaped everything without anyone realizing it. You weren’t just part of the group, Denki—you were the glue. The one who kept us all laughing, even when things sucked.

And I don’t know if I ever told you that. Probably not. I wasn’t good at saying stuff like that back then. Hell, I’m still not. But it’s true.

I think that’s why I’m writing this. Because I need you to know what you meant to us. What you still mean to us .

And to me.

I was too stupid and stubborn to admit it back then, but you mattered to me, Denki. More than anyone else. More than I ever let you know. I didn’t realize how much until you were gone.

I wanted to hate you for leaving us, for leaving me. I’m still not even sure why you left. I’ve gone over it a million times in my head, trying to figure out what pushed you to cut ties with everyone who cared about you. Was it me? Was it all of us? Or was it just the weight of everything—the hero work, the expectations, the constant pressure to be more, to be better?

I wish I could say I didn’t get it. But I do.

Hero work eats you alive, Denki. It chews you up and spits you out, and if you’re lucky, you’re still breathing when it’s done with you. I’ve had my fair share of nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was strong enough to keep going. Wondering if it was worth it.

But you—you walked away. You were strong enough to walk away. And I hated you for it. Because I wasn’t. Because I stayed, and I let it eat me alive, and somehow, I convinced myself that made me better.

It didn’t.

It just made me bitter. It made me resent you for doing what I was too scared to do. And that’s not fair. None of this is fair.

I guess what I’m trying to say is… I get it. At least, I think I do. I wish I’d understood back then, instead of being angry. Maybe if I had, things would’ve been different. Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to leave.

But I can’t change the past, no matter how much I want to. All I can do is tell you the truth now and hope it means something to you.

You don’t need to return to your old life if you don’t want to. I’m okay with watching you from afar. But I know I’d hate myself if I didn’t even try.

Watching your streams, I tried to convince myself that it was enough. That watching you laugh, seeing that spark in your eyes again, hearing your voice—it was enough. But it’s not. It never was. I’ve always been greedy.

Because every time the stream ends, every time the screen goes black, I’m reminded that it’s not real. That I’m not there with you. That you’re not here with us.

I told myself I was doing you a favor by staying quiet, by letting you live your life without dragging you back into the mess you left behind. But the truth is, I’ve been a coward. I was scared of what you’d say, scared that you’d tell me to fuck off, that you didn’t want anything to do with me—or us—ever again.

But then I thought about what you’d say if the roles were reversed. You’d tell me to stop being such a dumbass and go for it. So here I am, taking your advice before you even give it.

I miss you, Denki. And it’s not just the memories or the way you used to light up a room. It’s you. The way you see the world, the way you see people—even me.

You always saw something in me that I couldn’t. Something better. And I never knew how to thank you for that, so I just… didn’t. I kept it to myself, like an idiot, like it wouldn’t matter. But it did. It still does.

So here’s me trying, for once. Trying to do the thing I should’ve done a long time ago. Trying to tell you that you were—are—important to me. That you mattered. That you still do.

I don’t know if this email will change anything. Hell, I don’t even know if you’ll read it. But if you do, if there’s even the smallest chance that you’d want to talk—

I’m here. I’ve always been here, Denki. Waiting. Hoping.

Take care of yourself, okay? Even if you hate me, even if you don’t respond, just—take care of yourself.

Bakugou, Katsuki.

Chapter Text

“Lemme in.”

The tip of Katsuki’s finger turned completely white from how hard he was pressing on the doorbell, mouth close to the microphone as irritation rang clear in his tone. 

The door didn’t open right away. A sharp gust of wind cut through the dimly lit street, rattling the loose sign hanging above the entrance to the apartment complex. Katsuki’s free hand clenched at his side, his nails pressing into his palm. The heat of his quirk flickered at his fingertips, the familiar prickle of static energy snapping against his skin.

He was wound too tight, his body strung up on something volatile, something restless. Even his breathing was uneven, barely visible in the cold night air. It was late— or early depending how you looked at it, but he hadn’t even thought about the time before showing up.

His reflection in the glass of the door was a mess. His hair was more disheveled than usual, sticking up at odd angles from how often he had run his fingers through it. His hoodie was unzipped, the shirt underneath wrinkled, like he’d thrown it on without thinking. It wasn’t far off from the truth. There were faint shadows under his eyes, proof that his mind had been too loud for sleep.

The intercom crackled to life.

“Dude. What the hell.”

Hanta sounded like he had just rolled out of bed, his voice groggy but distinctly unimpressed. Katsuki could picture him standing at the buzzer in pajama pants, rubbing a hand down his face.

Katsuki ignored the tone. “Open the damn door.”

There was a pause, then a heavy sigh crackled through the intercom.

"Do you even know how late it is?" Hanta grumbled, followed by the sound of something shifting—probably blankets rustling as he moved.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The cold was beginning to nip at the exposed skin of his face, but it barely registered. His chest was too tight, his mind too full, buzzing with everything he didn’t want to sit with alone. “Open the door, dipshit.”

There was a pause—just long enough for Katsuki to feel his impatience twist into irritation. He could hear the shuffle of footsteps through the intercom, followed by a muffled sigh.

The lock buzzed.

Katsuki shoved the door open before Hanta could change his mind, stepping inside like the cold night had been biting at his heels. The apartment complex was nothing fancy—an older building with creaky staircases and a dimly lit lobby that smelled faintly of coffee and old wood. The heat inside hit him immediately, a stark contrast to the chill outside, but it didn’t do much to ease the tension gripping his shoulders.

Hanta was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, leaning against the doorframe of his and Kyouka’s shared apartment. Katsuki wasted no time in climbing up. He was exactly as Katsuki had imagined—messy hair, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a worn-out hoodie slung over his shoulders. His eyes squinted against the dim light of the hallway, still adjusting, but as soon as he got a good look at Katsuki, his irritation faded just a bit.

“Seriously, man?” Hanta exhaled, stepping aside to let him in. “You look like you’re about to shake out of your own skin.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. He brushed past him, his steps heavy against the wooden floor. The apartment was dimly lit, only one of the lamps casting a weak yellow glow across the living room. A blanket was bunched up on the couch, Kyouka’s bass propped up against the wall beside it. Everything felt lived in, cluttered but comfortable.

The two had been living together since graduating from UA. It used to be the three of them– but Denki had left not long after they moved in. Said he needed space, needed something different. At the time, it felt like a temporary thing. Like he’d be back when he figured himself out. But he never did.

Everyone told him it was stupid. He was brand new on the scene and had only a couple bucks to his name. But he brushed them off, with that stupid smirk of his, and told everyone he’d make it work. Looking back at it now, it was one of the first signs of Denki pulling away from them all. Easier to run away if you convinced yourself you had no place to return to.

Katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could still remember the way Denki had shrugged it off, grinning like he always did, like it wasn’t a big deal.

"I’ll still be around," he had said, stuffing the last of his things into a battered duffel bag. "It’s not like I’m disappearing off the face of the earth or anything."

Liar.

Katsuki had never set foot in this apartment before tonight, but it still felt like Denki somehow. Maybe it was just the familiarity of their shared pasts, the way Kyouka’s music sheets were strewn across the coffee table or the faint scent of Hanta’s cologne mixing with something citrusy—something that almost reminded him of the stupid hair products Denki used to hoard. The way he’d show up to class with his hair still damp, smelling like lemons and ozone, like a summer storm waiting to happen. Sometimes Katsuki wishes he could go back to simple moments like those and shove himself into them, wedge himself between the cracks of time where things were still easy—where Denki was still here.

But he wasn’t.

And it was Katsuki’s fault.

Katsuki stopped in the middle of the room, standing there like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing. Only then did he notice Kyouka curled up comfortably on the couch, with a mug in hand. There was something comforting about the scene, their friend group being no stranger to late night talks about life. She even looked like a mean old house cat– the type that judges you for simply breathing.

Kyouka raised an eyebrow over the rim of her mug, her free hand lazily draped over her stomach. “Well, this is dramatic.”

Katsuki scowled, but it didn’t hold much heat. He felt too raw, too on edge for his usual bite to land right. “Shut up.”

She hummed, unimpressed, and took a slow sip of whatever she was drinking. Tea, probably. Something warm. Something grounding. Katsuki barely swallowed the lump in his throat at the thought. Hanta settled himself down on the other side of the couch, looking about ready to fall asleep again. Probably another night of binge-watching bad reality TV. Kyouka would never admit that she was the one who loved the tradition, not Hanta.

Kyouka’s gaze flicked over Katsuki’s disheveled appearance, her expression unreadable. She didn’t say anything at first, just swirled the drink in her mug, watching him like she was trying to piece him together. Hanta, on the other hand, yawned and ran a hand through his already messy hair.

“So,” Hanta muttered, voice still thick with sleep. “You gonna tell us what’s got you looking like a stray cat that just got booted off a dumpster, or…?”

Katsuki clicked his tongue, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. He should’ve known they weren’t gonna make this easy.

“Sent the email.” His voice came out flat, as if he were merely informing them of the weather outside, or that he had just run out of milk.

Both Hanta and Kyouka blinked at him.

“Sent what?” Kyouka asked, her voice low and cautious. She tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure if she heard him right.

“The email,” Katsuki repeated, slower this time, jaw tight.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hanta let out a half-laugh, pushing his hand through his hair again as he leaned forward, squinting at Katsuki. “What? Finally told your social media manager you wanted access back to your account after cursing out that fan last month?”

Katsuki’s eye twitched.

Kyouka snorted quietly behind her mug, but the amusement faded quickly when she caught the look on his face. His expression didn’t shift—stone-cold, unflinching—but there was something off about it. His eyes were a little too red around the edges, his breathing a little too sharp.

“…Wait,” Kyouka said, sitting up straighter. “What email, Katsuki?”

There was a pause.

“To..Denki?”

Hanta’s face dropped like a stone. The color drained from it, replaced by something between disbelief and fury.

“No. No, no, no—you didn’t,” he said, standing up so quickly the blanket on his lap hit the floor. “You didn’t do that. Tell me you’re joking.”

Katsuki didn’t respond. His silence said more than words could.

“You said you weren’t going to!” Hanta snapped, his voice sharp now, the edge of betrayal unmistakable. “We both agreed, man! We talked about this! We weren’t going to push him—you said it!”

“I know what I said,” Katsuki growled, but it didn’t have its usual bark. It sounded tired. “I changed my mind.”

Hanta sputtered, a laugh of disbelief escaping his mouth, shaky and sharp around the edges. He took a step back, like he needed physical distance just to wrap his head around it. 

“Are you kidding me?” Hanta ran both hands through his hair again, pacing now, each step like an explosion of restless energy. “You didn’t even tell us? Didn’t even think maybe we deserved a heads-up before you decided to drop a literal bomb in his inbox?! What the hell did you say?”

Katsuki’s mouth opened, then shut. He didn’t know how to explain it without unraveling right there on their shitty thrifted rug. Because of course it would be. Kyoka and Denki probably picked it out together, arguing which placement of it would be the best as Hanta egged them both on.

At the thought, his eyes flickered over to her. Kyouka had gone still. She stared at him like he’d slapped her. Katsuki guesses she would’ve preferred that over this.“Wait,” she said again, quieter this time. “What do you mean, you sent something to Denki?”

Katsuki shoved a hand through his hair and forced the words out. “I just told him the truth, alright? That I got it. That I should’ve gotten it sooner. That I wasn’t mad anymore.”

Hanta’s laughter was bitter. “Yeah, well, guess what? That doesn’t mean he’s ready to hear it.”

“I know that!” Katsuki snapped, standing now too. “But I’ve been sitting with this shit for months, pretending like I’m fine watching him through a screen like he’s some stranger. It’s not enough anymore. I had to say something. I had to.”

“And what if it just makes things worse?” Hanta shot back, gesturing wildly. “What if you just ripped open something he was finally starting to heal from? What if it was better without us?”

The room went quiet again.

That silence was thicker this time. Heavier. No one truly wanted to admit that the electric blonde might be gone forever. That this wasn’t just a several year long break from reality, something they could just write off as ‘Denki being Denki’.

Kyouka’s hand tightened around her mug. She didn’t look angry. She looked… scared. “You think he’s gonna respond?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. 

He didn’t know what scared him more—that Denki would ignore it, or that he wouldn’t.

“You really are a fucking idiot,” Hanta muttered again, voice hollow.

“I know,” Katsuki whispered. “But I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.”

Hanta shot him a look but didn’t argue. Instead, he just slumped back into his seat, rubbing at his temples. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Katsuki didn’t like that answer. But then again, he didn’t like much of anything right now.

Chapter Text

Denki is a moron. This is a well known, verifiable fact. 

Currently, he was pacing back and forth in an open field close to the old UA training grounds. The grass was damp from the recent rain, sticking to the soles of his boots, but Denki didn’t notice, he had bigger things to mull over.. His hands were shoved in his hoodie pockets, knuckles white, mind buzzing a mile a minute. Every second felt like a countdown, every gust of wind a whisper telling him he’d made a mistake.

After receiving Katsuki’s.. apology ? Olive branch? Fuckin’ whatever the hell it was, Denki had stared at the screen for nearly half an hour, thumb hovering over the keyboard like it might suddenly give him the answer he couldn’t come up with himself. He had reread the email three times, each sentence slicing at him differently—anger, relief, nostalgia, and something that felt dangerously like hope.

He typed a reply, deleted it, typed again, deleted it. Words failed him, just like they always did when it mattered most.

So he does what he does best, act on impulse. 

“Meet me at midnight. Our old spot at UA.”

Because of course, the last thing that Denki Kaminari would do is think before acting. Now he waits, the after dew from the rain sticking onto his hoodie. 

The night draped itself over the field like a heavy blanket, cool and damp, the faint smell of wet earth rising around him. Denki shifted on his feet, kicking at a clump of sod more aggressively than necessary, sparks flickering briefly at his fingertips. It wasn’t intentional—the static just… reacted. His nerves fraying at the edges, each small shock making his chest thrum faster, reminding him he was alive, painfully, wildly alive.

He checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time. Ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes to whatever this was supposed to be. His stomach twisted into knots, the kind that made his hands shake despite the hoodie pockets, and every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to pretend he’d never sent that stupid text.

And then he heard it—the faint crunch of boots on grass.

Denki’s head snapped up, heart hammering, breath catching in his throat. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. Sparks jumped from one finger to another as if agreeing with his panic.

Katsuki stepped into the moonlight like a storm carved into human form. His shirt seemed tight around his muscles, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the empty field until they locked on Denki. He moved with that sharp, purposeful stride, the kind that made Denki’s chest tighten with remembered… everything. Anger, frustration, longing, guilt—all tangled into a single coil that threatened to snap.

“You’re late,” Denki said, trying to sound casual, but the words came out jagged, uneven.

Katsuki’s scowl was enough to silence the wind. “You said midnight. It’s midnight. I’m not late. You’re early– for once.”

Denki laughed nervously, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m… I’m a moron. Big surprise.”

Katsuki’s eyes flicked to the sparks still dancing along Denki’s fingertips. “I never said that,” he murmured, tone low, wary, like he didn’t quite know what to expect from the blonde in front of him.

He only shrugged in response.That was fine. Denki didn’t quite know what to make of him either. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the dude in decades, any person with social media was constantly bombarded with hero news. But to see him in person was completely different. The moonlight highlighted the sharp curves of his face, the set of his jaw, and the storm of his dark eyes. Denki’s breath caught, just a little, as he took in the way Katsuki stood—like he belonged to no one but himself, every movement coiled with restrained power. The moonlight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his hair stuck up in that reckless, untamed way that somehow suited him perfectly.

Denki’s heart thudded painfully as he realized just how much he’d missed this—Katsuki in all his infuriating, impossible glory. His shoulders broad and solid, hands clenched at his sides like he was ready to spring at anything, but his presence alone made the field feel smaller, more intimate.

There was something dangerous about him, Denki thought, something magnetic and impossible to look away from. Even the faint lines around his eyes, the small shadow of weariness, only made him more compelling, more human, more achingly beautiful.

Denki swallowed, tongue suddenly thick in his mouth, as his mind stuttered over memories, longing, and the undeniable fact that Katsuki was breathtaking. Every angle, every sharp edge, every imperfection he had once complained about now felt like it was carved perfectly for him alone.

And he knew—just knew—that no amount of time or distance had dulled this. The ache in his chest, the warmth in his stomach, the sparks that seemed to dance not just on his skin but through his entire being—it all said one thing: he had never stopped noticing him. Never stopped being completely, utterly awestruck.

Katsuki broke the silence. Of course he would.

“You planning on staring at me all night, or are you gonna say something?” His voice was rough, low, carrying that edge that Denki had once found infuriating—and now, somehow, intoxicating.

Denki blinked, caught off guard by how easily his chest tightened at the sound. Words failed him, just like they always did when it mattered. His tongue felt like cotton in his mouth, and the sparks along his fingers jumped higher, erratic, as if mirroring his nerves.

“I—uh…” he started, then stopped, hands twitching at his sides. “I dunno… I just—shit, I didn’t expect you to actually come.”

Katsuki’s scowl softened just a fraction, eyes dark and unreadable, but Denki caught the way the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He looked… smaller somehow, human, despite the storm of power he carried with him everywhere he went.

“Well. I’m here.”

Denki laughed, short and shaky, the sound breaking into the night like glass hitting concrete. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

His chest felt tight, the sparks crackling louder now, humming along his skin as if his body couldn’t hold still. He shoved his hands back in his pockets, clenching his fists to keep from reaching out, from touching, from proving Katsuki was really standing there.

He wanted to say a thousand things. Wanted to scream at him for hurting him, for not calling, for leaving a hole so wide Denki thought he’d fall through it. Wanted to tell him he looked good, better than good, unfairly good. Wanted to say he hated him, missed him, loved him—God, he didn’t even know which anymore.

Instead, all that came out was: “Why now?”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed, his gaze dropping to the damp grass before snapping back to pin Denki in place. “Because I couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut anymore. Because I owed you more than silence.”

Denki’s throat closed up, breath coming uneven, sparks popping like fireworks at his sides. “You think some email and showing up now makes it better?”

Katsuki’s lip curled, not quite a snarl, not quite a smile. “No. But it’s a start.”

Something inside Denki lurched, a coil snapping tight, too tight. His body felt too small to hold everything boiling inside him—anger, longing, grief, hope, all colliding until there was nowhere left for it to go.

So he let it out the only way he knew how.

“Then fight me.”

Katsuki’s eyebrows shot up, his face scrunching up in confusion as he gave Denki a onceover. His laugh was sharp, humorless, almost cruel in its disbelief. He had always been a little cruel, hadn’t he? Denki pursed his lips, feeling ashamed for even suggesting it, for still wanting to stand his ground about it. The longer the silence stretched, the more Katsuki seemed to realize that this wasn’t just a joke. His smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed, searching Denki’s face for the punchline that never came.

“You’re serious,” he muttered, voice low.

Denki’s chest heaved, sparks spitting from his fingertips like his body was betraying him. “Dead serious.”

For a moment, Katsuki just stared at him, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His expression shifted with a kind of weight Denki recognized instantly—Katsuki was calculating, fighting something in himself. And God, Denki hated how familiar it felt, hated how much he still wanted to map every flicker in his face, every unspoken thought in those brilliantly red eyes.

He looked like he wanted to argue, to tell Denki how fucking stupid this was, but then something in his expression shifted—like he understood.

“Fine,” Katsuki said, stepping closer, boots grinding into the damp earth. His tone carried no hesitation, no softness. Just finality. “If that’s what it takes to get through your thick skull, I’ll beat it into you.”

Denki’s laugh came out shaky, desperate, but there was no humor in it. “You always think you gotta beat someone bloody to prove a point.”

His voice cracked around the words, and he hated himself for it. He could feel his body trembling, not just from the static crawling along his skin but from the sight in front of him: Katsuki in the moonlight, fierce and unyielding, shoulders squared like the world couldn’t touch him. Denki thought—unwanted, unhelpful—that he’d never seen anyone so alive. So impossible.

“And you,” Katsuki shot back, heat edging into his words, “always think hiding behind a smile fixes shit. Guess we’re both wrong.”

Accusatory. The words landed heavy, almost physical, and Denki flinched. He had nowhere to look but at him, nowhere to go but closer to the fire that would scorch him raw.

The air between them felt charged, heavier than any storm cloud. Every inch of Denki’s skin prickled like it was waiting for lightning to strike. His hands trembled as he pulled them out of his pockets, sparks crawling up his arms, lighting his outline in a pale yellow glow. He could see it reflected faintly in Katsuki’s eyes, gold against red, a contrast that made his chest hurt.

And then, almost without thinking, Denki shoved his hoodie off his shoulders and yanked it over his head, throwing it down onto the wet grass with more force than necessary. The damp earth clung to the fabric, swallowing it in darkness.

Beneath, the shape of him was different—sharper, thinner than the hoodie had suggested. His shirt clung to his frame, outlining a body worn down by years of overuse. Scars both faint and fresh traced jagged paths across his arms. Either pale and uneven or red and angry, the most visible consequence of a quirk that had chewed him up more than once.

Denki knew what he looked like. Frail. Damaged. A bad joke of the reckless boy he’d once been. His shoulders hunched slightly, as if instinctively trying to shield himself from the weight of Katsuki’s stare, from the shame crawling hot under his skin.

But he forced himself to stay still. To let him see.

This is what being a hero left him with.

Katsuki’s expression cracked for just a second—shock flickering before his jaw locked tight again, eyes burning brighter in the shadows. He didn’t say anything, but the silence was heavier than any insult, heavier than any explosion.

Denki swallowed hard, sparks still licking across his scarred arms, his voice rasping when he finally spoke. “You can’t back out now.”

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, fists clenching, a faint crackle of heat flaring in his palms. The sight made Denki’s stomach flip—the familiar orange glow, the smell of danger that always followed him. He looked at Denki not like an enemy, not like a stranger, but like someone he couldn’t afford to lose—and couldn’t reach without burning through the walls first.

“Come on, Sparky,” he growled, dropping into stance. “Show me what you’ve got left.”

Denki’s throat went dry. His body buzzed with static, his vision sharpening under the pressure. He took in everything—Katsuki’s set jaw, the way the wind tugged at his shirt, the tension rippling through his arms. The moonlight carved every line of him into something unreal, something that should have been out of reach.

For once, Denki didn’t feel stupid. For once, he felt like this mattered.

So he charged. The field exploded into chaos.

Denki lunged first, static flaring off his arms in jagged bursts that lit the night like shattered lightning. His boots tore through the wet grass, sparks hissing as they hit the damp earth. His palm crackled with energy, a thin whip of current lashing out toward Katsuki.

Katsuki met it head-on. His palm ignited with a controlled blast, fire and smoke roaring outward, dispersing the arc with violent force. The impact sent a shockwave through the field, bending the grass flat, kicking damp dirt into the air.

“Pathetic!” Katsuki barked, his voice carrying that same razor-edged bite that had always made Denki’s stomach twist. He surged forward, explosions rattling the night, each one calculated, not wild—the restraint only made them sting more.

Denki gritted his teeth, chest burning with humiliation and rage. “Shut the fuck up!” He hurled another wave of electricity, this one broader, unfocused, born more from emotion than control. The air buzzed sharp, ozone choking his throat as he poured everything he had into the strike.

Katsuki dodged, but not cleanly. The edge of the current caught his arm, muscles seizing just enough to stagger him. His snarl was immediate, feral, but Denki saw it—that flicker of pain, the reminder that even Katsuki Bakugo could be touched.

It fueled him.

He pressed forward, fists sparking like dying fireworks, every blow wild, sloppy, desperate. Katsuki countered with precision, blocking, parrying, throwing back explosions that sent Denki skidding through the mud, his shoes slipping on the soaked grass.

Each time Denki pushed himself up, chest heaving, his body screamed at him to stop. His scars burned under the static, nerves misfiring, skin sizzling in protest. He ignored it. He always ignored it.

“Still hiding behind the same shitty tricks,” Katsuki spat, stepping closer, explosions flashing dangerously in his palms. His hair clung damp to his forehead, sweat and mist catching the moonlight. “You never learn, do you?”

Denki laughed, breathless, bitter, a little broken. Sparks spit out of his teeth when he grinned. “Yeah? And you’re still the same asshole who thinks yelling fixes everything.”

He lunged again, faster this time, static rolling up his arms until it was painful to keep inside. He drove forward, reckless, electricity screaming out like a thunderclap.

The air cracked like glass under pressure as Denki hurled himself forward again, arcs of yellow splintering across the wet field. Katsuki met him in kind, palms detonating with bursts that turned the grass into ash. Each strike was a memory, every dodge a ghost.

“Pathetic!” Katsuki barked again, his voice tearing through the storm of sparks. “You always were. Couldn’t keep up in training, couldn’t keep up anywhere.”

Denki’s laugh ripped out ragged, more like static than sound. “And yet—” he lunged, sparks grazing Katsuki’s shoulder, burning cloth— “you’re still here wasting your time on me. What’s that say about you, huh?”

Katsuki snarled, retaliating with a blast that sent Denki sprawling into the mud, the world flashing white around the edges. The dirt clung to his scars, to his skin, wet and ugly. He shoved himself up anyway, spitting blood and rain.

“Always running your damn mouth,” Katsuki growled, advancing, explosions flaring. “You think words make you strong? You think your whining meant shit back then?!”

Denki fired another arc, wild and furious. It tore through the night like lightning without a storm, jagged and aimless but blinding in its brilliance. “At least I said something! You just burned everything you touched and called it strength.”

The blow grazed Katsuki’s ribs, and for a split second he staggered—just enough for Denki to see it, to taste the possibility of knocking him down. But then the storm roared back, fire swallowing the space between them as Katsuki’s palm erupted. The blast singed the air, forcing Denki to shield his face, the heat like teeth against his skin.

“Still weak,” Katsuki spat through the smoke, chest heaving. “Still hiding behind sparks that fizzle out the second they touch me.”

Denki’s chest cracked open with laughter that bordered on hysteria. Sparks lit the inside of his mouth, his grin feral, teeth gleaming with blood. “Yeah? Then why aren’t you going all out?” His voice climbed, desperate, furious. “Why the hell are you still holding back on me, Katsuki?!”

Katsuki froze mid-step, just a fraction, but Denki caught it—the hesitation, the truth he’d buried in his fists.

“You think I’m too weak to handle it?” Denki roared, arcs crawling up his arms like golden veins, his whole body vibrating with the current threatening to tear him apart. “Is that it? You still see me as the dumbass sidekick you gotta protect from himself?”

The field hummed with silence, broken only by the hiss of burning grass, the crackle of ozone, the panting of two men who had spent decades learning each other’s rhythms only to fall apart in them.

Katsuki’s jaw clenched so tight it could’ve shattered. “If I went all out—” His voice was rough, breaking under the weight of it. “You’d be dead.”

Denki’s laugh snapped into the night like a whip, bitter and bright. “Then kill me already! Better that than standing here proving you never once saw me as your equal!”

The storm inside him broke. He surged forward, electricity ripping out of him in waves, his body screaming in rebellion but his heart louder still. Every scar, every fracture, every failure—they bled into the current, burning gold.

Katsuki met him, fists exploding, fire and lightning colliding in a storm that lit the whole damn field brighter than the moon.

And between the detonations, their words were louder than the blasts:

“Always dragging me down—”
“Always leaving me behind—”
“You couldn’t keep up—”
“You never even looked back—”

It was ruthless, it was childish, it was every wound they’d never sutured being ripped open again.

And yet, beneath it all, neither of them struck deep. Their blows screamed violence but swerved just shy of ruin, an unspoken truth buried under the rubble: they wanted to hurt, but not destroy.

They wanted the fight, not the ending.

But of course, all things must come to an end. Good and bad, it has a conclusion. And Denki had always been one stubborn bastard.

Denki’s body betrayed him first in the smallest of ways. The sparks that had been screaming off his skin faltered, flickered, guttering like a dying candle in the rain. His knees buckled mid-stride, momentum carrying him forward even as the current bled out of him in jagged hiccups.

Then it hit—the short circuit.

His scream was not loud but sharp, a choked sound that seemed to shatter the field around them. His whole frame locked, muscles seizing as if his own lightning had turned inward, punishing him for daring to carry too much. His eyes rolled back, mouth slackening as arcs spat from his fingertips and died against the wet earth.

Katsuki’s heart plummeted.

“DENKI!” The name tore from his throat raw, unarmored, nothing like the growl of insult or challenge he’d worn all night. He lunged before Denki could hit the ground, arms catching him as though the impact alone might break him into pieces.

The body in his grasp was frail, far too light for someone who had once been so loud, so unbearably alive. He lowered him carefully into the damp grass, every motion reverent, as if he were laying down something fragile enough to dissolve under touch.

Denki’s head lolled against his chest, lips parted, breath ragged and shallow. His scars caught the moonlight like rivers carved into brittle earth, his skin pale beneath the harsh outlines of every old burn and crack. Katsuki could feel the faint tremor of static still buzzing under his fingertips, weak and desperate, like the last flicker of a storm that had already passed.

“Idiot, idiot,” Katsuki muttered, his voice breaking into shards, each word a jagged piece of grief he couldn’t swallow. “Why the fuck would you push yourself this far?” His palms hovered uselessly, desperate to help, terrified to touch. His explosions were fire—what good was fire against a boy undone by his own lightning?

The hoodie was still there, crumpled where Denki had thrown it down minutes earlier, defiance still clinging to the fabric. Katsuki snatched it up with shaking hands and shook the dirt from it, draping it over Denki’s trembling frame. The gesture was clumsy, desperate, more ritual than remedy. The damp cotton clung immediately to his chest and shoulders, but it was the only shield Katsuki had to give.

Beneath it, Denki was fire and ash both—skin fever-hot with the overload’s aftermath, but pale as moonstone beneath the scars that carved across him. Each jagged mark glowed faintly in the silver light, cruel souvenirs of every time he’d pushed too hard, every time his body had paid the price for his recklessness.

Katsuki’s hand hovered over his chest, over the violent stutter of his heartbeat—too fast, too erratic, like a bird slamming itself against a cage. His palm itched to ground him, to steady him, but he was afraid of making it worse, afraid of breaking the fragile current still buzzing weakly beneath his skin.

Denki’s face twisted, jaw tight, teeth clenched against the waves of pain that wracked through him. Even unconscious, his body remembered the agony, shoulders jerking every few seconds like a marionette pulled by cruel strings. Katsuki pressed his lips into a hard line, his chest heaving with every tremor that tore through the blond in his arms.

“You’re fine,” he said, though his voice cracked in the middle, betraying him. “You’re gonna be fine in a couple hours, dumbass. You always bounce back.” The words were meant to reassure, but they sounded more like begging, like he was trying to bend the truth into shape with sheer force of will.

His eyes burned before the tears finally gave way, hot streaks cutting down his face and dripping onto Denki’s cheek, mingling with the sweat that slicked his skin. He bent his head low, forehead brushing against tangled blond strands that smelled of ozone and rain, clinging damp against his own skin.

The strong, unbeatable Katsuki Bakugo weeped openly. 

The closeness hurt, and it healed. It was unbearable to hold him like this—weak, writhing faintly with aftershocks of pain—and yet Katsuki couldn’t bring himself to let go. His arms tightened around him, rocking them slowly, unconsciously, as though motion itself might ease the ache. Katsuki bit down hard on his lip, as though pain might stop the flood of tears, but it didn’t. His chest heaved like something inside him had snapped clean in half.

“You fucking moron,” he whispered, the words trembling, collapsing in his throat. “You don’t get it, do you? I never—” His voice fractured, shattering like glass underfoot. “I never stopped looking back.”

The field was indifferent, the moon a cold witness, but Katsuki’s world had narrowed down to the shivering body in his arms. He counted every stutter of breath, every twitch of fingers, as though they were lifelines he could reel in, tethering Denki back from the abyss inch by inch.

Denki’s sparks sputtered again, weak but present, crawling lazily across his knuckles before dying out against Katsuki’s sleeve. It was almost nothing, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Proof that he wasn’t gone. Proof that he’d weather this storm too, even if the cost was written deeper into his skin every time.

Katsuki buried his face in the crook of Denki’s neck, teeth clenched, breath uneven, and held on as though he could anchor them both against the weight of the night.

And slowly—agonizingly slowly—the storm quieted. Denki’s muscles uncoiled by degrees, twitching less, breath smoothing from a stutter to a ragged rhythm. Not healed. Not safe. But alive.

Alive.

Katsuki let out a laugh then, broken and raw, a sound like something cracking open after years of pressure. Relief hurt worse than panic ever had. His grip loosened only enough to look at him, really look—at the scars, the pallor, the fragility that Denki had tried so hard to bury beneath grins and bravado. And Katsuki’s chest ached with something fierce and unrelenting, something that wasn’t pity but a kind of reverence, a recognition of all the pain this idiot carried alone.

“You’re still the dumbest, strongest bastard I’ve ever known,” he murmured, voice unsteady but firm.

Without missing a beat, a murmured reply came.

“And you’re… beautiful,” Denki rasped, breathing unevenly. The words were an apology, a confession, a plea, all tangled into one.

Katsuki froze. For a second, he thought he’d imagined it—that the sound had been the wind cutting through the grass, or maybe his own guilty conscience whispering what he’d never let himself believe.

But Denki’s lips twitched weakly, his eyes fluttering open just enough for a glint of gold to meet him through the haze. “Told you…” Denki’s breath hitched, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Told you I’d short-circuit your brain one day.”

It was barely a joke, slurred and cracked, but it hit Katsuki like a blast to the chest. His throat worked around a sound that came out half laugh, half sob, a broken exhale he couldn’t stop. “You’re a damn idiot,” he muttered, rough and quiet.

Denki’s lashes fluttered, his voice no stronger but still carrying that spark—fragile, defiant, alive. “Yeah… but you still showed up, huh?”

Katsuki huffed, shaking his head, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes before the tears could fall again. “You can’t exactly blow yourself up alone, could you?”

Denki gave a short, rasping laugh that faded into a sigh. “Heh. Romantic.”

The word hung there—half-tease, half-truth—until Katsuki’s shoulders eased, just slightly. He shifted his grip, pulling Denki’s head against his shoulder, his voice dropping low, roughened but steady.

“Shut up and rest, Sparky.”

“Yeah,” Denki breathed, his voice trailing off into something softer, something that almost sounded like peace. “Only ‘cause you asked nice.”

The wind moved through the grass again, whispering through the burned patches and damp earth. Katsuki tilted his head back toward the night sky, the weight in his chest still heavy—but lighter somehow, like the world hadn’t ended after all.

For the first time in a long time, there was laughter—quiet, hoarse, shared.

The storm had passed.

And for now, that was enough.