Chapter Text
The apartment they went to was comfortably cramped—cluttered in the same way his own living space now was, indicative of too many bodies in too little space. There were things on every available surface: photos, knickknacks and trinkets, enough plants that some patches of floor were hued green from the light filtering through the leaves. It was warm, scented like the lilies near the door and the massive lilac bush overtaking the corner of the living room.
Kaminari immediately felt comfortable there.
Everywhere he looked, there were signs of life. Strains of cello music played from a bluetooth speaker tucked amongst the clusters of foliage; chattering and laughter spilled from further in the apartment; and a pile of shoes sat in a heap by the door.
Shinsou added his to the pile, a hand against the wall for balance as he toed out of his scuffed Converse. “There are four people that live here,” he explained as he watched Kaminari work his way out of his own high-tops. Midoriya had kicked off his shoes and all but sprinted for one of the bedrooms, citing a video visit with Rody as the reason for his hurry. “Momo’s out so you won’t get to meet her, but everyone else should be getting ready for the night.”
“Everyone else?”
“Jirou, Kendou, and Ibara,” he answered. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
Shinsou poked his head into one of the two bedrooms first, comfortable enough that Kaminari would have guessed it served as a second home of sorts. Kaminari stayed close, already out of his element with Midoriya gone. He’d never been the type who was nervous or unsure in a setting with new people, social as he was, but he was a little out of practice.
None of these people knew Kaminari from any other stranger they might pass on the street. There was a certain sense of safety in that; he could be anyone or anything he wanted in this space.
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to be himself —whatever that looked like.
One of the girls Shinsou had mentioned was in the process of pulling clothes from the closet, holding them up against herself, and immediately pitching whatever it was she’d taken out onto the floor. She was gorgeous, all pale skin and seafoam-green hair that spilled in thick waves to the small of her back.
“You know Momo’s going to kill you if she finds out you’re manhandling her closet like that,” Shinsou drawled, a grin spreading across his face.
She whipped from the closet to level Shinsou with a heated glare. Her eyes skipped over Kaminari, then started back when she realized he was standing just behind Shinsou, hovering at his elbow more than he was anything else. “Oh, no,” she said instead of responding to his quip, “another blond?”
Shinsou coughed into a fist. He had the grace to at least look as uncomfortable as Kaminari felt in that moment, called out as he was by the implication of her words. “He’s one of Midoriya’s friends, Ibara. It’s not like that.”
Kaminari dropped his gaze, suddenly mesmerized by his own socks.
“Sure,” she said, and the word sounded so like Mina that Kaminari immediately regretted not dragging her along. She took a few brisk steps forward and forked out a hand for Kaminari to shake. “I’m Ibara. You’ll have to mind the plants; it’s their hour for Yo-Yo Ma.”
“Kaminari. And of course,” Kaminari responded, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. When she turned her back to him, clearly returning to further ravage the closet, he looked at Shinsou and mouthed, What?
That almost cocky grin returned to replace the expression of discomfort that had flashed briefly across Shinsou’s face, and he lifted a hand to his head and twirled a finger around his temple.
“I’m not crazy,” she said without turning around. She flicked through the closet until she came across a pair of flowy orange pants. Jerking them free from the hanger, she turned back to Kaminari and asked, “Thoughts?”
Kaminari looked at Shinsou. “She’s not asking me,” the taller man said. “She thinks I’m hopeless at fashion.”
For about the hundredth time that night, Kaminari checked Shinsou out. He didn’t look like he was hopeless at fashion; his entire aesthetic was… actually really pleasing to Kaminari. He had the same grunge-alternative style Sero went for that Kaminari could never quite pull off. To Ibara, he asked, “How do you know I’m not?”
Ibara shrugged. “Because you’re cute.”
Kaminari couldn’t help the blush that rose to his cheeks. Whoever Ibara was, it was clear she wasn’t the type to mince words or cut corners. It was refreshing, finding a stranger so delightfully transparent with her words and actions, but it was also more than a little intimidating.
Oh no, another blond?
Steeling himself—and his feelings, sensitive as they were—Kaminari strode to the closet to survey the mess Ibara had made of the previous immaculately organized space. He plucked the pants from her grasp and held them up to her body. They were high-waisted, cinched at the top with a belt and flowing into a wide-legged hem. They would accentuate her already long legs, the slender shape of her waist; he turned back to the closet and, humming in thought, pulled a white bodysuit off its hanger.
“The orange will complement your hair really well,” he decided. “I’d stick with a simpler outfit, accessorize with a couple of necklaces and some bracelets.”
Ibara accepted both items from Kaminari and smirked at Shinsou, something wordless passing between them that Kaminari was hopeless to translate. “I knew he had good taste.”
Shinsou rolled his eyes. “He picked out a white tank top; I could have done that.”
“Don’t listen to a word he says,” Kaminari butted in, “when we were at the bar earlier, he tried saying Crocs were fancy shoes.”
Ibara’s laugh, loud and clear like the ringing of church bells, sounded a lot like he had her approval.
They found the other two girls crowded in the bathroom.
Shinsou gestured to the back half of a girl digging through a cabinet, then to a dark-haired girl sitting on the closed lid of a toilet. “Kendou and Jirou,” he said, “meet Kaminari.”
“Hi,” the two girls said in unison, neither looking up from what they were doing.
Kaminari did a double take at the dark-haired girl, more than a little excited to realize he recognized her as one of his regulars from the cafe. She was hunched over a mirror balanced on the edge of the bathtub; she applied liner to her lids with a shaking hand.
“Hazelnut soy no whip,” he blurted, wincing as he watched the felt tip smear across her lid in an uneven drag. “Shit, sorry, that was kind of my fault, wasn’t it?”
“It’s fine, I’m horrible at winging my eyeliner anyways,” she sighed. She reached for a makeup wipe, sparing him a passing glance as she did. “Am I in there that often?”
“Every Tuesday and Thursday,” Kaminari reminded her. “Coffee for your girlfriend, right?”
The girl introduced as Kendou popped out from where she was digging through the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink to peer up at them. “Oh, shit,” she said, “this is Coffee Guy?”
“Please,” Shinsou whispered from somewhere behind them, “please, can you be chill about anything?”
“No way.” Kendou rose to standing in a single fluid motion. Her left arm was a prosthetic; Kaminari tried not to stare, but it looked to be connected above her elbow by a metal rod that protruded from the stump. “Also, you didn’t introduce Oprah, which is rude.”
Kaminari looked to Jirou, who was trying for a second time to wing her eyeliner. He felt caught between being called Coffee Guy and whoever the hell Oprah was. “Oprah?”
“I’m a guinea pig,” Kendou said at the same time Jirou said, “Don’t listen to a word that comes out of her mouth.”
“Oprah is her arm,” Shinsou explained. He rested a hand at the small of Kaminari’s back just long enough to slip past him and Kendou so he could kneel in front of Jirou. Something in Kaminari’s stomach fluttered at the casual contact. “Want help with your eyeliner?”
Jirou slapped the stick of liner into Shinsou’s open palm. “Took you long enough to ask.”
Kendou looked between Shinsou and Kaminari before coming to a snap decision and stuffing the bag she’d pulled from beneath the cabinet under her armpit. “C’mon, Kaminari,” she announced. “Let’s paint your nails.”
Kaminari shot a glance over his shoulder as Kendou dragged him out of the bathroom and down the hall. The last glimpse he stole of Shinsou was all pink-cheeked as Jirou leaned in close to whisper something at him.
He didn’t have to guess too hard at what she was whispering about.
Kendou directed him to the coffee table. She dropped to a seated position, long legs criss-cross applesauce style, and ushered him to sit close to her. Kaminari sat, dropping into place easily and crossing his legs to match hers.
“Is it weirder if I don’t ask?” he pried.
Kendou huffed out a breath that sent the bangs covering her eyes fluttering into the air. “It really is,” she sighed. “People can be so weird about the whole thing, you know? I’ve discovered that being weird about it first keeps things from getting too uncomfortable.”
Kaminari nodded. “I get that. It’s like… it’s easier if you address it before someone can make it a thing. ”
“Exactly.”
The two situations couldn’t be compared, but he’d discovered that talking about his breakup and the fact that he’d been a married man’s city mistress before any of his friends could pin him with those pitying looks made it a lot easier to deal with. Crack a joke, make it sound like he was fine, and eventually his body would catch up to what his brain was trying to do.
Forget, and move on.
“I have to ask, why’d you go with Oprah?”
“The implant system is called e-OPRA,” she explained. “It’s a new technology under trial right now. I was selected to participate in the study about a year ago, and I’ve had the prosthetic for a little over three months now.”
“Cool. So it’s… connected?”
“Yep,” she said, proudly lifting her arm for Kaminari’s closer inspection. “It’s controlled through electrodes that send signals from my brain to the artificial limb. I need to practice my fine motor control, though.” She upended the bag she’d brought into the living room and gestured to the bottles of nail polish that clattered across the top “Want to pick a color?”
Kaminari shrugged and planted both hands on the table. “What about the pink?”
Kendou beamed and reached for it. As she tapped the base of the bottle against the heel of her hand, she said, “So you’re one of Shinsou’s friends, huh?”
“Friend is… a pretty strong word,” Kaminari hedged. Kendou struggled to open the polish before twisting the cap off. “I’m friends with one of his friends, actually.”
She made a soft tch noise in the back of her throat at the state of his cuticles and rifled through the discarded contents of the bag until she found a little wooden stick. He squealed at the first jab against his cuticles.
Shinsou’s head popped out of the bathroom, a look of alarm on his face. “Everything okay?”
“Just peachy,” Kendou grinned. “His cuticles are terrible.”
“Rude!”
“It’s the truth.” Kendou continued to shove back the cuticle on his thumb with brutal efficiency and waved away Shinsou’s concern. When he disappeared back into the bathroom, she said, “Midoriya?”
Kaminari flinched at a particularly harsh stab that left the corner of his nailbed bleeding sluggishly. “How did you know?”
She smirked. “Shinsou doesn’t have many friends. If it’s not one of us, it has to be Midoriya.”
“Again,” Kaminari said, eyes widening slightly as she removed what looked to be a pair of sideways nail clippers from the bag, “rude.”
“And anyways, he’s here, right? Talking to that sexy pilot boyfriend of his.”
“I mean this in the best way possible,” Kaminari told her, half-afraid of saying anything while she wielded the clippers, “but you’re… kind of unhinged, you know?”
She blew him a kiss and winked. “Thanks.” She leaned forward and, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration, began cutting away the line of his cuticles.
He watched, frozen in fear and waiting for the pain that would come when she cut off a finger or something equally as terrible. “Is there… something wrong with me being Shinsou’s friend?”
“Not at all. It’s just, you know. He’s kind of got terrible taste when it comes to blonds, no offense.”
“None taken.” He paused, and the strains of cello music filled the silence for several seconds. Kendou moved from his index finger to his middle finger. “I kind of picked up on that, actually. Not because— I’m not terrible, that’s not the reason. Just. The poem he recited tonight.”
Kendou looked up at him, eyes sharp, and chose that moment to snip a corner of his nailbed. Kaminari flinched but held fast. “He went with that one?”
“Yeah.” Kaminari didn’t need to ask to know the poem must have been deeply personal; most often were, and Kendou’s reaction spoke volumes. “I’m surprised you guys didn’t come to see his performance.”
As she’d grown more comfortable with the motions, Kendou had picked up speed clipping his cuticles. She finished one hand and went to the other. “He asked us not to. We’ve got… opinions, obviously, on everything that happened. So out of respect, we stayed behind but convinced him to let Midoriya tag along.”
“Why Midoriya?”
“We didn’t want him to be alone,” Kendou said. Simply, without any sort of preamble. “It doesn’t matter how far removed from a situation a person is, it can still be hard to face it head-on.”
“Midoriya was a good choice for that,” Kaminari said instead of asking the way he wanted to. Whatever Shinsou’s story was, he hadn’t given Kaminari permission to hear it outside of what he’d shared onstage. “He’s probably one of the nicest people I know.”
Kendou smiled. Her bangs flopped back into her eyes; she blinked past them and continued working. “Shin, too. Too nice, you know? That’s why we try to vet anyone hanging around him.”
“You’re good friends. Mine tried— would try to do the same,” Kaminari corrected himself. He knew all too well how easy it was to fall for lies dressed up as promises. How quickly a person’s self-esteem could grow reliant on compliments that never came and attraction that waxed and waned like the phases of the moon.
He’d gone treading water and started drowning before he knew it; his friends had been the only things that kept him afloat afterwards. Here, now, it was difficult for him to parse through the feelings muddling together in his chest. There was fear there mixed with interest, the sort he hadn’t felt in months—not since Shindo that first night, those first weeks.
But something about Shinsou Hitoshi overwhelmed the fear in his gut at being interested in someone at all. There was nothing there and likely wouldn’t be; this night would likely be an anomaly that resulted in memories he’d keep forever with friends he’d have for a night. Still, the possibility alone that someone in his orbit understood even a fraction of the pain he’d gone through and could still look at him the way Shinsou had across the table…
It made him wonder. It made him curious. He wanted to learn more about Shinsou Hitoshi in whatever way he allowed, for however long he allowed.
One night was all he needed.
They left the apartment just before ten, Ibara ushering the five of them out the door and down the hall as she shouted about being late. She was clearly the self-appointed mom friend of the group: locking the apartment door behind them, fanny pack with all the essentials cinched tightly around her waist.
Kaminari found himself pressed against Jirou in the cramped elevator. He gave her a smile and a thumbs up. “Your eyeliner looks great,” he told her.
Shinsou’s face appeared over Kaminari’s shoulder, mouth close enough to Kaminari’s ear it sent gooseflesh crawling up his arms. “Thanks.”
Jirou smacked his arm. “Shut up, will you? That clearly wasn’t a compliment directed at you.”
“My eyeliner, my compliment.”
“My face,” she sniped back.
As the two bickered, sounding more like siblings than friends, Midoriya and Kendou exchanged a look—just one, brief enough that nobody but Kaminari saw. One that said everything they wanted to speak aloud but couldn’t, an entire conversation of concern flashing between their gazes.
Kaminari pretended not to notice.
The subway station had, it seemed, been converted for the purpose of what was supposed to be an invite-only show. It was still rundown and bore lines of graffiti across almost every available wall surface, but whoever set up these shows had done a fantastic job of making it all feel intentional. A stage was at the front of the area, deejay station flashing multicolored lights that strobed across the swarm of bodies pressing to get as close as possible to where the music would be coming from.
Above them hung a set of dangerous-looking iron rafters. Fabric hung in strips from the beams and fluttered in the spare breeze that blew in from the busted-open windows near the ceiling. Kaminari couldn’t begin to guess what the purpose of the beams or the fabric was, but he had a feeling he was going to find out.
Midoriya and the three girls had melted into the crowd the second they’d made it past security, promising to find them once the music started. It left Kaminari and Shinsou alone for the first time since entering the apartment. Kaminari wasn’t nervous about being alone with the other man; he had a calming presence that left Kaminari feeling comfortable despite the crush of energy surrounding them.
There weren’t many people in the space, less than two hundred, but the noise, the excitement, was off the charts. Kendou’s hair was visible in the swell, burning orange like a beacon.
They stood at the cusp of the crowd, that in between space where people were milling about doing face paint and temporary tattoos, passing out glow sticks and illicit party favors like they were candy at a parade.
“I’m going to be totally honest with you,” Shinsou said, mouth unnervingly close so as to be heard over the clamor of noise, “live music isn’t really my thing.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Shinsou parrotted back. He accepted a pack of glow sticks from one of the girls passing them out and ripped open the package before offering it up to Kaminari. “Crowds make me kind of nervous.”
“Says the guy who poured his heart out in a bar less than two hours ago,” Kaminari scoffed. He peeked into the package and pulled one out. Cracking it so it came to life, he bent it into a circle and connected the ends around his neck. He did the same for Shinsou, shifting upwards on his toes to reach.
“That’s different.”
“How so?”
“It just… is, I don’t know,” Shinsou said. He looked away from Kaminari, gaze drifting over the half-dressed bodies surrounding them. Despite the others in attendance, their conversation still felt somehow intimate. “You’re alone onstage. Here, it’s… it’s easy to get lost, I guess.”
“Use me as a mooring line.” Kaminari gave him a smile and held out a hand, palm-up. “You won’t be lost if we’re together, right?”
In the dim lighting, Kaminari thought he saw a blush light across Shinsou’s cheeks. His palm was worn rough from calluses from years of wearing rings. He held fast, hand warm and sure, and squeezed. “Thanks,” he murmured.
Kaminari smiled and bumped their shoulders together.
“Guys!” Kaminari expected Shinsou to release his hand and step away at the sound of Midoriya’s voice, but he didn’t. If anything he stepped closer, shuffling them in the direction he was calling them from.
Kaminari spluttered out a laugh when he caught sight of Midoriya. “Has he—”
“Oh my God,” Shinsou said, “who left him unsupervised?”
“I think it was us,” Kaminari said. He watched in disbelief as Midoriya bounced up to them, a friend lagging behind him. “Although I didn’t realize Midoriya was Sero-levels of crazy when it came to this sort of thing.”
They’d been there for all of ten minutes and Midorya had already lost his shirt. It was nowhere to be found, and his entire torso was on display for the other rave-goers to ogle. Ogle they were; he was receiving his fair share of leering glances as people noticed just how ridiculously ripped he was. He was sweating profusely, hair pinned back with a tacky headband that tied at the back.
His pupils were blown, cheeks flushed. Both of his pecs were jumping in time to the music playing overhead.
Shinsou nudged him again. He was grinning, laughter barely contained. “His eyes are in his head.”
“I can’t stop staring,” Kaminari whispered in mock horror. “Make him stop moving them.”
“That,” Shinsou responded, “is something you know I can’t do.”
Midoriya came to a stop in front of them and beamed. He looked between Shinsou and Kaminari, then down to their joined hands; his smile grew where before he would have looked concerned. Grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shoving him forward, he said, “This is Todoroki! He’s Dabi’s younger brother.” Gesturing to the two of them, he added, “Sho, these are some of my other friends, Shinsou and Kaminari.”
Kaminari dragged his eyes away from Midoriya’s dancing pecs long enough to make eye contact with Todoroki. He was, in fact, just as hot as Sero had claimed. “Hi!”
“No, I’m high.” Todoroki jabbed at his own chest with the words, then pointed at Kaminari. “You’re Kaminari.”
“Well—yes,” Kaminari said. “That’s right.”
Shinsou’s shoulders trembled with the effort it took to keep from breaking into another fit of laughter.
“Anyways,” Kaminari said, trying to avoid any awkward lull in the conversation, “was anyone going to tell me we were at one of Dabi’s raves, or was I just supposed to find out on my own?”
Dabi was kind of a huge deal. He’d been at Electric Forest the year prior as one of the headliners, and the crowd he’d pulled had been nothing short of insane. He was an enigma in the music and streaming community: he’d never shown his face, instead using masks or heavy makeup to layer on fake scars to hide his actual identity.
“He’s not that famous, is he?” Todoroki frowned.
“Dude, have you been living under a rock these past few years? He’s crazy famous.”
Todoroki’s unimpressed expression remained. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll be impossible to live with.”
Kaminari opened his mouth to question that when Midoriya bounced forward. He gripped Kaminari by the shoulders and, nose to nose, whispered, “They’re brothers.”
Kaminari glanced at Shinsou, his attempt at keeping the grin off his face failing miserably. “You said that.”
“His boyfriend is gonna be here too,” Midoriya added.
Private as he was, Kaminari couldn’t imagine that Dabi would be thrilled to know his younger brother’s friend was spilling the Todoroki family tea like it was his job. Hell, he could barely imagine Dabi, the enigmatic stranger he watched snipe people on Call of Duty every Thursday night as some weird form of homicidal ASMR, having a brother at all. A family, a life outside of the minor glimpses provided to his fans during shows and streams.
Being related explained how they’d gotten into the event, though. The exclusive invites were pretty much impossible to come by unless you were part of Dabi’s fanclub or had an in; of course Midoriya would be friends with someone with such a close claim to fame.
Todoroki’s face appeared over Midoriya’s shoulder. His eyes were two different colors, the effect unnerving when both were boring into the depths of his soul. “Don’t tell anyone,” he deadpanned.
Kaminari had definitely been planning on telling Sero at the very least, but he could keep a secret. He thought. “Got it,” he squeaked, miming zipping his lips with the hand not clasped in Shinsou’s.
Todoroki stared at Kaminari, unblinking, for several more seconds. “Good,” he decided. Stepping back from Midoriya, he looked up at the ceiling. “We should get ready.”
“Why? Is it—”
The lights shut out, plunging the station into darkness, and the crowd cheered.
For a single disorienting moment, the darkness remained. Even the lights from the stage had dimmed to leave the entire station pitch black save for the beaming glow of the sticks and whips still being passed to ravegoers filtering in. It was a cacophony of sensation, the temporary blindness shocking his remaining senses into overdrive.
Kaminari was on edge, tense with anticipation as he stood on his toes to stare at the darkened stage. He thought for a moment he could make out the lean form of a man getting settled behind the deejay station, the orange-ended burn of a cigarette the lone point of light in a sea of glowing, writhing bodies.
The second the first bass drop hit, hard enough the concrete beneath his feet rattled, a body fell from the rafters.
“Oh my God,” Kaminari said, thinking of blood and devastation and a ravegoer fucked up enough to do something like that, except—except—
Something unfurled from the falling body’s back, brilliant red lights flaring to life, and the fabric he’d seen hanging from the rafters suddenly made much more sense.
It was an acrobatics act.
The red lights were shaped like wings, patterns flashing to look as though they were moving with every contortion of the artist’s body as they swung from the rafters. Kaminari stared, enraptured, as they dipped low enough their wings brushed the fingers of the crowd before casting back up.
They moved in time with the beat of the music, body twisting and spinning as an accompaniment to Dabi’s opening number. It was beautiful. It was reckless. It made Kaminari feel alive, the sting of adrenaline coursing through his veins and the drop of fear still hovering in his gut.
The bass was a powerful thing, deep enough it rattled the marrow in his bones. He felt it in his teeth, in the electric buzz crawling across his skin as the pace of the song intensified.
A mess of people shoved past them to try and push closer to the stage. Kaminari knew that wasn’t the way to go, though. At the center of the action closest to the stage, it would be impossible to move. They’d be packed in like sardines, all desperate to get even the smallest glimpse of a portion of Dabi’s face.
Here on the threshold, there was room to breathe. They could dance freely here with the others who knew better than to shove forward and find themselves trapped in the up-and-down motion of jumping in time to the beat. Midoriya and Todoroki were still close, Midoriya’s pec-flexing going full speed now that the music had started. Midoriya bumped into him, eyes closed as he lost himself in the music. Kaminari stumbled forward and landed against a chest, surprisingly solid for how lean Shinsou looked. Shinsou’s free hand returned to the small of Kaminari’s back and stayed there, steadying.
Pieces of hair slipped into Shinsou’s eyes when he leaned in and asked, “Okay?”
Kaminari grinned. He felt good even without a party favor flowing through his system; his brain was pleasantly numb from the sudden want coursing through it and the sheer force of the music. “I think I should be asking you that. Are you okay?”
Shinsou hesitated. “I… don’t really dance,” he admitted. His lips grazed the shell of Kaminari’s ear, and Kaminari suppressed a full-body shudder at the contact.
God, had he always been this repressed?
Kaminari pulled back just enough to peer up at the taller man. “Why in the world would you come to a rave if you don’t dance?”
Shinsou shrugged sheepishly. A strobe light flickered across his face and highlighted rose-dusted cheekbones, though Kaminari wouldn’t flatter himself by thinking it was due to their shared proximity.
It was warm in here, was all.
“Well,” Kaminari said loftily, “someone very wise once told me that I should do something once a day that puts me out of my comfort zone.” Shinsou’s interrupting laugh was bashful, reds and whites flashing across the white keys of his teeth. Kaminari shoved at his chest playfully but remained pressed close. “Hey, man, I’m being serious! Let me use your words against you!”
The song ended and immediately transitioned into another one: rougher, harder, dirtier than the first. The artist flying above them dropped to the stage, wings casting Dabi in a hellish red haze that highlighted the thick patches of scarring he painted on for these shows.
“Fine, fine,” Shinsou said. “So you’re saying I should push myself out of my comfort zone, huh?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. C’mon, don’t make me dance alone!” Kaminari flipped positions and dragged Shinsou’s hands to his waist before he could second guess his own boldness. It felt good to be doing this, to be leading rather than following, and he didn’t think Shinsou minded.
He let his body follow the beat, tipped his head back against Shinsou’s shoulder and experienced the thundering backbeat through him. They moved together, slow at first; Kaminari dragged out the shifting of his hips long enough that Shinsou could keep up.
Kaminari let himself feel anything but the tangled mess of insecurities lodged in the upper-left section of his chest. He breathed in the heavy-sweet scent of weed in the air, felt as Shinsou’s touch skittered across the bare strip of his waist between the hem of his shirt and his jeans, and let himself go.
He let go of the version of himself he’d been for the past months, said goodbye to the fear and the self doubt. He forgave himself: for the mistakes he’d made, the lies he’d believed, the lies he’d told himself if only to hold onto an already-impossible happily ever after.
Shinsou, too, relaxed against him, body’s movements picking up in speed to match Kaminari’s. He hooked his chin over Kaminari’s shoulder, body crowding closer, and held him—as if he knew Kaminari needed grounding, needed held. Something to tether him down, to remind him that he wasn’t alone.
And if he was alone, then at least they were alone together. Surrounded by a sea of strangers, music connecting every soul in the room.
In that moment, it was all he could have asked for.