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The summer was much too warm for him to be walking around outside, and certainly much too warm for him to be dressed up like this. And yet, here he was, donning it all; a neat, white collared shirt, his only pair of dress pants, the nicest, shiniest pair of shoes he owned.
(He’d tried to gel his hair back, too, though he wasn’t quite sure how much of a difference it made.)
I’m here , Denki texted, tapping nervously at the screen. There was something heavy pressing in his throat. He swallowed.
It wasn’t that he’d never been to the Jirou household, of course; he’d gone inside a few times, but never for long–and never with her parents around.
Kyouka swung the door open just moments later. She’d tied her hair up nicely, but hadn’t fussed quite nearly as much with her outfit; she looked just about the same as ever, an easy tee and shorts. She grinned as she caught sight of him.
“You look hot,” she said casually, eyeing him up and down. She smirked; Denki could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Literally,” she muttered, eyes lingering on the sweat beading his forehead.
He smiled, trying not to reveal his discomfort. “As always,” he quipped, giving her a mock bow. She sniggered.
He peered inside. From the doorway, he could just barely make out the shadow of her parents, already busying themselves in the kitchen. Her father was setting the table, and her mother was busy at the stove. A pleasant smell– something sweet and savory all at once– wafted through the air, though it did nothing for his nerves.
Noticing his gaze, Kyouka glanced back, and took a moment to watch the two. “They’re excited,” she commented easily. “My dad hasn’t shut up all day.”
He hummed, looking to the man in question. Kyouka’s father was a tall, looming figure, long blond hair tied tightly back. Turning back to Kyouka, he swallowed again. “Do I look alright?” he asked, looking to her with furrowed brows. His arm was already reaching up to scratch anxiously at the back of his neck.
The girl let out a breath, and moved closer to him. “Relax,” she whispered. She straightened the collar of his shirt, her fingers moving gently against him. Her eyes met his, steady and calm. “You look great,” she told him softly.
He thumbed at the hem of his shirt. “You’re sure, right?” he asked, feeling a trickle of sweat traveling down his back and seeping into the fabric of his shirt. He hoped it wouldn’t stain.
She smiled, lips just barely upturned. The same kind of smile she snuck him during classes, when she thought Aizawa wasn’t looking, the same smile she gave him from afar during trainings, the same private expression she saved just for him; soft and grounding and sweet–
Then, she rolled her eyes, and put a hand to her hip. “You know what the answer is.” She held her hand out to him, and looked up expectantly. “Come on, Sparky.”
He took her hand in his, and she led him through the door.
The air was thick as the two of them walked in, hands still intertwined. Kyouka’s father was leaning against the kitchen counter, already glaring him down; beside him, the girl’s mother stirred idly at a pot.
“So you’re the kid, huh?”
Denki nodded, bowing deeply. “Kaminari Denki,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He kept his head down even as he extended his right hand to the man (he hoped it wasn’t sweaty).
The man grunted, and Denki felt him take his hand. He shook it firmly, and a musician’s calloused hands scratched against his palms; Denki tried not to wince at the pressure. “Kyoutoku,” he boomed. His voice was gruff and deep, and had a lingering rasp to it.
When he released the boy’s hand, Denki straightened his back, and bowed once more to the woman by his side. “Denki,” he repeated, holding his hand out again.
“Mika,” the woman replied. Her voice, in contrast, was a soft, serene kind of voice, the kind that carried a melody with every syllable. She took his hand and shook it gently. Callouses littered her hands–the mark of a musician–but they were smoother, softer than her husband’s. Like Kyouka’s , he thought.
When she released his hand, Denki stood back up and mustered a smile.
Mika returned the gesture warmly. “Dinner will be soon,” she told them, still stirring the pot. There was a bowl of something–Denki assumed they were spices–and she added them in. A sizzle resonated through the kitchen. “Why don’t you three–” she looked to Denki, Kyouka and Kyoutoku at this– “get comfortable first?”
At this, Kyoutoku looked up. “Actually,” he said–a shiver ran down Denki’s spine as the man’s gaze fell on him– “Kyouka, why don’t you help your mother out with the cooking?” There was a glimmer in his eyes, not unlike the gleam Kyouka had when she had a good hand in a game of cards, the same one she had when she knew she had the upper hand while sparring. “I’d like a moment with Denki, if that’s alright.”
Denki felt his shoulders tense, but Kyouka didn’t seem to mind it very much; she let out a soft laugh. “Sure, sure,” she said, as easily as ever–Denki didn’t understand how she was so nonchalant about this. She pat Denki on the back as she left his side to join her mother in the kitchen. Good luck , she mouthed–
And there was the glint again, the same as ever.
Kyoutoku let out a grunt, and Denki whipped his head around to meet the man’s eyes, sharp and glaring. “Let’s talk in the living room, yeah?” he said, already moving towards the nearby couch. Denki nodded, and trailed obediently behind.
The Jirou family living room was, unsurprisingly, littered all-throughout with band-related memorabilia and musical instruments strewn haphazardly throughout the room. It was the same kind of organized mess that Kyouka’s dorm room had; the level of clutter that most people could hardly manage. And yet, somehow, the Jirous made it work. Personality streamed from every corner.
Kyoutoku plopped himself on the couch, and patted the space beside him. Denki sat down, mentally calculating the distance between them. He made sure to sit just close enough that the conversation wouldn’t be too removed, but just far enough that, on the off-chance that the man jumped him, he would have just enough time to start running away.
The man before him cleared his throat, snapping Denki to full attention. “So, Sparky–” he paused, and gave the boy a quizzical look. “That’s your hero name, isn’t it? Sparky?”
Denki stared blankly at the man before it clicked. “Oh, no, that’s just what Kyouka calls me,” he stammered, letting out a sheepish chuckle. “My actual hero name is Chargebolt.” He prayed it wouldn’t sound too juvenile.
“Chargebolt,” the man repeated, allowing the name to roll over his tongue. He furrowed his brows. “That girl–Sparky, of course,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. Then, looking back at the boy, “And your quirk: electricity?”
“Electrification.”
“Kyouka says it fries your brain.”
Denki felt himself flush, the heat rushing up to his neck. He fiddled with his collar absentmindedly. “Er, sometimes, but it’s not, uh, permanent or anything.” He coughed to clear his throat.
“Interesting,” the man said. “So, Denki–” he narrowed his eyes and leaned forward– “I’ve heard lots about you from Kyouka. She says you’re good with the guitars–that was you, right, at the festival?” When Denki nodded, he continued. “You’re not a bad player.”
“Thank you,” Denki replied, albeit rather meekly.
“I like a good guitarist.” Kyoutoku looked to the corner of the room, just by the television set, where a well-polished guitar stood–and, for a moment, his eyes softened. “I like musicians–I can trust a musician. But–” he turned back to Denki, and his eyes were cold– “musical ability isn’t everything.” Denki felt himself blanch.
“Tell me about yourself.”
The question. He’d known it was coming, but it didn’t make it any less difficult. “I’m sixteen,” he started, his voice slowed. “I’m in Class-A, like Kyouka. My best subject is Physics–it’s the electricity, I’m good at that.” His palms were sweating; he wiped them off on his sleeve. “I really like dogs, big ones, like golden retrievers.. I’m not too good of a runner, but I’m okay at swimming, as long as nobody else is in the pool, because sometimes I let out sparks–” Kyoutoku raised an eyebrow at this– “and they’re not very nice to be around.. I like reading comics and drawing, even though I’m not very good at it.. And um..”
Denki inhaled and, chest puffed up, looked Kyoutoku straight in the eyes. “I really like your daughter, sir.”
“Do you?” Kyoutoku whispered, just quiet enough that Denki had to strain his ears to hear him. He leaned closer, and Denki shuffled backward without meaning to. “You’re an only child, aren’t you?” Denki nodded. “You know, then, how much she means to us.”
He sucked in a breath, held it tight for a moment. “Of course.”
“You know I won’t let anyone mistreat her.” His expression hardened even further; his features were narrow and sharp, and his cheekbones were high. There were crows’ feet by the edges of his eyes. “Kyouka’s a smart girl. Strong. You know that, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for the boy to reply. “I trust her decisions, I really do–I’d be a terrible dad if I didn’t–but I think I reserve the right to be careful.”
Another stony glare. Denki suppressed the urge to flinch.
“Why her?” he asked. “You’re a young, smart guy, aren’t you? Practically a celebrity, in Yuuei. You could get anyone–there’s lots of girls that would love a guy like you, right?” Kyoutaku frowned. “Why Kyouka ?”
“Because,” Denki replied–he sat up straighter, looked the man dead in the eyes– “she’s everything. It’s everything about her.” He took in a breath. “She still ties her shoes with bunny-ears, you know, even when she’s wearing those badass laced-up boots, and she refuses to eat bread with the crust on, makes me eat it for her, even when I’ve eaten through half the cafeteria. She cries watching happy, feel-good movies, but doesn’t say a word during horror, even when I’m screaming for my life. Her cheeks–she puffs them up when she’s annoyed, just a little, and it’s adorable, she’s absolutely adorable.
“And her voice, the way her fingers move when she’s working with the guitars and the bass and even the keyboard in her room–she plays in the middle of the night, when she thinks nobody can hear her, even though we all can–but it’s like a performance, just for us, and we never say anything about it to her, because we’re scared she’ll stop. She’s smart and dead-hilarious and she really, really cares. And she’s always there, supporting us all.
“I’d do anything for her.” Denki paused, and smiled. “I can’t imagine anyone else.”
Kyoutoku smiled back.
Then, someone clicked their tongue. Denki whipped around to find Kyouka standing behind them, hands on her hips. (If he squinted, he’d see the pink dusting her cheeks, the redness in her ears, the liquid that threatened to spill from her eyes.) “Dinner’s ready,” she said simply, before turning back around and heading to the table.
“Well,” Kyoutoku said. His smile had widened, and had morphed into more of a grin than anything; toothy, genuine, warm. “I think we should go and join them.”
“Yeah,” Denki said, and scrambled to his feet.
They headed to the dining room.
“Shogayaki,” Mika told them as they seated themselves. The table was near-overflowing; at the very centre was a large bowl of ginger pork, accompanied by a varied array of side-dishes, each of which seemed more tantalizing than the last. The vegetables were crisp and bright, and the smell caused Denki’s mouth to water.
“Mom’s food isn’t bad,” Kyouka explained to him–she sat herself beside Denki, and her parents sat across from them, “but usually it’s my dad that cooks for us. His yakisoba is great.”
“I tried to get him to cook tonight, I really did,” Mika laughed, light and melodic. She had a gentle smile, the same slight upturn of the lips as Kyouka did. “He insisted on speaking with you. Said he had interrogations to do.”
“I told you not to scare him away,” Kyouka moaned, shooting a pointed glare at her father. “Denki, whatever he said, ignore him.”
Kyoutoku raised his hands defensively into the air. “Scouting for future son-in-laws is hard work!”
Denki coughed. Beside him, Kyouka, who had been drinking from her glass, choked. “Son-in-laws?!” she spluttered. “Sixteen! I’m sixteen! ” She let out an exasperated groan and buried her head in her hands. Her ears shone an impressive scarlet. “One day, Dad, I asked for one day without this..”
“In my defense,” Kyoutoku chuckled, “I think I was pretty successful today.” He beamed at Denki. “I’ve got some adorable photos of her—you’d love to see them, boy, I’ll show them to you after dinner. She did ballet once, you know–”
“When I was five !”
“That’s the charm point, Kyouka!”
Denki laughed.
“Oh, enough,” Mika said, waving her hand dismissively. “The food’s getting cold.” She smiled and picked her chopsticks up.
“Let’s eat, shall we?”
It was a meal of pleasant conversation, the four of them exchanging easy talk–most of which centered around Kyouka, who spent the entire meal protesting against her father’s remarks. She dragged Denki upstairs as soon as he had finished his meal and thanked her mother, deftly fending off her father’s teasing and effectively shutting down any post-meal chitchat.
“Honestly,” she grumbled, half-slamming the door behind her, “you’d think he’d hold back the antics for at least a day..”
“He’s definitely a character,” Denki agreed.
He’d always liked Kyouka’s room. It was emptier now, of course–she’d brought a good chunk of her knick-knacks along to the dorms with her–but it was still a heavy dose of her personality, edgy and warm and welcoming all at once. There was a leather jacket strewn on her bed, and her books were scattered across her desk. Posters covered every inch of the walls.
“I heard all that, by the way,” Kyouka remarked. “With my dad, earlier.”
Denki felt the room grow warm. He cleared his throat, coughing into his fist. “Yeah,” he said, looking away so his gaze lay anywhere but the girl.
She slipped her hands into his, and he looked up. Soft, gentle, calloused. She was smiling. Warm, and gentle, the slightest upturn of her lips, the smile of her mother. The same bright, gleaming eyes as her father.
She was perfect.
“You’re a dork,” she whispered, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
He chuckled, a breathy kind of chuckle. “Probably.”
She laughed, and, releasing his hands, turned away. She glanced at the clock–it was about eight by then. “What time did your mom say you needed to be back again?”
Denki glanced at his phone. “Ten, I think.”
She grinned, and plopped down into her bed, the covers giving way beneath her. “Good,” she said, and then patted the space next to her. “Come here, Sparky.” Denki dropped down beside her. The girl wrapped her arm around his neck, and pulled him closer, so that his nose nuzzled the nape of her neck and the smell of her shampoo enveloped him.
“You’re warm,” he muttered. His voice was low, muffled against her skin, and she chuckled.
“You're warmer,” she answered, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. She paused for a moment, and then shot him a look, eyebrows quirked upward. “And you smell like.. hair gel?”
“Had to make a good impression."
She laughed, and pulled him closer.
"I'm sure you did."