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Denki had been lonely for a long, long time.
Some days, it was easier to forget; surrounded by smiles, noise and laughter, it was drowned out under the unwavering enthusiasm of nineteen other hero hopefuls. Other days, it was painfully evident - mind racing through memories of shattered glass, golden eyes, the ghosting touch of feathers against skin. Everything felt too much, all at once. He’d bite his tongue and his heart would ache for the familiar tang of metal, or he’d catch a glimpse of just the right shade of blonde in a crowd and his heart would stutter.
Today was one of those other days.
He refused to dwell on it - he’d worked so hard to patch together his own shaky facade of a smile; forcing himself to remember any more, to think any further, would sign his own death sentence. So instead, he laughed. Almost-sincere grins and well-timed quips filled the void and no one was any the wiser. If he could fool them, maybe one day he could fool himself.
Kaminari Denki would be nothing if not a liar.
Keeping his mind away was as natural as breathing or a Herculean effort, never any in-between, especially when his friends would catch him off-guard. When pink would fill his vision but all he could focus on was gold; when Kirishima wore his hair down and feathery strands would catch the light just wrong; when Bakugou cooked, handling the knife with such effortless ease that his blood would turn to ice.
Training was especially hard on days like this. Electricity clung to his nerves and danced across his skin - there was something keenly unnatural and alien about it. For what was far from the first time, he wished for, no, longed for a less destructive quirk. Echoes of silk, of glossy ebony and falling through honey danced across his memory; his mind clung to them with feverish desperation, a piece of driftwood in a vast, bottomless ocean. They were in the midst of practising fighting quirkless, but sometimes his sparring partner would come a little too close a little too fast and he would smell ozone and would dart back with a jolt.
"What the fuck is up with you?" Bakugou swiped his feet out from under him. He snapped out of it just soon enough to stop his head from thumping against the concrete. He couldn't afford to lose any more brain cells. "You've been spacey all day, you neon shitstain. Take this seriously!"
Denki knew that this kind of anger was just Bakugou's way of showing concern, but there was no real way to explain this feeling of loss. Like he was one half of a broken circuit, a faulty wire, some Hatsume-esque invention sparking off threateningly that really ought to be grounded. So he did as he was born to do.
He laughed, shrugging it off. "I guess I was too distracted thinking about what we could have for dinner tonight."
Bakugou grabbed him by the collar, a feat he distantly realised triggered none of the fight-or-flight response it would have had a couple of months ago. When he looked at Bakugou and saw someone else. Someone taller and bulkier and clumsier who only knew how to twist and pull and- Roughly, he felt himself dragged up to his feet. "Hah?! What makes you think I would cook for an extra who can't take training seriously? Get your shit together or fuck off and starve," he growled. Little crackles burst from his palms but Denki knew without looking that there was no real fire behind them. Just fireworks to accentuate an anger that none of them really took seriously any more. He loved them all, really (probably. Kirishima seemed pretty sure, and he seemed to have the best Bakugou Katsuki translation guide).
"You wouldn't leave a poor urchin like me to starve, Mr Hero?" Denki mock-pleaded. After his almost-aneurysm at the cholesterol carnival of snacks Denki sustained himself on, he somehow doubted Bakugou would actually leave him to fend for himself for dinner. But it was a warning. If even Bakugou could tell he was acting up, if he didn't knock it off it wouldn't be long til the rest of them noticed. Bakugou at least was emotionally stunted enough not to want to talk about feelings, but the others would — and Sero had a knack for catching him in a lie.
He couldn't have that. So he bounced back. He smiled and focused, as hard as someone like him could, and held it in until he was in the safety of his room. The cold, quiet, loneliness of his room. No shared bunk, no chair in the corner facing the bed, just his. All his.
Darkness dyed his world a rainbow of greys. Dull moonlight streamed through his window, just enough for him to make out the hands of the clock. Clinging to his knees, half-bitten nails dug all-too-familiar red crescents into twice-scarred skin. Heart pounding, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the clock. Five minutes until midnight. Four. Lightning tingled at his fingertips, but the faint buzz was nothing compared to the staccato of his racing pulse. Three.
Midnight came and went without fanfare. No figure bursting into his room, eyes burning, well-intentioned venom at the tip of their tongue.
Maybe that was for the best. Maybe after enough of this god-forsaken loneliness, the whispers of gold and empty platitudes would shut up. Maybe, just maybe, it was all going to be okay.
(It was ironic, he thought bitterly, that the memories stuck around in a way that they never did.)
The dorms were ghost-quiet. Without the friendly cacophony, it eerily resembled sterile walls, cold floors, and winding hallways. It was too easy to confuse the can-do attitude of ‘Plus Ultra’ with the desperate need to do better and push limits, all to avoid cold clinical disappointment and searing pain. Bile burned in his throat.
His phone buzzed. Fumbling, he grabbed it, grateful for the distraction.
[00:14]
Unknown Number:
happy birthday to us!~ <3
His heart stopped.