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Then a man discovers in dismay that what he believed to be his identity is no more than a tiny canoe at the mercy of an ocean. Sharkfilled, plankton-filled, refractor of light, terrible and mysterious, for years this ocean has seemed to slumber beneath the tiny identity it received from the dark river.
Now the ocean rises and the things within it become visible. Little man, what now? The ocean rises, all frames disappear from around the pictures, there is no form, no sense, nothing but chaos in the darkness of the ocean storm. Little man, what now?
—Hugh MacLennan
May
“Breaking news tonight, the Musutafu Police have made an arrest in a string of late-night public assaults committed against teenagers. Police say there are four known victims at this time, but that current evidence suggests it’s possible there could be more.
“The villain in question, 38 year-old Hamakawa Tomohiko, has managed to evade law enforcement for over a year now, and is said to have a unique quirk that he weaponizes during these assaults. Victims say that Hamakawa, with just a touch, can completely immobilize his targets and deactivate their quirks, leaving them unable to fight back.”
On the screen of the common room television is a mugshot. Matted hair and sallow skin, dark circles around the eyes and a five o’clock shadow. His ears are small and his eyebrows are thin. Collarbones poke out of his T-shirt, and he wears a thick, quirk deactivating brace around his neck. He would never be strong enough to do what he’s done without that quirk.
“At this time, the Musutafu Police are requesting that any possible victims or witnesses come forward…”
He has a face now, is the first thing Katsuki thinks.
He has a face now, and he’s no longer a stranger. He has a face now, and Katsuki knows who he’s wanted to kill all this time. Who he’s wanted to mangle and beat and burn and tear limb from limb, piss on the remains.
All at once, his body floods with heat, lighting on fire. And all at once, it turns ice cold as the warmth at his side tears away from him, races out of the room, and reminds him just where he is.
There’s a commotion that follows Denki’s exit; because he all but ran, because he looked sick, because he looked afraid, and because this just had to happen while the entire class is gathered at the same time. A few people call after him, and then he’s gone and they’re all talking to each other in rushed and panicked tones, speculating, wondering.
“Is he okay?”
“Dude, he looked like he saw a ghost or something.”
“Do you think…?”
“No way, right?”
“I mean, maybe.”
“But when could that have…”
In the end, it amounts to little more than gossip. None of their damn business. Katsuki catches Izuku’s eye. He looks shaken and upset, and he shrugs helplessly as their classmates continue to chatter anxiously.
“All of you,” Katsuki interrupts, loud and as firm as he can manage, “are going to shut. The fuck. Up. Now.”
Surprisingly, or perhaps not at all, it works. They’re all looking at him now, though. Waiting. Like he’s going to offer an explanation, like they know, already, that he knows something they don’t. Katsuki stands.
“Mind your own fucking business, extras,” he spits.
Denki didn’t go far. Katsuki finds him quickly, drawn to the bathroom down the hall by the sound of wet gagging. He knocks.
“It’s me.”
He’s acknowledged with a weak moan, and Katsuki takes that as permission. He pushes into the bathroom and shuts the door, making sure to lock it because lord knows their classmates are incapable of keeping their noses on their own damn faces.
Denki is hunched over the toilet, spitting bile and crying softly. He is small and sick and haunted, and Katsuki’s chest hurts. He kneels at Denki’s side and begins rubbing his back. His hands seem to move on their own, so used to touching Denki these days. Second nature. He tucks a lock of hair behind Denki’s ear. He doesn’t know what to say.
“I feel—” Denki tries to speak, but his body cuts him off with another painful gag, more bile and spit and puke.
Katsuki tries to imagine it as a function of healing. Like being forced to see that man on screen was a wound, and Denki’s body is merely trying to purge the pain of it. He tries to imagine it that way because it hurts to watch, to hear, to feel Denki’s muscles tense and quiver under his hand. Because, selfishly, Katsuki needs this to be in service of something good. Needs Denki’s pain to be finite, with an exit somewhere soon.
Gasping, with tears on his cheeks, Denki lifts his head.
“I think,” he says, “I think I’m done.”
Katsuki rubs his back, up and down, one more time, before he moves to stand.
“Okay,” he replies. “Just rest for a minute.”
Denki nods. He reaches to close the toilet lid, then flushes it and turns to press his back against the wall. Even from where he stands, Katsuki can see his fingers trembling, his jaw twitching. He turns to the sink and grabs a small paper cup, the kind Hanta keeps stocked in all of the bathrooms because he’s dumb and wasteful and he likes them. Katsuki fills it with cold water, then returns to Denki’s side, sitting next to him.
“Here.”
Denki accepts the cup without a word, takes a sip and swishes it around his mouth. He reaches for the toilet again, lifting the lid so he can spit into it. Denki places the cup beside him and sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. Still, Katsuki doesn’t know what to say. He searches for his words, searches for something that would be adequate, and bites back the urge to ask if Denki’s alright because that answer is obvious. Still, a year later, Katsuki finds himself useless. He can’t fix it. He can’t fix anything.
“I’ve only seen him in the dark.”
Katsuki is abruptly torn from his self-loathing, all of his attention focused back on his friend when he speaks. It’s like he gets tunnel vision when it comes to Denki. And Denki is staring at his knees, picking at the soft material of his sweatpants.
“I didn’t know what he looked like… I didn’t- he was just shapes. And a voice, ‘n, ‘n a weight, a s-smell.” Denki shakes his head, “Awful- awful smell, he smelled like c-cigarettes and some, some kind ‘f cologne- too much of it. I never, I couldn’t see him in the dark, and in my head- in the memory. I couldn’t see him.”
Katsuki’s eyes burn. “Denki…”
“He’s ugly. And younger than I thought.”
The off-handed insult is almost funny. It would be, if everything else about this situation wasn’t so horrifying. As it stands, all Katsuki can bring himself to do is wrap an arm around Denki and pull him close. Offering what warmth he can. Denki shudders, nuzzling against Katsuki’s shoulder, sniffing back his tears.
“Fuckin’ hideous,” Katsuki mumbles in agreement.
Denki huffs softly, an exhausted kind of amusement, but it’s something. He’s still shaking, and Katsuki frowns.
“Denki, you’re shivering.”
“M- mhm.”
“Are you cold?”
He shakes his head. “M’just. I dunno. I feel weird.”
Adrenaline, maybe. Katsuki squeezes Denki’s shoulders, lets his friend burrow deeper into his side and hide his face in the crook of his neck. The shivering is intense.
“You’re okay,” Katsuki tells him. “You’re safe.”
It’s true, mostly, but it feels like a lie. Denki doesn’t say anything—only hums unsteadily.
Time passes strangely on a weekday night on the floor of a bathroom. It feels like ages, holding Denki at his side as he shakes through his adrenaline and his grief. Katsuki thinks he should probably get Denki some food, since he lost most of his dinner. He starts to think about what he could make that will be easy on his friend’s stomach, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Go away,” Katsuki calls, his voice already laced with irritation. Did he not make himself clear enough when he told them all to mind their damn business?
“Um- it’s just me,” comes Hanta’s voice. He sounds uncertain, a little upset. “I just… is Denki okay?”
At his side, Denki sniffs, extricating himself from Katsuki’s grip. Katsuki frowns at him as he pushes himself to his feet, and Denki shakes his head in response, mutters it’s okay under his breath. He unlocks the door and opens it, and Katsuki watches from where he sits as Hanta meets Denki’s eyes with an anxious, sad expression.
“Denks…”
Denki doesn’t say anything. He steps aside, pulling the door wider so that Hanta can enter the room, then closes it behind him and locks it again. Returning to Katsuki’s side, Denki pulls his knees to his chest and watches Hanta settle himself on the floor across from them. It’s a tight squeeze with the counter behind him, but given that Denki welcomed him in, Katsuki will put up with the minute bits of contact between their legs.
“So,” Hanta begins tentatively, his gaze drifting between Katsuki and Denki, “when you told me you were having a tough time… was that- was it…?”
Denki avoids Hanta’s gaze, but nods.
“Oh. Oh, Denki…”
“Please,” Denki speaks sharply, urgently. “Please, don’t treat me different. Or- or tell anyone. I- it was so long ago, and I’m trying to just, I’m trying to feel better.”
Katsuki’s not sure he’s ever seen Hanta so sad in all the years they’ve known each other. Despite being decently close friends, their emotions aren’t exactly something they tend to share with one another. He knows Hanta as a happy guy, someone light-hearted and goofy. But now he looks sad.
“Of course not, bud,” Hanta shakes his head. “It doesn’t change anything at all, man. I just. Denki, I’m so sorry.”
Denki sniffs, blinking back tears, and shrugs. Hanta turns his gaze on Katsuki.
“You already knew?”
Katsuki nods.
“I told him, um, pretty early on,” Denki explains. “He’s been- been helping me with it.”
Hanta opens his mouth, a silent ‘oh’ hanging in the air. And then he seems to realize something, and he hums.
“That explains why Mina thought you guys were dating.”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
There’s a pause then, as Hanta seems to be processing everything, maybe trying to figure out what to say. Katsuki gets that. Does he offer some kind of comfort? Useless placations? Does he change the subject? Or does he sit here in silence, as if waiting for something to happen?
Eventually, Hanta grimaces.
“Um, but, Denks, about not telling anyone…”
Katsuki feels it when Denki’s entire body tenses up against his.
“What?” he asks nervously.
“It’s just- the way you left earlier, um. Everyone was kind of confused, and trying to figure out why you seemed so upset? And, well, like- some. Assumptions. Were made.” Hanta explains all of this slowly, haltingly, like he’s afraid that if he uses the wrong words, Denki will panic, or explode, or cry.
So much for not treating him any differently.
“So they all know now,” Denki says flatly.
Hanta frowns, “I mean, no, nobody’s really sure, but—” He sighs and hangs his head, “Yeah. It- yeah.”
“…Fuck,” it comes out quiet, a whimper, and Denki drops his face into his hands.
Katsuki thinks he might need to murder someone.
“I told you fucking extras to mind your own business,” he scowls.
“I know,” Hanta says. “We should’ve left it alone, but we just- we were worried. I honestly thought we might be overreacting, but… I guess not.”
At that, Denki laughs into his hands, a short and hysterical little thing. He drops his hands into his lap and lets his head fall back against the wall with an audible clunk. Katsuki nearly winces at the sound.
“I don’t even…” he hisses through his teeth. “I honestly can’t even feel anything about that right now. I feel like, fucking. I don’t know. I feel empty. It’s like- whatever, I guess? People know now. Whoop-de-doo.”
“I’m sorry,” Hanta says.
Denki shakes his head, back and forth, rolling along the wall. He doesn’t look at either of them when he says, “It’s not your fault. I freaked out. Of course everyone was gonna wanna know why.”
“That’s not your fault, either,” Katsuki mutters.
Denki shrugs.
Katsuki turns his gaze to his lap, to the tiles beneath him. They’ve become worn down over the last two years of rowdy teenagers living in this building. One of the tiles, he notices, is cracked right down the middle. He wonders how it happened. Maybe it was him, from all of his stomping around. Or maybe it was Ojirou’s tail, or something else entirely.
“They said the police are asking people to come forward,” Denki says. He’s quieter, now, his voice near a whisper. Almost as if he’s saying it out of a compulsion, an unavoidable need to, but is hopeful that neither of his friends will hear him.
The thought of Denki going to the police makes Katsuki’s chest tight. Not because it isn’t the right thing to do, or because he thinks Denki should continue to hide this from as many people as he can, but because… why?
Maybe he’s internalized the fears that used to keep Denki up at night. The fear of judgement. Of being blamed. Or maybe it’s his own fear of watching Denki crumble again, like he did so often and so painfully all those months ago. Like he still does on occasion, dark and quiet and small.
Hanta speaks first, before Katsuki can even consider what he might say.
“Are you thinking about going to the police?” Hanta asks.
“…I think I have to,” Denki replies.
“You don’t,” Katsuki pipes up. He turns his gaze on his friend, and Denki’s eyes meet his, exhausted and dim. “You don’t have to do shit if you don’t want to.”
Denki frowns. He almost looks angry, but that anger fades as quickly as it comes. He says, “I don’t know if I want to. But I didn’t want to tell you, or Izuku, or Inui-sensei, or anyone, and then telling was the only thing that started to make it a little better. And, I… what if one of those four people, or all of them, happened after me? What if not going to the police in the first place is why he was able to keep doing it to other kids?”
Katsuki gapes. How can he even begin to explain how stupid that sounds?
“You’re joking, right?” he asks.
Denki’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head. “No, Kats, I’m not joking.”
“In what fucking world is it your fault that he might have attacked more people after you?” Katsuki snaps. His cheeks are growing hot, and there’s a tension in his forehead that’s been getting worse, more painful.
“This one, apparently,” Denki snaps right back, his own shoulders rising.
Katsuki wants to grab Denki by those shoulders and shake the stupid right out of him. He wants to grab him by those shoulders and pull him into a hug. He wants to say sorry for making him angry when he’s already sick and traumatized and afraid. He wants to yell at him, he wants to leave, he wants to find that bastard—Hamakawa—and bodily rip the head off of his shoulders.
“Okay,” Hanta interrupts, his voice soft and placating, “okay, guys, maybe, um. Maybe just take a deep breath or something? Denki, I don’t think Bakugou is using his words very well, but I’m pretty sure he just… doesn’t want you to blame yourself. And I don’t, either. You couldn’t have known that what happened wasn’t a, uh, a one-off type of thing.”
Denki tears his eyes away from Katsuki and sniffles, hugging his knees and planting his chin there. Katsuki’s stomach twists coldly. He averts his gaze.
Denki says, “I just think I should probably go tell Aizawa-sensei. He can help with stuff like this, I think. Like… talking to the cops, ‘n… ‘n my parents.”
“If you’re sure, then I think that’s a good idea,” Hanta tells him.
Quietly, Denki nods. Katsuki sighs and rubs his face.
“I can go with you,” he says. “Tomorrow?”
Denki protests, “No, I have- I have to do it now. I can’t wait or I’ll get too scared. Please? Can we go now?”
It’s rare, these days, that Katsuki says no to Denki anyway, but if he was even considering it, the desperation in his voice is more than enough to change his mind about that. So, Katsuki, despite the remaining inkling of tension between them, places a grounding hand on one of Denki’s own.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. We’ll go now.” Turning his attention to Hanta, Katsuki says, “Go make sure the common room’s clear. If any extras start hounding us, I’ll kill them.”
Hanta snickers, but hops to his feet and makes for the door.
“Be right back,” he says.
After a couple of minutes, Hanta returns to give them the all-clear, and Katsuki and Denki climb to their feet.
The walk across campus is quiet. The nighttime air is cool despite the increasing warmth of the daytime, and there’s a gentle breeze that helps to cool Katsuki’s face. Neither of them have much to say. Katsuki wants to offer some kind of comfort, but there’s still a frustration sizzling in his gut that keeps him quiet, a helplessness that keeps him from knowing what he could possibly say. And he can only assume that Denki is preoccupied with the reality of what’s about to happen.
By the time they reach the teachers’ apartments, Katsuki can feel the nerves radiating off of Denki. He can hear a soft click-click-click that sounds as if his teeth are chattering.
Before knocking, Katsuki looks at his friend.
“It’ll be okay,” he offers. He wishes he sounded more confident.
Denki shrugs.
Katsuki knocks. Then knocks again. Then sighs and rings the doorbell.
He gives it a minute, preparing himself to have to ring again, when he finally hears the sound of their teacher shuffling and cursing beyond the door.
Aizawa looks sufficiently grumpy when he opens up, leveling his students with an unimpressed glare. “…I hope you two have a very good reason for showing up at my apartment, after curfew, when you should be in bed. Like I was a moment ago.”
“We do,” Katsuki says. “We need to come in.”
“Please,” Denki adds, tugging at his fingers.
Aizawa’s gaze shifts from Katsuki to Denki, then back again. He seems uncertain, like he’s trying to figure out from their faces alone whether or not he should take them seriously or simply send them back home with a week of detention in tow.
Finally, he gives in with a huff, stepping back to allow them inside.
They hastily remove their shoes and follow him into the living room, where Aizawa gestures to the sofa. Across from it and his coffee table is an armchair adjacent to his television. Aizawa drags the armchair a bit closer and settles into it as Katsuki and Denki plop down on the couch.
“Alright,” he grumbles, “what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until a more appropriate hour?”
Katsuki doesn’t speak at first, glancing at Denki. He assumes it makes the most sense for Denki to take the lead, here, but his friend seems almost frozen, mouth hanging open as he searches for the right words.
“I…” he trails off, then clears his throat and tries again. “I- something happened. A while ago. To me. And, um, s-something else happened today. And now I… I need to do something about it…”
Denki is struggling. He fails to meet Aizawa’s burning stare, looking pointedly at the floor and frowning deeply. Katsuki watches as Denki picks at his nails and begins—only slightly, as if trying to temper the urge—to rock himself.
The worst of it is that Aizawa waits. Their teacher is comfortable with silence, with letting his students fumble for their words without helping them along, even if it takes them several minutes to figure out how to express themselves. Ordinarily, Katsuki can understand why Aizawa prefers to do so, but tonight, it makes him feel antsy. Frustrated. He wants to snap, can’t you see he’s struggling? Can’t you see he needs help?
But it’s not like Katsuki knows how to help, either, so. He stays quiet, and puts his frustrated energy to a more constructive use by reaching out and grabbing Denki’s hand. Denki accepts the offer gratefully, his grip tight.
When it becomes apparent that Denki isn’t going to continue speaking anytime soon, and he begins to rock more deeply, brow furrowed and eyes darting, Aizawa’s expression shifts. His annoyed frown fades into something more concerned, and he turns his attention towards Katsuki.
“Bakugou, maybe you could give us the room.”
Denki’s head whips up, eyes clouding with fear. “No! No, I need him here. I can’t- I need him here.”
Aizawa hesitates for a moment, then nods.
“Alright. Tell me what happened. You can start slow, or write it down, if you need to.”
Denki swallows.
“Um… did you watch the news tonight?” he asks.
“No, I didn’t,” Aizawa says. “Why?”
Denki’s leg has begun bouncing, now. He is all kinds of shaken, his body rife with anxious energy, and he chews on his lower lip. After a couple short moments, his eyes brighten, and he reaches into his pocket with his free hand to pull out his phone. Katsuki catches onto his line of thinking quickly. Aizawa remains quiet as Denki scrolls to his browser and begins typing.
Then, Denki falls still. His grip on Katsuki’s hand loosens, and Katsuki frowns. Denki looks at him.
“I forgot his name,” he says. Ashen and ill and fatigued.
Aizawa shifts in his seat, the material rustling beneath him.
“Hamakawa Tomohiko,” Katsuki tells him. He will never be able to purge his memory of that name.
Denki nods, then types it in and searches. He scrolls a bit, taps, then turns his phone around and places it on the coffee table for Aizawa to take. Their teacher picks it up and begins reading. Denki sits back and squeezes Katsuki’s hand tighter. Katsuki can feel him shivering again.
He watches Aizawa’s face as he reads.
It doesn’t seem to click at first. His expression is fairly neutral while he scrolls. Then, his brow furrows. His eyes flicker over the top of the screen, briefly glancing at Denki before returning to the article. He rubs the stubble on his jaw, brushes some unruly hair out of his face. His concern begins to mingle with something else, something that Katsuki thinks might be anger.
Aizawa reaches the end of the article, it seems, or at the very least decides he’s read enough, and he sets the phone back down on the coffee table.
“Kaminari,” he speaks slowly, and much softer now. “Did this man assault you?”
The mere word is still enough to make Denki crumble. He doesn’t burst into tears over it anymore, or freeze or hyperventilate, and it doesn’t make him disconnect from himself as often as it used to, but it brutalizes him nonetheless. Makes him shudder, fills him up with pain that Katsuki can feel in the way he clings to the hand in his, can see in how his eyes mist and his chin quivers.
Denki nods, unable to meet Aizawa’s eyes.
“L-last year,” he croaks.
Aizawa looks grim. He’s good at maintaining his composure, his expression often only readable through slight quirks and twitches or the depth of his frown, but Katsuki can tell that the knowledge pains him.
“I see,” he says. “What can I do to help you?”
Denki opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a brief bout of stuttering, an unintelligible phrase, and Katsuki strokes the back of his hand with his thumb. He can step in, now. He knows the answer this time.
“He wants to go to the police,” he says. Aizawa’s gaze turns to him. “And he needs help telling his parents.”
Aizawa nods at Katsuki, then asks Denki, “Is that correct?”
Denki hums an affirmative.
Aizawa leans back in his seat. He presses his hand to his mouth, apparently considering what to say, or maybe trying to keep a handle on his emotions. He runs the same hand through his hair, then lets it rest in his lap.
“I can help with both of those things,” he says. Then asks, “Has anyone been supporting you since this happened?”
Katsuki glances at Denki, trying to gauge whether he might be able to answer this time. It takes a moment, and he sounds choked up when he speaks, but he does.
“Um, Kats,” Denki says, squeezing Katsuki’s hand as he says it, “and I talk to Inui-sensei about it. And… Midoriya, sometimes…”
Aizawa’s shoulders loosen, so that answer must be satisfactory.
“Good,” he says. “I can contact the police for you tomorrow. They will likely want to send someone down in person to take a statement. Would it be helpful if Inui were present?”
Denki pauses at first, then nods.
“Alright. What about your parents? Would you prefer to contact them before the police so they can be with you as well?” Aizawa asks.
At that, Denki looks to Katsuki, uncertain. He opens and closes his mouth, then makes an anxious sound in the back of his throat. Katsuki releases his hand so he can rub his back comfortingly.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “It’s up to you.”
Denki turns back to Aizawa and shrugs, “I don’t know what I want. I’m- it’s- I’m scared.”
“I understand this is difficult,” Aizawa rests his cheek in his hand, “but it would be best if I knew now, so that I can contact the necessary parties in the morning and have them available to come meet us in the afternoon.”
“Okay,” Denki murmurs, “okay. Um… n- mm. Maybe… maybe they should be here.”
Aizawa doesn’t respond at first, as if giving Denki an opportunity to change his mind. When he doesn’t, their teacher nods. “Okay. Then I’ll make those calls in the morning, and you can come by my office after classes. Does that sound alright?”
Katsuki can see in Denki’s face that it doesn’t entirely. But, mostly, he thinks, that’s because it’s scary. And it wouldn’t be any less scary two days from now, or a week from now, or a month. So he doesn’t interject when Denki says, “yes,” and instead focuses his energy on offering what little support he can.
Aizawa gives one final, confirmatory nod, then pushes himself to his feet. Both students take that as their cue and follow him back to the door. They slide their shoes back on without a word, then turn to say their goodbyes.
“While I still expect that both of you will come to class tomorrow, I can be understanding if you decide you would prefer to sit out on practical training for the day, Kaminari,” he says.
Denki shrugs. “Okay, um, thanks.”
Aizawa opens the door for them, and watches as they shuffle out.
“And, Kaminari.”
Denki turns back.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
On the walk back, Denki loops his arm through Katsuki’s, leaning heavily into his warmth. They’re as quiet as they were on the walk over, but Katsuki can tell that Denki is exponentially more tired, now, and his nerves are shot to hell. As they near the dorm building, Katsuki decides to break the silence.
“You want something to eat before bed?” he asks.
Denki replies, “I don’t think so. I still feel really nauseous.”
And, honestly, Katsuki doesn’t like the idea of letting his friend go to bed with an empty stomach, but he also doesn’t feel like arguing or trying to force him, given everything. So he simply grunts an acknowledgement.
They’re both expecting to return to a dark and quiet dorm, so it takes them by surprise when they enter the common area to find a small, and very worried, group of their friends.
Izuku, Hanta, and Mina are all curled up on the couches, talking in hushed tones with only the dim glow of a lamp lighting up the room. As soon as they notice Katsuki and Denki, they fall silent. Mina sits up straight, her eyes wide and red-rimmed, her lips pulled in an uncharacteristically deep frown. She looks utterly devastated.
“I said I knew your secret,” she blurts, breathless and tearful.
There’s a moment of stunned silence.
And then Denki tears away from Katsuki’s side, races over to Mina, and tumbles into her lap. They throw their arms around one another, and Katsuki watches as Denki all but curls himself around her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, muffled by her shoulder.
“What?” she pushes him back so she can meet his eyes, “Why are you sorry? I- I’m sorry!”
Denki shakes his head, “You didn’t know.”
As they continue talking, finally reaching a resolution of their months-old conflict, Katsuki makes his way over to Hanta and Izuku. He’s trying not to be pissed, since Denki doesn’t seem to be, but he scowls anyway.
“Thought I told you to keep all the extras away, Tapeface.”
Hanta, at least, has the decency to look guilty, “Sorry, dude, I tried, but she threatened to acid shoot me if I didn’t let her wait up.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes and grumbles, “As if she would actually do that.”
“Well, I wasn’t gonna take any chances!” Hanta says, “Have you ever been burned by her before? Th—”
“No, I haven’t, because I’m better than you,” Katsuki interrupts.
Next to Hanta, Izuku snorts.
“Well, that shit does not feel good,” Hanta tells him, brushing right by the insult. “And also, I really wouldn’t want to have to wake Recovery Girl. She’s nasty when you interrupt her sleep.”
With an acquiescent sigh, Katsuki plops down on the couch beside Hanta and Izuku, leaving a fair few inches of distance between them. On the adjacent sofa, Denki has settled next to Mina, his head resting on her shoulder and his legs tossed over her lap. They’re speaking quietly enough that it only registers to Katsuki as unintelligible mumbles. During a lull in their discussion, Izuku pipes up.
“Did everything go okay?” he asks.
Denki nods. “Yeah, I guess. Aizawa-sensei is gonna call the police tomorrow.”
“That must be scary,” Mina comments.
“Yeah.”
“Well, we’re here for you, man,” Hanta says, “if you need anything.”
Denki smiles weakly. “Thanks.”
There’s little more discussion after that. A few questions are asked, but they’re vague and carefully worded, and it’s not hard to tell that Denki doesn’t really enjoy the work of answering them. He makes no move to remove himself from the situation, though, nor does he ask for a change in subject, so Katsuki decides he’s going to have to be the one to move things along.
“It’s late as shit,” he says, “we’re going to bed. Come on, Sparky.”
Denki is quick to take the out. He gives Mina a gentle squeeze, then gets to his feet and exchanges a soft “goodnight” with Hanta and Izuku, before following Katsuki to the elevators. Once inside, Katsuki sighs. He has no idea what time it is, but he knows it’s well past his usual bed time, and his eyes are beginning to sting with the need for rest.
“You staying with me tonight?” he asks.
“If that’s okay, yeah,” Denki says.
“Obviously.”
No more words are exchanged as they make their way to Katsuki’s room. They change into their pajamas with their backs turned to each other, Denki crawls into bed, and Katsuki follows after switching the light off. They lie side by side on their backs, breathing into the dark.
For the first several minutes, they’re quiet, and Katsuki thinks Denki is trying to sleep. But then he hears him inhale deeply, and feels him shake his head.
“They caught him,” Denki says. His voice sounds faraway.
“Yeah.”
“They… caught him,” his tone shifts to disbelief. And then he giggles. Giggles some more, then bursts into laughter. “They caught him!”
Katsuki isn’t quite sure how to react. He huffs, snickering softly, and squeezes Denki’s hand.
“Yeah,” he repeats.
And Denki laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and Katsuki smiles up at the ceiling, squeezes Denki’s shoulders when he rolls into Katsuki’s side to muffle his laughter there. Denki snorts and gasps, and laughs some more, and then the laughter stutters, trips, tumbles. It fades into a long, strangled exhale. Immediately, Katsuki knows that Denki’s begun to cry. It isn’t explosive or violent, but he shudders with it and whimpers, and Katsuki turns onto his side so he can wrap his arms around Denki properly.
This is a wave, and there’s not much more Katsuki can do. Denki has to ride it out.
June
For a Saturday in mid-June, the weather is relatively mild. The sky is full of clouds, and an intermittent heavy wind blows Denki’s hair this way and that as he walks alongside his mother, Mio. His skin is buzzing, so he thinks an afternoon storm is likely.
It’s the first quality time he’s spent alone with his mother since reporting his assault to the police. Denki remembers how her expression twisted as she realized what was going on, from trepidation and concern at the presence of a police officer (did my child commit a crime?) to devastated shock. The way she hugged him after everything was over, how she sniffled and gasped and forced her tears back, her chest heaving against his own, is something he isn’t sure he’ll ever forget.
Today, though, that despair isn’t present. She woke him this morning in that soft, soothing tone of hers, kissed him on the forehead and told him to get up. I think we should go feed the ducks today.
They haven’t done this since he was a preteen. He hasn’t even been to this park in years. But it’s a nice change of pace, and despite the impending storm, they don’t rush. They walk along the path in a companionable silence, only interrupted by his mother’s occasional wondering comment on a cool tree-plant-passing-dog. Denki’s mind is already elsewhere, thinking about what they might have for breakfast when they’re done.
“Ah, here we are,” Mio says, pointing just ahead of them and a little to the right.
Looks the same, Denki thinks as he takes in the large pond they’re approaching, fed into by a winding stream that curls throughout the park. They stagger down some uneven terrain off the path, Denki snickering when his mother trips over her own feet (she catches herself, he isn’t that cruel). At the edge of the pond, Mio reaches into her pocket, pulling out a sheer plastic bag full of birdseed.
“You go first,” she says, letting it hang open as she holds it out to her son.
Denki hums and reaches into the bag, collecting a generous handful of seeds. He scans the pond, spotting a line of spot-billed ducks rolling along the water’s surface. A mother followed by three babies. His lips quirk in a half smile—he’s always thought baby ducklings were adorable—and he waits for the group to turn towards his side of the pond before he sprinkles the handful across the water.
For a while, Denki stands quietly with his mother, each taking turns tossing seed to the ducks. They move along the pond, finding another few ducks to offer food to.
There’s a peace to it. A nostalgia that isn’t painful, instead wrapping Denki up like a warm and gentle blanket. He likes listening to their excited quacks and squeaks, watching them flutter along the water and dunk their heads and snap their beaks. He likes how the ducklings follow their mother in a dedicated and constant line; predictable and safe and loved.
Together, Denki and Mio feed as many ducks as they can attract, making their way around the edge of the pond and only speaking to comment on the act itself, or the behaviour and appearance of the ducks. When the bag is empty, Mio tucks it away into her jacket pocket, and Denki’s heart feels warm, his soul settled.
They begin the walk back slower than the walk in.
“Why don’t we sit?” Mio says, gesturing to a bench along the path.
Denki shrugs, but goes easy, resting beside his mother. The view is nice; greenery and trees and the occasional person walking by, sometimes with a dog if they’re lucky. They talk for a while, discussing mostly inconsequential things, sharing a funny story or two about work or school and laughing together.
It’s when there’s a brief lull in the conversation that Denki begins to suspect his mother had another reason for asking him to come out with her today. Her expression settles into something more dim. More tired.
“So,” Mio starts, in that ubiquitous tone that signals a shift in mood, “I spoke with the lawyer this week.”
Denki pauses, biting on his lower lip.
“What did she say?” he asks.
Mio exhales through her nose. “Mostly, nothing we don’t already know. The legal process is slow, but it might move along a bit faster given the nature of his crimes, all of that. Um, she did mention, though, that…” she trails off for a moment, steels herself, then continues, “that you may be asked to testify.”
Denki’s stomach drops into his gut, and he reaches for his wrist to squeeze it, digging his nails into the flesh.
“I thought she said—”
“I know, honey,” Mio shakes her head. “I don’t like it. I know you don’t like it, and your father nearly pitched a fit when she told us. There’s still a chance you won’t have to, a ‘relatively good one’ she said, but… I thought you should hear it from me.”
Denki squeezes his wrist harder. He doesn’t know what to say, or how he could possibly begin to express the rage and terror and debilitation he feels. All he knows is that he feels it, and he was counting on the assurances he was given that he shouldn’t have to testify, and now Mio is pulling that rug out from underneath him because, according to their lawyer, someone has to.
He shakes his head slowly, tears springing to his eyes. “I can’t do it, Mom. I don’t want to.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mio coos. She scoots closer, putting her arm around Denki and pulling his head to rest on her shoulder. She strokes his hair, “I know. And I hope it’ll turn out that you don’t have to. And we’ll fight it if we need to, if we can. That’s what the lawyer’s for, okay? She’s not there to help the judge or that man, she’s there to help us.”
Sniffling, Denki nods. He blinks back his tears and wishes all of this was over. Mio strokes some stray hairs from his face and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. After a moment of resting in the warmth of his mother, Denki pulls away. Mio squeezes his shoulder as he goes.
“I just…” he sighs. “I hate this.”
“Me too,” Mio says. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
When Denki says nothing in response, Mio sighs softly.
“I was wondering,” she says, “have you thought about trying to get in touch with any of the other kids?”
Denki frowns. “Not really. I don’t see why I would.”
“Well, because they’ve been through the same thing as you,” Mio explains, “and they can understand what it was like.”
“I guess. But, I don’t know how I would even contact them. And I already have enough friends,” Denki replies. His voice lowers to a mumble as he adds, “And if some of them happened after me, or I was even the first… I don’t- why would they want to talk to me?”
Mio’s brow furrows. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t they?”
“…Because I didn’t say anything,” Denki tells her, releasing his wrist. It’s bright red from his squeezing, with four deep indents from his nails. “I didn’t report it. And I wasn’t- I wasn’t ever going to. I waited to say anything until he was already caught, and I just- Mom, I’m supposed to be a hero. I’m not supposed to be a coward.”
“Hey,” Mio speaks firmly, “that’s my son you’re talking about. And he is the furthest thing from a coward that I’ve ever known.”
Denki scoffs and shakes his head, refusing to meet his mother’s gaze.
“I’m serious, Denki,” she says. “Many, many people in this world have been through similar experiences to yours, and the majority of them never report it. And I want you to consider the possibility that you aren’t the only other survivor who didn’t report before he got caught. You’re the only other one who’s come forward so far, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t more. Do you think any of those possible victims are cowards?”
“…Guess not.”
“So why are you the exception?”
And Denki doesn’t have a good answer for that, but he’s not entirely convinced of her perspective, either, so he says nothing. Mio takes his wrist, the sore one, and runs her thumb over the indents, as if to smooth them out, as if to soothe the ache.
“Sweetheart, look at me, please.”
Hesitantly, Denki does.
“Whose fault is this?” she asks.
“…His,” he mutters.
Mio nods. “His. Not yours. Not any of the other survivors. Just his. And you, Denki, are a wonderful hero. You are going to make it through this, and you are going to graduate, and you will become a very, very skilled and kind and powerful pro-hero. You hear me?”
Denki nods. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever believe her, but maybe that’s a problem for Inui to take a crack at.
Still, he says, “I really don’t think I can reach out to any of them, though. I mean… if one of them reaches out to me, then I’d probably talk to them, but I just… Mom, I can’t.”
“Okay,” Mio replies. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. I just thought I’d ask.”
“Okay.”
Mio lets go of his wrist and settles back in her seat. Then, as if on cue, Denki’s stomach growls—nice and loud and embarrassing. He can’t help but snort.
“Um,” he says, “can we go eat now?”
With a laugh, his mother agrees. She takes him to his favourite diner. He supposes, if there are any benefits to emotionally taxing and painful conversations, it’s the doting his mother is more than happy to offer him soon after.
July
With summer break approaching and only their exams to get through, things have been rather quiet in the dorms. Everyone is studying, or procrastinating, or out training for their practical. Denki’s in an appointment with Inui, and has plans with his parents afterwards (they’ve been keeping a much closer eye on him since everything came out), so Katsuki almost isn’t sure what to do with himself.
He’s gotten used to planning his free days around spending the majority of them with Denki.
Right now, he’s sitting in the common room, trying—and mostly failing—to study. He always gets a little antsy when Denki has a session with Inui, given his track record of returning in moods that range anywhere from calm to excitable to completely emotionally wrecked.
So, bizarrely, it’s a relief when Eijirou interrupts him, plopping down into the chair across from Katsuki’s.
“Hey, man,” he says, “you busy?”
Nevertheless, Katsuki still has a reputation to uphold.
“What does it look like?” he mutters.
“Liiiike you’ve been staring at the same page of your textbook for the last three minutes,” Eijirou offers.
Katsuki scoffs, “You’ve been watching me for three entire minutes? What are you, some kinda stalker?”
Eijirou just laughs, reaching across the table to shut Katsuki’s book on his fingers. He ignores Katsuki’s responding glare.
“I wanna talk to you about something.”
Katsuki removes his fingers from his closed textbook, crosses his arms, and sits back in his seat.
“So talk,” he says.
“It’s, uh, about the thing with Denki,” Eijirou explains.
He feels his stomach swoop, but he tries not to show the uncertainty on his face when he says, “Okay.”
“I’ve just been thinking about it a lot, and I know I should probably talk to him about this, but I don’t want to upset him or, uh, trigger him.” Eijirou waits for Katsuki to speak, and when he doesn’t, he continues, “So, I guess I just… I don’t really get why he didn’t say anything to me. Or anyone, really, except for you and Midoriya. And I know it shouldn’t make me upset, cause that’s not really fair to him and it’s probably not super manly of me, either, but- I dunno, is it something we did? Did we make it seem like we would have, like, judged him or something?”
Ugh. Katsuki’s about to have to say a lot of words. He lets out a long sigh as he prepares himself for this conversation.
“Well, first of all, I think you should consider the question you just asked me alongside the fact that you came to me instead of him to ask about it,” he begins, “not that I’m saying any of you actually did anything. I don’t think you did. But if you’re worried about shit like triggers, that’s the kind of thing you should ask him about. Don’t just assume that everything to do with it is going to make him lose his shit. He’s not a fragile, fuckin’… daisy or whatever. You know what triggers him? White noise, but only really specific ones. Being held down, which is really shit for him when we’re doing hand-to-hand. That kinda crap. It’s not like he can’t talk about it.”
Already, Eijirou looks guilty—which Katsuki supposes isn’t exactly a bad sign, but it’s not what he’s aiming to make Eijirou feel, either.
“And Izuku only knows because I fucked up and told him without permission, so him knowing wasn’t about Denki making the decision to trust him over you guys. If it weren’t for that, I would be the only person he ever told, other than Inui-sensei, until now. And, yeah, he was scared of being judged or blamed, but that was a fear. Not an expectation, I don’t think. Other than that, I think it’s just a hard fuckin’ thing to talk about. How would he have even gone about it? Like, some kinda announcement tour where he told you, Tapeface and Raccoon Eyes all individually? A group meeting? A text message?
“It’s… I don’t know, Ei, it’s a big thing. I’m not in his head. Other than what he’s told me, I can only make assumptions. But if you’re taking it personally, you need to cut it out.”
A long moment passes as Eijirou takes in everything Katsuki’s said. He looks thoughtful, if still a bit guilty, and definitely sad. He rubs his cheek and hums.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “I don’t really have any experience with this kind of thing. I… I think it really took me by surprise. I never even noticed that anything was wrong. Like, when I think back on some stuff, yeah, I can definitely see how he was a little different? Maybe more sensitive about some stuff, but. Man, he hid it well.”
Katsuki shrugs, “I kinda thought it was weird at first, how normal he could act even the day after it happened, but it makes more sense when you think about it. He complains about small shit, like tests and getting his ass kicked in training, but he never really talks about anything worse. Like, stuff that really gets to him. He’s always tried to be easygoing about everything.”
Eijirou purses his lips and nods, “Yeah, that’s true… wait, you knew the day it happened?”
Oops.
“Yeah,” Katsuki admits. “I mean, I didn’t know what happened until, like a few weeks later or something. After I asked you for advice that one time.” Realization spreads over Eijirou’s face, his lips forming an ‘oh.’ “But he came to my room that night. Didn’t really say much, just was obviously hurt and upset.”
“Geez,” Eijirou breathes. “I really wanna hug him.”
“So hug him,” Katsuki shrugs, flipping his textbook back open to signal that he’s just about ready for this conversation to end. “He still likes hugs. Just ask him first.”
Eijirou’s lips quirk up in a soft smile. He pushes himself to his feet and tucks his chair in.
“Okay, Kats. I can do that.”
Once he’s gone, Katsuki does his best to refocus his attention on studying, but finds it difficult. Because, now, he’s thinking about his conversation with Eijirou. About how, of all people, Denki came to him. Him, and nobody else.
It’s a question he’s pondered on occasion, but never asked out loud before. Why me? Why, that night, did Denki choose to come to Katsuki’s room? To put his head in Katsuki’s lap? To sleep in his bed, to cry in his arms, to confide in him despite knowing about all of his rough edges and unsympathetic nature?
That kind of trust, that kind of faith? Katsuki was completely undeserving of it then. Even now, after all this time, he isn’t sure he’s earned it. And yet, Denki gave it to him. Denki continues to give it to him, and he’s never explained why.
The thought plants itself in Katsuki’s mind, and for the rest of the day, it nags.
And it nags, and it nags, and it nags.
Denki’s returned home from his outing with his parents, and he’s resting on his bed, propped up by his pillows as he plays a game on his Switch. Katsuki’s on the floor, still trying to struggle his way through the same chapter of the textbook as before, and still having little success.
It’s becoming more and more apparent that he’s going to make no more progress until he forcibly extricates this question from his head. So, with a long-suffering sigh, he shuts his book and makes his way over to sit on the edge of Denki’s bed.
“I need to ask you something,” he says.
Denki hums, sparing Katsuki a brief glance over his screen before returning to it.
“‘Kay, one sec.”
The only noise in the room is the tapping of the joystick and clicking of buttons, and after a couple of moments, Denki shuts his Switch off and sets it down beside him. He shuffles over to sit next to Katsuki.
“What’s up?”
“It’s just. Some shit I’ve been wondering… about what happened with that fuckhead,” Katsuki says.
Denki freezes, but only for a brief second, and then he nods. “Okay.”
“…Why did you come to me?” Katsuki asks. “That night. You could have gone to Han’s room, or Mina’s or Ei’s, but you came to mine. And then you… for whatever reason trusted me enough to tell me what happened. And I don’t understand why.”
“Ah.”
Denki avoids Katsuki’s gaze, then, focusing on one of the posters on his wall. He’s silent for long enough that Katsuki almost begins to fidget, growing more and more anxious by the second. Maybe Denki regrets telling him? Maybe he’d been so out of it that night that he’d gone to Katsuki’s room thinking it was someone else’s, and was just too messed up to correct his mistake once he realized? Maybe—
“At first, it was because I didn’t expect you to ask me what was going on,” Denki tells him. “I didn’t think you’d… it sounds awful, now, but I didn’t think you’d care enough about me being upset to bother me about it. And, at least that night, that was what I needed.”
It does sound awful. It stings a bit, the way it always does when someone misunderstands you; your personality, your words, or your intentions. But even if Denki’s assumption was wrong, Katsuki can’t deny that it makes sense. Of all their friends, he’s always been the least interested in prying. Always the first to chalk emotional turmoil up to a personal failing.
“But then you pretty much immediately figured it out,” Denki snickers humourlessly, “so that was dumb.”
“Just a little,” Katsuki grumbles.
A soft laugh. Denki says, “After that, it was a little bit just because that’s how everything happened, like, naturally. You knew something was wrong, you cared enough to look after me and to try to figure out what happened, and even though a part of me just wanted to pretend it never happened at all, I also really needed help. I know it’s- I know it sounds kind of bad. And that it makes me sound like I was assuming the worst of you. But, honestly, I guess what it boils down to is that I went to you because I thought you could give me what I needed. And that night, you did. But then you kept on doing it, and it helped. And it still does.”
Admittedly, it’s not the answer Katsuki expected. And maybe not quite the one his ego was hoping for. But it’s an answer that makes sense, and one that’s so quintessentially Denki, he can’t bring himself to be mad about it.
Still, he says, “I feel like I remember that night a little different than you do. I was kind of an asshole to you. And I’m pretty sure I did ask you what happened.”
Denki shrugs. “I mean, yeah, but you didn’t push me when I didn’t actually tell you. And ‘kind of an asshole’ is what I expected, dude. It’s kinda what I wanted, actually. Because it felt, I don’t know, normal, I guess. If I’d gone to Hanta or someone else, they probably would’ve gone all soft on me and been upset when I didn’t tell them what was wrong. You’re not like that. You were just you. The way you always are.” Then, he smiles, one that’s on the more teasing side, “And besides, you did get all nice and let me sleep in your bed once I lost it a little bit.”
Eugh. Katsuki rolls his eyes, but betrays himself with a smile.
Yeah, it’s not the answer he expected, and not quite the one his ego wanted (except for that last part, maybe). But it makes sense, and it sits warmly in his belly.
Maybe he can’t entirely convince himself of it, but Denki seems to think that Katsuki’s earned his trust. And that counts for something.
August
The phone call comes in the afternoon, while Denki’s out shopping with his friends, and he ducks into a public bathroom to accept it.
“You won’t have to testify,” the lawyer tells him. “It sounds like he’s accepting a plea deal.”
His emotions are mixed. Relief; that he doesn’t have to tell his story on the stand, that he won’t have to live through a brutal line of questioning that attempts to put him at fault for his own rape. And anger; that Hamakawa will likely be getting a lesser sentence solely for admitting that he did it.
“…Are they at least putting him in Tartarus?” he asks. He tries to keep his volume low.
Over the phone, his lawyer sighs. “No. It will most likely be a medium security facility, or a different high security one, but Tartarus is generally reserved for villains who’ve committed offenses such as terrorism, serial homicide, or mass murder. That being said, the plea is twenty-five to life, which means he’ll be eligible for parole when he’s sixty-three. Though, the chances of him being granted parole are quite low, and entirely dependent on his behaviour while he’s inside.”
Denki drops his head into his hand. All at once, he feels old. He’s freshly eighteen, his entire life and career on the horizon, and Denki feels old.
So, because he left our bodies alive, he gets off easier? He killed every part of me but my body, and for that he gets medium security?
Hamakawa will be sixty-three when (if) he’s released. Denki will be fourty-three. He won’t even be halfway there, yet, when Hamakawa gets out. And yet, here Denki sits, his body like lead, his joints all sore, as if all of it is behind him already.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it,” the lawyer speaks gently, now, “but this is a good thing, Kaminari. His sentence is still very harsh, and if he ever is granted parole, he’ll be on a strict quirk-suppression program. You, and every other person he’s hurt, will be safe from him. And if you ever have any questions, or feel like your safety might be at risk, you have my number. You can call me any time.”
“…When’s the, uh,” Denki sniffs, “the court date, or whatever?”
“Later next month. The eighteenth, I believe, but courts can be finnicky about dates, so if it gets pushed or moved up, I’ll call you,” she says.
“Mmkay,” Denki says. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Kaminari. Have a good rest of your day.”
“You too.”
Click.
He sniffles once more, wipes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and returns to his friends. When asked, Denki waves them off with an offhanded excuse about legal fees and paperwork, and they return to their day.
Still, he’s learned—mostly from Inui—that keeping these kinds of things to himself can quickly become a recipe for emotional disaster. Denki decides, once they’ve returned to his parents’ house for a movie night, that he should tell them.
He waits until they’ve made it through one god-awful horror movie and two big bowls of popcorn. When they’ve paused their search for another movie to use the bathroom and replenish their snacks, Denki speaks up.
“Um,” his voice is a bit hoarse from shouting at the TV. He clears his throat, and tries again. Next to him, Katsuki is already listening, but Denki has to pipe up a bit louder to get the attention of Hanta, Mina and Eijirou, “Um, guys?”
They turn to him. Mina says, “Yeah?”
“I kind of lied earlier,” he says, “about what the lawyer was calling about.”
The joy on their faces drains pretty quickly, and, yeah, that’s kind of why he avoided saying anything before. Regardless, Denki takes a deep breath, sits up straighter, and readies himself for their reactions.
“She said that he’s going to plead guilty. So… I won’t need to testify, and he’s definitely going to go to prison. As long as he doesn’t change his mind, anyway,” he says.
Mina gasps, slapping her hands to her mouth. Hanta’s eyes light up, his joy returning alongside warm relief, and Eijirou reacts similarly, though it takes him a moment longer to process. At Denki’s side, he feels Katsuki sucking in a sharp breath. He glances at him, and his friend isn’t smiling quite as wide as the others, but there’s an apparent relief there. A softness to his features and his eyes that makes Denki’s heart skip a beat. He can’t help but to drop his head onto Katsuki’s shoulder and sigh.
Difficult as it can be to do it, it really does feel nice to be open with his friends about what’s going on. Like a weight on his chest has been lightened—not gone, but shared.
“That’s awesome news, babe!” Mina squeals. Denki feels the couch on his other side bounce with the weight of her. She cuddles into his side, “I’m so glad.”
“Yeah, dude,” Hanta agrees, “that’s great.”
Eijirou echoes Hanta’s words, adding, “We should throw a party when they put him away, or something. A ‘fuck that guy’ party.”
Denki giggles, shaking his head, “Honestly, I don’t know if I’d be up for that, but I’ll think about it. Oh, I need to text Izuku, too. Hey, should we invite him to join us? That might be nice.”
Katsuki groans, tipping his head back, “Noooo.”
And, as is typical, the rest of them laugh at him.
Less than an hour later, Izuku is planted on Denki’s other side, happily munching on popcorn and sharing an endless stream of fun facts about the movie they’re watching (much to Katsuki’s chagrin).
September
Things have been a lot better, lately. With an almost certain prison sentence on the horizon for Hamakawa, and the promise that Denki won’t have to testify, he’s been calmer, settling back into the equilibrium he’d started to create for himself prior to the arrest. Katsuki is grateful for that.
Finally, it seems like things have started to settle down.
So, Katsuki’s not expecting any big changes to arise. And then he’s packing up to leave class one day, and Aizawa stops him.
“Bakugou, if you could stay back for a moment, please,” he says.
Katsuki pauses. He looks up at his teacher, puzzled, but nods an affirmative. He finishes putting away his books, then makes his way to the front of the room to stand by Aizawa's desk where he currently sits. As Denki passes, Katsuki gives him a single nod, a silent, I’ll see you soon.
Once the room is clear, Aizawa starts, “I’ve noticed, over the past year, some changes in you. You’ve been more subdued. Relaxed. And to some extent, I think that’s a good thing. That you’re developing a greater amount of control over your temper will serve you well in your future.” Katsuki’s brow furrows, growing more confused, though he doesn’t interrupt. “But, given what I know now, about Kaminari, and about your role in his life since the attack, I wonder if there may also be cause for concern, here.”
Ah. Stupid.
Katsuki shakes his head, making a face that’s equal parts skeptical and annoyed. “I’m fine.”
Aizawa raises an eyebrow. He says, “Very few people could experience what you’ve experienced, offer the amount of care and support that you’ve offered—don’t make that face at me, Kaminari told me how much you’ve done for him—and simply be fine.”
Well. Katsuki doesn’t really know what to say, so he just shrugs at Aizawa, certain that his expression is doing a good enough job of conveying his irritation and disinterest without needing to voice it.
“Frankly, Bakugou, I’m only speaking to you as a courtesy,” Aizawa says, “it’s my responsibility as your teacher to look out for you when your parents can’t, and to inform them if I have concerns. I’ve already sent a note along to them that I believe you would benefit from speaking with a therapist. Obviously, that’s my opinion, and you and your parents may disagree. But it’s a discussion that needs to happen.”
At that, Katsuki gapes. He’s tempted to shout, as he typically would (the fuck do you know, huh? You don’t know shit! You aren’t in my brain, you don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling, moron!), but these days, there is so much fatigue weighing down on his shoulders. The effort it takes to raise his voice, to spew colourful insults and threats, is often too much for him. So, instead of hollering, he crosses his arms defiantly and scoffs.
“I do disagree,” he mutters, “and so will they. I’m fu- I’m fine.”
Aizawa looks unsurprised by that reaction. He sighs, in that drawn-out, exhausted, dramatic way he always does, and rubs his stubble.
“Bakugou,” he says, “you are a good friend, and a promising student with a very bright future ahead of you. If you want to succeed, as I know you can, you can’t disregard your own well-being. I won’t tolerate that form of self-injury in my classroom.”
“Self-injury? What are you even talking about?” Katsuki snaps.
“Yes, I realize you may not see it that way. But, it seems to me, and, yes, I know I’m only an outsider looking in. But, it seems to me that you’re neglecting your own emotional wellness ever since what happened to Kaminari. Given what he’s told me, it sounds very much like you’ve acted as a caregiver for him at times. You already weren’t my most emotionally aware student when you first arrived at U.A., but you made significant progress in your first year. It would be a shame to regress because of this, and I can say with complete certainty that Kaminari wouldn’t want that for you, either,” Aizawa says all of this with that ever-annoying poker face of his.
Katsuki can feel his eye twitching. He opens his mouth to protest, but finds that he doesn’t know how to protest. He has no counter-argument.
“Being emotionally well is important for everyone, but especially for someone who wants to make a career out of saving people who are in danger,” Aizawa continues. “You will have losses throughout your career, Bakugou. You will have to learn to cope with the people you can’t save. But you will also have to cope with those who you do, and who are left with the aftermath of what happened to them. You have an opportunity, now, to begin learning how to take care of yourself when that aftermath hits close to home. When it affects you personally.”
…Fuck.
It makes sense.
It makes sense, and Katsuki is exhausted, and he is terrified and desolate, and he is painfully attached to Denki, and he wants to scream at Aizawa and also cry and ask him for a hug, which is a weird feeling that Katsuki shoves down into the recesses of his mind immediately. Aizawa is an asshole, but an experienced one who gives a shit, and Katsuki…
Katsuki is realizing that he might really, really need therapy.
“Anyway,” Aizawa huffs, “I felt it important that I inform you of the conversation you can expect to have with your parents when you go home next. I know it isn’t an easy thing for you to consider, but I hope you’ll take what I’ve said to heart. If you do, I promise you will be much better off for it, both as a person and as a pro-hero.”
Swallowing hard, Katsuki lets his eyes fall to the floor. He grits his teeth, tightens his jaw, then loosens.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll think about it.”
With that, Aizawa nods and dismisses him, and Katsuki races out to meet his friends. He said he would think about it, but the truth is, Aizawa’s already convinced him.
Therapy it is.
October
Hamakawa Tomohiko pleads guilty on the 18th of September. On the 2nd of October, he is sentenced to twenty-five years to life. Denki doesn’t attend either court date. He learns of Hamakawa’s fate over the phone: a maximum security prison more than two hours away from Musutafu. Far, far from Denki.
The first person he tells, of course, is Katsuki. They go for a walk the evening of the sentencing, sit on the same bench where Denki listened to the chorus of the cicadas last summer. They’re quiet now.
He tells Katsuki, and observes it as he is overcome by the news; as his shoulders sink with relief and all of his features soften, just like they did on the couch two months ago. Mirrored back at Denki is all of his fatigue, his despair, his gratitude, his pain. Katsuki reaches for his hand and holds on tight.
“It’s over,” he says.
Declares it into the chill of the autumn air.
“It’s over, Denki.”
Denki smiles, but there’s that ghost of something haunted. A grief that never goes.
“It is,” he says, “and it’s also not.”
Katsuki looks sad, sounds sad when he asks, “…Will it ever be?”
“No,” Denki shakes his head, and there’s nothing angry left in him. Not for today. For today, there’s only his smile. “But I’ll get used to it.”