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(Remember when we’d)
Stay up late and we’d talk all night
In a dark room lit by the TV light
Through all the hard times in my life
Those nights kept me alive
…
Denki hugged his knees close, resting his chin on top of them as the bright lights of the TV flashed across his face. He sort of recognized the old cartoon that was playing—time-traveling mechs fighting yokai to prevent the apocalypse—but had never really paid attention to it before. Now, as the clock edged past midnight into the early hours of the morning, it was just a backdrop for his thoughts.
It had been months since he’d spoken to his parents, but one conversation with them had sent him spiraling down all over again. He’d hoped things might be different now—after everything with Shigaraki, the world almost ending, how hard he and his classmates had fought to save everyone—maybe his parents would look at him with some respect now.
People changed all the time, after all. He knew Monoma was talking to his dad again, when the man had left him to be passed around between relatives and foster homes for years until Mr. Kan took him in. Even Endeavor was trying—though Shouto still barely gave the man the time of day.
So, when Denki’s parents tried to contact him, he’d had a brief, fragile hope that they’d had a change of heart.
But no.
The conversation had had a promising start. They’d even called him Denki in the beginning. Said they were proud of him. Mentioned seeing him with his classmates—they’d apparently evacuated to the UA shelter, though they didn’t try to reach out to him until everything was over.
Then it started. Criticizing his appearance ( “That costume doesn’t suit you, Sweetheart. And your hair is just a disaster, we should get you an appointment at my salon.” ), his hero name ( “I still don’t understand why you went with something like ‘Chargebolt’. Wouldn’t you rather have something more sophisticated?” ), and anything else they could think of.
His mother had slipped first. Calling him that name . Wishing her little girl would talk to them more often, even if she’d chosen her teacher over them.
(He hadn’t chosen. They’d chosen for him. When Aizawa confronted them, they’d signed over their parental rights without a second thought.)
Then his father. Telling him to come home. How much they missed their daughter. That they could put all of this behind them, be a family again.
Denki had hung up when they started talking about finding him a therapist to help with his delusions.
Late-night commercials were playing on the TV now. Denki stared at them blankly, watching a short clip of an interview with a hero from a few days ago.
The interview was with Tam Lin, a Scottish hero Denki idolized. When Denki was young, Tam Lin was one of the few transgender heroes who had gone public with their gender identity. There were more now, of course, but Tam Lin held a special place in Denki’s heart. He’d been the first to put words to what Denki was feeling.
In the interview, Tam Lin was announcing that he was taking a leave of absence. He was finally expecting his first child with his husband, and was suspending his hero work for the baby’s safety.
Denki couldn’t help but wonder if that was one of the reasons his parents had called. His father had mentioned that Scottish hero finally admitting she’s a woman , even though Tam Lin had been firm that his pregnancy didn’t change his gender identity.
Thinking about it broke his heart again, and he buried his face in his knees as the commercials ended and the cartoon started back up. They didn’t have to call. Why did they keep doing this to him? Wasn’t it enough that they’d thrown him away like he was nothing but garbage? Did they have to keep coming back and tearing down whatever pride or peace he’d managed to build for himself?
“Is this...what is this?”
Denki jerked his head up, startled at the sudden voice. “Shouto?” He blinked blearily up at his adoptive brother, scrubbing a hand over his eyes to hide any evidence of tears. “Is it, uh, too loud?”
Shouto shook his head. He was squinting at the screen, his eyebrows scrunched down as far as they could go. “I’m not familiar with this show.”
“Me neither,” Denki admitted. “It’s just noise, y’know?” The quiet was just too loud sometimes. “We can switch it to a movie or something. If you want.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Shouto walked around the end of the couch, settling on the cushions to Denki’s right. “It’s just noise.”
Denki nodded, resting his chin on his knees. He felt weak and raw on the inside, like his parents had torn something out of him and left nothing but broken pieces behind. Why did he let them get to them after all this time? He never should have taken their call. He’d just...he’d just wanted ….
“Denki?”
He twisted his head to see Shouto holding an arm out to him. “You’re not a hug guy,” he whispered, scrubbing at his eyes again. Dammit...why was he still crying over this? Why couldn’t he just be done with it?
“But you are.”
A hand gently caught his arm, and Denki let himself be pulled over and tucked against his brother’s side. Shouto was warmer on his left side, and Denki unconsciously burrowed into that heat, resting his head against Shouto’s shoulder. “Sorry,” Denki whispered.
Shouto shook his head. He was still a little stiff—physical affection didn’t come naturally to him—but the arm around Denki’s shoulders was solid and warm.
“My dad tried to call,” Shouto finally murmured. “Like he thinks everything is all better now, just because we had to work together.”
“I’m sorry,” Denki whispered. “That must’ve really sucked.”
They were quiet for a few more minutes, watching one of the mech pilots argue with a shrine maiden about how they needed to gather the shards of some crystal to keep angels from destroying the world or something.
“My parents called,” he eventually said. “They were...the same as always.”
Shouto shifted a little. “That must’ve really sucked,” he finally said, awkwardly repeating Denki’s own words back to him.
Denki managed a short laugh, though he felt tears welling up in his eyes again.
“What’s going on here?” Hitoshi leaned over the back of the couch, fingers laced together, squinting at the other two boys in the flickering light from the TV. In this lighting, the bags under his eyes were even more prominent, and Denki wondered how long it had been since Hitoshi had slept through the night.
He started to sit up, but Shouto’s arm tightened around his shoulders. “Denki’s parents are terrible,” he announced.
Hitoshi made a face. “Bad Dad Club? Hey, count me in.” He swung a leg up and over the back of the couch, sliding down to sit on Denki’s other side. He scooted in close, resting his arm across the back of the couch, just above Shouto’s. “You okay?” he asked.
Denki nodded. He wiped his eyes again, biting back a hint of frustration. Why wouldn’t they just stop ? Why was he like this every time?
“You know,” Hitoshi began, then hesitated. He cleared his throat, then tipped his head back so Denki could only see his profile in the dim light. “When Ms. Tsuriko took over my case, she actually found my old man. He was just some bum who wanted nothing to do with me. Made it pretty clear I meant nothing to him.”
“I’m—” Denki swallowed around a spasm in his throat. He was so pathetic.
“He’s not my dad anyway,” Hitoshi said, tilting his head to grin down at Denki. “Right, Denki?”
Denki felt a little of the tension inside him loosen. “Right.”
The three of them shared a dad now—technically two, though he wasn’t quite sure about Mr. Yamada. It had been one thing when he’d just been Aizawa’s roommate, there to help out when needed, but they were married now (he wasn’t sure how a platonic marriage was supposed to work, but it didn’t matter as long as they were happy).
“What are we watching?” Hitoshi finally asked, his voice breaking Denki out of his thoughts. On the screen, the shrine maiden and one of the mech pilots were staring at each other—they were completely identical, and Denki thought the pilot was supposed to be the reincarnation of the shrine maiden, but he wasn’t completely sure.
“I honestly have no idea,” he whispered back. On his other side, Shouto gave a huff of amusement, and Denki grinned to himself and settled in between his brothers.
The TV lights washed over him, bright colors dancing through the darkness of the night. Hitoshi made a few more whispered comments about the cartoon, which Shouto answered with outlandish theories about the plot. Denki felt his eyes sliding shut, his mind and heart eased by his brothers’ presence.
His head dropped back onto Shouto’s shoulder as he finally drifted off to sleep.
…
Hitoshi had managed to stay awake through a couple of episodes of Denki’s late-night cartoon, but he’d eventually joined his brothers in slumber. He’d woken up briefly, a few hours later, to find Eri climbing into his lap, but since she just tucked her head under his chin and fell asleep against his chest he didn’t bother her.
He woke up again, to the barest light of sunrise peeking through the windows, to find someone standing in front of the couch staring down at them.
“Everything okay?” Aizawa asked quietly. He was studying Denki, who’d shifted at some point so his head was on Hitoshi’s shoulder now.
Hitoshi shrugged his free shoulder. “Bad Dad Club,” he whispered.
Aizawa grunted. He gaze traveled over the four of them, seeming satisfied that they were all safe and relatively sound. “It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”
He shifted, grinning up at the man and nodding vaguely to the empty space on the couch beside him. “There’s always room for new members.”
Their adoptive father didn’t talk about his past, but Hitoshi figured the man had his own problems. There’d been no family pictures in this apartment until he took the four of them in (well, unless you counted pictures with Yamada in them, since he was family now). He never discussed his own parents, and he could be a little too protective when one of theirs was brought up.
Aizawa stared at him for a long moment, then let out a sigh. He shuffled over to sit at the other end of the couch, next to Hitoshi. Eri shifted in Hitoshi’s grasp, as though sensing Aizawa’s presence, and woke up enough to escape her brother’s clutches to curl up in their father’s arms.
“Back to sleep,” Aizawa whispered, ruffling Hitoshi’s hair fondly.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad.”
Denki’s head was still on his shoulder, and Hitoshi let his head rest against the blond’s as he closed his eyes.
They’d all be woken later by Yamada, loudly demanding to know why he hadn’t been invited to their little slumber party. For now, tucked in between Denki and Aizawa, Hitoshi let himself sleep.