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Denki gingerly shook out the black jacket of his hero costume. It wasn’t dirty, but he still felt the need to dust it off one last time.
One last time.
He tried to ignore the trembling in his hands as he held the left side of the jacket so he could slowly insert his arm into the sleeve. The thin blond hairs on his arm brushed against the cold interior of the heavy fabric, sending goosebumps crawling against his skin. The texture of the soft leather made his stomach heavy. He swallowed back his bitter bile with a shaky gulp.
His hands were clammy, and the hair on his nape was sticking to his neck in a cold sweat. A trickle of sweat ran down his right side from his back and armpit. The sensation made him startle, the feeling of cold liquid trailing down the edges of his hot and feverish body being jarring. Denki breathed deeply through his nose, the sound harsh and ragged in his ears. He flipped on the right side of his jacket and punched his arm through the sleeve, desperate to finish changing.
He gripped the collar and pulled it closer into his neck, burying his chin as far into the cocoon of the leather as he could. He breathed again, this time taking in the scent of his clothes. The smell was neutral, tipping between the lingering draft of artificial citrus from the laundry detergent he used and the stale factory smell of where the jacket had been produced, alongside countless others hero costumes.
Denki briefly wondered if those factories had slowed their production in the past weeks. Or if they had sped up, working overtime to produce the final costumes the last of Japan’s heroes would wear properly before they’d either emerge from this war victorious, or be laid to rest six feet under the ground alongside the other hundreds of their fallen comrades.
Would there be anybody left to mend his costume when it was all over? Would… he even be there to receive it?
Denki’s stomach lurched forward in his gut, jolting him violently. The dam he had been carefully constructing in his mind and heart since Gunga finally broke gracelessly in two. He fell to his knees, the rug doing little to soften the blow. He buried his face into the edge of his mattress, pushing against the thick comforter until his eyes felt as though they were going to be jammed into the depths of his sockets. Denki wept, choking on his salty tears and snot as it smeared against his blankets.
In a few hours, class 1-A would be going to Troy, the small dorm outside of the fortified walls of UA. It was practical and functional, devoid of life and warmth, just like the current state of the world. It wasn’t supposed to be homey; it was a barrack for soldiers to eat and sleep in before they were sent off to the battlefield. Student soldiers, the last line of defense for the country as almost all the adults tucked tail and ran.
Student soldiers, who weren’t even welcome in their own school, and had to beg the civilians they - no, the adults - failed to protect to give them another chance.
Denki clamped a hand over his mouth, suddenly feeling nauseous. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that his ears started to ring as he clawed at the sheets and the edge of his jaw.
He’s always wanted to be a hero, and his quirk was the flashy, badass kind that was the type to make him stand out, for better or for worse. He knew the life of a hero was not glamorous, and it was a thorny path with hidden ravines that threatened to swallow him whole at every corner. He would make sacrifices to save and protect, that he didn’t doubt, but there was a line, a limit, that he faltered at again and again. He would fight, and he would keep going for those he cared for.
But would he go as far as to die for them?
The answer swirled in the back of his throat alongside his breakfast. Denki shot up and ran to his bathroom, kneeling over in time just to dry heave into the toilet bowl. Nothing came out.
It was selfish, but he wanted to live.
The retching sounds he made echoed in the small bathroom, bouncing off the toilet bowl. He tightened his gut, pleading with it to send up something so he could have an excuse to gag and scream into the ceramic. His grip on the seat kept slipping around his sweaty fingers. His frizzy hair brushed against the lid uncomfortably. Each time he moved, it sent shivers down to the roots and around his scalp. The sensations overwhelmed him, a taunting punishment for a boy who called himself a hero, yet wasn’t ready to sacrifice his own life for an uncertain future.
Denki isn’t like Eijiro or Bakugo, the guys who charge straight into battle without hesitation. Denki also isn’t like Hanta and Kyoka, brave enough to integrate themselves into plans on the spot and offer support while keeping a level head. And Denki sure as hell isn’t anything like Momo or Midoriya, the strategists who can analyse their situation in a handful of seconds and come up with a plethora of solutions a moment later.
He was just a boy trying his best to survive and live. He wants to help fight All For One and Shigaraki, but he also wants to be there when the war is over so he can be with his friends again. He wants to go on spontaneous ice cream runs to the convenience store with Kyoka, stay up late playing video games with Hanta, go over to Yaomomo’s house for tutoring, and tease Bakugo with Eijiro and Mina and light up when he finally smirks at their terrible jokes.
Even as the world around him is crumbling, Denki still asks for more.
He’s not naive, though, and that’s the part that twists the dagger further into his already bleeding heart. He will fight for tomorrow, but he isn’t guaranteed the reward of living to see it. He won’t get back his daily life from before the war, and the universe will not spare him from the villains’ raging violence. He already has a scar on his forehead from Gunga to prove it, and many more littered across his body.
Denki stayed draped over his toilet for a few more minutes as his mind raced. He was a flurry of emotions and desires that needed to be quelled before he finally left UA, uncertain if he’d return at all. He closed his eyes in an attempt to ground himself and steady his breathing. He focused on the cool touch of the toilet on his fingers. His hands no longer slipped from his own sweat. He inhaled the scent of bleach, thankful he cleaned his bathroom yesterday or else he’d be smelling something quite foul.
The thought suddenly made him smile, but he quickly stopped himself as his eyes shot open in shame. He could still taste the guilt and disgust he directed toward himself on the back of his tongue.
He grit his teeth harshly. He clacked them together as he grinded his molars back and forth. He felt sweaty again, and his clothes seemed to tighten on him tenfold as he became hyper aware of each crease and fold in the fabric. Denki growled, sick of himself.
He pushed himself up weakly off the floor, clamped on to the corner of the sink like it was a lifeline, and hauled himself up.
He didn’t dare to look into the mirror as he splashed cold water onto his face, wetting his hairline and shirt collar. After patting himself dry with his hand towel, he opened the vanity drawer to get his toothbrush and toothpaste so he could brush his teeth. He made a mental note to himself to pack them into his bag once he was done.
Denki scrubbed furiously, going over each little part of his mouth twice like it was a routine. He made sure to stick out his tongue and clean it as well, pushing the brush a little further into his mouth than was probably considered safe. He gagged into the sink, feeling a strange sense of relief as nothing came up, meaning his anxiety was only causing him to feel nauseous, but he wasn’t actually going to vomit. That was good, because if he were to throw up now then he wouldn’t be able to hold down any more food until Japan’s - the world’s - greatest threat had been eliminated. Denki finished by rinsing his mouth and flossing, and rubbed his red rimmed eyes with the towel from earlier.
He finally looked up at the mirror and observed himself properly for the first time in weeks. He had slight bags under his eyes, and they drooped in a way that was foreign to see on his face. The corners of his lips were flipped, pointing downwards when they usually liked to stretch up. His cheeks were flushed, either from the anxiety attack, crying, gagging, or all three, but underneath he could see he was a bit pale and his cheeks were ever so slightly sunken.
Denki sighed, turning to shut off the light so he didn’t have to take in anymore of how terrible he looked. It was nothing compared to Midoriya’s run down state when the class had brought him back, but it still wasn’t good. A macabre thought came to him as he exited the bathroom to finish preparing to leave.
He thought he should’ve eaten more real food instead of living off of instant ramen and energy drinks the past month, because when he dies, he won’t be anything pretty to stare at in his casket at his funeral. That is, if his body doesn’t get horrifically mangled and dismembered in battle. If Shigaraki doesn’t turn him into dust, leaving nothing but ashes behind to disperse in the wind.
His throat tightened again, and he swallowed back the lump before it could fully form. He shook his head as if to physically ward off his less than pleasant thoughts. He resumed packing, tidying up the last of his belongings mechanically.
Denki had tossed his toothbrush into his backpack when a quiet, familiar knock on his door pulled him away from his underwear drawer. He quickly shut it, knowing that the person on the other side would tease him about his white boxer shorts with red hearts when she literally owned the exact same pair. She didn’t know that he knew though, because he only found out by accident when he barged into her uncharacteristically unlocked room one morning to see her sprawled out on her bed, snoring deeply, wearing the ridiculous - but very comfortable - boxer shorts and a dangerously tight tank top. He had tiptoed out and vowed to never enter somebody’s room without knocking ever again, but not before he gleefully tipped off the class vice president about checking in on her sleeping friend. The way the girls’ turned scarlet whenever they glanced at each other the rest of the day filled up Denki with enough mirth to last a lifetime. The memory settled comfortably in his mind, wrapping him warmly as he called out toward the door.
“You can come in, Kyoka,” he said. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed.
He zipped up his backpack as Kyoka entered and shut the door behind her. He set the bag on the floor and stood up to face her once he was certain his face had an easy going smile plastered on.
“Done packing?” He asked casually.
Kyoka nodded, reaching up to adjust the headphones of her hero costume that rested on her neck. She was also dressed up, minus her speaker boots. She walked toward the bed to sit down.
“Yeah, and you?”
She put her hand on the edge of the bed but quickly pulled away. Denki stifled a grimace as she wiped the residue of his tears on her pants like it was never there. He shifted awkwardly, the silence in the room becoming deafening.
Eventually she looked up to glare at him. “So are you done or….”
Denki was almost taken aback until he realized she was waiting for his answer, giving him an out. A distraction from his breakdown. He exhaled quietly, moving to sit down next to her on his bed. “Yep! It was easier than I thought.”
He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. There was a double meaning that he didn’t intend to create. Kyoka noticeably tensed up next to him, but she moved on as always whenever he said something dumb.
“Must’ve been hard deciding which shirts you own are the least ugliest to take,” she joked. Denki matched her small smile and grinned, absorbing the normalcy her quips provided even as they were preparing to go to war. Preparing to die.
He bumped their shoulders together. “Look who’s talking. I bet you couldn’t find one shirt that wasn’t torn or said some weird emo shit,” he pushed back.
Kyoka bumped their shoulders again, this time with a bit more force. Denki was caught off guard and almost lost his balance as his weight was suddenly shifted against his will. Kyoka laughed, an airy sound that Denki allowed himself to revel in. He’s anxious when he is alone, so being with his friends is as essential to him as breathing. It made him ponder, though, if the afterlife would be lonely. Like an infinite void he’d wander aimlessly until the very concept of time ceased to exist. Or perhaps he’d be immediately reincarnated right back into this hellish world. Both scenarios made him bristle.
Kyoka quieted down after a moment, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he sat properly again. Denki enjoyed her silence - surprising, for the kind of person he is - because it allowed him to ramble and be himself around somebody who actually listened and kept things real with him.
Kyoka was probably the first girl he’d met that he didn’t immediately see as a potential crush to ogle at whenever he was bored. She keeps him humble and grounded, unafraid to call him out when he is wrong, like his pervy schemes he pulled in the beginning of the year. But she also encourages him to be the best version of himself, because she believes he’s capable of it, even if he doesn’t think so himself. It was that dynamic that made him admire and respect her deeply.
Because of this, there had been a short period where he thought he was interested in her romantically, but ultimately he chalked it up to his awkwardness toward navigating an actual female friendship that didn’t have the end goal of romance to it. He stumbled a lot, but Kyoka would only look at him and sigh like a tired mother, smiling fondly as she waited for him to regain his footing with her encouragement and occasional lectures. He quickly learned that being her best friend was a thrill and joy that he’s grateful to have been granted.
Either way, if he really did want to date her, that would never happen seeing as he’s very much not female, and even if he was, he wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to the incredible girl who owned Kyoka’s heart.
Denki’s eyes flicked over to his friend. Kyoka’s expression seemed pensive as she stared at the opposite side of the room, where his desk was. He followed her gaze, curious if there was something out of place or if she was just lost in her thoughts, but stopped abruptly when a bright metallic sheen in the corner of the room caught his eye.
He was suddenly melancholic as he stared at the instrument. Brief flashes of memories of the cultural festival thumbed through his mind, teasing the ghost of a smile on his lips. He had always envied musicians, guitarists especially. They were so cool on stage, contorting their hands into impossible positions and running across the metal strings as if they were water. They were also quite popular with girls, something he was not, much to his own dismay.
When Kyoka had started teaching him and Tokoyami the guitar for their festival performance, Denki was enthralled, eager to finally get some cute girls to flock up to him like he always dreamed. But as he kept practicing, he fell deeper into the music. He would watch Kyoka as she flourished into herself with her passion, and realized just how much music can mean to someone. It was then he decided he preferred the guitar for himself and his friends, and the genuine joy it brought them all. He would play for them and their dreams and goals as if they were his own.
Denki stood up and crossed the room in four steps, four half notes in one measure. He lightly kicked aside an empty box he cleared from his closet last night and reached out for his yellow electric guitar. It was heavier than he remembered. He put his left hand under the body of the instrument and carefully walked back to his now cleared bed; Kyoka was standing off to the side, her gaze trained on the guitar. Denki laid it down carefully, as if it were the world’s most beautifully prized porcelain. To him, it might as well have been. It was a manifestation of his desire to support his friends. It was easy to pick up, but weighed heavily in his grip. He didn’t mind, though. The weight was comforting, in a way.
Denki is a trendy guy, the kind to seamlessly blend between friend groups and bridge opposites together. He kept up with the latest celebrity gossip, sunk countless hours into almost every videogame under the sun, and was always there to listen to anyone who needed it. He lived for his friends, and thrived off of flustering Kyoka with compliments because she didn’t know how to take them, harmonizing with Hanta’s grating but charming belly laugh as they scrolled through their phones looking at funny videos, and being the go-lucky fun person his peers could rely on to make them smile. It was his purpose, and he didn’t know what he’d do without it.
Once, during Kyoka’s excited nerd rambles about all things music, she explained that sometimes when a famous musician dies and their guitar is up for sale, people will spend hundreds of thousands to buy the instrument as it is, even if it’s broken beyond repair. She said an instrument is an extension of an artist, and it’s a part of them that is priceless. Denki thought it was interesting, but it’s not a route he could ever imagine himself taking, whether as a famous musician or diehard fan. At the end of the day, he believed it was best to clean the instrument and continue to use it.
He has been told he is kind, so he wanted to be remembered that way. He wanted to be of some use, even after he was gone.
He strummed over the neck of the guitar, letting his nail catch under each string. The guitar barely rang out, only using the vibrations to shake off the thin layer of dust that it had gathered over the past few months.
“Hey, will you help me clean my guitar?” Denki quietly requested, peering over his shoulder.
Kyoka’s eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. He refrained from commenting on it, and only assumed she was feeling just as nostalgic as he was, if not more.
“Yeah. Sure,” she sniffed, her voice barely audible. Denki twisted his mouth in what he hoped was a smile and stared back down at his guitar.
Kyoka dug around his room to search for the supplies she had given him and Tokoyami when they began practicing for the festival all those months back. Soon, she was by his side, and they began working together to wipe off the dust and polish the guitar.
Denki’s hand kept grazing the strings as he snaked a cloth underneath them to dust off the pickups. The metal was spotted brown along the entire low e string, also across the group in the middle of the fretboard, and past the twelfth fret of the last three strings. They were the areas that were played the most, where Denki’s fingers constantly went back to as he practiced common chord progressions and attempted solo’s that were far too advanced for him.
He ran a finger along one of the strings, disappointed when he pulled back and saw there was no rust or dirt. He even sniffed his finger for good measure, a trick Kyoka had taught him for estimating when the strings needed to be changed. There was a faint smell of nickel, but it was insufficient. Despite their appearance and odor, the strings didn’t need to be changed with the urgency he wished they would demand.
He pulled out the cloth and set it aside, deciding to look for some strings anyway. Kyoka kept working diligently as he rummaged throughout his room. He opened all his drawers and sifted through stacks of papers and packages, but found himself quickly growing frustrated at the lack of strings.
“I don’t think I have any packs, damn it,” he muttered after five minutes of turning his room upside down.
Kyoka, with her enhanced hearing, heard him. “Why do you want to change them? They sound fine.”
Denki set down the bubble wrap he for some reason had inside his desk and returned to the bed. Kyoka raised an eyebrow at him as she sprayed body polish onto the microfiber towel in her hand. She overshot and only sprayed half of the towel. Denki scratched his head and averted his eyes from her.
“W-well, I’ve gotta make sure they aren’t nasty the next time someone plays, y’know?” He murmured.
He felt her gaze bore into the side of his skull. She spoke cautiously, her voice betraying no emotion.
“You’re the only person who plays this guitar,” she stated as a matter of factly.
Ah, he slipped up. Denki tried to grin, but Kyoka saw through his facade. She always did.
He felt her continue to stare at him for a full minute before tearing her eyes away to finish polishing the body. He tilted his head so he could see her, but her hair covered her face. He was without a clue as to the expression she was currently wearing.
After finishing with the rag, Kyoka let it drop to the floor. She picked up the guitar and inspected it against the ceiling light, speaking softly as she did. “I was cleaning my guitars too, earlier. All of my instruments, actually,” she started.
Denki sat back down on his bed, finally able to see her face. Her sparkling black eyes shined with violet embers like those that fall through the sky after a tragedy. It wasn’t the endless galaxy of stars Denki knew they could be. It was unsettling.
With her head tilted up, he could see the eyebags her costume makeup failed to reach to cover up. A part of him felt a twisted sense of solidarity with her, while the other felt an intense chill of concern strike him straight in his core. Kyoka, satisfied with the guitar, brought it down.
“I wanted to change the strings on my bass, but I couldn’t. The strings were pretty gross, y’know, like, the kind of gross when the coil starts to fray and your fingers stain everything black. Or when your fingers reek of metal from just touching them, and the dead cells of your skin have caked itself in between the grooves of the fretboard.”
Denki always thought Kyoka had a soothing voice, a husky tone that allured anyone who listened. But right now, it sounded eerily void of life. Her strangely vivid description didn’t help either. He began to fiddle with the belt of his costume. When that wasn’t enough, he moved to the edge of his jacket.
Kyoka sat down next to him and plucked a tune with her fingers. He didn’t recognize it, but from the way she stumbled and paused to change positions on the fretboard, he knew it was a composition of her own. She then switched from picking to strumming, going through the C major scale using open chords.
“I think I couldn’t do it… because I didn’t want to alter what would be left of me,” she said clearly, clearer than she had any right to be.
Kyoka continued to strum out chords, barring them now. Denki tried to gasp, but his body couldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing. All he could do was squeak a strangled, animalistic sound.
Kyoka kept going despite him.
“I like the tone dirty strings give, the slack in them that comes from months of playing. It’s kinda a pain in the ass to break in new strings.” She huffed humorlessly.
She stopped playing and raked over the neck with her eyes, memorizing every last detail. It wasn’t until she looked up that the tears that had been pooling at the bottom of her thick lashes finally leaked. They slowly fell down her cheeks, one by one. Denki’s vision suddenly blurred. His face felt damp with his own hot tears.
“One time when I was changing the strings, Momo was in my room with me, watching as she read a book on my bed. I guess I made a weird face, ‘cause she looked at me and smiled, and told me the grime is proof of my dedication, my passion.” She breathed in so sharply it sounded more like she was hissing in pain.
“A-and that came back to me today, and I realized I wanna leave my dirty strings on, so when my parents look at it, o-or Momo, they’ll see how hard I worked for-for everything,” she rasped. Denki felt like he was going to vomit. And it wasn’t from his anxiety. He wanted her to stop, but at the same time he wanted to hold her hand as they fell into their grief, together.
“Sometimes Mina and the other girls tease me and tell me I should teach Momo how to play, l-like get up and wrap around her in those cheesy movies they make us watch during girls’ nights,” she laughed dryly. “B-but if… if I’m dead, then I want her to feel a part of me on the guitar, guiding her as she learns, showing her the spots where I played my favorite basslines and the frets I hated stretching my fingers to reach for. It’s the least I can do for her,” Kyoka whispered.
She curled around the yellow guitar in her lap, and cried. Denki’s lip wobbled. He rushed forward to tackle her into a crushing hug.
“You-You’re such an idiot!” He reprimanded through his sobs. Kyoka rested her forehead against his collarbone and mourned with him. For him.
“S-so are y-you!” She shouted back. Denki hiccuped, stumbling over his breathing. Kyoka wrangled out of his grip to jab the sharp ends of her earphone jacks at his face. He barely registered the pinpricks of the metal.
“You’re always putting everyone else before yourself! You’re so selfless that you want us to wipe away your loyalty to us - to me! - and move on?!” She fumed. Denki shook his head furiously.
She understood what. But she didn’t understand why. The next part will ruin them both, but Kyoka is empathetic, so she will understand why. The words tumbled out of his mouth.
“If I die, then I don’t want you or the rest of our friends to be miserable forever! Let me leave you guys one last memory of me, and watch over you when you make more!” He croaked loudly. His fears, his intentions, his walls, had all finally been laid bare in one last act of desperation. His voice was hoarse and scratched his throat. It left him coughing. The sobs continued to rack his body. His heart palpitated wildly as it bounced around in his ribcage.
Kyoka gaped at him like she had just been ordered to kill him. Though to her, it was the same thing. She cradled the guitar even closer to herself. “You can’t ask me to do that. You know how much this means to me,” she graveled, her voice hollow yet so full at the same time.
This. This guitar, this room, this school, this friend. Him, Denki. To Kyoka, music was her life. It’s a part of who she is, why she is who she is. She gave up one dream to follow another that meant just as much to her, believing she could only choose one. Denki had been the first to convince her otherwise, to show her she can do both. The sweat and dead skin on the strings and fretboard was a representation of that, a representation of how much he cares about her and wants her to be happy and do what she does best. He is asking the impossible of her. He is breaking her heart where his own has already shattered.
It is said eyes are like the window to the soul, a phrase Denki never quite understood back when he was a shallower guy than he is today. But now, he stared intently at Kyoka, watching as each purple ember waned between blazing anew or dying out. A pile slowly built up, dark ashes dulling his best friend’s vibrant onyx eyes.
“Please, Kyoka. You’re the only person who can do this,” he murmured gently. To say it hurts, is a cruel understatement.
And it’s true she is the only one who can fulfill his request. Eijiro would preserve his guitar - his memory - in a simple display and hang it with pride and grief. Mina would touch the strings until her mark eventually covered his own, and sob as she was forced to move on from him. Bakugo would let it humbly rest in its case and take it out when nobody was around and talk to it. Hanta would learn the instrument, but not with Denki’s guitar. He wouldn’t be able to touch it, not for many years. He’d view it as if it were an obstacle he is avoiding until he feels worthy enough. Momo would be far too torn, and she’d leave the decision up to Kyoka. At least she’d know what to do.
Denki is greedy, so he silently prayed his final wish, and hoped that when he was gone, Kyoka would still have Momo’s arms to mourn in. A gruesome death repeated a thousand times over must feel better than begging your friends to honor your life by living theirs to the fullest without you. That is the conclusion he has reached.
Kyoka kept searching his expression, trying to find anything she could to make him change his mind. The pile of ashes had reached its peak, and the final ember slowly fell, dancing a strained waltz. It had a feather light landing, and snuffed out.
“Okay.”
Kyoka robotically put the guitar back down on the bed and stood up. She walked to the door, pausing for a moment as she held up an earphone jack to the wall to listen for their classmates. She then opened the door once it was presumed safe to leave without getting intercepted. She returned almost ten minutes later, much longer than needed to go to her room. But Denki knew she just needed to breathe and sit with her thoughts before continuing. He never moved during those ten minutes. He was overwhelmingly numb and stuffy as he watched the door.
Kyoka held the foil pink package in her hand as if it could burn her at any second. She knew he liked thicker strings, not the razor sharp thin ones she was staring at in her hand. Whether she chose them as a last act of defiance or blessing, he didn’t know. Denki decided he should do most of the process himself, and let her clean up when he was done. He reached to pry the package out of her hands. Unexpectedly, she tightened her grip. He looked up to question her and was met with an intense gaze that made the chill from earlier return. The flecks in her eyes were relit, barely, but still burning. Denki knew she was going to ask the same of him as he did her. So he braced himself.
Her voice was low but even when she spoke. “There’s a notebook in my room, in my desk drawer. If I can’t get there, then I need you to hold onto it for me.” She paused and bit her lower lip, as if debating elaborating. After blinking a few times, she shook her head and sighed, resigning herself to spill it all. “It’s my lyric notebook but it’s a different one… a more secure one.”
Denki’s eyebrows shot up. That was strangely ominous.
Her face suddenly morphed into her lighter, disbelieving frown. “Christ, it’s not some sort of hit list. Just sappy sad shit I don’t want anyone seeing,” she scoffed. Denki’s jaw dropped. Kyoka raised a skeptical brow, probably calculating how he had arrived at such a ridiculous assumption.
“O-oh,” he managed to choke out somehow. They stared at each other for all of five seconds before succumbing to giggling. She finally let go of the package to wipe her eyes as they kept laughing. Denki scratched his stomach as he felt it churn again. His body couldn’t decide if laughter was appropriate after the past half hour.
Kyoka sniffled and chuckled, exhaling out her mouth as she recomposed herself. Denki sobered up before his stomach could get any worse.
Kyoka raked a hand through her hair, ruffling her bangs. Denki would’ve reached out to fix them, but held himself from acting on his habit of touching people’s hair. His thoughts went to Ojiro for a split frame. He didn’t actually know if Ojiro actually liked his tail being petted, but he certainly didn’t mind. Denki knew a lot of their classmates had copied his habit, so he hoped they would all pet Ojiro’s tail a lot once he was gone.
He tucked that train of thought away and refocused on Kyoka and not the hypothetical therapy plan for Ojiro. She was back to leveling him with the same intense gaze she had begun with.
“Just, a lot of it is stuff I don’t really share with people. A lot of it is stuff I couldn’t say to Momo.” She tugged at her earphone jacks, peering away. “It wasn’t the right time,” she mumbled.
Denki hummed sympathetically. “It never really is, is it.”
Kyoka glowered, more at herself than what he said. Denki hated it when Kyoka beat herself over the head for circumstances she couldn’t control, or even predict. And he knew Momo did the same, but there isn’t anything he can say to her without revealing just how deep Kyoka’s feelings for her go without her permission. He can’t do the reverse either, and break Momo’s trust. It hurts to watch their stalemate knowing they both want the same thing, but might not ever get it. He occasionally heard fleeting whispers from his classmates, why the two girls don’t confess their very obvious feelings for each other that they’re somehow oblivious to. But that was before the first war, when they thought they had more time to be normal, dumb teenagers in love. Now? It would be a double edged sword to confess.
“It’s not your fault,” he said in an effort to console her. Kyoka absently twirled a jack around her finger, crestfallen. She glazed over his comment with a small noise of indifference and finalized her request.
“I trust you’ll give her the songs when it’s finally the right time. You’ve always been good at reading people, so don’t make her too depressed, ‘kay?” She laughed and tried to smile, but it came off as a strained grimace.
Denki wanted to chuckle with her, but instead he swallowed back secrets that weren’t his to share. He wished life had been fair to Momo and Kyoka as well. They don’t deserve this. None of them do.
Kyoka is clever, so she won’t die. Then, she can sing all the songs she wrote for Momo and they can have the romance they’ve wanted since who knows how long. Denki won’t need to deliver anything to Momo, but he promised Kyoka anyway.
“I’ve got you, man.” He gave her a cheesy grin and thumbs up. She relaxed and let her shoulders drop. He hadn’t even noticed how tense she was.
Denki knew he made a promise he couldn’t keep, but in a way, so did Kyoka. He wondered if that made them better or worse friends.
She cleared her throat, and closed her eyes. They needed to face the task at hand. There was a beat where Denki waited for the other shoe to drop, for her to rip him a new one. But it never came. Instead,
“Are you sure?” She asked, opening her eyes to search for any shift in his face once more.
Denki only tilted his head and gave her a somber smile. “I want the guitar to sound bright and loud, like me.”
Kyoka’s brow flinched, a flash of pain pinching her features together only to disappear as quickly as it came. She looked down at the floor, picking out the grains in the wood with her eyes, viciously blinking back another wave of tears.
“Alright,” she said, and Denki’s chest tightened at the sound of her defeated voice. He didn’t know who this was hurting the most, and for a second, he doubted himself. But then he saw Kyoka’s squared shoulders, her clenched fists, and heavily furrowed brow. Denki reminded himself why he admired her so much, and it was right there. Her strength and determination. Remembering this, he breathed, lighter than he had since Gunga. This was his choice, in a world where he didn’t have many, and his friend would respect it, even if she hated it. Denki let himself imagine a future where his friends thrived - successful, smiling, just as he hoped they would be. Even if they resented him, their happiness was all he ever wanted.
They let the silence sit, teetering between comfort and despair, delaying the inevitable. Denki saw Kyoka staring at his desk again, so this time he mirrored her without getting distracted. His desk is a mess, with barely any free space on the surface. Tucked behind his monitor he can see his supply tray, full more of random trinkets than actual office supplies. There was a large die cut Pikachu eraser leaning against the tray, a random gag gift from Hanta he impulsively purchased at the supermarket - apparently - that Denki could never bring himself to use because he didn’t want the electric mouse’s chubby form to warp.
Next to that was a small plastic pack of bright glitter gel pens Mina and Hagakure had talked him into buying. He used them once and almost blinded himself because of how bright they were against his white notebook paper. On the edge of the desk was the crystal ball he stole from Tokoyami for a prank that he kept forgetting to return. Then there’s the set of flashcards Momo had made just for him when Ectoplasm’s big unit review exam was stressing him out.
Taped to his wall above are the crumpled up notes he’d pass with Kyoka in class that they’d doodle and write crude things on while snorting quietly so as to not get caught. The desk, and by extension his room, was a mess, but it was his. He can see everything, from his failed history quiz to his favorite mechanical pencil. It’s a reminder of the past year and what he’s leaving behind.
He’ll probably be having similar conversations like the one with Kyoka with his other friends soon. Not all of them, though, not with the ones who would make promises they can’t keep, promising they’ll all survive. There’s a looming fear hanging above everybody’s heads that some opt to ignore with weak hope, or vehemently run ahead to face even as their legs threaten to give out from under them. In between, there are those who’ve quietly made plans, not unlike Denki and Kyoka. Everybody probably has, but they’re heroes, so their fear is secondary to the world’s. Their secrets and twisted pacts will only come to light after their coffins are lowered into the dark.
He glanced over at Kyoka, then up at his clock. They had two hours before they left, and Hanta should be done packing as well. Mina was probably fidgeting in her room, hiding her sadder feelings from the class like she tended to do. Denki could also get Eijiro, but he’d most likely slap the idiot out of him before he could finish sharing his morbidly humorous idea. Same with Bakugo and Momo, but especially Momo.
Denki nodded to himself, already set on what would come next. He got off his bed, his legs surprisingly unsteady. Walking over to his desk like a newborn fawn, he dug around his belongings until he found a random notebook. He flipped it to a blank page and tore out a few sheets. He then grabbed the pack of glitter pens and shoved everything into his pockets.
Kyoka squinted at him, confused. He motioned vaguely at nothing, then when she didn’t understand, he just mouthed ‘later’. They could gather their friends to write their unofficial wills once they were done with his guitar. Mina would find it funny, Hanta would claim he came up with the idea first, and Kyoka would say it was stupid as she jotted down who her record collection would go to. But they’d all be secretly grateful to share and revise the wills Denki was certain they had already made.
He picked up the pink pack of strings he left on the bed, tore it open, and started to sort through the six individually wrapped paper envelopes inside. Kyoka had already done him the favor of tuning the strings down so they could be wired out of the pegs and cut.
With everything laid out, Denki pressed his fist against Kyoka’s shoulder. She looked up at him with a bittersweet expression.
“Thank you for being my friend,” he warbled, rapping his knuckles against her arm slightly.
This was it, and he was terrified. He wanted to scream, cry, laugh, and just feel. It might kill him, but he’s more comfortable dying that way, to himself, than he is to a madman he was never meant to face.
“Thanks for being mine,” Kyoka replied back earnestly, her voice like smooth velvet to his ears. She nudged their fists together as best she could, both of their hands trembling and weak, but warm and alive.
Denki smiled, wider and brighter than he had in weeks, and cut the first string.