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there was a difference between being suicidal and simply wanting to die.
the feeling of aching between bones, a sharp stab in the ribs.
it was a difference that Denki Kaminari had become well aware of over the years—when his friends would say his antics were near-suicidal, when his mom would glance at him with that look in her eye, and when Denki himself stayed up late at night and
pleaded
pleaded for something new. for something to change. for a spark of something, of anything.
when that plea turned into desperation, and that desperation turned into hopelessness, and that hopeless feeling had
stained him.
irreparably. horribly. irreversibly.
had seeped into his veins, infecting his blood until his entire being was stained with the horrible, dark, aching
numbness.
//
“Hoooly fuck, Kami! That’s gonna kill you!” Mina cackled as Denki balanced half-hazardly on the railing of the bridge they were crossing—the fall wasn’t fatal, though. Just painful.
“I’ll never fucking die!” He yelled back over the crashing waves, to Mina and Sero’s amusement. Kirishima walked a little closer to Denki, though, especially when the blonde screeched when he lost his balance for only a second, only a moment.
(for a moment there, a wave of relief washed over his body. a sense of peace. calm.)
“God, you’re such an idiot, Denki.” Sero grinned good-naturedly, walking beside Mina.
“He’s a fucking suicidal idiot, Soy Sauce.” Bakugou muttered bitterly, with just a hint of something, but Denki was too focused on the adrenaline-fueled beating of his heart.
Focused on the way the numbness seemed to be replaced with a nearly-manic sort of static energy, buzzing in his chest as he walked on the edge, a slip away from—
peace.
He grinned wider, and Denki was aware of the looks his friends were giving him, and…
and…
and…
//
The urge was inescapable. It clawed at his insides every waking moment, the same way he would claw at his skin when his bones felt wrong, when his skin felt odd, and when the numbness ravaging in his chest made its way into his very being.
(the urge to hurt.)
(the urge to ache.)
(the urge to ravage.)
(the urge to ruin.)
And there would be red running down his light, freckled skin, marred with the history of his old ailing.
Red running down the graveyard of scars that he himself had a hand in, red pouring through his fingertips as he tried to stop, red growing, and growing, and growing—
The color red lived in his dreams.
In his nightmares.
In his every waking moment.
And as he—
//
—dragged his fingers through Kirishima’s hair during movie night, he couldn’t help but admire its vibrancy. The work that Kirishima put in to dye it whenever his roots began to show, the care he put when gelling it into spikes every morning, and its softness when he left it down.
Denki couldn’t help but admire what it represented to Kirishima, the strength, the hope, the bravery—
He couldn’t help but notice the burning inferno that resided in Bakugo’s eyes, the red that pulsed, that burned, that signified the anger that Bakugo had deep within him, curling and curdling in his heart.
Their class was cuddled up together in groups, trios, duos, and singles, and this was always Denki’s favourite night of the month.
When he could indulge in all the shameful touching he craved, he needed, he seeked constantly.
His legs entangled with Sero’s, his hands in Kirishima’s hair, Mina’s arms wrapped around his torso.
A human pretzel that they found themselves in every movie night.
It made a small, withering part of Denki keen. Warm.
He smothered a smile.
//
“Dude, Denki, I don’t think I've ever seen you change in the locker rooms before.” Kirishima commented idly once Denki had, once again, come out of a stall fully changed.
“Oh. I guess that’s true. I’m just not into changing in front of others, I guess.” Denki shrugged with a tense coil wrapping around the horrid thing that was his heart, praying, hoping that Kirishima would let it go—
“Maybe…” Kirishima trailed off in a way that said he was only putting a pin on the conversation, and Denki felt the coil twist.
//
Today had been a
day,
his brain wasn’t functioning right, being spacy and
unjointed and
wrong and
he felt like he was going to spill—
—one wrong word, and the wrongness that had been brewing up in his guts since he was a child would be spewed on the ground for the world to see and
nothing felt real and
he didn’t feel real and
what the fuck was going on?
and—
—fuck, was that red?
Red, red, red, red,
Denki was so fucking sick of the color red. It disgusted him. Horrified him, and yet—
yet he found comfort in it. sick pleasure in the way it tainted his insides. horrible solace in the way it made him feel
real.
tangible.
human.
//
“Denki, are you insecure?” Kirishima asked one morning, and the wires in Denki’s mind shortcutted.
“Huh, what I need is a coffee before even thinking about that question, dude.” Denki replied with a tired grin, and what he needed was a
(razor)
and the color red.
“I mean, shit, I worded that wrong—you just…cover up a lot, you know?” Kirishima hastily added, and Sero nodded hesitantly.
“Well…he’s not wrong…” He mumbled, and Kirishima looked beyond thankful.
“...Shitty Hair has a fucking point, I guess, but hell, you’re jumping to some conclusions there, arencha?” Bakugo snarled in that sharp voice of his, and Mina only frowned at Denki, who sighed.
“No. I’m not insecure, okay? I’m fine with my body, and my body’s fine with me.” Denki ran a hand through his hair, taking a long sip of coffee.
“...if you say so.”
//
and it coiled inside of him.
burning. pulsing. feasting on his insides.
the numbness.
the hopelessness.
the desperation.
the pleading.
it. all. burned.
//
“Oi, Pikachu—” The door slammed open without fanfare, and Denki’s blood ran cold.
red red red red red red red—
His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering and pulsing and—
“What the fuck.”
Both their faces were pale, matching expressions of horror twisting their features.
Bakugou rushed to Denki, his eyes roaming his body, his body, his disgusting, horrible graveyard of a—
There seemed to be a switch made in Bakugou’s head as his eyes turned clinical, looking at the wounds.
He stitched them up and bandaged them as needed, with a sense of detachment Denki greatly appreciated.
And then Bakugou hugged him.
And something in him broke.
//
And Bakugou kept an eye on him.
Taking all of his
(dangerous)
belongings.
Reducing the throbbing in his chest to a dull ache.
And yet for some reason…
…for some odd reason…
(it wasn’t enough.)
//
“You gonna fuckin’ tell them, Pikachu?” Bakugou nudged him softly. Carefully. As if Denki meant something.
“...yeah. I think I will.” Denki decided firmly, despite the way his heart squirmed.
“Hell yeah.” Bakugou grinned, and he looked…
…proud.
//
“So, why were we all called here at 12 AM? I nearly got caught by Aizawa-sensei, so this better be worth it.” Mina ranted with all the annoyance a teenage girl had when woken from her slumber.
“I know, right? I almost got a record on—”
“No one gives a fuck about your damn video game, Shitty Hair!”
“Harsh…”
Denki sighed, and catching onto the serious expression on his face, the group shut their mouths.
“Um. So. I haven’t been very…uh. Open. With all of you. About, um…” Denki swallowed thickly, and Bakugou nodded at him.
Discreetly. Minutely. Almost indistinguishably.
“I just wanted to tell all of you guys. That…I’ve been…hurting myself. For a while now. That’s the reason why I’m not…showy about my body.”
You could hear a fucking pin drop.
“Oh, god, Denki. You know we love you, right? We fucking love you.” Mina finally forced out, tears gathering in her eyes, and Denki’s breath caught in his throat.
“Have you…stopped? You have, right?” Kirishima asked softly, his eyes wide, and Denki nodded.
He was suddenly wrapped into a hug at all sides, and he should’ve been uncomfortable, should’ve felt claustrophobic, but he just felt…
…loved.
…there’s always been a difference between being suicidal and wanting to die. Not once in his life did Kaminari Denki think he would be neither of them.