He misses the warm, enveloping heat of the library. Even if it gets a bit dry sometimes, it was still so much better than the combination of freezing wind numbing his body and a phone call he didn’t want to be the center of attention in.
He internally groans, another sly remark is spoken from the other line, perfectly clear even through the crackling reception. At times like this, he wishes he could use the excuse that the service isn’t good today. But. He’d feel too guilty to lie about it.
So, here he is with his cell phone pressed to his ear, bag leaning against his leg, on the wet cement. It’ll be dirty later, mud tracking in an apartment, but he can’t seem to care about all these little technicalities.
Slowly, as the caring, sweet nostalgic voices turn cold and menacing, everything becomes white noise. Words don’t seep into his brain anymore, the whistling wind isn’t something that makes him look up, the loud engines and reeling of tires don’t prick at his ears, and the steps of shoes don’t make him look up in any direction.
But his brain remembers the words, even as their voices switch back right side up. His brain feels and hears every inch of their words still, replaying it over and over, taking the meaning and creating more unspoken assumptions of what it meant.
So much so, he doesn’t hear the goodbyes, the clicking of a phone call ended, or feel a gush of wind that would have his skin shivering. His thoughts have planted themselves, taking control of what he is supposed to be.
It takes a shove, loving and caring. It takes something like that to pull him out. (Obviously, a shove doesn’t fix everything, but it's definitely a jump into the reality he’s in rather than the one fixated in his mind).
Today, its red spiked up hair, sharp teeth showing through a sunlight smile, and hands jumbling around.
It's the subtle way he does this that brings Kaminari back. Familiarity plays a part in this routine. He has rough hands, but they don’t itch when his hand rests gently on his shoulder. He flinches, his skin standing at the feeling.
It's not dark, his vision isn’t blurring until its dark anymore. The abyss isn’t swallowing him up, etc.
Right now, he starts to become aware of how his phone is still by his ear, fingers numbing. The beeping is long gone, the phone cold and dark.
Moving the phone from his ear, his arm falls to his side. A breathe.
A rough hand moves over a shoulder, arm weighing against Kaminari's back. Its comfort. Its warm.
The noise of an umbrella flying open, and he sees, it is raining. Huh.
Raindrops splatter on cars passing by, and soaking up the cement. Which means, his bag is soaked.
Groans of complaint will be heard later in the apartment, a quiet melody of a voice telling him off about his choice.
Bag gripped in his hand, he's urged forth by a nudging arm. Familiarity. He sighs, and the walk is slow. The water splashes under his very much not waterproof yellow converse.
A door opens. A grey truck. Backpack placed with him in the passenger seat, sitting between his feet. The engine is loud, just loud enough to edge his mind and vision into slow clarity.
And he sees just as golden trees fly past, swirls of color sparking into his mind. He looks down at the familiar bag, the familiar floor, the familiar windshield.
He can't help it as he looks over, that red hair he's seen so many times before. He smiles. It's not big enough, but it's big enough to be something. Thank You.
"How are you feeling?" His voice is quieter than usual, but surprisingly, Kaminari is used to this voice.
Without looking away from the road, he smiles and ruffles Kaminari's blond, soft hair. It says, It's okay you don't have to tell me.
It's another breathe released.
Kaminari spend time looking around, the dashboard in front of him, windshield wipers wiping raindrops across the window, red hair, a soft humming. Somehow it felt warm here, and that anchored him.
His brain rested from thoughts for a few moments, focused on the surroundings that ground him in this moment. His mind is emptying with its words, it's only viewing the world.
It's good that way. Just focusing on shaky breathing turning smooth, the queasiness in his gut slowly stilling.
Before he knows it, he's being nudged out of the car. He looks up, hand twisted around the handle of his bag, an apartment complex stares at him.
Time to go home.
It's really not needed okay? It's not needed , the hand lightly offering its support, guiding him to the door. But protests are weak, and undeserving.
He doesn't mean it. The support is fine, he doesn't mind it. He's still not all here, and he wasn't sure if he would try to stand in the rain, get soaked in the rain for three hours, and finally come up after the state has passed. He'd end up sick, and a certain man would be exasperated about the situation as he wraps him in blankets and gives him medication.
So, the door stares him in the face. C110. Its familiar, nothing screams at him behind this door. He knows this well, but a smile doesn't reach his face.
There's a soft rub of a thumb near his shoulder blade, a shiver is unleashed through that action, and the support is gone. A soft smile, soft words fall from even kinder lips in a mouth full of shark teeth. I love you, take care. Text me later?
A shallow nod.
He takes the bit of strength left, twisting the cool knob. He's starting to feel how cold he is now when the door opens. Something about the warm scents and visuals of his home sends him back into his body.
Its comfort. Gives him what he needs to drag himself in, the door softly closing behind him.
He works with his shoes, untying the double knot, loosening the laces enough to tug yellow hues off his feet. Yellow socks covered in black lightning bolts stare at him.
He doesn't know why , but he doesn't move from his spot on the floor, sitting with his legs crossed.
A head peaks from another room, five minutes after he gets home. Its purple hair, thin reading glasses on his nose.
A worried expression falls over his face, he walks over to the spot Kaminari is, nose scrubbing a bit about possibly having to sit on the floor. He obligated, setting glasses on the counter nearby, and finding a seat in front of Denki.
It's slow. It's taken years for him to figure out these situations, to find a comfortable rhythm. And here it is.
A soft touch at the elbows, looking at Kaminari.
"Denki… What happened?"
His voice is like honey to Kaminari's ears, and his eyes fall out of the voidless state. He's looking into indigo eyes. As he looks, he doesn't see how others find them voidless, bored, or plain. He sees the pretty tones of purple, the glints, all of what he feels is in his eyes.
"They.. called me. I couldn't..lie to them. I told them how I was doing. It went as well as it always goes."
Shinsou's warm hands are resting on his shoulders, not further initiation until Denki waa ready.
He waited for what Denki had to say, he bit back his tongue. Letting Denki have the pauses was what helped him let it out fully. Which was better for the both of them.
Denki grabs the soft fabric of Shinsou's hoodie, pulling into him. Those warm hands on his shoulders are now arms and hands wrapped around him. They give him strength to speak his mind, soaking into the scent of lavender candles and peppermint.
Maybe words are muffled, but they're still clear enough for Shinsou to understand.
"They said I'm going to fail, its my fault. That I'm the procrastinator, I'm just not working hard at all. They said they aren't surprised that I'm doing bad. Oh, don't forget the part at the end where they say they just want the best for me, and that's why they're so harsh on me. "
Arms don't tighten like those cliche lines seem to think they will, but fists and arms clench up. It's hard to sit there while the one you love hurts.
A hand reached to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. The motion relaxes Denki, eyes softly shifting closed. Its soft enough to feel nice.
"Hey, Denki… You aren't a dumbass. You're smart, and we'll get through this."
His head lifts the shirt, tears striking his face. Eyes are hopeful and golden.
"Me. Kirishima. Bakugou. Jirou. Mina. Sero. Hell, even the rest of the people you know that don't know every little thing happening with you. They love you , and we'll stand by you."
This soft, sleepy smile falls onto his pretty lips. Its genuine, saved for only the soft sun and Hitoshi.
"Okay. Yeah… You're right…"
Hitoshi's hands travel over to his face, planted on his cheeks.
"You say it, too. Come on." Hitoshi stares down Denki's golden eyes, determination glinting in those supposed bored expressionless eyes.
Denki only pouted his bottom lip out a LITTLE. (A lot). "Fine."
A few moments of silence, Hitoshi's lips parted, words ready to spill if Denki didn't start speaking.
"M-My friends love me. But my boyfriend Hitoshi loves me the mostest."
Hitoshi groans, pushing Denki backwards. "I NEVER said that, idiot. Mostest isn't a word, Denks."
Denki gave a sly smile, slinging an arm around Hitoshi. "You have."
Hitoshi glares, cheeks burning red.
Collectively , the moment passes. In a quiet silence they pick themselves up off the ground.
Denki doesn't fall onto the bed, he purposely dives onto it the second he walks in the room. The warm is enchanting, enveloping with scents he adores. He's only missing a purple haired guy he's hopelessly in love with.
He twists onto his back, tangled in sheets and blankets. Indigo eyes stare patiently at him, inching closer with the soft shuffling of socks on the wood floor.
"Denki.. what do you need to do?"
Denki knew what the phrase meant, he sighs, and feels it through his body. A pulse in thigh. An aching of his body, gow warm it feels to lay here.
"Nap. Come here."
No one speaks of it, but Yeah there is the softest of smiles on Hitoshi's lips.
"Change out of your wet clothes, then we'll talk."
"Hitoshiiiiiii!" Denki whines.
Yeah ,it's good here.