Chapter Text
Katsuki is six beers deep, hunched over a table outside Cellophane when he gets the call.
“Th’fuck is this?” He slurs into his cracked phone screen, taking a drag off the cigarette burning between his fingers. He hears someone breathing on the other line, not saying a word, and his skin prickles. "You wanna fuckin’ say something?”
“...it's me.” a voice whispers, thin and crackly.
Katsuki’s stomach drops.
He can still hear the muddled sounds of Monoma’s shitty band playing inside, the teens next to him obnoxiously sharing a joint, but his focus flexes and narrows to the tinny voice inside his phone.
“I know it's late," Denki rasps, “and you probably don't want to see me…” there's a frenzied burst of static as he exhales, “Fuck, I'm sorry, I shouldn't’ve called—”
“Where are you?” Katsuki stands up, heart pounding like he's expecting a fight. He crushes the rest of his cigarette under the heel of his boot, yanks his arms back through his leather jacket, “What happened?”
“Uh…” Denki trails off. Katsuki imagines him twisting his long blonde hair between his fingers, a nervous tick he's had as long as he's known him, “...I’m outside your apartment.”
Katsuki needs to be on stage at eleven, he’s three sheets to the wind, and he knows Jirou will kill him for this.
“Five minutes,” he tells him, “give me five minutes.”
The line clicks dead.
It’s been three months since he last heard from Kaminari.
Three months of wondering where he’s been sleeping, if he’s been eating—if he’s even alive.
Three months of calling hospitals and morgues at 4am, drunk off his ass, describing Denki’s tattoos to overnight nurses who probably think he’s pathetic as fuck.
Now he’s here.
Denki wanders around, studying the stacks of paperbacks and records meticulously arranged around his shoebox apartment. He rests his hand on a pile of sci-fi novels with worn-soft covers. “I didn’t know you liked these.”
“Yagi wanted to toss ‘em.” Katsuki gravels out.
Denki hums under his breath, delicately tracing down the spines. His nails are painted, Katsuki notices, violet and chipping. He watches Denki drum them along his bookshelf, captivated by how elegantly long his fingers are.
“You're good at that.” Denki says, pausing on a tattered copy of Mostly Harmless.
“At what?” Katsuki grunts, distracted.
“Y’know…” he shrugs his shoulders in a practiced way, “keeping things no one else wants.” His back is turned, but Katsuki can see the edge of his cynical smile reflected in the windowpane. It’s obvious he isn’t talking about the paperbacks.
He wants to argue, to tell him of course people want you…but the truth is everyone else gave up on Denki years ago. They both know he’s the only one who still answers his calls.
“Quit being so fucking dramatic,” Katsuki snips, annoyed by his self-pity. He pulls a yogurt cup out of his mini-fridge and hands it to him, “Eat something before you keel over.”
Denki scrapes out a laugh, accepting the yogurt with shaky hands before shuffling over to the couch. He tucks his legs under himself, shivering despite it being seventy-five degrees inside, “Man, you haven't changed at all.”
Denki doesn't bother to ask for a spoon, scooping out the yogurt with the foil lid like they used to do in grade school. Katsuki feels aimless, caught between the implication of his words. The thing is, Katsuki has changed. He feels transformed by grief—by his hopeless feelings for this person who might not make it through the year. Who doesn't care enough to get better.
They peer out at the black city below his window, watching the night unfold in silence. Up close Denki smells like stale sweat and the stuffy air of public transportation. Katsuki imagines him sitting at the bus station, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, hitch-hiker's thumb jutting out like a knife. He wonders how he got here and where he was before this...what he had to do for a ride.
He slides his eyes along Denki’s body, noting all the subtle and not-so-subtle differences. He’s more gaunt around the jaw and eyes, his skin tinged an unhealthy color. He chopped his ratty blonde hair off below his ears. He's still wearing the oversized army coat he's had since high school, covered in homemade patches and sharpied doodles from their friends. Katsuki stares at the cuff of Denki's right sleeve, the giant ‘FUCK OFF’ he scribbled during second year English class. He doesn't remember why he wrote it now.
The apartment is dark and quiet besides the background hum of the city, so Katsuki feels bold enough to reach between them and lace their fingers together. Denki’s hand is ice cold, like holding on to a corpse, but he’s always had poor circulation—even before he started injecting himself with poison.
Denki curiously flits his eyes over him, saying nothing. He timidly squeezes Katsuki's hand back.
Feeling him alive under his palm, the pulse point of his wrist beating steady against his fingertips…Katsuki feels settled for the first time in months.
Katsuki peers into his bedroom before leaving for work, mostly to make sure Denki didn't pick up and leave during the night.
He’s still tangled up in Auntie Inko’s quilt, snoring gently with one of his legs dangling off the mattress. The Cramps shirt Katsuki let him borrow yesterday is bunched up to his armpits, exposing most of the god awful stick-and-poke tattoos he has cluttered all over. Katsuki tries not to linger on Denki's toned stomach and sharp hip bones, the dark blonde hair trailing into his waistband. He intentionally ignores the mottled necklace of bruises looped around his neck; the knot of scars in the crook of his elbow.
Katsuki let him take the bed last night, electing to sleep on the ratty orange couch he bought with Deku when they first moved to the city. It isn't comfortable—the springs are broken, and it’s covered in crumbs no matter how hard he vacuums it—but he's used to sleeping in less-than-ideal spaces...and Denki definitely needed the rest.
He quietly closes the door after a moment, creeping down the stairs to open One for All.
Katsuki loves working at Yagi’s bookshop. It’s dusty, slanted with age, and the heating doesn't work so he has to wear gloves for two months out of the year...but he loves the old book smell, the exposed brick walls, the view of the market out the huge windows. He loves the quiet mornings and sunny afternoons, the cramped second-floor apartment Yagi rents him for cheap. It isn't where he thought he'd end up after he graduated, and his parents definitely aren't thrilled—but he's stable.
(And if he moved, Denki wouldn't know where to find him.)
He’s organizing the shelves he didn’t get to yesterday when he spots a familiar blur of green curls hurrying past the front window. The door predictably bangs open a moment later.
“KACCHAN!!!” Deku calls frantically, “KACCHAN!!!”
Katsuki rolls his eyes towards the ceiling.
“I’m over here, dipshit.”
Deku swings around the corner. He’s wearing a striped mohair sweater—despite it being mid-May—and a bomber jacket that probably belongs to Todoroki. The nerd is always fucking cold.
“Where’d you go last night?” Deku scans him head to toe like a paranoid freak, his oversized glasses slipping down his nose, “Did something happen?? Are you okay?”
“No. I’m hungover as fuck.” Katsuki deadpans, ignoring the first question. He jerks his head towards the greasy paper bag in Izuku’s hand, “One of those better be for me.”
Deku digs out his chipotle cheddar bagel and tosses it over to him. “I also got you a cold brew.”
“Thank fucking Christ.”
They sit behind the register to eat. Deku used to work in the shop full-time with him back when Yagi was still in charge, but he only works Sundays now. He definitely doesn't need the income between his biotech job and stupidly rich boyfriend, but he ignores all of Katsuki’s attempts to fire him.
He knows it’s Izuku’s obnoxious way of keeping an eye on him.
“…are you alright, Kacchan?” Deku breaks the silence first. He’s been watching Katsuki stare into space for the last few minutes, mindlessly swirling the ice around in his cold brew, “You seem a little off.”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Katsuki says absently.
He gets like this sometimes, after being around Kaminari. Like his thoughts and his body aren't quite lined up. Aizawa calls it derealization, or depersonalization—or some other ‘de’ word that convinces his parents to cover his $120 session.
“You know you can tell me anything right?” Izuku says, a nosy thread of concern in his voice. Always so goddamn emotional.
Katsuki sighs, “I fucking know, dumbass. I’m fine.”
Deku worries his lip between his teeth, unconvinced. “Have you made an appointment with Aizawa lately?”
Katsuki makes a face. He knows all of their friends think he’s a total fucking basket case now after what happened a couple years ago, but he doesn't need a reminder to go to goddamn therapy.
Thankfully, a few customers drift in and distract Deku from his needling. Katsuki checks his phone, replying the same thumbs up emoji to all of his bandmates' angry texts, then spends most of the day doing desk work while Deku mans the register. It's mundane, quietly peaceful. It definitely isn't going to last.
Around 1pm, he hears footsteps coming down the stairs from his apartment. He holds his breath and waits for the shitshow to commence.
The door creaks open on unoiled hinges.
“Katsuki?” A scratchy voice calls out.
He turns around, taking in Denki’s sleep-rumpled appearance. He’s still in the Cramps shirt, barefoot in his tiny boxer shorts.
“...hey, Kami.”
Katsuki ignores Deku’s gasp of shock next to him.
Denki yawns, "I think I used the last of your chai mix.”
“That's fine, I’ll buy some more later.” He says easily. It’s obviously unprofessional to have Denki show up half-naked in the middle of their workday, but Katsuki doesn’t give a fuck. He’ll let him do whatever he wants as long as he can see him. “You sleep okay?”
Denki nods, “Mhmm, your bed is really comfy.”
Fuck. Izuku is going to give him so much shit.
“I’ll be done in a couple of hours, we can hang out…go to the art museum,” Katsuki knows he likes the art museum, “they have some of Keith Haring’s stuff on display right now.” Denki smiles at him brightly and it makes his heart pound.
“Yeah, that sounds fun,” Denki shyly glances over at Deku, “Um...I like your hair, Izuku.” Deku’s been cutting his curls into a shaggy green mullet lately which surprisingly suits him.
“Thanks, Kami,” Deku says, a bit breathless, “I…I didn’t know you were here.”
“I got in late last night.” Denki rocks back on his heels awkwardly. He turns back towards Katsuki, “I guess I’ll wait upstairs—see if you pawned any of my records.”
“Only the shitty ones.” Katsuki snarks, but they both know he’d never get rid of anything of his. “I still have your guitar too, it’s in the closet.” Denki beams at him and it makes all the heaps of shit Deku is about to give him fucking worth it.
Predictably, he whirls on him as soon as his apartment door clicks shut.
“Kacchan.”
Katsuki aggressively holds a hand up, “Don’t fucking say it.”
“What–why is he–” Deku shakes his head, still reeling, making his god-awful grandma glasses go all eschew again, “Do you seriously think this is a good idea??? After last time?”
Katsuki sneers, “What the fuck am I supposed to do, Izuku, kick him to the curb? He needs help, not a fucking lecture.”
“Did you tell anyone else?” his eyebrows shoot up, “Did you tell Kirishima?”
“Fuck no.”
Deku groans loudly, dramatically falling back into his desk chair. “I have to warn Shouto.”
“Fine, tell your fucking boyfriend. I don’t give a shit.”
“You know Dabi’s out on probation now.” Izuku reminds him, “This could turn into a disaster.”
“Dabi isn’t getting anywhere near him.” Katsuki snarls, “I’ll murder him if he does.” The mention of Dabi makes his hands shake, makes all his anger management classes fly out the fucking window, because fuck that guy to hell.
Deku stares at him.
“Are you sleeping with him?” He asks point blank.
Katsuki chokes on his spit, “Fucking no, what the fuck!”
“Well, you’ve always had a soft spot for him…” Izuku rubs his chin, “I used to wonder if you two ever…”
“We’re not like that.” Katsuki says definitively, even though they’re totally like that, “And don’t fucking wonder about my sex life.”
“Or lack thereof.” Deku adds, because the fucker has a death wish.
“I will kill you, nerd.”
“You’ve been saying that since we were four.” Deku smirks, “I’ll take my chances.”
“Fuck you.” Katsuki kicks at Izuku’s chair. Deku is infuriating and knows him better than anyone. He has no idea why they’re still friends. “Just don’t tell Ei yet. I’ll tell him.”
“You better do it before Sero’s thing tomorrow if you plan on taking him.”
Fuck, Katsuki completely forgot about Sero’s dumb bonfire party. He clenches his teeth, “Fine.”
“So what’s up with the—” Izuku wraps his hands around his neck, right where Denki’s bruises are, “Do you know who did it?”
“I didn’t fucking ask.” Katsuki grunts.
“It looks intense,” Izuku mumbles, “...but I guess it could've been consensual. I mean, he used to date Dabi…Sho says he's into all that ‘BDMS’ stuff.”
Which just pisses him the fuck off.
Everything is pissing him off and he needs some air.
“It's BDSM, you fucking moron.” Katsuki stands up, jamming his wallet into his back pocket.
“Wait—where are you going?”
He huffs, “I need a fucking shot.”
Izuku gives him a concerned once-over, “Of espresso or whisky?”
“None of your fucking business!” He barks, slamming the front door behind him.
Katsuki calls Sero on his way to the bar.
“Hello, my sweet little man.” Sero croons in his ear, disgustingly saccharine.
Gross.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait, wait, wait!!” He hears a rustling noise, like the idiot is still in bed, “I was about to call you anyway.”
“Then make it fucking quick.”
“What the hell, Bakugou! You called me.”
“And I don’t have all damn day to deal with your bullshit.”
“Aww. Feeling a little cranky today, huh.” Sero hums down the line, “You know Monoma had to sub in for you last night? It was pretty awful. We were all wondering where you went.” Sero’s the bar manager at Cellophane, so he obviously heard all about his 'disappearing act' the night before.
Katsuki wrinkles his nose at the mention of Monoma. He isn’t a bad guitar player—he can mimic Katsuki's sound and style better than anyone—but he’s really fucking annoying.
“I had shit to do.”
“We were about to put out an APB,” Sero’s tone is playfully neutral, “26-year-old male, resembles angry purse dog, covered in scary tattoos—do not engage.”
Katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s too tired for this shit.
“Kami’s back in town.”
“What!?” Sero squawks, “You—since when?!?”
“Since last night. Keep up, Tapeworm.” Katsuki sneers, yanking open the door to the pub. It’s a couple blocks from One for All and embarrassingly everyone knows him there. He nods a greeting towards his usual bartender.
“So is he y’know...clean?”
Katsuki doesn't bother to answer that. They both know he isn’t. Kami hasn't been sober in years.
“I called to tell you I’m bringing him tomorrow.” Katsuki says shortly, downing the shot set in front of him in one swallow.
“Are you sure??” Sero’s voice goes all high, “Did you tell Ei?”
Katsuki rolls his glass between his palms, thinking about Eijirou. The face he makes whenever he hears Denki’s name.
“It's not his business.” he decides.
Sero blows out a long breath, “Dude, I don’t think you should br–”
“Bye, Sero.”
Katsuki hangs up.