Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jiro was crying again. 

She clutched the sheets as ragged breaths tore through her; near immobilising. Her hair clung to her forehead, slick with sweat. Through the blurriness of tears and darkness of the night, her eyes wandered over to the empty mass in the bed beside her. The side usually occupied by Denki Kaminari, now suffocatingly devoid of his warmth as she curled in on herself, a pathetic attempt to replicate the sensation of his presence. 

She sobbed, loud and unforgiving as the recollection of her prior nightmare lingered, visceral and raw. 

There was blood, she recalled. Lots of it. In a haze she had stumbled through an impossibly dark compound of labyrinthine halls, every surface smeared with thick, oozing gore. The edges of her vision fogged, like a vignette blacking out her periphery as she wandered aimlessly. More than anything, though—more than the blood, more than the fact that she didn’t know where she was or why she was there—were the screams. They echoed, even in her waking state, the voice of whom they had claimed to torment her leaving her shaking. 

Denki went missing two weeks ago. 

When news first spread, heroes from all around had gathered in their efforts, many former classmates of his, others from new agencies entirely, but all with the same goal in mind. Dynamight, Red Riot, even the former One for All wielder and current U.A high teacher had lent what aid he could without a quirk. 

After all, pro heroes had been popping up dead all around Japan for months now, and none of them were willing to let their friend join those numbers. 

Not like Koda had, whose body was discovered the very same day Denki did not return home on his day off from the agency. 

With so many high ranking heroes on the case, hopes of finding him were high. 

That was until yesterday, at least. 

The earring they'd found discarded in an alley didn't take long to identify as Denki's, as were the flecks of blood splattered upon it that left no question to the nature of his disappearance. Where before they knew nothing, now the only thing they could be certain of was that blood had been spilled.

Many others had dismissed this entirely. Bakugo had raged about how this meant nothing, and Sero and Mina had just left completely, continuing their search as though the evidence had not shaken their determined resolve in the slightest. And Kirishima, well, he was stubbornly hopeful as always. 

But Jiro wasn't stupid. 

She wanted to be, but she couldn't fool herself with such hopeless optimism.

That had always been Denki's forte, anyway. 

But he wasn't here, and so Jiro sobbed, clinging to the memory of a face she feared she’d never see alive again. 

———————————————

Outside Jiro’s room, snaking down the hall and through the small, two bedroom apartment she and Denki shared, three others sat along the length of the living room couch. Three heroes. Ones that had seen both Denki and Jiro all the way through their prior years at UA and up until now where—in their mid twenties—they found themselves utterly useless in the absence of one of their own. 

“This is bullshit.” Bakugo cursed from the far left. 

“Don’t start, Bakugo,” Kirishima warned from where he sat beside him, gaze locked onto the adjacent hall, where Jiro’s cries travelled distantly. 

A tense silence followed, one that caused Mina to follow his gaze from where she sat on the right. “Should we check on her?” She asked cautiously, leg bouncing nervously.

The group of old friends had known Jiro wouldn’t take the news of yesterday's discovery well, her following isolation a testament to their suspicions. She hadn’t even left to attend the press conference following the update on the case. Not that any of them expected them too, they knew she hated crowded events at the best of times, so how she might’ve acted at a time like this was a bullet they were happy to dodge. 

“There’s no point.” Bakugo responded flatly with a scoff. “We should be out there looking for that idiot, not sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves!” He argued, his words harsh, yet derived from a place too stubborn to admit he too was near crippled by the case's developments.

Kirishima didn’t appreciate the bluntness. “Not tonight,” He countered in just as harsh a fashion. “You know what happens if we’re caught outside our curfew,” The latter turned to face him this time, his expression reading with enough conviction that Bakugo held his tongue. At least for a moment. “Unless you want your hero license suspended for the next month.” 

Bakugo grumbled, low and annoyed. 

“Curfew, my ass,” He retorted bitterly. “We’re heroes! Since when are we the ones under a fucking curfew?” 

“Since they’ve been killing us off for months, that’s when.” 

At that, Mina’s breath hitched in her throat, and Kirishima turned to see her eyes welled with tears, a bitter scowl knotted in her brows. She hated crying at times like this. Part of her felt as though she didn’t deserve to, not when Jiro sat just a few rooms down without her partner, while Mina’s own sat safe and sound beside her. 

“Sorry,” He muttered, and another lapse of silence followed as his hand reached to calm the nervous bouncing of her leg. “Sero’s out with Uraraka tonight. He knows where to look.” 

“If he knew where to look we’d have found him by now-”

“Dude!-”

“Okay, fuck this,” Mina stood abruptly when Jiro’s sobs did not subside as they normally did, halting the two headstrong heroes before they could clash any further. 

Her stubborn stride brought her all the way up to Jiro’s door before she froze, her fist hovering inches from the barrier between them. 

Her heart wrenched in her chest as she realised she had no idea what the fuck to say. 

I mean, what was there to say, really? 

The past few weeks had covered just about every kind of comfort or reassurance she could possibly hope to offer, and even then nothing she ever said was ever met with more than a pitied nod of acknowledgment. This time was different, though. Where before they had hope, now there was only uncertainty. Agonising uncertainty that Mina knew she could not waiver with words alone, not when evidence spoke such volume against something as feeble as hope. 

Truly, what was there to say? 

Fuck, they never covered anything like this in their hero courses. 

Before Mina could think it over properly, and before she realised she could no longer hear crying on the other side, the door shot open. Jiro must’ve heard her coming. 

She stood before her now, eyes raw and nose clogged as she sniffled pitifully. Her hair, normally well kept, was a mess, greased and stuck to the sides of her face from the obvious distraught still ridden in her features. 

Mina opened her mouth, but the words died on her tongue. 

And so, wordlessly, and at the exact same moment that Jiro basically collapsed, she embraced her, catching the weight of her fallen friend. The latter, reduced to a slumped and broken form, sobbed into the groove of Mina’s neck.

From across the hall, on the couch, Bakugo listened with his fists balled in his lap. 

Kirishima looked as though he were about to break something, but really he was just fighting the lump in his throat as the girls hushed, desperate words pervaded the equally agonising silence. 

“It’s not fair,”

“I know,”

“He should be here with us,”

“I know. We’ll find him, Jiro,”

“No we won’t,”

“We will.”

Amidst their empty dispute, Bakugo stood, making his way straight for the front door. 

“Where are you going?” Kirishima questioned, now standing too. 

“Out.”

“You can’t-“

“Try and stop me.”

But he didn’t, and the crimson hero just watched as his friend disappeared behind the harsh slam of the door.

Kirishima sighed and slumped back down onto the couch. He knew any attempt he made to coax his ill-tempered friend back inside would only end in more arguments. Just as it had for weeks now, where Bakugo’s usual stubbornness seemed to have magnified tenfold. Not that he could really blame him. Everyone had been managing the stress of Denki’s disappearance in their own ways, it just so happened that Bakugo’s baseline emotion was anger, and the past weeks events had only intensified that. 

For a time, Kirishima had been angry, too. Angry at himself, at the police—hell, even at Denki. Sure, he’d never been the brightest of them all, but he’d come a long way since his younger days, and he wasn’t the same dimwitted kid he’d once been. Even his quirk had developed with experience, and his lapses of brain fog or short circuits were few and far between out on the field, despite now being able to produce almost 5 million volts before the fatigue hit. 

Half that voltage alone was enough to kill an entire crowd of people, and knowing that only made his disappearance more of an anomaly amongst all the other heroes who went before him. 

But Kirishima wasn’t angry enough to think about that anymore. 

Now he was just tired. They all were. And as the late hours dragged along and the apartment eventually quietened once more, he wondered how far and how late Bakugo would make it this time before he called it a night. 

Kirishima wondered this for a little while, almost enough to warrant a phone call to ensure the latter was safe, but his better judgment told him Bakugo could handle himself 

And he would be right, as somewhere deep in the city  the stubborn hero trudged the back alley streets in search of a miracle. 

Being his day off, Bakugo did well enough to pass as a civilian during the night in his casual clothes, the darkness obstructing what would typically make him far more recognisable with his blonde spikes. Not that he cared about whatever attention he was prone to drawing outside his hero costume, he’d been itching for a fight as of late anyway, the thought of a villain encounter an almost welcome one. 

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he walked, grumbling under his breath in a cacophony of nonsensical grievances as a white hot rage he’d grown all too familiar with recently sang through him. Sure, Bakugo was pissed off at everyone and everything most of the time anyway, but this was different. 

This was an anger so heavy it almost completely suppressed the grief bubbling beneath. 

Almost. 

That was if he could even call this feeling grief at all. It’s hard to place the type of things you feel when you don’t know if you’re supposed to treat your friend like they’re dead yet or not. Part of him didn’t think he ever would, not when their last conversation together had been one so bitter and spiteful. Some days he tried to forget how harsh he had been, like if he focused hard enough he could pretend they hadn’t fought one last time before he disappeared. 

They should’ve known this was coming. 

At first, it was distant. Father away. Isolated incidents on the other side of Japan, unrelated to one another, they’d said. But then they started piecing things together, and soon they started moving closer, more and more until 3 months ago the first of their own disappeared. 

Hitoshi Shinso was the last of those who never returned. At least, not in the 6 months preceding the start of this string of missing heroes. By this point, the commission thought they’d tracked the pattern, that they had even the slightest clue of what they were up against. But that was before the bodies started appearing, and suddenly the country was on high alert all over again. 

It wasn’t until the Anivoice hero was found dead 3 weeks after his own disappearance that new sanctions were implemented by the near and far authorities, eventually taking precedence through the whole of Japan. The ‘Hero Protection Act’, they called it; a bit pretentious if nothing else, sure, but it did what it was made to do. 

And what it was made to do was keep heroes safe. But if you asked Bakugo about it he’d only blow into another fit of rage at such a stupid prospect, especially with the new curfew in place forbidding off-duty pros from being out beyond midnight hours. This meant that, even amongst the gathering efforts to find Denki, no one outside their stationed hours was permitted onto the field unless of an emergency. With a penalty as harsh as having your hero license temporarily suspended, many chose to abide by this new law despite their eagerness to help. 

Bakugo checked his phone. 1:06am. 

He let out an agitated ‘tch’ and shoved it back into his pockets.

He wasn’t on patrol, nor was he dressed as such, but with the frequency of his late night walks through the most avoided areas of the city, there was always something in the back of his mind that hoped something would happen. That he’d be encountered by a villain stupid enough not to recognise him. If he were lucky, maybe he’d be the next target on the list of whatever bastard had taken his friend. 

Or maybe he was just looking for someone to take his anger out on. 

——————————————————

By the time Bakugo returned home—his own home this time, that is—it was well past 2am, and in his conscious effort to keep the noise to a minimum, he realised as he slipped out of his shoes there was the faint smell of recently cooked food. He entered the kitchen and found that, sure enough, there was a bowl of miso soup waiting for him in the microwave. 

He sighed. That damn idiot had cooked for both of them again. 

Bakugo had told him only a week ago to start expecting more late nights, and yet, each time, there was a meal waiting for him when he returned regardless of the hour. But he wasn’t hungry right now, and so he made a note to remember to take it to work the next day as he trudged through the still quiet of his home. 

The bedroom door had been left slightly ajar, as it often was when a certain someone knew he’d be home long after he went to bed for the night, confirmed by the sleeping lump of Izuku Midoriya curled under the covers as Bakugo entered. The moon shone between the cracks in the blinds, catching his sleeping face to paint it in delicate moonlight. 

Bakugo closed the door behind him, and from the edge of their bed came a soft, welcoming ‘meow’. 

His lips perked up ever so slightly. If he weren’t so exhausted, he might’ve actually smiled. 

He undressed quietly, sinking down onto the bed edge before the soft prodding of paws on sheets sounded, and then a gentle face of fur nuzzled into his calloused knuckles, the tabby cat burrowing itself against him in familiarity. The tension in his shoulders visibly decreased, a heavy breath falling from him before the feline retreated back to her spot at the end of the bed, circling the dent in the covers shaped to mould her furry form as she purred contently. 

It had been Izuku who originally broached the idea to get a cat two years ago, even with his partners' vehement opposition.

 But—as it would turn out—Bakugo was a cat person. 

He soon settled himself under the covers, though he knew it would be a long time yet before sleep called to him. Instead, he lay with his back facing Izuku, eyes half lidded and trained right for their bedroom door. Perhaps it would be fair to say that Bakugo had been a bit paranoid as of late, with recent events instilling a constant unease that even the experienced hero couldn’t shake. A good night's sleep was a luxury he seldom received these days, and this time was no exception. 

There was a shuffle behind him after just a few moments, and then soft hands snaked through his waist and settled against his chest, curling around him. Izuku hummed tiredly, his half asleep way of saying ‘welcome home’. 

Bakugo’s hand trailed along the latters arm to meet his hand—just as scarred as his own—yet faithfully calming as he let his eyes sag just a little more. Izuku’s face nestled into the nape at the back of his neck, their bodies pressed so perfectly against one another that he could’ve sworn he felt their heartbeats synchronise into one. 

Bakugo stayed like that for a little while, eyes slowly dragging from the door and down to the hand snug against his bare chest. This was nice, perfect even, and yet he found he couldn’t allow himself to savour it without scolding himself for all the things he could be doing right now. All the places he could be looking, the people he could be questioning, the leads he could be following. 

But he wasn’t, and couldn’t, so for now, he’d settle for this small patch of comfort Izuku had sewed into his aching heart. 

An hour or so later, sleep came for him, too. 

The night bore on; hundreds of heroes around Japan followed suit in slumber, and yet, somewhere else in the city—somewhere deep where light did not reach and sound did not echo—one missing hero in particular was waking up…

—-------------------------------------------------------

Red Riot and Cellophane were on the move. 

The former raced through the bustling streets of the city, diverging panicked crowds that threatened to fall victim to the webbing cracks currently snaking into the concrete beneath, breaking apart and giving way to a series of sinkholes. The latter swung high above the commotion, propelled by the tape that dispensed from his elbows as he pivoted between buildings with ease. HIs birds eye view honed in on their target, a shrouded figure barrelling away from them, each step shattering through and levelling the concrete.

A nearby building lay ablaze with flames, half pitted deep in the ground, the location of the crime the suspect was now fleeing from. 

“Cellophane, you still got eyes on him?” Kirishima’s voice bellowed through their comms, his voice strained. 

Sero looked across the street to see him carrying a pair of civilians to safety from the oscillating layers of concrete, half caved in, half risen with jagged debris. 

“Hot on his tail! He’s making a turn for the markets!” He called back over, and sure enough, the hooded assailant plowed through civilians in the chaos of the chase, weaving his way straight into the narrow and infinitely more packed area that was the city markets.

This bastards quirk–Earthquake– was a tough one to combat. The balance between apprehension and the safety of civilians wore thin between the two heroes.

“This isn’t working,” Another voice yelled across the radio channel, that of the absorption hero Fatgum. He trailed a small ways behind KIrishima.  “We need to weed him out of the crowds and go for a direct approach. Cellophane, do not lose him. Red Riot, fall back from civilian welfare and follow his directions. We’ll take on rescue from here.”

“Sure thing, sir! You sure you-”

“We got it.” Suneater’s voice blared through, sharp. He flew far behind, assisting those in need amidst the remaining wreckage. “Right now you’re the only one that can power through pure concrete. We need you close enough to get those cuffs on him.”

Kirishima grinned with all the determination of the same boy that had interned with Fatgum over a decade prior. “On it!” 

And then he was off, the aforementioned heroes quickly catching up to take his place in aiding the endangered, and through the densely packed horde, Kirishima made note of the fact that the ground was no longer trembling. His quirk had disabled for now. Good. Better he try to blend in with the crowd than capsize it. 

From above, Sero had perched himself on one of the surrounding rooftops, a vantage point that lent him a view of the entire market sprawl. 

“Cellophane, talk to me man,” Kirishima urged as he raced his way forward, the thick mass of seemingly unbothered people obstructing his line of sight, and he might’ve been surprised that no one seemed privy to the sinkhole ridden streets just half a mile away if he wasn’t experiencing the deafening cacophony of the markets weekend rush firsthand. No wonder. 

“Keep going in that direction, he’s dragging behind.” Sero scoped, weaving across rooftops to maintain his sights. 

Amidst the hefty vendor carts and eager customers, it was easy to lose track of a single person in a place like this. But not for Sero, his expertise long since trained to maintain fast moving and difficult targets. His quirk, mixed with his natural agility, had proven the hero a formidable marksman. 

“Don’t rush. We can’t have him using his quirk in a place like this.” Fatgum warned.

“It’s cool. Everything’s cool.” Kirishima assured him as the latter quickly reminded him to focus against the casualness of his demeanour.

Thankfully, his notable height gave him some advantage in this pursuit, peering above the majority of the crowd to gauge the distance between them. 

But–at an equal disadvantage–their perpetrator was short, short enough to meld so well with the crowds that Kirishima was running solely on Sero’s direction. 

“Careful, he’s changing directions,” He advised. “Looks like the dudes tryna get to the alleys. This could get tricky.”

“Then we better catch him before he gets too far,” 

It was at times like this, fuelled by adrenaline and an impenetrable sense of justice, that it was easy for Kirishima to forget that his friend was missing; that he’d failed not only as a hero, but as a friend. As Eijiro. But right now he was Red Riot, and Red Riot was unbreakable for a reason. 

Just as Sero had warned, the villain ducked and weaved off to the street's edge, heading straight to the nearest open alley. 

“Next right alley!” He bellowed. “All you, Red Riot!” In such a high traffic area of the city, these alleys were winding; maze-like backstreets that connected half the domestic areas together. They couldn’t lose him. 

Kirishima moved faster now, his steps growing heavier as the activation of his hardening quirk spread throughout his body. He pulled away from the crowd, sprinting to follow the flurry of black clothing that disappeared around the alleys corner. Where before the streets had been cramped but malleable, now they were narrow, meandering pathways that diverged at several different crossroads at any given point. But Kirishima was only a few meters away now, skidding around corners as feeble blasts of rising concrete ricocheted off his body. 

The assailants' attacks were getting weaker, more contained. He wasn’t stupid enough to use the full capacity of his quirk when any surrounding building could collapse and crush the both of them. He just had to make use of that. 

Kirishima’s hands fell down to his waistband, unclipping the pair of quirk nullifying handcuffs in preparation to apprehend. Another pillar of concrete rose from the ground, though this time he did not dodge; instead, he leapt atop it, using the elevation to propel him upward in a motion only further driven by his pure lean strength. There was a good few seconds of air time, the distance between him and his target closing rapidly, and just as he was sure this was a done deal, he wound back his fist and-

Kirishima’s hardened fist collided with concrete, a last ditch attempt from the villain to evade him. But he shot straight through, the impact sending the latter sprawling face first into the ground with a harsh scrape. 

“Riot, you good?” Sero’s voice blared, having heard the nearby commotion. 

The fired up hero wasted no time to answer, and between the time it took him to pull himself back onto his feet and close in on the incapacitated suspect, he froze. In the midst of the altercation, the man's hood had fallen down, revealing a head of bright yellow hair. 

Kirishima reeled back. 

The distant recollection of a phantom-like face flashed in the back of his mind. The villain–a stranger he realised he did not know when he finally looked up from where he lay against the ground–stared back at him, defiant yet confused by the typically boisterous hero’s second of hesitation. 

A second was all he needed, though. He tapped his foot onto the ground beneath him, just once, and suddenly the ground beneath Kirishima was shaking. 

He didn’t have time to move. He was too slow, his chest was tight and heavy all of a sudden, he couldn’t think straight–fuck, why couldn’t he think straight-

This time, the pillar of cement that shot outwards did not miss, and Kirishima flung back, the force sending him smashing into the adjacent alley wall and a shattering pain erupted in his back. That shouldn’t have hurt him. He collapsed down onto his knees, and only when he looked down did he realise that–in whatever lapse of disturbance had washed over him–his hardening had deactivated on it’s own accord.

Just as he tried to stand, the concrete levelled and collapsed inwards, the tiny alley reduced to a hero sized sinkhole that almost swallowed him whole. Almost, for just as the shuddering ground gave way beneath him and his hands failed to find any kind of purchase, a familiar coil of tape snaked itself around his wrist. 

“Woah, I gotcha!” Kirishima looked up to see Sero, perched upon the balcony of an upper residential level, his other elbow extended as another string of tape shot out to pin the fleeing villain to the ground by his feet, subduing the activation of his quirk. Kirishima’s hardening strengthened tenfold as the latter hoisted him up from the gaping chasm in the ground.

He landed with a thunderous boom that cracked concrete, though before he could really register that his legs were working again, Sero reeled back, using both arms of tape in a sort of slingshot motion before plummeting down, crashing down upon the assailant so hard the ground shook and a plume of smoke dispersed out amidst the fragments of debris. 

The smoke cleared, and Kirishima pushed his legs to move again, so frustratingly heavy, catching up to find his teammate cuffing the now unconscious villain. 

“Boys, what’s the situation?” Fatgum asked cautiously through the headpiece, as though wary of Kirishima’s prior silence. 

And so–this time–he answered. “Crisis averted,” He responded, breathless. “We got him.” 

Sero looked over to his friend. He was wincing slightly, his breaths far too harsh and his fists clenched far too tight; whether a product of his injuries or a response to his own slip up, he wasn’t sure. But then he looked down at their culprit, really looked at him this time, and suddenly he understood. He understood even as Red Riot composed himself within a matter of seconds, even as he grinned and praised their success, that his heart wasn’t really in it. 

It didn’t take long for the police to arrive at the scene after that, congregating throughout the lengths of the alley to haul their convict away and ensure the welfare of nearby citizens in their homes. Luckily, the damage here had been minimal, though the same could not be said of the neighbouring streets, now littered with aid to assist those injured in the manmade disaster.  

Fatgum quickly reconvened with the two heroes, having left Amajiki at the primary disaster sight to keep up support until road maintenance arrived to repair the damages. 

“Good work out there. You two prevented a hell of a lot of casualties.” He commended upon arrival, and though he had not been privy to Kirishima’s little mishap back there, the notable and extensive contusion lining his bare spine was enough to hint that something had gone amiss. “Woah– you took quite the hit back there, huh? We’ll get that checked out.”

“Oh, it’s all good. Barely felt it,” He promptly lied, and though he could not see beneath Sero’s blacked out helmet, he knew just by the way he faced his general direction that he’d call bullshit if he wasn’t in the presence of Fatgum. Probably better that his face was concealed too, for his expression read in much more of a ‘you’re such a dogshit liar’ fashion than a celebration of the mission's triumph. 

Sero hadn’t said much at all since the villain's arrest, stuck in this hailstorm of conflict between the concern of a friend and the steadfastness of a pro hero. Sure, he’d be lying if he feigned apathy for the sake of their profession, but Sero had never been good at the emotional shit, anyway, and it didn’t help that Kirishima was so impossibly, painfully stubborn.

And yet, against his better judgement, he found for once he couldn’t just mind his own business.

Eventually, and far too soon for Kirishima’s liking, Fatgum left the two alone again to carry out one more sweep of the streets before leaving the rest of the operation to the cleanup team. 

Sero opened his mouth, but the latter was off before he could even hope to catch him to–god forbid–ask about his emotions. Oh, the horror. Kirishima was quick to busy himself in citizen aid, though there was only so much left to do in an incident with zero casualties, and even then the injuries sustained hardly exceeded anything more than minor. Still, if kept him from confronting such an embarrassingly foolish mistake, he’d happily spend an extra hour or two rummaging through debris. 

By the time they were sure they had done all they could do, it was almost 3pm, and street repairs were already taking place. 

Fatgum and Amajiki had since returned to the formers agency for the day, and though the police force on scene had offered the same courtesy to the two remaining heroes, they had both swiftly denied in favour of taking the 25 minute walk back to their respective agencies, only a block away from one another. Besides, an extra patrol of the streets before their shifts ended was never a bad thing.

It was hardly 5 minutes into their walk that Kirishima was starting to regret that decision. 

“So,” Oh god. “Are we gonna talk about what happened back there?” Jeez, straight into it, huh? 

Sero’s pointed gaze was unavoidable now, devoid of the comfort of not being able to see his expression beneath the helmet he now clasped under his arm. 

Sero had never been one to be the confronter of emotional affairs, in fact he was typically the one being confronted, a product of his chronic habit of repression, the past two weeks further proof of that fact. But Kirishima was never one to get distracted, either, so this would be a rare occurrence for the both of them. Not that he didn’t understand why, of course, for the unwelcome reminder of their dire situation might’ve staggered him too, had he not been solely focused on protecting the civilians around them. 

But Kirishima, as expected, just shrugged, the slight falter in his voice enough of a contradiction to tell Sero he was lying once again when he said. “It’s fine, man. We’ll talk about it later, yeah?” Which really meant they’d talk about it never as he clasped his friend on the back. 

Sero, in an equally deadpanned demeanour, turned to look down at his watch. A second passed, then two, then three, and after ten seconds he turned back to Kirishima. 

“Okay, this later enough for you?”

“Oh, c’mon dude, don’t be like that.”  

“Sure, sure,” Sero side-eyed back. “Just don’t go getting all weird about it for the rest of the night, will you? I don’t want you carrying this shit into our next job.” He was trying to be helpful, he really was, but the perpetual bluntness with which he spoke only made him sound like a bit of an asshole. “You don’t see me tripping over myself out there.”

Kirishima sighed. “Yeah, well, that’s cause you’re emotionally constipated,”

“Harsh.” 

“Not nice, is it?” 

Sero’s lips pursed, unable to deny he did lack a certain empathy that Kirishima was in no short supply of at any given time. “Look, dude, my point is that you need to leave that shit at the door as soon as you leave for this job. That’s just how it works.” 

“It’s not that easy-”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sero interrupted, and in that moment Kirishima reminded himself that he was Denki’s friend too. 

For the most part, the group had strayed away from saying his name directly, as though simply speaking it would make his absence far more weighted; far more real. Surely, this conversation was bound to happen sooner or later, though, each of them had been tending to whatever boiling pot of emotions was just about ready to overflow for weeks now. 

Sero sighed, this time sounding a lot more genuine as he spoke. “Trust me, I get it. But right now, when we’re wearing these-” His finger switched between the two of them, adorning their hero outfits. “We have a job to do. Lives are at risk when we’re out there and we can’t afford to get distracted.”

Kirishima’s fist tightened. How selfish of them, to consider Denki a distraction at a time like this. To consider him nothing more than a hindrance when he was their friend and he was missing, where he could be injured or dying or worse things that he didn’t want to think about. And yet, frustratingly, Sero was right.

“I know. I’m sorry, I just–” He paused, and though he could’ve named a million and one reasons as to why he felt like he’d failed in every way a hero and a friend could possibly fail, a morbid laugh escaped him. “I just miss him, y’know? He’d have been a great help with us today, too, I bet.” 

Against the urge to remind Kirishima of their unfortunate reality, Sero just smiled, playing into this fantasy of reminiscence. Just this once. 

“Oh yeah, he’d have taken him down like a badass,”

“Badass is a bit of an overstatement,” 

Sero laughed. “Heh, sure. I guess we can’t kiss his ass too much while he’s gone,”

“Oh yeah, his egos big enough already.” Kirishima’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, more genuine than Sero had seen in a while. 

“You remember what happened last time Katsuki semi-praised him?” 

“Oh my god,” Kirishima laughed, thinking back fondly.  “God, that was–what? 2 years ago? He still brings it up from time to time,”

“Sounds about right.” 

The laughter between them died down after a few moments, the recollection of that memory followed by the bitter reminder that it was just that. A memory. That reality settled between them in the silence that followed, harsh and unsettling. Here they were, laughing together, joking as though they had no care in the world, and yet, the very person whose memory alone brought them such joy was gone. Stolen from them. 

“Why don’t you stay at your own place tonight? ” Sero spoke up suddenly, and Kirishima’s eyes lifted over to him. “I’ll check on Jiro, you just take a break. Mina too, you two haven’t had a night home together in a while.”

“Oh, no, it’s alright-”

“Alright, let me rephrase, then. Go home tonight, bro. You haven’t slept right in weeks.” And then, when he sensed Kirishima wasn’t done trying to argue as he opened his mouth, Sero held his hand up. “Don’t even try. Those bags under your eyes are intense, dude.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll be thanking be later,”

Kirishima couldn’t help but laugh at that, and though he hadn’t been in front of a mirror for long enough or recent enough to confirm his friends words, he trusted that he wasn’t far off, given the amount of sleep he’d been experiencing recently. Or lack thereof.

“I guess you’re right,” He finally relented. “…Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sero clapped Kirishima on the shoulder as he looked away, dismissive of his gratitude only for the fact that he’d had his fill of emotional shit for today. 

“Red Riot?!” A shrill, high pitched voice rang out from across the street.

“Sweetie, it’s rude to stare.”

“No, mama! It’s the hero Red Riot! He’s right there!” 

Sure enough, when Kirishima looked behind him, his eyes fell to a small child jumping up and down frantically not too far away, dragging on his mothers hand who seemed to be struggling to contain the boy's excitement.

Within a split second, his demeanour changed completely. Being a part of the top 10 in the whole of Japan was a heavy title to live up to, though it really hadn’t taken long for the public to revere him for his gentleness and sincerity despite the opposing nature of his quirk when he first started out as a hero. True to his character, he’d done a damn good job at upholding that reputation up to now. As such, many kids adored his badass looks, and many parents approved of him as a role model. 

“Hope you brought a pen this time,” Sero teased, reminding Kirishima of the last kid he’d left crying for not bringing one to give his autograph. 

“Oh nah, I learned my lesson last time,” He assured him with a nervous laugh. 

“Sweet. In that case, I’ll leave you to it,” With that, Sero turned back in the direction they had been walking, clearly not intent on staying to third wheel the fan meet. 

He himself wasn’t high enough on the ranks to get much public recognition, a feat he considered a blessing considering his natural awkwardness, especially when it came to kids. 

“Yeah, sure, I’ll catch you later?” 

”Sure will,” He twisted on his heel to walk backwards for a few strides as he pointed at Kirishima. “And go home tonight,” 

“I will,”

“I’m serious. I’ll lock you out if I find you back at Jiro’s later.” 

Kirishima laughed, and Sero jabbed two fingers in an “I’m watching you motion” before leaving his hero companion to one last surprise mission before turning in for the day. 

—————————————————

It was a strange feeling; knowing your partner was out each day on some heroic mission to find a missing friend while you sat at a desk, equally as frustrating when you knew deep down you should be out there with him, and yet your greatest feat in life was worrying about whether or not you’d get all these exam papers graded on time. 

That was the reality for Izuku, at least, who sat before a large stack of marked papers and an even larger stack of unmarked ones, scribbling senselessly on a blank queue card in an attempt to activate the last of the dying pens ink. Despite the sheer opposition in profession, the fatigue that outlined the base of Izuku’s eyes was the very same that had been keeping Bakugo out so often so late, though the latter couldn’t have known just how often Izuku stayed up waiting for him, even on the early work days. 

He didn’t have time to know. If Bakugo wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t home. Whether he was out on the job or at Jiro’s or the police station or wandering the goddamn streets like a maniac, he was anywhere but with him. He was getting restless and frustrated with the lack of progress on Denki’s case, and for that Izuku could not blame him; Bakugo never liked not being good at things, and not being good at finding your missing friend was a pretty big thing to not be good at. 

Still, the strain of distance wore thin on him, and though their relationship had never been the type built on affection, Izuku missed his waking presence, selfish as that may have been.

When he realised his pen had run its course, he sighed. “Dammit.” He leaned back in his chair and tossed the pen into the nearest trash can–10 feet away–with perfect precision. 

Quirkless or otherwise, some skills had truly never left the former One For All wielder, his prior status as All Might’s successor and prodigy having stained his legacy long after the quirk itself had extinguished. As such, U.A high had held it’s formidable reputation even after class 1-A finally graduated, and even more so when Izuku returned, now as a teacher to guide other students as he had once been guided. 

And he loved his job; truly, he did, but even he had to admit it was hard to find the joy in reading the same questions 100 times over on two hours sleep with a pen that didn’t fucking work and a partner that was never fucking home. 

As he rifled through his drawer in search of a new pen, a familiar grumble sounded from the desk opposite his own, his face blocked by the computer screen in front of him. 

“Third drawer,” Shouta Aizawa reminded him without missing a beat in whatever he was typing on his keyboard. 

Izuku breathed a laugh, too exhausted to be convincing. “Right,” He then equipped himself and began sifting through papers once more. 

But his eyes were jumping words and mixing letters, so much so that it wasn’t until he was still on the same paper some 15 minutes later that Aizawa spoke up once more. 

“What was it this time?”

Here we go.

“Are you asking because you care or so you can judge me for it?” Izuku leaned to the side of his computer screen, though still couldn’t catch a glance of his old teacher's face from his unmoving position in front of his own. 

Then, when he did not answer at all, Izuku relented with all the resolve of a crumbling tower of cards. “2am.”

“And when did you wake up?”

Izuku rubbed the bridge of his nose up along his brows. “2 hours after that..”

Maybe it was the constant nights waiting for Bakugo to return, or maybe it was the crushing weight of exam season, or maybe it was the fact that Denki was nowhere to be found and heroes were still turning up dead or maybe it was a mix of all these things and more, but Izuku was exhausted. 

“Should I be planning some kind of intervention?” Aizawa asked in his own, perpetually tired fashion, though that was more a product of his monotone character than a statement of his sleeping schedule. 

“I’m okay,” Izuku assured him, to which Aizawa responded with an unconvinced ‘hm’.

“Remember these are your students' futures on the line here, Midoriya.” This time, he leaned over in his chair, his tired eyes intense, even half covered by his midnight hair. “If you’re not up to the task, then we’ll hand these off to another faculty member who will grade them properly. I don’t want to have to reread all of these myself just to make sure you’ve done your job correctly,”

“I’m handling it,” Izuku answered, more insistent this time, as though offended by the accusation, albeit justified. 

He reached over to the marked stack, grabbing the top one from the pile and handing it over their respective desks to Aizawa. “Check for yourself.”

And Aizawa did, scanning through it and handing it back over just a few moments later when he begrudgingly realised he wasn’t lying. Even in his state of enervation, Izuku’s work chalked up to their standard. He shouldn’t have expected anything less, really, but the half tired half smug smile on his face pissed him off regardless.

“Just don’t be passing out in the middle of the longue. I won’t be hauling your ass to the infirmary.” 

“Noted.” Izuku smiled softly, grateful for his colleagues' concern.

Aizawa didn’t pry any further, and the clicking of keys continued. Izuku liked it that way, he liked that it wasn’t in his nature to press personal matters, that Aizawa no longer treated him as a student, but as an equal with his own dumbass choices to make and his own dumbass consequences to deal with. 

Or so he thought, but really it was a conscious effort on Aizawa’s part. Izuku had only been a staff member at U.A for the past five years, which–compared to the nearly twenty years Aizawa had worked preceding that–made it hard to shake himself of the image he had of Midoriya from his earlier, more reckless years. Thus, he forced himself to spare the latter of his lectures; he’d outgrown that by a decade, after all.

Nothing more was said between the two after that, each preoccupied in their own tasks until the eventual dusk, by which point school had ended hours before and the longue was half empty. Aizawa was the first to leave of the two, bidding one more merit of advice to take it easy before leaving Izuku to his last dozen papers. 

An hour later, he was done with those, too.

He looked down to his watch. 7pm. Bakugo wouldn’t be home for another four hours at the earliest. 

Izuku dreaded the thought of returning to an empty house once again; but god, he was so so tired. 

And so, betraying the sting in his chest that urged him to find just one more task, one more thing to pass the time, he packed up his things and left.

—————————————————

By the time Sero arrived at Jiro’s, it was bordering on 8pm. 

He knocked three times. No response. He’d expected as such; she hadn’t answered the door of her own accord in a week. Still, he thought it polite to indulge the etiquette regardless. Having a key to her apartment still felt kinda weird, even if it had been her suggestion, and as he reached into his pocket to produce said key, he pondered on just how desensitised his friend must’ve been to the sound of people entering her home.

I mean, one skilled lockpick and she wouldn’t know the difference between a friendly visit and a damn break in. 

Sero made sure to close the door audibly enough to be heard from Jiro’s room as he entered, not wanting to startle her in the case that she didn’t hear him until he knocked on her bedroom door to check in on her. 

“Hey, Kyoka, it’s just me!” He called out for extra precaution as he made his way through the living room and into the kitchen. 

Pots and empty plates lined the counter; the sink half full. Either someone had cooked for Jiro in the day or she had done so herself. In either case, it meant she was eating, and that was a good thing. Before anything else, Sero rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and filled the sink. The least he could do was offer a nicer environment to walk into for the next time she decided to leave her room. He did just that, and by the time the kitchen was clean, he’d not heard so much as a peep from down the hall. 

He sighed. 

Should he try talking to her? Really talking to her? Mina usually did a better job than him at that. Plus, he wasn’t sure how much more empathy he could pull out of his ass after his draining effort to comfort Kirishima earlier, he didn’t want to upset her anymore than she always was. 

He peered out into the hall, intendent on lingering there for a little while as he figured out how best to approach the situation onwards, but as his eyes caught Jiro’s bedroom door, he paused. 

It was open. Hardly ajar, but enough for Sero to notice. 

Fine, right? She was probably just in the bathroom. He looked to his left. Nope, bathroom door was wide open, and certainly no one inside with the lights turned off. 

“Kyoka?” He called out, actively sounding urgent in an attempt to draw some kind of response. 

Nothing. 

“Hey, you all good in there?” He went on as he hurried over, rationalising the empty silence as best he could.

Jiro hadn’t left her apartment for a week, and the daily check-ins had become frequent enough that surely she’d think to tell at least one of them of any plans to change that? 

Maybe she had. Maybe she had and someone had just forgotten to tell Sero. 

He peered through into the darkness between the crack of her door, spotting nothing discernable, and nothing outwardly worrying–thank god–though that did nothing to ease the concern that washed over him when he pushed the door open to find her sheets unkept and bed empty. 

He pulled out his phone and dialed her number, waiting hopefully. 

One ring. Two. By the third ring, he realised with a sinking feeling that something in Jiro’s room was buzzing. He walked inside and pulled back her covers, and by the tenth ring, he was sent to voicemail staring down at her phone. 

He didn’t let the message run, ending the call to dial Mina’s number.

She answered within three rings. “Sero, hey, what’s up?”

“Mina?”

“Uhhh, yeah?” 

“Hey, uh, by any chance has Jiro stopped by your place?” He asked, trying to mask the growing unnerve in his voice. 

“Has–what, no? Why?” 

Sero wasted no time in getting back out the front door. 

Not good. 

Not good.