Chapter Text
Denki thought it couldn’t get worse, surprise surprise, he was wrong.
Before, there had been the possibility. Jirou would come back. She just needed space. That Tokyo was temporary. That the apartment would eventually sound like her again. A fragile longshot, but present.
After the second fight, that illusion collapsed completely.
Now the silence wasn’t waiting.
It had settled.
The apartment felt wrong in a way he couldn’t articulate. Too big in some places, too empty in others, suffocating in most. Her side of the bed stayed untouched. Her mug was gone. Even the charger she always forgot to unplug had disappeared, leaving a bare outlet behind like proof she’d meant it this time.
Denki woke up with a pit in his chest every morning, like he’d forgotten something essential. No—like something was ripped out of his chest.
He kept reaching for his phone.
Kirishima first. Always Kirishima.
Sometimes Denki talked nonstop, voice frantic as he replayed the same moments over and over. Bali, the ring, the way she hadn’t cried when she left. Other times he said nothing at all, just breathed into the line while Kirishima stayed with him anyway.
Sero got the late-night calls.
The kind where Denki laughed too hard at nothing, where he said he was fine and then immediately contradicted himself. Sero tried jokes. Then distractions. Then the reminders for him to eat.
Mina was called during the day.
She didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t try to fix it either. She just listened, voice soft in a way Denki wasn’t used to from her, like she knew exactly how deep the hurt ran and wasn’t going to insult him by pretending it was temporary.
Nothing helped.
Even patrol made it worse.
Denki caught himself scanning crowds for her out of habit. Every dark jacket, every familiar silhouette made his heart jump before logic kicked in and reminded him she wasn’t here. He messed up formations. Took hits he shouldn’t have. Got benched once after freezing mid-fight, electricity stalling uselessly in his hands.
On one occasion, only once when no one else was available, he called Iida.
Out of everyone he could’ve called, Iida was probably one of the worst options. Not because he didn’t mean well or even had bad love advice, but because of how busy he was. It wasn’t even because he had an agency, but because he had a family. But Iida was nothing if not the savior. Denki eventually vented to him in yesterday’s clothes, eyes rimmed red.
“Kaminari,” Iida said carefully after he had finished, “You are not well.”
“No kidding,” Denki muttered.
Iida obviously didn’t talk long. He talked about structure. About routines. About the ‘importance of maintaining one’s health during emotional distress’. He offered to help Denki reorganize his schedule, even suggested temporary leave.
Denki thanked him for the help.
Then did none of it.
Because no amount of routine filled the space Jirou left behind.
That was the part no one seemed to understand.
It wasn’t just that she was gone, it was that she was supposed to be the one who stayed. The one he built a life with. The person he pictured in the future so clearly it felt inevitable. He wasn't a math guy, but she felt like the one constant, the one variable that was supposed to rely on.
Even now, even after everything, that image hadn’t faded.
And that was what hurt the most.
He lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about a ring no one would ever wear, about a future that only existed in his head, about how loving someone didn’t mean they wanted the same things, even after six years.
The void in his chest didn’t ache anymore.
It just stayed.
And Denki had no idea how to live around it.
-
The knock was loud.
Not polite. Not rhythmic. Just three sharp impacts against the door that made Denki flinch on the couch, heart jumping. He didn’t answer, just hit behind the cushions stared at the door with wide eyes.
The knock came again.
“Kaminari,” Bakugou’s voice cut through the door, unmistakable even muffled, “Open the door before I break it.”
Denki groaned and dragged himself upright, feet heavy as he shuffled over and cracked the door open.
Bakugou stood there with two grocery bags hooked over his forearms, scowl set firmly in place. He took one look at Denki; sunken eyes, slouched posture, apartment dim and stale behind him, and clicked his tongue.
“Jesus. You look like hell.”
“Nice to see you too,” Denki muttered, stepping aside.
Bakugou didn’t comment on the state of the apartment, but his eyes clocked everything anyway. The untouched dishes, closed curtains, the couch Denki had clearly been living on…he wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Sit,” Bakugou ordered, gesturing to the kitchen island.
“I didn’t—”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Denki sat silently on the stool, arms folding in defensively as Bakugou moved with practiced efficiency, setting bags down, washing his hands, pulling out a pan like he owned the place.
“So,” Bakugou said, breaking the silence as oil hit the pan with a hiss, “You gonna talk or just rot?”
Denki bristled, “I’m not rotting.”
Bakugou snorted, “You haven’t showered in at least three days.”
Denki opened his mouth, then closed it.
Bakugou didn’t look at him when he spoke next, “You fucked up.”
Denki’s chest tightened instantly, “I didn’t—”
“You did,” Bakugou cut in, sharp and final, “And before you start listing all the ways you were a ‘good boyfriend,’ save it. I already know.”
That struck a nerve.
“I supported her,” Denki shot back, sitting forward. Bakugou rolled his eyes, opening a pack of tofu, “I showed up. I went to her award ceremonies, backed her agency, took extra patrols so she could focus on building her name…I’ve always been in her corner.”
Bakugou finally turned, wooden spoon in hand, eyes narrowed, “And?”
Denki faltered, “What do you mean, ‘and’?”
“None of that matters now,” Bakugou said flatly, taking out a cutting board, “You’ve been in last place all your life idiot,”
“Jeez dude…couldn’t have phrased it any better?”
“And now you think that her moving forward is leaving you behind. You turned her winning into you losing.”
Denki stood up so fast the couch creaked, “That’s not true.”
Bakugou didn’t flinch, “You sure?”
“Yes,” Denki snapped. “I was happy for her. I am happy for her. I just—”
“You just couldn’t handle that her future didn’t automatically include the one you picked for her,” Bakugou interrupted.
Denki shook his head violently. “No. No, that’s not what this was. The ring wasn’t—”
“Confidence?” Bakugou finished for him, unimpressed. “It sure as hell wasn’t security. It was duct tape.”
They sat in Denki’s realization in silence. He watched as Bakugou sauteed scallions and pork, flicking his wrist with practiced precision.
“She took three weeks,” Bakugou added, “Three weeks to think. To grow. To figure out what she wanted.” He turned, eyes sharp, “You couldn’t even take two days to sit with your discomfort without trying to fix it with a shiny rock.”
“That ring wasn’t you believing in your relationship,” Bakugou continued, plating food with deliberate care. “It was you panicking and trying to patch a crack before it split open. You felt her pulling away and instead of asking why, you tried to lock it down.”
He set the plate down on the counter with a soft clink.
“You weren’t listening,” Bakugou said, “You were reacting.”
Denki’s throat burned, “I just wanted us to be okay.”
Bakugou sighed, running a hand through his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less firm.
“Then listen carefully,” he said, “If you apologize, don’t do it to get her back. Do it because you finally understand what you did.”
Denki rested his elbows on the linoleum, hands shaking.
The silence stretched.
Denki stared at the plate of Mapo Tofu in front of him, chest tight, something heavy and awful settling in his gut.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked, voice meeker than he had meant it to sound.
Bakugou sighed as he served himself a plate, “Because as many differences as me and ears have, I know she deserves someone who gives her peace in the wack-ass world she made for herself,” he started.
“And you’ve been doing an alright job so far.”
For the first time since Bali, the pain shifted.
Denki smiled at the other, picking up his fork, “You’re a good friend Bakugou.”
“Tch,” he scoffed, “Don’t I know it.”
They ate in silence after that, and even when they were done he didn’t stay long. He helped Denki out with the dishes and left, putting the purposefully copious amount of Mapo Tofu in the fridge.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said as he was about to close the door, “I better not see you two as tomorrow's top story.”
It wasn’t just loss anymore.
It was understanding.