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They’re like fishhooks; slim, curved metal that tapers to a fine point. Leather strips are tied through holes in the dull ends. He can’t see what they’re connected to. He can’t see much of anything, except for Hitoshi’s face and hands and the fishhooks.
The first one pierces through the right side of his lower lip, forcing itself through skin and fascia, pulling the edge of his mouth open. Denki doesn’t scream yet, panting through his disbelief and struggling instinctively to pull away from the intrusion. He can’t move, though—every limb is restrained, his waist strapped down, even his neck and forehead.
“If you stop trying to move,” Hitoshi speaks, and it sounds wrong, “it’ll hurt less.”
The second fishhook is embedded on the other side of his lower lip, exposing his bottom teeth. Denki hears his guttural moan of pain, hears the rush of blood in his ears. He begins tasting metal coating his tongue.
By the third, pressed through the easy give of his cheek, he’s screaming.
“S— op,” he cries, but even the slightest movement of his mouth ignites fireworks in his lower lip, his cheek, diffusing outwards into the muscles of his face. “H—oshi— ‘ease— ouhh!”
The fourth, through his upper lip. The fifth, through the other side of it. A sixth, through his other cheek. His mouth is methodically forced open, cold air drying his teeth, blood pouring from the fresh wounds into the back of his throat.
He coughs, gags violently and sobs, and then the leather strips holding those fishhooks in place tense up and pull.
“N— ‘oshi!”
Squelch. He hears the pull of his flesh as those curved spikes lift and separate, stretching the gape of his mouth, ripping already inflamed fascia open wider. With blurred vision, hot tears and blood pouring down his face, Denki stares up at Hitoshi, and he can’t find anything in his eyes.
Hitoshi just watches him. He doesn’t do anything. This torture, this forceful opening of the mouth, serves no greater purpose. Denki chokes and quivers and tries to force the blood past his lips with his tongue. It’s a fruitless effort.
His mouth fills. Blood in the throat, blood coating his teeth, blood bubbling to the surface, past his teeth, squeezing around the hooks and through the holes they created.
Until he can’t breathe. Until everything is fuzzy, and he can’t see anything anymore. Only feels it when Hitoshi’s hand curves around the back of his head, holding him.
“There you go,” he says.
He wakes in a cold sweat, panting and midway through a sob. There are tears on his face that he shed in his sleep. Denki wipes at them with a trembling hand, pushing himself to his knees.
“Hitoshi,” he cries.
Beside him, Hitoshi is sleeping on his stomach, arms under his pillow. Denki shakes his shoulder gently, still breathing unevenly and wiping tears from his flushed cheeks. There are no holes there. There is no pain there. There is no blood. Still, tendrils of ice—of terror—are wiggling through his brain, a kind of fear he hasn’t felt since childhood nightmares sent him careening into his mother’s bed.
“Hitoshi,” he says again, a barely-there whimper.
His partner stirs, grumbling softly as he’s unwillingly pulled from sleep. Slowly, he shifts onto his side, smacking his lips and humming. Then his eyes crack open, peeking out through heavy lids.
Denki isn’t sure what to say. He sees Hitoshi looking at him, sees eyes that are familiar and sleepy and loving, and he barks a relieved sob.
“Denks?” Hitoshi reaches up to rub the fatigue from his eyes, blinking a few times, his expression morphing from tired to confused to concerned. He takes Denki’s hand in his, tightening his grip around shaking fingers, “Baby, what’s wrong?”
It wasn’t real. It was a dream.
It didn’t feel like a dream.
Denki melts, shifting his body so he can place his head on Hitoshi’s chest, not willing to let his hand go yet. He opens his mouth to explain, but he can’t make the words come out. He can’t stop seeing it: Hitoshi’s empty eyes, his hands moving methodically over Denki’s body, inflicting a torture on him that felt all too real.
For the rest of the night, Denki doesn’t go back to sleep.
“Denki…”
He’s running.
The terrain is uneven and rough, concrete roads littered with piles of garbage and broken appliances. Beneath him, the ground cracks with each pounding step.
Denki can see only a few feet ahead of him, can only run straight. He’s caged in by the towering walls of monochrome, identical concrete buildings. Behind him, Hitoshi’s voice echoes.
“You can’t run forever, sweetheart.”
There’s no love in the nickname. It’s dripping with disdain, bouncing off of brick walls and crashing into Denki like a punch.
He trips, tumbling to the ground, knocking his nose against the pavement. Denki cries out, struggling onto his back. Hitoshi is walking towards him. How did he catch up so fast? Denki shuffles backwards, trying desperately to push himself back to his feet, but his arms are shaking and weak like rubber.
Before him, Hitoshi kneels. Their eyes meet.
“Caught you.”
The city around them melts.
Denki blinks, and he’s face down on a metal table, shirtless and restrained by thick belts, a ball gag wedged between his teeth. Footsteps echo around him. Click, click, click. A metal schlick. The footsteps come closer, then stop at his side. Denki’s eyes seek in the dark, eventually making out the silhouette of Hitoshi.
He’s holding some kind of saw.
“I was thinking,” he says, conversational, “that you’ve always been a spineless coward. You try and pretend you’re not, but we both know the truth.”
He raises the saw, waving it in front of Denki’s face. Circular blade.
It’s a bone saw.
“Try not to scream so much this time.”
Zzzzzzzz.
“Nn,” Denki groans, pulling against his restraints. There’s no give, the material digging so deep into his body it’s surely leaving bruises. Saliva coats his lips.
It almost doesn’t hurt at first. It’s cold, then bright hot as spinning blades sink their teeth into the base of his neck. Denki feels the tug through his flesh as Hitoshi forces the saw through him, the whirr of it vibrating outwards through his body. It moves smoothly down the length of his spine.
There’s only heat, only wet, only the smell of copper. Denki’s wide eyes stare out into the nothingness around him, and he wails.
“Mm—nn, hn—!” he screeches. It’s garbled nothing.
His back is separating in two. Hitoshi is getting closer to the base of his spine now, passing his waist, and Denki hears the sickening squelch and pop of his skin, his dermis, his muscles parting for Hitoshi’s blade.
Red sea, he thinks hysterically.
With a final schlick, the blade is pulled up and out of his body, fire left behind in its wake, and the buzzing stops.
“This part won’t hurt much,” Hitoshi says. “You’ll see.”
It’s a useless placation, because Hitoshi’s hands forcing themselves into the split of Denki’s body is almost worse than the act of cutting. Denki shivers and howls, spit dripping onto the table, tears rolling into his hair. It’s all salt and metal and pain. Hitoshi’s fingers wiggle as if just to make it worse, and then—something indescribable. Pressure deep in his back.
There’s a vicious pull that punches the air out of Denki’s lungs, makes him whine and gasp. He hears Hitoshi grunting with effort, feels a quiver, like his muscles are straining inside of Denki.
Crack.
He doesn’t feel anything anymore.
“It’s called Night Terror. Appropriately,” Aizawa says.
“And this— this was one of the guys from the riot a few days ago?” asks Hitoshi, scanning the file that his dad’s lain out before them.
“Most likely, yes,” Aizawa nods.
This morning, Denki awoke to Hitoshi’s arms around him, holding his face against his chest, speaking to him desperately. Denki looked up at him dumbly, only half-awake, still shivering with the aftershocks of having his spine torn from his body.
“You were screaming,” Hitoshi whispered hoarsely.
Two may not yet be a pattern, but when Denki explained that his dream was a similar tableau of torture inflicted on him by Hitoshi, his boyfriend insisted that they get him checked out for quirk effects. They called into work. A last-minute doctor’s appointment and a drive to Aizawa’s home later, here they sit, reviewing the information that should have been sent to them by the police once all the caught villains were processed.
Hitoshi slides the file across the coffee table so Denki can get a closer look at it. He still feels subdued, in a daze, but he leans forward to examine it—and the attached photo of the villain—anyway.
“Do you remember this guy touching you?” Hitoshi asks him.
Denki frowns at it. The man is stocky and large, snarling at the camera with eyes that burn. He’s bald and has a goatee, a tattoo on his left shoulder. Slowly, Denki shakes his head.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “It was— I mean, it was so chaotic. I was being shoved and grabbed a lot, I can’t remember everyone who was around me at the time.”
“And while it’s likely that he influenced you through touch, it’s also possible that the quirk can be inflicted from a distance. That remains uncertain,” Aizawa says.
Hitoshi’s frown only deepens, his brow creasing, a scowl forming. Denki looks at him and wishes he were less tired so that he could crack some stupid joke to ease the tension.
“You’re saying he could have been targeting Denki?”
Denki reaches over to place his hand on Hitoshi’s. He rests his forehead in his other hand, lids heavy.
“It’s impossible to say, Hitoshi. Even if that were the case, he’ll be treated the same by the system regardless. I’ll be contacting the police to add another count of assault to his charges, and they’ll likely need to take your statement, Kaminari,” Aizawa replies. Always so calm. Always meeting his son’s anger with reason.
Stifling a groan, Denki says, “Okay.”
He feels rude for not lifting his head to look his former teacher in the eye, but he can barely even keep his eyes open.
“So, what,” Hitoshi pauses, flipping the file shut and pushing it back towards his father. “I mean, what do we do? How long is this going to last?”
“Well, Night Terror has different variants, and this man hasn’t been cooperative with the police, so I don’t have much information about that. It could last a few days or weeks. It could get worse and then stop very suddenly, or it could slowly taper off over time. As far as what you can do in the meantime,” Aizawa sighs, “try to make your bedroom as comfortable as possible and remove anything that can be used as a weapon.”
“Wh—“ Denki looks up at that, brow furrowing, “why?”
“This is an unpredictable quirk. Even more unpredictable is how you might respond if the dreams get worse. People have been known to become violent in their sleep, especially if they think they’re fighting to survive,” Aizawa explains. “It’s just a precaution.”
As they drive home, Denki obsesses. A precaution. Insurance, so that he doesn’t kill the person he loves most in this world while fighting, in his dreams, not to be killed by him.
What about me? he wonders. Aren’t I a weapon, too?
It’s more disorienting than before when Denki opens his eyes. He knows that he feels metal around his wrists and ankles, and there’s no give to them, so they probably aren’t connected to chains.
The water is what he notices next. He’s lying in it, some kind of shallow pool. It reminds him, vaguely, of a public wading pool he used to play in as a child. But darker. Colder. There’s no light, here. Goosebumps swim up and down his skin.
Denki turns his head, first to the right. Then, to the left, and he is met with the sight of bent knees. His gaze drifts upwards, even though he already knows who he’s going to see.
“Good,” Hitoshi says, though it hardly sounds like relief, “I thought you were already dead.”
Denki frowns. He doesn’t remember anything before this.
But, oh. His face is wet. He’s panting, quick and shallow breaths from aching lungs.
All he has time to think is, oh, then Hitoshi’s hand is covering his face and forcing him under.
Hitoshi drowns him like it’s friendly teasing. Holds him under, then lets him up again when Denki starts to think his time is up, but only allows a mere moment of breathing before pushing him down again.
At the surface, Denki gasps and tries to wrench his head away from Hitoshi’s grip.
“Stop,” he squeals.
Underneath, Denki’s eyes flutter open. He watches Hitoshi’s face through the cracks of his fingers, through the distortion of the water.
There’s no feeling there. Not even pleasure as he drains the life from Denki.
Denki watches while Hitoshi kills him, and he can’t help but love him anyway.
Denki startles, coughing as he drags himself out of his nightmare. He forces himself to sit up, panting. There’s still a fading fire in his chest, as if he really stopped breathing as he slept.
“Mm, babe?” Hitoshi’s voice makes Denki jump. He whips around to look at his boyfriend, who’s blinking up at him sleepily. “Bad one?”
Slowly, Denki’s breath is evening out. Though, still unable to speak, he just nods. He takes his head in his hands and draws in a shuddering breath. At his side, he feels Hitoshi sitting up and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Denki shakes his head. He sniffles as Hitoshi rubs his back, cooing sympathetically.
“Maybe, I…” he hesitates. Denki feels lips on his shoulder, and briefly wonders when he took his shirt off, then Hitoshi says, “I could distract you?”
It’s honestly the last thing Denki is in the mood for right now. But he’d certainly prefer the pleasurable release of an orgasm to the thick, inky terror coiling in his gut right now. He wets his lips and nods.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Hitoshi hums against his skin, pressing another kiss to his shoulder, then pulls away.
“Lie down, then,” he says. “I’ll do the work.”
Despite himself, Denki smiles softly at that. He lies back, resting his head on his pillow and looking up at Hitoshi. All he can see in the dark is the outline of his facial features, the minimal glow of his violet eyes.
Hitoshi kisses him, and Denki pushes all thoughts of blood and blades and oppressive, cold water to the back of his mind. He lets the heat of Hitoshi’s body absorb him, opens his mouth for him and sighs when Hitoshi nibbles on his lip.
They part, and Denki whispers, “I love you.”
“Mm.”
Hitoshi straddles him, their hips slotting together in that perfect, familiar way, and his mouth takes Denki’s again. His hands drift to Denki’s jaw, stroking tender, warm flesh. They slide down to his neck and stroke there, too. Hitoshi draws away from the kiss.
“…You aren’t really this stupid, are you?” asks Hitoshi.
Denki still can’t quite see his face.
“Wh— hrk!”
Hands tighten around Denki’s throat, moonlight floods in through the window, and there are his eyes. Empty.
Denki swings his head, craning to reach for the oxygen that hangs all around him, grabbing at Hitoshi’s hands. He pulls and scratches, tries squeezing his fingers underneath Hitoshi’s for leverage.
But Hitoshi is stronger, and Denki’s fight only makes him angry. He leans further forward, putting his weight into his hands and shoving Denki into the mattress. Denki wheezes.
“You think waking up will save you?” Hitoshi taunts. “You think a little daylight,” he pulls, then pushes Denki down again, “will keep me from you?”
Denki kicks at the mattress, tries twisting at the waist to throw Hitoshi off, reaches up to push at his face. His nails dig into cold skin.
“Nothing can save you from me!”
Everything is fading. Denki pushes and shoves and fails on all accounts. There are bombs going off in his lungs and a pressure strangling his brain.
Hitoshi shakes him like he’s a toy.
I’m going to die.
When he wakes again, Denki is on the floor. He must have thrown himself off as he struggled in his sleep. He gasps and shudders, sobbing fearfully. Denki grabs his throat, sucking in breath after blessed breath, staring up at the ceiling.
“Denki?”
He hears Hitoshi moving on the bed, shuffling across it and looking over the edge. In the dark, they watch each other, but Denki can’t see him.
“Hitoshi,” he croaks. “‘Toshi, turn the lights on. P-please.”
“Okay, okay,” Hitoshi answers hurriedly, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand and flicking it on. “Is that better?”
“Look at me,” Denki whispers.
Hitoshi does, brow furrowed in confusion. Eyes full of life and emotion and worry. And it’s almost enough, but not quite. Denki swallows around the lump in his throat, wipes an errant tear from his cheek.
“I love you,” he says softly.
At that, Hitoshi’s confusion softens into affection. He smiles weakly.
“I love you, too,” he says. “Do you need help getting up?”
Denki closes his eyes, sighing with relief. He nods. Hitoshi slides onto the floor beside him and takes his hands, pulling Denki up to sit. Even once he’s up, Hitoshi doesn’t let go of his hands, squeezing them instead.
“What… did I do?” he asks hesitantly.
“You know it isn’t really you,” Denki replies.
He can’t quite imagine what it must feel like for Hitoshi to know that, in Denki’s dreams, he’s the danger. That he’s hurting him over and over again. Even if it’s merely a puppet conjured up by the worst of Denki’s fears. By some cruel, terrible quirk.
“I know, but,” Hitoshi shrugs helplessly. “Do you know that? When it’s happening?”
Denki wets his lips, thinks, then shakes his head.
“It’s— like, some part of me knows that it’s… off. But it just keeps happening so fast. And you look like you, and sound like you. I know you would never hurt me, but I think that’s the point,” Denki explains.
He hates that he can’t give a different answer. That he can’t say, Yes, of course I know. I’d always know. Even in my sleep.
But he can’t say that, because minutes ago, he was on their bed with Hitoshi’s hands around his throat. Minutes ago, a false spectre of Hitoshi was killing him, and Denki was loving that version of him just as much as he loves him when he’s real. He looks down at their joined hands and feels his chin quiver.
“I think it’s getting worse,” he says. “I woke up, but, I. I wasn’t really awake. And then it happened again.”
Hitoshi looks so sad. He lets go of one of Denki’s hands, shifting so he can sit with his back to their bedframe and urging Denki to follow. When he does, Hitoshi wraps his arm around him, allowing Denki to rest his head on his shoulder. Hitoshi’s thumb strokes the back of his hand, his shoulder. He kisses the side of Denki’s head.
It’s all love. It’s so gentle. It’s familiar and real, and for the first time, a terrifying thought rears its head deep inside of Denki’s mind.
What if these dreams don’t get better? What if they make me afraid even when he’s real?
The thought makes him quiver more, makes him shudder, and a tear rolls down his cheek.
“You thought you were awake?” asks Hitoshi.
Denki nods. Hitoshi lifts his hand to kiss his knuckles, and Denki sniffs. He can’t lose this. He can’t.
Slowly, as if still thinking the idea through, Hitoshi suggests, “Maybe, we… we could have some kind of— safe word. Something I can say when you wake up so you know that you’re really awake. And if I don’t say it, then you would know you’re still dreaming.”
Honestly, Denki isn’t sure if he could even recall, in his sleep, that there’s a word Hitoshi is supposed to say. It could still help, though. Maybe be bizarre enough that, at least when he is awake, he won’t fear that he’s not.
Denki nuzzles closer, trying to reach every bit of warmth he can absorb from Hitoshi’s body next to his.
“Mittens,” he says.
Hitoshi huffs a soft laugh. He kisses the top of Denki’s head.
“Okay. Mittens.”
Two more nights go by.
After the third dream, Hitoshi called in sick for the both of them, then spent the day holding Denki on their sofa. They watched a sitcom and ordered takeout, and Denki pondered whether he should try staying awake for the fourth night.
“It’s not healthy,” Hitoshi said, “but I don’t think these nightmares are, either, so… whatever you need, whatever you think could help, I think you should try.”
Try, Denki did. He sent Hitoshi to bed with a chaste kiss, then stayed in the living room. He alternated between scrolling on his phone and watching the TV, his eyelids heavy and his stomach unsettled. Already sleep deprived from the past three nights, just turning his head too fast made him dizzy.
Then, he blinked, and Hitoshi was skinning him alive. Another blink, and he was in their bed, having his eyes plucked out and bleach poured down his throat. Another, and all he could see was fire.
Denki woke up screaming, scratching his arms, his quirk sparking wildly.
He didn’t try pulling an all-nighter on the fifth night.
If nothing else, “Mittens,” is working. Hitoshi says it, and Denki’s chest whooshes with relief. He settles into the real world and cries. He’s able to ease his raging quirk and let Hitoshi, real Hitoshi, his Hitoshi, hold him.
But, still, it’s a kind of brutality he’s never experienced before. A torture of its own, that he can’t sleep for longer than a few hours, that he wakes up full of adrenaline and distress. He feels like the living dead, drifting through the day in a haze. Hitoshi says something, and Denki barely hears it. His reaction time is horrific, his skin buzzing with nerves and electricity that he redirects into a battery just to try and find some relief.
By the sixth night, Denki is sitting on their bed, head in his hands, crying before anything has even happened.
“I’m scared,” he whimpers.
Hitoshi is holding him, because that’s all he can really do.
Helplessly, he says, “I know, love. I’m sorry.”
“I c— I feel like I’m dying.”
“Maybe we should go back to the doctor,” Hitoshi suggests gently. “Maybe there’s— I don’t know, something they could give you?”
Bitterly, Denki shakes his head, “Yeah, they’ll give me a sedative and then I’ll have an even harder time waking up and have to die even more times every night.”
Hitoshi doesn’t respond to that. What’s he supposed to say? He squeezes Denki and runs his fingers through his hair.
“Let’s just sit, for now,” he whispers. “We can lie down when you’re ready.”
For as long as these night terrors last, Denki will never be ready. He doesn’t say it, though. Hitoshi already knows.
It’s becoming familiar, now, the cold metal table. The way his body is rendered immovable, always tied down in some new way.
This time, the table has a wider surface than usual to accommodate the way in which he’s restrained. Spread eagle, wrists and ankles held down by curved rungs anchored within the table itself. Clad in nothing but his underwear, the bitter cold of the table floods through Denki’s skin, pouring itself into him until he’s shivering and coated in gooseflesh. His teeth start chattering and his hands are numb.
“Gotta be honest,” the voice still comes as a shock, causing Denki’s heart to leap into his throat, “this is getting a little boring, Denki.”
Swivelling his head, Denki tries to find him. There’s nothing but the blackness surrounding him. Then, Hitoshi takes a few steps forward, and Denki sees him. As if he’s stepped out of the shadows and into the light—only, there is no light, here.
“Please,” Denki stammers, jaw locking with the chill, “you don’t— I don’t understand. You c-can stop. If-f you’re bored, you c— you can st-stop.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Hitoshi replies.
He wanders around the side of the table, reaching into the darkness, seemingly shuffling through a pile or rack of tools that only he can see. Denki hears the shifts and claps of metal. He swallows, and his throat is like sandpaper. Finally, Hitoshi seems to find what he’s looking for. He grabs it and steps back.
This is familiar to Denki, too. Bone saw.
“I can’t stop,” Hitoshi finishes. He turns back to Denki, brow furrowed. “That’s sort of the whole point, love. This is what I’m here for. And you should already know that, given you’re the one who keeps calling me here.”
Gaping, Denki shakes his head. He can’t soothe the dryness in his mouth, can’t ease his chills. An ache begins to writhe in his stomach.
“I di— I’m not— I don’t want this!” he protests, eyes welling.
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
There’s a zzzzz as he powers on the saw. Testing it. Then he clicks it off again.
“It doesn’t matter what you want, or what I want. This is just the way it is. You call me and I come. I do what I’m supposed to do, and then I leave.”
Hitoshi explains it so matter-of-factly, as if Denki should be able to understand any of it. Like it’s just a boring everyday occurrence, a typical fact of life. With a sigh, Hitoshi steps up to the table, looking down on Denki, boring into his wide eyes with that dead, empty gaze.
“Anyway, I thought doing this might be kinda fun. I know the equipment’s a repeat, but, y’know. I can only come up with so many new ideas,” he says. He turns on the saw.
“Please,” Denki wheezes, brow pinched, lips quivering, “please, don’t. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Like I said. Not up to me, baby.”
Hitoshi lowers the saw, and Denki screams as it lodges into the tender flesh of his armpit. It slices through Denki like he’s butter, only stuttering when it hits his bone. Denki hears the crack when it forces its way through. Distantly, like an echo of a memory, he thinks that this amount of pain should be enough to render him unconscious.
But he doesn’t pass out. He feels it all. Hears a soft thunk and a metallic screech when the saw finishes roaring through his arm. Hitoshi shuts it off, placing his hand on Denki’s scalp and wrenching his head to the side. Forcing him to look.
His arm, still restrained at the wrist, is lying flat and limp on the table. There’s so much blood and fire and nausea, and Denki sobs and shudders. It’s not attached to him anymore. He tries to clench his fist, and he feels like he does, but his hand doesn’t move. There’s nothing there, now. Just his shoulder.
“No,” he wails, “no, no!”
Hitoshi, blessedly, releases Denki’s head so he can look away. He swipes his thumb under Denki’s nose, wiping away his snot, then pats him on the cheek.
“You always say that,” he hums, “and it never makes any difference. Ever heard the definition of insanity, Denks?”
He steps back and makes his way around Denki’s head to the other side of the table.
“Y—” Denki coughs and sputters, trembling so violently he can barely verbalize, “You’re ins-insane!”
“Mm.”
Hitoshi presses the saw into Denki’s shoulder and does it all again. He forces Denki to look, again, when he’s done. Among all the pain, Denki’s shoulder blades itch as his blood pools underneath him. Somewhere, in his increasingly incoherent wailing and stuttering and weeping, Denki hiccups, “Itchy,” and Hitoshi tuts, as if in sympathy. He slides his hand under Denki’s back, ignoring his holler of pain, and scratches his back.
Then, the legs.
They take longer. More meat for the blade to chew through. Hitoshi grunts as he works, holding Denki’s thigh down to try and keep him still as he works the saw through him. He repeats on the other side. Denki’s throat is raw and burning because he can’t stop screaming. He can’t pass out. He, somehow, hasn’t bled out. But his stomach hurts as if he had, and he eventually rolls on the stump of his left shoulder to puke on the table.
When Hitoshi is done, Denki is lying in a pool of his blood and sweat and vomit, no longer restrained, yet still unable to move.
Hitoshi turns off the saw and drops it on the floor. Into the void. Denki hears it clatter, and then nothing but his own groaning and crying.
“I’d say you did great, but,” Hitoshi exhales with boredom, “you didn’t.”
“Stop!”
Denki shoots up to sitting, heart racing in his chest. It’s so fast he can feel it slamming, feels it aching with the effort of pumping so much blood so quickly, and he thinks that surely it’s going at a dangerous rate. Surely, he could go into cardiac arrest. His fear alone will kill him.
“Baby.”
Behind him, Hitoshi sits up, warm hands finding his shoulders. Denki startles at the contact, pulling away from it.
“Mittens,” Hitoshi says.
The word alone melts some of the ice in Denki’s veins. His heart doesn’t settle, but his shoulders loosen, his lungs, and with it comes a helpless cry.
“It’s me, Denki. You’re awake.”
Denki turns and launches himself into Hitoshi’s arms. He takes stock of his own limbs, warm and circulating, fingers clenching in the material of Hitoshi’s sleep shirt, toes curling against their blankets. It’s real, and Hitoshi is holding him in his arms and kissing his head, and Denki is safe. He rests his head on Hitoshi’s chest so he can listen to his heartbeat.
Real.
“I d—” he hiccups and sniffs, “I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t— I can’t make it stop but I can’t take it anymore, ‘Toshi.”
Hitoshi strokes his hair.
“I know, Denki,” he whispers. “You won’t have to for much longer, I promise.”
At that, Denki shivers. He shakes his head, because how can Hitoshi possibly know that? How can he know for sure that this isn’t going to drag on, or maybe even last forever? Hitoshi kisses him again.
“I’ll make it quick this time, okay?”
Denki’s brow furrows. He tries to lift his head to look at Hitoshi, but his boyfriend just keeps petting his hair, holding him still.
“Wh—”
Gasping, Denki’s hand flies up to his neck. It burns, the needle, and Hitoshi is too strong to let him wrench his hand away, to let him remove the needle or escape his grip. Denki can do nothing but feel it as Hitoshi injects him. When he’s done, he slides the needle out and drops it on the floor, finally letting Denki go.
Flying backwards on the bed, Denki stares at Hitoshi in horror. He’s hyperventilating.
“What did you do?”
Hitoshi shrugs.
“It’s cyanide. It’ll hurt, but not for very long this time.”
“You,” Denki swallows. He grabs at his neck, rubbing over the sore, bleeding site of injection. “You knew— you knew the word. You’re r— this is real.”
He can feel it, already. Or, he thinks he does. His stomach is curdling and his limbs are filling with lead. Worse than that, though, and than what’s about to happen to him, is that Hitoshi doesn’t deny it. He simply makes a thoughtful face, like he’s considering what Denki’s just posited, then gets to his feet.
“Well, I think I’ll leave you to it,” he says.
And then he walks out of the room. Denki doesn’t have much time to think about that before he’s scrambling to the edge of the bed and vomiting on the floor. He stumbles onto the ground beside the puddle of it. He has to get out of here. He has to get help.
I don’t want to die.
But Denki can’t find the door. He can’t move without dry heaving, can never seem to pull in a deep breath. He pants, easing himself onto his side. Surrendering so much faster than he ever thought he would.
There, Denki seizes as his body suffocates itself to death.
Denki wakes.
“Mittens.”
He believes it.
He dies with his intestines strewn across the bed.
Denki wakes.
Denki wakes.
And wakes.
And wakes.
“…ki! Denks—baby, c’mon, you’ve gotta wake up, Denki! I’ve got you, please, please wake up.”
Denki wakes, again, in a violent flurry. He shoves Hitoshi as hard as he can, throwing himself out of the bed and onto the floor, legs tangled in the blankets.
“No!” he screams, “No, no, no, get away from me!”
Shuffling on his knees, he makes it as far as the closet door, but Denki can barely move, too frantic to disentangle himself from the blankets or turn on the lights so he can see where he’s going. He turns himself around, back to the closet, and hugs his legs.
I’m never going to escape, I’m never going to escape, I’m never going to escape.
“Please,” he weeps, “p-please— stop hu—urting me.”
Hitoshi’s still there, regaining his footing. Denki can feel him. Can feel knives and saws and hooks and water in his lungs and poison in his veins and hands around his throat and blood all over him. He’s soaked in it, sticky with it, dying all the time.
“Denki,” Hitoshi says, and he speaks slow. Quiet. Like trying to calm a feral animal.
As if Denki’s the one who poses a danger, here.
“Mittens,” Hitoshi whispers. “Denki, mittens. It’s me.”
Denki plants his forehead on his knees and keeps mumbling, keeps pleading and sobbing, rocking himself. He hears the shuffle and dip of the mattress, the skin-on-wood plap as Hitoshi steps off of the bed and moves closer to him, and Denki can’t catch his breath.
“Sweetheart, I’m not going to hurt you.”
You can’t run forever, sweetheart.
“No,” Denki moans.
One more footstep. Warmth growing closer, then the clunk as Hitoshi lowers himself to his knees. Denki can feel him, and knows that no matter how hard he tries, he will never outrun him.
“Mittens,” Hitoshi tries again, as if Denki didn’t hear him the first time. As if he doesn’t know, by now, that it’s a goddamn trick.
Denki hugs himself so tight it hurts, chest heaving.
“Wake up,” he whispers. “Please, please, wake up, Denki, wake up.”
“You’re already awake,” Hitoshi says, sounding incredulous, “Denki, you’re awake. Please look at me.”
“No,” Denki cries. “No, no, you’re a liar. You’re g-gonna hold me and then, I-I’ll think it’s okay, but you’ll kill me, then. You’ll p-poison me, or cut my head off or tear my guts out or make me electrocute myself or d-drown me, you’re gonna kill me, you don’t care about me, you’re not real, you’re not real, you’re a fucking liar!”
There’s a moment of silence, then. Like Hitoshi’s taken aback. Or maybe, like he’s finally going to admit it, outright, without taking the time to lull Denki into that sense of safety, first.
But Denki should know better by now. As he continues mumbling to himself, pleading with himself to finally wake up, Hitoshi speaks again.
“I know you’re scared,” his voice shakes. “I know you’re so, so scared, Denki, but I promise this is real. I promise, I would never, ever hurt you.”
Denki shakes his head again, refusing to lift his head from his knees. Hitoshi’s such a damn good liar.
“You cut my arms and legs off,” he starts at a shivering murmur, voice quickly rising in volume, “You put f-fucking hooks through my face, you cut all my skin off, you made me drink bleach and— and pulled out all my teeth, you beat me, you injected me with cyanide, you drowned me in a fucking kiddie pool, you strangled me, you cut my back open and pulled my spine out! You’re a fucking liar and I don’t believe you!” Panting, Denki finishes, “If you w-wanna kill me so fucking bad you don’t get to— to convince me I’m s-safe first.”
“Fuck.” Hitoshi sounds choked up, voice thick and wet when he says, “I don’t know what to do. Denki, you’re not asleep anymore. You woke up. You— you were screaming and I woke you up.”
Warmth on his knee. Denki flinches away from it. He hears a quiet, muffled sob. Then, the warmth retreats. Hitoshi retreats. There’s a click, and another, and another, and in his peripheral, Denki sees light. Both of their lamps and the overhead.
“Baby,” Hitoshi says. Denki can’t look up. He can’t look at those eyes, can’t fall for the loving intonation. “I love you so much, and I don’t know what to do but I know that I’m scaring you, so I’m going to leave all the lights on and go outside, okay? I’m— gonna go and I’m gonna call my dad, see if… see if he can help. I-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Footsteps. Creaking hinges. Click.
Silence.
There is only Denki’s uneven breathing, his muted whimpers, and the shuffle as he rocks himself back and forth.
By the time the door opens again, Denki’s face is numb. His teeth are buzzing, his nose is clogged, his lashes are soaked, lips swollen from chewing. He’s lifted his head only once, to examine the room and ensure that Hitoshi had truly gone.
Since then, he hides in the darkness of his arms and knees. It’s been long enough for Denki to question if Hitoshi was being honest, but he reminds himself each time that he should know better. That, any minute now, if he just stays still, stays here, he’ll wake up for real.
But then the door opens again, and the footsteps are heavier than Hitoshi’s, the unmistakable thickness of boots, and Denki’s insides seize up.
“Hi, Kaminari.”
It’s Aizawa’s voice. Not Hitoshi’s.
Denki hears Aizawa seating himself on the edge of the bed across from him, hears his hands rubbing together. He still doesn’t look up.
“I don’t need you to look at me, but can you say something so I know you didn’t fall asleep again?” he asks.
Scowling, Denki says, “I’m not awake.”
“Yes, Hitoshi told me that,” Aizawa replies. “Gotta admit, kiddo, that’s a little confusing for us, since we’re both awake. You seem pretty awake, too.”
“I’m not,” Denki snaps.
“Okay.”
And that’s it. He doesn’t deny it. Denki frowns at the absence of an argument, at the silence that follows. Aizawa’s never been here, before, has never been part of the torture, but Denki can see Hitoshi playing the long game. Can see him putting in this level of effort to make him feel safe, only to pull the rug and inflict some new, unimaginable horror on him. If that’s the case, though, why isn’t Aizawa arguing with him?
Curiously, Denki peeks, only slightly, over the edge of his arms. On the bed, Aizawa’s knees are apart, his arms crossed. He watches Denki, but doesn’t say anything. He looks like he always does, except that he’s in his pajamas.
“Yesterday, we learned a bit more about the villain who attacked you,” Aizawa says. “His variant of Night Terror is very advanced in terms of the pain it can cause, but it isn’t long-lasting. It’s a ‘gets worse before it gets better’ situation. If this nightmare was bad enough that you’re sure you’re still sleeping, it should clear up in the next couple of days at the most.”
Denki sniffs. False sense of security. Hitoshi knew “Mittens,” so of course Aizawa knows about Night Terror.
“Hitoshi’s outside,” Aizawa tells him. “Like, actually outside of the apartment. He’s told me he won’t come back inside until you say it’s okay. So, if you need some time, I can take him home with me for the rest of the night.”
Denki’s stomach turns at the thought. It isn’t real Hitoshi, but what happens when he leaves? What happens if Denki is left alone, here? Will something worse come? Will he be stuck here, waiting to wake up until he’s certain that he was wrong and allows Hitoshi to come back? Will that be the moment when he finally strikes?
“Kaminari,” Aizawa says. “What do you need? What will allow you to feel safe right now?”
Shivering, Denki wipes his face. He finally looks up at his former teacher, squinting against the lights he’s been blocking out.
“I want to wake up,” he whimpers.
Aizawa sighs.
“You’ve been sleep deprived all week,” he replies. “And your dreams are of the person sleeping beside you, who you love, torturing you. And then, in those dreams, you experience waking up right here, in your bed, and he hurts you again. What if you just… walked out of this room? Terrified as you are, what if you just take a look? Go… I don’t know. Touch your furniture. Drink some water. Look out of the window and watch for cars on the road. Feel your feet on the floor. Maybe doing those things will help you wake up.”
Denki hesitates. He watches Aizawa for a long time, pondering the suggestion.
He could walk out of his bedroom and into the black void with the metal table.
Or he could walk out of his bedroom and into their living room, with their couch and blankets and Hitoshi’s house plants, the TV and the kitchen with a leaking faucet, the bathroom door to his right with their teal bathmat and eucalyptus-scented diffuser reeds.
He could walk out of his bedroom and find himself in hell or at home. It’s a coin flip. But staying here, on the floor, is actively choosing hell.
Shuddering, finally reaching to unwrap himself from the tangled blankets, Denki slowly pushes himself to his feet. His knees are weak and his head is spinning.
“Would you like me to stay here or come with you?” asks Aizawa.
“Stay.”
Aizawa grunts.
Denki exits the bedroom and sees their living room and their couch and the houseplants, hears the leaking faucet and smells the eucalyptus. The lights are on. The blankets on the couch are tossed just as they were when he and Hitoshi vacated last night, the remote sticking out of the cushions vertically. There’s a takeout box on the counter that still needs to be scraped out and recycled.
Inhale.
Denki takes a step. The floor is cold on his feet, but not like the metal table. He presses his toes into the wood, as if to make sure he won’t fall through it and into the void. He touches the wall and approaches the couch. Denki turns his head to look out the window behind their TV. He sees a slowly brightening darkness, a streetlight, hears a car chugging in the distance.
He wipes his still-wet face. Swivels his head and doesn’t see Hitoshi or Aizawa anywhere. He walks to the far wall, where their bookshelf sits, and pulls a book down. Denki skims the title, then opens it and reads the first few sentences. They’re legible and, despite the slow reel of his exhausted brain, he understands them. Denki puts the book back.
Exhale.
“Aizawa-sensei?” he calls, voice cracking and probably too quiet.
His teacher pokes his head out of the bedroom.
“Yes.”
Denki wets his lips. He rubs his arm.
“I’m awake?”
“Yes.”
“You’re… sure?”
Aizawa’s expression is sympathetic. It’s uncharacteristic of him, but not something Denki hasn’t ever seen before. He’s seen it directed at Hitoshi, at some of their classmates from time to time.
“I’m sure, Kaminari. And I’m also sure that you won’t have to deal with this for very much longer, and that the villain who did this to you is going to pay dearly for it,” he says.
I’m awake, Denki tells himself. I’m awake and Aizawa had to come all the way here to convince me.
Finally, breaking through his fear, is relief and guilt. Denki sighs, rubbing his hand across his face and deflating.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “Oh my god. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology, Kaminari,” Aizawa says. “It’s my job to help you.”
“I’m,” Denki laughs hollowly at that, so wrung out he feels hysterical, “I’m not your student anymore.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Aizawa says. He changes the subject before Denki can object, asking, “Are you okay with it if Hitoshi comes back inside, now?”
His nod is instinctual. Instinct trumps residual fear and hesitation. Aizawa nods in turn, then goes to their front door and opens it. He pokes his head out, says something Denki can’t hear, then steps back. The door opens wider and Hitoshi walks in.
He looks awful. Bags under his eyes deeper than usual, red-rimmed eyes, hair tussled. Denki can smell the cigarette on him, too, a habit that only ever rears its ugly head when Hitoshi feels like the weight of the world is drowning him.
And, with a pit in his stomach, Denki thinks, My fault.
“‘Toshi,” he breathes, eyes wet. “I’m sorry.”
He wants to race over to him. Wants to melt into him. Wants to feel Hitoshi’s hands in his hair and on his back, his arms squeezing tight, his breath on Denki’s cheek. Denki wants to leap into the arms of the person he loves most.
He stays where he is.
Looking at him with a guilt so much heavier than what Denki can claim to be feeling, Hitoshi tries for a smile. He moves a few paces towards Denki, but keeps his distance.
“This isn’t your fault, Denks,” he says. “This isn’t— this isn’t our fault. It’s a quirk. It’s doing what it’s designed to do.”
There’s a pressure building between Denki’s eyes. He can barely think, anymore. His mind, despite settling enough to recognize that he’s awake, is still full to the brim with images of torture and blood and agony that, despite not being real, he could feel so deeply. Can almost still feel.
“I’m,” he stammers, “I don’t know what— what to do.”
Hitoshi steps closer. He makes no effort to touch Denki, and though Denki wishes for his touch, intensely, he is also grateful for that. He’s grateful for not being afforded the opportunity to hurt Hitoshi more by flinching again.
“We’ll figure it out,” Hitoshi tells him. “And it— my dad said it should be over soon, right? Another day or two.”
Denki nods, but finds himself whispering, “Or three.”
“Okay, but however many more days,” Hitoshi says, “it’s gonna end. And when it does, you can sleep for as— as long as you need to. We’ll find someone to, um, to talk to about it, if we need that. We’ll be okay.”
“Can we move?” Denki blurts. He blinks, surprised at himself.
Hitoshi pauses, equally surprised, and then nods. “Yeah, we—”
“I keep waking up here,” Denki explains, “in our bed. In our room, and then it— it happens. And maybe I’ll change my mind when it’s over but I feel like I’m not going to feel safe in there anymore.”
“We can move,” Hitoshi says. “Anywhere you want. Uh— within our budget.”
Denki snickers softly, but quickly sobers again. He jumps when Aizawa pipes up, having all but forgotten he was still here.
“I have a suggestion,” he says, “but you may not like it.”
Hitoshi turns to his dad, shrugging. “Okay?”
“Though this quirk is nearing the end of its influence, it keeps getting worse. Which means it’s likely that the dreams will continue to get more manipulative up until the final dream, and it will get even harder than it was tonight for you,” he looks at Denki, “to distinguish between when you’re asleep and awake. Hitoshi, and know that I hate to say this, is a trigger at the moment. I don’t think you two should be sleeping in the same bed, or even in the same apartment, until the quirk wears off.”
Denki and Hitoshi both frown, but neither of them protest.
“I think Hitoshi should come stay at home, and I should sleep on your couch to keep an eye on Kaminari until this is over.”
“I…” Denki hesitates. “I don’t know.”
Hitoshi looks between Denki and his father. He sighs. “It, um. It might not be such a bad idea, Denks. It could help you feel safer when you wake up, and maybe be good for us, just to… to make sure we don’t— that you aren’t— I don’t know.”
“That I’m not afraid of you when I’m awake,” Denki finishes for him, voice flat.
“…Yeah.”
Denki makes his way over to the couch and sits down. He rests his head in his hands.
“We can try it,” he mutters. “It’s just— dream-you knew about the word. I thought I was awake for real twice. So what if I start dreaming about Aizawa-sensei, too?”
Hitoshi joins him on the couch, and Aizawa walks around to face them.
“Better you being afraid of your boyfriend’s dad than your boyfriend,” he shrugs.
Denki snorts. Hitoshi stifles a laugh by shoving his hand over his mouth.
“…Okay,” Denki says. “If Hitoshi’s okay with it, too, and you’re sure about staying here, then I’ll try it.”
“I am sure, kiddo. Hitoshi?”
“I’m okay with it. And I— I can still be with you during the day, if you’re okay with that, Denki,” Hitoshi says.
Denki looks at his boyfriend. He sees fatigue and worry and fear and just love. So much love brimming in his eyes, overflowing and full. Denki scoots closer and rests his head on Hitoshi’s shoulder.
“Of course I am,” he whispers. “I always want you here, ‘Toshi.”
Sniffling, Hitoshi wraps his arm around Denki and kisses his forehead.
The next night, Denki kisses Hitoshi goodbye at their front door and watches him leave. He settles into bed alone after bidding Aizawa goodnight, leaving his teacher with the couch made up. Denki briefly considered offering him the bed, but he knows Aizawa would decline.
He dreams, and his body is brutalized as it always is. He wakes to Hitoshi beside him and is brutalized again. And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And several more times after that. Each time, Denki is afforded a moment of safety before the other shoe drops. He’s an amnesiac in his dreams, forgetting that Hitoshi is at his father’s house, forgetting that the safe word isn’t safe anymore, then sometimes remembering before forgetting again. He is hurt and bloodied and bruised and dismantled, condescended to and spat on and ignored when he screams and cries and pleads for safety, for life, for his Hitoshi to come back to him.
His cries are treated as negligible. He isn’t given mercy or kindness. Only pain.
When Denki wakes all alone, he curls into himself and knows that he is awake.
On the eighth night, Denki opens his eyes to Hitoshi watching him. They’re lying on their sides, facing each other, covers drawn over their shoulders. Denki blinks slowly, dazedly.
“You’re at your dad’s,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi replies, “I know.”
Denki scans his eyes. They don’t look like that same, empty nothing that’s always there. But Denki can’t quite read them, either.
“I came to tell you that I’m finished,” Hitoshi says. “I don’t have to hurt you anymore.”
Denki closes his eyes. He doesn’t know why, but he believes him. It isn’t that frantic, desperate sense of relief he always feels when Hitoshi tricks him. It’s more of a knowing.
“You never had to.”
“That’s where we disagree.”
“You could have stopped.”
“That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”
He says it like himself. Denki opens his eyes again. His lids feel so heavy. He’s never been this exhausted in his life.
Hitoshi adds, “I’m a part of you. Your worst fear, and the least likely thing to ever happen to you. But I also come from him. The one who forced you to call me every night.” Denki blinks slowly. “He’s gone, now. You didn’t call me, but… I still wanted to come. To talk to you.”
“…Why?”
“Because I’m Hitoshi, too.” Denki feels fingers in his hair, stroking softly. “Real Hitoshi. Your memories of him. What you see when you see him. I did what I was supposed to do, said what I was supposed to say, but I didn’t like it.”
Denki hums softly. He closes his eyes again. “Sure didn’t seem that way.”
“Yeah,” Hitoshi huffs, “because I was playing a role. Who I would be if I was a me that wanted you hurt. Or a me that had no choice but to hurt you. You always imagine that version of me would be able to turn off how I feel about you in order to survive doing those awful things to you. Do you really believe I could do that?”
Thinking about it for a bit, Denki shrugs. He finds himself shuffling closer to Hitoshi, this version that’s finally so close to being his, just to feel his warmth. Hitoshi pulls him close, and this time there’s no needle or hands around his throat.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t want you to wake up afraid of me,” Hitoshi whispers. “So I need you to know that I’m done, now. I’m done.”
Lips brush over Denki’s eyelids. Fingers course through his hair one last time, and then the bed next to him shifts and grows cold as Hitoshi gets up.
“You should know,” he says, “that most people don’t get this after he leaves. But I— well, you already know, Denki. You already know how much I love you.”
Denki doesn’t hear Hitoshi leave before he sinks into sleep.
When Denki opens his eyes again, it’s light outside. Hitoshi is beside him, and for a moment that makes Denki doubt that this is real, but then Hitoshi reaches down to cup his cheek, and Denki exhales. His head is pounding, but he otherwise feels more lucid than he has in a week.
“Hey,” Hitoshi says. “How are you feeling?”
Denki leans into his touch. He murmurs, “They’re over.”
A smile spreads across Hitoshi’s face. He says, “I kinda figured. My dad called me this morning and you’ve been asleep for about twelve hours, now.”
Groggily, Denki replies, “Oh, shit. What time is it?”
Hitoshi laughs softly. “Only around noon. Not too late.”
He draws his hand away from Denki, then, and his expression shifts to something more serious.
“So, they’re over, but… are you— how are you?” he asks.
Doing him the courtesy of thinking it over before trying to brush off the concern, Denki pushes himself up so he can sit beside Hitoshi on the edge of the bed. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and stretches his arms out in front of him, waiting to hear and feel a crack before letting his hands rest in his lap.
“Honestly,” he says, “it’s probably because I finally got a good sleep, but I feel okay right now. I’m probably not going to feel that way all the time, at least for a little while, but I’m just— I’m so fucking glad it’s over. I feel like I’ve been a zombie all week.”
“You kinda have,” Hitoshi shrugs. “My… very tired, very scared zombie man.”
Denki laughs, nudging his boyfriend’s shoulder.
“I think what I really want right now is to just take a very long bath and eat our entire pantry and then, I don’t know, go for a walk or something,” he says.
“Sounds doable.”
“Mm.”
Denki rises to his feet, moving carefully as he refamiliarizes himself with the waking world. Not the half-awake, painfully sleep deprived world, but the real, living one. He still feels a bit weak; but nothing a bit of food can’t fix. He pulls some fresh clothes out of the dresser and piles them on top, then turns back to his boyfriend.
“You know, I did have a dream about you last night,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
“A good one.” Denki smiles, adding, “I just— I know you haven’t said it, but I know that my nightmares being about you was… upsetting. But I know that you love me. And that was the point. That was why it was you. Because it being you was the scariest thing my brain could come up with.”
Hitoshi watches him for a moment, uncertain and hesitant, but then his expression cracks open with relief. He nods.
“I do love you,” he says, “and I would never hurt you, Denki. I couldn’t do it even if I was at gunpoint.”
Denki steps away from their dresser and over to Hitoshi, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. He wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders and lets Hitoshi bury his face in his stomach.
“I know. I love you, ‘Toshi.”
Hitoshi exhales into his stomach, into the place where Denki was broken by him in his dreams. A place where Hitoshi has kissed him dozens, hundreds of times, where he would never touch him in any brutal, terrorizing way.
“Come shower with me?” Denki asks. “I missed you.”
Looking up at him, Hitoshi nods. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
Later, they’ll talk about where to go from here. They’ll agree to each seek out a counsellor, at least for a few sessions, to cope with the aftermath of Denki’s night terrors. They’ll put the idea of moving on the back burner, though Denki knows he may well need to revisit it. They’ll call off of work for one more day, and return shortly thereafter.
But, for now, Denki just wants to be with Hitoshi.
Under steam and hot water, Denki kisses the love of his life everywhere he can reach. He is kissed by him, and no touch ever feels like anything less than worship. When Hitoshi moves him, he does it gently. There are no demands here. For a long time, they remind each other of that; with their hands, their lips, their eyes and their voices. When they’re finished, Denki is soft and safe and in love.
He is whole and intact.
He is awake.