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“Ms. Alien Queen, if I may... Who is Red Riot? A War Generation Hero like you and Mr. Bakugou?”
The student speaking up is all lanky limbs and shy eyes hidden behind bangs. Smart, strong too, Katsuki told Mina during last year’s Sports Festival. Once they realize that? They’ll be fucking unstoppable.
The question halts Mina in the tracks of her anecdote, a tale about the U.A. of old and the squad of friends she went Pro with nearly two decades ago. An auditorium of the academy’s best and brightest hangs onto every word on her lips — the presence of a Top 5 Hero tends to have that effect on them. Within the class, murmurs arise; in the far corner, Katsuki glances up from the papers he’s grading, right brow twitching upwards.
They both must share the same thought: How can they forget about Red Riot?
Nothing can phase Mina for long, however. “Oh! Riot is...” She hums, a smile dawning on neon yellow lips at the thought of her oldest friend. “He’s just really solid, y’know? As a friend, a person, especially as a Hero. Always encouraging others to be their best selves. Red Riot Unbreakable! Man, I can’t believe you guys haven’t— Dynamight, what’re ya teaching these kids?”
“The wrong things, apparently,” deadpans Katsuki in that dry tone he blatantly stole from Aizawa upon taking over his Hero course. “Well? Wrap it up, Horns. We got war history to revise.”
A collective groan goes through the room, even a lone, brave, “Seriously, Mr. B?” (A glare of red eyes over the rim of thin-wired glasses quells any further complaints.)
After the Q&A, Mina walks down the marble steps of her former school, phone in hand. Eiji 🦈💖 reads the top of the chat on-screen. A too-short scroll through years worth of Have the manliest bday, Kiribabe!! and yo mina!!! happy new year bro 💪🏼 have her heart clenching in melancholy. How long has it been since Eijirou moved back to their hometown? The name of the agency he heads there is on the tip of her tongue, yet she can’t quite remember it.
A cheerful ping distracts Mina from the guilt. At the bottom of the chat: A slew of new messages.
Call it instinct. A sixth sense akin to the one she developed in decades of Hero work. Mina stares at that awkward attempt at small talk and proper spelling — and switches apps to block the rest of the week in her agency calendar. A quick call, an address sent to her with obvious confusion in that deep voice that used to be as familiar as her own, and Mina’s on the most expensive bullet train ride of her life.
It’s completely redeemed the moment an unassuming door opens to the surprised face of Kirishima ‘Red Riot’ Eijirou, Chiba’s Sturdy Hero.
“Oh! Hey! Wow, Ash, you weren’t joking, huh?”
Of course I wasn’t, she wants to reply. Wants to tease, should know me better than that, but how can he, really? How can Mina, without seeing him for— Gods, it must be years at this point.
Fighting off the itchy-hot sensation rising to her eyes, Mina surges forward and wraps Eijirou in a tight hug he returns after a stunned beat. “I missed you, Eiji,” she whispers into his neck, because it’s a kinder truth than the one haunting her every minute of the way here.
You sounded like you needed me.
An hour later, an ancient group chat titled 🤜SQUAD🤛 is reactivated with a selfie of Mina and Eijirou, squeezed into frame together.
(Art by cruhxx, posted with permission.)
*
Denki expects an eye-wateringly red space when he bursts into Eijirou’s apartment with Hanta and Kyouka in tow, loudly proclaiming:
“Kiri! Bro hug me, bro!”
Eijirou’s head pops out of what must be the kitchen. “Kami! Bro! Bring it in!” The greeting-come-tradition brings a nostalgic grin to everyone’s lips.
After the hellos and how-are-yous, an extended moment is spent in mutual astonishment over the scrunchie-clad man bun Denki swears by these days — and Eijirou’s long, black hair. “Got tired of the crime scene in my bathroom every few weeks,” Eijirou admits with a sheepish scratch to the back of his head. His smile dims to the one from the selfie: Close-lipped and cautious, shark-like teeth tucked away along with that boyish charm he’s kept well into his thirties.
Ah, Denki thinks, no wonder Mina called in the cavalry.
Eijirou’s loft is a more mature version of his dorm room at U.A., and nothing like it at the same time. There is a set of retro-looking, scarlet loveseats dominating the living room. Crimson nicknacks on various shelves carry the theme into the other rooms, framed photos Denki remembers being there for and trinkets accumulated from many a birthday. Motivational posters that doubled as wallpaper in their school days are now concentrated on the bathroom and kitchen (where that extra push must get Eijirou through his chores).
Everywhere else: Muted colors, a lot of empty walls and boxes stacked high in forgotten corners.
Snooping isn’t Denki’s thing — the resident king of that is currently parking the car they piled into to get here — yet he finds himself drifting away from the others to take stock. Packages yet to be opened; cartons branded by the local supermarket and a pet store, for some reason; boxes upon boxes from the big move a good five or six years ago. Peeking inside, Denki finds bold colors and patterns that scream 20XX.
Huh, when did Kiri stop wearing those?
“Denks? Hey, you good, man?”
A knock startles Denki. Eijirou leans against the doorframe, eyes skimming all this random stuff like he hadn’t noticed it taking up half his gym before. “Oh. Sorry about the mess. Been meaning to clear it out, but with the agency and everything...”
It occurs to Denki a warning would’ve been the polite thing to do, ideally before storming the man’s home. They hadn’t planned this, really. Denki had been frantically packing when Katsuki strolled into his apartment via a long-forgotten spare key and barked at him to get his ass in the car.
“Don’t worry, dude, I thrive off chaos. Might wanna brace for Dyna to, uh, go a bit feral in here, though.”
That has Eijirou chuckling tiredly, sighing afterwards. “Had that asskicking coming for a while, yeah.”
(Art by cruhxx, posted with permission.)
Call it an urge. A restless energy striking Denki to bound up to his brickwall of a friend, hook an arm around his neck and thoroughly mess up his hair. “Love ya, Riot. Are you okay with us being here? Seriously, kick us out if it’s too much. For you, I’ll square up with the gremlin and drag him back outta here if I must.”
Eijirou’s laugh is far more genuine this time. “S’a lot,” he admits after squeezing Denki in a side-hug. “But it’s good. M’glad you’re here. Squad forever, right?”
“Squad”, Denki confirms and meets Eijirou’s fist in the middle like he has a thousand times before.
*
Shadows shift in gentle moonlight. Katsuki snaps wide awake.
The living room is a mess of blankets, mismatched snores and limbs akimbo. Somehow, spontaneous sleepovers like these were much cozier when they were kids. Now, on the third day of mooching off Eijirou whilst deep-cleaning his apartment, Katsuki has to suppress a heartfelt groan at the pain zipping up his spine from the bullshit ergonomics of his chosen couch.
He slaps around himself in search of his glasses. Indistinct shapes sharpen to a familiar silhouette in the kitchen.
Eijirou, awake too.
Leaving his hearing aids behind, Katsuki sidesteps snoozing squad members to get there with minimal fuss. Eijirou is pouring hot water into a mug and yawning as he stirs — ginger tea, judging by the spicy scent. All lights are off except the extractor’s LEDs, and in that glow, the Hero Katsuki has fought many battles alongside of becomes a simple man up far past his bedtime.
Katsuki raps his knuckles on the countertop. <Company okay?> he signs once Eijirou looks up. The other nods, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards, and wordlessly grabs a second mug.
(Art by cruhxx, posted with permission.)
Later finds them sitting up on the rooftop, tea finished and a shared bowl of trail mix half-way there as well. “Been avoiding me,” Katsuki says and signs at the same time, too important to risk losing in translation. “You scared’a me, Red?”
Eijirou glances over, the ruby of his eyes darker than it used to be. Replies, “No, it’s— Sorry”, repeats <Sorry> in sign because halting words are hard to lip-read and he never figured out how to not be an overly apologetic idiot.
“Not scared. Just... I know what you’re gonna say, and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.”
Overly apologetic and brave, regardless what he thinks when his brain messes with him like this. Humming, Katsuki props his chin on his palm. “What’s that, hm? What I wanna say.”
“That I should get my shit together? Keep my space clean, not mope around so much... Probably stop apologizing for being a mess and moping, too?” Eijirou chuckles at the point-blank stare Katsuki levels on him. “And that— That I’m better than this. Better than saving cats from trees and helping old ladies across the street. I don’t know.”
A half-hearted shrug. Looking down at his hands, Eijirou’s lips pinch into an upset line, eyes growing suspiciously glossy.
There he is, Katsuki muses. His best friend, not the mask he’s been trying to convince everyone is the truth. In their teens, Katsuki would’ve blown up at him for putting words in his mouth before clumsily forcing him to think kinder of himself. As twenty-somethings splitting the rent, he would’ve subjected himself to corny-ass Ghibli movies until Eijirou cheered up (or their brains melted outta their ears).
But Red Riot is not the famous Hero they’d pictured back then. He’s not glamorous or dramatic like his colleagues, hell, even some of the people sleeping downstairs. He does a solid job, leads a well-run small town agency—
—and struggles with bouts of depression like he always has.
Katsuki sniffs and rights his posture, fuck his aching back. Taking his glasses, he tugs up the age-worn top he slept in and cleans one lens, then the other. “Brats got their License Exams comin’ up next semester. Never had that one ourselves, did we? Got that thing slapped into our hands after the war and off we went.”
If Eijirou minds the non-sequitur, he doesn’t voice it. Just leans strong arms on his knees and mutters what must be a low, “Yeah,” gazing upon the skyline ahead.
“They look to me to tell ’em what kinda career to shoot for, and I always wonder what they see in me. Are they aware I took the gig ’cause chasing after Number One wrecked my body so bad, anything else would’a amounted to suicide? Fuck, I don’t have all the answers. I mess shit up constantly.”
Katsuki scoffs, shakes his head. He puts his glasses back on and searches for the compassion he knows he’ll find in Eijirou’s eyes when his gaze wanders back to him.
“Nah. Doesn’t even occur to ’em. Wouldn’t’ve occurred to us either, at that age, but... We survived, we grew up, we adapted — and we stand together. No matter what.” A small smirk graces Katsuki’s lips. “A Hero taught me that. Biceps bigger than his head, shitty hair, manly as hell? Heard he’s pretty good with cats or whatever.”
Huffing wetly, Eijirou elbows Katsuki’s side before wiping rough palms at the tears spilling over. He tries to smile afterwards, but ultimately gives in to the wobble of his lips.
“I don’t f-feel very manly right now, Kats.”
An admission that cannot be louder than a whisper in the night, Eijirou’s expression carries that much shame. Katsuki keeps watching him calmly and waits him out.
“Dunno how this happened, what changed. The job opened up, my moms got so excited to have me close-by again, and— I figured this is my chance, y’know? To go back and do what I couldn’t back then, become the first line of defense for Chiba. Always wanted an agency of my own, too, but...”
A heavy swallow. “Fuck, Katsuki, it’s not right.” Eijirou’s head bows, low in the face of what he’s been running from all along. “I miss Musutafu. I miss my old life. I—”
A sob. <My friends I miss>, he adds silently and, all at once, his composure shatters. The way his expression crumbles pangs in Katsuki’s chest, it’s so visceral. Eyes clenched shut, fingers curling into black hair and tugging.
Call it relief. The release of tension Katsuki carried since he reunited with his best friend, but didn’t know where to start. How to help. Murmuring, “C’mere, dumbass,” Katsuki opens his arms for Eijirou to cling on and cry into his shoulder. A decade-old favor finally returned, back when it was him panicking before a future so unlike what he’d imagined.
“Nothing’s lost, Ei. You’re alive, and you’re not alone. We’re all right here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere until you tell us to, hm?”
Eijirou nods. Sniffling, he frees up a hand to say: <Still when I am a mess?>
A snort. Katsuki throws some raisins at him, “Especially then, the fuck?” feeling more than hearing him chuckle. “Who do you want Red Riot to be, hah? Focus on figuring that out, and leave the rest to us.”
*
“Mornin’, K! Dude, look what I found.”
Hair a sleep-ruffled mess, Eijirou pauses his shuffle towards the bathroom to peek at what Hanta is showing him. The folder had somehow slipped inside the beloved armchair that holds Eijirou’s keys, phone, mail and whatever else, and contains printed-out photos, newspaper clippings, all kinds of mementos about Red Riot.
(Art by cruhxx, posted with permission.)
The squad has been delighting over them throughout a late breakfast. News like these don’t make it to Musutafu. Hanta, at least, never caught wind of Eijirou running Search-and-Rescue on a collapsed skyscraper all by himself, or talking a would-be bank robber out of a life of crime before any damage even occurred. No wonder nothing much seems to happen in this region — Chiba’s got one of Japan’s best fixing things before it can become a national story.
It’s excellent Hero work. It’s badass.
Eijirou slept in longer than any of them; judging by the tender-red swelling of his eyes and how Katsuki is watching him like a hawk over the rim of his coffee mug, there’s a reason for that. Hanta knows better than to pry.
Whatever has been weighing on Eijirou is... not gone, but better, the set of his shoulders loose as he flips through the folder. “My moms must’ve dropped these off,” he explains with fondness. “Pretty sure the local press forwards them the articles. Heh, even my neighbor is in on it — apparently his kid brought a selfie with me to Show and Tell last week? She’s applying to the Hero schools in Spring.”
Call it hope. Something good and bright for the future, something Hanta is glad to remind Eijirou of in times where he’s blind to his own achievements. Drawling, “Lemme guess,” he lazily swirls his tea around. “She runs around flexing and yelling about manliness?”
Catching his drift, Kyouka smirks: “Allergic to shirts, too, I bet. Sun’s out, guns out, all day, every day.”
“Neon patterns and crocs...” Mina snickers into her croissant. “How much RR merch must she have?”
“The day she dyes her hair Riot-red can’t be far,” predicts Denki in a dramatic tone, the teasing glint to his gaze upgraded to blatant glee when Eijirou stops in his tracks with wide eyes, cheeks gaining a shade of pink.
“Wait, is that why...?”
“Ha! Called it!” Denki slams his palm on the table, their cups and plates rattling in place. Predictably, it earns him a glare and kick to the shin from Katsuki. “Ow. But damn, she moves fast. I’m a fan of hers already!”
Back and forth they bicker, eventually releasing Eijirou to his morning routine so they can dedicate themselves to Eijirou’s gym, their project of the day. Hanta hums along to the 20XX tracks they’re blasting while he fiddles with the futuristic controls of the new treadmill, and pats Eijirou’s bicep in passing when he’s done simply to give him a reason to smile.
With paragons like Red Riot, Hanta can’t wait to see what the next generation of Heroes will achieve.
*
Death glares, jabs with her earphone jacks, a gloved palm to Denki’s face to smear pure red dye where it’ll be most embarrassing to explain if left to stain...
Finally, Kyouka manages to push everyone out and, with a satisfying kick to the bathroom door, the lock clicks shut. “Fucking hell. You’d think minding their own business for once will kill ’em or something,” she grouches, returning to her unfinished masterpiece on Eijirou’s head. His spikes are split up into complex sections of treated and untreated hair — controlled chaos at its best.
The guy laughs, “Aw, they’re just excited,” good-natured and understanding as per usual. “Took ’em a whole week to whittle me down, after all.” Nervous, too, constantly and absentmindedly clacking Kyouka’s scissors against hardened fingertips.
It’s Eijirou, though. Only he is allowed to accidentally wreck her equipment.
(Art by cruhxx, posted with permission.)
Kyouka shakes her head, a smile sneaking to her lips. “You’re in the hands of a pro, man. Gonna be my magnum opus, I can tell.”
“Mh. Wouldn’t trust anyone else with this, Kyou.”
Eijirou has a lot of hair. Thick, too, as unyielding to bleach as the man himself. Between hours three and four, Kyouka has gained new respect for his teenage self. Dyeing it by himself must’ve been a mess until she got over her chronic shyness to offer up some help.
Then and now, she dabs strawberry blond with crimson, running her fingers through the dye-wet strands afterwards. Upon Eijirou’s request, some of them are staying black — facing down his mirror image, he says, “I’m done hiding,” determined. Refusing to look away as Kyouka buzzes off the sides to reveal his natural hair color underneath.
“No more living for others. I wanna be me. Does that make sense?”
Call it pride. A giddy sensation blooming in Kyouka’s chest that lights her expression with a daring grin. Shaking out Eijirou’s cut into a wild mane, she mutters, “You know it does.” It makes Eijirou look as bold as he is: Breaking ground wherever he goes, not for the money or fame or the laurels, but because it’s the right thing to do.
“Good?”
Excitement sparks. Eijirou barely waits for Kyouka to nod before leaning forward, taking in his reflection up close. Hands so sturdy and scarred run through freshly-dyed spikes, mixing red and black, past and present. The more Eijirou touches his hair, the bigger his smile gets — shark teeth and crow’s feet and a fire that’s found a home in Eijirou’s eyes again.
“Yeah. Real fucking good.”
*
Just as suddenly as the squad busted down Eijirou’s apartment door, it’s the last night of their impromptu week-long staycation.
Eijirou has secretly dreaded this. Day after day, the overwhelming feeling of being seen — stacks of dirty plates, unfinished projects and all — had settled into comfort. After all, these are the people he’s shared every other stage of life with, who regard him in the kindest light and support him as he supports them in return.
Yet the ache never comes. Hanging back, Eijirou watches the others spill from the only karaoke bar in the area as one: Hanta’s tape saves Katsuki from face-planting on the pavement (and them from the inevitable rage to follow); Kyouka and Denki haven’t stopped wheeze-laughing since their caterwauling rendition of an ancient Japan X song they used to be obsessed with; and Mina...
She doesn’t immediately join them. Instead, she hooks her arm into Eijirou’s, leans into view, asking: “Ready to go home, Eiji?”
Call it love. Unconditional acceptance that makes a group of friends a family, and turns supposed flaws into quirks to adore about a person. Eijirou finds that he is. Ready, that is, his mind clearer than it’s been in years, heart lighter and his skin a more comfortable fit. Slowing, he tugs Mina to a stop. Gratitude glows within him, vision blurring slightly from its intensity.
“Thanks, Ash. For everything. I seriously don’t know where I’d be without you. Any of you.”
Mina blinks in surprise. Then she smiles on an exhale, “Oh Eiji,” expression soft and eyes full of emotion. “We should be thanking you. Don’t you know? You’re the one who keeps us together.”
“Hey! Guys!” Sero interrupts them, waiting ahead along with the others. Grinning, he asks: “Squad?”
Looking at each other, Mina and Eijirou grin back. “Forever.”