Work Text:
there was an erratic pulsing in his chest.
a disorientating staccato with no sense of rhythm, growing into a thundering crescendo as he
breathed,
dirty,
filthy,
rotten air
that creeped into his lungs and
filled his chest and
made its way to his heart and
curled around it, claiming its prey, marking its territory and
ruining it.
forevermore.
//
Denki sucked in a large gasp of air as his head came above water, cackling as he splashed his classmates with large bursts of water.
Obviously, electricity and water weren’t great combos, but who was Denki to deny a trip to a water park? Especially after finals that left all the class both restless and sleep-deprived in one fell swoop.
“Holy shit, Denki!” Mina shrieked with glee when Denki sent a particularly large splash towards her.
“Can’t handle some wah-” Denki was cut off with Mina tackling him, bringing his body under the water with one firm push, and—
silence.
for a precious moment, the world goes mute, the quiet whistling in his ears the only thing left to soothe him.
denki relishes in the blankness of it all.
the peacefulness of it.
the silence.
and then he rises up with a gasp, laughing as he shoves Mina lightly.
“You trying t’kill me or something?” He questioned with a lopsided smile, and Mina smirked deviously.
“Maybe. You’ll never know, will you?” And Denki’s heart stuttered, because he had always been—
//
There was a strange, fascinating phenomenon Denki had—
—one that was less of a fascination, and more of a curse.
One he was born with, that made the air more tar than oxygen and—
—with every singular breath he took, it filthied his heart, more and more and more, slowly coiling itself around it as it grew filthier.
Dirtier.
And with that blackened heart came these whispers,
whispers that crawled into his mind.
into his thoughts.
into his dreams.
spreading themselves across his insides and
feasting.
//
—a little paranoid about things across those lines. And hey, was it not normal to be a bit hypervigilant when you were a goddamned hero?
Sure, in training, but there was truly no difference.
And perhaps it was less paranoia and more so a fear—
—less a fear and more of a phobia—
—a creeping secret he kept buried deep—
—the belief that one day everyone he had met would—
//
Images flickered and shuttered in his vision, the world passing like a breeze before him, his mind an empty cavern.
He could feel the vague imprint of wood which was held between his tense fingers, white with how tight they were clenched around the object.
Colors bounced aimlessly in his hollow head, words swirling as his brain struggled to decipher them.
“Oi, Pikachu, you’re spacing out again.” Someone snapped in front of his face, the action doing nothing to wake up the signals in his head that must’ve fallen asleep.
The action seemed to move in slow motion, as Denki became familiar with the creases in the person’s fingers. The rough calluses in their hand. The vague impressions of scars, and Denki’s mind keened.
He was obsessed with the very thought of scars—the idea of them trailing along his skin, marring him, dirtying him—
—he attributed it with his curse, the curse he was born with, the very curse that made him so—
—broken, horrible, disgusting, because what sort of person craved the feeling of cold metal clashing with the tanging warmth of—
—the delightful sting that didn’t register until the floor was stained with—
—the cloying, relentless feeling in his chest that only—
—of the—
—the—
“Kaaaaaaami. C’mon, did you forget to take your meds or something? I went to the pharmacy with you to refill them, man.” There were spikes of red in Denki’s vision. A vibrant red, that was similar to the color of the person’s eyes that were right in front of him, and—
—ah, it was Kirishima.
“Uh, why’s everyone surrounding me?” Denki let out an awkward chuckle as his brain worked overtime, attempting to deal with the rush of details that were being catalogued in seconds, and—
“‘Cause class ended 15 minutes ago and you’ve been staring at the wall the whole time.” Mina replied with a sort of nonchalance she used whenever she was stressed. “And, uh, that.” She gestured towards the pencil on his desk, snapped in half, and the splinters in his hand.
It was only then that he registered the sting.
“Oh. You know what, that’s valid.” Denki mumbled, “but I’m fine now, so…” He tried for a smile, tugging the muscles in his face against their will.
“D’you really think we believe you?” Sero raised one eyebrow, unimpressed.
Denki’s chest burned in something resembling anger, bubbling up and—
“Look, sorry to break it to you, but you guys don’t know me even half as much as you think you do. So if I say I’m fine, I’m fine, okay?”
The self-proclaimed Baku-squad only looked at him wearily, and Denki let out a harsh breath, standing up and making his way to the cafeteria.
//
Lines, lines, lines,
They were everywhere, weren’t they? Notebooks, shirt designs, sidewalks,
They varied quite a bit, did they not?
It wasn’t strange to like lines—
—Denki liked lines, especially when they were permanently etched into his skin, and—
—when he took his favourite pikachu razor, which was cute, and totally helpful to open boxes and he would—
—tear himself apart.
//
Oh god, they were all staring at him and he was sure they wanted to—
—and they were looking, they’re all looking, and—
—the air is so tight, so tight, so—
(they’re all going to kill him, to murder him in his sleep, they hate him, they hate him, they—)
//
Sometimes he feels jealous of those with marks from head to toe.
Jealous of the fact that he has to keep his discrete, because how else will everyone know he’s fine?
And as much as he adores the artwork that covers his thighs, he can’t help but want more.
He’s greedy, in a way.
Horrible.
//
For some odd reason, they were having a mental health week at school. Every day was some variation of a subject relating to mental health and—
Gross.
They were doing a group project about unhealthy coping mechanisms, and as per usual, Denki was acting more so as emotional support, Bakugo taking the brunt of the work as Kirishima, Mina, and Sero researched random facts.
“Y’know, I’ve never gotten why people cut themselves.” Sero mentioned off-handedly, and it was the kind of blunt statement they expected from Sero, but for some reason Denki—
“I know, right! I mean, I get maybe they’re struggling, but there’s way better ways to deal with it.” Mina added, as Kirishima kept on typing random things into Google.
“It’s not really any of our business, guys.” Kirishima mumbled, and Bakugo was still typing rapidly in that way he always did when he hyperfocused.
Denki could feel every beat his heart made, the stinging from his thighs that seemed to scream at him.
“I guess…whaddyou think, Denki?” Mina turned towards him, and all he wanted to do was—
—rip himself apart from the inside out, and—
“Oh, I dunno. Cutting’s bad, I guess.” The lie felt heavy on his tongue, because whenever he painted his skin red, he felt euphoria that wasn’t comparable to anything else in his life, and—
“You guess? Come on, Kami.” Sero insisted, and all he did was shrug.
“I know it’s bad, alright? No need to bitch on me about it.” He muttered, and Kirishima glanced up at him.
There was something in his eye that terrified Denki.
//
Denki and Kirishima were alone, and for the past week, this was the exact scenario Denki had been dreading to have.
“So, Denki…” Kirishima began, and Denki felt his spine go rigid. “Ah, I just—it’s really stupid how Mina and Sero were acting last week, right? Totally unmanly.” He ended off on, and Denki treaded carefully.
“It was stupid, wasn’t it? I get they mean the best, but…” Denki wet his lips.
“...they don’t get it. Even they said so.” Kirishima mumbled, and Denki looked up at him.
“I- yeah. They…don’t.” Denki watched as Kirishima met his eye with a hesitant smile, small and awkward.
Denki felt as his diseased heart seemed to grow the slightest bit warm.
//
Denki stared at the Pikachu razor clenched between his fingers, his heart rattling in his chest relentlessly.
And then he—
red.
red, red, red.
his favourite color.
the color he saw in his dreams.
and lines.
gorgeous, self-made lines.
hand-made.
he cherished them.
he did, truly, especially when he-
//
Oh, oh, oh fuck,
he had forgotten to—
—he was rummaging through his drawers for those damn bandages, and—
—he was still bleeding, and there was too much, and class started in 10 minutes, oh, oh fuck—
Where had the time gone? A second before it had been—
—3am, as he flicked open the pikachu, the satisfying click as it got longer, and longer, and—
—oh god, his bed! His fucking bed, oh lord, where had the time gone?
His head was spinning, his vision blurring as he found towels that he pressed against his thighs harshly, trying to stem the continuous flow of red.
His head span, and span, and…
…was this it?
…the pain was a distant thing now, as he came to terms that perhaps…
…he had gone too far this time.
He flopped onto a chair, chest rising and falling as his white towels got stained a deep, vibrant red.
…class was in 5 minutes, and…
…”Denki?”
“Oh, oh god, Kami, wake up!”
“Holy shit!”
“Get someone, get anyone!”
“Fuck!”
silence.
//
for all his life, denki had been deeply, irreparably unhappy.
untrusting.
angry.
it was the sort of anger that burned under his skin, the type of distrust that dawned over him his every waking moment, and the genre of unhappiness that tinted his world a dark gray.
his whole life
he was driven solely by the expectations of those around him.
to become a hero.
but he always knew
he would die young.
//
beep.
beep.
beep.
despite everything, denki had never liked when it was silent.