#acespec reader

Then there were you. Johnny’s age, bright eyes full of affection when you saw him. Small, soft hands ruffling the mohawk, saying it was getting out of hand. Nodding when he asked for another trim, bonnie, aye?

You hugged him around the neck, face under his chin. Ghost feared you would suffocate his sergeant. But Johnny’s face was pink, relaxed for the first time since before the mission. His arms were at your back, hands rounding your waist- they were used to that place. His nose deep in your hair- Simon felt like he was overstepping, like he wasn’t meant to see that. No one was.

Until you gave a step back- soft smile, soft eyes, soft Johnny- and welcomed him to your home. You called him L.T., like you knew him. Simon suspected you did. You didn’t try to shake his hand or- God forbid- hug him hello. You didn’t even risk a step into his personal space. He didn’t think it was out of fear- you didn’t blink twice at the black surgical mask. You just smiled and gave him a tour of the house.

That was another thing, the house. Tiny and tidy, cozy. Ghost didn’t have much experience with homes, but that’s what it looked like to him. A place lived in, well loved. A place with a past. Even more intriguing, a place with a future. By the way you talked, he gathered you weren’t renting. This place was owned. Something for the long run.

When you got to the hallway, though, you pointed to the last door. That’s my room! You can knock if you need anything, I’m a pretty light sleeper. Then to the one before that: That’s Johnny’s. Then the guest bedroom and the bathroom.

So you don’t sleep together.

Which would have been an answer to his curiosity, if it weren’t for the kitchen. After he left his stuff- a half-empty duffel bag- in the guest room, Simon went back to the small but charming space that is- all in one- your kitchen, living room and dining room. He was still in his soldier headspace, which means his steps were quiet. When he stepped into the kitchen, neither you nor Soap noticed him there.

You were laughing, hand on his bicep, eyes closed. Johnny was smiling. His shoulders down, his face soft. He grabbed your hand and brought you closer in a weird hug. You swayed together, and Simon almost heard the music you were dancing to. It went on for a while. Johnny went to grab a knife and you’d already placed the cutting board in front of him. You grabbed the oven mitt and he opened the oven.

You two are the perfect machine, always knowing where the other is going next. The smiles never falter. For the first time in years, Simon feels like he’s in a home. It’s confusing and startling. How come Soap has this waiting for him? How is he even able to go on deployment, knowing he might not have the chance to dance around you in the kitchen again?

The thought sparks memories. Soap’s sketchbook, a gleaming eye peeking from the page. His tactical jacket, jasmine perfume as they march through a field. A hair tie in the keychain. Gunpowder hands buying a bracelet in a faraway country. Making flower crowns while waiting for the target to show up. Dodging bullets with blue fevered eyes. Take me home tae ‘er.

He cleared his throat, and you handled him the plates to set on the table.

After dinner, you said goodnight. Johnny kissed your cheek; I left some beers in the fridge. Another kiss on the forehead. You waved at Simon, sweet and tired. Soap’s eyes followed you through the hallway.

Out in the cool night air, Simon asks.

“Tha’ ‘er?”

Soap flinches in his seat. The bottle in his hand twinkles under the stars. Doesn’t seem willing to reply. Maybe he doesn’t know how.

“The one from yer drawings?”

The nod is soft.

“Aye.”

Interrogation is an art. Ghost knows many ways to get information out of people. None of them work better on his sergeant than silence. The man has a need to fill empty spaces.

So he waits until Johnny takes the bait.

“A’v always known her.”

Another silence. Simon doesn’t need to ask the question out loud.

“We arenae datin. She isnae ma girlfriend. Or wife,” Jhonny’s voice is warm and liquid. “She's the love o ma life.”

Curiosity bubbles again. How does this life fit with the man out in the field? How come a cozy little house is home to a demolition expert?

“How’s tha’ work?”

Soap’s shoulders tighten, preparing for a defensive stance.

“She doesnae want sex.”

That’s not quite an answer, so Simon waits. Johnny’s back relaxes slowly, as if relieved by the lack of a reaction.

“But ‘a dinnae care aboot all that stuff. She's here whan ‘a come home, an she takes care o’ me. A tak care o’ her. Thare's nothin more than that.”

Nothing more he could ask for. Nothing more he’d ever want. His eyes glow blue, melting ice in the night. Ghost wonders, surprised, how he never saw it. How he didn’t realize.

After that, he doesn’t ask any more questions. There’s nothing else he’d need to know, really. When the bottles are empty and the air a little too cold, they retreat to their rooms.

The next morning, Simon stays in bed a little longer than usual. He listens to your soft steps in the hallway, the little knock on the door and Johnny’s raspy laugh. He hears the sheets and the whispers, the way he tells you stories about their last deployement- some true (only the lighter ones), the rest made up, with a handsome, Scottish hero. He pictures you tucked in Johnny’s side, his hand in your hair, easy smiles lighting up the room. And he understands. Once again, his sergeant’s words sound in his head.

You'd first met him when helping Rex with some clones who escaped The Empire. They were all stressed and in need of serious help. You ran into him and Gregor on the lower levels of Coruscant. You were selling some speeder parts to another vendor and they were looking for some specific ship parts. One thing led to another and Wolffe's visits to your shop became more frequent. You liked him. He was quick-witted and kind. You weren't sure exactly what you thought about him, just that he had a special place in your heart. Sex wasn't for you. Romance wasn't for you either, but you loved his company. 

Sometimes he would sit with you while you tinkered in the shop, trying to fix something for him while he waited.  You didn’t give too much away at first, but as you got to know each other, you opened up more and so did he.  Like his brothers, he had been through a lot in the war.  You thought he was brave and thoughtful and still managed to keep a sense of humor after all that.  

Wolffe was there the day you broke down and admitted you needed a fresh start and had decided to sell your shop and find some other place in the galaxy. You apologized, knowing they depended on you, but knew life on Coruscant was getting too dangerous to stay.

"Come with us," he said. "There's room for you and we could use your skills. Besides, I'd miss you if I didn’t get to see you again."

You were shocked at first, but within a week a half dozen clones scoured what supplies and parts you had left in your little workshop. You told them to take what was needed and were able to sell the shop and what was left as-is. Wolffe helped you carry your few personal belongings to the ship he now lived on with some of his brothers. You walked away, at least grateful to have someone who cared.

“Everything will work out,” he said.  You smiled up at him and nodded.  You hoped so.

Wolffe helped you get settled in your own bunk on the ship.  Room was rather scarce, but there was some space for each of you.  You traveled with them, helping other clones escape, but found yourself helping the most with everyday tasks.  Cooking, fixing clothes, knowing when to barter, trade, or flat out buy something, and how to fix items.  These were all things they had never had to worry about before. Food was in the mess, they dropped off their blacks to get fixed if they ripped, and they never worried about money or buying supplies during the war.  The GAR took care of it, even if the food wasn’t particularly delicious or plentiful.

One night, as you sat in the cockpit together, keeping an eye out for any problems on the backwater planet you’d settled on for the night, Wolffe decided to make his feelings known.  He turned to you and rubbed the back of his head before taking a deep breath.

“I care about you, you know.”

You looked at him and smiled. “I know. And I care about you.”

“I mean, I think I am in love with you,” he replied.

You felt butterflies in your stomach.  Somehow you knew he felt this way and you worried that if he knew the truth about how attraction worked for you, he wouldn’t want anything to do with you and you’d lose your dearest friend.

“Wolffe, I…” you thought about where to start, but it was clear his heart was sinking with worry that you didn’t think about him the same way.  You reached out and held his hand.  He slowly let his fingers close around yours as you continued.

“I don’t experience romantic attraction. I also don’t like sex. I have never wanted to have sex.  It’s not you.  I actually… I love you too… just maybe in a different way.”

He let a cautious smile spread across his face.  You were in it now and he hadn’t rejected you yet.  You might as well lay it all out.  As if he knew you needed another bit of strength, Wolffe squeezed your hand a little, reminding you that he was still there with you and wanted to hear what you had to say.

“I may not be attracted to people in those ways, but I definitely have feelings for you, Wolffe.  More so than Rex or Gregor or my other friends and certainly more than I did for my family.  But I understand if that’s not enough.  It’s never been enough for anyone else.”

He held your hand and reached out to caress your cheek with his thumb. “Is this okay,” he asked, pausing just before touching your face, and wanting to be near you but not wanting to overstep.  You nodded and smiled, somewhat surprised by his reaction to what you just said.

“It’s more than enough for me and it’s more than okay,” he said.  “And if you don’t believe me, let me show you.  Give me a chance to love you how you want to be loved.”

You leaned into the hand still holding your cheek.  You relaxed a little, trying to not let old worries bother you.  Right now, you felt understood and embraced for who you were.

It took a little time, but you both slowly had conversations about where the boundaries were.  You loved cuddling and Wolffe was all too happy to welcome you into his bunk. He swapped sheets and blankets with your old bunk so that you could be comfortable with what was familiar, but the temperature on the side of the ship with his bunk was more to your liking, so you moved your stuff over.  

The first night together started a little awkwardly, but you felt so safe when he put his arm around your waist and asked, “Is this okay?”  You assured him it was.  Wolffe was normally so sure of himself and confident in combat, but with you he was only confident when he was sure you were on the same page.  He wanted to get it right.

“Can I kiss your cheek,” he asked.  You nodded.  

“Do you like kisses, Wolffe?”

“Yes.”

You kissed his cheek in return and rested against him.  It felt so right.  You fell asleep together and got some of the best rest of your life.  Wolffe’s presence felt like a weighted blanket - not controlling or restricting, but calming.

A few mornings later he woke up before you and as soon as he realized his morning wood was against your leg, he pulled away.  You woke up from the sudden movement and asked what was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t want you to think I…”  He looked down and wasn’t sure what to do.

“It’s okay,” you said.  You rubbed your eyes and laid back down, unsure of what else to say.

“I never want to pressure you,” he said.  “I didn’t want you to think I was.”

“You haven’t.”  You smiled, picked up his hand, and kissed the back of it.  You got up to use the refresher and you both went about your day.  Later in the evening, you found some time together.  Wolffe sat next to you and held your hand. It was becoming one of your favorite things.  Gregor joked that you were attached at the hands instead of at the hips before he got up and walked toward the cockpit for his watch.  You loved that.  Wolffe’s hands were somehow hard and soft at the same time, like him. It felt grounding.

Once you were alone, you brought up his earlier reaction to his body functioning normally and promised him you didn’t mind.  You knew he couldn’t control what his body did while he slept.  At the same time, it felt like you should bring up the topic of intimacy.  You asked if he was really okay with being with you and not having sex.

He scoffed and replied, “My hand and a couple toys have always been enough for me.”

You laughed a little at his honesty, but loved it.  He leaned toward you and rested his forehead against yours.  “We’re close in other ways.”  

“Yes, we are,” you replied with a warm smile.

After a few minutes, Wolffe tentatively asked something that had been on his mind.

“You said before that having a relationship like this has never been enough,” he said slowly.  “What happened? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just curious.”

You bit your lip and moved to lean on his shoulder, still holding his hand.  He gave it a little squeeze.  

“I was with couple other people at different times.  Tried the relationship thing. Someone would get to know me, wanted to date, romance, sex, the whole usual thing people normally do.  When I told them I’m not interested in that kind of love and didn’t feel like having sex with them, they would say they understood and it was fine, but eventually it wasn’t enough.  Especially the last person.  He really pressured me.  At that point, I cared about him and yeah, loved him in my own way, and I had sex with him to make him happy.  It didn’t feel right, though, and the relationship didn’t last.”

Wolffe’s breathing got heavier and you glanced up to see anger on his face.  You pulled away, unsure, and his expression immediately softened to one of care and protection.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, seeing your uncertainty.  “Far from it.  I’m sorry you felt like you had to do that.  It’s not right.”  He put an arm around you and pulled you close, placing a chaste kiss on the top of your head.  You let out breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“I want to make you happy,” you said.

“You do,” he answered with a broad smile and another kiss to your head.  “You make me so kriffing happy.  You’re enough as you are.”

You only became more inseparable as the years went on.  You came to depend on each other. If anyone asked he would say “we’re together” or “that’s my partner.”  You said the same of him.  He always made you feel special just as you were.  Each night you got into bed together and talked about your day.  You helped each other unwind simply by offering each other comfortable familiarity.  Some night you’d read a holonovel together and discovered you both liked science fiction.

You saw each other through some challenging times, too.  When you were in the Outer Rim and Wolffe’s cybernetic eye stopped working at the end of a mission, he was terrified he lost his sight for good.  You held his hand and ran him back to the ship, reminding him that his other eye was working and he would be okay.  As Gregor and Rex took off, looking for the nearest doctor who could help, you sat with him.  It was clear he was having flashbacks to the war and when he first lost his eye.

“I’m here,” you reminded him.  “I promise it will be okay.  You’re on our ship, Wolffe.  Rex and Gregor are here and we’re going to get you help.”

He looked like a terrified cadet, crying as you held him.  You walked him back to your shared bunk once you were in hyperspace, hoping the familiar sights, smells, and textures would help.

“Please don’t leave,” he asked through tears. 

“I never will.”

Everything turned out okay.  He needed an adjustment to his cybernetic, but was assured it should still last the rest of his lifetime and then some.  That night, you held him, letting him rest his face in the crook of your neck, while you rubbed his back.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said.  “I don’t know why I broke down when I could see out of my good eye just fine.”

“It’s okay,” you replied.  “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve gone through a lot.  I love you just as you are.”

“And I love you too,” he said, “just as you are too.”

“Is it true you were in another villain attack with Red Riot?” a coworker asked, pouncing on you by the coffee machine.

“No,” you said tiredly. This had already been the office gossip for two days. “I was there, but it was over fast. No civilian injuries and I didn’t do anything this time.”

“Still,” the woman—you weren’t even sure of her name, that’s how infrequently you spoke—said. “He’s in the top fifty now, yeah? If he keeps on seeing you when these villain attacks happen, he’s going to think you’re in cahoots. A part of a syndicate or something.”

“Ah, I really don’t think so,” you said.

“Oh?” she said, eyebrows raised. “Does he have a different idea of you?”

“No,” you answered quickly. “No, I just give off too many young accountant vibes.”

“Right,” she said, the interest waning in her eyes. She glanced around the room, giving an awkward sigh, and when she couldn’t find anything else to say, she left. Hopefully to return to her desk.

You were about to do just that with your second coffee of the day in hand at just 9:30am. The last few days of work had been trying with so much extra attention on you. Plus, questions about you and Kirishima were just exhausting. There was nothing to lie about, nothing really to overthink, but it was stressful. No one knew that you were friends and that’s how you’d happened to be at the scene of a second villain attack with him. And you’d really rather keep that private. So every time the name Red Riot came up, you felt your palms flood with sweat and you did your best to wipe it off surreptitiously on your slacks.

You kind of hated this part of yourself. That had not yet changed.

You’d been meeting Kirishima in the urban neighborhood he patrolled for weeks now, usually once or twice a week after work. You wouldn’t stay too long—no more than an hour or two—so as not to hijack his whole shift, but he was a great conversationalist. His jobs and friends were interesting—you’d finally taken to looking up some of the pro heroes he talked about online and started following them in the news—but he asked questions too. Your job wasn’t particularly interesting, but he asked a lot of questions about you. As though you were just as interesting as a life of fighting crime and saving people.

The conversations were always different, but you’d come to a routine. You’d text him before meeting up and you’d exchange locations until you found each other. Today, you’d done just that, and were looking up to see his spiky red hair in the crowd. A moment later, you noticed he was out of uniform, a coat and jeans accompanying the winter weather than his hero uniform ever seemed to.

“Hey, Kirishima,” you said, head cocked in confusion as he jogged over to you. “Any idea where Red Riot is? I was looking for him.”

“Red Riot took the day off,” he said, looking at his civvies sheepishly. “So you’re stuck with me.”

“Why’d you take the day off?” you asked, Kirishima turning back the way you came as the two of you began walking together like usual.

“Ah, well,” he started, running a hand over his hair. You’d noticed he did that whenever he felt awkward or nervous. His hair was so stiff with product that it never seemed to do any damage. “I actually need to talk to you about that.”

“Oh?” you asked, pausing your stride.

“We should stop meeting up like this,” Kirishima said, wincing, bracing for your reaction.

You had no reaction, though. Your face went blank, totally slack but for another, “Oh.”

“I just mean during my work shifts!” he clarified hurriedly, waving his hands frantically in front of him as he seemed to catch on to how the words sounded. “I mean, I’d still love to hang out…outside of this.”

Now he was looking at you hopefully. His short, stubby eyebrows were raised, widening his red eyes as he waited for your reaction. You started walking again. Flight, flight, flight. “Oh,” you repeated.

“Do you have anything to say that’s not oh?” Kirishima asked, keeping pace with you.

“Is it because of last time that you want to stop?” you asked, referencing the short villain battle. Then you sharply inhaled, turning to him with your own wide eyes. “Did you get in trouble with your agency?”

You could think of no greater disaster. The new hero rankings had come out just a couple of weeks ago and, while it was exciting that Kirishima had cracked the top fifty, his schoolmates Deku and Shouto had made it into the top ten, and Dynamight into the top twenty. It was his top priority to close the gap between himself and his friends, and if you had harmed his chances, you’d never forgive yourself.

“No, no,” Kirishima laughed. “No, everything went fine with the capture, so what my agency doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

That eased your mind, at least. Every time you’d met up with Kirishima, you’d grown more and more worried that you were interfering with his hero work, to the point that you’d possibly grown to be the more attentive of the two of you. You were constantly paranoid, looking at your surroundings and trying to memorize how you would describe each person you passed if you had to tell the police. Hair color, height, build. Kirishima would laugh anytime you’d return to the conversation with a confused look on your face, having tuned him out for the sake of taking stock of your environment.

“I just,” Kirishima continued, glancing down at his Velcro sneakers, “I realized how dangerous it is for you to tag along like this. I know you can protect yourself well with your telekinesis, but it’s too much of a risk.”

“Oh.”

“Back to the ohs again?”

He was smiling at you, trying to bring his good humor, but there was unease in his eyes. Unease that was totally your fault. You were the wildcard in this equation. He was looking at you like you might hurt him—and it was so hard not to.

“Sorry,” you said quietly. “I’m just thinking about what to say.”

“It’s no pressure!” Kirishima added. “We can just text or…I mean, I’d really like to keep being friends, but I don’t know.”

He was treating you with kid’s gloves. He knew how hard this was for you, how unnaturally difficult, and he was trying to make up for it with sweetness. But no amount of his kindness made any part of this any easier. You had yet to find anything that made being acespec easier.

“No, I know,” you said, touching his arm with just your fingertips for only a moment as you continued to think. “I know where you’re coming from.”

You saw him look down to where your fingers had touched him and back at you. You wondered if that was the first time you’d touched in a non-dire situation. You knew he’d carried you when you’d passed out after that first villain attack but, then again, you’d been unconscious for that one. You crossed your arms as you tried to ignore the sense memory of his hot skin on your cold fingertips.

“I want to say yes,” you said, wondering if the words would sort themselves out better aloud than they did in your head. “It only makes sense. We’re friends, we should be able to, I don’t know, get a coffee or go to the park. It shouldn’t be me just showing up at your job. Of course that wasn’t gonna work forever.”

His eyes weighed on you as you let your monologue play out. Your face felt hot and you couldn’t bring yourself to make actual eye contact with him. God, you hated being so embarrassed about this.

Kirishima was understanding—the adjective. But that was different from understanding: the verb. You knew you sounded crazy. That your feelings were those of a paranoid wreck, maybe a person who’d been left jaded by one too many bad matches. You’d had none of that. Rather, you had a vacuum of experiences that seemed to make room for every possible bad feeling about relationships without having the history to back up the trauma.

Your words were coated in shame as they continued to work their way out. “But the idea of saying yes makes my chest squeeze and I just feel panicked even though nothing would really be different except your clothes.”

“I can be shirtless if that helps,” Kirishima offered.

“I’m sure anyone else would love that, but it definitely would not help,” you said, the laugh that managed to break free actually feeling light and genuine before guilt closed you back up. “I don’t know where all this pressure comes from. You’re not even asking for a date and I feel like, I don’t know, I’m tricking you.”

“You’re not tricking me,” Kirishima said. “Actually, your honesty is kind of incredible. Very manly.”

“What can I say?” you asked, the chuckle that came out this time sounding as embittered as was appropriate. “I’m an emotional slut.”

Despite your own laugh being shriveled and false, Kirishima’s always managed to be full. “Emotional slut? Is that a thing?”

“I think so,” you said. “Instead of compensating for things through sex, I compensate through…abrasive honestly that isn’t equivalent to my level of intimacy with a person.”

“Hmm,” Kirishima said, sticking his hands into his pockets as he thought it over. “Just…how do you so fearlessly tell me about things that are hard for you, but then you’re so afraid of going for a walk together?”

“That’s the million dollar question, Kirishima,” you said your voice wry as the self-loathing came bubbling up again. “That’s the million dollar question.”

“Wow, you are an emotional slut.”

You were sitting across from your newest acquaintance, Mina Ashido, who, hitherto you’d only known as Pinky. She was chewing on the straw from her iced latte and blinking at you, but you couldn’t read her expression. Maybe it was something about the black sclera of her eyes.

“No STIs in that one, though.”

She landed the joke with a perfectly straight face, then looked at you and smiled, tumbling easily into a laugh and bringing you with her. She slapped a hand on the wooden table in the rustic coffee shop you’d decided to meet at—a central location between where you both worked.

It was only fair for her to say that. You’d just told her everything you’d ever told Kirishima about how things were for you being demisexual. The constant fear you had around men and how you let yourself be governed by it. She’d listened to it willingly, despite being a perfect stranger. Kirishima had set the two of you up so that one day the three of you could hang out without one of you feeling like a third wheel. It was strange, but it was the best idea you’d been able to come up with.

“I just want to get a couple things straight, if that’s okay,” Ashido said after sipping on the dredges of her drink. Yours was still half-full. “Do you feel weird hanging out with me right now?”

You shrugged, eyes going up to the yellow light fixtures on the ceiling. “Not particularly? I mean, a little weird just because we’re strangers, but not as weird as I should for just having spilled my guts to you.”

“Right. Well, you seemed comfortable, but I don’t know if you’re just a really good actress,” Ashido said. “So hanging out with me is fine, but hanging out with Kirishima is scary.”

The word scary made it sound like you were a kid. Like Kirishima was a boogeyman you were afraid was going to sneak up on you and grab you instead of being the reliable pro hero he was. Still, you were powerless to say anything but, “Yeah.”

“Did it feel awkward to you the last time you hung out? When he was off work?”

“A little,” you said.

That had mostly been from the choice you had to make regarding moving forward, though. It was hard to laugh and joke when you were wrestling with how to hang out with the nicest man you’d ever met in a way that didn’t stress out your ridiculously sensitive nerves. That didn’t trigger your flight reflexes and set you on edge for an entire outing.

Ashido cocked her head, squinting at you, trying to put the pieces that you were handing her together in her head. “Do you have platonic male friends?”

“Yes!”

It came out as an exclamation because that was what frustrated you too. You had male coworkers who didn’t make you uneasy. You had friends from school and you were never worried about your friends’ male partners. Men had always been in your life in non-threatening ways, and that was what made it so impossible to stand how your Spidey-sense went on alert only for the ones who had a fraction of a chance of being interested in you romantically. It was nothing but self-sabotage.

“Well, that is a pickle,” Ashido said, leaning back in the booth you were seated at. It was a little more private so that Ashido could worry less about being recognized by fans—she had a very recognizable look, costume or not, after all. “It sucks. But I don’t think it makes you weird. Kiri would never think that either. He’s a good guy.”

You nearly winced at the mention of Kirishima’s name and you said, “That. That right there. Even you just saying something like that makes my brain say, she’s saying that because she wants you to like him. She wants you two together because he likes you and you should run from all of that.”

Ashido blinked at you and said, “Wow, your brain works fast.”

“To my own detriment.”

“Maybe,” she said, a sympathetic smile on her face. “But we all have something like that. At least yours keeps you safe—just a bit too safe.”

“Yeah, that’s something.”

It didn’t feel like it, though. You didn’t have a bad lot in life, but did you have to have a sexuality that manifested in crippling loneliness? Did you have to have a sexuality that took you further from your own sensuality?

“Well, at least we have a workaround for the moment, right?” Ashido said, her voice perking up. “You seem like a cool chick. And I love spending time with Kiri. I think the three of us could have a lot of fun together.”

“Yeah, me too,” you said. And then, as an afterthought: “And hey, thanks so much for doing this. You know, volunteering your friendship like this.”

“Psh, thanks for being freaking normal.” Ashido said, curling her fingers around her empty cup and squeezing enough for the plastic to crumple. “It’s hard to make friends as a hero. The semi-celebrity, the schedule, the work. It’s legit and I can’t have my only friends be the idiots I went to school with. They know too many things.”

Ashido ended with a whisper and a wink, then leaned back in her chair.

“Besides, too much testosterone. You seem cool, though.”

Given what you’d just revealed to her about yourself, you felt about as far from cool as possible. But you weren’t about to volunteer that. “Thanks. I’ve probably taken up enough of your time, though. I’d hate to steal a whole afternoon.”

“Not to worry,” Ashido said, grabbing her purse and slipping on her coat as she stood. “I got a double shot of espresso in this bad boy. I have many more hours of the day left in me.”

“Good, good,” you said, holding onto your drink as Ashido threw her empty one out.

“I do have one more question, though,” Ashido started as you both left the coffee shop, making your way to the train station. “Have you ever tried a ‘fake it till you make it’ kind of thing? Going on a date with a semi-okay guy and seeing where it led?”

An obvious question really. You were surprised Ashido hadn’t asked it earlier. That was the way dating went after all. First dates were a compatibility check and were often completed with people having nothing in common, and no second date. Of course you’d tried it.

“I just hate it so much,” you said, voice probably quieter than it needed to be on the loud city block. “The uncomfortable feelings, the expectations, the feeling of failure before anything’s even happened…I just project it onto the guy and suddenly he is the manifestation of all those bad feelings, and I can’t untangle them.”

“Oof, that’s rough.”

“That’s why I can’t go on a date with Kirishima or do anything that even feels like a date,” you said. “I really, really, really don’t want my annoying brain to make me dislike him. I don’t want to feel that way about anyone.”

“And that’s why you don’t date,” Ashido completed.

“That’s why I don’t date.”

It had been easier as a child.

Back before you knew the name for what you were, back before you even realized you were different from the people around you. Back when you were still too young to be called a late bloomer. Back when you were on track to be like the rest of your peers, as if anyone’s experience around romance was wholly ‘normal’ or ‘not.’

You’d had crushes before. Barely enough for a thimble full, but they’d existed. You knew they were something you were capable of. And back then you’d been too innocent, too naïve to understand a fear of commitment, intimacy, or men. So, while you’d been confused, unsure how to navigate your new feelings, you hadn’t been afraid of them either. You hadn’t anticipated the potential for feelings with quick-footed fear you did now.

You wished you could have that again. You’d happily take the rarity of feelings, the scarce chance for love that came with demisexuality if only you could live without the fear that hobbled you before you even got a chance to feel. The fear that left you thinking about a wonderful boy, and wanting nothing more than to tear yourself from him. To rip apart from him so wholly and completely and the wound would heal unmarked, as though he’d never been there in the first place.

You wanted—needed—any small reason to run toward him instead.

Because you couldn’t live your whole life like this. You couldn’t resent your sexuality forever. You had to find a way to work with it.

“So are you just…friends with a bunch of heroes now?”

You were planted in front of the coffee maker, watching it drip slowly, and silently cursing the person who hadn’t refilled it. Like it was their fault you were now trapped here with a coworker prying into your personal life. The gray of the countertops and the face of your coworker—you were intentionally refusing to learn the names of any of the people who wanted to talk to you about Red Riot or, now, Pinky—all faded away as your vision narrowed on that steady drip, drip, drip.

“I don’t know,” you said, more exhausting and less forgiving the more of these encounters you had. “I’m just spending time with people. Friends, heroes…I don’t know, I’m just trying to live my life.”

You put every ounce of patience you had into that. Fighting off complete and total exasperation had felt like deadlifting, but it hadn’t been enough to keep a moody, “Okay, then,” off your coworker’s lips as he finally backed off.

One lousy photo. Well, a number of photos of Ashido, but only one photo that had your face in focus instead of hers was circulating around the forums. It wasn’t on the news or even any tabloids, but rather all off the Pinky fan club corners of Reddit and Twitter. People hypothesizing if it was a date or if you were some kind of employee of Pinky’s or if you were just friends. People had already tied your picture back to photos that had been taken of you and Red Riot on his patrols, so crazy theories were flying all over the place. Ashido and Kirishima had both reassured you that it would all die down before the week was up, but gods, the days were sure taking their time.

You didn’t even mind the internet so much. You could just not go onto the forums—no skin off your nose there. But your prying coworkers really had you resenting the office’s open floor plan. You’d kill for a door instead of a cubicle. And a coffee delivery service.

Of course, you’d just be inviting more of this in the more time you spent with Kirishima and Ashido. Both of them were trying to move up in the hero ranking, and that meant leaning into publicity and desiring your name being in the public consciousness. There would only be more attention from strangers.

But, on the other hand, things would probably die down with the people who actually knew you. Your being friends with popular heroes would become a normal thing. And then you could get on with your life.

The coffee had finally reached the top of the pot and you ripped it out of its machine, not caring as the last few drips hissed against the hot base, and poured yourself a tall mug.

You could imagine getting used to being friends with heroes. And if you could imagine it, it could happen.

In consideration of your unwanted time in the spotlight, the first time your, Kirishima’s, and Ashido’s schedules lined up had you standing outside Ashido’s apartment. Going there seemed perhaps too intimate, but both of the heroes had urged you over. Kirishima had assured that one glance at Ashido’s apartment would prevent you from any feeling of intimacy.

“It’s not that messy!”

Ashido’s apartment wasn’t that messy—it was true. It had lots of bold patterns and colors splashed around the living room, yes, but you could spot the evidence of a hastily cleaned space. The counter around the kitchen sink was wet, but the sink was empty and the dishwasher was running. A number of papers were stacked on top of each other on the coffee table, with a number of unrelated trinkets stacked on top. You could imagine that they’d been splayed across the table earlier.

“My bad, my bad,” Kirishima easily relented as he toed off his shoes. “Seems you clean more for a new guest than any of us.”

“Of course I would,” Ashido quipped. “Who cares about you guys?”

It was a relief how easy things felt between at least Kirishima and Ashido right off the bat. You’d spent the last many weeks observing how easygoing Kirishima was with strangers, but you were quick to spot the differences between that and him around an old friend. The complete chivalry that was practiced with every stranger he met—even villains when he could manage it—was layered with comfortable joshing and looseness in the privacy of Ashido’s apartment. There was no role to play, no people to comfort.

You realized with a start that you were no longer someone to impress. You were just a friend.

A stiffness that had been calcifying your heart and lungs gave way, and you were able to take a full breath. Gone were those horrible feelings of first date jitters. The sense that the other person was on their best behavior, trying to show off all the shiny things they’d list on a dating profile. No, you were moving past that. Not onto second date excitement, but into platonic contentment.

Only when you saw Kirishima making for the kitchen cabinets and Ashido grabbing after him did you blink yourself back into the space, the world having gone on without you for a minute or two.

“It’s my house, Kiri—I can make the tea!”

“Okay, I was just suggesting it!”

“Suggesting it is different from making it yourself,” Ashido huffed as Kirishima raised three tea bags far over Ashido’s head. “You’re the guests, so hand them over.”

“Make me,” Kirishima said, a broad grin showing off his sharp teeth.

“C’mon, Kirishima,” you said. “What would Crimson Riot do?”

Ashido cackled. “Ooh, she got you! He would be ashamed by the knavery.”

“Dang it,” Kirishima said, handing the tea back to Ashido, who grabbed three mugs and started a kettle. Then he turned to you, eyes suddenly bright. “Hey, Crimson Riot? Don’t tell me you’ve been studying up on heroes?”

Under Kirishima’s pleased attention, that comfortable feeling you’d only just settled into became fraught with fear again. There was nothing you could do but brush past it, and try not to let the frustration show on your face.

“Well, a little,” you admitted. “I had to in order to keep up with everything you talk about.”

Kirishima sent a soft smile your way, one that pulled strangely at the corners of his lips and tilted the stubby ends of his eyebrows down. Before you could try and figure out what that face meant, Ashido said, “Oh yeah, he babbles about Crimson Riot all the time. Best to be able to say: I already know that one, hun. You don’t gotta tell me again!”

Then Kirishima’s face was open again, overtaken by false hurt. “Crimson Riot stories are great!”

“Why don’t I tell you some Mt. Lady stories and see what you think?”

“Uh,” Kirishima said, the light grimace doing nothing to hide what he thought about that. “You can do that if you want…”

Before the conversation could devolve any more, you interrupted saying, “This is why I had to do my own research. When Kirishima started talking about hero rankings, I was totally lost.”

“She didn’t know who Wash was! Who doesn’t know Wash?”

“I know, buddy, I know,” Ashido said with false compassion as she came out of the kitchen with a tray of mugs, leading the three of you to her pink floral sofa. She set the tea service down on the coffee table, the material of which looked almost like candy. A plastic-like purple with the dull sheen of a piece of taffy. You swore if you licked it you would taste grape. “Honestly, Y/N, flapping your gums about how to improve your ranking is pretty pointless unless you have a publicist.”

“None of you have publicists?”

“Bakugou’s getting one,” Kirishima said, “but the rest of us are too small time.”

“To get a good one, at least,” Ashido added.

You caught how downtrodden his expression was and felt yourself leaning in as he reached for his tea and began blowing on it. “I’m sure there’s plenty you can do without one. It’s just a bit of strategizing and branding, right?”

“With so many heroes, branding is really hard, though,” Kirishima said. “How am I supposed to stand out when Deku’s in the top ten, coming from the same school, same year, smiling bigger and rocking a flashier quirk? And he’s got a publicist. He’s always going to events and works more shifts than anyone.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, reaching to take a sip of your own tea as you thought.

“Tune it out, Y/N,” Ashido said. “Him and Bakugou have been obsessed with how to increase their ranking ever since this year’s numbers came out. I keep telling them that they’re just mistaking what’s most important with what’s easy to count.”

“But it’s the best way we have to see how you stack up,” Kirishima said, his fists in the air as he grew amped up. “It’s not perfect, but public perception is important and this is how we take stock.”

“You need to stop comparing yourself so much,” Ashido shot back. “We should ban you from even seeing the numbers. You and Bakugou.”

“I don’t know, both sides are valid,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. “I mean, I work with numbers all day. I can tell you that money is meaningless because it’s just a value that we as a society agree on, not something that actually exists. But I can also tell you that money has incredible meaning because of its agreed upon value.”

Ashido blinked at you. “I think that…just about made sense. Be careful with talking about your numbers stuff, though. It’ll all go over our heads.”

“I bet Bakubro could hold his own,” Kirishima offered, blowing on his tea.

“I’m not sure she’s ready to meet Bakugou yet,” Ashido said. “Maybe Sero.”

“Not Kaminari?”

Ashido sent Kirishima a look that drew his eyes out of his tea and to her face, as though he could feel it. “You know why not Kaminari.”

Kirishima blinked at her for a second, watching as Ashido’s eyes flickered over to you and then dawning appeared on his face. “Oh. Yeah, you’re probably right.”

You watched the exchange with nothing more than faces aiding you along in the conversation. You’d seen Kirishima and Ashido’s friends once, back before you and Kirishima had begun your walks together. Since then, you’d googled them and learned their hero names, their quirks, their rankings, and a little about what they did. But you hadn’t gone so far as to watch interviews or anything like that, so you weren’t sure what personalities or behavior were being referred to. Save for a vague concept that Bakugou—Dynamight—wasn’t known for being friendly. Even without the internet, you’d gathered that from the few seconds you’d spent in his company.

Dynamight with a publicist. You wondered how that could affect his rating. Endeavor had made it to number one with a publically shit personality—everyone knew that, no matter what rock they lived under where heroes were concerned. But it wasn’t the norm. Bakugou could probably jump up a few spots if he managed to thread the needle between keeping his fiery image and being likable.

It was generally annoying for an outsider to give advice to someone who knew so much more about the field, but you couldn’t help it as your brain worked to take all of the observed elements and combine them together. All you had to do was take what you knew and keep reorganizing it until the elements added together, just like algebra.

“You know,” you began slowly, “if you want to go up in the rankings, it does sound like there’s one thing you have over Deku.”

“Really?” Kirishima asked, hope shining over the disbelief in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said. “Time.”

“Time?” Ashido echoed.

“A top ten pro’s time is curated but yours isn’t,” you explained. “There’s something to be said for a slow rise. If you wanna be a hero past your twenties, at least. Right now, you can take time to grow public goodwill on the micro level by doing community services to start with. And then just do the things a publicist would do and try to be present to the community online and stuff. Everyone loves authenticity.”

“So, what, Kiri should make a vlog?”

“No,” you laughed. “Something else. But yeah, figure out where you stand out and capitalize on that. You’re defense and Deku’s offense, right? That matters. Most of the top heroes aren’t defensive, right? So that might seem like a detriment, but it’s not, because it’s how you can stand out!”

“Yeah!” Kirishima cheered. “Wow, you’ve learned your stuff! God, you’re such a good friend.”

“Oh,” you flushed, taking a sip of tea as the word ‘friend’ exploded into a million potential eventualities in your mind. You did your best to ignore it. “They weren’t really ideas. Just things to think about.”

“No, those are good ideas,” Ashido said, grinning. “Well, well, well, you might fit in with the heroes after all.”

You stared at your computer.

Your enmity tensed the corners of your lips, narrowed your eyes to slits. You’d been down this road before. Particularly on evenings after a draining day at work when you were too tired to do anything, but your inertness sent your mind down old-trod paths of self-loathing.

Reddit was no better than WebMD. Sometimes information could mean comfort, armor. Sometimes it created nothing more than more worries.

But sometimes it allowed you to feel seen.

You sighed, opening the device and typing in r/demisexuality. You scrolled past all the familiar “could I be demi?” questions that you were years past. This, at least, you were sure of by now. No, all you wanted was a little reassurance. A testimonial or two of a person who’d been in your shoes—felt the pain, loneliness, and frustration. Then cracked some secret code that made dating easy and had found a partner and was now happy. Or happy insofar as relationships provided happiness.

But as you scrolled through people’s stories, you were reminded—as you always were—that there was no secret code. It was either date and be uncomfortable or don’t date and be lonely.

The posts always told you that you needed to push yourself a bit out of your comfort zone and date—the posts were lacquered with promises that it would be worth it. That practice would make it easier and that the right person would be understanding of your needs.

Your frustration began to boil.

It felt impossible. Impossible even to articulate how much you felt you couldn’t do this. Impossible to believe that so many people who—supposedly—felt your same struggle, could power through and come out happy on the other side.

You’d tried. You’d tried forcing yourself on dates and, just as you’d told Ashido, it left you with nothing but feelings of resentment and inadequacy. You simply couldn’t put yourself through that again. Somehow, you’d only hate yourself more.

But you kept scrolling. It had been months since you’d trawled through the thread—months of fortitude in which you’d done everything in your power to tamp down these thoughts and ignore the feelings, the fear, the frustration—and there were hundreds of posts and replies to catch up on.

With every story that you couldn’t relate to, you felt the heat burning behind your face. You wondered why an already hard thing had to be so much harder for you than these other people. The lucky ones who fell into relationships despite their demisexuality, or the people who could date normally, despite their limited physical intimacy.

But the posts that sounded just like you were the ones that really made you cry. The lost souls who just wanted a chance at what looked like normalcy. What looked like expectation. The people who didn’t need a spouse tomorrow, but who just wanted to be able to have one relationship. The reassurance that maybe they wouldn’t die alone. With every world-worn testimony the tears fell harder until you were sobbing with the weight of not just yourself, but the dozens of others who were sitting in their houses just as lonely and confused as you were.

When you couldn’t take any more, you pushed away the laptop, folding in on yourself in bed, feeling cold all over. How could one feel both heavy and empty at the same time? A weight and a lacking both taking up space in your chest and your core. You closed your eyes, hoping sleep would take you, and the ritual was complete.

“Y/N, are you seeing someone?”

The question had you choking on your soda. Mercifully, the drink only splashed the back of your throat, not quite making it to your nose and causing a full spectacle. But you still wracked out a couple desperate coughs before turning to the friend who had asked.

“What?” you wheezed, dabbing your mouth with the napkin you’d been using as a coaster.

“Well, we haven’t seen you in a while,” your friend continued, her tone more hesitant now that she’d seen what the topic had done to you. “And you were just smiling down at your phone. So…”

It had been a while since you’d met with your old group of friends—certainly a while since you’d invited them to your house, like they were now all sitting on cushions in your living room. You’d realized just how long it had been since anyone had been over when you’d vacuumed the floor and noticed how much hair and dust was on the ground. It must have been months since you’d cleaned up for company. And you had been texting Kirishima. And he was a boy, but he wasn’t a boy.

“Uh, no,” you said, your voice now phlegmy instead of strained as you slipped your phone away. You stood up and walked to your kitchen to grab a water to clear out your throat. And to hide your face from the probing eyes. “But I have been making some new friends.”

“Oh, really?”

You were lucky that your friends weren’t the type who were searching the online message boards about Red Riot and Pinky, or even looking you up beyond your own social media in your free time. Luckier still, the message boards had moved on to their next points of interest many times over in the last several weeks, returning you to general obscurity.

Obscure or not, though, your friends weren’t particularly interested in heroes, no more than you had been a few months back. Now, you were certain that you knew more about heroes than any of the half dozen of them put together.

“Yeah,” you said after taking a sip of soothing water, “but it’s nothing too interesting. Actually, though, there’s something else I should probably tell you.”

Your friends were all looking at you, and you tried to meet their eyes. There was no shame in this. You knew that, but still, the fact that you were keeping it a secret at all—from your best friends at that—seemed to imply that there was something to be ashamed about. That there was some benefit to keeping this big part of you secret. So you mustered all the confidence you could manage and said:

“I’m demisexual.”

You got silent blinks from a couple friends and a chirpy “Oh!” or two from a couple more. One carried the rest of the group, mercifully saying, “Wow! What exactly does that mean?”

You’d only said it a few times in the past. To Kirishima and Ashido, of course, and you’d certainly said, “I’m on the asexuality spectrum,” to a few men whom you wanted to get off your back. But still, the words felt rote, mechanical as they came out.

“It’s on the asexuality spectrum. It means that I rarely feel attraction, and only towards those I’d consider good friends first,” you explained. “So, no, I’m not seeing anyone. That’s why I’m never seeing anyone and why it’s not something I usually talk about.”

The support from your friends was immediate. You knew that some people didn’t think that demisexuality existed—“You’re just picky.”—and that others didn’t understand it. But even if your friends didn’t understand—and from your bare bones explanation, they probably didn’t quite—they were all babbling everything they could to make it clear that they supported you and they were glad that you had told them.

It didn’t matter what they said, though. After the words were out, you felt shame stepping off your chest, leaving you with more room to breathe. As shame left, relief took its place. You’d been needing to say this aloud. It didn’t have to matter immensely, but it just had to be out.

You’d had to come out.

You never would have thought of it as coming out, seeing as there was nothing quantitative about this sexuality. No one on the street would ever know you were demi by looking at you or a partner. You weren’t marginalized for it. It had never felt like something that needed to be shared. That there would ever be a benefit to sharing.

But there was.

And now you knew.

It had been a while since you’d been to an actual bar.

You were getting to the point where a night in with your friends always seemed more appealing, and endlessly cheaper. But since U.A. kids didn’t go to college and didn’t seem to cut loose during high school it seemed as though Kirishima, Ashido, and their friends still saw a lot of appeal in going the bar route.

Or most of them, at least.

It was interesting, observing the dynamic of their group. In addition to Kirishima and Ashido, Kirishima had now introduced you to Sero, Kaminari, and Bakugou. The threads of personalities you’d discerned from your two friends’ stories, plus the pictures and articles you’d gleaned from the internet were now twining with very real people. You were taking note of what qualities matched up and what didn’t.

They were clearly all excited to all have a night off at the same time. It was such a big deal and apparent rarity that you felt kind of bad about imposing on it. But, on the other hand, it was less intimate to all be together at a bar than somewhere else just the six of you, so you’d allowed yourself to be dragged along.

“It’s so good to have another girl here,” Ashido gushed for the third time in as many vodka cranberries. She was currently leaning over the bar, trying to order her fourth. “You want anything?”

You were still halfway through your second drink, and in no rush to your third. Ordering drinks was a much quicker affair in the company of Pinky, who was extremely recognizable outside of her costume. Bartenders were eager to serve her and the other members of their “squad” as Ashido had described them. And that now included you.

You shook your head, and Ashido was handed a refill before the words even left her mouth. She grinned at you as she squeezed her lime wedge on top and then licked her fingers. Then she pointed through the throngs of people and said, “Uh-oh. Trouble’s coming.”

Bakugou was dragging Kaminari towards the bar. His neck was flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or anger, because it certainly wasn’t from booze. You’d only seen him with one beer bottle so far. Yet, it was tough to place anger on him either, as Bakugou’s face, from what you’d seen of it so far, seemed placed in a permanent scowl.

“Water, now.”

It was unclear whether the growled demand was aimed at Kaminari or the bartender, but a water quickly appeared as Kaminari was all but thrown between you and Ashido. His weight came to lean heavily on his forearms, which slapped onto the bar, and Ashido quickly got up and allowed him to sink onto her stool.

She pushed the water toward Kaminari, putting a hand on his shoulder. Then she looked at you, saying conspiratorially, “He thinks he’s a heavyweight, but he forgets that he has half the muscle mass of Bakugou and Kirishima.”

“Half?” Kaminari whined, his voice generating a very liquid slide in pitch. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Bakugou grunted, taking the cup and shoving it in Kaminari’s face. “Drink.”

“Bakubro, why?” Kaminari asked. His pupils were wide in the bar’s dull light, and he was giving Bkaugou a very convincing doe eye. Predictably, Bakugou was unmoved, nearly shoving Kaminari’s nose straight in the glass.

“Because you being sloppy drunk won’t be good for any of our PR.”

“Bakugou, you still have the worst PR of any of us,” Ashido reminded him, her eyelashes batting for every fuck she didn’t give.

“I fucking don’t. I’m…working on it.”

Bakugou’s glare slid right off of her as Ashido gave a thin-lipped, unapologetic smile. As they stared each other down, you slid the water glass out of Bakugou’s hand and drew Kaminari’s attention to you.

“Dude, I know you don’t want a hangover tomorrow, so just drink the water,” you said. “I’m gonna get one after this drink too.”

Kaminari smiled, his face easy and goofy. “You’re so nice, Y/N. I’m so glad Kiri introduced you to us.”

“Me too,” you said, as Kaminari took the glass and drank down half of it. You’d take that. He could always drink more later.

“Okay,” Kaminari said, standing up strongly with one hand on the bar, the other on Ashido’s shoulder. He looked at her and then pointed out through the throng of people. “Back ‘n action!”

“Alright!” Ashido agreed, ready to take off with him until she turned back and looked at you. “You coming, Y/N?”

You noticed Bakugou sliding into Kaminari’s vacated barstool and shook your head. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Ashido said before placing her mostly full drink in front of Bakugou. “Enjoy it, Blasty!”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes at Ashido as she and Kaminari disappeared and pushed Ashido’s drink away with the backs of his knuckles. He did finish drinking Kaminari’s water, downing it in two large glugs.

This was Kirishima’s best friend, you knew. You hadn’t quite seen evidence of it tonight—you’d barely seen Bakugou say anything to anyone, and he certainly didn’t seem to be having as good a time as Kirishima and the others. You couldn’t help but be curious about this guy—best friend, best hero, worst attitude.

“Tired of babysitting?” you asked.

Bakugou only glanced at you for a second before taking a cocktail straw from the bar and putting it in his mouth, lightly chewing the end. The bar was loud, but he must have heard you, right? He was just ignoring you. You debated elbowing through the throngs to try and find Ashido or Kirishima again, then Bakugou began to speak, his voice mumbled around his straw.

“You try being pulled in to wingman for these idiots.”

“What?”

Bakugou scoffed and rolled his eyes before dragging Ashido’s vodka cranberry back to him and sticking his straw in. His face scrunched in distaste and continued, “Shitty Hair being wingmanned by Soy Sauce, Soy Sauce wingmanned by Pikachu, Pikachu wingmanned by Raccoon Eyes, Raccoon Eyes being able to take home any idiot here anyway.”

You struggled to keep up with the nicknames, unable to quite discern who of the group had bad hair and who might have had an incident with soy sauce, but the other two were obvious enough. Regardless, the point he was making was clear enough.

“Oh, they’re, uh, all just trying to get laid?” you asked, deflated.

“Eh, they’re all trying to get your friend Shitty Hair laid. The dumbass made the mistake of telling Dunce Face how long it had been for him and now you have the blind leading the blind over there.”

Your brain started doing drunken acrobatics before he’d even finished talking. Bakugou had said ‘your friend’ which meant that ‘Shitty Hair’ was Kirishima. What struck you first was that evidently it had been a while since Kirishima had had sex. But what quantified a long time for these people? Bakugou was talking like they were all struggling for sexual partners, but you were sure that couldn’t be true. It was the nature of celebrity. They were all young, fit men, known the region around for being successful heroes. They were at the top of the pecking order for sexual eligibility.

You’d already seen it in action. If you peeked around Bakugou’s shoulder, you could see women eyeing either him with hearts in their eyes or you with displeasure, whispering to their friends all the while. Perhaps not all of these girls were expressing sexual interest—you wouldn’t, after all—but you were certain a large percentage of them were. You were demi, sure, but you could still understand aesthetic attraction as well as the next guy. Bakugou was hot. Obviously.

So what was a long time? A couple weeks? A couple months?

Then your brain flipped onto the next thing. Operating under the belief that any of your young hero friends could walk out of this bar tonight with an eager partner on their arm, why did the boys feel it was necessary to help Kirishima out? Better yet: why hadn’t Kirishima already helped himself out?

Your inebriated mind didn’t want to dig any deeper than that, smooth, heavy stones already sinking in the bottom of your stomach as you drowned them in the rest of your drink.

The worst thought, that you tried not to give voice as you ordered a third round, was that old, niggling fear that maybe Kirishima liked you. That fear that, try as you might, could never quite go away.

But just under that, barely an inkling, much less an idea to give words to, was that maybe, just maybe, the idea of Kirishima having a crush on you wouldn’t be the worst thing at all.

“God, you are so lucky,” Ashido sighed, her deep exhale causing more of her bodyweight to lean on you via the arm slung over your shoulder and her whole left side.

You stared up at a street sign, its slightly reflective paint catching the nearest streetlight as you stumbled away from the bar. This wasn’t your neighborhood, and you wanted to make sure that you weren’t missing your turn—Ashido certainly wouldn’t be any help.

“Why’s that?” you asked.

You weren’t feeling wholly unfortunate as you were stuck walking a drunken Ashido home, but certainly not feeling so lucky either. Even after she’d stopped drinking, Ashido’s liquor had continued to hit her, bringing her to a state of drunkenness that it seemed she hadn’t predicted. The lack of college partying experience seemed to mean that the poor girl didn’t quite know where her limits were and had gone a tad overboard.

“Because,” Ashido huffed, “you never have to make any decisions.”

Now that was just…aggressively untrue. Sure, you didn’t have to make quick decisions with the life or death stakes that Ashido had to, but you had to make the same crappy kinds of choices that every adult had to make.

“How do you mean?” you asked.

“Because,” Ashido started again, her voice becoming increasingly exasperated, “you already know that you don’t wanna sleep with anyone. You don’t have to go to the bar thinking that you do and then be disappointed when you don’t like anyone. You don’t have to go not thinking you want to and then having some hot guy come up and then have to make a choice. You know what you want—what you don’t want—and bam! That’s what you do. Don’t do.”

“I wouldn’t call that lucky,” you said wryly, a shiver going down your spine despite Ashido’s warm body leaning against yours. Neither of you were quite dressed for the cold of night, and Ashido lived close enough that she’d refused to call a cab, claiming she could run this distance in five minutes.

Of course, you weren’t running. You were stumbling along, turning that supposed five minute journey into at least twenty.

“No, no, I wouldn’t either,” Ashido said immediately, her face getting close enough to yours that you could smell the stale vodka on her breath. “I know that you’re having a hard time, and I don’t wanna minimize that but, ya know, grass is always greener? You never sleep with a guy and then regret it the next day.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure that’s not true of all demi people, but yeah, that’s fair to say of me.”

“‘Zactly.”

At that moment, Ashido’s platform sandals clipped the edge of a crack in the sidewalk and, despite your hold on her, she began to tumble. You reacted quickly, using your telekinesis on her to keep her from eating dirt, allowing her to float at an angle before you lifted her back up to standing.

“Woah,” Ashido giggled as she righted herself, grabbing your arm. “Freaking cool, sis! That’s your quirk?”

“Yeah, sorry, are you okay?” you asked to a suddenly very mirthful Ashido.

“Duh—even if I’d hit the ground and skidded, that still would have been like a Tuesday at hero work.” Ashido grinned. “I should use my own quirk on that goddamn crack and melt it back to its mother’s womb.”

“How about not, Ashido?” you suggested, putting both hands on her shoulders and steering her forward. “It’s late and we gotta go home.”

“Okay, okay,” Ashido groaned, allowing herself to be redirected forward. “But did you have fun? Please tell me you had fun.”

“I had fun!” you insisted.

You had. It had been a joy to meet the rest of Ashido and Kirishima’s group—perhaps joy wasn’t the best word to use where Bakugou was concerned, but it seemed as though low levels of booze mellowed him out a bit. You’d managed to talk a little with all of them and had even danced a bit with Sero when you found out you had the same taste in music. You’d maintained a pleasant buzz without ever falling too far into Ashido or Kaminari’s side of drunk. Overall a good night. Except for one nagging little thing that Bakugou had left you with.

“Do you, uh, know if any of the boys went home with anyone?”

“Ooh,” Ashido cackled, a feral grin spreading on her face. “These are the deets we care about. Well, off the bat, Blasty is def already back in his cold bed all alone. Deku’s been climbing the charts and so that jealous killjoy is, quote, too concerned with his image to deal with the complications of one night stands.”

That didn’t quite sound like a direct quote, but the content seemed accurate enough for the impression Bakugou had given you. Girls’ longing looks had bounced off of him just as easily as guys’ lustful leers had off you. Simply not interested.

“Kami I think might have once he got his head screwed on straight again, idk, I’m not his keeper, and poor Sero had a stinging rejection.” Ashido tsked as she shook her head. “Poor guy. And Kiri came up empty again too.”

“Oh, really?” you asked nonchalantly, almost a little surprised that all the guys hadn’t gone home with a pretty thing on their arm, like you’d hypothesized they could. Maybe things were more complicated than you’d thought.

“Yup,” Ashido said, popping the p as she looked at you, eyebrows raised.

“What?” you asked, playing as though you had no idea what her look might be insinuating.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing…”

Ashido’s smile as she looked forward into the light-bathed night did nothing to hide the sing-song voice she’d used. A tone meant to bluntly mean that ‘nothing’ didn’t mean anything close to ‘nothing.’

That ‘nothing’ absolutely had something to do with that other little feeling pulsing through your blood. Behind the light surprise you felt at Ashido’s information, behind the alcohol and the tiredness pushing through your veins, was the slightest bit of relief.

And that had you utterly terrified.

It had been months since you and Kirishima had stopped meeting up on his patrols. He’d definitely been right to put a stop to it—you’d seen him scraped and bruised from a number of villain fights by now and, while your first thought was that you hated seeing him injured, your second thought was how lucky it was that you weren’t there.

You’d never forget that feeling that had come over you when you’d been taken hostage during the villain attack when you’d met. The feeling of stupidity, of being nothing more than a liability to the heroes. And that terrible, self-sacrificing feeling that you would probably end up terribly injured if not dead. You didn’t want to do that to another hero—or yourself—ever again.

But, at the same time, you missed walking. You hadn’t spent time with Kirishima one on one in well over half a year at this point and, of course, that had been your choice, but you were nostalgic.

More than that, you had something to prove.

You texted him, but you hadn’t seen Kirishima since meeting his friends at the bar the week before. Since then, you’d been disgusted by that feeling of relief, that strange hit of jealousy that you’d felt. And you just needed it to disappear.

So you’d hung around after work that day. You’d gotten in a bit of extra computer work, but, eventually, you had to leave, taking your time grabbing a small dinner and eating it on a sidewalk bench as you scrolled aimlessly on your phone.

The day was hot and humid—typical summer in Japan. Hardly a perfect day for walking, but you’d made up your mind, and from there it was hard to change course. Luckily, it was now late afternoon, so the day would only get cooler, and the city’s tall buildings would block out more of the roasting sun.

When you’d dallied long enough, you went to a café and ordered two milk teas and set out on a familiar path. When you were close, you texted Kirishima, just like you always had so many months ago. The practice, though many months removed, still felt rote. Already, you were back in your habit of paying extra attention to your surroundings, logging all the passersby in your mind as you exchanged texts with Kirishima, one of the teas tucked in the crook of your arm all the while. It only took a few minutes of wandering before you saw that familiar tattered cape hanging off of a narrow waist.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?”

You held up your phone, waving it in front of him. “You told me where you were.”

“I know that, but I was confused and surprised—Aw, thanks!”

Kirishima’s face lit up as you handed him the second tea and a straw. He still looked a little confused but wasted no time in puncturing the plastic and taking a sip. You could see a thin sheen of sweat illuminating Kirishima’s chest, with larger beads along his neck and just under his mask. There were no new scratches or bruises to speak of, at least not on his face or chest. But from the way his hair was still sculpted high, dark at the roots just from sweat, it seemed safe to say that he hadn’t met a villain today.

“Your shift is almost over, right?”

“Yeah, just a few more minutes and then I’ll have to head back to the agency,” Kirishima said, chewing through coconut jelly. He always said that the tapioca pearls got stuck in his teeth, so he preferred the less gummy jelly.

“So not too much danger if I stick around, right?” you asked. Then, clarifying, you said, “Of course, you can say no.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Kirishima said, quickly, though his voice still held a note of trepidation in it. “I’m just surprised. It’s been a while since it’s been just you and me, one on one.”

The two of you began walking, already heading in the direction of Kirishima’s agency. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you’re sick of my antics by now.”

“Not at all,” Kirishima said, though there was a little something behind the curve in his eyebrows that you couldn’t quite place. “I mean, this is hardly the worst thing. You were clear that you want to just be friends, and so we do things that friends do. It’s that simple, right? And you’re a good friend, so—as long as I’m being a good friend—then we’re not giving each other any less either. Right?”

“You’re a very good friend, Kirishima,” you said, putting weight in every word. “I guess I shouldn’t be saying sorry but…thank you.”

“Ah, you don’t have to thank me for being a friend,” he said, waving away the idea. “That’s easy.”

“No, it’s not,” you said. “It’s not been easy for me to make friends with men outside of school or work for years. And you’ve had the patience of a saint.”

Kirishima chewed on the fat straw of his drink and you wondered if his sharp teeth were puncturing it.

“You’re a good friend,” he said after a pause. “You’re a good friend, so it’s worth it.”

His words stirred something in you. Something you tried desperately to smother as you asked him about his shift, and he told you all the various things he was doing to be noticed by the community. Something about trash pickup and helping elderly people across the busy streets.

He’d friendzoned you. Months and months after you’d forced him into the friendzone, buckled him there and warned him what moving would do, he was finally saying something in kind. And it was reassuring. The worries that he ever was interested in you, that he ever could be interested in you disappeared. Which was good.

Right? That’s what you’d wanted from the beginning.

You’d come here today with the goal of destroying that pesky feeling, that disgusting hypothetical jealousy that you had no reason to feel.

So why, then, was it back?

Running out of podcasts to listen to at the grocery store shouldn’t have been a disaster, but it was and no one could tell you otherwise.

The last episode you’d had queued up was rolling the credits, thanking the surprisingly long list of names that went into making a podcast episode and, for once, you wished for that list to extend just a bit further, for the outro music bumping along at 1.7 speed to go just a bit slower. Frankly, you were an idiot and should have decreased the speed you were listening at in the first place, but by the time you’d realized that your episodes weren’t gonna last the trip, it was already too late.

As the buds in your ears went silent, you keyed in on the bubblegum pop playing on the speakers above, trying its hardest to get you in a good mood to make impulse buys and overfill your cart.

But you weren’t focused on it, not really. You weren’t intended to be. It was background and nothing more. And now that there were no voices in the foreground, your own mind took over, and began again the conversation that you’d been having with yourself for days.

So you’re happy that Kirishima’s alone? Does that mean that you think that you have some kind of claim on him? That he’s supposed to wait however many months or years it takes for you to maybe fall in love with him? Isn’t that exactly what you told him not to do? Didn’t you expressly not want him to have feelings for you, because that would make you afraid to be friends with him?

What kind of hypocrite are you? Do you not want your friend to be happy, just so that you can keep him as your backup? As your safety net? Is he not worthy of being his own person, or do you just want to keep him around as an accessory that you might try on if you feel like it.

Honestly, you should just let him go free. You haven’t been friends that long, not even a year. He was really being a friend to you as a favor, you know, to try to help you out with your stupid issues and now you’ve just dragged him into them. Cut him loose before things get any worse. Then life can go back to normal and no one’s hurt.

You didn’t want to listen. You tried not to listen, tried not to entertain those voices in your head when you knew, you knew that what they were saying was utter rot. Well, no there was definitely some truth, but it wasn’t all true. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

But as much as you tried to mediate yourself, the voices, the thoughts wouldn’t stop. They were loud, knocking on, scratching at, kicking down every door you tried to close on them.

That’s why you couldn’t do the silence right now. You couldn’t let your mind wander, because this was where it kept wandering to.

And in the midst of all of it, you still couldn’t figure out your goddamn feelings. Did you have a crush on Kirishima? Was that where that feeling of relief had come from? Or was it just some sick feeling of ownership?

“Ma’am?”

You didn’t even know who’d said it as you were brought out of the noxious haze of your thoughts to find multiple pairs of eyes on you. Somehow, you’d managed to mindlessly walk your way to the front of the checkout line and were now holding up the rest of the customers as you’d been too dazed to head to the clerk. Your face heated as you walked over to them and began to unload your cart.

The thing was, you knew what anyone’s advice would be. They’d tell you to ask him out on a date and really try and see. Or, for God’s sake, just kiss him and see if you wanted to lean in or run away.

But that was the catch 22 of the whole situation. Without doing that, you might never know. But if you did it, you might scare yourself so badly you’d never be able to look at him again.

So you were left caught in the middle, straddling the air between those two decisions, ready for either foot to slip out from under you or to rip both your hamstrings on the way down. The one thing you did know was that, for the life of you, you couldn’t seem to take a step in either direction. To leave or to go all in.

And until you figured out which way to go, you’d be left waiting for a secret third option to appear in front of you from the fog of your self-loathing internal diatribe.

But the years you’d been suffering this way—years before you’d ever met Kirishima—you’d already learned there was no third option.

And you were screwed.

Just as you were mentally hitting rock bottom, the problem, in a way, vanished. In the next couple months, you barely saw Kirishima at all.

“Yeah, he really took to heart whatever it was that you said to him about using his time well,” Sero said as he sipped his beer, one arm slung along the back of Ashido floral couch. “We’ve barely seen him or Bakugou outside of work.”

It was as though you were slowly replacing both Kirishima and Bakugou in their little group. You couldn’t speak for the others, of course, but as you were growing more friendly with the boys, it seemed as though they saw more of you than they did any of their other hero friends. It was always easier to schedule with someone who had a reliable nine to five that the schedules the lot of them worked.

“Well, that’s good, right?” you asked, sipping your own drink. You weren’t in the mood to feel more than a buzz tonight, and your slow pace was leading to your beer warming in your hand before you could finish it. You were probably going to end the night stone cold sober. “Career is super important for you guys.”

Mumbles of agreement went through Sero, Kaminari, and Ashido, the three of them mustering less enthusiasm than you might have assumed. You always struggled to relate to heroes—people with a chosen vocation. You were happy enough with your job, but you certainly couldn’t claim to prioritize taxes and paperwork over your friendships and hobbies. It was a job and nothing more.

“Yeah,” Kaminari drawled, “but there’s a limit to it. We always knew that Bakugou never had any sense of work-life balance, but Kirishima seemed a little bit more like us. But let’s face it—he’s always wanted to be like Midoriya and Todoroki and those guys.”

“His approval rating was the highest it’s been right after he saved you from that villain,” Sero said, glancing at you. “But that was right at the beginning of the cycle, so no one’s gonna remember it. Must be frustrating.”

“Midoriya gets to do stuff like that every other week,” Kaminari added. “But it’s not like you can manufacture stuff like that. So now he’s just chasing a high that he might not be able to recreate.”

You’d only met everyone this year, so you couldn’t speak to how the results might affect Kirishima’s choices. You’d also never thought about how the timing of the rankings mattered, though it made sense. If someone had a big leap in public approval just before rankings were announced, the might have an inflated ranking for the whole year thanks to just one event.

“Okay, enough!” Ashido announced. “Rankings come out in a few weeks—we can skip the hero talk until then. Y/N, entertain us. Please talk about anything else. You not being a hero is a fucking godsend. What are the normal people talking about?”

You chuckled. Spending less time with Kirishima had meant spending more time with your friends, and it was funny how both groups wanted to know about each other, despite the seeming lack of interest on the surface.

“Um, mostly TikTok?” you offered.

“Yes,” Ashido moaned. “That’s what I’m talking about. Show us the videos.”

As you opened the app, your For Your Page was showing a video about heroes, as it usually was when you were scrolling nowadays. To all the people in this room, you were the non-hero friend, but the truth was that you were getting sucked into their lifestyle well and fully. You were getting used to people coming up for your friends’ autographs when you were out and about, and you’d grown immune to the many pictures of you still posted on those message boards.

One of the tags on this particular video was #RedRiot. You blinked. It was strange to watch videos created by strangers about your friends, but, at the moment, that manufactured closeness was better than nothing.

You tapped past it, keeping the video in mind for you to search when you got back home.

There was nothing weird about going to Kirishima’s apartment.

That was the thought you were trying to impress on yourself as you stood outside the door. Or, rather, just off to the side, so that no one could see you through the peephole if they tried. You couldn’t wait forever, though. You’d been buzzed up a few minutes ago—you didn’t want to make it seem like you’d gotten lost on your way to the apartment that had both letters and numbers to help you find your way.

Today was the day the hero rankings were being announced—the ceremony would be in a few weeks. And Ashido was working—there had been many incensed gifs exchanged in the group chat—which meant that her apartment wasn’t available to the squad. Kirishima had offered his, to make up for having been MIA for the last few months.

And now, all you had to do was knock.

You did, finally, then rocked back on your heels as you bit your lip. It only took a moment for you to hear footsteps, and then the door clicked open, revealing a grinning Kirishima.

“Hey!” he said, all teeth as he stood aside and ushered you in.

You slipped off your shoes and looked around, your eyes instantly catching on all the exercise equipment. His agency had a gym, and you wouldn’t be surprised if his building had one too, but it was only natural for him to go triple duty in his own home. Hung around the room were framed motivational posters and quotes, all very positive and uplifting. The furniture was mostly plain, with a few tacky touches here and there that made you smile. It was a very Kirishima space, but quite a happy one too.

“It’s so clean,” you commented once you’d put your shoes away. “I can’t believe you had the time, what with how busy you’ve been.”

“Yeah, well,” Kirishima rubbed the back of his head, right where a headband was creasing his hair, “that was Bakugou. He came early.”

A few months ago you might have been surprised by that. Bakugou hardly seemed like the happy homemaker type, much less a pleasant houseguest, but by now you’d seen him disappear into the kitchen at a couple gatherings, busying himself with doing the dishes. You suspected he was doing it for alone time, but, whatever the motive, it was kind.

“How nice of him,” you said, your speech feeling a little stilted as you tried not to notice how, under the smell of cleaning product, the house smelled a bit like whatever cologne or laundry detergent Kirishima used. “Is everyone here already?”

It was a relief that Bakugou, at least, was already here. You’d arrived late on purpose, just to ensure that you wouldn’t be here alone with Kirishima. It wasn’t like you couldn’t bear that, but it was still better avoided.

“Yeah, in the living room.”

You followed behind Kirishima as you padded into the living room where the TV was already on. The results would be announced online, but all of the news stations would latch onto the news as soon as they did, analyzing what everything might mean for the next year of heroics. From what you’d gathered, watching seemed to be a tradition amongst heroes and hero fans alike—like watching a movie or music awards show.

“Hi, everyone!” you greeted.

Sero and Kaminari returned your cheer while Bakugou did little more than glance your direction while you took stock of the seating situation. There was a chair available separate from where the Sero and Kaminari, joined by Kirishima, were on a leather couch facing the big screen TV that had no less than four game systems attached to it. You claimed it, reaching for one of the many kinds of chip on the coffee table.

“Have I missed anything?”

“Just the typical analysis and predictions that they use to fluff up the time slot like every year,” Kaminari said. “Talking out of their asses.”

“Oh, well, I’ve never watched one of these before, so it’ll all be new to me!”

All eyes flicked to you, this time staring. Even Bakugou’s attention was undivided and disbelieving. Then it was all hands on deck to get you properly indoctrinated.

Over the past year, you thought that you’d come to know a good deal about heroes and their work, but as the boys made their own commentaries, riffing on the analysis that showed up on screen, you realized just what a novice you were. You took in the information hungrily, trying your best to follow along, Kirishima casting you apologetic looks every once in a while. You returned nods to him, assuring him that the other boys’ enthusiasm was fine. It was evident how excited the boys were to be able to sound off on something that they had a real level of expertise in.

Before you knew it, an hour had passed, the snacks on the coffee table had been razed, and Bakugou was saying, “Shut the fuck up, they’re in.”

Suddenly, everyone was on their phones and you got up out of your chair to look over Kirishima’s shoulder—you didn’t even know what website they were on to look it up yourself. Numbers descended from high to low, making Kirishima pass through all the low-level heroes before reaching anyone with name recognition.

Cheers and whoops erupted from Sero and Kaminari as they announced that not only had they gone up, but Ashido had as well, and one or both of them set about texting her as well as their class group chat. You still hadn’t spotted Kirishima’s, but he’d assuredly catch his name amongst the blur of characters before you would. He wasn’t breathing, teeth digging into his lips as his shoulders and chest stayed frozen with the tension. Then, suddenly, there was a sharp intake of breath as his thumb stopped scrolling and his eyes widened. There, in the top 25, was his name.

“Oh my god!” you squealed, bouncing up straight. All his hard work had been worth it. He’d absolutely leapt up in the rankings, and while you didn’t quite understand all the ins and outs, pride was flooding your chest, filling you to bursting.

“Oh my god!” Kirishima said as well, shooting off of the couch as he stared at you, his eyes wide and shiny. The next thing you knew, his thick, muscular arms were around you and your hands meeting behind his broad back.

He was so warm, his body nearly buzzing from the excitement. Your head slotted easily against him and you were secure and comforted by his embrace as he chattered in your ear about what this meant to him. You couldn’t even get in a word as to what it meant to be able to share it with him.

Suddenly, Kirishima cut himself off with an, “Oh, um,” and pulled away from you, his arms instantly at his side as yours slipped from the curve between his shoulder blades. “Sorry. Got carried away.”

It took a couple seconds for your cheeks to heat, realizing that the two of you had never touched like that. It had been friendly, sure, but hugs were still something that seemed to be on the other side of the long, thick line you’d drawn in the sand nearly a year earlier. Suddenly that line had become a little blurrier.

“Bakubro, what about you?” Denki asked, breaking the moment.

Bakugou, the only one who was still seated, looked up from his phone with a slight smirk on his face. “Top ten, Dunce Face.”

Another round of cheers erupted, which both you and Kirishima took part in for only a moment before he turned back to you, his eyes soft and shy. “Hey, so the ceremony is in a few weeks. All heroes are invited automatically and there are general admission tickets, but we can also invite plus ones.”

Kirishima’s gaze was going back and forth between you and the floor, and he took another step back, as if to ensure that a respectable amount of space was between the two of you. Your eyes held fast on his.

“Do you wanna come? As friends?”

A grin broke across your face, and your chest grew warm again. Accountants never had events to go to outside of company Christmas parties, which were usually little more than a recipe for disaster. Something like this could be fun.

“I’d love to,” you said, taking a step forward and putting your arms out just a bit from your body. “And, uh, hugs are okay with me, if they’re okay with you.”

Despite all his muscle, his sharp teeth, and the gel hardening his pointy hair, Kirishima seemed softer in that moment, his body relaxing just a tad. “They’re okay with me.”

Kirishima extended his arms as well and you walked into the hug, this one feeling more intimate than the previous one had. That one had been blind with excitement, while this one was intentional and without justification. Rather, no justification beyond the fact that you wanted it.

You weren’t sure why. But it was soft and warm and, for the moment, you were happy to stay there.

It wasn’t a date, so he wasn’t picking you up.

It wasn’t a date, so you’d decided that you’d just meet at the venue separately.

You’d spent hours choosing a dress, then doing your hair and makeup, but it wasn’t a date.

Actually, as you texted Kirishima, the two of you playing a game of hotter and colder outside the venue, for you to finally find him dressed in his hero uniform, it felt like old times. It felt just like when you’d accompanied him on patrol those first few weeks of your friendship last year.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, running up to him, the task a little harder in heels than it had been in your commute flats.

“Hey!” Kirishima returned, his smile as bright as it had been since the rankings had come out. “Wow, you look amazing.”

You smiled shyly, looking down at the mid-length dress you’d donned. This event wasn’t fancy enough to warrant a floor-length dress—at least you didn’t think so. You had no idea what the dress code was, since most of what aired on TV was just heroes in their costumes. Hopefully, what you’d chosen was appropriate.

“Thanks! Can we go in?”

Kirishima nodded. “Follow me.”

It wasn’t a date, so you didn’t hold hands, nor did you link arms. Heroes and their parties were able to go through a different entrance than the general admission ticket holders, so there was no fear of getting lost in the crowd. You took note of all of the security in addition to the fact that the building would be filled with hundreds of heroes. This had to be the safest event of the year.

You turned an eye to Kirishima’s muscular back as you followed him, remembering briefly how strong and sturdy it had felt under your hands. That same warm feeling from before bloomed in your chest, despite the chill of the November air.

Kirishima had warned you that the ceremony might be boring. Apparently, they’d only been held for the last decade since All Might’s retirement, and, since the first one, more bells and whistles had been added, steadily making the event longer and more spectacular. But you couldn’t be bored with Kirishima whispering in your ear the whole time, his breath tickling you and sending goosebumps down your neck. It was especially touching to see how genuinely excited Kirishima was to see three of his classmates up on stage, honored in the top ten. He told you that you’d finally be able to meet everyone: his class, former coworkers—all the people you’d heard about for the last year who made up his life.

It wasn’t a date, so the idea of meeting all the important people in his life wasn’t as scary as it once was. It wasn’t a date, but the intimacy of his voice rasped in your ear felt nice. It wasn’t a date, because when your elbows touched on the armrest, Kirishima was quick to put his hands in his lap, even though you hadn’t minded at all. It wasn’t a date because he won’t touch you. It wasn’t a date because he’s just following the lead you’ve given him for the past year, telling him over and over again that dates scare the crap out of you. It wasn’t a date because he would never ever make a move.

It wasn’t a date and…you kind of wish it were.

The realization was a quiet thing. The ceremony continued on, and Kirishima pointed to Denki across the aisle, who was dozing off while Sero stuck tiny shreds of tape to his arm hair. There weren’t words to put to it so much as just that feeling of warmth that you’d been aware of for weeks now. It spread from your chest to your fingers and your toes and you just wanted to be able to twine your fingertips around his knuckles. Nothing else. Just that.

But you didn’t. Because where the fond yearning was warm and broad, the fear was a hot poker. It cast about without aim, pricking you and keeping you motionless in your seat as Kirishima cheered for Bakugou.

You put it out of your mind. And watched the rest of the ceremony.

Of course, Kirishima had been a little overly optimistic in thinking that he’d be able to walk up and introduce you to all his friends and colleagues once the presentations were over. No, the media circus continued, and you followed Kirishima—a few paces behind, because this was not a date, and you didn’t want any of the many reporters thinking otherwise—as he maneuvered the crowd.

That was the other thing. In addition to the huge number of heroes—only mitigated because some heroes had to be on patrol that evening, lest it turn into a crime free for all—and the many general ticketholders, there were piles and piles of media. Reporters, photographers, videographers, all eager to talk to any hero they could shove their mics in front of. And Kirishima, it turned out, was a pretty big catch.

“Red Riot!” one reporter said, jabbing a microphone in his direction as she tapped her camera guy on the shoulder. “Any comments on what you learned that allowed you to jump twenty ranks in one season?”

Kirishima looked surprised for only a second before slipping on a show smile that looked just as bright and genuine as his real one. Actually, you were sure that was because it was genuine.

“Ah, that’s easy,” Kirishima said. “Early in the year, someone smart told me that I had time to use to my advantage. So I started putting all of my time strategically into things that would create community goodwill and worked all the time so that people would know that I was always around to save them. Heroes always want to be people who know they can trust on sight.”

You inhaled sharply, remembering the advice you’d given him that first time you’d gone to Ashido’s house. He didn’t look to you or do anything that would have drawn the reporter’s attention your way, but you were certain that you were the friend he was talking about.

“But that’s not what I’m going to do this year,” he continued. The reporter cocked her head, eyes sparkling at Kirishima’s admission. “If time is the most important thing, then I want to make sure that I also spend some time on the important people in my life and not worry so much about ranking numbers.”

The reporter tried to press more, but Kirishima just kept smiling—this time the expression looking a little more like a mask behind the black wire guard of his costume. She wasn’t going to get anything else out of him.

“That was a good answer,” you said once you were sure no reporters were about to jump on him.

His friends would be happy to hear his intention. They’d missed him as much as you had these past few months, and it would be better for him too. Kaminari had been right about the importance of work-life balance.

“Aw, well that was all thanks to you,” Kirishima replied. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said all year.”

“No,” you shook your head. “Everything you’ve done is all you. Your ranking but also prioritizing how you spend your time…that’s all you, Kirishima.”

Kirishima’s best smile was back—the one where his eyebrows curved up and some of the brilliance was gone, but there was softness in its place. Your stomach flipped, and you couldn’t stop your mouth if you tried.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Raised brows and wide open eyes replaced that perfect smile, and you wished you could reach out and grab it back. “Sure!”

“Is this…is this not a date because of me or you?”

What passed over Kirishima’s face was too quick to read. It landed on confusion, and he took a tiny step away from you. He probably didn’t even notice, although, it made a stone settle in your stomach, stealing all that pleasant warmth that had been coursing through it.

“Is that,” he paused, his brows furrowed and closing off his face in a terrible way, “some kind of trick question? Are you uncomfortable?”

It was suddenly clear to you how much you’d made Kirishima come to fear you in the last year. You’d been afraid of him inherently, but you’d strewn your fragile eggshells under his feet and asked him to walk with you. And he had willingly, learning to stand on tiptoe the whole way. Had that been cruel of you? Should you have asked him more questions instead of only demanding that he meet you where you were?

“No, it’s not,” you said, pushing forward. You couldn’t stop now. “I mean, if I told you right now that you could ask me out, would you want to?”

His face was more readable now, a little more open. You could see the questions on his face, but they came and went without him opening his mouth. The softness was back, as was the blossoming of something in your stomach.

“When I said that I wanted to spend more time with the people who are important to me,” Kirishima started, a light blush touching just the tops of his cheeks, “I was thinking of you.”

Whatever was in your stomach started to dance, and you realized with a start that this was a crush. Those were butterflies. You reached for Kirishima’s hand, your thumb brushing over his dry knuckles in a moment that made your heart nearly beat out of your chest. You took a steadying breath.

“Kirishima, I want this to be a date.”

The next smile you pulled from Kirishima was everything. It was soft and brilliant, expanding as he grinned and laughed a bit, his hand squeezing yours.

“Me too,” he said. “I didn’t think you would ever say that.”

“It’s, uh, been a process,” you admitted, thinking of the jealousy months ago, the way you’d missed him when he’d grown distant, the warmth of that first true touch. And the months and months before of fear, oscillating between cold and hot, constantly telling you to run away. “But look, just because I like you doesn’t mean that this is gonna be…easy suddenly. I’m still going to need time. I’m still afraid of this.”

Kirishima laughed, and where your grasp on his hand grew slack, his wasn’t tight, but just comforting. Just there. “I’m afraid too,” he offered.

“I thought heroes weren’t afraid of anything?” you joked.

“I used to think that too,” Kirishima said. “But then I learned it’s about living with no regrets.”

You hesitated. “I’m not sure how good I am at that.”

“I think you’re better than you think,” Kirishima said, raising your twined hands. “Just look at what you’ve done.”

For so long, you’d let fear govern so much of you. You still were, as a matter of fact. But, as it turned out, you’d just taken the first step.

Change was slower than you thought. Every time you thought you had the pace figured out, you had to be taught yet again that your expectations were never quite right.

You kissed that night. It was soft and brief, not probing or hungry. You had to give yourself time to be sure that you were alright with that. That the touches weren’t something regrettable, and that just because society seemed to tell you that they should be simple and easy, didn’t mean that they were for you. When you had to ask to slow down or stop, you still sometimes hated yourself. But you deserved the time to take care of yourself.

That was something you had to learn over and over again too. But when you forgot, Kirishima was happy to remind you.

It turned out he hadn’t liked you from the beginning, like you’d feared. He’d thought you were pretty, as Kaminari had bluntly let you know. But that had changed, and he had liked you before you were ready. And was that a factor in pouring more time into his work? Maybe. He didn’t tend to over think quite as much as you.

You hoped that he wouldn’t have waited for you forever. It was never a guarantee that you were going to fall in love with him, even with all the time in the world.