Work it Out - KiriKami

19 ~ Things Unspoken

image cred: tseriza

The office smelled faintly of lavender today. Makoto had set a small diffuser on the windowsill, the soft tendrils of steam curling into the air like ghosts. Denki stared at it instead of at her, his hands stuffed deep into the pocket of his hoodie, thumbs worrying the frayed strings.

The room was quiet except for the muffled hum of traffic outside. Makoto waited, like always, patient and steady. No clipboard in her lap this time, no tapping pen. Just her, sitting across from him in the armchair, giving him the kind of space he wasn't used to.

Denki shifted in his seat, bouncing his leg. "I think..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard.

Makoto tilted her head slightly but didn't speak.

"I think I know what's been triggering me lately," he said at last, eyes still fixed on the diffuser. Another beat passed before he shook his head, almost violently, like he was swatting at his own words. "No. I don't think. I know. I know exactly what did it." His voice cracked on the last word.

Makoto's voice was soft. "Take your time."

Denki pulled his hood up even though the room wasn't cold. "It was Eijirou. He told me he loved me."

Makoto stayed quiet, giving him room to fill the silence.

Denki's laugh was hollow, almost a flinch of sound. "You'd think that would be... good, right? Someone saying that. But it didn't feel good. It reminded me of a time someone showed me they didn't love me. Like, really didn't."

The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and unsaid but still understood.

Makoto's face softened, but she didn't push. "That sounds like a very painful memory."

Denki's throat worked as he tried to swallow it down. "Yeah," he whispered, voice almost breaking. "Yeah, it is."

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, but the memory didn't go away. It had been sitting under his skin for years, waiting for something to wake it up. And now it was awake.

°•. ✿ .•°

The door to the clinic clicked shut behind him with a soft thunk. The air outside felt heavier, like stepping into a different world. Denki clutched a thin paperback against his chest as he crossed the sidewalk toward Aizawa's car. The glossy cover caught the late afternoon light: The Sexual Healing Journey: A Guide for Survivors of Sexual Abuse.

Aizawa was leaning against the driver's side door, coffee in one hand, keys in the other. His tired eyes flicked down to the book as Denki approached, then back up to his face. He didn't say anything right away. Just unlocked the car.

Denki slid into the passenger seat, the book still tight in his grip. It felt heavier than it should, like a weight instead of paper.

They drove in silence for a while. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine and the occasional turn signal. Aizawa glanced at him again when they stopped at a red light. "That book," he said quietly. "Makoto recommended it?"

Denki nodded, eyes fixed on the dashboard. "Yeah. She said... it might help me work through some stuff."

"Stuff?"

Denki hesitated, then forced himself to continue, his voice almost a whisper. "Stuff that happened when I was in junior high." He shifted in his seat, still staring forward. "Makoto-san thinks it might... help me understand why I've been like this."

The air in the car went still. Aizawa didn't ask for details. He didn't need them. His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly, the faintest shift in his tired expression. He understood.

"I see," he said finally, his voice steady but softer than usual. "I'm glad you're getting support."

Denki's fingers flexed against the book. "Me too," he said quietly, though his voice sounded uncertain even to himself.

The rest of the ride was quiet, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but full — full of things unspoken, full of the weight of what Denki had just admitted without saying it outright.

When the car rolled to a stop in the school's parking lot, Denki unbuckled his seatbelt, fingers still gripping the book like it might disappear if he let go.

The engine clicked off, leaving the world in muffled quiet. "Denki," Aizawa said, his tone as calm as ever.

Denki paused, halfway out of the car. "Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you," Aizawa said simply. "For going today. And for being honest."

Denki blinked at him, surprised. For a moment, his throat tightened. "Thanks," he mumbled, then slipped out of the car before his voice could crack.

The late afternoon air was cool against his flushed face as he crossed the campus to the dorm. He kept the book pressed close to his chest, jacket zipped halfway up to shield as much of the cover as possible. 

He swiped his keycard, and the door clicked open. The warm, faintly noisy hum of the dorm greeted him — the TV on low, someone's laughter drifting from the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of Mina leaning over the counter with a smoothie, Eijirou's voice faint somewhere nearby. Denki's heart jumped into his throat.

He ducked his head and made a beeline for the stairs, moving fast but trying not to look like he was moving fast. His sneakers hit the steps two at a time.

"Yo, Kaminari!" someone called from the common room — maybe Sero, maybe Mina. Denki didn't stop to see. "You good, man?"

"Yeah!" Denki's voice cracked slightly, echoing up the stairwell. "Just tired. Homework."

He bolted the last few steps and all but slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. Only when the latch clicked did he finally let himself exhale.

He crossed to his dresser and yanked open the bottom drawer — the one where he'd shoved his scrapbook weeks ago — and slid the book inside, cover down. His hands lingered on it for a moment, the weight of it cold and heavy through the fabric of his hoodie.

It felt strange. The book wasn't just a secret; it was a lifeline. Something for him, something private. Something that might finally help him start piecing himself back together.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the closed drawer, his heart still hammering from the sprint upstairs.

"I'm trying," he whispered to himself. "I'm trying."

Downstairs, life went on — his friends laughing, talking, eating dinner — but up here the room felt small, quiet, and heavy. The book in the drawer was a beginning. But beginnings always felt a little like endings too.