Work it Out - KiriKami

24 ~ Steady

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Healing, Denki learned, didn't feel like fixing.

It felt like learning how to carry something without letting it crush you.

Therapy didn't unfold the way he'd imagined it would.

There was no single moment where everything clicked. No dramatic breakdown that left him feeling cleansed afterward. Most days, it was just an hour in a softly lit room, sitting across from Makoto with his hands twisted together in his lap, trying to decide where to start.

Sometimes, he talked about the past — cautiously, imprecisely. He spoke around the memories more than he spoke through them, testing the edges, seeing how close he could get before his chest tightened.

Other days, Makoto didn't bring it up at all.

"What are you angry about today?" she'd ask instead, pen resting loosely in her hand.

Denki would blink, caught off guard. Angry wasn't the word he would've chosen.

But when he really thought about it...

"Everything," he said once, voice flat.

Another day: "I feel stupid for being mad at people who didn't know."

Another: "I hate that saying it out loud makes it feel permanent."

Makoto never told him what he should feel. She never rushed him toward conclusions or tried to spin his pain into something inspirational. She helped him name things — fear, shame, grief — and then helped him sit with them long enough that they didn't feel like they were going to swallow him whole.

After sessions, Denki usually felt wrung out. Not lighter, exactly. Just steadier. Like the weight inside him had shifted into a position that didn't throw him off balance every time he breathed.

It wasn't relief. But it was progress.

Meanwhile, Eijirou learned how to burn the helplessness out of his body.

At first, he didn't realize that was what he was doing. He just knew he couldn't sit still the way he used to. His muscles buzzed with energy that had nowhere to go, thoughts looping until they tightened his chest.

So he ran.

Longer routes. Earlier mornings. He pushed himself harder during training — not recklessly, not the way he had before, but deliberately. Like he was grounding himself in something solid.

Some nights, he talked to Mina.

They sat cross-legged on his floor, sharing snacks, Mina occasionally stretching or flipping upside down like she always did when she was thinking.

"I keep wanting to fix it," Eijirou admitted once, voice low. "Like if I could just say the right thing, it'd stop hurting."

Mina hummed, thoughtful. "Yeah. Don't do that."

He frowned. "That's it?"

"That's it," she said, grinning a little. "You're not the solution. You're the constant."

Constant. The word stuck with him.

He couldn't undo what had been done. He couldn't take the pain away. But he could stay.

Denki and Eijirou spent time together differently now.

Not worse. Just... slower.

Homework sessions where they sat at the same table, notebooks spread out between them. Denki chewed on his pen, staring into space until Eijirou nudged his foot under the table.

"You're thinking too loud again," Eijirou teased.

Denki snorted. "That's not a thing."

"It is when you do it."

They laughed, and it felt easy.

They watched bad movies on the couch, sometimes leaning together, sometimes sitting apart with their legs brushing. Some nights Denki curled against Eijirou's side without thinking. Other nights he didn't want to be touched at all.

Eijirou never asked which kind of night it was. He just adjusted.

There was no pressure to define what any of it meant. No anxiety about whether they were "back to normal."

They weren't trying to be. They were just... together.

There were still bad days. Days when Denki went quiet and Eijirou learned not to chase the silence — just to stay nearby. Days when Denki snapped over something small and apologized later, shoulders tense.

"I'm not mad at you," he'd say. "I just ran out of space."

Eijirou always nodded. "Okay." And meant it.

Denki noticed that. The lack of defensiveness. The way Eijirou didn't take it personally.

That, too, mattered more than any grand gesture.

One afternoon, a few weeks later, they walked back from class together.

The campus was loud — students everywhere, voices overlapping, sunlight sharp and warm against the pavement. Normally, Denki would've been hyper-aware of it all. Of proximity. Of eyes. Of what it might look like.

But he wasn't.

He was too busy complaining about an assignment and laughing when Eijirou called him dramatic.

They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light.

Denki leaned into Eijirou's side without thinking.

No flinch. No spike of fear. No voice in his head whispering don't.

It took him a second to realize what hadn't happened.

His chest tightened — not with panic, but with something closer to disbelief.

He didn't pull away. Neither did Eijirou.

They stood there, bodies close, waiting for the signal to change like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Denki swallowed.

The fear hadn't disappeared forever. He knew that. It wasn't gone. It just... hadn't shown up this time. And for now, that was enough.

That night, Denki lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling.

Not spiraling. Not bracing for something bad to crash into his thoughts. Just... thinking.

He thought about how different the fear felt now. Still there, still sharp around the edges, but no longer steering. It rose and fell instead of hijacking him completely. Like a wave he could watch instead of drown in.

He thought about therapy — how it wasn't fixing him so much as giving him language. Giving him space to decide what stayed buried and what he was ready to unpack. How strange it felt to know he didn't owe anyone access to that process.

He thought about Eijirou, about the way he waited without hovering, stayed without pushing. How being supported didn't mean being dragged forward anymore. It meant being trusted to move at his own pace.

Denki exhaled slowly.

Choosing didn't feel heroic. It didn't feel dramatic.

It felt quiet. Intentional. Sometimes exhausting.

Some days, choosing looked like showing up to therapy even when he didn't want to talk. Some days, it looked like leaning into Eijirou's side without overthinking it. Some days, it looked like saying not today and letting that be enough.

The choice didn't erase what happened to him. But it did change who was in control of what came next.

Denki rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders.

He wasn't healed. He wasn't finished.

But he was living inside his own decisions now — not just surviving around his past.

And for tonight, that felt steady. That felt real.