Long Time Coming

To Feel A Little

Empty.

The seat just a couple over from him.

Empty.

The locker one row over and three down.

Empty.

The room right beside his.

Empty.

The little moments he didn't think of before; the stupid faces in class, the shoves in the hall, the raps on the wall goodnight, the whispers when sleep couldn't find one or the other.

Empty.

The seat beside him when they played video games in the common room.

Empty.

The space Bakugou would fill on trips, on their rounds.

Week after week he found himself repeating the dreary grey of the same mechanical motions. Color had drained from his life. Bakugou was gone and with him all flavor and vibrancy had followed. Food was just sustenance; dieting had never been easier. Studying had lost all appeal. His video income project had passed on to Mina and Kaminari, Sero was in charge of managing the payments. Kirishima had stepped away entirely to pursue his hero commitments full time. Between school and his job he had made sure the only down time he had to himself were the rare moments a class was canceled or when sleep didn't find him.

He trained relentlessly, quickly mastering the nuances of his new quirk, the fineness of the sharp edges, the lightness his body now possessed despite the devastating strength and mass. A hollowed out tank with nos added to the gasoline.

Criminals were no match and the adrenaline rush had proven to be addictive - a spark of life that he chased with blind passion. He ignored the pointed questions from reporters, the concerned phone calls from his sisters. They didn't understand. They couldn't understand. They hadn't lost someone - not like that, not so suddenly. The sound of Dad's voice sternly cutting off their questions was a solidarity Eijirou didn't know what to do with, but he appreciated it.

It had been a rough shift - a gang fight that left him with a shallow cut and a few bruises. Kirishima hadn't bothered to shift, hed be lying if he said the excitement of hand-to-hand hadn't made him feel something other than dead on the inside. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't ignored SunEater's command to use his quirk under the guise of being unable to hear him over the din of the scuffle. He'd be lying if he said each blow that he landed and felt didn't make him feel human again somehow; adrenaline pumping through his veins, colors popping and dancing with vivid clarity that had been missing for weeks, teeth bared in a vicious grin, knuckles skinned and swollen in a sharp pain that reminded him he was still alive.

Still alive .

Kirishima lay in the dark, the summer heat oppressive despite the whine of the air conditioner doing it's best to keep him cool.

Sweat built against his back, stuck the fine hairs that escaped his braid to his skin. His shorts clung to his balls.

It all grated against him. The more he fought to get comfortable the angrier he became. He growled, flipping to his stomach, crawling to the edge of his bed and pulling his cellphone to him. His fingers could find the messages without looking.

He'd deleted Bakugou from his contacts weeks ago in a particularly angry fit, but hadn't been able to delete the texts. Muscle memory dragged up the conversations, pulling at the screen to drag the characters back in time. Further, further, further.

Past the anger; 'have you ever cared about anyone but yourself?!'

The pleading; 'I swear I'm not really angry, just reply. Let me know you're okay. I'm really worried. C'mon Blasty McSplode. You're my best friend. I miss you.'