Chapter Text
First, Hitoshi got bitten by a spider.
Second, he got kinda spider powers.
Third… he turned into a vigilante.
Not the worst origin story in existence, but definitely in the top ten.
By day, he was Hitoshi Shinsō — U.A. student, future pro hero.
By night, he was Spidernight — which sounded way cooler when you didn’t think about it too hard. A vigilante.
Chaotic? Absolutely. Worth it? Without a doubt.
He kept both lives separate. Mostly. If you ignored the constant exhaustion, the bruises, and the part where he was technically breaking the law every other night. Vigilantism was illegal. Whatever. Everyone needed a hobby.
The problem was keeping it secret. Which meant acting like it didn’t matter — even around the one person he wanted to tell.
“You hate Spidernight?!” Denki practically shrieked, nearly dropping his chopsticks as Hitoshi chewed on a bland piece of tofu like it was the most boring topic in the world. “Dude, he’s so cool!”
Hearing your crush call you cool should’ve been a win. Too bad Denki wasn’t talking about him.
Well… he was. Just not him-him.
Was it possible to be jealous of yourself? Apparently, yes. And Hitoshi had officially hit that level of pathetic.
“Vigilantism’s illegal,” he said flatly, stabbing at his tray as if tofu cubes were a personal enemy.
If he ever used his actual quirk for this kind of thing, government scanners would’ve flagged him in a second. But spider powers weren’t on record — which technically made it the safest lie he’d ever lived.
Was it even vigilantism if it wasn’t his quirk? Legal gray area. Moral nightmare.
All because of one radioactive spider that snuck into U.A.’s campus like fate had a bad sense of humor.
With luck, he’d stay fine and not mutate into a human arachnid. Small goals.
Denki didn’t care about the details. “Who cares if vigilantism’s illegal?!” he blurted, loud enough to make a couple of students at the next table glance over.
Hitoshi swallowed a laugh, lowering his voice. “Careful. Say that any louder and Shiketsu might put it in their next press release.” He scooped another bite of rice. “Besides, we’re training to be heroes. Saying stuff like that isn’t smart PR.”
“Oh, come on, Hito!” Denki leaned forward, phone already in his hand, eyes alight. “Some vigilantes became heroes! Like Skycrawler! He was huge during the Naruhata Lockdown, and now he’s a pro in the States!”
“Don’t compare Skycrawler to Spidernight, Denki,” Hitoshi said.
Not that he could compare to someone like that. Not that he wanted to be remembered as the vigilante who leveled a city block.
“Anyway,” he added after a pause, “the name’s still lame.”
Denki’s jaw dropped. “But it’s perfect! Spider powers, only comes out at night? It’s genius!”
Honestly, that was the entire logic behind it. Nothing more. But Denki’s conviction made it sound like destiny.
Too busy defending Spidernight’s honor, Denki didn’t even notice the katsudon sitting untouched on his tray. Hitoshi rolled his eyes, snatched the phone out of his hand, and tucked it out of reach. “You’ll get this back after you eat at least half.”
“Hey!” Denki lunged for it and missed. “That’s mine!”
“And you’ll get it back when you’ve eaten,” Hitoshi said, holding it just out of reach. “Don’t make me keep it longer.”
With a dramatic sigh, Denki picked up his chopsticks again. “For the record, I’m not doing this because you told me to. I’m just hungry.”
“As long as you eat,” Hitoshi replied, ignoring the small twist of guilt in his chest, “I don’t care why.”
If there was one thing that made Hatsume Mei the perfect partner in crime, it was that she never asked questions she didn’t need to. As long as you gave her something interesting to work with, she was all in, no hesitation, no judgment.
That was exactly why Hitoshi had gone to her. In exchange for a set of miniature artificial vocal cords—her latest “baby”—that could distort his voice on command, he’d offered himself up as a live test subject for whatever else she was cooking up in her workshop. He probably should’ve thought that deal through a little better.
The first trial ended with him crashing out of the second floor of U.A.’s main building and landing flat on his back in the dirt. It wasn’t fatal—thankfully—but he discovered bruises in places he didn’t even know could bruise. By the time he dragged himself upright, Hatsume was already scribbling notes like he’d been part of an experiment instead of collateral damage.
True to her word, though, she handed over the goods afterward.
Saying he was excited didn’t even come close. Every scrape, every ache, was worth it for the tiny device resting in his hand. With it, his voice was no longer his voice. For Spidernight, that meant safety. For Hitoshi, it meant freedom.
And maybe someday, one of Hatsume’s inventions would be the only thing standing between him and disaster. He knew better than most that luck eventually ran out.
All he needed now was a suit that didn’t look like it had been pieced together from an emo kid’s closet—bulletproof vest, cyclist pads, the whole tragic ensemble. The sticky gloves worked, sure, but the look? Not so much.
But hey… he couldn’t have everything.
Having Aizawa and Yamada as adoptive dads was… honestly, the best thing that had ever happened to him. After years of bouncing between foster homes that felt more like holding cells than actual homes, and foster parents who barely tolerated his presence, suddenly having a permanent place—one filled with warmth, structure, and people who actually cared—still felt surreal.
They were people he could count on. People who looked out for him, who made sure there was food in the fridge, who asked how his day went and actually listened to the answer. People he trusted with his life.
Well… almost anything.
Because there was the whole Spidernight thing.
They were pro heroes. Their entire job revolved around catching villains and vigilantes, shutting down the exact kind of reckless night work he was doing. If they ever found out, it wouldn’t just be a lecture—it could be the end of everything.
So he snuck out at night.
The good thing about Aizawa and Yamada was that they respected his privacy. Maybe too much. They trusted him blindly, and he hated himself a little for taking advantage of that trust. But it was the only way he could breathe. Swinging across rooftops at night gave him the same release wandering the streets had, back in the days before he was adopted, when escaping his foster homes had been the only way to feel like he was still alive.
It all worked fine—until the night he ran into Aizawa on patrol.
After that, every outing felt like living inside a stealth video game. Spot the scarf? Abort mission. Catch even the faintest glimpse of a capture weapon in the dark? Change course immediately.
Getting caught by a random pro was one thing. Getting caught by his own dad? Over his dead body.
“So you didn’t take my advice last time, huh?” Aizawa’s voice had been flat as ever, but the way he kept up with him across rooftops had been downright irritating.
Hitoshi grunted, scrambling up the side of an apartment building with a strength he wasn’t supposed to have. “And risk my whole career? Yeah, no thanks.”
“My deal kept you out of jail,” Aizawa reminded him, his scarf snapping out like a judgmental snake. “Might even open a few doors for you. Ever thought about U.A.?”
If only you knew, old man.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Hitoshi called back, already lining up his next jump. “How about you let me go my merry way… and stay out of it?”
He didn’t wait for a reply—ninety percent sure it would be a lecture, and ten percent sure it would be the scarf wrapping around his ankles.
The worst part about being a teenage vigilante?
You couldn’t just turn off the alarms like nothing was wrong—not unless you wanted to look suspicious.
Every night, Hitoshi dragged himself home with under-eye circles deep enough to qualify as permanent, downed two cups of coffee strong enough to wake the dead before Yamada got up and Aizawa came back from patrol, then crawled into bed to fake another hour of sleep. After that came the performance: get up, greet his dads like he hadn’t just risked his life, sip his “morning coffee” with breakfast, then head to school pretending to be a functioning human being.
And honestly? The lack of sleep wasn’t even the worst part.
Free study period? His textbook became a pillow in disguise.
Cafeteria line? His tray looked like a ready-made headrest.
Lunch under a tree? Denki’s shoulder was… dangerously comfortable.
At least Denki didn’t mind. He’d just start humming absentmindedly and braiding Hitoshi’s hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. Which, frankly, was murder on Hitoshi’s already overworked heart. His chest could only take so much before it gave out.
“You know?” Denki said one afternoon while Hitoshi leaned against his shoulder, fighting sleep. “Spidernight passed by my window last night. It was so cool!”
That woke him up faster than a triple espresso.
I passed by Denki’s window?
“I even saw Aizawa-sensei chasing him!” Denki laughed, oblivious to the panic Hitoshi was trying to bury under his blank face. “I wonder what happened in my neighborhood.”
Truthfully, nothing had happened. Hitoshi had just stopped by to check on his old place, more out of habit than necessity. He hadn’t expected Aizawa to be patrolling that far outside central Tokyo.
“Maybe he just found something to stick his nose into,” Hitoshi muttered, leaning a little harder into Denki’s shoulder, trying to mask his nerves. “Vigilante business, I guess.”
“So mean to poor Spidernight,” Denki said with a mock pout, tugging another strand of his hair like he hadn’t just given Hitoshi a miniature heart attack.
If only he knew.
One night he was wrestling with some junkie swinging a trash can at his head. The next, he One night it was some junkie swinging a trash can lid at his head. The next, it was a gang of street thugs who thought having numbers automatically made them smart. It didn’t matter what came at him—chaos, exhaustion, fists—none of it was enough to make Hitoshi stop.
Out here, under the cover of night, in a patched suit barely holding together, he felt untouchable. Invincible. At least, nothing normal could really hurt him.
That confidence lasted right up until the night he, while fleeing from a group of thugs, dove through the first open window he spotted and prayed the tenant was a heavy sleeper.
He landed in near-total darkness, chest tight, ears straining for shouts from outside. For a second, it looked like he’d gotten lucky. Then his eyes adjusted.
A framed photo sat on the nightstand—Denki, grinning like a golden retriever, arms slung around his parents.
…Oh, hell no.
“Oh, shit, shit, shit,” Hitoshi whispered, every nerve in his body lighting up like an alarm. His eyes snapped to the thin strip of light spilling out from under the bathroom door.
His heartbeat was so loud it felt like it rattled the walls. He could still climb back out, lose the thugs another way, vanish into the city. That was the smart move.
What if Denki walks out right now?
What if he saw him like this—patched-up suit, voice modulator humming faintly, Hatsume’s ridiculous “state-of-the-art” sticky gloves clinging to his palms? There was no explanation that didn’t end in absolute social death.
God, just kill me now. Please. I’ll even write my own obituary.
The bathroom door creaked.
Hitoshi didn’t think—he dove behind the dresser, holding his breath as the light flicked off and footsteps padded across the room. A yawn, the rustle of sheets, and then silence.
He waited, every muscle screaming, before slipping back to the window. One last glance—at the photo, at the boy in it—and then he was gone, swallowed by the night.
“Toshi, Toshi, Toshi…” Denki tapped his pen against the desk in a steady rhythm while Hitoshi tried to catch a few minutes of rest before Cementoss’s painfully dull literature class.
“What is it, Denki?” Hitoshi mumbled into his sleeve, already bracing himself for whatever nonsense was about to come out of his mouth.
Denki leaned in, eyes gleaming like he’d just struck gold. “I think Spidernight was in my room.”
Every muscle in Hitoshi’s body went stiff, but he forced himself not to move. “…What?” he asked, aiming for bored instead of horrified.
“I’m serious!” Denki said, voice dropping just enough to sound conspiratorial. “This morning I found this little black piece of fabric on my floor. Like… a torn strap or something. Definitely not mine. It looked synthetic, almost carbon fiber-y. I don’t own anything like that.”
Hitoshi sat up slowly, arranging his face into the blankest expression he could manage. “Maybe it stuck to your shoe or your backpack on the way home?”
“That’s what I thought at first,” Denki admitted, frowning. “But then I remembered… I left my window open last night.”
“…So?”
Denki raised a brow, grinning like he was onto something. “So maybe Spidernight was being chased, ducked into my room for two seconds, and then left without a sound.”
Hitoshi forced a dry chuckle, stretching it out just enough to sound dismissive. “You’ve been watching too many urban legend videos again.”
“I know, I know.” Denki sighed and slumped back in his chair, though the glint in his eye hadn’t faded. “I sound crazy. But still—what if?”
Hitoshi risked a glance at him. “You find any webs? Maybe a dramatic rooftop monologue echoing through the night?”
“Ha-ha.” Denki deadpanned. “No. Just that strap.”
“Then maybe it was nothing,” Hitoshi muttered, already dropping his head back onto his arms, desperate to end the conversation before his poker face cracked.
“Yeah,” Denki exhaled, rolling the thought around like he didn’t quite believe it himself. “Probably just some junk that clung to my pants on the way home.”
But even as he said it, his fingers slipped into his pocket, brushing over the fabric again.
And even as Hitoshi pretended to sleep, his mind stayed wide awake, replaying the exact moment he must’ve dropped it.
There were nights when Hitoshi could’ve gone anywhere. Tokyo had no shortage of rooftops to guard, alleys that whispered trouble, and corners where crime festered if you gave it five minutes of silence. But that night, he didn’t pick Tokyo. He went to Saitama.
He told himself it was routine—a simple patrol of the quieter neighborhoods, making sure nothing boiled over while the pros weren’t around. Even he didn’t buy that excuse. He knew exactly why he was there.
Denki.
Crouched on a low rooftop across the street, no more than twenty meters from Denki’s window, Hitoshi had the perfect view. The light inside was off, the window cracked half-open, the only glow in the room coming from the moon. From here, he could see Denki clearly: leaning against the sill, arms folded, chin tilted toward the sky. Moonlight streaked silver through his hair, softening the sharp lines of his face until it almost hurt to look.
Exams were closing in, the end of their first term pressing down on everyone. Hitoshi knew how much pressure Denki had been putting on himself—not because of anyone else, but because he still didn’t believe he was good enough. That stung more than anything.
Hitoshi remembered the entrance exam, the way Denki had charged forward with a grin so wild it felt contagious, lightning crackling from his body like he had no fear at all. For a second, Hitoshi had thought: Whoa. That’s a quirk.
But then Denki spoke—awkward, earnest, so sure of everyone else but never himself—and Hitoshi realized there was something even stronger than his electricity. Potential. The kind of hero he could become.
From there came texts, late-night calls, conversations that sprawled until they were bigger than either of them planned. A friendship that tilted slowly, almost without warning, into something else.
Hitoshi hadn’t meant to fall for him. Crushes weren’t his thing. But Denki had slipped into his life like light through a crack, and by the time he noticed, he was already warm from it.
It was just a crush. And then it wasn’t. Now it was something real, something alive in his chest whether he wanted it or not.
Across the street, Denki rested his chin on his folded arms, his voice carrying faintly through the open window. “…Please let me do well,” he whispered to the moon. “Just enough to stay in 1-A.”
Hitoshi shut his eyes, jaw tight.
“Please let me go to the summer training camp with everyone. Please let me go with Toshi.”
His chest tightened.
“I don’t wanna be left behind,” Denki said, softer now, “and I don’t want Hitoshi to ever stop being by my side.”
Wishes were supposed to be fragile things, safe only if the stars kept them secret. Denki was making one, and Hitoshi had no right to hear it. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t stop himself from listening as every word pulled him closer to the heart of someone he wasn’t supposed to touch.
Guilt gnawed at him for stealing the moment, for not leaping across the gap, ripping off his mask, and holding him the way he wanted. But he stayed where he was, silent and invisible, aching from the inside out.
The day of the exam buzzed with nervous energy, the kind that made every footstep echo louder and every whisper sound like it carried secrets. Students shuffled through the halls in clusters, guessing what kind of test awaited them, who they’d face, how badly they might screw up.
Hitoshi leaned against the cool wall outside the prep area, one hand buried in his pocket, the other loosely holding his capture scarf. He didn’t need to look up to know when Denki walked over; he always felt him first, like static in the air.
Denki stopped beside him, tugging at his sleeves like he was trying to wring the nerves out of them. “I feel it,” he murmured.
Hitoshi tilted his head lazily. “Feel what?”
“The electricity,” Denki explained, voice tight. “It’s buzzing under my skin. I’m trying to stay calm, but—” He let out a sharp breath. “I just don’t wanna screw this up. Not again.”
The Sports Festival still lingered between them, unspoken but heavy—Denki freezing mid-battle, his brain fried from overusing his quirk, that blank look in his eyes as the crowd watched. He’d laughed it off, of course, but Hitoshi remembered the way his shoulders had slumped when no one else was looking.
“You won’t,” Hitoshi said, his voice steady, almost flat—but it wasn’t apathy. It was certainty. “You’ve trained. You’ve gotten stronger. You’ll be fine.”
Denki glanced at him, like he wanted to believe but couldn’t quite get there.
“I mean it,” Hitoshi added, locking eyes with him this time. “Don’t let nerves erase everything you’ve worked for. You belong here.”
Something shifted in Denki’s expression, a little less tension in his jaw, a little more air in his lungs. “Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. Okay.”
The door to the staging area slid open.
“Kaminari Denki and Ashido Mina—you’re up.”
Denki turned toward the voice, then looked back over his shoulder with a half-smile. “Wish me luck?”
Hitoshi smirked faintly. “You won’t need it.”
Denki stepped through the doorway, but halfway in, he paused again. “Thanks, Toshi.”
Hitoshi gave a casual wave, keeping his face neutral. “Go knock them out.”
And then Denki was gone.
Hitoshi stayed leaning against the wall, listening to the faint hum in the air—not just electricity, but the kind of charge that stayed in your chest long after the spark was gone. Quietly, almost to himself, he muttered the words anyway: “Good luck.”
They both failed the test.
Honestly, who thought it was a good idea to throw Midnight at him and Sero? Sometimes Hitoshi wondered if the teachers were testing combat skills or just how much humiliation a kid could stomach before breaking.
Sero had fought hard, quick with his tape, clever with his angles. Hitoshi had tried to stay sharp, keeping every move calculated. But Midnight was a different kind of opponent—slippery, unpredictable, the kind of fighter who danced around defenses like smoke.
It didn’t take long for the tide to turn.
Her scent hit them before Hitoshi even realized what was happening, sweet and heavy in the air. He tried to hold his breath, tried to keep moving, but his body betrayed him. His limbs went sluggish, eyelids heavy, everything muffled. The last thing he remembered was Sero shouting something like, “Don’t breathe!” before they both collapsed onto the ground, helpless.
Not exactly his proudest moment.
Still, they got cleared for summer camp.
Now here he was, stuck in the woods with classmates who hadn’t seen him do anything remotely impressive since the entrance exam, forced to hold back every instinct just to keep his secret intact. Days full of drills, nights full of firelight and forced downtime.
At least Denki was there. That made it bearable.
But it didn’t erase the itch under his skin. He felt it in his knuckles, in the arches of his feet, in the ache that came from sitting still too long. His body wasn’t made for campfires and practice exercises. It was made for rooftops, for motion, for the adrenaline of catching the city mid-breath.
And every day he held it back, the craving grew stronger.
The camp was too quiet.
Inside the boys’ tent, it was a tangled mess of sleeping bags, limbs, and soft breathing. Moonlight slipped through the thin canvas, sketching pale silver lines across the floor. Near the entrance, someone was snoring—probably Kirishima. Hitoshi didn’t care enough to check.
Hitoshi pushed himself upright slowly, careful not to rustle his sleeping bag.
He pushed himself upright slowly, careful not to rustle the fabric too much. Across from him, Denki was curled on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, hair sticking out in wild directions like a halo. A faint static clung to him, making a few strands of hair hover just above his forehead, glowing in the moonlight.
Heh. Guess that wasn’t a joke after all, Hitoshi thought, biting back a smile.
For a moment, longer than he should’ve allowed himself, he just sat there and watched the steady rise and fall of Denki’s shoulders. The calm rhythm of his breathing was so different from the jittery energy Denki carried in daylight. It was grounding. Dangerous, too.
Finally, Hitoshi pulled on his hoodie, slid his feet into his shoes one at a time, and let out a slow breath. He slipped through the tent flap into the night.
The forest greeted him with cold air sharp enough to sting his lungs. No guards in sight, no lamps burning, just the steady thrum of crickets and the distant heartbeat of the woods. He didn’t run at first—he walked, letting the camp fade behind him. Only when he was sure no one could hear did he take off, sprinting between the trees until the shadows swallowed him whole.
Out here, under the canopy of stars, he could finally breathe.
The breakfast line crawled forward at the pace of a funeral march. Between the weight of no sleep and the dull ache still lodged in his muscles, Hitoshi felt like the world itself was dragging him along by the collar. He barely managed to scoop some rice, scrambled eggs, and what looked like campfire sausages onto his tray before shuffling over to the table where Denki was already sitting.
He dropped onto the bench beside him without a word, too exhausted to even pretend he was alive.
Denki gave him one look, then another, taking in the slouched shoulders and the shadows carved under his eyes. “You look like shit,” he said bluntly, though the grin that followed softened the words.
Hitoshi didn’t even flinch. “I know.”
“But like…” Denki tilted his head, lips twitching. “Attractive shit.”
Hitoshi huffed out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh, but he didn’t argue.
“I didn’t see you this morning,” Denki added, voice dipping into something softer now. “Woke up and you were already gone. Everything okay?”
Hitoshi kept his eyes on the plate, stabbing at his food. “Just went for a walk. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Does that help?”
“Sometimes.”
Denki didn’t push, and that was something Hitoshi appreciated more than he could ever say. In Denki’s head, he’d probably been pacing the camp perimeter like a zombie with insomnia. He didn’t know Hitoshi had spent the night swinging through the forest until his palms stung and his lungs burned.
“Well, at least you didn’t make noise,” Denki said, trying to keep it casual. “Koda let one rip around four a.m., and I thought it was a bear.”
You’re gonna kill me, Denki.
Hitoshi laughed under his breath, almost silent, but it loosened something in his chest.
Still, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up—sneaking out every night, training until his body screamed, then sitting across from Denki pretending it was just tiredness. For now, though, this was enough.
“You really look wrecked,” Denki said after another glance, scanning him like he was memorizing every bruise. “You sure you’re not getting sick?”
“Just tired.”
“I believe you,” Denki said, smirking faintly. “But eat. I’m not giving you mouth-to-mouth if you pass out.”
“Such a shame.”
“That’s who I am.”
“This is Mandalay. All teachers and students: there’s been an attack. Villains have infiltrated the forest. Evacuate immediately. Protect them at all costs.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Aizawa’s expression shifted first—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He was already striding toward the door, orders sharp and clipped. “Vlad, keep them here. Don’t let anyone leave.”
“Wait—what’s going on?” Denki’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp with fear.
Aizawa didn’t answer. He was gone.
Vlad swore under his breath, slammed the door shut, and locked it with a sound that felt way too final in the heavy air.
That’s when the panic hit.
The room seemed smaller, the air heavier, the ceiling too low. Fans spun lazily overhead like they hadn’t gotten the memo. Outside, a branch—or maybe not a branch—snapped, echoing like a gunshot. Then silence.
Hitoshi didn’t speak. His eyes locked on the door, Mandalay’s voice still ringing in his head, cold and sharp. Villains.
He shifted toward the window. Smoke curled above the treeline, thick and slow, spreading like a warning. Screams tangled with the night air. Then fire—alive, hungry—flared against the horizon, painting the forest in orange and red. Even from here, the heat pressed against the glass.
He took a step forward, pulse hammering. He had to go.
Aizawa was out there.
Another step, and then a hand caught his wrist—warm, steady, unyielding.
Denki.
“Please,” Denki said, voice trembling but sure. “Just listen to them.”
Hitoshi’s throat burned. Every instinct screamed at him to move, but his feet refused.
The forest shifted again, light flaring wildly between the trees. And then he saw it.
Blue flames. Rising like a tide, devouring everything in their path. Wrapping around a silhouette he knew too well.
The sound followed a second later—a roar, wood splitting, fire tearing through the night. His chest hollowed out. “No—”
He lunged without thinking, but Denki’s grip tightened.
“Please,” Denki begged now, desperation raw in his voice. “You can’t help him like this.”
Hitoshi’s body shook with the effort to stay still. His dad was out there—Aizawa was out there—burning—and all he could do was stand here, useless, trapped in his own skin.
His hands curled into fists. His body didn’t move.
He just stood there, Denki’s grip a chain around his wrist, while the blue fire swallowed his father’s silhouette.
When the attack finally ended, evacuation moved fast—orders shouted over the noise, boots pounding against dirt, engines rumbling as vehicles pulled in.
Midoriya was already in the ambulance, both arms strapped in splints, skin pale as paper. Medics threw words like compound fractures and muscle damage into the air as if they weren’t talking about a classmate. The name Muscular floated around too, spoken like a curse. Whoever he was, he’d nearly killed Midoriya.
Aizawa stood near the road, directing evacuations with his usual sharp focus. No burns, no limp, not even a scratch. Relief hit Hitoshi so hard it left him dizzy, like the ground had just steadied beneath him after hours of shaking.
The villains had taken Bakugo. Just like that.
Hitoshi slumped into his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the floor. His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching, curling and uncurling, trying to bleed out the frustration burning in his chest.
Beside him, Denki sat uncharacteristically quiet. His leg bounced once, twice, then stilled. “You didn’t sleep,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question.
Hitoshi’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Denki leaned back against the seat, eyes tracing the ceiling. “We’re okay. We’re safe now.”
Hitoshi wanted to believe him. Wanted the words to carve through the knot in his stomach and leave something steady behind. But every time he blinked, he saw blue flames tearing through the trees, saw his dad’s silhouette swallowed whole, saw himself frozen when he should’ve moved.
The bus jolted over a bump. Denki’s shoulder brushed his, light, fleeting—but enough. Hitoshi realized only then that his hands had finally stopped shaking.
Hitoshi must have drifted at some point, though it was hard to tell the difference between shallow sleep and just staring at the floor until his mind blurred out.
“Hey.” A familiar voice nudged him back.
Neon light spilled through the bus windows, fractured across glass and skin, painting the aisle in restless color. Outside, the city roared—traffic, sirens, voices all colliding into a wave of noise.
Denki gave him a small smile. “We’re here. Yokohama.”
Hitoshi sat up stiffly, dragging himself back into reality. His body felt heavy, like the exhaustion had settled into his bones.
“…Hitoshi?” Denki asked quietly, like he was testing the air. “You okay?”
Hitoshi gave him a tight nod, nothing more. No answer he had felt real, so silence would have to do.
The doors hissed open, and students shuffled out into the night air, clutching bags, eyes darting.
Denki stood first, then paused halfway down the aisle, glancing back. “Come on.”
Hitoshi followed, cool air hitting his face sharper than he expected. The ground didn’t feel steady, but maybe that was just his chest, still twisted from the forest.
The street outside was a barricade of pro heroes and officers holding back a restless crowd of parents, reporters, and neighbors. Questions buzzed, cameras flashed, everything blurring together as they stepped off the bus.
“…Denki!”
The name cracked through the noise like lightning.
A woman broke through the barricade, running toward them with her hair loose and tears streaking down her face. A pro hero reached for her arm, but she shook him off without slowing.
Denki froze mid-step. His lips parted, but no sound came out before her arms wrapped around him, clutching him so tightly it nearly knocked him backward. She kept saying his name, over and over, each word sharp with relief, as if letting go even for a second would make him disappear again.
Hitoshi stopped dead, the air locked in his chest. He’d met Mrs. Kaminari before—always cheerful, always smiling too much, always making sure he had seconds even when he was already full. Seeing her now, clinging to Denki like he was the last real thing in the world, cracked something deep inside him.
Denki’s eyes darted sideways, over her shoulder, finding Hitoshi’s face. His half-smile was shaky, pleading—help me out of this, say something, do something.
But Hitoshi’s throat closed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All he could hear was fire splitting wood and Mandalay’s voice over the chaos.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Denki managed eventually, muffled against her shoulder. He tried for a laugh, cracked and uneven. “See? Totally fine. Everything’s fine.”
The word fine shattered as it left him. She clung tighter anyway.
Mr. Kaminari caught up behind her, slower, steadier, his hand resting at her back. His calm felt deliberate, the kind of composure you held together only for someone else’s sake.
Denki laughed again, softer, forcing the sound. “See? I told you. I’m okay.”
His mom didn’t look convinced. She scanned his face like she was counting every scratch, every bruise, every uneven breath.
Hitoshi followed a few paces behind, close enough to hear Denki’s nervous chuckle, far enough not to intrude. The weight in his chest pressed heavier with every step. Fire. Blue flames. His own useless stillness. Each memory burned sharper as the crowd funneled them toward the hotel doors.
Inside, the lobby was chaos—students huddled in small groups, heroes directing them toward check-in with calm voices that didn’t quite hide the tension underneath. The air was thick with exhaustion and muffled sobs.
Mrs. Kaminari pulled Denki close again as they crossed the threshold, and this time Denki didn’t fight it. He tilted his head into her shoulder like he was done resisting.
Hitoshi stayed silent. He felt Denki glance toward him, quick and searching, even while his mom’s arms kept him pinned. It was the kind of look that begged for steady ground.
But Hitoshi had none to give. Not tonight.
“Hey,” Denki said while zipping up his bag, his grin sheepish but genuine. “You sure you don’t wanna come? Could be like… an impromptu sleepover. My mom would totally spoil you, you know that.”
Hitoshi leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, trying to look casual even as his chest pressed heavier with every breath. “Nah. I’ll stay with my dads while the other heroes figure out how to get Bakugo back.” His voice came out steady, but the words carried the weight of everything he wasn’t saying—fear, guilt, the fire still replaying behind his eyes.
Denki studied him for a second longer than usual, like he wanted to push but didn’t. Finally, he nodded. “Alright… but I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll hit the hospital with everyone, check on Midoriya and the others, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Hitoshi said, quieter this time.
They both stepped closer at the same time, almost unconsciously. Denki wrapped him in a hug, warm and grounding, holding him like he could glue him back together by sheer force of will. Hitoshi melted into it despite the storm in his head, clinging to the comfort like it was the only real thing left.
Denki’s breath brushed against his ear. “Don’t blame yourself, okay? There was nothing you could’ve done.”
Hitoshi stayed still, hands pressed against Denki’s back, his chest clamped tight. He didn’t answer.
But I could’ve…
The memory hit him like a punch: the camp, the fire, the moment his mind screamed at him to move and his body locked up. Denki’s grip had stopped him, yes, but if he’d really tried—if he’d pushed—nothing would’ve held him back. He was stronger. He was faster. And he’d done nothing.
That was the part that gutted him. He’d risked his life every night as a vigilante, but when it mattered—when his dad was burning in front of him—he froze. Real fear rooted him in place, and no amount of lies could erase that.
Still, he couldn’t pull away from Denki. Not yet. The warmth in that hug was the only thing letting him breathe, even if the weight of his failure clung to him like a second skin.
Hitoshi lay on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling while the alarm clock bled faint red numbers across the dark. The AC hummed overhead, steady and useless, and somewhere outside a horn blared and cut off again. His chest wouldn’t settle. Every blink dragged him back to the forest—blue fire licking through trees, wood cracking like bones, heat searing his face.
The hotel room suffocated him.
He listened for something to ground him—Denki’s dumb humming, a muffled laugh, the steady cadence of his dads’ voices—but tonight he had none of that. Denki was with his parents, Yamada downstairs with the other heroes, Aizawa in some meeting he wouldn’t be let into. The silence pressed heavy, offering nothing but the faint tick of the mini-fridge and the thin rush of air through the vent.
He checked his phone once, the bright screen burning his eyes. Midnight had already passed. He flipped it face-down again, as if that would help.
It was unbearable.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet finding the cool patch of carpet. Sat there for a beat, palms pressed to his knees, forcing his breathing steady. Hoodie first—the strings cinched until the hood shadowed his face. Then the mask, scratchy at the edges, adjusted twice until it sat just right.
His gear was all back in Tokyo, locked in his closet: no capture weapon, no voice modulator, no gloves. He patted his pockets anyway, half out of habit, half out of need—wallet, phone on silent, hotel keycard. Nothing that mattered.
But staying put wasn’t an option. He needed air. He needed to move, to burn out the fire still caged in his chest.
The lock gave a soft click as he turned it. Cool hallway air slipped in through the crack, brushing his face like a reminder the world outside still existed.
Hitoshi climbed fast, scaling the fire escape like it was nothing, lungs filling with the cool night air that stung faintly of salt from the bay. When he reached the roof, he didn’t stop. He leapt, muscles snapping tight, the world dropping out beneath him. The rush of wind tore through his hood, and for the first time all day, he could breathe.
He swung hard, each line snapping against concrete with a sting in his wrists. The pull of the webs, the ache in his shoulders, the burn in his ribs—he welcomed all of it. His body screamed, and he let it.
By the fourth block his breath came ragged, every jump sharper, every landing rougher than the last. A billboard slammed against his side when he misjudged a swing, rattling his bones, but he shoved himself off and kept going. Faster. Higher.
Roofs blurred together. His arms shook, his legs burned, and the city smeared into light and shadow. The only steady sound was his heartbeat, heavy in his ears, pushing him forward like it wanted to split him open from the inside.
And still he didn’t stop.
A shout cut through the wind. Sharp, ugly. Hitoshi slowed just enough to catch it—three voices echoing from an alley below, followed by the crash of glass.
He crouched at the edge of the rooftop, hood pulled low over his face. Below, a group of men had someone pinned against a wall, one of them swinging a metal pipe for fun. The kid couldn’t have been much older than him.
Hitoshi didn’t think. He dropped.
The landing cracked against the pavement, echoing through the alley. The men spun around, startled by the sudden figure in the hood. No modulator to disguise his voice. No gloves. No gear. Just him.
“What the hell—?” one of them muttered. “Some punk in a mask?”
No idea, fucking bastard…
The guy with the pipe lunged first. Hitoshi caught the swing barehanded, the impact rattling up his arm, and fired a line of webbing that yanked the weapon out of reach. He dragged the man forward and drove a fist into his gut, folding him in half.
The others swarmed him.
A sharp kick to the knee dropped the second. The third threw a wild punch—Hitoshi ducked low, caught his wrist, and twisted until the man cried out. Another web shot glued him to the dumpster, struggling uselessly.
It was over fast, but Hitoshi hadn’t held back. Every punch landed harder than it needed to, every move sharp and unrelenting. He was breathing hard now, chest burning, but it wasn’t enough.
The kid they’d cornered bolted without a word, sneakers slapping against wet pavement until the sound vanished. The men groaned on the ground, pinned in sticky webs, glaring at him with more confusion than fear.
“Who the hell even are you?” One spat, straining against the mess. “Some wannabe hero?”
Hitoshi stared at him, fists trembling from the leftover adrenaline. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. He just fired another line and hauled himself up the side of the building, vanishing into the dark. “As if the world needed more heroes.”
By the time Hitoshi climbed back to the hotel, dawn was already thinning the night.
He scaled the wall, slipped in through the corridor window, and landed on the carpet with a muted thud.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
He froze.
Yamada stood a few steps away, arms crossed, hair tied back messily, no smile in sight. His eyes were sharp, too awake, like he’d been waiting. “Do you even think?” His voice cut through the stillness. “Sneaking out in the middle of the night? After everything that just happened? Do you have any idea what could’ve gone wrong?”
Hitoshi tugged his hood lower. “I just… needed air.”
“Air?” Yamada pushed off the wall. “You were gone for hours. You crawl back through a window at dawn, looking like hell, and you want to tell me it’s about air? You could’ve been snatched, Toshi. You could’ve disappeared, and no one would’ve known until it was too late.”
Hitoshi clenched his fists and tried to walk past him, but Yamada’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder. “Look at me.”
He spun around, anger snapping out before he could stop it. “I said I just needed air! Is that a crime now?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Yamada shot back. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. “What were you even doing out there?”
Hitoshi’s first reaction was to push back. Habit, defense, resentment—all wrapped into one blunt object. “Why do you even care? A year ago, I wasn’t your kid. I wasn’t anything to you.”
The words came out like glass, sharp enough to cut both of them. He felt the sting the moment they left his mouth, but he didn’t take them back. His chest burned, his jaw locked tight.
Yamada froze, the blow landing square in his eyes. For a second, his face shifted—not anger, not exactly, but something deeper, rawer.
Hitoshi pressed on, because stopping felt like giving up. “I can handle it myself!” His voice cracked. “I don’t need to be anyone’s kid.”
Yamada flinched, just barely, as if the floor had shifted under him. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw it back. When his voice came, it was low and strained. “Maybe not then. But you are now. And that’s not changing. You were always my kid, just we didn't know it.”
The calmness pierced deeper than any shouting could. Hitoshi had been bracing for anger, for another wall to push against—but there wasn’t one. Just Yamada, steady, carrying the weight of words that had clearly hit him hard and refusing to waste them.
“You can hate me if that’s what you need,” Yamada said softly, throat tight. “But it doesn’t make me care any less.”
Hitoshi’s breath hitched. The fire in his chest flared hotter, mixed with shame clawing from the inside. He wanted to keep fighting, to throw another barb, but nothing came. His mind screamed he was never enough—not at camp, not on the streets, not even here. And yet Yamada was still standing there, looking at him like he mattered.
That look undid him more than any argument.
“Please, Hitoshi,” Yamada said, the word scraping raw across his throat. He took a step closer, hands half-raised, not quite touching. “Just tell me what’s wrong. If you need something—anything—say it. I can’t help if you shut me out.”
The plea cracked through Hitoshi’s defenses worse than any shouting could. His jaw tightened, breath coming too fast. He wanted to turn away, to bite out something cruel again, but the silence inside him had been swelling since the forest, pressing hard against his ribs.
“I was there!” The words burst out, jagged and raw. “I saw everything—I was right there—and I didn’t move!” His chest heaved, the shout scraping his throat raw. “Do you get it? I froze!” His voice cracked, breaking against the memory. “I just stood there! Like I was nothing—like I am nothing!” The words kept spilling, each one sharper, messier, impossible to stop. “I can’t do it—I can’t save anyone—I can’t even save myself! I thought if I tried harder, if I pushed more, if I went out there maybe I’d finally—”
He stopped, gasping, the rest tangling in his chest.
His fists shook at his sides, nails biting his palms. “But I’m useless. I’m always too late, too slow. I’m never enough!” The last words ripped out in a scream that left his whole body trembling.
For a moment, the hallway spun, vision swimming with heat and blur. The weight dragged him down, knees threatening to give out. He hated himself for saying it out loud, hated that the words made it real. But there it was—his failure ringing between them.
Before he could fall, Yamada caught him, pulling him in hard. Hitoshi fought at first, pushing against his chest, but his arms gave out. He collapsed into the embrace, forehead pressed to Yamada’s shoulder, breaths tearing out in ragged gasps.
Yamada’s hold was firm, steady, one hand cupping the back of his head. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low, unshaken even as it cracked at the edges. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Not anymore.”
The words only made the sobs worse. Hitoshi clung to him like the ground had given way, every muscle shaking as the collapse finally took him. For the first time since the forest, he let it.
The next morning, sunlight cut through the curtains far too brightly, and Hitoshi groaned, burying his face in the pillow. His throat hurt, his head was pounding, and every blink brought pieces of last night crashing back—his voice cracking, Yamada’s arms around him, the awful feeling of finally letting go and being completely exposed.
Yamada had stayed with him for a while until Nezu had called about the press conference.
Still… the knot in his chest didn’t go away. He’d promised Yamada he wouldn’t sneak out again, but he knew he wasn’t done yet. There was still so much he needed to figure out, still stuff to test and learn as Spidernight. He’d just have to be way more careful—less stupid this time.
At least the secret was still his. That Yamada had seen enough without realizing who he really was let him breathe a little, even if his chest still felt tight.
Spidernight was still his. For now.
He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the sheets.
Denki’s presence—just knowing he’d be around—was like a weird warmth in his chest, and it made everything sharper: the weight of responsibility, the fear of messing up, the hope that he could do it right someday.
A soft knock at the door made him flinch.
“Hitoshi?” Denki’s voice was careful, hesitant. “Can I… come in?”
Hitoshi froze, chest tightening, stuck between the chaos of last night and the pull of the present. Then, slowly, he let out a shaky breath. Maybe he didn’t have to sort everything out right now. Maybe he could just… be here.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough, lighter than it had been in days. A small, impossible flicker of happiness hit him. “It’s open.”
The hotel lobby was filled with the low murmur of other guests, but to Hitoshi it all felt distant, like someone had turned the volume down. For a moment, it was just him and Denki.
Most of their classmates had already gone home. The rest were at the hospital, visiting the ones who were still stuck there.
His attention drifted anyway, landing on the mess that was Denki’s plate.
Pancakes stacked way too high, eggs spilling over the sides, toast piled unevenly, sausages lined up in a row. It looked less like breakfast and more like a challenge.
“I’m pretty sure that goes against every nutrition rule ever,” Hitoshi said with a small laugh, glancing down at his own much sadder plate of toast and coffee.
“Hey, it’s vacation,” Denki said, biting into a pancake. Syrup slid down his chin and he didn’t even notice. “Like, real vacation.”
Hitoshi nodded, but his focus slipped. He caught himself staring.
Denki looked relaxed in a way Hitoshi hadn’t felt in days, messy and bright and completely unaware of how easy it was to look at him. Cute. Annoyingly cute.
His thoughts wandered somewhere lighter, somewhere simpler. Kissing Denki without overthinking it. Holding his hand. Saying it out loud, calling him his boyfriend like it didn’t come with consequences.
It was pointless to imagine. Hitoshi knew that.
He couldn’t drag Denki into lies and secrets. Denki deserved better than that—someone honest, someone who could protect him instead of pulling him into the dark mess that lived in Hitoshi’s head.
That responsibility sat heavy in his chest, and he hated that it felt like a reason to walk away.
“Hey,” Denki said, frowning a little. “You still feeling bad?”
Hitoshi blinked and refocused, lifting his coffee. “I mean… who isn’t?”
Denki hummed, wiped his face with a napkin, then took a sip of orange juice. “Okay, fair. Then—are you at least better?”
No. Not really. Everything still felt wrong. But Denki didn’t need all of that.
“A bit,” Hitoshi said. Close enough. “What about you?”
Denki pushed his food around for a second. “I had a nightmare.”
Hitoshi didn’t answer right away, rolling the mug between his hands and letting the heat ground him. “After last night,” he said, “that’s kind of expected.”
“It wasn’t about what happened,” Denki shook his head. “It was worse.”
Hitoshi stiffened.
“In the dream, everything was dark,” Denki continued, lowering his voice. “No fire. Just noise. People screaming. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t.”
Hitoshi swallowed.
“And you were there,” Denki said, looking straight at him now. “Right in front of me.”
The space between them felt tighter.
“I grabbed you,” Denki added, pointing at his own wrist. “Like yesterday.”
The memory came back sharp and unpleasant, the pressure of Denki’s grip, the fear behind it.
“You looked at me,” Denki went on. “But not really at me. Like you were looking through me.”
Hitoshi dropped his gaze.
“You weren’t scared,” Denki said quietly. “You were just… empty. That’s what scared me.”
Around them, the lobby kept moving, dishes clinking, voices passing by. No one noticed anything wrong.
“Denki,” Hitoshi said finally, his voice rough, “it was a bad night. For everyone.”
“I know,” Denki said quickly. “I’m not blaming you. I just don’t want you getting lost in whatever’s going on in your head.”
Hitoshi looked up. “Lost where?”
Denki hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “In whatever you’re not telling me.”
So yeah. He really was that obvious.
Hitoshi was the one sneaking out at night, fighting villains in secret, carrying responsibilities Denki shouldn’t have to worry about.
“I don’t know how to fix that,” Hitoshi said. “But yesterday wasn’t your fault. Not grabbing me. Not stopping me.”
That was part of the problem. While Hitoshi froze, Denki acted. While Hitoshi spiraled, Denki reached out.
Denki took a slow breath. “I was scared.”
Hitoshi didn’t lie this time. “Me too.”
Denki looked surprised, then nodded. “Then I guess we’re the same.”
Hitoshi shook his head. “No.”
Denki frowned. “No?”
“No,” Hitoshi repeated. “You moved.”
Denki went still.
“You grabbed me,” Hitoshi said more quietly. “You didn’t just stand there.”
Denki looked down at his plate. “I didn’t think,” he muttered. “I just didn’t want you to disappear.”
That hit harder than anything else. Hitoshi set his mug down carefully. “Thanks.”
Denki looked up, confused. “For what?”
Hitoshi met his eyes and held them. “For doing the one thing I couldn’t.”
The news was bad.
Really bad.
Hitoshi’s first instinct was to smash the lobby TV just to make it shut up.
The reporter kept talking, tearing into Aizawa, calling him irresponsible, calling him the worst kind of teacher for “letting a student get kidnapped.” Hitoshi turned his gaze away before the words could dig in any deeper.
“Toshi…” Denki said softly, then reached out and took his hand without warning. The touch pulled Hitoshi back into the room. “Hey. Let’s go to the hospital and see the others, okay?”
Yeah. That sounded like a solid distraction from all the bullshit coming out of the TV.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi said, squeezing Denki’s hand once before letting go. “Sounds good.”
Everyone was crowded outside Midoriya’s room, clearly unsure of how they were supposed to get in.
“Maybe he’s resting,” Uraraka said, peeking inside. “We could come back later.”
Ashido shook her head immediately. “I had to beg to be allowed here. My mom only gave me three hours before we have to go back.”
Judging by the looks on everyone else’s faces, she wasn’t the only one with that problem.
“Besides,” Sato added with a sigh, cradling the melon like a baby, “we all chipped in for this. It’d be a shame not to give it to him.”
Hitoshi still didn’t really get the whole melon thing. It was a recovery gift, sure, and it hadn’t even been expensive split between all of them, but it still felt unnecessary.
If it were him, he’d rather get a card with balloons or something equally cheesy.
“We could always eat it ourselves and just make him a card,” Sero joked.
Everyone shot him a look.
“…Okay, okay,” he said quickly. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
It didn’t work. Everyone was tense.
Midoriya had literally broken almost every bone in his body.
“This is going nowhere,” Denki muttered beside Hitoshi. Then, before anyone could stop him, he walked straight up to the door, sighed, and suddenly opened it, sticking his head inside under everyone’s shocked stares. “Wassup? Hey, Midoriya! Looks like you’re awake.”
No one even waited a second after that. The whole group flooded into the room.
“Here’s a melon for you!” Sato said cheerfully, setting the fruit down next to a plate of buns and a small note. “We all pitched in. It’s a big one.”
Midoriya looked awful.
Worse than any of them.
Worse than Jiro and Hagakure, who were still unconscious because of the villain’s gas. Worse than Yaoyorozu with her head injury.
They’d even kidnapped his childhood friend.
“How are you guys?” Somehow, Midoriya was still worrying about everyone else.
That was what real heroes looked like. People like Midoriya. Like Denki. Not like Hitoshi.
He was still stuck in his own head when Kirishima suddenly spoke up, voice full of reckless, heroic energy. “Let’s go save Bakugo!”
Hitoshi hated that he couldn’t deny the idea had crossed his mind too.
He hadn’t been able to help at the camp. But maybe… Spidernight could.
The thought died just as fast. He’d made a promise—to Yamada, to himself, and to Denki.
Besides, the rest of the class had no problem shutting Kirishima down before things got out of hand.
And Hitoshi wasn’t in any position to join a heroic cause anyway.
He was already being punished, and Spidernight would only make things worse.
So when they were told to leave so the doctors could keep running tests on Midoriya, Hitoshi went without arguing, along with several others.
“They’re gonna be okay,” Denki said as they walked away. To Hitoshi, it sounded like Denki was talking more to himself than anyone else. “Bakugo’ll be fine. And we’ll go back to school and become heroes, right, Toshi?”
Hitoshi wished he had that kind of certainty. That kind of hope.
Still, Denki’s nervous optimism was hard to resist.
And honestly… that was what Hitoshi wanted too.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Even though, deep down, Hitoshi couldn’t shake the feeling that his classmates were already planning something.
Denki growled as he turned off the TV in Hitoshi’s hotel room.
“Freaking garbage journalists,” he muttered, flopping down onto the bed next to Hitoshi. “How do they even come up with that stuff about Bakugo? Yeah, his attitude sucks, but—what, a villain? Seriously, they need to pull their heads out of their asses.”
Hitoshi let out a small laugh, watching Denki rant about the reporters harassing U.A. and trying to paint Aizawa as the worst teacher in history.
Okay, technically, his adoptive dad wasn’t exactly a great teacher. But he’d gotten a lot better. Especially with Hitoshi’s class.
“Just ignore them,” Hitoshi said, staring up at the ceiling before turning onto his side to face Denki. “They’re talking because it gets views. Dad’ll be fine.”
He surprised himself with how calm he sounded. Earlier that day, he’d wanted to rip the TV off the wall.
He didn’t really understand what he was feeling anymore.
Denki looked at him with wide, shiny eyes, lips pulled into a small pout. “You sure?”
Hitoshi nodded, his focus drifting to Denki’s eyes and how full of life they were—too bright, too hopeful. The kind of light he wanted to protect from everything ugly in the world.
He wasn’t supposed to be selfish. That was something he’d learned early, growing up in the system.
Denki deserved better than him. Better than being tied to Hitoshi’s feelings, better than being pulled close just because Hitoshi wanted more than friendship.
And still, right now, Hitoshi really wanted to kiss him.
Maybe it was just comfort he was craving. Maybe this wasn’t the right moment.
He didn’t want a kiss that meant nothing.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi said, breaking eye contact and glancing at the clock. It was way too late. “When’s your mom coming to pick you up?”
Denki stared at him like he’d just crushed a bug in front of him. “Wow. You kicking me out already?”
Hitoshi immediately shook his head. “No—no, that’s not what I meant. You said it was hard to convince her to let you come, and it’s too late for you to take the train alone.”
Denki sighed. “I’m staying here tonight. I pushed a lot, but she finally agreed.”
Maybe it would help to stop thinking for a while. To pretend the training camp never happened.
Just act like they were two friends on summer vacation.
“So,” Hitoshi said, raising an eyebrow, “sleepover?”
Denki’s face lit up instantly, his grin stretching wide. He looked unfairly happy. “Sleepover.”
Unfortunately, the good dreams didn’t last.
They faded the moment Hitoshi became aware of movement in the room. A door opening softly. Footsteps, careful and familiar.
Yamada had slipped into the hotel room to check on him.
Hitoshi groaned internally. He’d completely forgotten to tell him about the sleepover.
He lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, hoping it wouldn’t be a big deal. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong.
…Probably.
Slowly, he shifted, careful not to wake Denki. Once he was sure Denki was still asleep, Hitoshi slipped out of bed and followed Yamada into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.
“What’s up?” he whispered, rubbing at his eyes as the last of sleep clung to him. “I was actually sleeping pretty well.”
Yamada snorted under his breath. “Yeah. I can see why.”
That wasn’t new. Hitoshi’s crush had never really been a secret to Yamada. According to their friends, it was obvious from a mile away.
And if it was obvious to them, then it was definitely obvious to his parents—who also happened to be his teachers.
The universe had jokes, and none of them were funny.
“I forgot to tell you Denki was staying over,” Hitoshi admitted, yawning. “His parents agreed to let him stay a few days, as long as he’s supervised.”
Yamada shrugged, like it wasn’t worth stressing over. “Not like we’d say no, especially with the hero rotations keeping you kids under watch.”
Hitoshi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. At least he wasn’t in trouble for that.
“But,” Yamada added, his tone shifting just slightly, “I still had to check that you were actually in your room. Don’t forget—you’re still grounded for sneaking out.”
Oh, right.
The memory hit immediately. The near-miss. How close he’d come to everything falling apart.
Yamada must’ve noticed the look on Hitoshi’s face, because he laughed—quietly, as quietly as someone with a voice-amplifying quirk could manage—and shook his head. “I still get to invade your privacy as a parent when it’s necessary,” he said, “and I still get to plan an appropriate punishment later. Preferably when Shota isn’t one headline away from an aneurysm, okay?”
Hitoshi huffed a quiet breath. “The reporters are a nightmare.”
“You have no idea,” Yamada replied with a low chuckle. “But you know Shota. He doesn’t really care what they say. What gets to him is them hovering nonstop.”
Hitoshi nodded, then hesitated before speaking again. “Thanks. Seriously. And… sorry for everything. I crossed a line.”
Yamada didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, resting a hand on Hitoshi’s head and gently ruffling his hair. “You’re still a kid,” he said. “And thank you—for trusting me, and for apologizing. Apology accepted. Now go back to sleep.”
Hitoshi nodded, then surprised both of them by stepping forward and pulling Yamada into a tight hug.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
Yamada stiffened for half a second before hugging him back, lowering his voice even more. “Thank you, Hitoshi.”
The next two days were a constant reminder that, despite everything, Hitoshi was still just a teenager on vacation, trying—sometimes successfully—to enjoy himself.
Denki, with Yamada’s help, had somehow managed to convince his parents to let him stay at the hotel with his friends. The conditions, however, were non-negotiable: three calls a day, and every single one had to be answered.
Overwhelming? Yes. Negotiable? Not even remotely.
Which was why Hitoshi was now watching Denki pause their Mario Kart race, controller still in hand, shoulders sagging in defeat as his phone buzzed again.
“All good, Mom!” Denki greeted cheerfully, smiling at the camera as he tilted the phone to show the TV screen behind him. “We’re playing Mario Kart.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you seriously begged us to let you stay there just to play video games?” his mother teased, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“But Toshi’s on my side!” Denki shot back immediately, swinging the phone toward him. “Say hi, dude!”
Caught off guard, Hitoshi straightened a little and gave a small wave. He wasn’t great with parents. Or adults in general. Or people who radiated warmth as aggressively as Mrs. Kaminari did.
She laughed instantly, and Mr. Kaminari appeared behind her, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“So, how’s everything going, son?” Denki’s father asked. “Are your friends out of the hospital already?”
“Yeah, Dad!” Denki replied. “Midoriya’s still in casts, but everyone else is doing pretty well!”
“Midoriya’s the boy who broke his bones during the Sports Festival, right?” his mother asked.
“Yep!” Denki answered without missing a beat.
“And he broke his bones again at the camp?” his father followed up.
“Also yes,” Denki said proudly. “It’s kind of a habit Sensei is trying to break.”
Hitoshi snorted before he could stop himself, earning a quick glance from Denki. He didn’t apologize. Some things deserved to be acknowledged.
“Well, I’ll take it from here…” Mr. Kaminari sighed, gently stealing the phone from his wife. Her protests echoed faintly as he smiled into the camera. “We’ll let you go, son. We love you.”
“Noooo!” Mrs. Kaminari wailed from off-screen. “I want to see my baby a little longer!”
“You’ve seen him three times today already,” her husband replied calmly. “Let him play with his friend.”
“Nooooooooo, Denki, my love, my life, my little firefly, my melon-heart, my baby, my precious prince—”
Hitoshi watched Denki’s soul visibly leave his body.
“—my sweet, precious angel, the love of my life, the light of my eyes, my kitten, my hero, my little soldier…”
The nicknames kept coming. Mr. Kaminari made no effort to stop them. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying this far too much.
At this rate, Hitoshi decided, Denki’s father was absolutely doing this on purpose.
“Okay, love you, bye!” Denki yelled suddenly, hanging up, tossing the phone onto the bed like it was contaminated, and turning slowly toward Hitoshi. “None of that leaves this room. Capisce?”
Hitoshi met his glare with an innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.
“Of course, Denki,” he said, then added sweetly, “my love, my life, my little firefly, my melon-heart, my baby, my precious prince, my sweet and precious angel, the love of my life, the light of my eyes, my kitten, my hero, my little soldier…”
“I'm going to kill you!” Denki laughed, grabbing a pillow and lunging at him.
Hitoshi barely rolled out of the way in time. “I’d like to see you try.”
And if a pillow fight worthy of the history books followed, the two of them would be the only ones who kept the record.
Going from almost laughing himself to death to watching a very random group of his classmates rescue another very random classmate—one with a terrible attitude and an even worse mouth—from a very random group of villains was not on Hitoshi’s bingo card.
Even less so was finding out that All Might was actually that skinny guy he’d seen more than once wandering around U.A.’s hallways, and that said skinny guy was now fighting a villain called All For One, who was apparently supposed to be dead. Or erased. Or something like that.
Honestly, it was a mess.
He’d probably read the book version when it came out. Or the manga. Those tended to explain things better.
If Denki hadn’t been there, Hitoshi might’ve gone.
Maybe with that group of idiots. Maybe alone. Maybe as Spidernight, since that was kind of the whole point of Spidernight.
But Denki was there.
His hand was gripping Hitoshi’s, fingers tight, eyes glassy as All Might finally won and the broadcast exploded into noise and cheering. Denki didn’t let go. Hitoshi didn’t pull away.
And somehow, that was enough.