MHA REINCARNATION!

The flashing cameras were blinding. Another interview, another barrage of shallow questions about my latest single, my fashion choices, my meticulously curated image. I was Kirishima, the fourth most popular J-Pop idol in Japan, a title that felt both exhilarating and suffocating.

But today, the usual robotic responses felt harder to summon. Ever since the duet with Denki, things had felt… off. Different. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a magnetic pull that drew us closer during rehearsals, on stage, even backstage. The lyrics about longing and connection seemed to bleed off the page, morphing into something real, something tangible.

"Kirishima-san," the interviewer's voice cut through my internal turmoil. "Rumors have been circulating about a potential romance between you and Kaminari-san. Is there any truth to these claims?"

My heart stuttered. Denki. Just the thought of him sent a jolt of electricity through me, a familiar yet unnerving sensation.

"That's just speculation," I said, forcing a smile. My PR training kicked in. "Denki and I are very close friends, we have great chemistry, and that translates to a fantastic performance. That's all there is to it."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I plastered on a winning smile and smoothly steered the conversation back to my upcoming tour. After what felt like an eternity, the interview finally ended. I bowed deeply, the flashing lights momentarily searing my vision.

Back in my sterile, minimalist apartment, the emptiness amplified the echo of the interviewer's question. Was it true? Was I… in love with Denki?

The thought was a rogue wave, crashing against the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my heart. Denki was my best friend, my confidante, the one person who always knew how to make me laugh, even when the pressure of stardom threatened to crush me. But friendship didn't explain the lingering gazes, the accidental brushes of hands that sent shivers down my spine, the way my heart pounded when he smiled at me.

Sleep offered no escape. Instead, it plunged me into a vortex of raw, untamed desire.

I was on stage with Denki, the lights blurring into a hazy kaleidoscope. But this wasn't a performance. It was something far more intimate, far more real. The music swelled, a driving rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of my heart. Denki's eyes, usually sparkling with playful mischief, were dark with a hunger that mirrored my own.

He reached for me, his hand tracing the line of my jaw, sending sparks of heat through my skin. His lips were parted, inviting, and I leaned in, desperate to taste him. The kiss was electric, a surge of pure energy that coursed through my veins. His tongue danced with mine, a frantic, desperate exploration.

He pulled me closer, his body pressed against mine, and I could feel the hard ridge of his erection against my thigh. My own body responded instantly, a throbbing ache that demanded release.

He whispered my name, a husky rasp that sent shivers down my spine. My hands tangled in his blond hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. We tumbled backwards, falling onto a plush velvet couch. He straddled me, his weight a delicious pressure.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, his touch sending waves of pleasure through me. He pulled the fabric open, exposing my chest, and his gaze burned into me. He lowered his head, his lips tracing a path down my neck, sending tremors of desire through my body.

I moaned, arching my back, offering myself to him. He found my nipple, sucking hard, and I cried out, my body convulsing with pleasure.

The dream escalated, spiraling into a feverish intensity that left me breathless and aching. It was a whirlwind of sensation, a symphony of touch, a desperate longing finally fulfilled.

I woke with a gasp, my body slick with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. A hard throbbing in my groin reminded me all too vividly of the dream. Of Denki.

Hell.

The next few days were excruciating. Every waking moment was haunted by the ghost of that dream. I couldn't focus on rehearsals, I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't shake the image of Denki's face, flushed with desire, his eyes locked on mine.

I needed help. Desperate, I called Bakugo. He might be abrasive and brutally honest, but he was also the most grounded person I knew.

"Bakugo, I need your advice," I said, my voice cracking with anxiety.

"Spit it out, Shitty Hair," he barked.

I hesitantly described the interview, the confusing feelings, and the… the dream.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then, Bakugo's voice, surprisingly calm, cut through the silence. "Sounds to me like you're whipped, dumbass. Man up and tell him how you feel."

"Tell Denki? But what if he doesn't feel the same way? I could ruin our friendship, our careers…"

"So what? You gonna live your whole life pretending? Better to know the truth, even if it hurts. Rip the Band-Aid off, Shitty Hair. You'll thank me later."

Easier said than done. The thought of confessing my feelings to Denki terrified me. The fear of rejection, of losing him, was a crushing weight on my chest.

But Bakugo was right. I couldn't keep living like this, trapped in a cycle of longing and denial. I had to know.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and headed to Denki's penthouse.

His apartment was a stark contrast to mine. Where my place was all clean lines and sterile minimalism, Denki's was a vibrant explosion of color and personality. Guitars lined the walls, lyrics scrawled on scraps of paper littered the coffee table, and the air hummed with creative energy.

He was hunched over a keyboard, his fingers flying across the keys, composing a new song. He looked up, a smile brightening his face when he saw me.

"Kiri! What's up?" he asked, his voice warm and welcoming.

My throat tightened. This was it.

"Denki, can we talk? It's… important."

He nodded, his expression becoming serious. He led me to the living room and we sat down on the plush sofa, a nervous distance between us.

"What's going on?" he asked, his eyes filled with concern.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. "Denki, I… I need to be honest with you. Ever since our duet, things have felt different. I've been feeling different."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I think… I think I'm in love with you."

The words hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability. The silence stretched, an agonizing expanse of uncertainty. Denki's expression was unreadable.

Then, a slow smile spread across his face. "Took you long enough," he said, his voice soft.

My jaw dropped. "What?"

He chuckled, reaching out to take my hand. "Kiri, I've been feeling the same way. The duet… it was like something shifted. I couldn't stop thinking about you, about us."

He squeezed my hand, his eyes sparkling with affection. "I was just as scared as you were. I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

Relief washed over me in a tidal wave, so powerful it almost knocked me off my feet. I wasn't alone. He felt it too.

Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn't the feverish, desperate kiss of my dream, but something softer, sweeter, filled with tenderness and affection. It was a kiss that felt like coming home.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, he rested his forehead against mine.

"So," he whispered, "does this mean we're officially a cliché? Two J-Pop idols in love?"

I laughed, a genuine, heartfelt sound. "I guess it does. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

The cameras would still flash, the interviews would still come, and the pressure of fame would still weigh heavy. But now, I had Denki. And with him, I knew I could face anything. The world might not be ready for two male idols in love, but we were.