Work Text:
“See, Daniella, don’t you think you look pretty?”
Denki glanced up at his reflection in the mirror, his heart tightening. The floral-printed dress hung on his slender frame, stopping right at his calves, the small, delicate shoulder straps slipping slightly as he adjusted it. His expression twisted into a pout. His long, golden hair flowed in gentle waves, cascading down his back, pooling softly around his waist. The overhead lights of the clothing store bounced off his bright locks, creating a halo effect that seemed almost mocking.
“But Mommy… I don’t want to wear a dress,” he murmured.
His mother’s smile faltered slightly, but she leaned down, brushing his hair back with tender fingers. “Sweetie, why not? You don’t have any dresses at home.” She tugged gently at the fabric, smoothing out the creases, her touch light, as though handling something fragile. The black lightning bolt in his hair shifted, moving with the strands as she fussed over him. Denki’s bright aureate eyes met hers, and a wave of discomfort washed over him, settling heavily in his chest and the pit of his stomach. Something about the whole situation felt off—wrong.
“But… I’m not a girl.” The words tumbled out, quiet yet firm.
His mother’s brows furrowed, confusion flashing briefly across her features. She stared at her 5-year-old child, as though seeing him for the first time, trying to process what he’d just said.
A few tense seconds passed before her face softened, a small, uncertain smile creeping back onto her lips. Then she laughed—a light, tinkling sound filled with amusement, disbelief.
They bought the dress.
---
Christmas morning brought a flurry of excitement. Seven-year-old Denki dashed down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the house as he raced towards the living room, his heart pounding with anticipation. His parents trailed behind him, smiles tugging at their lips.
He skidded to a stop at the living room doorway, his breath catching as he took in the sight before him. The once-bare Christmas tree was now adorned with twinkling lights and glittering ornaments, and beneath it, a mound of presents lay stacked neatly. His stocking, which had hung limply on the fireplace just the night before, now overflowed with treats and small toys, spilling onto the carpeted floor. It was like magic.
Denki’s eyes sparkled as he dove into the pile, tearing at the first present he laid his hands on, his mind too overwhelmed to question the pink wrapping paper or the name written on top, “To Daniella.” He was just too thrilled to notice.
But the excitement drained from him when he finally saw the first gift. A remote-control car. He blinked at it, his smile faltering as he examined the toy in his hands—a pink convertible with “Barbie” emblazoned across the side in curly letters. A nervous laugh escaped his lips as a heavy weight settled in his chest. Something twisted uncomfortably inside him.
It wasn’t the car he had asked for. His Christmas list had clearly specified a red and black Ferrari. He set the car down gently beside him and mumbled a quiet, “Thank you,” to his parents, even as confusion and unease bubbled within him. His parents beamed back at him, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. He swallowed back the urge to cry.
He reached for the next present with trembling hands, his heart heavy with hope. Maybe the first one had just been a mistake. But as he tore open the wrapping paper, his face fell. It was a My Little Pony Pinkie Pie figurine. The neon-bright pink stared back at him mockingly, making his stomach churn.
Every gift seemed to stray further and further from what he had wanted, each one interpreting his desires through a distorted, "girly" lens. By the time he unwrapped his final present—a Barbie mermaid princess—he felt utterly defeated. The label on every box screamed the name he had started to hate: “To Daniella.”
That Christmas, the name “Daniella” etched itself deeper into his skin like a brand, each syllable digging in painfully.
---
“Hey, Mom…” Denki’s voice wavered slightly as he approached the back of the couch, wringing his hands together nervously. His mother didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the TV as she swirled the wine in her glass absentmindedly. It was just another casual Friday evening, but Denki’s heart was pounding.
“Yeah, Daniella?” she responded without turning around, a trace of impatience in her voice.
Denki swallowed hard, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Um, I was thinking… Can I get a haircut? Y’know, since I’m starting UA soon, I want a new look.”
His mother let out a light laugh, finally glancing over at him. “Of course, sweetie. Just a trim? Maybe a few inches?”
Denki bit his lip, gathering his courage. “No, I… I want it short.” He paused, then added with more determination, “Like… boy-short.”
Her eyebrows shot up, a look of incredulity flashing across her face. “Boy short?” She set down her glass, leaning back against the couch cushions as she considered him. “You don’t really want that, do you? What would people think?”
“I do!” he protested, stepping forward. “I don’t care what people think. I really, really want it.” His voice rose, tinged with desperation. “Please, Mom. Just once. Please let me cut it short.”
She shook her head, smiling in that dismissive way that always made his heart sink. “Oh, honey, don’t be silly. What if people think you’re… well, you know. Besides, your hair is so beautiful. Why would you want to ruin it?”
Denki’s chest tightened with frustration, a bitter taste filling his mouth. “But it’s my hair!” he insisted, his voice trembling. “Why can’t I decide what to do with it?”
She sighed, turning back to the TV. “Because I said so, Daniella. Now stop it. End of discussion.”
“But—”
“No, Daniella,” she interrupted firmly, not bothering to look at him. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Denki’s shoulders sagged, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He turned away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
‘No’. He thought angrily. He was done listening. Done begging.
He stormed into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer, grabbing a pair of scissors. His heart thundered in his chest as he returned to the living room, the metal blades glinting in the light. “You know what, Mom?” he said, his voice shaky but resolute. “I don’t care what you say anymore.”
Before she could respond, Denki bolted up the stairs, the scissors clutched tightly in his hand.
“Daniella, what are you doing?!” she shouted, jumping up from the couch. “Come back here right now!”
He ignored her, taking the steps two at a time. His mother’s footsteps pounded behind him, but he didn’t slow down. Reaching the bathroom, he slammed the door shut and locked it. He could hear her banging on the other side, her voice frantic and angry.
“Daniella, open this door! Don’t you dare do something stupid!”
Denki stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, breathing heavily. His long hair spilled around his shoulders like a heavy shroud. He gripped the scissors tighter, then raised them to the side of his head. The first snip was tentative, a single lock falling to the ground in a soft cascade. He hesitated, glancing back at the door, then closed his eyes and took another deep breath.
Snip.
Another chunk of hair dropped to the floor. And another. Each cut was faster, more determined, until he was left staring at the jagged remnants of what had once been his crowning glory. His hair was uneven and messy, but it was short. Finally short. It felt like shedding a weight he’d been carrying for years.
He barely noticed that the banging had stopped. The door flew open a moment later, his mother standing in the doorway, eyes wide and horrified, a key clenched in her trembling hand.
“Daniella… what have you done?” she whispered, her voice filled with shock and disbelief.
Denki’s gaze shifted from her to his reflection. A sense of quiet euphoria washed over him as he took in his new look. It was imperfect, uneven, but it felt right.
“Not Daniella,” he murmured softly, his voice steady for the first time that night. “It’s Denki.”
His mother stood there, frozen in the doorway, mouth agape. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Denki held her gaze, his breath steadying as the initial surge of adrenaline began to fade. He felt exposed, raw, and yet… free.
“Denki?” she echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if the name itself was foreign and strange on her tongue. “What do you mean? Daniella, stop this nonsense—”
“Mom, please,” Denki interrupted, his voice firmer this time. He turned to face her fully, shoulders squared despite the tremble in his legs. “I’m not Daniella. I’ve never been Daniella. I’m Denki. I’m a boy.”
Her expression shifted rapidly from shock to confusion, and then to something harder, something defensive. “A boy? What are you talking about?” Her voice wavered, rising in pitch as though she were trying to keep control, trying to make sense of the situation. “You’re a girl, Daniella. You were born a girl. You are a girl.”
“No, I’m not,” Denki whispered, his chest tightening with every word she threw at him. But there was something inside him—something that had been beaten down, silenced for so long—finally pushing back, clawing its way out. “I’ve felt this way for a long time… I’m not pretending. This is who I am.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed, her shock hardening into anger. “Who filled your head with this garbage? Was it that show you’ve been watching? Or someone at school?” She gestured wildly, her hands trembling. “Daniella, you’re just confused! You’re too young to know what you want—”
“I’m not confused!” Denki’s voice rang out, startling both of them. It was louder than he’d intended, but he couldn’t hold it back any longer. Tears stung at his eyes, and he blinked them away furiously. “I’m not confused, and I’m not a girl! I’m Denki!”
For a moment, they stared at each other, the air between them charged, almost crackling with tension. Then, his mother’s gaze dropped to the floor, where chunks of his hair lay scattered. When she looked back up at him, there was something icy and unreadable in her eyes.
“Fine,” she said coldly, her lips thinning into a tight line. “You want to look like a boy? Act like a boy? Then do whatever you want.” She turned sharply, her heels clicking against the tiles as she stalked out of the bathroom.
Denki watched her go, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. He heard the echo of the kitchen door slamming shut behind her with a finality that made him flinch. He was left alone, the silence ringing in his ears. For a long time, he just stood there, staring at the empty doorway.
Then, slowly, he turned back to the mirror.
He looked at himself—really looked—and for the first time, he didn’t see someone pretending. His hair was uneven and messy, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy from holding back tears. But behind all of that, he saw himself.
“I’m Denki,” he repeated softly to his reflection, testing the words again, letting them settle and take root. “I’m Denki Kaminari.”
The euphoria from earlier washed over him once more, this time steadier, more certain. He smiled shakily, his lips curving up just the slightest bit. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the beginning of something.
Something real.
---
The next few days were a blur of tense silences and icy glares from his mother. Denki tried to stay out of her way, the pit in his stomach growing every time she refused to meet his eyes or called him “Daniella” with that clipped, sharp tone. It stung—every time, it felt like she was slapping him with the name he’d come to hate.
One afternoon, after another silent meal spent picking at his food, Denki heard his father’s voice drifting up from the living room. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, fingers clutching the banister as he strained to hear.
“I just don’t understand,” his mother’s voice came, tight and strained. “She’s always been such a sweet, good girl. Where is all this coming from?”
“I think it’s been there for a long time, honey,” his father said gently. “We just didn’t see it.”
“Don’t—don’t you start with that, too!” she snapped, and Denki flinched at the sharpness in her tone. “She’s just confused. She’s only 15. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
There was a long pause. Denki held his breath, his fingers digging painfully into the wood of the railing.
“Honey… What if he does?” his father asked softly.
Silence. Then a choked, bitter laugh from his mother.
“And what then?” she whispered harshly. “What are we supposed to do if our—our daughter wants to be a boy? How am I supposed to explain that to people?”
Denki’s heart sank. He turned away from the stairs, stumbling back to his room. He sank onto his bed, curling up into a small ball. It shouldn’t have surprised him. He knew it wouldn’t be easy—knew his mother wouldn’t just accept it. But it still hurt.
-
UA became his safe haven. It was a place where he could breathe, where he didn’t have to explain himself over and over again. Most of his classmates had only known him as Denki Kaminari, especially because his father had allowed him to start taking testosterone before he started, and they accepted him without question.
They teased him for his antics, groaned at his bad jokes, and admired his quirk—all the things that made him Denki. There were no hesitations, no sideways glances.
And it felt like he was living a dream.
He glanced around the brightly decorated classroom, where colorful banners read, “WELCOME, HERO PARENTS!”
and streamers hung from the ceiling, twisting and turning with every slight breeze. The room was filled with energy, the air alive with chatter and laughter as parents mingled with students.
It was now during his second year that UA thought it would be a great opportunity to host a ‘bring your parents to school day’ to showcase what school life was like there. Considering everything that had happened during their first year, it eased a lot of parents minds to know where exactly their child was attending.
“Hey, Denki!” Kirishima called, grinning widely as he pulled his parents over to meet the rest of the class. “Where’s your old man?”
Denki forced a smile, though his stomach churned uncomfortably. “He’s supposed to be here any minute,” he said, scratching the back of his head. He scanned the room again, his heart giving a nervous leap every time the door swung open.
His father was supposed to be coming today. They hadn’t talked about bringing his mother—hadn’t even mentioned her name since the day Denki had walked out of the house with his bags packed, eyes red and puffy from a sleepless night spent arguing. He’d cut off contact, blocked her number, and focused on rebuilding himself from the inside out. His father never pushed. Never said anything.
But he had to wonder… Had his father thought today might be the day to change that?
“Hey.” A soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and Denki turned to see Jirou standing beside him, hands shoved deep into her pockets. She glanced at him with an assessing gaze, her eyes lingering on his face. “You good?”
“Yeah.” Denki flashed her a grin that felt tight, unnatural. “Just a little nervous, I guess.”
Jirou’s brow furrowed. “Nervous? You? C’mon man, I’ve seen you crash headfirst into a wall in a shopping cart going full speed.” she laughed, but she paused as she noticed he didn’t laugh along.
“…What’s got you so jittery?”
Before Denki could respond, the door creaked open again, and his father’s familiar face appeared. Relief washed over him like a wave, and he felt his shoulders relax for the first time that morning. He pushed through the crowd of students, weaving his way toward the entrance.
“Dad!” he called, his grin widening for real this time.
“Hey, kiddo!” His father’s voice boomed out, a wide smile spreading across his face. He held his arms open, and Denki practically barreled into him, feeling a rush of warmth and comfort as his dad squeezed him tightly. “You look good, Denki. Really good.”
“Thanks.” Denki stepped back, still grinning. “You too, old man.”
His father chuckled, reaching up to ruffle Denki’s hair, then looked around. “Wow, this place is impressive. Glad I got to see it.”
“Yeah,” Denki said, glancing around at the other parents and students. “It’s kind of crazy having everyone here. But—” He hesitated, his smile faltering. “You didn’t… you didn’t bring…?”
“Denki, I—”
A voice cut through the buzz of the room, and everything seemed to freeze. Denki’s blood turned to ice as he heard it—sharp, familiar, and entirely out of place.
“Daniella?”
He turned slowly, almost mechanically, as though the world had slowed to a crawl. Standing in the doorway, dressed in a fitted suit and wearing a bright red lipstick that stood out starkly against her pale face, was his mother.
“Mom?” The word slipped out before he could stop it, barely audible over the sudden roar of blood rushing in his ears. He felt his chest tighten painfully, his breath catching in his throat. She looked different, yet exactly the same—every line of her body screaming perfection and control.
“What are you doing here?” His voice sounded strained, almost foreign to his own ears.
She took a step forward, her gaze sweeping over him critically, taking in the changes—the sharp cut of his jaw, the broadening of his shoulders, the way his uniform fit his frame. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak for a moment, just stared as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
“I came to see you, of course,” she said finally, her voice carrying a brittle edge. “I… Your father thought it would be good for us to—”
“Talk?” Denki interrupted, his voice rising involuntarily. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him now, classmates murmuring softly, their parents exchanging puzzled glances. He flushed, fists clenching at his sides. “You want to talk now, after nearly two years?”
“Denki, please—” his father started, but his mother cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“I just want to understand, Daniella,” she said sharply. “Look at you! You’ve—…what have you done to yourself?” Her eyes glittered with a kind of anger he hadn’t seen in a long time, and she took another step forward, her gaze burning into his. “You’ve ruined yourself. You look… you look like some stranger! Like a—a boy!”
“Because I am a boy!” Denki shouted, his voice cracking, and the entire room fell silent. He felt the tears sting his eyes, but he blinked them back, lifting his chin defiantly. “I’ve always been a boy, and you—you never listened. You never wanted to understand.”
His mother’s face twisted, a sneer forming on her lips. “You’re delusional, Daniella. You’re my daughter, and no amount of—of hormones or—or haircuts is going to change that.”
“Mom, stop—”
“No!” she snapped, her voice rising shrilly. She pointed a trembling finger at him. “You listen to me, young lady—”
“Stop calling me that!” Denki’s voice echoed off the walls, raw and desperate. “My name is Denki! I’m not your daughter! I’m your son! Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you just—just accept it?”
His mother’s face contorted, and for a split second, he thought she might actually reach out and hit him. Then she turned away sharply, her heels clicking against the tile as she stormed toward the door. She paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder, eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“I don’t have a son,” she said coldly, and then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.
Denki stood there, staring at the empty space she’d left behind, the words echoing in his head like a cruel, mocking refrain. He felt something shatter inside him, something small and fragile he’d been holding onto all this time.
“Denki…I didn’t think she would react like this-“
His father’s voice was soft, pained, but Denki shook his head, stepping back, holding up a hand.
“No,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I’m fine. I just—I need some air.”
Before anyone could stop him, Denki turned on his heel and bolted from the room, ignoring the startled gasps and murmurs that followed him. He ran down the hallway, past the trophy cases and the classrooms, until he burst out the side door of the building and into the cool afternoon air. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
She was wrong, he told himself fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut as tears spilled down his cheeks. She was wrong about him. He was Denki Kaminari. He was strong. He was—
The sobs tore through him, and he crumpled to the ground, shaking as he cried. He hadn’t been ready to face her. He hadn’t been ready to hear those words.
-
Denki didn’t know how long he stayed there, curled up in the grass by the side entrance of UA. Time seemed to blur, the world narrowing down to the sound of his ragged breathing and the heavy thud of his heartbeat. He felt hollow. The adrenaline that had fueled his escape had long since drained away, leaving behind a deep, aching numbness.
Footsteps approached, soft and hesitant, and Denki’s muscles tensed involuntarily. For a split second, a wild hope flared in his chest—maybe his mother had come back, maybe she’d realized she was wrong, maybe she’d—
“Denki?” The voice wasn’t hers. It was deeper, calmer, filled with a quiet concern that made his heart twist painfully.
He looked up to see Jirou standing a few feet away, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. Her face was shadowed with worry, dark eyes scanning him carefully, like she was afraid he might shatter if she came too close.
“Hey,” she murmured softly. She crouched down to his level, not touching him, not pushing—just… there. Offering her presence. Her support. “I saw you run out, so… thought I’d come check on you.”
Denki let out a harsh, shaky breath, scrubbing his face roughly with his sleeve. He knew he looked a mess—his eyes red and swollen, his cheeks flushed and streaked with tears. A pathetic sight for a second-year student at UA, supposed future hero.
“Sorry,” he croaked, voice thick and raw. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”
“Don’t apologize, idiot.” Jirou’s voice was surprisingly gentle, and she reached out, resting a hand on his knee. He glanced down at it, then back up at her, his throat tightening. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Denki laughed weakly, the sound brittle and broken. “Didn’t I? My… my mom—she just—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, his voice breaking off as fresh tears welled up. He bit down hard on his lip, trying to keep it together, trying not to completely lose it in front of Jirou. But the look in her eyes, the quiet understanding there—it cracked something inside him, and the words came spilling out in a rush.
“She—she said I ruined myself. That I’m delusional. That I’m not—” His breath hitched, his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. “That I’m not her son. That she doesn’t—doesn’t have a son.”
Jirou’s grip on his knee tightened slightly, her eyes blazing fierce, protective. “She’s wrong, Denki,” she said, leaning in closer. “She’s so fucking wrong. You’re more than enough. You’re brave and strong and—and you’ve come so far. You’re Denki Kaminari, and nothing she says can take that away from you. Okay?”
Denki blinked up at her, his vision blurring with tears. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the knot in his throat. “I just… I thought maybe… after all this time…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Maybe she’d see me. Really see me.”
A silence stretched between them, heavy and painful. Jirou’s expression softened.
“People like that… they don’t change easily,” she murmured, her tone almost apologetic. “But that’s not on you, Denki. It’s not your fault she can’t accept you. You don’t owe her your pain.”
Denki’s breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t a sob—it was a laugh. A soft, incredulous laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. “You sound like Aizawa-sensei,” he muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite everything.
Jirou huffed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, I learned from the best. Now, c’mon.” She stood up, holding out a hand to him. “Let’s get you back inside before Bakugou starts thinking you’re ditching him for the ‘Bring Your Parents to School’ contest or something.”
Denki hesitated for a second, before he took her hand, letting her pull him to his feet. He swayed slightly, the world tilting around him, but Jirou’s steady grip kept him grounded. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded, squaring his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They started walking back toward the building, the soft murmur of their footsteps filling the silence between them. Denki’s heart still ached, his mother’s words lingering like a poison, but Jirou’s presence beside him was like an antidote—a small, steady warmth that kept the darkness at bay.
He glanced sideways at her as they approached the entrance, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Um… Do you think…everyone saw? What happened back there, I mean.”
Jirou shrugged, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah. it was…kinda loud. But, honestly, who cares? You didn’t do anything wrong, Denki. And besides, we’re your classmates. We’ve got your back, no matter what.”
Denki swallowed hard, blinking back the fresh wave of tears that threatened to spill over. “Thanks, Jirou. I—” He shook his head, words failing him. “I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said lightly, though her smile was soft, almost fond. “But, hey, you might wanna fix your hair a bit. Can’t have you looking all disheveled in front of the whole class, now, can we?”
Denki snorted, running a hand through his messy hair. “Right.“
“That’s the spirit,” Jirou teased, giving him a playful nudge as they stepped back inside.
The classroom was quieter now, the initial excitement of the day settling into a more subdued atmosphere. Denki felt a few curious glances turn his way as he re-entered, but no one said anything. There was no judgement, no pity—just a quiet, unspoken understanding that made something inside him ease.
He spotted his father standing near the back of the room, looking pale and drawn, guilt etched into every line of his face. When their eyes met, his father flinched slightly, then raised a tentative hand in greeting.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said softly when Denki walked over, his voice thick with regret. “I— I didn’t know she’d react like that. I thought… I thought it might be good for you two to talk. I’m so sorry.”
Denki stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, his shoulders sagging. “It’s okay, Dad,” he murmured, though his voice wavered. “You were just… trying to help.”
“I should’ve known better,” his father whispered, reaching out to pull Denki into a tight hug. Denki stiffened at first, then melted into the embrace, feeling some of the tension seep out of him. “I’m so proud of you, Denki. So damn proud.”
A few more tears slipped down Denki’s cheeks, but this time they weren’t from pain. He nodded, burying his face in his father’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of home. “Thanks, Dad,” he whispered, his voice muffled. “I’m trying… I’m really trying.”
“You’re doing amazing,” his father said quietly, his voice fierce with conviction. “And don’t let anyone—anyone—tell you otherwise.”
Denki nodded again, his heart swelling with a bittersweet mix of emotions. There was still so much hurt, so much unresolved pain. But he had his father, his friends… He had people who saw him, who believed in him.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.