Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katsuki is young, maybe seven or eight. It’s a few years after the incident that left him with horrible burn scars on his face and upper body, and he’s sitting in a doctor’s office, staring down at his lap. His hands are settled on his knees, neat and polite. He’s trying harder to be better with his manners. 

If he can’t be cute, he can at least be good.

That’s what his mother tells him. Before he got the scars, she would say that at least he looked cute while he was being a brat, but now that he’s ugly, he doesn’t get the same reaction from her when he acts rude. She just smacks him sharply across the face and tells him to go to his room, even though she used to just laugh fondly and ruffle his hair with an amused smile. He has accepted by now that things are never going to go back to the way that they used to be, no matter how hard anybody tried.

These are the people that are going to fix you, Katsuki.

He has heard those words a lot in the past few months, and he’s kinda getting tired of them. He’s tired of it all, tired of the treatments and creams and surgeries that never seemed to help, tired of being promised things that never worked out in the end. He fucking hates it, and the rage is like a fire in his chest, eating him alive from the inside-out.

Katsuki, his mother says, demanding his attention, and, like an obedient pet, Katsuki grants it. He lifts his head and stares up at her, waiting patiently and expectantly for what she’s about to say next. Look at me when I’m talking to you.

Even though she says that, she’s the one who never quite looks at him. Her eyes focus on his face for just a split second before shifting away, her perfect skin creasing slightly as her brows furrow. 

His father puts a hand on her shoulder, silently comforting her, before smiling down at Katsuki. This will make you feel better, he says, like that’s the only reason why Katsuki is going through another operation. It will make everything stop hurting.

And Katsuki has long since lost faith in empty platitudes like that, but he has always been a hopeful person. He asks, Promise?

His father nods. I promise.

But, like most things, it’s a lie. The operation doesn’t work. The burns are too deep, too widespread, too severe to fix. By some twist of fate, Deku’s late-bloomer Quirk turned out to be a powerful one, and it caused damage that wasn’t able to be reversed.

Still, they try again. His mother consults with doctors, nurses, shady clinics overseas, but to no avail. For several years, that’s all that she does - in every second of free time that she gets, she is making calls and setting appointments, trying her best to return Katsuki to how he used to be. 

And then, finally, she gives up. 

It’s like a breath of fresh air, but it’s also the most horrible feeling that Katsuki has ever known. He is so ruined that he can never be fixed, and his own mother has given up on trying to make him better, and he hates it, hates it more than he hated the endless streams of operations, hates it more than his father’s empty reassurances. 

His mother never seems to look at him, these days. 

The worst part about it is that it’s all his fault.

Katsuki stares at the black fabric covering his bathroom mirror, his chest heavy with the memories. He’d been messing with Deku when they were little, pushing him around and taunting him about not having a Quirk yet, only for that Quirk to manifest at that exact moment, engulfing him in flames. 

And, ever since then, things have gone to shit.

Katsuki closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. His mouth is dry, his body aching, his mind cloudy from not getting enough sleep the night before. He feels like shit, if he’s being honest. Dinner had been a trainwreck, with his mother being more snappish than usual, sending him to his room before he was even halfway finished with his meal. His father hadn’t even bothered to try to placate her, looking preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Katsuki had stormed away to finish his homework. It sits on his desk, the sheets wrinkled from where he crumpled them in anger. Something is in the air, something heavy and anticipatory, that is making it hard to focus, hard to think.

Katsuki makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, slamming the side of his fist against the wall hard enough to hurt. 

Today is just a bad day - everybody has those. 

That’s what he tells himself as he quickly brushes his teeth and leaves the bathroom, turning off the light behind him. His breaths are shaky, and he feels almost dizzy as he sits down on the edge of his bed and buries his face in his hands. 

Something is about to go wrong. He knows it.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, just trying to calm himself down as his thoughts spiral out of control. His stomach twists with nerves, a writhing, squirming feeling of doom that digs its claws into his throat, slats itself between his ribs. He rocks back and forth slightly, trying to soothe himself, to no avail. He can’t fucking calm down. All he can think about is the million ways that things could go wrong, ranging from the reasonable to the unfeasible - though, when you lived in a world like this, almost nothing was impossible. 

Of course, that just made the endless feedback loop of anxiety even worse.

When he was little, right after the accident, his father made him go to therapy. The doctors and nurses at the hospital said that it would be good for him, and his father was always trying to do his best to fulfill his duties as a parent, and so, once a week for several months, five-year-old Katsuki got carted off to a psychologist’s office to talk about his feelings.

And, like an idiot, he told the truth.

He talked about nightmares, about the phantom sensation of being eaten alive by flames. He talked about how even looking at Deku made him feel horrible - scared, even - and how it made him feel angry as well, at himself and everybody around him. He talked and talked and talked, and the diagnoses piled up, and now, years later, Katsuki has to deal with stupid shit like his father walking in at random times to reassure him that it was okay to be hurt and confused and upset, like Katsuki’s stupid little feelings ever truly mattered in the grand scheme of things.

Right.

As if on cue, there’s a knock on his door. 

“Katsuki?”

Katsuki takes a moment to compose himself, forcing a few deep breaths and keeping his voice as steady as possible before he calls out, “Come in.”

His father opens the door with a smile, walking over to ruffle Katsuki’s hair, something that Katsuki resists on instinct with an automatic grumble of distaste. He’s not one for physical displays of affection - or any kind of affection at all, actually. He doesn’t like the feeling of debt that it creates.

“Hey, Katsuki,” his father says, and sits beside him on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Katsuki swallows, hard. He doesn’t tell the truth - which is that he feels like shit - but he doesn’t lie, either. In fact, he simply doesn’t say anything at all, instead choosing to sit in the expectant silence created by his father’s stupid fucking question.

His father takes it in stride. He’s good at that, at adapting to Katsuki’s moods. He probably got a lot of practice from learning how to live with his volatile wife. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” Katsuki says, short and sharp. “Deku kept trying to fuckin’ talk to me.”

“Well, I’m sure he misses you,” his father responds, and smiles wistfully. “You two used to be so close when you were younger, it’s unfortunate that you guys can’t put your differences aside and start rebuilding your friendship.”
Katsuki scoffs. “That’s never gonna happen,” he says. “You should see him, Dad. He’s nothing but a loser, always wandering around and shit. It’s pathetic.”

“He feels bad, Katsuki.”
And Katsuki says, “Good.”

His father sighs and shakes his head, and Katsuki knows that’s not the response that he wanted to hear. His father is a pacifist at heart, someone who believed in mending broken bridges and accepting apologies and smoothing things over, and Katsuki envies him for that, sometimes - there are times when he lies awake at night and wishes that he was that kind, that forgiving, that gentle.

But, he’s not. He’s mean and he’s rough and he’s cruel, and he’ll never be anything else.

In appearance and personality, he’s nothing but a monster.

Katsuki digs his teeth into his lip until he tastes blood, his fists clenching in his lap as his father says, “There are times when life doesn’t go as planned,” as if Katsuki didn’t already know that, as if he isn’t living, breathing proof of that fact. “And you just have to learn how to move on, Katsuki. It’s hard, but it’s necessary.”

“Shut up,” Katsuki says, low and under his breath. “Shut up and leave me alone.”

And, for just a second, he thinks that his father will listen. That is, until the man says, “The point I’m trying to make is that there might not be a chance in the future for you to make up with him.”

Katsuki glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, suspicious. “What’s with the mysterious omens, old man? You trying to tell me something?”

“Of course I’m trying to tell you something,” his father says. “That’s usually how conversations work, kiddo.”

Katsuki laughs, the noise startled out of him. “You have the worst jokes.”

“Thanks, I spend all day trying to come up with them.” His father nudges him slightly, smiles down at him with clear affection, something so soft and oddly sad that it makes Katsuki feel suddenly, viscerally queasy. “I like to see you happy, Katsuki. It seems like those moments are getting few and far between.”

That makes sense, considering that Katsuki isn’t a very happy person. But hearing it said like that makes him feel guilty, and he says, “Don’t treat me like a little kid.”

“I’m not,” his father reassures him. “I know that you want your freedom. I know that you want to be left alone to figure things out. You’ve been that way since the moment you were born, always so independent - just like your mother.”

Something about that makes Katsuki’s chest hurt. He abruptly stands up and announces, “I have to go to bed.”

His father glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand, eyebrows raised. “Already?” he asks. “Did you finish your homework?”

“Of course I finished my homework!” Katsuki says, scandalized and offended. “Who do you think I am?”

“Alright, alright,” his father relents, rising to his feet with obvious reluctance. He stands there for a few moments, just watching Katsuki, and then silently pulls him into a tight, unexpected hug.

Katsuki sputters and tries to get away, but the grip just tightens further. “What the hell,” Katsuki mutters, startled by the sudden shift in his father’s mood. In an instant, he seems to have gone from cheerful to pensive, and the sense of dread comes creeping back as he finally stops struggling and allows his father to hold him. 

They stay like that for a while, the only sound the echo of their breaths as the minutes tick by. And then, finally, his father pulls back. Gripping Katsuki by the shoulders, he scans his eyes over his face for several long seconds, and then says, quietly, “I just want you to be happy.”

Katsuki’s throat aches. “I know.”

His father blinks rapidly, some unknown emotion flashing across his face before he leans in and plants a light kiss on Katsuki’s forehead, like Katsuki is a child again, crying because of a scraped knee or something stupid like that. “Good,” his father says, and his voice sounds oddly rough, choked in an unfamiliar way. “I’m glad you know that.”

Katsuki’s hands clench at his sides. “Dad?”

“And your mother wants you to be happy as well,” his father continues, ignoring Katsuki completely. “She loves you. We both love you so much, Katsuki. We want what’s best for you, and we want you to live a good life.”

“Is something going on?” 

His father hugs him again in response, but this time there is no comfort to be found in it. It’s tight and constricting, like a snake wrapping itself around its prey, strangling it to death. Katsuki struggles slightly, trying to shove his father away, but the grip just gets tighter and tighter, bordering on painful as the breath is squeezed from his lungs.

Finally, he shouts, “Dad!”

His father drops him, takes a step back. The earlier smile is gone from his face, replaced by something distraught. “I love you,” he says, and there’s a grim note of finality in his voice, like he’s saying goodbye. “Get some rest, Katsuki. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Katsuki stares at him, still reeling from the tightness of the hug. His arms ache. “What?”

But his father just shakes his head and turns away, closing the door softly behind him and leaving Katsuki standing alone in the middle of his room. He’s confused, his thoughts racing so fast that it’s impossible to keep up with them, the tension building in his body until he feels like he’s about to do something stupid like throw a tantrum. He’s tempted to run after his father and demand an explanation, but he’s frozen in place, paralyzed with dread and an impending sense of doom. 

To himself, he whispers, “What the fuck was that?”

And, for better or for worse, he feels like he’s about to get an answer soon.