Chapter Text
The world is made for violence.
This is something that Katsuki knows, something that he has been taught. The earth was carved to pieces with bloody hands and distributed to the people that were willing to reach out and claim it, fighting and clawing for something to call their own. That’s how it has always been, and that’s how it will always be.
He fucking hates it, but he loves it at the same time.
When he lays in bed at night, muscles sore from the workouts he forces himself through, face aching from the scars seared into his skin, he thinks that maybe things would be better if he gave up. He has no reason to think that way - after all, aside from a few minor inconveniences, he has a pretty good life - but that doesn’t stop the thoughts from running on repeat through his head, like a broken record that just won’t quit playing the same track over and over and over.
Maybe, just maybe, it would be easier for everybody if he just stopped trying.
But, no. That’s not who he is. He has never been good at conforming to standards, at blending in with the crowd, at chasing any dreams but his own. His mother wants him to settle down, his father wants him to be happy with what he has, but that’s just not him.
At his core, he is a hero, and all he has to do is prove it.
He’s admittedly not doing a very good job at that.
Trapped in the darkness of his room, Katsuki scowls as he pulls his blankets tighter around his body. His mother always kept the house so damn cold, something about making sure that his explosions didn’t go off by accident, and that was just another thing that he hated about this place. All blank walls and spotless surfaces, not a hint of personality to be found anywhere. Of course, like most things, that was partially his fault. When he was younger, he used to have tantrums that would destroy everything he could get his hands on, so his parents took the route of extreme minimalism - making sure that there was nothing for him to get his hands on at all. Even his own bedroom is bare to a fault, containing nothing but the absolute necessities: a bed, a desk, a bookshelf. No posters on the walls, not a single pencil out of place.
Perfect, pristine, and so fucking boring.
Katsuki huffs in frustration, rubbing his face uselessly against his pillow in an attempt to lessen some of the ache. Like most things, it’s a futile attempt, only serving to make him even more pissed off. There are times when he wants to reach up and claw the skin from his skull, rip the flesh from his bones, but, no. That wouldn’t help anything at all. That would only make things worse. He keeps reminding himself of that as the pain throbs at his temples, only exacerbated by the way he’s gritting his teeth. His entire body is tense, the space between his shoulders wound so tightly that it feels like the tendons might snap, his heart thudding in his chest as involuntary tears prick at his eyes.
He fucking hates nights like these. Nights when he can’t sleep, his scars aching with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe, his mind flooded with the memories of how it felt to have them scalded into his skin - the pain, the humiliation, the disgust whenever he caught sight of his reflection. He has covered up all the mirrors he has access to, refusing to look at himself more than necessary, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t do anything but remind him of how fucking ugly he is.
“Fuck,” Katsuki spits out, pressing his palms flat against his face. He can’t feel anything but the pressure of them, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he traces his fingers along the rough surface of his face. “This is fucking bullshit, I hate Deku, I want him to fucking die -”
Sometimes, this is the only way he can get his anger out. Harsh, bitter words, thrown into the shadows of the night where nobody can hear them.
Katsuki curls inward, his position almost fetal as he takes short, shaky breaths. He feels sick, blinking wildly into the darkness as his stomach twists with nausea. He can’t throw up, that would only alert his parents that he was feeling like crap, and he wasn’t in the mood to have his father coddle him like he was a child. At thirteen years old, he was way too old for that kind of shit - he was going to be a hero, for fuck’s sake, and heroes didn’t need anybody to take care of them.
Katsuki sniffs, scrubbing roughly at his eyes. He shouldn’t be crying over something like this, shouldn’t be crying at all, ever. He’s better than this. Stronger than this.
But everything just hurts so much.
In his dreams, he is surrounded by flames. Fire, burning him, turning his dreams to ash. Deku stands on the other side of the destruction, his eyes wide and horrified, his frantic apologies drowned out by the sound of Katsuki’s own pained shrieks. He raises his hands to his face, his tears seared right off his cheeks as he sobs in pain and fear. His melted skin comes off on his fingers, dripping to the dirt.
His melted skin comes off on his fingers, dripping to the dirt.
[Most nights, Katsuki doesn’t sleep.]
His mother doesn’t want an ugly child.
This is something that Katsuki is reminded of whenever he catches her staring at him, her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth twisted into that familiar displeased frown. She wanted a kid that she could show off to her friends, brag about to her colleagues, and be proud of.
And that’s not what Katsuki is. He will never be that again.
Of course, they tried to get rid of the scars. They tried doctors, traveled overseas to special clinics, trying to find a way to make Katsuki look the way he used to before that fateful day. But nothing worked, and Katsuki was stuck looking like a fucking freak. Bad looks, and a bad personality.
Right.
Katsuki scowls down at his bowl of rice, prodding at it with his chopsticks as his mother’s gaze burns into him like a brand. He knows what she’s thinking, knows what expression she’s making without even having to look at her, and he fucking hates it. He hates a lot of things, but he especially hates feeling like this, like he’s something dirty, a disgrace.
Well, he supposes that that’s exactly what he is. After all, what happened was his fault.
“Katsuki.” His father’s soft voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you going to eat your breakfast, or are you just going to sit there and play with your food?”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki responds, not looking at him. “Leave me alone.”
His mother makes an offended noise, almost a scoff. “Don’t talk to your father like that.”
Katsuki finally lifts his head, if only to sneer at the woman sitting across the table from him. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he says. And then, as an afterthought, “Old fucking hag.”
“Katsuki!” his father says, startled, as if this exact exchange isn’t a typical occurrence. “I know that you’re not a morning person, but that’s no excuse to be disrespectful!”
“No, let him be a little bitch,” Katsuki’s mother responds, speaking before Katsuki can think of some scathing insult to spit at his father in retaliation. “He needs to get some of this anger out before he goes to school, or else he’ll end up taking it out on his classmates.” She lifts her glass in a mocking toast, the knowing smirk on her lips making Katsuki’s hackles rise. “And you know how well that would go.”
Katsuki shoves his chair back before he can think about what he’s doing, the screech of the legs against the tiled floor ringing loudly through the dining room, drowned out only by the thud of his own footsteps as he storms up the stairs.
His mother calls out, “Katsuki, get back down here and finish your breakfast!”
Katsuki roars back, “FUCK YOU!”
In the moments before he slams his door hard enough to make the frame rattle, he swears that he hears his mother mutter, Ungrateful brat.
Fine. Fine. Maybe he is ungrateful. Actually, scratch that - he knows that he’s being ungrateful. There’s just something about his mother that rubs him wrong, and every conversation with her feels like a battle. They’re just too similar, cut from the same cloth, while his father is like the calm in the storm, always there to pull them back from the edge before any of their arguments could go too far.
But things have been getting worse. He’s too quick to anger, and he’s been flying off the handle more and more often - he’s self-aware enough to realize that, at least.
He’s just so fucking angry.
Katsuki gets dressed with more force than necessary, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his uniform, hiking his pants up around his hips. He mutters angrily under his breath, the words incomprehensible even to himself, and he’s no calmer than he was before when he finally goes back downstairs, where his parents are having a peaceful breakfast without him.
“I’m leaving,” he snaps, just to be an asshole.
“Good,” his mother says, not looking at him. “Don’t come back.”
“Maybe I won’t!” Katsuki says, yanking the front door open, shooting the words over his shoulder. “Fuck you!” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “Bye, Dad.”
His father sighs. “Bye, Katsuki,” he says, sounding very, very tired. “Do well in your classes, kiddo.”
Katsuki scoffs, rolls his eyes, and steps outside. It’s a nice day outside, the breeze crisp with coming winter, but Katsuki isn’t the type to appreciate that kind of thing, so he doesn’t. He focuses on walking instead, glaring down at the sidewalk as he makes his way towards Aldera. He watches as it transforms from the smooth concrete of his nice neighborhood to the slightly cracked, scuffed pavement that signifies that he’s getting closer to his shitty school.
Still scowling, he raises his eyes to the building towering before him. The gates hang open behind him, welcoming the students in, but Katsuki stands in the middle of the path for a long, long moment, just bracing himself for the absolute fuckery that this day is sure to bring.
God, he hates this fucking place.
The people were annoying, loud and rambunctious in a way that grated on his nerves, and, worst of all, he had to sit next to fucking Deku of all people. The shithead that ruined his face, ruined his life, ruined pretty much everything that he touched, he sat so close that Katsuki could hear him mouth-breathing and muttering all the damn time, and it was infuriating.
“Stupid brat,” Katsuki mutters, and forces his feet to start moving again. “I hate his fucking guts.”
He hates a lot of things, but there was nothing that he hated more than Midoriya Izuku.
Deku.
Katsuki thuds up the stairs, jaw clenched and fingers wrapped tightly around the straps of his backpack. His chest aches with anticipation, a feeling that never seemed to go away. He opens the door to the classroom and his sights immediately zoom in on that familiar head of dark, curly hair, here as early as always.
As Katsuki walks to his desk, Deku chirps, “Good morning, Kacchan!”
Katsuki side-eyes him. “Don’t fuckin’ talk to me.”
Deku cringes, hurt flashing across his face for just a split second before he drops his gaze to his desk. “Sorry,” he says, just barely loud enough to be audible. A wisp of smoke curls from his mouth as he speaks, the sight of it making Katsuki tense involuntarily. “I hope you had a good break.”
There’s a loud CRACK! as Katsuki slams his hand down on the nerd’s desk. He’s barely aware of what he’s doing, his voice sharp as he snaps, “I just told you to not talk to me!”
And Deku flinches, yelping as he jolts in his chair. “Sorry!”
“STOP TALKING!” Katsuki yells, his handprint charred on the wood as he draws his fist back, threatening a blow. “Don’t you know how to follow simple directions? Are you too stupid to even do that?”
Deku sniffs, always such a big fucking crybaby, and gives a weak shake of his head. “No,” he says, his voice watery with unshed tears. The effect is almost comedic, but Katsuki’s stomach is such a tight ball of nerves that it’s impossible to laugh at how stupid Deku sounds. “I’m sorry, Kacchan.”
Katsuki huffs. “Good,” he says, and crosses the short distance to his own desk. Slumping down into his seat, he says, “Don’t even fucking look at me. If you start muttering or being annoying, I’ll throw your ass out the window.”
He doesn’t listen for Deku’s mumbled response. It’s nothing that he wants to hear.
The hours pass slowing, mind-numbingly boring in every single way. The teachers yap about nothing that Katsuki doesn’t already know about thanks to his intensive studying habits, and his classmates chatter on and on about absolutely nothing interesting or even mildly entertaining, so he’s left alone to his thoughts as the day drags by at a snail pace.
At lunch, his friends jostle around him, trying to prod him into a conversation. He ignores them, preoccupied with watching Deku amble around the courtyard, drifting from group to group like a lost puppy.
Loser.
“Are you even listening to me?” Kariage asks, speaking directly into Katsuki’s ear.
“No,” Katsuki says, as honest as always, and shoves his friend away. “Go talk to someone else. I’m busy.”
One of his other buddies laughs, loud and incredulous. “You’re not busy!” he says. “You’re just zoning out, Katsuki!”
Katsuki glares at him, sharp and furious, and the bastard shuts the fuck up.
Kariage whistles appreciatively. “If looks could kill,” he muses, draping an arm around Katsuki’s shoulder like it belongs there. “Now, what’s on your mind, Katsuki? Tell me what’s wrong, you know you can trust me.”
The whole thing is said in a sing-song voice, accompanied by a shit-eating grin, warning Katsuki that he could not, in fact, trust Kariage.
“Fuck off,” Katsuki says, instead of verbalizing anything that’s weighing on his mind. “Eat your lunch and leave me alone.”
Because he’s an asshole, Kariage does not leave him alone. He keeps nagging Katsuki for the rest of their lunch break, and, by the time the bell rings, Katsuki is ready to shove his friend down the stairs in an attempt to get him to stop fucking talking.
Thankfully, the rest of the day passes by quickly enough. Katsuki is walking home before he knows it, Kariage tagging along at his side like always, his hand clamped tight on Katsuki’s shoulder as he talks and talks and talks.
And then he asks, “So, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
Katsuki says, “No.”
“Why not?” Kariage asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. “I thought we were best friends!”
And that’s true - they
are
best friends. Kariage has been around for as long as Katsuki can remember, and he was even there when Deku was part of their little group, way before the incident that led to Katsuki being scarred and Deku being shunned. So, objectively, Katsuki should be able to trust Kariage enough to tell him about his problems.
Thing is, Katsuki doesn’t really know
what
the problem is.
After about a block or so of walking, he finally speaks. “I feel like something is about to go wrong.” He doesn’t speak loudly, and he has no intention of repeating himself if Kariage didn’t manage to hear what he said.
“Oh,” Kariage says. “That’s not good.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Katsuki says. Hands shoved into his pockets, he kicks at an empty can, sending it clattering across the pavement. He should pick it up - be a good citizen - but he’s not in the mood for charity work right now. “I don’t - I’m sure it’s nothing, but…”
The dread is overwhelming, almost choking him with the weight of it. It presses down on his chest, makes it hard to breathe and harder to speak. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, just to take a few seconds to compose himself, and continues walking. He also continues speaking, saying, “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Look at you like what?”
“Like I’m crazy!” Katsuki says. “I’m not crazy, Kariage. Something is about to go wrong.”
“... Right,” Kariage says, his pace slowing down until he has stopped walking completely, looking at Katsuki with concern written across his face, plain as an open book. “Have you been sleeping?”
Katsuki stares at him for several moments, then scoffs. “Oh, fuck you,” he says. “I don’t need your help.”
Kariage frowns. “Katsuki -”
But Katsuki is already gone, rushing down the sidewalk at a record pace until he reaches the gates of his home. He punches the password in and then storms into the house, slamming the door behind him, rushing up the stairs, and making a beeline to his room without giving his mother a second glance. From what he could see, she was sitting on the couch with her laptop in front of her - probably talking to a client or something - and she paid him no mind, either.
Stripping out of his uniform, Katsuki hangs it up and changes into his house clothes, falling into his bed without making an effort to even pretend to do his homework. He feels sick, sweat beading on his forehead as a thousand possibilities run through his head, each worse than the last.
Something is about to go wrong, he’s sure of it.
The only question is when.