Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

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.

Chapter Text

Katsuki wakes up slowly, dragging himself from the heavy fog of sleep. He pries his eyes open, blinking a few times to bring the world into focus, and stares groggily at the white tiled ceiling looming high above him. 

His entire body aches, his muscles sore as if he has just spent hours upon hours at the gym, sweating out his frustrations in the form of every exercise he could think of. He can practically feel the hard floor under his hands as he lowered himself into another push-up, the never-ending loop of the treadmill as the sound of his own footsteps pounded in his ears, the strain of his shoulders as he added more and more weights to the bar, always striving to be better, faster, stronger. 

Katsuki groans, lifting his hand to rub at his eyes. Or, at least, he tries to. The action is halted by something solid encircling his wrist, pinning it down.

He stares at it for a long, long moment, uncomprehending, and then looks at his other arm. That wrist is restrained as well, clamped to the bed by a thick metal cuff. He frowns, his mind sluggish and slow-moving, his heart nothing more than a gentle thrum in his chest despite his mounting confusion. 

He calls out, “Mom?”

Despite their differences, his first instinct has always been to reach for his mother. He remembers being comforted by her as a child, clinging to her shirt as he sobbed into her shoulder. As he got older, their connection faded, but he knows that she loves him. And he loves her - that’s his mother, after all. He was born loving her, and she has loved him since the moment he took his first breath.

But when he says her name, she doesn’t come.

He tries again, “Mom?” and is met with nothing but the echo of his own shaky voice against the blank white walls.

He’s alone.

Logically, Katsuki knows that he should be freaking out. This is definitely a situation in which he should panic. He’s in a strange room, restrained to a metal bed, and his parents are nowhere to be found. The air is cold and carries the sharp smell of antiseptic and chemicals, and, even when he cranes his neck, Katsuki can’t see any kind of door. 

He should be freaking out. He should be panicking.

But, for some strange reason, he finds that he can’t.

… It’s odd, to not feel the urge to fight.

Katsuki’s earliest memories are of fighting. He came into the world kicking and screaming, and he never calmed down. From the day he was born, he has been instilled with the kind of rage that doesn’t go away, his mother’s son in every single way. His father’s camera was barely able to keep up as he tore through all his milestones, the final puzzle piece of their little family, foul-mouthed and vicious from the very first word he spoke. 

Right now, though, he doesn’t feel like fighting. He doesn’t even feel like moving. It’s as if all of his energy has been drained away, leaving him hollow and aching in the aftermath.

Weakly, he says, “Mom…”

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, just staring at the ceiling. He should have known that something was wrong from the moment that he opened his eyes - his bedroom doesn’t have a tiled ceiling. The only places at home that have tiles are the floors of the kitchen and bathroom. His home doesn’t have this sharp smell of antiseptic, the smell of a hospital, of an operating room before the iron stench of blood sets in. His home doesn’t have any of this, his home has everything that he wants, and right now the only thing he wants is to go back to it.

The sound of something shifting draws his attention. He turns his head just in time to see the wall collapsing in on itself, making a hole in the shape of a rectangle. A man steps through, his eyes bright and glinting above the oddly-shaped mask he wears over his mouth, his brows rising slightly when he sees Katsuki staring at him.

“Ah,” he says, walking closer. His shoes click against the floor as he approaches, a rhythmic sound that makes Katsuki’s head spin. As he comes to a stop, he reaches over and presses a button, causing the upper half of the bed to rise up. “I didn’t expect you to be awake.”

Katsuki’s mouth is dry. He asks, “Where am I?” and his voice doesn’t come out the way he wants it to. He wants to sound intimidating, but he just ends up sounding like a scared child. “Where are my parents?”

“Your manners need some improvement,” the man says, ignoring him completely. Irritation flickers in Katsuki’s chest, but the spark is quickly smothered by the slow beat of his own tired heart - being angry is exhausting right now, and he can’t manage anything more than mild annoyance. “We’ll work on that while you are under my care.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

The man’s glare is sharp and cutting, and Katsuki can tell that he’s frowning underneath his mask. “Don’t curse at me, child.”

“Fuck you,” Katsuki responds. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re certainly old enough to be punished like an adult,” the man concedes, and Katsuki tenses, his eyes widening at the barely-hidden threat. “Unless you want that to happen, I suggest that you listen to me.”

Katsuki swallows. His heartrate is starting to pick up, his breaths becoming more and more rapid as the seconds tick by - the delayed panic is finally setting in. Still, he forces a smirk and says, “I can handle any shitty ‘punishment’ you throw at me.” He does air-quotes as best as he can, his wrists aching as he pulls them against the restraints. Then, for good measure, “I hope you die.”

To his surprise, the man doesn’t appear to be angered by the statement. Instead, he seems amused, his eyes creasing slightly at the corners as he gazes down at Katsuki. “Be careful what you wish for,” he warns, and he’s definitely smiling behind that stupid fucking mask, his voice light with an odd kind of lilt. “I’m the only one that knows the answers to your questions.”

“I don’t have any questions,” Katsuki says confidently, lying out his ass. “I know exactly what’s goin’ on.”

The man seems to be even more amused, offering nothing more than a simple, “Are you sure?”

“Y-yeah,” Katsuki says, and then curses himself - that goddamned stammer, always coming out at the worst times. He swallows again, forces himself to hold the man’s gaze despite the urge to look away, to break eye contact. The cowering of a prey animal is instinctual, reserved only for the worst of his mother’s tirades. But this is not his mother. This is some random stranger that he doesn’t know, staring down at him like he’s worth nothing more than the dirt on the sole of a filthy shoe. “You’re some kind of doctor, aren’t you? And - and this is another surgery, you’re trying to get rid of the scars - but you’re being a particularly sadistic fuck about it.”

Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows that he’s wrong. For one, the man isn’t dressed like a doctor. He’s wearing some kind of ugly fur coat, the purple tufts looping around his neck against a dark green background - a complete fashion disaster, in Katsuki’s opinion - and, while he is wearing gloves, they’re made out of white leather instead of latex. The gold highlights of his mask glint harshly against the dark red conical shape of it, arching from his face like the beak of a bird, secured by thick black straps that loop around his head.

In short, he looks like a freakshow - nothing even close to a doctor.

Predictably, the man says, “I don’t think you believe that.”

Katsuki’s chest hurts. His stomach churns, and he feels suddenly, violently ill. “Well, why don’t you enlighten me?” he asks, and grins, a sharp bare of gleaming white teeth. “You were talkin’ about manners earlier, weren’t you? Bold of you to lecture me on that shit when you haven’t even introduced yourself yet.”

Now, the man’s expression shifts. From the limited information, Katsuki can only decipher that it’s one of mild distaste. “You don’t need to know my name.”

And Katsuki laughs, harsh and barking. He’s aware that he’s putting on an act, and he’s sure that his captor knows as well, but this is the only way he knows how to react. He spits out, “Pussy ass bitch,” and his grin only widens when anger flickers briefly across the man’s face. “Fuckin’ coward, kidnapping me and strapping me down - what are you, scared? Huh? Are you scared of a middle schooler?” He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be taunting this person, not when he’s at such a disadvantage. But he can’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, as automatic and instinctual as breathing, “I bet I could take you down with one arm tied behind my back, that’s how weak you are. You’re fucking pathetic, you plague doctor ass wannabe -”

And then he’s flinching as a hand comes whistling towards his face, his eyes squeezing shut and his breath catching in his throat. But the blow doesn’t come, and he realizes that he’s been psyched out - a feigned attack, meant to catch him off-guard and get him to stop talking. 

Well, it worked, and now he looks fucking stupid.

“It seems that you’re all talk,” the man observes, and Katsuki’s face burns. He doesn’t open his eyes, not wanting to see the smug expression his captor must surely be making. “All false confidence and bravado… I suspect that the real you is the scared child that was calling out for his mother, yes?”

Katsuki’s composure wavers. He does feel like a scared child. And, fuck, he thinks that he has a right to be scared - he woke up in a strange room, cuffed to a bed, and is now being taunted by some weirdo freak dressed up in a buttfuck ugly costume. Anybody would be frightened in his situation. 

Still, he needs to be strong. He needs to get some answers.

Katsuki takes a deep breath, in and out, in and out, and opens his eyes to meet the gaze of his captor. He asks, plainly, “What do you want from me?”

The man tilts his head slightly, peering down at him. “I want to fix you.”

And, well, that’s not the answer that Katsuki expected. He blinks, unable to hide his surprise. “What?”

“Has your hearing been damaged as well?” the man asks, clearly rhetorical. “I want to fix you. I want to make you better.” A pause, then, “At least, that is what your mother requested that I do.”

Katsuki’s skin prickles, suddenly too tight for his bones. He feels nauseous, dread seeping through his veins like a drug, a lethal injection. He asks, “My mother?” and his voice shakes slightly, his hands clenching into useless fists at his sides. The action causes the metal cuffs to bite into his wrists, but he barely notices the slight pain. “What does she have to do with this?”

“She asked me to take care of you,” the man says. He no longer sounds amused. If anything, he just sounds bored, as if he’s reading from a textbook. “You want to be a hero, don’t you?”

“That - that doesn’t make sense,” Katsuki says. He breaks into a nervous grin - a bad habit, one that he has yet to train himself out of. “There’s nothing you can teach me that I don’t already know.”

“I’m sure you think so,” his captor says. “You’re quite the prodigy, aren’t you?” He waits a few seconds, then says, casually, “At least, you were.”

“Shut up.” Katsuki tugs against his restraints, but he already knows that the action is futile. “I don’t want your help.”

The man stares down at him, eyes cold. They’re an odd golden color, glinting with a sheen that makes him look like some kind of bird of prey, waiting to swoop down and end a life. “I think we need to establish some rules.”

Katsuki snarls, “I think you need to go fuck yourself.”

The man’s gaze hardens. “Do not mistake my leniency for kindness. I am not a patient man, Bakugou Katsuki.”

“Oh, please,” Katsuki scoffs. “You’re hardly a man at all.”

He’s expecting some kind of retaliation. He’s expecting an insult, or a blow, or a threat. Maybe all three, if he’s especially unlucky.

What he’s not expecting, however, is for his captor to laugh. “You’re quite the smart aleck,” he says, and it almost sounds like a compliment. It makes Katsuki’s hackles rise in anticipation, his eyes narrowing as he wonders what the bastard is planning. “That will come in handy on the battlefield, but not here. Not when you’re with me, acting as my assistant.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Katsuki asks, and it’s a sincere question, the words out before he can stop them. “I’m not acting as your anything. I’m going home.”

“This is your home.”

Katsuki pauses. “What?”

“Your parents handed you over to me,” the man tells him, all casual and shit like he’s not dropping a fucking bombshell on Katsuki’s life. “Until I deem that your training is complete - and your debt repaid - you will be staying here, under my tutelage, and assisting me in my work.” Then, before Katsuki can respond, he says, “That’s enough talking for now. Let me show you to your room so that you can get some proper rest.”

Katsuki is about to protest, but then he takes a moment to actually think about his next course of action. If he resists, this creepy bastard might just walk away and leave him to rot in this empty room. If he acts like he’s cooperating, however…

“Fine,” he says, spitting the word out like it tastes bad. “Let’s get this over with.”

And the man smiles down at him, his expression obvious even with the mask covering the lower half of his face. To anybody else, he would look almost kindly, but the glint in his eyes is what gives him away - it’s cruel and predatory, expectant in a way that can’t possibly mean anything good.

“Excellent.”