Chapter Text
death must be so beautiful. to lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. to have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. to forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.
― oscar wilde
“It’s only logical.”
That’s a phrase that Katsuki has picked up from spending a year under the tutelage of Aizawa-sensei, who liked to emphasize the importance of being rational and calm in moments of duress. Of course, he probably meant things like battles and fights and arguments, not conversations with your parents.
Then again, every conversation Katsuki had with his parents felt like he was fighting a war all over again.
His mother asks, “Are you fucking stupid?”
Her tone is harsh, but Katsuki is used to that. The last time she spoke to him with any softness at all was a couple weeks ago, when the doctor was telling him that his arm was destroyed, his heart an irregular beat in his chest. She whispered his name like a prayer, then went right back to scolding him at any chance she got.
Katsuki’s father says, “Let him speak.”
Katsuki’s mother glares at them both, but falls silent. Tension is written in every line of her body, her arms firmly crossed and her lips pressed into a thin downward curve. She’s clearly unhappy, and Katsuki considers cutting this conversation short just to avoid getting smacked or something, but, like a stupid person, he opens his mouth and says, “It’s best to have a plan in case something goes wrong. And, with my luck, something will go wrong.”
“Are you implying that you’re not lucky?” His mother breaks her silence. “You’re a very lucky person, Katsuki. Don’t be ungrateful.”
Katsuki stares at her. “I died, Mom,” he says. He knows that she doesn’t like to be reminded of that, but he needs to force her back to reality. “My heart stopped beating. I didn’t think that I was going to come back. I didn’t expect to come back. And, if that happens again -”
His father whispers, “Don’t say that.”
Katsuki ignores him. “We need to plan a funeral.”
Both of his parents flinch at that, the words laid bare for the first time since Katsuki started speaking. He’d been beating around the bush on the topic for several minutes, insinuating but never quite saying what was on his mind, but this is like ripping off a bandaid: harsh, almost cruel, but completely necessary.
He is going to die before his parents.
If there’s anything he’s certain of, it’s that.
Katsuki swallows, then continues, “If you don’t plan it with me, I’ll do it by myself.”
His mother glares at him. “You can’t do that,” she says, the words harsh and vicious and spat out like they taste bad, landing with a thud at Katsuki’s feet. “You’re a child, you don’t have the right to do anything. Not while you’re still under my roof.”
If this had been a couple months ago, Katsuki would be getting angry as well, temper snapping to match his mother’s fury. He has always been good at that, at butting heads with the woman that raised him in her own image. For as long as he can remember, he has been getting into arguments with her. It was their main form of communication - harsh words followed by harsher blows, screaming matches that could last for hours at a time, bruises on Katsuki’s skin and tears in his mother’s eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.
But this isn’t a couple months ago, and Katsuki feels nothing at all.
“Mom,” he says. “I already died. It’s not illogical to assume that I’ll do it again.”
There’s a long, long silence that follows those words.
Things have been quiet, lately. Not just in the house, but outside of it as well. It’s as if the world has settled into a tentative kind of peace, but Katsuki isn’t naïve enough to think that’s all it is. Part of it is shocked horror, revulsion at the war that tore the nation apart, disgust at what was allowed to happen.
The heroes won in the end - they always do, that’s just the way the story goes - but so many lives were lost, both innocent and guilty. Katsuki isn’t stupid. He knows that there was no real victory. Not for him, at least. He’s alive, but each breath he takes is just a countdown. He feels like a ticking timebomb, like he’s going to explode at any second, and he wants to be prepared for the moment that he closes his eyes and never opens them again.
That moment will come soon, he thinks. That’s all he can think. Dread is like a shadow at his back, creeping cold hands up his spine, whispering in his ear that something is about to go wrong, that one day his body will fail, that his parents will be left to pick up the pieces of their only child.
He’s going to die. He is going to die.
The only question is when.
“Mitsuki,” his father says, voice soft. “He has a point.”
It’s as if a switch has been flipped. Instantly, his mother is on her feet, her face a mask of fury as she asks, “How could you say that?” Her voice is too loud, and Katsuki flinches at the sound of it - a reflex, as automatic as breathing. “Why the hell would we plan our son’s funeral, Masaru? That’s basically inviting something bad to happen!”
“If I die,” Katsuki says, and both of his parents look at him, “and nothing is planned, what will you do?”
His mother bares her teeth in a snarl. “You’re not going to die.”
“Humor me.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows that he has made a mistake. The statement was too light-hearted for the moment, and he only has a second to brace himself before his mother storms over to him and hauls him to his feet with that hidden strength that all mothers seem to have, her fist curled in the collar of his shirt as she hisses, “You are not going to die.”
“You don’t know that,” Katsuki says. “You don’t know anything.”
His mother slaps him.
The blow is harsh, jerking his head to the side with the force of it. The impact stings, his breath catching in his throat. He raises a hand to his burning cheek and stares at his mother with wide eyes.
His father snaps, “Mitsuki!”
“No son of mine is going to talk about dying,” his mother hisses, ignoring her husband completely. Her attention is laser-focused on Katsuki, which is something that he used to want with an intensity that kept him up at night, but right now it feels more like a curse than a blessing. “You’re being ridiculous, Katsuki. You’re giving up on your life, and it has barely even started! What’s wrong with you? Did I raise you like this?”
Katsuki’s eyes start to sting. “You didn’t raise me at all,” he whispers.
He didn’t want to play this card. He didn’t want to bring up the long months that he spent alone in his childhood, cooking dinner for himself, keeping up with all of his homework and after-school activities, making sure that his life looked normal from the outside even as the isolation he faced in the walls of his cold, empty house gnawed him to the bone. He didn’t want to bring up the fact that his mother never talked to him unless it was to scold him, didn’t want to mention that a gentle touch was far rarer than a harsh blow. His mother gave up his life far before he did, and he can remember the shift with crystal clarity: one day, she was kind and loving and understanding, and, the next, she wanted nothing to do with him. She just got tired of him, of having to deal with his constant temper tantrums, and decided that she no longer wanted to deal with him at all.
The worst thing is that he can’t even blame her. He was a bad kid. He was smart, but he was mean. He got into fights, limping home with blood in his hair and bruises on his face, and he never listened at all - not to his teachers, not to his mother, not to his father.
He was just too much, in every single way.
But the fact that it took him dying to finally get his parents to care about him really, really hurts.
“Katsuki,” his father says. “That’s not a very kind way to talk to your mother. I know you’re upset, but this is a conversation that needs to happen when everyone is calm.”
Katsuki’s voice shakes. “I am calm.”
His father is patient, tone gentle as he points out, “You’re crying.”
“Fuck.” Katsuki sniffles, wiping roughly at his face. His cheek still burns where his mother hit him, and there’s a tightness in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. “Fuck. You guys never listen to me.”
His mother scoffs. “We’re listening to you right now, aren’t we?”
“No!” Katsuki snaps, temper getting the best of him. “You’re not! I’m trying to tell you what needs to happen, and all you’re doing is yelling at me.” Like a child, he says, “It’s not fair.”
“Fair?” his mother echoes. “I am being very fair, Katsuki! I have the right to be upset that my son is talking about dying! Do you have any idea of how insane you sound right now? If anything, you’re the one that isn’t being fair! Have you even taken my feelings into consideration?” She doesn’t leave time for Katsuki to answer, just spits out, “Ungrateful brat, all you do is make me worry. I don’t even know why I had you.”
“It would have been better if you didn’t,” Katsuki responds. “Then you wouldn’t have to deal with somebody that you clearly don’t even like.”
Because Katsuki knows that his parents don’t like him. They love him, but that’s because they have to - it was an obligation, to love your child. It was a promise that they made to him long before they knew that he would grow up to be such a shitty kid, a promise to love him forever, no matter what.
But they don’t like him, and they never will. He has long-since come to terms with that.
It still stings, sometimes.
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” his mother says, her hand twitching at her side like she wants to hit him again. He’s going to have a mark from the first blow, he’s sure of it. She never held back when it came to discipline. “Have I ever said that I don’t like you?”
“It was implied,” Katsuki tells her. “Many times.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being fucking naïve,” Katsuki says. His voice is too harsh, too loud - he can hear his mother in the way he speaks. “I’m trying to tell you that we need to prepare for the worst-case scenario, and all you’re doing is yelling at me! I feel like I’m speaking to a child!”
“You’re the only child here.” His mother glares at him. Katsuki is taller than her, but he always feels so small when she looks at him like that. “You’re a child, Katsuki. Do you know how fucking twisted it is to hear you talk about dying? Why would you die? You’re never going to die, I won’t allow it. I am not holding a funeral for my son, what about this do you not understand?”
“Heroes die all the time.” The casualty list got longer every day. “I’m not special. I’m not immortal. I died once, and I’m going to die again.”
His mother shouts, “Then don’t be a hero!”
Katsuki stares at her.
“Don’t be a hero,” his mother repeats, softer. “Those people out there, they don’t know you. They don’t love you. They will not care if you die, but I will. I will think about it every single day, I will go to my grave knowing that my son died before me, that my only child is dead because he didn’t know when to stop trying to help.”
Katsuki clenches his fists at his sides, fighting to keep himself calm. He digs his nails into his palms, the sharp pain clearing his mind for just a moment. He says, “If I’m not a hero, I don’t know what I am,” and he’s telling the truth. It was destiny, that it turned out this way. He’s nothing if not a shield, a weapon - he has been training his Quirk since the day it manifested, with a single goal in mind: be a hero. He wants to help people, he wants to win, he wants to save the day.
That’s all he’s good for.
His father quietly steps forward. “I think all of us need to take a few deep breaths,” he says, as the person who didn’t contribute at all to the argument except to escalate it further. “We can talk about this later. Right now, both of you need to calm down.” He puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Mitsuki, we should discuss this in private.”
Katsuki hears the subtext loud and clear: he’s not invited to the conversation, even though it’s about him, even though he’s the one that initiated it in the first place. “Fine,” he says, and both of his parents look at him. “Fine, go ahead and talk about me behind my back. I’m leaving.”
His mother glares at him, and Katsuki notices for the first time that her eyes are shiny, glazed with tears. “Don’t you dare.”
“Too late.” Katsuki smiles, bitter and forced. “I’ll see you later.”
With that, he turns on his heel and stalks towards the front door. His anger has gotten the best of him, like it always does - he can’t calm down. His chest hurts. He puts on his shoes to the sound of footsteps following closely behind him, and glances over his shoulder to find that his mother is standing there, scowling.
“If you walk out that door, you better not come back.”
It’s an empty threat, and they both know it. Katsuki watches his mother for several long seconds, then opens the door and steps into the slight chill of the outside air. He hears his mother say his name, but cuts her off by shutting the door before she can finish. He half expects her to come after him, and even waits several seconds for the possible confrontation, but either his father stops her or she decides that he isn’t worth the trouble, because he’s left alone on the front porch.
Well, whatever.
This whole conversation will probably be forgotten by the time he comes back home. No, that wasn’t right - it wouldn’t be forgotten, it would be brushed over and ignored. There was a silent rule in their house: if nobody talks about it, it didn’t happen.
Up until now, that was how they handled the topic of Katsuki’s death. They never talked about it. It was something ugly, something hideous, something unworthy of being discussed. If they had to refer to it, it was called The Injury. Simplified, dumbed down, minimized until it was barely anything at all.
Katsuki should have just kept his stupid mouth shut.
But there’s no point in lingering on it. He isn’t wanted here, not right now. He takes a deep breath, then starts on his way back to school - he knows that there are people there, like students that didn’t go home for the break and teachers that were finishing up last-minute work. He’ll go to his dorm and get some rest. He needs it - all of his muscles ache, and his chest hurts from the too-fast beat of his heart. His arm tingles at his side, pins and needles under his skin, and he can’t quite form a fist no matter how hard he tries.
This fucked up body, and for what? Just to die again?
Whatever, whatever - it doesn’t matter.
Still, as he walks the familiar path towards the school of future heroes, he can’t help but wish that he never had any dreams at all.