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BEFORE
It’s not that Katsuki likes to hurt people, it’s that Katsuki likes the reaction of the people he hurts. (He doesn’t like thinking of it as hurting. He thinks he’s more entertaining.) Fact is, Bakugou Katsuki is no sunflower, not today, not this year, not in his life.
The high school populace both fears and reveres him. He’s smart, he gets fantastic grades. He’s captain of the school’s hockey team. He’s your resident jock, through and through — complete with the mean streak to boot, the mean streak that comes of a position of privilege, of esteem, of teenage insecurity.
Anger is funny little thing, isn’t it? See, Bakugou Katsuki isn’t a bad person, he’s just someone who gets angry — and when he does, and when he does, oh, the way his fingertips tingle and ache with the need to do something about it.
When he’s not angry, he’s gentle. He’s got a garden at home. Not that it makes it any better.
(Is he just trying to justify it to himself? Late night dreams of people crying, everything is okay. Just a spot of fun.)
People not part of his friendship circle — are they really friends, or just the scaled down form of politicians, of people pretending to like one another to keep their position in high school hierarchy — scatter when he walks.
One person doesn’t scatter. Katsuki’s mouth always twists when he sees him, eyes narrowing in disgust and distaste, because if there’s one thing Katsuki hates more than losing it is Midoriya Izuku.
There are many reasons why. The simple one is that Izuku is the only one who, though absolutely terrified, doesn’t stay down. He doesn’t say that in so many words, but Katsuki knows his spirit isn’t broken. Not in the way he wants it to be. Not in the way it has to be, has to be to stop himself from breaking.
(They were friends, once. Katsuki doesn’t like to remember it, because when they’d hit the last vestiges of elementary, he’d rose like a god through the rankings, and Izuku hadn’t moved an inch.)
“Deku,” he says, grinning a little when he sees Izuku in the hallway, taking books out from his locker. He’ll probably cry if Katsuki dumps his water bottle on him, because Izuku cries at everything. As though he heard him, Izuku looks up and makes eye contact with him.
The world goes slightly muted. Izuku’s eyes widen, like a frightened gazelle, and Katsuki pounces forward, picking up his pace. Everything narrows. Predator prey. Izuku’s throwing his things back into his locker and just manages to get it shut before Katsuki catches up to him, bottle already unscrewed, and pours the contents of his green tea over his hair. It drips down, his hair flattening out, and stains his white uniform. Izuku bites his lip, looking down at the floor, hands clenched.
He doesn’t say anything.
Katsuki flicks the back of his neck and says, “Accident.”
(He’s said accident so many times accident has lost its meaning. He might as well have merely breathed.)
There’s the telltale sniffle — Izuku has cried so many times now Katsuki knows all the signs. He knows how the back of Izuku’s neck and the tips of his ears will turn red first, then comes the one sniffle that breaks the dam.
Then the tears come, dripping silently down his face, plinking into the puddle of tea on the floor. Katsuki watches, transfixed, as his face takes on the red hue he’s come to associate with the boy. Katsuki raises his hand and Izuku flinches and he can feel the power that surges into him. Today, however, he does not hit him. He just smacks his back hard, laughs, and leaves.
Izuku cries in the hallway, and doesn’t show up for math. His seat is empty and Katsuki feels victorious.
(The vicious feeling in his chest is victory. It has to be, they’re both made from vic.)
He doesn’t know why he likes to do it, but he does. He shoves Izuku out of the line for his lunch queue and steps into his place, forcing him back to the back.
He finds it even more amusing that nobody ever steps in to help. The teacher on lunch duty watches with bored eyes. Izuku’s bottom lip trembles, but today must be a good day, because he takes in a deep breath and goes to stand at the back. Katsuki can’t have that, can’t have a day go by without ruining someone else’s.
(His friends watch him from the table, silent stares egging him on. They tell him without words that he has to. He chases the evil feeling in his chest, burning like acid in his veins.)
But first, he buys his lunch, and puts it down at the table. He pokes at the bento, waits until Izuku’s gotten his lunch before sliding out of his seat, milk carton clenched in his hands.
He pours it all over Izuku’s rice and curry, drowning the tonkatsu. Izuku’s mouth opens in a silent protest as the carton is emptied. His cheeks start to flush. The table behind him cheers.
There it is again. The vicious, clawing feeling in his chest, shredding his heart into pieces. The way his stomach drops lower than an anchor.
Izuku puts down the tray with shaking hands, and rubs the heels of his palms over his eyes. He looks at Katsuki through his fingers, as though asking him why, why him, why always him.
Katsuki doesn’t know why, just knows he’s useful, so he aims a kick at Izuku’s right shin and walks away to the exact beat of Izuku’s pained exhale. His table pats him on the back when he returns, and Izuku’s red-rimmed eyes follow him all the way to Japanese, when the boy returns, his stomach growling loud enough for the class to hear it.
(He’s turning a little gaunt, actually. Katsuki snickers at his weakness and goes back to doodling on the rims of his notepaper.)
Izuku doesn’t stand up for himself, but he does for other people. Who does he think he is, some kind of hero? A martyr, maybe? Katsuki finds his fake acts disgusting. If you can stand up for others, it makes no fucking sense that you couldn’t stand up for yourself.
Katsuki had just been twirling some kid’s glasses in his hands, a new kid, fresh out of elementary, face squishy with baby fat. He’s about to clench his fist when Izuku had come out of nowhere and snatched the glasses from his loose grip, pressing it back into the kid’s hands and urging him away.
The next thing Izuku must know is the feel of Katsuki’s hand on his neck, the other fisting his shirt.
“What the fuck,” he says, incredulous. The act of Izuku snatching the glasses out of his hands has caused a crowd, and he cannot let this slight go unnoticed. This blatant act of disobedience. “Who the actual fuck do you think you are? Do you think I won’t hurt you?”
“You won’t,” wheezes Izuku, hands scrabbling at Katsuki’s stronger arm. “You’re not cruel.”
Katsuki drops him as if he’d been stung, mouth opening. The crowd goes a collective ooh, despite the fact they should all still be in class.
You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel.
“Fuck you,” Katsuki shoves him, and his back hits the opposite wall with a loud smack. “No, fuck you. For fuck’s sake, have I really been too nice to you? You think because I knew you when you were four and as whiny as ever that I’d let you go off like that? Huh?”
Izuku doesn’t meet his eyes.
Katsuki grabs his face and spits directly into it, causing Izuku to flinch and groan. The crowd whispers.
Good. Good, whisper. Whisper. Whisper. Blood thunders in his ears. Whisper whisper whisper.
“Apologise,” demands Katsuki, had digging into Izuku’s shoulder, the other gripping his jaw tight. “I’ll punch you if you don’t.”
Izuku apologises, the words being torn out of his mouth like it’d been surgically removed. Katsuki doesn’t like his tone, and slaps him solidly on the right cheek.
The crowd gasps.
Someone cheers. Another boos. A voice Katsuki recognises to be supposedly part of his friendship circle shouts, “fucking fucker thinks he’s so good, show him who is boss!”
Who is — Izuku is already crying. The tears trickle down his face and onto Katsuki’s hands, so he lets go of him hastily, choosing to knock his head back against the wall and let Izuku groan out in pain, sliding to his knees.
“Fucking dipshit,” snarls Katsuki, throwing his hands into his pockets. His eyes smoulder. “Think he can fucking mess with me. Look!” He gestures at the crowd, who flinches when he raises his hand. Good. Flinch. Be scared. “This is what happens when you fucking disrespect me. I’ll tear you apart.”
The crowd murmurs, awed, repulsed, afraid. Katsuki leaves feeling like he’s won something. The vicious feeling in his chest, so painful he thinks he might be being squeezed from the inside. He feels like he’s been the one pressed against the wall and he resents it god he resents it so much, doesn’t know what to do to make it go away.
All he knows is he’s had Midoriya Izuku up against the wall, crying in his grasp, and it’d hurt him more than it did him.