Chapter Text
"Tell me who to call
Tell me when I'm down
Tell me when I'm out
Tell me if I fall
Tell me if I scream and shout
Will you listen, will you listen?"
It's raining.
The entrance test to UA is over. He still has to wait for results but he's not worried because he's the best. It's just one more hurdle, one step closer to his dream, his goal, his life mission. Katsuki keeps walking, heading for the subway, his triumph dampened by the steady downpour. He feels like a drowned cat, shirt sticking to his skin and hair drooping with the weight of the water.
It pisses him off.
Unknowingly he sneers down at the sidewalk, stomping into every forming puddle he comes across. He sees another one not far ahead, and just as he raises his foot to make a particularly vicious splash, he just barely hears it over the cacophony of the rain.
Unwillingly he pauses, glancing up into the mouth of a back alley between two brick buildings. He's not sure what it is, at first, but before he can go back to minding his own business, he hears it again. Reluctant curiosity drags him from the sidewalk toward the narrow space, cautiously creeping further in. Eventually he makes it out: a tiny, distressed squeak, over and over, just barely louder than the hum of the rain. He almost passes it by, coming to a halt in front of a dumpster. The sound goes on unimpeded, as if the owner of the noise has yet to notice his presence.
Silently, Katsuki crouches in front of the dripping dumpster, the rain thankfully suppressing the stench one would expect from a cesspool of humanity's filth. After deciding that no, he's not going to crawl on the ground of a disgusting backalley so that he can see what's making such a fuss, he decides on the next best thing.
He reaches underneath.
The first thing he touches is soft, and cold, and still. Immediately he jerks his hand back with a lurch of revulsion. The squeaking goes on, desperate and pitiful; a weak cry for help, grating on his nerves. Katsuki huffs angrily at himself, for hesitating, for caring at all. He reaches under again.
Eventually he finds the soft, cold, wiggly thing that shakes with the force of its cries, relentless even as he tries to get a grasp of the way its crouching. He fumbles to get a hold on it that won't hurt it, cursing as his bare arm scrapes along the bottom of the dumpster. Straining to keep his balance and prevent his cheek from meeting the side of it, he finally gets a grasp around its tiny middle and draws it out.
It's all black and absolutely tiny, shivering violently as he tucks it under his shirt. He doesn't have much for it to take shelter in, caught in this weather in cargo pants and a tank top, but his body heat ought to be better than nothing. It hasn't stopped crying, but there's no other noise from underneath the dumpster. Cradling the small lump to his stomach, he leaves the alley.
The small thing cries all the way to the subway, garnering curious stares from all kinds of people between stops. He sneers at them but doesn't yell, mindful of the tiny bundle tucked between his stomach and his hand, hidden by his shirt. He looks up as much as he can on kitten care on his phone, and it starts to quiet the longer he sits there.
It kicks up a fuss again as he gets off at his stop, and all the way home, all the way up the stairs and into his room. No one greets him upon arrival, which is normal, but today he's almost thankful. His dad is probably in his study working, and his mom is still at work, which means she's not here to chew him out for bringing a hapless animal home without asking.
Setting the kitten under his pillow, Katsuki yanks wet shirt over his pillow and lets it drop to the floor with a wet splat. The feeble cries follow him into the hallway, and he growls in frustration. "Will you shut up already?!" He grumbles. It carries on as if it hadn't even heard him, and he throws his hands up and stomps away, cranking the thermostat up on his way to the bathroom.
Katsuki takes his time in the bathroom, scrubbing his hair viciously with a dry towel. His mom is gonna kill him for bringing the thing home, he's sure. He'll have to take it to a shelter or something, even if the thought doesn't sit quite right with him. As much as he hates weaklings, he couldn't just leave the thing to die. Judging by the suspicious lumps he had unwittingly touched when he fished it out, he has no doubt it would have.
As if suddenly remembering this, he throws the towel at the wall with a disgusted sound, grabbing for the sink and scrubbing his hands with soap. He doesn't stop until they're pink from the heat, turning the water off and grabbing for a fresh towel out of the cabinet. He contemplates taking a shower, but he doesn't want to leave it alone that long. It's not like he's concerned or anything, he thinks, scowling to himself as he grabs a hand towel and heads back to the room. He just doesn't want the thing to die in his bed is all, especially after all the effort he went through to save it. Or worse, his mom thinking that he killed it or something.
Just as he gets to the door he realizes its suspiciously quiet. Immediately on alert, he rushes through the door and to the bed, lifting the pillow. It's still where he left it, curled up and still. Heart hammering, he curls his fingers around its middle, feeling tiny rib bones beneath its fur as he searches for signs of life.
It's still breathing. His shoulders slump with relief, which immediately turns to anger. He doesn't care, he's absolutely not worried, he tells himself, kicking off the rest of his wet clothes and yanking on a pair of dry briefs and sweats. Snatching his phone off the nightstand, he scoops the kitten from under the pillow(earning a tiny protest, which he thinks is more out of surprise than anything else) and wrapping a towel around it before settling down on his back, setting it on his stomach and cupping his hand over it.
He texts his mom to pick up cat formula on her way home, and after ten minutes of him reading up some more, he hears ding. Before he even has a chance to open it there's another ding, ding. Already gearing up for a fight, he opens the texts.
From Old Hag: why the fuck do you need that
From Old Hag: you better not have brought one home without asking you little shit
From Old Hag: we are not keeping it, you hear me?!
Growling, he furiously starts typing back.
To Old Hag: It was gonna fucking die what the fuck else was I supposed to do
To Old Hag: can you just bring it some fucking food so it doesn't starve to death
The reply is instantaneous.
From Old Hag: Fine
From Old Hag: But we are talking about this as soon as I get home
To Old Hag: FINE
He resists the urge to chuck his phone, if only because he's not sure he'll actually get another one if he does, and probably not anytime soon. His palms itch to let out some explosions to vent his anger, but he's reluctant to disturb the tiny creature in his possession. Or god forbid, cause it to start up its pathetic whimpering again.
In the two hours it takes for his mom to come home, he doesn't move at all, and neither does his little burden. He spends the first hour researching and the second hour playing games on his phone, and by the time she gets there, arrival announced by a door slamming open downstairs, he's absolutely restless and practically sweating buckets. Gently as he can, he shifts the kitten, towel and all, onto the bed, and digs around in his dresser for a shirt. Better to get the confrontation over with before she hunts him down and gives the thing a heart attack.
With a deep sigh, he gathers himself, and opens the door.