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It hadn’t been enough. All the training, all the studying, all the experience…. It still hadn’t been enough.
And it’s not that it hadn’t been enough to take out the villain. It’s that it hadn’t been enough to prevent fucking Kirishima from shoving Katsuki out of the way again to take the hit, as if his Hardening could withstand a fucking acid Quirk strong enough to made Ashido’s look like dishsoap.
Goddammit.
Katsuki did take down the villain after that, although he doesn’t remember much of the fight itself beyond his pulse pounding in his veins and a visceral need to destroy. Deku had been there, too. They’d incapacitated the asshole and handed him over to the cops.
Kirishima was still in the hospital.
They’d said he’d pull through. They’d said there might be some scarring but nothing vital had been damaged. They’d said he’d been sedated to speed up healing.
They’d said Katsuki couldn’t see him because he wasn’t “family.”
Sometimes, Katsuki thought Kirishima was the closest thing to a real family he'd ever had.
So he left the hospital and went somewhere he could hit something. Hard. Over and over and over, bag protesting under the blows, until a mountain of a man with a plate armor Quirk approached and asked if he wanted to spar.
Hell, yeah. He wanted to fight something that hit back.
In the ring, Katsuki started slow, weight shifting easily as he bounced to loosen up, eyes piercingly assessing. The plates only seemed to cover the man’s back, chest, shoulders, and along the outside of his arms, leaving other areas more vulnerable. When the other lunged, Katsuki was ready, ducking under the punch to jab a fist into the ribs directly below his opponent’s armpit, then continuing the movement to end crouched behind the man, low and ready. The man turned to face him, a slow grin spreading across his face.
The fight began.
There is a clarity to be found in battle. Errant thoughts have no place in a world of motion, where brutality takes on the feral grace of instinct. Battle makes Katsuki’s body sing. It is his playground, his artist’s studio where he sculpts victory from the clay of combat. It is kicks and spins and bracing himself, raising forearms to block hits that judder down his spine. It is landing blows with his fists and twisting away, teeth bared in a savage grin as he dances and weaves, muscles straining as he pushes himself to move faster, hit harder, never let them breathe.
In battle, Katsuki transcends.
But no battle lasted forever, unless it’s the one Katsuki fought with himself. This one in the ring ended as many faux battles do: a brief bow, words of appreciation, rituals of a return to civility. Katsuki performed the expected role with the mechanical precision of habit, his chest still heaving slightly and his heart still loud in his ears.
Once in the locker room, he stripped off his tank top and dropped to sit on a bench, elbows braced against his knees. He hung his head, suddenly drained, as every bruise and ache and strained muscle started tugging at his senses, sharp and throbbing. He didn’t mind. In fact, Katsuki relished the pain, wore it as a badge of honor. He had fought well, and he had won.
Except, once again, it hadn’t been enough.
Because none of the bruises on his skin were enough to drown out the one inside his heart.
