Chapter Text
District 12, to the capital - the mining district - to Katsuki - the poorest district - and he was the poorest of them all. At age twelve, he quit school to mine; his parents were against it, but as neither his father nor mother were fit for the mine, and he was of age to enter the reaping, he argued he should be allowed. It was either that or accept Tesserae.
Katsuki was on the tall side of his age, a solid 5 foot 4 inches. His spiky hair, which he adopted from his mother’s side, was currently tucked underneath a helmet as he walked home from his day at work. Covered head to toe in dirt and soot, he quietly made his way home among the other District 12 men and teens, him being the youngest, even after a year of working, age thirteen. Being one of the poorer families, Katsuki didn’t have far to walk, with his side of town being directly next to the mines.
Around him, many eighteen-year-olds talked in relief about how tomorrow would be their last reaping and “thank god my name’s only in seven times, ‘insert extra’s name here’ had to take a lot of Tesserea, so im pretty safe” and a whole lot of words that mean nothing to Katsuki. One kid out of almost 1000 made his odds slim, especially with his name only being in twice and some being in over 20 times. Of course, that didn’t stop his palms from sweating a little more at the thought of the reaping, but Katsuki just wiped them on his pants and moved on, customarily accompanied by a scoff.
“So you nervous about the reaping?” Katsuki looks over to see Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu talking to him. He was a burly fifteen-year-old with large, expressive eyes and spikey silver hair to rival his own. Testsutetsu seemed to make it his job to talk to Katsuki, even when all he got were eye rolls and scoffs; however, he was the closest thing Katsuki could call a friend. Katsuki sighs.
“Why should I be?” he says, wiping his palms on his pants.
“I am every year. Granted, I’d guess my name’s in there a lot more than yours. The standard age names, plus Tesserae, make eleven.”
Katsuki doesn’t reply.
“Don’t worry, man, you’re only thirteen. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Tetsutetsu pats Katsuki on the back.
“I’m not worried,” Katsuki says, glaring at Tetsutetsu over his shoulder, shrugging his hand off. Katsuki was not one to like physical touch.
“You wiping your palms says otherwise,” Tetsutetsu smiles. Katsuki scoffs and turns down his street, away from Tetsutetsu and the other miners walking home.
Many houses in the district were run down, but they were especially broken on his street. Many homeless people sat against what could barely be called a home, with half of a broken roof to shield them from rain and maybe three walls if they were lucky. Some of the houses traded wooden roofs with tarps. Window holes in houses commonly didn’t have glass to accompany them. Storms are a harsh topic on his street.
He finally makes it to his home, a small shack with one bedroom, a living room, four walls, and a complete roof. His house was the nicest on his street, but that was his parent’s accomplishment. They had tirelessly worked on fixing the little shack up with whatever they could. Katsuki would watch the creativity his parents presented with fixing the house when he was younger. He never took it for granted.
Of course, Katsuki has always wanted more. Any kid in the districts could always want more. More food, more clothes, more blankets, more rooms in their house, but Katsuki was glad he didn’t have any less.
He opened the rickety door to his house to find his dad, Masaru Bakugou, sitting on the wooden chair in the main room, thread in his mouth, hunching over a dark green vest. Deep in concentration, he embroidered the cloth with golden details akin to vines. His eyes squinted as he held the vest close to his face. He was obviously in need of glasses; however, no one but the mayor and victors had that kind of money in District 12. His brown hair drifted in his face occasionally, not standing as pointedly as Katsuki and his mother’s hair. Katsuki tries to quietly hang his stuff by the door so as not to disturb his father and makes his way over to a couch with mismatched cushions. Katsuki plops on the right side, springs uncomfortably, poking through the thin brown cushion.
Katsuki allows his muscles to relax, throwing an arm to cover his eyes, finally done after his long work day. Tomorrow, he would have the day off, like the other miners who were eighteen and younger, for the reaping. He hoped the ceremony would be as short as the year before, as he could trade some of his parent’s work for food.
His parents were both unable to work as most of the district does in the mines - his mother being a woman and his father having been injured too severely in a cave-in, leaving him with a heavy limp - so they made clothes. They patched up, embroidered, or made entirely new pieces of clothes, normally out of old clothes they would trade in the markets. Occasionally, they’d task themselves with making something out of an unwanted blanket, curtain, or tablecloth, but that was saved for times when they weren’t struggling too much, when it felt like they had a little extra time.
Katsuki closed his eyes, listening to the concentrated breaths of his father and dishes being moved from their tiny kitchen. There was no smell of anything in the air, so he could only assume it was his mother reorganizing again. It’s not like they had much to organize, but as the days to the reaping got closer, his mother became more and more stir-crazy.
“How was work, Katsuki?” his father asks calmly. As quiet as Katsuki could try to be, the house was too creaky to be completely silent, and Katsuki knew that. Every day, when he got home from work if his father was sitting in the main room, his father would allow Katsuki some quiet time before checking in on his son.
Katsuki sighs. “Annoying. All those extras would talk about was the reaping.”
Masaru clicks his tongue. “Well, it is tomorrow. It’s just the topic of discussion right now.”
Katsuki breaths. “Doesn’t mean they can’t talk about anything else, or even better, not at all.”
Masaru hums to acknowledge his son’s words but does not necessarily agree with them. Suddenly, a tornado appeared from the kitchen entrance.
“Katsuki,” it was Katsuki’s mother, Mitsuki, “You damn brat, when did you get home?” She was by no means quiet on his ears.
Katsuki uncovers his eyes and looks at the old - a miracle it’s still working - clock on the wall, then covers them again. “Thirty minutes, old hag. Not my fault you’re as deaf as an 80-year-old.”
His mother was on him in a matter of seconds, whacking him upside his head.
“You disrespectful brat, my hearing is perfectly fine.”
Katsuki had expected the hit and didn’t take the assault or words to heart; it was simply how their relationship was. However, he still sat up, rubbing the sting away.
“Whatever,” he glared at his mother. She sighed, walking around the couch and taking a seat on the left side of the sofa next to Katsuki. She elegantly placed her arm on the armrest and held her head in her hand, pursing her red lips towards Katsuki.
As much as Katsuki called his mother an old hag, he couldn’t deny that for living in District 12 and being in her forties, she was a beautiful woman. Somehow, she managed to keep her skin soft and free of wrinkles. Her hair was a silky blonde with softer spikes similar to Katsuki’s. The only thing that could possibly be made against Katsuki’s mother was her thinner frame from malnourishment and her hands, scarred from sewing.
The three sat in a comfortable silence, save for Mitsuki burning holes into Katsuki with her eyes.
“Ya gonna say something hag, or just gonna stare?”
Mitsuki huffs, closing our eyes and shaking her head.
“Such a handsome boy, wasted on his mouth,” Mitsuki clicks her tongue.
“Heh?!”
“It’s no wonder he has no friends, right Honey,” she speaks sweetly to her husband, teasing her son.
Masuru chuckles.
“Whatever,” Katsuki rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time for friends. Besides, everyone else is just lame extras.”
“What about that Tetsutetsu boy,” his father raises an eyebrow but keeps his eyes on his work. “I’ve seen him talking with you before.”
“Not my fault that metalhead can’t take a hint.”
“Whatever you say, son.”
They go back to silence, Katsuki crossing his arms, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, and listening to his mother and father’s soft breathing, accompanied by the silent embroidering from Masaru.
At some point, the day’s fatigue had Katsuki dozing off. According to the clock, he’s shaken lightly by his father about an hour later.
“I know you’re tired, son, but I think you should bathe and eat a little something before falling asleep completely. Besides, how you were sleeping is bad for your neck,” Masaru scolds, combing his fingers through Katsuki’s hair. Katsuki rolls his neck in a circle, cracking it, then stands slowly, a thin blanket his parents must have placed on him falling to his feet. Katsuki takes a deep breath, stretching and rubbing his eyes. It’s after that Katsuki finally nods in response and heads to the kitchen.
In the kitchen is a medium-sized wooden barrel, fitting Katsuki comfortably, granted his knees were to his chest. Inside the tub was stagnant cold water. His parents had hung curtains by the kitchen entrance to provide them with some modesty when bathing. The family knew it was only closed when someone was doing so.
And so, Katsuki strips out of his dirty work clothes, his muscular frame sore from the week of hard labor. Katsuki chooses against climbing in the cold tub, not wanting to dirty the water with how much dirt and coal dust covers him. Dipping a rag into the water and rubbing a small amount of the soap bar on it, he scrubs his body as best as he can, re-dipping the rag into the water and wiping all the soap off. Katsuki then submerged his head in the water, getting his hair thoroughly soaked. Katsuki tries to scrub his scalp, though he doesn’t add any soap since his family doesn’t have much.
When Katsuki feels as clean as he’s going to get, he picks up a nearby towel and dries his body. On a stool, it was clear Masaru had left his “after-work” clothes folded neatly. Katsuki changes into a thin t-shirt and trousers before tying up the curtains, walking out of the kitchen, towel drying his hair.
It was dark outside, the only light coming from a small oil lamp his father must have left for him. Besides that, there was no light; his parents must’ve retired to their room for the night.
Next to the lamp was a small, stale loaf of bread for him.
Katsuki drapes his towel over a rickety wooden chair and then sits on the couch. He picks up the bread and tries to eat it slowly, though he is famished. When Katsuki had swallowed the last of the bread, he took a thin pillow next to the sofa, attempted to fluff the three pieces of stuffing inside, and placed it behind his head, lying down. He then tosses the blanket his father had previously draped over him back onto his body.
The summer night wasn’t as cold as it could be, the raggedy blanket being enough for whatever chill snuck through the cracks of the house. Katsuki could hear his mother’s slight snores from the other room, along with each creak the house had from the silent night. He closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth over the scratchy blanket, or the annoying noises, or the small couch, or the springy cushions, or the reaping looming over him.
Things could always be worse, Katsuki reminded himself.
Things could always be worse.