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It’s raining.
Mitsuki frowns at this news, chewing the inside of her cheek. Katsuki hates the rain. And God, she’s so worried for him. It doesn’t feel right, all of this, sending children out to fight wars - sending her kid to fight. Under her breath, she repeats the same prayer she’s whispered to herself far too often as of recently. It's a prayer, a beg, for Katsuki to return to her and Masaru safely.
Neither she nor her husband are religious people, but for Katsuki, they’re believers.
Her chest is tight, stomach burning with worry. Ever since she’d woken up this morning, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad would happen today. She’s praying she’s wrong. Her fingers tug nervously at her cardigan, strings already pulled out and frayed at the edges. She glances at the screen, biting at her lip, tasting the familiar copper of blood from her peeled lips.
Katsuki. Her boy, her hero, everyone’s hero.
Her little miracle.
Her hand tightens a little on Masaru’s as the screen cuts back to the fight, and-
A body is rapidly thrown across the screen and tumbles to a halt on the ground. At first, Mitsuki can't quite recognize what she's seeing. She feels like she's underwater, in a dream, as her eyes track the All Might card that flutters all too gently to the ground.
That’s her boy. That's her little boy with her hair, her eyes, Masaru’s jaw, both of their personalities - that’s her boy. The world is silent as she stares, unable to pull her eyes from the screen. God above, there’s so much blood. Her little boy is bleeding out - why isn’t anyone doing anything?
She lurches a little forward, everything in her wired to sprint right to where the battle is without stopping, to see her boy and cradle her to her chest and wipe away the blood covering his face, and-
Mitsuki falls right on her ass. She doesn’t feel the impact. Nothing feels real apart from the growing void of horror that’s replaced where her heart once was.
The hand holding hers tightens to the point of pain, but Mitsuki barely feels it - it’s fuzzy; an afterthought. Masaru - fuck, her Masaru is seeing- seeing-
She can’t tear her eyes away from the screen. Her gaze is wide, eyes transfixed, and it’s- that’s not real. That can’t be real. There’s so much red, so much blood, the human body can’t possibly contain that much blood, right? Why isn’t it going back in? No one should be bleeding that much; that's not safe. Otherwise, that means - that means-
The cameras continue to follow the fight, but her eyes stay on one damn place, on-
Her son. Her little boy. Katsuki.
Mitsuki's mouth opens to a scream.
Mitsuki hadn’t wanted to be pregnant at first. She’d been fresh out of university with big dreams and a fire to chase them. And, she’d had a pretty hot boyfriend too - Masaru. She hadn’t noticed anything remiss at first, truth be told. Life had been going along just fine. Her job at the big graphic design firm had steadily been climbing upwards, she'd just signed a lease on her first apartment, and her whole life was stretched out ahead of her for her to grab and mold into her desire.
Then, she had missed her period. It wasn’t anything strange - she was used to her period coming a week late or a week early, damn her uterus.
But, it kept not coming.
Mitsuki’d gotten suspicious. At first, her kneejerk instinct had been to abort the thing. Her, pregnant? Now, when she was only starting her adult life? There was no way she had the money or energy to support a child, even if she was pregnant. It didn’t make sense, either - she and Masaru had used protection!
…But she wasn’t on the pill, and accidents could happen.
Fuck.
She didn’t even know for sure if she was pregnant. Her period was late by three weeks, but that wasn't definitive proof, and she didn’t want to take a pregnancy test - not yet. If it confirmed she was pregnant, then it was real, and Mitsuki…she didn’t know if she could handle that.
Yet, as the days passed, her recklessness towards the thing in her turned to caution. Even as she thought about possible abortion home remedies, she cautiously held a hand over her stomach when something particularly disruptive happened. If she suffered emotional shock - work was stressful, after all - or if she tripped and fell, her hand cupped her stomach, a tender protection. It carefully covered her when she passed sharp corners, if there was a loud noise or a villain fight nearby, or even when she was just stressed.
It was a reassurance that the life inside her, if real, was alright.
She wasn’t sure when the dread she'd originally felt had turned into hope, but it had. Somewhere along the line, that little bubble of surprise that she’d steadfastly tried to deny the reality of had turned into a strong hope that the baby was indeed real - that she really was pregnant and had a baby with her.
There was an adage her parents had told her when she was young. Her family had temporarily taken in an injured dog that they had found abandoned, but they'd made it clear she couldn't keep it. Don’t name it , they’d warned her. You’ll get attached . Even while knowing it wouldn't stay forever, Mitsuki had still given the dog the nickname ‘pup’ - something to call it by, but a nickname wasn't the same as a name, she'd reasoned. (It was a loophole, too, a marker of her steadfast and stubborn hope that it could stay.)
It couldn't. Maybe it was due to that name, or maybe it wasn’t, but it hurt like hell when she’d left.
Her baby was nicknamed ‘baby.’ At work, that hand would settle over her stomach with a small, “baby, we’re in for it now.” When out eating, it’d be a small “damn baby, hope you like spicy food.” Home, she’d whisper a small, “baby, did you enjoy today?”. She was constantly checking in with them, constantly whispering their little beloved nickname. Baby, baby, baby - her baby.
She hadn’t given him - them - a name yet. Baby made it real enough, but giving them a real name would cement her decision to keep them. Despite it all, baby was a common whisper on her lips. Every time she did, it left a small, warm glow in her chest. She wondered if the warmth she felt in her belly was real, or if it was fake. She hoped it was real - it meant that the baby was real and growing and okay.
Mitsuki had started picking up on different names, though, as if learning them for the first time. Before, she hadn’t paid attention to them - it was something so simple, so mundane. Now, every new client, every new celebrity, and every new name stuck in her mind as a possibility for her baby whether she wanted it to or not.
(She’d taken a particularly keen eye to male names. She wasn’t sure why, but she was certain this baby would be a boy. It just…felt right.)
Masaru hadn’t known yet - Mitsuki, for all her brashness, was a coward when it came to the important things. He knew she was hiding something from him, but…she wasn’t ready. Not yet. Hell, she hadn’t even bought a pregnancy test yet. He didn't push it, though, and she'd loved him all the more for it.
A small group of her friends had been told her suspicions, though. In her original panic upon the realization that she might be pregnant, Mitsuki had reached out to a few, wanting advice. All had agreed that it would be best to abort her baby - all except Inko. A conversation with her had cemented Mitsuki's decision to keep him. She'd never forget Inko's warm arm on her shoulder, her warm and kind advice.
"It's up to you, 'tsuki. Whatever decision you want. Just...ignore it all for a second, okay? What do you want?"
…Her choice, yeah?
All this time, she’d been worried about her future, stressed about how Masaru and her family would react, ill with panic over the sacrifices she would have to make. But…when she took a step back to really think about it, to think about what she actually wanted versus what she should want-
Well, Mitsuki was a strong woman. Everyone knew it. She knew it. She was no stranger to sacrifice, and when she wanted something, she’d move the whole damn world to get it.
And - she couldn’t deny it anymore. She wanted this baby despite it all.
Her hand settled over her stomach, cupping where her miracle child would be.
She’d buy a pregnancy test later that evening.
(The condoms had been expired. She and Masaru had both realized it as they moved furniture around their room to make space for the baby’s things, including the bassinet. Mitsuki had noticed them in the little box she’d left them in long ago, seen the long-due expiration dates on them, and put two and two together.
She and Masaru laughed for what felt like hours. It was amazing what one little mistake could cause.)
(She stumbles on the name Katsuki by chance. She notices it flashing on one of the many electronic advertisements around her while on the transit home. Immediately, Mistuki’s enamored by the name. Katsuki. Victory on your own. It's perfect for her little fighter.
Under her hand, a little foot kicks, as if confirming the thought. Warmth explodes in Mitsuki as she looks down, gaze soft and warm at her round belly. It’s a perfect name for her feisty little guy. It sounds like her name, too. Katsuki. Mitsuki. The comparison selfishly grabs at her, a greedy little thing in her brain - the same little thing that had originally changed her disdain to hope, the little thing that had grabbed at her baby as a possibility and snarled mine - grabbing onto the name and nestling firmly in the center of her mind.
Katsuki. It’s a fitting name.)
(It’s not. Maybe if she’d chosen a different name, her little hero wouldn’t have died alone. Maybe he wouldn’t have sacrificed himself to save the world. A name that means 'victory by yourself' was the stupidest fucking thing to name her son.
Mitsuki doesn’t know this yet. But she will.
Oh, she will.)
There’s a ringing in her ears. Maybe it’s from her loud scream. Maybe it’s from the overwhelming weight of numb despair and disbelief that's rocked her like an explosion. Mitsuki blinks, then blinks again. The image on the screen doesn’t change. Her nails scratch the ground as she scrapes at it, filling her carefully manicured nails with gravel and dirt and ruining them as she scrabbles desperately to sit back up.
She stares at the scene and opens her mouth. All that leaves it is a small, anguished, broken noise of despair, caught between a gasp and a cry. Her dirty nails reach up to her face as she scratches at her skin, half-mad and frenzied. She inhales loudly.
The tears start to pour. Masaru’s grip on her hand tightens.
Mitsuki wails.
“Katsuki!”
Hand still held by Masaru, she doubles over on herself, phlegm and bile spilling from her lips and splashing onto the ground in front of her and all over her outfit. That’s not real that’s not real it can’t be real.
Despaired, she looks back up at the screen, lips twisted in agony. Even through her tears, the scene is the same. Another wail escapes her as she sobs, nails carving out bloodied lines in her skin before moving to her hair, yanking out strands upon strands.
That’s her boy. That’s her little boy, Katsuki. He’s on the ground, and he’s not moving, and there’s so much blood, and - and he shouldn’t be out there, fighting. He’s a little boy! He likes All Might, and he likes spicy food just like her, he goes to bed early, and he gets damn good grades because her baby had thankfully taken after Masaru's brains. That's her baby.
“There’s a hole in his chest!” She shrieks. Her manic eyes land on the pro heroes on the screen, and she knows they can’t hear her but she still screams: “Do something!”
Her voice is loud, raw and guttural, scratching at her already pained throat. She coughs, doubling over and stares at the ground, her vision blurred and unseeing, as she splutters. Her chest is tight, and she can’t breathe over the weight of purely cold shock that's washing over her body.
“My baby!” She almost can’t recognize her voice. There’s something so primal and desperate to it, like something out of a movie. It catches her ears, ringing her mind. She takes in a shaky breath and coughs again, gagging and retching at the way she thinks she can physically feel her heart shattering into two.
“ Baby!”
(Once, she had whispered that nickname with tender love. Now, it’s an agonized scream.)
Her head snaps back up. She can’t bring herself to look away from the scene, and without realizing it, she wraps her arms around Masaru. She doesn’t know when he’d sat down, nor does she hear his similar sobs of pure, wretched pain, low and horrid “oh God’s” leaving his lips.
A fury bubbles in her skin. God, she thinks. You motherfucker. Her knuckles press to her drool and bile-covered lips in a mockery of prayer - it’s the only thing she’s got at the moment. I asked you, she thinks, a little hysteric. I asked you to keep him safe! Was that not enough?
“I’ll do anything,” she whispers, voice small and high-pitched and cracking, shaking with her grief. “I’ll do anything.”
Mitsuki looks up at the sight of her son’s body, bloodied and broken on the screen. It’s his corpse. She thinks she can feel the part of herself that feels, the part of herself that’s loved so fiercely these past fifteen years, everything good about herself, wither away and die inside of her. She should be there with him, not here, miles away and safe while he sacrificed himself to fight.
She screams again.
Mitsuki doesn’t remember the rest of the day. Bystanders make the connection between her and the body on screen - it’s hard not to. Her son looks like her, and it’s a point of pride for her. It’s always been a point of pride for her. (Yeah, that’s my damn son, she'd boast, warm and grinning. She’d carried him for nine months, he’d best look like her!)
But now, she hates it. She wonders what her own body would look like - all twisted and broken, a gaping hole where the heart should be, half her face shredded to pieces.
She could kill herself. She could take a knife and carve out her own chest and stab her eye. God, she thinks. Devil, to anyone listening. If I kill myself, please bring my son back. She's desperate. Maybe she’s insane for pleading with higher powers she’s never believed in for a chance at bringing her kid back, but she’ll sacrifice anything for him. Her mind and life are the smallest prices that she’d gladly pay.
She’s tempted to do so, just to try - she knows with cold certainty it would hurt less than the excruciating, persistent pain that’s blossomed in her chest and tied its roots around her ribs, a weight on her chest that makes it impossible to breathe.
She and Masaru are taken to sit down on a bench close by. She’d fought the people moving them around at first, even after the screen had finally changed. Maybe if she keeps looking, Katsuki will return, moving and blessedly alive again. But that won't happen unless she keeps looking.
She shakes her head, teeth clenching past the point of pain. No. He’s alive. He has to be alive; there’s no way he’s dead. There’s no way her Katsuki is dead.
Not before her.
The bench feels numb beneath her. Masaru’s death grip on her hand feels numb to her. All she can feel is the buzzing, awning void of anguish that reverberates in her chest like she's a drum to be played to the tune of grief. Her eyes stare listlessly at the screen, burning and stinging.
She takes in a shaky breath and begins to cry again, dropping her head to her chest, not even having the energy to keep it up. “Katsuki,” she mourns, feeling like her whole body has become one thing of agony and grief. She wonders if the people around her can feel it - she’s feeling it so potently; it must be rolling off her in waves. “Katsuki," she repeats, shaking her head like some wild animal. "My baby, oh, my baby my baby my baby my baby .”
She chants the mantra, nails digging into her face again, leaving scratches in the same place she remembers her Katsuki’s face all messed up.
She can’t even remember what the scene looked like. She should. She’s a failure of a mother for not remembering what her son’s dead body looks like, especially when she stared at it for so long, but all she can remember is the sight of his face and his vacant eyes. There was so much red, but his eyes weren’t red enough. They were pale and dull.
(It’s shock, the distant, rational part of her realizes. Her brain is protecting her from the horror of it by not letting her remember it clearly.
But Mitsuki wants to remember. She wants to feel all of that devastating horror and grief. Her son fucking deserves to be mourned properly - there’s not enough pain she can even begin to feel for him.)
Mitsuki begins to cry again, aching, sniffling, and sobbing. She can’t stop crying. It hurts so, so damn bad. She feels like she’s stuck in a loop straight from hell - she thinks of the word ‘death’ and frantically denies it, because no it’s not real, but if it wasn’t real then what was that sight?
Maybe it was some sort of punishment for her for not living the best life. She doesn’t know what she’s done, but it’s not her Katsuki’s fault. She once again finds herself praying to entities deaf to her prayers, begging and pleading with them. If you can hear me, she thinks, take me instead. I’ll go through whatever hell or torture or punishment you want for me. I’ll go through the worst things imaginable. You can make it as bad as you want; the worst in the world. Just bring my son back. He’s just a little boy.
He’s my baby.
She rubs her hand over her face, smearing her skin with blood and bile and drool. “Oh,” she moans, the noise low and ragged and drawn out. “Oh, Katsuki .”
Her head falls onto Masaru’s shoulder as she begins to sob again, tears rolling down her cheeks. Masaru holds her tight, like she’d die too if he let her go.
She wishes she could.
“Masaru,” she keens, stangled and desperate, voice a plead. “Masaru, our boy, our boy- ”
There’s a choked-off sob beside her. Masaru has always been so much more quiet than her, but she knows he’s grieving the same. She’s too much of a coward to look up and see the anguished mess on her husband’s face. Her hand tightens in his as she grieves and sobs, bargaining to whoever might be listening to bring her son - her baby - back. The crowd around them leaves a wide berth, letting them grieve in peace. It's a small mercy.
There’s not enough words in the world that can properly describe the grief of losing a child. It’s the worst kind of agony in the world. How can she even begin to describe it? There’s a hole where her heart once was, an achingness settled deep in the center of the bones that makes it hard to move. Every time she takes a moment, all she can think of is Katsuki. Her little victor. She's mad with grief, and maybe she'll always be crazy from this point on. She doesn't care.
Mitsuki leans forward and vomits again all over her shoes. Fuck it. She doesn’t even care to move her shoes once she’s done. All she does is start crying again, low and agonized and shaking her head in disbelief.
This can’t be real. Maybe - maybe someone out there with a time-traveling quirk exists. There must be. She’ll find them and she’ll make them take her back to stop her son’s death even if she has to become a villain to do so. Hell, she’d murder the fucking prime minister and tear the government apart brick by brick with hands scraped raw to do so.
Anything for Katsuki.
Oh, her baby. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. She - they didn’t spend enough time together. Fifteen years is too fucking short. And her boy was always in the dorms, chasing that stupid fucking dream of becoming a hero. Maybe if she’d put her foot down and didn't let go to UA after he'd been kidnapped, then this wouldn’t have happened.
But - that’s not fair. That’s not fair to her son. He would’ve become a hero no matter what, every bit as stubborn and obstinate as she always was. She can't discredit his lifelong dream of becoming the number one hero. And he was - is - a hero, down to the very last moment.
Katsuki. Her little hero. The very best of them all.
She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop crying. She doesn’t even know how to. She doesn't want to, because if she stops crying, she's not grieving Katsuki enough.
She wants to die. She shouldn’t - it’s so fucking wrong to outlive her baby. It’s - this is the worst possible thing in the world. She wants to die; god, she wants to die. But she can’t. She has to live with this grief for the rest of her life, to prove that Katsuki was here and he was real and - he made an impact, had people who cared for him, who cared he was alive.
It’s the least she can do for him.
Mitsuki holds tight to Masaru and wishes she could disappear into the void in her heart.
(Soon enough, she’ll get a call. Katsuki will be alive; a miracle brought about by Edgeshot’s sacrifice. Mitsuki will fall to the floor, phone next to her after having clattered out of her hand. She’ll start sobbing all over again, hand over her mouth.
Masaru will worriedly drop to his knees beside her, and she’ll lean against him, her eyes locking with his. And she’ll give a little nod, eyes full of a shaky hope.
Maybe this is a miracle from some higher power who listened to her prayers. Maybe she’s in their debt, and she’ll have to go through the worst type of torture when she’s gone. That’s okay, though.
Katsuki is back and he’s alive and she’s too scared to think it; scared that if she believes it too hard that fragile hope will shatter like glass.
But he’s back. Her little Katsuki will be back, and all will be right with the world. Her little baby, her miracle. Her Katsuki. She'll love him forever.)