Chapter Text
Katsuki was not made to be loved.
It didn’t take him very long to figure that out. For as long as he can remember, he has known that there was something wrong with him, something dark and twisted about him that didn’t seem to be present in anybody else. Everything about him seemed to be engineered specifically to piss people off, to grate on their nerves and make them turn their backs on him.
The worst part about it, he thinks, is that he doesn’t have a reason to be this way. He has a mother and a father and a nice home, all the things that he could ever want, all the things that so many people never got the chance to have. He doesn’t have a reason to be so angry, so unrelentingly furious, but that seems to be his default mode of existence: something gets under his skin, a minor annoyance, and it builds and builds in his mind until it looms larger than life, the crushing weight of it pressing down on his shoulders until the moment when it all snaps and comes crashing down around him. He’s a short fuse, a bomb waiting to go off, and he doesn’t know how to change. He doesn’t know how to be better, how to be normal.
He’s alone, and he deserves it.
He deserves it all.
The voice above him says, short and sharp, “Open your mouth.”
And Katsuki listens, not even fully processing the words before he’s allowing his jaw is dropping open, the air so thick with the smell of smoke that he can taste it on his tongue, accompanied by the bitter flood of wine pouring past his teeth and straight down his throat, leaving him sputtering and coughing in the wake of it.
He’s no stranger to alcohol - he’s been dragged to so many of his parents’ fancy parties that it has become second nature to pick up a glass and sip at it as he waited for the night to end - but it’s the unexpectedness of it that makes him choke. He’s allowed himself to become dizzy, disoriented, almost complacent in the way that he lounges against the desk, but clarity rushes in like a slap to the face: he’s in an office, belt hanging loose enough that his pants sag at his hips, the hems of them drowning out the shiny brown leather of the shoes that his mother forced him to wear. They pinch at his feet, and he shifts on them slightly as he starts to straighten up, saying in a hoarse voice, “I think that I should -”
“No.” A hand on the back of his neck, pressing his face down against the desk. It’s not a harsh grip, but it’s firm and leaves no room for argument, clamping tight as a collar around Katsuki’s throat. “That’s not what we agreed on.”
Katsuki swallows, hard. The taste of wine lingers on his lips, invading every corner of his mouth until he feels sick with it, nausea churning in the pit of his stomach as he says, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” His hands are sweaty and so is the rest of him, fingers slipping on the edge of the desk where he’s digging his nails into the wood. “Let me go, and I won’t tell anybody about this. I won’t -”
“Shut up.” The words are spoken so casually that it takes a moment for Katsuki to realize what has just been said, his breath hitching in his throat as the grip tightens around the sides of his neck. “God, it’s like you don’t even care about your mother. You said that you would do this for her, and now you’re backing out of our deal?” And the man is sneering, Katsuki can hear it in his voice. “Pathetic.”
For no reason at all, tears prick at Katsuki’s eyes. He blinks them away, takes a shaky breath past the ever-increasing feeling of suffocation, and says, “This is illegal.” He says, “You can’t do this anymore, you can’t hold her against me - that’s blackmail, that’s illegal.”
At his core, Katsuki has always been a rule-follower, straight-laced and narrow-minded, and he knows that he’s right, he knows that this isn’t happening, that this can’t be happening -
And the man leans down, his voice right beside Katsuki’s ear as he whispers, “Do you really think that I care?”
He sounds like he’s laughing. He sounds like he’s amused, like this is funny to him, like Katsuki is the punchline of a bad joke: what do you get when you take a kid’s mother and use her against him?
A free fuck, apparently.
Katsuki nearly throws up as the man’s free hand creeps up his side of his shirt, the press of hot skin against his chest making him squirm in place, his jaw clenching as he tries to think of ways that he could get out of this situation. He could fight, kick, scream, but he’s not going to, and he knows that. Everything is too much, and he hates it, but, most of all, he hates himself for getting into this position in the first place, hates the events that led up to it, hates the fact that he was too stupid to see where this was going when his mother’s boss asked to speak to him privately, in his office.
I have a proposition for you, the man had said, his voice as smooth as an oil spill and his eyes glinting like the diamonds in his watch. As you may know, your mother is getting older. There simply isn’t much of a market for middle-aged women, Katsuki. I need somebody to replace her.
And Katsuki had laughed, leaning back against the desk, Bullshit. She still looks as young as she did when she started modeling.
It’d be a shame if I had to lay her off, the man continued, speaking as if Katsuki hadn’t said anything at all. If only there was something that somebody could do to convince me to let her stay, to keep her on the payroll…
And, for all his flaws, Katsuki wasn’t an idiot. He could make reckless decisions at times, but, for the most part, everything he did was meticulously planned-out to the point where it was almost obsessive, thousands of scenarios running through his head as he tried to find the best course of action to take.
But, like most things, it was different when it came to his family.
His mother in particular has always been good at exposing all the worst facets of his personality, holding him up to the light and letting it shine right through him, illuminating all the cracks in his façade.
He wouldn’t call it affectionate, the relationship that he has with her. It was more of an obligation, an act, a constant yearning for something that simply wasn’t there. Devotion in its purest form, the kind that people went to war for: here was the woman that raised him, who carved him out from her own body, who slapped him around and berated him for mistakes and yet tried so hard to love him, back before she knew better. When he lays in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, he can sometimes remember the way that she used to tuck him in, her soft hands brushing his hair away from his face so that she could lean down and press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
His mother, on the line.
Staring at the man across the room, Katsuki had asked, What do you want?
The smile turned into a smirk, long and thin and cruel, sharp enough to cut like a knife. Nothing that you won’t be able to give.
Katsuki wasn’t made to be loved, and he wasn’t made to love.
This, he thinks, is the closest that he will ever be able to get to either one of those things.
He closes his eyes, and he lets it happen.
—
If he were to die, Katsuki would like it to be quick. He would like it to be over in seconds, fast and painless for everybody involved, no mess to clean up, no body for the funeral. Not that anyone would attend a funeral for somebody like him, surely. He’s too rough, too harsh, too abrasive in every way. His continued existence is probably bringing the world down by several quality points. If he were to die, everything would automatically be better, the sun would shine brighter and the air would be fresher and the birds would sing so clear and sweetly that it would sound like something from a fairytale.
The worst thing about it, he thinks, is that today was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be a break from school, and, even though his mother didn’t admit to it, it was supposed to be time for him to spend with his parents, socializing and building connections.
Today was supposed to be fun.
Yeah, right.
The hot water pours down on him, melting his skin from his bones and his thoughts from his head. He stares down at the smooth ceramic of the bathtub, at the stained-red soap suds swirling down the drain, and wonders if he will ever feel clean again.
—
Back when he was still young enough to have his hand held as he crossed the street, Katsuki would practice his expressions in the mirror. He would stand in front of it for hours at a time, mesmerized by the twist of his mouth and the furrow of his eyebrows, each miniscule movement carving a new emotion across his face. He would try to smile, sometimes, but it would always come out too sharp, too wide, too crooked, nothing like the smile of a hero but everything like the person that he knew himself to be.
Now, as stands in front of the mirror, he can barely recognize the person staring back at him.
His eyes are dull and lifeless, and every angle seems to be cast in a new light, flat and dim in a way that makes him look like a corpse. A living, breathing corpse.
Katsuki throws up.
He can’t help it, can’t stop himself: the bile rises in the back of his throat and he’s retching before he knows what’s happening, doubled over and clutching at his stomach as tears prick at his eyes. The vomit splatters against the floor mat, and he just barely has time to think, That’s going to stain, before somebody is knocking on the bathroom door. His mother, by the sound of it. His suspicions are confirmed when her voice rings out, “Katsuki, what the fuck are you doing in there?”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki mumbles. He feels hollow save for the thud of his heartbeat in his chest, his vision hazy and unfocused. “Leave me alone.”
His mother bangs her fist against the wood, snapping, “If you brought something contagious home, I’m beating your fucking ass. Now let me in so I can check that you’re not dying.”
Katsuki grips the edge of the sink, blinking rapidly. He repeats, “Leave me alone,” but his voice is so weak that it comes out sounding more like a plea, choked and desperate. “Jesus fucking Christ, do you know how to shut the fuck up?”
“Stop cursing at me!” his mother says. “I’ll kick you out of this damn house, Katsuki, don’t think that I won’t!”
Katsuki groans, dropping his head down and breathing like he’s just run a marathon, squeezing his eyes shut as an ache pulses sharp and insistent at the base of his skull. His mother finally gets the bright idea to turn the knob, and the door swings open, cool air rushing in from the hallway and making him shiver harder.
For a long, long moment, there is nothing but silence. And then his mother says, “Oh, that’s disgusting.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Katsuki manages to say, and receives a sharp whack across the back of his head for his effort. He curses quietly, rubbing at the point of impact, and casts a glare at his mother, who scowls steadily back at him, unamused. “Fuck off,” he says, and she raises her hand in warning, making him flinch back slightly. “I’ll clean it up myself.”
His mother huffs, shakes her head. “Go to your room,” she says. “I’ll have Masaru do it.”
“I’m twelve years old, Mom. I’m not a fucking baby. I can clean up my own mess.”
“Go to your room,” his mother repeats, crossing her arms. “I’m not going to have you spread your little disease around the house. I have a photoshoot tomorrow, I can’t afford to get sick.”
Every bone in Katsuki’s body feels like a live wire, leaving him sore and aching and strangely energized all at once, his voice too loud as he says, “I said that I can clean it up!”
“And I told you to go to your room!” his mother shoots back, and now she sounds frustrated, her teeth bared in a snarl. “Just do as I say for once in your miserable life. God, you always make things so fucking hard, Katsuki. It’s like you don’t even care about me.”
Katsuki stares at her.
I just took it up the ass for you, he wants to say, just to see what reaction the words would bring. He wants to drop the truth like a bomb, wants to see the realization shatter across his mother’s face, wants it to hurt in the way that he is hurting. I stood there and let it happen and now I’ll always be filthy, a fucking animal, a goddamn whore for your career.
Instead, he starts to cry.
The tears come out of nowhere, burning in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks at the same moment, his hand coming up to clamp over his mouth the second that he realizes what’s happening. His mother barely even has time to say his name before he’s brushing past her, bolting up the stairs and practically tripping over his own feet as he crashes into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
He’s so fucking pathetic.
He bites down hard on his lip as he slowly gets dressed, his towel dropping from around his waist and pooling on the floor. Blood runs down the inside of his thigh and he quickly averts his eyes, staring up at the ceiling and taking several long, deep breaths in an attempt to keep from throwing up again. A sharp ache jolts through him, and he hisses in pain before he grits his teeth and powers through it, forcing himself to change into more comfortable clothes - a well-worn shirt, a pair of basketball shorts - and crawl into bed, curling up on his side.
A few minutes pass, dragging by like hours, and then his mother knocks on his door. When she speaks, her voice is almost calm. “Katsuki.”
Katsuki doesn’t open his eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“Katsuki,” his mother says, more insistently. “I want to know that you’re okay.”
And Katsuki feels sick, filthy and worthless in a way that he doesn’t think will ever fully leave. He says, “I’m fine,” and the words come out sounding strangled, forced from his mouth on the exhale of a ragged breath. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine -”
His stomach hurts so much.
With a muted whimper, Katsuki curls up further on himself, sniffling as he presses a hand to his abdomen. He feels alone, he feels lonely, and he hates it. What happened wasn’t even that bad, he’s heard of worse happening to people younger than him, and - and -
“Katsuki.”
“Leave me alone,” Katsuki sobs, something breaking inside of his chest. He can’t stand the thought of going to school, of hanging out with his friends, all while containing such a dirty secret. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be normal again. “Just leave me alone! I don’t want to talk to you!”
“Fine!” his mother snaps, and Katsuki flinches. He buries his face in his pillow to muffle the noises, his chest heaving and his fists clenching so tightly in his sheets that it makes his fingers ache. “Fucking Christ, cry yourself to death for all I care! Sue me for being worried about your ungrateful little ass!”
And then she storms away. Katsuki counts the footsteps in his head, listening as they fade down the hallway and out of earshot, and then he starts crying in earnest, his face all wet and gross with snot and tears as each movement sends pain stabbing straight through his core. He feels like a little kid, even though he’s not. He’s almost a teenager, and he’s supposed to be a hero when he grows up, but he doesn’t feel very heroic, not right now. He feels dirty and filthy and used, like there are hands all over him, and it makes him writhe in discomfort, all of his emotions boiling beneath his skin like they’re going to burst out at any moment.
What happened to him was wrong, he’s sure of it, but he should have stopped it. He should have said no, and kept saying that until his mother’s boss quit touching him. More than anything, he should have fought back.
Katsuki lays there, weeping into his pillow, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, things would have gone differently if he had been just a bit stronger.