Archive of Our Own

It's sitting there, glaring at him despite being entirely inanimate.

An unassuming cardboard box with a terrifyingly familiar stamp curling over the edge. It could be a replica, Katsuki tries to convince himself. Someone could've seen or been part of the last tape box as part of a larger scheme to actually bomb the dorms, and Katsuki's negligence to investigate further or inform a teacher before acting is putting everyone in danger.

But the scared, selfish part of him that curled up and shriveled and died when his own voice echoed back to a silent room agonized by his own palms doesn't want any more of himself to be touched. His skin pulls taught around his bones and muscles, hiding the most sensitive pieces of himself. His prickly exterior was meant to serve the same function; he didn't need to be known, as long as he could do what he needed to do and become a hero. 

He hides the USB in his backpack as he joins Tenya for the breakfast they've started sharing intentionally. Katsuki doesn't dislike (cares for, though he'd never admit it) Kirishima and of course the extras that came attached to him. He, begrudgingly or not, accepts them as his friends in the privacy of his mind. But Tenya—something about Tenya is gentle in the way his mother never learned how to be but firm in the way his father was never capable of. It feels like a kindness separate from pity, and Katsuki clings like a leech to it as soon as he's gotten a taste.

Izuku had been kind, but he'd never understood. Not the way Tenya understands. And for some dumb, guilty reason, that makes all the difference. He wonders if Izuku is annoyed, at all, that he'd spent years enduring Katsuki's harsh, brittle nature to pretend they were still friends only for Katsuki to do a complete one-eighty and get immensely close to people he'd known only a few months. He stomps the guilt beneath his feet, resigning himself instead to returning to his circling thoughts of the new tape.

"Say, Tenya, theoretically," he starts, and Tenya somehow already knows him well enough to know that 'theoretically' is bullshit and everything he's about to propose has already occurred, "if I were to find another tape like that one from... around when the dorms were new, do you think it'd be a better idea to potentially protect my emotional privacy from Nedzu or turn it in to Aizawa in case it has more 'helpful information' on the villains that I could literally have just told them if they asked?"

Even if the 'theoretically' hadn't given him away from the start, it's far too hyper specific a scenario to just think about in such detail for no reason. It hasn't been that long since the first tape, but it's still been a while. Tenya glares lightly at Katsuki, tired eyes asking if he really needs to play along. Katsuki nods, encouraging, glancing away nervously.

Tenya sighs. Heavily. "I value my privacy as much as you do yours, Katsuki," he starts, "but ultimately, the potential positive impact on hero society created by these tapes would outweigh my personal feelings. I'm not saying it's the secret to world peace, so it'd really be up to you if, theoretically, you found another tape, to disclose it."

Tenya talks far too much, way too early in the morning, Katsuki decides as he blinks slowly, struggling to process the slew of large words tossed in his face. "O...kay," he says as he finally manages to parse through the meaning of what his friend said. "So... hand it in?" he asks hesitantly.

"Katsuki," Tenya says, and his voice is serious, so Katsuki tries to pay attention through the anxiety and tiredness that turns his brain to syrup. "You don't need to. I'm not going to force you or try to sway you into anything. Just know that I'm... all of us, your classmates, are here for you. And—and the heroes aren't the only ones it helped last time, in my opinion." Katsuki blinks at that, tilting his head. Who else would it have helped? Sure, the information was relevant to his class as well, but they kind of count as heroes, don't they? "Katsuki, it helped you. I think you needed someone to know without you having to explain it. And I'm sure it sucked to have all of that thrown right back in your face, but we know how to help now. What to avoid, what to do. We understand you a little bit better, and you didn't really have to explain anything. All I'm saying is that this could add to that. Give us a little more. Let it do the dirty work, and you can lean on us just a bit more."

Tenya had avoided the word 'help' a lot when they first became actual friends (via Katsuki puking all over himself and trying to claw his own throat out, but, semantics), but he's started to incorporate it into his vocabulary about things that don't matter. Katsuki realizes he's being Pavlov'd into being okay with receiving help, but it doesn't feel like a bad thing anymore when Tenya is the one to say it.

He sucks in a harsh breath. Holds it. Lets it out. "I'd like to—" he stops. He had no idea where he was going with that sentence when he opened his mouth. "I..." Katsuki glances around. Why is he so unsure? Katsuki takes his certainty in everything as a point of pride. He hates those stupid boxes, he never wants to find one again.

(And Katsuki hates, he hates he hates he haTES HE HATES HE HATES HE HATESHEHATESHEHATESHEHATES— spoken, screamed, in his own voice. That line of narration has haunted Katsuki since then. Katsuki is not a hateful creature, but god does he hate.)

He nods. He can't ever bring himself to speak words like that aloud, but he needs someone to know. He burns with it, the desire for them all to see him as he is, feel him push and shove and hear his voice bend but not break and understand. To have heard how the gears scream and understand the cacophony of his mind he shouts over each time he speaks.

Katsuki nods, and Tenya hands over his phone, already dialed to Aizawa's number.

The class is told to stay in their seats after the bell rings, and Katsuki is finally hit with the sickening deja vu. Nezu walks in without any Top 5 heroes, and a few of Katsuki's classmates actually sputter protests. 

"Is it one of those tapes again?" Kirishima calls out, indignant. "That's a total invasion of my bro's privacy, you can't just force everyone into this stuff because you have the power to! What happened to hero ethics?"

Something in Katsuki's chest warms dangerously close to an inferno at the similar dissatisfactions echoed throughout the room. It shouldn't matter to him, really, because his first thought should be that they think he's a terrible monster and don't want to subject themselves to any more of the horrid pits of his internal machinations. Terribly enough, they've gotten to him, and his first thought is instead a wondrance of how damn lucky he got to be stuck with persistent assholes who for whatever reason aren't sick of him yet.

"Quiet, problem children," Aizawa says, barely above a whisper, but the room silences easily. Eighteen sets of eyes settle imploringly on their teacher, willing him to put a stop to this, to step in front of his student and the danger as he always does. "Bakugou agreed to this," he relents, his gaze sliding over to Katsuki. It's imploring in its own way; a question—did you mean it? Offering an out. Offering to step in between Katsuki and the danger.

He doesn't even know what's on the tape. Aizawa clearly does.

Katsuki nods minutely. He doesn't fucking care, he reminds himself. This is like... watching an ad to skip over a level of a videogame that sucks ass. He's watching the video and dealing with a little bit of emotional turmoil to skip past the emotional vulnerability step and head straight to... whatever comes after emotional vulnerability, Katsuki doesn't actually know. Nor does he give a fuck, because giving a fuck collapses his whole rationalization of this fuckery.

The eyes turn to him. He shrugs, pretending the weight of them isn't hunching his shoulders. "Yeah, I did. It sucked ass last time, but I guess it was helpful to us, so I'll fucking bear with it again, I guess." What the hell is this emotional vulnerability? He's doing all this shit just to avoid that! "Dunno what's on it, though, but whatever." 

Aizawa's frame tenses at that. "Nezu, he is entitled to know what he's getting into before disclosing this to his entire class. You cannot just... spring this on him. It's not emotionally healthy or responsible as an administrator and guardian." He's hissing, seething, his eyes narrowed at the rat. Nezu only smiles pleasantly, and Katsuki wonders if there's hate burning in his beady eyes. Hatred for Katsuki? Hatred for humanity, for what they did? What they continue to do, on a larger scale than just Nezu?

All that matters, really, is that the hatred burning compels Nezu's next words: "It would be simply cruel to subject him to it twice, no?" It's a weak fucking argument, but it's not the bald-faced words that matter, it's Nezu's tone. He isn't suggesting anymore. Aizawa is now speaking to his employer and the most intelligent, well-connected creature on the planet. 

That creature is telling him to shut up and obey. Aizawa casts another sidelong glance at Katsuki. Looking for his approval to back down, his sign that he would be okay. It doesn't make Katsuki feel anything, regardless of the story his welling eyes tell. He nods again, eyes downcast. Aizawa sighs, and backs down.

There are a few, blessed minutes of fumbling, a few teachers drifting in and out during that time. Katsuki is glad to see Nezu leave with them. But all too soon, the tape clicks to life. It is a shot of him, in the doorway of his own home, small. Katsuki hardly remembers being that small, a time he's blocked from his mind for a million different reasons. Text flashes to life across the screen.

Bakugou Katsuki, age seven. At the Bakugou residence, 20:43.

The text fades quickly, and screen-Katsuki turns to reveal his face. It is angry. Katsuki has always been angry, hasn't he? But the audio of his mind starts up, and it sounds far more teary than raging.

I can't believe her! I didn't even do anything!

Katsuki blinks quickly, eyes up and bottom lip trembling. Trying not to cry, his face twisted into an ugly scowl all the while. His mom, he recalls, had come home from work annoyed. She's usually annoyed, so Katsuki didn't think much of it. He'd bounced over on light feet, almost airy with the wide grin spread across his face. He'd gotten perfect scores on all three of the tests he'd taken that day, and he hadn't even stayed up late studying!

"Always a genius, I see," Kaminari jokes, trying to lighten the miserable air that had quickly settled over the classroom at the sight of such a little kid—especially a little kid that was Katsuki—trying his darndest to hold back tears and subsequently thinking of his mom being annoyed. The implications are annoyingly clear.

Mineta huffs. "Don't see why we have to see him bragging about himself as even more literally a brat," he tries, far less successfully than Kaminari's comment had landed. Katsuki only scoffs and rolls his eyes. The grape is the one person whose opinion he could not more genuinely give zero fucks about.

She'd entertained him a while longer than usual, and Katsuki had gotten brave. Stupid. She'd been so nice, so Katsuki thought he could finally show her the drawings he made of her and Dad—he's trying out charcoal, and he's not actually the best yet, but he will be soon. She never usually cares about stuff that's not academic, but he figured since she's been so willing to listen to him...

Tokoyami hums with interest at the mention of charcoal drawings. "That's interesting, Bakugou. Do you still draw?" He sounds genuinely interested, and it brings the mildest of flushes to Katsuki's tanned skin. He shrugs, muttering some incoherent nonsense about how it's not really a skill he upkeeps but he has some shitty stuff around, he guesses.

"Okay," he'd breathed out, clutching the paper tightly behind his back in excitement. "I know you don't usually want me to bother with this stuff, but I tried remaking the picture of you and Baba you like so much!" He had held the paper up in front of him, then, the corners slightly creased where his fingers curled around them. He'd peeked around him, a toothy, crooked smile poking out from behind his lips. The paper is indeed smudged with black. It's not exactly realistic, expected of a seven-year-old, but it's certainly impressive. It's clear who each person is, and that they're posing for a picture. The woman's smile almost seems gentle, a boxy, not-quite-right hand curled over the man's lopsided shoulder.

"Aw, Bakugou!" Mina coos. "You have such a cute smile! You should smile more!"

He huffs, turning away. No one has ever told him he has a nice smile, before. He doesn't quite hate it. 

Tokoyami hums. "That's a really good drawing for that age, Bakugou," he compliments. His voice sounds genuine. "I'm sure you're only better now. It's impressive." Maybe Katsuki could show Tokoyami the pin-up board of some of his most recent drawings, soon. Maybe Tokoyami would be impressed by those, they've gotten much more realistic by now.

Katsuki's not sure what he had been expecting. Privately, he'd hoped his mom would grab it gently and hold it up to the light and coo about how proud she was that he's so talented in everything. 

Instead, she snatched it away harshly. Katsuki's grip stayed tight just a moment too long, and his hours' worth of work ripped almost straight through the side. The pieces barely hung connected, torn like notebook scraps. 

Katsuki's eyes had widened. His mouth gaped. But he hadn't the time to get a word out, his mother immediately launching into a tangent. "Katsuki! I have had it up to  here with you! Your stupid grandfather who loves you so much has been constantly on my ass about 'how terribly I treat you' since you went whining to him like an idiot! So here I am, trying to put up with your bullshit, and you just don't stop! I can't believe I raised a little beast with no fucking empathy. Isn't it clear how exhausted I am? I work like a dog to give you a good life, Katsuki, and you waste that on stupid shit like fucking—whatever the fuck!"

The thing that had struck Katsuki the most, of all of that, had been that she had no idea what the drawing was made with. He had been talking for at least five minutes, explaining how hard charcoals are to get right because it's all one-tone and smudgy. She had no clue.

"And then you shove that in my face, like a little asshole! I can't do this, Katsuki, why don't you get it!?" 

"Dude, what the fuck?!" Sero yells, slamming his hands on his desk. "Why the hell is she talking to you like that? Of course you aren't going to just... fuck off, or whatever, you were seven! No seven-year-old has empathy! And what the fuck is wrong with a little kid trying to show his mom something he's proud of? What is wrong with her!?"

Katsuki just sighs, already tired. He doesn't want them to get the wrong idea of the hag, even though he knows what's coming and that they definitely will, so he forces words from his throat. "It's not actually that bad, relax. I should've known better at that age, it was my own fault for being stupid. She's not—she's not fucking abusive, or whatever you're fucking thinking. Everyone talks crazy when they're tired and upset, and this shit doesn't frame it the right way."

That doesn't seem to satisfy his classmates, but Sero sits back with an unhappy huff and refocuses his eyes on the screen.

It'd been Katsuki's own fault, really. He realized as soon as the first screeching syllable came out of his mouth, but the sound of paper tearing had lodged something sickly in his throat that he only knew how to push out by yelling. "'M not not empathetic! And I'm not wasting! It's good and you ruined it, why are you so terrible all the time?! You suck!"

I hate you, he'd thought, but Katsuki couldn't force himself to say it. He doesn't wanna hate. His mom hates, and he inherited that, but he doesn't like how it feels. Like a hand-me-down coat from the cousin who had way different proportions than you, worn and stiff and uncomfortable.

His mom's hand raised and Katsuki had stumbled back. She wouldn't hit him. She's never hit him before, and she never would, even if he was bad. Like, really bad, which he wasn't even bad this time. But she had raised her hand and Katsuki had moved to get away with wide, fearful eyes, and the damage was done.

Mitsuki had frozen for a moment, staring down at her terrified son with dawning horror on her face. Then she did with that horror what she did with all emotions that are not rage; she turned them into it. So she takes that horror that her son thought, even for an instant, that she would hit him, and turns it into indignant rage that her son thought she would ever hit him. Her, his loving mother. Katsuki had seen it in her eyes, watched as the gears ground out every trace of pity.

Mitsuki?

Katsuki can't remember clearly, but he wonders if he'd done that often—separated the person she was at those times with his mom. Mitsuki is angry and fiery and cold, Mom is tough-love and trying. He wonders how well that worked.

Izuku's breathing is loud behind him, but Katsuki doesn't turn around. He doesn't want to face whatever expression Izuku is making, doesn't want to watch his face twist up with pity for all the wrong reasons. He wishes Izuku had left, so that Izuku could always see his Auntie Mitsuki the same. He's too stupidly empathetic to not read into this too much.

"She-she didn't, right?" Uraraka asks, her voice shaking. "I-I mean, this is terrible as it is, but..." she can't bring herself to finish the sentence. Katsuki is relieved; he wasn't sure it'd be something he wanted to hear. 

She had gotten up in his face, hissing all kinds of nasty things Katsuki very firmly refuses to think about. But one—one thing stuck like it was glued in his mind. The last thing she had whispered before her burning fury went ice-cold.

"You wanna whine about me yelling at you now, brat," she said lowly, "and I'll muzzle you tight. You'll listen to me the whole way through, like the dog I wanted instead of the kid Masaru insisted on."

His brain skittered around the threat, unsure what to settle on, what to fear the most. The muzzle? The dog? The admission that he will never be something Mitsuki wanted? Does it really matter what part to dread the most, when it had been said at all?

"My—" Kirishima starts, his voice choking off midway through. "My place is always o-open, Bakugou. Please, uhm, please come by. When you need to." When. Why does Kirishima sound like he's crying? Katsuki's eyes are fixed on his lap, so he can't see. He nods, even though he knows he'd never. He's not all too inclined to test Kirishima's patience even more than he already does.

A few people chorus their agreements. Iida's hand drops onto his shoulder again, and squeezes. "My parents' house is large. They wouldn't mind a guest," he mutters. 

Katsuki blinks away the mist from his eyes and snorts. "We have dorms, moron. I've got a place to crash in the worst case scenario, which will never happen, for the record, because you're all misinterpreting this."

He's very promptly ignored. Well, fuck them too, then.

She had straightened up, after that, and Katsuki's stomach dropped. Her face smoothed out into something impassive and cold, and Katsuki almost shivered. He hates when Ma—Mitsuki gets like that; indifferent. He'd take hitting any day over the cold. The cold is what got him locked out of her sight and hearing until he stopped crying so loudly.

"No, what the fuck," Mina asserts finally, having been eerily silent this whole time. "Locked away until you stopped crying so loudly? Bakugou—that's—that's not okay, Bakugou. She can't do that to you. And—and what about your dad? Why didn't he let you out? Bakugou!"

He doesn't answer her, very involved in his intricate game of stringless cat's cradle with only his own fingers. 

Katsuki hasn't been put away since he was six, because he's a big kid and he's learned to fear the cold. "I—" he stuttered out, carefully keeping any lip-wobbling to himself— "I'm sorry, Mama, I didn't mean to yell." He keeps his voice soft, scared to bring it any louder than the barest thing above a whisper.

She doesn't even scoff, just keeps walking closer. He keeps inching towards the door. "Can't control your voice yet? I thought you were a big boy now, Katsuki." She doesn't say it, but her tone drips with some strange apathetic disappointment. It burns like salt in an open wound. He doesn't dare open his mouth. "That's fine." Now her voice has lost all of the anything. It's hollow and cold and terrifying. "I'll take you muzzle shopping now. I'll even let you pick a color, how about that?" 

Katsuki thinks his eyes might be glazing over. He suddenly feels very far away, distant from all of this. He remembers this conversation. Not the details, but the feeling it had left him with. Now, now he understands why. Now he gets why he came to clawing at his face, that next morning.

"This is—" Izuku's voice breaks him from his floating. His words fail him, vague noises of the world being disrupted escaping from Izuku's throat. 

"You said the muzzle threats only started after the Sludge Villain Incident, Bakugou," Aizawa asks without asking. Of course he remembered some shitty offhand comment like that. Katsuki shrugs, feeling airy and light and nothing.

He glances up at the ceiling, where he feels his soul is drifting off to, then glares at his hands. "I didn't.. remember. Everything 'fore junior high is kinda foggy," he admits. His voice sounds wrong, and way too empty. He doesn't like it. 

Aizawa might say something else, but Katsuki doesn't catch it. 

"Mitsuki," Masaru's voice finally comes, placating. There's no passion behind it, not the way there's passion when he's talking about his work. Katsuki can tell his dad doesn't really care. "Please be gentle on him. He's just a boy, he doesn't know any better."

"He's just a  brat, more like. He's old enough to know this shit by now, Masaru." 

Does it matter? Katsuki wants to disappear. He wants to stay gone, so no one—not even himself—can know where he is.

Mitsuki fixes her eyes on Katsuki again. Katsuki really, really hates the cold. "Take a hike or we're going to the store now," is the ice's ultimatum. 

It's quiet again, and Katsuki really hates when it gets so quiet. It's always his own screams filling the void. That's how it always has been and always will be, the break and crack and shatter of his throat fighting against the pushing, crushing silence. 

"There's no way she—" Izuku tries to speak again. "She wouldn't." Wouldn't what? Katsuki wants to egg him on. Say it, coward. Izuku's voice fades to a whisper. "You were seven."

"And now I'm fifteen," he says simply, because there's really nothing to be thought about either of those statements. He used to be seven, and now he is fifteen, and there is nothing more to it than that. 

So what will it be? The rain and whipping wind outside that he oh-so abhors? (Abhor is a word that had been on the spelling test. His teacher had added it as a bonus just for him, had said it was to challenge him because he's so smart. Katsuki wants his mom to tell him he's so smart.)

"You're a genius," Tenya mutters, just loud enough for Katsuki to hear, and Katsuki hides a smile in his hands.

The threat of cold and wet and dark of night looms behind the front door of Katsuki's house. He's not quite old enough to worry about getting snatched up from empty streets, but he does anyway. Katsuki's always been smarter than his classmates, who only think to worry about white vans with suspicious men asking what candies they prefer.

But Mitsuki is storming around, gathering her wallet and shoes and a jacket, muttering about a muzzle, and that threat is much more real and present than a mysterious, would-be kidnapper. Stuff like that doesn't happen in his neighborhood, Katsuki reassures himself. Even if it did, he has his quirk to protect himself. 

Katsuki wants to be what his mom wanted, but he doesn't want to be a dog. It feels terrible when adults look at him and see a little kid. 'Little kid' never seems to translate into 'human' to them. Katsuki and every other kid in the world knows how it feels to be treated as less human. To be treated as not human at all? To have something so basic and ingrained in his being as speech taken away from him like a confiscated toy at the whims of his 'masters'? 

Katsuki takes a hike.

Aizawa finally speaks up. "Bakugou." His voice wavers. Katsuki tries to blink himself back into focus. This is important, isn't it? Aizawa never wavers. Katsuki feels so far away. His eyes are misty. "Bakugou, I thought... When we talked about the issue with the dogs, you said it was from the Festival and online backlash. You said it'd never come up before, only nasty comments on posts about you. What—what is this?"

Black flickers in and out of his vision as Katsuki blinks rapidly. "I—" his throat is so dry. He licks his lips. "I didn't remember this. I guess I remembered having an argument, but I..." He doesn't know how to finish the thought. His voice sounds wrong, everything feels wrong. He's entirely unaware of his classmates around him, and Katsuki realizes suddenly that this was a bad idea. They're going to see everything. They've seen his mom and they're going to see Kimaru after this and maybe they'll even see that no-name sludge villain. Maybe all of the people who'd ever crushed him beneath their boots and watched him sob. Maybe they'll see all of it and they'll lift their own shoes and wonder how much pressure it takes to crush Katsuki under their soles.

He shuts the door carefully behind him. He had enough forethought to reach up to the coat rack while his mom was distracted and grab his rain jacket, but there's no overhang on his doorstep. He's immediately thrust into the rain.

Maybe I should spend the night right out here, he thinks, glancing at the soaked-gray of the concrete. Less dangerous than wandering the streets.

But then someone might see me and ask Mama and Baba about it, and then I'll really be in trouble. 

Katsuki takes his first step out of the driveway. Then his second and his third and fourth and fifth and soon he's halfway down the street, forgoing the sidewalk given the absolutely deserted road at this hour. 

Maybe I could go to Auntie Inko. It's a brief, childish, useless thought to entertain, because Katsuki knows he won't. He has a million reasons not to. Auntie's face pops into his head, creasing and stressed and worried, her eyes flooding with tears as she ushers Katsuki inside with a wobbling voice. Katsuki hates making Auntie cry, and she'd get him in trouble with his mom by accident anyway.

And Izuku's there.

Deku.

Katsuki shrivels up a little at the thought of him. I hate him. I don't really. I wish he would look at me like he used to. He pities me all the time now. I don't hate him. I hate that. But every time I try to say something he  lies, like he thinks I'm stupid on top of being weak and useless. I wish I never would've been friends with him in the first place.

Katsuki is finally able to hear Izuku's hitching, sniffling breaths. His shoulders line with tension. Kirishima, upon a glance in his direction, has an expression that looks like he's choking back a 'not cool, man', but withholding it for both their sakes.

It's so hard to be mean to him. His dumb face always makes me feel bad, and I get even angrier when he goes home to Auntie and she—she babies him about it instead of telling him to just grow up like my mom would. It's not fair! How come I'm awesome at everything and work hard all the time and my mom barely looks at me, but he does nothing but talk about being a hero without doing any work for it and only gets average grades but he's just showered with attention!? 

It's not even like his mom is less busy than mine; his dad sends them a lot of money from working in America and whatever, but Auntie is always working too. She's so tired all the time, but she still puts up with Izuku bouncing around and waving stuff in her face and everything! 

I guess I should just be glad Baba still lives with us. He's barely home and it feels more like I'm with some distant uncle than my dad whenever we talk, but at least I have him here. Maybe I should ask for a phone like Izuku borrows Auntie's and try to call Baba when he's away. Izuku's dad always seems happy to talk to him like that then, probably 'cause he's not tired. Or maybe my parents are just tired of me. Maybe they think I'm mean and terrible like everyone else does and Izuku's parents aren't tired of him 'cause he's nice.

Whatever.

Katsuki is not going to Midoriya Inko's house.

Izuku bursts into tears, then. Not the hitching bullshit anymore, but his typical dramatic waterworks. It's fucking annoying and it makes Katsuki the same guilty it always has and Katsuki hates that he doesn't fucking hate Izuku. Izuku, who's never stopped to ask, pushes into Katsuki's space as usual. He drags his own chair over, wrapping himself around Katsuki's side.

"Kacchan!" he wails. Always making himself a spectacle. "I never pitied you, Kacchan! You know I'm not lying, 'cause you've always said I'm a terrible liar!" He sniffles, trembles terribly from where he's squeezing Katsuki with far too much force. "I—" he stutters, sobbing even more harshly, "I'm so glad you don't hate me..!"

And fucking Izuku has always made Katsuki guilty in just the right ways. He clenches his fists until he's white-knuckled, glaring down with watery eyes and willing the tears away. It doesn't work. Hot wetness goes drip, drip, down the line of his nose to drop onto his hands. There are two words he needs to force from his throat, to reconcile all of the guilt that churns and put this terrible corner of himself to rest. The jealousy and the not-hatred and the confused, directionless anguish. All Katsuki needs to say is 'I'm sorry'.

He opens his mouth, lets his lips hang apart, and forces his eyes up to meet Izuku's. He works his jaw soundlessly, searching futilely for the syllables stuck at the base of his throat.

Izuku seems to hear what he's trying (still needs) to say, and hugs him tighter, burying his face in his shoulders. Katsuki can't face the mop of green and tears anymore, so he refocuses his attention to the screen.

Someone is following me.

Like a balloon, all the air is stolen from the room. Izuku goes deadly still burrowed into his side, peeking up at the screen. It shows nothing more, right now, than a seven-year-old boy wandering darkened, rainy streets alone, glancing around as unsuspiciously as he can manage, walking as though he has a destination.

"You said—you mentioned it was seven to twelve years old," Mina recalls from however long ago it has been since the first USB. Her voice is hollow.

Kaminari snorts, a shocked, derisive thing that he probably hadn't meant to release. "That—that's not. She kicked you out, your mother, at seven and, and of course you got—" he cuts himself off, unable to voice the end of the thought. "I don't care what you try to tell us, Bakugou, there's no objective way to look and not see that your mother belongs in prison for that."

Katsuki bites his lip hard enough to break through skin.

Katsuki walks a while longer. Stops under street lights, looks around obviously and hopes it doesn't come off like he's lost. He speeds up and slows his steps, the stalker keeps pace. Finally, he's—he's scared. He's scared enough to turn onto a neighborhood street he doesn't recognize and make a beeline for one of the doors, praying there's someone home who'll let him in so he can call Auntie Inko, ask her to come get him and hope she forgives him for being such a bother.

"You never would've been a bother, Kacchan, my mom loves you like her own—" Izuku starts. Katsuki just shakes his head to cut him off. Auntie Inko is too good for the world, and especially too good for Katsuki. That's... besides the point.

He glances up the door. The height of it is even more intimidating in the night, the rain having eased but spraying lightly enough that it provides eerie background. Katsuki's eyes blur with tears as he tries not to glance back, to give away that he knows someone is there. He knows you never tell a stalker you see them, because that's when the fun stops for them; they're there for the hunt, the thrill of seeing without being seen. As soon as the mysterious footsteps trailing realize they're echoing loudly enough to be heard, they won't bother hiding. They'll thump hard and fast and soon Katsuki will be snatched away, another statistic of stubborn children who wandered off getting what was coming to them. He's sure that's the story Mitsuki will tell when his school reports his absences racking up and the police come knocking. He's sure Masaru will agree with everything she says, probably already forgetting Katsuki's face when asked to give a description. 

Maybe they'll get a dog, and name it Katsuki to commemorate their late son.

The tape freezes. Aizawa drops the control a second later like it burned him, the clattering noise of it skittering to the floor loud in the silence. "Bakugou," he calls quietly. "Come outside with me."

Katsuki follows Aizawa out the door. He's so disoriented. Aizawa sinks to the ground, leaning against the wall, and Katsuki mimics him. Aizawa watches Katsuki, eyes on his face and flitting around, observing, seeing. It's invasive but not in the worst way Katsuki's ever felt. It's Aizawa looking so intently at Katsuki (only him) and so Katsuki kind of doesn't want him to look away.

He doesn't know how to return the favor of the nice feeling of attention settling over his bones, so he stares back at Aizawa just as intently. He takes in his teacher's face as a whole, trying to memorize the picture he's grown so used to but has never really thought about before. Then he narrows his focus to the smaller, individual features that make up that whole, noticing all the minute things—like the crook in Aizawa's nose—that have always been there, but haven't been there before. There's an acne scar at the top inner corner of Aizawa's left brow. Katsuki has seen it a hundred times before, but this is the first time he's noticed.

He settles for watching Aizawa's eyes, once he's finished his examination of the rest of his face. He watches them appraise him as a whole, then focus in and break down every little piece, every component of himself that he's never displayed so freely before. Katsuki watches as he is seen, and he lets Aizawa look. 

They sit outside, leaned against the wall, for what Katsuki guesses is another five or ten minutes. They don't talk. Aizawa doesn't ask any questions, doesn't chide or reassure or anything, but he wraps his arms around Katsuki's back and pulls his head into the crook of his neck and doesn't comment or move beyond small circles of his hands when Katsuki's shoulders shudder and Aizawa's shoulder gets damp.

Then Katsuki calms down a little bit, and Aizawa stands and pulls Katsuki to his feet. He sits on the floor at the front of the classroom, leaned against a desk, and Katsuki sits next to him. Tenya sits on Katsuki's other side. Izuku sits next to Tenya. Then Kirishima gets up to settle next to Aizawa and Mina and Kaminari are quick to follow him and where they go, Sero goes, making himself comfortable with his head pillowed in Katsuki's lap. He doesn't mind when Katsuki starts to absently twist his hair into tiny braids, not mentioning the tremble of his hands either.

Then there is Uraraka and Todoroki and Tokoyami, and Jirou sets aside her disgust for group pile-ups for this special occasion. And of course Yaoyorozu and Shoji (who Katsuki privately thinks gives very nice hugs) and soon enough there are eighteen warm bodies around him—Aizawa and seventeen of his classmates, Kouda and Mineta having been excused as soon as things started getting dicey this time.

God, it feels nice. Katsuki braids and unbraids Sero's hair, careful not to tug and gentle with easing out the few knots he comes upon. He smooths his hands through it, scratching at the scalp gently. Sero has very nice hair, he notes with an absent amusement. It's a nice distraction as the frames keep moving and Katsuki's breath tries to grow heavy with the knowledge of what comes next.

He knocks, the movement heavy. Pauses, debating, then stands on his tip-toes to reach for the ridiculously high up doorbell.

Kaminari makes a shuddering noise, a thump accompanying the collision of his body with Mina's as he leans into her. "You weren't even tall enough to reach the doorbell, dude." His voice breaks off into a whisper. "That's not fair."

It really wasn't. The cards had been skewed against him from the start.

There's no answer. No dogs bark, no TV glows, no lights flicker and no footsteps sound.

Katsuki has chosen what is likely the one unoccupied house on this street, and he's not going to have a second chance to guess. He's very smart, but he's only seven, so Katsuki realizes these facts very belatedly. When two hands wrap around his face and neck.

He only has a moment for terror before everything goes dark.

"Oh my god.." Jirou mutters, jaw agape and horror in her eyes. "That's... shit, dude, that's fucking terrible. The one house..."

Yeah, he thinks dryly. Feels like some shitty-written horror novel made by a junior high student, right?

Katsuki blinks his heavy eyelids open only for the sake of the panic cresting just below the surface of his skin, buzzing and thrumming with the instinctual need to hide, run, fight. He needs to snarl and snap and gnash his teeth, the only defense he has ever learned, but he can't do that without figuring out his target. His attacker, his  kidnapper.

I got kidnapped.

The statement is so absurd, in a way. It feels like such a far-off thing. Kidnapping is something that happened to other kids. One of those things that makes you go, 'that really sucks for them', but people like Katsuki don't get kidnapped. He can see it on the faces of his classmates, notices it in their eyes even if they don't realize it themselves. Katsuki is the kind of person who got kidnapped one time. Katsuki is the kind of person who moved on, unaffected but stronger from the new experience. He isn't a seven-year-old little boy with a mom who can't stand to look at him and a dad who will always love that woman more getting snatched up from dark streets and waking up disoriented and afraid.

It's laughable, really, so Katsuki laughs. He laughs in sync with the hysterical, shaking chortle of the seven-year-old in the recording, startling the people around him to jolt. He laughs and his eyes blur with tears he pretends are from laughing so hard. His head aches and Katsuki wishes he had just died there.

His eyes are blurring from his heaving laughter, doubling over in the empty, echoing room.

This place feels like a dungeon. Maybe I got turned into the princess I never wanted to be when we played knights on the playground. The notion is hysterical in its childishness because Katsuki is supposed to be more mature than that now, isn't he? He's running out of breath for giggling, but his tears aren't stopping and his breath is hitching into a sound more like a sob.

Why can't my mom be nice to me like Auntie is nice to Deku? I'm so much  better than him, I made sure of it. So why doesn't she like me?

Guilt festers as soon as he has the thought. She does love me. She just gets upset and it's my fault I'm not more understanding. Izuku would be understanding. Katsuki thinks of the time his mom had taken him with her on a business trip to America. It had been so fun. She had smiled almost the whole time and she'd bought him the plushie he wanted and she let him have a fun bandaid when he tripped and scraped his knee. The last day, when she locked him in the hotel room while she went out to drink with her friends, was just her taking a break because she was worn out from entertaining him for almost five whole days. 

There were a bunch of other times, too. She liked to take him out shopping when she wanted to redo her closet for a new season or whatever (Katsuki tries very hard to be attentive but she uses a lot of fashion words he doesn't really understand) and there's a teriyaki restaurant they go to together sometimes. There are so many times she's so nice to him and he really loves his mom a lot and it's super unfair to say she hates him.

But those good times only ever make times like this feel worse. It's not. Fair. What if I never see her again and the last time we ever talked she was—she was saying she was gonna muzzle me? I don't wanna die like that. I wanna die after she tells me she loves me!

I don't wanna die at all.

Katsuki's hands still in Sero's hair. He's been braiding the same section over and over again. He should try something new, shouldn't he? Sero's probably getting sick of him this.

"That's not love," Hagakure says. Her voice is hard, firm in a way she so rarely is. Katsuki wonders what she looks like. He tries to imagine her face, what look she'd have across it as she speaks. He thinks she might have colorful hair. Something bright. Maybe even a mix of everything, dashes of color sprayed between straight black strands. "Bakugou, those good things shouldn't make up for the bad in your head. She can't... she can't lovebomb you to make up for abuse and neglect!"

To the point you get kidnapped! she doesn't say. Katsuki hears it anyway.

He can't help the fact that he doesn't agree. Hagakure doesn't understand, she hasn't experienced it. The way his mom smiles in those times... it shows she cares. That she's trying to care. And Katsuki is bad enough at that that he can have some empathy, he can understand exactly how hard it is to do 'caring' right. He forgives her every time, the teriyaki is never what tastes sweet on his tongue.

"Okay," he says regardless, because Tenya's hand is pulling him closer and Izuku is bullying Sero aside to share Katsuki's lap. "Okay."

Katsuki isn't sure how long he sits in the quiet dark by himself, but it's scary. Not because he's afraid of the dark, not particularly. But it feels the same as the dark streets had, knowing someone was behind him, wanting to hurt him. Watching the door and not knowing when someone is going to come through or what they'll do only makes it worse. It feels like the walls are pressing closer.

I have to—

The door creaks open.

Katsuki lunges.

He doesn't do much thinking about it. The dark had occupied his mind, not leaving much room for plans in his rapidly increasing panic. But an adult is entering the room he's in. It could have been a hero, coming to save him, but Katsuki knows he isn't that lucky. The man is four times Katsuki's size and he's more than likely the footsteps that thought they were so subtle and for the first time in his life, Katsuki learns what it really feels like to hate.

He lunges forward with his palms sparking (cocky bastard, leaving his hands unrestrained, Katsuki will show him what a mistake that was—), nails curled and ready to  claw, his teeth bared in a growl. One hand slashes down, explosions (weak, too weak, he's too weak) pealing after them to exacerbate the fresh cuts, shallow as they are because Katsuki's nails are neatly trimmed. 

The man cries out indignantly, peeling Katsuki off of him and throwing him to the ground. Katsuki heaves himself to stand again, to launch another attack, the door is still open he can still get there he has more time—before he becomes acutely aware of the metal weight around his neck he hadn't registered before, too entrenched in his panic.

Katsuki thinks he hears someone mutter, "God, please say it isn't..." He might be hallucinating. He doesn't feel right, actually. He doesn't feel good at all.

He collapses to the ground, screaming. He tries to reach for his neck, claw at it, peel it away, something, but his muscles are out of his control, spasming and jerking.

It hurts. It hurts. Make it stop please please please I'm sorry. I'll stop exploding things I'm sorry I can't feel anything but the hurt I can't think it hurts it hurts it hurts please! Please stop it! Please!

Katsuki is definitely hallucinating now. He feels the pain of electricity coursing through him, but none of his muscles are locking up. He searches for Kaminari. He knows he wouldn't, especially not now, but, but he has to be sure it's not real. He isn't even in contact with Kaminari, it's not possible he's shocking him. Not without someone else noticing. But god, Katsuki can't escape the pain. Is he shaking?

"Oh my god, dude, I—I'm so sorry, I—" Kaminari splutters, voice frantic and shaking and he sounds like he's crying. He's searching frantically for something, some plea for forgiveness even though he hasn't actually done anything. "I never, I mean, I didn't ever on purpose, but you might've, I'm gonna be sick oh my god..!" 

He's working himself into hyperventilation, Katsuki realizes. Kaminari is probably going to faint if he doesn't get a hold of himself. Fainting isn't ever really pleasant. Katsuki wants to protect his classmates, right? This probably counts. "I can leave, i-if you want," he offers and he's definitely crying now. "God, I'll stay away forever if that's what you need, I-I'm so sor—"

His millionth apology is cut off in a surprised hiccuping sob. Katsuki drops onto him, wrapping himself tightly around Kaminari, keeping every point of contact he can. He can't force the words from his throat, but he means it, means it like he's meant nothing in his life—I trust you. He clings to Kaminari, who could shock him and have him writhing in pain, begging for it to stop, in a second, with every stretch of skin that covers his bones. Because he trusts Kaminari not to do that. He's... he's never seen Kimaru or his nasty fucking shock collar in Kaminari, and he never will, and the sound of Kaminari apologizing only makes him sick.

He can't force the words from his throat but he hides from the images of himself tortured with electricity in Kaminari's chest and he thinks that gets his point across just as well.

It finally stops and the man sneers down at Katsuki's limp form. He should curse and spit and tear his throat out. Katsuki isn't even angry, he's just tired. 

"Well," he hums, apparently done with his inspection. "You'll be easy to train. Shock collars are effective."

Shock collar, he calls it. Train, he says. Like Katsuki is a dog. Can he never escape it? Is this how everyone sees him? A snapping, growling beast, something far below human thought, intelligence, behavior. Katsuki wonders if Izuku thinks he's a dog too. He probably won't stay alive long enough to ask.

Katsuki shifts his head, the action sending miserable pain through his every nerve. He musters his best glare for the man, but he can't hold it long. Something aches at the back of his eyes, feeling like they'll roll out of their sockets and into his skull. "Oh, how rude of me!" the man yelps, his surprise fake and plastic and revolting. "I completely forgot to introduce myself! What an ungracious host, hm? My name is Kimaru."

Kimaru.

Katsuki thinks three syllables will haunt him for the rest of his probably short life. 

"There were no police records of these kidnappings," Aizawa recalls, his eyes sharp. "But you have a name?"

Ah, he might... be in trouble. For withholding information. Still, he nods. "I didn't... I guess I assumed it was just an alias. I would've..." It's Kaminari's turn to cut off his senseless half-sentences, squeezing the life out of him until he relents and goes back to hiding from his problems in Kaminari's collarbones. A surprisingly effective strategy; those things are cavernous. It can't be healthy.

He hears Aizawa sigh, and can imagine the pinch of the bridge of his nose that usually accompanies it. Katsuki thinks of the little details he'd studied of Aizawa's face, then tries to imagine the details of his classmates' faces. He'll need to look at them, later, so he can know with certainty what they'd look like with certain expressions warping their features. He needs to watch them smile so he can dream about the happier days they have properly. 

"I know who you are, of course," KImaru says flippantly. Katsuki still can't summon the energy to do more than breathe, and his eyes are only staying open from the fear of having this man around him with them closed. "But you won't need to remember!" He delivers the cryptic statement with joy, as though it's some glorious announcement and not showing how batshit fucking crazy he is. Has this guy lost it? The fuck does he mean?

"See," he starts to ramble. "Kids like you, you're perfect for my cause. You stand like you're so great and mighty, but you can't even save yourself from being kicked out of the house!" Katsuki's eyes widen, but he tries not to show how much faster his heart begins thumping. How much does Kimaru know?

How long has he been watching?

"This is so fucking fucked, fuck," Tsuyu sighs, and Katsuki splutters with laughter and maybe accidentally spits on Kaminari's shirt a bit.

Kimaru touches and pokes and prods in a way that Katsuki  hates. Kimaru makes the aches last longer and his hands are covered in normal, human flesh but they make Katsuki feel gross when they pull away regardless. He wants to shower, but everytime he speaks without being spoken to or asks for something that Kimaru doesn't want to give him, the shock collar buzzes and burns. When Katsuki thrashes and whines and spit, the shock collar goes off. His skin is tender and the sharp extending think digs into the side of his throat but Kimaru doesn't give him relief, just keeps 'molding'. 

Aizawa sighs shakily, avoiding meeting Katsuki's eyes. "As your teacher and soon likely legal guardian, I have to ask, Bakugou. Did Kimaru... touch you inappropriately?"

Katsuki jolts, shivering. "No," he spits. The thought is beyond disgusting, a fear he'd had in every kidnapping since Kimaru's. But Kimaru never got the chance, if he wanted to. He was too... scientific. "No, he was—he had other interests."

That's what he'd said, when he finished up his speech. "Kids like you are perfect for me to mold into little soldiers. No one has cared about you before, why will they miss you now? And it'll be so easy to strip you of your 'identity' when you really don't have much."

Katsuki had shaken his head, denied it, pretended he was anything more than a shell of flesh topped in blonde.

Kimaru had tried to give Katsuki a new identity. He said he would turn him into something perfect, and then he asked Katsuki's opinion on the number forty-nine. Katsuki tried to answer, because he had learned quickly that not answering meant getting shocked, but he got shocked anyways. "Trick question!" Kimaru chirped as though Katsuki wasn't in agony. "You don't have an opinion anymore, 049."

"Oh," someone says softly. There's not even anger in their voice, the righteous sort that his class is so full of. It's just... drained. Sad. Mournful? 

Katsuki can't summon the energy to glare. Will this be his life now? How many days has it been, he wonders? His mom won't put in a missing report for him, because his dad will say he's going to and then forget. If they even want him to be found.

"My name is Bakugou Katsuki," he mutters quietly when Kimaru has left him alone in the dark room again. "I am seven years old. I am going to be the number one hero, and I hate one person in the world. I hate Kimaru."

He stops reminding himself of those last few items after the first time he'd said them. Kimaru consumes enough of him, and thinking about heroes just makes Katsuki wonder if he'll ever be saved.

Kimaru comes in one morning(?) and Katsuki is tired. Kimaru pokes and prods and yanks and shocks and Katsuki is exhausted. He's tired and delirious and he thought he heard Kimaru leave the room, he swears.

He thinks Kimaru is gone when he mutters, "My name is Bakugou Katsuki. I am a human being, and I am seven years old."

Katsuki really had thought Kimaru was gone, then. He would've at least not thrown in that 'human' affirmation in the middle if he'd realized.

But that whole thing was like a poorly written horror, so as poorly written horrors go... "No," Kirishima breathes. "Dude, no. Please say he wasn't... that's not fair! Why does this all have to happen to you!?" He's sitting next to Kaminari, so Katsuki can feel him shaking with his sobs. "You're... you're so strong, and you act like none of it ever... but you were so young! And it was just one terrible thing after the other and people are still awful to you even though you're such a good person! That's—why couldn't it be someone else..?" His voice breaks and he reaches tentatively for Katsuki and he's shaking and Katsuki's shaking and Kaminari's shaking and all of them are trembling and crying and afraid and mourning for the little boy who died in that dungeon, because the Katsuki that went in was not the Katsuki that came out.

The familiar tut of disappointment should've made Katsuki fearful. It should've, and Katsuki feels some hollow, shitty imitation of it. But he's not afraid. He's worn and tired and he feels far older than seven and far less than human and nothing at all like Bakugou Katsuki. He wonders if this is how it feels to be 049.

Kimaru tries to jolt him into something with a few disorganized shocks. He doesn't cry out or whimper or sob, only jerking as the body naturally does and flopping onto the ground. Kimaru sighs, annoyance clear. "Fine, I'll find a way to remind you what you are a bit more permanently. This should get a reaction."

He walks out of the door, and Katsuki's eyes are deadened as he lets his ratty hair splay out on cold stone. Or maybe it's concrete. Katsuki is too numb to tell. 

Maybe he should do what he's thought about all those times the shocks have been just strong enough to want it and just weak enough to let him think and blow his brains out with his still uncontained hands. It'd probably hurt, but it'd inconvenience Kimaru. Maybe it'd even upset him. And it would get Katsuki free for sure. Or maybe he should blow off the shock collar—it'd still kill him, an explosion to the neck, but his body would be cold and unchained. All this because he wanted to escape a muzzle, but the collar is far worse, isn't it.

That settles it. He—049,  Katsuki—is going to free himself. 

He raises a hand to his neck.

It's so silent. The trembling and the sniffling have only gotten louder, ever more hands are reaching for him clinging, draping themselves over him and protecting Katsuki from invisible threats, but still it is quiet.

Somehow, that is exactly what Katsuki needs. Somehow, they hold back their questions and concerned words and platitudes and switch them out for sniffles and searching touch and pressure to his pulse points and... it's nice. It feels right. He feels fifteen years old and he feels human and he feels like Bakugou Katsuki. It is good.

049, Katsuki.

He thought of himself as 049. Before he thought of himself as Katsuki, he thought of himself as 049.

He—Katsuki. He is Katsuki. Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki. Katsuki. Katsuki. Bakugou Katsuki. Bakugou, Bakugou, Bakugou. Bakugou Katsuki. Katsuki has linked himself, even if just for a moment, to 049 as an identity. If he dies here, metal wrapped around his cooling corpse or not, Katsuki will never be free.

Katsuki's hands lower to his sides. Bakugou Katsuki is going to live.

A unanimous sigh of relief. He shoves down the strange look he wants to cast at his classmates. He's clearly right here, a blast like that would've killed him—on the off chance it didn't, that's definitely at least landing in his medical records, which then brings in a police file which doesn't exist. 

Sometimes, they really aren't the brightest. Katsuki, disgustingly, loves them anyway.

But how?

He needs a plan. Some time. What he needs, more than any of that, is an opening. Kimaru walks in. Katsuki zeroes in on the new object he brings with him, a medium-length metal stick with a glowing orange end faced away from him.

'...remind you what you are a bit more permanently.'

The glowing orange part is protruding in an odd shape. In fact, Katsuki can make out backwards symbols on the metal. Backwards symbols that look an awful lot like '0-4-9'. It's a poker. At least, it used to be. Now?

Now, it is a brand.

Kimaru is trying to brand Katsuki as 049, to make that alien identity a part of his flesh, turn him into a hound, a mindless pet to heel, bark, bite, tear into the flesh of his enemies with no empathy as though Kimaru has not done the very same to him, has not released other hounds to tear and pull and rip at Katsuki's flesh. 

Katsuki will not be branded. Katsuki will not heel. 

He sits demurely, blinking up at Kimaru. He lets his eyes stay empty, pretending he's lost all motivation. Pretending he's lost himself, as though that's something he will ever do. Bakugou Katsuki is a loud, proud little boy. He's not hard to keep track of.

And Kimaru is a fucking stupid moron. He is lulled by Katsuki's lack of resistance, cocky and drunk off the power he's exercised over Katsuki day after day and Katsuki hates him. He hates Kimaru like he has never hated in his life. It feels like he's finally grown into that hand-me-down coat. Finally, the itchy-uncomfortable-stiff is nothing but warm. The hatred is familiar and soft and warm. 

Kimaru sets the brand down. Katsuki doesn't take his eyes off Kimaru's as his hands jolt for it. In a second, he's whipped it on his captor. Katsuki's face is still blank and empty as Kimaru's twists with rage. He's ready to be free, but he's still tired. He can't make his face change its shape just yet. Kimaru reaches for the control on the shock collar, like an idiot. It goes off just as Katsuki leans forward, and the electricity runs through Katsuki, stiffening his every muscle.

It goes right through Katsuki, tightening his grip on the brand, and jolting electricity right through that metal, too. That metal, of which the hot end is currently burning into Kimaru's eyes.

A cheer, entirely inappropriate of hero students in the situation, rips through the group. "Fucking finally!" Jirou spits, the victorious smirk on her face audible in her words. "I hope that shit hurt."

Kimaru's screams, loud behind him, are a beautiful backdrop as Katsuki smiles. "I'm sure it did," he says softly, a jarring contrast to the agonizing wails of a dying man.

Katsuki watches, feeling beyond pain, as the brand burns 0-4-9 through Kimaru's face and likely into his skull, by now. Kimaru's hand releases the clicker that flows the electricity from the shock collar, and Katsuki lets the brand and Kimaru's head it's welded into drop to the floor. He doesn't pay mind to the clatter, only grateful none of his blood splattered onto Katsuki. He'd never feel clean again if that filth touched him.

Katsuki reaches for the clicker, and he's so far away that his hands barely shake. On the bottom is a little red button. The metal around his throat unlatches with a  click when he presses it.

Just to be vindictive, he picks it up and locks it around Kimaru's throat. The man is already dead, but the collar squeezes his throat. Maybe the cops'll find his body and think it was his weird fetish that killed him, not the poker stuck through his head.

Kaminari splutters, his grip tightening on Katsuki's shoulders. "Dude, you should not have known the word fetish at that age!" It's so past Katsuki's comprehension that that's what Kaminari chose to find concerning about that scene that he's helpless to do anything but let his head fall back on Kaminari's shoulder and laugh. It's a throaty, whole-hearted thing, the most genuine laugh Katsuki can muster. He's never been particularly fond of his laugh, teased for it more often than he's ever made use of it, but his smile stretches hard enough to dimple his cheeks as he struggles for breath and he doesn't find it in himself to care.

And no one makes fun of his ugly snorting half-giggles but pretty soon they're joining him, a melting pot of chortles and huffs and shrieks and cackles and they're all laughing and someone is slapping his back and asking where on earth he'd gotten the word fetish from at seven years old and Mina is grabbing at his cheeks like someone's old grandma and demanding again that he smile more and that he definitely laugh more often because she'd feel actually funny if someone laughed that genuinely at her jokes. 

"God, you have dimples!" she shrieks, tears streaking down her cheeks through her breathless cries and laughter. "You—how dare you hide this from me! You're so cute!" He keeps laughing but now his face is tinging a little red as he shoves her away playfully because wow, he never realized his smile could be cute of all things. 

Katsuki wanders through the halls, jingling a ring of keys in his hand. No one else pops up, even though he's yanked the brand out of Kimaru's head as protection just in case. The end is still surprisingly orange; though the electricity and Katsuki warming it with a couple blasts might explain that.

The video continues to play in the background but it's surprisingly okay as they all calm down, their semblance of order long since demolished as they form some sort of uncivilized dogpile of bodies. Aizawa sits slightly to the side, watching over them carefully like a shepherd his herd. They get comfortable together, an amalgam of bodies, as the last huffing sounds of joy quiet to catch the conclusion of the tape.

Something sniffles behind one of the doors. '0-8-2' it's marked. Katsuki shifts through the keys on the ring, finding the one labeled the same. He drags it up, struggling to reach the lock but swinging the door open regardless. He ducks behind the door as soon as it opens, anticipating an attack of some sort. Nothing happens. He's not exactly willing to take chances, so Katsuki decides to announce his presence.

For once, he's grateful his voice is distinctly childlike. "Hello?" he calls. "Is anyone in there? My name is Bakugou Katsuki, and since I'm gonna be the number one hero, I'm going to save you. If you're not evil and working for these guys."

The cracking whimper that precedes a sob comes after a moment of silence, and Katsuki pushes forward at the same time a girl, a bit taller than him who looks about a year or so older, stumbles forward. They barely avoid crashing into each other, blinking at the other in awed silence for a long moment.

"...Bakugou?" she says finally, her voice raw and aching. He stares hard at her for a moment; maroon hair that curls wildly atop her head and under her ears, wide pink eyes that glitter with the sheen of tears, and a trembling lip.

She looks like Izuku. 

"Katsuki," he decides. "You can call me Katsuki."

"KAAACCHAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN!" the predictable wail comes, spindly limbs only prevented from snatching Katsuki up against Izuku's chest by the fact that he's already accomplished that. Instead, Izuku stuffs his sobbing, gross face into Katsuki's hair, shuddering and fonder by the second as his hands rub up and down Katsuki's shoulders in a way that's supposed to be comforting but ends up just being a fidget for Izuku. The guy is gonna give him fucking rug burn, holy shit.

"Fuck off, nerd, I was just saying she looked pathetic." She looked like someone worth saving. You are someone worth saving.

Izuku, predictably again, cries harder.

"What's your name?" he asks.

Her knee-jerk response is, "082."

Katsuki scoffs. "I can see your shitty underage tattoo, weirdo. I asked you your  name."

She stares at Katsuki like he's just shown her the sun for the first time in her life. She stares at him like he's just given her a name. She stares at him, blinking, as though he's just given her back her identity, her freedom, breathed life into her, again. She looks at Katsuki like she is staring at the far-off notion of freedom all the numbers had clung to, and in a way, she is. There is no shock collar around her neck, but the skin is torn and scarred in a way that Katsuki knows there used to be. His own neck is raw and red, his hands similarly destroyed. He doesn't care, can't really feel it. They are both—will both be free.

"I'm Tomi. I... I'm not going back to the person I was before this. I've had enough of being chained up. I am just Tomi," she declares, proud and tall and impossibly large next to Katsuki.

Katsuki couldn't hope to understand what that means to her. He doesn't try to. Instead, he slips the keyring to the side clamped around the poker and offers his shredded right hand. "Okay, Just Tomi. Let's go make sure we aren't leaving anyone behind, and then we're out of here."

She takes his hand, and she beams.

They continue down the hall.

"I'm proud of you, Bakugou." Katsuki jolts harshly, blinking rapidly. His head swivels, fighting amidst the pile to find Aizawa's face. He can't even splutter out a question before Aizawa continues, smiling at him. "You're a great hero. You always have been. I'm relieved I hadn't been stupid enough to doubt you, at Kamino. I'm relieved I've never been stupid enough to doubt you."

I've always been proud, he's saying without saying. I've always believed in you. I always will.

Maybe days like these are what he's saved his tears for, all those years. 

They stop at two more doors. '0-4-7' is the next. Inside is an older boy named Kichiro. He has a brand, the same as Tomi. He frowns when he sees hers, but it lightens when he notices the numbers on the brand Katsuki's holding and his lack of marked skin. Kichiro is very nice, but acts all protective as soon as Katsuki and Tomi say they are seven and eight years old respectively. Kichiro says he is fourteen and demands the poker from Katsuki, citing he is taller and thus able to get better headshots in should they come across an 'assailant' (that was the word he used) as the reason he should have it.

When Katsuki doesn't agree, Kichiro negotiates that Katsuki is the key master and in charge of reheating the poker. Katsuki concedes. He really likes Kichiro; no one has ever  negotiated with him when he's not agreeing before. They usually just force him.

"Ignoring that highly concerning tidbit at the end, this is really adorable," Yaoyorozu sighs, clearly trying to lighten the mood some. "It's sweet of that boy to try and protect you and Tomi."

Katsuki hums, remembering the two traumatized kids he'd dragged into the sunlight with him, trying hard not to think about who might've occupied the empty rooms in between them who never made it out. He misses them, sometimes. He wonders if he could find them, see how they're doing now. Check up, make sure everything's okay. They had all seemed so big then, older and larger than him, but looking back he realizes they were the same. Just kids, fighting for their lives.

"Kichiro and Just-Tomi," Katsuki hums as they walk through the empty halls. "Or should I call you 'Just-Kichiro' too? I'm the only one who gave a last name!"

Kichiro smiles indulgently at Katsuki's huffing, but it pulls tight around the edges at his demand for a surname. "Well, I'd prefer if you two just call me Kichiro anyway, but my last name is Kozuke." 

Tomi's eyes get sad and she drifts over to nudge her side into Kichiro's. "If..." she starts, hesitant. "If you're not going back, I'm not either. Maybe... we could camp out together, for a bit." 

Kichiro ruffles Tomi's hair and Katsuki feels a very slight spike of jealousy. They need to stop talking so weirdly! Maybe he wants to give a weird camp-out invite to get headpats too!

He huffs, looking away. Whateverrrr. Katsuki totally doesn't care at ALL. Not a bit. 

He glances at them out of the corner of his eye a second time anyway.

"Katsuki!" Kichiro calls, his voice worried. "Please don't fall behind." Then he moves his hand to Katsuki's shoulder and presses him into his side and Katsuki is suddenly very inclined to keep up. The warmth feels really nice and Katsuki doesn't remember his parents ever doing this when he fell behind walking. Geez, he really wants a sibling! It gets so lonely and boring having no one but himself to keep occupied. 

For a moment, Katsuki opens his mouth. He wants to say, "Maybe I can hide you guys at my house for a little bit?" but that's stupid and childish and his mom might actually hit him for real if she finds TWO kids that aren't even hers in her house, not to mention that Katsuki couldn't bear to leave behind any other kids they might find. 

Katsuki—the current, real one—tries valiantly to force the raging blush down from his face. His most embarrassing, childish thoughts, once more put on display. Thank god he'd had some self-control back then, offering them to stay in his house? Right after his mom had kicked him, one child out for being annoying? He must've been going crazy.

"You were such a sweet kid," Todoroki comments softly.

Sero snickers. "Yeah, what happened?"

Katsuki thwacks him on the top of the head. "Oh, fuck you too asshole," he groans. 

He shuts his mouth and keeps twirling the keys in his right hand, clinging onto Kichiro's pant leg with his left. Tomi makes a grab for Katsuki's hand as she begins talking, explaining what happened from her view and then what she wants to do when they get out of here, but she holds the hurt skin gently so he lets her.

"It's so impressive that you managed to get us all free, Katsuki. Thank you for stopping to pick us up on your way out," Kichiro compliments, ruffling Katsuki's hair again. Katsuki preens under his attention.

"Darn right it's impressive!" he declares, grinning victoriously. "Plus, I had to stop and get you guys or else I wouldn't be a good hero. I'm gonna be the  best hero."

Kichiro nods and he doesn't sound placating or disbelieving or even surprised when he agrees. "I'm sure you will be. You're already off to a good start, with a good heart in your chest. That's important for a hero, Katsuki," he says. "You have to think with your head and your heart, because when you're saving people, you're saving both their heads and their hearts, or else you didn't do it right."

Katsuki hesitates, curling his grip slightly too tight around fabric then wincing and loosening it when it pulls burnt skin. "Did..." he asks in a small voice, "did I save you right?"

Kichiro smiles and that's probably all the assurance Katsuki needs, but he answers anyway. "You did. You know why?" Katsuki shakes his head. Sure, he got Kichiro out of his cell, but that probably only counts as saving his head. "You asked me my name."

"So I have to ask people their names all the time to save their hearts? What if I don't remember all of them? That's a lot of names, can I not be a hero if I forget some?" Katsuki panics, worriedly running through the faces of all the people who have ever introduced themselves to him. He's not good with names at all, and he feels kind of bad about it, but his memory is all taken up by school stuff to remember names! People need to just be named after what they look like, that's a lot easier to remember...

But Kichiro cuts off his spiral, huffing a half-laugh. "No, don't worry, Katsuki. You don't have to remember everyone's names." Katsuki sags with relief. Thank GOODNESS, because he's like... really, really bad. People think he's exaggerating (another spelling word!), but he forgot his first elementary school teacher's name as soon as she stopped wearing her 'welcome' tag and felt too bad to ask in the middle of the year so he always waited until someone else called for her to ask anything because he didn't know how to address her besides 'excuse me' which didn't work that well across the room.

Katsuki sighs, a put-upon thing, at the feeling of Kaminari vibrating with laughter somewhere in the sea of bodies. "Wa-wait," Uraraka sputters, "so it wasn't just a one-off thing with you not caring about us? It's genuinely that hard for you to remember names?" Katsuki's face burns and he grits his teeth, only not hiding his face because Izuku's stupid octopus limbs are chaining his arms to his sides. 

"Well I remember them by now, but I guess it took me a minute andkindofafewsetsofflashcards..." he mumbles, wondering why he said anything as soon as the words left his mouth. He realized at the Sports Festival that he had absolutely no shot of learning his classmates' names just by memory—he didn't hang out with them enough, and even then they barely said each others' names. It just wouldn't stick. Especially since he's established all the nicknames? He couldn't imagine trying to say one of their names and it being the wrong name... mortifying.

So, yes. He resorted to flash cards.

In his defense, they were really helpful! He knows everyone's names now!

Aaaaaaand now everyone is laughing. Marvelous, really. "You can all fuck right off," he grumbles, not really all that put-upon. It's nice to hear them laugh. It feels like they've been shit out of things to laugh about lately, with all that talk of a war coming. Whatever, it's not something that matters. 

But if he doesn't have to know everyone's names, he has to ask, "Why was me asking your name so important then?"

Kichiro's expression does something funny when he looks down at Katsuki, shining, wide, trusting red eyes blinking up at him. It's a harsh but beautiful juxtaposition to the gloomy walls around them, the terrible things they're leaving behind. Like a spider lily, brilliant red unfurling amidst splattered mud.

"Aww!" someone coos, because Katsuki's classmates insist on being awful. "You were so cute!"

Katsuki smacks Sero preemptively, his snicker morphing to a whine. "Boo-hoo, bitch, keep it to yourself," he chides, his grin clear in his voice.

"Well," Kichiro starts, shifting Katsuki's hand from his pant leg so he can hold it instead. Katsuki likes how warm his hand is, but his gut churns when he traces up the skin to see the morphed skin marked 0-4-7. He clings a little tighter to Kichiro's hand. "You see that mark on my arm, I'm sure." Katsuki hums. He doesn't really want to, because it makes him imagine how bad it must've hurt to get—how Kichiro must've screamed like Kimaru did when Katsuki stuck the poker through his head. But he sees it. "That awful man that took us wanted to take our identities, too. Do you know that word, Katsuki? Identity?"

Katsuki's face splits into a grin, because he does actually know that word! "Uh-huh!" he declares confidently. "It means who I am! My  identity is Bakugou Katsuki, a seven-year-old who's gonna be the number one hero! Your identity is Kozuke Kichiro, and, uh... you can be the number two hero, if you want!" he finishes after a moment of debate. Kichiro hadn't said what he wants to be. As an afterthought, he tacks on, "And she's Just Tomi. Or Tomi, I guess. She's gonna be the freest in the world! 'Cause she said she's tired of being chained up, so that makes the most sense."

He must have guessed right, because Tomi and Kichiro both smile super widely, their eyes scrunching up a little bit. "You're pretty smart for a seven-year-old," Tomi comments, breaking her silence. She ruffles his hair, imitating Kichiro and pretending she's so much older. Katsuki sticks his tongue out petulantly but giggles with her when she can't stifle her snorts anymore.

It's weird, to see it all again. It's technically from his view, yeah, but Katsuki didn't... realize how small they all were. It's like he'd barely remembered these moments, this morning, but now they're vivid and seared into his mind as though from the brand in Kichiro's hands. He wonders again where they are now. He wishes he could meet them. Katsuki misses the way they felt like family, drawn so close so quickly after. That. 

He sighs, shakes his head. It's not something he can do much about, now. Maybe it's better to let those things rot.

"She's right, you're very smart. To finish answering your question—that man was trying to take our identities and replace them with what he wanted us to be, the numbers. Being forced to be something you're not isn't very fun, right?" Kichiro asks, and Katsuki thinks very hard about it, his brow furrowing. He thinks about getting shoved around for modelling little kids' clothes for photoshoots and whatever, or his parents trying to superglue his hair into behaving despite both of theirs being just as messy-looking, and decides he does not like being forced to be someone else one bit. 

It's a talent, to be quite honest, that Katsuki can feel Aizawa frown behind him. A 'It's not important' sits waiting on the tip of his tongue, but it goes to waste when Aizawa only sighs deeply. Regardless, he hears the threat of 'we're talking later' in the sound. He very courageously and sacrificially stifles his own heaving sigh. Why must he be beset by emotions like so? It would've been wiser to just keep the stupid USB to himself and wallow in having to actually talk about things so he could exclude. Many details.

But he knows he wouldn't have watched it on his own, and—

Maybe seeing them again is worth it.

"Not fun at all," he concedes.

Kichiro hums. "How do I explain this... you asked my name, which is a way for me to confirm to myself who I am. Even if you didn't mean to, you told me that I'm  me, not 047, by asking my name. You did the same thing with Tomi, when she told you a number. You asked her for her 'actual name', her real identity. That's very important in this case. You saved our hearts."

Katsuki stays quiet, rolling the idea over in his head. He doesn't really understand a hundred percent, but he thinks he gets the general idea. It's like—it's like having a muzzle on, being called a number. Then getting asked your name is like taking it off. They get their speech back, except speech is their identity when it's names.

He's making it more confusing. He resolves to just nod. "So it's different every time? 'Cause I'm not gonna save people from becoming numbers alll the time. There's only so many people who can have that idea, right?"

It sounds childish as soon as it's out of his mouth, but Kichiro humors him. "Yep. Just like you aren't always saving people from the same burning building or the same villain in an alleyway, you'll have to save their hearts in different ways when the situation changes. So... we'll say you just rescued a very scared girl's younger brother from a fire in their apartment building."

"That's very specific," Katsuki interjects with a pout.

"Duuuude," Kirishima whines, sniffling. "You're so manly. And adorable. You're the most manly kid ever."

Katsuki takes his weird compliments with a grain of salt and a dry expression, humming an amused confirmation. "Thanks, Shitty Hair. I'm sure you were a pretty manly kid, too." He should've expected the fake redheaded moron to burst into tears, but he said it anyway. Why on earth does Katsuki surround himself with such... tear-prone people?

"Well, that's because it happened to me. I learned what it meant for a hero to save a head  and a heart that day," Kichiro explains, and Katsuki and Tomi's eyes both widen with awe.

"You have an older sister?!" Tomi cries gleefully, her bright grin showing off a missing tooth at the corner of her mouth that Katsuki hadn't noticed before. "Oooh, what's she like? How old is she? Is she pretty?"

Kichiro's steps stutter, and Katsuki very suddenly realizes that Tomi needs to stop asking questions because they will all be answered in the past tense. "Tomi," he says softly. "Hush, he's telling a story." He wants to sound enthusiastic, but he can't force anything of the sort into his voice at the realization. Tomi's eyes widen, and her mouth clicks shut immediately.

"Oh... I'm sorry," she mumbles. They can all tell what she really means when she says, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"That's alright," Kichiro waves off, because he is far too forgiving for the place they are in. "Anyways, you've rescued this girl's little brother, and the doctors on-site have said he's okay physically. You saved both of their heads, but how would you save their hearts?"

Katsuki narrows his eyes in thought, leaning towards Tomi and whispering to her. It echoes off the walls, but he pays it no mind. Kichiro looks distracted. "Psst, Tomi. Are you gonna be a hero?"

Tomi's face scrunches. "Nuh-uh. I'm gonna be... I'm gonna be an ar-chi-tect." She has to sound the word out slowly, her tongue tripping over the syllables for a moment. "A builder. I'm gonna build a buncha hospitals and skyscrapers and schools and banks and all sorts of pretty stuff. Maybe I'll build houses and fix up the old shrines in the forest, too."

A builder is a cool job. Katsuki likes designing stuff, but buildings seem like a lot of work. Especially skyscrapers? "That's really impressive," he admits, forgoing the harsh whispers. "I know I already said, but I'm gonna be a hero. But I gotta check my answer with you first! Do you think the best way to save their hearts would be to put them back together and then... I dunno, call an ar-chi-tect—" he pauses over the word the same way she does, careful to not mumble over the word— "to fix their apartment?"

Tomi thinks hard about it, before nodding vigorously. "When you save people from burning apartments when you become a hero, you gotta call me. I'll have a super successful building company and I'll fix all the buildings in Japan!"

Katsuki agrees easily, a serious look on his face. "I won't forget to! You have to get a phone number though, so I don't have to wander around Musutafu trying to find you." Tomi gives her approving thumbs-up, so Katsuki turns back to Kichiro. "I'm gonna put 'em back together then call an ar-chi-tect to rebuild their apartment," he announces. Then, tacks on, "And I'll, like, reassure them it's gonna be okay and stuff, 'cause I'm a hero and you gotta believe heroes when they say stuff like that. It'll be my job to make sure that it comes true!"

Kichiro's smile softens into something gooey. "That sounds pretty good to me. You'll be a great hero, Katsuki." It's almost enough to make Katsuki forget about the burning rawness of his neck and palms, clinging to Kichiro and Tomi with one hand each.

An architect. Tomi wanted to be an architect, that's right. She's only a year older than him, so she's still likely in school, but maybe she got into a good trade school. Maybe she's switched her aspirations entirely. Maybe she's pursuing being an author now, or something. Katsuki wonders about Kichiro—he never did mention his dream. Katsuki wonders if he had one. He should be around twenty-two, now. Katsuki wonders what he does, if he's found a dream yet.

"That's so cute and so devastatingly sad," Kaminari mumbles, eyes glued to the screen—little-Katsuki's hands, specifically, as he shifts them around in Tomi's and Kichiro's respective grips to find something comfortable.

Katsuki snorts. "That's a long word. 'M surprised you know it." It's not a genuine jab, Kaminari's smart as any of them to make it to this class. But the idiot still whines and flops down dramatically across, like, three different people, making Sero squawk and jolt away with how dangerously close Kaminari's head comes to thumping down on his. Instead, it's Katsuki's thigh that bears the brunt of the impact, to which he does the appropriate amount of bitching and groaning, but doesn't shove either of the now-two heads away as they resettle around him.

Leeches.

They've walked past open, empty door after open, empty door for ages, now, and they can all finally see the one piece of hulking metal that's clearly an exit. A bit down the way, closer to them, there's one last captive-door—the only other one not swung wide and dusting as far as they've wandered.

'0-1-1, 0-1-0'

"Two numbers?" Tomi asks, peeking to the side as though she'll be able to see through the crack of the door. "That's weird, none of the other doors we walked past had more than one."

Katsuki breaks his hands from theirs, shifting through the keyring. There's not one marked for 011, but there is a 010. He grabs that one, shoving it into the lock. It fits perfectly, sliding all the way in with a  click. He turns it to the left, accidentally jamming it. He has to reach up with both hands to jerk it in the right direction, shaking his hands out with a wince when the click of a lock releasing sounds.

"Rest your hands for a bit, Katsuki," Kichiro suggests gently, stepping towards the door. He grunts slightly as he opens it, the metal thicker than any of their doors and making it harder to jerk ajar. A terrible smell hits all of them, Kichiro the worst. He jerks back his nose scrunching. 

"Eughhh," Tomi whines. "What is that? It smells awful!"

Katsuki's face is similarly twisted as he grimaces.

Now that he thinks about it—Kichiro had never told them what was in those rooms. It couldn't have been a person, or else he wouldn't have ushered them to leave so quickly... Katsuki only wishes he could remember what exactly the rotting had smelled like. He might be able to put a name to it now.

Kichiro blinks harshly, his eyes watering with the stench, and leans his head in the door. It's barely ajar, not leaving any space for the younger kids to peek, but the 'camera' follows his view. It turns slowly into the room, almost sickening as it glides.

Two corpses greet him. One is shoved to the far corner. Bloated and leaking puss and all other manners of fluids, clearly having been dead for a long while now. The other corpse is fresh, looking almost alive.

Almost, if not for the one similarity in both rotting bodies; they're stamped like paper, all over, in the numbers 011 and 010. 

Kichiro's face goes pale. He stumbles back. Katsuki shuffles closer, trying to lean around Kichiro's legs to get a look at what had made him have such a strange reaction. "What's in there?" he asks. "Must be something pretty gross to make that bad of a smell. Does it look as bad as it smells, Kichiro?"

Kichiro shoves Katsuki's face away before he can shove his head inside the door, pushing back a much sneakier Tomi as well.

"Let's—" his voice is shaky. "Let's get outta here, alright kids? There's nothin' important in that room, 's all nasty junk."

Katsuki doesn't like the sound of his voice like that. Kichiro looks sick and terrified and exhausted and way older than fourteen. He bites his lip uncertainly and glances over to Tomi, who's wearing a similar expression. Maybe they can look and figure out how to make him feel better about what he saw? But Kichiro seems really stressed about keeping them away, so it's probably better they just let it be.

Plus, it doesn't hurt to feel the sun on his skin again when they push through the final door.

Katsuki has never been so glad to be warm.

"Oh my god," comes a trembling breath. That seems to be the general consensus, comparable looks of horror spread across all of Katsuki's classmates' faces. He glances out of the corner of his eye at Aizawa, who looks mildly ready to puke despite probably having seen this already. In all fairness, seeing the mangled, rotting corpses of children who could be no older than twelve does that to a person.

Katsuki himself feels sick and aching in a way he's never known before.

The kidnapping, Kimaru himself, had been terrifying, sure. Katsuki was petrified of the shock collar and petrified by the prospect of being branded and Kimaru's screams as he died (as Katsuki killed him) haunted his nightmares and daydreams for years after the fact.

But seeing those little kids, those preteens, barely five years older than Katsuki was at the time. It makes the threat Kimaru posed all the realer—that man was insane and could have done far more terrible things to Katsuki than the literal torture he already underwent.

His skull feels like it's being stabbed through and Katsuki tries very hard to avoid a repeat performance of his puke-prelude to the last USB, especially with two people's heads on his lap and three in blast range, with Izuku's head hanging over his shoulder like that. How the same three morons had managed to bully their way close to him amidst The Pile, he couldn't say. He tries to focus on the humor of it; god, how Sero would whine about his perfect hair being ruined forever if a single drop of vomit got near it.

Yeah, humor.

It's funny.

"We have to report this to the police," Kichiro says finally. They're walking, kind of without direction. Katsuki is trying to lead them vaguely to the area of his house (surely Mama will take him back by now, it has to have been around a week, his school break might already be up) but he's not sure how successful he is.

"I don't wanna be part of it. I don't have... I'm not marked at all from it. Not stuff that's not gonna go away, anyway. I can—I just wanna forget about it. Plus, I'm gonna get in trouble if the police find out why I was out that late anyways," Katsuki mumbles, suddenly finding the ground very interesting.

Kichiro sighs. "Katsuki, you—listen, I don't know the details, but you killed Kimaru, right?" His voice is heavy and sad, but it's not trembling or terrified anymore so Katsuki settles for it.

It doesn't help stop the churning of guilt in his gut. Kimaru was a terrible, horrible man, but Katsuki took his  life. Brutally. But... he freed Tomi and Kichiro. That's... that's something he'll take credit for. "I did. I burned through his forehead into his brain with the brand."

Why did he tack on the details? Kichiro didn't need to know, now he'll—

"Thank you for telling me," he says. "Thank you for doing that. Killing is bad, but you saved more lives than rescuing us cost. You... did a good thing, Katsuki."

Oh, okay. I did a good thing. I... I'm glad.

"But we need something to tell the police."

"Tell them Kimaru went crazy and killed himself," Tomi suggests, voice far too cheerful for an eight-year-old discussing what she is. She doesn't seem all too bothered by this.

"They aren't gonna believe that, Tomi, the police aren't that dumb," Katsuki grumbles. "'Least they're not s'posed to be."

"Katsuki's right, Tomi," Kichiro agrees sadly. "We have the murder weapon, with our fingerprints all over it, so we need to tell the truth about him having a poker stuck through his head. And any other injuries that may have occurred during Katsuki's escape."

Katsuki's eyes flash with an idea. "We can tell them I escaped!" Both Kichiro and Tomi send him an odd look, so he elaborates. "Say, say number forty-nine escaped, so Kimaru thinks he's gonna get told on and goes crazy and lets you all out before hiding in 049's cell, scratching his face before stabbing himself in the head with the brand he was gonna use on the kid! Or something like that, 'cause you weren't actually there!"

Kichiro sends him another proud smile, ruffling his hair. "You're really a little genius, aren't ya?" he asks fondly. It's a rhetorical question, Katsuki knows, but he nods proudly anyway.

Tomi elbows him in the side, grinning madly. "We're gonna be the best hero-builder duo ever, dude! Keep being smart, but I'll be smarter!" she challenges. "Then we'll be the smartest ever, together."

"Psh, as if I'd ever be second place!" he pokes back, sticking his tongue out.

"Well, that's worryingly elaborate for a seven-year-old to come up with out of nowhere," Shoji comments mildly, not glancing at the real Katsuki in favor of staring hard at the onscreen-Katsuki as though it would reveal all the machinations of his mind. This USB has been far less prying into his thoughts, which Katsuki has enjoyed. It's all sort of hazy, but he doesn't remember thinking anything his classmates would be all too pleased to hear.

He shrugs. "I mean, graphically imagining gory scenarios is sort of my talent. It comes with the territory," he explains flippantly. He thinks it'd been Hagakure to point it out last time—how dead set his brain was on showing him the worst possible outcomes. He's seen enough corpses to know his mind is usually pretty accurate in those descriptions.

Kichiro cuts off their friendly ribbing after a little bit, setting a hand between Katsuki's shoulder blades to steady him when he stumbles over piece of junk or other. "Katsuki, you said you didn't want to go to the police with us. Is there somewhere we can leave you where you'll be safe?"

Of course his first thought should be his house, but Katsuki's brain trips over the word 'safe' for a moment. He thinks of muzzles and raised hands and screaming and rain. He thinks of walking with his hands held carefully in Kichiro's and Tomi's, Kichiro half a step ahead and poised to protect them. That had felt safe. His house was... not that. But it's his house, where his parents are. He needs to stop being childish about this.

An address spills past his lips without thought. "'S my house. I've been gone for probably a week now, but I doubt they told the police I was missing yet 'cause I'm on break from school." He doesn't catch the looks Kichiro and Tomi (whose eyes suddenly look much older, so much sadder) direct at him, then each other.

Kimaru went after a very specific type of child; one who wouldn't be missed.

Kichiro opens his mouth, searching for words, but comes up empty and closes it with a sigh. Katsuki looks up at him with an amused grin. "You're gonna catch flies if you do that too often, Kichiro," he teases. Kichiro just huffs soft laughter with him, shaking his head and averting his eyes.

"We'll walk you there, alright?" he asks. "Just to make sure you get there alright."

Katsuki agrees.

They're at his door far too soon. Katsuki curls his hand into a fist to knock, but he holds it too tight and it burns. He lets his fist fall open with a harsh breath from his nose, biting his lip harshly and blinking away tears. "Can you-can you ring the doorbell, Kichiro?" Katsuki isn't tall enough to reach it without straining yet, and he's too tired to try.

"Okay," Kichiro says with his voice, despite his eyes screaming that he doesn't want to at all. His hand jerks as though dragged to the doorbell, slamming it a bit harder than necessary.

This means—they all know what this means. "You can't stay here," Katsuki admits, his voice trembling. 

Kichiro sighs, nodding reluctantly. "It's time for goodbyes. But Katsuki," and here he kneels in front of Katsuki, hands resting atop hitching shoulders, "you can always look for us, okay? We'll be around until we find each other again, and by then we'll all have phones and be able to call all the time."

Tears are bubbling up and streaking down his cheeks and Katsuki hates goodbyes but there's crashing behind him, inside his house, and it's getting closer. Tomi steps up, her expression furiously determined but just as tear-stricken. "And I'll have the best building company in the world and you'll be the number one hero, okay? And then you'll have to see me all the time because apartments burn down more often than you think."

Everything is shaking—his voice, his hands. "I don't want to wait that long," Katsuki admits, squeezing his eyes shut and clinging to his own shirt to prevent himself from reaching out to grab them to pull them close, hold them with him forever.

Will he have to wait that long to see them? He's already waited forever. And that's Tomi—what about Kichiro? Katsuki has no idea where to look. Suddenly, the trembling tears of little-Katsuki don't feel all that far away and Katsuki feels hot streaks down his own face. He stifles shaking breaths in his hands, wishing he could remember the feeling of his hands it theirs. He laces his own fingers together in some pathetic attempt to imitate it, but it doesn't do much. 

And it-it's fine. It has to be fine.

Kichiro gathers both him and Tomi up in a hug, his arms so much larger than them at twice Katsuki's age. "We'll find each other," he promises in a whisper. His fingers thread into Katsuki's hair, gentle. "Just remember our names."

Katsuki lets his eyes slide shut again, blurry with tears, as the warmth disappears near-silently. When he blinks them open again, he's standing at his front door alone.

The thing cracks open. Katsuki's dad's head pokes out, looking around far too high to notice Katsuki. "Dad," he calls, having scrubbed the tears from his eyes. He doesn't realize the change in address to something so much less familiar; Masaru doesn't acknowledge it.

The door pushes wide when his dad notices who it is, ushering Katsuki inside with a teary voice. Katsuki doesn't like it—he hates to hear his dad sound so sad. 

"God," Mina breathes, "you turned out so fucking kind despite the people who raised you."

Tenya hums somewhere close to Katsuki's ear in the pile. "You really... are far more compassionate than people give you credit for, and you continue to be despite that."

"'S more than I could bother with," Jirou admits with a dry grin, the corners of her droopy eyes crinkling slightly. "I'd just be an asshole through and through at that point."

Katsuki shoves her shoulder huffily and doesn't bother hiding the upwards tug of his lips. This must be what comes after the emotional vulnerability. Is it comfort or closeness? Katsuki isn't quite sure. He's very fond of it regardless. 

He shuffles through the threshold, filthy and aching, and he hardly realizes the way he's curling in on himself. Unnoticeable and small, tucked out of sight before his mom deems him bothersome. His shoulders hunch and he lets his fingers hang in loose fists because he's too big to be clutching his own shirt like Izuku still does when he's nervous.

Katsuki can hear his mother's breath hitch wetly. The floor trembles slightly under the weight of her stumbling footsteps and jolts with the impact of her knees hitting the floor. Katsuki can't help the minute flinch, though he's not sure if he was startled by the sudden closeness of her outstretched arms or the noise of her fall. Manicured nails pressed to lithe hands are reaching, grabbing, pulling, and suddenly his face is pressed into the shaking juncture of neck and hitching shoulders.

Her hand is on the back of his neck, pressing hard. She probably didn't notice the ruined skin, but it burns badly. It brings tears to his eyes and he starts sniffling in tandem with both his parents. Katsuki doesn't dare utter a word; the quiet is precarious and gentle in a way he never remembers his house being, and even poisoned with pain he wants to relish in these moments. 

"Oh, Katsuki," she weeps into his matted hair. She'd normally never let him in the house so dirty, telling him to hose off at Auntie Inko's before getting her flooring gross. "My baby, my Katsuki. I'm so, so sorry," she cries, and Katsuki has no memories of his mother crying before this. "I'm so terrible to you, I never should've done that. Please forgive me Katsuki, I'm so sorry."

Uraraka clicks her tongue and the sound holds a kind of contempt Katsuki didn't know Uraraka could produce. "That's..." she starts, and sighs. She shakes her head, her impossibly bouncy hair shaking cheerfully along with her, a funny contrast to her grave expression. "There's no forgiving that—with or without everything that happened as a result of it. It's good to say sorry, I guess, but..." She can't seem to find the words to finish her thought.

"But it's inexcusable in the end," Aizawa summarizes. Uraraka nods heavily.

Little Katsuki never got the memo.

Katsuki's mom has never apologized to him before. Not like this. Not ever, he's pretty sure, but he doesn't have the best memory sometimes.

And she's crying like she's never cried before and she's holding Katsuki like something she loves and... "I forgive you, Ma-Mom." He tries out the new name on his tongue. His mom wanted him to stop being so childish, so things like 'Mama' and 'Baba' should probably get changed to the more grown-up version, right?

Just like his dad, Katsuki's mom doesn't notice the way he trips over his words or the way he refers to her. Maybe they're both secretly relieved they don't have to have him calling after them like a little toddler anymore. He plows on, because his mom hasn't stopped crying and his dad isn't much better, so he has to reassure them. He really hates seeing his parents cry. "I understand." He doesn't. Why did she say those things to him? Why did she have to kick him out? Why did he have to get caught and hurt and mistreated? Why did he have to kill Kimaru? Why did it come down to his life or Katsuki's? Why can't he stay with Kichiro and Tomi forever? Why does he have to come back to this cold house with empty walls and reassure his parents when he's doing nothing but hurting, so bad he can barely breathe?

It doesn't matter, because Katsuki pretends he understands. He has to.

"Nothing happened." My whole body aches. "I'm fine," he lies. "I missed you." I want Kichiro and Tomi back. "But that's okay, because I'm back now." Katsuki will never feel safe again.

He lies and lies and lies and his parents believe all of it and soon their tears have dried up and his mother's hands are steady again and she ruffles his hair. It doesn't bring any of the warm feelings Kichiro's hand did, for some reason. It only makes Katsuki shrink away.

His mom doesn't look hard at him long enough to notice. "Go take a bath, kid," she says. Could her voice be described as soft? She's not yelling. That feels like the same thing. Katsuki lumbers up the stairs. Neither of his parents follow or ask if he wants to borrow one of Dad's old radios to listen to music while he washes, so he doesn't ask. He shuts the door behind him and starts the water.

"I really hope we aren't about to see a little kid get undressed..." Sero comments, wrinkling his nose. 

Aizawa sighs, but doesn't chide Sero. He's only trying to lighten the atmosphere. "No," he replies, confirming Katsuki's suspicions that he'd watched the tape before. His voice gets heavier. "It'll cut to a week later, in a moment."

On cue, the screen cuts black.

ONE WEEK LATER, it reads in small white letters. 

There's a note on the fridge when Katsuki goes downstairs (to make himself breakfast, because he can reach the stovetop on the stool now, so he's old enough).

Katsuki, it reads.

Your mother and I have an important conference to attend for the company, I'm sure you understand our absence. We'll be gone for the next two weeks, but make sure you're getting to school on time every day! Call them to let them know if you're staying home sick, but don't take unnecessary days off. Don't leave the house except for going to school—you can use my computer to order groceries delivered. There's plenty of money on the account. Don't order junk food! Tell little Izuku if you need anything, he can let Inko know and she'll help you.

Bye!

Dad.

Katsuki scans the letter again, thinking he'd missed something.

'Will be gone... don't do, don't do... tell Inko... bye, Dad.' That's... it. No signature or message or P.S. from Mom, even when he checks the other side.

And not a trace of an 'I love you' written anywhere.

The house is so quiet, and so, so lonely.

"I understand," Katsuki lies to the empty air. He doesn't. "I forgive you."

He doesn't think he's lying, but the words don't taste like the truth on his tongue.

Click!

The screen goes black. Katsuki can't help his dry snort. "What a depressing fucking way to end that," he remarks. 

"I'm learning that statement is accurate to most of your life," Tenya snips back, equally as dry. "Christ, no wonder you're so paranoid." Katsuki squawks in offense, jolting around to shove at Tenya.

"I am not paranoid you dickhead! It is founded concern!"

"You thought the first box was a bomb."

"It very well could have been..!" he screeches, which only earns him a flat look.

"In his defense," Aizawa says, sounding far too amused, "it very well could have been."

"Ha!"

Conveniently cutting off whatever smartass response Tenya could have come up with and the murmurs around them that were just starting up, Aizawa's phone rings loudly. A short, one-note text tone followed by the default ring for a phone call.

"Boringgg..." he thinks he hears Mina groan as Aizawa picks up the phone to answer it.

"Tsukauchi?" he asks. The name feels familiar. If Katsuki's not wrong, he's one of the detectives who was involved in the Kamino case. He wasn't terrible, unlike some of the people in the Musutafu station. "Yes, that was him. Looks are similar?" A string of silence, presumably filled by Tsukauchi speaking. "I'm in the room with my class right now. I don't have anyone to watch them to step into the hall, so just tell me now. You aren't on speaker, and I'm sure they're curious by now." Another pause, succeeded by a heavy sigh. "No, I haven't told him. Yes, I will. Anything on the second-? Oh, alright. Sure, just-just a moment, I'll be back."

Aizawa examines them with flat eyes. "Are you all feeling responsible today?"

"Aizawa-sensei, I can watch the class while you—" Tenya offers, already disentangling himself from the few bodies he hadn't managed to avoid being fused with. 

A shake of the head cuts him off. "No, it's fine. I just need to talk to Bakugou, but if you aren't in an eavesdropping mood we can just talk at my desk. It's nothing lengthy."

Well, that doesn't make Katsuki nervous at all. Fuck Aizawa for being so goddamn mysterious and courteous of privacy. It's not like Katsuki has much of that left, at this point. Especially if more of these USB tapes show up.

Not the point, brain.

"I don't really care either way," he interjects. "Most of my personal shit has literally just been shown, so... not much more to divulge." Aizawa looks like he's put up a valiant, losing fight against his twitching eye, but he gets up and gestures for Katsuki to follow him. Katsuki, finally released from Izuku's octopus cling—who had been awfully quiet, he should probably check up on that later—does.

"So..?" he asks, his voice low.

Aizawa puts up a finger, one moment. He raises the phone back to his ear. "Okay, Tsukauchi, I'm back, and Bakugou is ready to talk to you." A brief pause. Aizawa's hand moves as if to surrender his phone to Katsuki, but jerks it back a second later. He blinks, his eyes widening incrementally. "You... have him on the line..?" he asks. It comes out flatter than a question, but his disbelief is clear. 

He sighs for the ten-millionth time. "Here," he relents finally, shoving the phone at Katsuki.

He takes it with hesitance. "Um.. Detective Tsukauchi..?" he half-asks half-greets with awkward hesitance. "Uh, you worked on Kamino, right? It's, um, Bakugou Katsuki."

Instead of something similar to his vague memory of the detective's voice, it's a smoother, younger, quieter thing that greets him. It comes out on a breath, awed disbelief in their tone. "Katsuki?" they ask quietly. "Is-is that you?"

Katsuki is pretty sure his heart stops in his chest for a brief moment. He blames how feeble his voice comes out entirely on his shock. "Kichiro?" It's tentative, afraid. "Kichiro? It's, yeah, it's Katsuki."

For a moment, neither of them speak. Tsukauchi is probably still in the middle of the line, but any awkward thought of the detective overhearing this is overruled by the realization that he's talking to Kichiro. He's alive, and safe, and doing something legal (thank god) given his active interaction with a legal worker. Unless— "You, you're not, like, in prison or anything, right?"

It draws a startled laugh from Kichiro, the same sound as it had been eight years ago, now. "No, I'm not in prison, Katsuki. What brought you to that conclusion?"

It suddenly felt like a little silly of a concern. Katsuki's ears burn red and he shrugs, but quickly remembers Kichiro can't see him. "You never told Tomi and I what you wanted to be. Just wanted to make sure it wasn't something crazy."

"You've turned into such a worrywart, hmm?" Kichiro teases, and Katsuki allows himself a breathless laugh. This is real. He can't believe this is real. He's so, so glad he let Aizawa see this tape. He's so grateful for his teacher. "Well, I don't have to look far to see what you've been up to. Such a trouble magnet, even in your teens." And then the reality of it crashes down on him. Kichiro is not in fact in prison and thus has access to all the articles saying terrible things about him and there is a slight chance Kichiro is convinced Katsuki turned evil and hates him.

As usual, his fears are sliced through in half a second. "I'm really proud of you, kid. You're shaping up into a really good hero. I know the media doesn't show us all of it, but I've managed to dig up some pretty damning footage of you being a great hero. Saving heads and hearts, just like this old man taught you."

Katsuki barks a harsh laugh then, the thing sounding wet to his own ears. "Oh," is all he can say. "I'm glad you think so."

He has so many questions. So many things to tell him. But, the most important needs to get out of the way first; "What-what are you doing now? Where are you? Can we-can we meet, sometime? In person? I—" his voice breaks, and he has to do a weird cough-laugh to fix it. "I have a phone, now. We can call all the time, I remembered your name."

"Yeah?" Kichiro's voice is trembling and wet, but it's not something Katsuki dreads anymore. "Well, I'm shooting for number two, like you said I could. Go by Dollface, nowadays. Saved a brother and sister from a burning apartment a few months ago. I thought of you kids."

Katsuki's breath hitches. "I saw that on the news, I think," he says softly, as though that will do anything to hide the way his words choke and rattle. "I thought of you too. Thought your damn hero costume looked familiar. Shitty gas mask had me second-guessing myself. I thought, I thought I couldn't possibly have been that lucky, to find you like that. I guess I'm still stupid."

"You're no such thing, young man," Kichiro says, and it's not even a decade between them but Katsuki feels so much younger than him again, remembers the warmth of a hand mussing his hair and the feeling of being small. 

He laughs quietly. "Okay. I can't be stupid, or else Tomi and I won't be the smartest together and she'll kill me," he laments.

"Damn right I will, punk," another voice cuts through the line, and Kichiro and Katsuki gasp sharply at the same time. 

"Tomi?!" he calls, far louder than he meant. He feels the curious eyes of his classmates on him, Aizawa's politely averted gaze more conscious, and quiets his voice. "Tomi, holy shit? Is, is that you? Fuck, it's Katsuki, hi..! Ki-Kichiro's on the line, too, oh my god. H-hey."

His mouth is moving without permission, blabbering anything that comes to mind because the three of them are together again, holy shit. The three of them are together and they're all alive and— "Are you in trade school?" he asks, once Kichiro has stuttered out his own greetings.

Tomi laughs disbelievingly. Her voice is sharper than it was as an eight-year-old, but it's still a nice sound. Katsuki wonders how her smile looks now, how her face might've changed. "I can't believe you remembered that, you little shit. Yeah," and her voice softens abruptly. It's fitting, for what little glimpse of her personality Katsuki had. "Yeah, I'm in a pretty good architecture program. You're no slacker yourself, you little UA brat. Itty bitty first year, already leagues ahead our bumbling moronic pro heroes. Not you, 'course, Kichi."

"Gee, thanks," Kichiro snarks dryly. His amusement is evident.

"Always welcome!"

"Hey," Katsuki cuts in. "Are you both still-still in Musutafu?"

It's quiet for a long moment, and he almost fears the worst. Then Tomi breaks the silence, shit-eating grin evident in her tone. "Aw, the baby of the group misses us!" she coos teasingly.

Katsuki scowls. "Never-fucking-mind, I don't want to see you ever again."

Kichiro cries out, mock-devastated. "Katsuki! How could you wound your old man like this?! I miss you! We gotta meet up sometime, screw Tomi!"

To which she takes offense, squawking some half-baked retort that'd never land well with anyone else. But Kichiro is amazing, so he plays along. Soon they've devolved into petty squabbling of which Katsuki gladly takes part, grinning widely. He drops to sit on the ground, tucking his chin over his knees and pulling the phone close, basking in whatever the feeling that dumps onto him like a plague is. He wonders if this is how it feels to have siblings, and wishes again that he wasn't an only child. Or maybe that he'd brought Kichiro and Tomi with him to his nice, big house and hidden them away the rare times his parents were home, because even he's not as selfish as to wish his mother's ire on some poor, nonexistent child.

At some point he scribbles down two phone numbers and lists off his own and they're all talking about nothing and Tomi is calling Kichiro an old fart for not having a Discord account they can talk on and he's crying and they're crying too and he's hung up and Tsukauchi is off the phone and Aizawa is at his side but he's so happy. He's so happy that it aches, making his bones rattle and his soul tear and his eyes bubble over with little wet droplets of his love.

And then there are the bodies of Class 1-A and phone numbers and an address in his pocket and he is still sobbing and there are voices he cherishes and Katsuki realizes he has found his family. He has found home.

He forgives them.

He understands.

He is not lying, this time.