Chapter Text
It was freezing cold outside; every step he took felt heavy with the old boots on his feet, and the sound of the snow being stepped on became increasingly unbearable after walking on the snowy ground for an hour.
He had been walking for maybe an hour with firewood in his calloused, splinter-filled hands. It was December, and winter had arrived at his home with a strong blizzard threatening the old clothes he was wearing.
Katsuki understood that the clothes he had at the moment wouldn’t last another winter next year since they were too worn out, but it was his only option this year. He would have to manage during the summer to pay for warm clothes, decent food, and the housing where he was living.
Arriving home, he found only the same crap as always—the faded, discolored wood of his front door. Grabbing the doorknob to enter his home, he saw that his living room was still a mess, full of papers he would have to organize soon.
With a long sigh, he sat on the floor trying to find a comfortable position, and while pretending to be patient, he went through the papers and found the usual: letters, notices, announcements.
Notices?
Katsuki really hated this shit. Suddenly, he felt the weight of having gone three days without being able to sleep, eat properly, or bathe in a decent place—and it all just kept piling up! What kind of crap was he living in?
With a heavy heart, he rummaged through the papers on the table and let them fall to the floor, thinking about how miserable it was to come across a red notice letter from his landlord right after a long day of work, which only meant that his last chance to pay the rent and spend the holidays at home had vanished with a simple hypocritical writing from his stupid landlord that probably said something like:
“Good evening, Mr. Bakugo! I hope I’m not causing you any inconvenience this holiday season, but your deadline for paying your accommodation in this apartment has passed, and I have no other choice but to evict you. I hope you don’t get upset with this message at this time of year, but if you really cannot pay for the apartment I am renting to you, I need you to leave.
Merry Christmas — your landlord, Hisashi”
After a long sigh that sounded more like a huff, he could see on the floor an old, faded calendar, worn from being near the dust and unused on the ground alongside the other scattered papers. Katsuki picked it up, and as he held it, he noticed the date.
December 21st
Today marked the sixth anniversary of his mother’s death.
Katsuki let out a growl, got up from the floor, and instead of picking up the papers, he simply walked toward the bathtub. He couldn’t bring himself to think about the fact that he had been living in the same dump for two years and was about to be evicted at the worst time of the year—or how he still couldn’t comprehend that six long years had already passed since his mother’s death, and he hadn’t even realized it. It was horrible to think that he had really forgotten Mitsuki’s anniversary, though he still felt how that memory (trauma) faded a little with each new problem that had appeared since that date.
He vaguely remembered that when Katsuki Bakugo was eleven years old, his mother began suffering from lung cancer. Both Masaru Bakugo and Katsuki endured the pain, since Masaru and Mitsuki had been married for sixteen years. Masaru, with the deep love he had for Mitsuki, decided to care for her throughout that horrible illness, putting aside the connections and friendships they had with other people so that they could both take care of Mitsuki full-time.
Katsuki began taking jobs where he could clean other people’s houses or walk his neighbors’ dogs when he was twelve, since with his father caring for his mother and all of his father’s income going straight to Mitsuki’s expensive treatments, there were times when Katsuki couldn’t afford to eat three full meals a day. Unfortunately, when Katsuki was fourteen, Mitsuki passed away, and Masaru fell into a deep depression.
Katsuki had few memories left of that day; he only remembered his mother and father two days before the tragedy, placing the Christmas tree and the extra decorations. It was the only month in which he could have a gift of his choosing, since it would be courtesy of Santa Claus. (Mitsuki had secretly battled behind Katsuki’s back with Masaru so that for just one month they wouldn’t have to pay such expensive treatments and could give their son a gift, keeping the home environment from being too tense during the holidays.)
And there was 14-year-old Katsuki, writing a letter to Santa Claus on December 19th, scribbling with somewhat messy handwriting on a slightly crumpled piece of paper, asking for a simple black bicycle with orange ‘X’s so Masaru could teach him how to ride. He wanted to connect with his father because ever since his mother had been diagnosed with that horrible terminal illness, Masaru had completely ignored those kinds of moments that parents and children are supposed to share.
Masaru also cut off or interrupted mother-and-child moments between Mitsuki and Katsuki with the same excuse: “Your mother should be resting; she’s sick.” Though Katsuki was still very young to fully understand everything, he realized that his father was monopolizing his mother, spending time just the two of them, and completely forgetting the 14-year-old boy at home with them.
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On December 21st, four years ago, he had just gotten out of bed, brushed his teeth, and went straight to the kitchen to make the cookies his mother had promised they would bake together. Bakugo had in mind to make a flower design, which his mother loved—they had a garden full of flowers!
Katsuki dragged his tired feet down the hallway, tapping his head to wake himself up. Despite his exhaustion, he was very happy to cook with his mother, since normally she was lying in bed and he couldn’t spend time with her because his father always had an excuse to forbid him from being with her. Katsuki had been prohibited from entering his parents’ room since he was little, and now that Mitsuki was sick, it was even worse. He never questioned it, but he never understood it either.
Upon reaching the kitchen, he found the place completely empty, with no breakfast prepared, which confused him since his father always made him breakfast early. Maybe he had overslept or gone with Mitsuki to a medical checkup.
Katsuki moved around the kitchen, opening drawers and taking out ingredients for a simple breakfast as his mother had taught him months ago when Masaru was working.
After eating, he felt an empty, strange feeling—maybe because it was already 8 a.m. and no one had woken up yet. He thought that maybe yesterday, since he had gone to bed early, his parents had taken the chance to be alone and watch a movie, as there were some snacks scattered on the couch and oddly some on the floor, making the place look messy. This surprised him even more, since Mitsuki, despite being physically weak from her illness, was known for her strong, perfectionist character and would never leave the living room in such disarray. Katsuki thought perhaps his mother had fallen asleep during the movie and his father had carried her to bed at night.
He decided he should tidy up and clean the mess of food on the floor, so he began to clean.
After tidying up and cleaning, he sat on the couch to watch a long movie, waiting for a new sign from his parents. As unsurprisingly happened sometimes when Mitsuki had a hospital appointment, they left early without saying goodbye to Katsuki.
A few hours later, his father arrived, slamming the living room door so hard it could have been a thunderclap if it had been just a bit stronger. He looked completely offended when he saw Bakugo on the couch enjoying curry at noon. With bloodshot, swollen eyes and a foggy gaze, Masaru made Katsuki suddenly feel a pang of fear and worry.
Katsuki went straight to where Masaru was, leaving his food half-eaten, nearly tripping as he tried to catch up with his father, who kept walking, ignoring his worried son’s desperation. Bakugo kept shaking his father’s shoulder and asking what was wrong, but Masaru continued past him without looking at his face.
Bakugo scolded his father as he pursued him, but Masaru seemed to be heading to the room he shared with Mitsuki.
Increasingly confused, Katsuki yelled at his father to explain why he was ignoring him or where his mother was. Feeling completely lost, he grabbed Masaru’s shoulder and shook him so his father would turn and look him in the eyes. He wanted to see those eyes full of love, the same ones that had always looked at his mother with devotion or at him with pride and affection before his mother’s illness came to light.
For a brief moment, his father stopped walking and turned to see the red irises of his son Katsuki—identical to Mitsuki’s—and said:
–Your mother is dead—Masaru let out a low, almost unintelligible growl that sounded unwilling to be accepted.
Katsuki thinks he had never paid so much attention to the message his father had just given him. They had been anticipating that something like this might happen for three years, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon. That day, all he remembers is the look of hatred and contempt his father gave him as he turned his body to deliver the news.
His father disappeared down the hallway doors, leaving a 14-year-old boy alone without his father’s support as he absorbed the blow that his mother was no longer with them.
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Three days had passed; it was Christmas Eve, and his father still hadn’t spoken to him, and Katsuki still didn’t understand why.
He didn’t pay much attention to that either, as he was grieving in a not-so-healthy way—he didn’t get up to eat, and his father neither brought him food nor made anything for him.
He still didn’t understand what had happened, not even how things had unfolded, and he couldn’t accept the fact that his mother was no longer with them.
That same afternoon on December 24th, although Katsuki had no desire to come down and celebrate Christmas without his mother, he felt a heavy urge to at least spend the holiday with his father, craving someone’s company in a low point of his life—someone, like his father, who would understand that Mitsuki had been someone important to him.
Dragging his feet down the stairs and along the white hallway, a strange emptiness and loneliness twisted in his gut as he reached the kitchen, still decorated, and just as it had been that morning when his mother had died—and he hadn’t even had a clue.
He entered the kitchen and found his father on the living room sofa, making calls that seemed to be about his mother’s wake. He noticed the porch—the only place without Christmas decorations—was fully set up with photos of his mother and a table where her coffin would be placed. Katsuki still didn’t understand how it had happened, and his father still hadn’t spoken to him, much less looked at him. It seemed that in the few times their paths crossed, Masaru truly ignored him in a contemptible way, as if being near Katsuki disgusted him.
There was 14-year-old Katsuki, making lunch, deciding to make one for Masaru, hoping it might break the icy barrier of his father and give them a chance to vent and spend some time together consoling each other. Coming from the blond boy, it was extremely embarrassing, and he could feel his pale face heating with a blush.
Masaru came into the kitchen to make his own coffee, completely ignoring the breakfast his son had made. Katsuki tried to call him, but his father seemed to build an even higher wall between them as he passed by, leaving Katsuki alone at the table on Christmas Eve, just after the recent death of his mother.
This infuriated Katsuki. What the hell was wrong with his father? He couldn’t even look him in the eye. Bakugo wasn’t known for his patience, and the more he saw his father ignore him, the angrier he got. That small cup of patience was filling up fast and seemed ready to overflow.
Katsuki huffed in frustration, leaving his breakfast half-eaten, and stood up abruptly, determined to find his father and get some answers.
He wanted at least a reason why his father was ignoring him, or to know how his mother had died, what her last words had been, or at least whether Mitsuki had thought of him in her final moments. But when he had gathered the courage to confront his father, Masaru had disappeared from the kitchen—and from the hallway leading to the front door.
With a long sigh, Katsuki decided to do something he hadn’t done since his mother got sick:
Enter his parents’ room.
Ever since his mother had been diagnosed with that horrible illness, his parents had forbidden him from entering the room they shared. Katsuki couldn’t spend time with Mitsuki, as Masaru wouldn’t allow him near her. Incredible, right? His father had been an egotistical jerk whose only goal seemed to be monopolizing Mitsuki during the three years she was sick, and Katsuki still couldn’t understand the reason behind such a stupid decision.
Katsuki stomped angrily, getting closer and closer to that damned room, cursing all the way. When he reached the door, he raised his hand and slammed it open with a loud crash. Bakugo thought that if his father had been anywhere in the house, no matter how far, he would have heard the commotion.
For that reason, Katsuki decided to take a deep breath and close his eyes, trying to dissipate the hate, confusion, and that small, lingering feeling of being small and alone, like a distant wind brushing against the back of his neck.
But as he walked around the room, he noticed the pastel pink decorative wall clock, which read exactly noon. This could only mean that maybe his father had gone to bring his mother’s body and pay for everything at the funeral home, and perhaps he would return by four in the afternoon to arrange everything. Katsuki had to figure it out because, in case it wasn’t obvious, his father wasn’t talking to him.
Masaru had built an indestructible wall between them, and Katsuki didn’t have time to resolve that doubt. He wanted to know why, from one day to the next, his mother had simply stopped breathing. As he searched, pulling papers from drawers and clothes from closets, he found nothing but his father’s stupid old computer.
He really didn’t want to open such a dilapidated thing, but curiosity got the better of him. And since he still had a few hours before his father returned, if he didn’t find anything useful there, he could continue searching elsewhere.
When he opened it, there was no password, which didn’t even surprise him. Truly, his parents were completely stupid—well… just his father now that his mother was gone.
What he didn’t expect was to find seventeen open pages with websites about foster families or orphanages for 14 year old teenagers.
What
the
fuck.
Katsuki felt bile rise in his throat and his heart drop into his stomach. He thinks he felt a tear roll down his cheek, then another, and then hundreds more. He felt suffocated in himself. That small wind of loneliness now felt like a storm, and he felt small, as if the world had shrunk into that tiny room, dark except for the glow of the screen, a naked representation of himself expressing the abandonment he felt through that luminous display.
With his heart racing a thousand miles per hour, he slammed the computer shut and ran to his room with it in his arms, leaving the mess of his parents’ room for anyone who might enter to see, possibly earning a reprimand—but he didn’t care anymore. His head was spinning; he felt the sky darkening as he sensed the room shrinking. He felt eleven again, the day he was told his mother had cancer. His mind was frozen, and the obvious thought that his father might send him to a foster home was unbearable—he could see that his father hadn’t even tried to place him somewhere decent.
How is it possible for someone to be so cruel to a 14 year old child? To ignore him, tell him his mother was dead, and leave seventeen pages about orphanages open on the computer, knowing his son might see them?
Then he felt his hyperventilation slow as a barely warm hand rested on his shoulder. At this point, Katsuki was so overwhelmed by sensations that he could feel the hand pressing against him with little care, almost as if he were an obstacle in the way of the person touching him.
That unknown figure Bakugo sensed behind him was like a black stain, seemingly impatient with Katsuki’s lack of physical or verbal response. The last thing Katsuki felt was the cold floor of his room pressing uncomfortably against his body.
–You’ve made a mess in my room—Masaru growled, hostilely. It was a murmured threat between his teeth that Katsuki barely understood and probably still didn’t fully grasp. He truly believed he had lost track of how long he’d been sitting on the floor in silence, staring blankly. He didn’t understand. When had his father decided to let him go? Why had his mother left him alone with this monster? Why did his father’s gaze seem so neutral? It was as if he didn’t care about his son’s feelings; it almost felt like… hatred.
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He still had trouble remembering that cold Christmas night in the garage. Apparently, his father hated him so much that he gave him a chair far away from everyone else. But he didn’t care; this feeling of loneliness didn’t matter, whether he was with a hundred people or none at all (just like his current state). He still felt as if Masaru’s look of contempt was playing on repeat in his head like a scratched record.
An incredible way to spend Christmas Eve—his memory, as always, forcing him to relive how horrible that morning of December 25th had been, holding on to the hope of going down to the tree and finding the gift he had asked for. Santa Claus couldn’t fail a child who had behaved all year, right? The little time he had spent with his mother, she had always praised him for the great person he was!
He felt ridiculous thinking that if he had at least had that moment, maybe he and his father could have shared some time together without being overwhelmed by the terrible tension that had existed between them for over three years—and that had only intensified on December 21st, the day Mitsuki had taken her last breath.
Thinking he couldn’t feel more pathetic, he dragged his tired feet across the living room in search of the tree, eyes squeezed shut as if making the strongest wish in the world. When he opened them, it wasn’t excitement that hit him—it was the abrupt smell of burning from the backyard. The door connecting the living room, where the tree stood, to the yard was open. Before stepping outside, he looked under the tree, feeling humiliated to find no gifts at all.
Rushing into the backyard—the garden of his late mother—he found only his father burning a bicycle. Masaru wore faded clothes, as if he hadn’t even bothered to clean up that morning, with a cigarette in his mouth, staring fixedly at the bike. The flowers his mother had planted in life were being destroyed, the tires melting at contact with a small puddle that he assumed was gasoline. Everything burned slowly, releasing thick black smoke. The smell was awful, completely overpowering the floral scent that his mother had worked so hard to cultivate. Strangely, the stench of burnt plastic barely registered; Katsuki was fixated on the design of the bike, which looked just like the one he had asked Santa for.
Oh.
It’s the bike he asked Santa for.
–You sick bastard! Why are you burning the damn gift Santa gave me? It isn’t even yours! – exclaimed young Katsuki, enraged, while his father seemed calm, lowering the cigarette with patient hands but a face that clearly showed irritation. Raising his hand to grab the fire extinguisher, Masaru put out the flames and turned to look at Katsuki with eyes that seemed dead and lifeless.
–Do you really think you deserve that bicycle after killing your mother? –
What!? This old man is losing it!
–You stupid lunatic, I didn’t create the damn lung cancer! If anything, with your shitty smoking addiction, maybe you made Mom sicker than she already was!– Katsuki couldn’t stop yelling. How could this idiot even insinuate that he had killed his mother!?
–I paid for that bicycle because Mitsuki insisted we give you a decent gift this year, since you usually don’t get jack shit during the damn holidays! And that fucked-up day when I went to watch a movie with her in the living room, I had made sure nothing would happen if she skipped her usual expensive chemotherapies for just one month! And then she had a fucking coughing fit, coughing up blood, and when I took my wife to the hospital it was already too late and they had to do a fucking emergency surgery!– Masaru couldn’t stop talking. He sounded like he was crying, but he never looked Katsuki in the face. He just kept yelling as he started walking toward him, still refusing to meet his eyes. –And when it was time to pay, I realized I didn’t have enough money because I spent it on your damn bicycle, and the insurance didn’t cover it because they’re a bunch of corrupt bastards! So I had to watch my wife—the love of my life—die slowly!
Katsuki couldn’t breathe. His throat tightened as tears poured out while Masaru got close enough to grab him by the neck. Finally, Katsuki saw it—pure hatred radiating from his father’s face, like the only light left in the darkness. Unfortunately, that light was burning him alive.
That was the last time he ever saw a living emotion in Masaru’s eyes. The pain worsened when his father slapped him hard, then threw him to the ground beside the bicycle, right where his mother’s rose garden had been. He felt the thorns scrape against his skin, but nothing hurt more than believing that he was the cause of his mother’s death.
He didn’t know how to feel at the funeral when his father didn’t mention or acknowledge him in the speech he gave for Mitsuki. He didn’t let him speak either, nor did he allow him to see her one last time. Katsuki felt like a discarded doll, forgotten in the corner of a teenager’s room.
Luckily, Masaru got distracted talking to his grandparents, and Katsuki took the chance to approach Mitsuki’s coffin to see her one last time. He placed pastel pink lilies beside her—her favorites.
He sobbed openly, and with trembling hands, he managed to caress his mother’s cold cheek, whispering a broken apology through his tears.
He knew she was finally resting and wouldn’t suffer anymore, but he was angry at her for leaving him alone—defenseless, small, and useless—at the mercy of his idiot father.
He thought about how much his mother loved flowers, how she would be buried in a family cemetery filled with thousands and thousands of blooms Mitsuki would have adored. That thought calmed him. He pressed a kiss to her temple and returned to his seat, where he could painfully feel Masaru’s gaze burning into the back of his neck.
When the funeral finally ended, Katsuki wanted to go back to his room and sleep forever, hoping to find his mother in the afterlife.
It hurt to understand his father’s pain, and he hated himself for that stupid gift he had asked Santa for in the first place. He felt ridiculous and ashamed for having believed in Santa for so many years—deceived and betrayed.
What a great way to tell a child that Santa doesn’t exist, huh.
He hated realizing that his father had stopped seeing him as a son. That the blow had been a punishment for killing the love of his life, but that the indifference hurt Katsuki far more than the slap ever did.
He could taste Masaru’s desperation from that fatal dawn, when he had been forced to watch the love of his life die slowly. His father’s helplessness—his inability to do anything—clung to Katsuki like needles sinking into his skin.
The next day, he woke up in his bed, sweating, still wearing the clothes from the funeral, his spiky hair sticking to his temples. He really hoped to wake up and find it had all been a nightmare—but it wasn’t. And when he got up, he knew exactly what was coming.
When he reached the kitchen, his father was arguing with Katsuki’s grandparents—the parents of the late Mitsuki—because apparently, they had found out Masaru was planning to give Katsuki up for adoption. After some intense shouting, it seemed they had decided that Katsuki would live with his grandparents.
Guilt gnawed at him so much that he packed in silence, without protesting, and didn’t even go to see his father one last time to say goodbye.
It hurt him that Masaru seemed grateful for this final action.
It took him a year to adjust to living with his grandparents, but they were kind in their own way, and Bakugo couldn’t complain—he had a roof over his head, food, and warm clothes to keep him comfortable.
Exactly on the same day as his mother’s death, but a year later, he received the terrible news that his father had committed suicide. But Bakugo, acting out of pure resentment, refused to recognize that date as the day of death for both his parents. To him, Katsuki had no father—because parents don’t abandon their children on Christmas, the day after their mother’s funeral.
Masaru left a letter for Katsuki’s grandfather, but they never told him what it said—and honestly, he didn’t want to know.
After everything that had happened, Katsuki was certain of one thing: nothing and no one would ever make him love Christmas.
Bakugo lived in his grandparents’ house for three long, awkward years. They were affectionate with him—after all, he was their grandson—but they had given up on the idea that Katsuki would ever find happiness with them again.
The blonde still seemed to carry the thorns in his skin, each one sinking deeper, sprouting like spikes to anyone who tried to break his shell and risk breaking his heart again—just like that night when his father made him understand that he had caused his mother’s death, and how a year later, Masaru indirectly left this life voluntarily for not having the love of his life by his side.
When he turned eighteen, he left his grandparents’ house because they were too old and he didn’t want to trouble them. Besides, every time he looked at them, he could see a look of compassion and condescension in their eyes that he hated—hated even more because it came from eyes so similar to his beautiful mother’s.
He couldn’t bear the fact that he was living under the roof of the parents of the woman his father had killed unintentionally.
So when he left for the house he would rent over the next two years, with his suitcases in hand, he said goodbye to his grandparents, promising to visit whenever he could.
Unfortunately for his grandparents, that would be only once or three times a year.
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Back in the present, Katsuki was preparing for the eviction, expecting that in a few hours they would come to kick him out of his home.
He was furious with himself for not managing to gather enough money to pay this month’s rent, paying the price for choosing a meal over a warm home in the middle of winter.
He took a long shower, washing his body thoroughly because he didn’t know when the last time he’d be able to do this would be. Damn it, he could feel his throat burning and his eyes stinging. He wanted to cry for real, because he wouldn’t have a home—and for him, going to his grandparents’ house after being evicted would be humiliating.
He tried to put on the warmest clothes he had, knowing that maybe his landlord had given him 48 to 72 hours to pay. He wouldn’t have enough money to cover it, and it would only be an excuse to stay in that warm house a little longer, so he resigned himself to spending the night on a park bench like the damn homeless person he felt he was, rather than asking his grandparents for help.
He wrote a note to his stupid landlord, saying that there was no need to come to evict him in a few hours since he would leave on his own, and as he didn’t have many things, he could carry them in a couple of suitcases.
Katsuki felt silent tears roll down his pale cheeks after holding them in for so long, while the sound of his boots crunching in the snow became unbearably loud. He walked feeling small and helpless again, two suitcases in hand, just like six long years ago.
Anyone would say he had gotten over his mother’s death in those six years, but he knew he hadn’t. He knew nothing would make him forget that cursed year when he was treated like a disposable doll.
He sat on the park bench, hugging his suitcases, which contained nothing more than a bit of food, a change of clothes for the next day, shampoo, and towels—the only things he had from that furnished house.
It looked ridiculous, a twenty-year-old man hugging light suitcases to his chest and crying like a baby in barely warm clothes, but his chest truly hurt, and it hurt that he wouldn’t sleep in his own home that day. Out of pure pain, he almost forgot that this day marked six years since his mother’s death. It passed like a vague memory, making the icy cold cling even more painfully to his exposed skin—his hands and face still not protected by warm enough clothing.
Then, wishing for all of this to end, Katsuki silently prayed in his head that no one would steal his things. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping his desperate plea would be answered, and eventually fell into a deep sleep on that park bench.