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Izuku Midoriya was the weirdest fucking person in the whole entire universe and Katsuki wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.
It didn’t matter that he knew what way Izuku liked his omurice, or that he could name every single edition of All-Might Smash! that the boy had lined up on the bookshelf above his bed. Katsuki wanted nothing to do with him. Ever. Never, ever, ever again.
He had realized this very fast, like the flick of a switch…almost overnight. They had turned four, Katsuki got his quirk, Izuku didn’t. It wasn’t something Katsuki had to think about, really. He just knew, instinctively. Izuku is weird now. Izuku is a pariah. Katsuki would be too, by association, if he didn’t hurry along.
They went to primary school, and Izuku kept sucking his thumb. He’d piss himself on the playground. He’d cry when they left school for summer vacation.
He’d always have that wide eyed look on his face, like something had scared him. Katsuki wanted to grip his shoulders and throw him to the ground.
Izuku was a basket case. No one liked him. His desk was constantly covered in crude drawings or words, most in permanent ink, but he did an exceptionally good job at ignoring it all, gripping his firetruck red mechanical pencil and staring at the teacher through snot and tears.
Adults talked to him like he was a baby. They pitied him. They turned a blind eye when he got shoved around.
Izuku got shoved around a lot.
Katsuki was nine when he decided that something was seriously wrong with Izuku. He didn’t want to think about it too much.
. . .
“...Kacchan?”
Katsuki feels his face heat up, fists clenching. His friends stood a few feet away, suddenly quiet and suppressing grins.
Katsuki really wanted to ignore him. To keep packing up his bag and walk away and ignore the whole thing, ignore the very fact that someone named Izuku Midoriya was born nine years ago in the town of Musutafu. Someone snickered, but Katsuki didn’t catch who. He keeps his head down, looking at the desk, for a second more, and then…
“What?”
“Um…hah–” that breathy little laugh showed anything but amusement, Katsuki knew, and he turns his head very slowly, looking at Izuku’s face.
“A-auntie said you were coming over for dinner.”
Auntie. Right. Right, Izuku still thought Katsuki’s mom could be “Auntie,” and Katsuki could be his best friend, and everything would just be so perfect.
“Yeah, so what? She's making me go.” Katsuki points his chin up, just a few extra centimeters so he can look down at Izuku properly.
The other boy smiles warily, biting his lip as if to keep the expression in place. “Well, I thought, maybe…since you’re coming over later, and, ah, we could– we could walk home together.”
Someone snickers again, Katsuki misses it again. His hands clench the straps of his backpack, and he debates in his mind as quick as he possibly can on whether he should just turn and walk away now or push Izuku over first, at least maintaining some of his pride.
He chooses an unspecified third option, which he does not think out quite as clearly as he should— “I’m not walking anywhere with you, freak. You’re disgusting, and we're not friends anymore, and I hope you– die.”
And no one snickers, this time. Izuku’s face does something weird, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Katsuki feels his stomach sink the second the words are out, sink to the floor, sink down to Izuku’s level, maybe picking up some of that experience, maybe making him feel something he shouldn’t— it's not guilt, it's not pity, it's just a sense of dread that he shouldn’t have said that and he shouldn’t have used that tone and his mother always told him not to say things he didn’t mean and—
Izuku staggers on his feet and vomits all over Katsuki’s shoes.
. . .
“Whatever happened between you and Izuku?”
Katsuki’s hand freezes, ink from the tip of his pen bleeding onto the lined paper below. He swallows, and his mother’s footsteps come to a stop. She's rifling around in a kitchen drawer.
“I don't know,” Katsuki settles on dismissively, scrawling his name onto the paper like he’d originally intended.
“You two used to be inseparable. Now he hardly comes over with Inko.” Mitsuki’s voice is edged with concern, maybe nostalgia. It’s disgusting.
Katsuki scrawls the date. “He’s…weird.”
“He’s different, Katsuki. Don’t say it like that. You know he’s always been…” she searches for the word, and Katsuki peeks up at her with a frown. Her back is facing him, and she lets out a soft puff of air, “special.”
“...”
“You should invite him over. I’m sure he has some new toys he’d like to show you.”
“I’m too old for toys, Mama.”
“Oh, none of that. You’re still a baby.”
Katsuki glares at his paper, scribbling down his classroom number. A baby? Bullshit.
“Deku is the baby. He still pisses himself.”
Mitsuki looks at him over her shoulder, brows furrowed. “Language, young man. And don’t call Izuku that awful nickname. God, it’s like you were raised by heathens.”
Her eyes trace Katsuki’s face, contemplative, and the boy frowns right back. Katsuki ends the staring contest first, gluing his eyes back to his paper.
“Izuku is a sweet boy.”
Katsuki scrawls down his Kanji.
. . .
For exactly one week and three days, Katsuki was on his school's baseball team.
He had liked the idea—hitting things with a bat, diving into the dirt, winning—and it turned out he was even half-decent at it. It just felt natural for him to swing the baseball bat, to watch the score.
They were nine, so they didn’t have much intense competition. But, still, winning was a thrill.
Then one day, Izuku joined the team. Maybe “joined” was the wrong word— the baseball coach, who was also their lousy gym teacher, had pressured him into it. Izuku was too busy being punted with balls and tripped during gym—Katsuki had never done that, his line drawn somewhere between calling Izuku a freak and hitting him with a dodgeball—to actually participate, so the coach had thrown him on the baseball team instead.
He joined exactly one week and two days after Katsuki.
Showing up in a scrounged-up uniform two sizes too big was practically a big fat target sign on his forehead.
Katsuki sent a baseball flying straight into the side of his skull the very first day he came to practice—maybe intentional, probably an accident—and got both of them kicked off the team after a screaming match he was one-hundred-percent justified in.
Izuku walked away with a huge welt where the ball hit him. It seemed Katsuki had crossed that line.
“Oh dear,” the school nurse croons, her latex gloves crinkling as she parts Izuku’s rat’s nest around the lump.
Katsuki sits on a stool a few feet away, stomach hot and nails digging little crescent moons into his palms.
Izuku was sniffling softly, dried blood under his nose and scratches on his cheeks (the nurse had already cleaned off the sand). Izuku had eaten shit on the baseball diamond.
The nurse is soon pressing a cold compress up against Izuku’s skull, holding his hands there for a moment, then letting go. Izuku presses the ice pack so hard against his head it must hurt, and then the nurse’s attention is turned to Katsuki. He's dizzy.
She gives him a once-over, frowning. “Are you hurt, as well?”
He wordlessly sticks out his arm, turning it so she can see the scrape on his elbow. Tiny scrape. No blood. No pain.
She does something to it—it faintly stings and smells like alcohol—but Katsuki can’t concentrate. He doesn't even know why he's here. He's not hurt. Coach had told him to go home. But Izuku had been marched off to the nurse’s office, and he’d been swaying on his feet, and Katsuki’s body moved on its own.
Izuku hiccups softly, lower lip trembling as he cradles the cold compress like a delicate, gentle thing. Katsuki tries not to look. To tear his eyes away. But they always came back to him, his trembling hands. The feelings curling up in his gut felt dangerous— they were soft things, without sharp edges, or any defense. They were warm in the way that meant maybe Katsuki cared a little bit more than he should.
When Izuku’s eyes meet his, wide and wet, Katsuki sneers, because the only thing he can think of to do with those feelings is to tamp them down.