Chapter Text
If there was one thing Katsuki Bakugo feared, it was the present he lived in. He feared waking up every morning and realizing he was becoming exactly who he never wanted to be. Every sharp word that left his mouth sounded like his mother. Every burst of anger felt inherited. Every slammed door, every clenched fist, every moment he looked in the mirror and saw rage staring back at him made his stomach twist. It felt like he had been handed a script before he was born and everyone expected him to follow it.
Since he could remember, Katsuki had thought about escaping. Not in the dramatic way people imagined. Not standing on rooftops or writing goodbye letters. It was quieter than that. A constant hum in the back of his mind. A door he always knew existed. Some people thought about what they wanted to do when they grew up. Katsuki thought about how nice it would be if everything simply stopped hurting.
The only person who ever understood was Kariage.
They were too young to understand the weight of the conversations they had. Sitting on playground swings, laying on bedroom floors, staring at ceilings during sleepovers. They joked about disappearing. About running away to some place nobody could find them. Sometimes they laughed so hard they cried. Other times they cried first. Neither boy ever judged the other. Neither told an adult. They just existed together in the strange space between childhood and despair.
As they got older, the jokes became less funny. Life got heavier. School became harder. Expectations piled higher. Kariage smiled less. Katsuki snapped more. They still talked about escape, but there was a difference now. Something underneath the words. Something that made Katsuki uneasy whenever the conversations ended.
Kariage always seemed tired.
Not physically. It was deeper than that. Like he carried a weight nobody else could see. Katsuki would catch him staring off into nothing during lunch. Catch him forcing smiles during conversations. Catch him apologizing for things that weren't his fault. Every time Katsuki asked if he was okay, Kariage would grin and tell him not to worry so much.
Katsuki worried anyway.
The worst part was that he understood the feeling. He knew what it was like to lie awake at night with your own thoughts tearing you apart. To wonder if anyone would miss you. To feel exhausted by simply existing. He understood because he felt it too. The difference was that Katsuki had always believed they were surviving it together. Two idiots stubbornly dragging each other through life one day at a time.
Then came the message.
It arrived on an ordinary afternoon. The kind of day that should have been forgettable. Katsuki had been annoyed about something stupid. A failed assignment. A bad grade. He couldn't even remember anymore. What he remembered was the vibration of his phone. The sight of Kariage's name on the screen. The immediate sense of dread that settled in his chest before he even opened it.
"Hey. I'm sorry. You always told me life gets hard and that I should stay anyway. I tried. God, I tried. But I'm tired, Kati. I'm so tired. None of this is your fault. Don't let yourself think that. You were and will always be my best friend. Thank you for staying this long. Live for me, okay? Even when it gets hard. Especially when it gets hard."
For years afterward, Katsuki would remember every word perfectly. The punctuation. The constant repeating. The way his hands shook so violently he nearly dropped the phone. The way his heart seemed to stop beating. The way he called and called and called until his voice was raw. The way nobody answered.
Kariage died that day. Taken by the hands that held Katsuki up, his own.
And the weight of those final words settled inside Katsuki's chest like a stone that could never be removed. Live for me. Such a simple request. Four words from a boy who had spent years talking about escape. Four words that became heavier with every passing day. Because life did get hard. Sometimes unbearably hard. Sometimes Katsuki found himself standing in the dark, staring at the same door Kariage had walked through. And every single time, he heard his friend's voice again. Tired. Apologetic. Gone. Live for me. So Katsuki did. Not because he wanted to. Not because he always believed things would get better. But because someone who had lost his battle had asked him to keep fighting. And some days, that promise was the only thing keeping him alive.
The cemetery was quiet today.
Katsuki liked it that way.
The world was loud enough without people filling every empty space with meaningless noise. He would know, always snapping, shouting, biting. Here, the only sounds were the rustle of leaves overhead and the scrape of a cloth against stone as he wiped dirt from Kariage's grave.
"You got leaves all over the place again."
He brushed another handful of dead leaves aside and sat back on his heels, staring at the name carved into the stone. He took a moment before settling next to the grave, leaning against it like he would his friends shoulder.
"I'm heading home this weekend."
The words tasted bitter.
"Can't wait."
He snorted.
"Old hag's probably gonna scream at me for something within five minutes of walking through the door. Maybe three if she's having a good day."
The joke landed flat.
Katsuki's eyes stayed fixed on the grave.
"She never got kinder."
Silence.
"Dad never got better either."
His fingers tightened around the rag.
"He still sits there and watches. That's probably worse. At least Mitsuki acknowledges me, proves to me that I'm still a person. A vile one, but breathing."
Katsuki could fight words, he has since his first. It's easier to reason with, to understand his mothers anger when she tells him what he's done wrong. Indifference is much crueler. There's nothing to apologise for, nothing to fight. His father watched his wife tear pieces off their son for years and never once stepped in. Never once stood between them. Never once acted like Katsuki was worth protecting.
"He asks about school sometimes."
Katsuki laughed quietly.
"Like we're strangers making conversation in a waiting room."
The wind shifted through the trees.
Katsuki leaned back harder against the stone, his head knocking the rock slightly as he stared at the sky. It's dull today.
"UA's still UA."
He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve.
"They're all still annoying."
A pause.
"I don't think they're my friends."
The words came automatically. The same ones he always told himself. Because who could ever want Katsuki.
"They aren't."
Another pause.
"I don't like them."
His jaw tightened.
"I don't care about them either."
The lie sat heavily between him and the grave.
Because he knew exactly who stayed up studying with him before exams. Who checked on him after difficult training sessions. Who made room for him at lunch even when he acted like he wanted to be left alone. Who still invited him places despite his attitude.
But accepting that meant accepting something much harder. That people cared. And if people cared, they could leave. Everybody left eventually. Its a fact of life, his mother taught him.
So it was easier to bite first.
"When people look at me, all they see is anger."
Katsuki swallowed hard, staring out at nothing. The words felt ugly leaving his mouth, but not as ugly as keeping them inside. "Maybe that's all there is." His laugh was hollow. "After I got saved, I realised something. Everyone expected me to go with them." His fingers curled into fists. "The League. The villains. Half the country thought I'd join them. They looked at me and thought, 'Yeah, that makes sense.' Nobody was surprised they wanted me."
The memory still sat like a stone in his chest. News reports. Comment sections. Strangers debating whether he was already halfway to becoming a villain. Teachers watching him more carefully. Classmates trying not to. "If the whole world looked at me and decided I'd make a good villain, then what does that say about me? If that's what people see when they look at me, maybe they're right. Maybe all they see is mean and cruel because that's all I've ever been."
Years of being shouted at had carved grooves into his mind. Years of criticism. Years of learning that love sounded a lot like yelling and that mistakes deserved punishment. Weakness deserved ridicule. Vulnerability deserved to be crushed before someone else could use it against you. At some point the anger stopped being something he felt and started becoming something he was. It settled into his bones until he couldn't tell where it ended and he began. Every sharp word came easier than a kind one. Every insult came easier than trust. Sometimes Katsuki wondered if there had ever been anything underneath it all, or if the anger had hollowed him out years ago and simply made a home in the empty space.
"Maybe they picked me because they saw something I don't." His voice cracked slightly. "Maybe they looked at me and saw exactly what I'm gonna become."
"You remember when we were kids?"
"We used to talk about what we'd be when we grew up."
Children built from possibility. Children who still believed the future belonged to them. Katsuki used to be one of them. Back when the future felt wide open instead of something to survive. Back when he thought becoming a hero was the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. Sometimes he wondered who he would've been if someone else had raised him. If kindness had been the voice waiting for him at home instead of anger. If mistakes had been met with patience instead of humiliation.
Would he laugh more? Would he trust people? Would he know how to be gentle without feeling weak? Katsuki didn't know. That was the worst part. There was no way to separate himself from the life he'd lived. No way to know where he ended and the damage began. Somewhere out there was a version of him built by love instead of fear, and sometimes he grieved that boy like he was a real person who had died.
Katsuki stared at the ground.
"I think we were supposed to become people."
The words cracked.
"Real people."
His throat tightened.
"But years of this shit wears you down."
The cloth slipped from his fingers.
"Every bad day takes a little piece."
Repeated phrases of getting stronger, of not allowing any weaknesses. Of never feeling a kind hand, a hug. Until one day you look in the mirror and can't remember who you were supposed to become.
Only what's left.
Sometimes he wonders if he could be kind, but he knows that he was built to be mean.
Katsuki turned his body towards the grave completely.
"I'm tired, Kari."
The confession barely existed above a whisper.
"Not enough."
Not yet.
"But close."
His eyes burned.
He stared up through the branches overhead.
"I still wake up every day hoping it'll be the last one."
The words sounded ugly spoken aloud.
"But I remember what you asked."
A bitter smile touched his face.
"Still a selfish bastard."
Katsuki pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his bag.
"I'll come back next week."
He brushed dirt from his jeans.
"Try not to get too bored."
For a moment he stood there. His eyes glued to the date on the stone, the date he lost his friend. The only person who saw the real him, before he turned away walking towards his real life. No one was there to watch the tear fall down his face.
When Katsuki returned to the dorms, he didn't go inside right away. Through the common room window, he could see all of them gathered together. Kaminari was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch. Kirishima was talking with his hands. Mina was sprawled across the floor. Even Todoroki looked vaguely relaxed. The room was warm. For a moment, Katsuki just stood there in the dark and watched. Nobody looked miserable. Nobody looked tense. Nobody looked like something was missing. They were happy. Completely, effortlessly happy. Without him.
A familiar ache settled in his chest. He couldn't even blame them. Katsuki knew exactly what he was like. He was mean. Every conversation with him felt one wrong word away from becoming an argument. He snapped at people who were trying to help. Insulted people who were trying to be friendly. Bit every hand that reached toward him. The others fit together naturally, like pieces of the same puzzle. They joked and laughed and understood each other. Katsuki always felt like the piece from a completely different box that someone had forced into the picture. It never sat right nor did it belong there.
His hand rested on the door handle, but he couldn't make himself move. Sometimes he wondered if everyone would be happier if he just disappeared from the room entirely. One less person dragging the mood down every time he opened his mouth. The thought shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. He wonders if this was their everyday when he was kidnapped. Yet standing there, watching laughter spill through the glass, Katsuki felt something sharp twist inside him. Because more than anything, he wanted to be part of it. He wanted to know how they made it look so easy. How they existed around each other without constantly waiting for the moment they became too much. Too angry. Too broken. Too hard to love.
Katsuki stared through the window absentmindedly, so lost in thought that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching. The laughter inside seemed distant somehow, muffled by the glass and the weight in his chest. A soft expression rested on his face, one nobody at U.A. would have recognized. He only snapped out of it when something gently tapped against his thigh. Looking down, he found Eri staring up at him. For a moment, guilt twisted in his stomach. The poor kid had survived things far worse than he ever had and somehow still found reasons to smile. Somehow still looked at the world like it was worth loving. What right did he have to stand here feeling sorry for himself?
He subtly wiped his right hand of sweat, fear of hurting her creeping in. He reached out automatically, patting her head. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was faint enough that most people would've missed it, but it was there. Eri immediately leaned into the touch, trusting him so completely that it almost hurt. Katsuki couldn't understand it. He never would. She looked at him like he was safe. Like he was kind. Like she saw something in him that everyone else seemed to miss. Something he couldn't even find himself.
His eyes drifted back to the window. Inside, Kirishima was laughing at something while shoving Iida's shoulder. Iida was protesting dramatically, which only made Kaminari laugh harder. Mina was recording the entire thing on her phone. The room practically glowed with warmth. Katsuki felt Eri's small hand slip into his, and suddenly the ache in his chest grew sharper. Not because he hated what he was seeing. The opposite. He wanted it. He wanted to walk into that room and belong there. Wanted to laugh without wondering if he sounded wrong. Wanted to speak without feeling like every word out of his mouth poisoned the air around him. Watching them through the glass felt like standing outside someone's home in the middle of winter, looking in at a fire he wasn't allowed to sit beside.
"Bakugo. What are you doing out here?"
Aizawa's voice cut through the quiet. Katsuki stiffened slightly before turning around, his expression immediately hardening into something familiar. Something safer. "Fucking nothing. About to go inside." The words came out sharper than necessary. They always did. Aizawa's gaze flickered from him to Eri, who was still holding onto Katsuki's hand, before settling back on his student. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Through the window behind them, laughter erupted from the common room again. Katsuki looked away first.
"Your leave request was accepted," Aizawa finally said. "You can go home this weekend."
The words landed like a punch to the stomach, something inside him sank. Home. The place everyone else seemed excited to visit. The place people missed. The place they counted down the days to return to. His eyes drifted back toward the glowing dorm windows. For a second, he found himself wishing he could stay. Wishing he didn't have to trade laughter and warmth for screaming and slammed doors. Then the thought disgusted him. Of course he had to go home. Where else would he go? So he just shoved his hands into his pockets and scoffed. "Great." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.
The blonde's face fell.
Barely.
So slightly that anyone who didn't know him would have missed it entirely. A tiny crack in the mask before it snapped back into place. Katsuki felt his heartbeat spike so suddenly it almost hurt. Home. The word echoed around his skull like a threat. His stomach twisted. His lungs felt too small. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, growing stronger the longer he thought about it. About the screaming. About never knowing what mood waited behind the front door. About spending an entire weekend counting down the hours until he could leave again. He forced himself to look down instead. Eri was still beside him. Katsuki managed a small smile and reached over to ruffle her hair gently.
When he looked up again, his gaze drifted back to the window one last time. The warmth inside felt impossibly far away now. His eyes landed on Todoroki first. The half-and-half was staring directly at him. As if he'd seen that brief flicker of fear cross Katsuki's face and hadn't known what to do with it. Then Katsuki noticed Jirou nearby. Confusion was written plainly across her expression. Like she'd caught something she wasn't supposed to. Like she couldn't quite figure out why the idea of going home had made his heart almost jump out of his chest. Katsuki immediately looked away.
The panic threatened to surge again as he approached the dorm entrance. Every step felt heavier than the last. Home. Home. Home. The word repeated endlessly until his chest felt tight. He couldn't let himself think about it. Couldn't let himself imagine walking through that front door. Couldn't let himself remember. So he buried it all where he buried everything else. Deep enough that nobody would see. As he reached the door, he paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder. "Thanks for letting me know," he muttered to Aizawa. Then he stepped inside, swallowed by the noise and laughter of the common room, carrying his dread with him like a secret nobody else could see.
Katsuki never saw the expression that crossed Aizawa's face after the door shut behind him.
The teacher's features scrunched slightly, his brows pulling together as he stared at the spot where his student had disappeared. Something about that interaction sat wrong with him. Not the reaction itself. Plenty of teenagers hated going home for one reason or another. It was the voice. The quiet "thanks for letting me know" replayed in his mind. Aizawa had heard Bakugo yell, threaten, argue, and complain almost daily. He'd heard him furious, annoyed, competitive, and exhausted. But until that moment, he realized he had never really heard Katsuki's normal voice.
It had been softer.
Higher.
Younger.
For just a second, the rough edges had vanished, revealing something underneath that Aizawa hadn't expected. Not the loud, abrasive student everyone knew. Just a kid. A tired kid trying very hard not to let anyone see how scared he was. The realization left a sour feeling in Aizawa's stomach. Because if that was the voice Bakugo buried beneath all the shouting, then how often had they mistaken survival for personality?
Beside him, Eri frowned toward the dorm entrance. "Why did Kaachan seem so sad about being allowed home?" she asked quietly. Her small face twisted with confusion. To Eri, going home meant safety. Family. Warm meals and movie nights and Hizashi singing too loudly in the kitchen. The idea that someone could be upset about returning home didn't make sense to her.
Aizawa remained silent for a long moment. Because he had noticed it too. The way Bakugo's shoulders had stiffened. The way his heartbeat had visibly quickened. The split-second flicker that had crossed his face before he buried it. It had vanished almost immediately, hidden behind a glare, but Aizawa had seen it. And now, standing beneath the glow of the dorm windows, he found himself staring at the closed door with an uncomfortable feeling settling in his chest. Because whatever emotion had flashed through Bakugo's eyes at the mention of home, it definitely hadn't been excitement.