Chapter Text
The rain in Musutafu didn’t feel like normal rain; it felt heavy, like it was trying to anchor everything to the concrete.
Katsuki Bakugo hated it. He hated the dampness creeping into his socks, he hated the way his mother’s grip on his shoulder felt too tight, and most of all, he hated the quiet.
He was eight years old, and up until three days ago, his world had been incredibly loud. It had been filled with the sound of firecrackers popping from his own palms, the scraping of sneakers on playground dirt, and the endless, energetic mumbling of a boy with messy green hair.
Now, there was just a picture sitting among a sea of white flowers. In the photograph, Izuku Midoriya was grinning, his face dotted with freckles, looking like he was about to burst into another speech about All Might.
"Come on, Katsuki," Mitsuki whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Let’s go say goodbye."
Katsuki didn't move. His small fists shoved deep into the pockets of his black suit trousers. His palms were sweating, sparks threatening to ignite, but he forced them down. ‘Goodbye?’ That didn't make any sense. Just last week, they were by the river. Just last week, Izuku was tripping over his own feet, trying to keep up with Katsuki’s pace, yelling, "Kacchan, wait up!"
He looked at Inko Midoriya. She looked small, completely hollowed out, supported entirely by Mitsuki’s arm. Katsuki didn't know how to look at her. He didn't know what to do with the heavy, suffocating knot tightening in his chest. He didn't cry. He refused to. If he cried, it meant admitting that the empty desk next to him at school wasn't a mistake. It meant admitting that the dumb nerd was actually gone, wiped out by a sudden, tragic accident that Katsuki hadn't been there to stop.
When it was his turn to step up to the altar, Katsuki stared at the framed photo. He didn't offer a prayer. Instead, he glared at the smiling face of his best friend.
‘You idiot,’ Katsuki thought, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth. ‘You said we were both going to be heroes. You promised.’
He turned on his heel and walked away before anyone could see his shoulders shake.
---
Eight Years Later
The gates of U.A. High School were massive, looming over the incoming students like a promise of strength. Katsuki stood at the entrance, his uniform tie loose, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
He had grown. He was taller, broader, and his quirk had developed into something truly fearsome. To the rest of the world, Katsuki Bakugo was an explosion personified. He was the loudest kid in Class 1-A, a tempest of arrogance, sharp insults, and raw talent. From the moment he set foot in the classroom, he established himself as someone who wouldn't tolerate anyone standing in his way.
"Get your feet off the desk!" a tall, blue-haired boy with glasses shouted, chopping his arms through the air like a robot.
"Huh? Who the hell made you the space police?" Katsuki snapped back, leaning further into his chair, a cruel smirk plastered across his face. "I'll put my feet wherever I want, Four-Eyes."
He relished the conflict. The yelling, the snapping, the aggressive posturing—it was a shield. If he was loud enough, nobody would look past the noise. If he was angry enough, nobody would ask him questions. They just assumed he was a naturally hostile bastard, and Katsuki was perfectly fine with that narrative. It kept people at a distance. It kept things simple.
But the classroom wasn't always loud.
During the rare moments of downtime—when Aizawa-sensei was curled up in his yellow sleeping bag, or when the rest of the class was huddled in small groups gossiping about their favorite pros—a strange shift would happen.
Katsuki would sit by the window, staring out at the training grounds. The smirk would vanish. The tension in his jaw would settle into a flat, unreadable line. He would stare at his own palms, turning them over, watching the faint, unignited sweat glisten in the sunlight.
In those moments, a profound, heavy silence settled over him. It was a vacuum that seemed to swallow all the ambient noise of the classroom.
"Hey, Bakugo," Kirishima called out from across the room, holding up a notebook. "Are you coming to the cafeteria or what?"
Katsuki didn't answer immediately. He blinked, the distant look in his crimson eyes instantly hardening back into a glare as he snapped his head toward the red-haired boy. "Shut up, Shitty Hair! I go when I want to go!"
"Alright, alright, man, just asking!" Kirishima laughed, raising his hands in retreat, entirely used to the explosive temper.
Nobody in Class 1-A noticed the transition. They just thought he had a short fuse. They didn't know about the imaginary ghost that followed him into the U.A. halls. They didn't know that every time Katsuki pushed himself to the absolute limit during combat training, screaming until his throat was raw, he was trying to drown out the memory of a quiet voice that used to mutter endlessly about hero statistics.
They didn't know that Katsuki Bakugo’s entire drive to become the Number One Hero wasn't just about ego. It was a debt. He had to be strong enough for two people, because the other half of that promise had been buried beneath a rainy sky a decade ago.
As the lunch bell rang, Katsuki stood up, kicking his chair back with a loud clatter. He stormed out of the room, shoving his hands into his pockets, leaving the quiet behind and wrapping himself back in the safety of his own thunder.