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what happened at home

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Katsuki had a lot of issues as a kid.

He thought, with time, after graduation, that all that shit would be behind him. That he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Fuck the old hag, he never had to go back home to her. And his shitty dad for never growing a pair and doing something about her.

It was fine, and he was fine, and yeah he had been a hell of a brat, but he fixed his weaknesses, straightened up and now he was a good fucking hero. He was on the road to be the best, he was already in the top ten. (So was Deku and Icyhot but whatever, he would crush them under his heel soon enough.)

Katsuki had a lot of issues. Past tense. And he solved that shit, and better than that fucking half and half bastard had anyhow; he didn’t need “professional help” and didn’t need to see a therapist to tell him how to fix his problems.

It was a matter of time before it crashed around him again.

(You can’t fix your trauma by burying it.)

--

When Katsuki was a kid, he wet the bed while Deku slept over. He woke up right after it happened, immediately burning with shame. Leaping out of bed, he quickly changed his clothes and tossed them in a pile to run to the washer. Deku, all wild hair and drooling, was dead to the world and he wouldn’t get off the stupid sheets so Katsuki could grab those too.

Katsuki had to shove him and roll him off so he could snatch them off the futon.

That’s when he sat up, rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Kacchan? Are you okay?”

Katsuki didn’t say anything and turned his back to him. The pile of the sheets and the soiled clothes were getting too big to carry by himself and his face was red with anger and embarrassment. His palms prickled and sparked where they held the fabric.

 

“Hey… did you have an accident?”

His voice was so quiet and small, and it didn’t sound judgmental at all but of course it wouldn’t. That didn’t mean Deku wasn’t about to make fun of him.

“Shut up and go back to sleep!”

He angrily started shuffling toward the door. There’s a sound of weight shifting on the futon.

“I can help you,” came Deku’s soft voice again. “It’s okay, it happens sometimes—”

Katsuki whirled around, dropping the dirty things as his palms sparked off flares.

Deku had had a hand outstretched to comfort him which immediately raised to shield his face when the sparks went off, bright in the darkness of the bedroom.

“It didn’t happen just shut up I don’t need your help--!” Katsuki started shouting, the snarl on his face minimized by the round redness of his cheeks and tears welling up in his eyes.

“Kacchan—”

Whatever was about to be said was interrupted by the door opening.

“What’s the racket about, boys?” asked Mitsuki from the doorway, stretching as she entered.

Both boys turned to look up at her.

Face still hot and flushed, Katsuki pointed at Deku. “He wet the bed.”

Deku’s eyes went wide and he made a sound of indignation. “No, it was you, Kacchan.”

Mitsuki’s gaze went from her son to his friend and back as they went back and forth placing the blame. Given his change of clothes and the tears in his eyes he was trying desperately to blink away, it was obvious the answer was Katsuki.

“Hey, hey, knock it off. It doesn’t matter who did it, I’m going to put the clothes and the sheets into the washer. You two go sleep in the living room for now.”

Katsuki and Deku grabbed a pillow each and trudged off to the living room.

Deku shot him a look as they settled on the couches for the night. His round eyes and the slight upturn of his eyebrows depicted pity and he didn’t need Deku to feel sorry for him. He hated it. He hated that stupid look.

He glared back in response and sneered, raising his right hand as if to use his Quirk again.

Deku meekly just rolled over, facing the back of the couch and curling up. Katsuki rolled over too, burying his head between his arms, hiding. They didn’t speak the rest of the night.

Deku didn’t mention it in the morning. They ate breakfast and Deku went home after.

His mother, however, certainly did.

“Katsuki, you’re too old to be wetting the bed,” Mitsuki chided sharply. “It’s disgusting.”

Katsuki straightened his shoulders back, bowing up. Tense, defensive. “I didn’t mean to! Probably Deku’s dumb fault for –”

“Don’t try to blame this on your friend, this is your fault!” Mitsuki nearly snarled the words, a lunge to match his defense.

A mirror image.

“Do you need to see a doctor or something?”

The tone was far from parental. It was snide. Callous.

His ears feel hot. His hands feel hot. Her palms aren’t sparking – the handle on her Quirk is far more advanced than his is – but he can feel it in her hands too, where they rest on her hips. That itch of nitroglycerin.

“No, I’m fine! It won’t happen again,” Katsuki barked back at her.

“Everything okay in here?”

Masaru came into the living room with a shuffle of his slippers, the morning paper tucked under his arm. Even at eight years old, Katsuki was half of Mitsuki’s size and all of her bite. It was an explosive combination when they were both flared up.

“It’s fine, Masaru, Katsuki just pissed the bed last night,” Mitsuki said, straightening up and turning to her husband.

Katsuki lowered his gaze. His mother made him angry, furious, riled up his temper; but his father he mostly respected. Masaru never said an unkind word to him. He expected disappointment in those eyes.

“Oh, Katsuki, do you want to talk about it? Maybe we shouldn’t let you guys stay up so late drinking soda—” Masaru started, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it!” Katsuki nearly shrieked.

Stupid eyes getting watery again. Why couldn’t they just leave it alone? At least Deku didn’t say anything and just dropped it.

“Don’t yell at your father and interrupt him, brat,” Mitsuki hissed at him, giving him a whap to the back of the head.

Masaru said nothing but frowned in her direction. “Maybe we should hold off on sleepovers then?”

Katsuki curled his lip. He wasn’t a toddler or a baby, it was just a stupid accident and he was already sorry and embarrassed. Why did they have to punish him? He resisted the urge to wipe at his eyes.

“No, I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

He stormed off past his father, stomping his way back to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, but it didn’t muffle the sound of his mother raising her voice. Whether it was at her passive husband or her explosive son, he didn’t care. He just blocked it out like always.

Overall, the moment faded in his memory. It was insignificant.

Until stupid fucking Deku brought it up again, years later. As a fucking jab, a fucking taunt and Katsuki wanted to beat the shit out him. He usually wanted to “beat the shit out him”, but more… contained. Like an undercurrent in his skin, this constant irritation that Deku was Deku, and all of that bullshit. But when he brought that up, mocked that time, it was like his brain went haywire.

All he could see was pinning Deku down and wrecking his shit. Clocking him in the jaw so hard it cracks, in the nose hard enough for it to break. Give him a black eye. Make him spit blood. Fuck his new powerful Quirk, Katsuki was going to make him regret ever consider mentioning that. He wanted to press his hand to his face and let his palms ignite. Not stop until he was fucking crying and begging.

He maintained his anger, forced it from boiling to simmer, back where it had to be. Put on his usual front, a normal display of aggression. Wipes his hands of those thoughts.

--

It sort of. Broke down. Eventually.

Of course, it would be fucking Deku here, seeing him like this. So fucking vulnerable and fucked up.

It had felt good. So fucking good, to finally give Deku the beating he deserved. Years of pent up rage, of – of –

Inferiority. Doubt. Insecurity. Pain. Panic. Weakness.

To have Deku fight back, to have him finally justify the way he’s felt for years. He knew it, he knew Deku was always strong but always holding back – always looking down on him. It felt good, his blood pumping, all he can feel is rage, rage, rage.

He couldn’t feel the guilt bubbling inside him when he’s avoiding a spin-kick to the jaw. He could get it all out of his system, every burst from his palms, every propulsion. He could feel the burn and the ache in his hands, in his veins of his arms. It feels good.

Crying suddenly.

That. That didn’t feel too good at all.

Sobbing his eyes out, pulling at his shirt frantically. Panicking, choked up, pathetic.

Why was I the one who ended All Might? If I had just been stronger, this wouldn’t have happened!

Tears streaming down his cheeks and he couldn’t get it to stop, it’s all just spilling out of him and it hurt, it hurt so much. His voice was hysterical, pitching high, rough with how tight his throat felt.

I don’t know what to do! Don’t you know I’m weak too?

He put himself together, after. He didn’t let Deku comfort him all gently – but he does it somehow, anyway – by speaking in the language he understands. Violence.

Deku not holding back, like he’s trying to hurt him. Good.

Deku snarling, the furrow of his brow, the flash of his teeth. The way Deku imitates him even now – that feels good. That his image was Deku’s image of victory, of success. The way he gets mean, spits insults, the way he gets angry. The way he smiled like he’s baring and gritting his teeth. The way the lightning of flashed around him, like he’s a storm, a force of nature.

Give me all you’ve fucking got.

Even with all this power fucking handed to him, Deku still couldn’t beat him. He still ended up with Deku beneath his heel, pinning his arm down. His hand grabbed the entire side of his face, craning his neck back. Straining his body without too much force, pinning him.

For all his threats, it was all empty words; Katsuki doesn’t really want to kill him. He just wants to win.

Deku’s face is bruised, scraped. His body is too, no doubt. Somebody’s bleeding, Katsuki can’t tell who but it doesn’t matter.

Seeing them both bandaged afterward makes him feel relieved. Something about the sight of purpling skin and white bandages and dirty faces is comfortable. Something about the aftermath is familiar. It gets him into trouble but that was fine; trouble was home.

 ---

Because no one cared what really happened at home. Not his friends, not his teachers, not his mentors, nobody.

(He pushed away the memory of the only hero who ever took him seriously being dead in a body bag for some political gain. He pretended like that didn’t make his problems worse.)

No one was going to give a shit. No one ever had, not really.

(And if they had, well, they were gone now.)

It had always been that way. It wasn’t like Deku hadn’t been in his house for years, hadn’t seen his mother in action – his father in inaction. How many times did Mitsuki hit him in the face while Deku was just a room away? How many times had fired up her Quirk, all intimdation and threat displays, a promise of what was to come later, in Deku’s presence? How many times had Masaru stood by, worried but unmoving, when Mitsuki dragged him by his hair, when they duked it out in the living room?

It wasn’t like Mitsuki didn’t fucking hit him in front of Aizawa and fucking All Might. Like she hadn’t called him weak, like she hadn’t blamed him that it was his fault for causing so much trouble when he had endured the worst trauma of his fucking life up to that point.

If he were stronger, he could handle it. He did not need their dumb fucking pity or their help. He’s been doing this for over a decade at this point. He could handle it. Hell, he still turned out awesome.

Top grades, top school, and now nearing the top of the hero charts.

He was not the subordinate weakling his father was. He didn’t rely on anyone’s team work – they called him for help. He didn’t cry all the time like Deku, didn’t keep himself bottled until he broke down like that half-and-half bastard. He was fine.

It was too late now to give a damn about what it had been like as a kid. Being scolded and screamed at and smacked around. It was all he’s ever known. It was what he had deserved, according to everyone. His mother being praised because he was such a little brat, such a fucking handful; he was so difficult, so he needed it; that’s what everyone said.

And they must’ve been right; it made him great. It made him self-reliant and stronger.

(It made him an asshole that kept people at bay so they couldn’t look down on him, so they couldn’t hurt him.)

He told himself he doesn’t need them to cover up the nagging feeling that he wants someone to care. Like All Might had said, like Todoroki had said… he had just been a child. But that didn’t matter anymore. Because he wasn’t a kid anymore and he didn’t need that reassurance that it hadn’t been his fault, he didn’t need someone to hold him and he didn’t need to be treated gently.

(If he did, he knew they were just feeling sorry for him. Fuck that noise.)

It hurts a lot more than he lets himself put into words. It’s easier to speak the words he learned first. Anger. Violence. Rage. It was easier to feel like he was full of wrath rather than trauma. It was easy to be arrogant and vengeful than terrified.

Sometimes he considered talking to Todoroki. If anyone were to get it, it would be him. He got as far as picking up his phone, dialing the number or opening the text to start typing. But never farther. Remembering Todoroki’s scar, remembering the abusive asshole, that alleged hero, his father was, his mother’s hospitalization… He doesn’t bother. Todoroki had it far worse than he had ever had it. It was selfish to even compare the two. What would he even say? He always put the phone back down.

They say don’t bury your issues, but Katsuki was going to grab the shovel and dig the biggest hole they’d ever seen.

(Digging his own grave down the line.)