Work Text:
If Bakugou Katsuki. 16. First day at UA. Hero In Training. had a ‘life flashing before my eyes’ moment (but a partially depressively inclined version) then it would probably go something like this:
The room was filled with the wailing of a small boy. Loud, panicked sobs that rang through the house. Tall ceilings and long hallways enlarging the echo and sending the youngster’s call to its mother. A tight frown and a tug of lips was all it took before the man beside her, the husband, the father, got up to soothe their child.
Strong and gentle arms scooped up the squishy body, pressing his kin to his chest and heaving a sigh when the simple action calmed it down. Feather-light strokes combed through pale blond hair. A colour so light, so delicate, it had been assumed for white nearly a year prior.
Such a vulnerable life. A being pure and bearing no ill-intent. Its youth vivid and clear by its brittle body and sensitive mind. The sight would bring a smile to any loving parent.
“Katsuki…” the exasperated voice came from the man as he looked down in mock disdain. “Don’t cause so much trouble for your mother…”
The touch was gentle and fleeting as the baby was placed down in its cot. The soft mattress welcoming the fragile body. Like home, like happiness. Somewhere to love and be loved.
What wonderful lies have been fed to some
10 months old.
Bakugou Residence.
Praise. Wonder. Awe filled words.
They surrounded the toddler in excitement. Other bundles of unfiltered joy jumped around and joined one another in celebration. Companionship he recognized. Hands he held on the playground, backs he tapped during tag, hair he ruffled on birthdays, and shoulders he grabbed to lead. Sharing his happiness as if it were their own.
The mop of dark green hair huddled closer and content replaced thrill in the midst of the craze. Bright green eyes stared at hands that supported the smaller boy in life.
Fireworks. The comment that would stay with him longer then he would have stood by the boy who said them.
Happiness
3 years old.
Preschool.
The cold concrete scratched at the boy’s knees when he fell. Blonde hair tickled the boy’s chin as another boy ran into the school. A stern look calmed the crying boy down, green hair curling around his ears. When the black haired child ran back towards them with another classmate in tow, the eldest of the group held his hand out for the needed items.
Tears reappeared when the cool water met skin through a cotton ball, the three kids paid no mind to the whimpering. Two boys took turns in handing their friend supplies as he placed All Might bandaids against each knee.
He slapped the crying 4 year old with his chubby fingers. The boy covered his shin to prevent a second hit to it, and stopped his tears immediately.
Once everyone was up off the ground, they ran towards the swing set.
And maybe, for just those few synchronised minutes, all was right in the world. In their world.
5 years old
Aldera Elementary
Horror was what met the faces of the ones who should have cared for him during the small life he had lived. They were happy in the beginning, of course. It was a strong gift, one that could make him successful in life. But one, small incident was all it took for ruin to set in.
Another long fun day out with dark green hair and bright eyes. A smile following the small shoe that stepped through the wooden doorway.
Spark filled eyes, reminiscent of flames, looked over towards the living room. Not finding their target, they continued to move, legs aiding the boy's search.
A quick step into the master bedroom allowed him to find the people he had searched for. And a voice that would turn raspy and demanding spoke in the rough yet gentle tones his commands were meant to carry from.
When silence followed the boy's adventures, small hands came up to clasp around the older man’s large ones.
A simple shift, not worthy of being assumed friction.
An explosion. Followed by a shout.
A small burn. It would heal easy. Within the week, without fail. With the man’s quirk being so similar and causing similar reactions on its own… no one was hurt.
Downhill.
Colder eyes. Harsher movements. Longer trips. Small, lost eyes searched through expensive walls after opening from his slumber. More often than not, lacking the end result of finding what the search was for. Who it was for.
Loss and confusion melted off over time, making way for clear understanding. The basis for something that would root itself into the very being of the small boy in the future.
The clock ticked by, and quick movements were made to dart across the living room. Stale air dispersing as feet hit the flooring, carpet, tiles. Ingredients taken out, pans pulled out along with forks. Unsteady hands lifting wood, feet shaking. A thud as the stool was placed down and weight was pulled on. The pan placed carefully, nearly dropped from the heavy weight. High-pitched grunt and a stretch to turn the dial.
A deep breath. Clumsy hands held the butter knife as the butter was sliced. Slippery material fell from the hold to spread around the aluminum. Pudgy fingers wrapping around an egg. A light tap. Another. Harder. Yolk coloured the edge while most went to its intended placement.
Another deep breath.
The sizzling of the food was the sound perked ears focused upon. Keeping any thoughts at bay and consuming the young mind with an emptiness that was hoped for.
The seconds ticked by. The ticking deafening, the only other noise to accompany it being the soft scraping as food was plated.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Click the stove off.
Tick.
Scrape the eggs off.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Put down the pan.
Tick.
Pick up the plate.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Take it to the dining table.
Tick.
Walk to the sink.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Turn on the tap, the water a calming sound.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
As the dishes were washed. As they were placed on their rack. Footsteps. Scrape of a chair. Smell of salt and pepper. A thud as a skinny back hit the chair. A scrape of a fork. Soft chewing. And of course. The ticking.
Peace.
7 years old.
Bakugou Residence.
Blank eyes sparked only to look up at eyes that used to look just like his own. Eyes that would haunt mirrors and pictures. Eyes that were said to be oh so similar. Eyes the boy would grow to feel nothing but indifference towards. Eyes holding no recognition.
The spark was gone faster than it had appeared. On the much smaller. Younger. Boy. Those eyes would grow cold, dark, and blank for years to come. Lifeless yet focused. Maybe they’d spark again. Maybe they would shine with love. Maybe they would glow with rage. No matter what, the reds of them will sheen to match the soul of their beholder. And mirrors wouldn't return an old favour.
You need to learn to take care of yourself. A nod. Don’t make that face at me. A turn to look down. A nod. Clean up the house. Another nod.
The wave from a well-manicured hand was the only dismissal given. Quick steps failed at their attempt with patience. Small thumps, floors free of creaking on the way to the entrance. The swoosh and click of a door.
Soft hands clutched the rug’s rough material. Digging into his nails. Back met the cold door through thin fabric… not the best day for summer clothing.
Trembling hands were quickly shoved underneath himself, the pressure from the body’s truthfully pathetic weight was just barely enough to stop it.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
The soft, scratchy voice repeated the words in tandem with the action. Periodically, tensing and untensing his shoulders as they ground against wood.
No tears came,
So the boy smiled
9 years old.
Bakugou Residence.
A small blonde boy gingerly took the steps down into the living room. Hardwood cool on his pale feet. One hand carefully hovering over the handrail as he peered over to the couch. Just in case. He had to be sure they were gone.
Cotton pajama pants scrunched up around the ankles. Legs stopped routinely halfway down the staircase. Another hand thumbing the hem of the oversized shirt while eyes flitted over the room, mapping out the sleek paint and curves of furniture.
Breath silent and a faux calm running through his skin. Movement paused to match the rest of the residence.
After standing in the silence for ten minutes, muscles frozen and body in fight or flight position, he finally let his body relax slightly. Careful steps continued on over to the nicely furnished room. Cold flooring switching to soft carpet under his feet as he reached around the coffee table. Warm, calloused hands lightly picking up glass bottles while worn clothing picked up the smell of booze and smoke. Far too used to the stench, the boy didn’t react, seemingly oblivious to the smell whatsoever.
Once he had gathered all the bottles, he walked out of the room, flooring changing under his feet again as he moved on to the even colder tiles of the kitchen. The clinking of glass as they were dropped into their bin echoed through the house, the sound creeping along expensive walls and being picked up by familiar ears. Golden locks shifted slightly as ears perked up underneath because of the sound. Blood red eyes glazing over everything yet nothing as the boy walked back to the room, carefully rearranging furniture, picking up garbage and sweeping up any dust that had begun to collect.
Chemical wipes were pulled out to clean the table and the not yet formed stains were quickly cleaned up. The strong, tangy smell irritating to the senses.
Quiet steps were taken back to the kitchen.
The soft click of the fridge was heard as a light sigh followed. The first noise to come from the child himself.
Shoes were put on, the slight jingle of keys following the motion before the front door opened and shut with a muffled thud. A key slotted in, metal turning, key pulled out. And the house was quiet once again.
Thin frost covered the roads and sidewalks. Silent footsteps made their way across the street, shoe prints leaving clear shapes in the snow. The slight huff of breath was the only sound in the late night air.
Memorized route through the streets, a shortcut through an alley, and quick hop over a crack in the ground as the clean concrete slowly faded into older territory.
A sharp trill rang through the small convenience store, the clerk only glancing up briefly before her attention was brought back to the artificial glow coming from her phone.
Sombre eyes raked through the isles as the shop was plunged back into its content existence. The small suction sound was followed by the throw of cold air coming from the coolers. A thump. A slight rustle of plastic. The slide of items onto the counter. Clicks of a cash register. Slip of money passed between the two. A ching from the register and newly-bought things placed in a bag. Hand off.
The trill rang out again as the boy left.
A quick hop over a crack in the ground as old concrete ground faded to newer territory, a shortcut through an alley, and a memorized route through the streets.
A key slotted in, metal turning, key pulled out. The front door opened and shut with a muffled thud, the slight jingle of keys following the motion while shoes were taken off.
Snowflakes still clung to fluffy locks and silky lashes. Legs walking back to the kitchen, methodically placing things into the fridge.
The smell of plastic wasn't strong, but the scent of enclosed coffee grounds was easily covered.
Pink coloured over the bridge of his nose and the tips of ears. Hands carefully took out a plain mug from a low cabinet. Wood connecting to close it once again ringing through the room.
The smooth ceramic cool against rapidly warming hands. Clink. As it was placed on the counter. A saucepan placed onto the stove and milk poured out.
Familiar motions took over as ingredients were thrown once it started to heat up. Some sugar, a large spoon of hazelnut coffee, some cinnamon, a scoop of maple ice cream followed and mixed in swiftly.
The distinct spice from the cinnamon lingered in the air. The aroma wiping away any traces of beer or disinfectant.
Once a consistent liquid, the stove was turned off. Steady hands lifting the saucepan to pour out the mixture in the mug.
Counter cleaned off, dishes cleaned and stove no longer burning, ruby eyes tracked his own movements once he lifted his cup. Subdued steps were heard going up the stairs. The soft click of a door following.
10 years old.
Bakugou Residence.
A sharp breath resonated through the halls of the pristine house.
Dark eyes were shut tight. Hands grabbing onto sensitive ears, cupping over long strands of hair.
Red eyes thanked the universe, treating injuries would be much easier when they were gone.
There was shouting. But the noise had cancelled out, the metallic taste of blood flooding his senses.
As expensive shoes click-clacked away, the boy slowly stood up. Unbalanced legs led by a disoriented mind making their way up the stairs and down to the end of the hall. The door softly clicked shut.
Hard cold floor was rough against soft skin when the blonde walked over to the attached washroom. The door creaked open, carefully. The faint smell of alcohol and bandages was almost welcoming when he opened the cabinet.
Kneeling onto the tiles, hands carefully placed against the cold flooring. Letting himself drop.
Empty yet focused eyes searched the expanse of bruised skin. Taking note of the injuries, an ointment was gingerly opened. Warm hands applied the cool medicine to the expanse of colours already taking over the abdomen. The smell was unpleasant and the container was swiftly recapped.
The silence was simultaneously soothing and grating against the eardrums.
A small wince was muffled as teeth bit down hard on the freshly healed skin of lips. Pain shot from under the rib cage, eliciting a whimper. Numbed flesh was quickly bandaged, the work slightly lopsided and just a bit too tight because of the rushed job.
Slumping against the wall to take a breath, shallow puffs of air sifted through the atmosphere and disrupted the smell from the ointment.
Although the process was painful, the origin of the wounds brought a triumphant smile from the boy.
Any sound coming from the boy eventually faded out as his consciousness left him. The tylenol prematurely placed on the counter would be useful once it came back.
12 years old.
Bakugou Residence.
“Take a swan dive off the roof of the building, and pray for a quirk in your next life.”
The second the words left his mouth, he knew it was too much. Too much.
Shaking hands were stuffed into pockets, sweat building up much too fast for the boy's body to regulate. Consumed by the urge to leave.
Breaths came out just a bit too quickly. The miniscule hitch at every inhale. Instinctively reached for that pit of anger and frustration, the caverns of fear and hurt. And let himself drown.
A gurgling sound filled the empty house. The stench of dirt tainting the path to the kitchen. And running water accompanied the stale air.
A choked off sob ripped through the air. Splash of water, deep throated gurgling, another splash of water. The repetitive actions breaking through the silence. The pattern was sickening. The slimy sound kept getting hoarser as it continued, spit lined the edge of the counter with tears mixing into the residue.
Shaky hands clamped over raw lips, stopping sharp canines from biting into them. The hand flew off though when sudden, violent coughs racked the suddenly fragile-looking body. Throaty groans accompanied each cough, salty liquid mixing with saliva as it dripped down the neck and chin.
White knuckles clenched the sink with enough urgency to bend it. With a wet hack and a huff of breath, vomit met the mouth and spilled down the drain.
Chest heaving, the burning sensation taking over, and another wave of nausea racking the boy's body, dark eyes fluttered shut as bile rose up and green liquid poured out.
A squelching sound mixed with the rush of water before all noise was abruptly cut off. Salty residue stuck to smooth skin, clammy hands were stuffed into pockets as they shook. Shoulders almost convulsing as dead silent sobs were let out.
The feeling of cool tiles switched to carpeting and the sudden fuzzy texture was too soft and too rough. The feeling of too much was toe-curling.
Quick steps. Stomps. Somehow, still sedated, were taken to run up the stairs. A door was quickly shut. The smell of snot was overwhelming and the green feeling accompanied by the clear seagreen fade of tears was forcing itself to consume the not so small body.
15 years old.
Bakugou Residence.
Shizuoka Prefecture.
Musutafu, Japan.
This rather intense flashback before his hypothetical death was only slightly exaggerated. The “kys” text from his best friend on the first day of school had saddened him greatly. It wasn't important to mention that he had sent a “kys” text first - in response to the half-assed “g’mornig” he got during their routinely timed 20 second video call - when Kariage took 3 rings to pick up.
It was more upsetting without context, so why include it? The inclusion was for comedic value.