Chapter Text
Bakugou Katsuki jams a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, crimson eyes narrowed, glued in morbid fascination to the television screen in front of him. There, a young but up-and-coming reporter, a brunette with spectacles and a fitted skirtsuit, sits with a panel of experts discussing the insane events of the night before. Those eyes dare her to verify the circulating rumors that have just made their way into his sphere of recognition.
“Last night, only a few weeks after their attack on the USJ, the League of Villains clashed with a small cell of self-appointed vigilantes in a battle that destroyed an industrial park,” the woman clarified to viewers tuning in from the latest commercial break. “The villains had been allegedly attempting to secure support equipment from a factory when interrupted by the vigilantes, who were unnamed as of last night, but notably active for the past six months. Here I have officer Okudo Shunsho, who will shed some more light on this and hopefully give some clarity to our concerned citizens!”
Another spoonful of cereal finds its way to Katsuki’s mouth despite the fact he is intently focused on the screen. He hadn’t believed his fucking ears when his mother had told him the news, but he had to watch it and confirm it. “Get to the fucking point,” he mutters angrily.
“Thank you, Ms. Tabata,” a man - close-cropped hair, weathered complexion, shifting uncomfortably in an ill-fitting blue suit – adjusts his tie, obviously putting considerable effort into not looking at the camera. He isn’t used to this. “The League of Villains ran into an ambush led by a notably evasive vigilante who has now been identified as Okumura Renzo. When threatened, the League released two creatures similar to the one that attacked USJ last week, and extensive damage was done to the surrounding industrial park. Fortunately, All Might arrived on scene along with Kamui Woods, Mt. Lady and their sidekicks alongside a large number of police.”
“Now what I’ve heard,” Tabata says, deliberately steering the conversation with the media-inexperienced officer, “Is that there were teenagers among the culprits. Is this true? What will happen to them?”
Again the officer nods. “It is unfortunately true. It seems both Okamura and the League had been recruiting from the ranks of the young, given that there were a range of young men and women of the ages seventeen to twenty-two there. While the League and Okamura himself ultimately escaped, three young villains and four young vigilantes were secured by All Might as the fighting was subdued. They have all been taken in for questioning.”
“I believe we have footage of them being brought into custody,” Tabata says as she nods pointedly off-screen. On a large display behind them, slightly grainy footage from a street-side perspective shows a group of young adults being shepherded into a police headquarters.
Katsuki drops his spoon and it falls with a splash into his cereal – he doesn’t notice. All he sees is a mop of green curls belonging to a small but muscular frame, turned from him with arms cuffed behind his back. He’s sweating, his heart beating at ten thousand beats per minute and he feels pops and crackles dance over his palm when the green silhouette turns and grins at the fucking camera. It was only for an instant, but he knows that the line of bright white teeth and the emerald eyes he sees are never, ever, leaving him. He suddenly howls with rage, small explosions in his palms fill the area around him with smoke.
“What the fuck Deku?!” he screams at the screen that he’s no longer watching, his vision filtered in red. His every fibre strains against his instinct to blow that goddamned TV to pieces.
“Hey brat, what are you screaming for-!“
He barely registers his mom pacing into the room and shouting in irritation when she stops short, noticing what he’s watching. “I already told you, you moron…” she sighs, her tone and volume dropping from an irritated gripe to something softer, approaching gentle. “How long’s it been since he was last seen? He’s changed a lot… fuck.” Her palms slide up her face, pinching the bridge of her nose and swiping over her stressed grimace, threading into her ash-blonde hair and pulling for a moment, the stress making her want to wring her hands together. “Our little Izuku…” she sighs. “I wonder if Inko knows.”
The younger blonde whirls on her, expression caught between disbelief and anger. “Our little Izuku?!” Bakugou practically screams at her. “He’s some kind of fucking vigilante now you old hag, he’s practically a villain!” he slams a hand down at the table – he’s standing now.
He doesn’t even know why he’s reacting this way. He hasn’t even seen Deku in – shit – eight years? A lifetime.
“He was so young when he ran away. I don’t think I’ll ever see him as anything other than Inko’s sweet little Izuku,” she places her hands on her hips and peers at Katsuki. “You remember how he used to follow around. He adored you. And to think…” A heavy sigh, and then blinking as if to dispel a fog. Looking for clarity. “I need to make sure she knows, if the police haven’t called her,” she sighs. “Asshole son, clean up your mess and get on your way.” She then draws her phone from her pocket, slowly, as if it were a twenty-pound weight, and paces from the room with as much haste.
Right. He has to load the car.
He had come to visit his mother for a week, and now it’s time to pack up his bag and get back to his apartment. The attack on USJ had left everyone involved pretty shaken, so Aizawa had given the students a week to relax and refocus. With a groan he goes to grab a towel to clean up the cereal he hadn’t even realized he spilled.
He tries not to think about Midoriya Inko, generally, and even more so now. Izuku’s mother and his own had patched up their friendship in the years after the Izuku ran away, but it was an unspoken certainty that Katsuki was not welcome in her home. He had never been able to face her about his part – almost definitely – in the disappearance of her green ball of sunshine. How it was him to took the sunlight from her life and left it in shadow.
He shakes his head, feeling that heavy sensation of threatening tears and all that shit. He washes the bowl and spoon, places them on the rack to dry, tosses the soiled towel in the laundry.
What the fuck is that shitty nerd up to? Katsuki wonders. He stops himself a moment later – it’s been a hard habit to break, even after all these years. Knowing that his shitty tongue and his bullying was a, if not the reason that Deku had run away all those years ago, he had tried so hard to retroactively change his ways. He had seen a counselor throughout high school. He had tried to shift his attitude. It was hard, absolutely – so many ingrained habits that he never even noticed.
Seeing Deku was even alive, regardless the fact that he’s a vigilante now, jarred the careful filter that had been crafted for his memories of the boy who he remembered most by his unruly green hair and his omnipresent grin. The meticulous avoidance of the word Deku in his brain, the deliberate refusal to attach curses and insults to his name, it was all shattered.
And seeing him smile again, now twisted, too confident, too fucking sly –
His hands pause mid-air, underpants folded and ready to stow. This won’t fucking do.
He passes through the rest of his day in a daze, like he’s wading through a thick, suffocating fog, mind tracking circles. Did I really hurt him that much? Fuck, Dek- Izuku, I didn’t fucking mean to, you damn nerd – I mean – shit. You went out and became a fucking thug? And how’d you do that without a quirk?
The break had been meant to clear his mind. Now, his thoughts are anything but clear. All he wanted was to be at one of UA’s gyms, busting the shit out of a punching bag or exploding some droids. His greatest strength has always been his singular focus, his drive. Now his thoughts are scattered to the fucking wind like the bots he should be smashing.
Bakugou Katsuki clutches his bag in one hand so tightly that his knuckles are white, pacing to his shitty car and tossing the bag in, sparks racing along the opposite palm while he tries desperately not to lose control, constantly swiping his hand onto his jeans to remove the nitroglycerin-like sweat from his palms.
He wonders what Izuku is up to now.
***
Katsuki doesn’t sleep for a long time. He tosses and turns in the sheets of his twin-size bed in his shitty studio apartment, the dark encroaching on his thoughts and turning him to melancholy, and worse. When he does sleep, he dreams fitfully.
Deku and Katsuki playing in a small park – the colorful plastic jungle gym reverberates with the explosive boy’s tiny but fierce explosions. They’re young here, perhaps in kindergarten. The park is permeated by the smell of hot plastic and aluminum, of the nearby woods carried by the faint breeze. By the sounds of laughter and the winded panting of kids who have spent all day running, climbing, playing.
Izuku wears a homemade All Might mask while he chases Katsuki around. Even in the heat, he insists on wearing the All Might onesie that Auntie Inko made for him. His arms are outstretched, his forward momentum the only thing keeping his unbalanced little body from falling to the ground.
“I got you, Villain!!” he exclaims with delighted laughter when he rounds a corner and tags the blonde on his shoulder. That is to say – he doesn’t tag Kachan so much as he falls into him. Kachan yells, angry already the default setting on this little Pomeranian. “Alright Izuchan, my turn to be hero!” he says as Izuku happily hands him the mask. He’s just glad to play with Kachan. The game is back on.
Now the boys are taller, in the same park. The heat is oppressive, the clearing windless and silent save the whooping calls of a pack of boys. They are not playing. Instead, Izuku cowers below the jungle gym, cradling his curling green locks in his hands while he makes himself small.
“Where are you, you shitty nerd!” Bakugou’s voice rings across the park as he approaches it. He’s flanked by two other relatively big boys from their class. “Get out here and fight me you Quirkless fuck! DEKU!” he leans over and spots the quivering boy. “Found you, asswipe!” he practically screams.
Izuku yelps and crawls out from the jungle gym, to the opposite side. The other boys are there already, having waited around the corner; one of them grabs Izuku by the wrists and twists him around to face his punishment.
“K-Kachan!” he pleads – it’s so different from the delighted little exclamations from their youth. “I-I’m s-sorry, I don’t know what I did, but I’m s-so so s-sorry Kachan, please – “ he doubles over when an explosive fist lands in his stomach. The green-headed boy is left winded and dazed, the only thing he sees is his friend’s – is he his friend? - face contorted in rage and glee at his pain.
“See how fucking useless you are, you pathetic weakling?!” Katsuki yells directly into his face. “This’ll show you to say you’re gonna be a hero!” he punctuates his threat with another punch to his victim’s gut.
Eventually, they drop him to the ground whimpering and crying, and make their way home.
Izuku sits there, crying. For all Katsuki knows, he stays there for hours, balled up.
For all he knows, this is where the boy disappears.
Katsuki sits up in bed, covered in sweat and the sweet smell of nitroglycerin permeating the room. His breath comes in uneven, haggard gasps as he can’t pull the image of Deku, face twisted in pain and something even worse.
After that, he most certainly doesn’t sleep.
***
The dark bags under his eyes, when he steps in to class the next day, are very telling.
“Yo bro, did you sleep at all this week? You know we were supposed to rest right?” Kirishima says when he walks up to Katsuki’s desk as the ash-blonde young man takes his seat. The boy is as bubbly as ever, frustratingly friendly with a grin that stretches from cheek to cheek and is filled with spiky white teeth. His impressively spiked red hair feels like its intruding in his field of vision.
“None of your business, shit-for-hair,” he scoffs and folds his arms over his chest. A few others – Kaminari, Jiro, Uraraka, Ashido – offer timid helloes, but have more-or-less learned not to bother him when he’s in a mood.
He closes his eyes against the clinically bright lights of the classroom, wondering if maybe he can claim a few moments of rest before Aizawa walks in and ruins his god-damned day even more. He hears the door open and shuffling footsteps that tell him his insomniac professor is here, and he wills his eyelids open with an irritable sigh.
His professor makes him look well-rested, but that’s just how Aizawa is. His eyes are weighed down with aggressively dark bags, his slick black mop of hair is wild and untamed, the scarf nested about his shoulders almost concealing the exhausted hunch of his shoulders.
“Morning, class,” he deadpans as he scans the class. He drops a stack of folders on his desk before approaching, and then leaning heavily against, the podium. “I hope you’re ready to get back to work – we have a week’s worth of training to catch up on.”
Heavy groans fill the room, and Aizawa doesn’t react. He doesn’t give a shit whether they like it or not, he demands dedication and results above all. It’s one of the few things that Katsuki can respect.
“But before we do, I have an important announcement.”
Everyone except Katsuki sits a little taller in anticipation. It’s probably about the two hours of extra drills they’ll be running after classes for the next two weeks. Katsuki is likely the only one in this goddamn class who read the e-mail.
Well, maybe Yaoyorozu did, the overachiever.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard about the League of Villains’ fight with a vigilante group a couple nights ago,” he says. “And you may be aware that several people your age were apprehended from both sides of the conflict.” The students exchange confused glances. This isn’t the direction they were expecting him to take. Where is he going with this? “Well as of today, they are part of two pilot programs for Villain Rehabilitation and Vigilante Rehabilitation.”
Katsuki’s heart slams up into his throat and he jolts upright, eyes narrowed.
“So that means they’re coming to school - here?” he hates how quiet and shaky his voice is.
“What, bro, you scared? So unmanly,” Kirishima sighs. “Though it is kinda weird, ain’t it?”
“It is just cause for concern! I agree with Katsuki!” Iida proclaims from the back. Their class rep – his posture is as straight as the stick that’s always up his ass.
“I’m not fuckin’ scared, you half-wit fucks, I just asked if they’re coming here!” he practically blows the both of them up with the decibel of his voice. An errant spark fizzes out against his palm.
The red flash of Aizawa’s quirk, bright and crimson in his eyes against the shadows of his face, silences them immediately – no one wants their quirk erased, even if temporarily. “I was getting to that, Bakugou,” he sighs, rakes a hand through the untidy black waves of his hair. “The vigilante group, being deemed non-threatening to students here, as they are aligned primarily against villains, will be joining us momentarily. The villain students are assigned to class 3-A and are to be under heavy guard at all times. Does anyone have questions before I bring them in?”
Iida’s hand flies into the air. “Are we to understand that they are pursuing a hero certification, as we are?” he asks incredulously. “If so, why are they not required to take the entrance exam? It seems most unfair to those of us that have worked to be in this position!”
“That depends on them, and any hypothetical progress they make towards being rehabilitated,” Aizawa says. “They are not, by default, training to be heroes. They are studying and training alongside you all in the hopes that they can learn and grow into a healthier mindset and be re-integrated into society.” He sounds as if he’s reading off of someone else’s script. Clearly he doesn’t buy into this bullshit any more than his students do. “It’s their way of atoning – otherwise, they would be in prison for quirk abuse, assault, and myriad other charges.”
Quirk abuse? Deku doesn’t have a fuckin’ quirk.
Iida nods sagely. “I see. That is a noble goal indeed, one I am not surprised that this fine institution aligns itself with!”
“Shut up, glasses!” Katsuki seethes – his heart rate is too high, his palms sweating too much, the lights too bright, at the scenario he is suddenly envisioning. “Just get on with it, Prof,” he says as he grips the edge of his desk so hard it almost cracks.
“… Very well,” Aizawa gives him a piercing look before retrieving his phone from the folds of his baggy hero uniform and pressing a button. The door swings open and a security guard strolls in accompanied by four other figures.
Red eyes land immediately on viridian green, scattered freckles, ivory skin, and emerald curls. He holds his breath without even thinking. Deku glances at him for nothing more than a moment before giving an amused grin and looking away, scanning the room. Katsuki recognizes the analytical glint in his eye, and has no familiarity with the new attitude, the confidence, behind it. The second thing Katsuki notices, as a fire lights itself in his stomach and he begins to turn red, is that they’re each wearing a thin metal band around their necks.
“Class 1-A, allow me to introduce Class 1-X.” he gestures to the four varied figures that stand in front of the board, facing the class with expressions ranging from boredom, anger, pride and amusement. “You probably noticed the neckbands. They negate quirks and are remotely controlled. They also provide negative shock feedback if they step out of line. While they aren’t considered to be active threats to you, we are taking every precaution. Now I’m going to allow them to introduce themselves,” he sighs and gestures to the first one in line. “Name and Quirk, please.”
The boy is average in height and build, tired-looking with dark bags under his eyes, and wavy long purple hair that seemingly defies gravity as it stands almost vertically. “I am Shinsou Hitoshi,” he introduces himself nonchalantly. “My quirk is brainwashing.”
Scattered whispers flit throughout the room.
The next to introduce themselves is a girl – Katsuki struggles to pay attention, his eyes practically entirely devoted to Deku, standing there and looking over the room and watching the introductions with an amused spark in his brilliant green eyes. Katsuki hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to see them. Couldn’t have imagined the circumstances under which he would, finally.
The girl has a slight but athletic frame; she’s tall and tanned, her hair a bright red to rival Kirishima’s. Her face is set in a hard, angry line as she steps forward and examines the class for a moment. “My name,” she bites, “is Matsushima Kino, and just because I’m stuck here with you shits doesn’t mean I’m here to play nice,” her voice is laced with acid. “My quirk is called Swords Dance. I can conjure and control a variety of blades,” she says reluctantly.
The next one to step up looks so confident and fucking proud that Katsuki hates him instantly – wants to blow the smirk off his shitty face. He’s pale, with a shock of white hair with a single streak of black. The man’s body is tall and built, not particularly buff, but with the lithe, wiry musculature of a true fighter. He seems to catch onto Katsuki’s reaction, his gaze landing on the blonde and staying there. “I am Shiruku Ito,” his voice is deep and silky, and he’s practically purring. “My quirk is the Red Thread of Fate. I can create and control a red cord of any dimension I choose, and use it to drain the strength from others.” Shiruku breaks his gaze on Katsuki to glance knowingly at the last in their lineup and whisper something into the green-eyed boy’s ear, and suddenly Katsuki likes him even fucking less.
Izuku steps forward, the ghost of an amused smirk playing along his lips for a moment where he just stares straight into Bakugou Katsuki’s soul.
“Hello everyone,” and fuck, his voice is so familiar but so grown up, having acquired a slightly husky depth to it in the eight years they’ve been apart. Katsuki can’t breath, can’t look anywhere but the bright green that is boring straight into his soul. “My name is Midoriya Izuku,” he breaths, “And my quirk is Stutter. I can temporarily shift the time frame of my surroundings relative to myself, to varying degrees and to a variety of effects,” he says this casually and suddenly the murmurs of the class are silent.
Can he – can deku – control fucking time?
“Oh, and Bakugou – how nice to see you again, you homicidal prick,” each syllable is deliberate, measured for maximum impact, and Katsuki feels like he’s been suckerpunched. His grip tightens – now, the desk top really does crack.
Somehow, the worst part is hearing his fucking family name on fucking Izuku’s tongue. “Bakugou Katsuki … at a loss for words? Now there’s a surprise-“ he begins.
“FUCKING DEKU!” Katsuki stands and rages, sparks racing over his palms. “What the fuck?!” he feels his quirk flee his system, the sparks dying as the scarlet flash of Aizawa’s eyes claim his power.
“Get in your seat, Bakugou,” Aizawa sighs. Of fucking course. And now this is my problem, he gives a silent groan. Nezu has some shit to answer for. That can wait, though. “Now that we’re done with introductions, center column, get up and find a new seat. 1-X, take a seat.”
With some wordless, awkward shuffling, the movement is executed and Bakugou finds himself seated to the right of Midoriya Izuku, who just gives him a sarcastic grin and a chuckle before facing front to the board.
Katsuki wants, for a lack of better phrasing, to fucking die.