Chapter Text
—
There's a specific kind of beauty at the skatepark in late afternoon, Shinsou muses. A familiar, comforting sort of beauty, found by sitting on a ledge somewhere and watching the older boys do their tricks until the sun was tinged pink-orange and the cold evening air grew nippy.
It brought a sense of camaraderie. The clacking of boards, the buzzing of bass music against the walls. The knowledge that here, in this concrete sanctuary, you could be strange and off-putting and no one would even blink an eye.
Shinsou shivers under his jacket, feeling the chill on the wind start to pick up. It never got excessively cold here in the city, but concrete has a sneaky way of sucking the life out of a motherfucker - hence why he’s bundled up in several different layers, looking pathetic on the sidelines while he coaches Kaminari on his kickflips.
Kaminari knew how to do them. Shinsou had seen him do it.
But that had been last week, and apparently Kaminari’s legs don’t carry muscle memory across weekdays.
“You keep leaning forward and kicking the board too hard,” Shinsou points out, watching Kaminari run after his board again. “It’s not gonna bite you.”
“I know I know, but I can’t help it!” Kaminari jumps a few times on his heels, shaking out his wrists. A spark jumps from his hair, crackling. “I’m just all worked up because I know we’re gonna talk about Bakugou later. It’s making me antsy.”
Shinsou sighs.
The whole court business had his foster parents all up in a tizzy, too. Although he was staying at the dorms and therefore saw less of his parents, he could tell that they were distracted, focusing less on checking up on him and more about finishing last-minute paperwork edits, calling their attorney, and getting suits cleaned.
Aizawa hadn’t been in class today. Bakugou hadn’t, either.
Seeing his empty seat had been uncomfortable.
Not just because his foster parents were busy doing other things - he was mostly used to that - but because it reminded Shinsou so much of all of his old court dates. The endless waiting, the looming decision of the judge, the surrealism of it happening at all.
And no, his parents being distracted and stressed was not bothering him, fuck-you-very-much. Shinsou may love to complain, but he knew how to process his emotions about that on his own damn time.
Well. His lips twitch, thinking about the empty, life-sucking dread that had been building in his chest all day. He mostly knew how. Why else would he be sitting here pathetic and mopey at his favorite skatepark?
“I know we’ll talk about it later, but I can’t stop thinking about Bakugou acting fuckin’ strange yesterday. And Ashido said-” Kaminari pulls his body up into position, twists his back foot, and swears when his skateboard goes skittering away. He jogs to pick it up, barely avoiding another skater who swerves around him last minute.
From his perch on a railing nearby, Shinsou raises his eyebrows. His well-loved board lies next to him, lavender underbelly tucked against his leg.
“Leaned too far forward again. Ashido said…”
Kaminari huffs, slightly out of breath from chasing his skateboard. “Ashido said that Bakugou left campus this morning, before the 7 o’clock bell. And he was wearing a suit. Can you believe that?”
His friend drops his board on the cement next to them with an awkward clack, putting one foot on the tail to stop it from rolling. Kaminari’s eyes are bright, intense, like a burning wire. “He fuckin’ hates those things.”
Shinsou hums, looking across the park to watch Jirou do a nice drop-in on the bowl. Ashido cheers on the edge nearby, her pink knee guards sparkling in the afternoon sun.
“I don’t know shit, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Shinsou did, obviously, but that was kind of the point. If he’d ever learned anything, particularly about information gathering, it was that you never showed your full hand.
And besides, Shinsou might not be a great person, but with these sorts of things…he understands when it’s important to keep your mouth shut about private affairs. He had promised Bakugou, even if his word didn’t really mean much in the grand scheme of things.
Kaminari narrows his eyes and takes a moment to adjust his wrist guards. The velcro makes little strrchhhppp noises as he pulls it apart.
“You got your nose in like, everything, dude. And you’re literally Aizawa’s son, so-”
“God, just say it as loud as fucking possible,” Shinsou drawls, leaning back until his back pops audibly. “It’s supposed to be a secret, you know.”
His friend blows a raspberry at him, rolling his eyes. “Ashido and Jirou are literally on the other side of the park, and Sero just left to go get snacks. They can’t hear shit anyway.” He pauses, thinking. His fingers tap rapidly on the rail.
“Well, I guess Jirou could if she used her quirk” -Shinsou sighs- “but quirk use is prohibited at this skatepark. So. I think we’re good.”
Kaminari moves to settle on the rail next to him, their elbows briefly touching. Shinsou tenses, before forcing himself to relax.
It wasn’t a secret, really, Shinsou being Aizawa’s mini-me, but most people just assumed he was Aizawa’s protégé and stopped there. Some joked he was an illegitimate child or something like that, but the truth - that he was adopted - was known by very few.
He preferred it that way, because when people knew, they did shit like this. Asking for insider information. Poking. Intruding.
Kaminari knew because Shinsou was an idiot and shared personal information in a moment of weakness. But other than that, it was private, and he wanted it to stay that way.
He had promised Bakugou the same. What a hypocrite he was, sometimes.
They sit there for a few minutes, Kaminari bobbing his leg and scrolling through social media, before Shinsou decides to break the silence again.
“Did anyone else mention Bakugou’s weird behavior besides you guys?” He asks, watching some of the younger boys execute some turns on the quarter pipe. One of them eventually wipes out, and he turns to look at his friend instead. “I’m assuming it’s rare that Bakugou misses school.”
Kaminari clicks his screen off and pulls a knee up on the railing, sighing.
“I don’t think anybody else did, no. Midoriya might suspect something, but asking him about Bakugou is never a good idea. I know you weren’t here for the first year, but that shit was rough. It’s still kind of an awkward subject for the squad.”
“What, because he tried to kill a classmate and you guys decided to befriend him anyway?”
His friend cringes. “Something like that. We didn’t support any of it, but, yeah. Speaking of the squad, actually - Sero!”
Across the park, a tall lanky kid - who Shinsou soon recognizes as Sero - whips his head over in their direction. In his hands he holds a convenience store bag, laden with snacks. He waves, and slowly makes his way over.
Jirou and Ashido catch on pretty quick. It’s Ashido that comes skating up in a blur, executing a rather nice sliding stop. Kaminari whistles, and she beams.
“Hey guys! Ready to execute our first meeting of the” -she pauses dramatically and lowers her voice- “Bakugou Intervention Squad?”
The boys groan, and Jirou laughs. “I gotta say, the name sucks. Makes him sound like an itty bitty wallflower who can’t protect himself.”
Sero throws a drink of some kind to Kaminari, sweet bread towards Ashido and a container of chocolate covered wafers for Jirou. To Shinsou, he hands a warm package of red bean dorayaki. Mouth watering, Shinsou tucks it into his hoodie for later, touched by the gesture.
“Ok, well maybe we’ll call it The Bomb Squad,” Kaminari suggests, popping the metal tab off his drink with a clink. “You know, since we’re gonna be diffusing so many bombs.” They all laugh.
“I’ll never understand how Kirishima does it, to be honest.” Jirou mumbles. Most of them shake their heads in exasperation. “That guy could tame a rabid animal if he tried.”
“Speaking of Kirishima - has anybody actually considered just asking him what the hell is going on? Or Bakugou himself?” Kaminari asks. “This isn’t a murder mystery or something, it’s just Bakugou.”
Ashido hums, ripping open the cellophane surrounding her sweet bread and taking a big bite. Her words come out half-muffled. “We all know how he gets ‘bout personal stuff. He’s not gonna say anything, and Kirishima respects him enough to keep quiet, too.”
“Have we considered that Kirishima and Bakugou are just fighting again?” Sero suggests. “If they are, I'm saying right now that I’m not intervening in that shit anymore. Kirishima nearly tried to eviscerate me in the Daiso store elevator last time. I genuinely feared for my life.”
“Nah, you’d know straight away - well, not straight, I guess, but - anyway,” Kaminari cringes, “They’re pretty obvious when they’re working through something. Makes it unbearable to be in the same room with ‘em. Must be something else.”
The whole group nods sagely. Shinsou can’t help but snort in amusement to himself, chin tucked into his hoodie.
Kaminari notices, unfortunately. He moves to bump his elbow, asking, “You were there in the library with me, what do you think?”
Shinsou looks at all of them, and something unnamed stirs in his stomach. He thunks the bottom of his sneaker against the pavement, trying to catch the feeling, but it escapes before he can identify it. “I mean - I don’t know him all that well.”
Kaminari bumps his elbow again, eyes tracing over Shinsou’s face. “C’mon, I know you know something. You’re always good with this kind of stuff.”
That feeling in his stomach is starting to turn a little sour, and he frowns. Was that was he here for? As an informant?
The whole group is looking at him, waiting for a reply.
Shinsou is a coward, so he finds a crack in the concrete to stare at instead.
This wasn’t the first time they’d all come to the skatepark together - it was usually just Kaminari and Shinsou, and occasionally Ashido. Most of the time they didn’t talk about Bakugou, or school, or whatever. It was normally just them, which -
Was he jealous?
The feeling makes Shinsou’s cheeks heat a little. Maybe he was feeling a little jealous - jealous that Bakugou got to have all these caring, thoughtful friends, who asked after his wellbeing and wondered about him when he was gone, and now Shinsou was sitting here as a part of this squad mostly because he wanted to be a part of it for- for what?
It’s not like he was here out of the good of his heart. Shinsou doesn’t do shit like that. He was scrappy. Crawled around in the gutters. He was no saint, out to help just cause it was the right thing to do.
Sure, Bakugou was staying with him, and they’d gotten a chance to get to know each other, and Shinsou would even go as far as to say he liked the guy. It was - nice, to have someone who related to his experiences.
But…information was power. It was leverage. And holding it meant he had something of worth. Something his friends - dare he call them that - wanted.
Something nasty and jealous writhes in his chest, words from a long time ago whispering in his ears.
Aizawa had warned him about this, but it still didn’t make the feeling settle any easier in his chest.
“What makes you think that he even needs your help?” He asks sharply. “Your meddling could make it worse, for all you know.”
The group frowns, uncomfortable with the sudden change in tone. Ashido chews on her lip. “Well…we care about him, you know? And he’s so fiercely independent. Especially when he really should tell someone.”
Sero snorts, shifting against the concrete. “On the Bakugou sliding scale of problems, the worse the situation, the less likely he is to ask for help.”
“Yeah, exactly. And I know he has Kirishima, bless his heart, but it’s not fair for Kirishima to bear that load by himself either.”
Kaminari is looking at him again. “Do you think we would make it worse, whatever it is?”
Shinsou is only able to return his gaze for a few moments before he looks away, uncomfortable with the electricity in the other boy’s stare. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not, depending on what’s actually going on.”
Jirou nods. “That’s fair. I still think that after everything happened, you know, with the war and stuff….I don’t know. Just doesn’t seem smart to let things go.”
The group goes quiet for a moment or two, remembering all of their own individual hurts. They still stung, even after so many months had passed. Class 2A had all been on the front lines to an extent, and that sort of thing left marks, no matter how much they pretended to be normal highschoolers.
Ashido speaks up after a bit, cheek propped up on her fist. “I mean, in the end - we’re just kids. You know? It’s easy to forget in the hero industry but we’re young. We need each other.”
The group nods, agreeing. From his position on the rail, watching them all, Shinsou swallows. Something painful shifts in his chest.
We’re just kids.
How he wished someone had understood that, when they were putting a muzzle on his ten-year-old face. Taking his only belongings away in a trash bag. Throwing him from house to house like a pest they can’t get rid of.
When he'd been in general studies, he'd been under the impression that all of those lucky fucking bastards in the hero course didn't get it. They wore the same faces as every other bully he'd ever had, and they were too soft. Like smooth hands that had never worked, free of calluses. Their mommies and daddies paid for their tuition and their training, and they went to the best schools, and all the other little rats like Shinsou would have to crawl up the ladder on their own.
He had wanted to believe that life was a lonely, selfish sort of thing. That you only got to where you were because you worked for it, alone.
But as loath as he was to admit it, everything Shinsou has achieved thus far was due to the kindness he’d received at some other point in his life.
In the first few foster houses he had been supported (and loved, he thinks) by friends. Older foster kids, who had done their best to help him settle in or taught him tricks or consoled him when the parents were being shitty. It’s probably how he’d gotten through those first few years alive.
He remembers messy birthday cakes, made from dollar store cake mix. Video games set to two-player on easy mode. A guiding hand, teaching him how to skate on a cheap board and with shitty lungs. They didn't have to do any of that. It didn't help them get ahead in life. But they did it anyway.
And now, here was Class-2A accepting him as one of their own even after he'd declared them enemies. He had friends here. Case in point - Kaminari stayed up late on weekdays to play video games with him, and Sero had just offered him a warm pastry on a cold day, just because he could.
No man was an island. If there was one thing Shinsou had learned in the past few years, it was the importance of having someone to watch your back. If Aizawa hadn’t asked more questions, if Shinsou hadn’t replied honestly, if he had kept to himself, he wouldn’t be here as a hero student.
He didn't live in that lonely, selfish world anymore, where it was everyone for themselves. He could, and this was a real shocker, actually help other people now.
Would this constitute as “helping”, though?
Shinsou thinks of all those days sitting in the courthouse, waiting. Sitting on his phone, hoping for some kind of message to distract him. He remembers the dread that would curdle in his stomach as his train edged closer and closer to his foster home.
Bakugou wasn't like him. He had friends. He had this whole group of kids that cared about his well being, and he wasn't saying anything to them about the bullshit he went through every day.
If Bakugou wasn't going to take advantage of that…
Shinsou's eyes narrow. It was almost insulting.
He didn’t have to say anything upfront, or too obvious. Shinsou could just give them, you know, a little nudge in the right direction. That’s all.
It would mean that he'd lose his leverage, and probably piss Bakugou off in the process. But. Hey.
Shinsou's always loved a little bit of chaos.
“Okay,” Shinsou says, after a moment. “Okay well….process of elimination, I guess. If it’s not his relationship with Kirishima, or school related, it could be something else. Job, family…”
Sero nods. “Bakugou only misses school for injuries or appointments. But since you saw him in a suit-”
“Oh my god,” Kaminari gasps, inhaling his drink too fast and starting to cough - when it’s almost dropped next to Shinsou, he realizes it’s some kind of raspberry soda.
He slaps Kaminari’s back a few times, who then gets out: “His mom!” before coughing again. Shinsou’s eyebrows fly into his hairline, shocked at how quickly they were able to piece that together.
Well, until Ashido sits forward and says: “What if his mom died. Oh my god. Guys, what if he was going to a FUNERAL?”
Now Shinsou is the one having a coughing fit. Kaminari looks at him a bit strangely before taking a breath and saying, “Ok, but think about it - he’s kind of out of it, tired, sad, distracted, almost like he’s grieving. Kirishima looks upset, but won’t talk about it. Bakugou leaves school, which he never does except for injuries or hospital visits, and leaves wearing a suit. Ashido, you’re a genius!”
“Wait,” Shinsou says. “You’re just gonna jump to conclusions like that? What if it was a job interview, or something else happened with his family?”
Ashido and Kaminari gasp in unison. “HIS DAD DIED!”
Shinsou nearly throws his hands up in the air. Oh, for fuck’s sake!
“Fine! Fine, OK, I don't think his parents - died, or anything, maybe we need to think about other options first.” Shinsou resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Does anybody know anything else about his home life?”
“His mom sucks balls,” Jirou says, crumpling up a wrapper. When the squad turns to look at her, she goes, “What? She does. Every single phone call I've heard from her - accidently, don't look at me like that - she's been really mean. I guess that's pretty par for the course for their family. But, yanno.”
Next to Shinsou, Kaminari tilts his head back and forth, considering. “I always figured it was one of those tough love situations. She's hard on him, but he's - Bakugou. What made you think she was mean?”
Jirou shrugs. “Overly critical. He's kind of perfectionistic, yeah?”
Kind of perfectionistic was an understatement, from the looks on the squad's faces. Shinsou still doesn’t know the guy super well, but he does know that Bakugou lines up his shoes in the closet with the precision of a brain surgeon prepping for surgery. So.
Ashido speaks up again, addressing Shinsou. “He's gotten into fights with his mom before, but none of them ever meant he missed school or left wearing a suit. So what makes you think this has to do with his family, if it's not a funeral?”
Shinsou shrugs. “Call it a gut feeling.” Kaminari and Jirou are watching him, and he can feel a prickle go up his spine. Uncomfortable, he averts his gaze elsewhere, and cringes at how obvious that was. Jirou’s eyes narrow slightly.
Ashido doesn’t seem to notice, a pink finger tapping against her crossed arms. “Hm. Well, I think we need more information. I feel like we haven’t gotten anywhere.” She pauses, her strange eyes glinting. “Besides my genius idea earlier, of course.”
Shinsou feels his eyebrow twitch. “I don’t know jack shit, for the record” -Kaminari hides a smile behind the lip of his soda can, smug- “but I know his parents aren’t dead. So. We gotta figure something else out.”
“Well…” Sero clears his throat from his position against the concrete wall, one knee hiked up towards his chest. He looks a bit hesitant. “I know this is going to be an unpopular opinion, but, hear me out first -”
Somewhere else in the park, a skateboard hits the ground with a large CRACK. The squad leans forward.
“What if we talked to Midoriya?”
—
“You don’t have to go in, you know.”
Katsuki grunts, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his slacks. One of his fingers rubs against a chewed nail, the skin swollen and sore. It throbs to the racing beat of his heart.
He turns to look at his sensei, who has one hand on the brass handle of the courtroom doors, the sound of mingling voices muffled by the thick oak. His sensei’s hair is slicked back and his suit is all clean, sharp edges, but his dark eyes are kind.
“I wouldn’t fault you if you wanted to wait outside,” His sensei says, tracking his eyes over Katsuki's face. “You won't testify in this hearing, so there’s no need for you to be here. Only if you want to.”
There's a pause, and Katsuki tries to resist the urge to swallow.
“I'm aware,” He answers eventually. His neck itches, irritated by the weight of his tie against his throat.
“And?”
Katsuki turns to glare up at Aizawa, hands fisting in his pockets. “And I didn’t come all this way just to hide in the hallway like a fucking coward.”
Aizawa snorts, and the sound is almost fond. “Alright, well if you change your mind-”
“I won’t.”
“-if you change your mind, you’re always welcome to leave. We’ll be seated towards the front left of the courtroom, with my attorney and the social services rep.”
Katsuki breathes. “And my parents?”
“Your parents will be on the other side of the courtroom, most likely.”
The thought of that sours Katsuki’s mouth. It must show on his face, because Aizawa shifts a little bit against the door and catches his eye.
“Remember, you're under no obligation to talk to them, even if they try to get your attention or find you after the session has closed. If they do, it's my responsibility to handle them. Not yours. Okay?”
Katsuki grunts, avoiding Aizawa’s gray stare. The hallway is starting to fill with people, all carrying serious-looking briefcases and bunching up along the edges like black suited bugs. Their stares linger on the line of his shoulders, and he feels a shiver edge up his spine. His heart is starting to beat in his ears.
It’s one of those moments that feels saturated, so full of change and the potential for something awful that it’s surreal. His body is flooded with adrenaline that, unlike in a fight, has nowhere to go; and with there being no need for him to participate today, the only thing his brain can do is loop helplessly over the dire consequences of what he was about to witness.
He could leave. He could get on a bus and go back to school, and wait for the verdict like a prisoner waiting to hear if their sentence has been revoked.
Or, he muses, he could walk in these doors, and face his mother, and see it with his own eyes in real time.
Traumatizing? Probably. But it was a front row seat with no room for wrongful interpretation. And it wouldn't involve sitting on the floor of his room waiting for death.
Katsuki stares at the brass handles in front of him.
It always seemed like his life was a series of rocks and hard places. Sometimes a rock and a rock. Or a door and another door.
Kirishima was fond of saying that some doors have to close in order for others to open. Perhaps this was the reverse of that; some doors you have to open yourself in order to end the era that came before it.
“I'm ready,” He says, and it's mostly not a lie.
Aizawa looks at him for a moment, considering. After finding whatever he was looking for, he nods and gestures towards the doors. “After you, kid.”
Feeling a bit like he was walking into battle, Katsuki answers by jamming his shoulder into the wood and pushing the wide, heavy doors open. The cacophony of a pre-session court room greets him like a wave, settling thickly over his ears.
There are people everywhere, darting between worn wooden seats and carrying papers. He can see the judge near the front of the courtroom, talking to a well-dressed woman holding some sort of folder.
It’s smaller than he thought it would be. In his mind, he’d imagined a wide auditorium, with shining lights and big hallways and cameras everywhere. This…was a conference room at best. It smelled like one, too, vaguely musty. Like old books.
His dad is looking at him.
It shouldn’t be surprising, but it is, and the desperation in his dad’s face shocks Katsuki so much he inhales a little. He blinks, and jerks his eyes away.
His mother, donned in the sharpest, most expensive suit she owns, did not bother to look. She only had eyes for the judge, and Katsuki can't tell if he's relieved by that or not.
“Where are we going?” He mutters to Aizawa at his side.
Aizawa gestures wordlessly, and they move to settle into their seats. After a few seconds Aizawa leans forward to talk to a neat-looking person in front of him, presumably his attorney. They greet each other with a firm handshake and a friendly grin.
Katsuki is starting to feel dizzy. The fact that he's sitting down does not help.
His neck keeps twitching, thinking of his father’s pleading eyes and his mother’s ignorance, pressing against the side of his head. He knows his dad is staring again. He can feel it, like a buzzing insect around his ears.
He swallows.
On the drive over, Aizawa had asked him if his parents had tried to contact him in the weeks since his removal. Katsuki had said no.
Aizawa had seemed relieved. Maybe even a little surprised, because how likely was it that they wouldn't try to contact their estranged son?
Katsuki's thoughts turn towards his phone, sitting heavy and warm in the pocket of his slacks. His fingers twitch.
It wasn't a complete lie. His mom hadn't tried to contact him in the past week because she, like Katsuki, preferred to cut her losses early. His dad, though…
Katsuki glances briefly at his sensei, still absorbed in conversation with his attorney. He licks his lips, and clenches his teeth until they whine.
They still had a few more minutes until the court session started.
And sure, Katsuki could sit here and make small talk, or text his boyfriend, or read news articles or some boring shit like that.
But his dad was still staring. And his thoughts are stuck looping over and over again, thinking of what he'd seen only a few days ago.
It doesn't take much to slip his hand into his pocket and grab his phone. To open the screen, stare at his contacts.
And it takes even less for him to slowly open the series of messages his father had sent him a few days ago. The same ones that had sent his whole week into a dizzy spiral.
He's already read it. But he can't help but do it again, feeling the slightest bit possessed.
Around him, the sounds of the court dim, swallowed by the brightness of his screen on his face.
Monday, January 4th
Dad 7:35am
- Hey, Katsuki.
- I know that today is your first day back at school since break. I hope it goes well.
Dad 7:37am
- I came across some old baseball tickets in my junk drawer this morning, and was thinking of you. It’s been a while, right?
Below the text, two image files were attached. They blink innocently up at him.
tickets.jpg
fall’34.jpg
After a brief pause, Katsuki clicks on the images a bit mechanically, hating himself for it.
In one image, two innocent tickets lie in his father’s hand, the ink faded and warped in places. One of them is nearly torn in half, smudged and blurry. Katsuki didn’t even realize that his dad had kept both tickets - he’d probably fished Katsuki’s out of the trash when he wasn’t looking.
The other image is a photo of the two of them at a local baseball game, taken in his last year of middle school. His dad has his arm around him, careful not to touch his neck. Katsuki’s expression looks a little more like a baring of teeth than it does a smile.
The bags underneath his eyes are so vivid in the photo they look like bruised plums. He stares, frowning.
He remembers that game, now. Masaru wasn’t a hardcore baseball fan, mostly just a casual sort of observer wherever his work schedule loosened up.
Katsuki had always thought it somewhat fitting; a talentless, pansy game for a talentless, pansy father.
With the introduction of quirks, baseball had gotten a little bit more fun than its quirkless predecessor (things got interesting when the players could fly to catch a fly ball) but Katsuki still thought it was irritating and too slow.
That year, though, he had just barely survived his encounter with the sludge villain, and he hadn’t been able to keep up his haughty, stubborn attitude like he normally would have. Between the influx of new triggers (the constant vomiting, the panic attacks, the lack of sleep, the paranoia) and the increasingly nasty and physical fights with his mother over his upcoming UA application…
He’d given in, said fine, and gone to that stupid baseball game with his dad.
Staring at the photo now, Katsuki understands why his dad had pestered him so much to go to the game. Middle school Katsuki looked…tired. Angry, in a hopeless kind of way. And the bruises he knew were under that middle school sweatshirt…
He looked like he needed help.
Masaru had tried during that game. Katsuki remembers slouching in that ugly gray stadium seat, sneakers propped up on the row in front of them, while his dad pointed out players and tried to talk to him. He remembers watching the pitcher, a tall, thin man with an arm like a slingshot.
At some point, his dad had decided to drop the facade of small talk. Katsuki supposed that he could have just gotten up and left at that point, taken the train back home or something, but his bones had felt like lead weights. He barely had the energy to exist, much less stand up and go home.
“You know, Katsuki…” His dad had said, thumbs fiddling with each other in his lap. His tongue jutted out to wet his lip, hesitating.
Katsuki ignored him, eyes following the tiny little men running around on the grass far below the seats. They looked like dolls, from this high up in the stadium. Like puppets.
Despite the buzz of the crowd around him, Katsuki’s ears were lit with a faint, distant ringing. Ringing like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long.
He busied himself thinking about what it would be like for someone to control your body with strings, to play a game with your body in a game wholly outside of your control. Devoid of all choice, some empty husk of a being.
It was not that hard to imagine. He knew already.
Lights flashed up near the top of the stadium, an ad for a sports drink that flooded the stadium with an electric blue tint. Katsuki barely registered the change.
“I’ve been worried,” His dad said eventually. Katsuki’s eyes were slightly out of focus, the little puppets running around on the field far below blurring into barely discernible specks. He made no effort to refocus them, breathing slow.
Turning to face him fully, Katsuki’s dad looked him over. “Are you alright? I mean, we try to connect, but sometimes, it seems like you don’t want me to. Or you push me away, and I just -”
Katsuki slowly flicked an eye over at his dad, brows slightly furrowed. Far below, the harsh swack of the ball landing in the catcher’s mitt seemed to echo like a gunshot. The announcer growled over the loudspeakers. Striiiiike one!
“Just what?” Katsuki asked.
His dad sighed, a sort of wispy sadness entering his eyes. Katsuki didn’t feel a thing, staring back at him. Not even the slightest bit of remorse.
“I just can’t read you anymore,” His dad said, matter of fact. “And I know you and your mother can make things difficult for each other-”
Katsuki turned to look back at the game, blinking lethargically. His bones ached. Striiiiikkee two! The crowd was starting to grow antsy, and Masaru was forced to speak a little louder over the growing chatter. Katsuki wondered why his father thought this would be a good time for this conversation, at all.
“-but I just wish you would talk to me. Is it me, Katsuki? Is it something I’m doing?” His dad almost seemed to plead, and Katsuki can’t even look at him.
He watched the game instead. Watched a talentless, pansy game, with a talentless, pansy father.
It’s more something you’re not doing, Katsuki wanted to say. It burned in his mouth, burned in his esophagus, so much like the vomit that he was now achingly familiar with. It writhed, like a live animal, and Katsuki was forced to swallow.
“It won’t change anything,” he said, instead. It doesn’t matter what I say, he thinks, because I know you’ll always take her side in the end. You always do.
Masaru had said nothing in return, just sighed that sad, defeated little sigh again. With a final, sharp swack of a ball in a mitt, the crowd around them broke out into raucous cheer. Strike three, the announcer purred. You’re out.
Back in the courthouse, Katsuki frowns down at the photos, feeling conflicted.
He was old enough now to recognize that his dad had likely tried to take him to that game as a sort of apology. For what exactly, Katsuki’s not sure, because dad was a coward, and he didn’t ever have the nerve to say anything out loud. But it had been an attempt at…something.
Is it something I’m doing?
Katsuki wonders, sometimes, if he would have gotten along with his father if his mother had never existed. If she was removed from their family, how would that have changed his relationship with his father? Would he have trusted Masaru? Confided in him? Hugged him back, rather than shrug off his attempts at comfort?
In their household, everything they did revolved around his mother. Everything. You could not hold an opinion that differed from Mitsuki’s without some sort of retribution. Neutrality did not exist.
Strange, that one’s relationship with someone can be so heavily dominated and changed by the presence of a separate, third person.
He clicks the screen off, flicking his eyes towards the door of the court room. Absently, he watches people enter, their faces blurring, coming and going like insects in a hive.
His dad knew that Mitsuki hurt him. Masaru knew that, and he still let it happen, maybe because he thought it was something Katsuki needed. Or because he was a coward who wouldn’t step in between his wife and his son - that would be taking a side, after all, and pitting yourself against Mitsuki was a death sentence.
He’s reminded of the parking lot fight, where Aizawa had stepped in between his mother’s splayed out hand and his cheek without a single ounce of hesitation. He’d looked at him in the hospital and said, if that’s what you need, I’ll do it, and opened his house and family to Katsuki. Gladly, he had said.
Even though they were clearly exhausted, Yamada and Aizawa had prepared for his court date for weeks. Not just the bureaucratic side of things like paperwork, but they had also prepared to support him and ask what he needed, on top of everything else.
When Katsuki hadn’t known what to say, they had been okay with the uncertainty. He could take his time and they’d still be there to help.
It wasn’t a missed opportunity. It wasn’t a single conversation at a baseball game, a hand offered once and then never again. It was a roof over his head, freely given. Even when faced with Katsuki’s worst; the nightmares, the lashing out, the avoidance…Aizawa and Yamada hadn’t retracted any of their help or care.
Was that fair, though? Was it fair, to compare his father’s actions over many years to someone else, in a completely different situation?
Katsuki had always been a fighter. He wasn’t the kind of kicked dog that would roll over and show his belly for the next kick. He wasn’t like his dad. But sometimes - sometimes he understood that the endless, emotional war was exhausting. Sometimes it was better to just move with the punches rather than take them straight on.
That still doesn’t make it right, his brain whispers to him. It sounds a bit like his boyfriend. He should have protected you, even if it meant going against his wife.
Bakugou stares at the photo of them at the baseball game, his dad’s arm wrapped around his shoulder in a seemingly protective gesture. The care he took not to press against his neck. The fact that his dad had even bothered to ask if it was his own fault, and if it was him that made Katsuki feel as if he couldn’t rely on his parents. He’d taken Katsuki out of the house, too, knowing when Mitsuki was at her angriest.
Swallowing, he reads the last message, knowing what was coming.
Dad 7:37am
- I know we haven’t always been on the same page, and I wish that it hadn’t come to this. But I want you to know that with everything I’ve got, I’ll fight for you. No matter what, even if your mother loses custody. I’ll make sure you're safe with me, like I should have done years ago.
Dad 7:37am
- I hope to see you soon. Love you.
—
Read 7:42am
No new messages.
—
The judge’s gavel comes down against the wood with an ear-splitting CRACK. Startled, Katsuki’s head flies up. Around him, conversations die, and with the rustle of stiff clothing, the courtroom rises as one. His pulse thuds painfully in his throat as he stands on shaky knees.
His father’s eyes are burning on his neck. Aizawa has a hand on his elbow. And Katsuki wishes, not for the first time, that he’d been born without such a sensitive fucking heart.
“The Court of General Sessions Seventeenth Judicial Circuit is now in session. Let us begin.”
—