Chapter Text
—
The next morning finds Aizawa once again making his way through hospital corridors, the hallways looking just slightly different in the eyes of the restful. Now that he’s not so sleep deprived, everything seems vaguely familiar, like a strange afterimage of a forgotten memory.
Waking up at his desk that morning had been a rather disorienting experience. In his sleepy haze, he'd totally forgotten his trip to Chiba had happened at all - that is, until he peeled a paper off his cheek and realized that it was titled Custody Changes and Policy Rights.
Ah, yes. The bane of every public servant’s existence….paperwork.
Aizawa’s whole night had been spent pouring through the endless clauses and various loopholes regarding custodial rights, hoping to find a weakness somewhere. He’s lucky that most of the people he works with are also underground night owls - most of his phone calls were answered, even past midnight.
It took a few pots of coffee and a handful of discussions with a very patient Hizashi, but it had proved successful in the end.
In his hands, he now holds enough legal paperwork to start a house fire. Or, well, enough paperwork to get protective custody over Bakugou for the time being, anyway.
He damn well wishes he could start a house fire, though.
Going through Bakugou’s records had been extremely frustrating, mostly because the mistreatment had clearly been going on for a lot longer than was acceptable. It wasn’t blatant, necessarily, but it was there if you knew what to look for.
His school records were about what Aizawa had anticipated: phenomenal exam scores, high performance marks, and near perfect attendance…all expected of a student of Bakugou's caliber. What stood out to him, though, was the sheer volume of written concerns documented by teachers and coaches.
Normally, a student would have a couple here and there. And, with Bakugou’s personality, it was kind of expected.
But there were a lot more than just a few, and they weren't all about him, necessarily.
In elementary school, for instance, one teacher explains they scheduled a parent meeting four times - each of them unattended. In the fifth and final meeting, the parents attended, but spent most of their visit “verbally and physically harassing” their child.
Two other teachers noted that when they had called home with various concerns about Bakugou they received no response, or when they did, it was…not something that could be repeated in polite company.
Middle school brought more specific behavioral concerns; aggressive and threatening behavior, pushiness, taunting, minor fights - things that Aizawa had already been aware of.
But then there were the numerous reports submitted about how rough the kid looked. It was not unusual to see him with severe facial bruising, wrapped fists, sprained ankles, broken bones, and everything in between.
Many teachers had assumed it had either been gang involvement or excessive training. Aizawa had easily dismissed the first, knowing that Katsuki, while rather blunt and aggressive, was still kind of a stickler for the rules. For being so rude, he was strangely obedient.
In an effort to get some real background on the injuries, Aizawa had taken a look at his medical records -yes, technically illegal, but being an underground hero had its perks- and had discovered something a bit perplexing.
There were dozens of hospital admissions. A laundry list of injuries, going all the way back to five or six years old: Torn ligaments, shattered bones, concussions, third degree burns, puncture wounds, even internal hemorrhaging when he was 13.
Hell, it had looked like Aizawa's medical records. He's a grown ass adult hero, though - there was no reason for Katsuki to have records this prolific.
And, look - Aizawa isn’t stupid. Explosion was the sort of quirk that needed an acute sense of control and focus in order to be used properly, and that skill came with a heavy price. Forget the difficulty of maintaining large explosions - the sheer skill required alone for Bakugou to fly probably took years and a lot of horrible accidents.
Aizawa also knows that little kids are exceptionally good at hurting themselves even without having explodable hands. But this?
This was excessive. It spoke of little supervision, and a certain degree of negligence. Most of the visits also had Bakugou checking himself in, rather than with a parent or another guardian.
And even if the records only contained training injuries - which, he imagines that some of them were not - the sheer amount of mandatory hospital stays before the age of 14 was just unacceptable. That boy was just a walking hospital file full of healed fractures and old bruises, and it’s miraculous he doesn’t have more lasting damage. Where were his parents in all of this?
And what had pushed the kid to train that hard, anyway?
Over all, it's starting to form a rather worrisome picture in Aizawa’s head.
No supervision. No concern. Just the relentless push to do better, be better. No regard for safety or support, and the vicious desire for perfection, recognition, and control….paired with one of the most unstable quirks in his class.
Yeah, it’s no wonder the kid has issues.
He’d come into UA half-feral with desperation and the heavy need to prove himself, and had instead been subject to a kidnapping and a number of other traumatizing circumstances. It’s amazing the kid hadn’t just completely lost his fucking mind years ago.
Last night, pouring over the numerous records and reports, Aizawa had honestly been a little miffed that he hadn't caught wind of this earlier. It was clear now that Bakugou had been at a breaking point, and with that home visit before the dorms…it really should have been obvious.
He’ll take responsibility for that, though. With All Might starting as a new teacher that year and all of Aizawa’s efforts to just keep his students alive, he had other things to focus on. It would have been nice to catch this much earlier, before they had reached terminal velocity, but. Whatever.
He’s here now, and he’s certainly not going anywhere.
The hospital seems busier today, the hallways filled with chatter and whistling radios while nurses do their rounds. As Aizawa approaches the kid’s observation room, it doesn't take long before he hears Bakugou’s familiar drawl spilling out into the hallway. His voice always seemed to carry, as if the kid wasn’t aware of how loud he was being.
“-m not an invalid, Eijirou.”
There’s a snort of amusement.“Yeah, but you’re disoriented. You tried to stick your head through the arm hole like, at least twice.”
When Aizawa peaks into the room, Kirishima is doing his best to gently tug Bakugou’s shirt back over his disgruntled face. Laying discarded on the bed is some of the medical equipment and his hospital gown.
“Good morning, you two.”
Both of them jerk in surprise, clearly a bit on edge. Kirishima gives him a weak smile, and Bakugou gives him a half-hearted grunt as he shoves the shirt over his shoulders and reaches for his shoes.
“Has the nurse come in yet?”
Kirishima nods, rubbing his wrist. “She says he’s good to go, just needs to sign out at the front desk.” He shrugs. “Discharge papers I think?”
“I thought as much.” Aizawa makes his way across the room, assessing his students out of the corner of his eye. Everything in the room has been packed up and organized, including their backpack. On the bed, Bakugou is about as stiff as a snow pole, and Kirishima is gonna need stitches if he bites any further into his lip.
He doesn’t blame them, really. They have every right to be uneasy, considering how disruptive custody battles can be for teenagers. It was going to be messy no matter how they tried to keep it on the down low.
The good thing is that the two of them don’t seem any worse for wear than they did yesterday - if anything, they seem more determined. Some of the light has made its way back into Bakugou’s eyes, and Kirishima isn’t trying to disappear into his hoodie any longer.
It's a good sign. Meant that this next part should be a lot easier, now that he won’t have to drag a depressed, apathetic Bakugou and a panicked Kirishima through a lengthy custody battle.
Speaking of - “Did you get my text last night?” Bakugou asks, sharp red eyes boring little holes into Aizawa’s shoulders.
"I did." He nods at him as he settles into a nearby chair, setting the legal forms down on his lap and wrapping his hands around his coffee. "It helped a lot with my investigative planning, so thank you for providing that." Bakugou nods shallowly.
"Before we go over everything, though, I was wondering if you have any questions."
There’s an awkward pause, in which it looks like both his students want to speak up, but don’t know where to begin.
Bakugou exchanges a long look with Kirishima before blurting eventually, “Who else knows about this?”
"A few different people," Aizawa answers easily. "UA's principal, the local legal protections office, my household, and your other emergency contact."
Bakugou's eyes narrow, accusing. "You told Midoriya Inko, then."
Aizawa sighs, rotating the cup of coffee in his hands. "In order for the investigation to proceed, I needed a certain number of potential witnesses close to the family. Your testimony counts, of course, but it helps a lot to get secondary input."
Bakugou looks like he's about to object, so Aizawa speaks faster.
"She's been made aware that she cannot tell others about the investigation, including family and friends. Everyone else I've talked to is subject to confidentiality as well. They’ll face legal consequences if they don’t follow regulation.”
Bakugou grumbles at that, but doesn't argue any further. Kirishima, on the other hand, perks up a bit. “So you’re doing an actual investigation, then?”
Aizawa nods, explaining that normally there would be a lengthy process involving a social worker and protective services. But, because he’s been in the business long enough and has some leeway as an underground hero, he’d been able to expedite the paperwork a great deal.
“I was able to procure protective custody, which means you” -he gestures at Bakugou - “can now spend breaks and weekends either in my household or at the school. If you want to go back to your house, you can, but you can stay with me if you need it.”
Bakugou frowns at that. “So you don’t have primary custody, then. Only partial.”
Aizawa eyes him. “Yes. If you want to be removed entirely from the Bakugou household, that’s going to be a much longer process - six months to a year, most likely. We would have to face your mother in court.”
Bakugou doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. His next words are just the slightest bit unsteady. “And you don’t want to do that, do you.”
Hm. That sounded like a boundary test. Bakugou’s shoulders are high and defensive, and his fists remain clenched in the sheets. Hoping to resolve some of the tension, Aizawa speaks slowly and keeps his body relaxed.
“I’ve said it before, but what really matters to me is that you have what you need. That includes support and safety for your overall well being, not just academic success.”
Bakugou’s jaw clenches, eyes still locked onto his face. Aizawa holds his gaze, making sure to keep his voice even. “And if that means removing you from your household, Bakugou, so be it. If it’s something you’d like to pursue, we would welcome you in our home. Gladly.”
That seems to do it for Bakugou, who forces his head to the side with a scoff. The angle isn’t nearly enough to hide the vulnerable shine to his eyes, nor the bitten lip, but he tries anyway.
“For now, the partial custody should be enough to keep you away from your mother when you need it. We don’t have to worry about anything else right now.”
Bakugou nods and sniffs, wiping his nose with a quick motion. The threat of facing his mother in court has to be overwhelming, especially when his fatigue is already so raw and present. At his side, Kirishima presses their shoulders together, offering his support.
Aizawa clears his throat and shuffles his papers. “Did you have any more questions for me?”
Kirishima shoots a look at Bakugou, seemingly looking for his permission. With a subtle nod from his friend, Kirishima turns to look back at Aizawa. “I was wondering - have you done this before? Taking protective custody?”
He grunts, knowing that they were heading into the more personal aspect of this whole process. “Yes. Both me and my partner are registered foster parents, and we’ve taken in a handful over the years. We currently have two adoptive children that are staying long-term.”
His two students blink at him in shock, clearly not expecting such openness.
Aizawa purposefully kept his private life and work life separate, and very few know the true status of his family. Most people were under the impression that he’s a lonely, sleep deprived hermit, and he’s just fine with that. It’s safer.
Aizawa lets out a breath, resting his elbows over his knees. “One thing about that, actually - it’s not public knowledge that I have a partner and children, and I’d like to keep it that way. With two hero parents, my kids are targets for villain retaliation, so we’ll ask you to keep it secret. Even from friends.”
Bakugou seems to have picked a different meaning from that, eyes narrowed, so Aizawa adds, "I'm not ashamed of my kids or partner in any way, we are just trying to keep them safe. Same goes for you, should you become a part of our household."
Bakugou grunts, finally looking away. Next to him, though, there’s something mischievous shining in Kirishima’s expression.
"Two hero parents?"
Aizawa sighs, already knowing what’s coming next.
“Before you ask, yes, the other hero I’m married to is Present Mic,” He drawls. Both of his student’s eyes light up in what looks like victory, and he adds, “I think you all had a bet a handful of weeks ago, did you not?”
To his surprise, Bakugou lets out a bark of laughter. Despite his fatigue and the weight of the conversation, he seems a little brighter. “You heard about that shit?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Of course I did. I know everything that happens in my classroom.”
Kirishima looks like he’s about to make another foray into Aizawa’s private life, impish grin wide on his face - but then he's interrupted by a series of rather insistent knocks at the door. They all freeze, caught off guard.
A nurse pokes her head in apologetically, tablet in hand. “Hi, sorry. We have a woman in the lobby asking for entry.” She pauses, checking her tablet briefly. “A Bakugou Mitsuki?”
The room seems to drop in temperature, the last breaths of the previously comfortable atmosphere fleeing rapidly.
Nobody speaks, horrified silence echoing along the walls. On the bed, Bakugou’s face is pale, and Kirishima’s hands have started to tremble again. Aizawa sighs, putting his paperwork aside. He gives the nurse a respectful nod.
“Thank you. I’ll take care of it. In the meantime-”
But he doesn’t get to finish, because Bakugou has already thrown himself off the bed and through the doorway with a few frantic steps. Aizawa swears, rushing to his feet. “Bakugou!”
It’s too late though, because the kid has already fled, Kirishima not far behind. Aizawa is left putting his coffee down in a hurry, the nurse looking on in slight confusion. When he passes her, she asks, “What’s wrong with Bakugou Mitsuki?”
Aizawa can’t help it, he snorts. “If that ain’t the question of the hour,” he drawls, and takes after his students down the hallway.
—
This is what it feels like to be Bakugou Katsuki:
You are sixteen, and a high ranking student at one of the most prestigious hero schools in the country. You have a wonderful friend group that loves you, an adoring boyfriend you'd do anything in the world for, and a phenomenal quirk and so much potential and so much drive-
-and there is a fracture in your skull.
Since you were a child, you've known that there was something in your heart that boiled too hot. Strong enough to sting, strong enough to burn welts into delicate skin. It was raw, and ugly, and always blazed through your veins at the worst possible moments.
When you look into the mirror, you see someone else’s face - but only when you snarl. At any given moment you hover on the edge of a tipping point into surrender and loss, but your body stays fueled by that same something you see reflected back at you every day. That familiar burn, that white hot agony of rage.
Something tells you that it isn't normal, to be followed by the living reminder of someone else's anger. You can't help it, though.
You are sixteen years old, blonde and red-eyed and young, and there is a fracture in your skull.
It is, of course, not your first broken bone; nor will it be the last. You have crushed pinkies against wooden planks, have shattered your femur after a misplaced aerial, and have acquainted yourself many times with the pained wheeze of a broken rib.
That white hot rage is good for many things, including the relentless desire to do better. If you aren't progressing, then you are left alone to confront your failures and your lost ambitions. You know this, because that internal flame flares all the hotter when you can't reach your goals.
Then, it does not sting, but scorch.
You are a person who burns bright and fast, a sharp flare and a heady explosion; but now…this fracture has brought something entirely new to the table.
Rather than spur you on, it settles deep into your bones; the weight of heavy and relentless apathy. The internal flame is all but coal, now, and your core is left shivering and unsure. There is no rage left, only pain.
So, no, this is not your first broken bone.
It is, however, the first time your mother has ever cracked a bone herself. Bones that she made. Bones that she gave you, deep in her womb, formed from her own flesh and blood.
When you look in the mirror, you are reminded that you were made from the monster herself; you are Eve created from Adam's ribs, the spawn of the one thing you hoped to never be a part of. That poison runs through your own veins; how could you ever escape it?
One more time: you are sixteen, your name is Katsuki, Bakugou Katsuki-
-and there is a fracture in your skull.
If all goes well, you pray it will be the last fracture that sets you free.
—
When Katsuki makes it to the lobby, he’s slightly dizzy, his stability left somewhere ten steps back - but it doesn’t take long to recognize that familiar pair of red eyes across the room. As he approaches, his heart hammers.
It’s odd to finally see her after the past few days. He feels both broken and whole, the world at once ending and just beginning - a familiar sort of chaos, when it came to her. An origin point and an end point, all at once.
His mother frowns, flicking her keys impatiently. “Took you long enough. Where’s all your stuff? We need to go, I’m late enough to work as is.”
Standing in the doorway of the waiting room, still a little wobbly on his feet, Katsuki just looks at her.
If he hadn’t been feeling so…off, he probably would have snapped back at her. Called her a hag. Maybe a bitch, or a whore, if he was feeling particularly vindictive.
Instead, all that comes out is a breathy sigh.
"Hey, mom."
Her eyes widen briefly in shock before narrowing to a point. She straightens, and edges even closer.
In the lobby, the other patients and nurses look at the two of them with interest, growing more uneasy as each second passed. His mother did that to people. Made others want to look at her, to watch.
Katsuki hates how alike they are sometimes.
His mother lets out a disbelieving snort, one perfect eyebrow raised. Katsuki notes that her hair and nails are immaculate, not a single thread out of place. She is almost larger than life, bright and sharp against the dull shades of the hospital lobby.
"So, what's this?" His mother taunts. "You get a little knocked around and suddenly you're a good kid?" She gestures at him. "I don't believe it."
Katsuki doesn't reply, just stares. It’s weird, because now that he knows he doesn’t have to go back home with her, he doesn’t really feel…much of anything.
He's always wondered what it would be like, to look at her and not feel rage.
Everyone knows he’s got a short fuse. It was usually the first thing people noticed when they met him. What they often don't realize is that anger is not the only emotion that he feels so strongly - it just happens to be the loudest.
So it’s extremely weird to feel this...emptiness. It’s like looking at a roaring fire and feeling none of the heat. Chill, and smooth. Like the jarring difference between the rolling seas and a straight horizon.
Katsuki knows this isn’t normal. He knows he’s past his limit, barely floating in his body - but, for a moment, none of it really matters. He's had enough. So he opens his mouth, and he says:
“I’m not going back home with you.”
It should feel like a momentous decision. After a lifetime of cruelty, a decade-long scar of hurt and frustration and rage, it should have felt like relief. But like all good feelings, it’s suffocated by the sheer presence of his mother.
It feels empty. Useless.
Mitsuki’s face twists even further with irritation, a familiar curl to her lip. “I’m not gonna play that game again, you’re not five.”
When he doesn't move, heavy feet planted where they are, she gestures with her hand.
“Let’s go, Katsuki.”
The nurse behind the front desk is staring, eyebrows furrowed as her eyes flick between him and his mother. She looks close to coming over and asking if everything is alright, which - no, Katsuki is not interested in seeing what his mother will say to that.
"Look," he starts, licking his lips. The nurse has put her keys down on the counter and is starting to approach.
He eyes her nervously. "Can we just take this shit outside? I need to-"
His mother interrupts, shifting towards him. "Yeah, alright. We can take this outside."
And with that, she throws her hand out - Katsuki's mind flashes back to that night, and thinks, no, don't - but her grip is already in his hair, pulling and yanking him towards the double set of doors.
White hot agony bursts behind his vision, and he can't help but let out a noise. His eyes water.
His mother is saying something as she pulls, something about a hassle, or frustration, or- Katsuki can't make anything else out, because he's too busy trying to remember how to put his feet in front of one another when he can't fucking breathe.
"W-wait-"
She keeps walking, her long, heeled strides making sharp clicks along the sidewalk."Quite frankly, I can't believe I had to drive all the way out here when you were the one who left-"
"Fuck, mom, stop it!" Katsuki finally gasps, hands scrabbling at her wrist. He can't even tell which way is up, head spinning. "Let go!"
She finally releases him as they reach the parking lot, and he stumbles a little bit. He's got one hand pressed to his temple, bent over at the waist, and he tries to breathe through the pain that has his whole head throbbing.
He feels like throwing up.
"God," he says into his hands. "Didn't they tell you I had a skull fracture? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
There's a pause.
"Your father told me it was a concussion. You've gotten enough of those before." Her words are short and blunt, irritation lining her words like syrup. "God knows your skull is thick enough to handle it."
Katsuki uses a finger to flick some of the pooling moisture out of his eyes, irritated. "Well, fuck you too," he mumbles. It's half hearted at best, tempered by the sharp throbbing pain in his skull.
He knows it’s probably just the concussion, but he can’t get his thoughts to align in any way that makes sense. Katsuki feels as if he’s stuck in a dream, looking through a blurry window into what should be reality, but acts like a dim roll of old film.
The image is familiar, though. Like a reoccurring nightmare.
His mother had never been a source of comfort, as was the case with most parents. She was never warm in all those idyllic ways like a cup of tea, or a blanket straight out of the dryer. Instead, she had pointed edges, sharp nails and the ringing crack of a whip, all wildfire and gasoline.
Katsuki knows that he was much the same, for the majority of his life. For him, that was normal; it was expected, and it was strength. In his household, there was nothing else besides wickedness that held any kind of weight.
Love was a foreign concept in his family. A fairy-tale, a false hope. Something for the the weak.
UA, and subsequently Eijirou and his friend group, had been the ones to teach him that it was something different. That it was real. But....that doesn't mean that Katsuki had forgotten that most of his life was spent without it.
Standing in this parking lot, he thinks he's still in shock. Left somewhere in the confusing memories of this morning and the nights before. The concern of his boyfriend, the softness of Aizawa's words, the pain in his head, the swirling maelstrom of emotion that had plagued him hour after hour - it’s too much.
His brain is stuck, a record scratch looping hopelessly on one thought and one thought alone: Aizawa had offered him a spot in his household.
As his foster kid.
As someone treasured, appreciated, and cared for. As someone...loved.
And, despite the sheer impossibility of such a thing, his sensei had offered to go to court and fight for his custody. For him. And his mother? She had dragged him by the hair into the parking lot and spit at him.
How’s that for a comparison.
It’s not like this treatment is a new thing, though. Watching her insist that speaking up for himself was something fruitless and intolerable...that was just deja vu.
She had said the same shit the night of his injury.
Katsuki had been washing the dishes after dinner, a task that normally calmed him down and kept his hands busy. It was one of the few ways that he and his mother could be in the same room- she couldn't get pissy at him for doing chores.
Well, usually.
She'd been in the middle of her usual spiel about his school work, emphasizing the importance of retaining high marks and rankings. Pestering him about whether or not he was keeping up with after-school programs, internship applications, industry connections - just whatever shit she could come up with in order to harass him.
That was her self-proclaimed job. To keep him on track, as if it weren't Katsuki doing all the work.
As per usual, it was laced with a number of underhanded insults, and once she’d moved onto the topic of his social life he’d started scrubbing the dishes…a little bit too hard.
His friend group was the one thing that he hadn't let her touch. There was something about each of his friends, so unique and genuine, that he had never wanted to taint with his mother’s words. Hearing her utter their names...he couldn't help it when his heart had started to pound with an angry heat.
Mitsuki had been leaning on the kitchen table, arms crossed. In the dim lighting she looked so casual and harmless, but her words were anything but.
“I don’t know what those kids see in you, quite franky.” She had snorted. “Especially the weird one with the red hair, Kiri-whatever? He’s too good for you.”
He’d stopped scrubbing, turning with his face twisted with offense, fingers slick with soapy water, and-
Katsuki will admit it: he dropped the plate.
Smashed it, really. It scattered on the floor in a million different pieces, and when his mom’s furious eyes flew to the plate and back to his face, he knew he was fucked.
It’s hard to say who started yelling first.
“What the fuck did you just say to me-”
"My mother gave me those plates, you ungrateful brat-”
Katsuki balls up the dish rag and hurls it at the sink with a smack. “I don’t give a shit about your plates, woman, what the fuck did you just say to me?"
His mother rolls her eyes, uncrossing her arms and turning away. “Oh, grow up, Katsuki. I swear you're so fucking sensitive for no reason-”
“No!” Katsuki spits. “You treat me like shit, and now you’re gonna go after my goddamn friends? Are you fucking serious?”
“I never said anything negative about your friends.”
Katsuki growls, dragging a rough hand through his hair in frustration. It sticks, still wet from the dish water. “Great. Glad you’re not even remotely self aware.”
He turns to leave, fully intending to remove himself from this bullshit before it escalates- but he stops.
Part of him wants to agree with her. There is an ugly, weakend part of his core that wants to leave the room and think about all the ways that she's right, and that he really doesn't deserve such a sweet boy like Eijirou, or good friends, or a loving family because - why else would she treat him like this if it wasn't true and he really was some sort of fucked up piece of shit-
But instead he stops, and he thinks: there's not a single thing he’s ever done that has pleased her. At some point, he had thought that maybe if he was just a little more skilled, a little more obedient, a bit more hardworking, a bit more…something, she would treat him right.
(That she would love him.)
But it had never worked. At some point, somewhere in the forgotten memories of his childhood, she had ceased being a person who would support and uplift him, and had instead become a relentless critic.
Her issue had never been with his actions. It had been with…him, as a human being. As someone who dared to exist in front of her and who happened to be a prime target for criticism and cruelty.
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter what he did, because her behavior was never going to stop unless she wanted it to. Which...was probably never.
Standing stock still in that kitchen, Katsuki wonders if speaking up against her is really the right choice. It would never amount to anything worthwhile, if she never changed her mind. And it would never give him what he truly needed, which was support and love from the one person who was supposed to give it unconditionally.
But…standing there, silent, with over a decade of hurt hovering in his veins, Katsuki decides that if he can’t ever please her, he might as well speak truth.
(He’s isn't entirely sure why that matters, because he's never won an argument with truth. It had only ever made things worse, going from strong words to screaming matches to sharp marks on his cheeks. Through it all, though, he'd never stopped fighting.
What was one more time, among all that?)
Katsuki looks back at her, teeth bared. "I'm not going to stand here and listen to you go after me by using my friends. Fuck off."
His mother laughs. "Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Didn't think you were supposed to have those, tough guy."
Something acidic and nasty churns deep in the pit of his stomach, and he can't help when it bubbles back out his mouth. His shoulders raise defensively, eyes blazing.
"Well I certainly didn't learn it from you," he spits. "You don't even fucking try-"
Mitsuki's whole expression shifts, finally straightening up from her languid position over the table. Unfurling like a snake, she snaps back at him with a deadly tilt in her voice.
“I try so fucking hard for you - don't you dare say otherwise. You think your father and I slave away at work for fun?” She gestures to the house around them, cleaned and tidy to perfection. “This is for you! For our family!”
“I’m not talking about your work, you stupid hag-”
She edges closer to him, pointing at the shattered plate on the floor. There’s soapy water everywhere, staining the rug and slicking the tile. “And this is how you repay us, Katsuki. All this ungrateful bullshit, complaining that we don’t treat you like you deserve, as if the sun somehow shines out of your ass -”
Katsuki steps right up into his mother’s face, bloody eyes fixed onto hers. Little bits of ceramic dig into his bare feet, but he gives it no mind. “I don’t have to be grateful for jack shit, considering you can’t do the one thing that mothers are supposed to be good at."
She snarls, and he snarls right back. Mirror to mirror, mother to son.
"All I wanna know is this one thing: would it kill you to learn how to be a better parent for once? Hah? A better person?”
Her eyebrows are furrowed, lip curled. Katsuki knows he’s shaking with pent-up frustration at this point, breaths coming out fast. This is the moment where he needs to leave, because it will only get worse from here, but- he persists.
“At least I’m fucking trying!” He yells, eyes blazing and fists clenched. “God knows you never gave me a good example, but I’m trying anyway. All you do is criticize and blame me for reacting to your bullshit!"
"My bullshit?" She spits. "It's not my fault that you're such an arrogant dick!"
Katsuki rolls his eyes. "Yeah, wonder where I got it from, then-"
His mother continues, slamming her hand on the counter. It misses him by a few inches, and he has to repress a flinch. "What, you want me to hold your hand, kiss your ouchies? Fuck that. You're my son, and I get to decide how I raise you."
Katsuki sees more than feels the pooling of water in his vision, frustration and hurt burning in his nose. He knows it isn't helpful, but he grabs a plate off the rack and hucks it. When it hits the cabinet, it sprinkles little pieces of porcelain like a rain shower.
The silence rings.
Staring dead-straight at his mother, Katsuki speaks up, voice low. “Sometimes I wonder why I even bother, considering nothing I do is ever enough for you. Especially when you give me fuck-all in return.”
Mitsuki says nothing, jaw clenched so tight it's bloodless.
His eyes sting, voice raw. "And maybe I am an arrogant asshole, but at least I'm trying to learn. It's more than you ever did for me." He pauses, looking into her boiling eyes. "And if that's how you wanted to raise me, well, congrats. You raised your son to fucking hate you."
He pulls his shoulders back and turns, meaning to leave, and that’s - that’s enough for his mother.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her hand reach out serpent-quick, sharp nails digging into his scalp tight and hot, and - Katsuki miscalculates.
Underfoot, there is soapy tile, and Mitsuki pulls hard.
He slips, and -
Katsuki’s head hits the granite countertop with a sickening crunch.
It’s funny, because in that brief moment of shock, all that Katsuki could think about was: My parents just installed this countertop. Paid thousands of dollars to have the kitchen refurbished, and now- he feels a spike of amusement - she used it to bash my skull in.
Ungrateful, huh? Is that what this was?
Ungratefulness for something that had only hurt him? For plastic, empty affection that he had never received?
Ears ringing, Katsuki’s not really sure what happened next. He thinks that his mother might have asked after him with barely a tremor in her voice ('Katsuki?') but...
It didn't matter. Seconds later, even that faint hope of concern is doused with scathing hatred.
Lying there on the kitchen tile, pieces of ceramic digging into his palms like little bloody fragments of a fallen star, Katsuki listens to her spit blame at him. What's wrong with you? Why did you fall? Why did you get me so worked up? I thought you were a hero student, why were you so weak, why weren’t you better.
It's likely he was just hearing the ghosts of previous arguments, or was imagining the worst thing she could say to him - regardless, the words hurt all the same, pressing him deep into the floor with a bone-aching weight.
Katsuki remembers that his eyes wouldn’t focus right. He was off balance, a second away from hurling his guts up - the ceiling was spinning like an amusement park ride and he wasn't sure which way was up.
Somehow, he managed to slur something about space, about needing to leave, and he'd pushed himself off the floor.
After stumbling up and holding onto the door frame for dear life he'd thought - the park? No, maybe the school, no - Eijirou. That thought had been enough to send him staggering up the stairs and grabbing god knows what from his desk - his hoodie, his medication, phone, shoes, train pass - and that had been it. He'd left.
He doesn’t even remember half of it. Didn’t remember getting off the train or walking to his boyfriend’s house. And, most of all - he hadn't remembered what his mom's reaction had been, seeing him take off like that.
It hadn't mattered. He'd lost, hadn't he? There were no words she could say to him that would push him any lower, any further into the self-pitying shit hole that she had dug for him.
He'd lost.
Had his skull cracked against a marble countertop and his hopes smashed into smithereens.
How many times had he seen his father try to argue with words? It was fucking pathetic. He’d said a few of those fancy words and left with a fucking cracked skull.
So when Aizawa had told him, point blank, we'll have to face your mother in court, Katsuki had almost wanted to explode right then. Or scream, or laugh, or throw up.
Some part of him knew that it was probably hopeless. He'd never won, why would that change now?
But at the same time….he'd felt so relieved. The space from his mother, the comfort and validation from his boyfriend, and the reassurance and protection from Aizawa…
It had given him just a sliver of hope. That maybe he wouldn't lose, now that he was no longer fighting alone.
And then the nurse had walked in, dropping his mother's name like an icy bucket of water over his head.
All rationality had totally abandoned him, that familiar fear sucking the air out his chest. Some part of his brain had told him to find her, find her and get a few words in before Aizawa or Kirishima would somehow change their minds.
So he'd fled the room…without telling them where he was going.
Katsuki is starting to regret that decision a little bit now.
His mother is still ranting, the two of them sandwiched in an empty parking spot between two cars. Her voice echoes, her breath fogging in the morning air.
“Are you even fucking listening to me?” He’s broken out of his hazy thoughts by a fist clenched tight in his shirt and her fingers digging into his chin, an old favorite of hers when he wouldn't look her in the eye.
He growls and shakes her off, but it’s weak and not quite in the right direction.
“Can you not fucking grab me for one second? The fuck is wrong with-”
His mother interrupts, indignant. “What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you, Katsuki! Running away from our house as if that will solve all your problems, you goddamned coward-”
And that’s it. That's what does it for him, right there.
Her words spark a sudden realization, an epiphany that had been building slowly and unconsciously over the past few days. Aizawa had kick-started it, Eijirou had encouraged it, but that particular deflection...
How strange was it, to see the two of them mirrored like that. Wrong with me, wrong with you - he feels it echo around in his brain, bouncing like a ping pong ball.
This had never been about his faults. It had never been about him as a person, or a student, or a son, or whatever bullshit she’d told him over and over.
This had been about her, and her denial to see fault within herself.
It wasn't all that easy to acknowledge that thought: she’d hurt him, and not because of some innate wrongness on Katsuki’s part, but because…she’d wanted to. Or, at the very least, she hadn’t been able to see the consequences of her own actions.
It didn’t really matter, either way.
He’d justified the treatment for years. Katsuki had seen it as a sort of penance, a punishment for being who he was. Even lying on that kitchen floor, his brain rattling in his skull and his body aching, he had still thought the same.
He'd tried everything, as a kid. He'd tried acting out and being disrespectful, he’d tried being being a perfect son and a good student, he'd tried to ignore her and do it for himself, he'd tried to be happy - but none of it had ever improved their relationship. It was almost like a rigged game - she changed the rules on a whim, always making sure that he could never find a foothold.
In middle school, he’d even tried to push back at her directly. They’d had a horrid few days, his father away and his high school applications coming up fast - and she’d slapped him so hard in the living room that he’d seen stars.
He’d threatened to tell someone, cheek red and eyes stinging. But she’d taken one look at him -eleven years old, bruised and pathetic- and she’d laughed.
"Do I need to remind you of how many times we got calls from the school, saying that our son had gotten into another fight? Or threatened another student, or burned another fucking set of gym clothes? It's in your records, Katsuki." She'd replied.
Unsaid were the words who would believe you?
His mother played dirty. She really did. Even in high school, she’d pull shit like that - a few times, she’d even threatened to take him out of UA.
Katsuki is sure that she knew the school acted as the majority of his support system, between his close friends and teachers. It would kill his spirit to remove him from that class, and, well, maybe that was the whole point.
She held all the power, and she wanted him to know it.
The past few days had offered a certain degree of forced insight and understanding, the hours in his hospital room ticking away in a slow, agonizing march. It’d been painful, to sit there and work through everything his sensei and his boyfriend had talked about. But it had been fruitful, in helping him realize what exactly made up the foundation of his relationship with his mother.
Wrong with me? No, wrong with you -
Such a simple deflection, to give him such a harsh realization.
Today, Aizawa had promised that he would do anything, fucking anything, to make sure that Katsuki would get what he needed to succeed. And not just to succeed academically, or in rankings or all that bullshit his mother had claimed to care about - but to be safe. To be cared for.
And Eijirou...he'd sat there with him, worked through his fears, held him softly as he'd cried through his own frustration - he knew that Eijirou would have his back, always.
The game was probably rigged. It had always been a losing battle for Katsuki, and Mitsuki probably thought she’d beaten him down enough that she wouldn’t have to worry about him telling another person. He'd believed her for so long that he'd begged Eijirou not to say anything to anyone.
But he did anyway, and finally, Katsuki had been given a fighting chance - by introducing the one person Mitsuki could never have accounted for.
Katsuki’s head is still spinning, barely able to think straight through all the writhing emotions of the past week and the throbbing pain of a new fracture. But he’s getting there. It’s starting to make sense.
“You’re a fucking narcissist,” He finally declares, red eyes locked onto her face. His mother’s jaw clicks shut, expression tight with fury. Her fist is still clenched in his shirt, sharp and stinging against his skin.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see their standoff reflected in the tinted car windows all around them, their silhouettes looking like something out of a film. In those reflections, he's surprised to note that she does not loom over him - in fact, they have exactly equal footing.
"I'm not going to take your blame any damn longer." Katsuki says, determined. His eyes flick between hers, blood to blood, mother to son.
"So leave without me, because I’m not coming back with you. I’m fucking done.”
His mother finally lets go of his shirt, shoving him away. Still a little dizzy, his vision tilts with the movement. He catches himself on a nearby car door, glaring at her.
“You think that’s gonna work on me?” She replies. “I’m your mother, Katsuki. You don’t get to say no. That's how this works.”
He can’t help it - he laughs. It’s crazed, paired with a grin and a head shake. Katsuki laughs, because -
“Aizawa already knows, you know. About what you did."
As if summoned by his words, Katsuki can hear the double doors of the hospital open wide behind him. The fast paced footsteps of someone familiar follow soon after, like the ticking of a clock.
“You’ve lost,” He repeats, teeth bared. “I bet you never expected me to ask for help, did you?”
His words ignite something ancient in his mother’s expression, a force of nature emerging from her slumber. It’s like the bubbling of magma deep within the earth’s core, that scathing heat of rage, and he braces himself for the inevitable sting across his cheek. A reminder, a deflection of blame.
In the reflections around them, he can see her arm stretch out, one last time -
- but the hit never lands.
When he opens his eyes, her shaking hand is held in the air by a firm grasp around her wrist, stopped just a few inches away from him.
Aizawa stands between them, expression tight and steely. With his eyes glowing red and dark hair fluttering in a halo around him, he looks like something out of a nightmare.
Aizawa's next words are quiet. "I think that is quite enough, don’t you think?"
Across from Katsuki, his mother is dead silent, pissed beyond belief. Cold. Her other hand is clenched deep into a fist, trembling at her side. Katsuki hopes she cracks a nail.
She pulls her fist out of his sensei’s grip, huffing. Aizawa lets her, but does not move from his defensive position in front of Katsuki.
At his shoulder, he can feel Eijirou press up against him in support. He doesn't remember hearing him approach - but Katsuki is trembling, high off of adrenaline and still weak on his feet, and the additional support from his boyfriend has him nearly slumping in relief.
Part of him feels pitiful. Small. Weak. The little boy, whining against the undeniable force of his mother.
But, as he watches her, he knows she can't do anything against the combined word of his teacher, the nurse, his aunt, his boyfriend, his friends - and his own testimony.
Katsuki has a feeling that his mother knows that too, even unconsciously. Katsuki had tried his best to outmaneuver her, and somehow...he thinks that he might have succeeded.
Mitsuki looks between all of them, one eyebrow raised. It’s three to one, Katsuki’s word against hers, and - well, she always loved a challenge.
Her jaw shifts, eyes narrowing as she addresses Aizawa.
"What did he tell you two? That I kicked his ass a little too hard?" She shifts on her feet, one hand thrown out to gesture at Katsuki. "You know how he is."
Aizawa does not respond, red eyes still fixed on her. Katsuki's not sure he's even blinked since they got out here.
His mother turns her head to look over Katsuki, seemingly amused. "I'm not even sure why you're concerned, honestly. He could probably blow my arm off if he wanted to." Her eyes narrow. "And I'm sure he's thought about it, at some point."
Katsuki breathes shallowly, aching. Eijirou presses into him, fingers reaching subtly for his hand between them. He grabs onto it like a lifeline, his head pounding.
Aizawa does not rise to the bait. "I know my student, Mrs. Bakugou."
"Well, I raised him!" She snaps, finally losing her cool. Her red eyes turn to meet those of his teacher, growing frustrated.
"Are you seriously doubting my word as his mother? As far as I'm concerned" -she points a sharp finger towards Katsuki- "he's the one who can't get his shit together. It's my responsibility to keep him in line."
His mother switches her keys to her other hand, and starts to turn. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be taking my son back home, because we’ve already wasted enough of our damn time-"
Aizawa interrupts, a cold-hearted stare leveled straight at her. "I have half a mind to take you to jail, Mrs. Bakugou."
She freezes, back tight.
"But today, I am feeling rather forgiving. So I won’t.”
Mitsuki turns, eyes furious, but Aizawa interrupts before she can open her mouth. His voice is deadly still, a waiting panther before a strike. “If you lay another hand on him, Mrs. Bakugou, I will not hesitate to take you straight to court."
Mitsuki watches him for a beat, before saying: "I'd like to see you try."
Bakugou despairs.
He feels a bit like a piece of meat, being tossed back and forth between two snarling bears. At this point, the only thing that’s stopping him from spiraling into dizzy hysteria is the subtle rub of his boyfriend’s thumb on the back of his hand.
"Let me rephrase this for you, Mrs. Bakugou." Aizawa narrows his eyes, shoulders rolling back. "If you hurt my student again, you will face the consequences. You'll go to court in a police car. You think your company will be pleased, seeing one of its representatives being dragged to defend herself in court? For child abuse?"
Mitsuki's face hardens. "You have no right to accuse me of things you know nothing of. Much less demand me to give up my son."
Aizawa does not cower. “I think you lost the right to his care when you hurt him, Mrs. Bakugou.” With that said, he tilts his head and shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ve taken protective custody already. If you want to challenge it, I can redirect you to my attorney.”
Mitsuki goes entirely still, face placid and hard to read. Her eyes, though - Katsuki would recognize that look anywhere.
When she turns towards him, Katsuki tries his best not to flinch at her fiery expression. He’s not sure if he’s entirely successful, but he squares his shoulders and faces her head on anyway.
“Well?” His mother says. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Katsuki looks at her. At her rumpled appearance, the hard edge in her jawline, and the subtle trembling of her hands. Maybe he’s looking too far into it, but something in her eyes almost seems….desperate. Pleading.
The sad part of it all is that Katsuki almost feels…pity for her. Most of the time, his mother really had tried her best to provide for him, whether that was a roof over his head, a full table at dinner, additional quirk training, or academic support. She was often verbally cruel, and had no understanding of her own strength, but she didn’t…hate him.
Katsuki would even argue that once upon a time, she had loved him.
But something had gotten twisted, some kind of motherly duty turned into obsession. And maybe…inside of Katsuki, Mitsuki had seen some sort of reflection of herself. The ambition, the aggressiveness, the drive, the wildness. And she had turned to harsh criticism, in the hopes that maybe he wouldn’t turn out like her.
Part of him wants to understand what happened. She is his mother, for god's sake! The one that birthed him and gave him life; the one that was supposed to love and support him unconditionally.
But Katsuki has already made his decision, and he knows now that good people, truly decent people, express their love and concern in much less painful ways. His mother had treated him like a misbehaving animal, and there was nothing that could ever take that back.
At his side, Eijirou breathes with him, comforting and steady. A reminder of what good things he has, the good that she cannot take from him. And in front of him Aizawa remains a quiet and supportive presence, understanding Katsuki's need to reply to her on his own.
“I don’t owe you anything,” Katsuki says, breathing slow. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her, even when he sees the disappointment echo in her gaze.
“And I don't want you in my life any more, if you're going to continue to treat me this way."
He had expected the words to be difficult. After so many years of her bullshit, he thought that maybe he’d relapse into self-blame and frustration in front of her. But instead…the words come out easy and honest, soothing an ache that had lasted much too long.
His mother does not reply, just watches.
It almost seems like she's looking for something in his face. Probably the same thing that he looks for in hers sometimes - recognition. Understanding. A reflection of the self.
Either she does not find it, or she finds something else instead, because his mother doesn't grace him with a reply. In fact, she turns away from him entirely, as if he was not even worth addressing.
With one last look directed at Aizawa, she states evenly: "I'll see you in court."
And with that said, she stalks across the parking lot, red heels making sharp noises against the asphalt.
Unlike when he first saw her in the waiting room, her familiar spiked hair is mussed and frizzy. She doesn't walk exactly in a straight line, seemingly distracted. And rather than emoting that fierce, larger-than-life aura of fury, she just seems…human.
It’s jarring, the realization that his perception of her had weighed so heavily on his own thoughts. Now that he knows she does not have a hold on him, she’s no longer some facet of his nightmares.
She’s just a person who had hurt him, and realized she could no longer do so.
As he watches, she reaches her car and yanks open the door. Throws her purse into the passenger seat and pulls herself in front of the steering wheel. And, after slamming the door and turning the key in the ignition, Katsuki can see her wipe a stray tear from her face.
Something in him aches.
(It does not feel as victorious as he thought it would, to see his mother lose. Who would ever want that? She was his mother, and he was her son. He had never wanted to fight in the first place.)
When the car squeals out of the parking lot, leaving only weighted silence behind, Katsuki turns and retches onto the pavement.
—
It's the last time he sees her before the court date.
—