Chapter Text
Four Years Ago
“What’re you looking at, featherbrain?” The words hurt. The sensation lags behind by several seconds, so that Katsuki’s already saying the next ones before he registers the pain of the first. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The boy looks odd. His hair is short and purple, and it sticks out in all directions instead of laying down flat. Katsuki’s hand lifts on its own to reach for it—he can’t tell what texture it would be. The boy’s eyes widen and he takes a step back.
“I want you to know,” he says, and his voice is low and deep and sweet. Katsuki can barely hear it over the roaring in his ears and the fog in his thoughts, but he catches it, just barely, anyway. “I think what you did is brave.”
Katsuki snorts. He’s seen the papers. The doctor made sure he saw the article written about him. And the nurses won’t stop gossiping about it at the foot of his bed.
That’s the girl who played hero, they say, and almost blew herself up.
He doesn’t like nurses. Or doctors. Or any place where the people in it presume to control his body.
“Go away,” Katsuki hears himself say, but he’s already drifting. Wide, violet eyes stare at him. Sweet, almost, how concerned this strange boy looks. Sweet, if it wasn’t so strange. Katsuki grasps for any solid ground as his eyes slide closed.
A hand closes around his, so hesitant. Usually, Katsuki hates being touched but the touch is so soft it’s barely there at all and hospitals aren’t known for being gentle.
They won’t let his mom in to see him. His dad has been by to argue with the doctors about Katsuki’s papers and tell them off about causing him more distress. Every morning he wakes up to new flowers sitting on his windowsill. They’re never anything fancy. Lavender, daffodils, and once even a small bundle of vines with small white flowers, dotted like stars in the dark green leaves. They’re pretty, but he never catches who leaves them.
His heart is bad. His heart has always been bad. He should never have used his quirk like this, they tell him. He’s never bothered to listen to the other limitations people put on him. Right now, his heart thumps sluggishly in his chest. He doesn’t think he could produce more than sparks if he wanted to. His palms are itchy with the need to do something.
“What was I supposed to do?” he asks one day while the doctor is monitoring his pulse. Once his body has recovered and his heart is back to normal, they’ll let him go home. “Let them die?”
“You almost died,” the doctor points out. He’s a thin man with oversized hands and small, beady eyes. His glasses make his face look garish. “Your family would have been upset.”
Katsuki closes his eyes and pictures the mother crouching over her child, nearly crushing her toddler in her haste to take the damage. The father, staring, braced like he could hold the entire building up with his bare hands.
Katsuki had saved them. The papers may spin it as an irresponsible child who destroyed a building and caused problems for the real hero, but he can’t get their faces out of his head.
They’d tried to hold him up as he was collapsing. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Voices chanting at him, shaking as his vision washed out in grey.
Whatever happens, he won’t regret it. Overinflated sense of justice is what the psychiatrist called his obsession with heroics. His mother loves to translate these things into something positive, something less cruel.
“You’re just so good, Katsuki, that you can’t be anything else.” Her smile is thin. Worry—she’s never able to hide anything, too loud inside her own skin—worry and anger war in her eyes and Katsuki doesn’t know what to make of it.
In the end, he spends three weeks in the hospital. The flowers continue to appear, and he starts to dry them in between the oversized books his mom keeps leaving behind for him to read. How he’s supposed to complete any of the monstrous volumes while he’s laying here on a handful of drugs his doctors won’t explain to him, drifting between thoughts like a raft in a calm, rippling sea, he doesn’t know. One is a cookbook filled with French recipes, and he flips through the entire section titled “Aspics” just to amuse himself. They look awful. The gelatinous texture would probably make him sick just from looking at the real thing.
Outside his door is strangely quiet. He’d expected there to be an angry mob demanding he pay for the damage of existing and answer for his audacity. He’s already made his debut in the social rags as an example of the feral outcomes of overly indulgent parenting. His fantasies, his fetishization as one particularly rude person put it, were to blame for pretty much everything. And an example of what was wrong with the modern trend of openly loving your children.
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
He wants to go home. He doesn’t want to hear the foreign name the doctors call him or wear this hospital gown or listen to the nurses lament what he’s done to his hair.
##
He sees the purple haired boy just one more time, leaving with a dark-haired, stringbean of a man draped over his shoulder. He’s taller than Katsuki’s blurry mind remembers.
Then he gets discharged. He has a veritable bouquet of flowers dried in between the pages of the books he never read.
##
Making food at home is a blessing. He’d lost so much weight—and so much muscle—sitting in that hospital bed. Every meal had been boiled to mush, and every bite of mush had been unseasoned. The days he had soup were the only days he ate a full meal. They practically kept him alive.
His parents had learned how to handle his picky eating early. He makes his own meals—only trying new food when he chooses the recipe and cooks it himself—and determines his own seasonings and textures.
“We basically survived off of mashed potatoes.” Masaru covers his mouth like he’s telling a secret, but he’s certainly loud enough for Mitsuki to hear. “I think your mother missed you so much, she couldn’t bear to eat anything that tasted good.”
“I couldn’t upstage our son.” Mitsuki sniffs, jutting her jaw out, cutting her eyes to Katsuki with a hidden smile. “Imagine if he got back and I’d learned how to cook in his absence? He’d feel replaced.”
“Nah,” Katsuki snorts. “I bet the old hag just didn’t want to bother.”
It’s mean, and certainly not true. His parents aren’t great at cooking. They survived almost entirely out of the kitchens of friends before their son, who refused to eat anything boiled or gelatinized or otherwise texturally ruined, showed up in their life. He was five when his mom threw up her hands and dragged him into the kitchen to teach him how to make his own eggs.
His collection of cookbooks and old heirloom recipes grew exponentially over the years. People who came to his mother for repairs could, if they were friendly and had something Katsuki had never tried before, trade a well-kept family recipe for their reinforced hems and fortified cuffs.
They were popular—and he used to get told he’d get quite the husband based on his cooking alone. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
Katsuki threatened the first man to offer him this directly with a knife, right against the palm trying so sneakily to cup his cheek through his curtain of hair. It hadn’t been long after that he’d told his parents everything—about how the prospect of being a wife made him want to stab himself and sometimes others, how he felt like an imposter in the oversized dresses his mother sewed for him, how he dreamed of cutting his hair down to the stylish cuts he saw on some of the men who wandered through the shop.
They’d been so supportive. And now here he is, standing in the ghost town of their once bustling shop in the middle of the day. Dust coats the darker fabrics. Masaru cuts through a pattern, pulling from a short stack of orders.
“You’re insufferable,” his mom teases, pulling him closer. “And I’m so glad you’re here.”
He doesn’t know how to respond. She wants a hug. She has that look on her face where she clearly wants him to comfort her, but she’d never ask for it. He almost died. The doctors said he would have died, but there was a nurse with an electricity quirk on hand. The responsible nurse had disappeared shortly after, and Katsuki hadn’t had the chance to meet him. The doctors hadn’t seemed to understand why he would want to.
Point is: he almost died, and now his mother would like a hug, and the idea of hugging her while he stands in the middle of his shame fills him with ants. Or at least, his skin must be full of ants—bright red and angry, biting at all his nerve endings—because he shuffles away from her instead, picking up a jacket that’s been stitched and restitched enough times that his mother has started leaning into it as a design choice rather than trying to cover them up.
He’s only fifteen. How horrible to have his entire life over so early. He scowls at it but the force of his scowl for once does not feel like enough. “I guess if I ever did try to be a hero, I’d probably… not make it.”
An understatement, at best, he thinks, and tries to hold the heat inside his chest instead of allowing it to move to his cheeks or, worse, to spill out from his eyes. He’s cried enough. He can’t stand the thought of crying now.
Mitsuki and Masaru exchange a glance that they must find subtle. Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge it.
“There are other things for you to do, Katsuki.” Masaru tries. “You’ve always enjoyed cooking.”
He has, of course. He knows a lot about cooking. But cooking for others? Making food on demand, or the same food over and over again? He likes his kitchen and his meals. He likes cooking for people he knows appreciate it.
Besides, even if everything else turned out exactly how he wants, the most he could ever do as a chef is cook. He already knows how the narrative would go: of course he can cook well. It’s a domestic duty, he’s naturally inclined. But his food is nothing like the other chefs. There will always be something inferior about it, even if there isn’t. Even if he’s the best there is. People see what they want to see. They would taste what they want to taste.
He wants to do more than that anyway. He wants to break their expectations in a way they can’t deny. He wants to prove he is who he says he is.
And now.
“So, what’s going on? You guys taking a break?” He wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been going crazy over his absence and had shut down the shop. But the customers should be coming back by now.
“Oh, you know, it’s the off season.” His mother waves away his concern.
Except it’s not the off season. It’s right at the end of summer, when people pull out their winter coats and cloaks and outfits, having them refluffed and resewn. His mom makes a small fortune each year, and his father practically quadruples their income based on specialty fabrics alone. They should be busy and it dawns on him, carrying this fallen apart jacket between the overrun aisles of silks and cottons, that they would be. But he ruined things. Again.
His scandal is all in the papers. His parents have, of course, removed all mention of it from near the shop. Most likely they’d bought all the nearest papers and had stored them somewhere. Or, knowing his father, had burned all the way through them.
“Right,” he swallows down the objections in his throat and leaves.
Out the door, through the winding streets. His parents were thorough. They bought the papers from all the shops in the surrounding three blocks. The whispers of the crowd, however, they could not block with all the money in the world. Gossip is the one thing that no amount of money or fear can stop. People will talk as long as they have mouths and tongues.
The whispers surround Katsuki, a thousand tiny touches that all separately make his skin crawl. Together, they might as well knock him over the head and through the nearest wall.
The seamstress’s daughter. A whisper from people who have traded for his food, who have attended his mother’s nights of sewing and feasting and drinking and laughed while complimenting his bechamel sauce. Mitsuki had once had to turn down a request for his hand from a rather bold man and his even bolder daughter.
That same daughter is talking now about how he’d nearly harassed her father into a conniption over her. He stands at the corner, in his well-tailored slacks and fitted overcoat and close-cut hair and listens to her talk about him as if he isn’t there. She doesn’t recognize him. That, most likely, is all that has kept the crowds from banging on his door and insisting he give a public apology.
The paper in his hands details a much different story than the one that happened. The hero gives a lurid account of his daring attempt to save the city and the unfortunate, shrill voiced girl in men’s clothing who spouted off something or other and nearly exploded the entire street.
The entire street, Katsuki thinks to himself. If only he had such power. Surely then his heart would have simply exploded and left him out of this.
His voice also is not shrill. He hadn’t even said anything before he’d run into that building. They would have died.
Katsuki watches the group of girls saunter off, self-satisfied and aggravating.
There are other things outlined in the paper. Things that make his parents’ empty shop far more concerning than the idle words of young prattlers. Business owners, claiming that their shop suffered damages in the explosion. Katsuki had seen the damage—had contained it himself to the building overhead. Unless their business sat directly on top of the roof and upper floors of the stacked apartments that were caving in over him and that family, then their businesses were untouched. The debris had disintegrated—nothing was left but pebbles and dust. Were they claiming his pebbles had shattered all their thick, uneven windows and torn down their brick walls? One man claimed that dust from Katsuki’s explosion had completely destroyed his kitchen’s oven. He was a block away—the dust would have had to have broken through several buildings to reach his apartment.
What point did all of them think they were making? That Katsuki was an irresponsible child unable to wield his power? That he was more danger than they could abide? Or were they all just greedy, seeing dollar signs in the claims spouted by the hero?
He wanders until the sun slides beneath the city skyline. Orange and deep red, all smothered under a dark lavender night. The stars blink at him. He allows them to witness his few tears before he wipes his eyes and returns home.
His parents are pacing, muttering about which one of them will be least likely to upset him if they go after him. They are right on the edge of deciding Masaru should put on a few layers and go searching for him when Katsuki pushes open the door and scowls at the both of them.
He’d dumped the paper in a trashcan near the shop he’d found it at. They’d gone through the effort so he may as well let them be satisfied for a little longer that it had worked.
“Where’d you go, featherbrain?” His mom ruffles his hair. “You can’t come home and just run off like that.”
Especially not now that some doctor has outed me to the entire world, he adds. She’d never say it—and neither would his father—but he knows they’re thinking about it. About the dangers, now that people know. How much smaller and more frightening the world is, now that everyone is aware. His parents have always been concerned about these types of things. They’ll be insufferable now.
“Don’t tell me you made more mashed potatoes,” he says, when he smells butter and salt and something earthy wafting in from the kitchen.
“I made baked potatoes.” Mitsuki crosses her arms and sniffs. “I’ll have you know, I didn’t even bother to mash them this time. If you want them mashed up, you can do it yourself.”
Katsuki smiles, grateful for at least this small beat of normalcy. He ends up cooking up ham and slicing up some cheeses, mixing in sour cream and small chopped chives. Twice-baked potatoes, in their jackets. He feels more like himself than he has in weeks.
##
Katsuki thinks his parents business will pick up again in days or weeks. Whenever the people in town have time to forget that Katsuki is a strange boy with outspoken tendencies.
And then, to his chagrin, the painting gets put up outside the remains of the building. Sure, the whole thing had been on fire and the wooden beams had been making quick acquaintance with the ground. The office itself had been intending on moving locations soon, according to the records from the previous month’s city meetings. But now it’s a beloved site of the community.
The painting was applied directly to the mostly obliterated door. Someone handier, maybe, with ink and paper than with paint and a brush has painted Katsuki’s face and trembling arms, the beginnings of an explosion cutting off abruptly right where the door is split across the top. They went through the effort to fully paint each jagged shard of wood in scarlets and oranges and streaks of black.
Katsuki himself looks more like an animal than a girl or a man. His teeth are bared, his nose scrunched like the snout of a beast. Katsuki can’t determine if he’s impressed or not with their skill. Sure, their technical ability leaves much to be desired, but they sure do draw a crowd. And the reaction? He’s known artists who would actually commit murder if only people responded so viscerally to their work.
Izuku shows up the next day to paint over it in white. This is no small feat—he and his mother live three hours ride away and it was Katsuki’s understanding that they’d learned about the painting five hours before Izuku applied his first coat. Enough time to gather the supplies and horse, and very little else.
Aunt Inko and Izuku don’t even own a car. They’ve no need for one. He had gotten here as fast as he could and not a second later.
Over the course of the next several months, however, Izuku cannot be there to save the day every day.
One such day where his best friend is busy with his farm and his horses and all of the work that goes into a rural lifestyle, Katsuki decides to go out and drum up some sort of business. The days in the shop are too quiet. The pantry is getting thin. Masaru and Mitsuki have far too many conversations in hurried whispers when they think Katsuki is resting or distracted.
So, he goes into the deeper parts of the city and finds a job with an older man who can’t see well (he claims, at least) and can’t be bothered to cook his full menu. The dishes Katsuki cooks are repetitive and boring and seasoned according to the old man’s tastes. Torino watches Katsuki chop onions and sauté shallots with his supposedly failing eyes and comments every time Katsuki’s skill outpaces the dish, and then pays Katsuki twice as much as he’d agreed to.
The charity makes sparks flick to life in his hands, but he doesn’t show them. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets, tells the old man to fuck off in as polite a way as he can manage (which often does end up just coming out as fuck off, old man) and strips and bathes before he greets his parents back home. He finds the few bills he can, accidentally left out by one of them when they’re too busy hand wringing to realize, and then he goes the next day and pays what he can of it.
Once, after a week of working, he’s able to pay off something. He feels triumphant, like he’s on top of the world, and then he gets home and there are more just sitting on the edge of the couch.
His mom catches sight of him looking at them and scurries over to grab them all and stuff them in the pocket of her dress.
He makes the most complicated, multilayered, multi-stepped dish he can find the ingredients for. He spends an hour and a half in the kitchen and when he’s done there are less thoughts skulking through the paths that all end in anger. Katsuki has never dealt well with being helpless before. He’s always been able to push through, to find the way out of a situation.
It takes a year, and his parents try to hide it, but he finds the letter of seizure of property. It’s dated for a month out. He leaves it where he found it, as if it was untouched.
Masaru finds it first, fingers tightening on the thick, official paper before he folds it and places it back in its envelope. Katsuki watches the envelope disappear into his father’s jacket.
He stomps to his room and cleans, then rearranges his heavy furniture and cleans again. He does this another four times before giving up and giving in to being in a foul mood for the rest of the day.
“Katsuki,” his mother calls, and he glares at her when she enters the room with a new vest. It’s a deep burgundy color, and he knows she’s probably made at least five different slightly altered versions of it. It must be in a fabric that she thinks he’ll like.
“What are you making this stuff for?” He grumbles, accepting the vest and sliding it between his fingers. It is, in fact, soft and cool and comforting. He wants to throw up. “Don’t you have other shit to do?”
“Eh.” His mom shrugs. “I had time, and you know I love spoiling my baby boy.”
A scream builds in his throat, but he swallows it down. That doesn’t keep his mouth from twisting in a snarl. The letter flashes over and over, the shape of the words outlined over and over against that white paper. He grinds his teeth but spits out the word. “Thanks.”
It’s kind, and his mom always defaults to spoiling him when she’s stressed. He’ll be the best dressed fifteen-year-old turned out on the street with his parents.
No, no. They’ll likely move in with Mitsuki’s parents. His grandparents have always been disapproving of Masaru, and when Katsuki came along and admitted who he really was, they were even less happy. He hasn’t seen them since his mother started making him boy’s clothes and calling him by his name.
He’ll probably have to dress differently there. He’d rather die.
Something awful must show on his face, because his mom sighs and stands closer. “Son, we know you read it. You’re not very subtle.”
“So?”
“We have a big client coming in tomorrow. He’s placing a large order. Uniforms for his entire estate.” She reaches a hand out and Katsuki accepts it. Her fingertips are calloused and scarred from pushing the needle through fabric, from pricking herself even after years and years of practice. She once laughed, looking at a wedding gown so packed down with lace and beads that the bride required two men to help her carry the train, and said that it was at least five percent blood and sweat.
“That’s a lot of work.” His mom will spend many sleepless nights until she completes the order—probably early, and far higher quality than they’re expecting. He gets his perfectionism—and everything else—from her. “Don’t wear yourself out. I can help.”
He can do hems and finishing touches. He’s used to it, and the work is calming. Not quite as satisfying as cooking, but it’s repetitive enough that it dulls the sharp blade of his thoughts. He likes doing it, so when his mom’s eyes slide away and her lip worries between her teeth, he knows it’s not guilt.
“What?” He asks, but dread already seeps into his stomach.
“Hm?” She smiles. “It’s nothing. They’ve offered to sponsor us, until we get through this rough patch.”
He furrows his brow in confusion. There are certain members of the upper class who sponsor artists or creatives that they like. Several tailors have exclusive clients. It wouldn’t be so unusual for his parents to take on the work of an estate.
But sponsors are usually for a single person—normally the head of a large family, or a spoiled rich daughter looking to have a unique look for her coming out.
Katsuki doesn’t relax, even when his mom finally pulls him in for a hug and presses a kiss into the top of his head.
They have a chicken and rice dish for dinner, but Katsuki can’t get the flavor right. He ends up not eating much of it.