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Katsuki wandered aimlessly through the dimming streets. It was long past curfew now—something his mother had implemented after the slime villain attack; because apparently nearly dying to a violent criminal is bad for business—but Katsuki dreaded going home. Logically, he knows he’s only delaying the inevitable, and coming home later would only fuel his mother’s fury. But he just couldn’t find the energy to care. UA had sent them all home the weekend following the Licensing Exam. For any other student—aside from perhaps Todoroki—it was a time for celebration. For parents to spoil their kids rotten. Restaurant dates and gifts, hugs, and kisses. Tears of joy. For Katsuki, it would be anything but.
Bakugou Mitsuki is not the type of person to spoil her child. Hell, she barely even celebrated him. He remembers having birthdays when he was little. He remembers the streamers and the birthday cakes. He remembers his old friends and how they brought him gifts and sang songs for him. He remembers one occasion where they had all dressed up as heroes—Katsuki was All Might, of course—and ran around in the park. He must have been seven or so then. That was the last time he had a proper party where the attendees actually wanted to be there.
But birthdays aside, Katsuki can’t remember a single time his mother has genuinely celebrated him. Everything good he did was expected of him. He made the honor roll this year? Great. Do it again next year. Always top of the class in academics? How it should be. He was a genius, of course he was on top. Nothing to celebrate there.
And now he was at the bottom. Failed the licensing exam, forced to take provisional lessons because some bureaucratic fuck in an ugly ass suit decided he wasn’t nice enough! If heroism was about niceness, the world was doomed from the beginning. Katsuki was there to take down bad guys. Rid Japan of criminals and keep the country safe; not coddle your fucking baby or play entertainer on TV.
(It’s just a test, It's just a test, it's just a—)
And to make things worse, Aizawa put him on fucking house arrest! Granted…he could have just expelled him. A small, dark part of his mind wonders if it had been better if he had.
Katsuki seethes as he shuffles slowly down the sidewalk. It was getting darker now—the streetlights had kicked on, bathing the dull concrete of the path in pale yellows and oranges. He’d have to head home soon, he thought as he kicked a stray can out of his way. He couldn’t stay out all night, no matter how much he dreaded facing his mother. (Briefly, he wondered if it was worth it to curl up in some grimy alleyway and sleep through the night. Face her in the morning. But the thought of spending any more time than necessary in some unguarded alleyway sent shivers down his spine.)
He loitered for a while, head tilted to the skies hoping for a star, but the clouds had rolled in hard and fast.
He doesn't know how long he waits out there, just staring at the sky, but eventually, he gives up and begins the long walk home.
He drags his feet as he goes: no point in hurrying hell along, he thinks. It'll hurt either way.
At least this way he can spend his last hour by himself.
——
By the time Katsuki strolls into his neighborhood the sky has darkened to an empty void, inky black and soulless. He finds he relates a little too closely and berates Present Mic for his stupid poetry unit.
Light from the living room pours out onto the otherwise dead street. It’s past midnight, no one else is up—except for his mother.
She’s waiting for him in there. Probably sitting on that stupidly expensive white couch she bought last year and forbade him from sitting on.
The door looms in front of him like it’s some great castle gate and he’s some lowly peasant come to ask his lord for more food this winter.
It’s stupid. It's so fucking stupid, it's almost pathetic really. It’s his own goddamn house. He shouldn’t be so afraid to go in. But he is. And he hates himself for it.
What kind of weakling is so afraid of his own mother?
He stands there in the dark and the cold, arm raised to knock—at his own house no less—debating with himself for the umpteenth time that night if he shouldn’t just wait til morning when his mother opens the door.
“Inside,” she says, flat and toneless—too pissed to start yelling just yet, Katsuki thinks to himself—and walks off into the kitchen.
He doesn’t meet her eye.
Katsuki shuffles in behind but doesn’t bother to take his shoes off. He learned the hard way that when his mother said out, there usually wasn’t enough time to grab them as he scrambled out the door to avoid whatever pan or pot she threw at him that time. He does, however, throw his bag in the corner. He can grab it later if he needs to.
Taking on his usual ‘delinquent persona’—back slouched, hands deep in his pockets, head held high in defiance, the whole she-bang—Katsuki walks into the kitchen. The clop clop clop of his boots beats like a drum in the otherwise silent room.
His mother—Mitsuki—stands there, back against the counter. Her arms crossed with a glass of amber liquid—probably that insanely expensive whiskey she bought on her last trip to Barcelona—in her hand.
“You’re late,” is all she says, but Katsuki knows she means much more. ‘You’re a coward, Katsuki. Hiding from mommy like a misbehaving toddler,’ her scorching red eyes seem to say.
“Had shit to do,” he said, but he meant ‘I’d rather be anywhere but here.’
“Aizawa-Sensei called.”
Wincing, Katsuki looks away. His defiant demeanor is momentarily squashed.
He knew it was coming, had all night to prepare—and yet he still crumples under his mother’s iron gaze.
“Mom—” he tries to interrupt. To finally tell her all the things he’s bottled up inside. All the things he practiced in the mirror that night after the failed exam. All the things he’d thought he’d say to her on the way home. But she plows right on.
“You failed?” His mother seethes and pushes herself off the counter. The glass tumbler clinks and rattles against the marble top obnoxiously as she drops it down without much care.
Yes.
I’m sorry.
It wasn’t my fault.
Mitsuki stalks slowly toward him, predator-hunting prey.
Maybe it was.
I don’t remember anymore.
“It was stupid, I should have passed—” He doesn’t quite plead, but it's a near thing.
“Yes, you should have! What the hell am I paying for, Katsuki, if you’re just going to throw it away?” Mitsuki screeches loud enough to wake the neighbors—though they’ve lived in this neighborhood for so long, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d all grown deaf to her.
Two minutes. That’s how long it took for her to start yelling.
He shouldn’t be surprised.
Katsuki stumbles back, more out of reflex than fear—and he thinks, idly, that that might be worse. “I’m not throwing—”
Aren’t I?
“Really? Because when I spend millions of my hard-earned money—” Mitsuki leans in close and the hot, sour stench of her breath grazes his cheek (Not for the first time. Not for the last.). “I expect it to be damn well worth it.”
“I could pull you out, you know.” It's simpering and cruel, and he knows it's true. She has every power to take him out of UA, to squash any hope of becoming a hero. Of doing something meaningful with his life. God knows there’s not much else he could do save demolition perhaps.
She’d probably do it too.
Mitsuki sighs, her disappointment clear as she reaches for the glass tumbler once more.
Belatedly, he realizes she’s drunk again.
Isn’t she always?
.
.
.
It didn’t use to be like this.
There was a time when he’d come home from school, sweaty from the hot Musutafu sun, and his mother would be waiting for him at the door. She’d bend down with open arms, and pull him tight into a hug.
He remembers burying his nose into the crook of her neck: her rose perfume was always his favorite.
Remembers flying through the air as she held him up and spun him around.
Remembers their laughs mingling together into song: his father’s little chuckles not far behind.
Now he takes the longest train he can and drags his feet the rest of the way.
They don’t hug anymore.
“I had such high hopes for you, Katsuki,” she says. It stings, but it’s expected.
Yeah. Me too.
“I mean—God, Katsuki, first that stupid slime villain. Then Kamino. And now this? It’s a fucking test, Katsuki. You can’t pass a simple fucking test?” Mitsuki throws her arms in the air, exasperated as if she could do any of the things he can. “Aren’t you going to say something, Katsuki?” she sneers. Her eyes are sharp and cruel, her smile just shy of vicious.
There’s so much he wants to say to her.
He’s not sure any of it will matter in the end.
“Katsuki!”
But he knows it’d feel so, so good.
“What do you want me to say,” he ventures slowly. Unsure. Unsteady. But ready.
Mitsuki reels back slowly, but the sickeningly sweet taste of her breath lingers still.
He doesn’t look her in the eyes, not yet. It's enough that he’s even doing this. He learned, a long, long time ago not to talk back to his mother when she was in one of her moods.
“I failed—” the word is sour on his tongue, but he pushes through (She’s not the only one who needs to change.) “But I’m not…I‘m not a failure.” He forces the words out. He doesn’t yell, or scream, or even really raise his voice. He’s not confident. His voice wavers as he says it. But he knows it's true. Deku made sure of that. He fucked up, but he can—no he will do better.
“You think anything less than perfection is a loss, and yeah for a really long time, I thought so too. Do you think I didn’t work my ass off for that exam? That I didn’t spend night and day training my body until my muscles ached passed the point of numbness? I gave everything I had at that moment to pass—”
Mitsuki scoffs loudly—the sound echoes loudly in the nigh empty kitchen. “If you had, you wouldn’t have failed. And we wouldn't be having this conversation.”
“You don’t get to say shit about what I did or didn’t do! Because you. Weren’t. There. You’re never there!” Katsuki huffs deeply, it's the first time he’s raised his voice since he came home. “I’ve spent my whole life waiting for you! And you’re never there. You’re supposed to be in my corner. You’re supposed to hug me, hold me and tell me everything is going to be okay and tell me you’re proud of me no matter what. Instead I come home and I stand here, and I let you yell at me and point out all my many flaws.”
“I know I failed. I know. But it’s—it's just a fucking test, Mom.”
A few hours ago, he knows he would have disagreed. But he’s got a point to make in here somewhere.
“Katsuki—”
But he doesn’t let her speak. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say.
“I could have died you know?” He glances up at her for the first time since his little tirade. Her face is flushed a blotchy red, and her eyes are wide and alert. Nothing like the cruel gaze he’s so used to seeing. “At Kamino. Shigaraki had his hands right there around my neck, one slip and I’d be a pile of ash and dust in some backwater bar.” He never told anyone about that. Not Aizawa. Not Kirishima. Not Deku. “Would you have cared? Would you have cried at my funeral? Kept my room the same as it always was like all those grieving parents on TV?”
They’re not talking about the exam anymore. But he supposes it was never about that.
Not really.
He looks away.
“Or would you stand there over my grave and pick apart all the things I could have done better?”
“I would never—”
“You’re doing it right now!”
“Katsuki…sweetheart—” she tries to interrupt. To make it all okay again. Like she wasn’t the reason they were fighting to begin with (Though of course, she would never say as such).
Katsuki throws a hand up, cutting her off. He has too much he needs to say and he knows that if he lets her speak now, he’ll never get another word in. “Don’t—don’t placate me. I’m sick and tired of this! Of dreading seeing your stupid fucking face. Of hearing your voice in my head every time I miss a question on a test or fuck up a move during practice. You’re such a screw-up Katsuki. I work too hard for you to throw away your career like this Katsuki. Do this this, do that. Be better!” And he’s screaming now, his throat hoarse and his eyes blurry from unshed tears. Snot and anger clog his nose and throat. It sits every in his stomach, stirring all the things he’s wanted to say but left unspoken.
Mitsuki stumbles backward as if slapped, her face contorting with a strange mixture of surprise and hurt—Katsuki hates that it doesn’t help, not really. She stands there, gaping, trying to speak. But no words come out. He should feel—well he doesn’t know what exactly, but better. Instead, all he feels is a mix of guilt and vindication at finally unloading all the pent-up frustration he's kept buried for so long. He inhales shakily, trying to steady himself.
"I can’t take it anymore, Mom," he whispers, and he prays his voice would just stop fucking shaking. "I’ve spent every day of my life trying to make you proud, but no matter what I do it’s never enough."
Katsuki dares to look up at her once more. Her eyes are red-rimmed and gleaming. It takes him a movement to realize she’s crying. Or something close to it.
He’s sure it's her first time.
"It wasn’t that—of course, I’m proud of you. Katsuki, I am your mother,” Mitsuki insists; her voice cracks and it's so out of character it knocks him off track for a moment.
His jaw tightens as he cuts her off sharply, the anger bubbling to the surface once again. "Yeah? Well, mothers aren’t supposed to blame their children for getting kidnapped, so…"
Katsuki watches stunned as tears begin to stream down Mitsuki's cheeks. If he wasn’t so sure of himself, he would have pinched his arm to check if he was dreaming.
(The mother in his dreams never cried.)
She reaches out, her hands trembling. "What? No! I don't blame you. It's just—"
"I could have done better?" Katsuki interrupts, his voice laced with bitterness. "Isn't that what you've always thought? That I should be better?"
Mitsuki’s shoulders slump, actually slump, and she huffs out a sharp “Fuck.” Slowly, she takes a step forward, not reaching out exactly, but he gets what she wants from him.
He takes a step back.
“Katsuki, I—I’m sorry. I never wanted you to feel like that. I was trying to encourage you. I didn’t want you to fall into the same trap that I did. You were already on your way there…” His mother runs a tired hand across her face. “I’ve spent the latter half of my life at the top of the fashion world. The cream of the crop. I didn't need to be better, because there was no one to fight against. Not here. And then, of course, I got cocky. Too comfortable in my fancy office to notice the pitfalls creeping up on me,” she says, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable, and it's the most human he’s seen her since he was small. “My career could have gone a very different direction if I hadn’t gotten my butt in gear. This—” Mitsuki gestures loosely at the overly expensive house his parents bought a few years back, “would never have happened.” “I just…I didn’t want you to get so comfortable at the top that you wouldn’t, couldn’t, grow. I didn’t want to see you stagnate. Katsuki, I am your mother. My duty, above all else, is to love and protect you.”
“Fuck you—” Katsuki's voice roared through the room, rage and anguish bubbling to the surface. He slammed his fists on the table, the sound echoing through the house like a thunderclap.
If his father wasn’t awake before, he was now. He wouldn’t see him tonight. Bakugou Masaru did all he could to keep out of their fights. And that’s what it was. Another one of their fights.
It seems like all they do is fight nowadays.
But it’s different tonight.
Something’s got to give.
He can't keep going on like this.
They can’t keep going on like this.
“Katsuki, please—”
He rounds on her, eyes blazing with fury. “No!” he shouted, his voice shaking with a rage long overdue. “You don’t, you don’t get to tell me it was all for my benefit when you know perfectly well that’s exactly how I turned out,” Katsuki shouts, and shoves a pointed finger into her chest, knocking Mitsuki back a pace. It’s the first he's laid a hand on her since this whole conversation began.
(He wishes it didn’t feel as good as it did.)
“My whole life you’ve been this way. Not a single ‘Good job, Katsuki,’ ‘Great work, kid.’ Anything! I would have taken anything.” His arm trembled as he spoke, his eyes burned something awful, and he realized belatedly that he must be crying.
“I—oh god, I really fucked this one up huh?” Her arms dropped to her sides, her eyes glistening wet with tears. She stepped forward tentatively and placed a hand on his forearm. "Katsuki," her voice was quiet and unsteady as she spoke, "I'm so sorry. I just want what’s best for you. That’s all I ever wanted."
But the apology only served to fuel Katsuki's anger further— he could feel himself start to shake with rage beneath his mother's grasp.
“I don’t want sorry, Mom. I want—”
What does he want?
He hadn’t exactly expected to get this far. He knew the moment the exam results were posted that there would be words between him and his mother when he finally showed up, but he hadn’t meant for it to become this.
They fight, yes, They scream at each other non-stop, but it’s never been so…personal. Katsuki’s never had the chance—no, that’s not true, Katsuki’s had plenty of chances. He’s just never had the courage to say what he really wanted her to hear.
"I didn't mean to push you away," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just didn't want you to make the same mistakes I did. I wanted you to have a better life, a better future."
"You don't get it, do you?" he screamed, the words tearing themselves from his mouth. "You keep talking about protecting me, but it feels more like you're suffocating me. You're so focused on the future, on making me into something, that you never stopped to see what I've achieved now, what I'm capable of now.” His voice grew louder with each word, echoing off the walls of the kitchen.
God, it felt so good.
“I want you to see me! I want you to recognize that I’ve done something worth celebrating. I want to feel like I matter to you.” He wiped away a stray tear with the back of his hand and took a deep shuddering breath. “I know I failed. And it fucking sucks. I hate it, I hate it so goddamn much. But I—I got there, Mom. I made it to U.A. I took one of the hardest tests I’ll ever take in my life and the first thing you do isn’t to tell me ‘I’m proud of you Katsuki,’ it's to scream at me for failing. I get it. I get it. But that’s not what I need from you. My whole life you’ve been this way. I did everything I could to make you proud, Mom. Why wasn’t it enough?” And he’s crying for real now, big ugly crocodile tears that blur his vision and clog his throat.
His mother stared at him for a few moments before speaking quietly. “Oh Katsuki, I am proud of you.”
Katsuki barked out a harsh laugh and wiped away another stray tear with the back of his hand. "Funny. I couldn't tell."
“Katsuki. Katsuki look at me,” she coaxed and cupped the side of his face with one hand. It's warm and so much softer than he remembers. And it’s not enough, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I am proud of you, I’ll always be proud of you. I’m so sorry, honey. I—I just thought you knew.”
And he hates, hates, how human it is. He shouldn’t feel guilty, he shouldn't feel bad for her. She’s made his life hell. Ruined every good thing he’s ever done. Ostracized him in his own home.
And yet.
And yet.
He can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her right now. He's never seen her so vulnerable before. It's like he's seeing a completely different side of her, a side that he was sure didn’t exist anymore.
But knowing it was there? That she was capable of being sorry, of saying all the words he begged for, but refused to? Katsuki clenches his fists tightly, and he knows his knuckles are white from the force of it. Heat builds in his palms, and he feels it radiating off his skin in waves.
“I hate you,” he whispers. And he means it this time—really, truly means it.
“Don't say that. Please don't say that,” Mitsuki croaks, voice hoarse from screaming and cheeks wet with tears. She seems so small now, so fragile. And for a second, he felt like the roles had reversed. He was the one holding all the power and she was the one pleading with him.
Mitsuki slumps to the ground, heavy sobs wracking her frame.
Katsuki follows, sliding down the kitchen island until they’re sat side by side. They don’t touch, he keeps his hands firmly in his lap. but the words he had spoken lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of truth. He couldn't deny the hatred he felt, nor the hurt that had accumulated over the years. But there was something else too—an understanding that she was human, flawed like everyone else.
Like him.
The silence in the kitchen stretched on, broken only by his mother’s soft sobs. Katsuki's mind raced, torn between his instinct to push her away or pull her close and never, ever let go.
"I hate what you've done," he finally corrected himself, his voice steadier now. "I hate how you treated me, how you just assumed I was okay after everything. After Kamino. You didn't even pick me up from the police station, Mom. Aizawa-Sensei had to drive me.” Katsuki huffs, and leans his head against the back of the counter. He doesn’t dare look at her right now. Not when he’s so close to breaking right along with her. “I hate how you made me feel worthless at times. But... maybe I don't hate you.”
Mitsuki looked up, her face a mess—mascara smudged and eyes stained red from tears. "Does that mean... you can forgive me?" she asked tentatively.
“No,” and he watches as her face crumples once more. “Not yet,” he hurries to add. “It doesn’t work like that, Mom. You can’t just say sorry and expect things to be okay. I need you to do better, be better,” Katsuki laughs dryly. He had spent all night yelling at her for saying the same shit to him.
“Okay…okay. I’ll try,” she says wiping the remains of her tears from her cheek.
“Promise?” It's soft, pleading, pathetic, and he hates it.
“Promise.”
He wants to believe her. Wants to believe that she really will try to change, but he knows one conversation—no matter how hard—won’t be enough. He wants to believe her, but he can’t. Not yet. Not until she proves it to him.
They sit there in silence, side by side for the rest of the night. Hours ticked by, but Katsuki hardly noticed. Too wrapped up in the aftermath of their fight. His whole body aches, not physically, but somewhere much deeper than any muscle could reach. An exhaustion that can’t be remedied by any amount of rest.
(Mitsuki falls asleep on his shoulder at some point.
He doesn't move her.)
Katsuki watches lazily as the morning light pours in through the windows, reflecting softly against the hardwood floor. He’s not really sure how to move forward from here. Forgiveness isn't something that comes easily—for either of them, he supposes. He’s not even sure he should forgive her. Not sure it will really help in the end. But he also knows that he can’t stay mad at her forever. Not if he wants any kind of relationship with her.
Sometime after dawn, his mother begins to stir, her hair tickling his chin. Her eyes meet his, and for a moment, he actually believes they could fix this. She doesn't say anything, and neither does he. They just sit there, silently acknowledging each other's presence.
Surprisingly, Mitsuki’s the one to speak first. "I really am sorry, Katsuki," she says softly. “I should have been there for you, and I wasn't. I was so focused on pushing you to be better that I couldn’t see how far you’d actually come."
Katsuki doesn't respond immediately, not entirely sure how. "Yeah, you were pretty awful," he eventually settles on. There's no real venom in his words— he can't bring himself to be as angry as he was before.
"I know," Mitsuki replies, her voice tinged with regret. "I'm going to do my best to be a better mother to you."
Katsuki nods, still not entirely sure if he believes her, but willing to give her a chance. "Yeah, well, you better."