thought about splitting this chapter up but meh
"If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right… If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it."
—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Chapter 8: Turbulent
The thing with humans was the fickleness of their mind.
One moment, they'd be declaring the strength of their conviction–for glory, for honor, for love–and the next, they'd have invented plausible deniability. Gone would be the fire in their eyes and hearts, with conviction replaced by frigid apathy or that simple thing called fear.
Every human experienced this. Man, woman, hero, villain, quirk-blessed, and quirkless–the phenomenon didn't single out anything or anyone.
Katsuki thought he'd be different.
"The fucker's late."
Izuku sighed and set down the piece of shrimp back on the hassun. He looked forlornly at the spoiled meal before meeting Katsuki's gaze from across the table.
"I think, if you're going to start things off, you shouldn't call him 'fucker,' Kacchan."
"And I think," Katsuki hissed back, fingers tapping on his knees in agitation. "I can't call someone who agreed to a goddamn appointment and is fucking late to it anything other than 'fucker,' Deku."
Thanks to his old hag, Katsuki had a very wide vocabulary of expletives nastier than 'fucker,' but he wouldn't waste them. Not on the asshole who made him want to explode the shit out of the clock in the room.
Why was Katsuki even doing this? What the hell was he hoping for–or did he even dare to hope at all?
Maybe at first.
The circumstances that led Katsuki to where he was now went in a blur. Suddenly–too soon–he was in a zashiki-styled private dining room, sitting seiza on a floor chair, and availing a kaiseki ryori meal in a move to impress.
To remember that morning when te— made his eyes swollen, and his throat was scratchy from cr—, wasn't something Katsuki wanted to do.
There was a murmuring and exchanging of words, a supporting hand reminding him it was there, and a call sent to say he'd be off work for a couple of weeks (maybe more, maybe less).
That'd been then, but here he was in the now, doubting if this was the right course.
Katsuki was jolted out of his thoughts– literally because there was a spark that he couldn't compare to shitty Pikachu's that raced through his hand where Izuku touched it.
He was just getting ready to pull away from that warmth (because the nerd was getting too comfortable, dammit) –
"You know you don't have to do this, Kacchan," said Izuku.
–but froze. He stared and gaped at the man across from him who continued speaking, utterly unaware of how every word burned rather than soothed.
What the hell?
"What the hell, Deku?" Katsuki gritted out, interrupting Izuku's nonstop babble. His hand was still under Izuku's, but it'd long curled into a fist, knuckles turning a deathly white. "You're telling this shit to me now? Now when I've already done all this crap– now when I've fucking finally pulled my head out of my ass and–why the hell are you smiling?!"
Katsuki watched with horror as the corners of Izuku's lips tugged up and to the side further and further, reminding him of that depressed as fuck clown. His lips spread wider, pulling the rest of his freckled face along, and with parted lips, the first bout of laughter spilled. Izuku's eyes shone and tears prickled the corners as more and more incredulous sounds filled the room.
Katsuki watched the entire process and only after a few moments did he realize what exactly was worth smiling and laughing for.
It was his words.
The very ones that stirred, bubbled under the surface, and erupted with the conviction he lost along the way. It was at them that made this infuriating idiot erupt in laughter with arms hugging his sides, the shine in those eyes outclassing the lanterns in the room.
Izuku was fucking laughing at Katsuki's words and he couldn't be more thankful for it.
"Ha…" Katsuki sighed, the frustration of being manipulated by a goddamn nerd turning into forced exasperation. He ran a hand down his face to show this (and definitely not to hide the small smile that spread upon hearing those giggles).
"You're a manipulative little shit, you know that, Deku?"
"Only for you, Kacchan," Izuku winked at him and giggled all the more when Katsuki growled in response.
After what seemed like fucking forever of hearing this nerd snort like a pig, Izuku finally stopped laughing. The sound trailed off, and he watched as that horrifically outrageous smile turned into the small, soft one that Katsuki lik–.
"Are you feeling better now, Kacchan?" asked Izuku. "Or, um, if you really can't go through with this, I'm pretty sure there's a window here somewhere you can break!. Ah, I mean! Not break! Uh… gently pry open enough so you can make your escape? No worries if you want to, Kacchan! I'm pretty good at making excuses. Plus, I still have access to your card–er, I mean I'm very charming!"
Looking at Izuku's flustered face, those stupid arms waving around, and at pine green eyes that wouldn't meet his–Katsuki snorted. He reached for the small glass of ume-shu, downed the drink in one shot with tongue darting out to catch the stray drops.
It was sweet. Katsuki didn't like it just as he didn't like idiot nerds who rambled and turned into a goddamn strawberry when embarrassed, but couldn't find the switch to stop themselves.
Katsuki didn't like a lot of things. He didn't believe in anything or anyone other than himself either.
Belief, he was realizing, was something fickle and fragile; prone to falling apart if not handled with care and hardened in trial.
Even Katsuki, strong and unwavering as he thought he was, faced trial.
The successive knock on the door was the start.
"Bakugou-san, your guest is here."
The thing with humans, when cornered, was that there'd always be a way out. It'd show up when they least expected it, mockingly shaking their resolve.
Izuku's somber smile now offered him that.
The staff knocked again.
You know you don't have to do this, Kacchan.
He knew.
But fuck that anyway.
Katsuki placed his hands back on his thighs, back straightening, with a few cracks sounding out. Even through the material of his pants, he could feel the starting damp from his palms. Sweat built and slid down the back of his neck, and the scent of burned sugar became stronger.
Instead of thinking that he was nervous (which he fucking wasn't), Katsuki liked to think that it was his body preparing itself for a battle.
Whether he'd win, that remained to be seen.
"Let him in."
Kuroko Sumu was one of the many unremarkable people who came to know Katsuki with Katsuki, barely knowing him back. He was, literally and figuratively, a wallflower.
Kuroko was a nobody people unintentionally shoved into rows of getabako or bumped into in hallways with his nature that was the exact opposite of an attention-grabber.
He misdirected any attention that would come his way to others. If that'd be unintentional or intentional, only Kuroko would know. It was his quirk, after all.
Now, however, with only them in the room, Katsuki's attention wasn't– couldn't be misdirected. Not by the flickering floor lanterns at the corners, the old grandfather clock by the far end, nor by the table full of mouthwatering main course meals between them.
It was a good move, Katsuki thinks, to not have Izuku here.
Katsuki almost forgot what quirk Kuroko had in that short pocket of time where Izuku focused on setting his anxieties at ease. Almost meaning 'very fucking nearly' because despite waiting an hour past their meeting time, he found his attention pulled to the insignificant things instead to his 'guest of honor.'
–Izuku's fumble of limbs as he got up from his seat (apparently, seiza wasn't a thing for angels), the staff's polite smile as they ushered in the next part of the haute cuisine course, and even the boisterous laughter from an adjacent private room–
He noticed all of that insignificant crap before Izuku gave him a not-so-subtle thumbs-up and the staff closed the door behind them. With the click of the lock and the soft thud of wood against wood, it was just the two of them–Bakugou Katsuki and Kuroko Sumu.
Two people who, if not for the solemnity owed to the dead, almost got into a fistfight all those weeks ago in Musutafu. It didn't help–not at all–how Kuroko was wearing the same suit and tie outfit, jacket slung over his arm and the knot loosened.
Katsuki gave a sharp nod to Kuroko, teeth grinding when he realized that no, the fucker wasn't planning to take a seat any time soon (meaning he won't take a seat either).
"Kuroko."
The man regarded him with narrowed eyes, wary as he was, before finally taking his seat. Kuroko deposited the jacket beside him and crossed his legs over the other–a casual contrast to the seiza Katsuki assumed.
It took a couple more seconds that passed of Katsuki grinding his teeth and wrinkling his pants before Kuroko stopped looking around the room and returned a tense nod and greeting of his own.
"Bakugou."
It seemed that even after all these years, Kuroko knew how Bakugou Katsuki worked. Like the fucker that he was calling the man in his mind, Kuroko remained haughty–lips remaining sealed and body language showing no hint of it opening any time soon.
This man fucking knew that Katsuki wasn't the type to break the ice, and he wasn't merciful enough to do it for them both.
Katsuki wanted to crack the fucker's skull open with his chair.
A voice that annoyingly sounded like a certain green-haired angel reminded him that wasn't why he was here. To get his knuckles split open and stained bloody from breaking in this fucker's face was not why Katsuki called on the man from times he couldn't bear to forget and which would not forget him.
So he breathed. In and out.
Air filled his lungs and expanded his chest. His body followed along with the motion, muscles tensing as he held it for a few seconds before letting it out.
Slowly, Katsuki breathed. In and out. The tense of his jaw dissipated, and by-and-by the itch to smash a plate over Kuroko's head passed.
(It was nobody's business if he imagined a toned chest flush against his back breathing with him, and scarred arms keeping him from falling)
With his back ramrod straight, head clear, and eyes shining with determination as he faced Kuroko's confused expression, Katsuki gave the man something that'd been overdue. It was what he should've given Kuroko Sumu (and the others) that early morning in Musutafu when the ashes of incense scattered in the air and impossible bells rung from the early spring wind.
Bakugou Katsuki bowed.
He kept his eyes on his trembling legs–either from the strain of the position or from something else; he wasn't sure–and spoke with his voice ringing clear and true.
"I'm sorry. For everything."
A part of his mind tried to convince him that his tongue was too heavy to make out words. It tried to form a block in his throat that barricaded against their creation, wanting– wailing–to prevent any more harm to himself.
This part of him assumed a voice so distorted, full of agony, and his.
Stop here, it said. It wailed and threatened to make his heart burst, his guts twisted, and his blood burn if he went any further. It told of horrors that'd come if Katsuki let out one more sound; one more word; one more injury to his pride.
No one tells me what to fucking do.
With his eyes trained on his trembling legs and hands, back strained from struggling to maintain a position he'd never done in his life willingly–Katsuki continued speaking.
The words that flowed out were inarticulate–a far cry from any grand speech.
(Good, because he didn't prepare any)
Katsuki made pauses that shouldn't be there, and he filled blanks with only ragged breathing and a thundering heartbeat. The smell of burned sugar and smoke turned pungent and could only be called a stench that spread in every corner.
Katsuki didn't care.
From how Kuroko hadn't spoken a single word–just hitches of breath, the crinkle of fabric–, his guest didn't care either.
"I'm sorry for what I've done to you."
"I'm sorry for what happened to Yu–to Hisakawa."
"I'm sorry for being too late in saying sorry."
"I'm sorry for not being a hero to you."
"I'm sorry, Kuroko."
When he talked with Izuku about this–about this plan of apologies given, wrongness admitted, and vulnerability shown–, there were too many things he always left out.
Subconsciously or consciously, Katsuki glossed over some things he had done, said, and played a part in. It was a good thing–or was it; he wasn't sure either–that Izuku saw through them.
When it happened, Izuku stopped him mid-sentence with a scarred hand on his arm, and asked with a soft voice,
"That isn't all, is it, Kacchan?"
Always, always, Katsuki couldn't do anything else but shake his head and dial back to what he missed. His tongue felt heavy then, just as it was now, but Izuku's presence was a light and blessed contrast that balanced out the weight.
Which was why Katsuki knew that there was more he was due to say and be sorry for.
While there was this part of him–new, blurry-eyed, and still learning–that wished to spend eleven years apologizing for what he'd done for three and let fester for eight, he couldn't.
Bakugou Katsuki was just starting, and hopefully this was enough as a beginning.
By the last burning word that flowed like acid from his chest, up his throat, and rolled out on his tongue, Katsuki was still bowing; he was still supplicating.
There was a crick in his neck now. He knew to expect prickling needles that were sure to come if he moved his numb legs. His throat was scratchy too, not used to talking instead of screaming.
Who knew it was more tiresome to talk softly and sincerely than let loose harsh and hollow screams?
"Don't–" Kuroko spat venomously. "Don't give me crap, Bakugou. Don't you fucking dare give me all that bullshit and expect that I'll just sit here and fucking take it."
The table between them rattled, and still Katsuki didn't raise his head. Still, he continued to let the weight of everything fall on his shoulders if that was what it took to take off Kuroko's load.
That, he thinks, was the reason he wanted to apologize.
No innocent or anyone less guilty than Katsuki should experience the burden of sin he shouldered and promised to carry.
Let the heroes handle it. Let them take away the pain and misery of memory, and give space for others' chance at a burdenless future. Let heroes do what they signed up for until their backs break; until their knees split open and no one could discern bone from torn muscle anymore; until they fall and bring with them to the depths, the burdens they carried.
Even as everyone else kept telling him, he wasn't a hero–Kuroko now spitting out words of degradation–, there wasn't anything else to call Katsuki but that.
A hero he was, a hero he is, a hero he will be. Damned he was, damned if he is, and damned if he will be.
"You don't know, Bakugou. You've got no idea of the hurt you've dealt people–me, Yuu, and us, who you've always treated as dirt underneath your shoes. To you–to you, we're nothing more than stepping stones, you heartless motherfucker."
Stones, plain yet many as they were, could nick the divine and let them spill blood with the right aim and strength.
Stones were not just stones. People below were still people.
"You're sorry?" Kuroko laughed, and Katsuki discovered even sounds held weight as he struggled to not bowl over from hearing it. "You're sorry for what? Telling me I'll end up being worthless because my quirk's useless? Sorry for the consequences your action dealt in making everyone else think me useless, too?"
Kuroko's laugh rung out and rattled against Katsuki's ears. The hollow, bone-chilling sound set his nerves ablaze. The part of his mind that wasn't silenced just yet reared up again and coaxed him to retaliate.
This man is stepping on your pride, it said.
Katsuki stepped on the voice and squashed it silent.
All at once the heaviness of his tongue, the lump in his throat, and the crushing pressure on his chest got chipped at–just enough for him to hear Kuroko once more.
Kuroko's voice was… softer now; defeated and tired as all voices end up being when everything meant to be said was all out in the open.
In this room that had turned into one of torture for them both, Kuroko laid down judgment upon him as he says, "Look at me, Bakugou. Raise your goddamn head and look at me, you bastard."
Kuroko Sumu was someone Katsuki barely knew.
Yet it was his name that burned Katsuki's tongue. It was his face that Katsuki remembered in that sea of black and on the day the smell of incense and burned bone made the heavens crack open with tears of its own.
Kuroko was nothing more than a passing acquaintance and yet here Katsuki was, bowing and supplicating before the one of many bold enough to connect the dots from the letter that Hisakawa left.
This man was a past almost-friend Katsuki had turned away when childish notions of associating someone's worth with the surface potential burned that bridge.
What else could Katsuki do but raise his head and look at the effect of this course he took?
What he saw was… expected.
Kuroko's age-ridden face was contorted into hot-red fury, and his eyes shone with indignation. His body was nothing compared to Katsuki's hulking form, but the anger that overtook him at that moment made him seem bigger. The man's drink had toppled over the bowls of soup and plates of varying dishes, making the delicacies look nothing more than glorified mush from the konbini.
It was humbling. It was reality.
But, as much as Katsuki had expected this–it would be fucking weird if he didn't–, whatever was on Katsuki's face wasn't what Kuroko expected.
Whatever it was there made the man's eyes widen and his pressed lips part in obvious shock. Whatever it fucking was that Kuroko saw on his face was enough for the anger–something not even an angel could temper–to deflate and seep through the woven threads of the tatami floor.
Instead of shaking Kuroko by the shoulders and ask 'what the fuck is he looking at,' Katsuki waited.
To wait, Izuku told him, was to be brave. To wait and later move on was different, but held the same sentiment.
But to wait and to wait even when there hasn't been a single hint (and if there were, they were sparse and could simply be a trick of the mind) of that waiting to be rewarded?
That was foolish and surpassed the bravery of heroes.
Kuroko ran a hand down his face, shoulders slumping. He ran it back through his hair, and the motion made Katsuki see the hint of laugh lines and crow's feet on the man's face. Even with their ages just some months apart, he couldn't help but look at Kuroko Sumu and think,
He's lived a life well-lived, huh.
Even with this burden of survivor's guilt, this man across from him lived well and true. Could he–could Katsuki say the same to himself?
That was a question he couldn't answer. Not now, but not never. Maybe… when he has learned more, he could give himself an answer.
Kuroko sighed. The man's eyes were no longer perusing Katsuki (for what; for a hint of dishonesty, deception, and mockery, maybe), but looked off to the side and seemed fascinated with the intricate patterns of the lantern near him.
"You know," Kuroko cleared his throat when his voice broke, the act sheepish and a contrast to his fierceness from earlier. "Fujimoto told us she invited you to the reunion."
"She did." Where is he going with this?
Kuroko's nose flared as he breathed out with a bit more force than necessary. "Said she talked to you. That… time. Day. At Hisakawa's–at the cemetery."
The words took some time to sink in. It took some time–just a few seconds and maybe less–for him to process and connect the dots.
Fuck.
Katsuki felt so fucking stupid when the realization hit him. He'd been so distracted at how Kuroko would take this sudden admission that he didn't fucking wonder why the hell his invitation was accepted.
Katsuki closed his eyes and breathed out long and hard. Blunt nails dug into his palm and his fists shook. "She fucking told you."
Kuroko laughed, a bit breathless. "She did."
Finally–fucking finally–the man turned his gaze back to Katsuki, and it was his turn, apparently, to show an unexpected thing.
A smile.
It was hesitant and awkward. The corners were forcefully tugged up, but not too much that it seemed like Kuroko didn't want to do it. Rather, his smile looked like one that someone did when they weren't sure how it'd be received.
"I'm glad she did and I'm–" Kuroko cleared his throat and tugged at his hair. "Ha… I won't say I'm glad or, god, happy to hear it from you. Not after so long that you doing this now is less of a relief and more tearing through the scar tissue."
Katsuki grimaced at the description and the pangs going through his hand from where his nails dug deep reminded him that such pain was nothing compared to what Kuroko felt (continued to feel? Maybe).
Was this… was doing this still okay, even then? Was this plan to give a peace of mind and assume responsibility of burdens, actually conceited and self-centered?
Apologies, even when done in good intention, often do more harm than good.
Still, would he continue this?
"I won't lie and say that everything's all and good between us, but…" Kuroko sighed again and moved to stand, Katsuki following. He watched as the man rummaged through his wallet, rifling through bills and papers of all kinds before plucking one out.
Kuroko Sumu, professional photographer DE Co. Decollte Photography uncompromisingly and beautifully capturing your happiest moment just as you are
"But I will say that I'd like to tell you more about how this worthless pebble on the road you walk on has lived so far. And… how I'll live from here on out with your 'sorry.'"
With nothing but a business card with a personal number scrawled at the back pressed into Katsuki's palm, a squeeze of Katsuki's shoulder, and another hesitant and awkward smile, Kuroko was gone. The man was gone and had gotten the last word in.
He'd disappeared as he chose–in a blink of an eye and with a crack in the door for Katsuki to pry into.
Even when apologies ought to bring more pain than relief, Katsuki thinks everyone deserved to have wounds that didn't fester. The scars would be there, still, but not as bumpy and ragged as the ones before.
A broken bone that healed incorrectly needed to be broken again to heal properly.
As he clutched the card in his hand–firmly, gently, thankfully–, Katsuki resolved to continue. So too did he hold his shaken heart and promise–try as he might and try as he couldn't–to be a hero.
To be a hero was to accept that they can never assure victory.
Losses were inevitable and yet heroes continue to call it a battle–a struggle–for they tried, even against the odds stacked before them as towering walls and damning weights on their backs, to always aim for victory.
However, what was victory, really? How could someone say that they've 'won'? Was it all or nothing, where the numbers of 100%'s didn't matter when there was a sea of 99.9%?
Izuku, when the angel entered the room to the sight of Katsuki drenched from food and drinks thrown at him, told him his thoughts about it.
"Not everyone wants their aggressor to have a change of heart, Kacchan," said Izuku as he helped Katsuki clean up. "Some are just… content–even happy–to stay in that bubble where you're forever that man who hurt them and where they're that person who got to grow despite that–despite you."
Katsuki still didn't say a word. He couldn't look at Izuku. He couldn't look anywhere else but on his hands that were branded just a few minutes ago as "the death reaper's hands" and a "villain's pride."
They haven't even taken a single step into the room before they smelled it; they said. 'It' was the stench of death and destruction that could never be capable of something as profound as change or remorse–
"Kacchan."
–and that it (meaning him) deserved to stay stuck in this room where he thought–like a fucking idiot–that he'd always gain a victory.
Katsuki should've fucking known that a person once damned would always be damned. Thoughts of change and redemption were stupid–
And yet.
Here he was, being looked upon by an angel and imploring him to try. Katsuki lifted his gaze from his hands that would one day turn on him and met Izuku's own.
And yet.
Here he was being cleaned up–gently, lovingly–, and reassured that not everyone had an open heart. Katsuki watched as Izuku picked up the pieces they left him in and listened as words of encouragement put him back up.
Here Katsuki was beholden to the unwavering and pure belief of an angel, and despite being undeserving of it, he couldn't help but cling to it.
After taking a few breaths that Izuku didn't comment on, Katsuki tried for a smirk. It felt lopsided and forced, but the effort didn't go unnoticed by Izuku, who beamed at it.
What a fucking kid.
"Guess you won't get to eat the leftovers this time, Deku."
The sting of the flat-out rejection he received moments earlier was still there.
Katsuki still couldn't look at his goddamn hands (not until Izuku held them briefly to place a dessert spoon in them since "there's still mizu-mono, Kacchan!"). The words, harsh and true as they were, still rung in his ears (but Izuku's non-stop chatter had been–pun not intended–a godsend distraction).
It definitely wasn't the first rejection Katsuki received, nor would it be the last.
He knew that more harsh words, splaying spit, drinks, and plates of food would threaten to bury him in this room. For them, they would take the shortest time spent in Katsuki's presence.
Katsuki wondered why the hell they even bothered accepting his invitation. They shouldn't have shown up at all like the others who didn't hide their disdain at hearing his voice from the other end of a call or seeing an unknown number bearing his name.
A rejection–a nip in the bud–was better than a drawn-out game of waiting and hoping, just to be doused (literally today) by the reality of being hated.
Izuku did not think the same.
"I think the fact that they even came, Kacchan, is already a small win. A chance, no matter how small, is still that–a chance," Izuku hummed, the spoon in his hand moving in circles in the dessert. "They showed up, I think, because they wanted to see what this is about. They wanted to confirm something, Kacchan."
"Confirm what? That I'm still the asshole who made their lives hell when we were kids?"
Katsuki scoffed and asked it dismissively, but the goddamn nerd always saw through it. Those pine green eyes would zero in on the slight tremble of his spoon that balanced the scoop of pear compote with blueberry sauce. Izuku's ears would hone in on that slight hitch of his breath that not even Katsuki knew was betraying him.
What a fucking creep.
"No," Izuku smiled at him. "That you aren't one anymore."
.
At one point, Izuku asked Katsuki why he kept meeting them in a private dining room.
"I'm a hero, Deku. I'm in the spotlight, whether or not I like it. The hell do you think's gonna happen if they see me on a socializing extravaganza parading my dirty laundry when I'm supposed to be on leave? What, you think anyone's gonna still want to meet up?"
Izuku didn't outright argue with him. Just… pressed his lips in a thin line, and agreed. He'd follow the drill of leaving the room when the knock came, give Katsuki a thumbs-up, and do a waiting of his own in another room.
The walls were thick and provided enough privacy. Despite that, Katsuki could feel and hear it–Izuku, that is.
When the rare soul he gave apologies to had accepted with a teary smile and asked for a hug, he'd feel Izuku's guidance with the ghost-feel of warm, scarred hands teaching him. When silence continued to stretch and threaten to snap, it was to the beat of Izuku's heart that grounded Katsuki's own.
It was all his imagination; he knew. Katsuki should probably stop being so fucking dependent on the nerd to get through this.
For now, though, let him have this ghost comfort that rendered walls and distance moot. For now, let Katsuki traverse into unknown waters with Izuku as his northern star.
Though as another one left Katsuki and Izuku came back in exchange, he knew he couldn't do this forever. Not his rampant imagination that fixated on sacramento green curls and pine green eyes, no.
By 'this', Katsuki meant the shackles he wore around his body (ankles, wrists, and neck) with its chains stuck on the tatami floor, and the muzzle that clamped his mouth shut in these private walls.
'This' hiding could not hold forever else it would render all that he'd done meaningless and aimless.
Change, Katsuki knew, wasn't meant to be isolated. He couldn't call it that if, once he stepped past the door, he'd forget everything and stamp it over as a simple "job well done." That was not the change he hoped for–not the easy and lazy redemption he struggled towards.
So what should he fucking do, dammit?
Move, you goddamn idiot, a voice growled. Move your shitty ass and let nothing get in your way. That's never changed. No need to change it now.
The voice hissed at him and wore down on the restraints, banged on the walls, and ripped through the floor.
Since when did you stop being Bakugou Katsuki?
Moving wasn't as easy as it sounded.
Physically, it was easy. But, mentally–psychologically–, the consideration of movement has always been a debate.
It was far from easy, as Katsuki witnessed, to decide that something belonged to the past and that it was time to live presently and dream the future. Friends didn't truly forget the bonds they lose. Lovers didn't wholly leave a relationship intact. Family would always have the irreplaceable bonds of blood.
Moving was… scary. It was fucking terrifying to recognize that the key to the shackles on him has been there from the start, innocently hanging around his neck like an ornament.
"Who's next, Kacchan?"
But… movement was a necessary fear to be faced and conquered just like his explosions would to villains.
"You mean, where's next, Deku."
And so Katsuki closed the door behind him and moved. Instead of him waiting for the knock on the door, it was he who rapped his knuckles and waited to be granted entry.
Those still took place within four walls, yet the difference was too big to compare.
Because to them, to whom Katsuki gave all the power of letting him in, their home was a haven that could easily turn into his hell.
Rejection, when it came (and it did because Katsuki's sins ran deep and scarred greatly), was no longer a scalding burn. It still hurt. Of course it fucking did. He'd still end up dazed as he closed the door behind him and walked to where Izuku guided him home.
But it was a rejection justified, since it gave him a chance to say something.
Katsuki wasn't immediately shut down or had water thrown in his face before he could say all that he had meant to say.
(Still, the sting of reality became too much that he'd snap at Izuku more than once. It'd follow with regret and an apology cut-off because "it's okay, Kacchan. I'll face it with you too.")
"Where" eventually turned to a different kind of four walls.
The kind that'd be reverberating with commercially approved music to accompany a cup of coffee or tea. It'd be walls no longer opaque, but transparent and open.
The fanfare that followed was annoying as fuck. In waiting, the situation forced Katsuki to sign this and that, take pictures here and there, and entertain questions of hows and whats. It was annoying enough that he just wanted to fucking stop.
He didn't. His steps didn't falter, but instead stormed forwards and onwards.
Change wouldn't be that if Katsuki continued holding onto feeble notions of pride in perfection–of the notion that Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight didn't make mistakes.
Heroes who made mistakes were murderers by association and that blood, and the scent of burned bone, white funeral lilies and damp grave earth could never be rid of.
And yet.
Looking off to a far corner, Katsuki spotted Izuku just as the man spotted him. With a bright smile ruined with what looked like chocolate cake stuck in his teeth and on the corners of his mouth, Izuku gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed an indiscernible jumble of encouragement.
And yet, even heroes were humans who made mistakes. Even hero Dynamight was someone who struggled in pretending that he didn't.
So he kept moving, and hopefully–would be worth saving.
"You know Kacchan, if you wanted me to reenact when I pushed you on the swing until you screamed at my 'winged-ass' to stop, you could've just told me."
"How 'bout we play in the sandbox instead, Deku?"
Izuku beamed at Katsuki and vibrated with excitement, not minding the whipped cream from his crepe that acted like a pseudo mustache. A passing woman and child pair glanced at them and smiled–more out of amusement rather than courtesy. He was fucking sure of it.
"Really, Kacchan?"
"Sure," Katsuki shrugged, and it was too bad the smirk on his face couldn't scare the shit out of this excitable idiot what with the mask, shades, and cap ensemble he had going on.
If it wasn't for the blessed sunny weather today, he knew he would've looked way too suspicious to be hanging around in a getup like that in a local park of a suburban district in Chuuou-ku.
Perfect weather for a perfect finish.
"Yeah, I got no fucking problem burying you six feet under the sand, shithead."
While Izuku sputtered and rambled (in-between bites of his choco-mango crepe), the thought of bringing the man here with him in the first place passed in Katsuki's mind for contemplation. Throughout the days he'd done this, yes, Izuku was always there. But the man wasn't exactly there.
In that private dining room, Izuku was there to wolf down the saki-zuke, but he'd be gone when the knock came. Feeble (and pathetic) imaginations of Izuku's presence didn't count.
When Katsuki moved to house calls and café meet-ups, Izuku came along but wasn't truly there.
The angel's presence was nothing but a flash here and there. A reassuring blur in the corner of Katsuki's eye when he couldn't meet either tear-filled eyes or indignation-burning ones.
He likened Izuku to a friendly specter who dipped in and out of existence, flickering as a lighthouse would amidst a turbulent storm. That was what Midoriya Izuku has been to him amidst Katsuki's struggle in tearing himself apart, acknowledging the rotten and corrupted, and piecing it back anew.
Izuku was someone who was there but not quite; he hovered by the borders Katsuki set and did not cross; and became an invisible hand that gave him that extra push. Izuku was all of those and less, but had never been more. Not until now.
Now when every movement of the sun closer to the other side reminded him of what was to begin and finally finish.
Izuku was still talking about the possibility of local parks and playgrounds as past cemeteries during Japan's civil wartime throughout Katsuki's contemplation. Seconds stretching into minutes had only passed as he mused on the question of why.
Why then was this specter that was meant to remain unseen, suddenly shedding its place in the shadow and moving into the light where Katsuki was burning?
The answer, Katsuki knew, has been waiting for him the moment he moved. Back then, in that room-turned-prison, he was still hesitating–was still holding onto this flimsy, flexible, and strong thing called pride.
Katsuki thought he was strong enough to get through this alone. He thought that, even with the angel's influence and advice, it was still him in the end who acted and reaped the fruits of his labor.
It was an arrogant as fuck thought.
"You're gonna run that extra's business down with the rate you're buying crepes, nerd."
Izuku huffed and went on in devouring his sixth order of the jumbo strawberry-pecan special (they ran out of mangoes). He swallowed down a big bite as he turned to Katsuki.
"Running them down? No, see, I'm helping them make a profit, Kacchan! The kids here are only allowed one order, Kacchan. One! So I'm helping make sure that there won't be wasted stock today."
"All I'm hearing is a parasite-pig making sounds as it drains my bank account."
"Rude! It's for supporting small businesses, Kacchan!"
Katsuki snorted and rolled his eyes, the shades and mask hiding the smile that tugged at his lips and crinkled the corner of his eyes. It wouldn't do to turn the idiot beside him into an arrogant idiot, knowing he made Katsuki smile. No, no, that won't fucking do.
It was enough already that when Izuku proposed to go off to a nearby café to wait, Katsuki's hand already shot out to stop him.
"Stay," Katsuki had said, and with wide eyes and parted lips, Izuku had answered "okay" with an uncharacteristically meek voice.
It was enough already that since then Katsuki's hand hasn't moved from how it was in Izuku's hold; fingers interlaced, palms barely brushing, and sparks racing fire.
No, no. Any more and Izuku would end up having a bigger head than him.
With Izuku rambling again between messy bites that spread whipped cream all over, Katsuki turned his attention back to park entrance.
He's been looking over there five minutes before, on, five minutes after, and now half an hour after the appointed time. It didn't help that his watch buzzed every few minutes, pushing him to believe that she won't show up.
Katsuki's been looking, and he finally found what he was looking for.
Fujimoto Kyouko was someone Katsuki had only interacted with thrice in his life.
The first was when she had tapped on his shoulder while he was getting his shoes out of the getabako and asked where Hisakawa Yuu's shoe box was, a love letter in her hand. The second was when he signed in the registry, handed over the koden wrapped in a black and white ribbon, and she greeted him with red-rimmed empty eyes and a scratchy throat.
The third time was nine years after, at the bottom of a hill that led to the grave that Katsuki was shunned from visiting.
She waved at him and Katsuki would've waved back if it wasn't for the sudden blur that came out from behind Fujimoto and rushed straight at him.
Despite that part of him (he wasn't calling it clingy) that didn't want to let go of Izuku's hand, he had to when he braced himself for the impact.
His first thought was, this is heavy as fuck. The second was, did she fucking attack me? And the third clarified the situation pretty quickly when he realized the blur was a kid who was beaming up at him.
"Wow! A hero! It's really a hero! Mom, mom, look, it's a hero!" The menace vibrated in excitement and continued clinging onto Katsuki's leg, looking up at him in amazement and awe. "What are you doing here, Hero-san? Are you going to play too?"
With all of Katsuki's articulateness, he finally said something.
"What the fu–"
"Yuu!" cried Fujimoto. Her face was flushed from rushing all the way after this menace–Yuu, a name that wasn't lost on him–, and somehow disentangled the kid's hold on him.
Once free, Katsuki took a couple of steps back until the back of his legs hit the bench he was just on.
It wasn't that Katsuki hated kids. They were just too… bright sometimes (always). They were too pure, trusting, and always looking up at him as they stupidly declared they'll be "like him" when they grow up.
It was an innocent statement that always made him feel that ugly thing called shame when he thought of another 'him' coming to fruition.
As he glanced at Izuku, who was choking on the last bite of his crepe from the sudden turn of events, Katsuki understood better why he hated the angel back then.
"I'm so sorry for him, Bakugou-san," With the squirming child held back by a mother's strength, Fujimoto gave Katsuki a smile and a small bow. "I hope he didn't hurt you or anything."
Katsuki cleared his throat and shook his head, suddenly feeling sheepish. The question threw him for a loop as he gave a slight bow of his own, voice muffled from behind the mask.
"It's fine. I've taken worse."
"Oh, of course," Fujimoto smiled wider and Katsuki dug nails into his palm to stop himself from looking away. It was too fucking bright. "You're a hero, after all, Bakugou-san."
Am I really? When I know the reasonable question you should've asked is "did you hurt him" instead of "did he hurt you"?
"Yeah," Katsuki's voice croaked before he cleared his throat again, absentmindedly wiping his sweaty hand on his pants.
The sun was coming down harder on them now with the rare loss of clouds in spring, making children squeal with laughter while Katsuki drowned in combustible sweat.
There were pleasantries he prepared for this day. The usual ones he'd use as a sign of respect and to maybe have a smoother transition into what they were really both here for.
But the sight of Fujimoto smiling at him made whatever pleasantries he was supposed to exchange tumble lost in his throat.
The sun's gaze upon him was merciless, making his throat parched and narrow, lips chapped and unmoving, and the smell of burned sugar and smoke more potent and dangerous.
Maybe they should move this to another day. Perhaps another time was better when Katsuki wasn't literally a ticking time bomb in a park full of innocents and young untainted souls.
Fujimoto didn't share the same sentiment.
She nudged her son forward, the little menace brightening up at the opportunity to cling onto Katsuki again. "Yuu, why don't you introduce yourself and apologize to Bakugou-san? I think you scared him a bit there."
"Heroes don't get scared!"
"Well, Kacchan's not here as a hero today," In a blink Izuku was crouching down before Fujimoto's kid, down on one knee and voice taking that tone that Katsuki hated once.
(The sight of the man with a kid made something somersault in his stomach and leap to give a well-placed kick at his heart)
The menac–kid tilted his head to the side and looked utterly enraptured by Izuku. With sparkling eyes now ignoring Katsuki's presence and trained on this more interesting companion, the kid asked softly,
"Then who is he if not a hero?"
To everyone's shock, it was Fujimoto who answered.
"He's here today as Yuu's friend," said Fujimoto softly, and Katsuki knew she wasn't talking about the child between them. Her voice tried to be light, but she couldn't hide the unmistakable weight there.
Yuu. Was it a punishment on herself when she immortalized the namesake that buried himself in their hearts and dreams on this child? Katsuki didn't know.
He could see the way her gaze went far off to a distance where no one but the mourning could reach. In a blink, it was gone, making Katsuki doubt if he saw it.
(Of course he didn't because the survivors he offered condolences to on anniversaries of his mistakes had that same look in their eyes)
The sudden brush of something against his hand jolted him out of his thoughts, making him turn to it.
Izuku smile greeted him like a soothing brush of air on a hot day. The brush of scarred fingers trailed sparks along Katsuki's knuckles before pulling away, his attention now on the bubbly child who rode the high of knowing he was a "hero's friend."
Izuku must've said something to the kid as he leaned close in a conspiratorial whisper because in a flash and a hastily exclaimed, "we're going to the monkey bars, mom!", Katsuki was alone.
Fujimoto laughed as she watched her son drag Izuku to one end of the park. She pulled her gaze away, looked back at Katsuki, and gestured to a nearby bench.
"Let's sit, Bakugou-san. I'm sure you'd rather we walk, but going with a child in rush hour is no joke," said Fujimoto teasingly.
"Yeah," Katsuki snorted as he sat beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them. He didn't dare return her gaze, scarlet eyes following Izuku and Yuu–the kid. "I don't want to fucking know how wild he was when he was a baby."
Fujimoto hummed. "Well, good since I wouldn't know either." Sensing Katsuki's confusion, she added lightly. "I adopted him a few years ago. Yuu was–he was abandoned. He was diagnosed quirkless and just like that social services found him in a park just like this, waiting for his mom and dad to pick him up."
The way Fujimoto said it was like how someone talked about the weather–as a fact of life that was there. Her words didn't have venom laced in them, nor were they gritted out in thinly veiled hate.
She spoke of it like it was just something that happened and came to pass as all things in the present had and continued to do.
For a while, Katsuki couldn't say anything. He couldn't even look at Fujimoto, continuing to follow Izuku and her son flit from one end of the park to another.
He watched the kid laugh–his eyes crinkled shut, mouth wide open, and uncaring of everything and everyone else but this moment he was in. Izuku was the same. With a youthful smile of his own, Izuku glowed and soaked in the sun's rays as opposed to Katsuki, who burned.
The man must've felt the eyes on him because Izuku paused in building sandcastles and furrowed his brows, head turning left and right. Finally, he spotted Katsuki.
And once again, Katsuki was reminded that he was not alone. He had never been, for he had asked his angel to stay and Izuku was there.
With renewed conviction Katsuki swallowed around his dry throat and wet his chapped lips, opening his mouth to speak.
But Fujimoto was already starting.
"You're here to apologize, right, Bakugou-san?" Her voice was still light and carried gently by the wind from one ear to the other. "That's why you called me, suddenly and out of the blue, and asked if I was free to talk."
"…Yes."
Fujimoto hummed, and still she didn't turn towards Katsuki. He turned towards her just in time to see the way she reached up to fiddle with her necklace.
It wasn't the first time he saw it.
The locket looked like it faced better days in the past. Despite the obvious care the owner treated it with, there was still rust that marred the surface of gold. The chain was brand new, but even now he knew it'd need replacing.
It was a small thing. An old thing. Something Katsuki recognized as something Fujimoto had worn back in all the times they interacted–hidden beneath the collars of her school uniform, beneath the folds of her black kimono, and obscured under the band of pearls set upon a black dress.
It was the past that made its way to the present and cemented its place in her future.
"I…" Fujimoto started quietly, making Katsuki strain to hear her. "I don't want to mince any words, Bakugou-san. I don't know why you've suddenly started all of this– we all don't. The ones who didn't meet you and the ones who did–all of them don't know why now of all times."
What would they have done if Katsuki told them–had cried out pathetically, just as he had in Izuku's arms that night–that he didn't know?
Katsuki watched as her eyes shone and her breathing turned ragged. Liquid that betrayed emotions built up, yet the tears weren't let loose. Her lungs that struggled, did so only for a breath or two before setting themselves right.
Fujimoto's hold on her necklace tightened, knuckles turning a pale white. She was frowning deeply and Katsuki saw a hint of anger–the type that burned down to the bone–flash in her eyes.
Would he finally turn to ash if she looked at him with it?
"I want to hate you, Bakugou-san. Very much. If life could grant me a blessing, it'd be to be able to hate you. Above everything else, that's what I think I'll wish for."
"Then why don't you–why haven't you?" asked Katsuki in a broken voice. He couldn't recognize it. His voice was way too soft. Way too meek and fragile that he was afraid it'd break if he used it.
Confusion was a turbulent storm that ravaged everyone, just as time did. It left no stone unturned, no tree uprooted, and no truths torn naked. The will to face what was underneath, buried and hidden, determined how someone would get past the storm.
To be torn apart by his question or be saved by it, it all lay on him and him alone.
Fujimoto blinked, and her eyelashes took on the droplets that didn't fall. It was with another shuddering breath that she finally faced him, and his heart clenched at what he saw.
Eyes half-lid, even Katsuki couldn't remain unaffected by how broken they looked. Gone was the anger and what was left was something not even time could heal. Even him who sucked at reading people wasn't blind to the resignation that set deep in her face, skin, and bones.
She gave her necklace one last squeeze before letting it go, the rusted gold of the locket catching the setting sun's light.
"Why…? Because it's me, out of everyone else and maybe even you, who knows the pain, guilt, and suffering you carried–that you continue to carry," She chuckled hollowly and looked at Katsuki with so much pity. "If everyone had my quirk, even the hardest of hearts can't help but feel sorry for you instead, Bakugou-san."
With a small smile on her face, she turned away, leaned back, and closed her eyes, face taking in the setting sun.
That must be what being at peace looks like, Katsuki thinks.
"Yuu told me, too, that quirks are nothing more than glorified curses. That even though the world made some people more equal than others, they– we will struggle harder to keep equilibrium," Fujimoto laughed unabashedly, and Katsuki could see a woman who was in love and never stopped. "He's always been the right one between the two of us–among all of us."
Katsuki turned away from her, and his eyes found Izuku and the kid. Again he looked at the child who now carried the name of the man who left too early and too soon, but not too unexpected.
He took off his shades and cap, slipped down his mask, and imagined, for a moment, what it would've been like if he saved Hisakawa Yuu.
Katsuki wondered, baring himself to the world from whom he awaited judgment, what would've happened if he held that hand instead of pushing it away as he watched Izuku's scarred one hold a small one.
Katsuki thought of shared big dreams and the innocence that he should've treasured instead of broken.
He saw Fujimoto Yuu and hoped– prayed–that there wouldn't be a Bakugou Katsuki who damned this child.
"For all the hurt I've given you through him… For all that I did that made him less and less the man you fell in love with…" He didn't duck his head when tears he didn't realize were building up poured silently down his face.
There was no shame in mourning for someone he sinned against.
"For all that and more, Fujimoto… I'm sorry for your loss."
After an emotional goodbye spurred on by the setting sun (ironically more on Izuku and the kid's part, both of them forming a playmate bond that'd last lifetimes), Katsuki found himself unable to move.
The sun was already done with its shift for the day–all tucked in and the baton passed. Food trucks were already driving out of the park with no more customers in sight. The resounding squeal of "goodbye" and "see you tomorrow" had long dissipated with the cold evening air of spring.
Streetlights were lighting up, and the rarest of insects who could brave this fluctuating weather gravitated to them, casting shadows from their small fluttering forms. Suburban homes around them started turning on their lights and drawing curtains, and if he listened closely, Katsuki would hear slamming doors and the trademark exchange of "I'm home" and "welcome back."
Everyone was moving and Katsuki found himself stuck standing in the aftermath of a storm that wasn't what he fucking expected.
Instead of being torn limb by limb, it cradled and kissed him; provided empathy instead of scorn and judgment; and gave him the promise of a future instead of snatching it away.
No one fucking warned him about this.
Others told of the satisfaction they'd feel. There'd be that ease of breathing, clearness of mind, and overall giddiness spreading from the tip of their noses down to the pads of their fingers and their little toes.
No one fucking said anything about the disbelief that came crashing right after.
No one told him of the voices that erupted and clawed at him, threatening to drag Katsuki down, down into the depths. There wasn't a fucking warning of how colors wouldn't seem right, the pavement uneven, and forgetting that the air was something good and real.
Who was Bakugou Katsuki now without the storm? Who was he without the turbulence of sin, guilt, and apologies dragging him here and there, near and away?
He was nothi–
"Hey, Kacchan," Katsuki opened his eyes–when did he close them, he wondered–and saw Izuku looking up at him, hand outstretched. "Want to play on the swings?"
His brows furrowed and there was a protest ready. Something like "did playing in the sun that much fry your goddamn brain, nerd?"
Katsuki wanted to relay the events that followed in a certain way–where he growled out something, swatted Izuku's hand away, and went on his way to the train station. Izuku would call him by that irritating nickname and he'd ignore it all the way home and end the day knocked out on his bed.
That was how he wanted to relay what happened next. Katsuki wanted, somehow, to keep hold of this last thread that kept the tattered strongman persona of his still intact.
He didn't want it to be known that with shaky and uneven breaths; he took Izuku's hand.
Katsuki didn't want anyone to know that under the solitary light that cast shadows of flying light-seekers, he sat down on the swing and let Izuku pull at the remains of the thread, completely unraveling it and laying him bare.
With a push, Katsuki was in the air. His fingers–too numb to remember what it was like to cling onto something–were livened by the night air that rushed against him.
Reality seized him in that moment of flight. Katsuki breathed the tamed air of the night. His scarlet eyes grabbed hold of the benevolent shine of the stars up above to look and see. The hold of frozen shock over his body cracked, shattered, and scattered in the wind that shook blood and muscle awake as it carried him up and up.
Even as he fell and gravity beckoned him back, there was no moment of despair waiting to snap at him once he came down.
"Again," whispered Kasuki moments before his feet brushed the dirt that was worn down from the many childhoods that came and went on the swing.
He didn't feel disappointed in coming down because he knew, felt, and saw Izuku agree to this childish request.
Katsuki didn't close his eyes. Scarlet continued looking up at the stars that gazed upon them both with amusement and cheerful twinkling. This divine glow they held turned vanilla blonde strands into a river of silver, and vibrant scarlet into subdued redwood.
He didn't close his eyes for they ached to shine and soak in the reality that crashed into him again and again with every push into the air accompanied by Izuku's breathless answer of "okay, Kacchan."
Katsuki didn't want this moment where his body trembled as Izuku reassured him–again and again–that this was real, belong to anyone else but him and the nerd.
The hero and the angel. The sinner and the savior.
Kacchan and Deku.
So instead of going into detail of what he had done–of tears that fell like falling stars, and of outward cries of a fragile man–Katsuki would reveal nothing any further.
This memory and pocket of time carved by the heavens was theirs and theirs alone. On this night in spring, the words of reassurance Izuku said in-between pushes and falls was only for him alone.
Katsuki was selfish that way, but Izuku was not.
On his knees before Katsuki and scarred hands holding Katsuki's own, Izuku looked up at him with an unrivaled reverence that made Katsuki's heart clench painfully (wonderfully).
Izuku was a mess. The lone streetlight turned his curls into a forest green shade, tips sticking to his damp skin. The same went for the long-sleeved shirt that wasn't saved from earlier's playtime. There was even a smudge of dirt that covered one cheek.
Midoriya Izuku looked ugly as fuck and the most beautiful person who Katsuki had the blessing to commit to memory; to have as his own.
Izuku smiled. It was awkward with how wide it was. He gave Katsuki that smile of his that made those pine green eyes that erupted into ethereal kaleidoscopic colors get lost in his full cheeks.
"Hi," Izuku breathed out an awkward laugh that Katsuki wouldn't mind waking up to every morning, hearing during the day, and close his eyes to in the night.
It was annoying as fuck.
"I'm Midoriya Izuku, your guardian angel. You don't remember me and I can't say that's fine since there hasn't been a moment in my life that I forgot about you. But I'm here, Kacchan," Izuku's words rushed out with tears pricking the corner of his eyes, barely restraining a sob. "I'm here and I'll stay to help. Will you let me?"
When he had once shunned a helping hand, and another took its place, what was the correct answer to be taken?
When a pure-hearted person who didn't care what others thought was on their knees and supplicated themselves, what was the right course of action?
When this shitty nerd of an angel wept tears of thanks for Katsuki's efforts and he returned them with his own that conveyed gratefulness for being the recipient of unwavering belief, what then was to happen?
"I'm Bakugou Katsuki, you goddamn nerd. I'm the human you're leeching off of, and the owner of the pet snake you're spoiling. I want to say I'm sorry that I don't remember you, but I can't because like you fucking said–you're here," Katsuki grinned and there was this warmth racing from their interlaced hands to his chest, blooming and burning beautifully. "I'm sure I can manage with fresh memories, shitty Deku."
Those questions were ones that people either struggled with or breezed through. Alone, Katsuki wouldn't have even brushed the surface of them.
But the chorus of "I'm here, Kacchan" rung in his ears and orchestrated the singing of his heart that had never known the difference between a monotonous beat and that of music.
Midoriya Izuku was here, and that had always been all Katsuki needed to find the answer.
AN:on the OC names:
(1) 黒子済む Kuroko Sumu
Kuroko is a reference to his quirk that's like Kuroko Tetsuya (stagehands, almost invisible). But 黒 (Kuro) is also a less-used noun for "guilty person". His name, Sumu, has double meaning (to feel guilt/sorry, and to finish). it's actually a verb but this is fictional anyway
(2) 藤許共子 Fujimoto Kyouko
Fujimoto is written using the kanji particular to mean "forgive" (許). Her name, while seemingly common, also uses a different kanji for Kyouko (共 instead of 恭) which is derived from 共感 the noun for sympathy/empathy, a hint to her quirk. Wisteria (藤), as a flower, also holds the meaning of serious devotion (an explanation for her pious visits to Hisakawa's grave)
other notes:
DE Co. Decollte Photography is a legit company. so is their slogan. I like thinking that photographer fits his quirk since the best photos are the one taken when the subject isn't aware that there's a camera
it's a bit selfish but pls forgive me for making all the meeting places strictly to Osaka, Osaka. even if bk's off-work, there's more risk to him if he goes to all of JP's regions. let's all just pretend that the ppl he meets understand his situation
lil fujimoto yuu recognized bk cuz kids have crazy sixth senses