Katsuki hates winter. He doesn't sweat as easily and it makes him sluggish and pitifully unoptimized like Izuku gets when he's preoccupied with stupid fantasies. He hates winter. Hates it. Hates the stupid Christmas ramp-up and people bitching about getting together to waste an evening bothering each other with pithy present-giving ceremonies and awkward pseudo-quality time. Hates that his family thinks it's the perfect excuse to hound him for a call, or a visit, or, god forbid, ask him if the reason he's too aloof to spend Christmas with his family is because he's spending it with some special someone.
He hates the couples giggling in the middle of the street during the season like it's their goddamn job to be even more obnoxious than usual. He hates that his mom asks if he's planning to do the same not because she actually believes that he is, but because she knows he isn't. Katsuki knows that she knows that he knows that she knows. They know. It's a known thing. He's been married to his fear of intimacy for years. They are well past the point of Katsuki bringing that home to his mom. In fact, she played an inadvertent part in setting the two of them up. She was there for the courtship, the yuino, the agreement, the ceremony, the everything. She knows.
If Katsuki was actually brave, and not an asshole, and maybe with the chutzpah of a real hero rather than a masquerader with massive grenadiers and an even bigger swagger, he'd have spent his other Christmases with Deku. But he wasn't and he isn't and he's not going to do so outside the context of patrol or something because Endeavor has absolutely cordoned off his little interns' time for Christmas Day duty, bless him. But also, fuck him. Fuck Endeavor.
He probably figures he can look like a hardass simultaneously to giving his son people to hang out with for Christmas. Not that Katsuki and Todoroki are friends, but Todoroki and Deku are.
Anyway, it's a week before Christmas and Katsuki stands in front of the Todoroki estate with a frigid little chapped nose on his face and a manila envelope in one hand. It's full of real estate listings and photos of new homes on a different side of town as well as business cards for agents because Endeavor is an old man and thinks printouts are somehow superior to email links. But then again, he may not have access to his children's emails. Or they don't look at what he sends them. God knows Todoroki doesn't.
Does Todoroki also ignore his siblings' messages? Is that why Katsuki never got that mapo tofu recipe?
Whatever. The listings are for Fuyumi and Natsuo to look over. Baby brother Todoroki already gave his spectacularly unhelpful feedback on them earlier that day, because Shoto Todoroki is spectacularly unhelpful. It's a fact, much like how putting a "no smoking" sign inside the Endeavor agency lobby is the biggest joke known to man.
Which begs the question: is Todoroki oblivious to forwarding his siblings' messages out of hapless obliviousness rather than spite? Is that why Katsuki never got that mapo tofu recipe? That would track. Todoroki's about as sharp as a rubber knife and it's been three days. Is Todoroki holding out on him?
But back to the task at hand. The plaster-and-tiled-roof gate out front stares back at Katsuki impatiently. The family name stands out against the bronze plate like a nagging reminder not of the family's half-there-half-not princeling, but of what Katsuki is here to do.
He asks himself for the umpteenth time why Todoroki Shouto isn't the one making this delivery, but then remembers he did it to himself on purpose. The entire lead-up exchange between Katsuki and Todoroki during post-patrol training went something like this:
"Hey, Tylenol, y'really gonna slack off and look at houses while you're still fartin' fire out 'cher ass whenever you try n' make a midair turn? Gonna quit bein' a hero and go into capital real estate? Ain't gonna give your sister a say in what new cage daddy locks you into?"
"No. I thought tonight I'd drop those off for her and Natsuo to–"
"Cram it. I'll do that and you'll keep fuckin' up in here. Spare me the embarrassment of watchin' you flounder around like a half-dead koi."
And then he'd snatched them and stomped out of the agency with a grunt to Burnin' and a poignant head-toss to Deku. With any luck, he'll know what it means. Deku knows what he did. Probably.
Katsuki trudges through the gate and up to the sliding front door. He knocks against it with his foot with three emphatic kicks because his hands are full. It doesn't take two hands to hold an envelope, but it does take two hands to hold two bags of groceries and an envelope. He wasn't traveling all this way on a school night just for a delivery. He has a plan. He has a plan and he damn well better have the balls to pull it off because it's cold out here and the nervous sweat evaporating from his hands isn't helping.
His breath is coming out of him in puffs and it's getting dark. But all of that is just more incentive to propel him forward to get this to work.
Katsuki counts to fifteen and then raps twice more. Fuyumi slides open the door before his rubber heels can kick its wooden ass a third time. He almost nails her shin in collateral.
She's in a long skirt and a corded sweater. She must have a closet full of them for school. Katsuki wonders if her kids wear those little yellow hats. He wonders if they all hold hands coming in and out of the classroom like he and Deku used to do.
"Oh," Fuyumi says. Her grey-blue eyes blink incredulously behind her glasses. "Bakugo-kun! Hello! Are you here for Shouto? I'm sorry. He's not home yet. I just got here, myself."
Katsuki grunts intelligently.
"No," he says, equally intelligently, after a very intelligent head-empty pause laced with a daisy chain of kindergarteners. "Got a delivery for you. From Endeavor."
"Oh!" Fuyumi's pale hands reach for the bags. "I'm, ah, I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting, um, this. Thank you for–"
"Move. I'll carry 'em in," says Katsuki, pivoting his elbows so the groceries are out of her reach and also so he has a moment to roll his eyes behind the shelter of the bags at her apology.
"Oh. Oh!" Fuyumi is blessedly quick on the uptake. It's a point in her favor. "Of course. Just follow me and I'll show you–"
Katsuki is already breezing by her and toeing off his shoes in the genkan.
"–ah. I don't have any guest slippers laid out. You can borrow–"
Katsuki eyes the triplet of men's slippers by the stoop. He doesn't appreciate the thought of sharing sock-scum with Todoroki, but for an instant considers Natsuo's. It would be fitting: Natsuo left them high and dry the other day, so if he walked in and didn't find any slippers waiting for him, all the better. He can deal with the humiliation of wearing Endeavor's massive clown shoes as eldest son.
But antagonizing Natsuo in the aftermath of an eruption of deep familial grief is not what Katsuki came to do. He steps to Endeavor's navy slippers in the corner and pilfers them with authoritative feet even though he knows they are too small to fill what he's stepped in.
Fuck. But he's done it now. He wrinkles his nose in self-dissatisfied distaste and not without the stinging awareness of the scent of his own sweating palms.
"I know where the kitchen's at," Katsuki grumbles.
And he does. Their intimidatingly huge house is a series of hallways and a wood-floor polishing hell, but Katsuki can remember the path down the front-facing lateral hall as well as he can anything else. He slides open the door with the toe of Endeavor's oversized slipper and sets the groceries on the counter by the refrigerator. Then, he starts to unpack them.
Fuyumi is just behind him.
"I can do that," she says. "I appreciate that you brought them here, but–"
Katsuki whirls around with the envelope of housing listings and thrusts it into Fuyumi's hands. He knew when he burst in here that if he stops for anything, he won't get any farther. The only way is forward.
"This is the delivery meant for you. Unpack that 'fore you do anything else."
Fuyumi raises her pale eyebrows at him, but after a glance between Katsuki's too-serious face – what was he supposed to do? Not scowl? That would just be weird for everyone – and the envelope with her father's scrawl on the front, she relents and does what he says.
Katsuki turns his back to her before she can register the contents enough to show her feelings about them on her face. Besides, he has a lot of work to do before she finishes stewing over the papers and tries to kick him out. He works quietly and efficiently to give her privacy. Luckily, he wasn't lying: he already knows where everything is.
He's making nikujaga. He can set water and dashi to boil unobtrusively; he can start a pot of rice calmly; he can blanch vegetables subtly; he can peel and quarter potatoes quietly, if violently; and he can set out the meat in preparation for the pan when it's time. The act of slicing carrots and onions brings out the demon in him, though, but he'll be damned if Fuyumi stops him once he gets to that point. Oh, and he needs to get out and drain the tofu.
It's tense, actually, to do things in front of other people without self-aggrandizing fanfare. It's why he makes a big production of whatever front-facing emotions he's feeling when he does anything. Katsuki can hear the rippling of paper and small intakes of breath happening at his back. He doesn't think about what Fuyumi's doing or what she's thinking, or if she's crying or not. He doesn't think about how cold this house is without Endeavor in it, and how unbearably stuffy it was when he was inside. He doesn't think about the smell of wood polish or the sterile sting of fresh cleaner impersonally applied in the hall, or how the kitchen is the most lived-in part of this massive house he'd seen and the formal dining room appeared absolutely out of place when it was set for a family and friends. Katsuki doesn't think about anything beyond finding ladles or chopsticks or tongs or bowls or paper towels or whatever the hell else Japan's most famous hero family has in their kitchen.
Turns out that it's nothing special. For fabulously rich people, their setup sure does suck.
Behind him, Fuyumi takes a shaky breath – not that he's paying attention. The inside lid of the stainless steel pot heating over the burner perspires in tandem with the inside of Katsuki's scarf and jacket. It's about to boil if he doesn't take the lid off. He's about to boil.
Except Katsuki doesn't boil. He explodes. He'll explode if he doesn't do something. Katsuki turns his attention to the vegetables laid out by the knives and cutting board like sacrifices at an altar to some local god. It's time. He descends upon them with a desperate, neurotic, vindictive glee.
Die, you stupid roots! Katsuki thinks, bringing the knife up and down at an insane cadence.
His mother once said it implied something masturbatory about how pent-up he was and that he probably shouldn't chop vegetables or perform repetitive motions in front of other people – like he needed another reason not to be around other people. Thinking about that only makes him angrier, but thankfully he finds an escape in the anger.
DIE die die DIE DIE die DIE die—!
Silver linings.
Die DIE die die DIE die DIE die DIE–!
He shoves the carrots into the pot with a horrendous clatter and series of scrapes before starting the process again with the onions. Fuyumi's startled gasp causes a hiccup in his rhythm, but he gets right back to it as soon as he'd stopped.
"Bakugo-kun! I'm sorry! I should offer you tea, or–!" she whirls around. "What are you doing?!"
"What's it look like?!" Katsuki barks from atop the onions.
And then he remembers his mom's comments and thinks better of it. Maybe don't answer that.
It's a miracle Kaminari and Mineta from school never came to the same conclusion and announced it to the entire class. Kaminari would laugh like a jackass, but Mineta would probably take the comment seriously and never leave Katsuki alone about it.
"I'm makin' somethin'," Katsuki says before Fuyumi can even comment. "So siddown! It'll be done in like fifteen minutes." He huffs. "I'll have the tofu done 'fore that if you can't stand it."
"Bakugo-kun, I appreciate this, but this is my house!"
"Not for long it ain't!"
Fuyumi appears wide-eyed in his peripheral vision as if summoned. Her thin hand slams against the tile with a thump and her wide eyes stare up at him from over her glasses. They're dewy and shiny like crystals in a case.
"Bakugo-kun, why are you making dinner?"
He gives her a full face of red-eyed scowl. "'Cause I'm hungry and it's dinnertime. You gonna tell me you already ate? Hah?!"
Katsuki thinks he might really blow up the house this time if he's done all this just to be told she's already eaten. Or that she doesn't like pork. She's wealthy; he should've gotten the beef. Shit. Shit.
Luckily, or unluckily, she doesn't seem concerned with that at all. Her big eyes are misty, and if Katsuki can read a person at all, she's at a critical juncture between bewildered, upset, confused, hurt, offended, and desperate to both be seen and to be left alone. He's lived most of his life somewhere similar and is currently lousy with the symptoms, so if anyone should recognize the signs of this particular affliction, it's him. The only difference is that Fuyumi is actually trying to be mature about it.
"Bakugo-kun, I appreciate this, but you are my guest. I don't need you looking after me. I realize my family situation is not ideal, but I promise that I can–!"
"AND HOW D'YOU THINK I FELT ABOUT IT?!" bellows Katsuki.
Something bigger than he is and almost as old opens its eyes in a dark place in his heart. The stockpot hits the burner with a bang like a gunshot. His sweat pops in the air like a gunshot.
"YOU AN' YOUR DUMBASS FAMILY BRING ME IN HERE AND EXPECT ME TO JUST WATCH ALL YOUR SHIT 'N NOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT, AND NOW, APPARENTLY, MY FOOD AND PRESENCE AIN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YA?!"
He whirls on Fuyumi. Her eyes are huge. Her hands are clasped in front of herself like she's gripping something invisible between them. Her back is against the refrigerator like a cornered animal. Her figure is all wrong, but her black sweater looks uncannily like a gakuran. Her eyes are the wrong color, but they might as well be green. For an instant, the kitchen is a school; is a playground; is a quaint suburban street near a park with a river.
To her, it's probably always been this kitchen. Maybe another room in the house. But here. Her hell is here.
Katsuki inhales enough for a whale. "SHUT UP, FUCK YOU, DIE."
And then he's exhausted, suddenly, like that exchange took everything out of him. Exhausted, and yet somehow even angrier. Endeavor's slippers on his feet feel suspiciously snug. They're too hot. The room is too hot. He swore he was cold when he walked in.
Belatedly, hesitantly, like Fuyumi has just remembered she is the adult and Katsuki is the child and she should perhaps take charge of the situation, she slaps him.
The ring light above the kitchen table hums gently; disinterestedly. The refrigerator sings the same song while the pots behind Katsuki rumble quietly in the background.
It's not even that hard of a strike. It barely makes a noise.
Her hands are soft. Katsuki is fairly certain that either he's twisted inside or he must be a masochist – or maybe both! – because, honestly, that wasn't enough for what he deserved. It's probably written all over his face, but even if it isn't, it slips out of his open mouth in the ensuing silence.
"Like you mean it, next time," he says.
Fuyumi startles; only now unfrozen from the aftermath. "Excuse me?"
Katsuki's nose rankles. "I toldja do that with feeling next time," he said. "What, you lookin' down on me? Think I can't handle it? Think I don't know the kinda person I am?"
He straightens his back. She's older, but he's taller.
"Again," he says. "Do it right."
Her eyes transform circular. "Bakugo-kun, I don't understand."
"Hit me," he says. "If you're gonna go in, go in."
There's hardly an arm's length between them, but they maintain it like it's the most important distance in the world. If they cross it, Katsuki's pretty sure the world will explode and they'll die in a horrible fiery death. Despite that, Katsuki is also certain this is what it feels like to be close with another person. This awful too-much-not-enough-I'm-scared-I'm-sad-I'm-happy-please-hate-me-please-dont-I-wanna-help feeling is the only frame of reference he has for such a thing.
Intimacy is contradictory. Intimacy is fear. Intimacy hurts.
He has no idea what Fuyumi is thinking, really, but if the sparks of dawning recognition and the inquisitive flickering of her eyes over his face tell him anything, she might start to figure him out. Because she's a grade school teacher and works with kids smaller and more frightening than him who throw tantrums on the regular, she probably has an advantage.
That's honestly terrifying. Katsuki takes a step back and looks at the pot.
And curses himself for being a complete wuss. Why did he come here, again? Why did he do this? A pop of hot oil jumps out of the pan and lands on Katsuki's wrist in a pesky reminder. It might've hurt, if he didn't literally explode his hands on the regular for his chosen course of study.
He curses again anyway and moves the potatoes and onions around with a nearby wooden spoon. Stupid needy vegetables. He adds the meat so that maybe then they'll shut up with company. They don't. They only hiss more like a pile of displeased snakes.
"Whatever," he tells Fuyumi, finally, because he still doesn't know how to say "I'm sorry" instead of "I hate myself."
"Bakugo-kun, I wish you would just tell me what this is about."
He flicks his eyes over his shoulder at her and hisses through his teeth like he's one with the sizzling meat and potatoes. He's definitely greasy and softening like one. He's pretty sure he's all but completely translucent from her point of view at this point, too.
"Forget it. You don't gotta eat nothin'. Just." Katsuki points ambiguously at the table; at the kitchen exit. His hand drops by his side with an underwhelming slap. "I'll finish it and put it in the fridge. Throw it out if you want."
Fuyumi watches him. Her lips part, and then close. She glances to the table covered in printouts, and then back to him. She nods. She clears the table. And then she pulls an apron from the pantry, puts it on, and, to his utter surprise, stands next to Katsuki.
"I'm going to drain the tofu and put ponzu and toppings on it," she says. "Do you like ponzu?"
"You're not s'posed to help me!" Katsuki grouses, panicked, stirring like a man possessed.
He was supposed to be here paying her back, not be doted over like some stupid kid!
"You're supposed to be my guest," counters Fuyumi.
It's condescending and uncomfortable, just like three days ago in this same stupid room. But he asked for it this time, so he'd best get used to feeling like a dumb-eyed cat with his neck scruffed so some overbearing vet can pet his stomach and touch his tail and tell the world, to his great mortification, how fuzzy and little his balls are before they inevitably get cut off.
"Yeah?! Well, ponzu's only good if it's spicy, too," Katsuki shoots back. Because if this is the game now, fine, but he's going to win.
"Ponzu and ginger is a nice combination," Fuyumi says, reaching for both from the refrigerator.
"Wasabi," argues Katsuki. "Tofu's bland and sucks without it!"
"I like ginger and ponzu. Perhaps even with peanuts or glass noodles."
Katsuki throws the pot down as he finishes pouring the dashi broth over the vegetables and meat. "Hah?! Are you even listening to me?!"
"What if we cut it in half and put one set of toppings on one and the other on the second?"
"You're not s'posed to compromise!" he complains. It's unacceptably indulgent of her.
Fuyumi smiles and ties her hair behind her neck. She reaches for the tofu next. "I thought we were sharing," she says.
Katsuki places the steamer in the top of the pot and throws his head back like he can fling his aggravation out of it like water from the ends of his short hair. This is the worst.
"What am I?! Five?!" He growls and slams down the lid with a high-hat clang. Like a toddler playing with pots and pans on the kitchen floor. "I hate it when girls do that."
Fuyumi chuckles. "Do you talk to a lot of girls, Bakugo-kun?"
"Do I look like I talk to a lot of girls?"
He is late to the party in realizing his own potential double meaning too slowly. He wonders if she now thinks it's obvious that he spent his life, as his father put it, playing with dolls to a suspicious degree for a boy his age — or at least one doll in particular. That he still, for lack of a better way to put it, plays with that doll despite everything. That it's suspicious. Katsuki flinches like he's the same type of socially awkward as Deku - useless; a blockhead; a puppet; a doll. Deku.
It's humiliating.
But Fuyumi's blithe smile never falters. Her obliviousness is like snow that leaves his anxious ground completely undisturbed and unturned. "I don't know. Maybe. You're very handsome."
Katsuki's shoulders loosen — as much as someone like him can loosen their shoulders — and then tighten again when he realizes she called him handsome.
"Kiss-ass."
Fuyumi giggles.
They fall into a companionable, if fumbling silence. Fuyumi dresses the tofu while Katsuki snatches dishes from the shelf and sets the table like a man electrified by proximity — which he is. He moves the home listings into a stack to clear two spots at the western-style kitchen table.
"Natsuo won't be home until very, very late," Fuyumi mentions.
"Same for half-and-half and your old man," adds Katsuki. Then, under his breath, he adds, "and also fuck half-and-half and your old man and big brother Frosted Peaks."
Fuyumi turns; tofu in hand. "Hm?"
"I said: what th' hell d'you wanna drink?"
"Oh, water, please," says Fuyumi. Her hair sits in a red-and-white knot at the back of her head. The alternating colors spill out of one another like the overlapping linings of a modern wedding kimono. She's drawn faces in sauce on the tofu. Katsuki's spicy tofu has sharp teeth and red chili oil eyes. Fuyumi's has hair made of white tofu and broken up by red ginger just like she does. It's not cute at all. Not even a little bit. It's stupid and that's all it is.
Katsuki adds the blanched peas to the nikujaga before filling two glasses of water. The rice cooker sings a song as it finishes, and that's dinner. Katsuki and Fuyumi bring it to the kitchen table in loads.
The kitchen table, not the formal dining table. Thank god.
"It smells delicious," Fuyumi comments.
"Hmph," says Katsuki, because he's the best at receiving compliments.
They give gratitude. They eat. Katsuki eyes the stack of papers at the corner of the table. Every so often, Katsuki and Fuyumi meet one another's' eyes before Katsuki looks away to escape any kind of question or deeper interaction.
He takes a moment to slide off Endeavor's slippers beneath the table and let some air blessedly circulate through his socks. It's way too hot in here. He doesn't understand how Fuyumi can take it. Or is that just him?
Also, Katsuki needs to think of a name to call her. On God, he can't call her Fuyumi and he won't dare call her Todoroki or big sister unless he's being sarcastic or absolutely has to do so. That's creepy. That's freaky. That's weird.
He looks her over from the corner of his eye in the moments she looks down at her food or adjusts her glasses. The cheeks of her heart-shaped face perk up in a smile when they meet eyes again.
Unhelpful. Glasses is for Iida and Cheeks is Uraraka. Half-and-half Todoroki is her brother. There's too many fucking Todorokis. They're like a plague of locusts ever-multiplying and spreading. And eating Katsuki's food like it's good and she enjoys it.
He swells with smug pride despite himself.
"You know," Fuyumi finally says, "Shouto said you helped him in the Sports Festival."
Katsuki's ego has never deflated so fast.
"I thought that was amazing. You seemed so intense during the competition that I couldn't understand what he meant, at first, but now that I've met you, I think I do."
He can see it in his mind's eye: Fuyumi holding Deku's hand beneath the gentle snowfall and saying, "Thank you for being Shouto's friend."
It inspires something warm and disorienting inside of him. It's godawful. He thinks he might ought to be sick just to get it out of his system.
"Half-and-half held back," says Katsuki. "I said it then and I'm sayin' it now."
Fuyumi nods.
"I'm glad," her next words are delicate like the skimming of beginner fingers over piano keys, "that you and Midoriya-kun encourage my brother to reconcile with himself and with dad's legacy."
Katsuki scowls.
It's like she knows exactly what not to say to him. Then again, that's a mutually shared talent.
"Don't lump me and Deku in as toutin' the same shit."
Fuyumi pulls herself from her nikujaga. "Hm?"
"I said what I said," Katsuki says with an emphatic slicing of chopsticks through his own tofu visage — specifically where the green wasabi touches the white soy-flesh. It's like he can cut the part of himself infected by Izuku out like a cancerous tumor. "We ain't the same. Half-and-half can do whatever he damn well wants. He can hate the guy forever for all I care so long as he rises above it."
Katsuki's chili oil right eye goes into his own mouth. He chews.
"Hate it when he don't put his all into it. It's shitty. That's it."
"I see," says Fuyumi.
The ring light overhead hums for a moment. The kitchen vibrates with a soft halogen glow.
"You and Midoriya-kun are close, aren't you, Bakugo-kun?"
"Can't get away from that shitshow nerd no matter what I do," says Katsuki, dismissively, because all the time in the world isn't long enough for him to delve into that darkness and come back out copacetic. "I'm sick of him."
Fuyumi takes the hint. Because of course she can navigate someone else's inner tremors like a catfish interpreting the movement of the earth even when she's the one in the compromised emotional position. It pisses Katsuki off.
"Do you like your other classmates?" she asks.
"They're idiots, but fine. Annoying, but fine. Most of the time."
"Do you like your teach—?"
"Sensei's fine," admits Katsuki. "But all of that's the kinda stuff your brother can tell you." He stares at his potatoes like he's either going to mug them or beg them for help. He adjusts his grip on his chopsticks and prays Fuyumi cannot smell him sweating through the scarf he never removed. "But half-and-half can't tell me shit about you."
Fuyumi almost drops a carrot in surprise.
"Oh," she says. "Well. I, um, teach elementary students," she begins. "I like to cook. And, well, I like children. I like the winter and the snow because I feel more at home in the climate. I like spicy food, too," she says, tilting her head towards him, "but I'll admit I can only take so much of it before it makes me overheat."
Katsuki pretends he doesn't parse that what she's really saying is that she made the mapo tofu for him because Shoto let it slip that he likes spicy food.
"And you're good with that?" Katsuki asks. "Izzat what you want? Bein' a teacher to one set of brats and then a caretaker to another, nastier set of brats? Your brothers even do shit for you, ever?"
Fuyumi sits back in her chair. "Bakugo-kun, I—"
"I'm askin'."
Fuyumi's glasses reflect the ring light overhead in two perfect curves over her eyes. Katsuki fights the urge to reach over the table and blast them to bits so he can see her face.
"I've always wanted a big and close family," she admits. "That's very obvious, isn't it?"
"Just this one, or your own?"
"Both," she admits. Then, she looks to the printouts of houses like each of them is representative of a life that could have been but never was. "I don't have that much of a social life as it is. But I'm honestly not sure how to navigate that in the world of Heroes. I'm just a teacher, but I'm not spared from the public eye. I'm not sure how well I could balance a family within this one the way it is now even without that as a factor, but it is."
Her pleasant expression wilts.
"I suppose I'd need someone stalwart enough to endure the world of Heroes and fame as well as weather the reputation and drama surrounding my father." She shakes her head. "I'm not sure how realistic that is outside of an arranged marriage with another comparable family, but for personal reasons I don't want to pursue that avenue."
If Katsuki could communicate worth a damn, he might say something like, "Thank you for being honest with me", or "I appreciate you trusting me with this", or even, "I'm sure that must be difficult for you." But he's not — particularly when he has his eyes on the prize. Instead, he pops a potato into his mouth and gives it a calculatingly thoughtful chew and a slow swallow.
In a very specific sense, he's considering the pros and cons of committing infidelity — indefinitely. Won't his mother be surprised.
That alone makes it worth it.
"How'd you feel about someone who wanted to surpass your old man?" Katsuki finally asks.
"Eh?"
Katsuki snorts. "What am I, a fucked up recording?! Am I skippin'? I asked how you'd feel about somebody who didn't give a shit about enduring your old man's media trash fire, but was gonna be bigger and better than he is?!"
Fuyumi's voice raises about three octaves. Every dog within a five mile radius is probably covering their ears with a wailing moan. "Bakugo-kun? Are you trying to set me up with someone?!"
Katsuki fishes for a potato. "Well, you interested or not? At least, d'you wanna go on dates? Go to a fancy dinner or somethin'?" He shrugs. "Can't guarantee the family, but that other part's doable, I figure. Get you outta the house." He gestures to the fliers. "Houses. Whatever."
Katsuki has never been on a goddamn date before in his goddamn life. Does not even begin to know what the hell "dating someone" means beyond being absolutely insufferable in public. But he's plenty good at being insufferable on his own and with Deku. This cannot possibly be that different.
"That might be, well," Fuyumi clears her throat. "That might be nice, I think, but who do you have in mind? Is it someone Shouto knows? Shouldn't I meet them first? I'm not so sure I'm comfortable with a blind date, considering how focused the media has been on the family lately."
His flared eyes bore into her.
"Blind date?! You blind, or d'you not see me sittin' here in front of your face?!"
Fuyumi drops her carrot for the second time. In fact, the whole bowl goes down with it.
"But I'm only doin' this 'cause it's a right-place-right-time serendipity thing, got it?! Don't get any weird ideas!"
Katsuki is not remotely ready for the weird ideas. He's had enough weird ideas. He cannot handle the weird ideas. Mostly because he is the one being struck over the head with the weird ideas like they're an invisible baseball bat and he is an unfortunately perfect pitch.
"Bakugo-kun," Fuyumi says, carrot and bowl now safely on the table. Her sweet fingers are splayed across the worn tabletop like the ground beneath her feet just tilted sideways. "Why?"
Katsuki riles in his seat. "D'you wanna go out on a date Christmas Eve for the first time in your life, or not?! You got the whole New Year to spend it with your fucked family, and they couldn't even handle dinner! Is that really all you wanna do?! Sit around an' make yourself miserable with them while they try t' get their shit together?!"
His fist hits the table in a punctuated bang, and oh, Katsuki has gone too far this time. He has absolutely and positively gone too far. Fuyumi stares at him from her seat like a statue made of ice and red clay: a distant volcano sleeping beneath an atmospheric winter, and Katsuki can see the beginnings of tears pool in the corners of her eyes to fall like snowdrops.
Katsuki hates winter. He reminds himself how much he fucking hates winter, and Christmas, and girls, and kids, and sweets, and the public, and couples. He hates winter. He shouldn't care if Fuyumi cries. Beautiful winter. He hates winter. But oh, God. Not tears. Not again. Where's Deku or Kirishima or Kaminari when Katsuki needs them even when he'd never admit it?! He's not good with tears; he has a track record of increasing their flow, not diminishing it. He is neither made nor trained for flood rescue. He's bungled this. Oh, god, Endeavor and Todoroki are going to burn him alive and he won't even have the nerve to be upset about it.
It doesn't matter; it doesn't matter. Fuck winter. Fuck his mom's attitude. Fuck this family, and fuck his. Fuck this girl. Fuck Fuyumi. Fuck her. Fuck it.
"Okay," whispers Fuyumi, like a delicate wind chime. She removes her glasses and rubs her eyes. "Okay. Yes, I'll go." She takes a deep breath and spreads her face into the kind of smile that shatters the heart and lives forever in the prismatic light of the mind's gloomiest rainy days. "Yes, I would like to go out with you for Christmas Eve."
Katsuki resists the urge to slap himself and shake his head and also pinch himself. By the miracle of his iron will, he manages to keep some semblance of his asymmetrical scowl on his face with barely a wiggle of his lips. After a moment, crosses his arms and spreads his knees wide over his chair like he owns the damn thing.
Fuyumi is watching him through all of it. Belatedly, he realizes he needs to say something back before she assumes he's gone brain-dead.
"'S'what I thought you'd say," Katsuki lies. Like a liar.
—
Author's Note: See? Told you part two was written. I normally like to space out my updates, but first chapters simply meant to establish and introduce the canon divergence… I just feel like that isn't enough. Part three'll be out next week. Hope y'all are familiar with Japanese Christmas celebrations and cultural connotations.
Anyway, thank you for reading and special thanks to those who review. Reception determines whether or not I keep posting on this site, more or less, and also what makes this fun.