Chapter Text
It started with a burned down house.
Or, scratch that- it started with a kidnapping on a hot summer night.
Countless injured.
A hero taken.
One student missing.
Just enough for it to be the worst-case scenario. Just enough for the doubt and the anger to set in.
At the time, it had seemed like the worst thing that could happen to Yuhei. Most could still hear the crackling of blue fire closing in, as cameras filmed the chaos from above. Most could still remember the shriek of static as channel news all over Japan parrotted one another, yelling Yuhei’s greatest failure yet, demanding Are heroes still to be trusted with our safety,
accusing It’s all their fault-- Take responsibility!
Under it all, a current of whispers had started to gain in volume- half-formed ideas and not-so-distant opinions riled up as the missing student’s identity was revealed to the press by a not-so-innocent slip of the tongue, and, consecutively, to the unforgiving public.
The audience was hungry, and the press had given just enough scraps to make them rabid, asking for more and more in a desperate spiral of blame and impersonal hatred.
No one had truly forgotten about the Sports Festival. It was buried in their subconscious, under layers of domesticity and fleeting drama, ready to rear its devastating head at the slightest reminder.
The press provided that reminder.
The word victim was soon replaced by complicit. Pity became suspicion, and the question how do you plan on finding him? turned to perhaps this was his intention all along.
It was sickening. Students locked themselves at home, closing their blinds against the harsh flashes of ever-present cameras, too reminiscent of bright explosions and forest fires. Phones were turned off against the onslaught of malicious, curious past acquaintances, well-meaning words of comfort, and nauseating reports that insisted Is this the last nail in the coffin for Yuhei?
Parents offered reassurances and tear-stained apologies (some cold nods of acknowledgment— that was enough) through the inner warring of dizzying relief (It wasn’t my child, thank you, thank you thank you…) and gut-wrenching guilt (god, it was someone else’s), nearly all of them checking their doors one too many times and saying at once,
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be found.’
Students could only blink back the tears and swallow back the doubt and regret slowly settling in, hiding shame behind careful nods and crafted smiles that spoke of hope none of them could feel, burying the dark murmurs of what if this wasn’t a kidnapping, but the beginning of an alliance where the thought would fester silently, right in the same black recess as the older, more persistent
what if he truly is a villain?
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.
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As much as they could put on pretenses of companionship and support for their family and the press alike, the truth was that none of them really liked Bakugou. The class’ opinion of him was aligned on bully, rude, violent, scary
dangerous
villainous,
and things had been this way since the moment Bakugou had made it clear they were nothing but extras.
None of them said so out loud. They knew better. Arguing with Bakugou about his behavior was pointless. Trying to befriend him was pointless. Trying to understand him was pointless. The only way to communicate with him was through threats and violence. His stunt with Izuku at the beginning of the year had proven that to all of them.
First impressions were everything, and Bakugou’s had left a sour taste in each of their mouths.
Still, some had tried to look past this event, claiming maybe he was just stressed! or maybe he’s an introvert, and he’s just the aggressive type, but each brave attempt had been warded off with pointed glares, cutting words, and offending gestures. Even the most valiant ones, such as Mina and Kirishima, had to give up after one too many shoves and disdainful look. But rather than anger, it was empathy and disappointment that had tinted Kirishima’s last try at his self-appointed Let’s turn Bakugou into a Bakubro quest.
‘Y’know, I wish you’d just try. It’s sad man, seeing you alone all the time.’
It was the first and only time Bakugou had punched any of them.
He was officially ignored by the entirety of the class after that.
He was just a bully after all.
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.
.
Sometimes, Bakugou turned up to class with bruises on his arms. At times it was on his fingers. On his jaw. On the side of his temple. A slight discoloration that traveled along his skin as the months passed by.
Shoto was pretty sure he was the only one to have noticed. The contusions were either covered by a thin layer of just-the-slightest-shade-off concealer, or left in the open when inconspicuous, where clothing would conceal the marks. Shoto knew that all too well, so he immediately assumed. Knew.
It was peculiar. Assuming Bakugou was in the same situation he had been (-- was) when, as far as he knew, the most logical explanation would have been meaningless bouts of violence, fights against whoever was not as patient as they were about his quirks. Any other option was better, for everyone involved. It’d leave Bakugou’s behavior unexplained, but did it need to mean something? It’d mean some parents were actually decent enough--
But Shoto was just enough of a cynic to know not to believe what would be easy. More than that, it made sense. Shoto’s need for puzzles to be complete (--need to find someone who could relate) was like an itch he couldn’t quite reach, and the satisfaction he felt at figuring out Bakugou (his father, mother, Midoriya, everyone--) had scratched it just right.
Maybe this time--
Maybe this time someone will--
Midoriya’s warm, soft words of comfort and strength only left him hollow. He offered advice when what Shoto wanted was someone that would listen-
Aizawa offered him options, listened, but it left him feeling trapped, too cold and too hot at the same time, pearls of sweat like ice gliding down his back. He didn’t want to explain, to decide. He wanted someone that wouldn’t look at him with pity-
His mother only had worry in her eyes. Guarded love she was tentative to give. Ignorance even though she knew more than anyone. He always felt the need to lie to her about ‘home’ (it’s okay; things are not better now).
Shoto wanted—
Shoto wanted what someone like him needed.
Someone who knew.
Someone who—
(Maybe this time someone will understand...)
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.
.
The remaining issue was significant.
Shoto didn’t like Bakugou. His brash attitude and loud voice and sparks--
It reminded him too much of Endeavor. Of a cold, no, stifling, locked room, padded with tatami and a huge figure looming over him and red and orange and red red red and
pain.
He was not afraid of Bakugou. He was not. He (--flinched whenever the crack of fire an explosion erupted just a little too close to him) was. Just. Not fond of Bakugou’s temper. Or the way he treated Midoriya, his friend (--did he know? Maybe he could ask- No. He can’t). Or how he looked at everyone like they were dirt, beneath him (--it reminded him too much of-).
It was fine. He didn’t even know if Bakugou had, ah, problems at home. And even if he did, Shoto knew his help wouldn’t be appreciated. Nor him acting like a needy, stalk-ish weirdo desperate to find someone to weep his woes and misery to. No. His attempts at befriending ( since when was that his intention?) would be shot down before he even was five feet away from Bakugou. It was pointless, he didn’t even want to!
And yet the yearning would not go away.
This tug of war inside him went on for a while. Each time he felt compelled (--by poorly hidden purples and blues, by slumped shoulders, by a dead look in his eyes--) to reach out, to try, fear, shame, doubt, or a combination of all of the above would overcome him, his steps faltering, his breath catching, his heart thumping, uncertainty making him just. Stop.
Is it a good idea? What if he doesn’t want anyone to know maybe this is a mistake I should just no how would I feel if but what if he needs I can’t I can’t
I can’t.
I CAN’T.
He chickened out every time, choosing to remain a distant observer until the next attempt.
Until, one day, the possibility for any future attempt vanished in a swirl of black fog.
And now, the one thing left from his desire to find someone who knew, the one place where he could freely open his heart--
It was a burned down house.
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.
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‘Bakugou Masaru, Mitsuki and Katsuki,’ the mailbox read, charred and melted as it was.
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The fire was a sordid affair. Everyone had talked about it, but no one had looked too deep into it. No one wanted to.
But some had needed to.
One killed. One severely injured.
One missing.
But no one knew yet.
It happened a few days after Bakugou had been successfully retrieved (--not saved). Classes were canceled. Students were sent home, no matter the department. Parents were soothed by reassuring half-truths (it’s just a precaution, your children are safe).
And then, blaring on all the local news channels not a week after the devastating attack
Explosion at the Bakugous, just a few days after their son was kidnapped then found — could it be related to the League of Villains?
Of course it was. Everyone knew it was. But the police kept quiet. At first, no information about the family was given. About the circumstances. What could have happened, they all wondered in improvised, last-minute talk-shows. Classmates called and called and called, in vain.
The number you’re trying to reach is currently unavailable, please try again later. If you’d like to leave a message —
The number you’re trying to reach is currently unavailable, please try —
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The number —
Voicemail full.
News program after news program covered it, newscaster after newscaster finding new ways to blame heroes for this (you should have placed better surveillance! … a tragedy that could have been avoided … knew they were after him! How…… I don’t trust them..… change … unsafe… YUHEI ...YOUR…… FAULT…)
No one doubted this was the worst thing that could happen to what was once a beloved school.
And then, predictably, like a breath held in for too long, the poisonous whispers rose again, a sharp exhale of assumptions that no one had dared to voice when the wound was still so fresh.
Until now.
… Wait. Wasn’t that kid’s quirk explosions or something…?
The process was slower this time. Indignation (we don’t even know what happened to the family yet!), empathy (the kid’s just been kidnapped and you want to pin arson on him? What kind of vultures are—), rationality (let’s wait until we know more about this. The police hasn’t even—) defending the reputation of a victim whose status was still unknown.
But positivity is only ever a minority. The news business feeds off the drama, the unconventional, the tragic, the awful, the darkness that their ‘informed audience’ consumes in heaps, only ever looking for affirmation and gratification, a twisted ritual of ‘ ah! They’re worse off than me!’ and ‘I’m better. Pathetic. Scum.’ A circle of self-validation and egoistical growth that served only to crush human empathy and feed the individualistic way of thinking the media insisted was what defined worth.
Before long, the tables had turned again. The sympathetic tone turned accusing once again. But this wasn’t the same as painting a suspected transfuge as a momentary lapse of judgment, brought by somewhat severe teenage ignorance and rebellion to toe the line of legality when it came to discussing a minor on broadcast television.
This was about possible murder.
They were relentless. The boldest ones claimed this was planned from the start-- An explosion like that couldn’t be an accident (They all remembered the near-volcanic explosion he aimed at the sky during the fight against Uraraka the ‘girl’ -- the damages of what was left of the wreckage would be found to be almost identical). Bakugou’s behavior was dissected for all to see as they waited.
Waited with bated breath, no longer to find out whether or not everyone was alright, but to know--
had he done it?
.
.
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Would it matter, when the culprit has already been decided before witnesses had even been interrogated?
Innocent until proven guilty, was it?
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Information had been leaked once again. A week after the event, and everyone now knew someone had died. Who, though, wasn’t on the report.
The speculating turned vicious.
The yapping and barking of maybe’s and if’s got louder and louder, never losing momentum, until—
Until the death count was officially announced.
Bakugou Mitsuki, deceased on July 16th, killed on impact. Dead before the firefighters arrived.
Bakugou Masaru, deceased on July 22nd. Death unrelated to the fire. No further information will be disclosed.
Bakugou Katsuki, status: missing. If you have information, please contact your local police department. Thank you.
And that was it. All went quiet for a few, blessed moments. An uproar was expected, but-- in its place there had only been an overwhelming sense of relief washing over Shizuoka and its surrounding prefectures. Sickening satisfaction was in all the accusors’ easy smiles as they condemned an orphaned teenager night after night. ‘Death upon impact’ confirming what was at first little more than empty theories. Fires had no ‘point of impact.’
Explosions did.
An investigation had barely just been opened but was already as good as closed.
Of course, among that was the rapidly spreading distrust towards Yuhei and heroes alike, the anger of a people against its ‘failing’ society, and the underlying fear at the knowledge that the League of Villain roamed free and was gaining ‘fanatics.’
Good thing it’s only the ones that were villainous in the first place, right?
Yuhei remained closed. Blinds stayed tightly shut. Witnesses were called in. Elementary and middle school teachers were invited on late-night shows, baring Bakugou’s private life to the public without an ounce of shame (there was no one left to stop them), painting him as the cold-blooded killer he most certainly was, right? After all, he drew himself wearing a dark costume and beating villains people up when he was 4! It has to mean something, right? Right? Calls slowly trickled to a stop. Tears eventually stopped streaming, replaced by righteous anger and denial.
(Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth.)
Slowly, the media outlets covering this stain in heroes’ credibility became fewer and fewer, even if the mistrust remained, deeply rooted and growing with each successful strike of the League.
Bakugou was never once spotted at their side.
The Sports Festival sensation turned parricide soon became old news. Not relevant enough. The public had decided the fate of someone still labeled as ‘innocent’ by law, but no voice was loud enough to make others understand it was more than just a technicality.
The social judgment had been pronounced, and the sentence was final.
Yuhei’s gates opened again. Students came back, fewer than before. The trail grew thin, lukewarm case turning cold. People moved on, people forgot.
Bakugou became a statistic in the next edition of some forgotten magazine, How many hero wannabes turn to villainy, actually?
But Yuhei didn’t forget. And especially not class 1-A. A seat remained vacant for months, ignored but maintained just like the rest of them. Like it belonged. At first, it was because the school was unwilling to pass judgment on an open case, but when it became apparent that Bakugou was not coming back, principal Nezu suggested with a burdened sigh they start looking for someone to fill in the spot.
But, students were reluctant. This wasn’t any spot in the Heroics department.
It was a traitor’s seat.
As it turned out, there was only one transfer request that was filled out.
And then— a few short months after this tear in their beliefs--
“Welcome to class 1-A, Hitoshi Shinsou.”
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.
.
Five months passed, and it was the end of their second term. Their ten days-long vacation had started, and while most of their class had decided to train during their allotted time, Shoto was currently sprawled in an armchair big enough to fit two of him, a blanket covering him from neck to toe as Uraraka, Iida and Midoriya argued to distribute evenly the tasks for the entire duration of their stay in the prefecture of Akita. A week-long holiday in a cozy cabin, the only civilization nearby a small village with no more than 800 inhabitants.
For once, they would be the lazy-ass ones.
This trip was also how they had learned that anonymity was very cheap. Their biggest expense would be the train tickets from Musutafu to here and the food.
Not that Shoto cared-- he had swiped his father’s credit card upon leaving, a quickly scribbled note stating he was going on a vacation with his friends and try and stop me, father as the sole explanation for his impromptu disappearance.
It felt good.
It would surely hurt, once he came back, but that was something for future him to worry about. Even better, there was barely any signal around here —or wifi for that matter—, his phone struggling to receive the slightest amount of 2G, so he had just turned the device off, hopefully leaving his asshole of a father to stew in the frustration of being left in the dark as well as thoroughly ignored.
Sweet, sweet revenge.
“Shoto?” Midoriya’s inquisitive voice brought him out of his inner cackling, and Shoto looked up to see Uraraka’s mischievous smirk, Iida’s shameful’s tilt of his head and Midoriya’s blatant nervousness.
Mmh. Suspicious.
“Yes?” he answered, “Are you done?”
The green-haired teenager nodded, fingers moving to scratch at his cheek as he held out a few plastic bags to him. Shoto took them without a word, standing up. “Y-Yes.” He was looking at anywhere but Shoto. “You’re on shopping duty.”
Heterochromatic eyes blinked. What was so dreadful about it that they acted like they had thrown his fluffy winter socks to the trash--
Shoto’s eyes widened, no! They wouldn’t dare--
Before he could voice his immensely clever deduction, hands grabbed his arms, steering him towards the door as Midoriya continued babbling, shoving him a list of first necessities and food he needed to buy. Once he was standing on the snowy ground outside, a thick coat, gloves and a hat were thrown in his face, thumping to the ground before he could catch them. His wallet soon followed.
Shoto just stared.
Midoriya had a hand on the door now, Iida cowering behind him as he agitated his hand in a chop chop fashion. “Thestoreisthreemilesaway, okay GOOD LUCK!!” With that, Midoriya fled in shame and Uraraka snickered, slamming the door with a parting salute sign.
Shoto blinked again, an excess of snowflakes dotting his vision. He looked behind him, at the town further away and at the frosted pathway that would probably lead him to his premature demise.
He sneezed.
How dare they.
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Shoto shivered as he stood in front of a small-ish convenience store, leftover Christmas lights giving the worn-down building a warm feel. He stepped inside, white powder coating every inch of him and a singed glove in one hand after his failed attempt at warming himself up ( he had a provisional hero license so… maybe… it wasn’t 100% an illegal use of his quirk… he could swear that snowman had looked just like Endeavor, so uh, totally within his rights).
A year of being around his friends, and they still didn’t know his quirk didn’t mean he could withstand the cold all that much (oh they definitely did). He sighed.
He perused through the store, realizing half-way through that three plastic bags clearly weren’t enough to carry the absolute crapload of items they most certainly didn’t need- also, why wasn’t there any soba on that list?
Guess Uraraka doesn’t really need the bestest (her words, not his) brand of shampoo, or chocolate for that matter. And who needed milk anyway?
His turn to snicker.
After one massive cut down on the things he deemed unnecessary —a fair one at that, after his inner petty bitch had calmed some at the idea of serving them all veggie smoothies for breakfast for the next few days—, Shoto went to the register and began placing the items there.
The cashier was nowhere to be seen though.
“Hello?” He called quietly, looking around the aisles. There were no security cameras, but that made sense-- this was a small town, why would anyone here risk their only livelihood with petty theft that would endanger the sole store within a 40 miles radius. Still, he kind of wanted to pay and go home.
A coarse voice coming from the backroom startled him. “Yeah yeah, I’m coming. Wait a sec.” There was some muffled ruffling before a door behind the counter opened, and someone emerged, closing it behind him with a tad more force than what was strictly necessary.
Shoto continued sorting through the items, noting with a glance that the boy’s face was obscured by a faded, plain forest green cap. He started scanning the items, never once looking up or offering any form of greetings to his only client at the moment.
Shoto wasn’t offended- he was good with silence.
Once he was finished, he took out his wallet, looking at the cashier as he asked, “How much do I-”
He cut himself off mid-sentence, his eyes widening and wallet dropping to the floor with a quiet thump. He opened his mouth to speak, but like every other attempt before, no words came out ((I can’t I can’t I NEVER CAN))
Because, as it was, there was a pair of equally wide, very familiar red eyes staring right into his own.
And they belonged to either a ghost or a traitor.