The Art Of Thorns|| BakuDeku Au

prologue||The Art Of Katsuki Bakugou

prologue|| THE ART OF KATSUKI BAKUGOU

"Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love."
― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

                                             ╭────»»❀❀❀««────╮

As he sat still, allowing the man to move his fingers idly up his chest, Katsuki wondered how long it'd take to kill his doctor.

Katsuki Bakugou had been known to be the type who condoned violence, hell, he was probably the exact embodiment of all things violent. Though, he never took said violent acts to the extreme levels of homicide. But sitting there in that damned hospital bed―inhaling and exhaling as he did a million times before―he wanted to fucking murder that doctor. 

Activate his quirk and watch as the nitroglycerin erupted from his palms, popping onto the old man's skin till he exploded. He wanted him dead.     

"Deep breath," the burly man instructed, moving his stethoscope over his ribcage.

Katsuki complied, feeling the usual burn fill up his lungs like that of a hot air balloon. It used to bother him in the beginning, restless nights tossing and turning, running to his parents' room in hopes they could do something to ease his pain. They never could. Nobody could. 

"Well," Dr. Takahara pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose, turning to face a stone-faced Mitsuki and overly quiet Masaru Bakugou. "His lung capacity, I'm afraid, is still low. However, it appears that the medication I prescribed per our last visit is aiding it."     

Mitsuki cleared her throat. "And when is my son eligible for surgery?"

The blond teenager nearly scoffed, that's all she ever talked about. As much as Katsuki hated the disease which constantly allowed flowers to bloom within his chest, erupting like a volcano from his mouth, he hated the thought of surgery even more. He wasn't stupid. He had done his research on Hanahaki surgery and treatments thousands of times, and only three things remained constant when dealing with it treatment-wise:

The love turned requited.

Surgery not only got rid of the disease but the entire essence of the person.

Or they died.

Katsuki had read hundreds of articles on men and women who've all undergone surgery for the disease, none of them came out of it the same. Their hopes and dreams all shattered and long-forgotten. They lost their ability to love. They lost themselves.

And he'd be damned if he let that happen to him.

"Well, if he went into surgery now the process could kill him. I'd say just a few more weeks of taking the pills―"

"You've been saying that for years!" the woman all but shrieked, pounding her fist onto the desk.

Her husband softly chided her, rubbing soft circles into his arm as he stared at the doctor with a neutral expression. "Why haven't we been able to go through with the surgery?"

"Honestly, I'm at a loss too." the doctor frowned, "Unless he's been skipping days on medication―" Katsuki fought the urge to grin. "―I don't know what to tell you."

If the idiot doctor and his equally as incompetent parents had taken the initiative to actually dig deep, they'd probably discover he had―in fact―been skipping days of medication. Just enough to keep his lungs functioning through the middle of the night, but not enough so he'd be ready for surgery. So, it was one stronger pill after the next. 

Dr. Takahara heaved a sigh, lips pursed and eyebrows taut. "Katsuki, I'm going to ask you some questions now. Is that okay?"

Katsuki nodded. Standard procedure questioning, he had been doing this since the young age of ten. It almost felt robotic to answer them, at this point.

"How is your breathing on a day-to-day basis?"

"I have shortness of breath every now and then. Sleeping is hard for me unless I have my oxygen machine, even then sometimes it doesn't work." Katsuki responded, voice void of emotion.

Dr. Takahara charted this down on his clipboard. "And the vomiting, how often does that happen?"

"At least twice a day,"

Katsuki sucked in a breath, awaiting the final question that usually tore through his façade. The question that set his lungs on fire, thorns pricking at his insides, and his mental functioning in a haze. 

"Do you know who the cause of your unrequited love is?"

Katsuki inhaled, holding that air for a painful second, two, three. He let it go, then answered.

"No,"     

HELLO CRICKET CULTISTS!!

Not only did I reach 3K the night before my 1 year anniversary, but I also got a shout out on one my favorite authors' story! Soooo I'm posting this shit early, deal with it :)

What do we think of the prologue?

Questions/Comments/anything?

Until we meet again!!!