Axis (old)

Chapter 1:The Quirkless Boy (Newest Rewrite Begins)

TW: Implied rape, abuse,suicidal thoughts, alcohol abuse, underage drinking, vomiting.

Izuku's POV:

What does it mean to be a hero?

I used to know the answer to this question. When I was four, hero meant All Might. Saving people with a fearless smile and bringing peace to the world.

I'm not trying to sound old or wise or any bullshit like that. But growing up for me was losing your childhood quickly.

I stopped believing someone would save us at five.

After we came home from the doctors that day, my father yelled at mom. Called her a useless slut that brought shame upon our home with an even more useless child.

I prayed that night, begged for any hero to come save us. Shoved my head under a pillow to try and drown out the sobs of my mother and the creaking bed in the room next to me.

I prayed again the next night, after my father beat me for the first time.

I remember going to school the day after, in a long sleeved shirt. The fabric clung to my skin after recess, sweat dripping down my temple in the humid Summer heat. I could feel it irritate the angry burns on my arm. It was before they knew. Katsuki just called me weird.

I stopped praying when I realized the neighbors knew. They could hear everything through the thin walls. Yelling, pained sobs, the shatter of glass on the wooden table.

They knew. They fucking knew. They knew how he raped my mom almost every night. Beat her. And didn't do shit.

By my fifth birthday I knew heroes saving us was just a bullshit fantasy I used to help myself come to terms with my quirklessness and shit father.

Eventually, we weren't enough to satisfy his crave for violence. He wasn't caught until years later of course, with no heroes in this shitty area there's no one to arrest him. When a rich woman who worked for the hero commission wandered in the wrong parts of town Hisashi murdered her. He was gone, sentenced to life in prison. I was eleven when me and ma saw him on the news, angry, cheek pressed into a cop car, photo illuminated by red and blue lights.

We fell into a routine after a year. We still treaded lightly around the apartment, steps silent as we learned to do around him. My father was someone who left lasting marks on this home. He was like a bloodstain on white sheets.

When I started to get significantly taller, Ma would always smile and comment on it in the morning. Leave the spatula floating above the pan with scrambled eggs and turn around, kissing my cheek before softly saying, " Soon you'll be taller than me!" Or when I did get taller than her, "Lean down here dear," and tease "You must be cold up there, or is the weather nice today?"

Soon after I'd eat breakfast and grab my bag, avoiding anyone I knew on the way to school

That was a routine in of itself. A less relaxing one, more bloody noses, minor burns, sopping wet school supplies that were fished out of the pond.

I think both Ma and I knew the other wasn't truly okay, and probably never would be. I was there holding her when she woke up screaming in the middle of night, begging Hisashi to leave when he wasn't there. She was there when I couldn't eat anything and rubbed my back when I vomited nothing but bitter bile over and over until my stomach was empty. She'd hand me a glass of water to soothe the burn in my throat.

"How dare you disrespect me boy, you don't deserve the dinner I paid for!"  He barked, kicking me in the stomach till I puked.

I didn't eat lunch. Me and Ma shared popcorn for dinner while we watched an old B-list horror movie almost every night.

I started exercising when I turned twelve. We couldn't afford professional training so I didn't ask. Instead I would sneak out at night and run a mile or so to Dagobah beach and clean for a few hours, climbing back into my room just in time to shower and change for school.

My body wasn't really built for packing on muscle, so I wound up tall with lean muscle leaving me well suited towards agility, more inclined to teach myself some sort of martial art relying on knowledge and practices movement.

I learned online, of course that wasn't really enough, so I started getting more hands on learning in fights.

I'm not proud of what I did per se, considering I went out and picked people to piss off that I figured wouldn't kill me. The fear of potentially winding ip with a fatal injury and the shame of coughing up everything you ate along with bile in your stomach while you get the shit kicked out of you forces one to learn.

I watched, and waited with bated breath.

I slipped around the corner of the hallway, at the time of day Katsuki was alone. Silent footsteps with practiced ease. 

I kicked his knees out from under him, pulling him back behind the blind spot of the security camera, stumbling in surprise he caught himself with his palms. He was too late though, his explosion hit my shoulder but I ignored it. Pulling him into a generic choke hold I pushed him to the ground, moving my hands to pin him into the cold tile. I punched him in the face once, then another time, two more after that. Then kicked him in the stomach twice. I pulled someone's discarded lunch out of the trash and dumped contents of the brown paper bag on his head. I grabbed his water bottle and poured that on his head for good measure.

Then I looked down on him, literally, oh the irony.

"No one would ever believe you. Fucking loser. I think you'd be to embarrassed to tell anyone the quirkless kicked your ass anyways." I turned and walked away

Katsuki's POV:

I hated the guy. Deku. Quirkless. Useless. Weak. Weaker than me.

When we started using locker rooms, we all pretended like we didn't see the scars. They were obviously old, healed.

Some of them were probably from me.

Then he started showing up with new injuries. He always changed swiftly. But there was enough time to see the slashes, deep bruises, ugly yellows and purple.

I'd noticed the change in behavior I guess. Obviously I don't remember much from when we were three. Just that he looked happier. Then the fucking weirdo just stopped. Stopped reacting. Stopped talking. Stopped his notebooks. Everything. Cold turkey.

And then on the last day the fucker just- he- god fucking damn it.

Maybe I deserved it.

Fuck.