If I Had One Wish

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Eight - Boiling Point 

Ask me what I'm thinking about.

Told you that I'm thinking about...whatever you're thinking about.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The pounding thrum of his fist hitting the padded bag echoed through the basement, stinging his knuckles the fiftieth time, rocking the chains it strung from while attached to the ceiling. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he grunted, swinging his arm again with gritted teeth to hit it harder, pushing past the burn in his arms, the anger boiling his blood, releasing it all on the sorry sack of a punching bag.

Masaru didn't even budge, the nitroglycerin intoxicating the cold air of the cemented basement and filling his senses with its sweet heady scent. It rose, smokier, the more heated Katsuki got when working out, growling and slamming his fists against the punching bag faster and harder, he could practically hear the metal straining to keep itself attached to the ceiling. Ragged, panting breaths whistled through his teeth as he took a second, circling around the bag and letting it swing like a pendulum in mid-air.

Yet, despite Katsuki being loud and clearly frustrated as he released his anger, Masaru continued to sketch and speak to him as if they were having a sit-down conversation. His pencil scritched beneath the smack of padded knuckles strongly meeting the leather of the sanded bag, over and over again, repeatedly, harder, faster, angrier. He danced around the room, shaking his hands out and panting as he listened. "You need to relax, Katsuki, getting pissed off at this won't do anything. We've dealt with this as best we could, you need to trust in this."

They basked in each other's company, exchanging ideas and thoughts, one calm and the other going through his own emotional distress for what felt like the hundredth time that week. It had only been two weeks and Katsuki was feeling like a recluse. He felt like the longer he spent in this house the more physically wound up and emotionally exhausted he'd become. "I'm a fucking upcoming hero and a fucking retrail is pissing-" A strong hit. "Me." Another rapid fire two punch combo. "Off!" He kicked it, leg poised as his calf made a hard smacking sound, almost swinging it off completely and dodging the bag before it hit him on its way back down.

Masaru looked up, pausing the elaborate sketch of Katsuki he was doing, mid-shading a defined bicep outstretched towards the black and red punching bag. "What's getting you so pissed?"

"Lack of fucking control on my own goddamn life!" Katsuki growled, rapidly punching. His father was becoming impressed by how much steam he had, his endurance unparalleled when aggravated. "I can't hide my past, I can't fix my past. It's a shit ton of past! I'm fucking sick of it! I wanna be a hero and it's like she's fucking in my way, the bitch!"

Masaru gave a parental smile, tilting his head in his hand, observing the spiked figure of his son who heaved a breath and paused his hitting. As he re-shook out his hands, he was about to speak but the loud shout of the doorbell ringing sent a surprised jolt through them both.

Stomping was heard, the heavy sound of hinges creaking and the sound of Mitsuki's polite muffled greeting being echoed from overhead, through the tiny crack of the open basement door. Katsuki breathed deeply, chest rising and falling rapidly as he stained the front of his loose black shirt with exertion. It didn't take long for his mother to slam open the door and yell down. "Your boyfriends here!"

To which earned a muffled embarrassed squeak of. "Thank you Auntie."

"Come on fucking down to the circus, Izuku!" Katsuki replied bitterly, throwing a one-off punch, almost getting knocked off when the bag swung back towards him. "Another witness to my misery, just fucking luxurious."