Katsuki Noumu (Krbk)

Pt1. Diagnoses

Katsuki kicked off his wet boots and removed the heavy jacket that draped over his shoulders while ruffling some rain from his hair. He sighs and rolls his neck, it's far too late for a teenager like himself to be getting home.

He walks around the corner and finds his father sitting where he usually is at this time of night--in his black leather chair, going over paperwork, reports and such. "I'm home," he says simply to get his attention. He stands straight and tall as his father looks up from his work.

Masaru hisses through his teeth before climbing to his feet and reaching an intimidating 6'7" feet in height. His heavy steps ponder over to the boy and he places a strong hold around his neck--Katsuki has learned over the years not to shy away when he feels uncomfortable like he does now.

He looks his father in the eye, taking deep breaths as he lifts his hand to his face. His thumb pushes harshly against his cheek and Katsuki pulls everything within him not to wince away from the touch.

Masaru wipes at splattered blood with a tone of disgust plastered on his features. "Get yourself cleaned, boy," his father first says to him. "Then eat and don't bother your mother and I." His hold on Katsuki falls and he goes back to his place of paperwork and files as his son can take a breath for himself.

"Yes sir," he says before he turns away and follows the grand stairway to his bedroom. He wanders over to the mirror against his wall and stares at himself. Caked with splattered blood that isn't his own. Drenched with rain that ended nearly an hour ago. Tired eyes. Burned palms. Scraped and bruised skin.  Quirks that weren't his to take.

He sighs and closes his eyes, unable to make his body move at the moment. Just stay strong, he tells himself. Stay strong.

His eyelids lift, not to steal another glance at himself, but to turn away like his own reflection is an unwelcome guest in his life. He strips himself of his clothes, the wet fabric stubbornly clinging to his skin until he reaches the bathroom and turns the shower on.

The hot water grazes over him and his scars and his bruises. He puts his face in the running water and lets his hair soak in front of his eyes for several moments before pulling away and taking a clean breath of air.

The water that gathers at his feet is a shade pink, the blood from tonight's targets tainting the clean shower as it washes off of him.

He took a long shower, the water almost burning hot, then changed into a loose t-shirt and shorts. As he finished drying his hair as much as he cared to, he dropped the towel on the floor and fell onto his bed in a curled position, grabbing a round pillow to hug against his chest. For a moment, he just stared at nothing, taking a break, a chance to breathe.

It's been far too long since he's had the chance to just lie down and think things over, wonder if he's made a mistake. It's a lot for him--balancing school, military work, his father--sometimes it feels like too much with no place to vent. It's crucial, he realizes, to take time for himself to be calm and quiet.

Calm may not be the best word.

The few chances he gets like this, he spends backtracking his words and the past several days. No-one at school knows about his 'extracurricular activities', save for a few faculty members and Midoriya who he's known since childhood.

So he thinks and thinks. He starts mentally running through his daily schedule, starting a few weeks back. He was quiet through some dumb assembly everyone had to attend, some of his classmates tried to 'befriend him' or something during lunch but he just brushed them off. Midoriya and his homeroom teacher asked if he was alright, annoyed, he told them to fuck off and leave him alone even though the two of them were both aware of his situation. He didn't want to risk anyone else overhearing, and besides that, he's not the sharing type.