KATSUKI

I am awake again. And I feel like shit. 

Is today a good day to fucking die? 

This is something I ask myself in the morning when I wake up. In fourth period when I’m desperately trying not to let my head fall flat on my desk while Present Mic drones on and on and on. At the dinner table as I’m passing the curry to my little sister. At night when I’m lying awake because my brain won’t shut the fuck up due to all there is to think about. 

Is today the day? 

And if not today — fucking when? 

I am asking myself this now as I stand on a narrow ledge seven stories about the ground. I’m so high up, I’m basically in the clouds, soaring like a bird without wings. I look down at the pavement below, and the world sways. I close my eyes, enjoying the way everything tilts and turns. Maybe this time I’ll do it — let the air take me away. It will be like floating in the middle of the ocean, drifting off until there’s no more sea. Nothing. Sounds appetizing, if you ask me. 

I don’t remember climbing up here. In fact, I don’t even fucking remember much of anything before Sunday, at least not anything so far this winter. This happens every time — the blacking out, the waking up. I’m like that old man with the beard, Sorahiko Torino. Now you see me, now you don’t. You’d think I’d have gotten used to it, but this last time was the worst yet because I wasn’t asleep for a few measly days or a week or two — I was asleep for the fucking holidays, meaning Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. I can’t tell what was different this time around, only that when I woke up, I felt deader than usual. Awake, sure, but completely and utterly empty, like some weirdass cannibal had been feasting on my flesh and bones. This is day six of being awake again, and my first week of being back in prison — school — since November 14th. 

I open my eyes, and the ground is still there, solid and existing. I am in the bell tower of the high school, standing on a ledge with an astonishing width of about four inches. The tower is pretty small, with only a few feet of concrete space on all sides of the bell itself, and then this low stone railing, which I’ve climbed over to get here. Every now and then I knock my calf against it to remind myself that it’s there.

My arms are outstretched as if I’m conducting a sermon and this entire not-very-big, dull, dull town is my congregation. “Gentlemen and gentlewomen!” I shout, “I bid you welcome to my death!” You might expect me to say “life,” having just woken up and everything, but it’s only when I’m awake that I think about death. 

I am shouting in an old-school-preacher way, all jerking hand motions and words that wiggle at the ends, and I almost lose my balance. I hold on behind me, happy that no one seems to have noticed, because, let’s face it, it’s hard to look fearless when you’re clutching the railing like a fucking chicken. 

“I, Katsuki Bakugou, being of unsound mind, do hereby bequeath all my earthly possessions to Hitoshi Shinsou, Mina Ashido, and my sisters. Everyone else can go f--- themselves.” In my house, my dad taught us early to spell that word (if we must use it. Sometimes I use it for fun. Shh) or, better yet, not spell it, and, sadly, this has stuck with me. 

Even though the bell has rung, some of my classmates are still milling around in the ground. It’s the first week of the second semester of third year, and already they’re acting as if they’re almost done and out of here. One of them looks up in my direction, as if he heard me, but the others don’t, either because they haven’t spotted me or because they know I’m there and Oh well, who cares. It’s just Katsuki the Freak. 

Then his head turns away from me and he points to the sky. At first I think he's pointing at me, but it’s at that moment I see him, the boy. He stands a few feet away on the other side of the tower, also out on the ledge, messy sage-green hair waving in the wind, the hem of his loose polo shirt blowing up like a parachute. Even though it’s January in Japan, he is shoeless in cargo pants, a pair of sneakers in his hand, and staring either at his feet or at the ground — it’s difficult to tell. He seems frozen in place. 

In my regular, non-preacher voice I say, as calmly as possible, “Take it from me, the worst thing you can do is look down.” 

Very slowly, he turns his head towards me, and I know this boy, or at least I’ve seen him in the hallways. I can’t resist; “Come here often? Because this is sort of my spot and I don’t remember seeing you here before.” 

He doesn’t laugh or even blink, but gazes out at me behind these clunky glasses that almost cover his face. He tries to take a step back but his foot bumps the railing. Before he can panic, I say, “I don’t know what brings you here, but to me the town looks hella prettier and the people look nicer and even the worst of them look almost kind. Except for Neito Monoma and Yaoyorozu Momo and the whole crowd you hang with.” 

His name is Izuku Something. He is football player popular— one of those boys you would never think of bumping into on a ledge seven stories above the ground. Behind the hideous glasses, he’s pretty, almost like a china doll. Big eyes, sweet freckled face shaped like a heart, a mouth that wants to curl into a perfect little smile. He’s a boy that dates guys like Shouto Todoroki or Togata Mirio, baseball stars, and sits with Yaoyorozu Momo and the other queen bees at lunch. 

“But let’s face it, we didn’t come up here for the beautiful view. You’re Izuku, right?” 

He blinks once, and I take this as a yes. 

“Katsuki Bakugou. I think we had pre-cal together last year.” 

He blinks again. 

“I hate math, but that’s not why I’m up here. No offense if that’s why you are. You’re probably way better at math than I am, because pretty much everyone in the whole world is better at math than I am, but it’s okay. I’m alright with it. See, I excel at other, more important things — drums, sex, and consistently disappointing my mom, to name a few. By the way, it’s apparently true that you’ll never use it in the real world. Math, I mean.”

I keep rambling, but I can tell that I’m running out of steam. I need to take a massive shit, for one thing, and so my words aren’t the only thing twitching. ( Note to self: Before attempting suicide, remember to take a shit .) And, two, it’s starting to rain, which, in this temperature, will probably turn to sleet or hail before it hits the ground. 

“Yo, it’s starting to rain,” I say stupidly, as if he doesn’t already know this. “I guess there’s an argument to be made that the rain will wash away all the blood, leaving us a neater mess to clean up than otherwise. But it’s the mess part that gets me thinking. I’m not a vain person, at least to some extent, but I am human, and I don’t know about you, I - zu - ku , but I don’t wanna look like I’ve been run through a meat grinder at my funeral.” 

He’s shivering or shaking, I can’t tell which, and so I slowly inch my way towards him, hoping I don’t fall before I get there, because the last fucking thing I want to do is make a absolute jackass idiot out of myself in front of this boy. “I’ve made it clear I want cremation, but my dad doesn’t believe in it.” And my mom will do whatever he says so she won’t upset him anymore than she already has, and besides, You’re far too young to think about this, you know your Grandma Bakugou lived to be ninety-eight, we don’t need to talk about that now, Katsuki, don’t upset your father . 

“So it’ll be an open casket for me, which means if I do jump, it ain’t gonna be pretty. Besides, I kinda like my face intact like this, two eyes, one nose, one mouth, a full set of teeth, which, if I’m being honest, is one of my most handsome and best features.” I smile so he can see what I mean. Everything where it should be, on the outside at least. 

When he doesn’t say anything, I go on inching and talking. “Most of all, I feel bad for the undertaker. What a shitty job that must be anyway, but then to have to deal with an asshole like me? Sucks, huh?” 

From down below, someone yells, “Izuku? Is that Izuku up there?” 

“Oh God.” he says, so low I can barely hear it. He repeats it under his breath several times, as if he cannot believe he’s up here. The breeze blows his shirt and unbrushed hair, and it looks like he’s going to fly away. 

There is general buzzing from the ground, and I shout, “Don’t try to save me! You’ll only kill yourself!” Then I say, quiet for only his ears, “Here’s what I think we should do.” I’m about a foot away from him now. “I want you to throw your shoes toward the bell and then hold onto the rail, just grab right onto it as tight as you can, once you’ve got it, lean against it and lift your right foot up and over. Got that?” 

He nods and almost loses his balance. 

“Don’t nod. And whatever you do, don’t go the wrong way and step forward and instead of back. I’ll count you off. On three.” 

He throws his sneakers in the direction of the bell, and they fall with a thud, thud onto the concrete. 

“One. Two. Three.” 

He grips the stone and kind of props himself against it and then swings his leg up and over so that he's sitting in the railing. He stares down at the ground and I can see that he’s frozen again, and so I say, “Good. Great. Just, please, please stop looking down. That makes it hella worse.” 

He slowly looks at me and then reaches for the floor of the heel tower with his right foot, and once he’s found it, I say, “Now get that left leg back over however you can. Don’t let go of the wall.” By now he’s shaking so hard I can hear his teeth chatter, but I watch as his left foot joins his right, and he is safe. 

So now it’s just me out here. I gaze down at the ground one last time, a silly feeling brewing in my chest. I stare past my size-thirteen feet that won’t stop growing — today I’m wearing sneakers with fluorescent shoelaces — past the open windows of the fourth floor, the third, the second, past Yaoyorozu Momo, who is cackling from the front steps and swishing her black silky hair like a pony, books over her head, trying to flirt and protect herself from the rain at the same time. 

I gaze past all this at the ground itself, which is now slick and wet, and imagine myself lying there, crumpled and broken and bleeding. 

I could just step off. It would be over in seconds. No more “Katsuki the Freak.” No more pain. No more anything.

I try to get past the unexpected interruption of saving a life and return to the important business at hand. For a minute, I can feel it: the sense of peace as my mind finally goes quiet, like I’m already dead and six feet under. I am weightless and free and blissful. Nothing and no one to fear, not even myself. 

Then a voice from behind me says, “I want you to hold onto the rail, and once you’ve got it, lean against it and lift your right foot up and over.” 

And just like that, I can feel the moment passing as if it were never there, and now it seems like a stupid idea, except for picturing the priceless look on Yaoyorozu’s face as I go flying past her. I laugh at the thought. I laugh so hard I almost fall off, and this scares me — like, terrifies me — and I catch myself and Izuku catches me as Yaoyorozu looks up. “Weirdo!” someone shouts. Yaoyorozu’s little group of princesses giggle. She cups her big mouth and aims it sky-ward. “You okay, Zu?” 

Izuku leans over the rail, still holding my legs securely, almost too tight, squeezing my lower thighs. It came to me suddenly that Izuku was strong, like really strong, possibly stronger than me, which wouldn’t surprise me at all. “I’m okay.” he says. 

The door at the top of the tower stairs crack open and my best friend, Hitoshi Shinsou, appears. Hitoshi is black. Not CW black, but black-black. He also gets laid more than anyone I’ve ever known. 

He says, “They’re serving curry today,” as if I wasn’t standing on a ledge seven stories above the ground, my arms out, a boy wrapped around my knees. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and get it over with, freak ?” Eijirou Kirishima, better known as Riot, better known as Dumbass, yells from below. More laughter rings out. I feel Izuku’s fingers briefly tighten around the skin of my thighs. 

Because I’ve got a date with your mother later, I think but don’t say because, let’s face it, it’s fucking lame, and also he’ll come up here and beat me up real good and then toss me off, which would defeat the whole purpose of doing it myself. 

Instead I shout, “Thanks for saving me, Izuku. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along. I guess I’d be dead right now.” 

The last face I see below belongs to my school counselor, Mr. Aizawa. As he glares up at me with cold black eyes, I think, Great. Just great. 

I let Izuku help me over the wall and onto the concrete. From down below, there’s a round of applause, not for me, but for Izuku, the hero. Up close like this, I can see that his skin is rough and painted, freckles all across his face and neck and I wonder if his freckles trail under the collar of his shirt. His eyes are deep emerald green, like sparkling gems, that makes me think of the Milky Way. It’s the eyes that get me. As warm and gentle as they are, they are stern, no-bullshit eyes, the kind that look right into your soul, which I can tell even through the thick, ugly glasses. He’s beautiful and taller than me, with long, muscled legs and sharp hips, which I like on a guy. Too many high school boys are built like girls — lanky and long and barely muscled. For me, I’d like the guy I date to be able to manhandle me everywhere — and Izuku looks very much like he could manhandle anyone anywhere, according to the size of his biceps (which are nearly the size of my head).

“I was just sitting there,” he says. “On the railing. I didn’t come up here to —” He’s telling the truth, I know it. But even if you didn’t go up there to commit suicide  saying that you didn’t go up there to kill yourself really hits hard. It makes you think, “ Did I go up there to commit?” and then you start thinking about it and  you start second-guessing yourself and it fucks up your head — and that’s no good. So I interrupt Izuku before he has a chance to say it.

“Let me ask you something. Do you think there’s such a thing as a perfect day?” 

“What?”

“A perfect day. Start all the way to finish. When nothing terrible or sad or ordinary happens. Do you think it’s possible?” In my head, I answer my own question. 

No. 

“I don’t know.” Oh well. Close enough, right? 

“Have you ever had one?” 

“Nope.” 

I sincerely doubt that. 

“I’ve never had one either, but I’m looking for it.”

Izuku looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time, his green eyes swirling with some emotion that I’m too tired to name. Then, just the tiniest of movements — one side of his mouth twitches and he’s sort-of, kinda smiling but not really. There’s no dimples on his cheeks, and that’s how I know he isn’t smiling. Because when Izuku Midoriya smiles, it’s like the sun is directly in front of you but you can’t look away — and there’s also dimples on his cheeks when he smiles. So.

He whispers, “Thank you, Katsuki Bakugou.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek, and I can smell his shampoo, which reminds me of sweet spine trees and apples. I fight back the urge to inhale the smell and bury my face in his hair. He says into my ear, “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.” Carrying his sneakers, he hurries away and out of the rain, back through the door that leads to the flight of dark and rickety stairs that takes you down one of the many too-bright and too-loud crowded school hallways. 

Hitoshi watches him go and, as the door swings closed behind him, he turns back to me. “Katsuki, why would you do that?” He sounds — well. Not really concerned, but uncertain. 

“Because we all have to die someday, right? I just want to be prepared.” This isn’t the reason, obviously, but it will be enough for him. The truth is, there are a lot of reasons, most of which change daily — hourly if I’m feeling particularly shitty — like the fifteen fourth graders killed earlier this week when some SOB opened fire in their school gym, or the girl one year behind me who just died from leukemia, or the man I saw outside the grocery store kicking his dog, or my mother. 

Hitoshi may think it, but at least he doesn’t say “Freak,” which is why he’s my best friend. Other than the fact that I appreciate this about him, we don’t have anything in common other than we like to watch really old-old movies together and we’re almost always tired all the time. Which I don’t think really counts anyways, since school is very tiresome to the brain. 

“C’mon, Katsuki.” Hitoshi says firmly, leaving no room for argument. I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or not. 

“Are you angry?” I ask, watching his expression closely, watching for any hint of anger. If there’s one thing I can’t handle, it’s someone being mad at me. It brings unpleasant memories to the surface, memories of constant yelling and stomping and slamming doors. I don’t think I’d be able to handle it if Hitoshi was mad at me. 

Hitoshi sighs. “No.” 

“Okay.”