new account!

todobaku week, 2019

may 5th : past or hero

word count: 600 words

Does our past change us? Carve us, however messily, into the person we are today? Is it solely the responsibility of our past experiences to snatch up the free will of decision we hold in the present? Then, does the 'you' of today control the 'you’ of tomorrow? Is there no solace from this cycle? Will the ouroborus never pause to think, and take it's tail out of it's mouth?

It is a dream we all crave: freedom from the past. A dream we all run toward with infant anticipation. How that liberty feels, many of us will never know.

Bakugou Katsuki, like the majority of us, is no exception to this collective aspiration, wishing desperately that the tears of his former years would just float up into the atmosphere, blowing up in micro explosions across the horizon.

Yet he still stays shackled to his youth. That young, brash, violent boy still chases him in his dreams, laughing maniacally at each fall and stumble Bakugou makes. Peeling back Bakugou's eyelids and forcing him to watch replays after replays of his past mistakes, on loop. And when he shuts his eyes, the child wanders to vulnerable openings of his ear to whisper messy accusations into them. That he'll never be free, he's the same bully now he was back then, he's never changed.

“Why are you so afraid? I'm only you. Nothing more,” the child would say, red eyes glowing with manic sparks, like hellfire.

And each time Bakugou would force his gaze away, and swim up to the surface of consciousness, gasping for breath. He'll shake with fear or anger or sadness, or a devilish mixture of all three. Yet the worst part was the stampede of itchy heat that clawed its way across his feverish skin up, up, up into a fiery knot at the back of his head. But after a while, once his heartbeat returns to the pace it once was, he would leave the suffocating covers of his bed and pounce into the shower.

Sometimes, on days when he sets it at the right temperature, he feels like he's being hugged.

But tonight, tonight was different. The dream was the same, though. Possibly worse. But when that hellish time came when Bakugou had to kick his way to the surface, the heat never came. Instead his skin sung with the divine absence of fire and the knot that pulsed at the back of his skull was pulled undone in one smooth motion. And then it came, this sweet embrace of ice that washed over him in waves, kissing at the tremors of his surface.

“It's okay, I'm here,” Came a voice.

And at that one phrase it was like he was born again, as if Bakugou was some creature without a past, or a beginning. Every single thing he had ever done came crashing into each other like magnets until some pulsing will within him stuck a match and they began to burn. And oh boy did they burn.

And as if moved by some gentle push Bakugou sat up in his sheets to face the voice, and his eyes shone with the beauty he was met with. Like he was seeing Todoroki Shouto for the first time.

The moonlight licked at his silhouette and the mismatched bouquets of his hair fell like a crown over his brow and all Bakugou could think was. Angel. Angel. Angel.

“I love Bakugou Katsuki.” He spoke at last.

“Which one?”

I feel red

in the rough bumps of my skin

and the cool touch of ice

or the warm drops of wax

on the tips of my hands.

I smell red,

in the scent of sweat on a thin body

and the aroma of coffee in a dirty mug

or the whiff of “did we put too much sugar?”

on an early morning bake-off

I taste red

in the cheap cherry juice from down the road

and the smoke of a cigarette much too young

or the taste of a meal that might score a little to high

on the infamous scoville scale

I hear red

in the tapping of dress shoes on white marble

and the deep bass from this song I don't know

or the cries a child with too much to say

on the steps of a dirty apartment building

I see red

in the back of my eyes when I rub them too hard

and the tips of my brushes after I paint

or the stained cheek of a teenage boy

your vote in the box

is a beat in a song

of the boom crash pow

anthem of this youth.

with the kids that will doodle

“fuck the system” on the front of their books,

but they're a little too scared to talk to the grown ups

or maybe it's the low grumble hum underneath the city

that's making everyone feel a little less shitty

but watch out!

you just might find yourself,

tapping your foot

or nodding your head

to the not quite right,

low grumble hum,

“fuck the system,”

boom crash pow,

there is a town not too far from the colour red,

where a boy can't wait ‘till he moves to the city,

because no one in this goddamn place makes him feel like he's pretty,

and because the tall guy who lives way too close,

makes his heart beat fast and his palms sweat,

but it's nothing that can't be fixed with some magic chairs and a voice that's a little too loud.

and when they touch he can smell the sand and the dirt,

and maybe a hint of his brothers cologne,

but he doesn't mind because his lover is warm and soft and it feels just right.

wrong.

because this is a town not too far from the colour red,

so when the people hear sounds of pleasure

from a worn down cabin just off the shore,

be sure,

be sure to lock the door and shove a goodbye kiss in your lovers pocket,

for him to find in his ripped jeans once he moves to the city,

but is it really what you wanted when you said he was pretty?

his brother smells nice but it doesn't feel quite right,

+++

++