Chapter Text
Katsuki's up before the sun. His calloused hands grip a practice sword like letting go will kill him. The steady thwack of metal against wood fills the otherwise silent training center. Nobody else is here this early— they never are. Especially not on Reaping Day.
He grunts and huffs, fingers tightening on the hilt, shifting his grip enough so he can bury it into the chest of the dummy with a satisfying thunk. The blade catches for a moment. The damned thing is filled with nicks that catch from the smallest incorrect movement. Katsuki shifts one hand from the sword, grips the dummy's shoulder, and yanks.
The blade wrenches out, scattering wood chips across the arena floor. He pays them no mind. They crunch under the heel of his well-worn boots. The ones he finds annoying to work around get kicked to the side and skitter away.
Katsuki's body glistens with sweat. It trails down his forehead and shoulders. He pauses only a moment to tug on the hem of his black shirt, pulling it up his torso toward his head to wipe the sweat off his brow. When he lets go, the damp fabric suctions to the planes of his stomach. It’s already beginning to warm up, the heat of summer ready to bear down on his back with an angry vengeance. It won’t be long before the small arena is unusable.
He resumes his slashes, chipping away until his arms grow so achingly sore that he has to stop. The sword shakes with a slight metallic rattle in his tight grip. It's old, and has been held by so many hands that it's one wrong move away from snapping. They had been promised new equipment at some point, but it kept getting delayed. Even Victors could only bribe Peacekeepers so much before they were flogged for 'hoarding weapons’. Katsuki finds it ridiculous— they’d been nothing but loyal.
His breaths come in controlled, sharp inhales and shuddering exhales. The dummy is still standing. Slashed. Cracking. But upright.
His mind flashes to last year's games. To what should have been his. To the green haired idiot soaking in Katsuki's glory.
Katsuki grits his teeth. The sword clatters to the ground beside him and his hands ball into fists so tight his knuckles turn ghostly white. His right arm coils back, muscles screaming, before launching forward with all the force he can muster. Connecting with a painful crack against the head of the dummy.
Over.
And over.
Until his knuckles are bloody and dripping.
Until he feels like his body is about to give out.
He knows he shouldn't be working himself this hard before the games. It's stupid. Exactly what every trainer in the academy said not to do. Because to go in exhausted or injured shows weakness. And a weak tribute is a dead tribute.
He's left gasping for breath. The dummy remains upright. But bloodied.
By the time he's changed, wrapped his knuckles in bandages, and cleaned up after himself, the sun pokes over the horizon. Soft orange blankets the world. And for a single, brief moment, Katsuki is still. But not relaxed. Coiled.
He slings his bag over his shoulder with a low grunt. He starts to walk home, but barely makes it a block away from the training center when Izuku manifests before him. Green among grey. And fucking annoying.
"I thought you might be here," Izuku says softly, eyes flitting to the training center that's still within view. The building itself is huge, not originally for training but had been taken over decades ago and converted. It's technically illegal, but the Capitol turns a blind eye because District 2 always puts on a good show for them.
Katsuki adjusts his bag, shoving his battered hands into the pockets of his black sweats. Izuku notices. Because of course he does. But he's smart enough not to comment.
"Yeah. Some of us have shit to do," Katsuki snaps. "Why the hell are you here?"
"We need to talk, Kacchan."
"I already told you I have nothing to say to you. Now move before I set you on fire."
Izuku hardly blinks, let alone moves. Somehow, against all odds, Izuku has grown a spine. And no amount of snarling and snapping from Katsuki seems to break it. He shoves past Izuku, nearly knocking him over. He was always small and pathetic. How he won is beyond Katsuki.
"I have medicine Kacchan!" Izuku calls after him.
Katsuki rolls his eyes. He walks faster. Anger swirls in his guts, rooting so deeply he feels like a stick of old dynamite; one slight touch away from exploding.
Katsuki stops, heels of his boots scuffing against cracking concrete. Before he can stop himself, he glances over his shoulder. Izuku is still standing there. Watching. Somehow the fucker knows Katsuki a bit too well, more than the blonde would ever like to admit.
He doesn't need that shitty nerd's medicine, or his apologies, or whatever else he thinks he needs to say. But Capitol medicine would keep his mother's anger at bay over his knuckles. The last thing he wants to deal with on his day is her bullshit.
"You ain't lyin’ about the medicine?" He calls.
Izuku perks up, nodding his head feverishly. He gestures in the direction of his home. The motion is stiff and awkward, a result of the prosthetic arm he wears and is still getting used to. He’d lost it in the final fight of last year's games against Tomura, a particularly scrappy tribute from District 10. Katsuki can't help but think that if he was in that arena, like he was supposed to be, that he would have come home unscathed.
Katsuki trudges back toward him. Izuku smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Deep purple eye bags hang beneath them. A permanent feature of his face since he came home. His green curls cover his face, jostled by the warm morning wind, and he brushes them away with his non-prosthetic hand.
They make their way toward Victors Village. It's not far from the training center, probably by design. The Victors tend to spend their time between their homes and the training center, many having nothing better to do with their time. By the time most tributes hit the arena, their mentors know them so well they don't need to talk strategy.
Izuku had been the only Victor not active there, refusing to even step foot inside the building. Clearly, Izuku thought he was too good for it now.
“You look like shit,” Katsuki says, bluntly. A small amount of smugness leaks into his voice.
“Ah—yeah—“ Izuku says, smile faltering further. “I know. Couldn’t sleep.”
Katsuki scoffs. Izuku has to worry about absolutely nothing now. He’s set for the rest of his life; he doesn’t need to work in the quarry or join the peacekeepers. He’ll be honored— revered, respected —until he dies. What could he possibly be losing sleep over?
The Victors Village is eerily silent when they enter. It feels like sacred ground as Katsuki moves through it. Streets paved with well-maintained concrete, manicured flowers and plants lining the sidewalks. Nothing like the streets where his house sits, which are all cracked concrete and dying weeds poking up from the ground. Katsuki inhales, envy curling his stomach and spoiling his perfectly good breakfast.
Izuku clears his throat, gesturing weakly toward his house. Katsuki pushes past him. Izuku stumbles after him. Katsuki stops for only a moment in front of the massive house. It’s barely a year old. Nowhere near as worn by time as the other homes around it, but even then the white paint is beginning to chip in places.
Beside it, another house is being constructed. His, if everything goes to plan. The summer air smells like sawdust and cement. He can almost taste his victory through it.
Izuku lets Katsuki enter first. Something he’s always done, but now there’s a skittishness to it. Like he’s expecting something to happen. The anxious energy gets on Katsuki’s nerves, and he glares over his shoulder.
“Get the fuck inside before I drag you. You’re the one who wanted me here."
“I’m—’m coming,” Izuku says. He walks up the steps and into the house. Wide eyes glance over his shoulder several times before he closes the door.
“The hell's your problem?” Katsuki snaps.
Izuku ignores the question, leading Katsuki into the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Medicine.” His arms cross over his chest as he leans his hip against the kitchen island.
The inside is plain. None of the shit the nerd crammed his old bedroom with is anywhere on the walls. No Toshinori merchandise, collected carefully or handmade, no messy table filled with notes on the Victors. It’s like a ghost lives here rather than Izuku. He’d find it a bit odd, if he wasn’t so damn annoyed he was here.
Izuku roots through cabinets for only a moment. He holds a tube out to Katsuki, who takes it gruffly. Izuku grimaces as Katsuki unwraps his hands. His knuckles are split, red, and angry. Silence drags between them for a long moment as Katsuki rubs the balm into them. Instantly the redness starts to fade, the pain diluting into a tingling numbness, the cuts mending in ways that only time should heal. Katsuki pockets the tube.
Katsuki lingers for a moment, flexing his hands to test how closed his wounds are. His brows pinch a bit at the familiar itch of healing scabs. He’d heard rumors the Victors got good shit from the Capitol. Briefly he wonders how much it would cost to get his hands on it, but pushes those thoughts away. It wouldn’t matter. Once he won, he could buy a crate of the shit and still have money to spare.
When he looks up, he finds green eyes boring into him. He’s known Izuku their entire lives, knows exactly what that look is. It’s the same face he made when he volunteered. Frustration curls in his stomach, his fists clenching.
“Spit it out,” he snaps.
“You can’t volunteer,” Izuku blurts. “I know it’s your plan, and I know you’re still mad about last year, but you have to listen to me Kacchan. The games, they’re…” He trails off, eyes growing distant and glossy.
“Like hell I’m gonna give up going into the games,” Katsuki growls, tone so biting it makes Izuku flinch.
“Please. I can’t watch you die, Kacchan," Izuku pleads.
Katsuki slams his fist onto the counter. The sound echoes throughout the silent house. His hand throbs. One of the cuts reopens, a trail of red oozes onto the granite.
“You think I can’t fucking handle myself?”
“That’s not what I’m saying!"
“So, you just don’t want me to win?” Katsuki’s crimson eyes narrow. “Pathetic.”
“You can’t win the games, Kacchan!” Izuku’s voice breaks. His eyes glisten.
“You don’t know shit.” Katsuki pushes off the counter, already beelining for the door. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched. His footsteps are deafening in the silent house.
Katsuki slams the door behind himself. The sound echoes throughout Victor's Village. The entire place is deathly still now, as if holding its breath. He stomps his way toward the gate, allowing himself one more glance at the half-finished construction.
This year is his last chance, and there's no way in hell he's gonna waste it. He’s going to bask in the glory he deserves. He’s not going to become a faceless peacekeeper in some backwater district, or be sent to work deep in the quarry mining granite. He has a god damn destiny.
And it starts with four simple words: I Volunteer as Tribute.