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4. Pride is my favourite sin

(non-canon, future!AU, angst, fluff, hurt, comfort)

When asked what he was proud of, Katsuki would inherently puff out his chest and recount the many atrocities he had scarpered during his pro years. The triumphs that heralded his name in the hall of fame, put there, gold-gilded, amongst many other prophesied heroes.

The myths that became legends. And he was right up there, albeit bitterly now a forever second place to Deku. Still, he owned a chapter in the history books. His image built upon the foundation of his highly-awarded escapades.

Such as tracking down international crime gangs, consequently reaping the globe of filth with each disintegrated denomination. Or sweeping the streets with the faces of neighbourhood nuisances, putting the scum of Japan in their place. His devotedness toward the covenant that arched between the public and the pros; with his agency being one of the most significantly leant on in dire times.

He was proud that whenever the sky darkened, with threat looming over the cityscape, he was there to put everything back in place. He and his fellow protectors of justice, all amounted to Atlas' great feat. To uphold the world and all its problems on their shoulders.

That is what he was proud of. Nothing else. He'd achieved his goal, and that was all that stinkin' mattered.

"I've achieved my goal, as if it was hard, pfft. And that's all that stinkin' matters, so are we done here?" Bakugou ground out, using an exaggerated yawn as that extra pinch of salt that soured the producer's face.

The woman who'd been interviewing the Number 2 hero pertly smoothed her skirt and began coiling up the microphone's wires, her eye-roll toward the cameras thankfully not seen by the man who'd been torturing her with smug answers for an hour.

Katsuki was cramped in a small, dark studio about the width of his old apartment's kitchen. Cramped into a director's chair like a Saw trap, his legs dangled off the armrest, one fist pushed up under his chin in boredom. The crew were rushing on their feet behind the curtains, he could hear their hushed talk and scampering interactions.

Finally having had enough of being a television personality who only spewed beige stories and advertising deals, it was time to rejoin the world. Pushing out of the chair (which seemed to sigh in relief at the lift of inexplicable pressure) he made his way to the exit of the gloomy Station 6 studio.

"Mister Dynamight! Sir!" An annoying voice wailed after him, making a sharp shiver run up his spine. Raising his shoulders and baring his teeth, he spun on his heels.

"What?" He grit out to the small assistant panting at his feet. They shook themselves off and brought out a compact disc, shimmering in its plastic case.

"The producers, they wanted you to have this." They waved it under his wrinkled nose, "We're clearing out old, unusable stock. They said you should have this."

He pushed them away with both arms, "Nah, nah. I'm good."

"I think you might regret not taking it, sir." He raised a brow at their poignant attitude, "It really would be a shame if it never met its target audience." The assistant beamed wearily up at him, standing on their tippy toes to entice him with the shiny CD.

"Fine." He snatched it from their firm grip, shoving it in his trouser pocket before storming off. Not without one final blow to the workers. "I hope by 'clearing out' you mean this place is closing down! This was worse than that stupid puppy interview!"

Back in his apartment that overlooked the city's multicoloured blinks of light, Katsuki threw the disc to the sofa and set to making himself dinner.

After washing his hands vigorously until they were red and raw, his finger traced down one of his mom's handwritten recipes for an old comfort meal. While chopping spring onions, a feeling prodded his insides, making him fidget and huff. Reluctantly he set the broth to boil, and found his tired eyes scanning over to the sofa.