He's four years old when a child in his kindergarten gets his mark. It's a good sign. The sooner someone gets their mark, the brighter and luckier their future relationship is supposed to be. At least that's what the adults say.

Bakugou can already read his own name. No other kid can read yet. He's able to make out familiar letters on the child's wrist, but the rest of the name remains a mystery. He knows it's a name because all the adults have them. Strange letters gracing their skin. To always remind them of their destiny.

Bakugou doesn't have his mark yet.

He's only four years old but he already feels like he failed a very important task. When other people talk to his mother, they would always mention this circumstance.

"He doesn't have his mark yet? How strange. I thought that boy was special."

With a hand tangled in his mother's skirt he looks up at the strangers. There is anger bubbling up inside his small chest. He believes them, doesn't question it. He's only four years old.

Bakugou stares at the name stretching along the child's skin. There is jealousy gnawing at his young heart. Mother always told him what a bright boy he is, what a special child he is. And yet, he has no mark. Other children and the caretakers gather around the young boy, who is crying. The name appeared of a sudden. He was playing, and then there were dark blotches on his wrist. The caretakers try to calm him down, tell him what a wonderful thing this is, but the boy is crying. He doesn't recognize it as his wrist. It looks odd to him.

From now on, it's a shared wrist. For people to run their fingers over, to muse who the other person could be, to build a future made out of cloud castles.

Bakugou stares at his own wrists. They are clean. Pale skin with fine branching of blueish veins.

No mark to be seen.

He envies the child, who is surrounded by people comforting him. He has never felt such anger before.

Bakugou is four years old when he develops a quirk. It happens only a few weeks after that child got his mark, and it soothes the ugly jealousy that built a nest inside his chest. Now people gather around him and tell him what an amazing quirk he possesses. That he can become a pro hero with this. Bakugou beams up at the faces surrounding him. He is happy. Soon after, all the other kids get their quirks. But none is as special as Bakugou's own.

His friend, Midoriya, who he often spends time with because they live in the same neighborhood, hasn't developed a quirk yet. He might even stay quirkless. That's what the adults usher behind the cover of their hands when the small boy isn't around. Bakugou doesn't grasp the whole concept yet, but he knows having a quirk is good, and not having a quirk is bad.

He has a quirk. A very good quirk. Midoriya doesn't. He is different and not as special as Bakugou.

Just like Bakugou wasn't special anymore when that child received his mark.

"He's just different from you, Katsuki," his mother says. But he sees the way the corners of her mouth pull down. It's not just about being different. It's about being a disappointment.

He is different from his friend. Bakugou is better than him.

ooo

Bakugou is ten years old when a boy in class mocks him for his unmarked wrist. Almost all of the other kids have their mark by now. It's like a guidance. It implies they have a future. The ash blond boy who is still a bit small for his age blasts aside his own class desk and tackles the imprudent child. It earns him a hastily written note and a suspension from school. His mother is furious. She yells. Bakugou yells back.

He spends the rest of the day in his room, staring outside the window and down onto the street. Midoriya is playing with the other children. A game Bakugou can't join in.

At least he isn't quirkless.

ooo

"Are you okay?"

Bakugou stares at the hand reaching out to him. He's soaked in the river's water, down to the bone. Despite the warmth of a summer's day the water is cold. The wrists of his childhood friend are clean, there is no name crawling across the skin that is slightly darker than his own. They're just like Bakugou's.

He lifts his head to look Midoriya in the eyes. The boy seems genuinely concerned for him. He even tells him that it's okay to cry. But it's not.

Midoriya is quirkless. Markless. He has no right to speak to him like this.

Bakugou bats away the hand reaching out for him.

ooo

Midoriya cries. Thick marbles falling from his eyes, getting caught in his lashes and sprinkling across his cheek. His fists are up. He's not going to back down. They have been doing this for years. Ever since Bakugou developed his amazing quirk they have been fighting like this. It's just who they are.

"Leave me alone, Kacchan," the small boy whimpers. He sniffles, trying to blink through the curtain blurring his vision.

But how could Bakugou leave him alone? It's not his fault that Midoriya is so abundantly useless. He is blessed with nothing.

The two boys grow up with their lives already destined. Bakugou will become a professional hero in the future. He will surpass All Might!

And Midoriya will always be his failed self.

The nature of his quirk is so impressive that Bakugou forgets about the absence of a name across his skin. Sometimes, there is something like insecurity gnawing at his heart. The worry that, maybe, there isn't anyone destined to be his soulmate. But he taught himself to hush those doubtful voices. What does it matter? He has his quirk. He doesn't need anyone. All those people that doubted the magnificence of his nature. Bakugou didn't need any of them! And he never will.

Bakugou doesn't need another person to be a sublime masterpiece.

ooo

It's his thirteenth birthday. Bakugou's mother wakes to frantic howls. She tumbles down the hall, still clad in her nightgown, following the voice. Her child is standing in the bathroom, furiously scrubbing at the skin of his wrist.

Tears of desperation are biting at his eyes. The skin on his arm is flaring in a furious scarlet.

"It's not coming off," Bakugou presses between tightly gritted teeth. He stares at the letters, too stubborn to be washed away, like they are burnt into his skin. A brand. A stigma. "It's not coming off! Fuck, why isn't is coming off?"

He knows the name gracing his wrist.

He looks at the letters, vision blurred by tears, and sees a tangled mess of green. A pair of bright, defiant eyes.

Midoriya Izuku.