Mango

Katsuki tried to recount how he got here.

He did, truly.

So he recounted his day, failed to see how it reached such a preposterous outcome, and then decided to recount the school year as a whole. Yet there he still came up short. It didn't make sense, it didn't add up in any definitive fashion of the phrase, and it certainly wasn't a puzzle he had every- if any- of the pieces to.

Even he couldn't solve a puzzle he didn't have at least one of the pieces to.

Nevertheless, his day had started like any bad omen, really. A hole in the left big toe of his favorite pair of socks. Not hearing his alarm and barely making it to school on time (a first he hoped to never repeat). The black cat that he nearly tripped over on his mad dash to the school. The red spider lilies that blossomed in bunches with the middle of Fall (those should be gone soon…) The smell of smoke that only lingered around him on days of disaster that he didn't dare name. The Chief of Police making a crude and unprofessional statement in front of the impressionable youth that was frankly rather childish. 

Although; Katsuki supposed, that last one had been brushed off rather gracefully by Dabi-Sensei. If he remembered correctly, the Natsuo that Sensei had mentioned was the buff guy who wouldn't stop bothering him for the old hag's autograph. The two deserved each other if he had anything to say about it. An annoying match made in hell.

Overall he couldn't connect the dots, let alone find any dots in the first place.

Heck, the only reason he'd even found what he'd found was because Ochaco lost the pencil pouch they'd won for her at the arcade. It'd been decided to give it to her because the pencil pouch she'd had at the time was falling apart at the seams from when she was in grade school. Why did he even offer to go back? Stupid Deku should have gone back instead, dammit!

It was weird, too, that he wasn't upset by what he saw. Glasses was a prick, sure, but he should be more upset by seeing him get murdered, right? Be disgusted by the sight of the blood and the knees bent in the wrong direction, the bones barely visible amongst the muscle and the flesh. The bits of trachea torn by the flow of crimson as it gushed out… that wasn't what got to him. 

What had gotten him was the sight of the manic glee in his teacher's eyes as he took a life. Those eyes shining so prettily like droplets of topaz, alight above a flame. But it was the change. Why did Katsuki have to say something? Open his stupid mouth? Suddenly that gaze was directed at him and any happiness there died. Morphed into horror, thousands of thoughts running a mile a minute. It terrified him, yet he didn't fear for his life. No, no, he feared he'd never see it again. There was something so beautiful to be taken from deranged delight. He wouldn't have known, he'd never seen it before, but now that he had? He wanted to feel that kind of freedom.

Katsuki thought about the copy of Blood Red he'd stopped to read on his desk that morning. He had already been running late, but… something about his annotations called out to him. He understood the fifth stanza, just now. Fine porcelain? An illusion of something beautiful. Was Takatsuki saying the life he lived was fragile and fake? That it looked beautiful to those on the outside looking in, but was a mirage easily broken? Or was he saying Mateo Lorenz-Flores wasn't what he truly wanted, but it was too late to go back? Too late to change what he'd already done in the 'name of love'? 

It was so odd, looking back. The fifth stanza was so simple, wasn't it? Sensei pretended not to understand it. But he did, didn't he? That was why he assigned the poem in the first place, wasn't it? 'In my mind; you leave little space,' Space for what, he wondered? Was it some kind of analogy for losing one's mind? In both love and insanity, thoughts are not clear… 

Katsuki's mind wandered with all the different things he was thinking about. What things did he not see, what clues was he given… Sensei was the killer. He knew that was what he'd do before he even did it. Assigned a poem about murdering to stake a claim. That was what he did. All those people who were killed around him… was he claiming Katsuki? He ran over what he knew of the fifth stanza. 

"Fine porcelain; your doll-like face,

In my mind; you leave little space,

I'd really like just a little taste,

To see you in blood-stained white lace."

Fine porcelain isn't just an illusion… ' your doll-like face' Sensei calls him doll, doesn't he? He is staking a claim. From day one, he was. How did he not see it? How was he so blinded? By beauty, by sorrow, by the smoke that filled his lungs ever since that stupid fire…

He was openly admitting obsession. Openly admitting his plans to kill. Wasn't it too soon? It was the second day, how was it not too soon? 'Blood-stained white lace…' White lace as in Western wedding dresses? Did Takatsuki even know anything about Western weddings? Did they exist at that time period? Katsuki couldn't even recall. Weddings were new beginnings, weren't they? But the blood… tainted new beginnings. Beginning of the school year? No, weddings were of love… What was trying to be said? An agreement of sorts? Entrapment? Why, why, why? It doesn't make sense. Katsuki was losing sense over his thoughts, they moved too fast.

He couldn't find a way to word it in his head. Love, love, love… new beginnings with you, love, but it's tainted… Katsuki willed himself to calm down as he ran, he couldn't think. When was he running? Why was he running? Where was he running? He couldn't see. He touched his face, it was wet. Did he get blood on him? No, he wasn't close enough… tears? Were those tears? Was he crying? Why was he crying?

Where was he running and why was he crying? What was he thinking about? Was this what it felt like to lose your mind?

The poem. Dabi-Sensei wanted to marry him? No, that didn't sound right… but, well, if he loves him, that's an eventual, isn't it? He's willing to kill for him, he haskilled for him. Anything they do from here on out is tainted in blood. The tainted new beginnings? Blood-stained white lace? Sacrifices, sacrifices… 

Katsuki pinched himself, his mind was starting to sound like the ravings of a lunatic. He was no lunatic. Was he? No, don't start now. He couldn't start now, he'd lose himself again. But did he even have a grasp on himself to begin with? Grasping at straws, maybe? Maybe he left himself on the couch, since the first murder, huddled in his Howl-o-Scream blanket. Halloween is coming up soon, isn't it… less than a week, isn't it? With the horror movies about serial killers, and the fake blood and guts. Oh, how fitting.

Line three, stanza five… he still doesn't get it. 'I'd really like just a little taste,' taste of what? Love? Is he going to eat the wedding dress? Absurd. Katsuki wanted to laugh at his own thoughts. Absurd, absurd, absolutely absurd. Taste of blood? Of murder? Maybe a taste of life beyond the confine. Beyond the sins of wrath, greed… gluttony? Or maybe lust. Is it really to taste love? Does love even taste? Oh, Love Taste. Like that song that they listened to during art… if love tastes, he wonders what it tastes like. 

Too bad he'll never know. He's dying before even being murdered. He still doesn't fear for his life, but he knows he will die. Maybe he doesn't fear for his life because he loves him, who knows? Maybe when he chokes on his own blood, he'll know what love tastes like. Who knows? Who knows. Pray tell, who knows. He soon will know.

He needs to get himself out of his head. Out of his head before he's gone completely out of his mind. Back to an earlier question… where is he running? His legs hurt. Feels like his femur is going to break in half by his hips. Slip right out of the joints, causing him to fall forward. It's a weird detached feeling. Focus less on the internal, more on the external. Get out of your mind, but stay in your body. His feet hurt. His steps are too heavy. He's running harder, not faster. That won't get him anywhere… he still doesn't know where he's going. Away maybe? To safety. Where is safe, if he has to go back to school anyway? Is he even in danger? He can't call the police if he isn't in danger… but his classmates are in danger.

But if he calls the police he loses Dabi-Sensei… no, Katsuki, what did you just tell yourself? Stop thinking. His feet hurt, his femurs hurt, …his hips hurt? Did his hips hurt? They do. They ache. It's faint, but it's there. His guts feel tight. Like they're entangled and knotted around each other. Those aren't very useful… his heart lurches. Is it painful? He can't tell. Is it the butterflies of love or the gnawing dread of impending doom? Is there supposed to be a veritable difference between the two? Usually they're not supposed to intertwine into a situation where it could be either, he imagines. But it's just his luck that he finds himself in a position where it's possible to be either/or.

His shoulders hurt. He's moving too much as he runs. His biceps feel like they're going to wither and tear away until he's left an armless, legless heap of mumbling drabbles on the ground. That doesn't sound pleasant. His lungs constrict around his lurching heart. How it hurts, how it hurts… when did Katsuki's breathing get so fast? Is he hyperventilating? Oh, and still crying, too. A panic attack, maybe. Are thoughts usually this misconstrued during a panic attack? His head hurts. Maybe he's still thinking too much. He can't even see where he's going. Is that dizziness or crying, or both?

He's running through the courtyard now, he can tell. His guts still hurt. Was that how Eijiro felt when he died? Or was he dead beforehand… the tulips. Red tulips mean love… and despite his best efforts, after dinner he did go back and look to see the details. Gardening gloves, fluvic soil, and red tulips. Red tulips do mean love in floriography, don't they? The fluvic soil is pretty common… does the school use fluvic soil? Likely. Does the school grow tulips? It's too late to tell, now. Too late in the year. But the murder was in late April, soon after Katsuki's birthday… around when tulips bloom. It was a possibility.

Keep running, you're not safe. Not yet, not yet. Not yet, keep running. It hurts behind his eyes, behind his ears, behind his nose. Dehydration? Maybe. He wants to throw up but he's dry heaving. His throat hurts. Maybe he's screaming, maybe not. He can't tell. With the pain behind his ears comes an all-encompassing ringing. He can't hear, his head is light, and he feels so dizzy he might pass out. Is this fear? How can people be brave when fear is this overpowering? 

He wants to crawl out of his skin. It's itchy and clammy, sweaty… he feels like a wrung-out sponge. Katsuki badly wants some water. Like a sponge he could soak it up and feel better, maybe. He barely registers himself barreling into the door of one of the instructional buildings, running down the abandoned hallways like a madman. There's no clubs tonight but it's still eerie, so empty like this. He'd come here for something originally, hadn't he? If it was important he would have remembered it. Oh well, too late now, he'd either die of his own ramblings or choking on blood when he's eventually murdered. Because let's be real, he will get murdered, right? He's not special.

Oh, and his parents thought he was. Named him I Win.Told him the teacher he had a crush on loved him right back. Hell, they gave that relationship their blessing. And at his funeral when Dabi-Sensei gives a speech, his parents will probably comfort him and he'll comfort them. Think they both lost somebody they loved when in reality Katsuki is unloveable. If he were loveable he wouldn't be in this mess, questioning himself and reevaluating his life. Wouldn't be running from a serial killer he's so hopelessly in love with and led himself to the illusion that it was requited. He's running, but is he being chased? He doesn't want to look behind himself and find out.

He opens the door to one of the classrooms, sinking to his knees by the desk near the window. There's a pot of lilies. Oh, right, Dabi-Sensei put those there on Monday… funny, how he found himself back in that classroom. Muscle memory, maybe. His legs carried him there on their own. How silly is that? The room where he met the man he imagined spending the rest of his life with is the room he'll die in by that very same man's hand. He really did end up spending the rest of his life with him, didn't he? If not literally, then in spirit. The last thing he'll see are those man's eyes, too, if he decides to get really poetic. Maybe that poem was a good choice, even if it didn't do its job. What job, though? It's not being paid…

Man, he's really losing it now. To the hysteria and dehydration, mayhaps. When his throat gets slit he'll know what love tastes like, mayhaps. Like blood. Or iron. Copper? Or will the sentiment make it sweet? He doesn't want to wait, but maybe he doesn't have to if the sound of the door being kicked open is anything to go by. Oh, it's music to his ears. Yes, today is the day he finds out what love tastes like. It's an odd question, one he didn't know he had. But it's a simple one all the same.

How does love taste?