[ There is no we, there cannot be. There is only he, himself. A singular entity now caught up in some foreign sensation of unity, belonging, as though the things he valued before: the feelings he harbored for his not-far-off goals, the place he had carved out for himself in the world and continued to carve with each passing day - as though they were lesser, unimportant compared to the feeling that he was a part of this guy. The way he'd felt that he and that Joshua-guy were meant to be.

It was a disgusting feeling. Like his independence meant nothing, in the face of such a sweet song. Unluckily for whatever thing was making a home in his brain, feeding him such lies and pathetic dreams, he was a difficult young man to coerce into anything - whether good for him or not. So he rejected it, and rejected it again. Again and again, drawing deeper and deeper lines in the sand. Moats, to be filled later, with fire and brimstone and flammable oils. Anything to keep Hadrian Black and Joshua Bright and anyone else who was "part of him" from getting the wrong idea. ]

Katsuki, Bakugo. [ Bakugo is said with emphasis; this is what Black is allowed to call him. Last name, they're not friends. ] What do I call you?

[ Again, that shred of -- it's something, all right. Some recognition, tied up in a scent. It's not as distinct as the brood-shared sense of belonging, but it's a "something" all right. Muddled and mysterious, and not at all what he wants to chase. ]

I'm not yours. Let's get that straight. I don't care what this stupid thing in our heads says, I will never belong to any of you.

[ It hurts to say it. A sting, a burn, like a wound being carefully pried open by slow, deliberate, cruel hands. ]

What do you know so far, about what we're meant to accomplish here?