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TW: Mentions/implied of suicide, depressive themes, and light gore. Again, please read at your own discretion.

Katsuki Bakugou never apologized for many things in his life.

He was always number one in everything, so he never had a reason to apologize for things that he did. Ever since he turned five years old and demonstrated the popping sparks of his quirk, he saw the world in vivid color. He grew up to think that he deserved the support he received at every whim, and whoever crossed him or thought otherwise would have to be forcibly stomped out under his feet.

There were always people like that that he would encounter often. Other stupid kids on the playground that'd just roll their eyes and look the other way, or other dense teens in his middle school class that would carelessly poke fun at him and his ideals. But from a young age, there was someone who was always by his side, cheering him on. With freakishly colored green hair, dumb-looking freckles, and a coward-like personality that was annoying to him.

His name was Izuku Midoriya, but Katsuki always called him Deku to convey his uselessness. He always used to despise how weak he was, and constantly looked down on him for his lack of a quirk. That day when their quirks manifested in the middle of class and he found out that Izuku was quirkless, he didn't hesitate to face the other way and consider him a hindrance to his goal of being the number one. He only saw him as a problem that he wanted gone, and on that fateful afternoon during middle school, he finally got that wish in the form of blood splattered across the pavement of his schoolyard that he could graphically recall to the present day.

He stopped calling him Deku from that moment on, but it didn't really matter since he didn't have any reason other than for the sake of memory to speak his name anymore.

Like a static radio, everything went numb. Everything felt cold, the sky turned gray, and the pride that he delicately built up everyday collapsed like a feather in the wind. The red in his irises reflected the color that was poured over the ground and over the frail body of the person that stuck by his side no matter what, and after a few long and grueling seconds, they grew shiny with unshed tears. Through all the screaming, through all the sirens, all the other voices he couldn't discern, and despite the hands pulling him away by the arms from someone he realized he always cared about, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the lifeless and colorless gaze of Izuku's.

He never wanted him to die. He never wanted him to die, but why did he say that to him in the first place? Why did he hate him in the first place? Why did he feel so angry? Who was he angry at?

He couldn't be angry at a dead body. So with each person his crimson eyes flitted over, he couldn't place any form of resentment in any of them until he looked down at his own hands.

The cold feeling in him only grew until it bordered on freezing when he ran over to the home of Izuku and his mother to see how she was holding up after the news. He'd have to say that seeing her collapsed on the floor with puffy red eyes that showed signs that she had been crying for a while when he came in would be the second-worst sight he's seen in his lifetime. The feeling amounted to how severe it was too when she immediately snapped at him once she realized, harshly banging her fists against his chest and yelling at the top of her lungs for what felt like hours until she couldn't make another sound other than tired sniffles. Screaming about how it was his fault, and how it was because of him that Izuku wasn't here anymore. How because of him, a mother didn't have her son anymore. Inko Midoriya didn't have her little baby Izuku anymore.

She was right, he realized. And it hurt him more than any training, villain, or hero could ever do so.

For once in his life from that moment, he felt shame. Raw, unadulterated, shame. Not only that, he felt a lot of other things that he was never familiar with before. Agony, regret, despair, and pain were many things he couldn't describe. The odd sensation of a thousand anchors dragging him down to the bottom of a dark void that quickly turned painful, almost unbearable. That feeling from when he saw the color crimson painted across concrete came back, and it stayed. He didn't know what happened, but something seemed to take over him and he felt different.

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