Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

March 30, 1993

Dear idk, 

It's real hard to talk sometimes. It's not that I can't, it's just that I try not to. It seems every time I open my mouth, something terrible comes out and everyone around me is here to remind me of it. Wish they’d leave me the fuck alone. 

If they want to hear an apology I’ll fucking give them it. IM FUCKING SORRY. IM FUCKING SORRY IM A SCREW UP. 

I'd try to not scream it. But they wouldn't hear me if I said it any normal way. 

A lot of people stopped listening because of that. 

“Fuck them,” i would’ve said, but now, I honestly dont know. Maybe if you listen I wouldn't have to scream. Maybe If you realize I'm not the same middle school douchebag, I'll think longer before saying whatever comes out of my mouth. 

Since nobody cares, I'll be silent for now. 

I don’t even know why I’m doing this. Writing shit down like it’s gonna help. Like this is gonna fix anything. God, I’m such a fucking joke. Some mentally unstable loser who’s lost his mind. Maybe I’ve been losing it for a while now. Maybe I’m just pissed off at everything. 

Where the hell do I put all this anger? What do I do if it's a part of me?

 I'm a loser. 

I'm a loser. 

I'm a loser! :)

I have always, essentially, been waiting. 

Waiting to become something else. 

Waiting to be that person I always thought I was on the verge of becoming. 

Waiting for that life I thought I would have. 

In my head, I was always one step away. 

But now, I honestly feel like I'm so much farther than that. I really was trying to manipulate myself. 

Next rant: People Are Always Staring!??!! I can’t even tell what people think when they look at me now. Two years ago? I would’ve thought they were in love with me. That they saw me as some strong, unstoppable guy who had everything figured out. 

But now…? I have no fucking clue. Some of them have that look like they’ve got me all figured out, like I’m some open book they can flip through whenever they want. 

They prolly think I’m just this mean, angry-ass bully who’s too much of a problem to be worth anyone’s time. That I’m impossible to be around. 

They are most definitely right about that. I mean, I fucking bullied my best friend out of school. My best friend??  Who the hell does that? Who the hell screws up that badly? It’s like no matter what I do, I can’t fix it. I can’t take it back. I ruined everything, and now I’m stuck. 

People think I don’t care. That I don’t feel anything. That I don’t pay attention to the things people say about me. They think I don’t hear the whispers or the stares or the way they still talk about shit that happened years ago. As if middle school me was some kind of legend they’ll never let die. 

But I hear it all. I see everything. I just act like I don’t, because it’s easier. It’s easier to pretend like it doesn’t get to me like it used to. Like I don’t give a shit. 

But that’s a lie.

It’s like I’m stuck in this never-ending loop. They’ll never let me be anything other than the asshole who screwed up. 

I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to do to change it. Like, what could I even do to redeem myself at this point? What would it take for people to stop looking at me like I’m some villain?

Sometimes I think maybe if I could just be better. This year, maybe I could be better. I tell myself that every damn year. But it never works out, does it? NO.

I’m fucking tired. Of pretending. Of trying. Of pushing people away before they even get the chance to leave on their own. Because they always do. They always leave. No one ever sticks around. And I get it. I’m a fucking mess. Who would want to stay? It’s easier to be alone. Easier than dragging people into this disaster of a life I’ve made for myself. I deserve it. 

Maybe this is my punishment for everything I’ve done. 

I never meant to be mean. I swear I am good. I am good. I am kind. I have love inside of me. Somewhere I swear. 

Damn, I've gotten weak. 

Fuck. 

From,

Katsuki Bakugou

“Fuck.” Katsuki shot to his feet, fists clenched as he crumpled the letter with an almost violent force. 

The paper tore in places, scattering like torn-up remnants of thoughts he couldn’t voice. Little fragments fluttered across the room, littering his floor and desk with the evidence of feelings he would never say aloud. 

Recently released 90’s rock albums played throughout the suffocating room. 

Katsuki felt like he was choking on every little thing that could have possibly been pissing him off or making him feel overwhelmed at that moment. All the words he had carelessly scribbled down, the screaming lyrics of the explicit songs, all being stuffed down his throat at once. 

The faint, but clear, frustrated yelling from down the hallway came from Katsuki’s mother and her weekly boyfriend. This week was a bad one. He didn't hit her, nor Katsuki, but God, did he like screaming.

 Shigeru, Katsuki guessed, was probably his name. They were most likely about to break up. This was the fourth argument over some dumb shit, like Mitsuki—Katsuki's mother—forgetting to wipe the counter after the boyfriend chugged an entire whiskey. He hoped he'd be gone soon. 

He needed the sleep for his first day of 11th grade which was coming in just two days. Not like he slept well on nights without the disruptions. 

The desk he had just been smashing his pencil into had little reminders of every other time he'd feel like this. Pencil streaks -–scribbled unorganized, unplanned– all over the wooden table his family had owned since his mother was a teenager.

Katsuki had always wondered how his mom was at his age. Was she as fucked up as he is? 

Did she do dumb shit that she could never redeem by herself?

 How did she get better? 

That's all Katsuki wanted to know: how to get better.

His mother was obviously still somewhat fucked up. She would occasionally disappear with one of her boys she probably found on the side of the street, take what money they had left, take meth, fuck them, and leave. It was a successful gig she pulled. 

Occasionally one would break things, yell random messed-up nonsense at the both of them, or attempt to hit them, but surprisingly, Mitsuki was smart enough to know to quickly discard of those fuckers.

Still breathing heavily, the boy glanced at the mess he had just created. He's done this so many times that by now he might as well keep the scraps there as a trophy of the only thing he was good at doing. 

Still attentioning the shreds covering his wooden floor, he scanned his room, observing every look on all the 90’s singers' posted faces that covered the flaws of his room's walls. They all looked the same. Nothing changed from 10 minutes ago. 

He occasionally had to check. 

The blonde examined around all the other posters and randomly pasted pictures of him as a child with his family. Even with the help of Nirvana, there were still some punched in holes from when writing didn’t help him feel better. 

He had to check that too. 

Still standing heedlessly in the middle of his average Japanese single-family home room, Katsuki stumbled over to his ideal of choice sneakers that were habitually always thrown under his mother’s now fucked up desk fucked up by her fucked up son. 

The shoes were visibly worn out with faded star logos on the sides. The blonde didn't care enough to buy another pair nor even ask his mother. Asking her was never a decision he'd attempt making. 

His cherry eyes focused on his escape: the door to his room, from whom he remembered himself being barely tall enough to see above the top of the door frame, but here he was, the tips of his spiky hair brushing against that same door frame. 

Katsuki slowly creeped down the hallway that owned the rooms of his private bathroom and the random closet he'd occasionally throw towels or random toiletries into. He walked uncentered, caressing the basic, but textured wallpaper that gave nothing to the home. 

That felt the same too. 

This was routine for Katsuki. He’d feel something, put it into words on paper, and then—just like now—destroy it and run.

Despite the fact of Katsuki being some random-insignificant-17 year old boy, when he left his home, it felt like the whole universe was revolving around him. Though it may sound selfish, being highly noticed was all Katsuki craved but rarely got. 

The house, once a place of comfort, now felt like a cage. Funny how every time he was out wandering, miles away, he longed to be home. But when he was home, he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t escape the feeling that no matter where he went, something was missing—someplace he could never find. 

The thought gnawed at him constantly. It wasn’t his home he wanted; it was something else, somewhere else. He didn’t know where, but he felt it like an ache deep inside. 

Even if he constantly checked for any sudden change throughout his home, he really always yearned for something—anything to be changed.

“Katsuki, really?”

His mother’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Katsuki was halfway out the front door and hadn’t even noticed. He froze, his hand still on the handle, trying not to breathe, looking like a defenseless prey hiding from its constant predator. 

She looked tired. Tired of her son, tired of week 20’s boyfriend, and every other thing she could possibly take control of and “fix”. 

The smell of burnt Katsudon, a common dish his mother cooked, and probably got yelled at for making it, spilled out the front door and stinged Katsuki’s nose. He bet Mitsuki didn't even notice her hard-working dinner-for-two-dish was currently being burnt to a crisp.

Shigeru probably had no clue what the hell was going on, as he was either high out of his mind or about to black out from an alcohol overdose. 

His monolid eyes owned deep, dark circles, almost matching the color of his dark hair. He looked like one of those lazy dressers that just throws on the first thing that falls out of their closet and calls it “street fashion”. 

Katsuki wondered that if he kept up this act, he would end up like him one day, mooching off of some already emotionally damaged woman who takes care of him more than her own children.

“I’m sick of this, you know,” Mitsuki called after him, her voice sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. “Every night. Every fucking night, you sneak out like I don’t see what’s happening. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t care?”

Katsuki’s grip tightened on the doorknob, his knuckles white. 

Of fucking course she doesnt care! She's continuously too busy feeding into her sick boyfriend’s desires! He kept his back turned to her. He couldn’t face this, not again. 

He knew if he attempted to say anything, it would obviously not be something Mitsuki would want to hear, but oh, he wanted to say something so fucking bad.

The blonde could feel his mother’s eyes piercing him—tiny, but sharp knives digging into his back. He wouldn't doubt that his mother would stab him on some random night like this. Shit, she's done worse than that to not just Katsuki but their once family.

Katsuki was thinking of any way to get out of this situation before his thoughts were cut short by words that would seamlessly break through his carefully built emotional wall: “I’m stuck here cleaning up what’s left of this family while you’re out there running from your shit. You’ve gotten so fucking weak, Katsuki.”

Weak.

The word echoed in his mind, and his heart dropped to his stomach. Weak. Of course she saw him as weak. Just the way she said it could make any child or even adult become petrified. 

He didn't feel like being silent then. 

"Why don't you shut the hell up for once, you fucked up bitch?" Katsuki whispered but spoke loud enough for her to hear clearly. “Go suck your sugar daddy’s dick while you call the next fucker over for tomorrow.” He couldn't stop the words from spilling out. Those words had been brewing for months, yearning to be free, to be directed especially to his own mother.

Mitsuki didn't even care to display her reaction. She dropped whatever she had held in her hands; Katsuki never took the chance to even look at the woman. Her stomping grew louder, obviously growing closer to her son.

Katsuki could feel one hand hovering over his shoulder and the other rising above his head, ready to smack the shit out of whatever was inside of the boy who thought it was okay to say that to his own mother.

“What the hell did you say, Katsuki Baku!–”

Whenever his words crumbled into jagged edges, left useless and sharp in his throat, Katsuki fell back on the only solution he trusted—violence. 

But this time, he could feel that familiar fury twist and contort, tightening into something bitter that he could only aim inward. Not at her. No matter how bad he wanted to, never at her. 

He swallowed hard, feeling the burn in his chest as he stared at the floor, his mother’s silence pressing down on him like an unbreakable weight.

His hand was already trembling, clenched so hard it began to numb, but the fire inside him only grew hotter. In a swift, unthinking motion, he swung his fist up and drove it into his own jaw, the impact splitting his lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His head jerked back from the blow, and for a moment, the sting chased away everything else—everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t feel.

But it wasn’t enough. 

Disappointing. 

His pulse hammered in his head as he lifted his hand again, his knuckles red and raw, and struck himself harder this time. The pain seared through him, but he welcomed it. Maybe if he hit hard enough, he could bruise away the feelings buried deep inside, the ones he didn’t know how to face.

Katsuki didn’t dare look at her. Couldn’t bear to see her expression—if she cared, if she didn’t, if she felt anything at all. And yet, a part of him craved her attention, some flicker of shock or guilt or... something. Anything. He wanted her to feel what he felt: this storm of frustration, shame, and helplessness that wouldn’t let him go. 

Blood trickled down his chin, and the room fell into silence, broken only by his own unorganized breathing.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand drop to her side. Mitsuki’s face was caught somewhere between horror and sorrow, her usual sharp edges softened, if only for a moment. 

And in that silence, he wondered if she saw past the anger, past the mask he wore so carefully. Maybe she saw the pieces of him he tried to keep hidden, even from himself—the doubts, the cracks, the parts of him that felt too weak, too vulnerable. Too goddamn weak. 

But then the moment passed. He straightened, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, setting his jaw as he forced himself to swallow the pain, both inside and out. 

This was what he deserved, he told himself. If he was going to make anyone suffer, it might as well be him. And maybe, in some twisted way, she’d see the effort it took for him to stay silent, to keep all those feelings locked away, so she wouldn’t have to feel the weight he carried. 

And still, he wondered if it would ever be enough.

Katsuki kept his head down, fresh blood creeped down his chin falling to the floor, the drops being the only noise interrupting the thick silence.

He would definitely need new shoes now, referring to the dark red dots tracing the laces of his sneakers. He glanced at his mother’s feet. She was wearing fluffy blue slippers. Her usual night-in choice of comfort, not like she even goes anywhere. They blended into the faux fur rug, which was now also decorated with red streaks. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Mitsuki’s usual clenched jaw was now rested, along with her sharp eyes. She waited for Katsuki’s ruby eyes to meet hers. Her once deceiving stare had now calmed to a confused, helpless gaze. The silence was growing thicker, nearly about to suffocate them both. 

She knew she failed. She clearly messed up somewhere. 

The boy slowly took his unbloodied arm and lightly caressed his lower jaw. He brought both hands into his view which was now just red. Deep dark red, as if the blood had been there for hours. 

As the adrenaline wore off, Katsuki felt the pain from his own doing. He attempted to move his jaw around but after he heard a strange clicking sound, he figured that was probably not a good idea. 

He had felt worse; like this one time he and his old elementary friend were celebrating new years in Katsuki’s crammed neighborhood, and the crazed boy thought it was a brilliant idea to pretend to be a superhero and light a small firework from his hand referencing his favorite hero. Not surprisingly, the explosive burned the thin layer of flesh right of his palms. The scar is still visible if one can tell what texture palms are meant to originally look like. 

Drip. Drip. 

Katsuki managed to compose his unorganized breathing, somehow matching his mother’s breathing pattern. It was all so awkward—so just unanticipated. 

He knew he needed to say something since his mother was obviously paralyzed, but the thought of talking to her was more frightening than walking on the side of a cliff, which was a scenario Katsuki imagined a lot. 

The blonde boy prepared for the dumbfounded look that would be displayed on his mother's face as he slowly raised his head. 

He could already feel the eyes of the boyfriend, who wasn't exactly "there," so he wasn't too concerned about him. 

When Katsukis crimson eyes met the eyes that gave him every one of his noticeable features, the realization hit him. She didn't look angered, she didn't look as if she was going to hit him for hurting himself; she had the face you've never seen from a mother. A feeling a mom had to keep deep inside for no one, especially not her child, to view. Tears streamed down her face despite her making any noise. 

She stood like a wax figure melting, stuck in a pose of distress in a blazing desert. Her eyebrows formed a new shape that Katsuki has never seen. They followed above her eyelids, which were drooping diagonally. Now she was shaking too.

Drip.

The still-bleeding boy shuffled down the porch steps, the spring breeze separating the spikes in his hair. Dark orange lighting creeped onto his face, as if the sun were attempting to heal the scars engraved into his body. 

Katsukis eyes didn't break contact with Mitsuki’s until the barrier of the door being slowly shut by the boy separated the two. 

She began to scream for her son—not a demanding scream, one of sorrow. The cries filled his already stuffed head. He wanted to walk back into the house and find the mother he had when he was a child. The mother that would consistently remind him how much she loved him. 

The mother that would hold him when he cried and didn't tell him to stop being fucking weak. 

The broken boy didn't move for a minute. His bloodied hand stained the wooden doorknob that he was gripping unnecessarily tight. He was reminded where he was when the aggressive wind blew his spiked hair into his vision. 

The physical pain of the hit was slowly wearing off, but the emotional pain stayed. It spilled throughout his whole body as if the punch injected depression inducing drugs that would never go away. 

Drugs sounded nice to him at the moment. 

He hadn’t taken any since the eighth grade, when his once friends thought it'd be amazing to smoke pot to get the girls’ attention. The only attention they got was from their homeroom teacher, Mr. Toshinori, who was probably well far away from this place. 

Katsuki had no clue. 

Maybe he'll check up on him once school starts. 

Before Mitsuki kicked Katsuki’s father out of their lives, he would always say to Katsuki, “People take drugs because they want to. You just have to not want to.” 

And now here he was, wanting to be as stoned as week 20’s boyfriend.

The wind started picking opposite from Mitsuki, who had given up calling for her son. Katsuki could hear Shigeru spewing shit out about her being too loud, but for the first time she hadn't been focused on him. 

The muddied ground made uncomfortable squished sounds as Katsukis bloodied shoes pressed against it. Occasionally he'd step on a stone and the grating noise would pause, but pick right up again. He stuffed his hands into his gray hoodie. He couldn't remember the last time he washed it. 

One last drop of blood fell from his lip, reminding him of why he was running away for a millionth time. Katsuki turned his aching head to view the once-home he had. It still looked the fucking same. Same walls. Same people. The only thing that seemed to change were the fuckboys and Katsuki’s sanity—both gradually getting worse by every week.

The wind motioned him to keep moving as he was realizing nothing about that home was changing. His legs followed the path of the wind as if it were a video game narrator giving instructions on where to go to complete a task. Just like any other runaway night, his task was to get as far away as possible.

He needed to be somewhere different. Maybe he needed to be someone different too. 

On nights like the Katsuki would find himself at familiar places, whether it be by the river where he used to play or on top of random building’s roofs owned by the city right near their small town– Wakayama, Shirahama. 

He'd mostly go to the city. “Leaving Wakayama Neighborhood Blah Blah Blah,” the signs would say as he paced down empty streets. “Welcome to Shirahama Beach!” The signs were already more vibrant compared to the discolored ones he's raised from. 

Katsuki would usually autopilot himself and automatically wound up at the crowded location. The hundreds of people, surprisingly a lot being tourists, used to piss him off greatly, as he hated overhearing the stupid topics people would discuss. 

Recently, when it started getting bad, he found comfort in other people's thoughts overtaking his. For once he wouldn't think about his own shit, but random extras. 

‘I lost my dog,’ 

‘I got fired from my dream job,’ 

‘I broke up with my boyfriend.’. 

That must suck for them, Katsuki would think to himself. 

Yeah, my mom emotionally abuses me and I haven't had friends since middle school. 

At least they were able to talk about their shit. 

But right now, with Katsuki’s pounding head and blood-soaked look, being around groups of people probably wouldn't be such a good idea. Randoms would stare, thinking what the hell had just happened to that kid. 

“Prolly got in a fight over a girl. Dumbass kid.”

He could already hear their assumptions. 

The blonde knew where to go: the riverbank he used to play at as a child. 

God, he wished he was of that age again– enjoying summer break with the close friend group he leadered. Him and his best … His mother and his best friend's mother enjoying lunch at the cafe just above the deep hill where the shallow water flowed. It was all so simple. 

Light rain fell onto Katsuki’s sore face, slowly washing away the red, which beautifully matched his crimson eyes. The orange hues in the atmosphere calmly faded, leaving only voids and small stars sprinkled like salt in the sky. Grass crept up the boys crinkled khaki pants. The sidewalk hasn't been mowed in ages. The roads shifted him into the nicer part of their small town—markets closed but still clearly visible to view what was in stock, dark signs indicating that its time to be fucking asleep, and all the more fortunate people shit like those Nissan Skyline cars.

Katsuki felt a presence lingering behind him. He turned to see two wild cats—one Siamese with sharp eyes, the other a gray tone with small dots covering its back and big green eyes shadowing him. 

The strays occasionally exchanged positions while playing a game of... tailsies? They quietly meowed, not wanting to upset the boy they were following. One would run ahead of the other as the other would quickly pace up to resume the playful nudges.

Katsuki wasn't really concerned about yelling at the cats to go. He continued to follow the road to his destination with the two energetic cats behind him. The tiny footsteps would stop for a second, making the boy think the strays had disappeared, but the sound of meowing closed that thought. 

The words Mitsuki said to him transient back into his mind, and Katsuki would admit—only to himself—that he was in fact getting weak. His mother always reminded him of it, as long as he could remember. But now, it wasn't just weakness growing; any other possible emotion besides confidence, competitiveness, damn, even happiness, Katsuki seemed to possess. 

The boy was taught vulnerability was the weakest response to ever express. The only person Katsuki felt comfortable talking to in his life was his father. But, now he's gone too. 

Everything started going downhill once Katsuki’s parents split. 

Shit was already pretty bad, but for the past two years it had gotten so much worse. Mitsuki had been making many stupid mistakes a mother would be expected not to make. 

It's okay to make mistakes as a parent, but making it a regular thing isn't a mistake. It's okay to make a mistake, but making it a common recurrence isn't a coincidence. It's okay to make a mistake, but taking your child’s childhood away isn't fine, because nothing can fix that mistake. It isn't a mistake that can be forgiven or fixed within a heartbeat. It doesn't just magically disappear from their mind if you decide to apologize one day—because it never truly disappears.

Mitsuki had always been the first person to break his heart, long before anyone else had the chance. She was supposed to care. She was supposed to be the one he could count on, but it never felt like that. Katsuki had spent his entire life trying to care for her, to be something she could be proud of, but it never worked. Nothing he ever did was enough. And the worst part? He wasn’t sure if it was because he was failing or if she was just…a bad person. 

Not a bad mother, necessarily, but a bad person.

As Katsuki walked, he felt a strange sense of clarity. He blinked rapidly as everything around him grew sharp—too sharp. Maybe it was a symptom of him striking himself. He could hear every sound, from the rustling leaves to the distant hum of a neighbor’s television, to the murmur of a couple arguing through an open window. The wild cats seemed to still be tailing him, their movements growing louder. The blonde felt alive, acutely aware of every detail, but at the same time, he wanted to disappear. To be anywhere but here. 

The streets were growing more narrow by every step, winding through the tightly packed houses of this part of the neighborhood.

 He hated how close everything felt, like the walls of this town were closing in on him. Yet there was something oddly comforting about it, too—the noise, the life, the rhythm of it all. He kept moving, trying to outrun the thoughts in his head.

But no matter how far he went, he couldn’t escape that one word.

 Weak. 

It clung to him, wrapping around his chest, squeezing until it hurt to breathe.

As he continued walking, Katsuki took detail of the town he had lived in his whole life. The streets were damp from the rain that had previously ruined his day. 

God, he hated the rain. 

It had just turned somewhere around 11:45, causing the automatic lights to illuminate the small paths between homes. Dark signs continuously appeared on every other block, advertising small shops that some of the locals owned.

At night, the world transformed into something quiet and gorgeous—especially for Katsuki, who craved those moments when the streets were empty. The stillness felt like a break from the noise of people pretending everything was fine, pretending nothing bad was happening just two blocks away. 

In the stillness, he could breathe, free from anyone trying to reassure him with empty words or forced smiles. The darkness was honest, allowing him to sit with his thoughts, his fears, and everything he couldn't say out loud.

Trees were looking more alive than ever as spring was approaching, bringing with it the promise of a new school year. The fresh green hues painted the world with a warmth that was rare, almost making the usually dull scenery feel like it was coming to life. Everywhere Katsuki went, green seemed to weave its way into his view—whether it was in the leaves, the grass, or the distant hills. He couldn’t help but notice it, drawn to the color in a way that surprised him. 

God, he loved green.

Incidentally, vibrant green leaves brushed against the eyelashes of the crimson eyed boy. He paused for a moment, watching the foliage of leaves follow the path of the wind like a flock of birds gliding through the sky. 

He only just noticed the familiar sound of meowing had faded—it had been missing for a while now. Turning back, he realized the two stray cats were nowhere to be seen, as if they were taken by the wind along with the leaves. The boy scoffed under his breath and continued walking with his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. 

Leaves started falling more frequently which was an obvious sign he was getting closer to the river bank. The damp earth beneath his feet sank as he paused his steps. The wind picked up, rustling through the branches above sending more petals and leaves fluttering around him. 

Everything seemed softer, like the world knew what Katsuki was feeling at that moment and was attempting to erase that feeling. He couldn't help but feel a familiar warmth stirring inside of him. It reminded him of simpler days, moments he'd never relive.

 As he reached the river, moonlight glistened on the water's surface, creating a silvery light over the gentle currents. The river moved quietly. Just how Katsuki likes it.

 He took a deep breath, letting the wind carry the faint fragrance of blossoms flow through his body. It was beautiful here, he felt connected to all the nights he'd spent wandering to this same spot, drawn back by something he could never quite name.

This river was the one place he came to almost every week, like clockwork. This spot has been his sanctuary. 

Spring had breathed life into the river’s edge, making it impossibly beautiful. Wild grass sprouted from the cracks in the rocks, pink flowers bloomed in clusters along the banks, and lily pads drifted lazily across the dark, but still shimmering surface of the water. 

The entire scene was peaceful, serene—almost perfect.

Yet, it only took one memory to taint it all. The beauty of this place didn’t matter when his mind replayed the past like a cruel, unending film reel. This was before everything fell apart. Before he ruined it. 

This was back when he had friends. When he had a best friend. 

Izuku Midoriya. 

Goddamn Deku.

“Honey, this is my friend from highschool. You can call her Aunt Inko.” Mitsuki whispered gently to Katsuki, who was gripping her leg like a baby sloth. “And this is her son, Izuku. He’s your age, sweetie! Go talk to him!” 

Katsuki untangled from his mother, searching for the boy who also seemed a bit shy. He looked up at the green-haired woman, who was gently coaxing her son to come out from behind her. 

She had a warm, motherly softness to her—a kind of comfortable roundness that made her seem both nurturing and approachable. Her cheeks were a vibrant red, and it was hard to tell if the color was natural or if she always wore an impressive blush. 

Her deep green hair matched her eyes perfectly, shining softly in the light, and as young Izuku finally stepped out from behind her, it was clear exactly where he’d gotten his own green eyes and unruly hair from.

The boy obviously needed a haircut– his unmanageable curls swept into his vision causing him to swipe the strands away. Izuku’s eyes blinked and flickered, adjusting to the sudden brightness after having his face tucked into his mother’s cardigan. 

His green eyes grew larger and larger the more Katsuki stared into them– shining like leaves catching the morning sun, bright and full of life, as if they held a world of their own in every shade of emerald. 

“My name ith’ Izuku,” the green haired boy stumbled over his words, clearly nervous. 

“I'm Katsuki.”

“ Ka-Kathu… Katu—”

Inko cut her son’s struggling short, “ He has a bit of a lisp, hah…” She chuckled nervously, “He is only 6! He'll grow out of it soon.”

Katsuki stared at Izuku, annoyed as he kept trying to say his new friend's name. “Kathuki! Kazooki!”

“Honey. Izuku, baby. Why don't you just call him ‘Kacchan’. That's easy to say, right?” Mitsuki offered, bending down slightly, reaching for Katsuki’s shoulders.   

Katsuki glared at his mother as if she had just called him a slur. “Kacchan?”

“Kacchan!”

Katsuki crossed his arms, pouting his lip like the spoiled child he was. “It's not that hard to say my name. I could say it perfectly when I was three,” he bragged. 

“Katsuki! Be nice to him! How would you like it if someone made fun of you?” Mitsuki scolded, shaking his shoulders slightly. 

Izuku stared down at the muddy park ground beneath him, his wide green eyes growing gloomy.

Katsuki blinks rapidly; the image dissolves. Every small detail in that river—the rocks they used to step on, the pebbles they used to skip across the shore, the large fallen tree where he demanded his friends to march across—made memories race in his mind. Every mistake he made, every good time he had, all at once hammered into his head.

"You're like a lil’ useless doll," Katsuki sneered, his friends following. "Like a Deku doll! Yeah, I like that—Deku!"

Izuku reached for the green ball he had just embarrassingly stumbled over. Sand from the playground fell from the bouncy ball, filling the gaps of missing sand below. “No, I don't like it! Why are you calling me names, Kacchan?” A wave of tears filled his eyes, ready to pour. 

“Cause’ you are a Deku. Don't tell me you're gonna start cryin’ again.”

A stone slipped under Katsuki’s shoe and the memory shattered, replaced by the tense echoes of another day. 

“ Forward march and here we go! Members of the agency Bakugou!” Katsuki shouted, as if he was a military sergeant leading his crew. 

Katsuki and four of his other friends, including Izuku, followed behind the blonde boy, carefully watching their step as they were walking across an unsturdy fallen tree. The trunk towered over a beautiful river that looked too perfect to be natural. 

Green moss crept under Katsukis foot, causing him to go crashing into the river below. He let out a quick yelp before his whole body submerged under the warm water. 

“Hey! You okay down there?” One of his friends asked, yelling while cupping his mouth. 

“Oh, don't worry. Kacchan is super tough,” the bulkier friend remarked, not worried in the slightest. 

Katsuki lifted his head from the water, rubbing the sensitive part of his head. “Sure I'm fine! Just give me one second!” 

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Izuku appeared into his vision, waist deep into the water, extending his hand out to the blonde boy. 

“I was worried you might've hit your head or something.”

Katsuki looked up to the green haired boy as if he had just called him a slur. Was Deku making fun of him? Was he calling him weak? 

That small moment changed Katsukis mindset completely. Funny how just in ten seconds you can go from tolerating someone, to hating their guts completely.

Katsuki glared at the river as every memory flooded into his head. 

Katsuki leaned against the wall near the back of the middle school, his new group of friends laughing loudly around him. Their voices carried in the autumn air, and their laughter had an edge. Izuku stood a few steps away, clutching his bag strap like it might anchor him.

"Oi, Deku!" Katsuki called out, his voice somehow louder than his  usual volume. There was a smirk on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You forget how to talk or something? Or do you just like standing there looking stupid?"

Izuku’s shoulders stiffened. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. He glanced at the group, his gaze switching between their faces before landing on the blonde boy. "I—uh—"

"Spit it out already!" one of the other boys yelled, tossing a crumpled piece of paper that hit Izuku’s arm and bounced to the ground.

Katsuki chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Nah, leave him alone. He’s probably thinking too hard—if he even knows how to think."

The group erupted into laughter, and the green haired boy’s cheeks turned pink. He bent down to pick up the paper, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Man, you’re so easy to mess with," Katsuki continued, his tone lighter, almost casual. But it wasn’t. Everytime the blonde switched to that tone, Izuku knew something rude would come out of his mouth. "Hey, remember when we used to hang out? Back when I thought you weren’t such a loser?"

Izuku flinched at that, his head snapping up. His eyes searched Katsuki’s face, like he was looking for a trace of the boy he used to know. "Kacchan," he said softly, his voice barely audible, "why are you acting like this?"

For a moment, Katsuki froze. His smirk faded, and something flickered in his eyes—something like guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a shrug. "Don’t take it so personally. We’re just having fun." He turned to his friends, smirking again. "Right?"

They glanced at Katsuki uncertainty. They honestly didn't want to hurt Izuku that much. They knew what they were doing and they were aware it was wrong, but going against Katsuki was like sinning to them, so they remained silent. 

Noticing how his friends didn't back him up, Katuski scoffed and became irritated. 

Izuku looked down at the ground, his grip on his yellow school bag tightening. "I’ll see you later," he muttered, stepping backward.

The red eyed boy didn’t stop him. 

He didn’t say a word as Izuku turned and walked away. But his words chased after him, the sound harsh and unforgiving, sticking to Izuku like a shadow.

Memory after memory was being showcased throughout Katuski’s mind. 

The house felt too big when his mother wasn’t home, but at least when his dad was around, it didn’t feel empty. 

Katsuki sat at the kitchen table, the soft murmur of the TV drifting in from the living room where his father was watching the news. A plate of Katsudon and rice sat in front of him, the steam curling upward.

“You’re picking at it again,” his father said, walking in with his cup of tea. He leaned against the counter, smiling lightly. “Not hungry?”

Katsuki shrugged, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers. “I’m fine.” 

His father sat across from him, resting his arms on the table. “Long day at school?”

“Not really,” the blonde boy muttered, looking down at his plate. It was currently March, near the end of his second year of middle school, so there was nothing for the boy to be stressed about. 

His father didn’t push—he never did—but he stayed there, just in case his son wanted to say more.

The front door slammed open suddenly, and both of them jumped. His mother stormed in, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Her blazer was wrinkled, and her hair fell loose from its bun.

“Where were you this time?” his father asked, his tone more tired than angry.

“Don’t start,” she snapped, tossing her bag onto the couch. “I don’t need this right now.”

Katsuki sank lower in his seat, hoping to become invisible. His father rubbed his temples, but his voice remained steady. “We’ve talked about this, Mitsuki. You can’t just disappear for days and expect us to act like it’s fine.”

“I was working!” she shouted, spinning to face him. “What do you want me to do, quit? Is that what you want?”

“Working?” his father said, his tone sharpening. “I checked. You weren’t at the office.”

Her face twisted, and the air in the room grew thick. Katsuki’s grip on his chopsticks tightened.

“You’re unbelievable,” she hissed. “Always checking up on me like I’m some kind of child.”

“Because you act like one!” his father snapped, slamming his hand on the table. Katsuki flinched at the sound. “You’ve been lying for years, Mitsuki. This family deserves better.”

“What family?” she spat, her voice rising. “This? This isn’t a family. It hasn’t been for a long time!”

Katsuki’s heart pounded in his chest. His father glanced at him, his expression softening. “Katsuki,” he said gently, “why don’t you head upstairs for a bit?”

The blonde boy hesitated, his eyes darting between them. His mother waved him off impatiently, her tone sharp. “Go. This doesn’t concern you.”

Not making a noise, Katsuki stood and left the room, but he didn’t go upstairs. He lingered at the base of the staircase, listening as their voices carried through the house.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mitsuki,” his father said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “I’m done trying to hold this together when you’re not even here.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” she retorted. “Of course, it’s all on me. You’re perfect, aren’t you? The doting father, the loving husband. Meanwhile, I’m drowning, and you don’t even see it!”

“I see it,” his father said, his voice breaking slightly. “But you won’t let anyone help you. You’ve already made up your mind to leave, haven’t you?”

There was a long pause. Katsuki held his breath.

“Maybe I have,” she finally said, her voice cold.

Upstairs in his room, Katsuki laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, his mind racing. He didn’t cry. He couldn't. 

After a while of contemplating, the house went silent again. But this time it was different. 

You get the jist. Yet another memory came into view. 

The 8th grade homeroom was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed before the morning rush of students filled the space. 

Izuku stood at Katsuki’s desk, a damp tissue in his hand, scrubbing at some marked drawing. The faint smear of marker ink resisted his efforts, but he kept going, determined to erase it.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Izuku flinched at the familiar voice behind him. He turned to see Katsuki standing in the doorway, his bag thrown over one shoulder, his usual smirk replaced by a scowl.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” the blonde continued, walking into the room.

“I just…” Izuku looked down, his grip on the tissue tightening. “It was bothering me.”

Katsuki dropped his bag onto his chair. “What, so now you’re a hero? Cleaning up for people who don’t even like you?”

Izuku flinched but said nothing.

“You think this makes you better than me or something?” Katsuki’s voice rose, sounding irritated. 

“That’s not what I—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Katsuki stepped closer, his tone cutting. “You act all quiet and nice, but you’re just pathetic. Just always trying to play the victim, huh? Always hoping someone will feel sorry for you, right?”

“That’s not true,” the green haired boy said quietly, his voice trembling.

Katsuki chuckled mockingly. “Yeah? Then why do you always look so pitiful? Like you’re just waiting for someone to come save you, you dumbass.”

Izuku’s chest tightened, his face pale. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to defend himself against words that felt sharper than any blade.

Katsuki leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “If you hate it here so much, why don’t you just leave?”

Something in Izuku snapped. “Maybe I will.” His voice wasn’t loud, but for once it sounded confident.

Katsuki froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden remark. But then his smirk returned, colder than before. “Good. Do us all a favor.”

Izuku turned away, reaching for his bag, but Katsuki grabbed his wrist, yanking him back. “What, you think you can just walk away?”

“Let me go,” Izuku said, his voice shaking now.

“Why should I?” the blonde said, shoving him back against the desk. The corner jabbed into Izuku’s side, making him yelp. “You think you’re so much better, don’t you? Cleaning my desk, acting like some kind of saint. Like you’re better than the rest of us!”

“I don’t think that!” Izuku shouted, tears streaming from his eyes. 

“Then stop acting like it, bitch!”

Before Izuku could respond, Katsuki pushed him again, harder this time. Izuku stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the desk. The anger that had been boiling inside him finally took over, and he shoved the blonde back.

Katsuki barely moved, but his expression darkened. “You really want to do this?”

“I don’t want to fight you, Kacchan,” Izuku said, his voice desperate.

“Too late.”

Katsuki lunged at him, grabbing the front of Izuku’s shirt and yanking him forward. The greenette struggled, shoving at Katsuki’s arms, but he wasn’t nearly as strong. They wrestled awkwardly, knocking over chairs and sending a pile of papers tumbling to the floor.

Izuku managed to push Katsuki away again, breathing hard.

Katsuki’s grip tightened on Izuku’s shirt. “Why am I doing this?” he hissed. “Because you’re pathetic, and you make everyone miserable. You should just—” He hesitated for a second, but his anger won. “You should just disappear already. Do us all a favor and take a swan dive off a building or something.”

Izuku froze, his eyes widening as if the words had struck him physically. He stopped struggling, The silence that followed was deafening.

Katsuki let go of the boy’s shirt, shoving him back one last time. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he muttered, turning away.

Izuku didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at the floor, before quietly grabbing his bag and walking out of the room.

For the next few days, Izuku didn’t show up to school. Katsuki noticed immediately, though he didn’t want to admit it. At first, he told himself he didn’t care. Maybe Izuku had finally taken the hint. Maybe he really was gone for good. Was that really what he wanted?

But then Katsuki started to notice things—rumors floating through the halls about Izuku transferring, the strange looks his classmates gave him when they passed by, and, most unsettling of all, the messages written on his desk.

Someone had scribbled in bold marker: "Bakugo is a monster, " More read, "No one actually likes you, " "Jerkface bully. "

Each day, there was something new. Cruel words doodled with maker, a few etched into the wood unable to be erased. 

Everyday would be something new. Something mocking Katsuki, throwing his own hateful comments back at him. His own words, ones he’d thrown at Izuku and others without a second thought, were now staring back at him with hate. 

And it hit him like a punch to the gut when he realized why Izuku had been at his desk that morning.

He wasn’t cleaning it because he thought he was better than anyone. He was trying to erase the words. The evidence of Katsuki’s cruelty, the marks left by the venom he’d spit so carelessly.

Katsuki sat at his desk during lunch one day, tracing the words scraped into his desk. He took the time to notice how his “friends” would go off in their own circle, excluding Katsuki. 

He went out of his own thoughts and took the time to overhear what others were talking about. Some complained about the quiz they took recently, others about crushes, but one topic seemed to be the most popular around the class: Katsuki Bakugou is a terrible person.

His friends called for him to join them, but he shook his head, saying he wasn’t hungry. He could hear the fakeness in their voice. For the first time in years, the familiar noise of the classroom felt suffocating, and Katsuki didn’t have the energy to wear his usual smirk.

The weight of  Izuku’s absence pressed on him, heavier with each passing day. The anxious feeling grew inside of him. He prayed that Izuku actually didn't do anything stupid. He prayed that Izuku didn't do something stupid that he told him to do. 

And for the first time, he didn’t feel angry or victorious. 

He just felt… quiet.

Another memory began to find a way into Katsuki’s mind. This one he hated.

The 8th grade homeroom classroom was unusually quiet that morning. Katsuki had noticed that his usual target had been missing for a couple days now. 

He stared out the window beside him, leaning forward in his chair with his chin resting on his hands on the vandalized desk in front of him. He pretended to be bored with his foot tapping impatiently, but really he was trying to cover up the words beneath his hands. 

The teacher cleared his throat at the front of the room, setting down a stack of papers. “Before we begin today’s lesson, I have an announcement to make.”

Katsuki glanced up lazily, barely paying attention. Beside him, he overheard one of his friends whispering to another friend something about a girl wanting to ask him out, but he didn't care in the slightest. 

“Izuku Midoriya has transferred to another school,” the teacher said, his voice steady but soft.

Katsuki froze.

For a moment, the room was silent, despite the faint creak of chairs as students shifted in their seats, it was so quiet. A few murmurs broke out, tiny whispers of surprise and confusion. 

He didn't know what to feel at the moment. He was relieved to know Izuku didn't do the stupid thing he had said just a few days ago, but he also felt a wave of guilt over him. Wait, no- anger. Sadness? Happiness? The blonde boy had no clue. 

“Wait, Midoriyas leaving?” someone asked from the front.

“I would too, to be honest,” another kid said. Katsuki didnt know him, but he wouldn't doubt that he had probably said something rude to the boy. 

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. He buried his face in his hands completely, catching a glimpse of the graffiti carved into his desk. His heart pounded in his chest, but his face stayed blank. 

Katsuki’s friend leaned over to the other he was just talking to. “Think we’ll get in trouble for this?”

The other whispered back something that was aimed directly for Katsuki to hear, “Nah, I bet only Bakugou will get in trouble. Everyone knows it was his doing. No yelling your way out of this one.” 

Katsuki didn’t react to the comment. Usually he'd beat someone up if they ever said something like that to him, but his stomach turned, the words twisting inside him like a knife. 

He should’ve felt victorious. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To push Izuku out, to prove… what? He didn’t even know anymore.

All he could think about was the look on Izuku’s face the other day, just before he’d walked away—how small and defeated he’d looked. How it had felt like something in Katsuki’s chest cracked when Izuku hit the ground.

The teacher moved on, starting the lesson, but Katsuki didn’t hear a word. His fingers curled into fists beneath his face, nails digging into his palms.

When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Katsuki continued to stay in that position. Maybe nobody would notice these unfamiliar emotions he was feeling. 

Or… maybe he did want someone to notice. 

For the first time in a long while, the red eyed boy felt something he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t anger, or pride, or even guilt. It was emptiness.

And it scared him.

Now was the most clear memory he had. One that would etch his skin like the words etched into his desk. 

It started with whispers.

Katsuki noticed it during lunch one day, the way his friends sat a little further away than usual, their conversations quieted. He caught snippets of words, but none of it made sense—at least, not yet.

“...said that to him…”
“...can’t believe he’d go that far…”
“...everyone’s saying it now.”

The blonde stabbed at his lunch with his chopsticks, his jaw clenched. “What are you guys talking about?” he asked, his voice demanding.

The group fell silent, exchanging awkward glances. Finally, one of them, a boy named Takara, shrugged. “Nothin’. Don’t worry about it.”

But Katsuki could feel the tension. They weren’t laughing at his jokes as much. When he walked into a room, the easy friendship they used to have was gone, replaced by a strain he couldn’t ignore.

The real blow came a week later, during break. Katsuki was leaning against the wall, thinking to himself, when he overheard two of his friends talking nearby.

“I mean, did you see what he said to Midoriya?” one of them whispered. “That’s messed up.”

The other nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t think he’d actually go that far. I don’t want to be around someone like that.”

Katsuki’s stomach twisted. He stepped forward, his voice louder than he intended. “What are you guys saying about me?”

The two boys jumped, but they didn’t back down. Takara crossed his arms, glaring at Katsuki. “We’re saying you’re a jerk. That’s what.”

Katsuki scoffed, masking his unease with boldness. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you’re all innocent. You laughed at everything I said about Deku. You were right there with me.”

“Yeah, and we regret it,” Takara snapped. “We didn’t think you’d actually tell him to—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Forget it. Just stay away from us.”

Katsuki froze, the words hitting him harder than he expected. “You’re seriously dropping me? Over him?”

“It’s not just about De- Midoriya,” Takara said, his voice unsteady. “It’s about you. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You think being loud and mean makes you cool, but it just makes you a bully.”

The other boy nodded. “And people are starting to see it. That’s why you keep finding stuff on your desk. Everyone knows what you did, Bakugou.”

Katsukis hands curled into fists at his sides, his face burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. “You guys are pathetic,” he spat. “Go ahead and leave. I don’t need you.”

But as they walked away, laughing quietly to themselves, the blonde felt something crack inside him.

It didn’t stop there. His former friends didn’t just abandon him, they made sure everyone else knew what he was like. 

They told the new students the following year— 9th grade— to steer clear, shared stories of his worst moments, and even encouraged others to add to the messages scrawled across his desk.

By the time the school year ended, Katsuki was a ghost in his own school. No one invited him to hang out after class. No one greeted him in the halls. Even when he tried to join conversations rarely, he was met with cold stares or awkward silence.

He told himself he didn’t care. He didn’t need them.

But every time he sat alone at lunch, every time he walked into the classroom to see another cruel message on his desk, the loneliness gnawed at him.

Katsuki’s smirk, once so confident, began to slip. His voice, once so loud, grew quiet.

And for the first time in a long time, he started to wonder if maybe—just maybe—they were right.

His jaw clenched at the thoughts that raided his mind, the usual wave of anger bubbling up to the surface. Every time something went wrong, his thoughts inevitably circled back to Izuku. Katsuki thought he had finally gotten the green haired boy out of his mind. 

Izuku represented everything that went wrong. It had always been easier for Katsuki to put the blame on Izuku, telling himself that losing Izuku, along with all his other friends, was just a consequence of that one “insignificant” friendship. But under the anger, there's a painful twist of guilt and longing; he remembers the good memories here, how they were kids, and it digs into him. 

It's a tormenting mix of helplessness and anger. Like he's trapped in a prison of his own making, yet without the key to break free. 

Katsuki hated how his mind did that, how everything came back to him—how Izuku was always at the center of his frustrations, his guilt, his shame. 

He hated Izuku for so many things. Hated him for being the reason he lost his friends. Hated him for letting hisself get bullied, not just by Katsuki, but by everyone else too.

But most of all, he hated that he couldn’t stop hating him.

The anger felt twisted, bitter, like it had festered inside him for years, and now he didn’t know how to untangle it. He needed to blame someone, and Izuku has always been the easiest target. 

But somewhere, deep down, Katsuki knew that wasn’t the truth. Izuku wasn't the problem.

He was.

The blonde steadily walked down the slight ramp of a hill the river was under, almost tripping on his untied shoelaces. He stared down at his reflection in the water, his face rippling in the gentle current, distorted and unfamiliar. For a moment, he barely recognized himself. 

Even in the dark, the purple bruise growing under his eye and jaw could already be visible. He clenched his fists at his sides, the muscles in his arms tensing with the urge to smash something, anything, to break through the suffocating anger and self-loathing that clung to him like a second skin.

“Fuck!” The word tore from his throat, raw and filled with frustration. He hates the river now. 

This place, which had once been his escape, was just another reminder of everything he’d screwed up. He’d ruined it. Again.

Katsuki pushed himself up off the ground, his legs trembling slightly from the force of his own emotions. He didn’t look back at the water as he turned away. He couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. The sight of it only made him feel sick. It had once been a place where he could think, where he could breathe. 

Now it was just another place he couldn’t go.

He walked, though he didn’t know where he was going. He rarely did these days. Everywhere he went, that same gnawing feeling of regret and frustration followed. No matter how far he walked, he couldn’t escape it. There was no peace, no quiet for his mind. He felt like a prisoner, trapped in his own head, despite the freedom to roam wherever he wanted.

Usually by this time, he would’ve headed home. The routine was always the same—leave, wander, come back. He would take a shower, lie in bed, and let the endless thoughts plague him until sleep finally overtook him. 

But tonight, even the thought of home filled him with dread. It was suffocating there. Hell, it was suffocating everywhere.

He felt so free—free to go anywhere, yet he was trapped in a way that no amount of wandering could fix. His chest tightened as if an invisible weight pressed down on him. 

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the nights when he felt absolutely nothing or the nights when he felt everything at once.

There was nowhere to go. No place that didn’t feel tainted. 

And now, even the river—a place he had once loved—had become just another reminder of the person he hated the most: himself.

So he kept walking, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead, mind racing, heart aching, with no destination in sight. 

He was in Hell.