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The wooden planks creaked under his weight.
Step by salt-filled step, the swirling staircase complained about his presence, its voice an echo from centuries ago, a whine Bakugou Katsuki was deaf to. Or rather, he pretended to be.
At the top, he paused. Twirled around, fiddling with the camera hanging from his neck. It wasn't big enough for a lighthouse, he realized. From the shore Katsuki had been walking on when he spotted it, it was barely visible. Even if the lantern part was still on top of it and not draped in pieces across the pointy rocks at the base of the building, it would still be too small to be a functional lighthouse.
In spite of the lack in its structure, there was an eerie and fascinating aura about it. It was dark and made out of grey stone, forgotten on a bunch of boulders in the middle of the sea, the entrance door eaten away by rot and the walls by its sides had collapsed — dangerous, it screamed, but magnetic in a way that restless, pilgrim souls like the one Katsuki owned were unable to resist its calling. It tugged him through the angry ocean waves. His toes and calves were still numb by the shockingly cold water.
A rotting desk and chair rested near the broken window, while a wooden library and a bed existed on the other side of the spherical room. Katsuki walked to the library first. It held no books; only moss growing out of the spaces between the bricks. And salt. A lot of sea salt sprinkled across the surface of each shelf. He let go of his camera to swipe a finger across. The sensation it left him with was as icky as the word itself; moist. Like the air that he breathed, old and humid and full of water, full of stories and secrets of the past.
The floor creaked ominously. He skipped past the spot as fast as possible.
At the end of the desk there were three different items. Charcoal. A bottle of ink. A quill. He did not move them, he did not move either, only to bring the camera to his face and immortalize the scene. Then, for the first time, he turned to the bed.
Carefully, Katsuki took a seat on the mattress. The heavy sigh the skeleton made under his weight brought a sardonic grin to his face and goosebumps on his forearms. It was wet and matted, centuries-old and filled with dirt and barbs, the sheets shining a rotting yellow and missing the fabric at parts. He picked up the pillow, ruffled it with his fingers. A shower of dust, salt and unidentifiable things fell directly on his clothes, and with a hiss, Katsuki chuckled it at the other end of the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor with an unceremonious thud.
It was then that he saw it.
Brittle and crumbling, its black cover contrasted starkly the washed-yellow of the sheets. A chunk of it fell off when Katsuki picked it up, it creaked like the wooden floor when he opened it up, but the pages were intact. Dried out after being wet, stiff and crusty, but intact. He turned the first page.
Day 644.
Starting a new notebook as I start a new day. What number am I on now? Five? Seven? I am going to have to check in the drawers later because I am not sure anymore. Still, I have to ask Mother to bring me new ones when she comes to visit me next. This is the only one I have left. After all, writing is the only solace I have.
Today, it is sunny. The sea is calm, but it also feels brooding at the same time, as if She is preparing a storm and does not want to tell us yet. I have spent enough time near Her to know Her whims. Living side-by-side, as if She were a lover.
The only lover I can have.
I am writing today not only because it's sunny, but also because it's a tough day. Yesterday, Mina told me he got married. I kept my face calm, but in my heart a thunderstorm broke. After all we went through, after all the promises and the words of love, he...
I can't help but sigh, hoping he will be happy with her. Seems I was not good enough.
Till next time.
The wind howled through the broken window. It held a meaning Katsuki had yet to decode.
He blinked at the page full of ink, mind racing. Like magic, he realized, the text had drawn him in. He turned the page. Another entry. He turned another and another, and there were more entries, some longer, some shorter, some with just one word, others a pandemonium of sentences. Katsuki clutched at the edges of the notebook — what a treasure, he thought. Finding the diary of the man who inhabited the lighthouse God-knows how long ago. It was all Katsuki needed to find the story he had been looking for; the very same story he left the comfort of his house in the middle of the winter to find.
Scooting closer to the wall until the back of his waterproof jacket hit icy-cold brick and with his body shivering under the whips of the merciless wind, Katsuki turned page after page after page, drinking the words in, drinking the whole new world seen by a man in a different era. It wasn't the writing style that trapped his attention — if anything, it was curt and simple and lacked structure more often than it didn't, but even with such an amateurish storytelling, it was impossible to dimish the sorrow drenching every page, like each swipe of the ink did. The very sorrow of a man casted away to an isolated lighthouse because he dared to love another man.
Katsuki kept reading with his breath sticking to his throat. He read until the natural light was so low he had to use his phone's flashlight, but even then, Katsuki could not stop. Like a maniac, like an obsessive lover, he had to read and learn everything there was about that man locked up in the lighthouse. Mundane things - what he ate, how the sun poured in from the singular window of the tower, how his mother brought him food and supplies every other day; Katsuki had to know it all. He had to know the story, the whole, painful story of the young man living in solitude with ink and paper as his solace, and a mother and a friend who did not think any less of him because of who he loved and a world that wanted him to disappear.
By the end of it, Katsuki's throat had closed up completely and his eyes stung. He turned the page.
Day 730
It has been two years since I last saw him.
Mother told me he died of illness today.
God, I wish I could just...disappear.
The lighthouse creaked again. What remained of the sun was hiding behind rainclouds as rain rolled down Katsuki's cheek.
It was the last entry. The notebook was empty from there on.
On trembling legs he stood and with the notebook clutched tight against his chest, Katsuki walked to the window and stole a brief glance at the sharp rocks ominously waiting underneath, inviting every aching soul. With the tips of his fingers, he grazed the edge of the broken glass. Initially, he had thought the anger of the ocean had been responsible for the damage. Reading those entries changed his mind. Despair could be very damaging too.
With a huff, Katsuki frowned at the horizon. This was not the end he wanted to read. No young man deserved to end up in pieces at the bottom of the ocean because of some stupid love.
The wind shrieked in the darkness. Rain started to pour in from the broken window.
Katsuki dashed down the swirling staircase and out of the building. Before stepping in the rain, he shoved the notebook inside his jacket and tugged the hood over his head. The water of the ocean was just as shockingly cold as he remembered and the waves, angry now in the storm, drenched him all the way to his waist by the time he made it to the sandy shore. He turned then, to look at the lighthouse one last time.
The walk back to the house was under his phone's flashlight and the shivers of his drenched body, a mind heavy with thoughts and a heart raging like the ocean. Words on the pages of the notebook now neatly tucked under his armpit were coming back to him, raining on him like the skies above and filling him with the inspiration he had been looking for. His editor had been right; heartbreak was the best seller. Katsuki would never give that half-and-half bastard credit though.
Once sheltered, he placed his camera on the foyer and kicked his shoes and socks off before stepping in the living room. One the way in, he shrugged off his jacket and trousers, throwing them both across the back of one of the two chairs at the tiny kitchenette. The notebook, he placed on the kitchen table, next to the pencil case he had forgotten the day before. Gently. The way you'd treat a treasure.
A shiver ran down his spine, but the warmth from the dying fire in the fireplace quickly seeped into his pores. The bungalow itself wasn't much — a living room, kitchenette, and bathroom and bedroom, but the fireplace was the reason Katsuki booked it. He walked towards it, threw in one of the logs the landlady had piled by its side and lit a match. The fire thrived again.
He thought of taking a shower, however, his gaze got stuck on the notebook he had placed on the kitchen table, next to the pile of clothes. Nonchalant he was as he picked it up again, scanned through the pages he had already read, but it was all a mere act. His heart was racing, faster as he stopped again at the last entry. He stared at the letters, as if to tattoo them in his brain.
God I wish I could just...disappear.
The clothes thumped to the floor as he took a seat. Then, Katsuki reached for his pencil before he realized his body had moved.
Drawing had been there for Katsuki's stormy heart long before writing became his profession. Ever since he was a tiny brat, fussy as he was, his mother shoved colored pencils between his small fingers to get him to shut up for a few hours. Yet, unlike most childhood hobbies, drawing grew on him and didn't disappoint him, especially during his tough adolescence. It kept him growing and helped him bloom, easing his heart out of every single one of the strong emotions he always felt.
This time, it was no different. With each stroke of the pencil, Katsuki's troubled heart seemed to unwind.
Soon enough, the nameless man began to exist in shape on the empty page, right next to the last entry. Katsuki started off with soft lines and a slender physique, but a man living on his own, exiled by the people he once held dear, was not tender or meek. So, he erased all of him and started over again, giving him sharp lines and broad shoulders, a body whipped and shaped by the ocean itself, a pair of eyes that could cut like razors and a mouth stretched to a feral grin and full of shark teeth. Last, he gave him hair; long, to his shoulders, irregularly cut because that was all a man could do when living alone in a lighthouse.
Clothes came in second. A pair of baggy trousers and Katsuki's favorite black shirt with the skull sported up front.
Then, he gave him color; wheat skin and brick-red eyes, and the clothes he kept them both black. He hesitated but only for a second on his hair color.
Red suited him best.
Filled to the frames, his new character stared back at him with mischief and Katsuki grinned at him as he placed his pencils back in the pile splayed all around the table. Gorgeous, he thought. Expected, if anything. Though he looked less human than what Katsuki usually used for an urban fiction category, he was within the margins of what he could use. He could build a myth around him, he could make him the ocean's child after he was one crying an ocean full of tears for his beloved, so he could live his happy ending with a merman or two underwater.
Katsuki glanced at the last entry. He bit his lower lip. No, he mused, this does not feel like the right happy ending for him.
"I will find a way to make you happy," he promised with the fondness of a father speaking to his child.
The fire spat then, breaking the moment. Katsuki put down the notebook and with a final, fond look at his creation, he headed to the bathroom. He let the scalding hot water fill the fetus-sized tub, got rid of his shirt and underwear, and slipped under the surface with a sigh. The smile had not left his face. It was merely a hatchling, but the idea was there; it was fresh and uncommon, it was catchy and with a few fictional tweaks, Katsuki could make another best-seller. The whole purpose of his trip was achieved. Half-and-half could finally stuff it.
It wasn't ten minutes before a gentle thud coming from the living room forced his eyes to snap open. It could have been the sound of the wind hitting on the windows, or the shifting of the logs in the fireplace, but Katsuki kept his ears open and his body unmoved as he listened for more. Just when he was about to exhale and relax again, a series of footsteps thudded across the floor.
Someone was in his place.
Grabbing a towel, Katsuki stepped out of the tub and yanked the bathroom door open. His eyes searched through the cloud of steam exiting the bathroom with him, but soon enough, he spotted the intruder. He stood at the foyer dressed in all black and clutching his head as he stared at himself in the mirror. He was undeniably a man; his height, his physique, tall and broad, his sturdy hips and thick muscles seen even through the baggy trousers he wore. Katsuki's blood sang with adrenaline, fear and excitement flowing thickly in his veins — it had been years since he has last gotten into a fight, ever since he finished high school and moved abroad. And yet, his body had already coiled in an attacking stance.
"I don't know how you got in," he said, low and gruff, "But if you don't get the fuck out in ten seconds, I swear—"
His words died a fantastic death in his throat the moment the intruder's head whipped at his direction. Brick-red eyes gaped at him avidly, unblinking, and the full pout of his lips Katsuki had contemplated while drawing, made his mouth look rounder. Even from the distance, sharp, pointy teeth could be distinguished while the red of his hair framed his face like a halo.
Katsuki's arms, curled and ready to strike punches before, dropped limply by his sides. "Wh-What in the ever-loving fuck..."
Neither of them moved, breathed or looked away. Each one had a different reason. Katsuki for one, tried to convince himself he had hit his head in the bathtub.
After century-long minutes, he moved first. His jaw flexed. He took a tentative step closer, slow, calculated. "You..." he started to say, but he was caught off guard by the sound of his own voice. Katsuki saw his throat move. Then, he tried again. "You freed me."
Katsuki's jaw fell open. At the sweet sound of his baritone, at the fact that he had been mere lines and color-pencil brushed up until ten minutes ago. "I did what?" he rasped.
The young man took another step towards him, arm lifting in the air as if to reach for him. "You freed me," he repeated, breathlessly.
"What kind of fuckery..." He glanced down at his palms. "I don't remember smoking any weird fucking shit. Why the fuck am I hallucinating?"
As he looked up again, his eye caught the notebook from the lighthouse, wide open on the kitchen table. He scrambled to it, gathered it in his grasp. Then, he stopped breathing.
The page was empty.
The page he had drawn the character for his book — it was empty.
It slipped through his fingers, hitting the table with a dull thud. Instead of a sketch, his character was looking at him with round eyes, flesh, bones and reality. Katsuki pulled at a chair and sat. His head kept spinning.
Slow, careful footsteps approached him next. Two bare feet stood before him, toes wiggling, waiting for him to look up, but Katsuki didn't. Couldn't.
"I can explain," his character said in the end.
Katsuki cackled with no humor. Ran a hand through his hair. "I know already. I'm tripping fucking balls."
He heard him chuckle and it was then he looked up. Just as he had drawn it — asmile like a sun, less feral and more beautiful, had bloomed on his face. As gently as possible, his creation moved, pulled a chair and sat by him. He took his notebook in his hands, caressed the words, right there, on the last entry and his face turned to stone. "You read this right?" he asked.
"I did," Katsuki whispered after a while.
"That makes everything easier then." He shifted on the chair, placing the notebook on the surface of the table. "Long story short, I was locked up in a lighthouse because of my scandalous behavior for two years before..." He swallowed and his immaculate face furrowed. "Before circumstances brought me to the edge of that window. I did try to make myself disappear that awful stormy night."
Katsuki instinctively touched the tips of his fingers. The sharp edge of the broken glass still tingled on his skin. "Then how the fuck did you end up in my living-room?"
"You see," the other smiled, "It seems that the Sea Goddess had another fate planned out for me."
"Sea Goddess?"
Sharp eyes snapped at him, confusion written all over them. "You mean you don't...?" He didn't finish, his smile turning sad. "Times change I suppose, and so do Gods. Back then, when I leapt out the window, She caught me in her waves and separated my soul from my body. My soul, she hid it here—" he tapped at the empty page where Katsuki had sketched him out, "—and kept my body for Herself."
He touched his face then, ran his fingers through his hair and turned to Katsuki with the biggest smile. "My former body didn't look quite like this, y'know. I was not so handsome, so thank you for that."
A moment, then two, then three passed by and ripples began to slowly shudder Katsuki's chest, until it evolved to a full-blown laughing fit, head tipped back and mouth gaping open. He did not find any part of the situation funny, yet laughter was coming out of him uncontrollably. Maybe a bit manic. Maybe his brain was falling apart trying to ingest the new reality presented before his mere eyes. "You're very fucking welcome I guess," he forced out between fits.
"It's a bit hard of a reality to take in, isn't it?" the other said as soon as Katsuki's laughter reduced to mere, erratic giggles, "I, too, have trouble wrapping my head around it."
"I still feel like I'm fucking high on some weird shit. You were a piece of goddamned paper."
"You created me with love," he explained. His smile never wavered, like it was drawn on him, "My soul bonded with the drawing and poof! I was freed!"
It made no fucking sense, Katsuki said in his head. It made absolutely, zero fucking sense.
But realization was quick to find him.
It don't gotta make sense. S'what happened.
Magic was abundant in their world and an inherent part of their reality. From the miracle of birth, to the blooming of flowers, to the cheetahs mourning for the deaths of the cubs, magic manifested in plenty different ways. Just because Katsuki had never encountered the said manifestation — the Sea Goddess loving a human so much she trapped his soul in a notebook instead of letting him die — it did not mean it was not real. Crazy, probably, but not unreal.
With that, Katsuki's chest began to unwind. He had read plenty of books where drawings came to life, series, movies, even games which experimented with that trope. As a child, buried deep inside his colorful sketches, it was one of his wildest dreams to see his drawings come alive. And now that it had come true, he was acting like he had a loose screw. Katsuki shook his head at himself.
"My child self would piss himself from joy," he said in the end.
"That I came to life? It does sound like a very childish fantasy to have."
Katsuki narrowed his eyes at that perfect, grinning face. "Shut your goddamned mouth, I'll kick you out."
He laughed, loud and rowdy, and it was like the first breath of fresh air after struggling underwater.
But as rain splattered across the glass and the wind rattled the windows, his laughter died quickly. "Please don't kick me out now?" he asked, sheepish.
Weaker than a feather tossed around in the wind, Katsuki exhaled, "Tomorrow then."
"It's not like I have anywhere to go if I leave this place. No one I know is alive, so I have no home to go back to and the world is different from when I left it..." He looked around, at the light above their heads, the stove, the tap, "So many new things to learn. It's gonna take a while for me to adjust fully. But I am ready."
It dawned on him then. Trapped in a notebook for God-knew how long, without a body, only a soul, he did not have anywhere to go to if he and Katsuki were to part ways. Katsuki pressed his lips to a thin line. He stood from his chair. "You better keep your mouth shut then," he said, "So that I keep you longer than tomorrow."
His creation beamed at the words. Suddenly, it was not winter anymore.
"You got a name? Or should I call you something I came up with," Katsuki then asked, not trusting his thoughts.
"My name? Oh!" The other exclaimed and scratched the back of his head. "With this and that, I forgot to introduce myself." A jutting thumb pointed at his chest. "I am Kirishima Eijirou!"
Kirishima Eijirou. Katsuki closed his eyes and smiled. He had named a lot of characters in his life. More than he could count on the fingers of both his hands. But there had never been a single one that fitted their names better than Kirishima Eijirou did.
"What's yours?"
"Bakugou. Katsuki."
Kirishima's face softened then. Even through the sharp edges Katsuki had drawn, Kirishima wore his expressions soft. "Thank you then, Bakugou Katsuki. Thank you for the second chance in life."
"Thank your Sea Goddess."
"You too."
Katsuki growled. "Shut up, stubborn shit. I'm gonna finish my shower. Can you not fucking die until I'm done?"
A shit-eating grin, like the one he had drawn him with, was what he got in return. "No promises made."
"You're treading on thin fucking ice, shitty hair, you know that?" Katsuki stood, clutched at the towel threatening to fall off his hips. "Sit here and make no sound — touch anything and I'll kill you."
But Kirishima's playful expression was gone. His eyes had lit up like bonfires, carving a flaming path down Katsuki's torso, as if seeing it for the first time, paused at his hips. Then, he licked the corner of his mouth. Then, he caught Katsuki's gaze. If looks could force people to implode, Katsuki would have combusted then and there.
"I'll do my best," he promised, voice thick with feeling. "Don't take ages though, I will get hungry."
With a stiff nod, Katsuki turned on his heel and nearly dashed to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and let a long shuddering sigh escape him.
What in the ever-loving fuck.
Katsuki knew what he looked like. He worked hard to maintain his body at optimal status, and because of that he had been at the receiving ends of admiration, adoration and awe many times before. None could hold the candle though to the way Kirishima had looked at him back then.
He stepped in the bathtub once again. He did not allow himself to think anymore.
Hurriedly he washed his hair and body and rushed to the bedroom to shrug some warmer clothes on. He relied himself at the doorframe, one, two, three deep breaths, before he walked back in the living room.
Kirishima was devouring an unwashed, unpeeled carrot.
"What the fuck at you doing?"
Kirishima paused mid-bite. "I told you I'd get hungry," he explained, "Besides, I also kinda wanted to check these teeth out." He chomped down on air indicatively. "They are pretty manly."
"Manly?"
"Y'know... They can bite through p'much anything. That's pretty manly."
Katsuki regarded him with disbelief. Then, he just rolled his eyes. "Stop eating like a caveman," he muttered, yanking the carrot out of Kirishima's grip. "I will cook something."
"You mean this isn't how you're supposed to eat a carrot?"
"No, doofus. You peel it first. Same with most vegetables."
"Peel?"
Katsuki rolled his eyes again. From underneath the counter, he tugged at a pan. "You sure are helpless," he sighed, "Stand next to me. I'll show you."
It had been a while since he had cooked with someone else in the kitchen. As a teen, he used to cook in the company of his mother, but it was never the most pleasant experience. She was him and he was her in terms not only of looks, but personality too. Impatient. Explosive. One of the two kicked the other out each time, or Katsuki's father separated them with force. When Katsuki moved out, he would cook in the company of his lovers. But soon enough, even thouse he kicked out. They always got in his way.
Kirishima, however, did not seem to give him such an issue. Though he was not quiet, he wasn't not noisy either; he asked a lot of questions about Katsuki's technique, but did not dare touch; he gasped in awe at the simplest things, at the sizzle of the vegetable in the pan, at the noodles floating in the boiling water, something that was oddly adorable even for a grown, shark-looking man to do. But Kirishima was his; Katsuki was partial to him as the creator.
He was close too. He was close enough and gazing at everything over Katsuki's shoulder. He was close enough that his breath tickled the tip of Katsuki's ear. Kirishima mumbled words, but did not expect an answer, so Katsuki did not give him one. He didn't trust his voice.
A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy like lead and strong with the power of centuries. Katsuki craned his neck. Then, turned to Kirishima, who regarded him closely, sheepish, and to Katsuki's silence, he withdrew it. "Sorry," he said, "Being trapped in a notebook makes you miss anything physical."
Katsuki turned his attention to the pan. The vegetables were cooked through. He switched the stove off, ignoring the steadily increasing pace of his heart.
"I don't hate it."
The hand found its way on his shoulder in less than a second.
Kirishima pressed up on him harder, like a coala, like the kitten sticking to his mother's side because the new world was overwhelming. For Katsuki, however, it was less maternal than that. Been his creator or not, Kirishima was warm, he was taut and tight and Katsuki knew every nook and cranny of the body stuck flush on his. All of a sudden, the years he spent in the company of his books and not under the covers with another body or two, were catching up to him. He poured the noodles in the pan with his jaw set tight enough for the joint to crack. This was ridiculous. He was a bunch of lines. Well-drawn, well-shaped lines with fibers and a heartbeat. There was no reason for his heart to get so worked up.
He separated the meals in two different plates. "Take'em to the table," he ordered, curt and tight like his throat.
Kirishima detached himself and Katsuki was colder, but he could finally breathe.
"Oh," Kirishima hummed on the first bite, "This is so good."
"It's just stir fry."
"But it's a very good stir fry. Don't you ever take a compliment?"
"Shut up."
Kirishima grinned at him, impish and warm. He took another greedy bite. "It seems the techniques have changed," he said in a conversational tone, "But the flavors are overall the similar." He swallowed, licked his lips. "Speaking of which...what year are we currently in? I have been avoiding the question until now, but I feel ready to know.
Katsuki sized him up. Then, he told him.
Color drained from his angelic, impish face. Kirishima clutched his chopstics like a life line and held onto his silence for moments that felt like centuries before the horror in his face melted to a sad smile. "Well, that's a lot," he murmured, "Are things at least any better compared to half a millennium ago?"
It was Katsuki's turn to freeze with the chopsticks at hand. Millions of questions rose in his throat, but the look on Kirishima's face told him he wanted to be left alone, so he shrugged instead. "I don't know. It's pretty shitty still, but at least now we don't throw the gays in abandoned lighthouses."
"Gays?"
"Men who love men."
Kirishima's eyes rounded. "You mean..." he uttered, lower lip trembling, "You mean it's now okay to..."
"Fuck yes. Deck in the face whoever tell you otherwise. S'what I do."
"You mean, you too..?"
He didn't finish the question, but Katsuki read it in the gleam of his eyes. You like men too?
"Damn right."
Kirishima lowered his gaze to his plate. He was a sketch for a second, permanent and unmoving, but then his mouth shifted and his chest deflated. "I feel like I got one too many blessings at once."
Thunder clapped in the distance and the atmosphere between them filled with its electricity. Gritting his teeth, Katsuki took hold of Kirishima's wrist, the one holding the chopsticks, and forced them back in his bowl. "Food is a blessing too," he said, "Eat before it gets cold."
"Ah, you're right," Kirishima uttered, voice weak, "I am just a bit overwhelmed, that's all."
Katsuki knew. He just did not know another way to wipe it away.
They ate the rest of their dinner in silence, a silence filled with personal unspoken truths and no tension. Kirishima took the bowls when they were done eating knuckled Katsuki's hands when they tried to stop him — and equal exchange he called it, and threw them in the sink to wash them.
Unable to resist the pull, Katsuki gravitated towards him. He switched the water pouring over Kirishima's hands to the colder direction. "You will burn, idiot."
Kirishima hummed, eyes drowning in their daze. "I did not notice."
What would it be like. Being in his head, Katsuki wondered as he wiped with the towel. When Kirishima was done, he cradled his hands in both of his and dried them too. They were warm and rendered by the heat. They were bigger, he noticed. Bigger than his.
"You are quite gentle," Kirishima said in the silence. He was smiling. "I was not expecting this when you were ready to throw your fists at me when I materialized."
"What would you have done, fuckmunch?" He tossed the towel in Kirishima's face, smiling when he laughed. "You were a stranger in my space. To kill me? To steal from me? Fuck that, I'd kill you first."
"Is killing the only thing you'd do?"
"Yes. So you better be fucking glad you're mine and I tolerate your shit."
Kirishima gasped, but it was only theatrical. "You imply that my personality lacks?"
"Yeah, it's shitty." Katsuki grabbed two fistfuls of red and tousled it to a mess. "Like your hair."
"It was you who gave me this hair!"
"And it is I who will fucking pluck it out now."
"Katsuki, no!"
It was the sound of it that slowed him down just then. Katsuki had heard his name wrapped in a variety of emotions, but never magic. He eased Kirishima out of the headlock he had him in, but he didn't let go. Wine-red eyes searched his face — what kind of expression was he wearing, he wondered — then a breath was drawn and exhaled in a rush full of stardust. Dazed, Katsuki let his hands slip lower, to trace the bones of his cheeks, perfect and sharp, and the skin on top of it, soft, unblemished, almost fake.
Where did Katsuki's drawing skill end and where did Kirishima's magic start?
He cupped the slope of his jaw. It fit perfectly in his palm.
Or maybe, it was Kirishima's magic all along.
He licked his lips just then, and Katsuki wished to join him with his tongue.
"Changed your mind?"
"Hm?"
Kirishima's cheeks pressed in the palm of his hand as he smiled. "Changed your mind about plucking my hair out?"
Katsuki drew in a shaky breath, nodding. "It'd be such a waste. You're too goddamned beautiful to mess up."
"I have you to thank for that."
Katsuki shook his head. It was never the frame, he thought. Katsuki had given him eyes, but it was Kirishima who made them gleam like rubies; Katsuki gave him a mouth, but Kirishima smiled like a second sun; Katsuki gave him hands, but Kirishima's touch was hot, burning as his fingers wrapped around his wrists and held them tight.
"It's the soul that makes the character beautiful."
The fingers around his wrists tightened and Kirishima lowered his eyes as if to hide his soul away. Heat flooded his face, red like his hair, and he released a weak, airy chuckle. No word left his mouth. It didn't have to; Katsuki could feel the pulse on his neck thudding against the base of his wrist.
He, too, flushed scarlet and burnt almost, he withdrew his touch and averted his gaze. He would melt. If Kirishima gave him another piece of his soul, he would melt.
"It's getting late," he said instead, "Go shower so we can go to sleep. Tomorrow we gotta figure out what to do with you."
"Okay." He paused. Nodded, red like a beet. "Okay, I will do that. Show me?"
Katsuki did. He lead him to the bathroom and showed him the hot from the cold tap, gave him a fluffy towel and explained which soap goes where. Then, he was closing the bathroom door behind him. He leaned against it and sighed a cloud of tension from his chest, but it did nothing to relieve the tension wounding up the rest of his body.
The tap was switched on behind the door and Katsuki walked away, not trusting his thoughts. Aimlessly he wandered back to the kitchen and paced. The room was suddenly too quiet and his thoughts were ever so loud, glossing over Kirishima's frame, his eyes and mouth, and —
Scoffing, he grabbed a pot and filled it with water, brewing two cups of the tea he had randomly purchased earlier that day. The first sip of it tasted like nothing, but it was cathartic. The second one, lit up all the light bulbs inside his head.
Without missing another second, Katsuki rushed to his bedroom. Finding his own notebook was not hard, as it always was by the floor next to his bed with the pen resting on top of the cover. He picked it up in a haste and stormed out of the bedroom again. In the kitchen, he sought out Kirishima's journal and with his mug in one hand, he nestled in front of the softly flickering flame. He spread Kirishima words on the floor and opened his on a new plank page. Everything about his newer book everything he had planning to work on before that day were thrown out of the window.
Then, Katsuki really wrote. He wrote Kirishima's story.
When the story had barely started to have a structure, he paused. He was ten pages in. His wrist was cramping.
A figure slipping right next to him had him jumping. Kirishima's skin glowed with a healthy flush from the shower's heat, his hair hanging heavy against his shoulders. He smelled of Katsuki's shampoo and held the mug with his tea, wearing stars in his eyes.
"I did not mean to scare you," he said softly.
Katsuki exhaled the breath he had not realized he had been holding. "You didn't."
Kirishima's smile was easy, not mocking. He glanced at the notebook in Katsuki's grasp. "You keep a journal too?"
"No, I write stories. This..." he pointed at the pages full of his notes, "Is my newest one."
"You write stories?"
Kirishima sounded God-smacked. His eyes brows were in his hairline. Katsuki frowned at him. "What of it?"
"No, nothing, it's just..." He trailed off, fiddled with words, with the rim of his mug. Then, he added, "I think it's pretty amazing. You draw and you write. No wonder I was freed as soon as you drew me on that page."
"Fuck you mean?"
Kirishima gathered his knees to his chest, propping his chin on top. The mug, he placed on the carpeted floor between them and let his gaze burn deep in the depths of the fireplace. He was fake then, an unwavering sketch on a page and an arrow pierced through Katsuki's sides. He held his breath, praying he wasn't going to wake up from this dream.
Then, Kirishima spoke and his torture was over.
"Artists have way too much power in their hands. With words or lines, they give birth to worlds, animals, people. Even I, who was merely keeping a journal all this time, could feel some of this power." He smiled at the fire. "Kind of like a God. You're like that, for me."
Katsuki's cheeks heat up, but it wasn't from the warmth of the fire. He scoffed, "I'm no fucking God. Stop saying stupid shit."
"Maybe," he agreed with a chuckle, "But you're definitely made out of some kind of otherworldly magic."
Wasn't it him who was made out of magic?
"Tell me," Kirishima added, "Tell me what your new story is about."
Looking down at his scribbles, Katsuki caressed the words with an aching hand. He knew so many words, he was always praised for his descriptions and rich vocabulary, yet he found his tongue void of words at that moment. "You," he said plainly.
"M-Me?"
"Your story is fairly catchy. It falls under the YA category which is popular, it has the right amount of conflict, and—" He paused. The heat had crawled all the way down his neck and chest. What was he saying? "And," he added, unable to stop, "I created you because I had to give you a happy ending."
The silence was deafening, the words hanging between them louder than the spitting wood. Katsuki did not dare look anywhere but his notes, but he could feel it — Kirishima's eyes drilling holes at the surface of his skin.
"A happy ending," he said then. When Katsuki chances a glance at him, he looked pensive, lips meshed to a thin line. "A happy ending for me? What would it be like?"
"I don't fucking know. Shouldn't you know and tell me?"
Kirishima went silent again, but this time it was only for a few seconds. "Spending my days by the side of someone who loves me," he said, "I can work pretty much with anything — on the field, carpenter, nurse, but that...love..." he shook his head. "I wouldn't replace it with anything."
The heart in his chest shattered. Bile rose in his throat, pouring in the next few words that came out of his mouth. "What was he like?"
Kirishima blinked.
"That one," Katsuki hissed, "The man you loved in your timeline."
"How is he relevant?"
"Because he's the second main fucking character, idiot. I have to know more about him to write about y'all happy ending."
Startled, Kirishima stared at him. Then, he laughed. "But he didn't love me. He thought he did. You see, Katsuki...if he really did love me, he would not be afraid to face the world with me. That's what I believe." He clenched his fists, face stern. "As long as you have the one you love by your side, nothing seems impossible."
Katsuki's throat had closed up. To his silence, Kirishima chuckled. "He's not my happy ending because of that. Maybe it's old fashioned, but friendly reminder that I am a grandpa."
"You are," Katsuki whispered shakily, not trusting his voice, "You're a fucking fossil."
"Hey, that's rude!"
"Reality sucks, don't it?"
They cracked up together then, Kirishima's escalating snickering coaxing Katsuki's laughter to build up too, their voices mingling with the crackling of the fire, with each other. They leaned closer to each other until their shoulders touched, but it wasn't until they sobered up that Katsuki realized.
Then, it was just electricity.
Then, Kirishima weaved his fingers in his hair and Katsuki felt like dying for the first time.
"I can hardly remember what he is like," he said, "He was tall and strong, he had a pretty smile and ocean eyes, but I can't — Gosh," he exclaimed. "Your hair is so pretty, so...blond. I have never seen hair so blond before."
Katsuki gritted his teeth so the butterflies wouldn't fly out of his mouth. "Focus goddamn it," he snapped. "Since you remember jackshit about him, I gotta find another way to go at it."
"Can I throw an idea in?"
"I won't put an idea that's not mine in my book."
"It might put things into perspective though."
"Fine, whatever."
Gently, fingers pried the notebook from his grip. Instinctively, Katsuki ached to stop him, no, don't read my drafts, don't read my thoughts of you, but how unfair would that be when Katsuki had seen all of Kirishima? He held his hands tightly in his lap instead, eyes watching closely for the changes in Kirishima's expression.
"You can make him blond," Kirishima then said. Put down Katsuki's notes, closed them, "You can give him eyes piercing enough to read your soul, but expressive enough to tell you all about what's in his."
He turned to Katsuki, his smile sheepish, his fingers drawing leaning less figures on his forearms. "You can give him a frown and a..." touched Katsuki's lips, "…a pout. He doesn't have to have ocean eyes. He can just...show me a bit of his soul and I'll fall in love with him over and over again."
Ah. Fuck it.
Katsuki kissed him.
It oozed longing and past memories and in on paper. Kirishima gasped as soon as their lips connected, but it only took a second for his fingers to grip at the roots of Katsuki's hair. Then his mouth was pliant and tasted of sea-salt or teardrops or both — katsuki did not know for sure but he was going to drain it all out of him anyway. The hushed whine he got in return was a prize like no award he ever won with his art. Kirishima urged him closer with needy hands and a desperate tongue, his sharp teeth dragging over Katsuki's bottom lip, prickly and rough, claiming with a certainty that brought fear.
When they broke apart, it was for air. They painted in each others' mouths, eyes half-mast and skin hotter than the fire itself.
"Was this good enough for an ending?" It was Kirishima who broke the silence first.
Katsuki snorted, "I'm your maker. Not your ending."
Noses bumped together. Hands gripped tighter on narrow hips — had they become one?
"You can be both."
"Self-insert in writing is cheesy."
Kirishima pecked a kiss on his mouth and beamed bright. "I have no idea what that means but I believe you."
Katsuki was laughing in their second kiss and it, too, was easier, less charged because at last, everything hanging between them, magic and words and ink, had dropped on the floor and shattered.
"Katsuki?"
"Hm?"
"I don't know what my ending in your story will be," he murmured, "But thank you for not drawing me as a girl. That would have been a disaster."
They giggled, drunk on the fire, on each other, their foreheads against one another.
Outside, the ocean's rage had come to an end, after long, long years.