Work Text:
It was the first snow of the year. The first was always the loneliest, filled with the whispers of memories of days gone by.
Katsuki was the painter he had always known he would be, graduating top of his class, now with his own studio and an ever growing waiting list of clients. Every gallery and museum in Tokyo was dying to feature one of his works. Life was finally stable, and easy too. A lot had changed.
Who was he kidding?
Nothing had changed at all.
His wardrobe still consisted mostly of plain, dark, mostly black t-shirts from his parents’ company. He still grumbled at Kirishima and refused to call him anything but "Shitty Hair" when he came over- more like barged in, really- to his apartment every Friday for Game Night. He was still out of bed by 6 in the morning and sound asleep in it by 9 at night.
He still read Izuku’s stories.
In them, he still got those glimpses of what could’ve been- comfortable nights out on the roof they weren’t allowed to be on, having a philosophical discussion about rubber bands while eating fruit, because neither of their exercise routines let them have any sweets. Cheesy selfies and witty banter, white puffs of air around mittened hands, cupped around a steaming paper cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The first was always the loneliest.
The first winter he’d been alone, when Katsuki had just come to the city, he’d picked up a couple of books from the souvenir shop, not really scanning the titles too much and just grabbing whatever seemed interesting. He had only realized later, when he returned to his cold, empty apartment- which was somehow colder than the freezing snow outside-that every single book he’d bought had been by the same author.
He flipped open the first one. Locked, written by Midoriya Izuku.
The first page was as such: “For the key that unlocked all my doors, Katsuki.”
High Tide, written by Midoriya Izuku. “For the wave that always washed everything away, Katsuki.”
Dusk, written by Midoriya Izuku. “For the brightest light in the dark, Katsuki.” Another, and another.
Every single one.
For Katsuki.
A couple of weeks later, Katsuki was vacuuming the living room of his flat when he pulled out a dusty book from under his couch.
Masterpiece, by Midoriya Izuku.
“For the painting that covers every inch that is the canvas of my heart, Katsuki.”
As he strolled through the museum, an unfamiliar, but at the same time, it was so, so familiar- smattering of greens and blues caught Izuku’s eye.
It was beautifully intricate and overwhelmingly simple, the violent contrasts between the sweeping arches of the sky and the fire beneath it sharp and electric, but unbearably harmonic and soft and the same time.
It was stunning.
His heart inexplicably ached.
It was quite literally, in fact, stunning, and Izuku froze for a moment, mesmerized. He hadn’t even realized he was drowning, but the painting before him was somehow the gasp of air that he needed. As he strode up to the piece to get a better look, there-in the bottom right corner, was the artist's signature.
Bakugou Katsuki.
Underneath that, a plaque was engraved with a short description of the piece.
It was titled "Izuku".