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It was so easy to love Izuku Midoriya, but Katsuki Bakugou had always seen love as something very absolute, passionate, almost radical. He could not love easily, and he could not love without depravity. Katsuki was a very, very desperate man.
He had learned that it was far easier to hate Izuku. He could hate his laugh, so he didn't feel the need to bottle up the sound; he could hate his smile, so it wouldn't hurt when he'd look at others with his pretty dimple and his happy eyes; he could hate his stupid, fluffy hair, so his hands wouldn't itch to run through their tangle; he could hate his freckles, so his fingers wouldn't cramp up with the awful longing to poke; he could hate the curve of his lips, so he didn't feel the need to kiss and bite them; he could hate his mutterings, so he wouldn't need them to guard his solitude; he could hate his self-sacrificial ass, so as not to break his heart—yes, he could hate Izuku Midoriya, because he couldn't keep him.
But over the years, Katsuki found it increasingly difficult to hate Izuku. The longing had grown so huge, so unsurmountable, so irresistible and so powerful, that it consumed him. He would wake up thinking about Izuku, then throughout the day, he would, without meaning to keep Izuku in his line of vision, and then he would go to bed and dream about Izuku. It had gotten to the point where he was Izuku's, though Izuku wasn't his. No, Katsuki could not love easily. He loved Izuku with so much of his heart, body, mind and soul, that it was tearing him apart. The more Katsuki held his love, the more he nurtured it, the more he hid his love, the more it grew, until the space in him wasn't enough and it erupted.
It was a lazy Saturday, December morning, white and cold. Izuku had come into the common room bundled up in a stupid, ugly All Might sweater, an All Might scarf and All Might ear muffs. It was so much All Might and it was such an eyesore, and Izuku looked so fucking delectable that Katsuki was hit with the urge of wanting to punch him and kiss him all at once. The boy plopped down on the couch next to him, then smiled at him, all gummy and cheery.
"The fuck you so happy about?"
"I am just happy. It's been nice, Kacchan. So nice, I feel free," he replied, quietly, surely. His voice anchored itself into the space between them sufficiently and its slight inflictions floated around like musical notes, how could Katsuki ever hate him.
"Free?"
"Like I could run away."
"Don't do that. Not again," Katsuki said without thinking. His brows furrowed, he looked pained, wounded even.
"I didn't mean that," Izuku laughed, the sound airy and light, like the cold, gentle snow falling outside, how could Katsuki ever hate him.
"Oh," he said dumbly, and despite himself smiled too. "I feel free too," he lied. Katsuki wasn't an open book, but he could be one. If he could open himself up, there would be dense wood and nothing else. No fluttering pages, and nothing to tell, but Izuku read him anyway.
"What's bothering you, Kacchan?" He said it like he already knew the answer. But that wasn't what scared Katsuki, instead it was that he looked at him with so much openness, that now Katsuki could read him too. And Katsuki found that everything in Izuku knew its way, nothing wandered, nothing stumbled—everything lived the way horses ran. Free.
"Have you ever been in love?" Katsuki had opened. He had let it go. Two parakeets on his shoulders, they would fly if he moved, so he moved.
"I am in love," he whispered, his cheeks pink like a peeled peach. "I fall in love again and again every single day."
"I am in love too," Katsuki swallowed.
"That's beautiful, Kacchan," Izuku smiled, but it didn't match his eyes.
"Don't you want to know who?"
"I am scared," Izuku said, still smiling sadly.
Katsuki scooted closer, he closed his hands around Izuku's. The boy looked at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, he opened his mouth, then closed it. Katsuki could see the stuttering of his breath as it escaped his lips.
"I love you, and that scares the fuck out of me as well," Katsuki revealed. His pages fluttered. He could now read himself too.
"Oh," Izuku breathed out. Then he laughed. Then he cried. "I am not scared of that, I was scared it wasn't me," he said between tears.
Katsuki grabbed his jaw, it was delicate and warm, like it would break, but it was heavy on his hands like he was holding the world. He drew him closer, the tears soaked into his lips as he pressed them against his freckled, wet cheeks. Izuku half sobbed and half giggled. "How could it fucking be anyone else?" Katsuki asked, unbelieving, incredulous.
Izuku didn't reply, Katsuki submerged himself in him, completely and wholly—suffocating, and Izuku let him. It was the easiest thing to love Izuku, and Katsuki loved him the hardest.