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Flowers are a resident evil for a lot of men and women. A formidable opponent in the long, restless debates about love. The things are treacherous, and needy, and thrive off the love between incompatible partners and love interests. Long bouts of anger, built-up resentment, and tortuous nights are sewn together by a sensational bouquet of ill-smelling, yet fulfilling blossoms.
What people don’t tell you about flowers though is that they’re slaves of conditional love. Slaves that work harder towards the enslavement of the heart than towards their freedom.
Perhaps that’s why Izuku hates them so much. He doesn’t much like liars and in his experience, the truth is that 9 times out of 10, the damn plants are enabling a pathological one.
Flowers, to Izuku, are gifts that keep on negatively giving, introducing an atmosphere so suffocating and painful that only love could create it. Flowers remain painful reminders of an exes unfaithfulness, a father's insincere promise to never again strike his child’s mother, and a doomed love interest's attempt at everlasting love. Those delicate blossoms, now so inherently tied to broken promises and love based on contingency, are an unwanted gesture. As sweet as they may be, expected forgiveness or expectations frequently follow.
So why is it, Izuku comes to ask himself, that the decadent organism gifted to him by his temporary fix, Bakugou Katsuki, pleases him far more than it displeases. How can it be, despite his prominent disdain for the traitorous plants, that he could want to stare at the singular flower in his hand for hours on end? How could he feel so driven to childishly pluck every petal from its sepal and question a love he knows doesn’t exist?
The blonde had said as much. Katsuki wasn’t built to love. He fucking said so. He’d insisted, actually.
From the moment they began repairing a friendship they’d long forgotten how to manage, Katsuki had insisted. He insisted in moments during long conversations at midnight, and in the small moment after their first kiss he claims didn’t have to mean anything, and right before they began sleeping together for the same exact reason.
Katsuki’s honest. Painfully so. If nothing else, he is at least that. So, perhaps—perhaps that is the reason the floret has lasted this damn long delicately held in Izuku’s fist. Like it was fragile. Like it was precious.
Fuck, the green-haired boy curses to himself, tearing his nose from the depths of a wild, red camellia before extending his left arm to return it. Because the gift is incomprehensible. Because red camellias are for lovers. Because he’d long ago made a vow to never again allow constricting green vines to slither around his heart and take root. Because didn’t the blonde know that?
“Tch,” Katsuki narrows his eyes at Deku’s protruding hand, a scowl evident on his lips. “My shit’s not good enough for you, Deku?”
Izuku huffs at the accusation, letting out a puff of air that blows the curls hanging on his forehead upwards. His cheeks round cutely in the process and his nose twitches slightly in his irritation.
A familiar, determined look—the same one that used to haunt Katsuki growing up—clouds in emerald irises. “You know how I feel about flowers, Kacchan.” Izuku says sternly. Katsuki rolls his eyes in return.
The boy knew it was strange. His dislike for amputated plants, that is. Because Midoriya Izuku is, if nothing else, a sweet boy. Everyone in the small town he calls home thinks so—knows so even. He’s heard it in their whispers, and in their open declarations, and in their greetings.
They used to watch as he’d traipse around town, stars in his eyes and a spring in his step, when he was five. A certain blonde would always be only a few feet in front of him, pretending to be annoyed about the long-winded All Might rant being thrown at his back at high speed.
Their friendship eventually fell apart one random afternoon that no one, even Izuku, can pinpoint. But, even then, Inko’s boy remained a damn good kid. If you asked any one of them, that break was most likely why. He is everything the loud, brash, and rude Bakugou Katsuki isn’t. He always was. And a small part of them had always been afraid of said blonde's influence, not that they’d ever express those concerns to best-friends Mitsuki and Inko.
Midoriya Izuku may not be the athlete the town is rooting for to put their town on a map, but he helped elderly women with their groceries, and volunteered at the local daycare center on Tuesdays, and, best of all, he never seemed to lose that shiny smile. The problem was: his mother taught him how to wear it. She was meticulous, and obsessive, and molded Izuku’s projected expressions until that grin was perfectly bright every single time, no matter the circumstance.
So fucking nice. So perfect. So sickeningly sweet. And never, ever angry. All the goddamn time. That is who Midoriya Izuku is. It is who he was built to be.
By his father. By his mother.
They’re the very first people to villainize flowers. And it isn’t because they disliked them too. No, Izuku thinks, perhaps they liked them too much.
So much so that stray petals of hydrangea bouquets were a staple in the Midoriya household by the time Izuku was three. They usually littered the dining room table in a scattered circle around the vase. They were a centerpiece. A pop of color in an otherwise traditional home. A beautiful assortment.
But, they were also a repetitive apology that Izuku learned to accept with a wobbly smile. Usually they were gifted the day after the screaming match in the room across his own kept him awake and trembling at night. They were a promise of change that would never come. They were the remnants of spoiled moments in a decaying relationship between a young boy’s parents. They were the first manipulation tactic that a three-year-old Izuku would experience.
Katsuki allows the flower to slip into his grasp. He too brings the camellia to his nose, leaning forward and glancing at Izuku from behind it. Red eyes are sharp, and almost daunting to the smaller boy they devour because it’s like Katsuki means fuckin’ business.
“You don’t hate flowers, Deku.”
Katsuki twirls the stem between his fingers, humming at the powdery scent he’s always found Izuku’s hair to smell just like. The blonde is quick in his movements when he steps forward. His hand moves with him in a practiced dance with the rest of his body, tucking the floret behind Izuku’s left ear.
Katsuki’s fingers brush against soft green coils at the side of Izuku’s head. When he absentmindedly wraps one around his finger, it’s a fleeting moment, barely ten seconds long total. And yet, Izuku feels his heart and limbs beginning to turn to putter. The green-haired boy flushes deeply, blooming in variations of reds and pinks from the chest up. Despite this, Izuku questions the blonde’s words with a pair of eyes that say just about anything his mouth wouldn’t allow itself to.
Izuku tilts his head, like it would help decipher all the cryptic messages he didn’t have any provided clues to read. “I”— “I do. And I have for a very long time?”
The words are released like a question, wonderment and confusion flavoring every word as they beat against Katsuki’s ear drum. He can almost taste them and their familiarity. His eyes grow soft as he watches pearly teeth begin to gnaw at lips already tainted by anxiety.
Izuku’s uncertain why, but Katsuki appears almost pained when he whispers, “You don’t. You hate the shitty, brainless fuckers that gave them to you, sure. But, you don’t hate the flower itself and”— a pause breaks through the air and Katsuki hauls a big gulp of it into his lungs, like he’s preparing for something. “I just figured, I don’t fucking know, that it would mean something else coming from me.”
“Because it means nothing?” Izuku mumbled in a low voice, green eyes still clouded with confusion.
Sharp red eyes widen at the comment, but sink back into a glare. What the fuck? “Why the fuck would they mean nothing coming from me? Are we not fucking friends, Deku?” Katsuki growls.
Katsuki has never meant a measly nothing. And neither have his actions. Ever! He doesn’t have to mean a great deal, but even then, he’s meant something to everyone. Whether it’s being classified as a good fuck—no, a great one—or the symbol of victory for the fuck-ass town they reside in, or a blunt, encouraging voice at practice. He’s meant something to a lot of people.
Who was Deku to say the flower means nothing? That Katsuki is nothing?
A part of him wants to ask if Izuku thinks he’s too good to be his friend now that he knows most parts of him. Maybe he’s finally scared him off? He wonders if sleeping together has truly loosened all bolts and screws used to keep the illusion Izuku held of him together.
“We are friends, Kacchan! How could you think otherwise? But, you don’t give a friend a flower! Much less this one! Especially when said friend is me. I mean maybe other people do, but you don’t! And— and you told me you’re incapable of love. You told me that the sex and the kisses and the small touches don’t mean anything and they never would. You told me that if I can’t handle that then we’d stop and forget about it because it’s not worth the drama and…”
Izuku’s rant goes on. And on. And on. Katsuki loses focus half-way in. He gets sort of dizzy when an ache begins to settle into his chest while the green-haired boy pinpoints all the ways Katsuki has minimized their interactions. Even the damn nickname he gave him gives the impression that Izuku means nothing. Damn it.
“I’m a fucking idiot,” Katsuki interrupts.
“Don’t say that! Kacchan is amazing,” Izuku quips, the shock of being pulled from his ramble fleeting.
His eyes sparkle for a moment as the comment leaves him. Katsuki feels both annoyed and enamored by it. He doesn’t want to be enamored by it though. So, he voluntarily chooses to be the opposite because the fucking nerd can’t stop praising him despite talking about how bad Katsuki’s been making him feel. Katsuki kind of wants to punch him. And then himself.
He flicks his forehead instead. “Don’t fucking do that, Izuku!”
Izuku’s face seems to contort in the way a balloon animal takes shape at the hands of a pro. Quickly. He looks like a kicked puppy when he asks: “what are you talking about?”
“Act like I’m all amazing and shit when I’ve done nothing but make you feel like you’re nothing. I mean what the hell, Deku?”
“Kacchan doesn’t mean to,” Izuku whispers as his head falls to glance down at fumbling fingers picking at the irritated skin beside glossy fingernails.
Katsuki should’ve known he’d receive such a response. Izuku is full of excuses for him—excuses for everyone. Even at the expense of himself. Well, especially at the expense of himself. Fuck his ex-boyfriend and those stupid blue hydrangeas and fucking Midoriya Inko for raising a goddamn doormat!
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“It’s my own fault. I-I should’ve called it off, but I didn’t.”
“Your fault?” Izuku nods curtly, like any other conclusion would have been incorrect.
Katsuki looks pensive for a moment, his arm muscles tight as his pale fists open and shut automatically. “You know the real reason you hate flowers, Deku?” The boy in question cocks his head as if to dare Katsuki to challenge his belief system.
“It’s not because of what they mean. Or because your dad gave them to you to make you feel better for being a shit father. Or even because your ex cheated and gave you an ugly ass arrangement to apologize. It’s because you have no fucking spine! You let everyone walk all over you. You apologize when people inconvenience you! How in the fuck does that work?”
Izuku swallows, a small whisper of denial slipping from his tongue and through his teeth. Izuku is a fucking liar. Katsuki almost laughs at the damn irony considering just how much Izuku dislikes dishonesty. He looks kind of red now and his eyes take on their trademark gloss. Is it sick to wanna kiss him even in a rage? Is it sick to want to taste those tears on drenched pink lips?
“You accept those fucking flowers like a dumbass and feel yourself die the more you look at them. You plaster this indestructible smile on your face, but it’s in your eyes Deku.”
Katsuki’s getting red in the face too, yelling like a madman in an empty field of camellias that swish quietly in the night. He reaches forward to hold Izuku's face in his hands, thumbs swiping across wet, star-spangled cheeks. They never really dry the way he’d like them to because two emerald gems never fail to secrete just enough liquid to make him wanna panic.
Katsuki takes a second, appreciating the warmth of Izuku’s cheek as it molds into the palm of his hand. Like that is the way they were meant to be. “You know what actually?” The blonde laughs quietly as green shiny goodness meets crimson. “I’m actually convinced your body doesn’t allow you to hate anything. You’d probably shrivel up in the absence of sunshine and rainbows that fall out of your ass when you walk.”
“I hate you,” Izuku huffs out meekly with a wobbly grin, his vocal cords slightly strained by his impending breakdown because he does hate flowers. He hates that something so pretty could be used at his expense. He hates that behind most horrible people are the gift of roses, or hydrangeas, or cherry blossoms filled with malicious intent.
“You probably should,” Katsuki whispers, and Izuku swears red eyes moisten in the moonlight.
“If only I was strong enough… Maybe then I’d be able to say no to a flower gifted to me by the great Bakugou Katsuki. I can’t get myself to really hate you. Even when all you were was mean and unreachable.” Izuku takes a shaky breath. “Instead, I have to hate that a bit of hope filled me like water for a quick moment before it exploded from the pressures of reality. I hate that despite the warnings and the testimonies, a part of me still believes that maybe, just maybe, you could love me.”
At this point, the dam has broken and Izuku’s tears are relentless. He contemplates running, avoiding the situation and his feelings in the way he always has, but he doesn’t. His face is probably saying everything he hasn’t, and Izuku’s fairly certain he wouldn’t have made it far anyway. Katsuki’s fast and his stamina… Well, it’s outstanding to say the least.
Katsuki resists the urge to pull his friend into his chest in favor of drinking every ounce of movement from his face; of looking at eyes that say fucking everything. He wonders again, having just wondered a few nights before, when that action began to feel so natural to him. He hates being touched and yet he hasn’t been able to stop touching Izuku—whether that be on the shoulder, or the arm, or a flick on the forehead—since they became friends again.
Izuku’s always made him feel more. More than he knows what to do with. More than he’s ever felt. It’s an all consuming, insatiable hunger; like a fire licking at the remaining leaves and bark of its already ravaged forest on a hot sunny day. It used to make him as angry as burning flames. Now, it bubbles and simmers in a way he can’t really understand.
Katsuki realized this a long time ago.
He can’t be bothered to change it.
He can’t be bothered to attempt to pull away because he’s tried. Just once, but he did. All he felt was hungry. So hungry that he’d been on the brink of a starvation so potent and painful he didn’t last long. No broken arm, leg, femur, clavicle, or fucking toe can substitute. Life would be meaningless without Izuku. That he is sure of. He can’t help but wish he came to the realization before giving Izuku that stupid flower and spewing bullshit about it meaning something else.
Did he even know what he wanted it to mean? He hadn’t planned that far ahead. He wishes he planned farther ahead. But with the boy standing there, so damn pretty and flushed and happy, Katsuki couldn’t stop himself.
It was starting to hit Katsuki at a rate he wasn’t entirely ready for. The realization that Izuku really does mean everything. The realization that what he feels cannot be equated to what he feels for his other nuisances.
He doesn’t know what love is exactly. The blonde’s never felt it beyond familial bounds and has convinced himself and others that he is incapable. But, goddamn it, he’s probably not incapable. Well, he now knows he is everything but incapable because Midoriya Izuku is a fucking leech; has been since they were three years old and in a sandbox fighting over All Might toys. Katsuki would let him latch on for the rest of their lives if he could.
He’s never hoped someone would want to. Not like this.
He should tell Izuku, right? He should honor that red camellia he slipped behind his left ear. He should take back those declarations of I can’t love you’s and replace them with affirmations he’s never been particularly good at. He should be a better person. For Izuku’s sake. For his own.
But right now, with so many realizations building in his head, Katsuki can only watch a beautiful boy for another moment before he sighs. He brings their foreheads together, breaths becoming one though their lips haven’t. He feels the green tall grass brush against his ankles, hears the hidden crickets chirp at their peers; probably telling them to get a fucking load of this guy.
“Izuku…” That’s really as far as Katsuki gets, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy in his mouth. Fuck, he wishes he was better with words.
Green irises are bright as red envelopes the white surrounding them. Izuku doesn’t really want to listen to what Katsuki has to say. And now that he’s started, Izuku feels like it’s impossible to stop. “I hate that I still wish you’d hold me after sex. I hate that you’ve started kissing me with no intention to fuck because even though I feel myself slipping everytime you do, I’d rather hit rock bottom than stop you. I’d rather feel crazier than I already feel and'' —
Katsuki brings their lips together with haste. His lips are soft as always, skilled, and hot, but he presses against Izuku’s roughly. It only lasts for a short three seconds. It’s too intimate to remind anyone of a kiss you’d give your grandmother, but nothing like the slow movement of lips slotting together and becoming one. It isn’t like the first time Katsuki kissed him with no hint of a rush and said he just wanted to know what it felt like. It’s full of frustration instead, full of intent that Izuku can’t recognize.
“You’re rambling, nerd.”
Izuku’s cheeks brighten under stray tears, and his bottom lip juts out in a cute pout that Katsuki cannot get enough of. “You’re so unfair. Did you listen to anything I just said, Kacchan?” He sniffles and it’s cute too. Katsuki’s always thought so. He again feels the urge to punch him.
Katsuki, with his hands cradling Izuku’s face, softly smiles at the green haired boy. Oh, Izuku’s a goner. “I heard you say you’re in love with me in a million different ways except directly.”
Katsuki never wants those wide capsules of emotion to stop looking at him. He now knows Izuku feels the same, although it was never hard to guess now that he thinks hard about it. Red meets green in a gaze that’s new and yet familiar. Katsuki can’t help but feel that it’s fucking ironic because as scary as feelings are, it really does feel just like Christmas.
“So, let’s stop fucking around, Izuku.”
“What?” Izuku asks. His eyes widen in shock and his knees almost give out. He doesn’t look overjoyed though and that’s the first thing Katsuki notices. Izuku breaks away from the blonde’s hold, cheeks growing a bit cold against gentle sweeps of wind. “Don’t mess with me, Kacchan.”
“Oi! When do I ever say things that I don’t mean, Shit Nerd,” he growls. It’s not really a question either. More rhetorical than anything.
“You said you can’t love me.”
He did say that, didn't he. “The fuck did I know.”
“You seemed to know everything back then.”
“I obviously didn’t know jackshit," he mutters. Then, louder, steadier: “I thought I could treat you like everyone else. Thought you’d be a fix. Something temporary. Something I could manage.”
Izuku opens his mouth—
“No,” Katsuki cuts in, sharp but not cruel. “Let me finish.”
He breathes. Grounds himself. Forces the words out before fear can stop them.
“I was wrong. You were never a fix. You were the problem and the solution and everything in between. It was so easy to fall into you that I didn’t even notice I was doing it. You didn’t consume my life, Izuku — you became it.”
Izuku’s hands fist in Katsuki’s shirt.
“Kacchan,” he whispers, breaking in despite himself. “If you’re just saying this because you’re scared I’ll leave—”
Katsuki stills.
Then he presses their foreheads together again, softer this time.
“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to.”
Silence stretches. Izuku’s breath stutters.
“I don’t like to share, Izuku. So, accept the goddamn flower and marry me or whatever.” Izuku giggles at the demand, his heart beating a mile a minute. He’s surprised Katsuki can’t hear it pounding against his chest with no remorse.
“We’re seventeen, Kacchan,” Izuku reminds him.
Katsuki shrugs and trails his hands down Izuku’s arms. He brings them up towards his shoulders, waiting for Izuku to link his fingers together at the base of Katsuki’s neck the way he always does. Katsuki then tugs Izuku forward until they’re pressed together just the way he likes.
“When has that ever stopped anyone?” The blonde asks and Izuku smiles so bright his cheeks hurt at the stretch.
“I guess never?”
“Exactly. Not that I give a fuck what other people have to say about us. The fuck do they know. They didn't even know you apparently hated flowers until this very night.”
Katsuki gives Izuku a bold smirk, daring him to deny the accusation. Izuku rolls his eyes and uncoils his fingers to grab the flower by his ear. The two stare at it as he brings it into the small space between them. Its petals flap slightly in the night breeze, releasing a light powdery scent that Izuku no longer seems to mind.
“I guess they can be pretty alright.”