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“Kacchan?”
“What?”
“Are you listening?”
Izuku is a world champion with multiple gold medals in rambling on and on and on about just about anything that happens to cross his mind, equipped with a motor mouth that just doesn’t quite know how to quit. Somehow, his jaw never grows tired, his voice never coarsens in his throat, and that sparkle of excitement and intrigue seldom dissipates from those big emerald eyes as his mouth spills fact after fact of whatever he’s found so interesting that day.
Katsuki has never openly admitted it, or even to himself in the privacy of his own mind, but something stirs in his heart whenever Izuku chooses him as his chosen vessel of knowledge, ears willingly soaking in each and every word while Izuku nestles in close. His hands used to feel so useless, unable to decide where they’d reside or how they’d move, but they’ve both gotten used to the simple comfort of Katsuki’s fingers or palm rolling up and down the length of Izuku’s back, with the dark-haired boy’s cheek pressed to his blonde boyfriend’s chest, just below that protruding line of collarbone.
That hand stops dead in its tracks at such an accusation, Katsuki’s scowl reaching down toward Izuku’s somewhat-pleading gaze.
“’Am I fucking listening’? Who the hell do you take me for—-”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Izuku’s quick to try and defuse, that comfortable weight on Katsuki’s chest lifting as he props himself up on his elbows. “You just looked lost in thought, that’s all. Is everything okay?”
It’s rather often that during one of Izuku’s “yap sessions”, as Katsuki preferred to call such a thing, that he’d take the opportunity to scan the All Might posters plastered across the entire expanse of Izuku’s walls — Bronze age, Silver age, limited edition, ultra rare trader’s collection, some poster from a promotion with McDonald’s that only printed around 40 copies — or that he’d simply rest his eyes, unwilling to admit the sense of calm and comfort that came from just listening to Izuku’s voice.
But regardless of any of that, whether he keeps his visual concentration on Izuku or the memorabilia that decorates his room or the other side of his eyelids, he listens.
“What are you— everything’s fine. I’m just enjoying myself, that a fuckin’ crime?”
Katsuki is incredibly lucky that Izuku Midoriya is possibly the only person in the world fluent in Katsuki Bakugou, because even as the blonde wears a look that would only be described by others as annoyance or irritation, the concern that painted Izuku’s features quickly melts into the softest of smiles, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He silently hopes that Izuku can’t quite feel what that does to his heart.
I love listening to you talk.
The comforting pressure of Izuku’s head soon returns as he dips back down into his spot, and Katsuki swears his heart may leap violently out of his chest after Izuku leaves the smallest of kisses to his collar.
“Nope, not a crime, Kacchan.”
There’s a moment of comfortable silence, Izuku’s cheek planted once more against his chest, before Katsuki speaks up.
“Well? You gonna finish the damn story, or just leave me hanging?”
“Oh, right! Well … …”