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Katsuki wouldn’t say he’s in love.
This, what’s happening here — it isn’t love, no.
Sure, he tolerates Shouto. Maybe even appreciates him.
Appreciates the curve of his tight ass, the way he flushes from his chest to his cheeks whenever Katsuki angles his hips just right to fuck him ‘til he’s shuddering with soaked cheeks.
Cheeks like rosemary pepper, burning skin, dark red and hot for him — for Katsuki.
Shouto’s note of mint when Katsuki appreciates his lips and the citrus he gets a whiff of whenever he’s mouthing at his neck makes him want to appreciate every inch of his skin with just his tongue, maybe a bit of teeth, make it so Katsuki’s appreciating bruised and marked flesh, a mouth-made masterpiece, his work painted all over Shouto.
Katsuki is all lush greens and rich woods for Shouto who is rosemary and thyme; meets him in the middle with his pickling and wax every time they fuck and he’s never burned so much. He’s on fucking fire with Shouto, hands all over him, dipping into every crease and crevice, every dip and dimple.
Shouto’s imperfectly perfect.
Long legs stretching over Katsuki, hooking over his shoulders so his heels dig into his back, drawing against Katsuki’s bones when he fucks into him. Shouto’s a fucking mess in the best way, cheeks dusted and pretty pink lips parted with the arch of his neck — nothing but pants and gasps and throaty drawn out moans, maybe a whimper, a breathy puff of air if Katsuki reaches deep enough.
(And he always reaches deep enough, aims to reach deep enough, bites his tongue in a smirk in appreciation at those whimpers.)
It’s hot as fuck in the closet, walls close and tight, sweltering and humid, Katsuki’s panting all over Shouto’s rosy shoulder, presses into his sides and can’t get enough of pulling at his skin, down his neck and collarbone and over his tits.
Pretty puffy tits (Katsuki appreciates those, too, bubblegum nipples, all princess-like and perky.)
“God, Katsuki,” and okay, sure, maybe Katsuki appreciates the way Shouto says—gasps—moans his name; Sweet and floral like spring.
(And okay, okay, maybe he comes up with flowery lovesick metaphors in his head for every little thing Shouto does, yeah, whatever — it’s not a big deal.)
And maybe when he fills Shouto to the brim with his cum, palms over him with his hands and lips and holds him close with murmurs and swears of “Pretty fucking princess” he feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t want to let go, wants to shape himself against Shouto, slip himself through his blades and long stems attached to the roses of Shouto, his bed of petals and citrus lavender fields — that sweet imaginary land he floats to when he’s got his palm under his chin and his gaze is so fucking far away.
Maybe Katsuki feels like if he gets close enough, if he buries himself deep enough and holds Shouto tight enough — then Shouto will take him to that somehow-sweet citrus field with him, allow him to fall in step with him — maybe Katsuki doesn’t mind walking behind Shouto, maybe he’ll keep his mouth shut and keep the air free of his shouts and demands for the bastard to walk behind him.
Maybe he feels like he could exist in that field with Shouto and Shouto alone and say fuck it to the rest of the world, say life be damned I want to spend the rest of my days appreciating the fuck out of you.
Maybe when Shouto slings his arms around his neck and tugs him close to kiss him, it’s slower than Katsuki’s used to and maybe he doesn't mind it.
Maybe he leans in and presses his forehead against Shouto’s to listen to his stupid fucking rambles about being worried about how he scored on the test they took last Friday, about what he’s thinking of having for dinner—about what he thinks of the new episode of that stupid fucking show Katsuki doesn’t watch but knows all characters and plot points to anyway just to be someone Shouto can discuss it with.
Maybe he cares about stupid shit like that when it comes to Shouto. Maybe Shouto’s just special like that.
Katsuki wouldn’t call this love, but what the fuck would he know about that?
Maybe Shouto would.
“Would you?” Katsuki whispers the question into Shouto’s neck as Shouto breathes slowly against him.
He’s tracing the roses up his neck, his finished paintings all over the canvas of Shouto’s skin.
Maybe he should elaborate, say more. But maybe he doesn’t have to — maybe Shouto just gets it because they’re like that with each other.
And maybe, just maybe, Shouto clings to him a little tighter, presses his cool lips against Katsuki’s heated ear and whispers something that makes his head spin.