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The slender nape of a neck, the porcelain skin, the tilt of a head that adorns rough, sandy-blonde spikes of hair—Izuku has memorized it all since he was five. Always behind Kacchan, always taking the same steps he took, reveling in the almost-close feeling he got to Kacchan.
Truth is, he never minded it. He would forever be on Kacchan’s heels for the rest of his life if it meant he could remain in Kacchan’s presence.
That was until now. Izuku’s seated behind Kacchan; he’d grown accustomed to that spot in his life. Never at the forefront of Kacchan’s life, always a step behind him. But Izuku's thin veil of restraint—of contentedness for Kacchan’s blind, uncaring eye toward the love he holds for the blonde—was snapping.
It was a mundane thing. Normal classes, normal routines. But as Present Mic went on about some story during what was supposed to be English, Izuku couldn't find it in himself to listen or even remotely care. He was too fixated on Kacchan.
Now, Izuku always cared about everything. Since he was little, he would often cry if he accidentally stepped on an ant.
He had a routine of saying goodnight to every stuffed animal so none would feel left out. That was just who he was—always caring and always what kids would refer to as a suck-up, especially when it came to teachers.
So for Izuku to not care, especially as the rest of the class zoned out while Present Mic went on about his story, meant Izuku was very fixated.
More than when the new All Might merch came out and he sat at the laptop anxiously waiting for the new bronze age figure to drop before anyone else could get their grubby hands on it.
Thinking back, Kacchan always took his whole train of thought. Whether it was in the form of a snarl or a sneer, it would send Izuku straight to his knees as he clumsily took whatever Kacchan sent his way to lock in the box under his bed that held all his secrets.
If Kacchan ever found that box, it would be incinerated in seconds.
That's why Izuku is fine with what he has going on with Kacchan and will never dare to let Kacchan peer under the bed inside Izuku's heart and see the truth.
But today’s different.
The feeling that's usually tugging and pulling at his heart is different.
It's stronger, making Izuku fidget more than usual, making him so very unaware of his surroundings.
All he thinks—no, all he knows—at this moment is Kacchan in front of him. Ever so careless with a feigned expression of ignorance that he wishes he could wipe off his face with a kiss so rough it sends him dizzy for days.
But Izuku knows that will only ever happen in the depths of his mind, where he's forced to shove it all into the overflowing box under his bed that will never reach Kacchan’s scorching hand.
Just as Izuku's iridescent, jaded eyes will never meet Kacchan’s unnerving crimson red ones.
Izuku accepted that. He knows Kacchan will never hold him in the gentle manner Izuku wishes to be held.
And Izuku knows, even by some sick, twisted fate of chance Kacchan returned his schoolboy crush, he would never show it.
Never act on the all-consuming feeling and reach out to grab Izuku's scarred hand with his soft, pale ones.
Izuku was bound to lose. That's always how it was with Kacchan. There was never any beating him, and worse than losing is trying to match his level. No one is better than Kacchan, and no one tries to be.
Izuku knew this. He knew Kacchan like the back of his hand. The countless notebooks labeled Kacchan were a testament to that.
Izuku knew his fate—to forever be on his heels, wishing he would one day turn around with an outstretched hand and pull him into the path he takes, where their steps synchronize.
But that's a naïve schoolboy fantasy.
Izuku's love for Kacchan will never see the light of day, never to be taken out of the overcrowded box underneath his bed hiding his selfish desires.
Izuku pondered all this while his finger anxiously picked the skin on his hand—something Kacchan was sure to yell at him for if he would only turn around and acknowledge Izuku's presence.
So Izuku sat, picking and fidgeting, the ache consuming his entire body, ready to light him on fire and take everyone with him as he stared at Kacchan’s back.
Izuku never knew the back of someone could be so beautiful. But Kacchan excelled at making the most mundane things astonishing in Izuku's verdant eyes.
From the turn of a head to give Izuku one of his cruel sneers, to the calloused hand rising to hit Izuku up the head when he did something stupid, to the rise and crackle in his palms that Izuku wished would grace his skin and leave a mark so galling that Izuku could look at and cherish like a love letter.
Something to ground him to the fact Kacchan exists and Izuku orbits around that fact.
Kacchan was always so beautiful, but there’s a difference in acknowledging that fact and reaping the effects of it.
Because, oh, Kacchan was so beautiful Izuku felt it in every part of his body. Like when One For All surged through his veins—a power so crucial to his success as a hero but so detrimental.
Just like Kacchan was to him.
A want, a need, so bad it ached Izuku to his core, twisting and turning his heart before sewing it back together haphazardly.
Kacchan's beauty sent him reeling to the floor, picking up the last bits of his dignity that Kacchan hadn't already incinerated into ashes.
Oh, but the way Kacchan’s bottom lip stuck out and his brows furrowed together when deep in thought—the way he’d get so frustrated during an English lesson and blow his paper up. Izuku was captivated.
But Izuku thought—no, knew—he was the most beautiful in ways so unexpected. Like when Kacchan made the most ghoulish faces that others cowered away in fear from. But not Izuku. He stayed and watched.
Izuku wanted all of Kacchan. The parts he only showed to the bathroom mirror. His screaming and thrashing. Izuku wanted to kiss the salt on his lips and hold the hands God gave him while mending his hand-grenade heart that only beats with anger and fear.
Izuku would take the sweat emitting from Kacchan's palms and light himself on fire if Kacchan simply dared to ask.
Kacchan gave Izuku reason—a purpose. Yes, Izuku looked up to All Might, but his drive to be a hero derived from Kacchan.
The embodiment of heroism with gunmetal bones and a wolf's hunger that seared Izuku's flesh. The venom that coursed through Kacchan’s calloused skin and poisoned those around him.
Kacchan was the reason Izuku fought as hard as he did. Trained as hard as he did. The mere thought of Kacchan was the only reason Izuku ever needed.
Izuku knows this. Realizes it all. Has mapped out the whole route in his head, and the only destination is Kacchan.
And as Izuku sits behind Kacchan like he has his entire life, forced to endure the cruel sight of Kacchan's perfectly toned back—muscles that flex ever so slightly, nearly unnoticeable—oh, Izuku notices.
He’s memorized the image to tuck away in his box for when he's alone and can relish in the desires he holds.
And the sight of his sandy-blonde hair, rough and jagged but—Izuku knows—soft, if he were to run his fingers through it like he's only ever done in his dreams.
It would be so soft, enveloping Izuku's aching hands.
Izuku sits, drowning out his surroundings, only ever knowing Kacchan.
And his body is screaming at him through the ache to reach out and indulge in the pleasure his heart so desperately craves.
Because all Izuku can think is “I love you,” repeating over and over in his mind like a record that won’t stop playing.
And every few seconds, the record breaks to let in another thought: “I could stare at your back all day,” Izuku thinks, almost as reassurance to the overly pathetic position he's in.
And Izuku knows he's touched Kacchan before. Knows he’s seen more of Kacchan than anyone else.
But it’s not enough.
It was never right, and he wants to keep trying. To spend his whole life orbiting Kacchan, mapping his entire skin from the nape of his neck to the mole on his ankle.
To hear Kacchan’s soft, gruff voice in the midst of the night whispering an ever-so-present, “Zuku.”
To finally dig out his locked box overflowing with the selfishness he holds, to shove it in Kacchan’s hands and have him too indulge in the selfishness Izuku hides.
But Izuku knows better than to dream on a schoolboy crush that should have died in middle school, along with the rest of his dreams.
So Izuku sits.
And does.
Nothing.
But stare at Kacchan’s back all day.
Maybe one day, he’ll turn around.
So green eyes can meet red.