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Sparks between flint and steel.
That’s how Izuku would best describe Bakugo Katsuki’s eyes, if anyone asked.
He could be walking past him in the hallways, or just catching his gaze for a second as he turns around to pass him a worksheet and tchk—
He’d hear stone striking stone ringing in his ears like someone was lighting a fire right behind him, and a jolt of heat would kick indignantly in his chest.
It’s so pretty, the spark in his eye when he gets a glance.
When the sunlight hits just right (and it so often does), Kacchan’s sharp eyes turn a rich, liquid amber over the clearest polished ruby. The way it sucks the air out of his lungs, he figures he might be imagining some of it, but no. Every time he looks for the honey in his eyes, he sees it clear as day.
Kacchan hates it when he does that, how ardently he seeks eye contact. He’ll scoff, cheekbones ruddy and lower lip pushed out in a shiny pout that Izuku longs down deep in his soul to reach out and trace. He’d be gentle, brushing his thumb over the plush skin before massaging the tightened muscles under his lip just to watch his jaw go slack.
(He can only assume; he’s yet to have the privilege to try.)
If he had the chance to, he’d savour him. He thinks about this in especial detail at night, when his classmates have stopped running through the halls and he feels secure enough to just play with the waistband of his frayed basketball shorts, contemplating pushing the envelope and crossing a line when it comes to probably inappropriate thoughts about his best friend.
He thinks it’d go this way:
They’d be in their hero gear, gritty and sweaty, hair mussed from launching through clear, cloudless skies. They’d be sitting on a rooftop, chests heaving but slowing, cooling down and drinking in the skyline, recapping their wins and losses (rare, if they’re together). Kacchan would make his smart, witty jabs and swear up and down that he’s going to beat Izuku into the ground by the end of the day, and Izuku, oh, would go so weak at the knees, full-body laughs bubbling up from the pit of his stomach into the wind like a geyser meant just for him.
He’s waxing poetic, but he can’t help it when it comes to Kacchan. It comes so naturally. He could fill dozens, if not hundreds, of notebooks with observations and anecdotes of just this one boy.
So they’d be laughing.
He’d laugh so hard that Kacchan wouldn’t be able to help a self-satisfied smirk, before wincing. A small gash, sitting high on his cheek, pulling with any major movement.
Izuku would take that moment, that chance, to reach over, glove long yanked off, to brush a knuckle just under the bright red line. Kacchan’s eyes would widen infinitesimally, pupils dilating as the sunrays hit his pretty irises.
Apple skin red, the kind that hangs from trees, soaking up sun and fresh farm air. Carefully dotted with dew each dawn. So crisp and vibrant that he’d taste the burst of sweet juice on his tongue.
Kacchan wouldn’t flinch, but he’d notice Izuku studying his eyes, as he does, and would turn his head, pout forming on his mouth.
This is when it’d happen, real Izuku’s fingers tracing his own lips as he lies sprawled under the age-softened All Might comforter tangled around his legs, mirroring what he thinks he’d do (if he had the chance).
Izuku would pull gently, teasing, at Kacchan’s lower lip, feeling his thumb dig into the soft flesh, feeling the wet inside of his lip at the tip of the digit before slipping down to rub a little harder at the tense bundle of muscle holding his pout together. It’d fall apart slowly, loosening, Kacchan’s lip dropping with the tension in his jaw. He’s thought about this a lot.
The Izuku in bed would stir, barely withholding the urge to slip his hand further under the covers.
Heavy-lidded eyes, obscuring red by a quarter, maybe half, watching him and waiting for his next move.
Izuku’s thought this far and not much farther—he doesn’t want to give himself too much to dream about. He knows he’d lean over, if Kacchan let him, maybe just as a friendly favour, and kiss him full on the mouth, tasting sweat and the tang of mouths in dire need of rehydration. Delicious, he thinks.
Kacchan would kiss back (he can dream), and the rest would delve into a flurry of his wildest fantasies: heavy touches, combative tongues, holding hands under the cover of night.
At this point, he’d force a pillow over his head and count to ten, adamant on sleeping instead of stuffing his head full of Kacchan Kacchan Kacchan in the hopes that the next morning he wouldn’t melt into a puddle of goo upon stumbling into the subject of his waking dreams while he’s brushing his teeth.
It’d work sometimes, and he’d rest easy, but more often than not, the fantasies would leak into his slumber, and sparks would glitter in the black nothing of his resting consciousness, where he would dream sordidly, or sweetly, of searing fiery red eyes.