color scheme ˎˊ-

Chapter One - Late Nights

   Waking up with a start, gasping like he'd just resurfaced for air, sitting up spin straight in bed. Katsuki was disoriented for long moments, simply sitting in silence. It was as if the world had gone completely still, no thoughts racked his brain, no sounds came from inside or outside of his room. The familiar feeling of his heavy breaths faded to a whisper behind his hazy, still mind.

   When thoughts finally found him, he tried his damnedest to tame his heaving chest to something bearable, where his brain could grab enough oxygen to make him not feel like his mind was thick with fog and the smallest breath might just knock him back.

   Breathing still heavy, now aware that his forehead was sticking sweat that had accumulated there and down his cheeks. Or maybe it wasn't actually sweat and he was crying, but he'd never admit that to anyone or anything, not to his collection of art supplies, not to the air, and most definitely not to himself.

   These reoccurring dreams, nightmares, or whatever the fuck they were had started to take their toll on him, poor old freelance painter Bakugou Katsuki.

   This had been the first time they'd freaked him out so bad though, he had grown accustomed to the fitful sleep he started having about two weeks prior, but he'd never woken up in such a panic before. He could get accustomed to tossing and turning, or painting at ungodly hours. But he would rather set fire to his apartment than get used to waking up in a panic, grasping at air like he was chasing something just out of his reach.

   The feelings that enveloped him after these dreams were many variations of loss, he could only explain it as if having everything you ever loved ripped right out of your own hands in front of you and you couldn't do anything about it, except be forced to stand there and just watch.

   That's how some people would probably describe grief, at least that's how Katsuki would describe it after having to endure the feelings night after endless damn night.

   Taking more time to even out his breath, he sat up in his bed staring down at his black comforter that shone grey from the rays of moonlight that sneaked in past his heavy curtains. He snapped out of the blank staring when he was finally, his own version of, calm again.

   The flashes of memories abruptly came back to him, the recollection of stark green curls that took on a yellow hue from the warm sun rays that beat down on them, making them appear to glow. Along with freckles that sparked in those borrowed rays, almost glistening like stars in the daylight against soft olive skin. A big, brilliant, smile enveloping the boys' face, making some soft dimples peek in at the corners of each cheek.

   "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He cursed under his breath, running an angry hand over his face trying to resolve his expression before he aggressively threw his covers off of him in defeat. Ignoring the way the cool air nipped at his arms and bare legs, setting his hairs on end as he carelessly rushed over to his large canvas. Inattentively flicking on a nearby lamp on the way over.

   His art room was located in the center of his apartment, it originally was meant to be the living room but Katsuki barely had people over, accompanied in the middling space only by his paintings and the few misplaced things he had strewn about. But he didn't mind, his art was just like the need to eat or sleep, if he wasn't painting he was thinking about painting and if he wasn't thinking about painting he was more than likely unconscious.

   Growing up, Katsuki had always been told that successful artists were rare and that he should just give up, of course he took it as them saying his art was bad so he got better. Not sure if it was purely spite or stubbornness, maybe a mixture of both. He studied art in and out, drawing or painting almost every hour of the day until the teachers gave him detention for drawing instead of taking notes or his parents told him it was way past his bedtime.

   It went on that way for years, studying anatomy, drawing away his days, and he never regretted any second of it since that's how he came to be able to sit down in front of a blank canvas and visualize the face he wanted to paint and start painting.

   Getting the multitude of colors he needed far too quickly to be anything neat, on the already terribly dirty palette, he took a thick paint brush and began painting away sloppily. The flat shapes of all different shades making up tan skin and mixing together into facial features, large blobs of green followed along taking the form of soft hair as he added varying shades of blue and yellow to the curly strands.

   He continued to paint wildly on the canvas for another hour or more, his bare legs merely covered in a loose pair of skimpy orange shorts that hiked up his thighs as he sat criss crossed on the wood paneled floor making his tail bone ache slightly and his legs even colder from the early morning chill that started creeping in as the time passed on.

   Going to wipe his face on his sleeved arm he quickly came to the realization that he was only in a simple flowing black tank top that displayed a white skull on the front. With a small, defeated sigh he put his paintbrush and palette down beside his legs and took the bottom of the tank top in his hand and wiped his face on the cool fabric.

   Looking back up in front of himself he took a moment to look at the color covered canvas. He couldn't quite make out every part of the painting from so close, just looking like a bunch of messy paint strokes and dollops of color, so he shifted his weight to an arm beside him and stood.

   Katsuki took a step away from the painting of the freckled boy, looking at it for a long while. He continued to stare, before asking no one but the cool air around him, "Who are you?"

   His voice sounded strained when he spoke, but he paid no mind to it. Letting his eyes continue to travel along the painting.

   It wasn't the first time he'd asked himself this question while taking in every acrylic painted feature of the nameless face. It was just getting redundant now, and it made the crease in between his angry dark blond brows deepen. He grit his teeth together, and glared.

   It was a long and hard glare at the boy on the canvas with green hair and a yellow daisy tucked neatly behind his ear. Then he looked around at the other canvases that adorned the room. They all had the same person painted on them, just different scenery or angles. It made his skin prickle with anger.

   If looks could kill, his art room would've already been set ablaze by the setting rage behind his auburn eyes.

   He let out a growl asking with new found aggression in his voice and a childish stomp of his foot, "Who the fuck are you?" He was overwhelmed by the want to smash every painting with an idiotic face with freckles like stars and curly hair like a lone beech tree on a summer's day.