Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"We carved our names into the surface of fleeting days, blades tracing lines only we could read. But seasons shifted, the marks faded, and we drifted — silent, distant. Yet somehow, beneath the frost of years, the ice still remembers, and so do I. Because loving you was never about holding on, it was about knowing where we began."

Chapter 1: Cold Reunions

The ice doesn’t care.

It doesn’t care about your name, your stats, or the endless hours you’ve bled into perfecting your craft. It doesn’t care about blood, bruises, or broken bones. It takes everything you give and asks for more. It’s cold and sharp, ready to catch you slipping the second your focus falters. 

Katsuki’s always liked that about it — how honest it is. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t coddle. It’s there to test you, and you either rise to the challenge or you don’t.

Right now, though, it feels like it’s testing his patience. 

He leans against the boards, arms crossed, his breath curling in pale wisps in front of him. Katsuki rolls his shoulders, shifting the familiar weight of his jersey and pads against his muscles. The stitched logo of the Montreal Blizzards sits over his chest, a constant reminder of the legacy he’s supposed to uphold. Star forward. 

The sound of skates cutting into the ice echoes in the cavernous space, a rhythm that should be soothing but isn’t. Hockey’s always been loud — the snap of sticks, the crash of bodies against the boards, Coach Aizawa’s barked commands. It’s chaos, and normally Katsuki thrives on it.

Normally. 

The whistle cuts through the air, sharp and shrill. “Bakugou!” Coach’s voice booms across the rink. “Quit standing around. You’re up next.”

Katsuki grabs his stick without a word, stepping onto the ice like he’s done it his whole fucking life.

The training complex in Montreal is a state-of-the-art monstrosity, all stupid luxury and high-end equipment you could dream of. Not that his team’s training rink sucked — hell no. Being part of an NHL team means you train in some of the most prestigious places known to mankind — or more accurately, to professional sports. But this place? It still tops it.

It’s not just the sheer size of the building, though that helps. It’s the way everything feels perfectly tailored to squeezing the absolute best out of the people inside it. From the temperature-controlled rinks to the specialized recovery suites with their cryotherapy tanks and massage rooms, the whole place practically screams perfection .

That’s why they’re here.

The NHL’s mid-season break may mean downtime for some teams, but not the Montreal Blizzards. Their coach, Aizawa, has sent them to the complex for “focused conditioning,” which is just a fancy way of saying you can’t slack off for even a second. He said it’ll help them “maintain momentum,” especially since this facility has equipment their home rink doesn’t.

What exactly that equipment is…Katsuki has no fucking clue.

But he hadn’t argued. Not because he agrees, but because he knows what it means if he doesn’t show up. Players like Liam Becker — rookies with fresh legs, sharp reflexes, and coaches already singing their praises — are always waiting for someone else to slip. And Katsuki doesn’t slip.

He’s been playing for the Blizzards for almost two years now. Drafted straight out of college, he'd been finally able to uproot his life in Boston and move to Montreal, leaving behind a city he’d spent most of his life pretending to love. His parents had immigrated to the U.S. from Japan long before he was born, but they’d dragged him back for visits often enough that he’d grown up bilingual. Japanese at home, English everywhere else. One of those fucking “enrichment” things rich parents think will give their kid an edge.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s here now, cleared to play again after three weeks sidelined with an injury. Nothing major.  Typical collision — just a clean body check along the boards. Happens all the time in hockey. But the angle had been wrong, and the other guy had followed through too hard, and suddenly Katsuki’s shoulder had been on fire. A minor AC joint sprain, they’d said. No surgery. No big deal.

Except it had benched him for three goddamn weeks.

Three weeks of no drills, no scrimmages, no games. Just physical therapy and endless bike sprints in the gym while the rest of the team kept climbing the standings. It was enough to drive anyone insane.

But now he’s back.

Back on the ice. Back doing the one thing in his life he never had to pretend liking.

Katsuki’s been on skates for as long as he can remember. It wasn’t some grand discovery or a magical moment of finding his passion — it was just another box on his parents’ never-ending checklist of activities. Football, baseball, drums, piano. All part of their mission to find the highest potential in their only son.

Turns out, he was born to thrive on ice.

It didn’t take long for them to realize it, either. Once he was on skates, there was no going back. He wasn’t just good — he was unstoppable. His aggression, his speed, his raw instinct for the game — it all clicked the second he stepped into his first hockey rink. While other kids were fumbling with their sticks and tripping over their own feet, Katsuki was already scoring.

His parents had leaned into it, of course. Lessons, leagues, private coaches. Anything to mold him into the perfect player. And for the most part, he didn’t mind. Hockey was the one thing they pushed that didn’t feel like a chore.

Now, on the ice in Montreal, it’s exactly how it’s supposed to. The cold biting at his skin, the sharp scrape of his blades against the rink. The puck snapping against his stick. It’s where he’s supposed to be. 

“Stop fucking dreaming like a little girl and move your freaking ass, Bakugou!”

Coach Aizawa, ever the epitome of tact and patience.

Katsuki grits his teeth, gripping his stick tighter as he pushes off the boards. “I am moving, you fossil.”

If anyone on the team gives the Coach shit, it’s definitely him. 

“Move faster, then!” Aizawa hollers, arms crossed as he watches the drill with hawk-like intensity. “Last drill before scrimmage — two-on-two rushes. Kirishima, Sero, you’re on D! Bakugou, Becker, let’s see some magic!”

Katsuki rolls his shoulders, the weight of his gear settling comfortably. He taps his stick against the ice twice, signaling Becker to get into position.

“Try to keep up, rookie,” Katsuki mutters as he glances at him.

Becker nods, his blond hair sticking out awkwardly from under his helmet. “Just don’t hog the puck, man.”

Katsuki snorts. As if.

After practice, the locker room is filled with the usual banter of twenty adult men bickering about anything under the sun. Latest games, other sports, wives and kids — everything someone can think of. The conversations overlap, a chaotic symphony of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional insult.

Katsuki stays silent.

A towel hangs loosely around his waist, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. His hair, damp from the shower he just stepped out of, clings in messy spikes to his forehead. Katsuki tries to ignore it all — the noise, the banter, the endless chatter — because he isn’t interested in these meaningless conversations. Never has been.

It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t got many friends on the team, at least not like his old high school and college buddy Kirishima.

Kirishima fits in effortlessly, laughing and joking like he’s known these guys forever. And maybe that’s why it works. 

They both came from the same small town in Boston, went to the same schools, and even got into the same college, just to end up drafted onto the same team in Montreal. Kirishima had jumped at the chance, thrilled about the idea of playing in Canada, like it was some great adventure.

Why Kirishima wanted to move here is beyond Katsuki’s mind.

He, for the matter, knows exactly why he made the choice. Distance. As much as possible. 

“Three goals in two minutes,” Kirishima says, tossing a sweaty towel into his locker. “I’m just saying, there’s no way that wasn’t rigged. Did you see the way the defense practically handed them the zone?”

“It’s soccer, man,” Matt Donovan chimes in, pulling a sweatshirt over his head.

Donovan is a veteran defenseman, steady on the blue line and annoyingly practical off the ice. He’s the kind of guy coaches love — consistent, reliable, never one to crack under pressure.

“Nothing makes sense in that sport,” Donovan continues. “That’s why you don’t bet on it.”

“You’re just salty because you lost fifty bucks,” Sero pipes up from across the room, grinning as he leans back on the bench.

Sero plays right wing, a solid second-line scorer with speed to burn, even if his hands aren’t as sharp as they could be. He is half Mexican, half Japanese — not that you’d know the Japanese part if you spent five minutes talking to him. Fluent in Spanish, not a single word of Japanese.

Katsuki doesn’t give a shit about the story behind it, but he knows it. Everyone does. Sero’s old man ditched his mom for another woman when he was three, and the grudge never faded. Tch. As far as Katsuki’s concerned, fair enough. He understands the feeling, at least — the part about not being on good terms with the people who “gave” you life.

The locker room erupts into laughter as Sero fires back at Donovan, who’s trying to defend his ill-advised soccer bets. Katsuki barely listens, focusing instead on drying off and getting dressed. His gear sits in a heap at his feet, the faint smell of sweat and ice clinging to the fabric.

Some people — hell, probably most people — would say hockey gear smells disgusting, and they’d be right. But as stupid as it sounds, Katsuki finds it comforting. It smells familiar. Like home, if you want to get all sappy and emotional about it. Not that he ever would.

He pulls his hoodie over his head, the soft cotton catching on the edges of his damp hair, and starts packing up his bag as the locker room noise drifts into yet another tangent. Donovan’s grumbling about the long list of shit his wife wants him to fix during the off-season, and Liam Becker’s sharing some story about his first encounter with so-called puck bunnies.

Katsuki has had enough.

Family talk is one thing Katsuki doesn’t want to hear — kind of understandable if you’re just getting reminded of how fucked up your own is — but what he hates more is hook-up talk. Not his forte. For reasons.

He slings his duffle over his shoulder and heads for the door.

“You out already?” Kirishima asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters. 

“Not coming out for drinks?”

“No.” Katsuki’s a man of many words. Not.

“You’re such a buzzkill, man,” Sero shakes his head. “One of these days, we’re gonna drag your ass out whether you like it or not.”

“Good luck with that.” 

Not that he can avoid them forever. Training in this high-end complex means staying in the attached hotel, like many of his other teammates. Not everyone has the convenience of Matt Donovan’s fifteen-minute commute home.

Katsuki pushes through the door and into the hallway, the muffled noise of the locker room fading behind him. The cool air from the rink seeps through the walls, brushing against his skin as he walks, his steps echoing faintly in the empty corridor.

He knows the “warmer” April breeze will hit him as soon as he steps out of the rink. Warmer just means less freezing in Canada, but it’s still a far cry from actual warmth. This time of year, the snow might be gone, but the air carries a sharp edge, and the wind cuts through like it doesn’t give a shit what month or season it is. 

Faint music hits his ears as he walks down the hallway — a soft pop song or something that streams through the walls. Usually, Katsuki doesn’t give a fuck. Of course they share this rink with other athletes. It’s a state-of-the-art complex with multiple rinks and facilities meant to accommodate hockey players, figure skaters, and god knows what else. There’s always someone here at any hour of the day.

Schedules are supposed to keep things from overlapping too much, especially between the sports. The Blizzards have their designated times, prime slots reserved for team practices and scrimmages, while other groups, like figure skaters, are given their own. It works, mostly. Each rink has its purpose, and they don’t tend to mix unless someone overstays their slot.

And yet, something about the faint music and the sharp scrape of skates on ice pulls at him.

Call it fate, call it intuition, call it whatever the fuck you want. Katsuki doesn’t believe in any of that shit, but still — still — his feet don’t carry him toward the exit.

Instead, they start marching back toward the rink.

It doesn’t make sense, and he knows it. He has no reason to go back. Practice is done, and the guys are already making their way to dinner or nearby bars. The training staff has likely cleared out by now, and the ice should be empty — maybe getting resurfaced for tomorrow’s morning sessions. 

Or not, as it turns out.

The faint sound of skates cutting into the ice tells him someone’s still out there. Training, maybe.

Something itches at the back of his skull, a low, irritating hum that won’t let him just walk away. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. It’s none of his business who’s on the ice this late. Hell, half the athletes here live for sneaking in extra time, and good for them. That kind of obsessiveness isn’t exactly rare.

But his feet don’t listen.

The hallway opens up to the rink entrance, the cold air rushing out to greet him like an old rival. Katsuki shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, his breath curling in pale wisps as he steps closer.

The music is louder here.

And so is the sound of skates carving into the ice.

He stops just short of the glass boards, his gaze narrowing as he looks out over the rink.

Someone’s on the ice, and they’re definitely not doing drills or scrimmages. This is different. Katsuki knows it because he’s seen plenty of figure skating before. Back in the days when he would’ve sworn he didn’t give a shit but still ended up watching anyway, the images burned into his memory like they never intended to leave.

The woman on the ice is graceful as hell, losing herself in her choreography with a confidence that makes her movements look easy. Katsuki knows better. Her arms sweep through the air in perfect rhythm while her feet seem to do something entirely different, her blades cutting sharp edges into the ice.

She wears a light purple two-piece tracksuit, the soft hue appearing even paler under the bright overhead lights that flood the rink. Her short brown hair is slicked back by a hairband, her expression calm and focused as she glides across the surface.

Katsuki watches her for a moment longer, his breath fogging the plexiglass in front of him.

And then another figure steps onto the ice, one he hadn’t noticed until now.

A man in sleek black clothes skates toward her, his strides long and smooth, each push effortless. His shoulders are squared, his posture perfect, and his movements are sharp but fluid in a way that makes a flicker of déjà vu crawl all the way from his spine to his neck. 

Katsuki’s jaw tightens as the man reaches the center of the ice, extending a hand toward the woman. They fall into sync almost immediately, the movements between them seamless as they glide into a partnered routine.

She spins out from his grasp, her skates carving a wide arc, and he catches her again like it’s second nature. Katsuki’s gaze sharpens as they skate near the plexiglass, giving him a clearer view.

The overhead lights catch on the man’s messy green hair, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead visible even from this slight distance.

It hits him all at once.

No fucking way.

Katsuki’s breath catches, his chest tightening as if the air’s been knocked out of him. His hands curl into fists, his knuckles pressing hard against the inside of his hoodie pockets.

He doesn’t need a second look. He knows that messy green hair, the way it sticks out in every direction no matter how carefully it’s combed. He knows that posture, that precision, that absolute focus that used to drive him insane.

It’s him.

🏒⛸️

December 12th, 2004

“Stop squirming,” Mitsuki snaps, her voice bouncing off the walls of the locker room where several other parents are busy wrangling their kids into skates, jackets, and gloves for their first skating lessons.

Four-year-old Katsuki doesn’t really care what it is his parents want him to succeed at this time. Maybe it’s another hobby, another thing they’ll push him into so they can show him off like some kind of trophy. He doesn’t really get it, not yet. He’s too young to grasp this whole genius-child-comparing thing rich parents have going on with each other.

He just wants to be a kid. Have fun. Run around in the backyard. Climb trees — whatever it is kids his age are supposed to do.

But instead, here he is, sitting on a cold bench in a locker room that smells like wet rubber and something sharp he can’t name.

“Mom, it stinks in here,” Katsuki protests — knowing fully well it is a useless case with his mother to do that — his legs swinging idly as Mitsuki crouches in front of him, yanking at the laces of the tiny skates she’s forced onto his feet. 

“Stop whining, Katsuki,” Mitsuki demanded, giving the laces another sharp tug. “You´re going out there and give your best, alright?”

“Why?” Katsuki continues to whine, squirming again when she moves to tighten the other skate. “I don’t wanna skate. It’s dumb.” 

Well, he doesn’t know if it’s dumb, but anything that isn’t about his toy cars or the playground or literally anything else he likes to do probably is.

Mitsuki sighs dramatically as she rises to her full height, planting her hands on her hips. “Because we signed you up, and you’re going to do it, Katsuki. No arguments.”

Her tone has that sharp edge that means ‘don’t push me’, and Katsuki knows better than to argue when she gets like that.

He crosses his arms and scowls at the floor, his legs swinging slightly. The skates feel weirdly heavy on his feet, like his shoes have been replaced with blocks of lead. Mitsuki crouches again, giving his jacket a quick tug to straighten it before helping him to stand up.

“Come on,” she says, practically dragging him toward the rink.

Katsuki stumbles forward, his steps wobbly as he tries to get used to the skates. Every time he moves, the rubber mat under his feet feels like it’s shifting.

“I can walk by myself!” he snaps, pulling away from Mitsuki’s hand.

“Oh, really?” She raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Katsuki glares at her but keeps moving, determined not to give her the satisfaction of helping him again. He makes it to the edge of the rink on his own, his knees bent awkwardly as he looks out over the ice.

The other kids are already stepping onto it — or rather, falling onto it. Half of them are clutching the boards for dear life, while the other half are wobbling their way toward the center where the teacher is waiting.

Katsuki snorts. Idiots.

Most of the kids look like they’ve never seen ice before, their feet flailing and their arms waving around like they’re trying to swim. But one kid stands out — not because he’s perfect, but because he’s almost comfortable in a way that doesn’t make sense for a kid his size.

The boy moves carefully, his skates gliding forward in short, wobbly pushes. He isn’t steady, not entirely — Katsuki sees it in the way he bites his bottom lip, his small teeth rolling over it in concentration. His green hair peeks out from under a knitted beanie, messy strands poking out in every direction, and his arms fling out every so often as he tries to balance himself.

But he doesn’t fall.

And somehow, even in the clumsy way he moves, Katsuki can tell — this kid belongs here. He doesn’t know how, but it’s like the ice accepts him in a way it doesn’t for the others.

A small woman standing near the boards claps her hands, her face lighting up as she cheers him on. “You got this, sweetie!” she calls, her voice warm and full of love.

The boy glances over at her, his face breaking into a grin so wide it makes his eyes crinkle.

Katsuki feels something twist in his chest.

He doesn’t know why, but that voice — that bright, cheerful encouragement — makes him feel off. Jealous, maybe. His mom doesn’t cheer like that. She doesn’t clap her hands or smile or call him sweetie. She gives him a quick pat on the shoulder, firm and almost dismissive, before shoving him toward the ice.

“Go on, Katsuki,” Mitsuki says, nudging him forward. “Stop standing there and get moving.”

Katsuki scowls but steps forward anyway, the weight of the skates unfamiliar and awkward as he stumbles onto the rink.

The ice is cold and slick under his feet, and the second he steps onto it, his legs shoot out in opposite directions. He crashes down onto his knees, his palms slapping against the freezing surface as he growls in frustration.

A shadow falls over him, and when he looks up, the green-haired kid is standing there, his face tilted in curiosity.

“You okay?” the boy asks, his voice soft but clear, like the kind of voice you’d use when talking to a skittish animal.

Katsuki glares up at him, already bristling. He’s small — smaller than Katsuki — but there’s something steady about the way he holds himself, even with his skates wobbling slightly as he balances. His big green eyes blink down at Katsuki with an annoying mix of concern and fascination, his gloved hand extended in an offer Katsuki has no intention of taking.

“‘Course I’m okay!” Katsuki barks, slapping the ice as he pushes himself halfway up.

The boy doesn’t flinch. Instead, his head tilts further, and his beanie — bright red, with a pompom on top — slips slightly to one side.

“You sure?” the boy presses, his hand still outstretched. “It looked hurtful.”

“I said I’m fine!” Katsuki growls, finally managing to scramble to his feet without the kid’s help. He wobbles for half a second before planting his skates firmly beneath him, his hands clenched at his sides.

The boy lowers his hand but doesn’t go away. Instead, he keeps watching Katsuki with those stupid big eyes — wide and green and full of something Katsuki can’t quite place. Then, to Katsuki’s growing irritation, he smiles.

“My name’s Izuku,” the boy says brightly, his grin revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should be. “What’s yours?”

Katsuki scowls, his cheeks burning as his hands tighten into fists at his sides. Why does this kid bother him so much? He doesn’t even know him, but something about the way he’s smiling — like he actually gives a damn — makes Katsuki’s chest twist in a way he doesn’t like.

Maybe it’s because Izuku seems so kind. So warm.

It’s something Katsuki isn’t used to.

His parents don’t talk to him like that. His mom’s sharp and demanding, his dad quiet and distant. Kindness doesn’t fit into their expectations. It doesn’t have a place in their world.

Telling this kid his name isn’t on Katsuki’s agenda. It’s not like they’re going to be friends. Why would they? There’s a distance bigger than an ocean between them. The boy’s warmth and Katsuki’s sharpness couldn’t be more different.

And yet, Katsuki looks at him, the name slipping out before he can stop it. 

“Katsuki.”

Chapter Text

Not friends, not enemies. Just strangers with memories.

Chapter 2: The Ice Beneath

Olympics.

People talk about them like they’re the ultimate honor, the pinnacle of human achievement. They imagine the cheers, the gold medals, the moments that live forever in highlight reels. But they don’t talk about the other side of it — the pressure that sinks its claws into your chest and squeezes until you can barely breathe.

Izuku knows that side all too well.

It’s not even funny how much weight comes with being an Olympic hopeful. It’s in every practice, every competition, every interview where someone asks, What’s next? It’s in the endless questions about how he handles the expectations, the whispered conversations about whether he’s mentally tough enough for the big stage.

He’s heard it all.

But Izuku also loves this.

Loves being on the ice. Loves doing what he does. Skating.

He didn’t start skating to chase medals or records or world titles. He started because it felt like freedom — like he could leave the ground behind and fly, even if just for a second. The first time he landed a clean jump, his coach had looked at him with bright, wide eyes and said, You’ve got something special, Izuku.

He hadn’t known what that meant then. He’d been too young, too focused on the thrill of landing on one blade without toppling over. Back then, skating was just joy, untainted by expectations or the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

Now, though, it’s clear.

Special means they’ll expect more. Always more.

It means your best won’t ever be enough.

And yet, even with the pressure, the endless grind of practices and competitions, Izuku can’t imagine being anywhere else. He loves it too much, even when it hurts.

“No, Izuku,” Coach Toshinori’s voice cuts sharply through his thoughts, pulling him back to the ice. “You want it too much.”

Does something like that even exist? Wanting something too much?

Well, of course he wants to nail this. That’s the whole point. It’s not like he can half-want it and still succeed. Isn’t that the entire deal with skating? With everything ?

“He’s right,” Ochako, his partner, adds with a teasing chuckle. “You’re gripping my hand like a lifeline. I need those fingers. Relax.”

Izuku blinks, glancing down at where his hand is clutching hers. His fingers are tight, like he’s afraid she’ll slip through his grasp if he loosens it even a little.

“Sorry,” he mutters, loosening his hold as they set up for the lift again.

“Better,” Ochako says, her voice encouraging as she shifts her weight to match his. “Now, deep breath. We’ve done this a million times.”

She’s not wrong. The press lift, one of the more challenging lifts in their routine, is second nature by now. But Izuku’s mind keeps wandering, snagging on every little mistake and every extra ounce of pressure that’s been building in the last weeks. 

“From the top,” Toshinori calls from the boards, his arms crossed but his expression steady. “And Izuku, breathe this time. Your body won’t listen to you if you don’t give it air.”

“Noted,” Izuku calls back, adjusting his grip on Ochako’s hand as they reset. He glances at her, offering a small, sheepish smile.

“Ready?” Ochako asks, her voice steady and encouraging.

Izuku nods, but just before they really get into it — before the familiar rhythm of skating and lifting takes over — his gaze flickers toward the boards at the entry to the rink.

His heart skips a beat.

The world shrinks to a pinpoint as his eyes lock onto the figure standing just outside the ice. Blond hair, wild and unyielding. Arms crossed over a broad chest, his sharp red eyes staring directly at Izuku, unflinching.

And just like that, the concentration Izuku had so carefully regained is shattered, slipping through his fingers like melting ice.

Red meets green.

It’s a clash and a reunion all at once, years of distance collapsing into a single moment. For so long, Izuku had gone without that piercing shade of red, without that searing presence that used to fill every corner of his childhood.

And now, it feels like the sun is shining down on the bright green grass again, nearly setting it on fire with its scorching intensity.

“Izuku?” Ochako’s voice is questioning, concerned, but distant — like it’s coming from somewhere far away. 

He doesn’t answer. Not even when Toshinori calls after him.

Before he can think, before he can even register what he’s doing, Izuku is already skating toward the man he hasn’t seen in years.

His strides are quick and deliberate, his skates slicing cleanly through the ice. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of disbelief and something he doesn’t want to name.

Katsuki doesn’t move. He stays planted, arms hanging loosely at his sides now, his sharp gaze locked onto Izuku like a tether pulling him forward.

When Izuku reaches the edge of the rink, he stops, his hands gripping the top of the boards as he looks up at Katsuki through the plexiglass.

“Kacchan?” he questions, his voice soft but tentative, as if he isn’t really sure.

But he is. He knows it in his bones, in the way his pulse kicks up, in the way every nerve in his body zeroes in on the moment.

The blonde hasn’t changed much — not in the ways that matter, anyway. Sure, there are differences. The black plug earring in his right earlobe is new, as is the faint scar slicing just above his left eyebrow. He’s definitely grown, not just in height but in presence. His shoulders are broader now, packed with muscle, his frame built like the athlete he’s always been.

Still, it’s unmistakably him.

Izuku would recognize him anywhere.

Katsuki stares at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the sharpness in his eyes impossible to soften. Finally, he lets out a low, familiar grunt.

“Deku.”

The name lands like a punch to Izuku’s chest, the weight of it sending a rush of memories flooding back all at once — not just good memories, that’s for sure. The way Katsuki had started to say it back then, sharp and mocking, was a constant reminder of where Izuku stood in his world.

But that was a long time ago.

Izuku’s grown up now. He doesn’t hold a grudge — not toward his childhood friend, anyway.

Still, it’s strange how familiar that name sounds, even now. It doesn’t sting like it used to, not quite. Maybe because Katsuki’s voice is less rough than he remembers, just lower, fitting the man he’s become.

Izuku’s gloved fingers tighten on the boards as his lips part, struggling to find the right words. What do you even say after so many years?

“What’re you doing here?” he blurts, the question tumbling out before he can stop it.

What a stupid question.

Izuku knows why Katsuki is here, or at least he can put two and two together. He knows Katsuki went to Boston College on a hockey scholarship — everyone knew that, back then — and it’s not like he hasn’t seen Katsuki’s name pop up in articles about the NHL, even if he doesn’t follow hockey much.

So yeah, obviously Katsuki is here because of…hockey. 

Still…here? Right now? Out of all places? Fate has a weird way of operating. 

“What's it look like?” 

Just now Izuku notices the bag that sits beside his feet on the floor, allowing him a peek at skates and other gear. 

“I just mean…” Izuku stammers, trying to catch his thoughts as they scatter. “I didn’t expect to see you. Here. Now.”

“Yeah, well,” Katsuki mutters. “Didn’t expect to see you either. Life’s full of surprises.”

Izuku blinks, momentarily thrown by the flatness of Katsuki’s voice. It’s not dismissive exactly, but it’s guarded — like he’s keeping something out of reach. Or maybe more like he’s keeping things exactly where they were, exactly where they’d left off all those years ago.

Because some things don’t change, it seems.

The weird air that had seemed to weave around them is still there. It lingers between them like an old song neither of them knows how to finish. 

It hadn’t always been like this between them. At least, not until high school.

Izuku remembers moving into the same street when he was about four years old, remembers their first encounter at their neighborhood rink. Back then, things had been simple.

Okay, as simple as it gets with someone like Katsuki.

Katsuki had been loud and brash, even as a kid, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. Somehow, it had worked between them. For a while. 

Izuku had followed him around like a shadow — not because Katsuki demanded it, but because something about him had drawn Izuku in. Katsuki was fearless — confident in a way that made everything he did seem effortless, even when it wasn’t.

But on the ice, they were equals.

Even if not in the beginning.

Izuku had taken to skating quickly, surprising even himself with how natural it felt. The balance, the rhythm — it all clicked in a way that made him grin every time he glided across the ice. Katsuki, on the other hand, had struggled a bit more. Nothing major — just the usual stumbles and slips that came with learning something new.

And god, had it pissed him off.

But Katsuki didn’t give up.

The second he got the knack of it, he carried himself on the ice the same way he did off it — like he owned the place. His movements became confident, fluid, every stride packed with the same intensity he brought to everything else in his life.

For a while, they had skated together almost every day, pushing and testing each other in a way that felt natural. Katsuki would try to outpace Izuku, and Izuku would match his speed, laughing breathlessly as they raced across the rink. It wasn’t always perfect — Katsuki’s temper often flared when things didn’t go his way — but somehow, they always ended up back on the ice, side by side.

But that changed the moment Katsuki went to his first hockey lesson.

While Izuku chose the path of figure skating, Katsuki went all-in on hockey. It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, they started to skate together less and less.

Katsuki was busy with drills and practices, always working on his slap shot or learning how to maneuver in tight spaces. Izuku, meanwhile, found himself spinning in endless circles, perfecting his edge work and footwork under the guidance of his own first personal coach. Their paths diverged, as natural as a fork in the road, but Izuku still remembers the way it stung. 

He remembers watching from the boards as Katsuki skated with his new teammates, his laughter loud and his presence commanding. The ice was still the same, but it felt different without Katsuki’s sharp voice pushing him to go faster, to try harder.

And then high school came, and the gap between them only grew.

Katsuki had started pulling away — not just physically but emotionally, too. The teasing that had once felt lighthearted took on a sharper edge, and Izuku didn’t know why. He’d tried to keep up, tried to hold onto the connection they once had, but Katsuki made it clear he wasn’t interested.

By the time their senior year rolled around, they were practically strangers. Katsuki had become a star in hockey, his name already whispered in scouting circles. Izuku, meanwhile, was carving his own path in figure skating, landing jumps that made coaches take notice.

And then the distance became literal.

A whole country separated them — Izuku heading to college in Toronto to train at one of the top facilities for figure skating, while Katsuki stayed in the States, attending Boston College.

Both of them were honing their craft on the ice, but in completely different worlds. Katsuki became one of the most promising players in college hockey, dominating headlines with his aggressive style and undeniable skill. Izuku, on the other hand, was earning his own acclaim, mastering quad jumps and earning podium finishes in competitions.

They were both rising stars in their respective fields, but their paths couldn’t have been more different.

Izuku had spent a lot of time in high school and college questioning what had gone wrong between them, but he’d never found an answer. Not really. 

And honestly? He hadn’t asked Katsuki either. So maybe it was his fault too. For all his effort to understand, he’d never done the one thing that might have given him clarity — confronted Katsuki about the wall the blond had built between them.

And now, standing here, face to face after all these years, Izuku’s throat is dry, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to do. 

Katsuki is still staring at him, sharp red eyes like a storm on the horizon — one that hasn’t decided if it’s going to blow past him or strike him dead where he stands.

He used to love that intensity.

As a kid, it had felt like a shield, something unshakable and steady to lean on. He used to think it made Katsuki invincible, untouchable. Like no matter what came their way, Katsuki would always be the one who knew what to do, the one who never flinched.

But now?

Now, standing this close again after so many years, that intensity just feels… heavy. Like it’s pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. 

What do you do when the feelings you thought were finally gone, buried under years of distance and time, resurface the moment you look into those eyes again?

Obviously, you just don’t say anything.

Because that is exactly what both of them are doing right now. Especially Izuku.

The silence stretches, heavy and taut, as if neither of them knows what to do with the years that have piled up between them.

Izuku grips the boards tighter, his fingers pressing into the cold surface as he forces himself to speak. “So, you’re here with your…team?”

“Yeah.”

Talkative as ever.

Izuku bites the inside of his cheek, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fights back a smile. Some things really don’t change.

“And you’re still skating?” Katsuki asks suddenly, the words coming out a little too rushed, like they’ve slipped past his usual filter. He pauses, shaking his head as if to reprimand himself for asking something so obvious. Izuku is literally standing on skates, on ice, fully dressed in his training gear. 

The absurdity of it makes Izuku chuckle. The sound is soft but genuine, a breath of warmth against the cool air.

For the first time since they started this conversation, he sees it — a slight twitch at the corners of Katsuki’s mouth. Not quite a smile, but something close.

A grin pulls at Izuku’s lips. “Never stopped.”

“Good.” 

The sound of skates scraping against the ice behind him breaks through the quiet tension, and Izuku glances over his shoulder.

“I convinced Toshinori to give us a ten-minute break, but you can’t just take off on—” Ochako glides up beside him, her words faltering as her gaze flickers between him and Katsuki.

“Izuku?” Her voice tilts with curiosity, hazel eyes scanning his expression before shifting to Katsuki, searching for an unspoken answer.

Izuku’s stomach twists. Right. He’d bolted mid-training without a word to anyone. 

He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks flush slightly as he tries to recover. “Ochako… this is…” He falters, his gaze flicking back to Katsuki as uncertainty creeps in.

Yeah… what exactly is Katsuki to him, after all these years?

But Katsuki answers for him, his voice firm and gruff. “An old friend.”

Ochako’s eyes go wide, and for a moment, Izuku wonders what’s running through her mind. Then her expression shifts to one of recognition, her jaw dropping slightly as she points at Katsuki.

“Wait… you’re a player for the Montreal Blizzards, aren’t you? Number 9, Katsuki Bakugou?”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Yeah.”

Ochako, however, is completely unfazed by his tone. She turns to Izuku, nudging his arm with a grin that’s equal parts incredulous and teasing. “You haven’t told me you’re friends with a hockey star. What kind of friend are you, huh?”

Izuku sputters, his face heating even more. “I—it’s not like I planned this—”

“Fuck,” Ochako interrupts, her eyes widening as she slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.” Her cheeks flush, and she glances apologetically at Katsuki before blurting, “But my dad is going to kill me when I tell him about this. He’s a huge fan.”

Katsuki snorts, his lips curling into something that might almost be a smirk — a smirk that makes Izuku’s legs feel dangerously wobbly.

God, how is it possible he got even more attractive?

It’s pathetic, really. Katsuki always looked like he was designed in some genetic lab for perfection: all sharp angles, piercing eyes, and the kind of presence that made people shut up when he walked into a room. His parents had really outdone themselves with him.

Only the best for the best, right?

“So,” Ochako cuts in again, ever-curious, “you guys went to school together or something?”

“Same street, same schools, skating together since we were four…basically the whole cliché 'childhood friends' package,” Katsuki says, rattling it off like it’s an itemized grocery list. He doesn’t bother looking at Izuku while he says it, like the past doesn’t deserve even a flicker of nostalgia.

Ochako arches a brow. “And then?”

“College happened,” Izuku cuts in quickly, trying to steer the conversation away before it goes somewhere uncomfortable. He shrugs it off like it’s nothing, forcing a casual smile. “And boom — six years are gone in an instant, and we run into each other again at the same place where we first met. A rink. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Now he looks at Katsuki, searching for something — some flicker of acknowledgment, some sign that Katsuki also feels the strange symmetry of it all.

But Katsuki doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “Hilarious.“ 

The chill in the rink is nothing compared to the chill in Katsuki’s voice.

Before Izuku can even begin to think of how to respond, a familiar voice reaches his ears.

“Bakubro! I thought you already went back to the hotel…”

A red-haired guy appears in the entrance to the rink, his broad grin easing the tension like someone flipping a switch. He approaches Katsuki from behind, throwing an arm casually around his shoulders.

Izuku blinks, the dots connecting in his head before he can fully process them. “Eijiro Kirishima?”

The guy looks at him, squinting slightly as if trying to place his face. Then realization dawns, and his grin stretches wider, his teeth flashing. “Yooo! Midoriya!” he calls out, his voice loud and joyful. “Long time no see, man!”

Kirishima was one of Katsuki’s closest friends from school days, back when Izuku and Katsuki’s already fragile relationship had started to splinter for good. At that point, it had only been a matter of time before it broke completely.

He remembers hearing about Kirishima getting accepted into Boston College, too. Hockey, of course. He hadn’t known they’d ended up on the same professional team, though. 

Not that his lack of knowledge surprises him. Izuku doesn’t really pay attention to hockey, even if he lives in the ultimate land of hockey now. It’s never been his thing, even less so since Katsuki made it his. Too much of a reminder of a friendship that kind of broke some tiny little part in him. 

So, does his hockey avoidance over all these years has to do with Katsuki?

Probably.

Will he admit that to himself?

Yeah, definitely not. 

“What kind of wild reunion is this?” Ochako chimes in again, disbelief clouding her expression. 

Izuku shifts on his skates, the ice suddenly feeling a lot slipperier, like he’s one awkward move away from wiping out completely. “I mean, I didn’t exactly plan for this…”

Kirishima laughs, clapping Katsuki on the back hard enough to make the blonde’s shoulders jolt. “Man, this is wild. I didn’t think we’d run into you here, Midoriya. What’re the odds?”

Well, theoretically considering this is a facility specifically for hockey players and figure skaters… not that minor, Izuku thinks. But yeah, he really wouldn’t have expected it either. 

Maybe he should have paid more attention to this NHL stuff. Then he might’ve known Katsuki plays for Montreal, and maybe he wouldn’t have been caught so off guard by the fact that they’re now living in the same city. How freaking weird is that?

Kirishima’s right: what are the odds? 

What are the odds that they hadn’t run into each other earlier? What are the odds that Izuku had no clue where Katsuki is playing, especially when they’ve obviously been skating in the same city for a while now?

But there’s no point dwelling on “what if’s” now. It is what it is.

And what it is… is that they’re standing in front of each other, facing the awkward weight of a past neither of them seems eager to revisit. 

Or are they?

While Izuku is busy overthinking, Katsuki looks vaguely annoyed by all the attention this coincidental “class reunion” is getting. The muscles in his jaw are clearly working as he shrugs Kirishima’s arm off. “Tch. Can we not make this a whole thing?”

“Oh, c’mon, Bakubro,” Kirishima says, grinning even wider. “You can’t tell me this isn’t cool. It’s like a blast from the past!”

Yeah, but is it a good one, though? Because right now, it feels pretty awkward and uncomfortable.

Ochako, clearly enjoying the moment, plants a hand on her hip and gives Izuku a sly look. “I’m starting to think you’ve been holding out on me, Izuku.”

“I swear, this is as surprising to me as it is to you,” he defends himself quickly, holding up his hands.

Kirishima’s eyes flick between Izuku and Ochako, his curiosity getting the better of him. “So, you’re what? Partners?”

“Yeah, pairs skating. Duh.” Ochako flips her hair dramatically, laughing.

“Sick,” Kirishima nods approvingly. Then, his grin turns sly. “Partners on ice and… off?”

“What kind of question is that, shitty hair?” Katsuki snaps at his teammate. 

Ochako doesn’t miss a beat, raising an eyebrow as she shoots back, “Wow, really? Riding the whole ‘people who skate together also bang each other’ cliché? That’s not just lazy, that’s tragic.”

Izuku snorts before he can stop himself, a laugh bubbling out that he quickly tries to smother. Ochako glances at him.

“What? It’s funny!” He holds his gloved hands out to his sides in a what can you do shrug.

“Funny and true,” Kirishima interjects, completely undeterred by the glare Katsuki shoots his way. “I mean, c’mon. You’re telling me it never happens?”

“Not every pair on ice is screwing off it, you absolute himbo,” Ochako fires back, crossing her arms.

Kirishima just grins, like he’s enjoying this way too much. “Hey, I’m just saying — if the skate fits…” 

He glances over his shoulder, as if something suddenly occurs to him, then turns back to the group, his grin widening. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

Katsuki immediately narrows his eyes, his tone flat and preemptive. “Yeah, it’s a no from me.”

Ignoring him, Kirishima claps his hands together, the sound echoing faintly in the rink. “How about this? I really wanna get a little nostalgic for school times, you know? So, how about you, Izuku, and your,” he pauses to shoot Ochako an exaggerated wink, “not screwing off ice–partner, come out with us to McAllan's tonight? Just a few drinks, some laughs, maybe a little reminiscing. What do you say?”

He nudges Katsuki, who looks like he’d rather face-check a wall than entertain this idea.

“What do you think, man?” Kirishima presses. “For old times’ sake?”

Katsuki glares at him. “I think you’re an idiot.”

Kirishima pats him on the back with enough force to make the blond scowl even harder. “Perfect. I’ll take that as a yes.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Cracks in the Ice

January 13th, 2014

It’s the end of a long freaking game, one that felt like it lasted a lifetime. The Boston Hawks had clawed their way to a 3–2 win, fighting tooth and nail to pull it off in the final minutes. 

Or more like Katsuki pulled it off. 

He strips down to his base layers, ripping off his chest protector and tossing it to the ground in front of his cubby with more force than necessary. The pads clatter against the floor, but he doesn’t care. What a fucking joke this game was.

They’d started strong, dominating the first period with two quick goals. Katsuki’s line had carried the team — of fucking course — because no one else could put the puck in the damn net to save their lives. But by the third period, Quincy Bay had pushed back, hard. Stupid turnovers in the neutral zone, sloppy defensive coverage, and suddenly, it was tied.

It wasn’t until Katsuki intercepted a weak breakout pass and ripped a one-timer past the goalie with less than two minutes left that they managed to scrape by with a win.

And now, standing in the chaotic locker room, Katsuki feels more pissed off than satisfied.

Around him, the noise is deafening. The guys are yelling, laughing, slamming locker doors. The whole room is buzzing with post-game energy, like they’d just won a championship instead of barely scraping by in a regular season game.

“Yo, Bakugou!” Cole, one of the defensemen, calls out, grinning as he peels off his jersey. “That game-winner was sick, dude! Top shelf — how’d you even see that hole?”

Katsuki yanks at the hem of his longsleeve. “Because I’m not blind like the rest of you idiots.”

A ripple of laughter goes through the room, but Katsuki doesn’t bother looking up. He throws the shirt into the growing pile of gear, then starts peeling off his pants with quick, jerky movements until he’s standing there in just his boxer briefs, the cold air of the locker room brushing against his heated skin.

“Calm down, Bakubro,” Kirishima pipes up, leaning casually against his own locker. He’s one of the few guys Katsuki can actually tolerate, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to being annoying sometimes. “We won. At least try to be happy about it. I know smiling’s against your DNA or something — like, a personal policy or whatever — but you don’t have to sulk like we lost.”

His joke earns a round of chuckles from the rest of the team, and Katsuki rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck.

“I’m not sulking, shitty hair,” he snaps, grabbing his towel. “I just don’t see the point in acting like we didn’t almost blow the damn game.”

Adam snickers, throwing his gloves into his bag. “Bet if Bakugou ever smiled, it’d break the scoreboard.”

Another wave of laughter bounces around the room, loud and obnoxious.

Middle school boys are douches. Katsuki knows this because he is one, but at least he can control himself better than the rest of these morons. Hormones are hitting them all like a freight train, and the locker room is basically a pressure cooker of testosterone and terrible jokes. Pair that with a bunch of athletes who think they’re already hot shit, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for overly energetic idiots.

Katsuki doesn’t exclude himself from the equation — he’s as much a dumbass as anyone else here, probably more. But he’s always managed to keep hockey front and center, keeping all the other crap as background noise. Maybe it’s because he feels different than the rest of them, but there’s no point digging into that right now.

“Damn it, Shane,” Cole groans at their second-liner forward. “You’re glued to your phone again. What is it now? Jessica can survive without you for one freaking second, don’t you think?”

Shane looks up, blinking like he didn’t even realize he was being called out. His phone is practically glued to his hand, the screen lighting up with notifications. “What? I told her I’d text after the game. Not my fault you losers don’t date anyone.”

That gets a round of exaggerated “oohs” and a few whistles.

“Jessica this, Jessica that,” Adam chimes in, grabbing a sweaty sock from his bag and chucking it at Shane. The sock misses by a mile, smacking into the lockers instead. “We get it, man. You’ve got a girlfriend. Doesn’t mean you have to broadcast it to the whole damn locker room all the time.”

“Jealous much?” Shane fires back, his grin smug as he holds his phone up like a trophy. “You’re just pissed the only female person who texts you is your mom.”

The laughter erupts again, loud and grating.

See, that’s exactly what Katsuki means. This? This is exactly why he doesn’t waste his time with their dumbass conversations. It’s not like he cares about Jessica or Shane or whoever-the-hell Adam thinks he’s funny for texting. It’s just noise — annoying, brainless noise that has nothing to do with hockey.

But lately, there’s been this… itch. A weird, stupid itch in the back of his head whenever they start up this “girls here, girls there” crap. Like he’s supposed to have something to say as well, supposed to join in and laugh and tell them about some girl he’s texting or staring at during class or whatever. 

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t care about that whole lovey dovey shit.

At least, he thinks he doesn’t.

Katsuki tugs his towel over his head, rubbing it against his sweat-damp hair a little too hard. His fingers clench into the fabric as he tunes out the laughter, trying to shut it all off. But it’s not just the noise that’s pissing him off. It’s the… the thing underneath it.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much when they talk about this stuff. He can’t put his finger on it. It’s not jealousy — why the hell would he be jealous of Shane and his basic-as-hell girlfriend?

It’s just…

“You even like girls, or what?”

The words echo in his head, uninvited and sharp. A stupid question. It’s his own subconscious whispering it at him whenever someone like Anika, Harper, or any other girl from the cheer squad flutters their lashes at him during class. Cheeks painted pink, giggling at everything he says, even when he’s not trying to be funny.

It’s obvious what they’re looking for. And it’s not like Katsuki doesn’t get it. They’re fine — pretty, even, in a way that he knows he’s supposed to appreciate.

And of course, he likes girls. Obviously. Right? He’s almost fourteen, for god’s sake. He’s supposed to. That’s just how it works. You like girls. You date girls. Maybe someday, you get married or whatever. That’s how everyone says it’s supposed to be.

So why doesn’t it feel… right?

Why does the idea of texting a girl, of holding hands, or whatever-the-fuck Shane does, make him feel so… weird?

It’s not like he doesn’t notice girls. He does. He can tell when someone’s attractive. But the idea of actually… doing something about it? It leaves him cold, like he’s reading instructions for a machine he doesn’t know how to turn on.

But it’s not just about girls, is it?

His fingers tighten on the towel, and he drags it over his face again like he can scrub the thought out of his brain.

Because there’s something else. Something he doesn’t want to think about but keeps creeping back in anyway.

The way his stomach twists when he sees someone like Shane flex his arms after practice, or the way his gaze lingers too long on Cole’s stupid grin during games. He notices things about his teammates that he probably isn’t supposed to notice.

The curve of someone’s shoulders. The way their back muscles shift when they stretch. Katsuki knows these aren’t things his teammates pay attention to. Not about each other, anyway.

So why does he?

He doesn’t want to notice these things. Doesn’t choose to. But they’re there anyway, burning at the edges of his brain like a spark he can’t stamp out.

“What about you, Captain?” Adam addresses Katsuki, dragging his attention back to the locker room. “You wouldn’t have any problems. You could just go around school and pick the girl you want.”

His voice has that almost-whining tone, like it’s a tragedy he doesn’t get cheerleaders served on a silver platter. 

Katsuki barely glances up, grabbing his hoodie instead of his towel. He originally planned to shower here, but this conversation really makes him want to leave instead and deal with it at home. Running away from this seems like the better option. The more comfortable one.

“Don’t have time for that shit.” His answer is short, clipped even.

“All hockey, no fun. You’re gonna end up married to your stick at this rate,” Cole shakes his head and chuckles, clearly thinking he’s funny. He’s not. He’s just being an ass. 

But it takes one to know one, right?

“Yeah,” Shane joins in, smirking. “Or Izuku.”

And that does it. Katsuki freezes for a split second, mid-motion, his hoodie halfway over his head.

The room erupts into more laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls like an echo chamber. It’s nothing short of a joke, a stupid one, but a joke nonetheless.

And yet, it makes Katsuki’s heart sink into his stomach, his gut twisting so uncomfortably that he doesn’t know why it’s affecting him this much. Or maybe he does. 

He lowers his hoodie slowly, his jaw tight, his expression locked in a scowl that doesn’t quite mask the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

It’s just a joke. So why does it feel like someone’s punched him in the chest?

Izuku has been one of his best friends — okay, probably his best friend, not that Katsuki would ever tell him that — ever since that stupid nerd had held out his hand on their first skating lesson. Even though he’d been sure back then it wouldn’t happen, they’d been almost inseparable ever since.

It’s normal for best friends to hang out a lot. Right?

“Seriously, Shane?” Kirishima nudges him, not really playful, more in a reprimanding way. “What are you, five?”

“What?” Shane shrugs, unbothered, his smirk not fading. “It’s a joke. Relax.”

Katsuki’s fists clench at his sides, the strap of his bag creaking under the pressure.

And fuck, he’s right. Why should he care? If Shane had said that about him and Kirishima, Katsuki wouldn’t have cared. He’s sure about that. He’d have laughed it off, maybe thrown in a snarky retort for good measure.

So… in conclusion, Katsuki isn’t pissed about Shane making the joke.

He’s pissed about the fact that Shane might be right with his observation.

Not on purpose. Shane doesn’t know shit, obviously. He doesn’t have any evidence, and he probably doesn’t care either. None of the guys really care — it’s just teasing, the same brainless banter they always do.

But still.

It wasn’t about Shane being a jerk. It was about Deku.

That’s what makes it different. That’s what makes it stick like a blade wedged into Katsuki’s ribs, impossible to pull out. Shane’s joke wasn’t some throwaway comment about anyone else, about Kirishima or Adam or even some random girl.

And that’s what shoves it in Katsuki’s face.

He grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw locking tight. The observation itself feels too close, like Shane accidentally stumbled on a landmine Katsuki didn’t even realize he’d buried. It’s not like Shane knows what he’s saying — he couldn’t possibly. But the fact that the nerd's  name even came up, the fact that the words “or Izuku” hit the air, makes something in Katsuki coil so tightly he can barely breathe.

It’s a joke. It’s supposed to be stupid and meaningless. But it isn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, Katsuki knows there’s something about his childhood friend that he can’t ignore.

Something that makes him freeze up when Shane teases him, not because Shane is teasing, but because the joke feels more like a mirror — like it’s forcing Katsuki to look at something he’s spent a while now pretending it doesn't exist.

Kirishima looks at him, concern flickering in his eyes. “Ignore him, dude. Shane’s a moron.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond, doesn’t look up, doesn’t even grunt. He just gets dressed in silence, each motion clipped and sharp, his body moving on autopilot while his mind churns.

He yanks the locker room door open, the strap of his bag creaking under his grip. The rush of cold air from the hallway brushes against his face, but it does little to douse the slow burn setting every nerve in his body ablaze.

“Later,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.

The noise of the locker room fades, muffled by the thick walls, but the weight in his chest stays.

🏒⛸️

So much for spending his evening locked up in his hotel room, maybe even watching one of the latest game tapes. Breaking down his own plays, overanalyzing his positioning — everything to do better next time. To make sure he’s the guy Coach can rely on. The golden boy. The jewel. The guy who makes shit happen.

Instead, here he is, stuffed into a dimly lit booth with cracked leather seats, wedged between Kirishima and Donovan, who’s talking animatedly to Deku — Izuku.

Katsuki clenches his jaw. He really has to stop calling him that stupid nickname in his head. They aren’t kids anymore. It’s been years. People grow up. Move on.

But apparently, his brain missed the memo.

Donovan’s on some tangent about hockey strategies or team dynamics or whatever the hell he thinks he knows about. The nerd is nodding along, smiling like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. It’s such a typical reaction for him that it makes Katsuki want to roll his eyes out of his skull. Of course he’s still like this, acting all polite and attentive, even when it’s clear Donovan’s just running his mouth.

Katsuki grips his beer a little tighter. The condensation on the bottle is the only cool thing in this whole damn situation.

“So, you and Katsuki here,” Donovan says, way too loudly, wrapping an arm around Katsuki’s shoulders like they’re old pals. He doesn’t notice the way Katsuki’s entire body stiffens under his arm, or maybe he just doesn’t care. “...have been skating together since when again?”

“Since we were four years old, for fuck’s sake,” Katsuki grumbles. "What, booze making you dumber than usual or something?"

Donovan doesn’t flinch, too caught up in his own curiosity. 

Katsuki’s patience is already wearing thin, but what really sets his teeth on edge is the fact that Donovan knows . He already had Deku — no, Izuku, because apparently, Katsuki’s trying to be a fucking adult — lay out most of their childhood. Their first encounter, their years of skating together, and every other detail that Katsuki would rather leave in the past.

And not just for Donovan. For the whole damn crew that thought crashing this little reunion was a brilliant idea.

It’s not like Katsuki hasn’t heard this story a million times before. Hell, he lived it. He doesn’t need it retold like some nostalgic bedtime story. And hearing it again, in the nerd's voice, in front of his team, just makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

What doesn’t help is the fact that Katsuki can’t even look the idiot in the eyes for more than a few seconds without his chest feeling like it’s being squeezed in a vice. 

It’s fucking ridiculous, how years of distance weren’t enough to lessen the hold this stupid, green-haired, figure-skating nerd has on him.

It’s not like Katsuki hasn’t tried to shove all that crap down — he’s been trying since high school. Being an absolute asshole during senior year was supposed to help, was supposed to create the distance he needed. And then Deku — fuck it, he gives up trying to call him anything else — went and made the decision for him, putting a whole-ass country border between them.

Problem solved, right?

Except it wasn’t. Because somehow, Katsuki ended up not only in the same country as him but the same fucking city.

Fate’s a sick motherfucker if he ever saw one.

Katsuki takes a long sip of his beer, his grip tightening around the bottle as he stares at the table like it’s personally offended him. Across from him, Deku is still laughing with Kirishima and the rest of his teammates, who have apparently moved on to middle school escapades — stories where Kirishima had also been involved.

Thank god. At least now, Katsuki doesn’t have to participate in this ridiculous conversation himself. He can let shitty hair do all the heavy lifting while he sits back and pretends this whole thing isn’t happening.

Katsuki feels like a spectator to his own life right now. Like he’s been dropped into some weird reality show without any warning, the cameras rolling while he’s still trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Because it still hasn’t fully sunk in. Deku’s here.

It wasn’t a joke that Katsuki had no clue Deku lived this close — same damn city close. Or that he was still skating. Though that part… yeah, Katsuki probably could’ve guessed that. 

The nerd had always been a perfectionist when it came to his skates and the ice — hell, maybe even more than Katsuki himself. Deku wasn’t just good, he was a natural. That kind of passion didn’t just disappear.

Katsuki had worked really hard to create distance. He’d never looked into the figure skating world, never searched for Deku’s name, never even entertained the idea of checking in. He’d shut that door and locked it tight.

So yeah, seeing the nerd earlier on the ice was a goddamn sucker punch. Like someone had not only opened the door but unhinged it completely. No hesitation. No apologies.

He’d been glued to the fucking spot behind the boards, watching Deku through the plexiglass, like he had all those years ago on the day they’d met. Deku had always been fascinating to watch when he was on the ice. Because off the ice, the guy was a fragile little sunshine machine. Sensitive, too damn optimistic, with rainbows and sparkles practically shooting out his ass.

But on the ice?

On the ice, he was different. Strong, precise, in control of every inch of his body, every movement. It was like watching someone who didn’t just skate on ice but owned it — like he’d carved out his own little world and ruled it with perfect edges and impossible jumps.

Back then, Katsuki had always pretended it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t a big deal. Secretly, it had always pissed him off a little. That Deku could be so fucking good at something, so effortless. 

And now?

Now, years later, watching him again, it hit just as hard. Because not only had Deku still had it — he’d gotten better.

Okay, that isn't really a surprise. 

Of course the nerd got better. Deku doesn’t do things halfway — in that regard, they’re pretty much the same person. He’s probably been killing himself for years to get to where he is now. Katsuki doesn’t need to hear the details to know that much.

So, Deku being a freaking pro on the ice is not the part that really throws him. No, what surprises Katsuki most is… her.

His eyes flicker to the brunette sitting next to Deku — the one with the stupidly round face and big, brown eyes. Katsuki narrows his gaze slightly, like staring at her long enough will give him some answers. 

Because the last time he saw Deku, the nerd’s dream was crystal clear: Olympics. Single Skating.

That had been the goal, the one thing Deku wouldn’t shut up about. Training for years, fine-tuning every damn jump and spin until his routines were perfect. Single skating had been his entire world.

So, what the hell happened?

Katsuki’s beer is empty now because apparently racking his brain about his childhood best friend makes him want to drown those thoughts in alcohol. Fucking perfect.

He risks another glance at the brunette, his jaw clenching slightly as she leans closer to Deku, her hand brushing his arm. She seems nice enough, all big smiles and easy laughter. They have good chemistry on the ice. Katsuki can admit that much, but something about seeing Deku with someone else in their space — okay no, it used to be — makes him uncomfortable.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Deku wasn’t supposed to change his path. He wasn’t supposed to—

What? Move on? Grow up?

Katsuki scowls, dragging a hand along his jaw. Enough.

The knot in his chest is unbearable now, and he needs to get out of this booth before he loses it completely. “I’ll get another beer,” he mutters, standing abruptly and not bothering to wait for a response.

He steps away from the table, the noise of laughter and conversation fading as he moves toward the bar. The air feels lighter here, easier to breathe. 

McAllan’s more of a pub than a fancy bar, with its low lights, dark wooden interior, pool tables in the back, and even a couple of dartboards. It’s not exactly his kind of scene, but whatever.

Katsuki plants his hands on the polished counter, leaning forward as he considers what to order. Maybe something stronger than beer.

Wouldn’t be the smartest choice. He’s got his rules for a reason — keep his head in the game, stay sharp, don’t let anything mess with his focus. And yet, right now? Something stronger sounds a hell of a lot better than beer.

Because being deep in liquor seems infinitely more appealing than being stuck in his own head.

His gaze flickers back to the table, to where his teammates are still laughing and talking with Deku. The sight twists something in his gut again, sharp and relentless.

Yeah. Whiskey sounds fan-fucking-tastic.

“Hey, sweetie,” a voice purrs, pulling his attention.

The bartender leans against the counter, her full lips curling into a practiced smile. She’s a busty brunette with curves in all the right places, the kind of woman Katsuki knows most of his teammates would trip over themselves to impress.

Not him, though.

“What can I get for you?” she asks, a wink tossed in for good measure.

“Whiskey,” Katsuki says, his tone flat, already turning his focus back to the counter. “Neat.”

He adjusts the cap sitting backward on his head, fingers brushing the brim as she nods and flashes a toothpaste-commercial smile. When she turns to grab his drink, she noticeably swings her hips, slow and deliberate, like she’s performing for him.

Doesn’t work on me, love, Katsuki thinks, a bit annoyed, leaning his elbows on the counter and letting his gaze sweep around the pub. Killing time. That’s all this is — an excuse to stay away from the table for a little longer. And maybe to get a little drunk while doing it. 

The bar is busier than it was when they arrived, groups of people chatting and laughing, the hum of conversation blending with the occasional clink of glasses and a low, thudding bass line. It’s obviously one of the few places in this small suburb where people can let loose, and it shows in the energy of the room.

Katsuki lets his eyes skim the space, deliberately avoiding the direction of their table.

His whiskey lands in front of him, the glass sliding smoothly across the counter. A white napkin comes with it, folded neatly, something scribbled on its surface.

“There you go,” the bartender says with another wink, her voice dripping with suggestion. Katsuki doesn’t even need to check the napkin to know what’s written there.

Her number. 

She leans forward just a little too much, her low-cut top doing its best to ensure Katsuki notices. “My shift ends at twelve,” she says, her tone coy and syrupy, like she’s expecting him to say something.

Katsuki doesn’t.

He doesn’t even glance at the napkin, just lifts his glass to take a slow sip. His silence doesn’t seem to faze her, though. She gives him one last smile before moving down the bar to serve a group of guys. 

Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose, setting the glass down and eyeing the napkin like it’s mocking him.

It’s not the first time something like this has happened. Women have been throwing their numbers at him since middle school, and it’s always the same: the flirty smiles, the coy gestures, the expectation that he should be grateful for the attention.

But gratitude isn’t the word for it.

If anything, it’s exhausting.

Katsuki flicks the napkin away with his finger, watching it slide across the counter until it crumples to a stop midway. It doesn’t bother him, not in the way the woman probably thought it would.

He’s just not interested. Never has been.

A hand lands on his shoulder, warmth spreading from that point down to his chest and stomach, where it explodes into a million pieces, like a goddamn firework.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re ignoring me, Kacchan.”

Katsuki turns his head, and there they are — those eyes. Bright, stupidly green, a whole goddamn landscape that’s always felt like home and something more.

His gaze flickers over Deku’s face, cataloging every detail like it’s been years — because it has been. The freckles scattered across his cheeks, the silver earring dangling from his left ear, the soft curl of his stupid green hair falling slightly into his face. A jawline so sharp it could cut glass, lips soft and full enough to make Katsuki wonder — for the millionth time — what they’d feel like. Even though he actually knows that.

He looks like a goddamn model in that black sweater, tailored just right to show off broad shoulders that definitely weren’t there in high school, paired with a straight blue jeans that clings in all the right places.

Deku looks… edible. There’s no other way to describe it, and Katsuki hates himself a little for even thinking it.

And yes, there you have it, ladies and fucking gentlemen. The exact reason why that busty bartender and every other woman like her would never get Katsuki to go home with them.

Because Katsuki is absolutely, one hundred percent, into dicks. 

And if the tight heat pooling in his gut is any indication, he’s still undeniably — painfully — into the dick attached to his ex-best-friend-slash-childhood-crush.

Fuck.

Katsuki snorts as he lifts the glass to his lips. "Well, good you know better then.“ 

Deku doesn’t seem fazed by the sharp response. Instead, he slides onto the barstool beside Katsuki, propping his chin on his hand, his head tilted just enough to get a better look at him. And, of course, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s staring.

“You planning to stay here the whole evening?” 

Katsuki smirks, the rim of his glass hiding half of it. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He sets the glass down slowly, the faint clink breaking the low hum of the bar. His crimson eyes flick over to Deku. “On whether or not you keep annoying the hell out of me.”

“You know that’s what I’m good at, Kacchan,” Deku countered with a soft chuckle. “Had enough practice as a kid.”

Katsuki grunts, turning his gaze back to the amber liquid in his glass. “Don’t you think we’re too old for this whole nickname shit, Izuku?”

The name feels fucking weird on his tongue — like trying to fit into an old pair of shoes he hasn’t worn in years. Tight, uncomfortable, and all wrong, even though it technically fits.

The nerd doesn’t answer right away, just keeps looking at Katsuki like he’s trying to solve some kind of puzzle. Not just the one created by the years apart, but the one Katsuki had forced on them when he’d pushed Deku away.

“You almost look the same,” Deku says finally completely ignoring his question, his voice softer, thoughtful, “but you’re completely different, you know that?”

“It’s been six years. We grew up.” Katsuki tips his head back, draining the rest of the whiskey in one go. The burn hits hard, welcome, but he knows he’s going to regret this tomorrow morning when he’s halfway through drills and wishing for death. “Change is inevitable.”

He sets the glass down and finally does it — finally meets Deku’s eyes head-on. It’s the first time tonight he’s held that gaze for longer than a few seconds, and fuck, it’s just as unnerving as he remembers.

He looks different, for sure. Grown, filled out, like someone hit fast forward on the nerd Katsuki used to know. He’s taller now, damn near eye level at six-three, with more muscle that isn’t bulky but lean — just enough to pack power while staying light for the ice. His features are sharper, more defined.

Manly, Katsuki guesses. If that’s even a thing.

But those stupid big eyes? The freckles scattered across his cheeks? Yeah, those are still the same, giving him away.

No matter how much Deku looks like a completely different person, there’s still something about him that’s him . That same energy, the same presence that Katsuki’s been trying to forget for years.

It doesn’t fucking help.

“God,” Deku murmurs, running a hand through his messy green hair. The silver ring on his index finger catches the overhead light, glinting faintly. “Six years. Can you believe that, Kacchan.”

The nickname rolls off his lips effortlessly, like they’re still kids sneaking into the rink for extra practice or arguing over whose turn it was to grab snacks. Like nothing has changed. Like six years isn’t a goddamn lifetime.

“And now look at us,” Deku continues, his voice soft, almost marveling. He gestures vaguely between them. “We’re here…both doing what we love, what we’re best at. Sounds like the dream we always set for ourselves as kids. Well, besides the location,” he adds with a giggle, “but still… it’s exactly what we always dreamed of.”

Katsuki grips the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turn white. His teeth grind together, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t crack his molars.

He remembers it, clear as day. Late nights at Deku’s house, lying in an ocean of pillows on the floor of their makeshift fortress, built out of chairs and blankets. They’d talk about the future like it was something they could carve out with their bare hands. Deku would win gold at the Olympics, Katsuki would hoist the Stanley Cup.

But there’s one thing missing now.

The big, unspoken part of that dream, the thing neither of them had to say out loud back then, because it was just assumed. They’d still be together. They’d still have each other’s backs, celebrating those victories side by side.

They’d live through those moments together.

Not… like this.

Not with six years of silence, of distance so vast it may as well have been an entire galaxy between them. Not with the awkward weight of every unsaid thing pressing down on Katsuki’s chest so hard he can barely fucking breathe.

“It’s not really the same,” he wants to mutter, but he doesn’t.

Because it isn’t his place to ask what happened to Olympic gold in single skating. It isn’t his place to ask anything like that…not anymore. Not when they’re not friends. Not when Katsuki had been the one to light the match that burned that bridge to ash.

So instead of throwing all those questions at him — questions he’s choking on — Katsuki just hums, low and noncommittal, staring into his glass like it might hold the answer to something. But it’s as empty as his mind right now. 

“So,” the nerd starts again, rocking back and forth on the barstool like six years haven’t passed, like he’s still that kid with too much energy and no concept of personal space. “What have you been up to the last few years?”

“Hockey.”

“That’s it? That’s all I get?” Deku rolls his eyes, and the exaggerated way they sweep upward nearly makes Katsuki snort. “So talkative, Kacchan. Please, don’t pester me with all this personal information. I don’t think I can handle the flood of words you’re gracing me with.” 

Katsuki side-eyes him, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smirk.  "You know, some people say you grow out of being a pain in the ass. Guess you’re living proof that’s bullshit.”

“Takes one to know one.” Deku doesn’t miss a beat, leaning his elbows on the counter with a grin so wide it might blind someone. “Seriously, though. Nothing exciting? No wild stories?”

“Winning games. Breaking records. Carrying the team on my back. Same shit, different day.”

Deku laughs, the sound warm and way too familiar, but there’s a new depth to it now, a low rumble that Katsuki doesn’t remember but can’t stop noticing. And because the universe loves screwing with him, it does something weird to his chest. 

“So modest,” he teases. “I didn’t realize the Blizzards were a one-man show.”

Katsuki doesn’t so much as smirk. “They might as well be.”

“Oh, of course,” Deku says, shifting slightly in his seat, completely oblivious to the fact that his knee brushes against Katsuki’s thigh. Too bad Katsuki fucking isn’t. It’s like a jolt of electricity shoots straight through him, intense and stupidly distracting. “Because God forbid someone else gets a shred of credit,” he continues, his smile softening into something playful.

Katsuki shifts, leaning just enough to put an inch of space between them — not that it helps. “What about you, huh?” Katsuki grunts, desperate to redirect this train wreck of a conversation. “You got yourself a nice little partner for on the ice. Anything special worth mentioning happening off it?”

Why the fuck is he asking that?

The words hit the air, and it’s like he can’t even believe they came out of his mouth. His stomach flips, and if he could physically reach out, grab those goddamn words, and shove them back down his throat, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

What kind of dumbass question is that?

“What’s done is done” , is what his dad always used to say. And fuck him, but if this isn’t the perfect fucking example of that, Katsuki doesn’t know what is.

“Are you asking me if I’m single?” Deku tilts his head, all crinkled-eye smile and amused, like Katsuki just handed him the setup for the best tease of his life.

Fuck yeah he is. 

“Absolutely not, don’t fucking care,” Katsuki snaps, signaling the bartender for another round with a sharp wave of his hand. His grip tightens on the empty glass, leaning forward in his seat like he doesn’t give a single shit about the idiotic conversation unfolding. “I just wanted to show you what the other side feels like when it’s bombarded with dumbass questions. Call it payback. Your own medicine and all that shit.”

Deku’s grin spreads slowly, knowingly, like he’s savoring every second of Katsuki’s irritation, and Katsuki already knows he’s gonna hate whatever comes next. “Payback? For what, exactly? Being interested in your life? I didn’t realize I was torturing you.”

Katsuki scoffs, tipping his head toward the bar just as the busty brunette slides a new whiskey his way, her stupidly flirty smile intact. He doesn’t even glance at her. “Maybe you should hang up your skates and become a full-time pain in the ass. Bet that’ll earn you a medal.”

Deku leans forward like he’s settling in for the long haul. “I've almost forgotten your charming personality.”

When the hell did the nerd get so damn sassy?

“Yeah, charming’s my middle name, nerd. Thought you knew that by now.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Deku doesn’t miss a beat, and it’s honestly infuriating how quick he is with this shit now. “But since you’re obviously dying to know — no, I’m not seeing anyone.”

Katsuki barks out a short, humorless laugh, lifting his freshly poured drink with the kind of exaggerated calm that practically screams I’m totally unaffected. What a goddamn lie. “I’m not dying to know shit,” he shoots back, his tone flat enough to make it sound convincing.

The banter goes back and forth for a few minutes, with Deku teasing him about the blush that spread across his cheeks and Katsuki blaming it all on the alcohol. And as annoying as it all is, it’s also kind of comforting. 

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

Just in his head. Because it’s safe there. 

“Now that,” Deku chuckles softly, running a hand through his green curls, which are a complete mess by now, “feels like nothing’s changed at all.” 

Katsuki scowls, turning his gaze to his whiskey like it’s some magic potion able to get rid of all those unwelcome feelings.

Nothing’s changed, huh? That’s rich, coming from someone who went from a scrawny nerd to looking like he walked off the cover of some fitness magazine. 

And that hair. Completely wrecked, but in a way that’s unfairly good. Stupid good. Sexy good.

At this realization, Katsuki shoves his glass a few inches away from him, like the drink itself is responsible for his wandering thoughts.

Magic potion, my ass . 

Correction from earlier: whiskey doesn’t help drown thoughts of Deku.

Fuck no. It does the exact opposite. It’s like someone suddenly turned up the resolution on every tiny goddamn detail — his laugh, the way his hand absently rubs at the back of his neck every now and then, the glint of that silver earring catching the low light.

What a fucking joke.

“…staring,” is all he hears when the nerd nudges his arm softly. Katsuki’s heart nearly stops, panic gripping him for half a second. 

Fuckity fuck. He caught me. A+ for subtlety, you fucking moron.

But then Deku tilts his head toward the bar, and Katsuki realizes with a rush of relief that he’s not talking about him at all. “You have a spectator over there,” Deku states casually, nodding toward the bartender.

Katsuki barely has time to register the words as he takes a sip of his drink — and almost spits it out when Deku adds, just as nonchalant, “She’s so eye-fucking you.”

He chokes. Hard. It’s like his lungs are staging a full-on rebellion, coughing so loud a few nearby tables glance over, and Katsuki’s ready to tell them to fuck off if they don’t quit staring. Stretching out an arm, he snatches the napkin he’d discarded earlier and swipes at his chin, still scowling.

“The hell, Deku?” Katsuki growls, glaring at him like he just committed a federal crime.

His childhood friend shrugs, completely unfazed, because of course he is. His stupid green eyes are practically sparkling with amusement, like he lives for this shit. “I’m just saying. She’s been looking over here every five seconds like she’s waiting for you to notice. Maybe you should take her out of her misery.”

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

The only one who needs to get taken out of his misery is Katsuki, because right now, he’d rather lick rusty scissors or walk barefoot across broken glass than endure this level of awkwardness any longer. Discussing his “prospect of a good lay” with Deku isn’t even remotely on the list of things he wants to do tonight. Especially when he doesn’t even want that lay.

“I’m sure she’ll be perfectly fucking fine without me,” he replies completely indifferent. “Plenty of men in here to choose from.” 

His fingers tighten around the napkin in his hand, crumpling it slightly. It’s the only thing grounding him right now. But Deku’s gaze drops to it, curiosity flickering across his face before he snatches it out of Katsuki’s hand with a speed that makes Katsuki’s blood boil.

“Is that her number?” Deku asks, holding the napkin up and squinting at the messy black Sharpie scribble.

“Give that back, you nerd,” Katsuki snaps, swiping for it, but Deku leans back just out of reach, grinning like a little shit who knows he’s pushing all the right buttons.

“Wow, Kacchan,” he pokes fun at him, his voice dripping with mock surprise, his green eyes bright with that irritating glint of nostalgia. They’re a little glazed too, thanks to the beers he’s already had. Figures Katsuki’s not the only one feeling loose and out of his goddamn mind tonight. Nothing else would explain Deku’s current offensive behavior. Sure, they’d always been “bantery” with each other, teasing and all that crap as kids and preteens, but this? This feels different. Kind of personal if he’s being honest. “Still got it, huh? I remember back in school when every girl had a crush on you.”

His voice dips into that overly sentimental, isn’t-that-so-sweet tone people use when they’re reminiscing about shit Katsuki couldn’t give less of a fuck about.

“You were, like, the guy ,” he continues, glancing at the napkin once more. “Still are, as it seems.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of his head. “Tch. Whatever.”

“So…” He kneads the fabric between his fingers, the grin on his face softening just enough to be more teasing, more insufferable. “You gonna call her or what?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Katsuki fixes him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel, his voice dripping with mock sweetness and layered in sarcasm. “Why’s it so important? If I didn't know better, I’d say you're jealous, Deku.”

The words land like a punch, and Deku blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He’s clearly scrambling for a comeback that doesn’t exist, and Katsuki watches the realization dawn on his stupid freckled face with smug satisfaction. “Don’t start what you can’t finish, nerd. You should know that by now.”

The satisfaction curling in his chest feels way too good, like a win he didn’t even have to work for. Watching Deku squirm for once tonight? Yeah, that’s the highlight of this goddamn evening.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Collision Course

“You look like someone ran you over, backed up, and then parked on top of you for good measure,” Ochako concludes with a wicked grin, tying her laces with the efficiency of someone who didn’t spend the night drowning in beer – which is a goddamn lie, because Izuku saw her. She absolutely did. “Seriously, did you get hit by a Zamboni on your way in?”

Izuku winces at the decibel level — far too high for his liking right now — as he drags a hand through his mess of curls, like that’s going to fix anything. “Your concern is overwhelming.”

“Hey, I am concerned.” She tilts her head, giving him the once-over like she’s appraising a particularly tragic piece of modern art. Her innocent smile — the same one she used last night to charm the hockey team into a round of free shots — is back in full force. “I’m concerned about whether you’ll even make it through practice or if I’m going to have to drag your sorry ass across the ice like a dead seal.”

“A… seal?” Izuku squints at her, his brain sluggishly trying to process her analogy. 

“Yeah, you know,” she says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Those big floppy things? Cute, but totally useless on land?”

“Thanks for the clarification,” he deadpans, groaning as he leans forward to tug at his skate laces. The rink lights are blinding, and the hum of the cooling system feels like it’s vibrating directly in his skull. “I feel more like a drowned seal, if we’re being specific.”

Ochako snickers, way too entertained by his misery. He casts a glance at her, her face disgustingly fresh, with no dark circles, no signs of fatigue. Just her usual, overly cheerful self. “The more important question is: How the hell are you not feeling like death? You drank as much as I did.”

Ochako’s grin widens into something so smug it almost makes him regret asking. “Ah, but you forget, sweetie — I am built different.”

Izuku gives her a flat look. “Pretty sure ‘built different’ doesn’t cover shotgunning beers with half the Blizzards.”

“Oh, please.” She waves him off like he’s overreacting. “Beer’s basically water.”

“I’m pretty sure my liver would disagree,” he mutters, slumping back against the bench.

“You know,” Toshinori’s voice cuts through the rink like a whip, making both of them snap to attention. He stands at the edge of the ice, arms crossed, a scowl on his face so sharp it could shave ice. “When I said to let loose, breathe a little and have fun, to get rid of all that bad energy—”

Izuku’s stomach drops. Oh, no.

“I didn’t mean for you to ruin yourself to the point where this entire practice is pointless.”

The words land with the kind of weight that only Toshinori can deliver, and Izuku suddenly wishes the ground would swallow him whole. When exactly the old man had entered the rink is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter now. Izuku knows he’s screwed. Absolutely, royally screwed.

Drinking while under training? Not ideal.

Drinking to the point of getting wasted? That’s not just a bad idea — it’s a goddamn mortal sin.

And the worst part? Izuku knows it. Which makes the whole thing even more inexcusable.

“Sorry,” Izuku says, his voice weak, like an apology might magically erase the past hours of questionable decision-making.

Disappointment is etched deep into his middle-aged features, the kind that makes Izuku want to shrink into himself. Toshinori is an excellent coach, patient and good-hearted, but when it comes to practice time — and most importantly safety — the man has zero tolerance for bullshit. And this? This is bullshit.

“You should know better. When you step onto that ice, Midoriya, you’re not just skating for yourself. You’re part of a partnership that requires trust, and complete presence — mentally, physically, emotionally. Every lift, every throw, every single element relies on your ability to be fully engaged, every second you’re out there.”

His gaze flicks to Ochako, who’s now mouthing a silent, exaggerated “I’m sorry” toward Izuku, as if that’s going to make him feel any less like crap. “Your partner’s safety depends on you. When she’s in the air, when she’s spinning, when she’s throwing all of her weight into your hands, she’s trusting you to be there. To catch her, to support her, to never let her down. That trust isn’t just a given. It’s something you earn every single day through discipline and focus.”

Toshinori steps closer. “Do you understand what happens when that focus wavers? Even for a moment?”

Izuku knows. Of course he knows. That’s why he feels like absolute shit right now. Not just because the alcohol is currently waging war against his body, and not in the standard, let-the-liver-handle-it way. No, his body seems to prefer the messy route, the kind that involves a mad dash to the nearest trash can or toilet. Fantastic.

Toshinori lets the silence hang, heavy and uncomfortable, just long enough to make Izuku squirm under its weight. Apparently, being an excellent coach and a former legend on the ice isn’t enough for the man. No, he’s also a freaking expert in guilt-tripping, the kind that digs deeper than any hangover-induced headache ever could.

“A misstep, a lapse in concentration — it’s not just a mistake. It’s a risk,” Toshinori says finally, his voice dropping an octave, making the words hit even harder. “A risk to her career, her body, her future. And it’s your responsibility to give your absolute best that doesn’t happen.”

Izuku feels like he’s sitting under the interrogation lamp of an FBI agent, sweat practically pooling under the relentless spotlight of Toshinori’s speech. 

“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you after all this time. This is not just about talent or technique. It’s about accountability. Professionalism. Respect for your craft and for the person standing beside you. So, if you’re here and not able to give one hundred and ten percent, then maybe you should take a day off and come back when you can.” 

Well, this isn’t how Izuku thought his day would go. Sure, he feels a little “vomitty”, but it’s probably the best way to describe the indefinable, swirling mess in the pit of his stomach.

But still, getting scolded like a middle schooler who forgot his homework? Yeah, that definitely wasn’t on the agenda for today.

Is he wrong, though?

Probably not. 

Focus is important, especially when you’re carrying not only your own weight but also someone else’s — symbolically and literally. And Izuku knows it. He’s known it for years. It doesn’t make sitting here with Toshinori’s judgmental stare drilling into him any easier to swallow.

“You’re watching from the sidelines today,” Toshinori announces, his tone final, like the bang of a gavel.

And there it is. The death sentence.

Izuku doesn’t argue. What’s he supposed to say anyway? That he totally deserves this? That he let himself spiral last night and lost sight of what matters? 

He swallows hard, nodding even though it feels like cement settling in his chest. “Understood.”

Izuku stays behind on the bench just outside the rink, elbows resting on his knees as he watches Ochako step onto the ice. She’s trying her best, skating through their usual edge work and running through isolated elements without him. And damn it, it only makes his chest feel tighter. She shouldn’t have to do this alone. 

Especially with World Team Trophy looming around the corner. 

The competition is their chance to test their Olympic program against real pressure, the kind you can’t simulate in training. It’s supposed to give them valuable experience leading into the Olympic season. But that only works if he’s present. If he’s fully in the here and now. Not stuck years back in Boston, not stuck at McAllan’s last night.

The rink feels awfully quiet now, despite the music playing in the background and Toshinori’s steady voice giving Ochako instructions. The faint scrape of her blades echoes in the space, a sound that usually calms Izuku, but today it leaves him restless. It gives him too much time. Too much time to stew in the mess of last night, in the fact that he let Katsuki Bakugou get under his skin. After all these years.

Kirishima’s bright idea of catching up — over a “few” drinks, of course — hadn’t seemed so bad at first. Sure, it had been awkward and weirdly surreal to see Kacchan after six goddamn years, but Izuku had thought maybe it could be… good. Closure, maybe? Whatever.

But then Kacchan’s behavior smashed any good intentions Izuku had for the evening into tiny, irreparable pieces. And for once after a long while, Izuku got pissed. Rarely happens, but when it does, well… he ended up in a pub, outdrinking his ex best friend and throwing banter like his life depends on it. Because apparently, alcohol makes him braver, louder, cockier.

He was too snarky, too sharp. He’d tried to act like Kacchan’s decision to cut off their friendship at the end of high school didn’t bother him. That it hadn’t carved a hole in his chest the size of a freaking crater. But all his posturing had done was the exact opposite — showing Kacchan just how much he still cared, how deeply that cut still ran.

So much for not holding a grudge. 

Maybe it’s because he never understood why. Kacchan never gave him an explanation — just pulled away, bit by bit, until one day there was nothing left to hold onto. It wasn’t like there was a fight or some huge falling out, just… silence. A slow, suffocating distance that stretched until it finally snapped. Like a rubber band. 

And it left Izuku standing there alone, wondering what he’d done wrong.

That’s what ate at him the most — still does. Not knowing.

Because it wasn’t just the end of a friendship. It was Kacchan. The one person he thought would always have his back, who knew every part of him and never flinched. And then, out of nowhere, Kacchan had signed him off without a reason, leaving him to piece together the wreckage on his own.

Izuku had spent months — years — dissecting their entire life together, turning over every moment, every conversation, searching for something. He’d replayed every word exchanged, every fight, every silence, trying to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong. But no matter how much he searched, no matter how many sleepless nights he spent trying to make sense of it, nothing came to mind.

And now, even with all this time — years of distance to dull the edges — it still stings. Still leaves him spinning in the same questions that had haunted him back then.

Just because he took one look at those eyes again. 

🏒⛸️

Hungover, benched, and feeling like a complete idiot — definitely not his finest moment. But hey, there’s a first time for everything, right? Lucky him.

Izuku’s legs are stretched out in front of him. His skates sit haphazardly beside him, the laces loosely undone, as he leans back against the wall. Practice is officially over, the ice now getting a well-deserved refresh for whoever’s up next.

Ochako sits beside him, bent over her skates, working the laces free with quick, practiced movements. The neat ponytail she started with is long gone, stray strands plastered to her face from the exertion of solo drills. She hasn’t said much since Toshinori called it a day, just the occasional hum or a quiet mutter about her blades needing a tune-up.

Izuku’s mind, on the other hand, is spinning in a thousand directions at once, most of them looping back to Toshinori’s words after practice had wrapped up. 

“I’m not trying to reprimand you, Midoriya. I’m not even mad. But you’re better than this. You’re better than wasting your potential on things that don’t matter and letting distractions pull you away from what does. Don’t lose focus. Not now.” 

And of course, he’s right. Toshinori‘s always right. The man has this maddening talent for cutting straight to the heart of things, and Izuku hates how much he hates that.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Ochako says, breaking the silence. She straightens up, stretching her arms over her head before letting them drop with a sigh. “That usually means you’re either overthinking or wallowing.”

He snorts softly, tipping his head to look at her. “Why not both?”

She doesn’t smile, though. Doesn’t tease him like usual. Instead, she tilts her head, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him. “Okay, I wasn’t gonna ask. Figured you’d tell me when you’re ready. But…” She trails off, pulling her laces free with a sharp tug before taking off her skates. “What’s going on? Yesterday wasn’t like you. I’ve never seen you lose self-control like that before.” She snickers softly as she pulls the blade guards off, reaching into her bag for a cloth to wipe the skates clean. “And please don’t hand that responsible title to me now. I’m absolutely not cut out for that.”

Despite himself, Izuku chuckles under his breath, his lips quirking up in the faintest smile. “Yeah, no arguments there.”

“Hey!” Ochako protests, nudging him with her elbow, though it’s more playful than anything. “You shouldn’t agree with me so easily! At least try to fight it a little. Fake some belief in me or something!”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not exactly inspiring confidence.”

“You’re not exactly a beacon of stability right now either,” she shoots back with a grin, though it falters as the silence stretches.

Her earlier question still hangs in the air between them, pressing on his chest like a weight he can’t shake off. What’s going on?

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

Izuku lets out a long exhausted breath, running a hand through his curls as his gaze drifts to the freshly polished ice. It’s easier to focus on that — the smooth expanse of nothingness — than to meet Ochako’s sharp, knowing eyes. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with one person, on and off the ice. Learning to read each other’s movements on the rink sometimes spills over into reading each other’s emotions off it, too.

“Just… a bad night, I guess. Pressure and all that stuff, you name it.”

It’s not a complete lie, just a half-truth — okay, more like a quarter-truth. The constant performance pressure breathing down his neck is real, but it’s definitely not why he decided to drown himself in beer last night. He would more likely drown himself in even more practice. 

Ochako raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “I’m sniffing something, Izuku, and it has nothing to do with that weird cologne you like to wear.”

Izuku frowns, lifting the collar of his track jacket and sniffing it suspiciously. “Are you serious?”

She half-groans, half-laughs, flicking his forehead and rolling her eyes like she can’t believe she even has to deal with him. “Of course not, idiot. I’m just calling out your bull—” She clears her throat dramatically, clearly reigning it in for the sake of professionalism. “—crap. The crap you’re trying to sell me for gold. And it’s not working.”

Well, he hasn‘t really expected it to work, he has more like…hoped for it. But of course Ochako isn’t having it. 

Izuku huffs, the sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, dragging his hands down his face as if that’ll somehow shield him from the incoming interrogation. “You know, you could just let me sulk in peace and not press fingers into the gaping wound.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ochako grins, winking as she slips the soakers onto her skates and tucks them neatly into her bag. She moves with the kind of practiced ease that makes Izuku feel like she’s just biding her time, sharpening her verbal knives for the next strike.

“So…”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” he says immediately, gesturing vaguely at her. The way she’s looking at him is the exact expression that spells doom. He knows he’s not going to like whatever she’s about to say next.

“Does this ‘bad night’ have anything to do with, oh, I don’t know, a certain hockey player who randomly decided to crash our practice yesterday?”

Bullseye. Dead center. Gold medal for Ochako.

Izuku winces, his head dropping into his hands. “Do you ever get tired of being right?”

“Never,” she chirps, entirely too pleased with herself. She leans forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees, her tone softening just enough to be sincere. “So? What’s the deal? Because, not gonna lie, I’ve never seen you like that before. And I mean that both ways — plastered and…” She trails off, but the unspoken words hang in the air. 

Nervous. Anxious. Speechless. Bolting mid-training. And clearly affected by said hockey player.

Not to mention, Izuku had never mentioned Katsuki. Ever. It’s like he erased every trace of him from his life, neatly cutting him out of the picture like you would an ex you were too stubborn to admit still haunted your dreams. He got rid of everything that even remotely reminded him of Katsuki. Well, everything besides skating — because that was and will always be impossible to separate from Katsuki. 

Izuku presses his palms against his eyes, blocking out the bright lights and Ochako’s too-knowing stare. “Can we not?”

“Oh, we’re definitely gonna ‘can.’” Ochako’s smile widens, even as her voice takes on a mockingly sweet tone. “The only question is: Do you want to spill your guts here, or should we grab coffee for this obviously uncomfortable conversation? Your call, Izuku.”

“You’re relentless.”

“And you’re deflecting.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and stands, looking entirely too smug. “So, what’s it gonna be?” 

"I'm not sure coffee is enough for this conversation," Izuku mutters, his forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. The pounding in his head hasn’t eased — if anything, thinking about the weird, tangled mess of a relationship he and Katsuki have… had — whatever the hell tense fits — only makes it worse.

Ochako’s brows draw together. “Well, we’re not fisting beers mid-day.”

“God, no,” Izuku groans, dropping his hand to look at her, his face twisted in mock horror. “Please. Don’t let me near alcohol. Ever again.”

She snickers, holding her hand out in mock solemnity like she’s swearing an oath. “Promise. Not until you’re mentally stable again.”

“Great,” he deadpans. “So never.”

Ochako laughs again, the sound bright and entirely too pleased with herself as she nudges him with her foot once more. “Come on, drama queen. Coffee’s on me. You talk, I listen. We’ve got this whole dysfunctional partnership thing down to an art form by now.”

Izuku sighs, packing up his stuff and slinging his bag over his shoulder before reluctantly following her. “Sometimes, I’m not sure if I should hate or love you.”

“Obviously, love me,” she quips without missing a beat, tossing him a grin over her shoulder. “I’m the only person willing to drag your ass through your emotional messes and still look cute doing it.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes as they head out of the rink together. “That’s debatable.”

“Oh, don’t start with me.” She gestures dramatically at herself, grinning like she’s daring him to argue. “I’m a goddamn delight.”

“Sure,” Izuku drawls, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “A delight that comes with a side of relentless badgering.”

“It’s part of my charm.” 

He huffs, shaking his head as she hooks her arm through his. “God help me.”

🏒⛸️

Drinking under training is always a fucking stupid idea. Katsuki knows this. One or two beers over dinner? Fine. He can handle that, maybe even enjoy it, if the company doesn’t suck. But outdrinking his thoughts and, apparently, outdrinking Deku too — because that’s what yesterday turned into — well, that’s the goddamn peak of the are you out of your fucking mind iceberg.

And it fucking showed during morning skates.

He was far from peak condition, nowhere near the level he usually hits, and of course Coach Aizawa noticed. Because Aizawa always notices. The disapproving glares, the clipped tone every time he barked Katsuki’s name, and the constant yelling about “slacking off” weren’t just hints — they were neon fucking signs.

The final blow? Getting called out to stay behind after practice like some rookie who didn’t know his way around the ice.

“I’m not here to freaking babysit you, Bakugou,” Aizawa had drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next? You want me to tie your skates for you? Maybe hold your stick while you take a nap? This isn’t kids’ daycare, and I sure as hell didn’t sign up to teach you how to skate like it’s Peewee practice. Get your shit together, or don’t bother showing up.”

What a ray of fucking sunshine, Katsuki thinks, sinking deeper into the freezing water of the ice tub he’s sitting in. Gotta love it. 

Now, sulking in self-pity up to his shoulders in ice water, Katsuki knows he should be pissed at himself for tanking practice. He should be furious about letting his team down, about giving Aizawa more ammo to fire at him. Especially after just getting back from injury. And yeah, he is. A little. But mostly? 

It’s still about Deku.

No matter how many fucking years have passed, no matter how far he’s tried to run or how hard he’s worked to forget, the idiot still takes up way too much space in his head. Last night was proof enough of that. Just seeing him again had cracked open something inside Katsuki that he thought he’d buried a long time ago.

That something — the event that had been the final nail in the coffin — happened back in high school. Funny enough, Deku seems to not even remember it. Or maybe he just pretends not to. Maybe he shoved it into some dark corner of his brain where it can’t touch him.

Whatever. Not Katsuki’s fucking problem. Not his fucking job to remind him, either. Probably better this way. Let the nerd keep his oblivious little bubble intact. What good would dragging all that old shit up even do, anyway?

They’ll just coexist for a while. Can’t be that hard, right? The facility’s huge — plenty of room to avoid each other if need be.

“Shit, man, my balls are practically non-existent at this point,” Kirishima groans from the tub beside him, his voice strained through gritted teeth. “Why are we doing this crap again? Who came up with sitting in ice water as a form of recovery? Sadists?”

“Because it works, dumbass.”

Not that Katsuki likes it either. Hell no. The water’s freezing, his legs are basically numb, and yeah, maybe it’s a little like torture. But as much as he despises it, he knows it’s helpful. Somehow. In that weird, athletes-will-do-anything-for-an-edge kind of way.

“Helpful, my ass,” he grumbles, his eyes flicking to the clock where the timer counts down. “Feels like I’m training for a freaking polar bear plunge. And if I ever wanted kids? Pretty sure that ship sailed about three minutes ago. Say goodbye to the Kirishima legacy.”

Katsuki leans his head back against the edge of the tub. “Maybe if you shut up for five seconds, it’ll feel less like you’re dying. So, suck it up.”

“God, who pissed in your coffee, dude? You’re awfully pissy today. And I mean more than usual.” Most people would think Kirishima’s just your average dumb jock, and most of the time, he leans right into the stereotype. What they don’t know — and what makes him even more annoying — is that he’s sharp as hell. Observant. And apparently, today’s his day to put that to use.

"Aizawa really chewed you out. We could hear him ripping into you all the way from the locker room."

“Whatever,” Katsuki grumbles, eyes closed, letting the cold seep into his muscles. His usual method for surviving these ice baths is to focus on literally anything else. But focusing on where this is heading? Yeah, that’s worse. “It was one bad practice. Happens to the best.”

“Seeing Midoriya again after all these years really did it, huh?”

“And I’m out.” Katsuki’s hands slap onto the edge of the tub as he starts to push himself up, only to curse under his breath when he catches sight of the timer. Still more than five minutes left. “We’re so not fucking doing this, shitty hair.”

He shrugs. “You could’ve just said if you didn’t want to go drinking.” 

“Really? Because I fucking did. And you didn’t accept a ‘no’, dumbass.”

“Just thought it’d be nice to catch up after all this time,” Kirishima says, shifting slightly as his arms escape the icy water to hang loosely at the sides. He’s clearly trying to get more comfortable, which is hilarious considering how massive they are. The six-four guy barely fits in the tub, his legs practically folded in half to make himself sink shoulder-deep. It’s like watching a great white try to squeeze into a kiddie pool. “I didn’t really think about your—”

“If you want to keep your hockey stick where it belongs and not feel it lodged so far up your ass you’re tasting tape, I’d strongly recommend shutting the hell up,” Katsuki snaps, definitely proving Kirishima’s point with his reaction. 

The smug grin on Kirishima’s face makes Katsuki’s hands twitch, like maybe giving the guy a little shove into the ice tub wouldn’t be the worst idea. Sometimes, Katsuki regrets ever filling Kirishima in on the whole “Deku problem” back in high school. Actually, scratch that — he regrets it a lot.

Kirishima was also the first person he ever talked to about the mess of realizing he was probably way more into guys than girls. Why didn’t he tell Deku back then? Simple. Deku was the reason Katsuki started questioning himself in the first place. How the hell do you admit that the person making you realize you’re not as straight as you thought is, well… them ? Spoiler: you don’t. You shove that shit down and try to move on. 

To this day, no one outside of Kirishima, Coach Aizawa and the management knows about his sexuality. Not even his parents. 

Especially not his parents.

Being queer in professional sports isn’t exactly a walk in the park, and coming out to his devoutly religious and conservative parents? Yeah, no thanks. That sounds about as fun as doing a bungee jump without the bungee.

So, no, Katsuki had never worn the metaphorical “sounds gay, I’m in” shirt. Not in middle school. Not in high school. Not even in college, where he’d had a few discreet hook-ups — because, damn it, he’s human and has needs — but nothing that ever stuck. And certainly not since being drafted by Montreal.

The most critical part of this whole disaster? Deku never got wind of it.

His childhood best friend, his sexual awakening, the guy who haunted his thoughts for years? Clueless.

Talk about a royal clusterfuck.

“I’m usually not one to pry into your stuff, man…”

“But you’re gonna anyway,” Katsuki cuts him off, deadpan, eyes flicking to the timer on the wall. He’s willing the damn thing to run out before his patience with Kirishima does. Because as much as he hates to admit it — and you’d have to dig deep to find it — he actually likes having Kirishima as a friend. It’d be a tragedy if he had to drown the guy in his tub.

Kirishima waves a hand around, water splashing over the edge of his tub. “You really gotta work on that murder creature look, man. It’s not doing anything for you. You think it is, but it’s not.” He shakes his head, clearly reminding himself to stay on track. “Anyway, not the point. What I’m trying to say is… I’ve never pushed you about the whole ‘I’m cutting off my best friend because I found out I have feelings for him after a stupid drinking game kiss in high school, and I decided it was better for both of us even though I never asked him if he felt the same’ – thing.”

Katsuki’s eyebrows shoot up so fast they might’ve taken flight. “Did you just pull that steaming pile of bullshit out of your ass?”

“Yeah, just now.” Kirishima grins, looking way too proud of himself. “Impressive, right?”

Katsuki snorts, the sound sharp and unimpressed. “You mean the fact that you managed to string more than one proper sentence together? Sure. Fucking groundbreaking.”

“Nobody likes an arrogant smartass,” Kirishima fires back, retaliating by shoving a splash of icy water straight at Katsuki’s face. “And now, if I may, let me finish this very important heart-to-heart bro talk.”

“You’ve got two minutes. Two. After that, I’m walking out of here.” Katsuki wipes his face with one hand, glaring daggers but saying nothing. His patience is on its last thread, but something in Kirishima’s tone keeps him from biting back — yet. 

“You’ve never been big on emotional stuff,” Kirishima starts, his voice quiet but deliberate. “So honestly, I was really freaking surprised back then when you… I don’t know… trusted me enough to talk about it.” He shrugs, his hands spreading briefly before falling to the sides again. “And I swore I wouldn’t get involved because, obviously, you didn’t want me to. So I didn’t. Even when I saw how it gnawed at you during our last year of high school. Even when I watched it eat at you during college.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens, his glare dropping to the rippling water between them. He doesn’t need this reminder. Doesn’t need Kirishima dragging all that shit to the surface again.

“I kept my mouth shut,” Kirishima continues, undeterred. “Because I told myself, ‘he knows what’s best for him.’ You’re a big guy, an adult even — though, full disclosure, sometimes I question that.” He tries for a joke, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but when Katsuki doesn’t even give him a grunt, he just sighs and keeps going.

“All I did was try to be there, with everything going on — coming out, or… not really coming out. The back and forth with your parents, the pressure from hockey, all of it. And I get most of it, man. I do. I get why you’ve kept some things locked up, why you’ve handled things the way you have.” His gaze sharpens, the easygoing “bro” demeanor slipping away just enough to show how serious he is.

“But this?” He leans forward, his tone more earnest now than Katsuki’s used to hearing from him. “This thing with Midoriya? Not talking to him for years? I don’t get it, Bakugou. Not at all.”

The timer dings, the sound slicing through the tension just as Kirishima inhales, probably to continue his unsolicited deep-dive into Katsuki’s personal life. But Katsuki’s had enough.

He pushes himself out of the ice bath with a splash, water dripping off him in rivulets. Yet somehow, he feels like he needs another bucket of ice dumped over his head to freeze up the chaos still storming through his brain. “Guess your time’s up.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Spinning Out

September 8th, 2018

The bass thumps so loud, Better by Khalid blaring from the speakers like it’s trying to compete with the collective chaos of the room, and it feels like it’s rattling Katsuki’s ribs. The stench of cheap beer, sweat, and way too much cologne hangs heavy in the air. Katsuki’s posted in the corner of some house he doesn’t recognize, surrounded by people he doesn’t give a single shit about, clutching a lukewarm beer he hasn’t taken more than a sip of.

This is his idea of hell.

The party’s packed — people spilling out of the kitchen, crowding the living room, and clogging the staircase to God-knows-where. A guy he vaguely recognizes from the football team is half-passed out on the couch, a half-empty Solo cup dangling precariously from his fingers. Near the TV, a group of girls are laughing too loudly, their shrill voices cutting through the music like nails on a chalkboard. Katsuki doesn’t bother figuring out what’s so goddamn funny.

The backyard’s no better. Through the sliding glass doors, he can see horny teenagers lounging around the pool, some brave — or stupid — enough to dive in fully clothed. Another group is huddled around a table playing beer pong, and a couple on one of the deck chairs is going at it so heavily Katsuki’s pretty sure they’ll forget the party exists in five minutes.

Why the fuck is he here?

The answer is easy: Kirishima dragged him. The idiot claimed it’d be fun, and Katsuki, against his better judgment, let himself get talked into it. Something about needing to “blow off steam” before the school year kicks into gear. As if Katsuki doesn’t already have enough steam to blow people off the goddamn planet. Steam he’d rather save for blowing some asses on the ice.

In the end, though, it wasn’t Kirishima’s bullshit arguments that sold him on this cliché high school party. Nope. What sold him — against every shred of common sense he possesses — was when Deku’s name entered the equation.

Apparently, the nerd is going to be here.

Why? That’s beyond Katsuki. Deku doesn’t do parties — or at least, he didn’t. Not the kind where people are practically pouring themselves into red Solo cups and acting like idiots. Then again, what the fuck does Katsuki know? It’s not like he and Deku have exchanged more than a handful of words in the last weeks.

And he hates it.

Hates the way the distance between them has grown like some black hole, swallowing up every bit of their friendship. Hates that he’s the one who started it. And more than anything, he hates that even now, standing in a crowd of people he couldn’t care less about, he’s still looking for him.

“Yo, Bakubro!” Kirishima calls out, weaving through the crowd with one red plastic cup in hand, his stupidly cheerful grin intact. “You good, man? You look like you’re ready to murder someone.” 

On point observation. 

Most of his teammates scattered as soon as they walked through the goddamn door. Shane’s probably dry-humping his girlfriend in the bathroom — because apparently, it’s not a proper house party unless someone defiles the plumbing. Adam and Cole disappeared into the crowd, probably shoulder-to-shoulder with every other moron crammed into this place. Katsuki didn’t bother keeping track of them, but the real kicker? Kirishima abandoned him too, leaving him to stew in this human cesspool for the last fifteen minutes.

And that’s what’s really got his mood circling the drain.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Katsuki growls, shoving his untouched beer into Kirishima’s chest with enough force to make him stumble. “Good and fucking done with this shitshow.”

Kirishima scrambles to balance both cups, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rims. “Whoa! What the hell, man?”

“Hold this.” Katsuki jerks his chin toward the cups, already stepping toward the back door. “I need air.”

Before Kirishima can say anything else, Katsuki shoulders his way through the throng of sweaty, overexcited teenagers and steps out onto the back patio. It’s quieter here, the muffled bass a dull hum behind the sliding glass door.

The night air bites against his heated skin, but it’s a relief, grounding him as he leans against the wooden railing. He runs a hand through his blond hair, exhaling sharply. He should’ve stayed home. Should’ve known better. Because what the hell was he expecting?

Seeing Deku? Sure. Fine. But then what?

His gaze sweeps over the backyard, taking in the chaos of beer pong at the far end, the people lounging by the pool. 

And then, like the universe decided to really twist the knife, he spots him.

Head slightly tilted back, exposing the curve of his neck as laughter bubbles out, a silver chain catching the light with every move. Those messy curls Katsuki always used to tease him about, wild and soft, falling into his green eyes when he tilts his head forward again, grinning at whoever’s next to him. 

Katsuki places her name with some effort, digging through his mental catalog of people he doesn’t give a shit about. Mikayla. 

Probably one of the figure skaters Deku trains with? Or not? Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Deku looks like he’s having a great time. Laughing too hard at something stupid, probably. Smiling too wide, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the edges. The kind Katsuki hasn’t seen directed at him in a long time.

His grip tightens on the railing, his knuckles turning white. There’s this weird, uncomfortable knot in his gut that refuses to go away. It’s either jealousy — the green monster that’s apparently set up camp in his chest — or the fact that, yeah, maybe he has a crush on his childhood best friend. Okay, scratch ‘maybe’. 

What a goddamn mess.

“Katsuki!” a high-pitched, slurred voice yells, yanking him out of his spiraling thoughts. The sliding door screeches open, and Harper from the cheer squad stumbles out, her heels catching on the door frame like the universe itself is conspiring to trip her.

Katsuki barely has time to react before she’s lurching forward, headed straight for the hard wood patio. He catches her just in time, his hands gripping her arms firmly enough to keep her upright but not enough to stop her from giggling like an idiot.

Her red nails dig into his forearm and biceps as she steadies herself, her blue eyes blinking up at him through a haze of alcohol and fluttering lashes. “Oops,” she breathes, her words thick and syrupy. “You’re so strong.”

Great. Just what he fucking needed.

Her outburst is like a goddamn firework, loud enough to draw the attention of the crowd outside, and it doesn’t take long for it to ripple its way to the wrong person. Katsuki feels it before he even looks — the weight of Deku’s gaze landing square on him.

When their eyes meet, it feels like time stretches, a single moment drawn out into something unbearable. Green and red collide in the dim garden lights, the intensity of it making Katsuki’s chest feel tight and too full all at once.

It’s stupid. Ridiculous, even. But it’s the most perfect combination, and he hates how fucking cheesy that thought is.

Harper giggles again, swaying slightly as her grip tightens on his arm. “You’re such a hero,” she murmurs, oblivious to the thick tension between him and Deku. She leans closer, her curves pressing into his side, but all he can register is Deku’s stare.

The nerd smiles then — a small, lopsided grin — and lifts his cup as if to toast him from across the backyard. Maybe it’s a peace offering, or maybe just Deku’s way of acknowledging the moment, of reaching out to him without actually crossing the space between them.

“You wanna dance?” Harper’s voice is soft and sweet, her breath warm against his ear as she leans in even more, her nails lightly scraping his forearm to get his attention.

But Katsuki doesn’t even register the question. He brushes her off with a quick shrug, not harsh but firm enough to let her know he’s done playing hero for the night. Without a word, he strides toward Deku, his legs moving before his brain can catch up.

The green-haired idiot is still grinning, his messy curls falling into his face as he tilts his head, looking at Katsuki like he’s both surprised and expecting him at the same time.

Katsuki watches as Deku says something to Mikayla and the group around him. He can’t hear the words over the muffled bass of the music, but judging by the way the nerd nods, steps away, and heads in Katsuki’s direction to meet him halfway, it’s clear enough that whatever he said doesn’t matter.

He looks too comfortable, like this whole thing is no big deal, even with all the space Katsuki’s forced between them lately. And when Deku finally reaches him, his grin is still in place, like he hasn’t noticed Katsuki’s been a complete asshole for weeks.

“Didn’t take you for the party kind,” Deku says, sipping casually from his drink, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles.

It’s so goddamn typical. Deku, the peace-maker. Deku, pretending everything’s fine. Like Katsuki hadn’t just blown up the bridge between them and left it smoldering in his rearview mirror.

“You know I’m not.” And so isn’t Deku, but whatever. 

“Yeah, I guess I do.” Deku’s smile stretches wider, soft and stupid, like he doesn’t realize how much it throws him off. 

Katsuki’s eyes narrow, his gaze betraying him as it lingers too long. He catches himself counting the freckles scattered across Deku’s nose and cheeks, each one like a reminder of all the stupid times they’d laughed together, of every memory Katsuki’s tried to bury under weeks of silence.

Get your shit together, damn it, he reprimands himself.

“Then what exactly brings you here?” Deku asks, his attempt at small talk making the air between them feel a little too charged, like he’s trying to keep the conversation alive. And maybe Katsuki wants it to last a little longer, too — though he’d never admit it.

“What do you think, idiot?”

“I’ll bet your lovely teammates, or more like one in particular, convinced you.” 

Then Deku nods toward where Harper is already draped over some guy from the football team, laughing too loud and clinging too tight. Katsuki feels a flicker of relief — at least she’s not his problem anymore. “Looks like you’ve already been replaced.”

“Don’t give a fuck.”

“Ah, yeah. Right.” Deku runs a hand through his curls, tousling them further in a way that makes Katsuki’s stomach do this annoying little flip. “That’s because you’re Katsuki Bakugou. Why choose, right? A whole squad of cheerleaders just waiting for you to make your pick.”

Katsuki tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that sarcasm I hear, nerd?”

“Maybe a little.” Deku’s teeth catch on his bottom lip as he grins, and it’s fucking distracting. “Just can’t help it. It’s ridiculous how you’re not even slightly aware of how all these girls are throwing themselves at you.”

“I’m well aware.” It’s not a lie. Katsuki knows. He’s not oblivious, and being gay doesn’t make him blind to the obvious signals girls send his way. “Just don’t care. It’s a distraction. Don’t need that—”

“Hockey’s what’s important,” Deku cuts in, mimicking his tone with a grin that’s far too cheeky for Katsuki’s liking. “I know. It’s always been hockey, Kacchan.”

Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest, the smirk slipping into something softer, more nostalgic. The silence between them feels heavier than the few weeks of avoidance, heavier than the months of things shifting beneath their feet like cracked ice. “Yeah, well, it’s always been figure skating for you.”

Originally…it’s always been skating for them . One with a stick, the other with jumps and spins, but always on the ice. Side by side, even when their paths had started to diverge. 

Of course, Katsuki doesn’t add that. Judging by the dimness creeping into Deku’s usually sparkling eyes, he doesn’t have to. The nerd knows exactly what he’s thinking, even without the words.

“I know.” 

You know that weird silence that stretches when two people have so much to say but just… don’t? Because one is stubborn as hell and the other doesn’t want to be the one to start the conversation? Yeah, no need to clarify who’s who here.

Deku just stands there, his cup dangling loosely from his fingers, green eyes flicking to Katsuki every few seconds like he’s waiting. Waiting for him to say something, to explain, to give him a reason. Like he’s urging him to bridge this endless gap Katsuki himself dug between them.

But Katsuki can’t.

Can’t tell him. Can’t start this conversation. It’s too much already, standing here, staring at him, while his stupid heart thuds so loud it’s a miracle Deku can’t hear it. It reverberates through his entire body, pounding in his ears worse than the music inside, which has conveniently switched to Love Lies. Perfect. Freaking poetic.

This whole thing is so stupidly awkward. Katsuki, prisoner to this idiot, tied up in knots he can’t untangle. It’s like Deku’s got the keys but refuses to hand them back. Just stands there, too oblivious to use them, while Katsuki is left here, choking on the chains.

He’s so fucking fucked.

And just like that, the fragile, suspended moment shatters like glass when Kirishima, Cole, and Adam barrel into the backyard, effectively bursting their tiny, awkward bubble. Cole slings an arm around Katsuki’s shoulder, and Adam, in a drunkenly affectionate mirror, does the same to Deku.

“Yo, Izuku, long time no see!” Adam slurs, his words tumbling out in that too-loud, too-clumsy way that screams way too many beers. His breath smells like regret and cheap lager, and Katsuki can already feel a headache forming.

Katsuki glares at Cole. “We’ve got gym in the morning, you idiot.” He nods toward Adam, his voice sharp, like he’s Adam’s unpaid babysitter. “Why the fuck did you let him drink this much?!”

Cole lets go of Katsuki, throwing his hands up in a defensive ‘not my job’ gesture. “What am I, his mom?”

“You sure act like it sometimes,” Kirishima cuts in, clearly enjoying the show as he casually sips his beer. 

Cole flips him off, earning an even bigger grin from Kirishima, who looks like he’s considering another smartass comment.

Meanwhile, Adam leans heavily on Deku, clearly using him as a human crutch. His drunk grin is wide and unbothered as he pokes Deku in the chest like they’ve been best friends forever. “You’ve seen our last game, Izuku?” Adam tries hard to articulate clearly, his cheek practically brushing Deku’s as he gestures vaguely toward Katsuki. “Cap here swept Fenway off the ice. That winning goal was to die for. A wet dream of hockey.”

Katsuki steps in before Deku can even respond, his tone bold and clipped. “You know he doesn’t come to hockey games.” Not anymore.

Adam stares at Deku like he’s just confessed to hating puppies. “Not even home games?” His jaw drops in exaggerated disbelief, the dramatics almost enough to make Katsuki cringe.

Deku shrugs, the movement apologetic. “Sorry,” he says, but then his gaze flicks to Katsuki, big eyes bright and annoyingly earnest. “But I know Kacchan’s amazing.”

Katsuki’s chest tightens in a way he really doesn’t like, and for a split second, he wonders if Adam’s the only one here who’s actually drunk.

“What about you, Midoriya?” Kirishima pipes up, clearly determined to shift the conversation. “Aren’t you, uh, getting ready for some big competition soon?”

There’s an awkward pause as Kirishima frowns, trying to piece together the timeline like he’s solving a damn Rubik’s cube. Katsuki huffs, the sound loud and exasperated, because the collective dumbassery surrounding him is reaching critical levels.

“Goddammit, shitty hair. It’s Regionals in October.” 

Deku’s head snaps toward him, eyebrows pinching together. “You remember that?”

“Of course, dumbass,” Katsuki snaps, though the slight flush creeping up his neck might betray him.

“You two are so sweet,” Adam states, his grin stupidly wide and drunkenly sincere, as if he’s just stumbled upon the greatest discovery of his life.

Katsuki flinches so hard his entire body tenses, because even though Adam obviously doesn’t mean it that way, it still makes his skin crawl. “Shut up before I drown you in the pool,” he mutters, glaring daggers at the oblivious idiot.

“Hey, losers!” a voice cuts through the drunken banter, sharp enough to make Katsuki turn his head. Some guy Katsuki vaguely recognizes from the track team — Kyle, maybe? — stands at the patio door, his grin wide and obnoxious. “We’re starting a drinking game inside. Get your asses in here before all the good spots are taken!”

Hell will freeze over before Katsuki voluntarily participates in that kind of shit.

Adam cheers loudly, nearly toppling over as he throws his arm into the air. “Hell yeah, let’s go!”

Kirishima chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re already wasted, dude. You sure you need more?”

Adam just waves him off, his grin not fading for even a second. “What’s the point of a party if you don’t go all in?”

Kyle points toward Adam and then to the rest of them, including Katsuki and Deku, like he’s issuing a command. “Come on, guys! Everyone’s welcome!”

No fucking way. Drinking games are the last thing Katsuki needs right now — chaotic, messy, and full of the exact kind of bullshit he’s spent the whole evening avoiding.

“I’m good,” Katsuki mutters, hoping to shut it down before it starts, but Kirishima’s already grabbing his arm.

“Come on, man. Loosen up a bit. It’ll be fun.”

“No,” Katsuki snaps, shooting him a glare that would make lesser people quake. But Kirishima’s not a lesser person. He’s a goddamn pest.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Bakubro. It’s just a game. Worst-case scenario, you end up calling someone out for truth or chugging a few beers.”

“I’m in,” Deku says suddenly, and Katsuki’s eyes snap to him, narrowing as he processes what he just heard.

The nerd stands there, calm as can be, sipping his drink and raising one eyebrow like he’s issuing a silent challenge. You’re gonna back out?

Katsuki scowls, jaw clenching so tight it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack under the pressure.

“Fine,” he growls, shoving past Kirishima to follow the crowd back inside. Because if he’s going to be miserable, Deku sure as hell isn’t getting off easy either.

The air inside is worse than before, thick and stifling with the smell of booze, sweat, and bad decisions. Katsuki grimaces as he shoulders through the crush of bodies, already regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.

“You’re so hating this,” Deku chuckles beside him, nudging him lightly.

Katsuki’s first instinct is to snap back, but the words die in his throat when Deku leans closer, his breath brushing against Katsuki’s cheek. There’s a faint trace of cologne — something between sage and vanilla — that wafts into Katsuki’s nose. It sounds ridiculous in theory, but fuck, it smells fucking good on him.

“This is on you.”

“What happened to ‘no one tells Bakugou Katsuki what to do’?” Deku shoots back.

Katsuki doesn’t dignify that with a response because, damn it, Deku’s got a point. 

And Deku didn’t outright tell him to join, but once the nerd had said he was in, Katsuki couldn’t exactly back down without looking like a coward. That’s not happening — not in this lifetime.

By the time they make it to the living room, the scene’s already a mess. People are crammed together on the couches, perched on the arms of chairs, or sprawled across the floor, all buzzing with the kind of anticipation that screams ‘this is going to get out of hand fast’.

A sharp whistle from Cole snaps Katsuki’s attention toward the staircase, just in time to see Shane stumbling down. His hair’s a wreck, like it lost a fight with a blender, and his shirt’s half-untucked. Jessica trails behind him, her lipstick smeared everywhere except where it’s supposed to be. Meanwhile, Shane’s jeans zipper is still wide open, completing the picture of someone who couldn’t care less about subtlety. 

“Whoever kept knocking on that stupid bathroom door,” he calls into the crowd, voice slurring slightly as he raises both hands to flip the entire room off, “fuck you.”

The room erupts in laughter, a cacophony of cheers, catcalls, and people smacking each other on the back like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all night.

Kyle, the self-appointed ringmaster of this circus, claps his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, listen up! Game time, people. Rules are simple, so even the drunkest among you can follow along.”

He smirks, grabbing a deck of cards from a nearby table and holding it up like it’s the Holy Grail. “We’re playing High Stakes Kings. Same base rules as King’s Cup, but with a twist — every king drawn means you have to complete a dare chosen by the group on top.” He raises his eyebrows, letting the murmurs of excitement ripple through the crowd before adding, “And if you chicken out, you drink twice. No exceptions.”

This should be Katsuki´s final sign, to turn on his heel and get out of here. Because, of course, it had to be one of those stupid games. The kind designed to dig up dirt, embarrass people, and crank up the chaos to maximum levels. He glances at Kirishima, who’s already grinning like this is the best idea anyone’s ever had.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kirishima says, nudging him. “Could be fun.”

“Fun,” Katsuki repeats flatly. “For who?”

“Let’s get started!” Kyle shouts, shuffling the deck theatrically before placing it face-down in the center of the group. “Everyone takes a turn drawing a card. Follow the rule, complete the dare, or drink. Last one standing wins absolutely nothing except bragging rights.”

The first few rounds are standard party game fare. Someone draws a three and has to take a shot. Another person pulls a six and becomes the designated “thumb master,” causing everyone to groan. When Shane gets a jack, he picks truth and ends up admitting he still sleeps with a childhood teddy bear named Sir Fluffington.

“Didn’t know you liked them hairy,” Cole cracks, earning himself a shove from Shane that nearly knocks his drink over.

“You think you’re funny, but you’re not,” Shane fires back, his face pink — whether from embarrassment or booze, Katsuki can’t tell, doesn’t care either.

“I think it’s hilarious,” Adam chimes in, raising his cup like it’s a toast.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Kyle says, like he’s hosting some kind of twisted Vegas game show. The laughter dies down as the game moves on.

Kirishima draws an eight and picks “mates,” linking himself with Shane for the rest of the game. Adam pulls a two, chooses himself and drinks, muttering something about needing to catch up anyway.

Then it’s Deku’s turn.

Katsuki doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until the card is flipped and Deku’s wide green eyes blink down at the bold K staring back at him. The first king. Katsuki’s stomach drops into freefall.

“King’s Cup!” someone shouts, and the group whoops as Deku, ever the good sport, grabs his lukewarm beer and pours some into the large glass sitting in the center of the circle. The foamy liquid sloshes against the sides, making it look even less appetizing.

But the chanting starts almost immediately, drowning out whatever weak excuse Katsuki’s brain tries to come up with for why this is a bad idea.

“Dare! Dare! Dare!”

Deku chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender as the room erupts around him. “Alright, alright. Hit me with it.”

“Kiss Katsuki!” Shane shouts almost immediately, his voice cutting through the chaos like a knife.

Every single fucking eye in the room swivels toward Katsuki and Deku. The heat of the collective gaze feels like a damn spotlight. 

He whips his glare toward Shane, shooting him a look so murderous it practically comes with a body count. A silent “fuck you” forms on his lips, aimed squarely at the smug bastard who’s now grinning like he’s just hit the game-winning shot.

Shane’s been like this for years — always pushing, always needling Katsuki about Deku. The comments about their close friendship back in middle school, about how Katsuki always seemed to watch Deku just a little too closely, had started off infrequent but escalated over time. Shane’s a solid hockey player, sure, but he’s also an insufferable asshat who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

The room erupts.

Laughter, cheers, and drunken shouts of encouragement fill the air, fueled by the alcohol pumping through everyone’s veins. Someone gasps loudly, another person chokes on their drink, and through it all, Shane’s shit-eating grin remains firmly in place. He even has the audacity to wink at Katsuki, like this whole thing is some hilarious joke he’s masterminded just to see him squirm.

Katsuki’s body goes rigid, his fists clenching against his thighs. It takes every ounce of self-control not to launch himself across the circle and punch the smug prick square in the jaw.

“And just to clarify,” Shane drawls, clearly loving the chaos he’s causing, “no kiss for your grandma. Like, no cheek kiss pussy shit. I’m talking on the lips, thirty seconds minimum.”

Shane is so goddamn eager to pour gasoline on the fire, and Katsuki’s already planning how hard he’s going to body-check him into the boards during their next practice. He’ll hit him so hard the guy will be crying for his teddy bear like the little shit he is.

“Pass,” Katsuki says flatly, aiming for indifferent even though his heart is hammering in his chest like it’s trying to escape. The prospect of kissing Deku? Yeah, it leaves him anything but indifferent.

Kyle, the self-proclaimed game master and, apparently, Shane’s new accomplice, wags a finger at him like some condescending teacher. “Not how it works, man. If he chickens out, he drinks. If you refuse to participate, you drink twice. House rules.”

Okay, yeah, fuck that. Then he’s just gonna drink the two shots and be done with it.

But then Deku shrugs, completely neutral, like this is nothing to him. “It’s just a kiss,” he says lightly, taking another sip from his drink. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Doesn’t mean anything? Katsuki grits his teeth so hard it feels like they might crack. Yeah, well, for him maybe.

“Yeah, Cap,” Shane presses, his voice dripping with that fake innocence that makes Katsuki’s blood boil. He throws an arm around his girlfriend like the smug asshole he is. “Doesn’t mean anything. We’re in the twenty-first century, man. Nothing wrong with two guys kissing for a dare, right?”

Fucking bastard. Shane’s grin makes it so clear that he knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows how to needle Katsuki just right.

Beside him, Kirishima leans in just enough to whisper. “Yo, bro. You don’t have to do this shit.” His voice is soft, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling around them, and Katsuki knows he means it. Kirishima’s the only one who knows about the complicated mess that is his sexuality — though not about the Deku-specific debacle that goes with it. Not yet. “No one’s gonna be suspicious if you back out on this,” Kirishima adds, his crimson eyes steady, his concern genuine.

Katsuki breathes deeply, still feeling the collective stares while Deku‘s words loop in his head. 

Doesn’t mean anything. The hell it doesn’t.

He exhales sharply, his glare cutting across the circle to Shane, then Kyle, before finally landing on Deku, who’s just standing there, like this isn’t about to completely wreck Katsuki’s sanity.

“Fuck it,” he growls, the words rumbling low and dangerous, before stepping forward, parting the sea of drunken idiots who are practically foaming at the mouth to see what’s about to go down.

A chorus of cheers erupts, the room practically vibrating with anticipation. People shuffle to make space, craning their necks like they’re at some kind of goddamn show. Katsuki’s fists clench and unclench at his sides as he stops a few feet away from Deku, the air between them thick with so much tension you can practically grasp it in the mingling space. 

Deku swallows, the movement exaggerated in the dim light, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that makes Katsuki’s stomach twist. And before anyone else can open their big, stupid mouths and say something to make this even worse, Katsuki bridges the remaining distance. His hands come up to grab Deku’s face, firm but not rough, his thumbs pressing against the soft curve of his jaw.

“You better make this worth it—”

He doesn’t get to finish. Deku surges forward, his lips landing on Katsuki’s with a force that catches him off guard.

The first brush is electric, a jolt of lightning that shoots straight down Katsuki’s spine, igniting every nerve ending in his body. It’s nothing like he expected — if he’d let himself expect this at all. It’s soft and hot and dizzying all at once, like a spark that’s been waiting years to finally ignite.

It’s not Katsuki’s first kiss, but right now, he wishes it were. Not with the fucking crowd, obviously — he could do without the audience — but everything else? Yeah, this could’ve been it.

His hand slides to the back of Deku’s neck, fingers tangling in those soft, messy curls. His other hand finds Deku’s hip, pulling him flush against his body, the heat between them enough to make his skin buzz. 

The obnoxious whistles and drunken cheers melt into static, the rest of the room fading away until there’s only Deku.

If they wanted a show, fine. Katsuki’s going to fucking deliver.

And Deku isn’t holding back either. Every inch of him presses into Katsuki like he’s been waiting for this just as long. His fingers tangle in Katsuki’s hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low, guttural groan from his throat. The sound vibrates between them, and the grin Katsuki feels against his lips is maddening, like Deku knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Then his tongue skims along the seam of Katsuki’s lips, a silent question, a plea for more. Katsuki doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think. He parts his lips, letting Deku in, and it’s like stepping off a cliff into free fall. The second Deku’s tongue brushes his, he’s done for. 

He drowns in Deku’s scent — clean, warm, and maddeningly familiar. In his heat, the way it radiates through every point of contact, seeping into Katsuki’s skin. In the soft press of his lips and the perfect, teasing brush of his tongue.

And holy fuck, it’s worth every second.

Katsuki feels Deku everywhere, like the guy’s pumping through his veins and rewiring his entire body. Devouring each other is the only way to describe what’s happening, and even that feels like an understatement. He doesn’t know if the crowd’s still watching, doesn’t know if the thirty seconds have passed, and honestly? He doesn’t care. Time might as well stretch into eternity, because Katsuki can’t think of anything else he’d rather do. Not right now. Hell, maybe not ever.

How the hell could Deku say this means nothing? How the fuck is he supposed to recover from this?

Katsuki feels his dick twitch in his jeans, straining against the material, and it’s a miracle it hadn’t decided to join the party way earlier. But now? Yeah, it’s game on, and there’s no pretending otherwise. The heat between them is unbearable, perfect, impossible to let go of.

But when Kyle’s voice cuts through the haze, saying, “Okay, time’s up!” Katsuki does the only thing he can — he pulls back, breathing heavily, chest heaving as he sucks in the oxygen he probably left behind in Deku’s mouth.

The cheers erupt around them, loud and chaotic, but all Katsuki can do is stare at Deku’s flushed face, his green eyes still half-lidded and lips so perfectly swollen it’s a goddamn crime.

Murmurs ripple through the room, snippets of comments catching his ears: “What the hell was that?” and “That was freaking hot.” But none of it even comes close to describing what just happened. Because how could they? It’s not something words can pin down. 

Katsuki’s brain is still short-circuiting, unable to string together a coherent sentence, let alone figure out what to do next. Thankfully — or maybe not — Kyle moves the game along, as if Katsuki and Deku hadn’t just made out like their lives depended on it. Like the universe hadn’t shifted for those thirty seconds.

Deku clears his throat, breaking the lingering silence between them, and Katsuki hates how composed he seems. The idiot even smiles, running a hand through his hair — the same hair Katsuki had just been gripping like a lifeline.

“Well,” Deku says, his tone so casual it grates on Katsuki’s nerves, “I’m glad we could spare you those two shots. Wouldn’t want your training tomorrow to suffer.”

Bullshit.

“Yeah,” Katsuki answers curtly, the word biting and clipped. He shoves his hands into his pockets, more to keep them from trembling than anything else. 

The party resumes around them, the noise rising again as if nothing monumental just occurred. But for Katsuki, the air between them doesn’t feel the same. 

Deku shifts on his feet, hesitating before throwing out the question that twists Katsuki’s insides like a blade. 

“Everything okay between us?”

No. No, it fucking isn’t. It hasn’t been for a while now, and this — whatever the hell this was — has only made it worse.

But Katsuki keeps his face neutral, his voice steady as he forces out a lie that tastes like ash. “All good.”

As if mocking him, the opening chords of “Love the Way You Lie” start blaring through the speakers, the familiar beat slicing through the air. Rihanna’s voice spills into the room, “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn…”

Deku nods, his smile softening into something almost bittersweet, the kind of smile Katsuki can’t stand because it makes his chest feel too tight. He doesn’t look away, though. Even as the song plays on, as if narrating the damn tension between them, he holds Deku’s gaze.

The lyrics hit harder than they should, echoing in Katsuki’s ears like a cruel joke: “But that’s alright because I like the way it hurts.”

He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the way his heart slams against his ribs, or the way his mind replays that kiss over and over, cataloging every goddamn second of it. The rest of the world feels like it’s spinning too fast around him, but here, locked in Deku’s green gaze, it’s like time has slowed to a crawl.

If only lying felt as easy as pretending.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Eyes Don't Lie

“I was afraid of losing you, so I chose to run away.”

The Sunday morning air bites at Katsuki’s skin as he steps out of the hotel lobby, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, making the short trek to the rink. It’s too early for this shit. Six in the goddamn morning, and most of the city’s probably still drooling on their pillows. But this is exactly what he wants — peace, quiet, no one breathing down his neck about drills or strategies or being the face of the damn Blizzards.

The Montreal Blizzards. The team that failed to secure a playoff spot for the first time in their history. The headlines didn’t hold back — “A Season of Collective Failure,” “Blizzards Fall Flat,” and the one that had really pissed him off, “Captain Crumbles Under Pressure.” Others were kinder, blaming his absence mid-season after the injury, claiming the team lost its edge with him sidelined. But Katsuki doesn’t give a shit about excuses. He hates losing. Hates failure. And this offseason is his chance to make sure the upcoming season isn’t a repeat of this disaster.

This ice time is supposed to help with that. Booked days in advance, it’s his sanctuary for an hour — a chance to skate without Aizawa dissecting his every movement, without teammates, assistant coaches, or personal training staff chirping in his ear. Without the fucking noise. Just him, the sound of his blades, and the ice beneath his feet.

As he approaches the rink and steps through the main entrance, the familiar scent of ice and crisp air with a faint trace of disinfectant greets him. It’s the kind of smell that’s woven into his entire life, tangled up with countless memories. Some good, some shit, and others — the ones he tries not to think about too much — stubbornly stuck somewhere in between.

The last category? Yeah, those are the ones connected to Deku.

Seeing him again after all these years had been like ripping open a wound Katsuki didn’t realize was still bleeding. And the worst part? It made him realize he’s not over it. Not even close. 

Kirishima had been right. Seeing Deku again really did it. The floodgates opened, and everything Katsuki had worked so hard to bury came rushing back with the force of a goddamn tsunami.

He exhales sharply, throwing his duffel bag onto the floor in front of the lockers. The clatter echoes in the otherwise empty space, the sound bouncing off the cold walls like a reminder that he’s alone. Or should be.

Katsuki shrugs off his windbreaker, tossing it beside the bag before sinking onto the bench. He leans down, yanking at the laces of his sneakers to pull them off with quick, jerky movements. His skates sit at the ready, gleaming slightly under the harsh fluorescent lights that are anything but flattering. He grabs one, slipping his foot in and methodically tightening the laces, the ritual calming him, grounding him. 

Because once he’s out on the ice, everything else falls away.

Katsuki used to live for these solo skating sessions. No overly heavy gear weighing him down, no teammates to coordinate with, no noise except for the sharp cut of his blades on the ice. Just him, his skates, and the unbroken expanse of frozen freedom. These moments remind him why he fell in love with the sport in the first place. Back when hockey wasn’t about contracts, headlines, or being the face of a franchise. Back when it was just him and the ice. And… 

Yeah, better to take that thought and shove it right back where it belongs.

Out there, everything takes a backseat — the team, the stakes, the relentless pressure, the tangled web of his own bullshit. His sexuality, for one. It’s the twenty-first goddamn century, and this stuff shouldn’t matter anymore. But tell that to the PR department, or the league, or the NHL’s overwhelmingly straight, overwhelmingly traditional culture.

Katsuki can count on one hand the number of players who’ve come out, and even they’ve had to deal with bullshit — defamation from the fanbase, side-eye from homophobic teammates, whispers in the locker room. It’s not just his career he’s protecting. It’s his sanity. 

Out there, though, none of that exists. Out there, he doesn’t have to think about any of it. Not his parents, not the media, not the pressure to be someone he’s not. Just the next move, the next turn, the rhythm of his body syncing with the glide of his skates.

Standing in his skates, Katsuki grabs his hoodie from the bag — midnight navy blue with ice-blue highlights, the material soft against his calloused fingers. The Blizzards' logo is stitched neatly on the left side, smaller than on the jerseys but still unmistakable. A snowflake with sharp, angular lines encircles the silhouette of a hockey stick, a snowstorm swirl winding through the design.

He’s still proud to wear it, to pull on that jersey with his name and number bold across the back. He earned it. Fought for it. Bled for it. But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t weigh heavy at times. Like now, when the noise around him feels louder than ever. Headlines, expectations, the constant whisper of "what's wrong with Bakugou?" cutting through every game, every practice.

Still, he pulls the hoodie on, letting it settle over his frame like armor, before sliding on a pair of thin gloves and tugging a black beanie snug over his head. The whole outfit doesn’t exactly scream professional hockey player , more like some tourist out for a casual glide at Rockefeller, but it’s early, and he doesn’t give a damn about looking the part right now. He’s here to skate, not pose for a photoshoot. 

Adjusting the gloves, he takes a moment to roll his shoulders, shaking off the lingering tension from last night’s shitty sleep and this morning’s even shittier coffee. He’s ready for the ice to drown out everything else. 

Entering the rink through the tunnel, the sharp bite of the cold greets him like an old friend. The familiar scent of ice and chilled air fills his lungs, waking him up in a way that’s instant and grounding. He lets out a long exhale, watching his breath cloud in front of him before fading into the stillness.

Only, the stillness isn’t so still.

The sound of blades cutting across ice reaches him first. It’s soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and it’s obviously not coming from him. Katsuki steps further inside, the familiar squeak of his skates against the rubber floor following him, irritation already flaring hot in his chest.

Who the hell doesn’t take the schedule seriously? He booked this damn slot days ago. Solo time. No distractions. Just him and the ice. But now, someone’s robbing him of the one hour he’s supposed to have to himself. 

Not even the soft, haunting piano and violin notes playing through the speakers can do anything to cool his rising frustration. If anything, they only make it worse. The music’s calm, deliberate pace grates against the storm brewing inside him, spurring him on as he strides toward the rink, scowl already locked in place. He’s so fucking ready to make his presence known.

He squints, trying to make out the figure gliding across the ice, but the moment he spots that familiar mop of green curls, his irritation flares hotter. No second look needed.

Of course, it’s fucking Deku. Who else would be here at six in the morning — probably since way earlier, judging by the exhaustion etched into his features — skating to some moody-ass song that perfectly fits his stupid overachiever energy?

Katsuki frowns, his irritation shifting into something more complicated as he steps closer to the rink. He leans against the boards, his breath fogging the glass as he watches while the nerd’s completely oblivious to his presence. Apparently, a facility with multiple rinks, big enough to fit the egos of every damn pro athlete in the world, isn’t big enough to avoid this guy.

It’s like the universe is shoving all of Katsuki’s decisions — every shitty, selfish, unresolved one — right back in his face, yelling, “Here’s your payback for being an absolute shithead.”

The soft, melancholic tones of the song playing over the speakers seem to amplify the surreal quality of the moment. Deku glides across the ice, his body moving in perfect synchronicity with the music, his skates slicing clean lines with each effortless turn. There’s something so damn mesmerizing about it, like time slows to match the rhythm of his movements.

Katsuki remembers this feeling. He used to love watching Deku skate when they were kids — though he’d never admit it. Sometimes for hours, he’d sit on the sidelines while Deku spun and spun, relentless in his pursuit of perfection, never seeming to need a break. And the only one left dizzy by the end of it wasn’t Deku. It was Katsuki.

Back then, when winter crept in, and people suddenly wanted to do all those cliché holiday things — ice skating, drinking hot chocolate, wearing ridiculous scarves — the rink would get packed. Too full of strangers invading what Katsuki had come to see as their space. So they’d grab their skates and head off to the nearby lake, hoping it was frozen enough to hold them.

And when it was, goddammit, those hours were some of Katsuki’s favorites. 

Leaning against the boards now, Katsuki feels smaller somehow, like the weight of those memories is folding him in on himself. The rink around him seems to shift, blurring at the edges until it’s not a rink anymore. The sharp overhead lights dim, replaced by soft winter sunlight streaming through the bare branches of the trees surrounding the lake. The ice beneath his feet isn’t smooth and artificial anymore, it’s sparkling, jagged in places, like someone dumped a bucket of glitter over it.

And there, in the center of it all, is Deku. Bright red beanie snug on top of his messy green curls, his freckled cheeks flushed from the cold, his smile wide and genuine in a way Katsuki hasn’t seen in years.

For a moment, it feels like old times. Those rare, quiet moments where it was just the two of them, no pressure, no distance, no unsaid things clogging up the air between them.

But the memory tugs at something painful.

Katsuki blinks, and the lake dissolves back into the rink. The sharp overhead lights pierce through the mist of his thoughts as the haunting melody of Billie Eilish’s Lovely filters back into his awareness. Deku’s not spinning in the center of some frozen lake, his bright red beanie making him look like a Christmas postcard. He’s here, now, gliding across this expansive rink, moving like the ice beneath him is both the safest and scariest place in the world.

Katsuki leans his elbows on the boards, watching Deku run through some basic routines — footwork, gliding patterns, a few spins. Nothing groundbreaking, but clean and precise. Yeah, Katsuki’s never been great with figure skating terms. He’d tried to understand them once, back when he was still pretending he didn’t care about Deku’s skating. But the second he realized all the jumps and spins looked pretty damn similar to him, despite having a hundred different names, he’d given up. They’re just… jumps and spins. Why complicate it?

Still, even with his half-assed understanding of it all, it doesn’t make watching any less fascinating.

Figure skating is nothing like hockey. Katsuki’s world is all about aggression, speed, fighting the ice and slicing it open to dominate every inch of it. But this? This is something else. It’s like a dance — sinful, mesmerizing, a kind of give-and-take with the ice that Katsuki’s never had. Deku moves like the ice is alive beneath him, responding to his every step, every turn.

And yet, something feels… off.

It’s subtle. Deku’s movements are still polished, still breathtakingly fluid. But there’s a hesitation that wasn’t there before, something almost fragile beneath the surface. It’s like he’s skating with a ghost of doubt haunting his every move.

Katsuki’s eyes narrow when Deku sets up for what looks like one of those difficult, heavy-duty jumps. Katsuki doesn’t know the name, but he can tell it’s one of the big ones by the way Deku shifts his weight, the tension building in his body as he readies himself.

Then the song hits the line, “Heart made of glass, my mind of stone,” and for a brief moment, Katsuki sees it.

The flicker of hesitation crosses Deku’s face. It’s brief — so quick that if Katsuki wasn’t paying attention, he would’ve missed it. But it’s enough to throw off his timing. The takeoff looks a fraction too rushed, and though he completes the jump, the landing is far from clean. His skate wobbles, his upper body lurching forward, and his gloved hand instinctively shoots out, just barely avoiding a full-on fall.

From where Katsuki’s standing, it looks like a mess. Not that he’s an expert or anything, but even he can tell that wasn’t right.

Deku mutters something under his breath — probably a curse, judging by the way his shoulders tense and his hands clench into fists. Katsuki still can’t hear him over the music, which keeps playing as if the moment hasn’t already spiraled into shit. And Deku? He doesn’t even realize he’s got an audience.

So, when Katsuki finally steps onto the ice and calls out, “Oi,” the reaction is instant. Deku spins toward the sound, eyes wide in surprise — and promptly loses his balance. His arms flail for a split second before he lands on his ass with a dull thud that even the music can’t drown out.

Deku groans, shifting to sit upright on the ice and leaning slightly to his left side, one hand rubbing at his right butt cheek with a wince. Katsuki tries — really tries — not to zoom in on the motion. Because, yeah, he’s taken more than one look at that ass already, and it’s… Stop it. His internal monologue grinds to a halt, snapping like a broken hockey stick as he quickly shifts blame to something else — anything else.

Haven’t gotten laid in months. Just backed up. No big deal. The only action he’s been getting is from his own damn hand, and he’s not about to let his traitorous brain ruin this moment.

He skates over, stopping just short of Deku and kicking up a spray of ice dust, because, of course, he can’t resist messing with him. Deku flinches, shaking his head as flakes scatter over his hair and shoulders. Katsuki smirks, cocking his head as he towers over him.

“Aren’t you supposed to look graceful on here, nerd?” Katsuki drawls.

Deku tilts his head back, giving him that what the hell is wrong with you look Katsuki knows all too well. “Graceful is overrated,” Deku mutters, brushing the ice dust off his sleeves.

Katsuki crosses his arms, his smirk widening. “Oh yeah? Is that how gold medals are won?”

Deku lets out a dry laugh, rolling his eyes. He’s cockier than Katsuki remembers — sassy in a way that makes him want to poke and prod just to see how far that attitude goes. It’s annoying … but kind of…fascinating, too. 

“You’re an ass,” Deku shoots back, the words quick and biting, but there’s no real heat behind them.

“And you’re on your ass,” Katsuki fires back, extending a hand down to him. “Get up before you freeze it.”

For a moment, Deku just stares at him, those green eyes catching the faint, shifting light bouncing off the ice. There’s something swirling in them, something Katsuki recognizes all too well because it’s probably the same thing clawing at his insides right now. Déjà-vu.

Deku exhales a resigned sigh, his warm breath fogging in the cool air, and takes Katsuki’s hand. Even through the thin fabric of their gloves, the warmth of Deku’s palm presses into his, spreading along Katsuki’s hand like some kind of electric current. It sparks along his fingertips, up his arm, and he swallows hard, trying to ignore it as he pulls Deku up with one easy tug.

“There you go,” is all he says, letting go the second Deku is steady on his skates again. His hand drops back to his side like it doesn’t feel weirdly empty now, and he doesn’t think about it any further. Not at all.

It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since that disastrous night at McAllan’s, and yeah, things still feel...off. Weird. The kind of weird that makes Katsuki’s skin crawl because he hates unresolved shit, and this? This is a whole pile of it. A pile he started to collect ever since middle school. 

So, of course, the best way to deal with that is to dodge it entirely. Talk about something else. Anything else. Like why the hell Deku’s suddenly looking so damn nervous on the ice when he wasn’t like this skating with his round-faced partner the other day. 

“So, what was that?”

Deku straightens his shoulders, rolling one of them like he’s brushing off the question. “It’s called a Triple Axel, Kacchan.”

Katsuki shakes his head, his scowl deepening even as he makes a mental note of the term — not that he’s ever gonna need it. “I mean the part where you messed up and fell.”

“Almost fell,” Deku corrects quickly, though the way he bites his lip betrays the flicker of nerves he’s clearly trying to hide. “And how long have you been standing there secretly watching me? No matter what some women might say, Kacchan, stalking is creepy.”

“That’s rich,” Katsuki mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Secretly watching you? Don’t flatter yourself, nerd. I’m here for my own shit, but apparently, some people don’t take schedules seriously.”

Deku opens his mouth, probably ready to fire back with one of his usual quips, but Katsuki’s not in the mood to let this conversation derail. He cuts him off before a single syllable can leave his mouth.

“Now, quit dodging the question. What’s with the hesitation? You never hesitated, Deku. Like ever.”

For a moment, Deku just stares at him, his mouth shutting with an audible click. Then his gaze drops to the ice below them, his skates shifting slightly as if the weight of Katsuki’s words is making him restless. The witty confidence he’d been hiding behind a second ago is gone, and what’s left is...well, it makes something uncomfortable twist in Katsuki’s chest.

“Bad day,” Deku mutters.

“Bullshit.” Katsuki doesn’t even hesitate. He knows hesitation when he sees it — knows how it clings like a shadow, born from fear or doubt. “When did it happen?” he asks, watching Deku’s face closely for any flicker, any crack in his armor.

“What?”

“When. Did. It. Happen?” he repeats more clearly, as if that’s going to help the cryptic approach. 

Deku’s jaw tightens, and Katsuki can practically see the walls going up, the shutters slamming closed. “Look,” Deku says,  starting to skate toward the boards, his movements quick and deliberate, like he’s running away without actually leaving. “I don’t have time for this, Kacchan. Playing ‘try to guess what’s going on in Katsuki’s head’? Been there, done that. It wasn’t fun then, and it’s not fun now.”

“When did the fall happen, dumbass?” Katsuki goes after him, his hand closing around Deku’s arm before the nerd can escape. It’s the second time he’s touched him today, and it’s starting to feel like every nerve in his body is hyperaware of it.

Deku stiffens, his gaze snapping back to Katsuki, and for a moment, it’s all there — shock, guilt, and that something else Katsuki can’t quite name but recognizes instantly. Too bad for Deku, though, because Katsuki’s been staring into those eyes for most of his goddamn life. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Deku says, his voice quieter than before but no less defensive.

“Too bad your eyes don’t match the words coming out of your mouth, Deku.”

Ever caught someone lying? It’s not in the words, Katsuki’s learned. It’s in the little things — the flicker of hesitation, the way their pupils dilate, how their breathing hitches. Deku’s doing all of it, textbook liar behavior. And his eyes? Those stupid green eyes that Katsuki’s spent years memorizing? They give him away completely.

Eyes don’t lie. Especially not his.

“Spill it, nerd,” Katsuki demands, as if he has any right. He doesn’t really know why he’s doing it — why he’s pushing, why he can’t just let it go. He shouldn’t, for fuck’s sake. He and Deku aren’t friends anymore. He’s the one who created the distance, the one who decided years ago to blow it all up. So, it’s completely understandable why Deku seems so defensive, why his posture stiffens and his green eyes narrow as if to shield something Katsuki’s not supposed to see.

And yet Katsuki can’t help but feel like there’s a knife twisting in his chest as he watches him. Deku, standing there, so fucking close he can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint mix of his aftershave. And still, it feels like they’re miles apart. Like the crack in the ice beneath them is growing wider, the fragile shells they’re both balancing on drifting farther and farther away with every second that passes.

“What the hell happened?” The words fall out of Katsuki’s mouth, but they sound wrong — detached, far from the usual purpose they carry. They’re heavier than they should be, weighed down by meanings he didn’t intend to expose.

What happened to your dream?

What’s blocking you?

What happened to us?

“You tell me, Kacchan. What the hell happened?” Deku’s calm, but it cuts deeper than if he’d shouted. It’s not just a question — it’s a challenge, a mirror shoved in Katsuki’s face. 

Before Katsuki can say anything, Deku frees his arm from his grip. The moment his touch is gone, Katsuki feels colder, emptier. Deku doesn’t hesitate, skating off in long, powerful strides, leaving Katsuki standing there like an idiot, the weight of his own words crashing down on him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: A Frozen Mind

February 15, 2021

Izuku sits on the plush couch in Dr. Kennedy’s office, his hands resting on his knees, fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric of his jeans. The space is warm, inviting, filled with bookshelves and soft lighting. But the air feels too heavy, weighed down by his own thoughts and the words he’s struggling to get out. 

“So,” Dr. Kennedy begins, her voice calm but probing, her pen poised over her notepad. “Where do you want to start today, Izuku?”

He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. The weight of the past year feels suffocating, like it’s pressing down on his chest. “I don’t know,” he mutters, but the words taste like a lie even as they leave his mouth. He knows exactly where to start. He just doesn’t want to. 

“Well, how about we start with something easy.” Dr. Kennedy doesn’t push. She never does. She waits, her presence steady and patient in a way that’s both comforting and infuriating. “How was your day?”

Izuku huffs out a quiet laugh, though there’s no real humor in it. “My day? You really want to start there?”

Dr. Kennedy smiles faintly, tapping her pen lightly against her notepad. “Why not? Sometimes the little things open the door to the big ones.”

He leans back against the couch, his head tipping back as he stares at the ceiling. “It was fine. Same as always. Woke up, went to practice, skated until my legs were about ready to give out. Came home, iced my knees, tried not to think too much. Went to my lectures. And now I’m here.” 

He tries to rush through the “thinking part,” sandwiching it between the mundane details like it’s nothing, hoping Dr. Kennedy doesn’t pick up on it. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. But the way her brow arches ever so slightly tells him she’s already honed in on it.

“And did you succeed at the overthinking part?” she asks, her tone light but pointed, like she already knows the answer and is just waiting for him to admit it.

Izuku snorts softly. “Not even close.”

“Hmm,” she hums, scribbling something down in her notebook. “What was on your mind?”

The thing that’s always on his mind.

He shrugs, pressing his sweaty palms against his thighs. “The usual stuff.”

Her gaze remains steady, her pen coming to a stop as she folds her hands over her notebook. “And by ‘the usual stuff,’ I assume you mean the things you keep trying not to think about?”

He huffs, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes dart away from hers. “That’s the thing about not thinking about something. It doesn’t really work.”

His fingers start fiddling with each other, the movement automatic and restless. The skin around his nails is red and sore — the usual state they’re in lately. He pulls at it when he’s anxious, a habit he’s been told countless times to stop, but never quite manages to. And he’s always anxious when the memory of his failure creeps back into his mind.

He closes his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the flood of images. The lights of the rink, harsh and blinding. The hum of the crowd, fading into a dull roar in his ears as he lined up for his combination. His heart racing, his breath coming too fast. And then—

“Izuku?”

His head jerks up, the memory splintering like ice under pressure. “Yeah?” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Dr. Kennedy’s pen is bouncing up and down, and Izuku can’t help but zero in on the movement. “Where did you just go?”

“Skate Canada,” he admits, the words feeling heavy as they leave his mouth.

Her pen pauses mid-bounce, her eyes lifting to meet Izuku’s. Her expression is steady, a practiced calm that somehow feels both professional and genuine. “Skate Canada,” she repeats softly, nodding as though the words weigh something. “That moment carries a lot for you, doesn’t it?”

Izuku shrugs, though it’s half-hearted. “You could say that.”

She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “It makes sense, Izuku. What you’re describing aligns with what we call post-event ruminative processing. It’s common for athletes, especially those at your level, to replay critical moments over and over. Your brain is trying to make sense of what happened, attempting to dissect it so it doesn’t happen again.”

Izuku nods along but zones out halfway through the jargon. It’s not the first time she tries to tell him how his feelings are valid and all that stuff. “Right, right. Post… something.”

“Post-event ruminative processing,” she repeats with a small smile, clearly noticing his wandering attention. “Basically, your brain is stuck in a feedback loop. You’re re-living that fall because your mind hasn’t filed it away properly yet. It’s trying to find a way to rewrite the story, but the problem is, you’re fighting it.”

“I’m not fighting anything,” Izuku counters, but the defensiveness in his voice says otherwise.

“You are,” she says, gently but firmly. “That’s why the feelings keep coming back. Fear, doubt, self-criticism — they’re all valid responses, Izuku. You’re an athlete performing at an elite level, under enormous pressure. Of course, there’s going to be fear and frustration after something like Skate Canada. Those emotions aren’t the problem. The problem is what you do with them.”

Izuku sighs, the sound heavy as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His hands rise to cover his face, fingers digging into his temples as if trying to massage the tension out. It doesn’t work. Nothing ever does.

“What does the doctor say about your physical condition?”

“Everything’s healed. Good to go. Has been for weeks.” His hands drop to his knees, and he starts rubbing them absently, a nervous habit he can’t seem to shake. “But still… it doesn’t feel like my body’s ready.” Or more like his mind blocks him. Every. Single. Time.

The quiet scratch of her pen on paper is the only sound in the room for a moment. “But you’re going to practice, right?” She doesn’t look up, her tone carefully measured. 

Well, he told her that already, still, he answers anyway. “Yeah, but…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I’m just doing the basics. Safe stuff. Comfortable stuff. And that’s wasting precious time.”

Dr. Kennedy sets her pen down, the movement deliberate, and finally meets Izuku’s gaze. Her eyes are calm, but there’s an unmistakable sharpness to them. “It’s not wasted time, Izuku. Practicing what feels safe, comfortable — that’s your body telling you where its boundaries are right now. It’s about rebuilding trust. Trust in your own abilities, your instincts, and your body.” 

He exhales shakily, his hands falling still on his knees. “But I don’t have time to rebuild. Nationals are coming up, and everyone else is pushing harder, faster. I can’t afford to be this far behind.” His voice tightens at the end, the weight of his words tethered to the impossibly high bar he’s set for himself.

Dr. Kennedy places her notebook and pen on the side table beside her, leaning forward slightly in her chair. “Can I ask you something, Izuku?”

He blinks at her, raising a brow. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?” His voice dips into something almost teasing, but the edge of his anxiety dulls it.

“Just because your coach and the university think this is good for you, doesn’t mean you’re obligated to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable. This is a safe space, Izuku. We’ll go at your speed.”

Izuku nods, a bit stiffly, but it’s genuine enough. He rubs at the back of his neck, the tension still coiled tight in his muscles. “Sure. What’s the question?”

Dr. Kennedy takes a moment, letting the room fall into a deliberate silence, one that feels calm rather than weighted. Her voice is gentle when she finally asks, “When was the last time you were truly happy on the ice? Not just skating to compete — but to be happy.”

He blinks, caught completely off guard. “What?”

Her smile widens slightly, bright and almost playful, a stark contrast to the seriousness of her question. “Is that such a difficult question to answer?”

Izuku shifts uncomfortably, the question landing heavier than he expects. His fingers twitch against his knees, the familiar itch of anxiety prickling under his skin. “Shouldn’t be.”

“But it is?” Her voice remains calm, free of judgment, the kind of tone that invites honesty without demanding it.

Izuku exhales sharply, the sound edged with frustration — though not directed at her. It’s himself he’s frustrated with, for the way the question digs at something he can’t quite grasp. The memory should be easy to pull from the depths of his mind. Skating has been his life since he was old enough to lace up his skates. But now, the weight of expectations, failure, and fear clutters the space where joy used to live, turning the once-bright memories into something almost unrecognizable.

And then, there’s him .

The ice has always been tied to Bakugou Katsuki. It’s infuriating — annoying as hell, really — that Izuku so often circles back to him. To their friendship — or lack thereof, because Katsuki cut him off. It grates on him that every time he searches for happiness in skating, Katsuki’s shadow is there, woven into the memories. Racing together at the old rink in their neighborhood, gliding across the frozen lake nearby, playing hockey just for fun — even though Izuku was terrible at it. And Katsuki watching him skate for hours, his gaze so full of that fire that used to set Izuku ablaze.

Izuku remembers smiling so much back then. He remembers how happy he felt with Katsuki by his side. The realization is a bittersweet sting, one he wishes he could push away.

Somewhere along the way, though, his passion and love for skating twisted into something else. Something more like an unhealthy obsession — a relentless drive to prove himself, to chase a version of happiness that feels just out of reach. 

Maybe, deep down, it’s not just about proving it to himself. Maybe it’s about proving it to Kacchan — that he doesn’t need him to achieve the dream they once built together. The dream they had whispered about during those long, cold afternoons at the rink, when everything seemed simpler, and the future felt like an endless sheet of untouched ice waiting for them to carve their mark.

But now, those memories feel distant, blurred at the edges. Izuku’s dream feels fractured, the pieces still there but no longer fitting together the way they once did. And Kacchan — he’s not just distant, he’s gone, a presence so vital to Izuku’s foundation now turned into a gaping absence.

“I guess it is,” he admits quietly, the words feeling heavy as they leave his lips. It’s as close to a confession as he can muster, and it hangs in the air like a fragile thread. 

The realization stings, more deeply than he expected. It’s sad — disheartening, even — that he can’t think of more than one or two moments in the last few years when he’d gone to morning practice with the thought „I love this“. Those fleeting memories of excitement and joy feel drowned out by the relentless mantra of “I need to make it“, the weight of ambition crushing the passion that once burned so brightly.

Dr. Kennedy nods, lifting her notebook back into her lap, her pen poised but not moving. She’s not writing yet — just watching him carefully, her gaze thoughtful. “Could I offer an observation? Something to think about, and you can let me know if I’m way off base?” Her tone is calm, leaving the space open for him to choose how to respond. 

“Sure.” 

She adjusts the glasses perched on her nose, a practiced motion, before tucking a stray strand of wavy brown hair back into her ponytail. “Maybe your fall at the competition wasn’t just about the physical,” she begins, her words measured, careful. “It could have been your body’s way of calling for help — telling you that you’ve pushed yourself too far. Not just physically, but mentally.” 

Her gaze remains steady, never prying, but there’s a quiet intensity behind her next statement. “What if your mind blocked your body because, somewhere along the way, you lost touch with the original reason you fell in love with skating?” 

Her blue eyes meet his through horn-rimmed glasses, sharp yet kind, a practiced balance of empathy and insight. “Because, Izuku, this is…” she pauses deliberately, her voice even but pointed, “...how many times we’ve spoken?”

“The sixth,” he replies, his tone automatic but subdued. She nods, as if he’s underlined her point for her.

“Exactly.” Her voice is calm, but there’s weight to her words. “And not once, in all of those conversations, have I heard you say anything besides ‘I have to win,’ or ‘I can’t fall behind.’ Not a single mention of why you love it so much.”

Her pen moves, deliberate and steady, and Izuku can’t help but bristle, knowing whatever she’s jotting down probably won’t sit well with him.

She doesn’t look up, her focus still on her notebook as she adds, “Maybe it’s time to go back a lot further than just the fall, Izuku. To revisit where this all started — not the pressure, not the need to win — but the love for it.”

🏒⛸️

Izuku is annoyed. Upset. Pissed. Maybe even a little taken aback by Kacchan’s sudden and inexplicable interest in him. The guy’s been giving him emotional whiplash since middle school, and apparently, that hasn’t changed. Not one bit.

So when Izuku turns the key to his apartment and steps inside, he throws his bag into the corner by the door with more force than necessary. The thud echoes through the space, and almost immediately, Ochako’s voice floats in from the kitchen.

“Someone’s in a bad mood, huh?” she calls, her tone casual but laced with curiosity. She steps into view a moment later, coffee in hand, leaning against the counter with the kind of ease that only comes from familiarity.

Izuku drops onto the stool at the kitchen bar, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. Ochako’s been staying here for about eight weeks now, ever since her ugly breakup. Offering her a place to crash had been the logical solution — they skate together, after all. And with Izuku’s apartment being so close to the rink, it’s far more convenient than the thirty-minute drive she used to endure every day.

But right now, he isn’t thinking about logistics. He’s thinking about the blond menace who somehow still has the power to completely ruin his day.

“Met Kacchan at the rink,” Izuku mutters, his words clipped. 

That gets Ochako’s attention. Her eyebrows shoot up, and she plops down on the stool beside him, spinning it to face him with a little too much enthusiasm. The spark of early-morning drama lights up her expression as she sets her coffee down, leaning forward like she’s settling in for a good story.

“Oh, really ?” she says, dragging out the word with exaggerated interest, her eyes practically gleaming.

Izuku’s eyebrows pinch together, his annoyance evident. “You could at least try to be a bit less… you know… delighted about it.”

She chuckles softly, unbothered, her hands curling around the porcelain mug in front of her. Scrawled across it in bold, slightly faded letters are the words: I CAN’T ADULT TODAY. It’s one of her favorites, and she’s always holding it like a badge of honor.

“What can I say? I live for rinkside drama,” she teases, taking another sip of her coffee. Her tone is light but curious, her energy buzzing as she bounces slightly on the stool, like a puppy eagerly awaiting a treat. “Now spill — what did he do?”

“First of all,” Izuku starts, rising from his seat and rounding the counter into the kitchen. He grabs a clean mug from the cabinet, filling it with the freshly brewed coffee. “He started stalking my session like a total creep. Okay, technically, he reserved the rink for 6 a.m., and maybe I lost track of time.” He shakes his head as if to brush off the irrelevant detail. “Doesn’t matter. So, I tried something, failed — miserably.” Story of his life. He pauses, the frustration in his voice tightening just slightly before he adds, “he thought a joke might make me feel better.”

“Let me guess — it didn’t.” She winks, the grin on her face growing smug.

“You’re way too cocky for this early in the morning, you know that,” Izuku mutters, leaning against the counter across from her.

Ochako just shrugs, her grin unwavering.

“Now let me finish, you subtenant. ” His tone is playful, his own smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s part of their unspoken language, and Ochako knows the game well.

She sticks her tongue out at him in retaliation.

“Very mature.” He chuckles, raising his coffee in mock acknowledgment of her childish comeback.

In response, she flips him the bird, the action making him laugh outright.

Ochako has been his best friend ever since he transferred to college in Montreal. They’d met at the rink on “Welcome Day,” both wide-eyed freshmen skaters navigating a new city and a new chapter of their careers. Unlike Izuku, though, Ochako had always been a pair skater. She was confident in lifts and throws in a way that made Izuku marvel at her strength and trust on the ice.

After the incident at Skate Canada and the mental block that followed, Izuku had become... well, useless for singles skating. His coach had almost completely given up on him. At the same time, Ochako had been blindsided by her own crisis — her skating partner had transferred back to Russia, leaving her future up in the air.

It had been a desperate suggestion at first, born out of circumstances neither of them could control. Try pairs skating together. See if it works. It was supposed to be a win-win. 

And it definitely was. Still is… kinda.

Even though he should be the one giving her that security, funnily enough, it’s the other way around. Izuku skates better with Ochako by his side. There’s a steadiness to her presence, a quiet reassurance that anchors him in a way he can’t quite put into words. It’s different from single skating, sure, but somehow, she gives him the confidence to move like he used to, to trust himself again — even if it’s not the same.

But Izuku’s heart? It beats for single skating. Always has, always will. And Ochako knows that. She doesn’t push him to feel differently, doesn’t hold it against him, but the understanding between them doesn’t make it any easier.

It’s like he’s living a dream that doesn’t quite fit — close, but not quite right. The Olympics, sure. Pair skating though? That was never part of the picture.

But it’s just the way things are now. He can’t skate alone anymore. Today’s practice had only driven that point home…again, loud and clear. The second he steps on the ice by himself, the block slams into place, unrelenting. Mental. Impossible.

“Earth to Izuku?”

Ochako’s voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts, pulling him back. He looks up, tearing his eyes away from the dark liquid swirling in his cup.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head slightly. “I got distracted. Where were we?”

Ochako props her chin onto her hand, watching him with that too-familiar look — the one that tries to dissect every single thought scattered in his brain.

“When I imagine the inside of your head sometimes…” She taps her index finger against her cheek, like she’s seriously considering it. “I picture the complete opposite of this apartment. Like, a full-blown hurricane hit a hoarder’s convention. So much mess in there, I’m honestly amazed you can find space for basic functioning. Your mind’s like a disorganized chamber of secrets.”

“Nothing secret about it.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, the perfect picture of skepticism. “Because until two days ago, I had no idea you went to school with not one but two NHL players. And one of them was your childhood best friend .”

“That’s not really a secret, Ochako,” he sighs, fiddling with the handle of his mug. “We just didn’t talk about stuff like that. There’s a difference between not telling someone because they didn’t ask and…whatever you’re implying.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Detective Denial.” She raises her mug to her lips, trying — and failing spectacularly — to hide her I know you’re full of shit smile behind the rim.

Izuku groans, but she doesn’t stop there. She never does.

“Now,” she says, setting her mug down with a loud clink that feels almost theatrical, “let’s hear it. What did Mister ‘Star Hockey Player’ do to make you all mopey and grumpy this morning.”

“Well,” Izuku starts, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s still processing the whole thing. “He jump-scared me by creeping up on me, made me fall flat on my ass right in front of him. Then, as if that wasn’t humiliating enough, he reached out to help me up and—”

Ochako gasps so loudly it could probably be heard in the next apartment, slapping a hand over her mouth in mock horror. “He didn’t ! What a douche .”

“You’re not funny, you know that,” Izuku deadpans, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting off a reluctant smile.

“Oh, I’m hilarious , babe.” She winks, her shoulders shaking as she tries — and fails miserably — to hold back a laugh. She waves her hand in the universal signal for ‘ keep it coming’ way. “Sorry, sorry, go on. I’m serious now.”

Izuku places his mug on the counter, the need to pace outweighing the comfort of coffee. He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. “What really threw me off was the fact that,” he begins, then stops, planting his hands on the counter and leaning toward Ochako for emphasis, “ he , Ochako, he —” Izuku pauses dramatically, as if the next words might physically choke him. “—he asks me, ‘what the hell happened. Why’re you hesitating, Deku. You never hesitated…’ ”

Ochako’s eyebrows rise slightly, but she says nothing, letting him spiral.

“I mean, can you believe that?” He’s pacing now, each step sharp and agitated. “He threw our friendship in the trash, like, years ago in high school. Never tried to reach out to me, not once. And now, he has the audacity to ask me what happened?” His voice rises a notch, incredulous. “After sitting at McAllan’s and telling me—” he drops his voice to mimic Katsuki, complete with an exaggerated gruffness, “ ‘It’s been years, Deku. Change is inevitable.’ ”

He throws his arms in the air, a groan ripping out of him like it’s been caged for far too long. “He’s driving me crazy, Ochako. Literally.”

When he finally stops to catch his breath, Ochako is sitting there, her expression impossible to pin down. Amused? Definitely. But there’s something else lurking behind her hazel eyes that makes Izuku’s brows furrow.

“What’s that look for?” he asks, suspicion creeping into his tone.

She mumbles something under her breath, her words too low to catch.

“What was that?” Izuku presses, his voice edging toward exasperation.

Clearing her throat, she stands abruptly, brushing nonexistent crumbs off her leggings. “Uh, I said you two really need to… talk it out. Yeah, talk it out.” Her tone is way too breezy to be convincing.

She spins on her heel, making her way toward the bathroom with an exaggerated sway in her step that’s far too theatrical to be innocent.

Izuku squints at her retreating form. “That’s not what you were saying, right?”

Without missing a beat, she waves a hand over her shoulder, her voice dripping with mischief. “Definitely not.”

“Then what were you saying?”

She pauses in the bathroom doorway, turning just enough for him to catch the flash of her bright, too-knowing grin. “You really don’t want to hear that, trust me.”

“You’re infuriating,” Izuku groans, running a hand down his face, “and a terrible roommate.”

“And you’re in denial!” she fires back just before the door closes, her laughter echoing behind it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Crisis Management Planning

Crisis Management Planning.

What a fucking joke. It’s just another way of making Katsuki feel like trash for not being “normal.” For not liking women the way his teammates do. For not living up to the cookie-cutter image the PR team wants plastered all over social media.

And now, thanks to some random asshole with a camera and zero sense of personal boundaries, he’s stuck in a meeting about “ensuring such situations don’t escalate publicly.”

Situations like this harmless one.

The picture in question is splayed across the tablet screen in front of him. It’s just him and Kirishima at some bar, leaning a little too close while laughing at something stupid. Kirishima’s arm is slung over his shoulder, and Katsuki’s face — God help him — actually looks relaxed. Happy, even. 

After the shitshow at the rink with Deku, and his own garbage skating session afterward, he’d needed a friend. Just one person who wasn’t going to talk circles around him or expect some sort of emotional epiphany. And Kirishima? He fits the bill. Has for years now. Solid, dependable — perfect for deflecting bullshit and offering the occasional stupid joke that gets Katsuki out of his head.

So yeah, he’d let Kirishima drag him to a nearby bar. They’d had a couple of beers, talked hockey, and laughed about whatever dumb shit came up. It was normal. Comfortable. Exactly what Katsuki had needed.

But apparently, this is the kind of shit that needs “managing.”

Managing. As if he’d committed some grave sin by looking too happy next to another guy. A teammate, he might add, and a hetero one on top of all that. It’s fucking ridiculous. This entire meeting wouldn’t even exist if it’d been Sero or Donovan or literally anyone else on the team with Kirishima.

“Bakugou,” Kovalenko begins, his voice heavy with forced diplomacy. “You have to understand how this looks.” 

Katsuki doesn’t look away from the screen. Doesn’t even blink. “How it looks?” His voice is low, deadly. “It looks like two friends at a fucking bar.”

His gaze flicks up to the little headline over the article on some no-name, bottom-feeder website: Fallen Blizzards Sighted. He skims the text, a short blurb of speculative nonsense claiming the team is “drowning their playoff failures in alcohol.” Nothing more. Just the usual garbage from tabloids that exist to fill dead space with dead stories. Not a single word even hints at anything other than two teammates blowing off steam.

The PR manager clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “You’re right, technically. But context doesn’t matter when it comes to public perception. You know how easily people jump to conclusions. It’s not about what happened, it’s about how it’s perceived.”

Vladimir Kovalenko, the so-called Head of Communications — or, as Katsuki likes to think of him, the asshole who’s been breathing down his neck since he joined the team — leans forward, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawing together in faux concern. Mid-fifties, power-hungry, and with a permanent grimace that could make flowers wilt, Kovalenko is Katsuki’s least favorite human being in the organization.

“How it’s perceived?” Katsuki echoes, his glare zeroing in on Kovalenko like a laser, sharp enough to cut through steel. His lips curl into a sneer as he jabs a finger toward the screen. “It’s perceived as two guys drowning their sorrows because the team didn’t make the playoffs. Nothing else. Which, by the way, is bullshit. You know, the kind of shit these journalists love to peddle?”

The sarcasm drips from his tone, heavy and cutting. He can’t help it. The whole situation is so goddamn stupid — degrading, even. As if his private life, his friendships, and every moment he spends off the ice are nothing more than fodder for gossip and PR strategy.

Kovalenko leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach like a fucking villain in a low-budget movie. “This article may seem harmless,” he begins, his tone patronizing enough to make Katsuki’s teeth grind. “But what I’m trying to say is… you need to be more aware of your surroundings. Be careful.” He clicks his tongue, as if scolding a child. “You’ve been in this industry long enough to know better, Bakugou.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow, the simmering anger in his chest threatening to boil over. "Better know what? To not hang out with my teammate because I’m gay? Which, by the way, nobody outside of Coach Aizawa, Kirishima, and this office even knows about." He crosses his arms, his jaw tightening as he glares at Kovalenko. "You worried I’m gonna hold his hand in public or something? Maybe share a milkshake with two straws? That the PR nightmare you're trying to dodge?"

Kovalenko’s composure doesn’t waver, though the corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s not about your personal life, Bakugou. It’s about maintaining the image of the team. You may not want to hear this, but as team captain, you represent more than yourself. The Blizzards’ brand, the fans, the sponsors — they all expect a certain standard.”

“A standard?” Katsuki spits the word like it’s poison. “You mean a ‘straight’ standard, don’t you? Because Petrov or Becker can get plastered and make out with several women at a club, and you’d call it boys being boys. But me having a laugh with Kirishima? Suddenly it’s a crisis. Real consistent, Kovalenko.”

The man drums his fingers lightly on the table, his expression a perfect mask of infuriating neutrality. “This isn’t about double standards.”

The hell it isn’t.

Katsuki scoffs, folding his arms across his chest as Kovalenko keeps spewing his word vomit. 

“It’s about optics. If this gets twisted into something more by another outlet, it could become a distraction for the team. And if there’s something going on with Kirishima and—”

“Oh, hell no.” Katsuki rises from the chair so fast it scrapes loudly against the floor. The guy really came all the way here to pull this shit? “We’re not going there, you hear me? There’s nothing going on. We’ve been friends since fucking middle school. That’s it.” 

Just because Katsuki’s into guys doesn’t mean he’s out here ready to pounce on every one that gets within ten feet of him. Hell, he doesn’t even hook up anymore. Exactly because of this shit right here.

The risk is too fucking high. A meaningless night of physical satisfaction doesn’t even come close to outweighing the possible consequences if the guy turned out to be a greedy asshole who thought selling the story would make for easy money. And honestly? He’s not looking for quick thrills anyway. Never has been.

Kovalenko’s lips press into a thin line. “You really have to work on that language, Bakugou.”

Katsuki feels the twitch in his right eye like a warning siren. His whole body reacts like it’s having an allergic reaction to this entire circus. He plants both hands on the table, leaning in just enough to make Kovalenko flinch slightly. “I’m not the problem here. I was sitting at a bar, having beers, with a friend .” He jabs an accusing finger into the photo on the tablet, his glare like a loaded weapon. “Nothing else . ”

God, he’d love nothing more than to shove a big, unapologetic middle finger right into the NHL’s conservative faces. But he doesn’t. He knows better. Not everyone in the league thinks like this anymore, but enough old white men in power — and enough narrow-minded fans — make the entire organization break into a cold sweat the second the word “queer” enters the conversation.

And Katsuki? He’s caught in the middle of it.

He loves the team — not that he’d ever say it. Hell no. But he does. He loves the game, the city, the country that welcomed him when he got drafted. Hockey’s in his blood. The sharp cut of skates on ice, the adrenaline of a breakaway, the roar of the crowd when the puck hits the back of the net and the lamp lights up. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Okay, not all , but that doesn’t matter.

But the negative aspects of this life? The politics, the double standards, the pressure to be a version of himself that doesn’t exist? They’re punching him in the face on a daily fucking basis. And right now, he’s feeling every single hit.

Kovalenko doesn’t respond immediately, but Katsuki doesn’t miss the flicker of irritation in his carefully blank expression.

“Just keep it that way,” Kovalenko says after a long beat, his voice maddeningly calm. “It’s easier that way, believe me. You don’t wanna go there.”

As if Katsuki doesn’t already know that. As if he hasn’t been swallowing that bitter pill for a long time now.

After that, Katsuki stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the glass in its frame.

Katsuki’s feet stomp along the hallway, the heavy thud of his steps echoing off the concrete walls like a war drum. He makes a beeline for the locker room, where his team is already gearing up for practice. His mood is dark, his expression stormy, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to notice.

Inside, the locker room is its usual chaos. Tape flies through the air, socks are tossed around like projectiles, and the general atmosphere resembles a frat house more than a professional hockey team. Turns out, being drafted into the NHL doesn’t magically grant you adult behavior. 

“You look…” Sero starts, trailing off as he studies Katsuki’s face. His tone is careful, like he’s tiptoeing around a sleeping bear. “Pissed.”

That’s not even scratching the surface. But Katsuki can’t exactly tell them what’s really going on.

“Just had a talk with Kovalenko about the last game,” he says, pulling the first excuse that comes to mind. “You know, the one where I earned two minutes in the sin bin for checking that Detroit asshole a little too hard. He doesn’t like the headlines.”

Alexei Petrov, their Russian import and fellow first-line forward, raises an eyebrow as he yanks up his hockey pants. “He knows he’s working for a hockey team, right? Like, hitting is part of the job?”

Kirishima exchanges a glance with Katsuki, his brow furrowing slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Katsuki drops onto the bench beside him.

“I always get the special treatment,” Katsuki mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because, apparently, I’m the fucking sunshine on ice.”

That earns him a few snickers. 

Petrov snorts, shaking his head as he tapes up his stick. “Special treatment for the special case.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t entirely disagree. He’s the captain, the star player, the guy they all rely on to pull them out of the fire when things get tight. Hell, he’s probably one of the top three players in the entire league — maybe even on track for the Hall of Fame, if he keeps going strong and doesn’t screw it all up like this season.

But he’s also the guy who racks up the most penalty minutes on the team. He’s a walking contradiction, and that’s not exactly new.

He yanks his sweater over his head, tossing it into his cubby with more force than necessary, before pulling on his base layers. Around him, the noise of the locker room settles into its usual chaos: conversations overlapping, bursts of laughter, the clatter of equipment being sorted and tossed around. Just another day with the Blizzards.

Kirishima nudges him in the side, his voice low enough not to draw attention from the rest of the room. “You good, man?”

“Honestly?” Katsuki mutters, his hands busy adjusting the fabric at his wrists. “No.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Kirishima nods, his expression calm, understanding. He doesn’t press, just goes back to prepping his gear, respecting the unspoken boundaries Katsuki has drawn. That’s the thing about Kirishima — he gets it. Most of the time at least. And for that, Katsuki’s grateful.

The noise around them surges again, some idiot making a crack about Petrov’s taped-up stick looking like it came from a Pee-Wee league. Katsuki tunes it all out, focusing on the methodical process of getting ready: laces pulled tight, pads strapped in place, helmet checked for fit. 

It’s the soundtrack of hockey.

And for a few brief moments, he lets himself enjoy it. But, of course, peace never lasts.

The sharp ring of his cellphone slices through the locker room noise, cutting through Katsuki’s fragile bubble of calm. His eyes dart to the screen, and the name flashing there makes his stomach drop: Mom.

He’s been ignoring her calls for weeks. But today? Today, for whatever reason, he doesn’t hit ignore. Muttering an excuse about taking a call, he steps out into the hallway and reluctantly swipes to answer.

“Katsuki,” Mitsuki’s voice comes through, sharp and precise. Too polite, too professional. “Your father and I have been trying to reach you for weeks now. You can’t just give us radio silence.”

She’s talking to him like he’s one of her employees, or maybe a difficult client she’s trying to smooth over. That’s just how she is. Always has been. Whether running her high-end fashion boutique chain or hosting a gala for her elite clientele, Mitsuki Bakugou knows how to wield her voice like a weapon.

And Katsuki knows better than most that she can do the same thing at home. Money has never been the problem at ‘casa Bakugou’. Love, however? Yeah, you can’t exactly buy that.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy,” Katsuki replies, his tone flat as he leans against the cool concrete wall. “You know, I do this thing called ‘playing professional hockey’, so the season kept me busy.”

“Don’t give me sarcasm, Katsuki,” Mitsuki snaps. “We know that. We’ve watched most of the games, and we also know your last performances were mediocre at best.”

Thanks for that, Mom. Talk about a verbal gut punch.

“You know,” she continues, her tone shifting into something faux-sweet that sets his teeth on edge, “your father wants to discuss some things with you. Like the timeline for when you’re going to realize that this little game you’re playing has a deadline.”

And here we fucking go again.

“ Little game, huh?” Katsuki grits out, the words practically a growl. His hand flexes against the wall, the cold roughness of the concrete keeping him grounded. “You mean my career. The one I’ve been busting my ass for since I was four years old?

“Yes, your career, ” Mitsuki emphasizes, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. “You can’t keep skating forever, Katsuki. And you know it. We’ve given you space to enjoy it, but you need to start thinking about what comes next. Your father—”

“Wants me to take over his company,” Katsuki finishes for her, his voice deadpan. “Yeah, I know. You’ve both been dropping that subtle little hint for years now.”

Hockey has always been more than a “little game” to Katsuki. More than a hobby. More than something his parents could parade around at their wine-and-cheese soirées to brag about how talented their son is. Sure, that’s all it ever was to them — a shiny showpiece to toss into their endless cycle of rich-people one-upmanship.

What they didn’t expect? For him to take it seriously. To make it his everything. To become greatness personified on the ice, carving his name into the boards with every sharp turn and shot.

“It’s not a hint,” she snaps. “It’s a fact. You’re not going to be able to do this forever, and when the time comes, we want you to be prepared.”

“Well, guess what, Mom? I’m not done yet,” Katsuki says, his voice low but firm. “I’ve got years left on the ice, and I’m not wasting them planning for something I don’t even want.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she huffs, like his entire life is just some teenage tantrum. “This is about responsibility, Katsuki. It’s about being realistic. About reality.”

Their reality. Getting married to some upper-class woman, popping out heirs to the Bakugou empire, taking over the family business. That’s the picture they’ve been painting for years — framed in gold and hung in their minds like it’s a masterpiece.

For Katsuki, reality is something else entirely. It’s the enclosed space of the rink, the boards and plexiglass hemming him in like a sanctuary. It’s the bright spotlights burning down, the cold biting at his cheeks, the water beneath his feet frozen solid enough to carry his weight. It’s the sound of blades cutting through ice, the feel of a puck hitting the blade of his stick, the rush of adrenaline when the net ripples with his goal.

That’s his reality. The only place that’s ever felt like home.

Well… not the only place.

Home hasn’t always been just the rink. It also smelled like sage and vanilla, a scent so distinct and maddeningly familiar it still lingers in the corners of his memory. A scent tied to someone he’s been trying like hell not to think about. Someone who, no matter how far or fast he’s tried to skate, still feels like an inescapable part of him.

But Katsuki’s not going there. Not now. Not ever again, if he can help it. He knows the nerd doesn’t want him to, he’s made that pretty fucking clear. And it’s better this way anyway. 

“My future, my reality is on the ice,” he fires back. “Not in some boardroom. And I don’t need you or Dad trying to micromanage it.” 

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening, heavy with all the things she probably wants to say but doesn’t. Finally, she exhales sharply. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“Yeah, well, it is for now.” Katsuki hangs up before she can say another word, the sound of the disconnect ringing in his ears. 

🏒⛸️

Any lingering doubts that the shitstorm of today — and all the garbage piling up from previous days, especially the ones involving Deku — would screw with Katsuki’s performance evaporate the second his skates touch the ice. The rink is his sanctuary, even when Aizawa is hell-bent on turning it into a torture chamber.

Puck handling, skating drills, face-offs, shooting — Aizawa runs them through the full alphabet of hockey hell, and by the end of it, the entire team is panting like dogs on a ninety-degree summer day. Katsuki’s lungs burn, his legs feel like lead, and his shoulders ache so bad he’s tempted to rip his pads off and chuck them into the stands. But he doesn’t.

Because he’s fucking killing it.

Every shot Katsuki takes slices through the air like it’s got a personal grudge against the net. Ryan Caldwell, their goalie, curses loudly every time the puck either blazes past him or ricochets off his pads with enough force to send it careening halfway across the rink. “Jesus Christ, Bakugou! What the hell’s got you on a rampage today?” Caldwell shouts, yanking his helmet off to glare at him.

Katsuki doesn’t respond. Just retrieves the puck and sets it up for another shot.

“Seriously, man, cut me some slack,” Caldwell groans as another puck zips past him, dinging off the post and into the back of the net. “You trying to prove something or just trying to kill me?”

“Both,” Katsuki mutters under his breath, skating back to center ice for another go.

“I see you’ve finally remembered how to tie your skates properly, Bakugou,” Aizawa says as he glides toward the boards, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “About time you started playing like you’ve hit puberty.”

It’s definitely a dig at his last practice — where Aizawa ripped him apart like a poorly prepared rookie — but Katsuki doesn’t bite. 

The middle-aged former ice hockey player claps his hands. “Alright, first line, reset for the drill. I want full speed this time. Petrov, stop dragging ass, and Caldwell—” he throws a glance at the goalie, who’s still muttering curses under his breath— “if you’re going to let Bakugou score, at least make it look like you tried.”

The collective groan from the team is loud enough to echo off the boards, a chorus of “come on, Coach” and muttered complaints. Everyone’s fully done with this drill, with Aizawa’s relentless pace, with the suffocating weight of falling short this season.

But Katsuki knows the truth. Aizawa’s not pushing them just for the sake of practice or to build stamina or skills. This is his way of dealing with the humiliation of not making the playoffs for the first time since taking over as head coach. The man’s a legend and multiple Stanley Cup winner, with a name that’s practically gospel in the NHL Hall of Fame. They probably sing it under those fucking spotlights.

So, not making the cut? It’s eating him alive. And the team’s misery? It’s collateral damage.

By the time practice wraps up, the team’s dragging themselves through the tunnel like the walking dead, wobbling on their skates like baby deer taking their first steps. It’s almost funny — the way they can all look so graceful and deadly on the ice, only to stumble around like idiots as soon as they step off it.

His legs ache with every step, his gear feels like it weighs twice as much, and he can feel the dull throb of impending bruises setting in. Hockey might be the love of his life, but sometimes, it’s a fucking abusive relationship.

And speaking of complicated relationships, just as they’re dragging themselves towards the locker room, Katsuki spots Deku and Ochako. 

Ochako halts the second she spots Donovan and Becker, her face lighting up like they’ve been best friends for years — even though she’s only hung out with them once at McAllan’s. That’s all she needs, though. She’s got “social butterfly” practically tattooed on her forehead, flitting effortlessly into their conversation. Her hands fly with animated gestures, her laughter echoing softly through the tunnel like she’s orchestrating a casual get-together instead of standing in the middle of a hallway. 

Deku stands a step back, smiling politely but clearly not as sold on the interaction as she is. His eyes wander — scanning the tunnel, the team, the floor — before landing on Katsuki.

You tell me, Kacchan.

The words echo through Katsuki’s mind like a puck ricocheting off the boards, the sound of Deku’s voice impossible to shake. He can still see the look on Deku’s face when he said it, the way his eyes burned with anger, hurt, and something else Katsuki couldn’t quite name. The nerd had Why’d you throw us away? written all over him, woven into his every word, every movement, ever since their interaction at McAllan’s.

And yeah, maybe Katsuki owes him an explanation. But he can’t. He won’t. What the hell would it change? Deku’s straight as a damn arrow — Mr. Nice Guy who’s probably gonna marry someone just as picture-perfect as he is. Katsuki’s seen the proof. He saw him dating girls back in high school, saw him sneaking kisses with one by the bleachers during practice. He remembers Kalsey Reynolds, the ballet dancer, sitting across from Deku in that old diner, laughing and looking way too cozy when Katsuki walked in with his team.

There were plenty of moments, enough to cement Deku’s whole straightness right into Katsuki’s skull. No room for doubts.

So, what’s he supposed to say? “By the way, I’m gay, and oh yeah, I’d been stupidly, hopelessly in love with you since we were kids.” Yeah, no thanks. That’d go over real fucking well.

The knot in his stomach twists tighter, and it’s pathetic, really, how it still feels this raw after all this time. Because it’s not past tense. Not even close.

This. This time-warping, mind-messing, absolutely fucking inconvenient feeling that Deku seems to spark inside him just by existing — that’s what needs managing. Where the hell’s the crisis management plan for this kind of emotional shitstorm? That would be damn perfect. Because he can’t afford this kind of distraction, not with his career, not with his life so precariously stacked like a house of cards waiting for one stray gust to knock it all over.

No. It’s just another seven days at this facility. Seven days of this intense “training camp” Coach Aizawa insists on calling it, and then they’ll all go back to their usual routines. Katsuki’s off-season grind will start, the one that keeps him sharp and ready for the next season, while Deku…does whatever the hell it is he does these days. Competitions, Olympics, whatever shiny goals he’s chasing.

It’s not Katsuki’s business.

And it won’t be. Not anymore. He’s learned his lesson the hard way. Questioning why the nerd didn’t skate the way he used to yesterday, why he turned his back on solo skating — it’s not his problem. Not his concern. 

“You know,” Kirishima nudges him, snapping Katsuki out of whatever downward spiral his brain was currently nose diving into, “staring him down like that?” Kirishima leans in, his voice low enough that no one else can hear. “Undressing him with your eyes and all that stuff? Not very subtle if you’re still trying to keep this under wraps.”

Katsuki doesn’t hesitate. He punches Kirishima in the shoulder. Hard.

“Shut up, shitty hair.”

Kirishima grins as he rubs the spot, feigning exaggerated pain. “You’re so rude, man.”

“Stop whining. You’re wearing pads. It didn’t hurt shit.” Katsuki grabs him by the elbow, yanking him forward as he pushes past the others. The team parts around him, some nodding at him, some muttering about his foul mood, but Katsuki barely registers any of it.

As he passes Deku and Ochako, he forces himself to acknowledge them, even if his chest feels like it’s about to implode. He gives a short nod, the motion stiff and unnatural, and mutters, “Izuku.”

The word tastes weird as soon as it’s out. Hell, it sounds weird. Katsuki doesn’t bother to look up at the nerd, his eyes locked on his skates as he keeps walking. His hand tightens around Kirishima’s elbow, practically dragging him along before anyone can say anything more.

By the time they’re back in the locker room, Kirishima is pulling off his helmet, the practice jersey following after that, his red hair clinging to his temples, damp with sweat. He smirks, shaking his head. “Completely inconspicuous,” he says, the sarcasm practically infused in his words. “Whatever point you tried to prove out there? Yeah, you probably just did the exact opposite.”

Katsuki’s sweaty, knotted jersey smacks Kirishima right in the face, cutting off whatever else he was about to say.

“Keep it to yourself, idiot,” Katsuki snaps, pulling off the rest of his gear with jerky, irritated movements. “I wasn’t trying to prove shit.”

Kirishima doesn’t let up, tossing the sweaty jersey aside and lowering his voice just enough to make sure no one else catches on. Not that anyone would, most of the guys are either in the showers or still wrestling with their pads like it’s their first day on skates. “You’re giving him the cold shoulder,” he mutters, arms crossed. “Same way you did at the bar. Same way you’ve been doing since high school. How about, I don’t know, manning up?”

Katsuki leans in, his scowl deepening. He doesn’t even know why he’s still having this conversation. “I’m not giving him anything,” he grits out. “He made it pretty damn clear he doesn’t wanna talk to me. You should’ve seen his face yesterday.”

Kirishima raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Ever think maybe he’s — oh, I don’t know — pissed because you cut off a friendship that’s been around as long as you’ve been breathing hockey?”

Katsuki’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer right away. Yeah, of course he’s thought about it. Knows it. Overthought it. Picked it apart and put it back together until it barely made sense anymore. But thinking about it and actually doing something about it are two completely different things. 

He ignores Kirishima, going through the motions — stripping off his compression tights and long sleeve shirt, wrapping a towel around his waist. The promise of a hot shower is the only thing keeping him from snapping. But, of course, Kirishima isn’t done running his smartass mouth.

“You could just — explain it to him. Talk to him,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Show him it’s not something he did wrong. Don’t you think he’d understand?”

Katsuki drags a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, sighing when it sticks to his forehead. He waits until Sero and Becker shuffle past, their laughter fading down the hall, before answering. “Yeah? And how’s that supposed to go, shitty hair?” His voice drops lower, wary. “‘Hey, Deku, guess what? I’m... you know—’” He doesn’t say the word, doesn’t need to, because Kirishima already knows what he’s getting at. “‘—and I’ve had a thing for you since middle school. Oh, and that kiss? The one that didn’t mean shit to you? Yeah, it kinda wrecked me. I couldn’t be just friends , so instead, I decided to be an asshole and cut you off completely.’” He groans, raking a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. “Sounds fucking pathetic, right?”

Kirishima’s expression doesn’t change, and that’s almost worse. “Why can’t you? He’s your best friend, man. Or, well, he was.”

Katsuki grits his teeth. “Because he won’t get it. And neither do you. You’re both straight as a damn ruler. You don’t know how it feels, what it means…the shit that comes with it.”

“How’d you know he isn’t…you know?”

Katsuki stares at him, deadpan. “Because he’s dated girls, dumbass. Kissed them. More than once.”

Kirishima doesn’t budge, that stupid thoughtful look settling on his face. “Yeah? Doesn’t mean shit, Bakugou, and you know it. Sexuality’s not as black and white as it used to be. People can like both, you know.”

Katsuki’s eye twitches. “I’m not stupid.”

“Then stop acting like it,” Kirishima fires back, crossing his arms. “You’re working yourself up over something that might not even be a thing anymore.”

“Fucking drop it,” Katsuki growls, and it’s so damn close to desperate he has to bite back the urge to tack on a “please” just to make Kirishima shut the hell up. “A few more days, a couple of awkward run-ins where we nod and pretend nothing ever happened, and then we’re done. Back to our separate lives. There’s nothing to fix, nothing to talk about. I just need to get through it.”

He doesn’t respond, but Katsuki can feel his friend’s gaze burning into his back as he turns away, heading for the showers. His voice drops to something low, almost bitter, as he adds, “Hockey’s what’s important. I’m not letting next season turn into the same fucking failure.”

Kirishima doesn’t follow, doesn’t push any further, but Katsuki can feel his eyes on his back the whole way to the showers. The worst part? He knows his friend isn’t buying it. Hell, Katsuki isn’t even buying it himself.

The water blasts down on him the second he steps under the spray, scalding hot, just the way he likes it — burning away the ache in his muscles, the lingering sting of the conversation he just escaped from. He presses his palms against the cold tile wall, letting his head drop forward, water streaming down his face.

Just a few more days, he tells himself, his teeth clenching so tightly his jaw aches. A few more awkward run-ins, some polite nods, and then it’s over. Back to the grind, back to focusing on what actually fucking matters.

Hockey. Winning. Making damn sure next season isn’t the disaster this one was.

Not Deku.

Not whatever mess is still tangled up inside his chest.

Not the stupid what-ifs that gnaw at the edges of his mind every time green eyes meet his.

He exhales sharply, forcing the thoughts down, stuffing them into the same locked box where he’s shoved everything else about Deku for the last few years. It worked before. It'll work again.

It has to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Power Play

September 9th, 2018

Izuku’s been staring at the ceiling for the past twenty minutes, eyes tracing the same crack running from the corner of his room to the overhead light fixture. His brain won’t shut up. Won’t stop replaying last night, over and over like some cruel — but also very hot — highlight reel he never asked for.

He’s tried everything — closing his eyes, listening to music, even attempting to drown himself in his usual morning routine. But it’s no use. The memory’s stuck, clinging to the edges of his thoughts like old bubble gum under school desks. Every time he thinks he’s finally managed to shove it aside, it sneaks back in.

Izuku groans as he sinks deeper into his pillow, like he can somehow escape his own thoughts if he just tries hard enough. Bury himself alive in cheap cotton and pretend last night didn’t happen. Pretend he didn’t still feel Kacchan’s hands on him — warm, strong, possessive. Pretend that the memory of fingers threading through his hair and the way they tugged just enough to send a full-body shiver down his spine wasn’t burned into his brain like a brand.

And pretend he doesn’t still feel it now, in a way that makes his whole body hum, a heat pooling low in his stomach that he really doesn’t know what to do with.

God.

He rolls onto his stomach. This is so freaking stupid. 

His half-hard dick throbs against the mattress, an undeniable reminder of just how not over it he is. He presses his hips down instinctively, then curses under his breath and forces himself to stay still.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not happening. He’s not about to make this worse than it already is.

But damn it, it’s not going away. The memory of Kacchan’s lips, the heat of his body pressed so close, the way his grip had felt so solid, so right. Izuku swallows hard, shifting slightly, but it only makes things worse. He remembers the way he pushed forward, how his tongue slid into Kacchan’s mouth without hesitation, without thinking. He remembers the low, wrecked sound Kacchan made in response — remembers how it sent a thrill down his spine, how it made him want more.

What the hell is wrong with him? He’d been so needy, so greedy, like he couldn’t get enough.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the pillow hard against the back of his head like that’ll somehow block out the images playing on a loop in his brain. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. That’s what he told Kacchan. That’s what Kacchan confirmed when he asked him if everything’s okay between them.

But his body is a traitor, completely ignoring the memo.

With a frustrated sigh, he flips onto his back again, staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to his existential crisis. He’s dated girls. He likes girls. He’s into girls. That’s a fact. No denying that. 

Went on dates, held hands, kissed them, done all the romantic stuff. And it felt...nice. 

But last night? With Kacchan? It wasn’t just comfortable, it was electric. It was like plugging himself into a power source he didn’t even know existed, and now that he’s had a taste, his whole body’s recalibrating itself around the memory. 

And the worst part?

He wanted it.

He really wanted it.

No amount of rationalizing can explain that away.

He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging in a shaky breath that doesn’t do much to settle the whirlwind inside him. This is ridiculous. Until last night, he’d never really thought about liking guys that way. 

But now? Now he’s lying in bed, staring holes into walls, because there’s this nagging feeling he can’t shake. He’s mad, sure. Hurt, even. Kacchan’s spent the better part of the last year shoving him away. That’s normal, right? That’s what friends are supposed to feel when they’re suddenly not... friends anymore.

But being disappointed that Kacchan almost didn’t kiss him? That’s not normal friendship feelings. That’s... different.

He’s overthinking it. Again. It’s what he does. But no amount of internal pep talk is going to change the fact that his body had reacted, that his heart had practically performed a drum solo when Kacchan’s hands were in his hair, on his waist, pulling him closer like they were something else entirely.

It was a dare. A stupid dare. It shouldn’t have felt like that.

And yet, here he is — feeling weirdly disappointed that it’s over. Worse, his mind keeps spiraling down dangerous paths, wondering what would’ve happened if it hadn’t been a game at all. If it had been real.

And now his dick is fully on board with that train of thought. Great. Just great. He groans, tugging the blanket over his face like it’s going to smother the sheer stupidity out of him. Because it’s not just his body that’s into this mess — his heart’s right there too, thrumming in sync with every stupid thought in his head.

And that’s the confusing part.

He likes Kacchan. Of course, he does. He had been his best friend since the moment they first stepped foot on the ice, since the moment he stretched out a hand and pulled Kacchan up when he’d fallen. He’s always looked up to him, admired him — god, probably even idolized him at some point.

Did he maybe… misinterpret those feelings? Had it been more than just friendship for a while now?

"I'm losing it," he mumbles against the fabric, his voice muffled but still dripping with self-inflicted frustration. 

And, of course, there’s no way he can tell Kacchan. He can’t.

Kacchan’s already built a wall between them — thick, solid, and impossible to climb. And if Izuku’s stupid enough to admit that, contrary to what he said, the kiss did mean something, that wall will only get higher. Kacchan would shut him out completely, no hesitation, no second chances. Because Kacchan isn’t into guys. He’s got straight as an arrow practically tattooed on his forehead, and yeah — maybe Izuku felt something in that kiss, something that wasn’t just part of the game.

But what the hell does he know?

There’d been beer involved. The atmosphere. The pressure. Maybe he just imagined it, read too much into it because his own brain won’t let it go.

No. Confronting him isn’t an option. 

It never will be.

🏒⛸️

“You’re a funny guy,” Matt Donovan grins, slinging an arm around Izuku’s shoulders and knocking their beers together with a loud clink that echoes against the hum of the hotel bar.

He takes a slow sip of his beer, letting the bitter taste linger on his tongue as he watches Matt smile like they’ve been best friends for years. It’s difficult, too difficult, falling into the rhythm of casual conversation, even when surrounded by the comfortable buzz of the bar. Because Izuku’s mind? It’s not here. Not really.

He looks down at the beer. So much for staying sober.

In his defense, he had meant it. After that last fiasco he swore he’d be more responsible. More focused. But all that resolve had unraveled the second Kirishima mentioned Katsuki wasn’t coming out tonight.

“He’s not feeling it.” Kirishima had said, too nonchalant, too casual.

Bullshit.

Izuku had nodded, had played along like he believed it, but deep down? He knows better. Katsuki’s avoiding him, plain and simple. He feels it in the short, fleeting glances Katsuki throws his way in the hallways, in the way he stiffens when their paths cross at the rink. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have snapped at him the other day when he asked, “What the hell happened?” But, really, what did Katsuki expect? A polite conversation? Years of silence, of ice-cold distance, and suddenly he’s interested? Yeah, no. Izuku’s not carrying that burden of maturity alone.

He takes another sip, letting his grip tighten around the bottle.

Katsuki doesn’t get to waltz back into his life without an explanation. He doesn’t get to act like nothing happened, like Izuku didn’t spend nights staring at his phone, debating whether to call or text only to shove it away. Like the space between them hadn’t grown into something so vast it feels impossible to cross now.

No. Katsuki had created this distance. Let him be the one to close it. Right?

The bar is buzzing with energy, almost every Blizzards player packed into the place, filling it with the kind of loud, easy laughter that comes after a few too many beers and an exhausting week. The air is thick with the smell of fried food and stale beer, the steady hum of conversation blending into the background noise of clinking glasses. 

Izuku’s wedged between Matt and… what’s his name again? He sneaks a glance at the guy to his left — short dark-blonde hair, sharp features, and those ice-blue eyes that give off a permanent chill. Russian, definitely. Alexei? Yeah, probably.

“So, what’s next for you?” Alexei asks, his accent clipping the words with a casual coolness. Unlike Matt, who’s already half a beer away from needing an Uber home to his wife and kids, Alexei’s still riding that fine line between tipsy and completely sober.

Izuku takes a slow sip of his drink, rolling the bottle between his hands. “World Team Trophy.” The words feeling heavier than they should. He’s not even sure if Alexei knows what that is, or if he cares. 

“That’s like… a big deal?” Alexei tilts his head slightly, the interest in his voice sounding genuine enough that Izuku feels the need to elaborate.

“Yeah, kinda.” He shrugs, trying to downplay it even though his gut twists at the thought. “It’s a team competition — countries put together their best skaters across all disciplines. Pairs, singles, ice dance.” He taps his fingers against the bottle, forcing a casual tone. “It’s not as big as Worlds... or the Olympics, but it’s still important.”

Important enough to keep him awake at night. Important enough to have him and Ochako pushing their limits every day, because it’s their shot at proving they belong on the ice with the best — something Izuku wasn’t able to do alone. But he doesn’t say any of that. 

Alexei hums, mulling it over like he’s filing the information away, while Matt, who’s been swirling the last of his drink in his glass, finally lifts his head. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes stay on Izuku, like he’s assessing something.

“And you train at this complex year-round?” Alexei asks, his tone shifting back to casual curiosity.

“Basically.” Izuku shrugs, feeling the conversation slowly fizzling out. He knows he’s not exactly carrying his weight here, but he just… can’t. Not tonight. His mind’s too cluttered, too restless. Alexei’s making an effort, and Izuku’s barely giving him anything back. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he’s grateful for the distraction. Slipping it out under the table, he glances at the screen.

Ochako: Try not to have too much fun over there. Wouldn’t want you breaking out into spontaneous karaoke or anything. The world’s not ready for that. That’s sarcasm in case you didn’t get it ;). 

Izuku huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He types back quickly. She’s the one who dragged him out of the apartment after all, while he was perfectly content drowning his moody ass in pizza and self-pity. Because practice today? A total disaster. His jumps were off, his footwork was sloppy, and Coach Toshinori’s disappointment was practically seared into his brain.

He sneaks a glance at her across the table, sitting with Liam — the poor rookie who’s clearly trying way too hard — and Kirishima, who’s monopolizing most of her attention anyway. Typical. Ochako’s eyes flick to him briefly, and the look she sends his way is loud and clear: ‘ Stop sulking, or I’ll come over there and force you to smile’.

He sighs and fires off a reply.

Izuku: You’re hilarious .

The reply comes almost instantly, because of course it does.

Ochako: I know. But seriously, that’s your third beer. Slow down, sweetie. Don’t drown your ‘tragic sad boy’ face in bottles. Also, try to look a little less murder-y, poor Alexei’s really working his ass off to talk to you, and you’re giving him the kind of glare that could refreeze the rink.

Izuku scowls at his phone, shooting a subtle glance at Alexei, who, yeah… does look mildly terrified. He groans and types back.

Izuku: First of all, you’re counting my beers now? Second of all, I’m not making a face. I don’t even have a ‘tragic sad boy’ face.

Ochako: Oh honey, your self-awareness is so adorable. 

Izuku: Stop texting me. 

Ochako: Stop sulking like “Kacchan“ broke up with you.

Izuku sighs, rolling his eyes because of course she’d go there. She’s never let the nickname go, not since he told her the story — how he couldn’t quite pronounce Katsuki when they were kids, and how it had just… stuck. Ochako, naturally, had found it both hilarious and freaking cute, two things Izuku wishes she wouldn’t call anything related to him.

Izuku: I was four.

Ochako: Funny, because you two still act like you’re four. Fitting.

Izuku groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. He sneaks another look at her across the table, and she’s already watching him, eyebrows raised, an evil glint in her eyes. She mimes wiping an imaginary tear from her cheek and mouths, So tragic.

Izuku flips her off under the table.

Ochako: Wow. Such maturity. Much adult. Proud of you.

Izuku sighs, tossing his phone face-down on the table, finally looking up when Alexei nudges him with an easy grin — the kind that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. “Am I boring you? You want to sit with your friend?” he asks, clearly amused.

“No, God, no,” Izuku breathes out, chuckling softly. “Sorry. She’s just... let’s call it worried over my drinking behavior. Because of practice and all that.” He shrugs, trying to ease the tension out of his shoulders and focus on the conversation in front of him. Ochako’s right — he needs to stop sulking. If Kacchan wants to pack up and leave tomorrow without so much as a damn conversation, then fine. So be it.

The conversation starts flowing, and Izuku finds himself nodding along, listening to Alexei and Matt go back and forth about league stuff, trades, and some Canadian player’s insane slap shot. It’s...normal. Almost nice. He even manages to contribute here and there, laughing at Matt’s dad-joke-level commentary.

But the beer keeps flowing too.

By the time the fifth bottle has found its way into his system, Izuku’s no longer at the table with Alexei and Matt. He’s slouched into a booth with Hanta and Liam instead, half-listening to some ridiculous story about Liam’s junior league days while his thoughts keep spiraling back to Katsuki. It’s annoying. Irritating. Frustrating. And, paired with the pleasant buzz of alcohol coursing through him, it makes ideas that are definitely not great seem...well, appealing.

It’s probably Liam’s fault, honestly. He had ordered more beer.

“So,” Liam leans in, smirking. “Ochako… she’s single, right?”

Izuku nearly chokes on his beer. “What?” He wipes at his mouth, eyes narrowing slightly.

Liam grins, not the least bit deterred. “You know, your skating partner? Cute, brown hair, super cool, funny? She’s single?”

Izuku lets his head drop against the back of the booth with a dramatic groan, though there's a hint of amusement under the exasperation. “Jesus, man. Do you hockey guys think about anything other than women?”

It’s a phenomenon, really.

“I mean,” Hanta chimes in with a smirk, “it’s a solid 50/50 between that and the game.”

Liam nods sagely. “Sometimes 70/30, depending on the season.”

Izuku snorts, shaking his head. “You guys are hopeless.”

Liam shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, it’s a valid question.”

“A question you can ask her yourself, right?” Izuku suggests, lifting a brow at Liam. “She’s not exactly hard to find.”

“Yeah, but I figured I’d get the inside scoop first. You know, avoid unnecessary rejection.”

“Coward.”

Liam raises his beer in mock salute. “Strategist.”

Hanta chuckles beside him.

Izuku shakes his head, but the conversation barely registers anymore. His thoughts are already drifting elsewhere — confrontation.

Remember what he thought about stupid ideas suddenly becoming the best decisions of all time when booze’s in his veins? Yeah. That thought? It’s back with a vengeance.

Izuku taps his fingers against his beer bottle, staring at the condensation running down the glass like it holds the answer to all his problems. It doesn’t, obviously. But it sure as hell isn’t stopping his brain from spinning a mile a minute.

Katsuki’s leaving tomorrow. Again.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, slamming the empty bottle onto the table with a little too much force. Hanta and Liam glance at him, but Izuku’s already pushing out of the booth, mumbling something about needing to “clear his head” before they can protest.

His feet carry him straight to the reception desk before his brain can catch up, which is probably for the best, because if he actually thought this through, he might chicken out.

“Hey,” he leans casually against the counter, forcing his voice to come out steadier than he feels. He’s putting in the effort, but the way his fingers drum nervously against the marble surface probably gives him away.

The receptionist — a young woman with long auburn hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, her navy-blue blazer perfectly pressed — turns to him with a polite, professional smile. The kind that says she’s seen it all and isn’t about to be charmed by some guy with messy curls and a guilty conscience.

Izuku clears his throat, his brain scrambling to stitch together a halfway convincing story before she sees right through him. He’s got one shot at this, and he can’t exactly blurt out I need to confront my childhood best friend-slash-weird-kissing-experience about why he’s avoiding me .

Time to improvise.

“I, uh, my teammate left something at the bar,” Izuku says, shifting his weight and trying to project the kind of harmless charm that usually gets him out of trouble. His fingers fumble in his jeans pocket, fishing out his own wallet and holding it up like it’s some kind of proof. “His wallet. I figured I’d save him the panic and bring it up to him, but…” He lets out a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck for added effect. “I, uh, kind of forgot his room number. Embarrassing, right?” He flashes his best ‘help me out here’ smile. “His name’s Bakugou Katsuki.”

The receptionist’s eyes narrow slightly, her lips pressing into a skeptical line that tells Izuku she’s not buying it. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we have strict policies on guest privacy,” she says, voice polite but firm. “And with all due respect, if it’s really his wallet, shouldn’t he come down and get it himself?”

Crap. She’s good.

“Look, Miss…” He squints at her name tag, offering a sheepish smile when he reads it. “Montgomery. I totally get the privacy thing, I do. But you see, my friend’s…uh, not exactly in the best headspace right now.” He leans in a little, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us? I think it’s a broken heart situation.”

He sighs for effect, letting his shoulders sag in just the right way. “He had a few drinks, left early, and trust me, if I drag him back down here, it’s just gonna make things worse. You wouldn’t want to deal with that, right? It’d be so much easier if I just drop it off, let him wallow in peace, and save everyone the drama.”

Miss Montgomery raises an unimpressed brow, clearly weighing whether or not she’s in the mood to deal with persistent, possibly-drunk hockey players. Izuku flashes his most earnest, pleading smile, willing every ounce of his ‘I’m just a nice guy’ energy into it.

After a moment of hesitation, she sighs. “Fine,” she mutters, fingers clicking away on the keyboard. “But I’m writing your name down, just in case.”

Izuku doesn’t miss a beat. “Kirishima Eijiro,” he blurts out, flashing his most innocent smile.

Hopefully, this won’t come back to bite him.

She taps a few more keys, then finally — finally — looks up at him. “Room 814.”

He throws up a quick salute, his heart pounding in his chest as he strides toward the elevators. “You’re a lifesaver, Miss Montgomery. Really.”

The second he’s out of sight, Izuku lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair and wiping his clammy palms against his jeans.

Alright. Step one, complete. Now onto step two: facing Kacchan.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Face off

Katsuki stares at the screen of his phone, Kirishima’s last message glaring back at him like a goddamn challenge.

Kirishima: We’re heading out tomorrow. It’s probably your last chance to talk to him.

Yeah, no shit. Like he hasn’t been thinking about that all damn day. And last night. And every damn second since Deku walked back into his life like some ghost he never asked to haunt him.

But no matter how many scenarios Katsuki runs through his head — whether it’s in the shower, staring at the ceiling, or during drills — none of them end well. For either of them. Deku’s pissed, and honestly? He’s got every right to be.

And because Katsuki can’t — won’t — tell him the truth, it’s better to just let it all lie. Not drag this whole thing out any longer than it already has been.

It’s fine.

It’ll be fine.

It’s been fine for years. 

He powers off his phone and chucks it onto the desk, the dull thud not nearly as satisfying as it should be. His fingers rake through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration as he stares at his reflection in the hotel window. The city lights blur against the dark glass, merging with his own scowl, unimpressed and worn the hell out. He hates the way his face looks — like it’s waiting for something.

But there’s nothing left to wait for.

He made his choice years ago, pushed Deku away with both hands and never looked back. And if there’s one thing Katsuki’s good at, it’s sticking to his damn choices. No loose ends. No second chances.

And yet—

The sharp ring of the hotel phone cuts through the heavy silence, snapping him out of his thoughts. His head jerks toward it, brows furrowing because — what the actual hell? Who even calls hotel rooms anymore? He stares at it for a second, debating whether to ignore it, but eventually snatches up the receiver with a clipped, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Bakugou,” a professional, feminine voice filters through the line. “Apologies for the disturbance, but one of your team colleagues insists you left your wallet at the hotel bar. He’s on his way up to return it, but I wanted to confirm this with you.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow. Wallet? He hasn’t stepped foot in that damn bar all night. His fingers tighten around the receiver, but he keeps his voice even. “Yeah? What’s his name?”

There’s a shuffling sound on the other end before she responds, sounding slightly uncertain. “Uh… Kirishima Eijiro?”

Bullshit. His suspicion spikes instantly, but he forces himself to stay cool. “What’s he look like?”

Another pause, then, “Tall, curly green hair—”

That’s all he needs to hear. Katsuki exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face. Of course. Of fucking course. Against his better judgment, he mutters a gruff, “It’s fine.”

He slams the receiver down, scrubbing a hand over his face. His palms press against his temples, trying to will away the tension that’s already building.

And because life loves to screw with him, the knock comes almost instantly.

Fuck.

Katsuki doesn’t move right away, just glares at the door like his sheer willpower might make Deku give up and walk away. Spoiler alert: it won’t. The second knock comes — three quick raps, sharp, impatient, and way too persistent.

And then, the worst part.

"Kacchan."

It’s soft, just barely above a whisper, but it carries through the door like a goddamn wrecking ball. Katsuki exhales sharply, shoulders tensing. That voice, that tone — like it’s still second nature to say his name that way. Like nothing’s changed. Like the years between then and now haven’t stretched so wide they might as well be standing on opposite sides of an ocean.

Deku’s probably standing there, fidgeting like an idiot, knuckles skimming over the wood again because the nerd never could just wait for anything.

Katsuki’s muttering a low curse. He should ignore it. Let Deku get tired of waiting and leave. But the way his name sounded just now — it settles under his skin, in his bones, in the part of him that never really let go in the first place.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he yanks the door open.

And there he is.

Katsuki swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and it pisses him off. Because, seriously? Seriously. 

Deku’s standing there, looking like he rolled straight out of some of Katsuki’s goddamn wet dreams — an oversized white shirt hanging loose, the hem skimming just above the waistband of his Calvin Kleins, peeking out from those low-slung, wide-legged jeans like it’s intentional. And that chain — thin, silver, catching the shitty hotel hallway light just enough to make it noticeable — yeah, that’s not helping either.

It dangles against the dip of Deku’s collarbone, and Katsuki has to fight the intrusive thought of how his fingers would fit right there, snug and perfect, wrapping around it and tugging just enough to see if Deku would—

No. No, no, no.

Fuck that.

“You’re drunk,” Katsuki says, arms crossing tight over his bare chest like a damn shield. His voice comes out flat, sharp — harsher than it probably needs to be, but maybe that’s the point. A reminder to himself, to Deku, that whatever the hell this is supposed to be. That it’s not happening. It can’t.

Deku shifts slightly, unsteady on his feet, and yeah, Katsuki can see it. The alcohol’s still in his system, softening the edges of his usually sharp focus. His lips part, like he’s about to argue, maybe deflect, but instead — his eyes move.

Down.

Over Katsuki’s exposed chest, before dragging lower, grazing over his abs, lingering too long right where his sweatpants hang low on his hips, and yeah, this is a fucking problem.

Because that look? That’s not the look of someone who’s just here to return a fake-forgotten wallet. That’s not the look of someone who’s “straight as hell.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens, his pulse hammering traitorously beneath his skin, a steady, heavy drumbeat of warning signs he’s completely ignoring. And like the shithead he was — and apparently still is — he leans into it, into the open doorway, into Deku’s space, filling the role he swore he’d left behind.

“See something you like, nerd?”

It’s low, teasing, with just enough bite to cover the way his chest feels too tight. And his ribs are two seconds away from cracking under the weight of whatever the fuck this is.

Deku’s eyes snap back up to his, wide and caught, and Katsuki doesn’t miss the way his throat bobs, the quick dart of his tongue across his lips like he’s scrambling for some kind of response.

Fucking compose yourself, you moron. 

Katsuki should slam the door. Should shut this whole thing down before he does something reckless, something stupid. Something neither of them can take back. Something Deku doesn’t deserve, and something Katsuki sure as hell isn’t ready to face. 

But Deku, completely oblivious — or maybe just stubborn as always — shoves past him with a muttered huff, his shoulder brushing against Katsuki’s bare arm like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. It’s like a live wire, a jolt that zips through him, short-circuiting every thought Katsuki’s desperately trying to keep in check.

The idiot’s scent clings to the air, something clean and maddeningly sweet, and Katsuki’s fingers twitch at his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching like they’re itching to grab. To push. To do something he’ll definitely regret later. Because for a split second — just a damn second — his mind conjures up an image so vivid it almost knocks the air out of him. Deku, shoved back against the edge of the king-sized bed, sprawled across it, green eyes wide and wanting.

Fuck.

He forces the door shut behind him instead, the click of the lock settling far too final for his liking. Like he’s sealing himself into a situation he won’t be able to fight his way out of.

Deku, standing in the middle of his room like he belongs there, crosses his arms over his chest, the silver chain around his neck catching the dim lighting. His expression is firm, a little too determined, and Katsuki already hates whatever’s about to come out of his mouth.

“We need to talk,” Deku says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like they haven’t spent the last few days, and the years before that, acting like two stubborn idiots incapable of having a normal conversation.

Katsuki snorts. “Do we?”

“Don’t give me that, Kacchan.” He steps in, crowding Katsuki’s space without hesitation. “You were the one who threw the ‘what the hell happened’ question at me first. And guess what? I’m throwing it right back at you.” 

He’s close now — too close. Just inches separate them, their chests nearly brushing, and Katsuki can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the slight flush on his freckled cheeks.

“I’m done tiptoeing around this, around you.” Deku’s voice is steady, but there’s a rawness beneath it, something that makes Katsuki’s chest tighten. “I deserve an explanation. For all of it.” He gestures vaguely, his hand moving in a frustrated circle that encompasses Katsuki — his closed-off stance, his sharp edges, the damn wall he’s built between them. “We were best friends, Kacchan. And then you just—” He cuts himself off, his sharp jaw clenching. “You shouldn’t—”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Katsuki shakes his head, trying to keep his voice level, trying to keep himself from saying something he can’t take back. “You’re drunk and—”

“I’m not that drunk.” Deku’s forest green eyes bore into him. “And you know it.”

Katsuki exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What exactly do you want to hear, Deku?”

“I want to know why . ” Deku’s voice doesn’t waver, but there’s something in it — something that makes Katsuki almost crumble and spill his guts to him. “Why did you throw us away?”

Harsh. But the truth is ugly sometimes. 

Katsuki needs to create emotional distance, otherwise he won’t be able to walk away from him again. He forces a nonchalant shrug. “I mean, you were the one who left the US. Went off to your fancy college in Canada.” His tone is casual, detached. Bullshit.

And they both know it.

The distance between them hadn’t started when Deku left for Canada. It had started long before that — when Katsuki had first felt things he shouldn’t have felt, things he couldn’t put into words without setting everything between them on fire. Guilt-tripping is easier, safer. Deflecting is survival.

Deku’s eyes narrow, cutting straight through the bullshit as he steps closer, and forcing Katsuki back against the wall. “That’s not an answer, Kacchan.” His voice is quiet, but it carries weight — so much of it, that it gets hard to breathe in this fucking room. “You’re doing it again. Deflecting. Putting up a shield.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenches, his fists balling at his sides. “What do you want me to say?” he bites out. If Deku keeps looking at him like that, like he still gives a damn, Katsuki’s going to break.

“The truth,” Deku says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

But Katsuki knows better. The truth isn’t easy. It’s a goddamn loaded gun, and Deku doesn’t even realize he’s pointing it straight at Katsuki’s chest.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look,” he mutters, eyes fixed anywhere but Deku’s face. “We grew up, okay? Shit changes. You had your skating, I had hockey. Different paths, different lives. It’s not that deep.”

It’s a lie. A half-assed, pathetic lie that doesn’t even deserve effort, but it’s all he’s got. 

Deku steps closer, his breath warm against Katsuki’s face, and when he speaks, it’s like a gut punch Katsuki should’ve seen coming. “I remember the kiss.”

Katsuki freezes, every muscle in his body locking up like he’s taken a direct hit.  He keeps his expression neutral — barely — but the flicker in his eyes must betray him.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grits out, but it’s weak, even to his own ears. Of course, Katsuki remembers the kiss. Like he could ever fucking forget.

Deku’s too close now, the heat of him pressing against Katsuki’s skin, and it’s doing things to him he really doesn’t need happening right now. Fuck, he smells so good. 

Deku tilts his head, eyes searching, and Katsuki swears he can feel them cutting through every layer of bullshit he’s ever built. “Eyes and mouth, Kacchan,” he murmurs, and it’s infuriating how soft his voice is, like he’s unraveling some great mystery. “That’s what you told me at the rink.”

That fucking kiss in high school had rewired his entire goddamn brain, like a spark that never burned out. He’s been chasing that high ever since, but no other kiss, no other fleeting touch, had ever come close. Nothing else had made his chest ache the way that one did. The only thing that even grazes that feeling is hockey — the rush, the fire — but maybe that’s just because Deku and the ice have always been tangled up in his head. Two things that don’t exist separately. They never have. Probably never will.

He forces a snort, rolling his eyes for good measure. “You’re really reaching, nerd. We were a bit drunk. It was a fucking game.”

His voice comes out sharp, clipped — meant to cut this whole thing off at the knees. But Deku doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, just keeps looking at him like he already knows the truth and is just waiting for Katsuki to catch up. 

"I don't even know why the fuck you're coming up with this," he grits out, the wall in his back feeling too much like a trap. 

"Because I dissected every possible moment in my head that could’ve led to…" He gestures between them, the space feeling too small, too charged. "To this. The wreckage of this friendship, Kacchan."

Katsuki barely keeps himself from flinching, from letting those words sink their claws into him the way they’re meant to.

"And I couldn’t wrap my head around it," Deku continues, eyes searching his face, pleading with him for something Katsuki can’t give. "So, the only logical thing must be that stupid kiss I forced you into."

Katsuki's jaw clenches so tight it aches. Forced? Is that what Deku thinks? That Katsuki had no part in it? That he didn’t kiss back? That it hadn’t set his entire goddamn world spinning off its axis?

He swallows down the truth like it’s poison, like if he admits it, everything will come crashing down all over again.

"It didn’t mean anything," Katsuki says, and it’s a lie, the biggest fucking lie he's ever told. "You said it yourself, Deku. So stop looking for answers that aren’t there."

Deku’s brows draw together, frustration flickering across his face like a gathering storm. “That’s bullshit, Kacchan. It obviously meant something, it did something to us, and I’m sorry if I—”

“Stop it!” Katsuki snaps, his fists clenching so tight his nails bite into his palms, sharp enough to sting. “I get to decide how I feel about it, and I’m telling you—” his throat tightens, and the next words are almost painful to force out— “it didn’t mean shit.”

Deku’s eyes widen, hurt flashing across them in a way that makes Katsuki want to punch something — anything — just to make that look go away. 

“You’re lying.” Deku’s voice is quieter now, but steady, cutting through the tension like a freshly honed blade. “You’re standing here pretending like I don’t know you, like I didn’t grow up with you, like I can’t see it all over your face.” He takes a small step forward, the distance between them non-existent at this point, gaze locked onto Katsuki’s with unnerving clarity. “I know when you’re bullshitting me. And this reaction alone tells me enough.”

“You don’t know shit,” Katsuki growls, the words coming out harsher than he intends, but it’s all he’s got left. "You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh? Like I’m some fucking puzzle you just need to solve?"

"I don’t need to figure you out," Deku shoots back, eyes blazing now, his voice rising. "I know you, Kacchan."

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," he scoffs. 

"Then tell me! " Deku’s voice cracks, raw and desperate now. "Tell me what the hell I did wrong, tell me why you — why you hate me so much you had to cut me out of your life!" His chest heaves, the weight of years of unresolved shit pressing down on both of them.

"I don't—" Katsuki's voice falters, his throat tight, and fuck, fuck, fuck. He runs a hand through his hair, dragging it down his face in frustration. "I don't hate you, okay?!"

“Then what is it?” Deku’s voice dips, softer now, but it only makes it worse — makes it cut deeper, push harder. One more shove and Katsuki knows he’s going over the edge. He can feel it in the way his chest tightens, the way his breathing comes sharp and ragged, every inhale tasting like defeat.

His pulse hammers in his ears, a relentless pounding that drowns out everything else. The truth is there, burning a hole in his throat, clawing to get out, and Deku — damn him — just stands there, waiting, his teeth dragging over his bottom lip in that way that always made Katsuki want to look away but never could.

“What is it?!” Deku demands, his voice cracking under the weight of it all.

And Katsuki snaps.

“Because I’m fucking gay, Deku.” The words come out louder than he intended, raw and unfiltered, slamming into the space between them like a grenade. 

Deku’s eyes widen, his body instinctively shifting back a step, and Katsuki’s chest heaves. “Satisfied now?” he spits. “Is that what you wanted? To hear that you were my goddamn sexual awakening? That every fucking thing about you made me realize what I am?”

His throat burns, and the second the words leave his mouth, regret sinks in like a knife between his ribs. Deku just stands there — blinking, lips parted, looking so goddamn blindsided that it makes Katsuki want to punch a hole through the wall just to break the tension.

A bitter laugh escapes him, sharp and hollow. "Bet you didn’t see that one coming, huh?" His voice is a razor’s edge — cutting, defensive, laced with just enough self-loathing to mask how fucking exposed he feels. Like if he leans into the bite of it, maybe he can convince himself this isn't as bad as it actually is.

Deku breathes in, slow and careful, like he's afraid to startle him. "Kacchan…"

There’s no judgment, no shock, just something too soft, too understanding, and Katsuki hates it — hates how it creeps under his skin and threatens to split him wide open. He sees Deku take a step closer, and fuck, Katsuki can already see it coming — that stupid, well-meaning touch, that fucking sympathy…pity that Katsuki wants no part of.

“Don’t,” he snaps, hand shooting up between them like a barricade. His voice wavers, but his glare doesn’t. “Don’t fucking look at me like that.”

“Kacchan, I just—”

“You should go.” Katsuki’s head shakes, over and over, like he can shake off the way Deku’s words want to crawl into his chest, want to take root where they have no business being. If he lets them, if he lets him — he won’t be able to walk away this time. And he has to. He has to, because heartbreak already has its claws in him, and if he lets Deku in any further, it’ll tear him apart completely.

“Kac—”

“I said go.” The word cracks out of him, sharp and final, like a slammed door, like a desperate last-ditch effort to save himself from whatever the fuck this is turning into. “Just go, Deku. Please.” 

Deku’s face crumbles just a fraction, and Katsuki hates that he notices.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, his voice tight, almost shaky. He backs up, his green eyes never leaving Katsuki’s face, as if he’s trying to memorize him, trying to figure out where everything went so wrong.

The door creaks open, and for a second, Katsuki thinks Deku’s really going to leave without another word. But then, just as he’s about to slip out, Deku hesitates, glancing over his shoulder. “I never wanted to be something you had to run from, Kacchan.”

The door clicks shut, and Katsuki stands there, staring at it like it might open again.

But it doesn’t.

And it won’t.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: After All These Years 

Six months later…

Izuku hasn’t attended a hockey game in years. Not since high school, when Kacchan had decided to be a total asshole and cut him off like their friendship had never mattered. Back then, he'd stopped showing up pretty fast, choosing to avoid the whole scene rather than deal with the pit sitting heavy in his stomach every time he saw Kacchan on the ice. Their last conversation at the hotel back in April should have been the final nail in the coffin, a clear enough sign to stay far away from anything even remotely related to hockey.

Hockey’s the enemy now. His archnemesis. 

But apparently, Ochako didn’t get that memo.

She’s grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat as they climb the steps to their seats, practically bouncing with excitement. And Izuku? He’s just trying to figure out how the hell he let her talk him into this.

Liam had left the tickets at will call under her name — because of course he did. She’s been keeping in touch with some of the guys, and since Liam still hasn’t clued into the fact that his relentless flirting is going absolutely nowhere, he keeps trying. Persistent little shit. 

Izuku almost admires the dedication. Almost .

If that same dedication hadn’t dragged him into this situation.

Sitting in the Bell Centre, surrounded by roaring hockey fans and the biting chill of the rink seeping through his jacket, Izuku feels like a fish out of water — flopping around somewhere he doesn’t belong. 

He sinks into his seat, practically behind the team’s bench, tugging his hoodie up like it’s some kind of invisibility cloak. The last thing he needs is him spotting him through the plexiglass.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” he mutters, side-eyeing Ochako.

She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth, plopping down next to him with a satisfied sigh. She tosses her scarf over her shoulder with a dramatic flourish, like she’s some kind of hockey royalty. “Because you love me and I have impeccable persuasion skills,” she says, her grin all too pleased with itself. “Besides, it’s an experience , Izuku. Live a little. We’ve been working our asses off for months — we killed it at WTT! One free Saturday afternoon won’t kill you.”

She’s not wrong. They had worked their asses off, placing second in a competition designed to test how well they meshed as a pair, how seamlessly their routine could hold under pressure. And it did work — so well that even Toshinori had thrown his arms around them the moment they stepped off the ice. First place would have been better, though.

But skipping one day without training isn’t the problem. Not even close.

Izuku tugs his hoodie even lower, voice barely above the crowd’s buzz. “You know that’s not the problem here.”

Ochako hums, popping another kernel into her mouth with an air of fake innocence. “Oh? And what is the problem, then, Izuku?” she asks, batting her lashes in an exaggerated display of mock curiosity, like she doesn’t already know exactly what’s clawing at his nerves.

“You’re very evil sometimes, you know that?” Izuku grumbles, casting her a sideways glance that’s equal parts exasperation and defeat.

Her big hazel eyes widen as she leans in, plastering a faux-angelic look on her face. “Evil? I think the term you’re looking for is ‘kind-hearted’, or maybe ‘world-class figure skating genius’, or better yet, ‘best roommate of all time’ — it’s a long title, but I wear it well.”

Despite himself, Izuku shakes his head, the edges of his lips betraying a small, unwilling smile. “You might as well start calling yourself Bakugou Katsuki. You’ve got the same overinflated ego, and you’re both a pain in my ass.”

“I mean,” Ochako muses, “ he definitely wants to be in your ass.”

Izuku doesn’t hesitate — grabbing a fistful of popcorn, he pelts it at her, bits of it tangling in her hair and oversized scarf. She lets out a dramatic gasp, like she’s just been personally victimized, while he glares at her with all the heat of a man teetering on the edge of an existential crisis.

“Too soon?” she coos, adopting the saccharine voice of a saint, as if that somehow counts as an apology.

“Too freaking soon, Ochako.”

The arena explodes with noise, the crowd’s energy buzzing through the air like static before a storm. The first notes of All Of The Lights pulse through the speakers, the familiar spectacle of it all kicking into full gear. Hockey had always thrived on theatrics — light shows, smoke machines, mascots riling up the fans, entire sections of the arena chanting in unison. And among the sea of jerseys, countless backs are emblazoned with the one name Izuku has spent months trying to erase from his mind.

His stomach knots. He tells himself it’s just the overwhelming atmosphere, the flashing lights, the deafening noise. It has nothing to do with the way the weight of that name still presses against his ribs.

Ochako’s voice cuts through the din, quieter now, the teasing edge gone. She might joke, but she’s never been oblivious. She knows. She was the one Izuku had told everything to after that night in Katsuki’s hotel room. The same person who suggested he go back the next morning to clear the air — only for Katsuki to be long gone by the time he got there.

“Look, I love messing with you and all,” she says, tilting her head toward him, “but if this is too much…if you need to leave, I mean it. We can go right now.”

He knows Ochako loves hockey — really loves it. Grew up on it, just like her dad, whose seat Izuku was currently occupying. It was meant for him, but a last-minute business trip had taken him out of town, leaving Ochako with an extra ticket and far too much persuasion for Izuku’s own good. At first, the idea hadn’t seemed that bad.

But that was before he stepped into the Bell Centre. Before his body fully registered what this meant.

That in a few minutes, Katsuki would be right there. In front of him . On the ice.

Live and in full color after months of silence.

After Katsuki had told him he was gay.

Because of him? Yeah, that’s what Kacchan said. Though Izuku doubted it had been some conscious choice. More like an emotional outburst, a moment of raw honesty that had finally forced the words out.

The thought alone still made his head spin. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it — couldn’t even begin to untangle the knots left behind by that conversation. Had he really been Kacchan’s sexual awakening back then? And if so… what the hell was he supposed to do with that information?

Izuku exhales sharply and shakes his head, shoving the thoughts aside. Katsuki had taken up enough space in his mind — had controlled too much of his life already. He turns to Ochako, jaw tight but determined.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll manage.”

She searches his face, skeptical but willing to let it go for now. With a quiet squeeze of his hand, she offers a final out. “Just say the word and we go, alright?”

“I know, and I appreciate it, but… it’s just a hockey game, right?”

“Right,” she nods, her voice steady, offering the reassurance he desperately needs — because he doesn’t believe a single goddamn word he just said.

The atmosphere is a living thing now, pulsing with anticipation. The lights dim, replaced by sharp flashes of color that slice through the darkness. The bass from the speakers rattles his chest, the mascot skates across the rink like it’s part of the show, and the crowd? The crowd is feral, shouting for their home team like their voices could physically drag the players onto the ice.

And it works.

Because Izuku feels it — the suffocating weight of expectation, of inevitability — as the seconds tick by, each one dragging him closer to the moment he’s been dreading since they walked through the doors.

Then it happens.

Flames erupt from two towering pillars flanking the Blizzards’ entrance, licking at the air with dramatic flair. The players burst onto the ice one after another, blades cutting clean lines into the fresh surface, jerseys billowing slightly as they pick up speed, while the crowds scream their names.

Ochako’s losing her mind beside him, cupping her hands around her mouth to shout louder, her voice trying to punch through the roar of the crowd. Izuku could swear some of the players even glance their way — maybe a wave here or there — but he barely registers it.

“God, I love this , ” she giggles, pure, unfiltered joy spilling out of her like a kid on Christmas morning.

Yeah, well. At least one of them is having fun . And she’s having enough for the both of them.

The chorus kicks back in, the arena practically vibrating with energy.

"Turn up the lights in here, baby. Extra bright, I want y’all to see this."

The noise reaches a fever pitch, a wall of sound that feels like it could knock him over.

And then Kacchan steps onto the ice.

The reaction is instantaneous — an explosion of cheers so loud it drowns out the music, the lyrics barely audible over the thunder of thousands of voices.

"If you want it, you can get it for the rest of your life."

And Izuku’s heart isn’t in his chest anymore. It’s somewhere on that ice, tangled up in a flood of memories. 

Izuku forces his gaze away, his throat tight, words slipping out like an automatic defense mechanism. “Who’re they up against?” he asks, leaning closer to Ochako so he doesn’t have to yell over the crowd — though his voice still feels small compared to the roar of the arena.

But even as he tries to focus on her answer, his eyes betray him. They flick back — just for a second — to that unmistakable figure slicing across the ice with ridiculous, effortless speed. Number 9. Blazing past like he owns the rink. And maybe he does. The way the crowd reacts to him? The way he moves? He’s not just in the zone — he is the zone.

Ochako snorts, clearly amused. “How can you be so clueless?” She tosses another piece of popcorn into her mouth with obnoxious precision, like this is all part of some casual afternoon routine instead of Izuku’s slow descent into hell. “You’re in Canada, babe. We’re breathing hockey. We live hockey. The kids probably get born with skates on their feet.”

“Could you just answer the question without making fun of me?” he snaps, more out of self-preservation than actual irritation.

“Chicago,” she says finally, still grinning like she’s got the upper hand in some unspoken game.

“They’re good?”

She doesn’t answer right away — just reaches over and pats his head like he’s some lost puppy. “It’s like I’m sitting next to a hockey virgin. It’s sweet.”

“First of all, I’m not a ‘hockey virgin’ ,” Izuku huffs, swatting her hand away like it’s physically offensive. “I’m very well familiar with the mechanics… rules… whatever.” He crosses his arms, muttering under his breath, “And second, at least I’m not emotionally attached to a bunch of guys chasing a puck.”

Ochako doesn’t miss a beat, winking at him. “No. Not a bunch. Just to one in particular.”

Izuku glares, the heat crawling up the back of his neck impossible to ignore. But all he manages is a grumbled, “Oh, shut up and watch the game.”

She grins like she’s won a gold medal. Because, well… she kind of has.

After what feels like an eternity of deafening cheers, flashing lights, and over-the-top celebrations, the Blizzards finally retreat to their bench, making way for their opponents — the Chicago Stormbreakers. A smattering of cheers erupts from the scattered Chicago fans, but the noise barely registers compared to the electric buzz that had filled the arena moments ago. The rest of the crowd settles into a tense hum, the kind of quiet that isn’t really quiet — just anticipation stretched thin.

Two referees skate onto the ice, clad in their black and white, cutting clean lines across the rink. They glide with ease, almost invisible against the spectacle surrounding them, their presence a mere formality before the chaos begins.

Both teams’ starting lines step onto the ice, the players sliding into position like chess pieces on an oversized board. The rest remain clustered on the benches, a sea of helmets and sharp eyes. Izuku’s gaze flickers over the lineup, catching a flash of bright red hair — Eijiro .

Even from here, Eijiro’s grin is impossible to miss. Izuku watches as Liam leans over, whispering something in his ear. Whatever it is, it earns a chuckle from the towering player, who glances over his shoulder toward their section. A quick, exaggerated wink follows — clearly aimed at Ochako, whose face lights up like she’s been waiting for it all along. 

Izuku doesn’t comment. Just notes it with the same detached awareness he applies to everything else today.

Instead, his attention drifts — shifts — like gravity pulling him back to the inevitable.

Katsuki.

He’s already at the faceoff circle, squaring up against one of Chicago’s players. The tension in his posture is sharp, precise. Knees bent. Upper body leaned slightly forward. His stick rests horizontally across his thighs, gloved fingers curled around the grip. There’s no wasted movement — not with him. Just raw efficiency wrapped in explosive potential.

Izuku’s breath catches without permission.

“You really have no idea how good your childhood friend is, do you?” Ochako questions, eyes glued to the ice.

“He was already a genius on ice in back in school,” Izuku replies with a shrug, his voice quieter than he intends. 

“Well, Izuku, then pay attention because he’s the freaking Messiah on ice now,” Ochako mutters, shaking her head at his complete lack of appreciation for what’s happening in front of them. She lifts her phone, snapping a quick picture — probably for her dad — before adding, “I still can’t believe you went to school with him and Kirishima and didn’t tell me. You were really holding out on me.”

“I wasn’t holding out on you,” Izuku grumbles, his eyes still tracking Katsuki’s every move. “I just wasn’t too keen on laying my childhood open to you — and you know why.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says softly, the teasing edge fading for just a second.

The puck drops. And with that every lingering piece of their conversation is gone, and Ochako completely spellbound on the game.

Ochako’s fingers instinctively curl into the sleeve of his jacket, gripping the fabric as if that tiny contact might somehow influence the game. Katsuki reacts like it’s second nature, winning the faceoff without even breaking stride. It’s clean. Effortless. Like he was always going to win it.

“Yes!” Ochako whispers fiercely, her little burst of excitement punching through the tension. It’s such a small moment — a faceoff win that technically means nothing this early in the game — but she’s so invested it doesn’t matter. She celebrates like it’s a goal. 

The game unfolds like a tug-of-war, both teams locked in an intense battle for control. It’s neck and neck, each side fighting tooth and nail to gain the upper hand, to score that critical first goal of the period. The tension in the arena is a living thing, growing with every missed shot, every blocked pass.

And in the midst of it all is Kacchan. 

Izuku can’t help but watch him. He tells himself it’s just because Katsuki is the best player on the ice — it’s hard not to watch someone like that. But deep down, he knows it’s more than that.

Katsuki is mesmerizing.

It shouldn’t be possible for him to have gotten better since high school, but he is — faster, sharper, more dominant than ever.

His turns are razor-precise, slicing through defenders like they’re nothing. His puck handling is effortless, like the damn thing is glued to his stick, bending to his will. And the speed? Blistering. The kind that makes other players look like they’re skating in slow motion.

He has fired shot after shot at Chicago’s goal, each one more vicious than the last, and Izuku doesn’t understand how it’s still 0-0. It feels like the puck should’ve gone in by sheer force of will alone.

The second and third lines hold their ground. It’s clear the Blizzards aren’t just a one-man show — not by a long shot. They’re a team, cohesive and strategic, each player knowing their role, holding the line, pushing back with everything they’ve got. But even with all that talent, it’s impossible to ignore the gravitational pull of Katsuki, the way he dominates the ice, setting the pace, dictating the rhythm.

Then the Blizzards switch lines again.

Izuku watches as Katsuki hauls himself over the boards, hitting the ice like a shot from a cannon. He doesn’t miss a beat, instantly stripping the puck from a Chicago player — Preston, according to the name scrawled across the jersey.

But then it happens.

Someone from Chicago slams into Katsuki, hard enough to make the boards rattle like they’re going to snap in half. The hit is dirty — the kind of hit designed to hurt, not just to take the puck. Worse, the other player’s stick comes up high, catching Katsuki across the face. His helmet goes flying, skidding across the ice like an afterthought.

And Katsuki loses it. 

Sticks go flying. Gloves hit the ice like dead weight. Shouts erupt — not just from the players tangled in the chaos, but from the crowd, a chorus of outrage and exhilaration blending into one deafening roar. It’s chaos — pure, unfiltered chaos — and Katsuki is right in the middle of it, fists flying with brutal precision, rage pouring out like he’s been waiting for an excuse.

It takes a few moments — a flurry of punches, a mess of tangled limbs — before the referees finally manage to pry them apart, escorting Katsuki and the Chicago player who started it all toward their respective penalty boxes. The crowd doesn’t quiet down, if anything, the noise intensifies, feeding off the violence like it’s part of the entertainment.

Izuku exhales sharply, his voice flat, a brittle edge to it. “Now I remember why I stopped going to games.” He doesn’t bother masking the bitterness. “I don’t get the appeal of watching grown men punch each other. If I wanted to see something like that, I’d go to the bar around the corner.”

But his words feel hollow the second Katsuki skates toward the penalty box, helmet and gloves gripped in one hand, his stick tucked under his arm like an afterthought. His lip is split, blood smudged against his skin in stark contrast to the sharp white of his jersey.

And Izuku feels it — a tightness in his chest, coiling sharp and unforgiving.

Yeah. He definitely remembers.

Seeing Kacchan get hurt was never his thing.

It never will be.

The game presses on, tension simmering beneath the surface like a pot threatening to boil over. For the next two minutes, the teams battle it out in a fast-paced four-on-four, the extra space on the ice making every pass sharper, every mistake riskier. Izuku watches, but his focus is fractured, drifting back to the image of Katsuki’s bloodied lip, the reckless fury in his eyes, the way he’d skated off like it didn’t matter.

As soon as Katsuki and the Chicago player are released from the bin, another thirty seconds tick by, uneventful and stretched thin with anticipation, before the buzzer blares through the arena, signaling the end of the first period. The players gather their sticks, pushing themselves off the ice, disappearing down the tunnel toward the locker rooms.

The scoreboard remains unchanged.

0-0.

“Intense,” Ochako says, stretching her arms above her head like she’s just finished running a marathon instead of sitting through a well-matched, high-stakes hockey period. Her grin is easy, energized, like she thrives off the adrenaline even though she’s not the one out there skating.

Izuku snorts quietly, slouching back into his seat. “You act like you’re the one who just got checked into the boards.”

“Emotionally, I was,” she quips without missing a beat, shaking out her hands like she needs to release leftovers of the stifling atmosphere. “Did you see that last shift? I swear my soul left my body for a second.”

Izuku hums in response, but his eyes drift back toward the tunnel where the players disappeared. 

Katsuki hasn’t seen him yet. Or maybe he has and he’s just really good at not showing it. Typical. Always composed on the surface, even when there’s a storm underneath. Izuku isn’t sure what he wants more — for Katsuki to see him and react, or to get through this entire game without the blond even realizing he was here.

He’s a walking contradiction.

A mess of want and don’t want, tangled so tight he can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Are you good?” Ochako’s voice cuts through his thoughts, soft but grounding. She tilts her head, eyes searching his face like she’s trying to read something he hasn’t said out loud.

Izuku blinks, pulling himself back. “Yeah,” he lies, forcing a tight smile. “I’m good.”

🏒⛸️

“What in the flying fuck was that, Bakugou?!”

Aizawa’s voice cuts through the locker room like a slap, sharp and biting, followed by the crack of the small whiteboard ricocheting off the wall before skidding across the floor. The dry-erase marker clatters beside it, leaving a messy streak of half-erased lines — strategies now as useless as the breath it took to draw them.

Katsuki doesn’t flinch. Just sits there, hunched forward on the worn bench in front of his cubby, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together. His gloves are off, tossed carelessly at his feet, the blood from his split lip drying into a faint, metallic crust. It stings when he swipes his tongue over it, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning in his chest.

His name is plastered on the wall in bold letters above his head, just like it is with the others, but right now it feels like a fucking target.  

Aizawa’s pacing now, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced under the harsh fluorescent lights, his frustration radiating like heat. The rest of the team keeps their heads down, peeling off gear, pretending not to listen even though every word lands like a slap against damp skin.

Katsuki doesn’t say shit. Just grinds his teeth together, jaw tight enough to ache, the faint taste of blood still sharp on his tongue.

“Coach, the Chicago asshole started it, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” Becker pipes up from across the room, voice tentative, the rookie mistake practically etched into every word.

Katsuki doesn’t even bother looking at him. Stupid rookie.

Aizawa spins on his heel, eyes narrowing like he’s zeroing in on a target. “Harsh? I’m not here to fucking hold your hand, Becker. Or what do you expect next? That we braid each other’s hair and have a goddamn sleepover?”

The room falls into tense silence, Becker sinking back into his seat like he’s trying to disappear into his own jersey.

Aizawa’s pissed — not just at Katsuki, but at the whole damn first period. 0-0. Not a disaster, but not good enough either. The second and third lines were sloppy, off their rhythm, leaving too many gaps, too many missed chances. Katsuki’s little brawl was just the cherry on top, feeding into Aizawa’s already boiling temper.

But Katsuki tunes it out.

The shouting, the pacing, the whiteboard scratching — background noise. Aizawa’s chewing out every player in the room, laying out strategies like a man possessed, determined to crack Chicago’s defense and their god-tier goalie. Katsuki knows the drill. He’s heard it all before. Play smarter. Take the body. Move the puck faster.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thing Katsuki can hear is the fucking echo of Kirishima’s voice from earlier, low enough that no one else would catch it but sharp enough to slice right through him.

"Hey, man… just a heads-up — Midoriya’s here."

There was pity in his eyes, that same tight-lipped look people give when they don’t know how to soften the blow. Like his gaze was saying, “Sorry, I didn’t know he’d come.”

Yeah. Great.

Apparently, Becker’s been going through damn lengths to get his hands on Deku’s figure skating partner. Of course he has. Persistent little shit. Must’ve dropped the invite without thinking, without realizing the fucking landmine he’d planted in Katsuki’s chest.

And. Fuck. That. 

Six goddamn months. That’s how long Katsuki’s been living without the green-eyed nerd worming around in his head, and even though it’s been eating him alive, what’s worse — what really fucking kills him — is knowing Deku’s here now, somewhere up in the stands, watching, probably staring .

And Katsuki can’t even bring himself to look.

Because he’d drawn the line back in that hotel room. Sharp. Final.

He’d laid his soul bare, ripped it out and shoved it between them like a barrier before throwing Deku out. 

But if he hadn’t. If he hadn’t done that, if he’d let himself slip for even a second.

Things would’ve escalated.

He would’ve grabbed him. Pressed his mouth against Deku’s. Taken what he’s been craving for fucking years . Taken something from the nerd that wasn’t his to take .

And that’s not something you could come back from. 

“Bakugou.”

Aizawa’s voice cuts through the static in Katsuki’s head, sharp enough to snap him back, even if just barely. His face comes into view, leaning down slightly, eyes narrowed with the kind of exhaustion that’s less about lack of sleep and more about dealing with dumbass players who don’t know when to get their shit together.

“You care to join us here?” Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose, his patience hanging by a thread. “Or do you want to keep daydreaming while the rest of us do what we’re here for?”

“That’s a rhetorical question, right?” Sero pipes up from across the room, because of course he does.

Petrov doesn’t miss a beat, jabbing Sero on the back of the head hard enough to make him flinch. 

Katsuki doesn’t bother reacting. Doesn’t snap back with something sharp or petty. His jaw stays tight, his fingers still clenched around the pads on his knees. 

Aizawa straightens up, exhaling through his nose like he’s two seconds from actually committing murder. “Get that lip treated and pull your fucking head out of your ass to play the goddamn hockey I know you can. You hear me, Bakugou?” 

Katsuki grinds his teeth, fighting the urge to tell Aizawa to shove it, because deep down he knows he’s right. Fucking hell, he knows.

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters, low and sharp, more like a growl than an actual answer.

Because if there’s one thing he’s good at — besides screwing everything up — it’s playing goddamn legendary hockey.

And play he does.

The moment his lip is treated — nothing more than a quick swipe of antiseptic and some balm he barely notices — he’s out of the locker room, leaving Aizawa’s voice and his own bullshit behind. The intermission feels like it drags on forever, but as soon as the second period starts, Katsuki is right where he belongs.

On the ice.

He drops into position for the faceoff, crouched low, muscles coiled like a spring. The cold air bites at the exposed skin around his jaw, but he doesn’t feel it. His focus narrows, tunneling down to the stretch of ice beneath him and the Chicago player lined up across from Kirishima. 

Kirishima slides into the position with that calm, calculated look he wears during games — like he’s already won and the other guy just hasn’t figured it out yet. Katsuki knows that look because it’s the same one he wears when he’s got the puck on his stick.

The ref slides in, puck gripped between his fingers.

Katsuki’s heartbeat syncs with the tension hanging in the air.

Tick. Tick. Drop.

The puck hits the ice.

Katsuki’s stick flashes out with ruthless precision, cutting through space like a blade through flesh, snapping the puck back like it was never a question — because it wasn’t. It never is.

In that split second, there’s no crowd. No noise. No fucking Deku sitting somewhere in the stands.

Just ice, speed, and the game. 

Skates digging deep, blades carving into the ice as he accelerates down the slot. The puck clings to his stick like it belongs there, like it knows better than to even think about slipping away. Kirishima holds the blue line behind him, paired with Donovan, both anchoring the play with solid positioning, ready to shut down any turnover.

Petrov’s to Katsuki’s right, already in motion, cutting through Chicago’s defense like a goddamn scalpel. He taps his stick against the ice — a quick, sharp signal. He’s open .

But Katsuki doesn’t pass.

Not yet.

He cuts hard to the left, shoulder dropping, selling the fake just enough to get Chicago’s defenseman to bite. The guy lunges, reaching with his stick to poke the puck free.

Idiot.

Katsuki pivots, sharp and clean, cutting back to the right and slipping past him like he’s a traffic cone. His edge work is tight, precise — textbook, if textbooks accounted for raw aggression and pure instinct. Hughes crashes the net hard, pulling another defender with him, creating just enough space for Katsuki to attack.

Pressure’s closing in.

Another defenseman angles toward him, trying to close the gap, stick out, eyes locked.

Katsuki’s faster.

He toe-drags the puck past the guy’s blade, the edge of his stick grazing the tape with a hiss of friction. The defender stumbles, off-balance for half a second — all Katsuki needs.

Open ice.

The goalie’s squared up in the crease, dropping into a butterfly stance, trying to track him. Petrov’s shadowing the far post, drawing the goalie’s attention just enough to split his focus.

That’s the opening.

Katsuki shifts the puck to his backhand, pulling the goalie off-center, then snaps it back to his forehand with brutal efficiency. The shot’s off before the goalie can reset — a quick release wrister — the puck screaming top shelf, glove side.

Ping.

The sound of the puck hitting the crossbar is a dull thud, and Katsuki’s heart misses a beat.

But the puck ricochets down — behind the goal line.

Goal .

The red light flares, the horn blares, and the crowd erupts, a wall of noise crashing over the ice. Hughes throws his arms up, skating in fast to give Katsuki a hard shove on the shoulder. Petrov grins, tapping his stick against Katsuki’s shin guard in a rare show of approval. Kirishima’s pounding his glove against the boards from the point, yelling something Katsuki doesn’t bother to register. 

He doesn’t celebrate. No fist pump. No arms in the air. 

Just a sharp glide past the net, chest heaving with controlled breaths, stick gripped tight in his hands. But instead of joining the quick cluster of teammates slapping backs and tapping helmets, Katsuki’s gaze lifts — drawn like a magnet.

To the crowd.

Right to where he can practically feel green eyes burning holes into the name stretched across his back.

The arena’s a blur of faces, but Katsuki’s mind sharpens like a fucking lens, zeroing in on the one person he knows is watching. Deku.

Tiny from this distance, lost in the sea of bodies, but Katsuki sees him anyway. Feels him. Like the connection never frayed, never snapped — just stretched thin, pulled taut across years and miles and all the shit Katsuki tried to bury.

For a split second — just long enough to hurt — he locks eyes with him.

And in the quiet place between heartbeats, Katsuki can’t help but think:

After all these years, Deku. You’re the one watching me now… just like I used to watch you. But your eyes will never hold me the way mine have always held you. Never burn for me the way mine still burn for you.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: A Promise on Ice

“When you look at me and the whole world fades. I’ll always remember us this way.”

27th of November, 2012

Izuku loves the lake.

Loves how the ice looks completely different under the sun, shifting from deep navy to glassy silver, never quite the same with each passing cloud. Loves how it smells — not like the rink, with its sharp bite of resurfacing chemicals and the distant trace of rubber padding — but fresh. Crisp air laced with the scent of pine and the faint, lingering chill of winter creeping in.

Here, the ice feels different, alive in a way the rink never does. It groans softly beneath his skates, shifting ever so slightly with the weight of the cold pressing down on it. Trapped air forms delicate fractures just beneath the surface, tiny imperfections that stretch like veins through an otherwise perfect expanse of frozen water. The lake is untouched, untamed — no boards to hold him in, no glass panels to separate him from the world beyond. Just open space, endless and wild, stretching beneath his feet.

He just loves this place.

Especially how empty it is compared to the rink right now.

Because apparently, with Christmas just a month away and the whole city drowning in festive cheer, people can’t get enough of their ‘most wonderful time of the year’ stuff.  Strings of lights draped over storefronts, oversized baubles dangling from lampposts, and way too many Santas grinning from billboards, selling everything from coffee to jewelry. Hot chocolate with marshmallows, sledding, building snowmen — and, much to both his and Katsuki’s dismay, ice skating.

The rink is packed on weekends, crowded with families wobbling on rental skates and giggling couples holding hands like it’s some kind of romantic winter wonderland. It’s fine, really. Izuku likes the holidays — loves the warmth of it, the cozy nostalgia of it all. But the rink? That’s sacred ground — his and Katsuki’s safe space — and it’s impossible to focus when half the ice is taken over by kids falling on their faces and parents pretending they know what they’re doing.

And then there’s Family Day.

Every Sunday, from November through early January, the community rink dedicates its ice to a special event meant to bring people together. Which is… nice. Sweet, even. But for Izuku and Katsuki, it means there’s no space left for them to skate the way they want to. No drills, no speed, no peace — just chaos.

That’s why they’re here instead.

The lake doesn’t have speakers blasting holiday music. There’s no rink attendant telling them to watch out for the little ones. It’s just them, the ice, and the quiet hush of the wind drifting across the frozen expanse.

And Izuku wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Especially when Katsuki’s looking at him like that — sharp red eyes locked onto him with something that always feels a little too much like admiration. Like he’s watching something special, something worth paying attention to. It makes Izuku’s chest go warm in a way he doesn’t fully understand yet, a quiet thrill curling beneath his ribs. 

“Do that again, nerd,” Katsuki calls from where he’s sprawled on the ice, having plopped down in that careless way only he can. His weight rests on his gloved hands, his hockey stick balanced across his outstretched legs, skates wiggling slightly in a telltale sign of excitement. He has that smirk on his face — the one that means ‘ you better do what I just said’ . The one that dares Izuku to show off, to be just as good as Katsuki seems to think he is.

Izuku swallows, nodding as he adjusts his footing, steadying himself on the ice. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pushes off, gathering just enough speed before shifting his weight, angling his blades, and going for the advanced combo again.

Double lutz, clean.

Double toe loop, still steady.

And then—

The double axel.

He goes into it with everything he has, but the landing betrays him. His balance wobbles the second his blade touches down, his arms snapping out instinctively to catch himself. It’s always a fifty-fifty chance at this point — sometimes he lands it, sometimes the ice wins. Today, it wins.

Frustration kicks in before he even comes to a full stop. He exhales sharply, letting himself plop down onto the ice, the cold seeping through his layers as he flops onto his back. The sky above stretches out in a soft, endless blue, dotted with clouds that drift lazily overhead. His breath curls in the air, uneven and heavy from exertion, mixing with the crisp stillness around them.

He closes his eyes for a second, feeling the ice beneath him, solid and real. The failure stings, but the quiet makes it easier to swallow.

Then—

A shadow blocks the sun, casting him into cool shade.

Izuku blinks up, only to find Katsuki standing over him, arms crossed, skates planted firmly on either side of where he’s lying. The light catches a few strands of hair peeking out under the beanie, turning it almost white at the edges, and his usual scowl is softened — just a little — as he peers down at him.

Katsuki nudges him lightly with the toe of his skate. “Stop sulking, dumbass. Try again.”

Izuku’s frustration melts instantly, replaced by something lighter, warmer. A giggle bubbles up before he can stop it, his breathless laughter curling in the cold air. Only Katsuki could say something like that — gruff and impatient, but somehow making it sound like ‘ get up, you’ve got this’ . Like falling isn’t a failure, just a step before the next one.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, grinning up at Katsuki. “You’re the worst motivational coach ever, Kacchan.”

“I think you actually mean ‘best’,” Katsuki shoots back, flashing a grin before effortlessly gliding backward, his skates carving lazy arcs into the ice. It never fails to amaze Izuku how Katsuki can look so graceful in one second — smooth, controlled, like the ice belongs to him — and then, the moment he’s got a hockey stick in hand, he’s all speed and raw power, a force that nobody can stand in the way of.

“And I think you’re full of yourself,” Izuku laughs, pushing off to chase after him.

Katsuki picks up his pace immediately, like it’s second nature — like the second someone tries to catch up to him, his instincts kick in. He shifts from skating backward to forward in one fluid movement, his blades biting into the ice with a crisp snap.

Because, obviously, he’s a lot faster that way. 

Katsuki smirks over his shoulder, taunting.

“I don’t think so, Deku.”

And just like that, it turns into an unspoken game — one where Katsuki tests just how fast Izuku can go and Izuku pushes himself to close the distance. The wind bites at their cheeks, the ice stretching endlessly before them, and for a moment, it’s nothing but them and the sound of blades carving into frozen water.

Freedom has to feel like this.

Izuku just knows it. Feels it in his bones, in the way the cool air fills his lungs, sharp and exhilarating, in the way his legs burn slightly from the effort but never want to stop. It’s in the rush of it, in the way the ice stretches out beneath them like an endless, untouched world — just for them, just for this. 

It’s their friendship’s blank canvas. 

When he finally slows, his blades slicing into the ice, Katsuki mirrors him effortlessly. He digs the inside edges of his skates in deep, twisting his hips sharply as he cuts to a stop. A spray of ice fans out in a crisp arc, catching the light before scattering into nothing. His body leans into the motion, weight perfectly balanced to counteract the force — like he was built for this.

“Oi?”

Izuku doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head back instead, gaze tracing the soft blue stretch of the sky. 

His chest feels tight.

Because he knows moments like these don’t last forever. Nothing does.

Even if he’s too young to put it into words, too young to understand why this thought sticks with him, he knows. Feels it. And somehow, he wants to hold onto this — to the feeling of skating on this lake with Katsuki, to the way the world feels quiet and infinite all at once when it’s just the two of them.

He lets the words slip before he can second-guess them.

“Kacchan?”

More blond strands peek out from under Katsuki’s black beanie, messy from the speed they’d been skating at, falling into his forehead in a way that softens him — makes him look different. Gentler. Even though Izuku knows this version of him. The one that lets him peek behind the rough edges sometimes.

“Yeah?” Katsuki huffs, rubbing at his red-tipped nose with his glove.

“Can you promise me something?”

Katsuki snorts, crossing his arms. “Depends,” he says, like he’s already decided he doesn’t trust whatever’s coming next. “You’re definitely not getting the last two Twizzlers. I already called shots on them.”

Izuku laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not about that.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes, but there’s a flicker of curiosity beneath the skepticism. “Then what?”

Izuku hesitates, gripping his gloves a little tighter, but the words are already there, hanging in his throat, waiting to be spoken.

“Promise me it will always be like this.”

The second it slips out, he feels ridiculous.

His voice still has that high-pitched, youthful edge, too young to be saying something that feels this important. Too childish, too dramatic, like something out of a movie where best friends make grand vows under the stars. But it doesn’t matter — he needs Katsuki to promise.

“Promise me we won’t change. That we’ll always skate like this. Together.”

There’s a moment of silence. Just the wind rustling through the bare trees, the quiet rise and fall of their breaths.

Katsuki’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he snorts, rolling his shoulders like Izuku just said the dumbest thing in the world. Like he has to brush something off that feels… too much.

“Tch. What kinda weird-ass promise is that, Deku?”

Izuku frowns, heart sinking slightly as he skates toward his best friend. “Kacchan—”

But then Katsuki exhales, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His cheeks are already pink from the cold, but Izuku swears there’s something else there, something warmer.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine,” Katsuki mutters, eyes darting away for half a second before snapping back, sharp and stubborn. His scowl softens, the usual annoyance smoothing out, the wrinkles on his forehead not as deep anymore.

Then, without warning, he closes the last bit of distance between them, reaching out with a gloved hand and nudging Izuku’s nose.

It’s quick, barely a touch, but the warmth lingers anyway — more in the way Katsuki does it, in the way his mouth quirks into something crooked and almost fond, like he’s indulging Izuku just this once.

“I promise, dumbass,” he says with conviction. “I promise we’ll always be on each other’s toes, even when you’re old and still can’t catch up to me because you’re slow as fuck.”

He sticks out his tongue as he pushes off, skating an effortless circle around Izuku, his blades cutting into the ice with an ease Izuku will never stop admiring.

“Even then, we’re still the same. Best friends. Us.” Katsuki’s voice carries over the open air, certain in a way only he can be. “I promise, Deku.”

The thing with promises is… they’re fragile.

Fragile like ice can be.

At first glance, it seems solid — sturdy beneath your feet, stretching wide and endless like it could hold the weight of the whole world. You trust it without thinking, believe in its strength because it’s always been there, cold and unwavering beneath your skates. But then come the fractures, the hairline cracks just beneath the surface, the ones you don’t see until it’s too late. Until the wrong step, the wrong moment, sends everything splintering apart.

Some ice holds. Some ice breaks.

And Izuku wonders, even now, at twelve years old, which kind their promise will be.

Because it feels unshakable. Feels like the kind of thing that could stretch forever, etched into the ice, into their laughter, into the way their skates carve lines side by side. It feels like something that won’t break, no matter how much time passes, no matter how fast they go, no matter how hard they push against the world around them.

But the thing about ice — about promises — is that they don’t crack all at once.

They go quietly, little by little. A shift in pressure. A change in temperature. A weight too heavy in the wrong place.

And Izuku… doesn’t want to think about it.

Not now. Not when Katsuki is grinning at him over his shoulder, golden in the pale winter light, his breath curling in the cold air, his voice still ringing with certainty. ‘ Even then, we’re still the same. Best friends. Us’.

So Izuku swallows the thought, tucks it away deep in his chest where he won’t have to look at it, and instead pushes off after Katsuki, chasing him across the ice, letting the wind carry his laughter away.

For now, the ice holds.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Confusion and Clarity

Goal.

The red lamp flares, the horns wail, and the Bell Centre erupts in a frenzy of cheers, a tidal wave of sound that shakes the very air around them. The celebration is instant, electric. Ochako jumps from her seat, arms in the air, half of her popcorn scattering to the floor as she lets out a triumphant cheer.

Izuku moves to follow — claps his hands, forces a smile, tries to echo the crowd’s energy. But it’s hollow.

He stands there, frozen. A statue in a storm, while the entire arena sways around him in a blur of motion and noise. The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, drowning in the roar of the crowd, and all of it blends into a meaningless hum — because Izuku isn’t listening.

All he hears is his own heartbeat, thick in his ears, as his gaze locks onto the player whose name is being screamed from hundreds of voices.

Katsuki.

And all Izuku can think about — the only thing he can think about — is the promise Kacchan made when they were kids.

Why? He doesn’t know. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. It was just a dumb, childish thing, words spoken into the cold, written in ice that was bound to crack under the weight of time.

But then Katsuki glides around the net, carving effortless lines into the ice, completely ignoring the way his teammates throw congratulatory shoves at his shoulders, the way Hughes tries to get him into the huddle of celebration. He doesn’t even react.

Instead, he skates — past the net, past the boards, past the flashing lights.

Straight to center ice.

And then, he stops.

Lets his gaze roam the stands, searching, scanning — until it lands on Izuku.

And suddenly, Izuku is back there — back on that frozen lake, with the wind biting at his cheeks, with Katsuki’s breath curling in the cold air as he said:

"Even then, we’re still the same. Best friends. Us. I promise, Deku."

But they aren’t the same. Not even close.

The promise never stood a chance.

“Yes! About time!” Ochako’s voice shatters the moment, a bright burst of enthusiasm as she nudges him with her shoulder, oblivious to the way his whole world has just tilted on its axis. Izuku forces himself to blink, to look away, to rip himself out of the locked stare he and Katsuki have been trapped in.

“Y-yeah. Absolutely.”

His voice comes out wrong — too thin, too forced, too unconvincing. It barely even sounds like him. And of course, because she’s Ochako and she knows him far too well, she catches onto it immediately. She doesn’t even need to look at him for more than a second before she starts squinting like she’s putting together a puzzle with half the pieces already in place.

“Can I ask you a question, Izuku?”

She raises one of her unfairly perfect eyebrows as they both settle back into their seats, just like the rest of the arena does, waiting for the game to continue. 

And the look on her face right now? Yeah. He’s definitely not going to like what’s about to come out of her mouth if he says yes.

Izuku sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I’d rather say no, but knowing you, that was nothing more than a polite phrase and you’re gonna ask anyway.”

She grins, flashing her perfect teeth like she’s already won something. “You know me so well.”

He rolls his eyes, giving it right back. “Unfortunately.”

Her gaze stays on the game, watching as Kirishima skates into position, readying himself for the faceoff. “You told me how tight you and Katsuki were,” she starts, low enough to keep this talk private. “Told me about the kiss that happened in high school. And let me swear, like, ten freaking times not to tell anyone what Katsuki told you back in the hotel.”

Izuku doesn’t respond, just listens, letting her continue down whatever track she’s set herself on. He doesn’t know where it’s going yet, but he can guess. And it’s probably heading straight for ‘ I don’t want to go there’ station.

“And I mean, I’m not stupid,” she continues, tilting her head toward the ice — toward him , even if she doesn’t say his name outright. “I know it still eats at you. Him cutting off this friendship of yours.”

That much is obvious. He’s not exactly subtle about it, no matter how hard he tries to be.

“What you never really told me,” she shifts slightly in her seat, “is how you really felt about what he told you.”

Izuku stiffens.

Ochako doesn’t give him time to derail her. She’s got her claws in this conversation now, and she’s not letting go.

“Him being into guys,” she clarifies, turning to look at him this time. “You being the reason — or whatever you want to call it.” She pauses, studying him like she already knows she’s struck something deep. “Is there a reason you just leave out your emotions whenever you talk about all this?”

Yep.

They’re not just skipping ‘ I don’t want to go there’ station. They’re full speed ahead to ‘ I’d rather jump off a cliff than open this box’ station.

Izuku forces a laugh, too brittle to be convincing. “Oh, yeah, sure, let me just pour my entire emotional state into the popcorn bucket real quick—”

"I'm serious, Izuku. You always keep your emotions at arm’s length when it comes to this, but then I catch you looking at him like you were a minute ago and I can’t help but feel like there’s something you're not saying." She shrugs, eyes locked on the ice, watching the game unfold. "Or maybe you don’t even know yourself… what it does to you. What it did to you."

Then, finally, she turns to face him, analyzing him. "I think you’re still trying to figure it out. Still wrestling with yourself. What to do with those feelings. Am I wrong?"

“I don't know what you want me to say...”

It’s a deflection. A weak one. And he knows it.

So does Ochako.

She doesn’t call him out immediately, just watches him, waiting — giving him enough rope to either climb out of the hole he’s in or tangle himself further. And Izuku? He’s not sure which one he’s doing.

Because the truth is. He doesn’t know what to do with these feelings. Never has.

Never met another guy in all these years that did things to him the way Katsuki did — does . Whatever.

It’s confusing.

And maybe that’s why he never lets himself dwell on it. Why he never lets himself go there . Because what the hell would he even do with it if he does? It’s not like it matters now. Katsuki isn’t in his life anymore, not in any way that counts.

Except.

He is. Right there on the ice, moving like a goddamn force of nature. And Izuku — no matter how much he tells himself otherwise — can’t keep himself from looking at him.

Ochako tilts her head, voice softer now, like she’s trying not to push too hard. “Izuku.”

He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face before letting it drop, fingers curling around the edge of his seat. “I just…” His throat feels tight, words catching before he can shape them into anything real.

Ochako waits. Doesn’t rush him.

So he sighs, voice quieter now, more honest than he wants it to be. “I don’t think I ever figured out how to feel about it. Not really. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The game keeps going — players slicing across the ice with practiced ease, the crowd alive with energy — but Ochako? Of course, of course , she has zero plans of letting this conversation die a peaceful death.

“I never really asked because I just assumed,” she muses. Her shoulders lift in an easy shrug, like they’re discussing something casual. Like this isn’t the kind of thing that makes Izuku’s stomach twist itself into knots. “Since you dated a handful of girls in the time I’ve known you. But you’re… straight, right?”

Izuku lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You really want to dissect my sexuality right now?”

She doesn’t answer, just raises an eyebrow like she’s waiting for him to take the question seriously.

He exhales through his nose, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his hoodie. “I’ve never really been into labels,” he admits. “But if you’re trying to ask if I’ve ever been with a guy…sexually…the answer is no.”

Ochako hums thoughtfully, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth. Then, as if this conversation wasn’t already a pain in his ass, she adds, “Except for the kiss with Katsuki.”

Izuku clenches his jaw. “Except that, yeah.”

What he doesn’t say — what he carefully locks away and shoves into the darkest corner of his brain — is that something did shift back then. That something deep in his chest had tilted, something raw and new. That there had been a pull toward Katsuki that had probably existed long before he ever admitted it to himself. And that had nothing to do with friendship.

But he leaves that part out.

Because acknowledging it would only complicate things. And he’s not sure he’s ready for that. It doesn’t matter in the end. Not when Katsuki made it perfectly clear he wanted him out of his life.

Apparently, Ochako doesn’t believe in stopping while she’s ahead, though, because she keeps going.

“You never… you know, tried again?” she asks, her tone far too casual for the emotional minefield she’s tap-dancing across. “Like, just out of curiosity? Back in college, all the girls did it at least once. Kissing each other and stuff.”

Izuku snorts, shaking his head. “Good for you.”

“So?”

His head snaps toward her, eyebrows shooting up. “So what?”

Ochako gestures at him like this is the most normal conversation in the world to have while watching a hockey game. “Did you ever try?”

He blinks at her. Then blinks again. 

“Oh my god, it’s a simple question.” She leans back, exasperated. “Did you ever kiss a guy again just to see? Just to… I don’t know , confirm things for yourself?”

He groans, tipping his head back. “Ochako.”

“What?” she grins, all teeth and mischief. “I’m just saying, if you’re gonna sit here brooding about your best friend, who also happens to be into you, and that somehow does something to you just like the kiss did—”

“I didn’t say it did something.”

Ochako gives him a look so drenched in bullshit detection that he can feel it scorching through his skin. “You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face, honey.”

Izuku gapes at her. “What about my face?”

“Anyway,” she steamrolls right over his weak protest, tossing another popcorn into her mouth like she’s not currently prying his psyche open with a crowbar, “what I was trying to say is… maybe you should’ve done some self-exploration earlier—”

“Okay, you know what?” He turns his whole body toward her, voice flat, eyes full of existential dread. “Shouldn’t you be watching the game? You were so into it, like, five minutes ago.”

“I am watching,” she says, eyes still sparkling with amusement. “I just happen to also be invested in your journey of self-discovery.”

“Well, don’t be.”

She clicks her tongue. “Too late. I’ve emotionally subscribed.”

He groans louder — loud enough that the guy beside him, decked out in full Blizzard merch like he personally owns stock in the team, sends them a quick death glare. Izuku notches the decibel level down slightly, but his suffering remains immeasurable.

“Let’s stay clear of bi-curiosity territory and go back to hockey territory, please.”

Ochako smirks, slow and deadly. “If you say so, Mr. Pretending to Be Straight But Also Not Into Labels But Still Kind of Enjoyed a Kiss With My Guy Best Friend in High School.”

“That’s a pretty long name.”

She grins wider. “It’s a pretty long pile of mess you’re collecting, Izuku.”

He exhales sharply, pinching his nose. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?”

Izuku side-eyes her, deadpan. “I’m not sure you read the instructions right.”

Before she can fire back, another explosion of cheers erupts around them as the Blizzards score again. This time, it’s the Russian guy — Alexei , Izuku sorts through the arsenal of names he’s been forced to remember. He’s on the same line as Katsuki, who gives him a solid, encouraging pat on the back.

Ochako instantly shifts into celebration mode, fist in the air, scarf nearly slipping off her shoulders as she cheers with the rest of the crowd. Then, just as quickly, she settles back into her seat, right back to his personal torment.

“Listen, I know I can be very…”

“Curious? Annoying? A nightmare on two legs?”

She gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest like he’s mortally wounded her. “Wow. Rude.” But she knows he’s not serious.

“As long as I look pretty doing it, it’s fine,” she chuckles. Then, just as quickly, her expression shifts, something softer settling in. “But really. I don’t know, I’m just trying to understand all of it because I can see that it obviously affects you, Izuku. You’ve been miserable the last few months.”

“What? I’m not miserable,” he scoffs, straightening up like the concept is offensive. “I’m killing it on the ice.”

“You’re drowning yourself in training.”

He rolls his eyes. “Since when is that a bad thing?”

“Since it’s going to backfire at some point,” she says, her voice edged with something knowing, something serious. “Dedication is good, discipline is necessary. But all in a healthy amount. And what you’re doing lately, sweetie, is anything but healthy.” To underline her point she adds, “You’re spending every free minute on ice.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Izuku lifts his chin, feigning offense. “I do go out sometimes.”

Not a lie.

He’s been seeing some girl — Melissa. He’s gone on a few dates over the past couple weeks. Nothing serious. Just dinner, a movie, the occasional coffee run. There was kissing. That’s it.

She’s nice. Sweet, even. But…

Yeah.

But what exactly?

There shouldn’t be a but.

And yet, it’s there — sitting in the back of his mind, nagging at him, stubborn as hell. Stubborn as a certain blond who set up camp in his brain.

Ochako hums knowingly. “You say it like it’s a chore, Izuku.”

He tenses, barely, but enough for her to notice. Because — yeah. She’s not wrong . And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Dating shouldn’t be that. Like checking off a box on some unwritten list of things he’s supposed to do. Meet someone. Take them out. Kiss them goodnight. Pretend it means something.

It should mean something.

But it never does. Not really.

Izuku forces himself to focus on the game, eyes locking onto the ice like it holds the answers he refuses to dig for. Five minutes left in the second period. Blizzards up 2-0. Katsuki still moving like he’s got the whole rink under his control.

He exhales sharply, keeping his voice steady. “Let’s not dwell on that, alright? Not now , Ochako. Please just do me that favor — unless you really want me to leave at some point.”

Because if she keeps pushing, he’s not sure how much longer he can sit here pretending this isn’t tearing him apart. That it isn’t turning his whole world upside down. 

🏒⛸️

Somehow, miraculously, Ochako lets him off the hook for the rest of the game. Maybe it’s because she saw the sheer desperation in his eyes when he all but pleaded with her to drop the topic. Or maybe she just wanted to enjoy the last period without babysitting his existential crisis. Either way, she spares him.

Not that it helps much.

Because even without her poking at his thoughts like a kid picking apart a loose thread, Izuku still can’t stop thinking about it.

About Katsuki.

About them.

Which is ironic, considering there is no them. Not anymore. Not in any way that matters.

And the longer Izuku ponders it — because God help him, he’s been pondering since April — the more the frustration knots itself into something ugly.

They were best friends. So why the hell couldn’t Katsuki just talk to him? Just say something instead of shutting him out like their entire history meant nothing? Why let years of friendship rot over something that, in the grand scheme of things, could’ve been worked through? 

But then another thought wedges its way in — one that makes Izuku grit his teeth.

How would I have reacted back then?

Knowing that his best friend was sexually into him. Maybe even romantically.

Would it have changed things?

The answer’s pretty simple: Of course it would’ve.

It would’ve shifted the entire axis of their friendship. Even if he’d tried to act normal, tried to pretend it didn’t affect him, it would have. He would have felt it, lurking beneath every conversation, every interaction, every moment spent in each other’s space.

So he can’t blame Katsuki for not saying anything. Not entirely. Not like he probably wants to.

But cutting Izuku off completely? Throwing him out like it was the only solution?

Izuku lets out a slow breath, fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie.

How can this all be so fucking confusing?

In the end, he leaves his seat with a victory for the Blizzards and a crushing defeat for his own sanity.

He should have known better. Should have stuck to his initial refusal instead of letting Ochako persuade him into this mess. Seeing Katsuki again was a mistake. 

A stupid, self-inflicted mistake.

Because now it’s fresh all over again.

The wound had finally started to heal, only for the scab to be ripped off slowly, deliberately — leaving it raw and throbbing.

Ochako’s brown hair sways softly as she steps ahead of him, leading the way out of their row after what felt like an eternity. Her gaze is glued to her phone, fingers tapping out a message before she glances over her shoulder.

“Liam’s asking if we’re joining their celebration. They’re partying at his place — kind of a housewarming too, since he just bought the house a few weeks ago.”

Izuku snorts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You do know the guy just desperately wants to get in your pants, right?”

Ochako doesn’t even blink. “Wow, thanks, Sherlock. I had no idea . ”

Which means, yeah — she definitely has smelled the rat. Probably the first time Liam so much as looked at her.

“Are you interested?” Izuku asks, sidestepping a group of rowdy fans as they make their way toward the exit.

She shrugs, eyes still on her phone. “He’s cute.”

Izuku huffs, weaving through the sea of bodies, trying to keep up with her pace. “That’s basically a no coming from you.”

“I didn’t say that,” she counters smoothly, thumbs flying over her screen. Then, without missing a beat— “And stop deflecting. You’re coming, right?”

“No. Don’t think so.”

Katsuki will probably be there. Or at least, the possibility exists.

So… no thanks.

“You’re sure?” Ochako presses, holding up her phone like it’s some kind of legally binding evidence. “I don’t think Bakugou will come — not according to Kiri.”

Izuku squints at the screen, not that it does him any good from this distance. “First of all, he can’t be sure. Kacchan is the most unpredictable person I’ve ever met. He could swear on his own life that he wasn’t coming and still show up just to make a scene.”

Ochako hums, nonchalant, but he doesn’t miss the smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth when she tosses a glance over her shoulder at him.

“Secondly,” Izuku continues, narrowing his eyes as he follows in her wake.  “Kiri?” He lifts a brow. “Since when are you on a nickname basis with the Blizzards’ defenseman?”

Ochako grins, unbothered, her shoulders bouncing in a shrug as she turns her gaze forward again. “Since he’s nice? Since we’ve been, uh… talking?”

Izuku frowns at the back of her head, weaving after her as she slips easily through the crowd of fans buzzing with post-win energy. “Was that a question or a statement? Because you don’t sound so sure.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she snaps, locking her phone and shoving it into her coat pocket. “He’s a friend, Izuku. You know, those things you also have — or would have more of, if you didn’t spend all your time being a full-time skating goblin who avoids emotional conversations like the plague.”

Ochako’s never been the sugarcoating type. Izuku has always appreciated that about her.

Right now, though? He’s not sure if he wants her to shut up or keep going just to see where this trainwreck lands. 

He scoffs, yanking his hood up like that might physically shield him from whatever the hell this conversation is morphing into. “Excuse me for having boundaries.”

Ochako casts him another look over her shoulder, one arched brow lifting so high it nearly disappears into her hairline. “You mean excuses.”

Izuku groans, rubbing his temples as they step out into the crisp Montreal air. The cold bites instantly, sharp against his skin, his breath curling into the night. But it’s nothing compared to the ice rink this conversation has become. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, shifting the topic the second she leads him around the corner, away from the post-game chaos. He still follows, though — like a lost puppy, albeit a very reluctant one. Mostly because she’s his ride.

Unfortunate, now that he’s thinking about it.

“Liam texted,” she says breezily, checking her phone again. “Told us to meet him at the back entrance to the parking garage for the players.”

“That sounds like serial killer stuff.”

Ochako laughs, unfazed, barely even breaking stride. “Relax, you big baby. It’s just an easier way to sneak in without going through the front where half the city is waiting for autographs.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Izuku mutters, forcing his legs to move again. “What if some security guard catches us sneaking in here?”

She touches his arm in a quick soothing gesture. “Stop worrying, Izuku.”

And then — because he knows where this is leading, because he knows how she operates — he feels the need to make his position very clear.

“I’m not going, Ochako,” he repeats, firm this time. “I am not walking into a room where there is even a one percent chance that Katsuki Bakugou might be present. I value my mental health, thank you very much.” 

Ochako, completely unfazed, just pushes open the door to the garage — which is apparently really unlocked — and walks inside. And, despite everything, despite all his big, firm declarations, Izuku follows.

Because he’s a moron.

She sighs, long-suffering, like he’s exhausting her on a personal level. “Fine, fine. I won’t drag you there. But you do realize you’re just avoiding everything, right?”

Their voices echo slightly in the cavernous space, bouncing between way too many big, expensive SUVs and sports cars, but it’s not something Izuku focuses on.

What is he focusing on? Trying very hard not to let his eye twitch.

“I realize that I would rather spend my night in my apartment, in my sweats, not thinking about my childhood best friend, rather than risk standing in a room with him while everyone else pretends we don’t have enough unresolved tension to level a small country.”

And the second the words leave his mouth, he knows.

He’s screwed.

Ochako stops, turns to him slowly, eyes lighting up in that way that never means anything good for him. It’s the classic speculative look. The one that screams I knew it without her even needing to say the words.

“…So you admit it’s tension?”

Izuku freezes mid-step, facing her. “Ochako.”

She beams, absolutely glowing with menace, feeding off his suffering like a goddamn superpower.

“I’m just saying — ”

“No.”

“—that sounds like progress to me—”

“I hate you.”

Before Ochako can deliver another one of her soul-destroying, smug as hell retorts, the sound of footsteps and voices echoes through the parking garage.

Izuku barely has time to process it before a group of players filters in through the entrance on the far side, their post-game energy still buzzing, loud and casual in the way only hockey players can be after a win.

And then—

“Hate who?”

Liam’s amused voice slices through the space as he strides toward them, eyebrows raised, looking far too entertained for Izuku’s liking. Before Izuku can so much as react, Liam slides a free arm around Ochako’s shoulders like it’s second nature, giving her a little squeeze.

“Hey Pretty.”

He’s grinning — that easy, cocky kind of grin — but the second he wiggles his eyebrows at her, it becomes painfully clear that despite his very good looks, this guy is about as smooth with women as someone skating on gravel .

Ochako, to her credit, doesn’t immediately shove him off. Instead, she turns her head just enough to give him a sideways look and smirks. “Hey Rookie.” 

“You look…wonderful today.”

Izuku, watching this unfold with rapidly diminishing patience, squints. “Are you flirting or buffering?”

Liam scoffs, shooting him a deeply offended look. “First of all, rude.”

“Second of all?”

He blinks. “No, that’s it. Just rude. ” 

Before Izuku can fire back, a strong arm lands around his shoulders, squeezing him in a way that’s entirely too affectionate for the mood he’s currently in.

Matt. Exuding pure papa bear energy, like always.

“So,” Matt hums, his voice full of easy amusement. “You’re up for celebrating at Becker’s new house?”

He winks at the rookie in question — who, for his part, looks way too relaxed for someone about to host an entire hockey team fresh off a game win. Either he has no idea what he’s getting himself into, or he’s too young and naive to care.

“Yeah, you’re coming?” Kirishima’s voice cuts in, smooth as hell, as he effortlessly slides between Liam and Ochako in one fluid motion.

It’s ridiculous. The guy moves like he’s been waiting for this exact moment his whole life — bumping Liam aside without technically pushing him, all while flashing Ochako a charming, easy-going smile that says rookie doesn’t stand a chance.

Izuku watches the whole thing unfold in real-time, taking in the easy camaraderie around him — the way Alexei and Hanta are laughing, the way everyone’s still riding the high of the win, ready to get the show on the road. They earned this victory. No doubt about it.

But the one person responsible for most of the goal chances tonight?

Still nowhere in sight.

And while Izuku should be glad — should be relieved that he doesn’t have to deal with Katsuki’s presence, or worse, the way his chest tightens every time their eyes meet — another part of him… wants to see him.

Wants to ask why he keeps pushing him away.

Why he acts like they never mattered.

But that’s a dangerous train of thought, so Izuku shuts it down before it gets too far. Instead, he takes a step back, lifting his hands in retreat.

“I’m out, sorry.”

The collective groan is instant. The sound bounces off the walls, the cavernous space feeding into it, amplifying it tenfold.

“Come on,” Hanta complains.

“Buzzkill,” Liam mutters.

“We really can’t change your mind?” Kirishima tries, giving him a look that’s just earnest enough to make Izuku feel a little guilty.

But not guilty enough to change his answer.

“No, I have to get to the rink pretty early.”

Ochako lifts a brow, not even pretending to have his back. “We don’t have training tomorrow.”

Izuku shoots her a glare. Traitor.

“Well, I do,” he says, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I need all the ice time I can get.”

Kirishima chuckles, shaking his head. “You really haven’t changed since high school.”

Izuku isn’t sure if that’s a compliment or a judgment. Maybe both. Had he always been this relentless? Probably. But back then, it had been fueled by passion, by love for the sport — not by this gnawing need to prove something to himself. And Katsuki. 

“Well,” Ochako says, smoothly slipping out of Kirishima’s grip, “I’m his ride, so that’s a no from me, too.”

“No,” Izuku cuts in when he sees Liam’s exaggerated pout, already shutting that down. “I’ll call an Uber.”

Ochako argues. “I’m not letting you take an Uber home, Izuku.”

Meanwhile, the rest of the hockey team is already antsy, practically bouncing on their feet.

“Whatever you decide, can you do it faster?” Alexei drawls, tone playful but with just enough let’s wrap this up underneath it.

Izuku sighs, thinking fast. “I’ll call Melissa.” She had texted him multiple times today. “Bet she’d be happy to pick me up.”

But before Ochako can respond—

“I'll drive him home.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: What If

You ever say something so fucking stupid — so entirely against your better judgment — that the only logical response would be to punch yourself in the face?

But then, instead of fixing it, instead of shutting the hell up like a normal, self-preserving person, you double down — because apparently, you're a masochistic asshole who thrives on making your own life a living hell.

So you don’t just say something stupid.

No.

You volunteer to drive your ex-best-friend home.

The same ex-best-friend you were very much in love with in high school — who, despite all logic, still makes your heart beat faster after all these fucking years. The one you very much outed yourself to just six months ago — only to turn around and tell him to get the fuck out.

You ever done that? No?

Katsuki wishes he could say the same.

Because he just did exactly that.

And he can’t fucking believe it. The second he steps into the circle of his teammates, his gaze snaps to Deku — who looks like a motherfucking deer in headlights. Like the words just short-circuited his brain, like the instinct to run is already kicking in, flashing flight in big, bold letters across his dilated pupils.

Pupils that nearly drown out the forest green Katsuki has spent years trying not to get lost in.

And goddamn, that sounds cheesy as fuck.

Katsuki’s riding the high of the victory, so technically, he should have a free pass for making one or two stupid decisions tonight.

But this?

This wasn’t on the list.

What he meant — what he imagined — was knocking back a few drinks, maybe finding some nice guy with sharp eyes and a good mouth to help him forget about the one currently staring at him like he just got sentenced to death.

Not this.

Not standing here like a fucking idiot, volunteering to personally drive Deku home like some cavalier dumbass, while his problems stack higher and higher — piling up like he’s at a goddamn all-you-can-eat buffet of “things that make your life complicated.”

Kirishima’s looking at him now from the side, one arm still slung casually over the shoulders of Deku’s skating partner. Katsuki already knows what’s going on there.

And, yeah — he’s got a little sympathy for Becker, poor guy, trying so fucking hard when he never even stood a chance against big, bulky, all-smiles-but-will-crush-you Kirishima.

But whatever. More pressing matters at hand.

Like the way Kirishima’s eyebrow is raised just enough to say “the fuck are you doing right now?”

And, honestly? Katsuki has no fucking idea.

But he started this mess. 

So now, he’s gonna finish it. Because he’s getting this baby home.

Fucking literally.

He’s driving the nerd home. No backing out now.

At least Katsuki won’t.

Deku, on the other hand? Still standing there, still kind of speechless, looking like his brain is running every possible exit strategy at once. Yeah, he should’ve thought about that before coming to the game and messing with Katsuki’s head first. 

So, Katsuki takes another step toward him. Close enough to take in the details he hasn’t allowed himself to really look at in months.

His hair’s a bit longer than the last time he saw him, curling at the ends like he hasn’t bothered to do much with it. He’s wearing a black hoodie under a dark green Harrington jacket, paired with black cargo pants — casual, effortless, but put together in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.

Katsuki feels the spit pooling in his mouth before he swallows hard, pulling his shit together, slamming a mask of indifference over his face like a goddamn lifeline.

“You ready to head out?” he asks, voice steady. Casual. Like this isn’t some absolutely insane decision.

Nobody else seems to pick up on the unbearable tension simmering between them. Nobody except Kirishima — who’s watching with his classic I-see-what-you’re-doing-here expression. And, of course, Deku’s friend, who looks way too smug for Katsuki’s liking.

But fuck ‘em. This isn’t about them.

“What?!” Deku blinks — like he just processed the words, like the concept of Katsuki offering to drive him home is so unfathomable that his brain outright rejects it.

Katsuki cocks a brow, shifting his weight, adjusting the strap of his heavy as fuck hockey bag. The thing’s digging into his shoulder, and he wants nothing more than to get it off and into the trunk of his car.

“Is that really that hard of a question?” he deadpans, voice dripping in flat impatience. “Should I spell it out for you again?”

The others are watching the exchange now, and the longer this drags out, the more awkward it gets. So Katsuki does the only thing that comes to mind. He grabs Deku by the elbow and drags him toward his car.

“Have fun,” he tosses over his shoulder, not bothering to check if they’re still staring — though he knows they are. He hears Kirishima’s barely-suppressed snort, Becker muttering something about what the hell just happened, but none of them stop him. Ochako waves Deku goodbye like she’s sending him off to war — and, yeah, real nice of her to not make a single attempt to rescue him from this clearly uncomfortable situation. 

Deku stumbles a little before planting his feet. “Kacchan, what the—” He yanks his arm back, halting his steps. “I can call a cab.”

Katsuki exhales sharply, unlocking his Porsche Cayenne with the click of a button before swinging open the trunk, finally freeing himself from the ridiculous weight of his hockey bag. The second it’s off his shoulder, he rolls it out, stretching his neck, then rakes a hand through his still slightly damp hair from the quick shower he took earlier.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters over his shoulder. “I’m driving home anyway. It’s no big deal. So don’t make one out of it, Deku.”

A beat of silence. 

“Are you for real right now?”

Katsuki scoffs, slamming the trunk shut with one hand before turning back around. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Deku crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows pinched in that familiar, exasperated way that Katsuki definitely hasn’t missed. Or maybe he has? “You know, you’re causing people whiplash with your mood swings.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Katsuki grumbles, already rounding the car. “It’s just a ride home.”

He yanks open the passenger door and gestures inside like he’s not standing here, voluntarily offering to drive home the one person he should be staying miles away from.

“Now get in,” he says, sharp and final. “And stop causing a scene.”

To his surprise, Deku actually listens. No more back-and-forth, no more obnoxious banter — just… compliance. Katsuki had already braced himself for another round of jabs, had already prepared for the inevitable stubbornness before the nerd would finally cave. So when it happens immediately, he’s caught off guard for a second, thrown off just enough that he hesitates. 

But only for a second. He collects himself fast. 

“Don’t tell me I’m dramatic, Katsuki,” Deku shoots back, voice laced with something sharp. And then — because he’s a goddamn menace — he brushes right past him, shoulder knocking against Katsuki’s chest as he slides into the seat.

And yeah.

Katsuki’s still standing there, holding the door open, as Deku looks at him, eyes unreadable, like he’s waiting for something.

“You’re ready? Or do you want to keep standing there and stare at me?” 

Katsuki’s response is silent — snapping the door shut with a little more force than necessary before rounding the hood and sliding behind the wheel like he hasn’t just been called out. 

“Address?” he asks.

Deku gives it, hesitating just long enough to make it known he’s not thrilled about it — but he says it anyway. Katsuki punches it into the navigation and the moment the route lights up on the screen, he starts the engine. 

The low, steady growl fills the tense silence between them, humming beneath their seats like it’s trying to speak for them. He shifts into gear without another word, pulling out of the lot like he’s done it a thousand times. Deku, meanwhile, is busy inspecting the interior, fingers skimming over the leather seat, eyes flicking across the dashboard as Katsuki pulls onto the main road, putting distance between them and the Bell Centre.

“Fancy,” Deku mutters, clicking his tongue in approval. “Guess the Blizzards are treating you well.”

Katsuki side-eyes him for half a second before refocusing on the road.  

“But now that I think about it,” he continues, obviously pissed off. “money never really was the problem for your family, was it?”

Katsuki exhales through his nose. “What got you so worked up, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Kacchan,” Deku deadpans, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Maybe the fact that you tossed me out of your hotel room like fucking garbage six months ago — right after hitting me with the whole ‘I found out I’m gay because of you’ bomb — then ignored me. Again.”

His voice rises just a little, like he’s only barely keeping his composure in check.

“And now — suddenly — you’re insisting on driving me home. So, what do you think got my pants twisted in a knot, huh?”

“I didn’t toss you out like garbage.”

Deku scoffs, turning to stare out the window, the glow of Montreal’s city lights reflecting in the glass. “Seriously? That’s what you’re taking away from that?” His laugh is humorless. “You’re unbelievable.”

Katsuki keeps his eyes on the road.

Use signals. Stop at traffic lights. Check the rear-view mirror. All the normal shit he should be focusing on. But every so often, his gaze betrays him, flicking to the passenger seat where Deku is punishing him with silence and that damn pissed off face — the one that’s always been a little too effective, a little too good at worming under his skin.

It does something weird to his stomach. Makes it flip, makes something deep in his chest itch, makes his grip tighten on the steering wheel as the urge rises. To pull over. To grab Deku by the collar, by the wrist, by whatever the fuck is closest. To kiss him like he should’ve six months ago.

Like he wanted to. Like he still fucking wants to.

Fuck .

Offering to drive him home was a dumbass move.

A really fucking stupid one.

„Who’s Melissa?“ he asks when stopping at a red light. 

„What?!“ 

„You heard me.“ 

„Yeah, doesn’t mean I’m obligated to answer you.“ He turns in his seat, the streetlights washing over his face in a way that shouldn’t look so damn cinematic — highlighting every sharp line, every freckle, every bit of grown-up bone structure that Katsuki absolutely does not need to notice right now. „In fact,“ he adds, „I don’t owe you anything.“ 

Katsuki scoffs, his jaw clenching as he watches the red light refuse to change. “You’re acting like a toddler right now.”

He flicks on his blinker even though there’s no one behind them. Just something to do with his hands. “It’s a simple question, Deku. Not asking for your social insurance number.”

Deku laughs — sharp, humorless. The kind that hits low and doesn’t bother hiding it. “No, just stuff about my private life,” he shoots back. “You know… the kind of shit friends ask.”

His gaze cuts sideways, hard enough to sting. “But we’re not friends, right?”

Green light.

Katsuki doesn’t say a word. Just presses his foot down on the gas, smooth and controlled, like that question — or fact — didn’t just gut him a little. 

The silence stretches until Deku breaks it. “What? That easy to get you to shut up?”

Katsuki’s hands tighten on the wheel.

God, he shouldn’t have offered this ride. He really fucking shouldn’t have.

“Forget I asked,” Katsuki rasps.

“But why, Kacchan?” He hears the subtle shift of movement in the passenger seat, the sound of fabric brushing fabric, and he knows Deku’s looking at him now. Knows those stupidly expressive eyes are burning holes into the side of his face.

“You want to know who she is,” Deku says, voice too calm to be casual. “What she is to me, maybe?”

Then — sharper, more direct:

“Then tell me, why? Are you jealous?”

Katsuki’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, the leather creaking under his fingers. His jaw locks so hard it aches. “Are you trying to piss me off now?”

“Stop deflecting and answer my question.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Deku huffs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not fucking lying!” Katsuki snaps, voice raw and too loud in the enclosed space of the car. His hand slams against the wheel, a sharp thud cutting through the tension. “If you don’t  wanna tell me, then I don’t fucking care, alright? If you’re fucking her, good for you!”

It echoes louder than it should.

Too loud.

Too honest.

And way too fucking personal.

The kind of words that hang in the air like smoke after something’s already caught fire. 

An uncomfortable silence follows — thick and heavy, stretching across the rest of the ride through the city center like a goddamn chokehold.

No more jabs.

No more yelling.

Just the sound of the engine and the buzz of the city outside the windows.

Katsuki doesn’t say a word as he signals right, molars grinding, shoulders drawn so tight it feels like his whole body is wired to snap. He pulls up to the curb outside Deku’s apartment complex, eases the car to a clean stop like nothing inside him is screaming.

His fingers flex once around the wheel.

And when Deku murmurs a quiet “thanks for the ride,” already reaching for the door handle like he can escape this night fast enough—

Katsuki’s hand shoots out, grabbing his arm. Firm. Unshakable. Desperate.

“Listen,” he says, and his voice is rough, like it’s scraping its way out of his throat. He swallows hard. Like the next words are going to choke him. Like he might vomit them up if he doesn’t say them right the fuck now. “That was uncalled for,” he forces out, letting go of his arm. “I… I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

It’s not eloquent. Not graceful. But it’s honest. And probably the closest thing to an apology Katsuki’s managed in years. Especially toward Deku. But it doesn’t erase the rest. Doesn’t just wipe out six years of silence, of distance, of never once saying the things that should’ve been said long ago. Doesn’t undo that night in the hotel.

The kiss that didn’t happen. The confession that did. The door that slammed shut behind it.

And it sure as hell doesn’t change the truth Deku’s always carried like a stone in his chest. That he never made it complicated. That he never broke anything.

He was just existing. Just being himself. And Katsuki?

Katsuki was the one who fell.

Hard.

Fast.

With no safety net, and every fucking intention of never catching himself.

He fell head over heels in love with someone who was never going to love him back. 

Deku drags out a breath. “Why couldn’t you just talk to me back then?”

Katsuki winces. Internally, externally — he’s not sure where the burn hits worse. He doesn’t want to do this. Not again. Not here. Not in a goddamn parked car on a street that’s way too quiet for how loud his chest feels. He doesn’t want to dig this all back up. He lets his head fall forward, forehead pressing against the wheel like maybe he can hide there for just a second. Blond strands fall into his eyes, brushing his cheeks, and everything feels too intense. 

“How,” he mutters, “how the fuck was I supposed to approach that subject, huh?”

He huffs a humorless breath, because this situation is so insanely shitty it makes him want to crawl out of his skin. And maybe that’s why he laughs — dry and bitter — because what else is he supposed to do?

"‘Hey, Deku, how’s it going? By the way, I think I’m gay and in love with you since we were kids, but I repressed it so hard it turned into rage issues and a habit of distancing myself — wanna date?’” He snorts, shaking his head like even he can’t believe the shit coming out of his mouth. “Yeah. That would've gone great.”

“I—,” Deku’s voice falters, caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. And that’s when Katsuki finally lifts his head. Meets those goddamn green eyes.

Eyes that always fucking ruined him.

Green like the forest.

Green like spring.

Green like hope.

Hope that never belonged to someone like him. Hope that was always doomed to destroy Katsuki.

Because it wasn’t his to have. Not then. Not now.

If he stares too long, he’ll say something even dumber. Like stay. Like I never stopped.

“Forget it, Deku,” he grumbles, dragging the words out like they’re heavy. Like they hurt. Because they do. He wants the conversation to end here.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he concludes with a heavy heart. “What’s done is done.”

But Deku doesn’t let it go. 

He never fucking does.

“You didn’t even give me a chance back then, Kacchan.”

The car door gets shut and they’re shut in. Together. Trapped in this stupidly small, stupidly expensive car that suddenly feels like it’s shrinking by the second — walls closing in, air thinning, tension thickening with every breath. No driving to distract him. No traffic lights to blur the edges. No late autumn chill slipping through the cracks to ground him in anything other than this.

Just silence. 

Just Deku. 

Just the soft sound of his breathing, steady and close. The way he shifts slightly, turning toward him, the fabric of his jacket brushing against the seat. And the faint smell of his cologne — warm and woodsy, the kind of scent that lingers.

Katsuki’s hand twitches.

His heart? Fucking racing. Lodged in his throat like a swallowed scream.

He misses him.

Misses him like lungs miss oxygen underwater — desperate and aching. Misses the way they used to be.

The laughter.

The skating.

The quiet understanding that used to stretch between them.

But it’s not just that.

He wants him. Still. Always. And he can’t fucking have him.

But Deku inches closer anyway. Like he’s got no clue what kind of leash Katsuki’s barely hanging onto. As if he doesn’t feel the way Katsuki’s whole body is on high alert, every nerve lit up and screaming.

One more inch, and he’s going to snap.

Because the way Deku’s moving, slow and deliberate, almost crawling over the middle console now, it’s too much.

That look in his eyes? Too fucking familiar.

The same look he gave him in high school. At the party. Right before they kissed. Right before everything got even more complicated.

And Katsuki doesn’t know what this is. Doesn’t know if it’s a game, or a trap, or some twisted kind of revenge. Maybe Deku’s trying to prove a point. Maybe he just wants to see if Katsuki will break. And Katsuki almost does. But instead…he speaks. Voice low. Rough. Tight. “Wouldn’t’ve done any good.” The words drop heavy in the silence, like they’re too late to matter. “Things would’ve never been the same.”

It’s not really an answer. Not a real one. It’s deflection, dressed up like regret. A defense mechanism wearing a borrowed truth. 

And then — Deku drops the fucking bomb. “What if I tell you I enjoyed kissing you?”

Katsuki freezes.

His eyes snap to Deku like he must’ve misheard.

Like his brain just hit a brick wall at 80 miles an hour and imploded.

He just stares. Mouth slightly open, pupils blown, expression a full reboot screen. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Because what the hell is he supposed to do with that? The one thing he told himself wasn’t true. The one thing he built his walls around.

He blinks. Shakes his head hard like he’s trying to physically knock the static out of his skull. Deku tilts his head, like he’s two seconds from checking his pulse. And finally — finally — Katsuki finds his voice again. “That’s not funny, nerd.”

Deku doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk.

He just meets his eyes.

“Probably because it’s not a joke.”

Katsuki’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again — like maybe the third time’ll be the charm.

It’s not.

His throat feels like he’s been chewing sandpaper in the Sahara and his heart is jackhammering against his ribs like it’s seconds away from busting out and flipping him off.

And just when he finally scrapes together the courage to say something — anything—

A sharp rap on the driver’s side window slices straight through the tension like a blade, making them both jump.

Katsuki jolts in his seat with a muttered curse, while Deku’s eyes go wide like he just got caught stealing from the damn cookie jar.

Outside, pressed against the window with a phone already in hand and eyes way too excited , is a teenager — maybe sixteen, wearing a Blizzards jersey three sizes too big and a look like she just discovered Santa Claus and Jesus had joined forces.

“Oh my God,” she mouths through the glass, grinning ear to ear. “Katsuki Bakugou. I’m a huge fan.”

Katsuki blinks at her like he’s just been hit by a puck to the skull.

One second he was about to mentally combust over Deku’s not-a-joke declaration, and the next he’s eye-level with a wide-eyed teenager whose dream apparently includes interrupting emotional crises like it’s a meet-and-greet.

The kid’s practically vibrating with excitement, phone already up and recording like this is a once-in-a-lifetime National Geographic sighting. Katsuki lets out a sharp exhale and rolls the window down halfway, not because he wants to — but because there’s literally no escaping this unless he runs her over, and PR is already on his ass. 

She squeals.

Squeals.

“I’m so sorry—” she isn’t “—but could I get, like, a super quick selfie?” Before Katsuki can respond, she whips out a pen like she’s been training for this moment her whole life, the pink-dyed tips of her ponytail bouncing with enough enthusiasm to power a small city. “And, uh — an autograph?” she adds, practically pressing herself against the door like this is a goddamn emergency.

Katsuki’s eye twitches.

Visibly.

His dignity packs a suitcase and exits stage left.

But she’s just a kid. A kid with glitter on her cheek and hope in her eyes. 

And if he says no? Kovalenko’ll tear him a new one for making teenage fans cry.

So he mutters, “Yeah, fine,” like it physically hurts, reaching for the pen with all the enthusiasm of someone accepting a death sentence.

She squeals — again — then spins around, tugging her jersey tight across her back so he can sign just under where his name is printed in bold letters. It still throws him off. Seeing his name like that on someone else. On a fan. Real, printed, worn like it means something. He’s never gotten used to it. 

And maybe it’s the exhaustion. Or the tension from two seconds ago still clinging to his skin. Or maybe Katsuki just hates himself a little. But he wonders…what would Deku look like in it?

In his jersey.

Just that.

Nothing else.

Fuck.

Katsuki’s throat clicks as he swallows, dragging his attention back to the fabric under his hand. He clears his throat so sharply it might as well be a smoke alarm. “All done.”

The girl practically melts, hugging herself like she’s holding in the most explosive scream of her life. “Oh my God, thank you! You’re the coolest,” she beams. 

Then — because of course she’s not done — she holds up her phone, already shifting angles like a seasoned pro.

While she’s firing off a rapid-fire monologue about how she plays center on her junior league team and dreams of Olympic gold and “Your last shot was insane, it was sooo clean,” Katsuki just nods along with a dead-eyed expression that screams I am trapped, please send help.

Katsuki’s still nodding like some broken bobblehead while the kid rambles about slapshots, power plays, and how her coach says she’s got “real center energy.” And he’s trying — he really is — to not look like he wants to jump out of his own car. Grinding his teeth. Pretending to listen. Silently begging for divine intervention.

Meanwhile, all he can hear on loop is:

“What if I told you I enjoyed kissing you?”

Because yeah, sure, go off about your slapshot goals and Olympic dreams, kid. That’s great. But Katsuki’s sitting there with his heart doing fucking suicide sprints in his chest and a head full of green-eyed disaster.

It’s not until she finally decides she’s “taken up enough of his time” and skips off like she didn’t just stall a potential life-altering moment, that Katsuki turns to the passenger seat—

Only to find it empty.

Door slightly ajar.

Cold air slipping in.

And Deku?

Fucking gone.

“What the—” Katsuki slams the heel of his palm against the wheel. “Are you fucking serious right now?!” 

He leans over the console, peering out into the street like Deku might’ve just evaporated into the night air. But no — there he is, walking toward his building like nothing happened. Not even looking back when he disappears inside.

Katsuki blinks. Once. Twice. 

“Fuckin’ Houdini’d me right outta my own car,” he mutters, jaw tightening as he stares at the now-empty sidewalk like it personally betrayed him.

Who does that?

Who drops an emotional nuclear bomb and then just casually vanishes into the night without so much as a backward glance?

Midoriya fucking Izuku, that’s who. 

And Katsuki sits there, frozen, fingers twitching on the gearshift like he’s not sure whether to punch the dashboard or reverse time by sheer force of will. His heart’s still trying to beat its way out of his chest, like it hasn’t realized the war’s already started and ended all in the span of thirty goddamn seconds.

He scrubs a hand down his face. Lets his head fall back against the seat with a dull thunk.

Should he go after him? Probably.

Does he want to? Definitely. So bad it hurts.

But his legs don’t move.

They stay glued to the spot like the weight of everything — every messy thought, every unsaid word, every consequence — is holding him in place.

And it’s not just because he’s still not sure if Deku was messing with him. Not just because he doesn’t know if that little “what if” was some kind of power move or a genuine goddamn truth bomb dropped out of nowhere. 

It’s also all the other shit.

The heavy, complicated, twisted-up-in-knots kind of shit that comes with wanting someone you’re not supposed to want.

Wanting him. A guy.

It’s the fear — not just of being seen, but of being watched. Of eyes that aren’t just curious, but judgmental. Waiting to tear you down. It’s the cold, hard possibility of a career shrinking in the rearview because of who you love. 

It’s the voice in his head — the one that sounds like Kovalenko, low and clipped, “You don’t wanna go there, Bakugou.”

And fuck, maybe he’s right. Because “there” isn’t just a crush or a kiss or a moment in a car.

“There” is the NHL and its outdated playbook.

“There” is what doesn’t fit: gay, bi, just not right in a world that wants you to have a wife, two kids, a golden retriever, and a perfect lawn behind your perfectly painted white fence.

“There” is the place where fire on the ice doesn’t coexist with softness off of it. Where a man can’t be both a powerhouse and someone who aches to hold another man in the dark.

It’s the pressure. The silence. The image.

It’s all of it.

So yeah — Katsuki’s legs stay locked in place.

His hands stay tight on the wheel.

And his heart?

It stays right there in his throat, choking him with everything he never let himself have.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Own The Moment

"I don't know what we are, but I miss what we were."

The merits of being a potential Olympic athlete? Izuku has access to the rink before the rest of the world even considers waking up.

Not that anyone in their right mind should take advantage of that. At least, that’s what Ochako always says — usually while wrapped in three blankets, calling him a lunatic for even thinking about dragging her out of bed before sunrise.

And yeah. She’s probably right.

Because no one with a shred of sanity left voluntarily enters the rink when the overhead lights are still half-off, buzzing like they’re deciding whether to wake up or quit altogether. When the only other signs of life are the janitorial staff with their carts and the muffled sound of an admin typing something aggressively in the front office.

But Izuku’s here anyway.

The cold greets him like an old friend as he slips through the quiet hallway and into one of the smaller, more private changing rooms — another perk of being on the Olympic radar.

He drops his bag, toes off his sneakers, and sits heavily on the bench in front of his usual locker. The metal is cold against his back. The silence hums in his ears. 

He hasn’t slept. Not really. Maybe two hours, max — the kind of sleep where your body pretends to rest but your brain keeps replaying the same moment over and over again like it’s on a glitching loop.

Ever since he stepped out of that car last night. Or — ran , more like. Fled the scene like a total coward before Katsuki could say anything that might’ve made it worse. Or worse…made it real.

He’d turned off his phone. Ignored Ochako’s messages. Stared at the ceiling of the apartment — their apartment, for now — like it might offer some kind of clarity. Some divine reasoning. Some post-fact explanation for what the hell he was thinking when he blurted it out.

What if I told you I enjoyed kissing you?

God.

Elbows braced on his knees, Izuku buries his face in his hands, heat crawling up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. A sunburn made of shame.

He presses the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, like he can rub the memory out of existence. Like if he pushes hard enough, he might be able to forget how Katsuki looked at him afterward. Wide-eyed. Speechless.

He’s usually smarter than this.

More calculated.

Measured, even in his worst spirals.

But this? This was impulsive. Reckless. So freaking stupid.

He didn’t mean to say it. Not in that way. Not in that moment. Not to him.

But also… maybe he did. Maybe the words had been sitting there, buried so deep under years of denial and distance and half-sorted feelings, that they just slipped out the second he got too close to the edge. Maybe that’s why no one else ever quite measured up.

And now it’s out there. 

No takesies-backsies.

No rewind button. 

No undo.

So, the best option was to run. Because the second he saw the struggle in Katsuki’s eyes when that fan knocked — saw the dissonance between stay in this moment with me and be the hockey player everyone expects — Izuku knew there wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Not there. Maybe not ever.

He drags his bag closer, pulling out his skates like a ritual he can actually control. Soakers off. Guards on. He threads the laces slow, sets the eyelets just so, pulls until the tension is even — ankle snug, forefoot breathing, the knot double-secured. Tape, then tug. Habit, not thought.  

Everything to keep from picturing Katsuki’s face when the words left his mouth last night. Everything to not think too hard about the doors his truth-bomb might’ve cracked open — or the ones it slammed shut.

He stands, the cold pushing through the soles into bone, and rolls his ankles to wake the edges. Jacket zipped half, fingers flexing in thin gloves now, he breathes in that familiar clean-bitter scent of fresh ice and sanitizer and the faint ghost of resin. The kind of smell that always makes his chest loosen.

Out on the rink, the world narrows to sound: hollow echo of his blades, a far-off hum from the building waking up, the tiny hiss where steel meets frozen water. He coasts a lazy lap. Then another. Crossovers. Deeper knee bend. Edges like ink strokes across blank paper. The first honest quiet he’s had since he stepped out of Katsuki’s car. 

He pushes into a three-turn, lets the rhythm take him: inside-outside, switch, breathe. Chassés into a bracket, into a rocker, into a counter that almost sings when he hits it right. The body remembers even when the head won’t cooperate. Good. Let the body drive.

He sets up for a jump before he can talk himself out of it — Lutz pattern, long outside edge, pick in — up. Rotation’s there, landing isn’t, he checks too late and skids out, one hand kissing the ice. Not a full fall, not clean either.

He’s warming up differently today. Stupidly, if we’re being honest. Pushing before he’s warm. Asking his ankles to be heroes before they’ve even clocked in.

“Focus,” he mutters, and drives into another pass.

Double toe. Clean.

Loop. Better.

Axel set-up — check… no, late again, he has to step out, the blade squealing a protest across the sheet. He huffs a laugh that sounds too much like a wince and shakes out his arms, rolling his neck until it pops.

Count the beats. Trust the pattern. And don’t think about a mouth that isn’t yours.

He cuts a diagonal and strings edges together — RFO three, change edge, bracket, counter — until the rhythm lives in his legs instead of his head. Breath evens. Shoulders drop. For a few seconds he’s just physics and ice.

Okay. Again.

“Better,” he tells the empty rink, like it’s listening.

A door creaks. Fluorescents wake fully with a harsher buzz. Footsteps. A paper cup taps the top of the boards near center, the lid steaming like a tiny volcano.

“You’re insane,” Ochako’s voice announces, equal parts fond and unimpressed. She’s a walking blanket — parka, scarf, hair jammed under a beanie —  eyes squinting against the cold. “Also, I brought caffeine, because I love you and I fear you.”

He glides toward her.

“I never know if I want to be you,” she says, peeling off the beanie, “or throttle you for making me look like a lazy couch potato for not being here while normal people are still cocooned in their sheets. Value sleep, Izuku. I mean it. The dark circles? Not sexy.”

“We’re potential Olympians , Ochako. You don’t just casually qualify.”

She snorts, sliding the cup closer, almost over the edge of the boards, so Izuku has to take it into his gloved hands. “Yeah, and potential Olympians also need functioning brain cells. Sleep is free recovery, babe. Use it.”

He lifts the cup and inhales like it’s oxygen. “I’ll sleep when we qualify.”

Her expression shifts, a notch more serious. “Speaking of Olympics… any news? Did Toshinori say what our chances look like?”

Izuku shrugs. “Hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Then it’s probably the same as last week,” she concludes. “Country spots got decided at Worlds back in March, and whatever was left got handed out at the qualifier in September. It’s October — Canada already knows how many pairs slots we’ve got. The rest is on us.”

Izuku finishes the thought, tracing tiny lazy arcs with the coffee in his glove. “Means quotas belong to the country, not us. We still have to: one, hit the ISU minimum TES for both programs at a legit senior international before the deadline, two, look good at our fall assignments — Challengers, Grand Prix — so Skate Canada actually picks us, three, not implode at Nationals in January.”

She makes a face like she’s hearing the fine print for the first time. “So WTT didn’t matter.”

“I told you…it mattered for everything but quotas,” he reminds her. “Score momentum. Judge eyeballs. Federation PR. It’s the ‘hey, we’re credible’ stamp. But the tickets to the Olympics? Those were punched at Worlds and the September qualifier.”

Ochako groans into her scarf. “So it mattered to my ego.”