Skating on Fractured Ground

by Ih8u2much

Summary:

A towering hockey player with a shadowed past, Eijiro Kirishima, accidentally stumbles into Rink 2, interrupting the breathtaking practice of Katsuki Bakugo, an enigmatic figure skater with a meticulously crafted, yet fragile, facade. When Bakugo's old ankle injury flares, sending him crashing to the ice, their gazes lock, sparking an unexpected connection amidst the pain and fury. As their worlds collide, the truth about Kirishima's hockey-related trauma and Bakugo's brutal past and manipulative coach slowly begins to surface, threatening to shatter the delicate balance of their lives and force them to confront their deepest scars.

Chapter 1: A Wrong Turn, A Right Place

Notes:

Had this on my mind for a while now!! First chapter will be kirishima's POV!!

Don't flame me for my mistakes!!

Enjoy!!

The hum of the fluorescent lights was a constant companion in the cavernous sports complex, a low, buzzing drone that seemed to vibrate through the very air. Eijiro Kirishima, his heavy hockey bag slung over a shoulder that was already starting to ache, sighed for what felt like the tenth time. He was supposed to be in Rink 3 for an extra practice session, a last-minute call from his coach to work on power plays before tomorrow’s scrimmage. But this sprawling, maze-like building felt less like an arena and more like a never-ending labyrinth designed purely to confuse.

He swore under his breath, a puff of condensed air visible in the cool hallway. He’d followed the signs, he was sure of it, but every turn seemed to lead to another identical corridor, smelling faintly of stale sweat, ozone, and something vaguely like disinfectant. This was the third door he’d approached that just didn't feel right. He squinted at the faded sign above the steel frame. "Rink 2 – Figure Skating." Figure skating? Definitely not Rink 3. He wasn’t here for elegant pirouettes or sparkly costumes. He was here to bash a puck around and sweat until he felt like he’d actually earned his post-practice protein shake.

Still, his internal compass was completely shot. Maybe he could just cut through? It had to lead somewhere closer to Rink 3. Deciding it was worth the risk of looking like an idiot, he pushed open the heavy door. The immediate blast of colder air was refreshing, a sharp contrast to the stuffy hallway. The sounds shifted too, from the distant thud of a basketball and the faint echo of whistles to a more ethereal, whispery scrape of blades on ice, punctuated by the occasional soft whoosh.

And then he saw him.

Eijiro froze, the hockey bag sliding further down his arm. In the center of the vast, pristine sheet of ice, under the concentrated glow of the arena lights, a single figure moved with such breathtaking elegance that Eijiro’s mind simply went blank. It was a guy, a blur of ash-blonde hair and what looked like a form-fitting black practice uniform, moving like liquid poetry.

He was in the middle of a routine, and every muscle in Eijiro’s hockey-trained body registered the sheer, incredible precision of the movements. The skater launched himself into the air, a graceful spring that seemed to defy gravity, twisting through what looked like three full rotations before landing with a feather-light grace that barely disturbed the ice. A triple axel, Eijiro's brain supplied, though he only vaguely knew the terms. It looked impossible, yet the guy made it look effortless, almost casual.

Eijiro found himself completely mesmerized. He'd never really paid attention to figure skating before, always thinking of it as 'pretty' but not 'powerful.' This guy, though, he was both. Every line of his body was exquisite, every extension fluid, his arms reaching, his legs extending, as if he was carving art into the ice itself. He was lean, agile, but there was a coiled strength in his movements, a raw power beneath the elegant façade. The way the light caught his ash-blonde hair as he spun, the sharp, almost aristocratic angles of his profile when he briefly turned towards the stands – it made him look less like a human and more like some ancient deity of ice and ambition. An ice god, right there in the middle of a random rink.

The air around the skater seemed to vibrate with intense concentration, a palpable force that kept Eijiro rooted to the spot. He executed a series of lightning-fast footwork steps, his blades weaving intricate patterns on the ice, then transitioned into a rapid, controlled pirouette. The crimson of his eyes, intense even from a distance, was fixed on something only he could see, a vision of perfection he was striving to achieve.

He was nearing the end of his routine, building towards a difficult combination of jumps and spins, when it happened. He pushed off for what looked like another massive jump, his body coiling, launching. For a split second, he was airborne, suspended in a moment of pure grace. Then, a sudden, sickening crack echoed through the vast space, loud in the relative quiet of the rink. It was almost imperceptible, a slight hitch in his form, a micro-second of imbalance. But it was enough.

His left ankle seemed to buckle mid-air, and the feather-light landing became a brutal, awkward fall. He hit the ice with a harsh thud, sliding several feet before coming to a complete stop. The godlike grace shattered, replaced by a raw, guttural cry of pure, unadulterated frustration and fury.

He didn't move for a second, just lay there, chest heaving. Then, with a snarl that was more animal than human, he slammed his fist against the ice, a sharp, echoing thwack. His face, which had been a mask of intense concentration moments before, was now contorted in a silent scream of rage, lips pulled back to reveal gritted teeth. He slowly pushed himself up, leveraging an arm, his other hand clutching his ankle. The sheer, incandescent anger radiating off him was almost visible, a red haze in Eijiro’s vision.

"Hey, you alright?!" Eijiro’s voice boomed, maybe a little louder than he intended, echoing in the vast, empty space. He took another step onto the rubber matting that bordered the ice, his big hockey skates, still in their guards, clunking softly. He genuinely just wanted to know if the guy was hurt. That fall looked brutal, the kind that sent shivers down your spine even if it wasn't you.

The skater on the ice slowly, painfully, pushed himself up to a kneeling position, his left hand still clasped tight around his right ankle. Even from a distance, Eijiro could see the tautness in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip. But it was the glare that truly struck him. Those intense crimson eyes, narrowed to slits, pierced through Eijiro with a force that felt almost physical. There was no pain visible in them now, only a raw, seething fury, like a wildfire trapped behind a pair of perfectly sculpted eyelids.

"The hell do you want?" the skater bit out, his voice sharp, rasping, like ice cracking under pressure. It was surprisingly deep for someone with such delicate movements, laced with an unmistakable edge of pure venom. He finally pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly for a moment before planting himself firmly, though Eijiro noticed he favored his left leg just a fraction.

Eijiro took him in properly, a quick, almost automatic assessment. The skater was dressed in what looked like standard practice gear, but it sat on him with an almost custom-tailored precision. He wore a black, long-sleeved athletic top that hugged his torso, clearly showing the lean, defined muscles of his upper body – shoulders, arms, and a strong chest. It was the kind of top hockey players often wore under their pads, designed for movement and breathability, but on this guy, it looked almost elegant. His athletic pants were also black, form-fitting without being skin-tight, ending just above his sleek figure skates. The blades glinted under the lights, long and thin, completely different from the thick, curved blades of Eijiro's hockey skates. Everything about his outfit screamed "professional," "precise," and "expensive." Even the way his ash-blonde hair, spiky and a little damp from exertion, looked seemed deliberate, like a crown of sharp gold.

"You took a nasty fall," Eijiro said, ignoring the hostility in the skater's voice. "Just checking if you're okay. Looked like your ankle went out." He gestured vaguely towards the spot where the skater had gone down. His own hockey gear felt suddenly heavy and clumsy in comparison to the other's lithe form. His jersey, a practice one with his team's snarling badger logo, was a bit rumpled, and his pads, still in his bag, were bulky and utilitarian. His own hair, that vibrant, almost aggressive red, was a stark contrast to the skater's ash-blonde, and he knew his black roots were probably showing a good inch or so at his scalp, a permanent reminder of how long it had been since he’d bothered with a dye job.

The skater’s eyes narrowed further, if that was even possible. He took a hesitant step, then another, a slight wince flitting across his face before he masked it with pure stubbornness. He glided a few feet closer, his movements still fluid despite the obvious pain, stopping a few feet from the barrier separating them. From this closer vantage point, Eijiro could see the sheer intensity in his eyes, like molten gold. He also noticed a faint, almost invisible scar just above the skater's left eyebrow, a thin white line against his pale skin.

"I'm fine," the skater practically hissed, each word clipped and sharp. "And it's none of your damn business, you overgrown extra." His gaze swept over Eijiro, lingering dismissively on his height – 6'6" of pure hockey player – and his somewhat disheveled appearance. "What are you even doing in here? This isn't for you."

Eijiro chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "Overgrown extra, huh? I'm Eijiro Kirishima, and I'm pretty sure I took a wrong turn." He gestured vaguely behind him. "Was looking for Rink 3. Ended up here. And before you assume, I wasn't watching you. Just walked in. Then you, uh... went down." He decided not to mention the "ice god" part. Probably wouldn't go over well.

The skater’s jaw clenched, his teeth practically grinding together. "Kirishima, huh? Well, Kirishima, get lost. I don't need some lanky hockey brute gawking at me." He pushed off the ice with his good leg, attempting a slow glide away, but his injured ankle clearly rebelled. He wobbled, nearly catching an edge, and had to quickly plant his hand on the ice to steady himself. A flicker of genuine pain, and something akin to humiliation, crossed his face before it was replaced by an even more ferocious scowl.

"See?" Eijiro said, ignoring the insult and his own growing amusement at the sheer stubbornness of the guy. "You're not fine. You clearly hurt your ankle. You should probably get off the ice and put some ice on that." He leaned slightly over the barrier, his concern outweighing his desire to just leave. He’d seen enough injuries in his own career to know when someone was trying to tough it out and failing.

The skater glared up at him, his chest heaving slightly. His face was flushed, a combination of exertion and pure, incandescent fury. "I said I'm fine!" he yelled, his voice rising in volume, echoing off the empty seats. "Just a little… slip! Now out! Get out!" He pointed a shaking, black-gloved finger towards the door Eijiro had come through.

Eijiro raised his hands in a placating gesture, a small, good-natured smile on his face. "Alright, alright, grumpy. No need to yell. Just trying to help." He started to back away slowly, still not entirely convinced the guy wouldn't just collapse once he was gone. But he also knew when to pick his battles. This guy was clearly not in the mood for sympathy, no matter how genuine. "Hope you feel better, though. Seriously. That was a rough one."

He turned, the heavy hockey bag swinging as he did, and pushed the door open once more. Just before he stepped out, he glanced back. The skater was still standing in the center of the rink, hunched slightly, his shoulders tense. He was looking down at his skates, then slowly, deliberately, he raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the empty stands as if searching for something, or someone. A flicker of something, something raw and vulnerable, crossed his features – frustration, yes, but also a profound, bitter disappointment that twisted his otherwise striking face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by that familiar, furious scowl as he looked back at the door Eijiro was holding open. Their eyes met for a final, intense moment, a silent clash of red on red, before Eijiro finally stepped back into the bland hallway, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him, cutting off the chill and the mesmerizing, furious figure on the ice.

He sighed, the image of the furious, graceful skater burned into his mind. What an absolute hothead. And yet, there was something undeniably captivating about him, even when he was spitting fire. Eijiro shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. He still had to find Rink 3.

The heavy door creaked shut behind Eijiro, muffling the chill of Rink 2 and the lingering image of the furious ash-blonde skater. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. What a hothead. And yet… the memory of those impossible jumps, the sheer grace, the way he moved like water over ice – it was burned into Eijiro’s brain. He’d never seen anything quite like it. He almost wished he’d stayed longer, just to watch, even if it meant getting an earful.

But duty called. And so did the ever-elusive Rink 3.

He retraced his steps, paying closer attention to the signs this time, determined not to end up in the swimming complex or, worse, the curling rink. Finally, after what felt like an eternity navigating identical hallways, a familiar smell hit him: the unmistakable scent of stale hockey pads, sweat, and cheap Gatorade. He grinned, a genuine, relieved smile spreading across his face. Bingo.

He pushed open the door to Rink 3, and the cacophony hit him like a physical force. The loud thud of pucks hitting the boards, the scrape of skates, the sharp shouts of his teammates, and the droning voice of their coach, Aizawa, filled the air. This was his world. This was home.

"Well, well, well, look what the Zamboni dragged in," a voice drawled, cutting through the din. It was Kaminari, his linemate and resident goofball, leaning against the boards, stick in hand, a wide grin splitting his face. "Thought we'd have to send out a search party, Kirishima! Still getting lost in this place after seven years? You practically grew up here!"

Eijiro chuckled, dropping his hockey bag with a resounding thud that echoed in the empty stands. "Hey, not my fault this place is a labyrinth! Every hallway looks the same." He started pulling out his gear – shin guards, elbow pads, chest protector – the familiar ritual a comforting anchor after his unexpected detour.

"Come on, Kirishima, you've been practicing in this complex since you were seventeen," Sero chimed in, skating past and raking his stick lightly across Kirishima's shins. "You're twenty-four now! That's almost half your life, dude. You should be giving tours."

"Yeah, maybe I just like exploring!" Eijiro retorted good-naturedly, pulling his practice jersey over his head. The red and black material, slightly worn but still bearing the snarling badger emblem of their team, felt right. He adjusted his shoulder pads, the familiar bulk settling comfortably. "Besides," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "you guys wouldn't believe what I just saw in Rink 2."

This piqued their interest. Kaminari immediately stopped stretching. "Oh? What, some little kid trying to eat the ice shaving off the floor?"

Eijiro shook his head, a genuine look of concern settling on his face. "What? No! There was a guy in there… he's incredible. Like, seriously next level. I accidentally walked into his practice, and holy crap. The way he moves… he just glides. Like he's not even touching the ice. His jumps are insane, and he just lands them so perfectly, so light." He didn't mention the injury, or the absolute snark-fest that followed. That was for him to keep. He just wanted to convey the pure, unadulterated talent he’d witnessed.

A chorus of groans and playful jeers erupted. "Whoa, Kirishima, didn't know you were into all that fancy stuff," sneered Tetsutetsu, his grin wide and challenging. "Sounds a little... delicate for a big, burly hockey player like you, huh?"

"Delicate?!" Eijiro scoffed, adjusting his helmet. "Dude, you should have seen it! It wasn't delicate, it was powerful. He makes it look easy, but you can tell the amount of strength and control he has. He's probably got muscles in places you didn't even know existed." He realized he was getting a little too passionate about this, but he couldn't help it. The image of the skater, airborne and perfect, was still so vivid.

Kaminari snorted. "Muscles? Please. Those figure skaters just spin around in sparkly outfits. We hit people. That's real power." He slammed his stick against the ice, creating a satisfying thwack.

"Yeah, we actually use our blades for more than just drawing pretty pictures," grumbled Sato, skating over, his massive frame dwarfing Kaminari. "They’d probably snap if they had to actually take a hit."

"Oh, come on, guys, don't knock it 'til you've seen it!" Eijiro protested, pulling on his gloves. "Seriously, this guy was… something else. It was like watching art."

"Art?" Tetsu came over, stick in hand, shaking his head. "Kirishima, you're getting soft, man. Next thing you know, you'll be asking for rhinestones on your helmet. Don't tell me you're gonna cross over to the dark side of the rink?"

The teasing escalated, morphing into the familiar, good-natured banter that filled their locker room and practice sessions. But beneath the surface, Eijiro felt a familiar, long-standing rivalry bubble up. Hockey versus figure skating. Gritty strength versus graceful precision. It was an old argument, as old as the ice itself, and his teammates were all firmly on one side. They saw figure skating as effeminate, weak, a far cry from the "manly" sport of hockey.

Eijiro just rolled his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. He knew what he saw. And what he saw was undeniable talent, raw and powerful, even if it came wrapped in elegance. He laced up his own skates, the familiar weight and feel of them grounding him. The ice beneath him was hard, cold, and ready for impact. But somewhere in the complex, another patch of ice held a different kind of magic, and a skater who, despite his terrifying glare, had left an indelible impression. He wondered if he’d ever see that 'ice god' again. A part of him, a part he didn't quite understand yet, hoped he would.

—-----------

The rest of practice was a blur of familiar intensity. Eijiro found his rhythm quickly, the friendly banter fading into the sharp focus of drills. He lived for the controlled chaos of the ice, the feeling of his blades biting into the frozen surface, the thunderous impact of a body check, the satisfying clang of a puck hitting the post. He worked hard, pushing himself until his muscles burned and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. Kaminari, Sero, and even Tetsutetsu, for all their teasing, were reliable linemates, their movements intuitive, almost telepathic, as they wove intricate patterns on the ice. They were more than just teammates; they were a second family, the solid ground beneath his feet after years of feeling adrift. Their easy camaraderie was a balm, a constant hum of normalcy that helped to quiet the louder, darker echoes of his past.

After practice, the locker room was a symphony of sloshing showers, rough towel snaps, and the scent of liniment and stale gear. "Good hustle today, Kirishima!" Sato clapped him on the back, a heavy but friendly blow that nearly sent him sprawling. "Looked like you were trying to out-skate that figure skater you saw."

Eijiro just laughed, toweling off his bright red hair. "Maybe I was! He was fast, I'll give him that." He kept the memory of the skater's intense eyes and raw fury to himself. It felt… personal, somehow.

Eventually, showered and dressed– a worn band t-shirt and comfortable jeans – Eijiro hoisted his bag once more. "See ya tomorrow, guys," he called out, heading for the exit. He walked slower now, his body pleasantly tired, his mind drifting.

He found himself, almost unconsciously, taking the long way out, past the very rink where he’d stumbled earlier. Rink 2. The lights were still on inside, casting a cold, bright glow. He paused at the door, drawn by an invisible thread. He didn't push it open this time, just peered through the small, reinforced window set into the door.

The ice god was still there.

He was standing near the boards, not on the ice, but beside a figure that Eijiro assumed was his coach. The coach was a stocky man, with a stern, unsmiling face and an almost rigid posture. He was speaking, gesturing with one hand, and even from this distance, Eijiro could sense the intense focus emanating from the skater. He was listening, head slightly bowed, his ash-blonde hair falling across his face. He wasn't moving much, but his shoulders were still tense, his back ramrod straight, even off the ice. The familiar anger seemed to have been replaced by an almost weary resignation. He looked… smaller, somehow, less imposing without the wild energy that had radiated from him on the ice. He looked less like a god and more like a very tired human.

Eijiro watched for a few more moments, a strange sense of unease settling over him. The coach's gestures seemed sharp, almost cutting. And the skater, usually so explosive, was unnaturally still, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the ground. Eijiro couldn't hear what they were saying, but the body language was clear: it wasn't a friendly chat. He felt a flicker of something in his chest, a mix of curiosity and a nascent protectiveness that surprised him. He pushed the feeling down. It wasn’t his business. He was just a random hockey player who’d taken a wrong turn.

With a final glance, Eijiro tore himself away from the window, the image of the stern coach and the quieted skater etched in his mind. He headed out into the cool night air, the city lights beginning to prickle against the darkening sky.

—------------

Eijiro’s apartment was a familiar haven, not flashy but comfortable. He shared it with his best friend and former college roommate, Fat Gum, a burly, perpetually hungry man who worked as a culinary instructor. Their place was a testament to their combined personalities: a large, worn sectional couch dominating the living room, surrounded by an eclectic collection of hockey memorabilia and surprisingly high-end cooking gadgets. The scent of whatever Fat Gum had been experimenting with in the kitchen usually lingered in the air – tonight, it was a savory aroma of garlic and herbs.

He pushed open the door, his skates clanking as he set his bag down. "I'm home!" he called out, shrugging off his jacket.

"Finally! Dinner's almost ready, Eijiro!" Fat Gum’s booming voice came from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of pots and pans. He emerged moments later, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, his round face beaming. "Thought you got lost in the complex again. You're predictable."

"Ha ha," Eijiro said, kicking off his shoes. "Actually, I did get lost. Ended up in the figure skating rink." He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "And I saw something… pretty incredible."

Fat Gum raised an eyebrow, spooning a generous portion of pasta onto two plates. "Oh? Someone finally convince you to try a triple toe loop?"

Eijiro shook his head, taking a seat at the small dining table. "Nah, but this guy… man, he was something else. He moves like no one I've ever seen. Like he's literally floating." He ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the conversation flowing easily as they recounted their days. Eijiro kept the details about the skater's injury and his coach to himself, a private thought he hadn't yet untangled.

After dinner, Eijiro retired to his room, a simple space dominated by a king-sized bed and a small desk cluttered with books and a few framed photos of his old hockey teams. He peeled off his clothes, tossing them into the laundry hamper, and pulled on an old, soft t-shirt and a pair of worn shorts. The day’s exertion had finally caught up with him, a deep-seated fatigue in his muscles. He ran a hand through his damp hair, feeling the contrast of the bright red ends against his noticeably black roots. He really needed to dye it soon, but finding the time and motivation was always a struggle.

He climbed into bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin. The silence of the apartment, broken only by the distant hum of the city and Fat Gum's occasional snoring from the next room, was comforting. He closed his eyes, the image of the ice god, both graceful and furiously angry, floating behind his eyelids.

Sleep came quickly, a deep, heavy descent. But it wasn't peaceful.

He was back on the ice, but it wasn't the brightly lit rink of today. This was older, colder, dimly lit by a single, flickering fluorescent light that cast long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and fear. He was wearing his old high school jersey, the faded number ‘4’ on his back. His hair wringed out of any color, just a black void. His skates scraped against the ice, a sickening sound, high-pitched and desperate.

A whistle pierced the air, shrill and deafening. Everything was moving too fast. There was a blur of bodies, the clash of sticks, the roar of a crowd that quickly morphed into a horrified gasp. He was in the middle of it, a crucial play, pushing hard, driven by the desperate need to win.

Then, the collision. It wasn’t a clean hit, not like the ones they practiced. It was a tangle of limbs, a sickening crunch. His vision narrowed to a single point: his best friend, his linemate, lying motionless on the ice. The blood was a vivid, shocking crimson against the pristine white. It spread, slowly, inexorably, like a nightmare in progress.

He was screaming, but no sound came out. His hands were shaking, reaching out, wanting to help, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed, an unseen force pinning him to the spot. The faces of his teammates were ghosts in the flickering light, mouths open in silent horror. The ice stretched out, endless and vast, stained red. The guilt, a crushing, suffocating weight, pressed down on his chest. It was his fault. All his fault. He’d been too aggressive, too reckless, too focused on the win.

He could still hear the ambulance sirens, distant at first, then closer, wailing like banshees. He could still feel the cold dread that had settled in his bones, never truly leaving. The feeling of being responsible, of having shattered someone else’s future in a single, careless moment.

He jolted awake, gasping, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The room was dark, silent, safe. But his heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic drum, and the phantom smell of blood and sterile ice still clung to his nostrils. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, burying his face in his hands. It had been years, but the nightmare still came, always dragging him back to that moment, that terrible, irreversible moment on the ice. He took a few shaky breaths, trying to ground himself in the present, in the comfortable silence of his apartment. It took a long time for his heart rate to slow, for the cold tendrils of guilt to recede, leaving behind only the familiar ache of a past he could never outrun.

The morning after the nightmare, Eijiro woke up feeling the lingering chill of the dream. He pushed down the unease, the familiar, practiced motion of someone accustomed to burying unpleasant memories. A quick glance at his phone revealed a text from Coach Aizawa: Morning practice moved to 2 PM. Be there.

"Seriously?" Eijiro mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. He was already wide awake, the adrenaline from the dream still buzzing in his veins. Now what was he supposed to do all morning?

After a quick breakfast—Fat Gum, ever the early bird, had already whipped up a batch of fluffy pancakes—Eijiro found himself restless. He considered hitting the gym for some solo drills, but the complex felt… different today. He thought back to the figure skater, the way he moved, the raw power beneath the grace. Curiosity, a potent and unusual feeling for Eijiro outside of a new hockey strategy, tugged at him.

He decided to head to the complex anyway. He could get some extra conditioning in, maybe even hit the shooting range. Dressed in comfortable workout clothes – a loose-fitting gray hoodie and sweatpants – he grabbed his keys and wallet. The air outside was crisp, promising a clear day.

True to form, even without the pressure of a specific rink time, Eijiro managed to get turned around. Blaming it on habit, or maybe just a magnetic pull, he found himself once again pushing open the door to Rink 2. The familiar blast of cold air hit him, along with the whispery scrape of blades on ice.

And there he was. The ash-blonde skater.

He was in the middle of a different routine today, one that seemed less about explosive jumps and more about intricate spins. He was a blur of motion, spinning so fast he seemed to become a human top, his body perfectly centered, arms tucked in, then slowly extending, elongating the spin, like a magician drawing out a trick. His hair, caught in the centrifugal force, fanned out around his head. Eijiro found himself completely mesmerized all over again, settling onto a bench in the stands, just watching.

The coach from last night was there too, standing by the boards, a stern, watchful presence. He wasn’t yelling, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing. He’d occasionally make a small gesture, or nod, a silent communication with the skater on the ice. At one point, the skater stumbled slightly on an edge during a particularly fast spin, catching himself before he fell. The coach immediately banged his fist lightly on the boards, a sharp, disapproving sound that echoed in the quiet rink. The skater flinched, then doubled down on the spin, faster, more intensely, as if punishing himself for the mistake. It was a strange dynamic to watch, almost… cold.

After what seemed like an eternity, the coach finally signaled. The skater glided to the boards, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. The coach leaned in, speaking in low, rapid tones. Eijiro couldn’t make out the words, but the coach’s body language was stiff, unyielding. He handed the skater a water bottle and a small towel, then clapped him sharply on the shoulder, a gesture that seemed more like a command than encouragement. Without another word, the coach turned and walked out of the rink, leaving the ash-blonde skater alone on the ice, shoulders slumped, looking utterly exhausted.

This was his chance.

Eijiro stood up from the stands, his presence finally registering with the skater. The crimson eyes snapped up, widening slightly in surprise, then narrowing into that familiar, guarded glare.

"You again," the skater bit out, his voice laced with annoyance, though a flicker of something else – curiosity? – crossed his face.

Eijiro gave him a small, earnest smile. "Yeah, me again. Morning practice got moved, so I figured I'd get some extra work in." He approached the barrier, leaning against it casually. "But seriously, man, how do you do that?" He gestured towards the ice. "All that spinning? I get dizzy just watching, let alone doing it. It's crazy."

The skater blinked, a fleeting expression of surprise replacing some of the usual hostility. He seemed momentarily thrown off balance by the genuine admiration in Eijiro's tone. "It's called a 'spin'," he scoffed, recovering his usual bravado. "And it's about finding your center of gravity, you idiot. Something you brute hockey players wouldn't know anything about, always just ramming into each other."

Eijiro chuckled, shaking his head. "Hey, it's not all ramming! There's strategy, precision. We control the puck, weave through defense. It's a whole different kind of grace, you know?" He leaned forward, intrigued. "But your stuff… it’s like magic. Like you're defying physics. How do you not fall over?"

"It's not magic, it's skill," the skater retorted, pushing off the boards slightly, his chest puffing out just a bit. "Years of practice. Unlike your sport, which is just about brute force and trying not to break someone's teeth."

"Oh, come on, that's unfair!" Eijiro protested, grinning. "We need stamina, agility, speed! And don't even get me started on stickhandling. It’s a lot more complex than just… twirling around." He instantly regretted the word "twirling," knowing it would spark a reaction.

It did. The skater's eyes flared, a spark of pure, competitive fire igniting in their depths. "Twirling?! You think this is just 'twirling'?" He gestured grandly to the ice beneath him. "This requires more balance, more body control, more finesse than anything you Neanderthals do on the ice!"

"Oh yeah?" Eijiro countered, his own competitive spirit, usually reserved for the rink, now fully engaged. This was fun. This was different from the usual, good-natured jabs from his teammates. This was a challenge. "You wanna talk balance? Try stopping a hundred-mile-an-hour slap shot while staying on your feet. Or taking a check from a guy twice your size and still getting the puck out."

The skater let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "Please. That's just glorified sumo wrestling on ice. You wouldn't last five minutes trying to pull off a quad toe loop. You'd probably break the ice."

"And you wouldn't last a single shift against my team," Eijiro shot back, a wide, challenging grin spreading across his face. "You'd be wiped out before you even knew what hit you."

The air between them crackled, not with animosity now, but with an unfamiliar, exhilarating competitive energy. The skater’s gaze intensified, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. He pushed off the boards again, gliding a full circle around the rink, his movements powerful and deliberate. When he came back to the barrier, his chest was still heaving, but his face was set, determined.

"Alright, muscle-brain," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "Let's put this to the test." He looked Eijiro up and down, a calculating gaze that seemed to size up every inch of his frame. "You think you can handle my skates?"

Eijiro blinked, surprised. "Uh, maybe? But I don't exactly have any figure skates that would fit me."

A smirk, sharp and confident, spread across the skater's face. "Don't worry about that." He pushed off the barrier, gliding gracefully towards a door at the side of the rink that Eijiro hadn't noticed before. "Stay there, you oaf. I'll be right back."

Eijiro watched him go, a sense of anticipation bubbling in his chest. This was getting interesting. He heard the distant clatter of what sounded like skates and gear from behind the door. Moments later, it swung open again, and the skater emerged, somehow managing to carry an armful of equipment while still on his skates.

He came to a stop in front of Eijiro, dropping two pairs of skates onto the rubber matting. One pair was his own, sleek figure skates. The other pair, however, was massive. White, pristine figure skates, easily a men's size 13 or 14, blades gleaming. And clutched in his other hand, almost comically, was a pair of hockey skates—standard black, with chunky, protective boots and thick, short blades. His own, probably, the ones he must have worn at some point.

The skater’s crimson eyes were alight with fierce, almost manic glee. "Alright, Kirishima. You want to see what 'twirling' is all about? You get on those. And I," he declared, holding up the hockey skates, "will show you what real power is. We'll show each other whose sport is truly superior. Deal?"

Eijiro stared down at the massive white figure skates in his hands, then back up at the ash-blonde skater, whose smirk had widened into something dangerously close to a triumphant grin. "Deal," he said, the word sounding a little more reckless than he usually preferred. But the competitive fire, stoked by the skater’s challenge, was now a roaring bonfire in his chest.

He sat down on the rubber matting next to the barrier, fumbling with the laces of his sneakers. The figure skates felt alien in his hands, so light and deceptively simple compared to the bulky, armored boots of his hockey skates. They were surprisingly stiff, too, the tall ankle support a stark contrast to the lower, more flexible cut of his usual gear. As he wrestled his large feet into them, it became immediately clear that these were not designed for the wide, powerful stance of a hockey player. He cinched the laces, trying to get them snug, but they just felt… wrong. Like trying to fit a square peg into a very elegant, pointy hole.

Across from him, the skater had already swapped his figure skates for the hockey ones with effortless speed. He seemed to handle them with an almost casual disdain, as if they were a child’s toy. They looked utterly dwarfed on his slender feet, almost comical in their utilitarian chunkiness. He even managed a quick, nimble glide across the rubber matting, testing the blades. Eijiro noticed a small, almost imperceptible tremor in his left leg as he did so, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, masked by a determined set to his jaw.

"Alright, muscle-brain," the skater said, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. "Don't break your neck. The ice isn't as forgiving as your hockey pads." He pushed off the barrier, gliding gracefully onto the ice, then spun to face Eijiro. He looked far too comfortable in the foreign skates.

Eijiro stood up, pushing off the barrier, and immediately understood the skater’s warning. These blades were long, thin, and terrifyingly straight. There was no comfortable curve, no familiar rocking motion. It was like standing on two sharpened pencils. He took one wobbly step, then another, his arms flailing comically to keep his balance. Every instinct screamed at him to bend his knees deeper, to shift his weight like he would in hockey, but these skates demanded an entirely different posture, a delicate balance he simply didn't possess.

He looked like a newborn giraffe trying to walk for the first time. His frame teetered precariously, his bright red hair, still slightly damp from his earlier shower, bobbing wildly with each clumsy attempt to find his center. He managed to shuffle forward a few feet, then his right foot slid out from under him. He windmilled his arms furiously, let out a startled "Whoa!" and then went down with a loud, undignified thud that echoed through the rink. His massive body hit the ice like a fallen redwood, sending a spray of ice shards in every direction.

He lay there for a moment, groaning, more from embarrassment than actual pain. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking up at the ash-blonde skater.

The skater was standing perfectly still, his hockey skates looking surprisingly natural on his feet. He was staring down at Eijiro, one hand covering his mouth. Eijiro braced himself for the inevitable insult, the biting remark. But what came out instead was a strange, choked sound. A snort. A genuinely dorkish snort, quickly stifled, but it was there. And then, a small, undeniable giggle bubbled up, quickly suppressed, but it was enough. The corners of his eyes crinkled in genuine amusement, and for a fleeting moment, he looked almost… adorable.

Eijiro felt a rush of warmth, a strange mix of indignity and grudging affection. "Hey! That wasn't very manly!" he grumbled, pushing himself awkwardly back to his feet, grabbing onto the barrier for dear life. He wobbled like a bobblehead doll. "These things are death traps! How do you even move in them?"

The skater, still fighting a smile, glided over with surprising ease in the hockey skates. "You use your edges, idiot," he said, the derisive tone back, but a little softer now. "It's about balance, not just pushing off with your whole foot." He performed a small, effortless circle, demonstrating. "Alright, your turn. Try to make it from here to the blue line without falling. Twice."

Eijiro groaned. He could practically skate that distance backwards in his sleep in his hockey skates. In these? It felt like climbing Mount Everest in flip-flops. He tried again, shuffling, sliding, his ankles protesting furiously. He managed about ten feet before wobbling wildly and having to catch himself on the boards with a loud thump. The skater watched him, a tiny, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips, though Eijiro noticed he didn't laugh again. He looked almost... impatient.

"Okay, okay!" Eijiro finally called out, sliding back to the barrier, breathing a little heavily from the sheer effort of staying upright. "My turn to show you what real ice work is like. You think you can handle this?"

He reached into his hockey bag and pulled out a puck, a hard, black disc that felt solid and familiar in his hand. Then, he found a spare hockey stick, a lightweight composite one that he usually used for drills. He tossed the puck onto the ice towards the skater, then slid the stick across to him.

"Alright, hotshot," Eijiro said, a challenging glint in his eye. "Here's your task. Just skate to the center circle. And while you're doing it, keep that puck on your stick the whole time. Don't lose it. Don't let it touch the boards. Just skate and keep control. Easy, right?"

He knew it wasn't. For a hockey player, stickhandling was second nature, an extension of their arm. But for a figure skater, whose focus was on body control and blade work, a stick and a puck would be entirely alien.

The skater stared at the puck, then at the stick, then back at Eijiro, a flicker of surprise in his crimson eyes. He picked up the stick, holding it awkwardly, like a foreign object. He poked tentatively at the puck with the blade. The puck slid away a few inches, and he had to shuffle quickly on the hockey skates to retrieve it. His brow furrowed in concentration.

"What's the matter, too 'delicate' for a little puck handling?" Eijiro teased, enjoying the rare moment of seeing the unflappable skater look genuinely perplexed.

"Shut up, meathead," the skater growled, but there was no real heat behind it. He knelt down, studying the puck, then the stick. He took a deep breath, and then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed off.

He was a natural skater, even in hockey skates, which felt like clunky boots after his elegant figure skates. He glided with a surprising ease, his hips swaying slightly as he pushed. But the stick and puck were another matter entirely. He tried to move the puck, but it kept escaping, sliding too far ahead, or getting caught under his blade. He’d stop, retrieve it, then try again, his lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

He didn't give up. Not for a second. Eijiro watched, fascinated. The skater’s movements became more focused, less about speed and more about meticulous control. His usual explosive energy was replaced by a quiet, fierce determination. He didn't seem to notice Eijiro anymore, or the empty rink. He was in his own world, battling the stubborn puck, his movements becoming a strange, beautiful fusion of hockey power and figure skating precision. It was clumsy, yes, but undeniably captivating, a testament to his raw talent and relentless drive.

Eijiro leaned against the barrier, a small smile forming on his face. He watched, fascinated, as the ash-blonde skater continued his battle with the puck and stick. His movements, initially stiff and awkward, gradually began to loosen, adapting to the foreign equipment. He wasn't exactly graceful, but his fierce concentration was a sight to behold. He’d push the puck, lose it, retrieve it with a frustrated grunt, and then try again. He was relentless, utterly absorbed in the challenge. He moved from shuffling to a more deliberate glide, eyes fixed on the puck as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Minutes bled into what felt like an eternity. The arena lights hummed, casting long shadows across the ice, and the air grew colder, but the skater seemed oblivious. He was a force of pure, stubborn will, trying to coax the puck into submission. He even tried a few tentative turns, awkwardly dragging the stick along with him. It was nowhere near how a hockey player would move, but for a figure skater, it was oddly impressive.

Eijiro found himself grinning, leaning against the barrier, completely engrossed. He saw the fire he admired, that unyielding determination, burning bright in the skater’s eyes. It was a familiar fire, one he knew well from his own sport, but seeing it in someone so completely outside his world was captivating. He couldn't deny it; this guy was something special.

But time, unfortunately, was a stubborn opponent even for Kirishima. He glanced at his phone. Practice was in an hour, and he still needed to get dressed and warm up. He really needed that stick back.

"Hey!" Eijiro called out, his voice echoing a little. The skater didn't react, still meticulously trying to dribble the puck around a cone he'd set up. "Uh, hey! Blondie! Puck master!"

Nothing. The skater was in a zone, a world of his own, where only the puck and the stick existed. His tongue was even poking out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Eijiro sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement bubbling up. "Hey, skater boy! I actually need my stick back, you know? For, like, actual hockey stuff?"

Still no response. The skater executed a surprisingly decent turn, the puck actually staying with his stick for a whole two feet before sliding away again. He celebrated with a tiny, triumphant nod before focusing back on retrieval.

"Seriously, man!" Eijiro’s voice rose in volume, his patience starting to wear thin, though he was still smiling. "I gotta go! Give me the stick!" He clapped his hands together, making a sharp noise. "Hello?! Earth to ice god!"

That finally did it. The skater flinched, his head snapping up, his crimson eyes wide and startled. He looked around, disoriented for a second, then his gaze landed on Eijiro, a flush creeping up his neck. He looked… embarrassed. Genuinely, adorably embarrassed. His cheeks colored a faint pink, and he quickly dropped the stick and kicked the puck away with his skate blade, as if they were suddenly radioactive.

"Oh! Uh… right. You… you need this back," he stammered, awkwardly sliding the hockey stick back across the ice towards Eijiro. He avoided eye contact, looking down at his skates, then vaguely at the empty stands. The usual arrogant swagger had completely vanished, replaced by a sheepish awkwardness that was utterly disarming.

Eijiro picked up the stick, the familiar weight a comfort in his hand. "Yeah, I do. My coach isn't too keen on me showing up empty-handed." He leaned against the barrier again, a smile playing on his lips. "You were really focused there, huh? Almost got it."

The skater's head snapped up, a hint of his usual fire returning, but it was softer now, less aggressive. "I could have gotten it," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just needed a little more time." He paused, then, to Eijiro’s utter surprise, he actually shifted his weight, looking uncertain. He seemed to deliberate for a moment, then spoke, his voice lower, almost hesitant. "Hey… could you… could you come back tomorrow? Just for a little bit? So I can… you know, practice with it?"
Eijiro blinked. Was the great, arrogant ice god actually asking for help? And from him? A grin, wide and genuine, stretched across his face. This was better than he could have hoped for. He didn't just want to see the skater's dazzling moves again; he wanted to see this new, more vulnerable side, this unexpected humility, this fierce dedication to mastering something completely new.

"Yeah," Eijiro said, without a moment's hesitation. "Yeah, I can do that. Morning practice again?"

The skater nodded quickly, a spark of eagerness in his eyes. "Yeah. After the… after my coach leaves." He cleared his throat, looking away briefly before his gaze locked back onto Eijiro, an intense, almost unblinking stare. "Thanks."

Eijiro pushed off the barrier, ready to head out, a pleasant warmth spreading through his chest. "No problem, man. See ya tomorrow."

He was about to turn, to finally head off to his own practice, when the skater’s voice cut through the air again, sharp and clear.

"Bakugo," he said, his voice firm, tinged with a hint of challenge, as if daring Eijiro to forget it. "My name is Katsuki Bakugo."

Eijiro paused, turning fully back to face him. Katsuki Bakugo. The name suited him, sharp and explosive. He grinned. "Katsuki Bakugo," he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. "Nice to finally put a name to the... 'ice god'." He watched for a reaction, expecting the usual snarl. Instead, a faint blush touched Bakugo's cheeks, and he quickly looked away, a small, almost shy huff escaping him.

"Yeah, whatever, meathead," Bakugo muttered, kicking lightly at the ice with his hockey skate. "Just… don't be late tomorrow."

Eijiro chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound. "Wouldn't dream of it, Bakugo." He gave a small wave, then finally turned and headed out, a new lightness in his step. The competitive fire was still there, but now, it was tinged with something else, something warm and intriguing, something that promised more than just a silly rivalry. He had a name now. Katsuki Bakugo. And he had a hangout for tomorrow morning, on the ice.

Notes:

Good times and good vibes make me want to write!!

Chapter 2: Rinkside Revelry and Lingering Shadows

Notes:

This chapter delves into Bakugo's POV, rigorous training, the complicated dynamic with his coach, and a deeper look into his past.

Trigger warnings for discussions of past trauma, manipulation, and implied emotional and physical abuse.

Don't flame me for my mistakes!!

Please read with care.

The alarm clock blared, a jarring electronic shriek that tore through the pre-dawn quiet. Katsuki Bakugo’s hand shot out, slapping the snooze button with practiced efficiency before the sound could fully register in his still-sleepy brain. The red digital numbers glowed accusingly: 4:00 AM. An hour before he absolutely had to be at the rink, but exactly when he preferred to be there. More time for stretches, for mental run-throughs, for the quiet solitude of the ice before the world, and more importantly, his coach, descended upon it.

He lay there for a moment, eyes still closed, listening to the soft hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, muffled sounds of the city just beginning to stir outside his window. His apartment was small, meticulously organized, and almost stark in its simplicity. White walls, a single twin bed neatly made with a dark gray duvet, a small, uncluttered desk, and a wardrobe that held little more than practice gear and a few casual outfits. There were no personal touches, no photos or trinkets; every item served a purpose, mirroring the disciplined precision of his own life. It wasn't a home, not really. It was a functional space, a place to eat and sleep and prepare, nothing more.

Pushing himself up, Katsuki swung his legs over the side of the bed. His muscles, even after a full night’s sleep, felt taut, a familiar ache in his left ankle a constant reminder of the old injury. He stretched, a slow, deliberate series of movements, feeling the slight resistance in his hamstrings, the gentle pull in his shoulders. Every inch of his body was a finely tuned instrument, and he treated it with the reverent, almost obsessive care of a master craftsman.

He padded into the compact kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, then prepared his breakfast: a precise portion of oatmeal, measured to the gram, with a few carefully counted blueberries. His diet was as strict as his training regimen, every calorie accounted for, every nutrient optimized for peak performance. He ate in silence, mechanically chewing, his mind already drifting to the intricate patterns he would carve into the ice.

Afterward, he moved to his wardrobe. His practice uniform was laid out, as always, crisp and clean. A long-sleeved athletic top, made of a breathable, form-fitting black fabric that hugged his torso and highlighted the results of countless hours of training. He pulled it on, then slid into equally form-fitting black athletic pants designed to allow maximum flexibility. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror attached to the back of his door. The top surgery scars were faint now, almost invisible, but he still traced them with his fingers sometimes, a silent acknowledgment of the battles fought and won. His chest was flat, sculpted, a source of quiet pride. He adjusted the fit, ensuring there were no wrinkles, no imperfections. Perfection, even in a simple practice outfit, was paramount.

His ash-blonde hair, usually a spiky explosion, was still a little matted from sleep. He ran a comb through it, then worked his fingers through the strands, coaxing them into their usual defiant style. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock a welcome jolt to his system. He felt the dull throb in his left ankle, a persistent echo of that brutal fall, but he pushed it down, compartmentalizing the pain. He always did.

His skates, pristine and gleaming, were already packed in his bag along with a fresh towel and his water bottle. He lived only a fifteen-minute walk from the sports complex, a convenience that allowed him to avoid public transport and the unpredictable delays it brought. He preferred to walk, the brisk morning air clearing his head, the rhythmic crunch of his sneakers on the pavement a steadying beat.

The streets were still mostly empty, the city lights shimmering in the pre-dawn gloom. He moved with a purpose, a lean, agile figure cutting through the quiet. The sports complex loomed ahead, a massive, imposing structure that was both his prison and his sanctuary. He knew every twist and turn of its labyrinthine corridors, every echoing hallway, every shortcut. He headed straight for Rink 2, his rink, the one where he had spent countless hours honing his craft, pouring his very soul onto the ice.

The heavy door to Rink 2 swung open with a soft sigh. The cold air hit him, immediate and bracing, carrying the faint, sterile scent of ozone and ice. The rink was dark, save for the emergency lights that cast a faint glow, and the small, focused beam from the maintenance entrance where the Zamboni driver was just finishing up. The ice was a pristine, untouched canvas, waiting for him to bring it to life.

He didn't immediately step onto the ice. Instead, he made his way to a secluded corner just outside the rink, where a worn but sturdy mat lay. He dropped his bag, then began his stretching routine. These weren't the quick, perfunctory stretches of a hockey player, but deep, deliberate movements designed to lengthen and prepare every muscle for the intense demands of his sport. He focused on his core, his hamstrings, his quads, and especially his ankles. He gently rotated his left ankle, feeling the familiar twinge, acknowledging it, then pushing it from his mind. He would not allow it to dictate his performance. Not today. Not ever.

He was deep into a series of leg stretches, his head bowed, his breath coming in slow, even gasps, when he heard the familiar creak of the rink door opening again. He didn't need to look up. He knew who it was. The scent of an expensive, subtly spicy cologne reached him a moment later.

"Katsuki," a voice, smooth and pleasant, but with an underlying current of steel, cut through the quiet. "Right on time, as always. My star pupil."

Katsuki lifted his head, a practiced, neutral expression on his face. Coach Masato was standing over him, a tall, impeccably dressed man in his late thirties or early forties. Masato was alright in a chiseled, almost aristocratic way: sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and dark, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. His dark hair was always perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place. He exuded an aura of calm authority, a controlled power that Katsuki had initially found comforting, almost paternal. Masato knelt down, gracefully, his expensive suit trousers creasing slightly but not losing their sharp line.

"Morning, Coach," Katsuki responded, his voice even. He continued his stretch, but his awareness was now fully centered on Masato’s presence.

"Still working on those ankles, I see," Masato murmured, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers brushing against Katsuki’s left ankle. Even through his athletic pants, Katsuki felt the warmth of his touch. It was a familiar sensation, one that usually brought a degree of relief, a loosening of the tight muscles around the old injury.

"Just maintaining," Katsuki replied, trying to keep his voice steady, though a faint shiver ran through him.

Masato’s fingers began to work, a slow, deep massage into the tendons and ligaments around Katsuki’s ankle. His touch was expert, precise, finding every knot, every point of tension. It was almost painful, but in a way that promised release. Katsuki closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a small, involuntary sigh of relief.

"Good. We need those ankles pliable for the new short program," Masato continued, his voice still low, almost a whisper. "The spins are going to be more demanding. More rotations, faster entries." He moved his hands higher, tracing the line of Katsuki’s calf, then subtly moving up to his thigh, his thumb brushing against Katsuki’s inner thigh just a little too long, a little too intimately.

Katsuki’s eyes snapped open. He tensed, subtly shifting his weight, trying to pull away, but Masato’s grip on his ankle tightened just enough to prevent a full escape.

"And your quads," Masato murmured, his eyes fixed on Katsuki’s face, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. "They need to be stronger, more explosive for the quad lutz. We're aiming for perfection, aren't we, Katsuki?" His voice was still calm, reassuring, but the pressure of his thumb on Katsuki’s inner thigh was undeniable, a slow, deliberate caress.

Katsuki’s breath hitched. He tried to focus on the words, on the technical requirements of the lutz, but Masato’s touch was a burning brand, spreading an uncomfortable heat through his body. He felt a familiar knot of discomfort tighten in his stomach. This wasn't the first time. The touches had started subtly, a hand on his lower back during a lift, a lingering brush against his shoulder after a good run. Then they had grown bolder, disguised as corrective adjustments, as therapeutic massages. Always with the same calm, reassuring voice, the same impenetrable gaze.

"Yes, Coach," Katsuki managed to say, his voice a little strained. He forced himself to look directly into Masato’s eyes, searching for something, anything, to explain the unsettling intimacy. But all he saw was that same calm, confident gaze, completely unperturbed.

"Good," Masato said, his smile widening slightly. He finally released Katsuki’s thigh, his hand moving back to his ankle, though his fingers still lingered, tracing patterns on his skin. "That's my boy. Always striving for greatness. Always pushing yourself beyond limits." He patted Katsuki’s ankle once, then stood up smoothly, adjusting his suit jacket. "Alright, let's get you on the ice. We have a lot of work to do today. More than usual. We need to make up for lost time from your little 'stumble' yesterday." His gaze sharpened, a faint flicker of disapproval in his eyes as he mentioned the fall. "No more distractions, understood?"

"Understood, Coach," Katsuki replied, pushing himself to his feet, a cold dread settling in his stomach. The fleeting touch, the subtle insinuation, the veiled threat – it was all there, wrapped in the smooth packaging of a "concerned" coach. He picked up his skates, forcing his hands not to tremble. He knew what "more than usual" meant. It meant pushing past exhaustion, past pain, until he was nothing but a raw nerve, utterly reliant on Masato’s guidance, on his approval. It meant more time alone with the coach, more opportunities for those unsettling touches.

He laced up his skates, the familiar ritual a small comfort, a desperate grounding. He focused on the satisfying click of the buckles, the tight pull of the laces. He was a god on the ice, he reminded himself. He was powerful, in control. But as he stepped onto the pristine, untouched surface, a cold shiver ran down his spine, unrelated to the chill of the rink. He was trapped, bound by ambition and a deeply unsettling dependency, and the ice, his sanctuary, was slowly becoming another cage.

The first shard of ice carved by Katsuki's blade was a declaration. The chill of the rink, once a comfort, now felt like a shroud. Masato stood by the boards, a silent, imposing figure, occasionally barking an instruction or a sharp critique. Katsuki launched into his warm-up, each glide, each turn, each small jump executed with meticulous precision. He was a machine, finely tuned and ready for the relentless pace of his coach's demands.

Masato's practices were a brutal ballet of repetition and escalating difficulty. "Again, Katsuki! Higher! Faster! You're losing your edge on the landing, pick it up!" Masato's voice, though not overtly loud, cut through the air with the precision of a scalpel. He never raised his voice beyond a certain point, never truly yelled, which, in a way, made his pronouncements even more chilling. His disapproval was a quiet, insidious thing that burrowed into Katsuki's mind, feeding his ingrained need for perfection.

They worked on the new short program, a dizzying array of spins and complex footwork designed to showcase Bakugo's unparalleled agility. Each time Katsuki completed a particularly challenging spin combination, Masato would offer a terse "Better," or a dismissive wave of his hand, indicating it wasn't enough. He pushed Katsuki to repeat elements until his muscles screamed, until the graceful movements became a painful blur.

Then came the jumps. Masato demanded more air, more rotations, pushing for consistent quad attempts. Katsuki launched himself into the air, twisting, turning, landing with a jarring thud that sent a jolt of pain through his left ankle. He masked it, of course, his face a mask of fierce concentration, but the sharp agony was a constant, unwelcome companion.

"Your landing is soft, Katsuki," Masato observed, stepping onto the ice to demonstrate a tighter, more rigid finish. His own movements, even in street shoes on the thin ice, were controlled and precise. "You're favoring it. You need to push through. Pain is weakness leaving the body, remember?" His eyes, dark and unblinking, seemed to peer into Katsuki's very soul, seeking out any hint of vulnerability. He knew about the ankle, of course. He'd been the one to "treat" it, his hands leaving a trail of discomfort and unease.

The hours bled together. Katsuki pushed, and pushed, and pushed. He executed routine after routine, jump after jump, spin after spin, until the ice beneath his blades seemed to blur into a white expanse of pain and exertion. His lungs burned, his muscles ached, and his left ankle throbbed with a persistent, dull ache that threatened to blossom into blinding agony with every landing. He ignored it, forcing his body to obey, to reach for that unattainable perfection.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Masato clapped his hands once, a sharp, definitive sound. "That's enough for now, Katsuki. We'll pick this up tomorrow. Don't forget your dietary restrictions. And rest that ankle. We need you at peak performance for nationals." He offered no praise, no encouragement, just a set of instructions. His gaze lingered for a moment on Katsuki, a calculating, almost possessive look, before he turned and walked out of the rink, leaving Katsuki alone on the vast expanse of ice.

Katsuki glided to a stop in the center of the rink, chest heaving, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The silence was deafening after hours of his blades scraping and his coach's sharp commands. He looked around the empty rink, the bright fluorescent lights seeming to mock his exhaustion. He should leave. He should rest. But an invisible tether held him there.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. He drifted back to the center, then without conscious thought, began to move. Not the demanding new program, but an older one, a ghost of a routine he hadn't performed in years. It was the program he'd been practicing, almost flawlessly, the day his world shattered.

His movements were hesitant at first, tentative. Then, as the familiar patterns reasserted themselves, a strange energy surged through him. He glided, he spun, he built speed, each movement imbued with a raw, desperate power. This was the routine that should have been his breakthrough, the one that should have launched him into the highest echelons of ice skating.

He remembered the feeling of invincibility, the intoxicating thrill of absolute control. He had been untouchable, a prodigy, destined for greatness. Growing up, the ice had been his refuge, his escape from the constant barrage of discrimination. "Freak," they'd called him. "Abomination." His identity, his very being, had been a target for their cruelty. But on the ice, he was just Katsuki, the best. He was the one who defied gravity, who carved beauty from frozen water. Every insult, every sneer, every hateful whisper had fueled his ambition, driving him to prove them all wrong. He would succeed, not despite who he was, but because of it, on his own damn terms.

He built speed for the first jump in the routine, a quad toe loop. It was a monstrous jump, a four-revolution beast that demanded every ounce of strength and precision. He launched, soaring higher, twisting faster, a blur of ash-blonde and black. He saw himself, younger, leaner, poised for the perfect landing.

Then, the sickening crack. Not of his ankle, not yet. But the distinct, horrifying sound of his blade buckling, twisting beneath him. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible imperfection, but it was enough. Someone had sabotaged his skates. An envious rival, a faceless enemy who couldn't stand to see him succeed.

The world spun. He hit the ice, not with the controlled fall of practice, but with a brutal, sickening impact. The pain was immediate, blinding, an explosive agony that radiated from his left ankle. He screamed, a guttural, animalistic sound, as he slid across the ice, leaving a crimson smear behind him. The sound of frantic footsteps, horrified gasps, the frantic shouts of his previous coach – it was all a blur. All he could feel was the searing pain, and the crushing weight of everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed, shattering around him.

He pushed off the ice, his movements still elegant, but now infused with a desperate, almost frantic energy. He tried to replicate the rest of the routine, but his body rebelled. The phantom pain in his left ankle intensified with every twist, every turn. The ice, once a pristine canvas, now felt like a battleground, stained with the ghost of his past. He felt the familiar surge of white-hot rage, an inferno that burned away the exhaustion and the fear. This was his, this rage, this relentless need to prove himself, to overcome, to reclaim what had been stolen.

He was in the middle of a frantic spin, his body coiled tight, his mind lost in the traumatic memory, when the door to Rink 2 creaked open. He didn't hear it at first, too consumed by his internal battle. He executed a triple axel, the last big jump of the ruined program, and for a split second, he soared, a ghost of his former glory.

Then, his left ankle, stressed beyond its limit, gave out.

A sudden, sickening crack echoed through the rink. He tumbled, not gracefully, but in an awkward, painful heap. The godlike grace shattered, replaced by a raw, guttural cry of frustration and fury. He slammed his fist against the ice, his face contorted in a silent scream of rage, the perfect façade crumbling under the weight of his old injury and the bitter memories.

"Hey, you alright?!" a voice boomed, cutting through the haze of his pain and fury. It was deep, masculine, startling in its unexpectedness.

Katsuki slowly pushed himself up, his eyes blazing, turning towards the unexpected intruder. Their gazes met across the expanse of the ice – the towering hockey player with his worried red eyes, and the ice god, now glaring with a mixture of pain and incandescent fury. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the beginning of something new and complicated.

_________

The heavy door to Rink 2 swung shut with a soft click, plunging Katsuki back into the cold, silent expanse. The towering hockey player – the "overgrown extra" as he'd so eloquently put it – was gone. Katsuki was left alone, the phantom sting of his ankle injury a persistent throb, and the unexpected intrusion leaving a strange, unsettling echo in the empty air.

He glided slowly back to the center of the rink, the blades of his figure skates carving deep, deliberate arcs into the freshly Zambonied ice. The fury that had consumed him moments before slowly receded, leaving behind a familiar, hollow ache. He stared at the pristine surface, at the intricate patterns he’d left behind, a testament to hours of relentless practice, and to the bitter memory that had just resurfaced.

Sabotaged. The word still burned, a raw wound. It had been years since the accident, since his dreams had been so cruelly snatched away. He had rebuilt himself, piece by agonizing piece, under Masato’s increasingly suffocating guidance. But the scar, physical and emotional, remained. He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. He was so, so tired.

With a heavy sigh, he made his way to the boards, his left ankle protesting with every push. He carefully navigated off the ice, stepping onto the rubber matting, and then painstakingly began to unlace his skates. His fingers, usually so nimble, felt clumsy, fumbling with the intricate knots. He stripped off his top, revealing his defined chest, then reached for a clean towel to wipe away the sheen of sweat that covered his body.

He sat down on the bench, pulling his skates off, one agonizing tug at a time. The left boot felt like it was fused to his skin, each movement sending a fresh jolt of pain up his leg. He peeled off his sock, his breath catching in his throat. His ankle was swollen, already a purplish bruise blooming beneath the skin. It wasn't broken, he could tell, but it was definitely sprained, and a bad one at that. He pressed his fingers gently against the inflamed skin, wincing. Another setback. Another reminder of the fragility of his body, of his career, of his precarious hold on the perfection Masato demanded.

"Kacchan?"

The voice, soft and hesitant, shattered the silence. Katsuki’s head snapped up. Standing in the doorway of Rink 2, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, was Izuku Midoriya. His best friend. His childhood shadow.

Izuku was tall now, though still a few inches shorter than the hockey player from earlier. His green hair, usually a wild mop, was neatly cropped, and he wore a comfortable track suit, clearly ready for a workout. But it was his eyes, bright green and still full of that unwavering earnestness, that hadn't changed. They widened as he took in Katsuki’s slumped posture and the angry swelling of his ankle.

"Deku," Katsuki grunted, a surprising lack of venom in his voice. He usually reserved his harsher epithets for Midoriya, a habit from their childhood that had morphed into an odd term of endearment over the years. But right now, seeing that familiar, concerned face, all he felt was a weary resignation. "What are you doing here?"

Izuku walked slowly towards him, his brows furrowed with worry. "I just finished a session with All Might. I saw Masato-sensei leaving, and... well, I thought I'd stop by. I had a feeling you'd still be here. You push yourself too hard, Kacchan." He knelt down beside Katsuki, his gaze fixed on the injured ankle. "What happened? Another bad fall?"

Katsuki scoffed, though it lacked its usual bite. "Just a slip. Nothing I can't handle." He tried to pull his leg away, but Izuku gently, firmly, held it.

"That's more than a slip, Kacchan," Izuku murmured, his fingers hovering over the bruised area. "You need ice, and probably elevation." He reached into his gym bag, pulling out a small, pre-packaged ice pack. "Here. All Might always keeps extras. For… well, for when I inevitably push myself too hard too." A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips.

Katsuki took the ice pack, pressing it against his ankle. The cold was a shock, but a welcome one. He watched Izuku, who now sat beside him on the bench, their shoulders almost touching. It had been a long time since they'd just sat together like this, in comfortable, easy silence. Izuku had gone into track and field, a natural runner, graceful and powerful in a way that always reminded Katsuki of a wild, untamed thing. All Might, his hero from childhood, had become his coach, guiding him with a gentle hand that was so different from Masato’s iron grip.

"You look exhausted, Kacchan," Izuku said, finally breaking the quiet. He looked at Katsuki with those wide, earnest eyes, and Katsuki felt a familiar, unwelcome vulnerability prickle at his skin. Izuku always saw too much.

"Just a long practice," Katsuki mumbled, looking away, focusing on the hum of the fluorescent lights.

"More than that," Izuku insisted softly. "It’s been getting worse, hasn’t it? With Masato-sensei." His voice was gentle, non-judgmental, but firm. "You don't have to keep doing this, Kacchan. You don't have to prove anything to him, or to anyone."

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. "Don't be stupid, Deku. This is my career. My life. And Masato-sensei... he just wants what's best for me. He pushes me because he knows what I'm capable of." Katsuki's voice held a defensive edge, a programmed response that always surfaced when Masato's methods were questioned. "He's the only one who truly understands the level of dedication it takes."

"Kacchan," Izuku sighed, his brow furrowed with deeper concern. "He's pushing you to a breaking point. You're never relaxed. You never have time for anything but skating and his regimen. He's isolating you. I heard him yelling at you yesterday, even from outside the rink. That's not coaching, that's..."

"He wasn't yelling," Katsuki interrupted, his voice sharper now, fueled by a defensive need to protect Masato, to protect the fragile structure of his life. "He was just giving me feedback. He has high standards. That's what makes him a good coach. What do you know about it, anyway? You just run in circles."

Izuku recoiled slightly, hurt flickering in his eyes before he carefully masked it. "That's unfair, Kacchan. And you know it. All Might pushes me too, but he also cares about my well-being. He makes sure I have a life outside of training." He looked at Katsuki, his gaze softening again. "You barely talk to anyone anymore, Kacchan. Not even me. Not outside of Masato-sensei and All Might. You used to be… well, you used to be louder. More open. You used to let people in."

A phantom ache, sharper than his ankle, twisted in Katsuki’s chest. He remembered. He remembered the before. Before the accident, before Masato. Before… everything.

He remembered being fifteen, a raw, furious bundle of nerves and explosive energy. His hair had been a darker shade of ash-blonde then, less artfully spiky, prone to falling into his eyes. He’d been smaller, leaner, still growing into his frame, but already a force on the ice. In those years, before he fully embraced his identity, he'd often tried to emulate the girls around him, a desperate, unconscious attempt to fit into the role society expected of him. He’d let his hair grow longer, tying it back in a loose ponytail, copying the styles he saw in magazines, trying to appear softer, more "feminine." He'd even tried to affect a gentler posture, a more subdued expression, anything to blend in and avoid the biting comments about his innate intensity, about his "mannish" aggression that seemed to spill out of him. But it was always a performance, a crushing weight of pretending to be someone he wasn't. His facial features, though still sharp, had been softer then, less hardened by the constant tension he now carried. His expressions had been more fluid, capable of showing a wider range of emotions beyond anger and fierce determination. He remembered the sharp, aching confusion, the feeling that his body was a cage, ill-fitting and wrong. He remembered the terror of admitting it, the whispered conversations with his parents, the gut-wrenching fear of rejection. But his parents, loud and boisterous and unapologetically themselves, had wrapped him in fierce, unwavering support. "My son is perfect just the way he is!" his mother had declared, her voice booming enough to shake the foundations of their house. His father, quieter, but equally steadfast, had simply hugged him tight, a silent affirmation. He’d undergone top surgery at eighteen, a painful but liberating step, a reclamation of his own body. The process had been grueling, but the joy of finally inhabiting his true self had been immeasurable. He was twenty-five now, and though the physical scars were faint, the emotional journey had left its own indelible marks.

He remembered the scars, not just the physical ones from surgery, but the deeper ones, from the casual cruelty of childhood, the taunts, the slurs, the feeling of being inherently broken. He remembered the desperate need to prove himself, to be undeniably strong, undeniably male, undeniably better than anyone who dared to doubt him. He’d hardened himself, closed himself off to everyone except the select few he allowed inside his carefully constructed walls. Izuku had always been one of them, a persistent, annoying, but utterly loyal presence.

Katsuki let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "People change, Deku," he mumbled, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. He knew he sounded distant, closed off. He always did, with anyone not his coach.

"Some things don't have to," Izuku said softly, pressing the point with gentle persistence. "You used to talk to me about everything, Kacchan. Your dreams, your frustrations. Even… even when you were figuring things out about yourself. Remember?" He reached out, his hand hovering, then gently resting on Katsuki’s shoulder. "You don't have to face this alone. You have me. You have All Might. And… you should really try talking to more people, Kacchan. Not just us. There's a whole world out there, you know."

Katsuki flinched, a subtle tremor running through him. He remembered the years of silence, the carefully cultivated isolation. He’d allowed Masato to become his entire world, his singular focus, his only connection. It was safer that way. Less risk of further injury, further pain, further disappointment.

"It's… complicated, Deku," Katsuki finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at his swollen ankle, then at Izuku’s concerned face. "It's always been complicated." He sighed, a weary, defeated sound. "Just… thanks for the ice, Nerd."

Izuku squeezed his shoulder. "Anytime, Kacchan. But seriously, think about what I said. You need to let people in. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself." He looked at the bruised ankle. "For now, let's get you home. I'll help you ice that properly."

Katsuki didn't argue. He knew Izuku was right. He knew he was trapped, suffocating under the weight of his past and the control of his present. But letting go, letting anyone in, felt like falling through the ice all over again.

_________

Two days later and the hum of the Rink 2 lights was still a familiar lullaby, but today, it sang a different tune. Katsuki’s body ached, a deep, pervasive soreness that settled into his bones. Masato’s "extra session" had been brutal, punishing every muscle, pushing his ankle to the brink of searing pain. The coach's hands, during his "adjustments," had lingered, his touches growing bolder, more insistent. Katsuki had endured it, forcing his face into a mask of stoic concentration, a silent testament to the control Masato wielded over him. He was a perfect skater, and perfect skaters didn't complain. They didn't even flinch.

When Masato finally departed, his smooth, reassuring words a bitter aftertaste, Katsuki found himself sagging against the boards, utterly depleted. He should have been relieved, but the lingering touch on his lower back, the pressure on his shoulder, left him feeling dirty, exposed. He wanted to rage, to scream until his throat was raw, but the rage felt muted, trapped under layers of exhaustion and a sickening sense of obligation. He couldn’t afford to upset Masato. He couldn’t afford to lose this. Not after everything.

He was still breathing heavily, fighting the urge to collapse onto the cold ice, when the door to Rink 2 creaked open again. Katsuki’s head snapped up, his crimson eyes narrowing, ready to snap at whatever hapless rink worker or lost soul dared to disturb his desolate peace.

Instead, it was the towering hockey player from yesterday. Eijiro Kirishima. He stood there, a lopsided grin on his face, his bright red hair defying gravity, and his ridiculously broad shoulders filling the doorway. He carried his own hockey bag, looking far too cheerful for the god-awful hour.

“Hey, Bakugo!” Kirishima called out, his voice booming and genuinely friendly, a jarring contrast to the sterile quiet Masato left in his wake. “Hope I’m not late! Got a spare stick for ya, just like I promised.”

Katsuki felt a jolt. He’d completely forgotten. Yesterday’s bizarre challenge, the fleeting moment of genuine amusement, felt like a distant dream compared to the grim reality of Masato’s morning practice. He almost scoffed, almost told the brute to get lost. But then, a flicker of something new, something almost resembling anticipation, ignited in his chest. A tiny spark of rebellion, a desire for something else.

“Took you long enough, meathead,” Katsuki grumbled, pushing off the boards, trying to inject his usual venom into the words, but even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Kirishima just laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the empty rink. He walked onto the rubber matting, pulling a spare hockey stick from his bag – a sturdy, black composite stick, clearly well-used but perfectly functional. He slid it across the ice towards Katsuki, then followed it, easily stepping onto the rink in his own hockey skates.

Katsuki picked up the stick. It felt heavy, cumbersome, completely alien in his hands after the delicate balance of his figure skates. But this time, there was no challenge from Masato, no looming threat of disapproval. Just the casual, easygoing presence of this ridiculous hockey player.

“Alright, show me what you got, ice god,” Kirishima chuckled, his eyes twinkling. He nudged a puck towards Katsuki with his own stick. “Let’s see if you can manage more than ten feet without looking like a baby deer.”

Katsuki’s competitive spirit, dulled by Masato’s demands, flared to life. “Shut your damn mouth, brute!” he snapped, but a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He took a deep breath, focusing on the puck. He mimicked Kirishima’s grip, then tentatively poked at the black disc.

It skittered away, just as it had yesterday. Katsuki snarled, chasing it down. He tried again, pushing it with the flat of the blade, then trying to lift it just a fraction. His movements were still stiff, awkward, a chaotic mess compared to the fluid grace of his figure skating. He looked ridiculous, he knew it. But a strange, exhilarating feeling bubbled up inside him. Laughter. Genuine, unforced laughter, not a derisive snort or a biting scoff, but a real, airy chuckle escaped him as the puck spun out of control and smacked lightly against the boards.

Kirishima didn’t laugh at him, not unkindly. Instead, he glided alongside, demonstrating. “See? You gotta roll your wrists, like this. Keep it close. Use the forehand, then the backhand.” He moved the puck with effortless grace, making it dance around his skates like an extension of his arm. It was mesmerizing to watch, a different kind of beauty than his own, but beautiful nonetheless.

Katsuki watched intently, absorbing the movements. He tried again, focusing on the subtle wrist action. The puck still rebelled, but less violently this time. He managed a few short pushes, keeping it near his blade for a precious second or two. He looked up at Kirishima, who was watching him with a wide, encouraging grin.

“Nice! You’re getting it, Bakugo!” Kirishima cheered, genuinely impressed.

That simple, uncomplicated praise, so unlike Masato’s reserved nods or pointed criticisms, sent a surprising warmth through Katsuki’s chest. He felt himself relax, just a fraction. He allowed himself to experiment, to mess around. He tried flicking the puck, sending it skittering across the ice. He tried stopping it dead, a challenge he hadn't thought possible. He even tried to mimic some of Kirishima’s quick, tight turns while maintaining control. He failed, spectacularly, more than once, ending up in ungainly heaps on the ice. Each time, Kirishima offered a helping hand, pulling him up with a powerful, easy strength, never once making him feel stupid.

“My turn!” Kirishima would declare, and then he’d show off. He’d weave through imaginary defenders, puck glued to his stick, before unleashing a powerful wrist shot that thudded against the end boards. He’d do quick, explosive stops that sent sprays of ice flying. He’d explain the different types of shots, the strategies, the sheer physics of controlling a wild, speeding puck. Katsuki found himself captivated, drawn into a world that was utterly foreign yet strangely compelling. This was raw power, unrefined by delicate artistry, but potent and undeniably effective.

Time slipped away. Katsuki forgot the gnawing ache in his ankle, the lingering discomfort of Masato’s touch. He forgot the relentless pursuit of perfection, lost in the simple, exhilarating joy of trying something new, of failing and trying again, of the easy camaraderie with this strange, red-haired giant. He even caught himself laughing again, a genuine, uninhibited sound that felt foreign and liberating at the same time. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d laughed like that, without calculation, without a hidden agenda.

Finally, Kirishima glanced at his phone, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. “Ah, man. Gotta head out. Practice in twenty.” He shot a regretful look at the puck, which was currently resting innocently near the center line. “This was fun, though, Bakugo. Seriously. You pick things up fast, for a figure skater.”

Katsuki scoffed, but there was no heat in it. “You’re not so bad yourself, for a brainless brute.” He tossed the stick back to Kirishima, a surprisingly accurate throw. “Just don’t get cocky.”

Kirishima grinned, catching the stick with one hand. “Never! So, same time tomorrow? After your practice, of course.” His eyes were bright with genuine eagerness.

Katsuki hesitated. The thought of another session with Masato, another hour of painful perfection, made his stomach clench. But the thought of another hour here, with Kirishima, just messing around, learning, laughing… The contrast was stark.

He looked away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent, but the word was almost lost in his sheepishness. “Just… don’t be late, muscle-brain.”

Kirishima’s grin widened, a triumphant flash of white teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Bakugo! See ya!” He gave a quick, enthusiastic wave, then was gone, leaving Katsuki alone once more in the quiet rink.

But this time, the silence didn't feel so heavy. The hum of the lights seemed less oppressive. The cold air felt less sterile. The lingering ache in his ankle was still there, a dull throb, but beneath it, a tiny, exhilarating spark had been ignited. A memory of genuine fun, of uncomplicated connection, and the surprising warmth of being seen, not as a perfect skater, but just as Katsuki. He might have to endure Masato's demands tomorrow, but he also had something else to look forward to. Something entirely new.

Chapter 3: Unforeseen Collisions

Notes:

Going back into kirishima's POV.

Don't flame me for my mistakes!!

Enjoy!!

The scent of recycled ice and stale popcorn was a familiar comfort in the expansive arena. Eijiro Kirishima carved wide arcs on the rink, the sharp bite of his skates a rhythmic counterpoint to the steady thwack-thwack-thwack of pucks hitting the boards. It had been a grueling two weeks. Crucial practices, late-night drills, and an intensifying focus on their upcoming game had left him perpetually exhausted, a deep weariness settling into his bones. He hadn't seen Bakugo in all that time, a fact that had pricked at his conscience more than once. He felt genuinely awful for ghosting the guy. It wasn't intentional, just a cruel twist of scheduling that meant their usual morning meet-ups after Bakugo's brutal practice had been impossible to coordinate.

He was deep in a power skating drill, legs burning, lungs aching, when his gaze drifted towards the stands. The upper bleachers were usually empty this early in the morning, save for a lone janitor or an occasional parent. But today, a figure was seated halfway up, hunched over, seemingly engrossed in whatever was on their phone. The more Eijiro looked, the more a familiar silhouette began to form. The spiky, ash-blonde hair, even from a distance, was unmistakable. Bakugo? A surprising surge of adrenaline, not from exertion but from pure, unadulterated relief, shot through him. He hadn't realized how much he’d missed their weird, silent morning ritual.

Practice eventually wound down, leaving Eijiro a sweaty, spent mess. He peeled off his gear in the locker room, the steam from the showers doing little to thaw the persistent chill in his bones. After a quick, invigorating shower, he pulled on his usual worn sweats and a faded band t-shirt, forgoing his elaborate hair routine in favor of just pushing his damp, crimson spikes back with a towel. He needed to talk to Bakugo.

He emerged from the locker room, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, and there he was. Bakugo was leaning against the wall near the entrance to Rink 2, already out of his skating gear and dressed in a simple dark hoodie, but his posture was tense, almost coiled. His eyes, sharp and crimson, immediately flickered to Eijiro.

Before Eijiro could even open his mouth, Bakugo pushed off the wall and took a step towards him, a rare spark of something akin to eagerness in his gaze. He reached into his own bag and pulled out Eijiro's spare hockey stick, the one he always left for Bakugo, and a hockey puck. He spun the stick expertly, twirling it between his fingers with a surprising, almost casual dexterity. It was clear he'd been practicing on his own.

“Took you long enough, meathead,” Bakugo grumbled, though the insult was delivered with a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. He spun the stick again, then offered it to Eijiro, butt-first. “Thought you abandoned me for your pack of dumbasses.”

Eijiro chuckled, a genuine, relieved laugh bubbling up. “Nah, man, never! Just… practice has been insane. My bad, seriously. We’ve got a big game coming up next week, so Coach Aizawa’s been running us ragged.” He reached for the stick, their fingers brushing for a fleeting moment. “But I figured you’d be here. And hey, you’ve actually gotten good with that thing!”

Bakugo scoffed, turning to walk towards the empty Rink 2, a slight swagger in his step. “Obviously. It’s just a stick. Anyone with half a brain can figure it out. Unlike you, apparently.” He slid onto the rubber matting by the rink door, taking a puck from his own pocket and nudging it onto the ice with the stick.

Eijiro followed, feeling a wave of familiar, easygoing comfort settle over him. It was good to be back. He picked up another puck and joined Bakugo. “So, about this game next week…” he began, taking a few practice shots, describing the team’s strategy, his nervousness about facing their rivals, the general energy of the locker room. He found himself talking freely, sharing anecdotes about Kaminari’s ridiculous pre-game superstitions and Sero’s surprisingly insightful tactical observations. He even rambled a bit about himself, about how much he loved the raw, physical challenge of hockey, the camaraderie of the team, the feeling of pushing his limits.

Bakugo, to Eijiro’s surprise, actually talked back. It wasn’t much, mostly grunts of acknowledgment, sharp questions about specific plays, or biting criticisms of Eijiro’s teammates (“That Kaminari sounds like a liability. You seriously let him on the ice?”). But it was more than just a dismissive scoff. He was engaged, his crimson eyes following Eijiro's every movement, his rare comments punctuated by surprisingly precise puck handling. He even offered a gruff piece of advice on Eijiro’s wrist shot, a suggestion that, when tried, immediately improved his aim. But despite the increased verbal interaction, Bakugo never offered anything personal about himself. It was all about the game, the mechanics, the performance.

“Man, I’m starving,” Eijiro said after a particularly intense shooting drill. He stretched, feeling the satisfying pull of tired muscles. “Hey, you wanna grab some food? There’s this great burger place down the street, their fries are insane.” The invitation felt natural, a simple extension of their shared space.

Bakugo stiffened. His movements, which had relaxed somewhat during their informal practice, suddenly became rigid. His grip on the hockey stick tightened. “No.” The word was sharp, immediate, a definite wall.

Eijiro blinked, surprised by the abruptness. “Oh. Uh… why not? You got another practice? I thought you were done for the day.”

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. He stared down at the puck beneath his stick, then looked up at Eijiro, his crimson eyes narrowing. A cold, hard edge crept into his voice. “I don’t ‘go out’ for food, you damn extra. My coach handles my diet. Every single meal. I don’t just ‘grab’ whatever I want.” He spat the words out, a simmering anger in his tone.

Eijiro felt a jolt of alarm. He’d known Masato was strict, Bakugo had implied it before, but this level of control was chilling. His easygoing facade cracked, replaced by genuine concern. “What? Are you serious? You don’t even get to choose what you eat? That’s… that’s messed up, Bakugo. Your coach… he sounds like he’s got you on a leash. Doesn’t he let you have any say in anything? That’s not healthy, man, living like that.” He pressed, his voice full of a worry he couldn’t hide. “That’s not normal, dude. What kind of coach–”

Before Eijiro could finish, Bakugo’s eyes blazed with a raw, explosive fury. His face contorted, not in playful annoyance, but in a sudden, terrifying rage. Without a word, he wound up with the hockey stick, not a shot, but a violent, uncontrolled swing. The puck, which had been resting innocently by his blade, launched with terrifying speed. It wasn't aimed at the boards. It was aimed directly at Eijiro.

With a sickening THWACK, the puck slammed into Eijiro’s left shoulder. The force spun him around, sending a white-hot jolt of pain radiating down his arm. He cried out, stumbling back against the wall, his own stick clattering to the ground. When he looked up, Bakugo was already gone. The rink door was swinging shut, the heavy thud echoing in the sudden, desolate silence.

Eijiro stood there, clutching his throbbing shoulder, the sudden, violent outburst from Bakugo replaying in his mind like a broken record. The pain in his arm was a sharp, physical reminder, but the confusion was deeper, a knot in his gut. He’d thought they were actually getting somewhere, building some kind of… whatever this was. Friendship? Rivalry? He wasn't sure. But it had felt good, easy, a welcome break from the relentless pressure of his own sport. And then, just like that, it was shattered by a single, furious flick of a puck.

What the hell was that? He replayed the conversation. His questions about Bakugo’s diet, his coach… he’d clearly hit a nerve. A raw, exposed nerve that had exploded in his face. It was unsettling, unnerving, and frankly, a little terrifying. Bakugo's rage had been so sudden, so intense. It made him wonder what else was simmering beneath that prickly exterior. He sighed, the quiet of the rink pressing in on him. He picked up his fallen hockey stick, the familiar weight suddenly feeling heavy, burdensome. He had a lot to think about.

The next day dawned with a crisp, autumn chill, but Eijiro felt a different kind of cold settle deep in his bones. His hockey practice wasn't until later, but he found himself at the sports complex much earlier than usual, drawn by an unspoken pull. He needed to figure things out, to understand. He headed straight for the complex’s small, brightly lit cafe, hoping the warmth and the aroma of coffee would offer some clarity. He found a quiet corner table, away from the bustling entrance, and pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly. He reached into his gym bag, pulling out a protein bar – a familiar, unexciting chocolate-peanut butter concoction. He had a whole box of them, a staple of his rigorous training diet.

He peeled back the wrapper, about to take a bite, when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up, and there he was. Katsuki Bakugo.

Bakugo was dressed entirely differently than usual. Instead of his sleek practice gear or even street clothes, he wore a soft-looking, oversized grey sweater, loose black sweatpants, and surprisingly, comfy-looking house shoes that muffled his approach. His hair, usually artfully spiky, was slightly flattened, almost hinting at a recent emergence from sleep. He looked… softer, somehow. Less like an angry firecracker, more like a grumpy house cat.

Bakugo didn't look directly at Eijiro. His gaze was fixed somewhere over Eijiro’s left shoulder, at the wall behind him. His hands were stuffed deep into his sweater pockets. His voice, when it came, was a low growl, almost a mumble. "Your… shoulder. Is it alright, meathead?"

Eijiro blinked, surprised by the unexpected question, and the even more unexpected hint of concern. He touched his shoulder, which was still a little tender but nothing major. "Oh, yeah, it's fine, Bakugo. Just a bruise. Nothing I can't handle." He immediately sat up straighter, feeling a sudden, overwhelming urge to apologize. He knew he’d pushed too hard. “Listen, man, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. It wasn’t manly of me to pry.” The words tumbled out, earnest and heartfelt.

Bakugo finally shifted his gaze, his crimson eyes flicking briefly to Eijiro, then to the empty chair across from him. Without a word, he pulled the chair out and sat down. He then pulled one leg up to his chest, resting his chin on his knee, his posture oddly vulnerable despite the usual intensity in his eyes. He still wasn't looking directly at Eijiro.

“You apologize too much, Round Face,” Bakugo muttered, his voice still low, but a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. The insult felt more like a playful jab than a genuine put-down.

Eijiro chuckled, a wave of relief washing over him. So, they weren't entirely done. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta be the manly one and admit when they mess up, right?” He took a small bite of his protein bar, the bland, chewy texture familiar. He was about to offer another bite, or maybe even an entire bar, when he felt it. Bakugo’s gaze, intense and unwavering, fixed on his hand, specifically on the protein bar. He wasn’t looking at Eijiro’s face, but at the unwrapped, half-eaten bar.

A strange tension filled the air. Eijiro slowly lowered the bar, meeting Bakugo’s unblinking stare. The intensity in his eyes was almost unnerving, a fierce, hungry concentration that belied the casual setting. It wasn't predatory, exactly, but something close. Something desperate.

"You… want a piece?" Eijiro asked, his voice softer than he intended. He held out the bar, offering the uneaten half.

Bakugo hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze still locked onto the bar. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing Eijiro’s as he carefully took the offered half. He brought it to his mouth, taking a tiny bite, almost daintily.

Eijiro watched, fascinated. Bakugo chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes half-closed, a look of profound concentration on his face. It wasn't just eating; it was an experience. He chewed, and chewed, and then swallowed. A faint flush crept up his neck, and his eyes, when he opened them fully, were visibly brighter, a spark of something akin to wonder in their depths. The intensity was still there, but now it was directed at the flavor, the sensation. He took another small bite, savoring it, a silent, almost reverent act.

"It's... chocolate," Bakugo finally stated, his voice a low, almost husky murmur. It wasn't a question, but a declaration, as if he'd just discovered a new element. He took another slow, deliberate chew. He was completely focused on the simple protein bar, as if it were the most complex, delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

Eijiro blinked, slightly bewildered but utterly charmed. "Uh, yeah. Chocolate peanut butter. It's just a protein bar, man."

Bakugo simply chewed, his gaze fixed on the remaining piece of the bar. He swallowed again, a visible lump in his throat. He looked at the bar, then at Eijiro, a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like… shyness? His usual brashness was gone, replaced by an awkward uncertainty.

"Got... anymore?" Bakugo mumbled, his voice barely audible, his eyes still carefully avoiding Eijiro's, fixed instead on the box of bars peeking out of Eijiro's gym bag. It wasn't a demand, but a sheepish, almost hesitant request, a stark contrast to his usual aggressive commands.

Eijiro felt a warmth spread through him, utterly unexpected. "Yeah, Bakugo. I got a whole box." He grinned, feeling a genuine, easy happiness bubbling up inside him. "Take as many as you want."

Eijiro watched, utterly captivated, as Bakugo devoured the first protein bar. The fierce concentration, the almost reverent chewing – it was like watching someone taste chocolate for the very first time. He offered the entire box. Bakugo, after a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation, snatched it up, retreating to his earlier hunched-over posture, pulling his leg back up to his chest. He unwrapped a second bar, then a third, consuming them with the same intense focus, a faint blush still dusting his cheeks. By the time he was on his fifth bar, the wrappers crumpled beside him, a small monument to his rediscovered pleasure, a visible lightness had settled over him. The tight coil of tension from earlier was almost completely gone, replaced by a quiet, almost contented hum. It was bizarre, and utterly endearing.

“Kacchan!” A voice, bright and eager, cut through the cafe’s gentle murmur.

Bakugo’s head snapped up, his crimson eyes widening in alarm. He moved with a speed that startled Eijiro, sweeping the incriminating pile of protein bar wrappers into his direction with one swift motion, then frantically pushing the box of remaining bars towards Eijiro. His usually fierce expression was momentarily replaced by something akin to panic, his eyes darting between Eijiro and the approaching voice.

“Just… shut up, you damn extra,” Bakugo hissed under his breath, barely audible, a desperate plea that made Eijiro blink in surprise.

Eijiro didn’t have time to react before a tall, green-haired man, radiating an almost unnerving aura of earnestness, reached their table. He had bright, intelligent green eyes that instantly reminded Eijiro of a determined, slightly overgrown rabbit. He wore a simple track suit, carrying a worn gym bag that seemed to hum with unseen energy.

“Kacchan! There you are!” the man exclaimed, his voice soft but clear, full of genuine relief. He stopped beside Bakugo, his gaze sweeping over him with an almost possessive concern. “I looked everywhere for you. All Might said you left early. Are you okay? You looked a little… tense, this morning.”

Bakugo flinched, his shoulders hunching further. “I’m fine, Deku. Stop hovering.” His voice was sharper now, but still laced with that strange, underlying tension. He still hadn't looked at Eijiro, or even acknowledged his presence to the newcomer.

The green-haired man, apparently unfazed by Bakugo’s gruffness, merely sighed, a familiar, long-suffering sound. He then finally seemed to notice Eijiro. His green eyes widened slightly, a polite, curious expression replacing the concern. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I’m Izuku Midoriya. Kacchan’s… friend.” He offered a small, hesitant smile and a polite nod in Eijiro’s direction.

Eijiro’s mind immediately started putting pieces together. The easy familiarity, the immediate concern, the way Bakugo seemed to instinctively soften (even if only a fraction) in his presence. And the nickname… Kacchan. He stifled a snort.

“Eijiro Kirishima,” he replied, nodding back, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “Nice to meet you, Midoriya. Bakugo here and I were just… uh… having a meeting of the minds.” He tried to keep his tone light, amused, but he couldn't help but wonder. Are they… a thing? The thought, for some reason, sent a strange, unexpected pang through his chest. He quickly dismissed it, though, telling himself it was just surprise at Bakugo having a friend who wasn't currently yelling at him.

Midoriya’s smile widened, a hint of genuine warmth in his eyes. “Oh, you’re the hockey player! Kacchan mentioned… well, he mentioned you were a brute who kept challenging him to dumb competitions.” He chuckled softly, a familiar affection in his voice that was utterly foreign when directed at the explosive Bakugo.

Bakugo snarled. “I did not! And they weren’t dumb! Just because you’ve got no guts, Deku!”

Midoriya just shook his head, a fond exasperation on his face. “Right, right. Anyway, Kacchan, are you sure you’re okay? You just seemed so… wound up after practice. Did something happen?” His gaze was gentle, but persistent, a soft prod at a raw wound. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, concerned murmur, as if trying to shield Bakugo from Eijiro's ears. "You know how All Might worries when you get like that. You need to be careful, Kacchan."

As Midoriya's gentle concern continued, Bakugo’s face started to darken. The momentary lightness from the protein bars vanished, replaced by a familiar tension. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, and his crimson eyes narrowed into sharp slits. The comfortable sweater and house shoes suddenly seemed like an ill-fitting disguise for the rage simmering beneath.

“I told you, I’m fine, Deku,” Bakugo growled, pushing himself abruptly from the table, rattling the chair. He slammed his fist lightly on the table, making Eijiro jump. “And don’t talk to me like I’m a broken toy. I’m going to the bathroom. Get off my back.” Without another word, he stalked off, his comfy house shoes making surprisingly loud scuffs on the cafe floor.

Midoriya sighed, running a hand through his green hair, a look of profound weariness settling on his features. He pulled out the chair Bakugo had occupied and sat down, a slump in his shoulders. He didn’t look at Eijiro, his gaze fixed on the spot where Bakugo had been sitting.

“He does that sometimes,” Midoriya had said, his voice soft, almost melancholic. “Gets… overwhelmed. And then he lashes out. It’s hard to talk to him when he’s like that. He just… he pushes everyone away.” He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound. “It’s been getting worse lately, actually.”

Eijiro picked at the wrapper of his protein bar, the bland taste a comfort amidst the sudden complexity. "He seemed... really set off by me asking about his coach and food," he ventured, keeping his voice gentle.

Midoriya nodded, his gaze distant. "Yeah. Kacchan's coach, Masato, he's... very intense. Everything is about performance, diet, training schedules. Masato has always been very particular about Kacchan's routine. He believes it's the only way to reach the top. He practically rebuilt Kacchan's career after his injury a few years back." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before quickly adding, "So Kacchan trusts him completely. It's just... a lot."

Eijiro’s brows furrowed. "Rebuilt his career? Was it a bad injury?" The question hung in the air, a silent invitation for more detail, but Midoriya just shook his head, a tight, small smile on his face.

"It was a difficult time," he deflected, expertly avoiding the specifics. "But Kacchan is strong. He always pushes through." Midoriya seemed to choose his words carefully, as if walking on eggshells. He clearly knew more, but wasn’t willing to share, likely out of respect for Bakugo’s privacy, or perhaps out of fear of how Bakugo would react if he overshared.

Eijiro respected that, though his curiosity gnawed at him. He shifted the conversation. "So, you guys have known each other a long time, huh?"

Midoriya's eyes softened, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. "Since we were toddlers. Our moms are best friends, so we grew up together. He was always... a lot. Intense. Loud. But fiercely determined. Even back then, if he set his mind to something, he'd achieve it, no matter what." A fond, almost exasperated laugh escaped him. "He used to climb trees that were way too tall, just to prove he could. And if someone told him he couldn't do something, he'd break himself trying to prove them wrong."

Eijiro found himself smiling, imagining a miniature, explosive Bakugo terrorizing a playground. "Sounds about right," he mused. "He's got that same fire on the ice. Seriously, man, you should see him skate. It's like... controlled explosions. It's awesome." He leaned forward, genuinely excited. "He's got this jump, right, where he just soars. And the way he moves his body, it's so precise, but it's got so much power behind it. I've never seen anything like it. It's really manly."

Midoriya listened, a thoughtful expression on his face. "He really does put everything into it," he agreed, a hint of sadness in his voice. "He always has. He pours his entire being into whatever he pursues." He paused, then looked at Eijiro. "It's good that he has someone he can just... mess around with. He needs that. He pushes himself too hard, and he doesn't let anyone in."

Eijiro felt a warmth spread through his chest at Midoriya’s words. He hadn't thought of their weird morning rituals that way, as something Bakugo needed. He had just seen it as a fun, unexpected distraction for himself. "Yeah, well, he's a good laugh sometimes," Eijiro said, a genuine smile on his face. "Even if he does try to decapitate me with a puck." He chuckled, recalling their chaotic sessions. "He's been getting really good with that stick, too. He's a natural."

Their conversation flowed, easy and unforced, a stark contrast to the guarded exchanges Eijiro usually had with Bakugo. Midoriya talked about his own track training with All Might, his hero, sharing insights into the mental fortitude required for long-distance running. Eijiro found himself opening up, discussing his own frustrations with a new defensive strategy their coach was implementing, and the pressure of being captain heading into the playoff season. It was comforting, talking to someone who understood the unique demands of elite sports, the constant push, the endless cycle of training and recovery.

He learned that Midoriya was a kind, empathetic soul, deeply devoted to Bakugo despite the latter's prickly exterior. There was an unspoken history between them, a deep well of shared experiences that went beyond casual friendship, almost like family. Eijiro felt a strange mix of envy and respect for their bond.

Just as Eijiro was about to ask another question about Bakugo's competitive history, Midoriya's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen, and his face immediately fell. A faint frown creased his brow.

"Ah, speak of the devil," Midoriya muttered, his voice dropping slightly. He read the text, his eyes scanning the words quickly. "It's Kacchan. Looks like he has an extra practice. With Masato-sensei and... someone else."

Eijiro leaned in slightly. "Someone else? Who?"

Midoriya looked up, a troubled expression on his face. "Another skater. They're apparently competing for a spot in a big international competition. There's only one spot left, so Masato-sensei is making them both train extra hours, head-to-head." He sighed, running a hand through his green hair. "He's going to be even more stressed. When he gets into these competitive modes, especially when Masato-sensei pushes him, he just... loses himself. He'll train until he drops, ignore everything else. It’s always worried me."

The words hung in the air. Eijiro felt a sudden, sharp pang of understanding. This was why Bakugo had been so tense this morning. This was why his outburst yesterday had been so explosive. It wasn't just a strict diet; it was constant, relentless pressure, a battle for every single step forward. The image of Bakugo hunched over the protein bars, savoring each bite as if it were a forbidden pleasure, flashed in his mind. It wasn't just about winning for Bakugo; it was about survival, about holding onto his place in a world that seemed to demand everything from him.

"He's going to be so exhausted," Midoriya murmured, more to himself than to Eijiro. He got up from the table, gathering his bag. "I should probably head over there. Just to... be around. See if he needs anything. He probably won't admit it."

Eijiro stood up too, a quiet unease settling over him. "Yeah. Go get 'em, man." He watched Midoriya walk away, his figure disappearing into the bustling complex. The cafe, which had felt warm and comforting moments before, now seemed vast and empty. The thought of Bakugo, pushing himself to the brink, locked in a brutal, hidden competition, left a cold knot in his stomach. He suddenly understood a little more of the fire, and a lot more of the pain, behind Bakugo's explosive exterior. And the apology he'd given earlier, about simply "praying," felt woefully inadequate.

The information from Midoriya weighed heavily on Eijiro as he made his way to his own practice. The thought of Bakugo, locked in a brutal head-to-head competition, pushing himself beyond limits, painted a stark picture of the quiet desperation behind his usual ferocity. It suddenly made sense why Bakugo had reacted so violently yesterday, why a simple question about food had triggered such an explosive outburst. It wasn't just about a diet; it was about control, about the suffocating pressure of a career resting on every single, perfect movement.

He stepped onto the ice for his own practice, the familiar chill a bracing slap to the face. The usual camaraderie of his teammates felt slightly off today, muted by the lingering unease in his gut. He tried to focus, to channel his restless energy into drills, but his mind kept drifting back to Bakugo, and the worried look on Midoriya’s face.

Coach Aizawa blew his whistle, a sharp, piercing sound that echoed through the rink. “Alright, men! Full-ice drills! Defensive zone breakouts, then quick transitions! Kaminari, Sero, you’re with Tetsutetsu. Kirishima, you’re leading the next line. Let’s go!”

Eijiro nodded, forcing his focus onto the drill. He skated into position, the familiar weight of his stick in his hands. This was what he did. This was his safe space. He could bury everything else under the relentless demands of the game.

The drill began, a controlled chaos of skates scraping, sticks clacking, and shouted instructions. Eijiro moved with practiced precision, anticipating passes, checking opponents, driving the puck up the ice. He felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the thrill of the game taking over. For a few minutes, he almost forgot.

Then, during a high-speed transition, it happened. Kaminari, usually so nimble despite his occasional clumsiness, was carrying the puck along the boards, moving at full speed. Suddenly, a defensive player converged on him, going for a clean poke check. There was a fraction of a second where their sticks tangled, an almost imperceptible hitch. And then, a jarring, metallic SCRAAAPE as Kaminari’s skate blade caught awkwardly on a divot in the ice, sending him off-balance.

Eijiro watched in slow motion as Kaminari’s body twisted, his stick flying from his grasp, rotating through the air like a broken propeller. Kaminari let out a short, sharp cry of surprise, cut off abruptly as his helmeted head made a sickeningly loud CRACK against the unpadded boards. He crumpled instantly, sliding to a stop in an unnatural, boneless heap. His body was perfectly still.

The sound. The immediate, terrifying stillness of a body that should be moving. It wasn't the sound of a broken stick this time, but the stark, blunt impact of flesh against unforgiving surface, followed by silence. The air rushed out of Eijiro’s lungs in a choked gasp. The rink, moments ago filled with the cacophony of practice, was suddenly consumed by a deafening, ringing silence in his ears.

He was back there.

Not the specific details, not the blood, but the profound, all-consuming feeling of it. The sudden, gut-wrenching realization that everything had gone wrong. The sharp, metallic tang of fear in his mouth. The way his heart hammered against his ribs, a desperate, frantic drumbeat echoing the terrifying silence on the ice. His limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, like they were submerged in thick, cold syrup. He wanted to move, to skate to Kaminari, but he was frozen, paralyzed by an invisible force.

The coaches’ whistles shrilled, a jarring, distant sound that seemed to come from miles away. “Kaminari down! Everyone, hold up!”

His teammates rushed towards Kaminari, their shouts muffled, their faces a blur of worried confusion. Sero was kneeling beside Kaminari, his voice urgent. Eijiro could see their mouths moving, but he couldn't process the words. His vision tunneled, the bright rink lights narrowing into a blinding pinpoint. His chest tightened, a vice grip squeezing the air from his lungs. He felt a desperate, clawing need to breathe, to fill his burning lungs, but his body wouldn't obey. His hands began to tremble, uncontrollably, the slight vibrations escalating into a full-body tremor. He was shaking, violently, from the inside out.

Not again. Not again. Don’t let me hurt anyone. Don’t let me break anyone.

The irrational fear, the guilt that he was somehow responsible, even from a distance, overwhelmed him. It was a deep, primal terror, cold and absolute. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning in his own skin. He instinctively clutched his chest, trying to force air into his burning lungs, but his throat felt constricted, like he was choking on invisible smoke. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, cold and clammy, prickling his skin beneath his helmet. The world spun, threatening to black out.

"Kirishima! You okay, man?!" Tetsutetsu's voice boomed, sharp with concern, his hand landing heavily on Eijiro’s shoulder.

The touch was a shock, but instead of grounding him, it sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through him. He flinched away, violently, his eyes wide and unfocused. He pushed off, stumbling on his skates, desperate to escape. He just needed to get off the ice. Away from the fallen teammate, away from the echoing sounds, away from the terrifying possibility that he was still a danger, a walking, breathing catalyst for disaster.

He fumbled desperately with the rink gate, his trembling hands clumsy and uncooperative. He yanked it open, bursting through to the rubber matting, the cold, stale air of the corridor hitting him like a physical blow. He didn't stop, pushing through the locker room doors, his skates scraping loudly on the concrete floor. He needed to get somewhere small, somewhere dark, where the walls could hold him together. He lunged into the nearest empty shower stall, slamming the door shut. He braced his hands on the cold, tiled walls, head bowed, his entire body convulsing with uncontrolled shivers, gasping for breath, trying to ride out the terrifying storm that raged within him. He was a complete mess, shattered and exposed, haunted by the specter of a past he could never outrun.

Eijiro clung to the cold, tiled walls of the shower stall, his body racked with tremors that refused to subside. The cacophony of his own ragged breaths and the frantic thump of his heart drowned out any sounds from outside. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the horrifying image of Kaminari’s motionless body, the sickening CRACK echoing in his ears. It felt like he was back in that other rink, years ago, watching the crimson bloom against the ice, powerless. The cold dread that gripped him was absolute, a suffocating blanket woven from guilt and fear. He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't breathe.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, hunched over, battling the invisible demons. Time became a meaningless concept, a swirling vortex of panic and fragmented memories. His muscles screamed in protest from the unnatural tension, but the pain was a dull whisper against the roaring storm in his mind.

A soft tap, then a tentative creak, from the shower stall door. Eijiro flinched, his head snapping up, eyes wide and unfocused. The door slowly opened, revealing a sliver of light from the locker room beyond.

"Kirishima? You in here?" Coach Aizawa's voice was calm, unusually soft, devoid of its usual sharpness. There was no judgment, only a quiet concern that cut through the haze of Eijiro's panic like a beacon.

Eijiro couldn't speak. He tried, a choked gasp escaping his throat, but no words formed. He just stared at the sliver of light, his chest still heaving, his body still trembling violently. He wanted to hide, to disappear, to vanish from the penetrating gaze of his coach.

Aizawa's figure materialized fully in the doorway. He didn't come in, didn't crowd Eijiro. He simply stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, his dark eyes taking in Eijiro's disheveled state, the pallor of his face, the frantic tremors. There was no surprise in his expression, only a quiet understanding that made Eijiro feel even more exposed.

"You're not okay, kid," Aizawa stated, his voice a low, steady rumble. It wasn't a question. "You went down fast when Kaminari hit those boards. Looked like you saw a ghost." He paused, letting his words sink in. "This isn't just a tough practice, is it?"

Eijiro swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs, trying to regain some semblance of control. He still couldn't meet Aizawa's gaze. The shame was a bitter taste in his mouth. He, Eijiro Kirishima, the unyielding, the unbreakable, reduced to a shivering mess in a shower stall.

"I... I'm fine, Coach," Eijiro rasped, the lie feeling utterly hollow even to his own ears. He tried to straighten up, to project an image of resilience, but his legs felt like jelly beneath him.

Aizawa's sigh was barely audible. "No, you're not," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "And that's okay. Sometimes, pushing through isn't the manly thing to do. Sometimes, being strong means admitting you need a minute. Or a day. Or two." He stepped further into the stall, his presence still not overwhelming, but close enough for Eijiro to feel the quiet determination radiating from him. "Go get dressed. I'm taking you home."

Eijiro's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "What? No, Coach, I can't. I have to finish practice. I have to..." His voice trailed off. The thought of being sidelined, of missing out, was terrifying. It meant confronting the silence, the thoughts that he usually buried under endless physical exertion.

"You're not finishing practice today," Aizawa stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And you're not coming in tomorrow. Or the day after. You're benched for the next two days." His eyes held Eijiro's, an unwavering gaze that seemed to see straight into his soul. "I'm not asking, Kirishima. This is a direct order. Your health, mental and physical, comes before any puck. And right now, you're running on fumes and haunted by something you clearly haven't dealt with." He paused, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "I don't need you breaking yourself out there, or worse, hurting someone else because you're distracted. We're a team. We look out for each other. And right now, you need to look out for yourself."

The last sentence, delivered with a quiet weight, was a subtle echo of Eijiro's own deep-seated fears. The thought of hurting someone else. That was the core of it, the constant dread that fueled his panic. He stared at Aizawa, seeing not just a coach, but someone who genuinely cared, someone who understood without needing to be told everything. It was a rare, raw moment of vulnerability.

Eijiro finally slumped, the fight draining out of him. The sheer exhaustion was overwhelming, and the unexpected kindness from his coach felt like a powerful wave, washing away his last defenses. "Understood, Coach," he mumbled, his voice hoarse, the words heavy with defeat but also a strange, quiet relief. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the tiled floor.

Aizawa didn't scold him. He didn't push him. He simply knelt, placing a steady hand on Eijiro's shoulder, a reassuring weight that brought an unexpected comfort. "Good. Now, let's get you cleaned up and out of here. And Kirishima," Aizawa said, his voice firm but not harsh, "when you're ready to talk about it, I'm here. We'll figure it out. But for now, just breathe."

________

The taxi ride home was a blur of muted cityscapes and the steady thrum of the engine. Eijiro felt utterly drained, physically and emotionally. His eyes burned, and his muscles ached with a fatigue that went beyond simple exertion. He pushed open the door to his apartment, the familiar smell of cinnamon and sugar wafting from the kitchen.

"EIJIRO! You're home early, little listener!" a booming voice filled the apartment. Fat Gum, his burly, perpetually hungry roommate, stood in the kitchen, a giant spatula in one hand, his round face beaming, already surrounded by a mountainous stack of fluffy pancakes. "Just in time! I whipped up a fresh batch. Thought you might get lost on the way back, knew you'd be needing some proper fuel!" His eyes, however, softened as he took in Eijiro's slumped shoulders and pale face. "Rough day, huh, kiddo? Pancakes'll fix anything. Sit down, sit down."

Eijiro managed a weak smile. Fat Gum, a culinary instructor by trade, always anticipated his needs with uncanny accuracy, especially when it came to his mental state. He knew about the older trauma, too, though they rarely spoke of it directly. Eijiro dropped his bag by the door, the weight suddenly too much to bear, and sank onto a barstool, accepting a plate piled high with pancakes and a generous drizzle of syrup. He ate slowly, savoring the familiar comfort, the quiet presence of his roommate a balm to his raw nerves. The simple act of eating, of being cared for without question, was profoundly grounding.

Later that evening, after a long, hot shower and a failed attempt at napping, the stillness of the apartment became unbearable. His mind, no longer distracted by practice, began to replay the incidents on a loop: Kaminari hitting the boards, Bakugo's furious face, Midoriya's worried eyes. The empathy for Bakugo, the understanding of his immense pressure, gnawed at him. He knew what it felt like to be pushed to the breaking point, to have fear simmering just beneath the surface. Bakugo’s outburst yesterday wasn’t just anger; it was a desperate reaction to a life lived under suffocating control.

The next morning, Eijiro was up before dawn. He felt a familiar restlessness, but this time, it wasn't just about his own benched status. It was about Bakugo. He pulled his damp hair back into a messy bun, too drained to bother with styling it. He swapped his hockey gear for gym clothes, grabbing his water bottle and heading for the complex gym, a separate building adjacent to the rinks. He needed to move, to burn off the anxious energy, but he also had a different motive. He knew Bakugo often used the gym for conditioning.

The gym was mostly empty, the rhythmic hum of treadmills and the clank of weights echoing in the cavernous space. Eijiro set himself up on a bench, starting with his usual warm-up routine, then moving onto a grueling circuit of weights and bodyweight exercises. He pushed himself, sweat beading on his forehead, his muscles screaming in protest. It was a familiar, almost comforting pain, a way to channel the turmoil inside him.

He was almost done, wiping sweat from his eyes after a particularly brutal set of pull-ups, when his gaze drifted towards the stretching area. There he was. Bakugo. He was on a mat, going through a series of deep, fluid stretches, his movements precise and controlled, even in the casual setting. His lean, powerful frame moved with an almost dancer-like grace, a testament to years of rigorous training. He looked focused, intense, but without the explosive anger of yesterday.

Eijiro felt a pull to go over, to say something, anything. Just to check in. To offer a quiet word of understanding. He started to push himself off the bench.

But then, the gym door opened, and a figure Eijiro recognized with a sinking feeling walked in. Masato. Bakugo’s coach.
Masato was dressed in crisp athletic wear, his presence immediately dominating the space. He walked straight to Bakugo, a small, knowing smile on his lips. Eijiro quickly sat back down, trying to appear engrossed in wiping down his bench, but his eyes were fixed on the pair. He couldn’t hear their words, the distance and the background noise of the gym making it impossible, but he could see their interaction.

Masato knelt beside Bakugo, starting with what looked like gentle adjustments to his stretch. Then, his hands lingered. He moved from Bakugo’s back to his shoulder, a slow, deliberate massage that seemed to extend beyond just "adjustment." Bakugo remained still, his face carefully blank, eyes fixed ahead, but Eijiro saw the subtle tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible flinch as Masato’s hands moved lower, resting on his lower back, then sliding to the curve of his hip. Masato’s head bent close, too close, his voice a low, murmuring presence. Bakugo’s expression remained unreadable, but the subtle rigidity of his posture spoke volumes.

Eijiro felt a cold dread creep up his spine. It was a gut feeling, a primal instinct that screamed wrong. He wanted to intervene, to yell, to do something. But he also knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that any intervention would only make things worse. He couldn't risk another violent outburst from Bakugo, not when he was so clearly trapped in something much deeper and darker than Eijiro could understand. And worse, he couldn't risk escalating whatever silent dynamic was playing out before him. It would only push Bakugo further into Masato’s suffocating grip. He was powerless, a helpless observer to a scene he couldn't comprehend.

Finally, Masato straightened up, a satisfied smile on his face. He said a few more words, patted Bakugo’s shoulder (again, his hand lingering), and then turned and walked out of the gym, leaving Bakugo still, unmoving, on the mat.

Eijiro waited, his heart thumping. He watched as Bakugo slowly, almost robotically, finished his stretches, then pushed himself up. His movements were stiff, his face pale and drawn, indicative of the relentless extra training and whatever silent ordeal he’d just endured. There was a raw exhaustion in his posture that made Eijiro's chest ache.

Now. Now was the time. Eijiro pushed himself up from the bench, gathering his water bottle.

Eijiro pushed himself up from the gym bench, his muscles screaming in protest, but the physical discomfort was a dull hum against the churning in his gut. He grabbed his water bottle, his eyes still fixed on Bakugo, who was slowly gathering his things from the stretching mat. Bakugo looked utterly drained, his movements stiff, his face pale and drawn. The image of Masato's lingering hands, the subtle tightening of Bakugo's jaw—it twisted in Eijiro's stomach. He couldn't just leave.

He walked over, trying to project a casual nonchalance, though his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Rough workout, huh?" Eijiro asked, his voice softer than he intended.

Bakugo's head snapped up, his crimson eyes locking onto Eijiro's. He bristled, instantly defensive, but then his gaze dropped, sweeping over Eijiro's hastily tied bun. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"What the hell is that on your head, Weird Hair?" Bakugo scoffed, though the insult lacked its usual venom. "Trying to look like a damn jellyfish? Doesn't suit you, brute. But I guess it means you actually can contain that ridiculous mop of yours for once." He folded his stretching mat with precise, economical movements, avoiding Eijiro's gaze.

Eijiro felt a flush creep up his neck. His hand instinctively went to his bun, suddenly acutely aware of its haphazardness. "Hey! It's... it's a bun, Bakugo! I was just too tired to spike it today, alright? And thanks for the backhanded compliment, I guess, ice god. " He tried to sound annoyed, but a genuine, almost embarrassed chuckle escaped him. Bakugo, complimenting his hair, even insultingly? This was new. And utterly disarming.

"Whatever," Bakugo grumbled, stuffing his mat into his bag. He glanced at Eijiro, a flicker of that earlier tension returning to his eyes. "What do you want anyway? Thought you'd be busy crying to your teammates."

Eijiro chose his words carefully. He knew he was treading on thin ice. "Nah, just finished up here. Midoriya told me you had an extra practice. Something about a competition spot?" He watched Bakugo closely, bracing himself for the explosion.

Bakugo stiffened, his eyes narrowing to angry slits. "That damn Deku! Can't keep his mouth shut, can he?" He glowered, then scoffed, a forced bravado entering his tone. "Yeah, like it matters. It went perfectly, obviously. I'm practically guaranteed that spot. The other extra doesn't stand a chance. I'm going to crush him." He puffed out his chest, the picture of indignant confidence, but there was a brittle edge to his defiance.

Eijiro felt a surge of understanding, and a wave of pure, unadulterated admiration. He knew what it took to compete at that level, the sheer, bloody-minded dedication. "Oh, I have no doubt, man," Eijiro said, his voice ringing with genuine conviction. "You're amazing on the ice, Bakugo. Seriously. Your power, your control... you're definitely gonna get that spot. You deserve it." He meant it. He really did. He saw the sheer force of will, the raw talent.

For a split second, Bakugo’s furious expression faltered, replaced by something akin to shock. A faint, surprised blush crept up his neck, a genuine warmth spreading across his pale cheeks. He actually looked embarrassed. His fierce gaze darted away, fixed on some unseen point on the wall. "Shut up, Weird Hair," he mumbled, his voice unusually quiet, almost flustered. "Don't go getting all sappy on me." He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to re-erect his usual thorny defenses, but the effect was spoiled by the tell-tale flush.

"Come on," Bakugo muttered, jerking his head towards the rink entrance. "Let's go. I need to get some more practice in with that damn stick."

Eijiro grinned, a genuine, delighted smile spreading across his face. Bakugo was flustered! He followed him towards Rink 2, a lightness returning to his step despite the heavy weight of the previous day's trauma. The air in the rink was cold, familiar, comforting. Bakugo skated onto the ice, surprisingly fluid even on hockey skates, and nudged a puck towards Eijiro.

"Alright, brute," Bakugo grumbled, though his tone was unusually light. "Let's see if you can handle this. One-on-one. Just you and me. First to five goals wins." He held his hockey stick up, a challenge in his eyes, a glint of genuine excitement.

Eijiro froze. A one-on-one? The thought of a direct, competitive confrontation, especially after yesterday's breakdown, sent a jolt of anxiety through him. He was still rattled, still felt that pervasive vulnerability. He knew, instinctively, that he wasn't ready to push himself, to truly compete, not yet. Not when the slightest trigger could send him spiraling.

"Whoa, hold on, Bakugo," Eijiro said, quickly, perhaps too quickly, his voice a little strained. He held up a hand. "Nah, man. Not today. I'm... I'm not really feeling a proper match right now. My shoulder's still a bit off from that hit yesterday, you know?" It was a flimsy excuse, but the best he could come up with on the spot. He saw the flicker of disappointment in Bakugo's eyes, quickly masked by a familiar scowl.

"Fine, whatever," Bakugo grunted, dropping his stick onto the ice with a clatter. "Coward. Always looking for an excuse." He began pushing pucks around aimlessly, the challenge gone from his posture.

Eijiro felt a pang of guilt, but also relief. "Nah, not a coward," he insisted, though his voice was still a bit tense. "Just... wanna mess around today. No pressure. You've gotten really good with that thing, though, seriously. Show me that little twirl you do." He pointed to Bakugo's stick.

Bakugo glanced at him, then, after a moment's hesitation, performed a quick, flashy twirl of the stick, a small act of showing off. "See? Told you I'd master it. Unlike you, can't even get that pathetic wrist shot right."

Eijiro chuckled, falling into their usual banter. "Oh yeah? Watch this, Hot Shot!" He gathered a puck, determined to prove himself, to banish the lingering tension with a display of skill. He wound up, aiming for a difficult corner, putting extra power into his shot, wanting to impress Bakugo with his own growing proficiency.

He put all his weight into the swing, a familiar surge of adrenaline. But in his eagerness to show off, to prove he wasn't a "coward," his form was off, just a fraction. The puck, instead of soaring towards the top corner, sailed wildly, veering completely off target.

With a sickening THWACK, it flew directly into Eijiro’s crotch.

Eijiro froze, the world narrowing to a single point of blinding, excruciating pain. He dropped his stick, clutching himself, his eyes wide and watering. He let out a strangled, high-pitched "OOOF!" and then slowly, agonizingly, crumpled to the ice like a marionette with its strings cut. He lay there, curled into a fetal position, whimpering.

For a split second, there was stunned silence in the rink, broken only by Eijiro’s pained groans. Bakugo, who had been watching the whole thing unfold with unblinking intensity, simply stared. His jaw was still clenched, his brow still furrowed, but a flicker of something, perhaps surprise, crossed his face.

Then, a loud, uninhibited snort erupted from him. It was a raw, dorky sound, quickly followed by another. And then, the ash-blonde figure skater, the perpetually angry ice god, erupted into a short, explosive fit of laughter. It wasn't a polite chuckle, or a derisive cackle. It was a series of loud, unapologetic, uncontrollable bursts of genuine, unadulterated amusement that echoed through the empty rink. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears pricking the corners of his crimson eyes from sheer, joyful hysteria. It was the most unhinged, joyous sound Eijiro had ever heard from him, a raw, unguarded release.

Eijiro lay on the ice, curled into a ball, clutching his crotch, as Bakugo’s unholy cackles echoed through Rink 2. The pain, though still searing, was almost overshadowed by the sheer mortification. But then, hearing Bakugo, the perpetually furious Bakugo, laugh with such unrestrained joy… it was oddly worth it. He risked a peek through watering eyes. Bakugo was doubled over, red-faced, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks from sheer mirth. It was a sight Eijiro wouldn't soon forget.

“You okay there, Ball-breaker?” Bakugo wheezed, finally managing to straighten up, though he was still shaking with suppressed laughter. His eyes, though still red-rimmed from tears, sparkled with an almost childlike amusement Eijiro had never seen before. It was disarming.

Eijiro groaned, slowly uncurling himself. “Hardly, you brute! That was entirely your fault, you know! You distracted me with your… your general existence!” He tried to sound indignant, but a helpless laugh bubbled up, mixing with his pained gasps. He finally pushed himself into a sitting position, still favoring his bruised region.

Bakugo just snorted, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, my fault? You were trying to show off, Weird Hair! And look where that got you. Directly in the… well, you know.” He gestured vaguely, his smirk widening. He still looked surprisingly light, the earlier tension completely gone.

They spent another glorious hour just messing around. Eijiro, still a bit tender, mostly focused on regaining his composure, while Bakugo, now thoroughly revitalized, experimented with the hockey stick. He’d try to mimic some of Eijiro’s faster puck handling, then fail spectacularly, sending the puck skittering into the boards with a frustrated snarl, only to try again with fierce determination. Eijiro, despite his relative expertise in hockey, found himself captivated by Bakugo’s raw athleticism, how quickly he picked up new movements, how much explosive power he could generate even in an unfamiliar sport.

At one point, Eijiro was demonstrating a difficult slap shot, winding up with full force. As he brought the stick down, Bakugo, watching intently from the side, suddenly made an exaggerated motion, quickly covering his own crotch with both hands, his eyes wide in mock alarm.

“Whoa, whoa, careful there, Roughneck!” Bakugo called out, his voice laced with playful mockery. “We don’t want a repeat performance! I’m not sure the rink has enough ice left to cool both of us down!” He burst into another round of snorts and choked laughter, doubling over again.

Eijiro almost choked on his own breath, his shot veering wildly off course. "Hey! That was one time, you damn Pomeranian! And it was an accident!" He felt his face flush crimson, but he couldn't help but laugh along with Bakugo. The easy banter, the genuine amusement in Bakugo's eyes – it was addictive.

Finally, Eijiro glanced at the clock, a familiar pang of regret hitting him. His own practice was looming. "Alright, man, I really gotta go. Coach Aizawa's got a strict 'no-excuses-for-being-late' policy, and he's been on my case lately."

Bakugo grunted, nudging a puck with his stick. "Yeah, whatever. Don't want your geriatric coach having a heart attack because you can't tell time." He didn't look up, but there was a subtle hint of disappointment in his voice.

Eijiro paused, a thought striking him. They'd been doing this for weeks, and they still had no way to contact each other outside of these chance meetings. If Bakugo's unpredictable schedule, and his own recent benching, meant more missed sessions, it would be tough to reconnect.

"Hey, Bakugo," Eijiro said, fishing his phone out of his gym bag. "We should... uh... we should exchange numbers." He tried to sound casual, but his heart beat a little faster. "Just so we can, you know, coordinate these... training sessions better. Or if one of us is gonna be late. Or, uh, if you want to know if I'm recovering from my latest self-inflicted injury." He gestured vaguely towards his still-aching crotch, earning another snort from Bakugo.

Bakugo looked up, his crimson eyes widening slightly. He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion. He hesitated for a moment, then, with a barely perceptible shrug, pulled out his own phone. "Fine," he grumbled, though his fingers moved quickly on the screen. "Don't go spamming me with pictures, Round Face."

Eijiro chuckled, quickly typing in his number as Bakugo dictated it. "Only if you don't send me pictures of your 'perfect' form, Ice Prince."

Bakugo snorted, a genuine sound of amusement. "As if you could handle it." He sent a quick text to Eijiro’s phone, a simple "Don't lose it, idiot."

Eijiro’s phone buzzed. He looked at the text, then at Bakugo, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face. It was a small thing, a simple exchange of numbers, but it felt significant. It felt like a solidifying of something real, something more than just chance encounters.

"Alright, Bakugo," Eijiro said, turning to head for the locker room. "See you tomorrow morning? Same time?"

Bakugo had already turned back to the ice, casually flicking a puck into the corner with effortless precision. "Don't be late, Weird Hair," he called out, but there was a distinct lack of venom in his voice, replaced by a clear note of expectation.

Eijiro grinned, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the cool rink air. He limped slightly as he walked away, his shoulder still aching, his crotch still tender, but a lightness filled him. He had a connection now, a direct line to the complicated, explosive, unexpectedly hilarious figure skater. And for the first time in days, the heavy weight of his own anxiety felt a little lighter, overshadowed by the promise of tomorrow.

Chapter 4: The Quiet Understanding

Notes:

This chapter will be in Bakugo's pov!!

Don't flame me for my mistakes!!

Enjoy!!

The world was a raw, red haze of fury and frustration for Katsuki Bakugo. He stormed out of the cafe, the scent of sugary protein bars still clinging to his nostrils, a sickening reminder of the damn Kirishima’s pathetic concern. Prying, meddling extra. The words had been like a needle, pricking at a nerve he’d kept meticulously cauterized for years. His coach, Masato, was the architect of his comeback, the ruthless sculptor who’d carved him from shattered potential into the untouchable force he was now. No one, absolutely no one, got to question Masato-sensei. Not some red-haired hockey brute, and especially not that damn Deku with his perpetually worried eyes.

A sharp, familiar pang shot through his ankle, making him grit his teeth. It was a dull throb that had been escalating into a fiery ache for days, a constant, nagging reminder of his body’s limitations, a weakness Masato constantly pushed him to ignore. Just a little stiffness, Katsuki. Push through. Champions don’t stop for discomfort. The words echoed in his head, cold and precise. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, digging his nails into his palms, channeling the pain and anger into a simmering resolve. He’d show them all. He’d show that red-haired idiot what true dedication looked like. He’d show Masato he was worth every goddamn second of grueling training. He’d show Deku he didn’t need his pathetic pity.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Midoriya's contact. He didn't want the soft-hearted bastard hovering. He needed to be alone. But the thought of Deku showing up later, wide-eyed and worried, was almost as annoying as his presence now. With a snarl, he thumbed out a quick, terse text: "Already at practice. Don't bother." He jammed the phone back into his pocket, already striding towards Rink 2, the chill of the arena a welcome slap to his inflamed senses.

Rink 2 was quiet, bathed in the stark, unforgiving glow of the overhead lights. His rival, Shoto, was already there, a silent, unmoving statue on the ice, going through a series of meticulous warm-ups. The other skater moved with a detached grace, every line perfect, every movement economical. Bakugo felt a familiar surge of competitive fire, cold and intense, warring with the familiar ache in his ankle. One spot. Only one. That thought was a relentless drumbeat in his head. This extra practice was Masato’s final crucible, a direct, brutal contest to see who would break first. It wouldn't be him.

Masato appeared shortly after, his face impassive, his presence instantly filling the air with a heavy, expectant silence. The practice began. It was a relentless gauntlet of drills, Masato pushing them to repeat complex sequences, demanding impossible precision, pushing their bodies and minds to the breaking point. Every time Bakugo landed a triple axel, his ankle flared, sending a jolt of white-hot pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth, forcing his expression into one of serene control. He wouldn’t give Masato, or Shoto, the satisfaction of seeing him falter. He could feel the sweat slicking his back, mingling with the cold of the ice. He pushed, and pushed, drawing on that deep, bottomless well of furious ambition.

After what felt like an eternity, during a brief, water-break interlude, Bakugo noticed him. Midoriya. The damn Deku was there, hovering in the stands, a worried frown etched on his face, his bright green eyes fixed on Bakugo. A flash of irritation, then something else, something softer, flickered through Bakugo. Of course he came.

Masato was barking an instruction to Shoto, his back to Bakugo. Shoto was focused, listening intently. It was the perfect opportunity. Bakugo turned his back slightly to Masato, a mischievous glint in his eye. He caught Midoriya’s gaze, then, with a subtle, exaggerated flourish, he pretended to trip over his own skates, his limbs flailing dramatically, before miraculously regaining his balance with an overly theatrical gasp. He then made a ridiculously exaggerated face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue, a silent, childish mockery of his own perceived clumsiness. It was a private joke, a ridiculous little performance that only Deku would understand, a small, rebellious jab at the suffocating perfection Masato demanded.

From the stands, Midoriya's shoulders started to shake. A hand flew to his mouth, muffling a distinct, almost choked giggle, quickly stifled but undeniably there. Bakugo saw it, and a strange, quiet satisfaction bloomed in his chest. Got him. It was a familiar dynamic, a secret language only they shared, born from years of shared history and countless instances of Bakugo’s absurd attempts to provoke a reaction.

The practice dragged on, each jump, each spin, each edge a struggle against his protesting ankle. By the time Masato finally called it, Bakugo felt like he’d been run over by a Zamboni. He skated to the boards, peeling off his skates, his legs trembling slightly.

Shoto approached him, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Good practice, Bakugo," he said, his voice flat but polite. "Your quad was clean today."

Bakugo grunted, a grudging acknowledgment. "Yeah, well, yours wasn't bad for a half-and-half bastard." It was a typical Bakugo retort, but even he knew it was a compliment, in his own twisted way. He respected Shoto's skill, even if he wanted to grind him into the ice.

As Shoto retreated, Midoriya, ever the worried shadow, was already by the entrance. Bakugo walked over, a fresh wave of irritation washing over him, mixed with the bone-deep exhaustion. "What are you still doing here, Deku?" he snapped, but the usual bite was dulled by his fatigue.

Midoriya’s face was flushed, his green eyes sparkling. He was looking, not at Bakugo, but past him, at Shoto's retreating back. His lips were parted slightly, a soft, pathetic sigh escaping him. Bakugo immediately recognized the look. He'd seen it a million times before.

"Tch," Bakugo poked Midoriya's cheek with a disgusted finger. "Don't tell me you're still pining over that Half-and-Half bastard, Deku. You're practically drooling. It's disgusting." He made exaggerated fanning motions with his hand, pretending to be overwhelmed by Midoriya’s pathetic lovesickness. "Honestly, you're hopeless. Can't even string a sentence together around him, can you? It's pathetic! Your face gets all red, and you start muttering to yourself like a damn goblin. Seriously, you look like a lovesick cat in heat."

Midoriya flushed even deeper, his green eyes widening in alarm. "K-Kacchan! Sh-shut up! Don't say things like that!" He frantically looked around, as if worried someone else might hear. "It's not like that!"

Bakugo just snorted, enjoying the torment. "Oh, it's exactly like that, Deku! You're practically radiating pathetic adoration! It's so gross. I bet you even write little poems about his stupid, perfectly parted hair, don't you? 'Oh, Shoto-kun, your ice is so cold, but your fire warms my soul!'" He made a mock retching sound.

Midoriya clamped a hand over Bakugo’s mouth, his face a furious, embarrassed red. "Kacchan! I swear to god!" His grip was surprisingly strong.

Bakugo’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed into a mischievous glint. He bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make Midoriya yelp and snatch his hand away. "Ow! Kacchan, you bite!"

"Serves you right, damn Deku!" Bakugo snarled, a genuine, raw laugh bubbling up from deep in his chest. This was better than any ice session. This was familiar, comforting chaos. He lunged, tackling Midoriya around the waist, pulling him into a rough, unexpected wrestling match. Midoriya shrieked, half in protest, half in laughter, trying to wriggle free. They tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs and muffled grunts, rolling across the rubber matting like two oversized puppies. Bakugo’s ankle screamed in protest, but for a moment, he didn’t care. The pain was just a distant hum, swallowed by the sheer, unadulterated joy of the moment. They wrestled, pushed, and shoved, their laughter echoing through the empty corridor, loud and uninhibited, exactly like they had when they were kids, scrapping in their backyards.

It was a mess of tangled limbs, Bakugo’s muffled snorts mixing with Midoriya’s breathless giggles. They finally lay sprawled on the floor, panting, arms flung wide, completely exhausted but smiling. Bakugo, for the first time all day, felt a real sense of release. The anger, the pressure, the throbbing ankle—it all faded into the background, replaced by the simple, comforting presence of his oldest friend. Midoriya, despite his initial protests, was beaming, a genuine, joyful light in his eyes.
"You're a menace, Kacchan," Midoriya gasped, still chuckling.

"And you're a pathetic nerd, Deku," Bakugo shot back, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, completely devoid of malice. He closed his eyes, for a moment, just breathing, letting the comfortable silence settle between them. He still had a competition to win, a coach to satisfy, a reputation to uphold. But for now, for this one brief moment, he was just Kacchan, and this was Deku, and everything else could wait.

_________

The dull ache in Katsuki Bakugo’s ankle was a constant, unwelcome companion as he pushed through the morning. Even the uncharacteristic, almost easy laughter with Deku yesterday couldn’t fully shake the persistent throb, a quiet rebellion of muscle and bone against the relentless demands of his training. The thought of today’s "extra practice" – another grueling session with the damn Half-and-Half Bastard, under Masato’s ever-watchful, calculating eye – sent a ripple of tension through him. He’d won the last round, obviously, but Masato rarely let him rest on his laurels. Every second was a test, every movement a step closer to the perfection he was expected to embody.

He was in the complex gym, not the rink, this morning. Masato had changed the schedule without warning, a common tactic to keep him off-balance, always adapting. The rhythmic clang of weights, the whoosh of the treadmills, the muted grunts of other athletes – it was the usual cacophony of ambition, but Bakugo barely registered it. He found a relatively secluded spot near the stretching mats, pushing his body through a series of familiar, agonizing stretches. Each movement was precise, controlled, a testament to years of discipline, even as his ankle screamed in silent protest. He focused on his breath, on the burning stretch of his muscles, trying to push out everything else: the lingering discomfort, the memory of Kirishima’s pathetic pity, the annoying concern in Deku’s eyes.

He was deep into a pigeon stretch, his hip flexors screaming, when the gym door opened with a quiet hiss of air. He didn't look up immediately, accustomed to the ebb and flow of people. But then, a presence. He felt it before he saw it, a shift in the ambient energy of the gym. Masato. His jaw tightened. He held his position, his face carefully blank, showing no weakness.

A shadow fell over him. He heard the soft, deliberate footsteps. They stopped. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know it was Masato. The air around him always thickened when his coach was near, becoming charged with an almost suffocating expectation.

He felt a light, almost imperceptible pressure on his lower back. Masato was adjusting his form, as always. The touch was precise, professional, yet it lingered, a subtle, invasive presence. Bakugo tensed, every muscle in his body rigid, his breath held. Masato’s hands moved from his lower back, up his spine, then settled on his shoulders, pressing lightly, a silent demand for greater extension. His breath was warm against Bakugo's ear as he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear, words of critique, of expectation, of veiled disappointment.

“Your extension was sloppy on that last quad, Katsuki. I saw it. Don’t think I didn’t. You’re letting the pressure get to you. Is your ankle bothering you? Don’t let a minor discomfort cost you everything. You’re better than that. You’re the best. Act like it. Focus.”

The words, soft as they were, were ice in Bakugo's veins. He felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. He didn’t respond, couldn’t. He just focused on holding the stretch, on keeping his expression perfectly neutral, on being the unyielding rock Masato demanded. The coach’s hands moved again, sliding down his arm, then lingering on his forearm, a light, almost caressing touch that made Bakugo's skin crawl. He could feel the subtle pressure, the implied threat behind the gentle touch.

Finally, Masato straightened up, a satisfied hum escaping him. He said a few more words, a brief instruction for the upcoming rink practice, then patted Bakugo’s shoulder – a lingering pat, the weight of it heavy with expectation – and walked away, disappearing through the gym door.

Bakugo remained on the mat, utterly still. He waited, counting slow, deliberate breaths, until he was sure Masato was truly gone. Only then did he slowly, almost painfully, release the stretch. His muscles screamed, his ankle throbbed, and a cold weariness settled deep into his bones. He pushed himself up, every movement stiff, like his limbs were made of lead. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to go back to bed and never get up.

He was rolling up his yoga mat, a scowl firmly back on his face, when he saw him.

Weird Hair.

He was over by the free weights, wiping down a bench, looking like a drowned, red-headed rat. His usual spiky mane, the one that screamed 'loud and obnoxious,' was pulled back into a pathetic, lopsided bun. A few damp strands had escaped, plastered to his forehead. He looked… different. Soft. Not like the explosive idiot who usually challenged him to dumb competitions. He was paler than usual, too, a faint shadow beneath his eyes. He actually looked exhausted, genuinely spent, not just from a workout, but from something deeper. Like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Bakugo felt a strange, unexpected flicker of… something. Not pity, he’d never pity this brute, but an unidentifiable shift in his gut.

__________

The next day dawned with a clear, crisp promise of a new morning, but for Katsuki Bakugo, it just meant another round of relentless training. His ankle still throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that Masato had already dismissed as "minor discomfort." He’d managed to get a full night's sleep, something of a rarity these days, yet he still felt a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. It was the weight of expectation, the constant demand for perfection, the never-ending pressure to prove himself.

He went through his usual pre-rink routine: a quick, cold shower to shock his system awake, a protein shake meticulously measured by Masato’s instructions, then the walk to Rink 2. He expected to find Kirishima there, waiting on the rubber matting, a spare hockey stick propped against the boards. After yesterday's unexpected laughs and the bizarre, almost domestic feeling of sharing protein bars, Bakugo found himself… anticipating it. Not that he'd ever admit it.

But Rink 2 was empty. No red-haired brute with his stupid, energetic grin. Just the vast, echoing silence of the ice. Bakugo felt a flicker of annoyance. Damn it. Where’s the idiot? He checked his phone. No text. He considered sending one, just a curt "Where the hell are you, Weird Hair?" but quickly dismissed it. He wasn't that desperate for the brute's company. He was just… curious. And a little annoyed at the disruption to his routine.

He went through his solo warm-ups, the movements precise and powerful, but a small part of his mind was distracted. Did he get lost? Did he hurt himself with one of his idiotic moves? Did that pathetic excuse of a hockey coach bench him for something stupid? The possibilities ran through his head, each one more irritating than the last. He pushed the thoughts away. He had to focus. The competition for the spot was brutal. He couldn't afford distractions.

After his grueling solo session, his muscles screaming, his ankle burning, Bakugo decided to swing by the complex’s cafe. Maybe the brute was there, stuffing his face with something equally idiotic and carb-loaded. It was a long shot, but the thought persisted, a nagging itch he couldn't ignore.

He pushed open the cafe door, the warm, comforting aroma of coffee and pastries washing over him. The cafe was moderately busy, a low hum of chatter filling the air. He scanned the tables, his eyes narrowed, searching. And there he was.

Kirishima was hunched over a small table in a corner, nursing a steaming mug, a half-eaten protein bar—the same kind Bakugo had devoured yesterday—lying beside his hand. He wasn't in his usual practice gear, but in a simple t-shirt and sweats. His spiky red hair was pulled back into that ridiculous, lopsided bun again, confirming Bakugo’s earlier assessment of "bird's nest." He looked pale, too, a lingering shadow beneath his eyes, and his shoulders were a little slumped. He seemed… subdued. The usual boundless energy that radiated off him was noticeably absent. He looked up, his eyes widening slightly as he spotted Bakugo, a flicker of something unreadable – surprise? alarm? – crossing his face before he quickly masked it with a forced, almost brittle grin.

"Bakugo! Hey, man!" Kirishima called out, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. He made a show of straightening up, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from him. "What are you doing here? Hard practice?"

Bakugo scowled, walking over and pulling out the chair with a scrape that made a few heads turn. He dropped into it, glaring at Kirishima. "What the hell are you doing here, Weird Hair? Aren't you supposed to be on the ice? I went to the rink. You weren't there." His voice was sharper than he intended, a mixture of genuine annoyance and a strange, unfamiliar flicker of disappointment.

Kirishima’s forced cheerfulness wavered. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting around the cafe, avoiding Bakugo's intense stare. "Oh, uh, yeah. No, I mean, I'm... I'm just taking a personal day. You know." He chuckled nervously, a strained, unnatural sound. "Just felt like... chilling out. Needed a break from all the intensity. My coach, Aizawa, totally gets it. Said I should just take a breather, you know?" He waved a dismissive hand, trying to sell the lie, but his eyes were too bright, too frantic.

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. "A 'personal day'? You? The idiot who lives and breathes hockey? The one who tries to break his own face doing stupid drills?" He leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Don't lie to me, brute. You missed practice yesterday too. You only miss practice if you're dead, or you broke something. What happened? Did you finally break your pathetic legs?" There was no pity in his voice, only a fierce, almost aggressive demand for the truth. He could tell Kirishima was hiding something, and it grated on his nerves. He hated being lied to. He hated not knowing.

Kirishima flinched, his facade cracking further. He pulled his hands into his lap, his shoulders hunching. "N-no, nothing like that, man. Just... just needed a break. Seriously. My body was just... protesting. So Coach Aizawa said to take a couple days. Total rest." He still couldn't meet Bakugo's eyes, his gaze fixed on the table, then on the protein bar. He picked it up, tearing nervously at the wrapper.

Bakugo watched him, his mind racing. He saw the subtle tremor in Kirishima’s hands, the way he kept avoiding eye contact, the forced casualness that bordered on desperation. This wasn't just "rest." This was something else. Kirishima was usually an open book, loud and honest to a fault. This level of evasiveness, this obvious lie, screamed that something was very wrong. But what? And why the hell was he hiding it? Was he ashamed? Of what?

"You're full of shit, Weird Hair," Bakugo stated, his voice flat, accusatory. He knew Kirishima was lying. He didn't know why, or what about, but the intense, tightly wound energy radiating off Kirishima, even in his subdued state, told him everything he needed to know. This wasn't a relaxing "personal day." This was a desperate attempt to cover up something far more significant, something that had shaken the unshakeable brute to his core. Bakugo’s own memory of Kirishima’s panic yesterday, though he didn't know the cause, suddenly felt heavier, more significant. Something had happened. And Kirishima was determined to keep it a secret.

Bakugo stared at him, waiting. He saw the flicker of panic in Kirishima's eyes, the way his jaw tensed, the desperate grip on the protein bar wrapper. Kirishima, the unshakeable brute, was shaking. Not from cold, not from exertion, but from something far deeper, something that made him lie through his teeth. Bakugo hated lies, but for some reason, he didn’t feel the usual surge of rage. Just a strange, almost uncomfortable prickle of… curiosity. And maybe, a tiny, buried knot of something akin to concern.

He watched as Kirishima tore at the protein bar wrapper, his gaze darting around the cafe, avoiding Bakugo's relentless stare. The brute clearly couldn't get into it, couldn't voice whatever demon was making him squirm. And Bakugo, surprisingly, found he didn't want to rip it out of him, not right now. He usually reveled in pushing people's buttons, in breaking through their defenses with brute force. But with Kirishima, in this moment, there was something else at play. Something fragile.

Bakugo shifted in his seat, leaning back, crossing his arms. He let a calculated sigh escape him, a performative sound of exasperation. "Fine, don't tell me," he grumbled, though his eyes remained fixed on Kirishima. "Keep your pathetic secrets. But I've got questions that need answering."

Kirishima looked up, his eyes wide and wary, like a cornered animal. "Questions?" he rasped, his voice still a little strained.

Bakugo pointed a thumb at his chest. "Yeah, questions. Like, if you're pulling a 'personal day' from your hockey team, are you actually gonna be ready for practice tomorrow?" He paused, then pushed just a little, his voice dropping slightly, a hint of something he tried to keep hidden. "And what about that damn game in a few days? The one you were rambling about like a broken record yesterday?" He wasn't asking out of mere curiosity. He had caught snippets of Kirishima's earlier rambling. The "big game." The rivals. He hadn't admitted it, not even to himself, but the idea of seeing Kirishima on the ice, unleashed and roaring, had actually… appealed to him. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see if Kirishima’s "manly spirit" was as real in a proper match as it was during their idiotic stick-handling sessions.

Kirishima blinked, surprised by the shift in topic, by the unexpected question about his game. His face seemed to relax minutely, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. He still looked pale, but the desperate, cornered look faded, replaced by a flicker of… something else. Relief? Pride?

"Oh! Yeah, no, absolutely!" Kirishima insisted, his voice regaining some of its usual booming enthusiasm, though a slight tremor still ran beneath it. He squared his shoulders, a hint of the 'unbreakable' brute returning. "Coach Aizawa's just making me rest, you know. Standard procedure. But I'll be back on the ice tomorrow, full force. And the game? You bet your ass I'll be ready. We're gonna crush those guys." He even managed a wobbly, determined grin. "You should, uh, you should come watch, Bakugo. It's gonna be a real brawl. Very manly."

Bakugo scoffed, a familiar sneer curling his lips, but he felt a strange flutter in his chest. Come watch? The idea, voiced by Kirishima, was suddenly tangible. He’d considered it, fleetingly, in the back of his mind, but hearing the invitation out loud, from Kirishima, felt different. "As if I have time for your pathetic amateur hour," he grumbled, though a faint, tell-tale flush was beginning to creep up his neck. He remembered how much Kirishima had seemed to appreciate his 'compliment' yesterday, the one about his hair. He tried to ignore the warmth spreading through him. "I've got actual training to do. My coach expects me to actually practice."

He watched Kirishima’s face fall, just a fraction. Good. The brute needed to know his place. But then, an idea sparked. An almost involuntary thought, born from the strange, unexpected pleasure of those protein bars yesterday, and the quiet relief of Kirishima's simple presence.

"Besides," Bakugo continued, almost cutting off Kirishima's impending disappointment, "who's going to supply my damn protein bars if you're laid up in bed like a useless lump?" He jabbed a finger at the half-eaten bar on the table, a clear demand. His voice was gruff, but the underlying tone was… something else. Almost needy. Almost.

Kirishima's eyes widened. He looked down at the bar, then at the box peeking out of his bag, a slow grin spreading across his face, pushing away the last vestiges of his earlier distress. "Oh! Right! Man, I almost forgot!" He reached into his bag, pulling out the entire box. "Here, dude! Take 'em! I've got plenty. Seriously, you saved me from having to eat these bland things anyway. They're all yours!" He pushed the box across the table, his enthusiasm completely genuine.

Bakugo snatched the box, his fingers brushing Kirishima’s, a familiar spark of heat. He pulled a bar out, tearing at the wrapper, already taking a large, deliberate bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the familiar, almost shockingly good taste of the processed chocolate and peanut butter. His eyes closed for a moment in quiet contemplation. It wasn't the complex, meticulously balanced fuel Masato dictated, but it was his. A small, sweet rebellion. And it was good. So damn good.

He opened his eyes, met Kirishima’s wide, expectant gaze, and felt a familiar, almost overwhelming urge to scoff, to insult, to push him away. But the protein bar in his mouth tasted too good. And Kirishima, despite his earlier transparency, hadn't pressed him. He'd just... understood.

"Fine," Bakugo mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate. He swallowed, then jabbed a thumb towards the door. "Just make sure you're actually out there tomorrow, Weird Hair. And don't be late for that damn game. I'll… I'll consider maybe showing up. If I don't have anything better to do." He finished the bar in a few swift bites, then reached for another, completely unashamed.

Kirishima’s grin widened, beaming. "You got it, Bakugo! I'll be there! And you too!" His energy, though still a little subdued, was definitely returning. He watched Bakugo tear into the second protein bar with an almost childlike glee, a warmth blooming in his chest. It was a strange, unexpected connection forged over shared ice, awkward silences, brutal honesty, and surprisingly, bland chocolate-peanut butter protein bars. Bakugo, the explosive, untouchable ice god, actually liked his dumb protein bars. And wanted to watch his hockey game. The thought was unexpectedly heartwarming.

"Oh, and Bakugo!" Kirishima called out as Bakugo was halfway to the door, causing him to pause. "About the game, man, it can get pretty loud. Lots of shouting, packed stands, all that. If it's... if it's ever too much, you know, you can just grab a seat on the bench. The team usually leaves some space for extra gear or whatever. Nobody'll bother you there. Just a thought." He gave a small, knowing nod, as if offering a discreet escape route.

Bakugo grunted, not turning around, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He hated crowds. Hated the way they pressed in, the cacophony of sound, the judging eyes. Kirishima, the damn brute, had somehow picked up on that. The offer was… surprisingly considerate. A small, hidden corner of him felt a flicker of quiet appreciation. "Whatever," he muttered, then pushed the door open, leaving the cafe.

The next morning, Rink 2 was bathed in the familiar, cool glow of the overhead lights. Bakugo was finally finished, his skates unlaced and tucked into his bag, the zipper pulled with a decisive zip. His muscles hummed with residual energy, a clean, satisfying ache. He felt focused, sharp.

Out on the ice, Kirishima was still skating, a red blur of energy, his stick a blur as he expertly handled a puck. He was back to his usual self, a loud, powerful presence on the ice, his spiky red hair defying gravity, his grin wide and unburdened. The paleness from yesterday was gone, replaced by a healthy flush from exertion. He looked… good.

"And then I told Coach Aizawa, 'No way, sensei! My quads are practically made of vibranium! You gotta let me take that slap shot!'" Kirishima was rambling, his voice carrying easily across the empty rink, his movements fluid and strong. He circled closer to the boards where Bakugo stood, still talking animatedly. "He just sighed, you know? Like he always does. But I knew he was secretly impressed. I mean, who else can pull off a triple deke through two defensemen and still maintain perfect form for the shot, huh? Nobody! Only me!" He finished with a flourish, slamming the puck into the net with a satisfying thwack.

Bakugo just snorted, shoving his water bottle into his bag. "You're full of yourself, Weird Hair. That deke was sloppy. Any decent defenseman would've flattened you." Despite the insult, there was a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. He was used to Kirishima's endless, boisterous self-praise. It was almost… comfortable.

Kirishima laughed, gliding backwards towards Bakugo. "Oh, come on, you saw how fast it was! Even you had to be impressed, just a little!" He leaned against the boards, resting his stick against the ice. "Anyway, so about that game... you really gonna show up, or are you just gonna send me good vibes from your perfectly sculpted bed?"

Just as Bakugo was about to retort, a new voice cut across the rink, loud and boisterous, almost mirroring Kirishima's own.

"Kirishima! You still out here, man?! I thought we agreed to hit the weights!"

Both Bakugo and Kirishima turned their heads. Striding onto the rubber matting from the locker room entrance was a figure strikingly similar to Kirishima, yet distinctly different. He was just about the same height and build – broad-shouldered, powerfully muscled, a solid, imposing presence. But while Kirishima was a fiery red, this newcomer was a cool, metallic silver. His hair, a sharp, almost aggressive spiky mop, was dyed a striking silver, contrasting sharply with his dark, intense eyes. He had a confident swagger, a loose-limbed grace that spoke of effortless strength.

"Tetsu! Hey, man! Just finishing up some extra drills!" Kirishima grinned, waving a hand. "Coach Aizawa's got us on a crazy schedule, you know."

TetsuTetsu's gaze swept over Kirishima, then landed squarely on Bakugo, a curious, challenging glint in his eyes. He stopped a few feet away, hands on his hips. He took in Bakugo's lean, athletic frame, the intensity in his crimson eyes, the way his jaw was perpetually set. A slow, appreciative smirk spread across TetsuTetsu's face.

"Well, well, well," TetsuTetsu rumbled, his voice deep and confident. "Who's this, Kirishima? Don't tell me you've been holding out on us, you sly dog." He walked closer to Bakugo, his eyes boldly raking over him, a clear flirtatious intent. "I don't think I've seen a face like yours around the rinks before. New to the complex?"

Bakugo felt a familiar flicker of irritation. He hated being put on the spot, hated being openly scrutinized, especially with such blatant interest. He was about to retort, probably with a stinging insult, when Kirishima, bless his idiotic heart, jumped in.

"Oh! Tetsu, this is Bakugo! He's, uh, he's a… a competitive weightlifter!" Kirishima announced, a little too quickly, a little too loudly, gesturing vaguely at Bakugo's muscular arms. He gave Bakugo a quick, panicked glance, a silent plea in his eyes that clearly screamed, 'Please, for the love of all that is manly, play along! He'll never understand figure skating!'

Bakugo froze, his jaw dropping imperceptibly. Weightlifter?! The absolute opposite of his graceful, artistic sport. He wanted to explode, to correct the record with a thunderous roar, to explain exactly what he did and how much better it was than some brute just lifting heavy things. But Kirishima’s wide, pleading eyes held him captive. The brute was trying to save him from something, apparently. From what, he wasn't sure. From TetsuTetsu's judgment, probably. The thought was infuriating, yet a strange, almost amused realization dawned on him. Kirishima genuinely thought this was helping.

"A weightlifter, huh?" TetsuTetsu mused, his smirk widening as he looked Bakugo up and down, his eyes lingering for a moment on Bakugo’s chest. "Nice. Real manly. I can definitely see the… dedication. You got some serious build there, man. Ever thought about trying out for hockey? We could use a guy with your brute strength on the ice. Imagine the body checks!" He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "I'm TetsuTetsu TetsuTetsu, by the way. Pleasure to meet a fellow man of steel!" He extended a large, calloused hand, obviously expecting a firm handshake.

Bakugo stared at the outstretched hand, then back at Kirishima, whose eyes were wide with a hopeful, desperate plea. He felt a ridiculous, almost childish urge to just ignore them both and skate away. But for Kirishima, the idiot who kept bringing him protein bars and offering him bench seats, he'd play along. For now.

With a barely perceptible grunt, Bakugo finally took TetsuTetsu’s hand. His grip was firm, almost crushing, a silent challenge. "Bakugo Katsuki," he muttered, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "Yeah. Weightlifting. Obviously." He glared at Kirishima, a silent promise of future retribution for this ridiculous lie.

Kirishima let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a wide, relieved grin breaking across his face. "Told you he was strong, Tetsu! Bakugo's got incredible explosive power, man!"

TetsuTetsu just laughed, squeezing Bakugo's hand before releasing it. "I can tell! Well, Bakugo, if you ever get tired of just picking things up and putting them down, you know where to find us. We're always looking for another strong arm for the team. You should come watch us practice sometime, too. Kirishima's got a game coming up that's gonna be epic!" TetsuTetsu’s eyes held a lingering, challenging warmth that Bakugo usually interpreted as aggression, but from this silver-haired brute, it felt… different. More like a friendly rivalry.

Bakugo just grunted again, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He already was planning on watching Kirishima's game. He didn't need this silver-haired brute's invitation. He glanced at Kirishima, who was still beaming like an idiot. This was going to be a long day.

TetsuTetsu clapped Kirishima on the shoulder with a resounding thwack. "Alright, Kirishima! I'm heading to the weights. Don't be too long! We've got a lot of iron to push around!" With a final, lingering look at Bakugo that was almost a wink, TetsuTetsu swaggered off towards the gym entrance, his laughter echoing down the hallway.

The moment TetsuTetsu was out of earshot, Bakugo rounded on Kirishima, his glare scorching. "Competitive weightlifter?!" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Are you out of your damn mind, Weird Hair?! I'm a figure skater! A world-class figure skater! Not some grunt who just lifts heavy things and grunts! Do you know how much artistic precision goes into my sport?! How much grace?! How much skill?!"

Kirishima visibly winced, rubbing the back of his neck. His wide grin was replaced by a sheepish, almost apologetic grimace. "Whoa, whoa, easy there, Bakugo! Calm down! It was just… a spur-of-the-moment thing, man! Tetsu’s, uh, Tetsu’s not exactly… subtle. And he can be a little… judgmental about other sports, especially anything that's not, you know, 'manly' in his eyes." He gestured vaguely, his explanation a desperate plea. "I just didn't want him to be rude to you! He can be a real pain when he gets going."

Bakugo scoffed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Rude to me?! As if I'd let some chrome-domed idiot be rude to me! I'd flatten him! And what's wrong with figure skating, you uncultured brute?! It takes ten times the skill your pathetic hockey stick waving takes!" He jabbed a finger at Kirishima’s hockey stick with disdain. "You think I just 'lift things'? Do you know how much strength it takes to launch yourself into a quadruple jump?! To hold a perfect spin without looking like a dying top?!"

Kirishima actually chuckled, a nervous, almost breathless sound. "Hey, hey, I know, I know! I've seen you! You're incredible on the ice, man, seriously! I mean it! That's why I panicked, you know? I just… I didn't want him to disrespect your art! He just wouldn't get it." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "And besides," he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "if I told him you were a figure skater, he'd probably try to challenge you to a fight on ice. He's weird like that. Always trying to prove his 'manliness.' Thought it'd be easier just to let him think you bench press cars or something."

Bakugo stared at him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The image of TetsuTetsu trying to "fight" him on the ice, probably just ending up flailing uselessly while Bakugo effortlessly spun circles around him, was actually… kind of hilarious. A low, rumbling snort escaped him, quickly followed by a series of choked laughs. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress the uncharacteristic mirth, but his shoulders shook with it.

"You… you thought… you thought he'd try to fight me for being a figure skater?" Bakugo wheezed, finally managing to pull himself together, though his eyes were still watering with suppressed amusement. "You're a special kind of stupid, Weird Hair. An elite kind of stupid."

Kirishima, seeing Bakugo's laughter, brightened instantly. "See! I knew you'd get it! He's just... he's a lot, you know? And he meant well! He really did think you looked strong!"

"I am strong, you moron! That's not the point!" Bakugo snapped, though his voice lacked its usual venom. He actually felt a strange, almost fond exasperation. "The point is, you just lied to your teammate about what I do! What happens when he finds out? When he sees me on the ice and realizes I don't spend my days grunting over barbells?"

Kirishima waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he won't find out! He barely pays attention to anything outside of hockey anyway. And honestly," he lowered his voice, "he probably won't even remember your name by next week. He's got the memory of a goldfish." He winked.

Bakugo scoffed, but a tiny smile, fleeting and almost imperceptible, touched his lips. "You're lucky I didn't blast him into next week for being such an idiot. And you for being an even bigger one." He zipped up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. The initial surge of anger had dissipated, replaced by a strange, almost comfortable warmth. Kirishima was an idiot, a loud, oblivious, utterly ridiculous idiot. But he was his idiot. And he’d tried to look out for him, in his own ham-fisted way. The thought was surprisingly… nice.

"So," Kirishima began, changing the subject with his usual abruptness, "you still gonna come to the game, then? Now that you've met Tetsu, you definitely have to see him in action! He's actually really good, despite, you know, everything."

Bakugo rolled his eyes. "I said I'd consider it, brute. Don't go getting your hopes up. I've got better things to do than watch a bunch of overgrown men chase a rubber disc." He paused, then added, his voice low and gruff, "And if I do show up, I'm sitting on the damn bench. Don't expect me to be in the stands with the screaming masses." The admission felt raw, a small, quiet offering.

Kirishima’s grin widened, a genuine, joyful light entering his eyes. "You got it, Bakugo! Bench it is! Just save a spot for me when I get benched for fighting, too!" He laughed, already pushing off the boards to do a final lap.

Bakugo just shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile still playing on his lips. "You're hopeless, Weird Hair." He turned and headed for the exit, the lingering warmth in his chest a stark contrast to the usual cold determination that fueled him. He carried his skate bag slung over his shoulder, its weight a familiar anchor. His conversation with Kirishima, and the bizarre encounter with TetsuTetsu, replayed in his mind.

Competitive weightlifter.

The sheer idiocy of it still made his jaw clench, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile toyed with the corners of his lips. Kirishima, the clueless brute, had actually tried to protect him. From what, exactly? The judgment of a silver-haired Neanderthal who probably thought ballet was a contact sport? It was ridiculous. Utterly, fundamentally ridiculous. Yet, the thought of Kirishima's earnest, panicked plea, and his genuinely relieved grin when Bakugo played along, stirred something unfamiliar in Bakugo’s chest. It wasn’t quite warmth, not yet, but a subtle softening of his usual internal landscape.

As he walked, the familiar ache in his ankle began to sharpen, a persistent throb that cut through the lingering amusement. He tried to ignore it, to push it down, just as Masato always told him to. Minor discomfort, Katsuki. Push through. Champions don’t stop for discomfort. But the pain was becoming harder to dismiss, a dull, insistent demand for attention. He knew, with a sick certainty, that pushing through it too much longer would only make it worse. He gritted his teeth, forcing a steady pace, refusing to limp. Masato would be furious if he found out. He couldn't afford a real injury, not with everything on the line.

His mind drifted back to Kirishima again, to his unusual pallor yesterday at the cafe, the subtle tremors in his hands, and his frantic evasiveness. Bakugo still didn't know what had happened, what had prompted Kirishima's "personal day" and his obvious lie. He didn’t know anything about Kirishima's past. But he’d seen the brute, usually so boisterous and open, trying desperately to conceal something. The way Kirishima had flinched, the desperation in his eyes, it had been too raw to be ignored. Bakugo remembered the strange sense of unease he'd felt then, a gut feeling that something was deeply wrong. What could have shaken Kirishima, the perpetually "manly" and optimistic idiot, to such an extent? The puzzle was annoying, frustrating, yet undeniably intriguing. He found himself replaying their conversation, trying to find clues, piecing together the subtle hints he hadn't fully registered at the time.

He reached his apartment building, the towering structure a familiar, almost sterile presence against the sky. The walk up the stairs, usually effortless, felt heavier today, each step sending a jolt up his protesting ankle. He cursed under his breath, unlocked his door, and stepped into the cool, quiet solitude of his apartment.

The silence was heavy, a stark contrast to the earlier chaotic energy of the rink and the boisterousness of Kirishima and TetsuTetsu. He tossed his skate bag into the corner, the soft thud echoing in the quiet space. He peeled off his training clothes, his muscles humming with the residual energy of practice, now mingled with the sharp pain of his ankle. He moved into the bathroom, the faint scent of antiseptic cleaner clinging to the air.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his crimson eyes intense, unwavering. He saw the lean, powerful lines of his body, the result of years of brutal discipline and unwavering dedication. He saw the faint, smooth lines of his top surgery scars across his chest, a testament to his own relentless pursuit of self, of identity. Every inch of him was meticulously sculpted, a machine built for perfection. But today, he also saw the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw, a subtle weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the barely visible line of a scar on his chest. He was constantly "on," perpetually performing, perpetually striving to meet an impossible standard. The weight of Masato’s expectations, of his own towering ambition, was a constant, suffocating pressure. He was the best, he had to be. There was no room for error, no room for weakness. Every single day was a battle, a test of his resolve.

He thought of Kirishima again, the way the brute always seemed to push himself to the absolute limit, always talking about "manliness" and "unbreakable spirit." Was Kirishima's drive, his relentless optimism, just another form of self-imposed pressure? Was he also constantly trying to prove something, to uphold an impossible image? The thought was fleeting, almost unsettling in its sudden, unexpected resonance. He didn't want to admit it, but he sometimes felt that same suffocating need to project an image of invincibility.

He limped slightly as he moved to the kitchen, preparing a small, precisely measured meal. Every aspect of his life was controlled, dictated by the pursuit of skating perfection. He had embraced this discipline, had even reveled in it. It was his path to greatness. But sometimes, in the quiet solitude of his apartment, the weight of it felt crushing.

As the evening wore on, the initial waves of anger and confusion from the day's events began to subside, replaced by a quiet contemplation. He replayed the chaotic, nonsensical conversation with TetsuTetsu, and Kirishima's frantic, yet strangely endearing, attempts to protect him. The absurdity of it all was almost comical. Kirishima, the overly enthusiastic hockey player, trying to "save" Bakugo, the explosive figure skating prodigy, from the judgment of another hockey brute. It was precisely the kind of idiocy that made Kirishima so uniquely… tolerable.

He found his gaze drifting to the corner where he'd left the bag of protein bars Kirishima had given him. The bland, overly sweet scent of them, once a point of annoyance, now felt like a strangely comforting anomaly in his otherwise meticulously controlled life. A tiny, insignificant rebellion, perhaps. Kirishima seemed to understand that. He brought them without asking, offered them without judgment, simply because he thought Bakugo liked them. It was a simple, uncomplicated gesture.

A grudging curiosity, tinged with something resembling anticipation, began to settle in his gut. He was Bakugo Katsuki, the explosive, unparalleled figure skater. He didn’t need anyone. He didn't want anyone. Yet, the thought of Kirishima's unwavering loyalty, his persistent presence, his ridiculous attempts at friendship, was beginning to etch itself into the stark landscape of Bakugo's solitary ambition.

He wouldn't admit it, not out loud, not even to himself in full, but the idea of seeing Kirishima in his element, of witnessing the brute's "manly brawl" firsthand, had grown from a fleeting consideration to a quiet, firm decision. He wouldn't tell Kirishima he was coming, of course. That would be admitting too much. He'd just show up. A silent, unexpected presence in the stands—or perhaps, on the bench, as Kirishima had so surprisingly offered. He’d watch. He’d observe. And he’d probably formulate a dozen new insults for Kirishima based on his performance. But he would be there. For some reason he couldn’t quite articulate, he wanted to be. And that quiet acknowledgment, in the silent solitude of his apartment, was a decision as significant as any practice or competition.

Chapter 5: The Unspoken Victory

Notes:

The game is here, and things are about to get a lot more intense. Back to kirishima's POV.

Don't flame me for my mistakes.

Enjoy!!!

Kirishima's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts as he went through his drills. One day until the big game. His muscles screamed with a familiar ache, a good pain that meant he was pushing himself, getting stronger. The ice beneath his skates felt solid, and the stick in his hands felt like an extension of his own body. He was back. The fear that had gripped him a few days ago, the memory of that suffocating moment on the ice, was now a distant echo. He'd pushed through it, refusing to let it win.

As he skated a lap around the rink, his mind, however, wasn't on the game. It was on a spiky-haired blonde with an explosive personality and a surprising love for subpar protein bars. Katsuki Bakugo. They were… what? Friends? He'd slapped that label on them, a hasty attempt to make sense of their strange, chaotic dynamic. But were they really? Friends didn't usually exchange insults and aggressive shoves as a form of greeting. They didn't have to lie to their teammates to protect each other's secrets. It was a bizarre, one-of-a-kind connection, and Kirishima wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad one. He just knew he found himself thinking about it—and about Bakugo—a lot.

Later, in the locker room, the familiar scent of liniment and sweat filled the air. Kirishima was packing up his bag, his movements a bit more deliberate than usual. He was feeling good, confident, but a little tired. He had a lot to talk about with his roommate.

"So, who is this mystery blonde you've been hanging out with?" Denki asked, his mischievous grin wide. "Tetsu's been going on and on about him."

"Yeah," Sero added, "he said you've found a new 'man of steel.' Tetsu was so impressed with him he's already planning a new workout routine."

Kirishima felt a blush creep up his neck. The lie about Bakugo being a weightlifter had spread fast. He cursed Tetsu's over-the-top imagination. But a strange sense of pride swelled within him. He was a competitive figure skater, not a weightlifter, but the fact that he was impressive enough for Tetsu to fantasize about him was funny.

"Oh, him?" Kirishima said, shrugging nonchalantly. "That's just Katsuki. He's a guy I know from another gym. We just ran into each other." He tried to sound casual, but the blush on his face told a different story.

"Tetsu said he was built like a tank," Denki said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Sounds like he made quite the impression on Tetsu."

The comment made Kirishima's stomach clench. Tetsu and Bakugo were a lot alike. They were both loud, aggressive, and had a strong sense of masculinity. Kirishima could easily see them getting along, and a strange wave of jealousy washed over him. But he quickly pushed the feeling down. It was ridiculous. Bakugo and Midoriya were a couple. He'd seen it in the way they acted around each other—the banter, the easy camaraderie, the way Bakugo's anger seemed to melt away or rise whenever Midoriya was around. It was clear as day. And besides, Bakugo was just a friend. If he was a friend at all.

"He's a weightlifter," Kirishima said, a little too quickly. "Of course he's built like a tank. He's got explosive power."

Denki and Sero just laughed. "Sounds like someone's got a crush," Denki teased, poking Kirishima in the side.

"Shut up, Denki!" Kirishima said, shoving him away. "He's just a friend! What's wrong with having strong, manly friends?"

The more he tried to deny it, the more his friends teased him. He just wanted to get out of the locker room and talk to someone who wasn't so annoying. He wanted to talk to Fat Gum, who would just listen without judgment. He wanted to talk to Bakugo, who would just insult him without any hidden meanings. He just wanted to be with someone who understood him, even if that person was a little… explosive.

Kirishima’s face was still burning as he walked down the hallway, the sound of his teammates’ laughter fading behind him. He just wanted to get to the main lobby and out of the complex. The lie was getting out of hand, and his stupid, unhelpful feelings weren’t making it any easier. Crush? On Bakugo? The thought was absurd. Bakugo was with Midoriya, wasn't he? That was the only logical explanation for their strange, explosive-but-somehow-intimate dynamic. Kirishima had seen them, and it was clear they had something deep and long-standing. And that was fine. Totally fine. He was just a friend.

He turned a corner, his mind still reeling, and almost ran straight into someone. The impact was soft, a shoulder bumping his, and he stumbled back.

"Whoa, sorry, man! Didn't see you there!" a familiar, slightly flustered voice said.

Kirishima looked up and found himself staring at a mop of unruly green hair and wide, worried eyes. It was Izuku Midoriya. Midoriya was clutching a massive, overflowing tote bag, a look of harried concentration on his face.

"Oh! Midoriya! Hey, man!" Kirishima said, the blush on his face immediately returning, but this time from surprise and a sudden, sharp pang of awkwardness. He was just thinking about Midoriya, and here he was. "Uh, what are you doing here?"

Midoriya's cheeks flushed from his practice. "Oh, uh, just… heading out! I was just grabbing some things from the, uh, the locker room. My coach, All Might, had some extra notes for me on my, uh, on my technique." He gestured vaguely at the overflowing bag, a stack of spiral notebooks visible at the top.

Kirishima nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "Right, right. That makes sense. Uh, is Bakugo with you?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. The curiosity was just too strong.

Midoriya’s face, if possible, turned an even deeper shade of red. He clutched his bag tighter. "Oh! Um, no! Kacchan's, uh… he finished his practice a while ago. He, uh, he's probably already home." Midoriya’s eyes darted around the hallway, avoiding Kirishima's gaze. The entire exchange felt… weird. Strained. Midoriya seemed uncomfortable.

"Right," Kirishima said slowly, trying to connect the dots. "Makes sense. You two… you two are pretty close, huh?" he ventured, his heart thumping a strange, nervous rhythm.

Midoriya finally met his eyes, a strange, almost pained expression on his face. "Oh! Yeah! We're… we're childhood friends. We've known each other for a long time." The words were true, but something in Midoriya's tone made them sound like a carefully rehearsed line, something he said to keep people from asking too many questions.

Kirishima nodded, the uncomfortable feeling growing. It was just an innocent question, but Midoriya was acting like he was being interrogated. What was going on? Why did it feel like he was walking into a minefield? And why was he so interested in the first place?

He just wanted to get out of the complex and clear his head before the anxiety about tomorrow's game came rushing back. He wanted to get home and forget about his stupid lies, his teammates’ jokes, and his completely unfounded… well, whatever it was he felt when he thought of Bakugo. He just wanted to be alone.

"Well, uh, it was good seeing you, Midoriya! Good luck with your, uh, your notes!" Kirishima said, forcing a cheerful smile that felt strained on his face. He gestured vaguely with his head and walked past him, a little more quickly than was probably necessary.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He just needed to get out before he said something else stupid, or found out something he didn’t want to know. The image of Bakugo and Midoriya, so close, so comfortable, so obviously together, was a heavy weight on his mind. He had to stop thinking about it. He had a game to win tomorrow. He had to be strong. He had to be unbreakable. He had to forget about all of it.

Kirishima burst through the door to his apartment, throwing his duffel bag onto the floor with a thud. "I'm home!" he yelled, the sound echoing in the small space.

From the kitchen, a booming voice replied, "Welcome back, my man! Just in time! I've been experimenting with some new ramen recipes, and you, my friend, are the lucky taste tester!"

Kirishima grinned, the tension from the hallway slowly starting to melt away.
"Awesome, Fat Gum! I'm starving!" Kirishima said, walking into the kitchen. The apartment was filled with the delicious, savory smell of ramen, and Kirishima's stomach rumbled in response.

Fat Gum ladled a generous serving of ramen into a bowl and handed it to Kirishima.

"So," Fat Gum said, his voice low and warm, "how was practice today? Are you feeling good for the game tomorrow?"

Kirishima took a sip of the broth, the warmth of it spreading through his body, chasing away the last of his anxiety. "Yeah, I'm feeling great! I really pushed myself today, and I think I'm back to my old self."

Fat Gum nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "That's good to hear. I know you've been a little down lately. But you're a tough kid, Kirishima. You'll get through it."

Kirishima's smile wavered. He knew Fat Gum was talking about his panic attack. He hadn't told him the full story, but Fat Gum had a way of knowing things without being told. He was a good friend, a constant source of support.

"Yeah, well," Kirishima said, his voice a little gruff, "I've got a lot on my mind."

Fat Gum's smile softened. "I know, kid. I know." He took a seat across from Kirishima, a bowl of ramen in his own hands. "But hey, you've got this. Just focus on the game tomorrow. Forget about everything else. Just go out there and be you."

Kirishima took another sip of the ramen, the warmth of it seeping into his soul. He was grateful for Fat Gum's easy comfort, his quiet understanding. He didn't have to explain himself to Fat Gum. He didn't have to lie.

"Hey, Fat Gum," Kirishima said, his voice low, "can I ask you something?"

"Anything, kid. You know that."

"Do you think it's possible to be jealous of someone you're not even dating?"

Fat Gum raised an eyebrow, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Hmm. That's a deep question, Kirishima. What makes you ask?"

"I don't know," Kirishima said, stirring his ramen with his chopsticks. "It's just… a guy on my team, Tetsu, was talking about a friend of mine, a blonde guy named Katsuki. And Tetsu was, like, fantasizing about him, you know? And it made me feel weird. Like, I got a little jealous, but I don't even know if we're friends. And I'm pretty sure he's with someone else."

Fat Gum chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Ah, I see. Well, jealousy is a complicated emotion, Kirishima. It's not always about romance. Sometimes, it's about wanting to be the one who gets a person's attention, you know? It's about wanting to be the one they go to, the one they trust. It's about a connection."

Kirishima's heart gave a little jolt. A connection. Was that what he wanted from Bakugo? He wasn't sure. But the idea of Bakugo going to Tetsu, or anyone else, for that matter, instead of him, made a tight knot form in his stomach.

"And," Fat Gum continued, "as for him being with someone else, don't let that stop you from feeling what you feel. Everyone's got their own journey. And sometimes, you just have to figure out what you want for yourself, you know?"

Kirishima nodded, the words a quiet comfort. He didn't have all the answers. He didn't know what his feelings for Bakugo were, or if they were even real. But he knew one thing for sure. He was going to focus on the game tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, he would see a familiar shock of spiky blonde hair in the stands. A part of him, the deepest, most honest part, hoped so.

The ramen was gone, the bowls were washed and stacked, but the conversation lingered in Kirishima's mind. He sat on the couch, staring at the television without really seeing it, his mind a chaotic mess of thoughts and feelings. He was a simple guy. He liked hockey. He liked being manly. He liked his friends. But this new feeling, this strange, possessive twinge he felt whenever he thought about Bakugo and anyone else, was anything but simple.

He kept replaying the conversation in his head. The lie about Bakugo being a weightlifter. The laughter from Denki and Sero. The comment about him having a crush. The way his heart had skipped a beat when he saw Midoriya, and the strange, strained conversation that followed. It all felt like a tangled mess, a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

He knew he was being stupid. He knew he was overthinking things. But he couldn't help it. Bakugo was a constant presence in his mind, a sharp, abrasive, yet undeniably magnetic force that had somehow wormed its way into Kirishima's life. He was a force of nature, a hurricane of talent and anger, and Kirishima found himself drawn to him in a way he couldn't explain.

He thought back to the very first time they had met, in the hallway of the sports complex, Bakugo's explosive glare and his own clumsy attempt at a friendly greeting. It had been a disaster, a clash of two completely different worlds. Yet, somehow, they had found a common ground. Or at least, a common apathetic ground. They had a shared appreciation for mediocrity in others, a shared dislike of sugary protein bars (or so Kirishima had thought), and a shared understanding of the sheer, unadulterated passion that fueled their respective sports.

He remembered the way Bakugo's eyes would light up when he talked about figure skating, the way his hands would gesture, the way his voice would lose a little of its venom and a little of its edge, replaced by a fierce, almost poetic dedication. It was a side of Bakugo that few people got to see, a vulnerable, passionate side that Kirishima found himself inexplicably drawn to.

And then there was the other side of Bakugo, the one who was with Midoriya. Kirishima had seen them together, and he couldn't deny the easy camaraderie, the comfortable silences, the way they moved around each other like two old hands. It was a bond forged over years, a deep, unshakeable connection that Kirishima knew he could never break, even if he wanted to.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was being an idiot. He had a game tomorrow. A big game. He needed to focus. He needed to get his head in the game, not in the clouds, not in some fantastical version of his life where he and Bakugo were something more than just… whatever they were.

He stood up, shaking his head to clear the thoughts. He walked into his room, the scent of his own personal brand of athletic chaos filling the air. He needed to get to bed. He needed to get some rest. He needed to be strong tomorrow, for his team, for himself.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind a quiet hum of contemplation. He thought about Fat Gum's words. It's about a connection. He wasn't sure what his connection with Bakugo was, or what it was going to be. But he knew one thing. He wasn't going to let it get in the way of his game tomorrow. He was going to go out there, give it his all, and prove to himself, and to everyone else, that he was still the same unbreakable, confident, strong guy he'd always been. And if, by some crazy, insane chance, Bakugo actually showed up, well, he would just have to deal with that then. For now, he was just going to focus on being him.

_________

The morning sun cast long, lazy shadows across the floor of the sports complex. Kirishima walked with a nervous energy, his body humming with anticipation for the game later that night. His morning practice had been light, a final run-through of drills and a few friendly passes with his teammates. He felt good. Strong. Unbreakable. The anxiety that had been dogging him all week was finally fading, replaced by the familiar rush of pre-game adrenaline.

He decided to swing by Rink 2, their "normal hangout rink," as he’d come to think of it, on his way out. It was a stupid habit, a pointless detour. Bakugo wouldn’t be there. He had a big competition coming up, a final run for the international spot. He was probably in some special, top-secret practice, meticulously sculpting every turn and jump to perfection. Kirishima told himself it was just a final check on the ice, a last-minute moment of calm before the storm. But a small, quiet part of him hoped to see a flash of spiky blonde hair, a chance for one last gruff, reassuring insult before the biggest game of his life.

He pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped onto the rubber matting, the cool air of the rink washing over him. The ice was a pristine, empty sheet of glass. A wave of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, washed over him. He was about to turn and leave, to scold himself for his pointless optimism, when he saw him.

He was in the stands, not on the ice. He was sitting on the lowest bleacher, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms resting on them. His hands were clasped loosely, his head bowed, the usual furious set of his shoulders slightly slumped. The light from the large windows caught the ash-blonde of his hair, making it look almost soft. He wasn't on his phone, wasn't yelling at anyone, wasn't even fidgeting. He was just… still. A statue of pure, quiet contemplation. Bakugo was lost in thought, a million miles away.

Kirishima’s heart gave a little jolt. He’d never seen Bakugo like this, so uncharacteristically vulnerable. The usual defensive armor, the angry glares, the explosive energy—it was all gone, replaced by a quiet, almost melancholic stillness. It was a side of Bakugo he’d never seen, a glimpse behind the curtain of his carefully constructed persona.

He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Should he leave him alone? Should he go over and risk breaking the fragile, quiet mood? His instincts told him to turn and run, to not intrude on this private moment. But something else, something deeper, made him walk forward.

He moved quietly, his skates and bag making no sound on the rubber floor. He stopped a few feet away from the stands, and just stood there, waiting. He didn't want to startle him. He just wanted to be there, a silent, grounding presence.

After a long moment, Bakugo finally stirred. He raised his head, his crimson eyes unfocused, a million miles away. He blinked, slowly, a few times, as if waking from a deep sleep, and then his eyes landed on Kirishima. The stillness in his body broke, replaced by a familiar tension. The wall went back up. The usual scowl returned to his face, though it was a little less convincing than usual.

"What are you doing here, Weird Hair?" Bakugo snapped, his voice a low growl, but it lacked its usual venom. "Don't you have a pathetic game to get ready for?"

Kirishima just shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Yeah, but I just had a light practice. Just swinging by. I didn't think you'd be here."

Bakugo grunted, turning his head away, his gaze returning to the empty ice. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, replaced by the usual prickly defensiveness.

"Something on your mind?" Kirishima asked softly, daring to intrude just a little.

Bakugo's jaw tightened. He shook his head, a decisive, almost angry movement. "It's nothing. Just… my coach. He's a real pain in the ass."

Kirishima nodded, sitting down on the bleacher a few feet away from him, respecting the unspoken distance Bakugo had placed between them. "I know how that is. Aizawa's a real hardass, too. But he's a good coach. He knows what he's doing."

Bakugo scoffed, a bitter sound. "Yeah, well, Masato-sensei knows what he's doing, too. He just… sometimes… he can be a little… hands-on." His voice trailed off, a flicker of something raw and exposed in his eyes. He hesitated, his hands unclenching and re-clasping, a nervous tick that Kirishima had never seen before. "He says it's for my own good. He says it's what's necessary to be a champion. He says… he just wants to make sure my form is perfect."

Kirishima just listened, his heart thumping in his chest, a growing sense of unease. He couldn't quite put his finger on what Bakugo was trying to say, but the way his voice had faltered, the way his hands had clenched—it all felt heavy, significant. He felt a sudden, powerful urge to ask more, to press for details, to understand what was making Bakugo so quiet, so vulnerable.

But before he could, Bakugo's eyes snapped back to him, the vulnerability gone, replaced by a cold, furious determination. "Forget it," he said, his voice flat and final. "It's nothing. Just… just the usual coach bullshit. It's not a big deal." He folded in on himself again, his body a closed, impenetrable fortress. He was trying to shut it down, to pretend he hadn't just revealed a small, uncomfortable truth.

Kirishima knew he had to change the subject, had to let it go. He knew that pushing Bakugo now would only make him retreat further. He needed to find a way to connect with him again, to pull him out of this dark, lonely place. He needed to find something they could share, something that would remind Bakugo that he wasn't alone.

He looked around the empty rink, his eyes scanning the familiar sights, searching for a lifeline. His gaze landed on the far end of the ice, where a single, stray hockey puck sat alone against the boards. An idea sparked.

"Hey, Bakugo," Kirishima said, his voice a little more cheerful, a little more boisterous than before. "You know, I was just thinking about that time you tried to slap-shot a puck."

Bakugo looked up, a bewildered expression on his face. "What are you talking about, Weird Hair? I've never tried to slap-shot a puck."

"Yeah, you did!" Kirishima insisted, his grin wide. "It was that one day, when we were just messing around after practice. You grabbed my stick, and you tried to hit the puck, but you ended up just sending it flying into the ceiling."

Bakugo’s scowl deepened, but a tiny, almost imperceptible memory seemed to flicker in his eyes. "That's not what happened! I meant to do that! It was a demonstration of my explosive power, you moron! A test of your rink's structural integrity!"

Kirishima laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. "A test of structural integrity? You just looked like you were trying to swat a mosquito with a telephone pole!" He stood up, walking down to the ice. He bent down, scooped up the stray puck with his gloved hand, and held it out. "Come on. I'll give you a proper lesson. I'll teach you how to slap-shot a puck, the manly way."

Bakugo stared at the puck, then at Kirishima, the last vestiges of his dark mood finally beginning to dissipate, replaced by the familiar flicker of his competitive fire. "As if I need lessons from a simple-minded brute like you," he scoffed, but he stood up, a slow, deliberate movement. He walked down the bleachers, his gaze fixed on Kirishima.

"Come on," Kirishima said, a smile on his face. "Just this once. Before the game tonight. A little friendly competition. Just you, me, and a puck."

Bakugo’s face was a mask of annoyance, but his eyes held a strange, almost grateful light. "Fine," he growled, grabbing his stick from his bag. "But don't get your hopes up, Weird Hair. I'm going to send that pathetic puck flying so hard, it'll make your whole team look like they're playing with a beach ball."

Kirishima’s grin widened. "I'd like to see you try."

And for a moment, in the quiet, empty rink, with the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, everything else faded away. The pressure, the unspoken anxieties, the heavy burdens they both carried—it all disappeared. There was just the two of them, a friendly rivalry, and a shared moment of simple, uncomplicated normalcy. It wasn't a solution, not a cure, not a fix. But it was a start. A first step towards a new, different kind of battle, a battle Kirishima was more than ready to fight, just as long as he had Bakugo by his side.

____________

The night air was crisp and cold, a perfect night for hockey. The arena was a buzzing hive of energy, the air thick with the roar of the crowd, the smell of popcorn, and the faint, sweet scent of victory. Kirishima stood in the tunnel, his skates biting into the rubber matting, his heart thrumming with a powerful mix of nerves and adrenaline. The lights from the rink shone brightly, illuminating the ice in a brilliant, blinding white. He was ready. This was his element. This was where he belonged.

He went through his pre-game ritual, a series of quick, sharp stretches, trying to calm the electric energy coursing through his veins. The words from his earlier conversation with Bakugo still lingered in his mind, a quiet comfort amidst the chaos. He thought about Bakugo's quiet stillness, the vulnerability he'd briefly shown, and the quick, easy camaraderie that had followed. It was a stark contrast to the aggressive, explosive Bakugo he usually knew, and Kirishima found himself drawn to that rare, honest glimpse.

As he was about to head out to the rink, a sudden voice, a low, familiar growl, stopped him in his tracks.

"Hey, Weird Hair."

Kirishima turned, his eyes widening in surprise. It was Bakugo, standing just outside the tunnel, half-hidden in the shadows. He wasn't in a hoodie, but a loose, gray sweater and black sweatpants, a comfortable, understated look that was a stark contrast to his usual aggressive persona. He was just… there. He'd actually come.

A slow grin spread across Kirishima’s face, a genuine, unburdened smile that reached his eyes. "Bakugo! You actually came!"

Bakugo just grunted, his crimson eyes darting around the crowded hallway, as if uncomfortable with the sheer number of people. He was already a little on edge, a familiar, tense energy radiating from him. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture defensive and closed.

"Don't act so surprised, you moron," Bakugo snapped, his voice a low, rough growl. "I said I'd consider it, didn't I? Besides," he gestured vaguely with his head towards the rink, "I had to come see this pathetic amateur hour for myself. I wouldn't want to miss the glorious moment when you get flattened by some other brute."

Kirishima chuckled, the insults now feeling more like a strange, affectionate form of greeting. "Yeah, well, you'll be waiting a long time for that, man! I'm ready to tear those guys apart!" He squared his shoulders, his confidence returning in full force.

Bakugo's gaze, however, was still fixed on him, a searching, intense look that made Kirishima a little uneasy. "Yeah," Bakugo said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "I know." He paused, his jaw clenching, as if fighting with himself. He took a deep breath, and then, in a rush, the words came tumbling out. "Look, about earlier. At the rink. With… with all that crap I was saying."

Kirishima's heart gave a little jolt. He’d hoped Bakugo wouldn’t bring it up again. The memory of Bakugo’s vulnerability, the tremor in his voice, the raw, exposed look in his eyes—it was too heavy for this moment.

"Don't worry about it, man," Kirishima said, a genuine, comforting smile on his face. "Forget it. It's all good. We had fun, right? You almost slap-shotted that puck into the ceiling… Again."

But Bakugo shook his head, his gaze fixed on the ground, his voice a low, painful whisper. "No. I… I just… I wanted to… I wanted to say thanks." He clenched his fists, the words a difficult, painful admission. "For… for just being there. With all that… with all that other shit. For… for not asking. For… for just making me forget about it. Even for a little bit." He finally looked up, his crimson eyes meeting Kirishima's, a raw, vulnerable look that made Kirishima's heart clench in his chest. "You're… you're not as useless as I thought, Weird Hair."

The words were clumsy, awkward, and a little painful, a testament to how difficult it was for Bakugo to express any form of gratitude or vulnerability. But they were also the most sincere, honest words Kirishima had ever heard from him. He wasn't talking about Tetsu, or about the game, or about anything else. He was talking about them. About their quiet moment in the empty rink, their shared, temporary escape from their own burdens.

A wave of warmth, powerful and unexpected, washed over Kirishima. It wasn't the fleeting warmth of a crush, or the complicated feelings of jealousy. It was a deeper, more profound emotion. A feeling of connection, of understanding, of shared humanity.

"Anytime, Bakugo," Kirishima said softly, his smile now completely gone, replaced by a look of sincere, quiet empathy. "Anytime." He reached out, a purely instinctual movement, and clapped a hand on Bakugo's shoulder, a firm, reassuring touch. "Now," he said, his voice a little more boisterous, a little more like his usual self, "you'd better go find that bench I told you about. You don't want to miss the start of the game!"

Bakugo just grunted, his gaze fixed on Kirishima's hand on his shoulder. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yeah. Whatever. Just… don't get your ass kicked, Weird Hair. I'd hate to have to find another pathetic hockey player to waste my time on."

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the arena, his posture a little less tense, his shoulders a little less slumped. He was still Bakugo, a walking explosion of anger and talent. But for a moment, just a brief, quiet moment, he had let Kirishima see a different side of him. A vulnerable, human side. A side that was grateful. A side that was his.

Kirishima stood there for a moment, his hand still tingling from the brief contact with Bakugo's shoulder, a quiet, profound sense of pride and a strange, comforting warmth blooming in his chest. He took a deep breath, and then, with a renewed sense of purpose, he walked out of the tunnel and onto the ice, ready for battle.

The moment Kirishima stepped onto the ice, all the lingering worries and distractions of the week faded into the background. The familiar chill of the rink, the sharp scent of ice and cold air, the roar of the crowd—it all coalesced into a singular, focused purpose. He was a hockey player. This was his home. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and skated out to join his team for warm-ups.

The team was a whirlwind of motion, a blur of red and white jerseys, their sticks clattering against the pucks. Kirishima moved with them, feeling the familiar, easy camaraderie of his teammates. The drills were second nature, a series of sharp passes, powerful slap shots, and quick, agile turns. The pre-game adrenaline was a powerful fuel, and he felt invincible, unbreakable.

But even as he moved, a small, quiet part of his mind was aware of a presence on the sidelines. He knew Bakugo was there. He could feel him. He skated a lap, his eyes darting to the team bench, and there he was. Bakugo was sitting exactly where Kirishima had suggested, his body language still guarded, but his gaze was fixed on the team, his crimson eyes intense and focused. The sweater and sweatpants were a stark contrast to the aggressive, spiky hair, an odd mix of casualness and fierce intent. The sight of him, a silent, unwavering support, sent a wave of calm over Kirishima. He wasn't alone.

Suddenly, a voice, loud and excited, cut through the din of the warm-ups. "Hey! Kirishima! Is that him?!"

Kirishima turned his head to see Denki and Sero skating towards him, their faces split into wide, curious grins. Their eyes, however, weren't on Kirishima. They were fixed on the bench, on the quiet, intimidating figure of Bakugo.

"Is that the 'man of steel' Tetsu was talking about?!" Denki yelled, his voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. "The one you're totally not possessive of?!"

Kirishima's face flushed crimson, a familiar wave of embarrassment and annoyance washing over him. The lie, the stupid, ridiculous lie, was coming back to haunt him. "Shut up, Sparky!" he yelled back, his voice a low growl. "And yeah, that's him! So, just… leave him alone! He's not here to be a sideshow, he's here to watch the game!"

But his words were too late. Even as he spoke, another figure, larger and even more boisterous, skated towards Bakugo. It was TetsuTetsu, the silver-haired brute who had started this whole mess. He skated with a powerful, almost aggressive grace, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated enthusiasm.

"Hey! Man of steel!" TetsuTetsu yelled, a wide grin on his face. He skated to the boards, stopping directly in front of Bakugo, who was now a study in barely-restrained fury. "I'm so glad you could make it! I told Kirishima you wouldn't miss this epic battle!"

Bakugo's face, already a scowl, seemed to harden even more. His crimson eyes, already narrowed, now seemed to be on fire. He was a coiled spring, ready to snap. He looked at TetsuTetsu, then at the puck that TetsuTetsu was holding out to him, a new, shiny one, with the team logo on it.
"This is for you, man!" TetsuTetsu yelled, his voice full of genuine, boisterous affection. "A token of our manly camaraderie! You can keep it as a good luck charm for our team!" He was trying to give Bakugo the puck, a traditional gesture of goodwill among hockey players.

Bakugo just stared at it, then at TetsuTetsu's outstretched hand, then back at TetsuTetsu's ridiculously wide, friendly grin. He said nothing, a silent, furious energy radiating from him that made even the loud, boisterous TetsuTetsu pause.

Kirishima, watching from the ice, felt a sudden, powerful urge to intervene. He knew Bakugo. He knew that any more of Tetsu's "manly camaraderie" would be met with an explosion, a violent, chaotic outburst that would get Bakugo thrown out and cause an even bigger scene. He had to stop it. He had to save Bakugo from himself, and from Tetsu's overwhelming, well-intentioned idiocy.

He was about to skate over, to get between the two of them and try to diffuse the situation, when something happened. Bakugo, with a slow, deliberate movement, reached out and took the puck.

TetsuTetsu's grin widened even further. "Awesome, man! I knew you'd be a good sport!"

Bakugo just grunted, turning the puck over in his hand, a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. He looked at the logo on the puck, a stylized fierce badger, then he looked up, his eyes meeting Kirishima's across the ice.

Kirishima’s heart gave a little jolt. He didn't know what the look meant. Was it a thank you? A warning? A sign of surrender? He didn't know. But he knew that Bakugo had accepted the puck. He had accepted the gesture. He had accepted the camaraderie. And in his own strange, unique way, he was playing along.

The sight of it, of Bakugo holding the puck, of him a silent, unmoving presence on the bench, gave Kirishima a new surge of energy. He felt more than just the pre-game adrenaline now. He felt a quiet, powerful sense of resolve. He wasn't just playing for himself, or for his team. He was playing for Bakugo. He was going to go out there, give it his all, and prove to the quiet, introspective figure on the bench that he was strong. Unbreakable. That he was worth the damn puck.

The buzzer for the end of warm-ups blared, a loud, piercing sound that cut through the noise of the arena. Kirishima skated back to the tunnel, his gaze fixed on Bakugo. He gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. A silent promise. A quiet, powerful understanding.

Bakugo just grunted in return, a familiar, rough sound. But this time, it sounded less like an insult, and more like a sign of respect. And in that moment, for Kirishima, that was all that mattered.

____________

The buzzer for the start of the game blared, a final, deafening call to action.
Kirishima skated out onto the ice, the deafening roar of the crowd washing over him, a symphony of cheers and jeers that fueled his fire. The Snarling Badgers, his team, a whirlwind of red and white, took their positions on the ice. The opposing team, a blur of blue and black, stood poised and ready. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. The moment he’d been dreading. But as he glanced at the bench, a small, quiet sense of calm washed over him. Bakugo was there. A silent, unmoving presence in the chaos.

The puck dropped, a sharp, clean sound that was immediately swallowed by the roar of the crowd. The game was on. The pace was ferocious, a chaotic ballet of clashing bodies, flying sticks, and a blur of a black puck. Kirishima was in his element, a force of nature on the ice. He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of powerful checks, quick passes, and relentless defense. The fear, the anxiety, the self-doubt—it was all gone, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated thrill of the game.

His team was a force to be reckoned with. They were a well-oiled machine, a team of brothers who moved as one. They were up one goal in the first period, a beautiful, precise shot from Denki that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Kirishima felt a surge of pride, a genuine, powerful happiness that was not his alone, but his team’s.

The second period began with an even more aggressive pace. The opposing team was getting desperate, their movements more reckless, their checks more brutal. The game was a test of will, a battle of attrition. Kirishima felt a new kind of intensity. He was not just playing to win. He was playing to prove something, to show everyone, to show himself, and to show the silent, unblinking figure on the bench, that he was more than a moment of weakness. He was a force of nature. He was unbreakable.

The puck was in their end, a frantic, chaotic scramble around the net. The opposing team’s star player, a massive, brutish defenseman, was a roadblock in front of their goal. Kirishima knew he had to get him out of the way. He skated with a fierce, almost reckless determination, a powerful check on his mind. He was ready to collide, to absorb the brutal force of the hit, to clear the path for his teammates.

He hit the defenseman with a powerful, solid check, a bone-rattling collision that sent the massive player sprawling onto the ice. Kirishima felt the sharp, satisfying jolt of the hit, a familiar, welcome ache in his shoulder. The crowd roared, a mix of cheers and boos. But then, a sharp, piercing whistle cut through the noise. The ref was pointing at him, his hand raised in a menacing gesture. A penalty.

Kirishima skated to the box, a slight scowl on his face. It was a stupid penalty, a clean check that the ref had somehow deemed illegal. But he knew better than to argue with the ref. He’d been in the box plenty of times. It was part of the game. He took a seat in the box, the glass separating him from the chaos of the game, a short, temporary exile.

He wasn't angry. Not really. He was just a little frustrated. He knew he had to be more careful. He knew he had to keep his cool. He looked up, his gaze immediately finding the quiet figure on the bench. Bakugo was still there, unmoving, his crimson eyes fixed on the game. He wasn't yelling, wasn't gesturing, wasn't showing any emotion at all. He was just watching. And for some reason, that was all Kirishima needed.

He was in the penalty box, but he wasn't alone. Bakugo was there. A quiet, unassuming support in the midst of his chaos. Kirishima smiled, a small, genuine smile that was completely his own. He knew he had to be more careful. He knew he had to play smarter. He knew he had to get out of the box and back onto the ice.

The two minutes felt like an eternity. He watched from the penalty box, his heart thumping in his chest, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and determination. He saw his team fighting tooth and nail, a man down, a fierce, relentless fire in their eyes. He saw their determination, their grit, their unwillingness to give up. He felt a surge of pride, a powerful, protective love for his team.

The moment the penalty box door swung open, Kirishima exploded onto the ice, a renewed force of nature. The frustration of his two-minute exile had boiled away, replaced by a fierce, focused determination. He skated with a savage intensity, his eyes scanning the ice for the puck, for a chance to make a play, to make a difference. The Snarling Badgers were still holding their one-goal lead, but the pressure from the opposing team was relentless. The game had turned into a brutal, physical battle, a test of pure will.

He saw the puck, a small black blur, bouncing off the boards in their defensive end. He skated towards it, his skates biting into the ice, his stick low and ready. He beat the opposing forward to it, a powerful, explosive burst of speed that left the other player in his dust. He had the puck. He had a chance.

He skated up the ice, his head up, his eyes scanning for an open teammate. He saw Denki, a blur of red and white, breaking towards the net. He sent a powerful pass, a clean, crisp shot that landed perfectly on Denki’s stick. Denki, a flash of lightning, took a shot. The puck hit the post with a loud ping that echoed through the arena. The crowd groaned in unison.

Kirishima didn't let the missed opportunity get to him. He skated into the offensive zone, a powerful, unwavering force. He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of checks and blocks, a relentless, protective presence. He wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for his team. He was playing for the quiet figure on the bench, the person who had somehow, in his own strange way, made him feel so… unbreakable.

He saw the puck again, a chaotic scramble in the opposing team’s defensive end. He skated towards the net, his eyes fixed on the chaos, his heart thumping in his chest. He saw an opening, a small, tiny window of opportunity. He took a shot. The puck flew off his stick, a fast, powerful shot that was headed straight for the goal. The crowd roared in anticipation.

But the puck was blocked, a lightning-fast save from the opposing goalie. Kirishima's heart sank, just for a second. But then, another sound, a loud, piercing thwack echoed through the arena. The puck was loose, bouncing in front of the goal. He had another chance.

He skated towards the puck, a desperate, determined scramble. He had to get it. He had to score. He took a shot, a quick, hard shot that sent the puck flying. It was a perfect shot, a beautiful, precise shot that was headed straight for the back of the net. The crowd roared, a wave of sound that shook the very foundations of the arena.

The puck went in. A loud, piercing buzzer blared, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd went wild, a deafening symphony of cheers and applause. Kirishima's team, the Snarling Badgers, was up by two goals.

He skated to the bench, his face a mask of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated joy. His teammates swarmed him, a whirlwind of high-fives and back-pats. He was a hero. He had done it. He had scored.

But even in the midst of the chaos and the celebration, his eyes sought out the figure on the bench. Bakugo was still there, unmoving, his crimson eyes fixed on him. There was no cheer, no applause, no celebration. There was just a quiet, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any cheer.

Kirishima grinned, a wide, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He had done it. He had shown him. He was unstoppable.

The third period was even more intense. The opposing team was desperate, their movements reckless, their checks brutal. The game was a test of endurance, a battle of attrition. Kirishima felt a new kind of intensity. He was not just playing to win. He was playing to protect. He was a Snarling Badger. He was the unbreakable shield that protected his team.

He saw the opposing team’s star player, a massive, brutish defenseman, skating towards their goal. He was a roadblock, a powerful, relentless force. Kirishima knew he had to stop him. He skated with a fierce, almost reckless determination, a powerful check on his mind. He was ready to collide, to absorb the brutal force of the hit, to protect his team, to protect his goal.

The clock ticked down, the final seconds of the game a blur of chaos and adrenaline. The crowd was on their feet, a deafening symphony of cheers and applause. The Snarling Badgers, his team, had done it. They had won.

The final buzzer’s triumphant blare was drowned out by the thunderous roar of the crowd. Kirishima was a blur of motion and emotion, swept up in the jubilant chaos of his team. His teammates were a sea of red and white, a mass of ecstatic bodies crashing into one another, high-fives and triumphant shouts filling the air. They had done it. They had won. The feeling of victory was a powerful, intoxicating rush that coursed through every vein, a culmination of months of brutal practices and unwavering determination. He had scored, he had played his heart out, and he had been a part of a team that had earned its win.

But as the initial frenzy of celebration began to subside, a quiet sense of unease began to settle in. His eyes, almost involuntarily, darted to the team bench. It was empty. The gray sweater, the black sweatpants, the spiky blonde hair—all gone. The small, quiet sense of calm that had been his anchor throughout the game had suddenly been ripped away. Bakugo was gone.

A sharp pang of disappointment, as cold and real as the ice beneath his skates, hit him. He had been so focused on proving himself, on showing Bakugo that he was strong, that he was unbreakable, and now he wasn't even there to see it. He had wanted to share this moment, this victory, with him. He had wanted to see that familiar scowl, that silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any cheer. But he was gone.

He skated off the ice, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and disappointment. He moved through the chaotic energy of the locker room, his teammates’ shouts of triumph and laughter a distant, muffled sound. He showered, he changed, and he packed his bag, all in a daze. The victory felt hollow, a piece of the puzzle missing. He had won, but for some reason, he didn’t feel like he had won it all.

As he walked out of the locker room, the hallway was a different kind of chaotic. Fans were everywhere, their cheers and excited chatter a constant buzz. Kirishima moved through the sea of people, a forced smile on his face, signing autographs and taking pictures, his mind still on the empty bench. He was searching for something, a sign, a clue, anything that would tell him where Bakugo had gone.

He was about to give up, to accept that Bakugo had simply left, when he saw him. Not in the hallway, not in the crowd, but standing in a quiet, secluded corner of the lobby, half-hidden by a large potted plant. He was still in the gray sweater and black sweatpants, his hands still shoved into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the ground. He was a statue of quiet contemplation, a stark contrast to the frenzied energy of the crowd.

A surge of relief, so powerful it almost knocked him off his feet, washed over Kirishima. He was here. He hadn't left. He moved towards him, a renewed sense of purpose in his heart, pushing his way through the crowd.

"Bakugo!" Kirishima’s voice was a little louder than he intended, a mix of relief and excitement.

Bakugo's head snapped up, his crimson eyes wide with surprise. He looked at Kirishima, a silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any words. He looked at the triumph on Kirishima's face, the sweat-soaked hair, the red and white jersey still on his body, and a flicker of something raw and exposed passed through his eyes.

"You moron," Bakugo said, his voice a low, rough growl, but it lacked its usual venom. "Don't just go running off. You're a damn celebrity now. People are going to want a piece of you."

Kirishima just grinned, a genuine, joyful smile that reached his eyes. "Yeah, well, I had to find you first." He stood in front of him, a little out of breath, his heart still thumping with a powerful mix of victory and relief. "You didn't stay to celebrate?"

Bakugo's scowl deepened, a familiar, defensive mask returning to his face. "As if. Your pathetic team celebration is not something I want to be a part of. And besides," he looked away, his gaze darting around the room, as if trying to find an escape route, "I had to... I had to get away from all the noise. It's too damn loud."

Kirishima nodded, a quiet, knowing smile on his face. He understood. He remembered Bakugo's offer of the bench, the quiet, vulnerable admission that crowds were "too much." He had seen a different side of Bakugo, a side that was sensitive to the chaos and noise of the world, a side that needed a quiet, safe space to retreat to.

"Yeah," Kirishima said softly, his voice low and comforting. "I get it." He paused, a comfortable silence settling between them. He didn't need words. He didn't need a grand gesture. He just needed to be there.

Bakugo looked up, his crimson eyes meeting Kirishima's, a flicker of a silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any words. "You actually won," he said, his voice a low, rough whisper.

Kirishima’s grin widened, a genuine, unburdened smile that was completely his own. "Yeah," he said softly, his voice full of a quiet, powerful joy. "Yeah, of course we did." He looked at Bakugo, a silent, powerful understanding passing between them. He had won the game, but he had also won something else. Something more important. Something unspoken.

"You weren't so useless out there, I guess," Bakugo said, his voice a rough, almost embarrassed whisper. "You were... you were actually kind of impressive. For a hockey player."

Kirishima laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that made the people around them turn and smile. "I'll take it," he said, a wide, triumphant grin on his face. "I'll take that as a huge compliment from you, man." He stood there, basking in the quiet, unspoken victory they had just shared. He had won the game, but he had also won something else. Something more. Something that felt a thousand times more precious than any trophy or medal. He had won the quiet, sincere approval of the one person who mattered the most.

Chapter 6: The Weight of Expectations

Notes:

This chapter contains mature themes, including sexual assault, manipulation, and deadnaming. Reader discretion is advised.

Don't flame me for my mistakes!!!

Enjoy!!

The echoes of the final whistle still hung in the air of the empty rink. The cool air, usually a welcome tonic after a brutal session, did little to soothe the fire in Bakugo’s lungs. The practice was a relentless, grueling assault on his body, a two-hour blur of triple axels and quadruple jumps that left his muscles screaming and his mind a hazy mess of exhaustion. But it was the persistent, sharp throbbing in his left ankle that truly defined the session. It flared with a vengeance, a deep, insistent protest that Bakugo, with every fiber of his being, refused to acknowledge. Masato, his coach, had pushed him harder than ever, a final, punishing run-through before the upcoming competition, and the ankle had paid the price.

He peeled off his skates, the familiar pain of his ankle a constant, unwelcome companion. The solitude of the rink was a suffocating blanket, amplifying the chaotic roar in his head. He was so, so tired, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that went beyond physical strain. He just wanted to be left alone, to sit in the quiet for a moment, to not have to be "on."

But the solitude was short-lived. A door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped into the rink, the sound of his street shoes on the rubber matting a loud, jarring intrusion. It was Masato, his coach, a man whose presence had become synonymous with an unsettling, suffocating pressure.

"Katsuki," Masato said, his voice a low, smooth sound that made Bakugo's skin crawl. "I saw you favoring that ankle. It's nothing, just a little discomfort, right? Champions don't let a little discomfort stop them, remember?"

Bakugo just grunted in response, refusing to meet his gaze. He knew this game. He knew this conversation. He just wanted it to be over.

Masato moved closer, his hand reaching out, his fingers tracing the line of Bakugo’s jaw, a touch that was meant to be reassuring but was anything but. It lingered, a cold, clinical touch that made Bakugo’s muscles tense, his stomach clench. "You have such a perfect form, such a beautiful, explosive talent, Katsuki," Masato whispered, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "But you have to trust me. I know what's best for you. I know what it takes to get you to the top. This is a tough industry. You have to be perfect. You have to be flawless. You have to be a masterpiece."

The word, "masterpiece," was a heavy, suffocating weight. Bakugo swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat. He just wanted the hand to be gone. He just wanted the voice to stop. He just wanted to be alone. He wanted to lash out, to push the man away, but he was a puppet on a string, and Masato was his master. He was a champion. He was flawless. He was a masterpiece. He had to be.

Masato's hand moved, sliding down Bakugo’s arm to his wrist, his fingers curling around it in a grip that was just a little too tight. "You're a star, Katsuki. My star. Don't ever forget that. Don't ever disappoint me."

And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over. Masato released him, his hand gone, the cold, clinical touch a phantom sensation on his skin. He gave Bakugo a slow, knowing smile, a smile that was a thousand times more menacing than any scowl. He turned and left, leaving Bakugo alone in the suffocating silence of the empty rink, his skin crawling, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The silence was short-lived. A few minutes later, another figure, a small, familiar blur of green, burst through the doors. It was Deku, his face a mask of worry, his eyes wide and frantic.

"Kacchan! I saw Masato-san leaving. Is everything okay? He's been… I don't know, he's been acting so weird lately. You're not… you're not hurt, are you? Your ankle… it looked so bad in practice the other day." Midoriya’s words tumbled out in a panicked rush, a flurry of concern that was meant to be a comfort but just felt like another pressure Bakugo couldn’t handle.

"I'm fine, Deku," Bakugo snapped, his voice a low, rough growl, his anger a familiar, welcome shield against the unease and shame he felt. "Just leave me alone. I don't need your pathetic worry. I don't need your useless help. Just go."

But Midoriya, stubborn and well-meaning to a fault, wouldn't go. He stepped closer, his brow furrowed, his eyes pleading. "Kacchan, please. I'm worried about you. Masato-san… he's just… he's too much. He's so controlling. He's so… aggressive. And you're just letting him… you're letting him get to you. You're not you anymore. You're just… you're a shell of yourself."

The words hit Bakugo like a physical blow. He froze, his hands clenching into fists, the last shreds of his self-control hanging by a thread. Midoriya was right. He wasn't himself. He was a perfect, flawless, silent masterpiece. And it was all Masato's doing. But he couldn't admit it. He couldn't show that weakness. He couldn't let anyone in. Especially not Midoriya.

"Shut up, Deku!" Bakugo yelled, the dam of his anger finally breaking. "You don't know a damn thing! You don't know what it's like! You don't know what it takes! You don't know the pressure! You don't know the sacrifices I have to make to be the best! So just… just shut your damn mouth and leave me alone!"

But Midoriya, in his panicked, well-meaning way, just wouldn't stop. He was so close, so desperate to help, so oblivious to the landmine he was about to step on. "Kacchan, please. Just let me help you. You're not alone. I'm here. I'll always be here. Just… just tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong!" Bakugo screamed, his voice raw with a mix of fury and pain. "Nothing is wrong, you pathetic, useless waste of space! Why can't you just understand?! Why can't you just leave me alone?!"

And then, in a moment of pure, unthinking cruelty, a desperate attempt to break through the wall Bakugo had built around himself, Midoriya said it.

"You always do this, Katsuki! You never let anyone in! You never let anyone see the real you! You always run away when you're hurting! Why can't you just let me help you, Akira?!"

The world stopped. The name hung in the air like a physical presence, a poisonous, suffocating cloud that filled the empty rink. Bakugo froze, his heart a sharp, cold lump of ice in his chest. The pain, the betrayal, the shame—it was a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to drown him. The one person he thought he could trust, the one person who had been there for him through his entire transition, had just dead-named him. Midoriya’s face, a mask of horror and instant regret, was a blur. He was apologizing, his voice a frantic, desperate whisper, but the words were a meaningless jumble of sounds that Bakugo couldn't comprehend. The damage was done. The trust, the fragile, unspoken bond they had built, had just been shattered into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

He didn't scream. He didn't yell. He didn't cry. He just turned, his body a stiff, unyielding line of pure, raw fury.

Finally realizing the full weight of what he had done, Midoriya's hand reaching out, his voice a frantic, pleading whisper. "Kacchan, wait! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to—"

Bakugo spun around, his crimson eyes a fiery, blazing inferno of rage, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred that stopped Midoriya in his tracks. "Don't you ever," Bakugo said, his voice a low, terrifying growl, "don't you ever speak to me. Don't look at me. Don't even... Be fucking around me. Do you understand, Deku?!"

And with that, he opened the doors and forced Midoriya out, slamming them shut behind him. The silence returned to the empty rink, but it was a different kind of silence now. It was a cold, lonely, and final silence, a silence of a friendship that had just been shattered, a silence of a heart that had just been broken, a silence that Bakugo, in his quiet, lonely fury, was now a willing prisoner of. He was alone. Just as Masato wanted him to be. Just as he was meant to be. Just as he would always be.

The empty rink was a mausoleum of silence, a vast, echoing space that felt suffocatingly small. Bakugo’s heart hammered a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs, a physical manifestation of the raw, furious pain that was a gaping chasm in his chest. Midoriya’s words still hung in the air, a phantom sound that Bakugo couldn’t get out of his head. The one person who had been there for him, the one person he thought he could trust, had just shattered that trust into a million tiny, irreparable pieces. The anger, the fury, the betrayal—it was a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to drown him. He felt hollowed out, a gutted, empty shell.

He walked to the stands, his movements stiff and unyielding, a puppet on a string whose master had just been replaced by a quiet, consuming rage. He sat on the bleachers, his body a stiff, defensive line of pure, unadulterated fury. The silence was a suffocating blanket, amplifying the chaotic roar in his head. To not have to be a perfect, flawless masterpiece. To not have to be anything. He just wanted to be gone.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapping around them in a desperate, self-protective gesture. He bowed his head, his gaze fixed on the empty ice, a mirror of the emptiness in his soul. He was a statue of quiet contemplation, a stark contrast to the frenzied energy of his inner world. He was lost in a dark, lonely place, a million miles away from the world outside, a willing prisoner of his own quiet fury.

His mind replayed the last few minutes, a brutal, unforgiving loop of Midoriya’s words, a soundtrack of betrayal that was a thousand times more painful than any physical blow. He had given him everything. He had let him in, a small, tiny crack in his carefully constructed armor. And Midoriya, in his panicked, well-meaning way, had just shattered it all. He had broken the one rule. He had said the one word that Bakugo had hoped he would never have to hear again. And he had said it in anger. In a moment of pure, raw cruelty. There was no coming back from that.

The guilt, the shame, the helplessness he felt after Masato's touch was now eclipsed by a new, more profound emotion: a cold, hard, unyielding fury at Midoriya for so carelessly wielding a weapon that he knew was so sharp and painful. The pain in his ankle was a dull, persistent throb, a constant, unwelcome companion that was a small, insignificant thing compared to the raw, visceral ache in his chest. He was so, so tired.

He felt a presence. A warm, quiet presence that didn't intrude on his space, but simply existed. He raised his head, his crimson eyes unfocused, a million miles away. He blinked, slowly, a few times, as if waking from a deep sleep, and then his eyes landed on a mop of spiky red hair. It was Kirishima.

Kirishima was standing a few feet away, his body a silent, grounding presence that didn’t intrude, but simply existed. He was a whirlwind of red and white, a blur of energy and unyielding determination, but here, in the quiet of the empty rink, he was just… still. A silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any words. He wasn't demanding anything. He wasn't asking for anything. A silent, unwavering support in the chaos.

Bakugo's usual scowl returned to his face, though it was a little less convincing than usual. He grunted, turning his head away, his gaze returning to the empty ice. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, replaced by the familiar prickly defensiveness. But a small, quiet part of him, a part that he had thought was long dead, was grateful. Grateful for the silent presence. Grateful for the unwavering support. Grateful for the person who was just there, who didn't ask for anything, who didn't demand anything. He was a champion. But for a brief, quiet moment, he was just a person. A person who was just a little less alone.

Bakugo sat there, the weight of his own silence a heavy blanket over his shoulders. Kirishima's presence was a strange, unexpected comfort, a quiet harbor in the storm of his mind. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell him everything. About Masato, about the way his touch made his skin crawl, about the suffocating pressure of being a "masterpiece," about the sharp, raw pain of Midoriya's words. He wanted to unburden himself, to let someone, anyone, in on the secret that was eating him alive.

He opened his mouth to speak, the words a raw, painful lump in his throat. "It's… my coach," he started, his voice a low, rough growl, a little less venomous than usual. "He's… a real pain in the ass. He's a real…" He faltered, the words dying in his throat. How could he explain it? How could he put into words the feeling of being touched by a man he didn't want to be touched by, a man who saw him as a tool, a weapon, a "masterpiece"? How could he explain the shame, the helplessness, the disgust?

He shook his head, a decisive, angry movement. "Forget it," he said, his voice flat and final. "It's nothing. Just… just the usual coach bullshit. It's not a big deal." He folded in on himself again, his body a closed, impenetrable fortress. He was trying to shut it down, to pretend he hadn't just revealed a small, uncomfortable truth.

Kirishima, however, didn't push. He just sat there, a silent, unblinking gaze fixed on him, a thousand times more powerful than any words. He seemed to understand, in a way that Midoriya never had, that Bakugo didn't need to be fixed. He just needed to be heard. He needed to be seen.

And then, something happened. Kirishima's gaze, which had been on him, shifted. He looked around the empty rink, his eyes scanning the familiar sights, and a small, quiet smile, a genuine, unburdened smile, touched his lips. He looked at the far end of the ice, where a single, stray hockey puck sat alone against the boards.

"Hey, Bakugo," Kirishima said, his voice a little more cheerful, a little more boisterous than before. "You know, I was just thinking about that time you tried to slap-shot a puck."

Bakugo's head snapped up, a bewildered expression on his face. "What are you talking about, Weird Hair? I've never tried to slap-shot a puck."

"Yeah, you did!" Kirishima insisted, his grin wide. "It was that one day, when we were just messing around after practice. You grabbed my stick, and you tried to hit the puck, but you ended up just sending it flying into the ceiling."

Bakugo’s scowl deepened, but a tiny, almost imperceptible memory seemed to flicker in his eyes. "That's not what happened! I meant to do that! It was a demonstration of my explosive power, you moron! A test of your rink's structural integrity!"

Kirishima laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. "A test of structural integrity? You just looked like you were trying to swat a mosquito with a telephone pole!" He stood up, walking down to the ice. He bent down, scooped up the stray puck with his gloved hand, and held it out. "Come on. I'll give you a proper lesson. I'll teach you how to slap-shot a puck, the manly way."

Bakugo stared at the puck, then at Kirishima, the last vestiges of his dark mood finally beginning to dissipate, replaced by the familiar flicker of his competitive fire. "As if I need lessons from a simple-minded brute like you," he scoffed, but he stood up, a slow, deliberate movement. He walked down the bleachers, his gaze fixed on Kirishima.

"Come on," Kirishima said, a smile on his face. "Just this once. Before the game tonight. A little friendly competition. Just you, me, and a puck."

Bakugo’s face was a mask of annoyance, but his eyes held a strange, almost grateful light. "Fine," he growled, grabbing his stick from his bag. "But don't get your hopes up, Weird Hair. I'm going to send that pathetic puck flying so hard, it'll make your whole team look like they're playing with a beach ball."

Kirishima’s grin widened. "I'd like to see you try."

____________________

The bustling lobby of the hockey arena was a symphony of chaos, a celebratory cacophony that grated on Bakugo’s frayed nerves. He stood in a quiet, secluded corner, a willing prisoner of his own turmoil, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The anger, the shame, the helpless disgust from the day's events were a cold, hard knot in his stomach.

Kirishima was about to speak, to offer his thanks for showing up again, a new wave of chaos crashed into them. A small group of people, a blur of red and white, descended upon them like a flock of excited birds. There was a boisterous silver-haired brute, Tetsutetsu, with a grin that could light up a room, a mischievous blonde with a wide, friendly grin, and a girl with an electric pink bob and a warmth that radiated off her in waves.

"There you are, Kiri!" The pink-haired girl, a vibrant, energetic force of nature, threw her arms around Kirishima, her hug a powerful, crushing thing that made him laugh. "We saw the last half of the game, and you were incredible! A total firecracker out there!"

Kirishima’s face, a mask of pure joy, was a sight to behold. He was home. He was with his people. Bakugo felt a strange, almost painful pang in his chest, a flicker of an emotion he couldn't quite name.

The mischievous blonde, who Bakugo now recognized as Denki, sidled up to him, a conspiratorial grin on his face. "So you're the legendary Bakugo, huh? The man of steel Tetsu's been raving about! The one with the guns that could crush a watermelon with a single flex!"

Bakugo just grunted in response, his scowl returning with a vengeance. The lie, the stupid, ridiculous lie that had started this whole mess, was still hanging in the air, a physical presence in the room. He didn't care. He just wanted to be gone.

"Don't mind him," the black-haired guy, who Bakugo now knew as Sero, said with a laugh. "He's just an idiot. I'm Sero. And this is Mina." He gestured to the pink-haired girl, who gave Bakugo a wide, genuine smile. "And of course, you already know the brute, Tetsu."

Tetsu, the silver-haired brute, just gave Bakugo a triumphant grin, a silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any words. He looked at Bakugo, then at Kirishima, and a silent, knowing look passed between them, a quiet, powerful understanding that was a world away from Bakugo's own tumultuous reality.

Before Bakugo could form a coherent thought, before he could make his escape, Mina, the pink-haired girl, grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly firm. "Come on, tough guy! We're going to celebrate! You look like you need some food in your stomach. Victory's on the house!"

And just like that, Bakugo was a prisoner again, a willing or unwilling participant in a situation he had, for some insane reason, agreed to be in. He was a piece of driftwood in a raging river, pulled along by a current he couldn't fight. He was surrounded by people he didn't know, celebrating a sport he didn't care about, a willing prisoner in a situation he had, for some insane reason, agreed to be in. And yet, a small, quiet, and powerful part of him was glad.

The air was a crisp, welcome change from the stifling heat of the arena. Katsuki Bakugo’s mind, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, was quiet. The chaotic roar in his head, the suffocating blanket of his own dark thoughts, had been replaced by the low hum of the city and the rhythmic beat of their footsteps on the pavement. He was still a willing prisoner, a piece of driftwood in a raging river, but the current, for once, felt less like a struggle and more like a gentle, steady pull. He was with Kirishima, and that, in its own strange way, was a quiet harbor in the storm.

They walked a little ahead of the others, a silent, unmoving force in the city's chaotic blur. Behind them, the low murmur of the group’s conversation was a distant, muffled sound. Kirishima, a quiet, reassuring presence by his side, was a world away from the rest of the group.

"So," Kirishima began, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "I ran into Midoriya earlier. He was… a little off. He seemed kind of uncomfortable, you know? When I asked him where were you, he just… I don't know, he seemed like he was walking on eggshells. He wouldn't really talk about it. It was like he was trying to hide something."

The words, so innocent, so well-meaning, were a landmine. Bakugo froze, the comfortable silence shattered by the sharp, intrusive reality of his life. The image of Midoriya’s face, a mask of horror and instant regret, was a brutal, unforgiving loop in his head. He remembered the words, a poisoned dart laced with a dead girl’s name, still hanging in the air like a physical presence. The anger, the shame, the betrayal—it all came flooding back, a tidal wave of pain and fury.

He wanted to tell him to mind his own damn business, to tell him to leave him alone. But he couldn't. Not when Kirishima was looking at him with a quiet, unwavering empathy in his eyes.

"That damn nerd," Bakugo finally said, his voice a low, rough growl, his usual venom returning with a vengeance. "He's always been a mess. It's none of your business. It's not a big deal. He's just… he's just a damn crybaby who can't handle a simple conversation." He paused, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in his voice. "Just… don't worry about it. It's not worth it. He's not worth it."

The words, a low, rough whisper, were a brutal, dismissive blow, a desperate attempt to push Kirishima away. But they were also a lie. A lie that served as a shield, a defensive wall built to keep Kirishima from seeing the broken, fragile person he was inside. The truth, a painful, raw lump in his throat, was that Midoriya was worth it. And the betrayal, the pain, the shame—it was all a big, terrible, horrible deal. And Bakugo, in his quiet, lonely fury, was a willing prisoner of it all.

_____________

They finally arrived at the restaurant, a bustling, greasy-spoon diner with a glowing neon sign that read "Victory's Grill." The place was a chaotic symphony of loud chatter, clattering plates, and the heavy, savory scent of fried food. The group, a boisterous sea of red and white, descended upon a large, round table in the back. Bakugo’s first instinct was to turn and run, to retreat back into the quiet, angry darkness he had built for himself. But then he felt Kirishima’s presence, a quiet, reassuring anchor in the storm. He followed him to the table, his body a stiff, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. The noise, the chaos, the sheer energy of the room was a physical assault on his senses.

"There he is!" TetsuTetsu, the boisterous silver-haired brute, yelled from across the table. His grin was wide and genuine. "Glad you came, Bakugo! I didn't think you'd actually show up, figured you'd be too busy preparing for your next big weightlifting competition."

The lie, the stupid, ridiculous lie that had started this whole mess, was still hanging in the air, a physical presence in the room. Bakugo just grunted in response, his scowl returning with a vengeance. He sat down next to Kirishima, his gaze fixed on the menu. He didn't care about the lie, or the competition, or any of it. He just wanted to be gone.

"So, Bakugo," Tetsu continued, his voice a little lower, a little more conspiratorial. "Kirishima tells me you're a intense guy, a real man of steel. But a man like you, with those shoulders, that fire in your eyes… you must be a monster on the ice. You should come to my rink sometime. Show me a real man's slap shot. We could… get to know each other."

The last words, a low, suggestive murmur, were a blatant, unapologetic attempt at a shot. A furious blush crept up Bakugo’s neck. He looked at Tetsu, a silent, unblinking gaze that was a clear, unyielding command to back off.

Before Bakugo could form a coherent thought, Kirishima, a quiet observer of his inner turmoil, placed a hand on Tetsu's shoulder. His touch was firm, but gentle, a silent, powerful warning.

"Hey, Tetsu," Kirishima said, his voice a low, quiet murmur that was just for him. "Give the guy a break. He's not here to talk shop. He's just here to hang out."

Tetsu, a little startled but not deterred, just shrugged, a wide, mischievous grin on his face. "Alright, alright. I get it. Just… don't tell me you called dibs, man. That's not very manly."

Kirishima just laughed, a genuine, joyful sound but the blush creeping up his neck said something else. He looked at Bakugo, a quiet, reassuring smile on his face, a silent promise that he had his back. Bakugo, in his own strange, unique way, felt it. He felt the quiet, unwavering support, the silent, powerful protection. And in that moment, in the midst of the chaos and the noise and the triumph, Bakugo, in his own strange, unique, and painful way, felt like he had won it all.

The conversation, a chaotic symphony of chatter and laughter, continued around them. Bakugo, a silent, unmoving force in the chaos, just listened. He heard Denki, the mischievous blonde, make a joke about Sero's hair, a low, rumbling sound that was a testament to his sheer stupidity. He heard Mina, the vibrant, pink-haired girl, laugh, a genuine, joyful sound that filled the small space with an infectious energy. He heard Kirishima, a steady, comforting presence by his side, laugh, a low, rumbling sound that was a quiet, unburdened joy. He was a part of something. He was a part of a group. He was a part of a team.

And then, the food came. A glorious, greasy, mountainous pile of burgers and fries that looked and smelled like a heart attack in a basket. Bakugo's stomach rumbled, a low, animalistic sound that was a testament to his sheer hunger. He hadn't eaten like this in what felt like a lifetime. His diet, a strict, merciless regimen of protein shakes and lean meats, was a constant, suffocating pressure, a sacrifice he made for his sport. The thought of the greasy food, of the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it, was both a powerful temptation and a terrifying prospect. He imagined Masato’s cold, clinical glare, his dismissive remarks about his "flawless form," his insistence that he was a "masterpiece." He imagined the way his body would react to the sudden influx of grease and fat, the bloating, the sluggishness, the inevitable verbal abuse.

Kirishima, a quiet observer of his inner turmoil, saw the flicker of terror in his eyes, the subtle clenching of his jaw, the way his hands, just for a second, had trembled. He reached out and, with a subtle, gentle movement, touched the back of Bakugo's hand.

"Hey," Kirishima’s voice was low, a quiet murmur that was just for him. "It's okay. Your body's a furnace, man. It'll burn it off in no time. You've been working hard. You deserve it." He gave him a small, genuine smile. "Just… enjoy it."

The words, so simple, so sincere, were a physical blow. Bakugo’s armor, the defensive wall he had so carefully constructed, wavered. He wanted to lash out, to tell him to mind his own damn business, to tell him to leave him alone. But he couldn't. Not when Kirishima was looking at him like that. Not when he was looking at him not as a rival, not as a threat, but as a friend.

He looked at the burger, a glistening, greasy mountain of pure, unadulterated comfort. He looked at the fries, a golden, crispy, delicious pile of temptation. He looked at Kirishima, who was just… there. A silent, unwavering support in the chaos. And he thought about the empty rink, about the hockey puck, about the silent, unspoken connection they had forged in the midst of his chaos. He thought about Midoriya, about the betrayal, about the cold, lonely silence of a friendship that was now different. And he knew, in that moment, that he couldn't go back to that. He couldn't go back to being alone.

He picked up the burger, a slow, deliberate movement, his hands trembling just a little. He took a bite, a huge, messy, glorious bite, and a wave of flavor, of grease and salt and comfort, washed over him. The taste, the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it, was a foreign, intoxicating thing. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it. He hadn't realized how starved he was.

Kirishima, watched him, a quiet, knowing smile on his face, saw the subtle, almost imperceptible change in Bakugo’s demeanor. The tension in his shoulders, a tight, unyielding line of pure, raw fury, had softened, just a little. The scowl on his face, a familiar, defensive mask, had lessened, replaced by a look of quiet, unburdened bliss.

The rest of the meal was a blur of food and chatter. Bakugo, to his own surprise, found himself slowly, quietly, eating. The food, the grease, the salt, was a warm, quiet comfort, a small, powerful antidote to the cold, clinical world he inhabited. He wasn't talking. Not really. But he was there. He was present. He was a part of something. He was a part of a team.

And then, Denki, the mischievous blonde with the wide, mischievous grin, said something so incredibly dumb, so utterly ridiculous, that it broke through Bakugo's carefully constructed wall of silence. He said something about how Tetsu had been fantasizing about Bakugo’s "manly physique," but that he, Denki, had "totally called dibs on being his best friend, first."
Bakugo froze, the burger halfway to his mouth. He looked at Denki, a silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any words. He looked at Kirishima, who was trying to stifle a laugh. And then, a sound, a low, rough, and almost embarrassingly genuine sound, escaped his lips. A laugh. A real, honest-to-god laugh. A sound that was so foreign that it startled everyone.

The laughter, a raw, surprising explosion, was a one-time event. Katsuki Bakugo quickly composed himself, his scowl returning with a vengeance, a furious blush creeping up his neck. He looked at the group—Sero, Denki, Mina, and Tetsu—a silent, unblinking gaze that was a clear, unyielding command to never, ever mention that again. Denki, a little startled but not deterred, just shrugged, a wide, mischievous grin on his face.

The rest of the meal was a blur of food and chatter. Bakugo, to his own surprise, found himself slowly, quietly eating. The food, the grease, the salt, was a warm, quiet comfort, a small, powerful antidote to the cold, clinical world he inhabited. He wasn't talking, not really. But he was there, present, a part of something. The conversation, a chaotic symphony of chatter and laughter, continued around him. Bakugo, a silent, unmoving force in the chaos, just listened. He heard Denki make a joke about Sero's hair, a low, rumbling sound that was a testament to his sheer stupidity. He heard Mina laugh, a genuine, joyful sound that filled the small space with infectious energy. He heard Kirishima, a steady, comforting presence by his side, laugh, a low, rumbling sound that was a quiet, unburdened joy.

As the dinner came to an end, the plates were cleared, and the group began to relax into a comfortable, post-meal stupor. Bakugo’s stomach, full and content, was a silent, peaceful thing. He didn't want anything else. He felt a powerful, suffocating sense of guilt wash over him. He had been too loose, too free. He had forgotten who he was, what he was. He was not a hockey player, not a weightlifter, not a friend to a bunch of loud, boisterous athletes. He was a figure skater. A "masterpiece," a flawless, perfect work of art, a champion in training. The greasy food, the laughter, the camaraderie—it was all a distraction, a dangerous, intoxicating lie.

Kirishima, a quiet observer of his inner turmoil, saw the subtle, almost imperceptible change in Bakugo’s demeanor. The tension in his shoulders, a tight, unyielding line of pure, raw fury, had returned with a vengeance. The scowl on his face, a familiar, defensive mask, had returned in full force.

"Hey, you okay, man?" Kirishima asked, his voice low, a quiet murmur that was just for him. "You look like you're a million miles away."

Bakugo's head snapped up, his crimson eyes a fiery, blazing inferno of rage. He wanted to scream. To lash out. But when Kirishima looks at him like he's important. Not as a rival, not as a threat, but as a friend.

He finally broke the silence, not with an explanation or a confession, but with a snort, a low, dismissive sound that was a shield in and of itself. "I'm perfectly fine, moron. Just thinking about how all of you are going to get fat from all that greasy food." He paused, his gaze fixed on Kirishima's face, a challenge in his eyes. "Unlike you idiots, I have to watch what I eat. I'm a professional athlete, not a goddamn slob."

He stood up, his movements stiff and unyielding. He walked to the back of the table, where Kirishima's hockey bag sat innocently against the wall. He reached inside and, with a quick, decisive movement, pulled out a protein bar.

"I'm going home," Bakugo said, his voice flat and final. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't say thanks. He just turned and walked away, a silent, unmoving force in the chaos. The cold, quiet darkness of his apartment, the lonely silence of his own mind, was a suffocating prospect. But it was also a familiar, welcome place, a safe harbor in the storm of his tumultuous life. He was a masterpiece. He was a work in progress. He was a prisoner. He was alone. And for Katsuki Bakugo, in his quiet, lonely fury, that was all that mattered.

The cold night air was a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the diner, a physical jolt that did little to soothe the chaotic roar in Katsuki Bakugo’s head. The protein bar, a familiar, tasteless thing, was a cold, hard reminder of the life he was running back to. He walked with a determined, furious energy, his body a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. The guilt, a heavy, suffocating blanket, was a constant, unwelcome companion. He had been too loose, too free. He had laughed. He had eaten a greasy burger. He had almost… almost forgotten. Forgotten who he was, what he was.

He was a figure skater. A "masterpiece", a flawless, perfect work of art, a champion in training. The greasy food, the laughter, the camaraderie—it was all a distraction, a dangerous, intoxicating lie. The protein bar in his hand was a penance, a silent, unyielding promise to himself that he wouldn’t do it again. He wouldn't let himself be a prisoner of a moment, of a feeling, of a friendship he was too broken to have.

The city lights blurred past him, a chaotic, dazzling symphony of color and movement that was a stark contrast to the quiet, almost profound silence that hung over him. He was a piece of driftwood in a raging river, pulled along by a current he couldn't fight. He was a prisoner again, a willing or unwilling participant in a situation he had, for some insane reason, agreed to be in.

And then, he stopped. A figure, tall and impossibly elegant, stood in his path, a quiet, reassuring presence in the chaotic blur of the city. He was a man of impeccable style, his clothes a perfect, harmonious symphony of denim, his hair a sculpted masterpiece. It was Best Jeanist, the legendary coach and mentor whose name was a byword for perfection and elegance in the world of professional skating.

"Katsuki Bakugo," Jeanist said, his voice a low, smooth sound that was as calming as a summer breeze. "A pleasure to finally meet you. I've been watching your work. Your form is... explosive. A beautiful, raw, unyielding talent. A diamond in the rough."

Bakugo just grunted in response, his scowl returning with a vengeance, his body a tense, defensive line of pure, raw fury. He knew this game. He knew this conversation. He had heard it all before, a thousand times, from a thousand different people. He was a star. He was a talent. He was a "masterpiece." But the words, from Jeanist, were different. They weren't a suffocating pressure. They were a quiet, calming observation, a peaceful acknowledgment of his skill.

Jeanist didn't push. He didn't demand anything. He just stood there, a quiet, reassuring presence in the chaotic blur of the city. "I'm not here to talk about your current situation, or your coach," Jeanist said, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "I am simply here to offer you a choice. I believe your talent is being… unharnessed. Unrefined. I believe, with the right guidance, you could be more than just a champion. You could be a work of art."

He reached into the pocket of his denim jacket, a smooth, elegant movement, and pulled out a small, unassuming business card. It was a simple, elegant thing, a testament to the man's impeccable style. He held it out to Bakugo, a quiet, unyielding offer. "Consider it. I don't need a response now. I don't need a response at all. But I believe you deserve to have a choice. You deserve to be more than just a weapon."

Bakugo stared at the card, his heart a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs. The words, "You deserve to have a choice," were a physical blow, a raw, exposed wound that he didn't even know he had. He thought of Masato's cold, clinical touch, his whispered demands, his suffocating pressure. He thought of the constant, unyielding fear of disappointing him, of failing, of being less than perfect. He thought of the long, grueling practices, the sharp, insistent pain in his injured ankle, the relentless, bone-weary exhaustion that was a constant companion.

He took the card, a slow, deliberate movement, his fingers brushing against Jeanist’s. The touch was a world away from Masato’s cold, clinical grasp. It was a quiet, unassuming touch that was just… there. A silent, unwavering support in the chaos.

"Whatever," Bakugo said, his voice a low, rough whisper. He just knew that, in this moment, in the quiet, calming presence of a legend, he felt a strange, quiet sense of peace.

Jeanist just smiled, a small, knowing smile that was a thousand times more powerful than any scowl. "A champion's journey is a long and arduous one. But it is your journey. And you are the one who chooses the path." He turned and, with a quiet elegance that was a hallmark of his style, disappeared into the chaotic blur of the city.

Bakugo stood there, the card a small, unassuming thing in his hand, a small, powerful key to a new, different kind of future. He thought about it. The offer. The choice. The chance to be more than just a weapon. The chance to be a work of art. But then he thought of Masato, of the long, grueling practices, the sharp, insistent pain in his injured ankle, the relentless, bone-weary exhaustion that was a constant companion. He felt a profound, suffocating sense of guilt wash over him. He couldn't leave him. Not after everything he had done for him. Not after the injury. Not after the long, painful road to recovery. He was a champion. He was a masterpiece. He had to be. And for Katsuki Bakugo, in his quiet, lonely fury, that was all that mattered.

_____________

The cold, sterile air of the rink was a familiar, suffocating blanket. It was a new day, but for Katsuki Bakugo, it was just a brutal, unforgiving continuation of the last. The sharp, insistent throbbing in his left ankle was a constant, unwelcome companion, a physical testament to the grueling, punishing practice from the day before. He was sitting on the lowest bleacher, a solitary figure in the vast, empty expanse of the ice, his gaze fixed on a small, unassuming business card in his hand. The card, a simple, elegant thing, a testament to Best Jeanist’s impeccable style, felt impossibly heavy. It was a small, powerful key to a new, different kind of future, a future where he could be more than just a weapon, more than just a masterpiece. But the thought, a small, powerful spark of hope, was quickly extinguished by a suffocating wave of guilt.

He couldn't leave him. Not after everything he had done for him. Not after the injury. Not after the long, painful road to recovery.

The solitude was short-lived. A door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped into the rink, the sound of his street shoes on the rubber matting a loud, jarring intrusion. It was Masato, his coach, a man whose presence had become synonymous with an unsettling, suffocating pressure. Bakugo’s heart hammered a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs. With a quick, decisive movement, he shoved the card deep into his pocket, a furious, silent gesture of defiance and self-control.

"Katsuki," Masato’s voice was a low, smooth sound that made Bakugo’s skin crawl. It was a voice that was meant to be calming, but was anything but. "You're not in your skates. That's not like you. You're usually the first one on the ice, the last one off. A true champion." He walked closer, his gaze fixed on Bakugo, a slow, knowing smile on his face, a smile that was a thousand times more menacing than any scowl. "A true champion, but also a young man who deserves a night out, of course. I heard you had a nice time last night. A nice celebration with your friends."

The words hit Bakugo like a physical blow. He froze, his hands clenching into fists, the last shreds of his self-control hanging by a thread. He hadn't told him. He hadn't told him he went out. He hadn't told him about the hockey game, about the victory celebration, about the greasy food, about the laughter, about the camaraderie. A suffocating, ice-cold wave of terror washed over him. How did he know? How did he know everything?

"How did you know?" Bakugo’s voice was a low, rough whisper, a raw, exposed sound that was a testament to his sheer panic.

Masato just laughed, a low, smooth sound that made Bakugo’s stomach clench. He moved closer, his hand reaching out, his fingers tracing the line of Bakugo’s jaw, a touch that was meant to be reassuring but was anything but. It lingered, a cold, clinical touch that made Bakugo’s muscles tense. "Katsuki," Masato whispered, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "You have such a perfect form, such a beautiful, explosive talent, Katsuki. But your body… it tells a story. I can tell when you've been working hard. I can tell when you've been pushing yourself too far. I can tell when you've been... straying from the path."

Masato’s hand moved, sliding down Bakugo’s neck to his shoulder, his fingers curling around it in a grip that was just a little too tight. "You have to trust me, Katsuki. I know what's best for you. I know what it takes to get you to the top. But you can't be a champion, you can't be a masterpiece, if you stray from the path. You have to be perfect. You have to be flawless. You have to be a work of art."

The words, a suffocating, heavy weight, were a physical assault on Bakugo’s senses. He wanted to do something, anything. To push the man away. But he was a puppet on a string, and Masato was his master.

Masato, sensing the tension, the raw, furious panic radiating from Bakugo, finally released him. He gave Bakugo a slow, knowing smile, a smile that was a thousand times more menacing than any scowl. "We need to talk," he said, his voice a low, smooth command. "In my office. Now."

And with that, he turned and left, leaving Bakugo alone in the suffocating silence of the empty rink, his skin crawling, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his mind a chaotic, dizzying mess of fear, shame, and a quiet, burning fury. He was a prisoner again, a willing or unwilling participant in a situation he had, for some insane reason, agreed to be in.

Bakugo stood there, a frozen statue of inner turmoil, his mind a battlefield of fear, shame, and a quiet, burning fury. The words, "In my office. Now," echoed in his head, a low, smooth command that was more terrifying than any scream. The suffocating weight of it all, the relentless pressure, the constant fear of disappointing Masato, of failing, of being less than perfect—it was all a heavy, suffocating blanket that threatened to drown him.

He walked to the office, his movements stiff and unyielding. The office, a small, cramped space filled with trophies and accolades, was a place he rarely went. It was Masato's sanctuary, his inner sanctum, a place of power and control. Bakugo had only been in it a handful of times, always for a celebratory moment, a quick, triumphant handshake after a flawless routine. The thought of being in it now, under these circumstances, was a suffocating prospect.

He opened the door and stepped inside, the click of the lock behind him a low, menacing sound that sent a jolt of ice-cold terror through him. Masato was sitting behind his desk, a slow, knowing smile on his face, a smile that was a thousand times more menacing than any scowl. The room, a claustrophobic space filled with the suffocating scent of stale coffee and unfulfilled potential, was a physical manifestation of the man's insidious control.

"Sit," Masato said, his voice a low, smooth command. "We need to talk."

Bakugo sat, his body a stiff, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. He was a statue of quiet contemplation, a stark contrast to the frenzied energy of his inner world. He was a trapped in a cage of his own making, a cage of his own quiet fury.

"I have some news," Masato began, his voice a low, smooth sound that made Bakugo's skin crawl. "The final roster for the international competition was announced this morning. I had a feeling this would happen. I had a feeling you weren't focused enough. You were too distracted." He paused, his gaze fixed on Bakugo, a slow, knowing smile on his face. "The spot… it went to Shoto Todoroki."

The words hit Bakugo like a physical blow. He froze, his hands clenching into fists, the last shreds of his self-control hanging by a thread. He knew he had won that spot. He had worked for it. He had sacrificed for it. He had bled for it. He was a perfect, flawless work of art. The spot was his. It was meant to be his.

A low, guttural growl, a raw, animalistic sound, escaped Bakugo’s lips. "Todoroki?" he said, his voice a low, rough whisper, a testament to his sheer, unadulterated fury. "That damn half-and-half bastard? He's a machine! He has no emotion! He has no fire! I am a work of art! My jumps, my spins, my explosive power… it's all a part of my soul! I am the best! He is nothing!"

Masato just laughed, a low, smooth sound that made Bakugo’s stomach clench. "Katsuki," Masato whispered, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "You have such a perfect form, such a beautiful, explosive talent, Katsuki. But you have to be perfect. You have to be flawless. You have to be a masterpiece. And you haven't been. You've been distracted. You've been… loose." He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Bakugo, a menacing glint in his eyes. "I saw you, last night. With your little hockey friends. The redhead. The loud, obnoxious one. And Midoriya. The boy who loves you so much he would do anything for you. It's a distraction, Katsuki. A weakness. A flaw in your perfect form."

Bakugo’s blood ran cold. The words, so innocent, so well-meaning, were a landmine. A lie he had built, a defensive wall he had constructed, had just been shattered into a million tiny, irreparable pieces. The shame, the betrayal, the helpless disgust—it was all a suffocating, ice-cold wave of terror that washed over him. How did he know? How did he know everything?

"But I know how to fix it," Masato continued, his voice a low, smooth command that made Bakugo's skin crawl. "I know how to get you back on track. I know how to make you perfect again. I can get you that spot back. I can make you a champion. A true, perfect, flawless masterpiece. But you have to trust me. You have to prove to me that you deserve it. That you're willing to do anything for it."

He stood up, walking around the desk, his movements a slow, menacing ballet of power and control. He stood behind Bakugo’s chair, his hands reaching out, his fingers tracing the line of Bakugo’s neck.

"You're a star, Katsuki. My star," Masato whispered, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "But a star needs to be polished. A masterpiece needs to be refined. You have such a perfect form, Katsuki. A beautiful, explosive talent. A talent that needs to be appreciated. A talent that needs to be… rewarded."

His hand moved, sliding down Bakugo’s neck to his shoulder, his fingers curling around it in a grip that was just a little too tight. "Show me, Katsuki. Show me that you deserve that spot. Show me that you're willing to do anything for it. Show me that you're a true champion. A true, perfect, flawless masterpiece."

The words, so innocent, so well-meaning, were a physical blow. The unspoken threat, the insidious, manipulative implication, was a suffocating, heavy weight that Bakugo couldn't comprehend. He felt his hands clench into fists, his body a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. He wanted to yell. To push the man away. He wanted to run.

He stood up, a sudden, furious movement, his chair scraping against the floor, a loud, jarring sound in the suffocating silence of the room. He walked to the door, his movements a blur of controlled, furious energy. He was a champion. He was a masterpiece. He was a Phoenix. But in that moment, he was a phoenix who was trying to escape the fucking cage.

He reached for the doorknob, his hand shaking, a cold, hard lump of ice in his chest. But just as his fingers closed around it, a voice, a low, smooth command that was more terrifying than any scream, stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't," Masato said, his voice a low, smooth command that made Bakugo’s blood run cold. "If you walk out that door, Katsuki, your career is over. I'll make sure of it. I'll make sure every single scout, every single judge, every single coach knows that you're a quitter. A coward. A broken, flawed masterpiece. I'll make sure your name is a curse on the ice. I'll make sure you're a nobody. A failure. A forgotten dream."

Bakugo froze, his hand on the doorknob, his heart a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs. He couldn't. He couldn't risk it. His career, his life, his identity—it was all tied to this.

He looked at the door, a physical, tangible escape from the suffocating, terrifying reality of his life. But he also looked at the room, a claustrophobic space filled with trophies and accolades, a physical manifestation of a dream he was too broken to let go of. And in that moment, in the suffocating silence of the room, he knew he couldn't leave.

He took his hand off the doorknob and, with a slow, deliberate movement, turned around. He looked at Masato, a silent, unblinking gaze that was a thousand times more powerful than any scream. He reached out and, with a shaking hand, locked the door. He was stuck again, a willing or unwilling participant in a situation he had, for some insane reason, agreed to be in. He was a champion. He was a masterpiece. He was alone. And for Katsuki Bakugo, in his quiet, lonely fury, that was all that mattered.

Chapter 7: ​A Change in Attire and Heart

Notes:

I apologize for my disappearance; school has been a handful. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for your patience!

Don't flame me for my mistakes!!!

The low, comforting hum of the coffee shop was a stark contrast to the chaotic battlefield of Eijiro Kirishima's mind. It had been a month, and the easy camaraderie he'd felt with Katsuki Bakugo had dissolved into a tense, unsettling silence. What had once been a torrent of explosive energy was now a ghost, actively avoiding Kirishima. Texts were left on read, the tiny, infuriating double checkmark the only response. Calls went unanswered, the silence on the other end a suffocating, judgmental weight. A profound sense of dread, cold and absolute, had become his constant companion. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done something wrong, that he'd somehow broken a fragile, unspoken trust by pushing Bakugo to go out that night. The vibrant memory of Bakugo’s laugh—a raw, surprising explosion that had, for a fleeting moment, made the world feel a little less heavy—now felt like a lie, a beautiful, heartbreaking illusion.

The tension wasn't limited to his personal life. It followed him onto the ice, a cold, suffocating blanket that dampened his usual explosive energy. TetsuTetsu, the boisterous silver-haired brute with a grin that could light up a room, had become a constant, unwelcome reminder of the rift between him and Bakugo. Tetsu's crush on Bakugo was no longer a quiet, unassuming thing; it was a loud, obnoxious, and utterly infuriating force. He constantly brought Bakugo up, a casual, almost offhand mention of the "man of steel," the "weightlifter," the "king of the weight room." Each mention was a new punch, a new reminder of the distance between them, a new testament to the fact that Kirishima had lost something he hadn't even realized he had.

After a particularly brutal practice, where Tetsu had, for the tenth time that day, brought up Bakugo's "manly physique," Kirishima finally snapped. He grabbed his bag and, with a low, defeated groan, made his way back to his apartment, the tension in his shoulders a heavy, suffocating weight. He opened the door and the warm, comforting scent of spices and baked goods washed over him, a small, powerful antidote to the cold, sterile reality of his life.

Fatgum was standing over the stove, a chaotic, joyful symphony of pots and pans. He looked at Kirishima, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Hey, Kiri," Fatgum said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "You look like you've been run over by a Zamboni. What's eating you?"

Kirishima just shrugged, a small, defeated movement. "It's… Bakugo," he said, the name a raw, painful lump in his throat. "I don't know, man. It's been a month, and he's just… gone. He won't answer my texts. He won't return my calls. It's like I did something wrong. It's like I broke something." He ran a hand through his spiky red hair, a nervous, self-conscious gesture. "Maybe I did. Maybe I pushed him too hard. Maybe I shouldn't have dragged him to that diner. Maybe I should have just… let him be."

Fatgum just smiled. It wasn't a pitying smile, but a knowing one. "Kid," he said, his voice a little softer, a little more vulnerable than before. "Sometimes you can't push people, you just have to give them space. You know, you can't rush a good stew. You have to let the flavors simmer. You have to let them meld together. You can't just throw everything in at once and expect it to be perfect."

Kirishima had never heard it before. He had never thought of Bakugo in that way. He had just thought of him as a guy. A guy with a lot of anger, a lot of fire, and a quiet, vulnerable soul.

Fatgum moved closer, a chaotic, joyful symphony of pots and pans. He looked at Kirishima, his gaze fixed on him, a look of quiet, unwavering empathy in his eyes. "You know, kid," he said, his voice a low, teasing murmur. "You're a good friend. A great friend. The best friend. But you need to take care of yourself, too. Your hair... it's looking a little rough. You need to dye it again. You need to get that red back. You're a hockey player, Kiri. You need to look like one." He then gave Kirishima a small, genuine smile. "Now, go take a shower. I'll make you a hot meal. And don't you dare think about that boy. He'll come around when he's ready. You just have to be patient. And you have to trust the process."

Kirishima felt a strange, quiet sense of relief, a powerful, protective emotion. He was a good guy. And he could help Bakugo. He could be a friend. A quiet, unwavering presence in the storm. He walked to the bathroom, the warm, comforting scent of spices and baked goods a quiet anchor in his mind, and for the first time in a month, he felt like he had a plan. He would trust the process. He would be patient. He would be there for him.

The scent of spices and a quiet, profound hope still clung to Kirishima’s clothes, a lingering testament to Fatgum’s gentle advice. "You have to trust the process." The words had been a quiet anchor in his mind for days, a small, powerful antidote to the suffocating dread that had become his constant companion. He had followed the advice. He had been patient. He had given Bakugo space. He had even tried, half-heartedly, to let his own hair go a little, its vivid red fading to a duller, rougher hue. But the weekend, a vast, empty expanse of time, had finally broken his resolve. He couldn't just sit and wait anymore. He needed to do something, anything, to quiet the gnawing anxiety that had become a constant presence.

He had decided on an extra practice, a way to burn off the restless energy that had been building inside him. The sports complex was a quiet, almost sacred space on a Saturday afternoon, the usual chaotic hum of activity replaced by a profound, echoing silence. He bypassed the main entrance, his feet carrying him automatically toward Rink 2, their quiet, secluded sanctuary.

As he neared the entrance, a jarring, out-of-place sound stopped him in his tracks—the frantic, insistent drumming of water running in the public restroom. Curiosity got the better of him. He pushed the door open, the sound of his footsteps a loud, jarring intrusion in the small, tiled space. The sight that greeted him was a gut-punch.

Bakugo was there, hunched over a sink, his body a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. He was violently brushing his teeth, a furious assault on his own mouth. He was trying to erase something, to scrub away an invisible stain. But the most striking change was his appearance. His signature wild, spiky hair was gone, replaced by a neat, shorter undercut. The new style revealed a sharper face, a new kind of intensity, and a long, faded scar at the base of his neck. The style suited him, a clean, modern look that only emphasized his handsome features. But Kirishima felt a pang of loss, a deep, unsettling sadness. He missed the wild, untamable hair that had once framed a raw, unfiltered kind of chaos.

Bakugo, upon seeing Kirishima, immediately stopped his frantic scrubbing. He stood up straight, his body a stiff, unyielding line of pure, raw control. His voice was calm, controlled, and unnervingly polite. "What the hell do you want, Weird Hair?" he snarled, the forced politeness a fragile, brittle thing. "Don't you have a life? Some pathetic hobby you could be doing instead of stalking me?"

Kirishima just stood there, the words dying in his throat. He wanted to ask Bakugo where he had been, why hasn't he texted or called, did he do something, and what's with the new look. That he missed the chaos, the wildness, the untamable energy that was a part of who he was. But the words wouldn't come. He saw the way Bakugo's eyes were empty, a million miles away, a stark contrast to the casual, furious facade he was presenting. He was pretending everything was fine, and that unsettling act was more terrifying to Kirishima than any outburst could ever be.

"I didn't know you were in here," Kirishima finally said, his voice low, a quiet, reassuring murmur that was just for him. "I just want to say... I'm sorry for pushing you that night. It was stupid. I should have just left you alone." He took a step back, a silent promise of his presence, a silent admission of his failure. "I'll go. I'll give you your space."

He turned to leave, the silence of the room a suffocating blanket. He took a single step, and then, a hand, cold and desperate, wrapped around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Bakugo’s grip was surprisingly firm, a silent, unyielding command.

The cold tiles of the public restroom were a stark contrast to the sudden, suffocating warmth of Bakugo's hand on his wrist. Eijiro Kirishima stood frozen. The silence, a physical, living thing, hung between them, thick with unsaid things and a raw, palpable fear that radiated off Bakugo in waves. He was a cornered animal, a man who was clearly terrified, and his desperate grip on Kirishima was a silent, unyielding command to stay.

"Don't," Bakugo's voice was a low, rough whisper, the word a raw, exposed sound that was a testament to a pain Kirishima couldn't comprehend. The quiet avoidance, the new, unsettling haircut—it all fell away in a single, gut-wrenching moment. This wasn't anger; it was pure, unadulterated terror.

Kirishima didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, a quiet, unwavering presence in the storm. He knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and profoundly comforting, that he couldn't leave. He was a friend. And he was going to stay.

Bakugo's grip on his wrist loosened, and he turned away, his body a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. He walked to the counter, his movements stiff and unyielding, a puppet on a string whose master had just replaced a suffocating calm with a terrifying, insidious threat. He leaned against the counter, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking, a silent, profound confession of his complete and utter defeat.

"I didn't want you to come here," Bakugo finally said, his voice a low, rough murmur, a raw, painful lump in his throat. "I've been... I've been trying to get rid of you. I've been a ghost. I've been a prick. I've been a silent, miserable excuse for a human being. I've been... everything I thought would make you leave. But you're still here."

Kirishima saw the flicker of despair in his eyes, the subtle clenching of his jaw, the way his hands, just for a second, had trembled. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. He was an outsider in a world of professional sports, ruthless coaches, and intense pressure. He didn't know the secrets of Bakugo's world. He didn't know the pain he was in. He didn't know the fear that was radiating off of him in waves.

He took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate, a silent promise of his presence. He walked to the counter and, with a slow, deliberate movement, leaned against it, a few feet away from Bakugo, his body a silent, grounding presence that didn’t intrude, but simply existed. He was a silent, unmoving force in the chaos, a quiet harbor in the storm.

"That night," Bakugo began, his voice a low, rough whisper, the words a foreign, alien thing on his tongue. "At the diner. I had... I had fun. I'm not supposed to have fun. I'm supposed to be a machine. A robot. A perfect, flawless masterpiece. I had fun with you idiots. I laughed. I ate greasy food. I just... I didn't know what to do."

He paused, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in his voice. "I didn't know how to act. I didn't know how to be... a person. With friends. With people who actually gave a damn about me. I've been alone for so long. I've been a machine for so long. And that night... I was a person. And it was terrifying. It was the most terrifying thing I've ever felt."

The words, so simple, so sincere, were a physical blow. Kirishima didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.

"There's something else," Bakugo said, his voice a low, rough whisper, the words a raw, painful lump in his throat. "There's a reason I don't let anyone get close. There's a reason I'm like this. It's because... I'm trans."

The words, a low, rough whisper, were a brutal, dismissive blow, a desperate attempt to push Kirishima away. Bakugo's body was a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. Like he was waiting for something. Waiting for some sort of rejection, disgust, a quiet, judgmental silence. He was waiting for the moment when Kirishima would finally turn and walk away, when he would finally leave him alone.

But it never came.

Kirishima, a quiet observer of his inner turmoil, a perceptive, empathetic force of nature, just stood there. He looked at Bakugo, his eyes a quiet, unwavering sea of understanding. He saw the way Bakugo’s hands were shaking, the way he was breathing in short, shallow gasps, a physical manifestation of a pain that Kirishima couldn’t comprehend. He saw the way Bakugo was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the moment when Kirishima would finally prove him right.

And in that moment, in the suffocating silence of the room, Kirishima took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate, a silent promise of his presence. He reached into his hockey bag and pulled out a protein bar, the familiar, tasteless thing a small, powerful antidote to the cold, sterile reality of his life. He held it out to Bakugo, a quiet, unyielding offer.

"Bakugo," Kirishima said, his voice a low, comforting murmur, a quiet, powerful sound that was just for him. "It's okay. It's all okay. It's just... a part of who you are. A part of what makes you perfect. A part of what makes you a badass figure skater. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change us. It doesn't change me."

He saw the way Bakugo's eyes, a blazing inferno of rage and shame, softened, just a little. The wall he had so carefully constructed, the defensive barrier he had so meticulously built, wavered, just a little.

The protein bar felt impossibly heavy in Kirishima's hand, a small, unassuming thing holding the weight of a monumental confession. Bakugo's fingers brushed against his as he took it, a brief, fleeting touch that was a world away from the suffocating dread that had been his constant companion for a month. The silence, a physical, living thing, hung between them, thick with unsaid things and a raw, palpable fear that radiated off Bakugo in waves. But for the first time, it was a silence filled not with judgment, but with a quiet, profound understanding.

"I... I like the hair," Kirishima said, his voice a low, rough murmur. He wasn't talking about the new style. Not really. He was talking about the courage it took to reveal a part of himself he had kept hidden for so long. He was talking about the quiet, unyielding defiance it took to break a sacred, unspoken rule.

A small, choked sound escaped Bakugo's lips. A laugh. A real, honest-to-god laugh. It was a low, rough, and almost embarrassingly genuine sound that was a quiet, powerful testament to a boundary that had just been crossed.

"What, you miss the explosive mess?" Bakugo snarled, the forced politeness a fragile, brittle thing. "It's hair, moron. It's not a big deal."

"It is, though," Kirishima said, his voice a little more confident, a little more vulnerable than before. "It's a part of you. A part of what makes you, you. I'm just… I'm just used to the other one. It's the one I first saw. The one I know." He paused, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in his voice. "And... there's a scar." He said it so quietly it was almost a whisper, his gaze fixed on the faint, white line at the base of Bakugo’s neck. "Did you... I mean, how did you get it?"

The words, so innocent, so well-meaning, were a landmine. A fresh wave of uncertainty washed over Bakugo. He bit his bottom lip, his eyes scattered around the room. Kirishima felt a profound, suffocating sense of guilt wash over him. Had he pushed too hard?

"It's nothing," Bakugo finally said, his voice a low, rough whisper, the words a raw, exposed sound that was a testament to a pain Kirishima couldn't comprehend. "It's just... a dumb accident. It's not a big deal."

But Kirishima knew it was. He knew it was a big deal. He knew it was a wound. A scar. A physical, tangible testament to a pain that was now a part of him.

"I had... I had long hair," Bakugo began, his voice a low, rough whisper, the words a foreign, alien thing on his tongue. "Before... before I was me. It was... it was a whole thing. My parents… they thought it was... pretty. They liked it. They said it suited me. I just... I just let it grow. I didn't care. Not really. It was just... hair."

He paused, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in his voice. "And then, one day, I was practicing. I was going for a spin, a triple axel, and my hair... it got stuck. It got caught in my skate. I fell. Hard. And I just... I just snapped. I grabbed my other skate and I just... I just cut it. I tried to get it out. I just... I just wanted it gone. And I just... I just nicked myself."

He paused, a low, defeated groan escaping his lips. "It was stupid. It was pathetic. It was a dumb, useless accident. It's not a big deal. It's just a scar. It's just a reminder of... of a long, painful road."

The words, a raw, brutal, and utterly heartbreaking confession, hung in the air like a physical presence. Kirishima felt a powerful, protective urge, a primal, animalistic desire to protect his friend, a man who was a quiet, lonely boy, a man who was a prisoner in a cage of his own making, a cage of his own quiet fury. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. He just stood there, his silence a strange, quiet form of attention. He didn't demand anything. He didn't ask for anything. He just... existed. He was a silent, unwavering support in the chaos.

The silence in the bathroom was no longer suffocating; it was a sanctuary. The weight of Bakugo's words hung in the air, a raw, vulnerable confession that had shattered the image of the furious, unyielding champion. Kirishima just stood there, his mind reeling, a profound sense of awe washing over him. Bakugo had given him a gift—a piece of himself, a painful, raw memory that he had kept hidden for so long. It was a testament to a trust that was both terrifying and deeply humbling. He was a friend. He was a safe harbor in a storm, and Bakugo, in his quiet, lonely fury, had finally dropped anchor.

A small, genuine smile, a warm, reassuring balm to the chaos in Bakugo’s eyes, spread across Kirishima’s face. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The words were a quiet, powerful promise. And then, without thinking, he acted. He took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Bakugo, pulling him into a tight, all-encompassing hug.

The reaction was immediate and explosive. Bakugo’s body, a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury, went rigid. A loud, choked sound—a mix of a gasp, a snarl, and a furious protest—escaped his lips. "What the hell are you doing, Weird Hair?!" he shrieked, his voice a raw, terrifying sound that was a testament to his sheer, unadulterated panic.

He tried to push away, a furious, desperate, and utterly useless struggle. But Kirishima, a solid, immovable force of muscle and pure, unadulterated affection, just held on tighter. Bakugo’s attempts to escape were like a furious, cornered kitten trying to fight off a human-sized teddy bear. He flailed his arms, his fists a furious blur of motion, but they bounced harmlessly off Kirishima's broad, muscled back. "Get off me! You're a goddamn moron! I'll kill you! I'll break every bone in your body! Let go!"

Kirishima just squeezed him tighter, a low, joyful sound rumbling in his chest. "I'm so glad you told me," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting murmur that was just for him. "Thank you. It means a lot to me. And... I'm here for you, man. I've got you."

A furious blush, a deep, crimson shade that was a perfect match for his eyes, crept up Bakugo’s neck, a furious, silent admission of his sheer, utter embarrassment. He continued to struggle, his movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. He tried to duck out of the embrace, to twist away, to escape the suffocating closeness, but Kirishima, a giant, immovable wall of pure, unadulterated affection, just held on tighter. The entire scene was a tragicomic ballet of affection and defiance.

"Let go of me, you pathetic lump of meat!" Bakugo snarled, his voice a muffled, desperate plea. "I swear to god, I'll set you on fire!"

Kirishima stood firm, a pillar of strength amid the chaos. His unwavering support provided not just comfort but a profound sense of certainty in a tumultuous world. He embodied the true essence of friendship and heroism, fully aware that he had made the right choice. In that moment, Bakugo, with all his complexities and challenges, found undeniable solace in Kirishima's embrace—a steadfast refuge within the vibrant storm of their powerful bond.

____________

The air in the locker room was thick with the familiar scents of sweat, sterile disinfectant, and the low, boisterous energy of post-practice banter. Eijiro Kirishima was in the midst of pulling on a pair of baggy jeans, the worn-in fabric a comfortable relief after hours in tight skates. He reached for his phone, the familiar weight of it a small, comforting presence.

"So, you gonna grab some dinner with us, man?" Denki asked, his voice a low, casual hum. He was a small, compact blur of motion, a quiet, cheerful storm of unadulterated sunshine "We're hitting up that new ramen place down the street. It's supposed to be sick."

Kirishima just shrugged, a small, defeated movement. He was still reeling from the events of a few days ago, the raw, vulnerable confession, the shared silence, the unspoken intimacy of their time together. The memory was a warm, comforting blanket, a small, powerful antidote to the cold, sterile reality of his life.

"I dunno, man," Kirishima said, his voice a low, rough murmur. "I might have to take a rain check. I gotta... I got some stuff to do."

Just then, his phone buzzed. A text from Bakugo. A small, concise, and utterly terrifying thing. An address. A low, confused groan escaped his lips. The tension in his shoulders, a heavy, suffocating weight just moments ago, was now a small, powerful promise.

"Ooh, what's that, bro?" Tetsu asked, his voice a low, teasing murmur. He leaned in, his silver-haired head a blur of motion, a silent, unwavering support in the chaos. Denki leaned in too, a wide, genuine smile on his face, a raw, exposed sound that was a testament to his sheer, unadulterated joy.

Kirishima immediately pulled his phone back, a furious, protective gesture. "It's nothing," He snarled, his voice a raw, exposed sound that was a testament to his sheer, unadulterated panic. "It's just... a thing. A private thing. It's none of your business."

Tetsu and Denki just exchanged a look, a small, knowing glance that was a thousand times more powerful than any scream. They were a symphony of motion, a quiet, powerful understanding that was a world away from the verbal chaos of their usual conversations.

"Oh, a 'private thing'," Tetsu said, his voice a low, teasing murmur. "I get it, man. No worries. Just wish it were me."

"Go get 'em, tiger," Denki mimicked, his voice a low, rough whisper. "Don't forget to tell us all about it tomorrow. We wanna know all the juicy details."

Kirishima grabbed his hoodie and, with a scoff, made his way to the door. He was going to see Bakugo. The thought was both terrifying and profoundly comforting. He opened the door and stepped out of the locker room, the low, boisterous energy of post-practice banter a distant memory.

The cool evening air was a welcome contrast to the heated chaos of the locker room. Kirishima pulled his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans, the fabric a comforting presence, as he started the short walk to Bakugo's apartment. The sudden invitation, coupled with Denki and Tetsu's teasing, had set his mind into a chaotic spiral of overthinking. He’d had relationships before, a few of them, some good and some… less so. There were a couple of long-term ones, a few dates that morphed into awkward one-night stands thanks to the other person, and one particularly strange, almost exclusively physical connection that felt more like a chore than anything else. He’d never been particularly passionate about the act itself; it had always felt a little transactional, a box to be checked, and he had never been close enough to anyone to feel truly vulnerable.

Now, a new kind of vulnerability was being offered to him, one that had nothing to do with physical intimacy. It was the quiet honesty of a shared secret, a trust that felt more profound than any fleeting moment of passion. Still, his body was a bundle of nervous energy. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into something he wasn’t prepared for, something entirely new and terrifyingly personal. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he did something wrong? What if Bakugo suddenly regretted inviting him over?

The address Bakugo had texted him was for a modern high-rise that stood out from the surrounding neighborhood. It was sleek and imposing, all dark glass and steel, a perfect match for the man who lived there. Kirishima’s heart hammered a nervous rhythm against his ribs as he approached the front door. He took a deep breath, pushing down the surge of anxiety, and walked inside.

The apartment lobby was just as immaculate and modern as the building’s exterior. It was quiet, the polished marble floors reflecting the soft glow of the recessed lighting. He took the elevator up, the ascent a slow, agonizing crawl that did little to calm his nerves. When the doors opened, he found himself on a pristine landing with only two doors. He walked to the one with the number Bakugo had texted, a quiet, almost sacred promise.

He raised his hand to knock, his knuckles hovering just inches from the dark wood, when the door swung open. Bakugo stood in the doorway, his expression a quiet, neutral mask. His usual practice gear was gone, replaced by a dark grey compression shirt that hugged his chest and shoulders, revealing a build that was all lean, powerful muscle. The shirt tapered to his small waist, a detail Kirishima’s eyes were drawn to immediately. His athletic figure was a work of art, and the way the baggy black sweats hung low on his hips, revealing a sliver of skin, only added to the effect. Kirishima felt a jolt of something he couldn't name.

"You're here," Bakugo said, his voice a low, rough murmur, his tone calm and even, a world away from the angry grunts and snarls Kirishima was used to. He was different now, a little softer, a little more vulnerable. The air around him, once thick with quiet fury, now held a fragile, cautious sort of peace.

Kirishima, flustered and caught in the act of staring, felt a furious blush creep up his neck. He quickly looked away, a raw, exposed confession of his sheer, unadulterated embarrassment. "Uh, yeah. Hey, man," he stammered, his voice a little more hesitant than he intended.

Bakugo just grunted, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open in a silent, unyielding command to follow. Kirishima stepped inside, the warm, comforting scent of spices and baked goods a distant memory, replaced by the clean, sterile scent of Bakugo's home.

The air inside the apartment was quiet and still, a sharp contrast to the chaotic battlefield of Kirishima's mind. He followed Bakugo into the living room, every step feeling like an intrusion. The space was a minimalist's dream—clean lines, neutral colors, and a severe lack of personal clutter. There were no stray magazines, no stacks of forgotten mail, no half-empty coffee mugs. It was as pristine and controlled as Bakugo himself. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unsaid things.

A dark, unsettling thought crept into Kirishima’s mind, a paranoid whisper he couldn't shake. Why had Bakugo invited him here? Bakugo wasn’t good at this, wasn’t good at being a person. He said it himself. Kirishima had seen him at his most vulnerable, a raw, exposed confession, a rare moment of trust. But that didn’t mean they were friends. It didn't mean anything. Kirishima felt a profound, suffocating sense of dread wash over him. Maybe he was here for a different reason entirely. Maybe he was here to be a witness to a crime. Or worse, a victim. Maybe he was going to be murdered.

He tried to make himself small, to take up as little space as possible in the vast, empty expanse of the living room. He stood near the doorway, his body a tense, unyielding line of pure, raw fury. "Hey, man," Kirishima finally said, his voice a little shaky. "What's... what are we doing here? You just sent me your address. You didn't even say why. I just... I just came. I'm not... I'm not going to get murdered, am I?" he joked, the words a raw, exposed sound that was a testament to his sheer, unadulterated panic.

Bakugo stared at Kirishima, a slowly sinister grin spreading across his face. He walked over to a small, unassuming closet in the corner of the living room and opened the door, pulling out a small plastic bag. Kirishima's heart dropped, and all the color drained from his face. Just as he was about to bolt, Bakugo snorts at Kirishima’s reaction.

“Oh, calm down... I'm just dyeing your hair,” Bakugo finally said, his voice a low, rough murmur.

Kirishima breathed a sigh of relief. "My... my hair?" He repeated. "Why?" he asked, the word a simple, unadorned question that was a testament to his sheer, utter confusion. "Why? I can... I can do it myself. I can go to a professional. I don't... I don't understand."

Bakugo fixated on Kirishima with a fierce glare, his silent, unblinking gaze conveying a raw intensity that eclipsed the impact of any scream. He strode up to Kirishima, closing the gap until their chests almost touched, the tension between them palpable. With arms crossed tightly over his chest, he exhaled sharply, a storm brewing in his voice as he spoke in a low, rough whisper.

"Don't be a damn idiot, Weird Hair," Bakugo said, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "Your hair… it’s a complete mess. It’s fading badly and looks like a disaster. It’s just... a thing that needs fixing. I’m just trying to help, okay?"

Kirishima nodded slowly, absorbing his friend’s words, and stood there, caught in the moment, feeling a mix of appreciation and concern for Bakugo’s fiercely protective nature.

The quiet of Bakugo's apartment was unnerving, but even more so was his calm. It was a calculated sort of calm, a fragile peace before a storm. The silent communication that had become their language was a puzzle Kirishima was still trying to solve, but the one thing he was sure of was that he wasn't going to be murdered. He was here to get his hair dyed, a task so mundane it was almost comical given the heavy atmosphere.

Bakugo led him to the bathroom, a space that was as stark and immaculate as the rest of the apartment. On the counter, a box of vibrant red hair dye, a mixing bowl, brushes, and a protective cape were meticulously laid out. It was a professional setup, a testament to Bakugo's quiet, unwavering precision.

"Sit," Bakugo commanded, his voice a low, rough murmur that echoed faintly in the bathroom's pristine, modern design. He gestured to the edge of the bathtub, its gleaming white porcelain surface glimmering under the bright overhead lights, a cold and hard place to rest. With a quick motion, he tossed the bag filled with hair dye into the stainless steel sink, the sound of it landing a sharp, unceremonious thump against the basin.

Kirishima, brimming with nervous energy, walked over to the tub. He let out a low, defeated groan as he sat on the edge, his long legs stretching out in front of him. The sudden stillness around him contrasted sharply with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside.

"Take your shirt off," Bakugo instructed, his voice lowering to an almost husky whisper. "I’m not getting dye all over your pathetic clothes." His tone was laced with impatience, making it clear he was more concerned about the mess than any discomfort Kirishima felt.

Kirishima's heart began to race, pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. With reluctance, he pulled his hoodie over his head, the worn fabric a familiar comfort against his skin. He was a man of muscle, with broad shoulders and a powerful physique—not just an image, but a testament to his sheer determination and unwavering will.

As he removed his hoodie, Kirishima sensed Bakugo’s piercing gaze fixed on him. He looked up, meeting Bakugo's intense stare, which seemed to hold both scrutiny and something deeper.

A furious blush crept up Bakugo’s neck, a deep crimson shade that mirrored the vibrant color of Kirishima's eyes. It was a silent confession of his own embarrassment, one that he couldn’t quite mask. He instinctively turned away, bowing his head in an attempt to hide the storm of emotions brewing within him, his shoulders trembling slightly—a powerful but unspoken acknowledgment of his inner turmoil.

"So," Kirishima began, his voice cutting through the heavy silence that enveloped the room. He cleared his throat, feeling an uneasy knot form in his stomach. "Did you get it? The spot? In the competition?" His eyes flickered with hope, searching Bakugo’s.

Bakugo's hands, a blur of dexterous motion, stilled suddenly as he mixed the dark dye. He looked up at Kirishima, a wave of realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. He had forgotten that he told Kirishima about that. Kirishima never forgot.

"Yeah," Bakugo finally replied, his voice a low, rough murmur that seemed to echo in the stillness. "I got it. I got it, alright." The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with a deep, suffocating sadness. The once tranquil atmosphere had shifted, now thick with the unspoken grief that lingered between them, palpable and suffocating.

"Is... is everything okay?" Kirishima ventured, his voice softening to a gentle whisper as he leaned forward, straining to glimpse Bakugo’s expression through the shadows. Uncertainty danced in his eyes, a reflection of concern and care.

Bakugo remained silent, his gaze fixed on the dye-stained fabric before him. He began to apply the color, but his movements were slow and deliberate, each stroke a physical manifestation of an emotional pain that Kirishima couldn’t fully grasp. The gentle hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the soft rustling of the fan created a quiet, melodic symphony, their own little world, but it only underscored the silence that hung between them.

A raw, palpable fear radiated off Bakugo in waves, making the air feel heavy, almost suffocating. Kirishima could sense it, an electric tension that crackled between them—the deep-rooted turmoil that had taken hold of his friend, a crushing weight he yearned to lift. Each moment stretched as if time itself had slowed, filled with unspoken words that lingered in the space between them, unresolved and aching, leaving Kirishima to wonder what thoughts swirled behind Bakugo’s intense, stormy gaze.

The air in the cramped bathroom was thick with the chemical scent of hair dye, mingling with the musty odor of the small, enclosed space. Bakugo worked in a furious silence, each movement a finely tuned expression of his concentration, a symphony composed of quiet, controlled precision. The dye, once a vibrant, shocking red, was now transformed into a deep, rich crimson—each stroke a testament to Bakugo’s unwavering patience and meticulous care. Not a single moment was wasted; his actions were a silent, unyielding force amidst the chaos, a steadfast harbor in the raging storm of emotions that swirled around them.

At last, the work was done. Bakugo’s silent, unblinking gaze was fixed intently on Kirishima, and with a grunt that broke the stillness, he declared, "Alright, let's get this pathetic crap out of your hair." The words were blunt, but there was an underlying warmth that softened their impact.

Kirishima leaned over the tub, the cool porcelain a stark contrast against his warm skin, as Bakugo methodically began to rinse the dye from his hair. The flow of water was a low, gentle pressure—a soothing balm that washed away the frenetic energy swirling in Kirishima’s chest.

The entire process became a quiet, intimate dance—a wordless conversation expressed through a carefully orchestrated symphony of motion, a powerful understanding that existed worlds away from the verbal chaos of their usual banter. Bakugo’s hands worked deftly through Kirishima’s hair, each touch a reassuring presence that spoke louder than any shout could.

Finally, the water ran clear, and Bakugo seized a clean white towel, its fibers soft and fluffy against his palm. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to gently pat Kirishima’s hair dry, his actions tender yet confident. Kirishima, a bundle of nervous energy and electric excitement, felt a wave of calm wash over him, grounding him in the moment. With a quick gesture, Bakugo led him back to the mirror, flicking his chin toward their reflections. Kirishima was almost terrified to look, anxiety knotting in his stomach; he needed the new dye to be perfect, a defining symbol of who he was now rather than a reminder of the past he was trying to escape.

As he finally caught sight of the vibrant red, a rush of relief swept over him. The color was back, but it was a different kind of red—a deeper, richer, more brilliant shade that seemed to glow with life. It was an embodiment of Bakugo’s careful attention, a quiet promise reflecting his sheer determination and support.

"It looks... awesome," Kirishima murmured, his voice low and rough, a testament to his barely contained emotions. "It looks... perfect."

Bakugo merely grunted, his expression a mixture of pride and nonchalance. "It wasn't even hard… that dumb loud Sparky guy on your team could’ve done it," he shrugged, though the faint curl of his lip hinted at his satisfaction with the results.

Kirishima laughed, the sound brightening the atmosphere. "Sure… if you wanted to see my hair orange." He met Bakugo’s gaze, already drawn back to him, sharing a moment that held more significance than any words could articulate. Kirishima noticed the subtle transformation in Bakugo’s eyes—once a blazing inferno of rage and intensity, now softened with a quiet admiration. He marveled at how the lines of Bakugo's mouth, previously a cruel and unyielding line, had softened into a gentle, vulnerable curve. The room seemed to hum with an unspoken connection, deepening the bond between them.

_______________

The air in the cramped apartment was quiet and still, a sharp contrast to the chaotic battlefield of thoughts raging in Kirishima’s mind. He was preparing to leave, tugging his hoodie over his head, and a small, genuine smile danced across his lips. In that moment, he felt… whole. He felt… new. The confidence that had once been his steadfast companion—a quiet, unwavering presence amidst the storm of self-doubt—was back, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

"Hey, Bakugo," Kirishima finally spoke, his voice tinged with a new blend of confidence and vulnerability. The words felt firmer, more resolute than they had in days. "When is your competition?"

Bakugo stood across the room, his silent, unblinking gaze fixed on Kirishima. He grunted in response, his attention focused on putting away the streaked bottle of dye, his movements stiff and unyielding—like a marionette whose strings had been pulled too taut, replacing graceful fluidity with a tense, threatening rigidity.

"Why do you want to know, Weird Hair?" Bakugo asked, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, each word raw and exposed—a testament to the sheer confusion swirling within him. "You have your own games. You have your own life."

Kirishima let out a laugh, a low, joyous sound that filled the small space with an infectious energy, breaking through the thick tension that hung in the air. "I know," he replied, his voice dropping to a soft whisper, carrying sincerity in every syllable. "But you came to my game. You actually saw me. You were there, cheering me on. And I… I want to be there for you. I want to see you. I want to see you become an ice god. I want to see you unleash your badass self. I want to witness the masterpiece that is you."

Bakugo’s hands stilled momentarily, his movements frozen in disbelief. He directed a wide-eyed gaze at Kirishima, shock coloring his features—a mixture of vulnerability and astonishment, like a cornered animal finally given a glimmer of hope. He opened his mouth to respond, an involuntary, low groan escaping his lips, but no coherent words followed.

"It's just… I want to see you do what you love," Kirishima continued, his voice a gentle murmur filled with earnest emotion. "I want to see the authentic you. The you that’s a champion. The you that’s a work of art. I want to be a part of that journey. I want to witness your triumphs up close. I want to understand that part of you."

Bakugo, still silent and unblinking, continued to stare at him, his expression caught between annoyance and a deep flush—a vivid crimson that crept up his neck, betraying the embarrassment hidden beneath his tough exterior. "Tch. Don't get all sentimental on me, Weird Hair," he grumbled, his voice still rough but tinged with a hint of reluctance. "It's just a damn performance. It’s nothing special."

He turned swiftly toward the kitchen counter, his movements remaining tense and deliberate. With a slow, measured motion, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, laminated piece of paper. He handed it to Kirishima, his gaze fixed firmly upon it, as if it might shatter under the weight of emotion.

It was a ticket—a single, pristine ticket to the upcoming international competition, the kind that promised breathtaking displays of talent and skill.

"You'll get a good view from there," Bakugo murmured, his tone low and laced with a raw, almost playful anger, as if dismissing the significance of the moment. "Just don’t be late."

Kirishima stood frozen, his eyes locked on the ticket, a surge of excitement and joy bubbling within him like an effervescent drink ready to overflow. He could hardly believe it—he would finally get to experience every moment of the performance firsthand, just him, Bakugo, and the ice, a world of brilliance waiting to unfold.
______________

The days leading up to the competition unfolded in a quiet, steady rhythm of progress. Kirishima and Bakugo settled into a comfortable routine, their interactions evolving into something more meaningful. What had once been a fleeting camaraderie—a quick exchange of quips and competitive banter—had blossomed into a deeper kind of friendship. They texted about their practice sessions, traded insights on their coaches' infuriating demands, and occasionally shared a joke that lingered in their minds long after the conversation ended. Bakugo still kept his emotional distance, but now the space felt different—a cautious buffer rather than an angry chasm. When he did respond, his messages carried a thoughtful tone, laced with a surprising gentleness that Kirishima had never expected.

In turn, Kirishima found himself constantly thinking about Bakugo, his mind often drifting to the fiery boy during moments of downtime. He would replay their conversations in his head, a quiet smile warming his face. He became acutely aware of the small things: whether Bakugo had eaten something nutritious between practices, if he’d gotten enough rest to stay sharp, and if he’d managed to conquer the drills they both dreaded. This quiet, unwavering concern for someone who had, just a month ago, been little more than a furious, unyielding enigma was a radiant, unfamiliar feeling for Kirishima. Bakugo had transformed from an adversary into a steadfast friend, a reassuring presence in Kirishima’s tumultuous life.

On the day of the competition, a heavy, nervous energy hung in the air, thick enough to feel like a palpable weight. The event was hosted in a large, unfamiliar stadium that loomed cold and impersonal, with stark white walls and bleachers that seemed to swallow sound. With a few hours to spare, Kirishima decided to check on Bakugo, understanding all too well the feeling of 'pre-game jitters'—the gnawing anxiety that clawed at even the most meticulously prepared athlete. Driving forward on instinct, he bypassed the main entrance, his feet carrying him automatically toward Rink 2, their previously established quiet sanctuary.

As he neared the entrance, he spotted them—Midoriya and Bakugo, silhouetted against the harsh arena lights. They were standing close near the entrance, engaged in a hushed, intense conversation, their body language speaking volumes. Kirishima, a bundle of nervous energy, instinctively ducked behind a nearby pillar, his heart racing as he observed them with a quiet, unblinking gaze. It felt like the world around him faded, leaving only this moment suspended in time, where his thoughts swirled like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind.

Their conversation seemed to stretch on forever, an unmoving force amidst the chaos of the bustling event. Bakugo's body was a tense line of raw fury, his fists clenched as if ready to unleash the storm within him. In stark contrast, Midoriya stood as a calm presence, his expression earnest as he tried to diffuse the situation with soft words and encouraging gestures. After what felt like an eternity, Bakugo finally nodded—a short, clipped movement that betrayed an underlying sense of defeat. He looked irritated, frustration etched on his features, but he seemed to have accepted something important. In a surprising moment of tenderness, Midoriya reached out, a small, genuine smile breaking the tension, and wrapped his arms around Bakugo, pulling him into a tight, all-encompassing hug that spoke of shared struggles and unwavering support.

The sight hit Kirishima like a physical blow. A sharp, unexpected pang of emotion he couldn’t name shot through his chest, coiling into a cold lump of ice lodged deep within him. It was a powerful, protective feeling that he hadn’t experienced since the thrill of landing his first slap shot in hockey. But they were a couple, woven together in their own narrative, while Kirishima felt like just some guy on the periphery of their world.

Lost in this chaotic whirlwind of thoughts, Kirishima didn’t notice that Bakugo and Midoriya had separated and were now walking toward him until it was far too late. In a moment of panic, he turned, attempting to make a hasty escape, but a low, rough voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You done staring, moron?" Bakugo’s voice was a low, gravelly murmur, tinged with annoyance. "What, you’re a stalker now?"

Kirishima, usually a steady presence in the storm, froze instantly. A furious blush crept up his neck—a deep crimson shade that matched his eyes, a silent admission of embarrassment. He turned to face Bakugo, feeling flustered, fumbling over his words.

"I—I wasn’t... I wasn’t stalking you, man!" Kirishima stammered, a painful lump forming in his throat that made it hard to speak. "I was just... looking for you. I wanted to see if you were okay. I know... I know I get nervous before games. Not that you’re me or anything! I just wanted to... say hi."

The low, rough laugh from Bakugo echoed through the rink, a sound that Kirishima had never imagined he would hear in such a context. It was a raw, honest sound, filled with a warmth that made the frantic, insecure rhythm of Kirishima’s heart stutter. The sting of being labeled a stalker by Bakugo was completely overshadowed by the sheer, unadulterated joy of witnessing his friend so unguarded. The angry, irritable facade that had enveloped Bakugo for the past month was finally melting away, revealing a quiet, almost playful amusement that was as breathtaking as it was foreign.

“Nervous?” Bakugo snorted, a small, amused smirk dancing across his lips like a secret he'd been holding. “I don’t get nervous. I’m the best.” He took a confident step closer to Kirishima, the space between them shrinking to a dangerously intimate distance that sent an electric thrill through Kirishima’s veins. “But it’s good you’re here. The rink’s cold as hell. You’re going to freeze your pathetic ass off in that jersey. You’d better find a warmer shirt.” Then, with a gentle, deliberate motion, he shoved Kirishima playfully, a stark contrast to the aggressive, boisterous shoves he was used to from his friend.

“Get out of here, Weird Hair,” Bakugo grumbled, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur that felt like a secret shared just between them. “I have to warm up. Don’t come back until I text you.” With that, he turned and strode back into the rink, leaving Kirishima standing in the hallway, a flustered, embarrassed mess with his heart racing and cheeks burning.

Kirishima, typically a quiet, unwavering presence amidst the chaos, remained rooted to that spot. He gazed at the closed door, feeling a small, genuine smile stretch across his face. In that moment, he felt like a champion, buoyed by the rare glimpse of Bakugo’s softer side.

The walk back to his apartment was a blur of nervous energy and bubbling excitement. He had been so focused on Bakugo’s surprise appearance, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through him, that he hadn’t even considered the clothes he wore. The hockey jersey, once a symbol of his unwavering determination and pride, now felt like a desperate, almost pathetic cry for attention—out of place next to the warmth he craved from Bakugo.

When he finally arrived at his apartment, he let out a groan and pushed the door open, stepping inside. The warm, comforting scent of spices and freshly baked goods wafted through the air, wrapping around him like a familiar embrace, a quiet anchor in his mind that eased the chaotic butterflies in his stomach. He made his way to his closet, his pulse racing with anticipation, and with a slow, deliberate movement, he began to pull out a different outfit. He was determined to look nice. He wanted to feel like he belonged, to feel worthy of a spot in Bakugo's vibrant world.

He settled on a dark red hoodie, soft and inviting, paired with clean, comfortable black jeans that hugged him just right. It was simple yet cozy, embodying who he was—unfussy yet filled with heart.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the image of Bakugo’s smile, a small but genuine expression that radiated warmth and confidence. It was a thousand times more powerful than any shout, a smile that felt like it was meant just for him—a quiet, powerful promise that acknowledged the boundary they had just crossed.

As he was getting ready, a new idea ignited within him—a small, empowering antidote to the cold, sterile reality of his life. He decided that he would get something special. Something small yet thoughtful, a token of his sheer, unadulterated joy that would signify this new moment.

On his way to the stadium, he stopped at a small, unassuming florist’s shop tucked between other bustling storefronts. The scent of a hundred different flowers—a chaotic symphony of colors and fragrances—filled the air, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket of warmth and cheer. After a moment's deliberation, he settled on a simple yet elegant bouquet of sunflowers, their vibrant yellow petals bright against the muted colors of the shop. They were unassuming but also a powerful symbol of happiness, hope, and a bright, new beginning. After paying for them, he walked out of the shop with a sense of purpose, the small, meaningful gift heavy in his hands, providing a welcomed contrast to the cold, sterile reality of his life as he made his way to meet Bakugo.

The stadium was a bustling, chaotic tapestry of humanity, a stark contrast to the serene, secluded sanctuary of their usual rink where the air was often filled with the crisp smell of ice and anticipation. The low, boisterous energy of the crowd swirled around Kirishima like a suffocating blanket, pressing down on him, transforming any excitement he might have felt into a gnawing anxiety. He felt utterly out of place as he spotted his seat amidst the throng—a lone ticket to the upcoming competition, a small but powerful promise of the thrill that lay ahead. Taking a deep breath, he sat down, the cold, hard plastic of the seat beneath him serving as a constant reminder of his discomfort, an unyielding surface that made him long for the familiar chill of the rink.

As he scanned the crowd, he noted the chaotic yet joyful symphony of colors and fragrances that filled the air—a swirling mix of team jerseys, glittering banners, and the sweet aroma of snacks wafting from vendors—so different from the tranquility he found with his friends on the ice. Just then, a cold, desperate hand gripped his shoulder, yanking him out of his thoughts and halting him in his tracks. Kirishima's heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a wild echo of confusion and fear. He turned slowly, an instinctual defense mechanism kicking in.

The hand on Kirishima's shoulder felt like a block of ice, a chilling contrast to the buzzing energy of the crowd, leaving him momentarily breathless. He comes face-to-face with Bakugo's coach—a tall, imposing figure with a strikingly unsettling presence that loomed over him. The coach's eyes, a cold and unwavering shade of gray reminiscent of storm clouds, held an eerie intensity that made Kirishima’s skin crawl as if they could see right through him.

"You're Kirishima, right?" the coach asked, his voice a low, rough murmur that traveled through the air like a dark shadow. "Bakugo's... friend." The way he spoke was laced with an unsettling chill, possessive and almost obsessive, as if Kirishima were something owned rather than a person in his own right. Kirishima felt a flush of unease wash over him, unsure of how to respond under the weight of the coach's scrutiny.Kirishima simply nodded, a small, defeated gesture. It was hard to maintain a light-hearted expression when Kirishima wanted nothing more than for the damn creep to get his hands off him.

"I know what you're doing," the coach said, his voice a low, menacing whisper. This confused Kirishima. "I know you're trying to distract him. To... to make him human. To make him weak. But I won't let you. I won't let you ruin everything I've worked for. Everything he's worked for."

A cold, hard lump of ice formed in Kirishima’s chest. The coach, a silent, unblinking force amidst the chaos, stepped closer. Kirishima’s body tensed, a rigid line of pure, raw fury.

"He's number one," the coach continued. "And I won't let you, a pathetic, useless lump of meat, ruin him. I'll make sure you don't."

Kirishima felt a profound, suffocating wave of anger wash over him. How dare the coach speak to him like that in public? He could easily lay the guy out, but ruining Bakugo's performance wasn’t worth it.

"Stay away from him," the coach warned, his voice still low and threatening. "Or I'll make sure you regret it." He then turned and, with a slow, deliberate movement, walked away.

Kirishima’s heart raced wildly against his ribs, each beat a frantic reminder of the urgency that consumed him. The coach’s words lingered in his mind like a cold lump of ice, unwelcome and heavy, chilling him to the core. He had to tell Bakugo. There was no way he could allow his best friend to step into the arena, vulnerable and exposed like a puppet whose master had traded grace for a terrifying, insidious threat.

Navigating through the chaos of the venue, he approached a busy performance manager, her brow furrowed in concentration as she coordinated last-minute preparations. "Excuse me," he said, his voice carrying a tremor of desperation. The overwhelmed woman merely pointed down the labyrinthine hallway, her focus already drifting back to her tasks.

Kirishima pressed on, his legs moving almost automatically toward the dressing rooms. The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the gentle whisper of the air conditioning created a quiet, almost melodic symphony that contrasted sharply with the storm brewing inside him. Each step felt monumental as he reached Bakugo’s dressing room—a small, unassuming closet tucked in the corner, its door slightly ajar, tantalizingly inviting yet ominous.

His hand rose to knock, knuckles hovering just inches from the dark wood, when a soft, melodic voice drifted from within, rich with emotion. He paused, curiosity and concern roiling together in his stomach.

Peeking through the narrow opening, Kirishima was met with a sight that felt like a gut punch. Bakugo stood before a full-length mirror. He wore a sleek, form-fitting black competition suit that clung to his powerful muscles, accentuating every line of strength and definition. The simplicity of the fabric contrasted beautifully with the surge of energy emanating from him—a true champion clad in elegance.

But it was the details that truly took Kirishima’s breath away. A thin gold chain shimmered gently around Bakugo’s neck, catching the light and reflecting it like a quiet beacon of reassurance amidst the turmoil of his fierce exterior. His face, typically marked by a storm of rage and intensity, had undergone a transformation. Delicate, shimmering gold eyeshadow adorned his eyelids, sweeping across them with a subtle shimmer that promised power and confidence—a testament to the boundaries that had been crossed and the depths he had navigated.

In that moment, Kirishima felt the weight of all that was unspoken. He knew he had to act, to reach out and ground Bakugo before he stepped into the fray. The stakes had never been higher, and time was running out.

The words of the coach, a cold, hard lump of ice, were a constant, unwelcome companion. Kirishima's heart hammered a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs. He had to tell Bakugo. He had to. He couldn’t let him go out there, vulnerable and exposed, a puppet on a string whose master had just replaced a graceful calm with a terrifying, insidious threat. But as he watched Bakugo in the mirror, a flawless masterpiece of artistry and controlled power, the words died in his throat.

How could he tell this champion, this work of art, that he was a prisoner in his own life? A slave to expectations and hidden fears? A man who was just a little less alone in this brutal reality? Kirishima felt the constricting pressure of the competition—like a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating him under a thousand unspoken expectations. He couldn’t risk adding the fear of a menacing coach into that mix, prolonging the tension between them. The fragile peace they had fought so hard to maintain hung by a thread. In that moment, he made a quiet resolution to bear the chilling encounter alone.

Taking a slow, deliberate breath, he pushed the door open with a low, defeated groan. Bakugo sat on the edge of the bench. Their gazes met in the large mirror hanging on the wall, and for a brief moment, time seemed to freeze.

“I was just about to go out there,” Bakugo mumbled, his voice a low, rough whisper that sent a shiver down Kirishima’s spine.

Kirishima stared at Bakugo, his admiration spilling over as he began, “You look…” But the words caught in his throat, raw and painful, as if they were lodged there like a stone. “You look so… so hot.”

A furious blush erupted, a deep crimson creeping up Kirishima’s neck, a silent confession of his overwhelming embarrassment. He quickly scrambled to backtrack, his mind racing in a frantic whirl.

“I mean! I mean, you look beautiful!” He stammered, desperation flooding his voice as emotion thickened the air between them. "You look so… so masculine!”

That was worse. So much worse, and he could feel the heat of his blush intensifying.

“Wait, no!” he exclaimed, his tone shifting into a frantic, desperate plea. "I mean… manly! You look really… manly!” His words tumbled out in a breathless rush, the exhaustion of his internal turmoil weighing heavily on him. "You look like a… a man of steel!”

Bakugo observed Kirishima flounder, a bemused expression on his face as he bit his bottom lip, stifling laughter at his friend’s awkwardness.

“What the hell is that, Weird Hair?” Bakugo asked, his voice low and rough, a hint of amusement dancing in his tone. He gestured toward the bouquet of vibrant sunflowers in Kirishima’s hand—bright and bold, contrasting against the sterile backdrop of the dressing room.

Feeling like a bundle of nerves, Kirishima quickly stepped toward Bakugo, his movements stiff and filled with urgency.

“They’re for you,” he said softly, his tone dropping to a low whisper, almost reverential. He extended the flowers forward as a tentative offering, his heart racing in his chest. Bakugo’s eyes widened, a powerful promise dawning—a testament to a boundary that had just been crossed in the heat of the moment. A furious blush crept up Bakugo's neck, mirroring Kirishima’s own embarrassment.

“You’re supposed to give these to me after the performance, moron,” Bakugo grumbled, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with reluctance. “It’s bad luck to get them before a game.”

“I couldn’t wait,” Kirishima lied, the words catching in his throat like the remnants of a bitter truth. He didn’t want to bring up the coach and the dark cloud hanging over him; the lie felt like a flimsy shield against the reality that bound him. Yet, the deception only seemed to make him sound more desperate, more vulnerable.

Bakugo, a champion, a true masterpiece in his own right, just stared at Kirishima, his gaze steady—silent and unblinking. A small, knowing smirk curled at the corners of his lips as he reached forward with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing against Kirishima’s as he took the flowers into his hands, sealing a moment neither of them would soon forgboun
As they continued their conversation, a quiet, meditative dance on the glistening ice, Kirishima's gaze drifted down to Bakugo's ankle. It was wrapped in a haphazard bandage, the fabric askew and fraying at the edges—a messy, unprofessional job that starkly contrasted with the flawless, meticulously tailored masterpiece of his competition attire. The sight was jarring, evoking a mix of concern and frustration in Kirishima.

"Your ankle," Kirishima said, his voice a low, rough murmur that barely broke the gentle hum of the arena's ambiance. "It’s... a mess. It's wrapped badly. Let me rewrap it for you."

Bakugo, still feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, tried to instinctively hide his exposed ankle, tugging at the hem of his pants. "Don’t be an idiot, Weird Hair," he grumbled, his tone a low, rough whisper like gravel grinding underfoot. "It's fine." But beneath the bravado, his words lacked the usual fire and venom that accompanied Bakugo’s protests.

Kirishima, unfazed by the retort, simply ignored the protest and knelt down on the cold, unforgiving floor. He didn’t need to elaborate; his actions spoke volumes—a quiet, powerful promise of care and concern. With practiced ease, he gently lifted Bakugo's leg, settling it onto his lap. The weight of it felt heavy yet intimate, a silent acknowledgment of Bakugo's vulnerability and a moment of unspoken surrender.

The brisk chill of the dressing room faded into a distant sensation as Kirishima's focus honed in on the tangled mess of the ankle wrap before him. With Bakugo’s leg resting comfortably on him, it felt like a quiet confession; this wasn’t merely about caring for a sprained ankle, but rather about nurturing the fragile trust and camaraderie they were building—laying down a foundation of quiet care, brick by brick.

He worked with a concentration that rivaled Bakugo’s own passionate intensity on the ice. His fingers, calloused from countless hours of training and skating, moved with surprising gentleness and precision. Carefully, he peeled back the disorganized layers of Bakugo's hurried attempt at a bandage—a jumble of bunched fabric, loose ends, and hastily torn strips.

“Your coach didn’t check this for you?” Kirishima asked, a hint of concern lacing his voice. The question bore an underlying weight—a quiet, unyielding command wrapped in the genuine care of a man who stood as a calm shelter in the chaotic, joyful storm of Bakugo’s heart.

Bakugo let out a quiet, defeated groan, the sound thick with annoyance and resignation. “He’s got other things to do,” he muttered, the defiance in his tone contrasting with the vulnerability he displayed, trapped between irritation and appreciation.

Kirishima didn’t push the issue further; he knew when to tread lightly.

He began to rewrap the ankle, his movements slow and deliberate, demonstrating the care he was putting into this small, intimate act.

“This is a mess, man,” Kirishima said, a low, defeated groan revealing his sheer embarrassment. “It’s like you did it with your feet. You’re a professional, but you can’t even wrap your own ankle.”

Bakugo just glared at him, a silent, unblinking stare that was a thousand times more powerful than any scream. “Shut up, Weird Hair,” Bakugo grumbled, his voice a low, rough whisper. “I don’t have time for this.”

But he didn’t move. He just sat there. Finally, the rewrap was finished. Kirishima tied off the last knot, the soft click of the lace a quiet promise. He looked up, meeting Bakugo's gaze, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs. The familiar, furious glare was still there, but it seemed a little softer, a little more vulnerable, a little more… open.

“There,” Kirishima said, a wide, genuine smile on his face, a raw sound that reflected his sheer joy.

Bakugo just grunted, his gaze fixed on the newly wrapped ankle, a stare that was still a thousand times more powerful than any scream. He slowly, reluctantly laced up his skate, his movements a deliberate ballet of power and control.

“You’re a damn idiot, Weird Hair,” Bakugo muttered, his voice a low, rough whisper. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Kirishima replied softly. “But I wanted to.”

Those simple, sincere words hit Bakugo like a physical blow. A furious blush, a deep crimson that matched his eyes, crept up Bakugo’s neck.

“Tch,” Bakugo grumbled, still in a low murmur. He stood up, his body a tense line of raw fury. "Alright, I’m going out there. Don’t miss it. And don’t you dare leave. Got it?”

Kirishima nodded, a small, genuine smile illuminating his face, his eyes sparkling with warmth and encouragement. "You'll do great," he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur, filled with unwavering support. "You're the best."

Bakugo, standing rigidly with his silent, unblinking gaze fixed on him, examined Kirishima with an intensity that radiated both challenge and understanding. A small, knowing smirk crept onto his lips, hinting at an unspoken bond that only the two of them could comprehend. He strode toward the door but as he opened the door, he paused, the tension heavy in the air, and with a slow, deliberate motion, turned to cast a meaningful look back at Kirishima.

"Go get your pathetic ass to your seat," Bakugo grumbled, his tone low and rough, but beneath it lay an undeniable current of camaraderie. "And... thanks, moron."

The words, simple yet infused with a surprising sincerity, struck Kirishima like a physical blow, resonating deeply within him. He was a friend, a hero, and the thought of seeing Bakugo stirred a whirlwind of emotions within him, both terrifying and profoundly comforting.