Chapter Text
Katsuki Bakugou never skated to please anyone.
The ice beneath his blades groaned as he dug in, weight grounded, knees bent low as Mina launched herself upward with reckless trust. Her body arced high above him, momentum screaming, neon costume flashing beneath the arena lights. Katsuki caught her on instinct alone, arms locking tight as her weight slammed down into his center. The impact shuddered through his legs and spine, a violent jolt that sent heat roaring up his chest.
That—that—was skating.
Not the sanitized, polished imitation the judges drooled over. This was art carved into frozen water with the promise of disaster if either of them hesitated.
Mina laughed breathlessly as they transitioned into the final sequence, her joy bright and unrestrained. Katsuki matched it with a grin sharp enough to cut glass, pushing harder, faster, daring the music to keep up. When the routine ended, he didn’t bow. He never bowed. He let the applause crash over him like surf, heart hammering, blood alive in every vein.
He only looked up when he felt it. That prickle between his shoulders. Across the rink, waiting for their turn, stood the ice dancers.
And at their center stood Midoriya Izuku.
He was motionless in a way Katsuki found deeply offensive. Hands folded neatly behind his back, posture pristine, skates perfectly aligned. His costume was flawless—muted colors, elegant lines, nothing wasted. His green hair was tamed into obedience, not a single strand daring to rebel. Uraraka hovered close beside him, smiling warmly, her body angled toward his like she was waiting for instruction.
Izuku’s face was blank. Just that calm, distant composure that made Katsuki’s teeth itch.
“Tch,” Katsuki muttered under his breath.
Mina glided up beside him, hands on her hips, still buzzing with adrenaline. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking like you want to fight a ghost.” She followed his gaze and laughed softly. “Ah. The Lord.”
Katsuki scoffed. “Don’t call him that.”
“You don’t get to name your rivals,” Mina said easily. “The commentators already did.”
Lord of Ice Dance.
The title sat wrong in Katsuki’s chest. Ice dance wasn’t supposed to have lords. It wasn’t supposed to be about reverence or restraint. It was supposed to be movement. Instead, Izuku skated like the ice itself bent around him, obedient and silent.
When Izuku stepped onto the rink, the atmosphere shifted.
Katsuki felt it immediately, the way the audience leaned forward, the way the judges’ expressions softened into approval. Izuku didn’t explode into motion the way Katsuki did. He drew everything inward, blades whispering instead of biting, every edge measured to the millimeter. Uraraka moved with him seamlessly, their frame locked into perfection, bodies close without warmth.
Too close, Katsuki thought.
The routine unfolded like clockwork. Izuku led with minimal contact, hands firm and authority absolute. His eyes never lifted from the ice ahead of him. He didn’t look at the audience. He didn’t look at Katsuki. It was as if nothing existed beyond the pattern and the next step.
The crowd erupted when the music ended. Katsuki crossed his arms, jaw clenched. It was beautiful, he admitted bitterly. Not beautiful like art but like architecture. It was something you admired from a distance but never wanted to touch.
The scores flashed. Second place.
Again. Katsuki noticed this every time he and Izuku compete in the same ice.
For half a second, barely a flicker, Izuku’s fingers curled at his side. Katsuki caught it only because he was watching too closely. Then the moment vanished. Izuku’s face smoothed back into calm nothingness, and Uraraka turned to him with an encouraging smile, speaking softly. Izuku nodded politely, already withdrawing, already calculating. Katsuki exhaled slowly and walked away.
-
For some reason, fate has other plans that day.
Katsuki was halfway through unlacing his skates when a shadow fell across the bench. He didn’t bother looking up.
“Bakugou Katsuki.”
Katsuki’s lip curled. “You lost. Don’t tell me you came back here to get a better look in the first place.” Silence followed, heavy and deliberate.
“I want to compete in the Grand Skate.”
Katsuki froze. He lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing as Izuku came into focus. Up close, the control was even more unsettling. Izuku stood straight, shoulders squared, gaze steady.
“The hell did you just say?” Katsuki demanded.
“The Grand Skate requires mastery of both disciplines,” Izuku replied evenly. “Ice dance and pair skating. I lack explosive power. You lack control.”
Katsuki laughed, loud and incredulous. “You got some nerve, saying that to my face.”
“I have ambition,” Izuku corrected. “You have ability.”
Mina, watching from across the room, paused mid-stretch, eyes lighting up with interest. Izuku took a step closer. Katsuki felt the pressure immediately, subtle but undeniable, like standing too close to the edge of a drop.
“I want you to train me in pair skating,” Izuku said.
Katsuki surged to his feet, closing the distance in a single stride. They were nearly eye to eye now, heat meeting ice. Katsuki could smell smoke and cold metal on him, could see the tension coiled beneath that composed exterior.
“Pair skating will destroy you,” Katsuki growled. “You don’t feel enough.”
Izuku didn’t blink. “Then make me.” The words hit harder than a challenge ever could.
“And I’ll train you,” Izuku continued calmly, “in ice dance.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Katsuki stared at him for a long moment, then grinned slowly, sharp, and dangerous. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly,” Izuku said. “But I’m tired of second place.” Something sparked between them, electric and volatile.
Mina let out a low whistle. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Katsuki jerked his chin toward the rink. “Fine. Let’s do it, Lord.” His eyes burned with anticipation.
“But don’t forget, if you’re stepping onto my ice,” Katsuki added, voice low, lethal, “you skate under a king.”
-
Katsuki hated shared rinks.
They were too loud in the wrong ways, too full of people who thought ice was something to conquer instead of listening to. The sound of blades scraping overlapped in ugly rhythms, coaches barked corrections from behind the glass, and the air always felt heavier, like the weight of expectation clung to the ceiling and pressed down on everyone skating beneath it.
Izuku Midoriya was already on the ice when Katsuki stepped through the rink doors. That, in itself, was irritating.
Izuku was stretching at the boards with care, every movement deliberate, every angle exact. His skates were placed perfectly parallel when he wasn’t wearing them, guards aligned, towel folded so cleanly it looked unused. He didn’t look up immediately when Katsuki entered, just continued rotating his ankle with quiet focus, lips pressed thin in concentration.
Katsuki scoffed under his breath and pushed through the gate, blades biting into the ice with a sharp, familiar scrape.
On the far end of the rink, Mina was already moving. She wasn’t warming up so much as she was dancing without music, arms loose, knees soft, letting her edges carry her where they wanted. She dipped into a deep curve, laughed when her balance wobbled, and let the momentum spin her out instead of fighting it. It was careless in the way Katsuki trusted. Earned freedom, not laziness.
Opposite her, closer to the judges’ side, Ochaco Uraraka traced the same sequence again and again. Three turns, a controlled stop, then reset. Her posture never broke. If her blade slipped even slightly, she halted immediately and restarted, eyes focused on an invisible point ahead of her.
Two worlds, one sheet of ice. Katsuki was apparently stupid enough to stand in the middle of it with Midoriya.
“Are you done stretching or are you planning to ice dance with the boards today?” Katsuki said, voice sharp as his edges.
Izuku startled, blinking as if he’d forgotten where he was, then straightened and bowed his head slightly. “Sorry. I’m ready.” That apology came too easily. Katsuki already hated it.
They took position near center ice, the space feeling too open and too exposed all at once. Katsuki explained the drill once, slowly, resisting the urge to bark. Weight transfer, grounded hips, trust the entry. Basic pair fundamentals. It was nothing fancy for Katsuki.
Izuku nodded through all of it, eyes focused, absorbing every word like it was law. That was the problem. On the first attempt, Izuku hesitated. His weight shifted back instead of forward, his center lifting when it should have dropped. Katsuki felt it instantly, the imbalance traveling straight through their joined hands. He adjusted on instinct, forcing them both back to the ice instead of committing to a lift that would’ve sent them crashing.
Their blades screeched as they separated. “Again,” Katsuki said, jaw tight.
They reset. They tried again. Yet Midoriya hesitated once again. Same microscopic refusal to fall.
Katsuki exhaled hard. “You’re thinking too much.”
“I’m correcting,” Izuku replied, breathless, eyes wide like he was bracing for impact even now.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Across the rink, Mina slowed, her movements less exaggerated as she watched from the corner of her eye. Ochaco paused mid-drill, gaze lifting once before she deliberately looked away.
The ice suddenly felt crowded.
Katsuki skated closer to Izuku, close enough that he could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his body locked instead of yielding. He placed his hands on Izuku’s hips without warning, firm, grounding. “Here. You’re floating. Stop floating.”
Izuku stiffened immediately. “I can’t just—” he started, then stopped himself, jaw clenching. “I need to keep my axis.”
“You’re not spinning,” Katsuki snapped. “You’re lifting. If you don’t give me your weight, this wont work.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Izuku’s hands curled into his sleeves as he tries to relax his tension all over his body.
On the far end, Mina fell deliberately into a deep edge and laughed it off, pushing herself upright with easy grace. Ochaco restarted her sequence for the fifth time without a word.
Katsuki clicked his tongue, frustration burning hot in his chest. “Take a break,” he said. “Before you freeze yourself solid.” Izuku nodded again and skated to the boards.
Katsuki watched him go, watched the way he immediately began replaying the movement in his head, body tense even while resting. He hated that more than the mistakes. Hated how familiar that kind of self-destruction looked when it wore discipline like armor.
Mina skated over during the water break, sliding to a stop with casual ease. “He skates like he’s afraid to break something,” she said lightly, not accusing, just observant. Katsuki didn’t respond.
Across the rink, Ochaco handed Izuku his bottle without speaking. He took it, murmured something Katsuki couldn’t hear, then went right back to the ice before his breathing had even fully steadied.
Katsuki stared at him, something uncomfortable twisting low in his gut. This was going to be worse than he thought.
-
Katsuki didn’t give Izuku enough trials because he’s getting pissed.
He pushed off the boards and cut a clean line across the ice, stopping just short of where Izuku was resetting his stance. Close enough that Izuku had to look up this time, their space compressed whether he wanted it or not.
“We’re changing it,” Katsuki said. “No lifts. No prep. Just movement.”
Izuku hesitated. “What kind?”
“The kind where you stop hiding behind counts.”
That earned him a flicker of something behind Izuku’s eyes. Annoyance, maybe, or challenge but his face stayed carefully neutral. Katsuki hated that too. Hated how it made him lean in without meaning to, like he was trying to crack something open by proximity alone.
“Music,” Katsuki called toward the booth, not waiting for permission.
Something low and rhythmic spilled into the rink, heavy enough that Katsuki felt it settle into his chest instead of his head. He stepped in front of Izuku and extended a hand, not formal, not pretty, but commanding. Izuku stared at it for a beat too long.
When he finally took it, his grip was precise, fingers placed exactly where they were supposed to be. Katsuki noticed immediately. He tightened his own hold in response, not enough to hurt, just enough to be unmistakable.
“Don’t lock,” Katsuki muttered. “Follow.” They moved.
Katsuki led them into a wide curve, letting his knees bend deeper than necessary, forcing Izuku to adjust or fall out of sync. Izuku compensated instinctively, body aligning, steps clean but still restrained, like he was waiting for permission that wasn’t coming.
Katsuki’s free hand slid to Izuku’s back, lower than ice dance etiquette would prefer. It was supposed to be instructional. That was what he told himself. Izuku inhaled sharply.
The sound was quiet, barely there, but Katsuki felt it more than he heard it, the way Izuku’s back shifted under his palm, tension flaring before settling again. Katsuki’s thumb pressed in without thinking, right where Izuku’s muscles tightened hardest.
“There,” Katsuki said, voice rougher than before. “That’s where you keep pulling away.”
Izuku swallowed. His eyes flicked up, met Katsuki’s for half a second too long, then dropped again. “You’re too close.”
“That’s the point.”
They circled the rink like that, the distance between their bodies inconsistent, unstable. Sometimes Izuku drifted too far; sometimes Katsuki reeled him back in sharply, chest nearly brushing chest, breath mixing in the cold air.
From the corner of his vision, Katsuki saw Mina watching openly now, chin propped on her hands, curious but unbothered. Ochaco stood near the boards, hands clasped, eyes tracking Izuku with something like concern or devotion. He couldn’t tell which.
Izuku missed a step and nearly fell over but Katsuki caught him without thinking, arm locking around his waist, skates carving a harsh line into the ice as he steadied them both. For a moment, Izuku’s weight was fully against him, unguarded, warm even through layers of fabric.
The moment stretched and Izuku didn’t pull away immediately.
Katsuki was painfully aware of everything then, the way Izuku’s breath stuttered once before evening out, the way his fingers dug slightly into Katsuki’s sleeve like he’d forgotten where to put them, the way his body fit too easily into Katsuki’s hold for someone who claimed control mattered more than anything.
“Again,” Katsuki said, too fast, releasing him.
Izuku nodded, cheeks flushed, expression carefully reset. He stepped back into position, posture perfect, walls firmly rebuilt. But when they moved again, he didn’t hesitate the same way.
He still didn’t trust Katsuki completely, Katsuki could feel that, but there was something different now. A fraction less resistance, a fraction more surrender to momentum. It wasn’t grace yet, it was awareness and Katsuki hated how much he liked it.
-
Katsuki called it early, before Izuku could run himself into the ice. He didn’t announce it. He just cut across Izuku’s path and stopped, forcing him to slow or crash. Izuku reacted instantly, blades shaving a tight arc as he pulled back, balance flawless even when interrupted.
That, more than anything else, made Katsuki’s jaw tighten.
“Enough,” Katsuki said. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m fine,” Izuku replied immediately, which told Katsuki exactly how untrue it was.
They drifted toward the boards without discussing it, an unspoken agreement forming in the quiet between their blades. The rink had thinned out; Mina was practicing solo jumps at the far end now, humming to herself, unfazed by the tension she was no longer part of. Ochaco stood nearby, repeating edge pulls with mechanical precision, eyes flicking to Izuku every time he passed too close.
Izuku leaned forward with his hands on the barrier, head bowed as he regulated his breathing. Sweat darkened the collar of his training shirt, clinging in a way Katsuki absolutely did not need to notice. He looked smaller like this, folded inward, all that discipline bent toward self-containment.
“You lock up when you don’t trust the outcome,” Katsuki said, quieter than before. “That’s going to get you hurt in pairs.”
Izuku didn’t look up. “Control prevents mistakes.”
“Control prevents movement,” Katsuki countered. “You’re not dancing. You’re surviving.”
That finally got a reaction. Izuku straightened slowly, turning just enough that Katsuki could see his expression—still calm, still neutral, but strained at the edges, like something was pressing outward from behind his eyes.
“And what do you know about survival?” Izuku asked.
Katsuki scoffed once, more breath than sound. “Plenty.”
They stood there for a moment too long, the space between them tight with things neither of them was willing to name. Katsuki was acutely aware of how close Izuku was now, how easily he could reach out again, and how familiar Izuku’s weight had felt when it tipped into him earlier. That thought irritated him enough to push off the boards abruptly.
“Back on the ice,” Katsuki said. “But slower. No leading this time.”
Izuku blinked. “You want me to—?”
“React,” Katsuki finished. “I’ll move. You adjust. Don’t plan it.”
They took position again, closer than before, their starting stance informal and unstructured. Katsuki didn’t offer his hand immediately. He waited, watching Izuku hesitate, then choose to step in anyway.
When their hands met this time, Izuku’s grip was still precise but warmer and less rigid. Katsuki felt it instantly.
They moved into a shallow curve, Katsuki deliberately changing pace mid-edge, testing Izuku’s responsiveness. Izuku followed honestly. His body lagged half a beat behind, then caught up, breath hitching when Katsuki’s shoulder brushed his.
“Better,” Katsuki murmured.
Izuku’s focus fractured for just a second at that, eyes flicking up again, searching Katsuki’s face like he was trying to read something unspoken. Katsuki held his gaze longer than necessary, daring him to look away first. He didn’t.
They completed the sequence in silence, blades whispering against the ice, tension threaded through every movement. When they stopped, Izuku was breathing harder than the effort alone warranted. Katsuki noticed yet pretended he didn’t.
“Same time tomorrow,” Katsuki said, already turning away. “And don’t overtrain tonight. You’ll only make it worse.”
Izuku hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll try.”
Katsuki didn’t believe him. That bothered him more than it should have. As he skated toward Mina, Katsuki glanced back once. Izuku was still standing where he’d left him, watching the ice like it had personally betrayed him.
For a brief, unsettling moment, Katsuki wondered what it would take to make him let go completely. And whether that was a line he actually wanted to cross.
-
The sun was already sinking by the time Katsuki finished unlacing his skates.
The rink had emptied out in layers—coaches first, then the younger skaters, then Mina, who waved lazily at him before heading out with her jacket slung over one shoulder. Katsuki took his time. He always did after a bad session. Let the frustration bleed off before it followed him outside.
When he finally stepped out the side entrance, the cold hit him sharp and clean. The smell came first. Smoke—faint, curling, unmistakable. That was enough to make Katsuki stop.
Izuku stood a few meters away beneath the overhang, jacket half-zipped, one shoulder braced against the concrete wall like he was holding himself up. A cigarette rested between his fingers, ember glowing softly in the dark. He wasn’t hunched over it or hiding it. If anything, he looked deliberate like this was just another part of his routine. The sight unsettled Katsuki more than it should have.
Izuku didn’t look stressed. He didn’t look angry. He looked… quiet. His breath fogged in the cold as he exhaled smoke slowly, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.
Katsuki shifted his weight, the sound of his boots scraping concrete giving him away. Izuku glanced up, surprise flickering across his face before it smoothed back into neutrality.
“Oh,” Izuku said. “You’re still here.”
Katsuki smirked. “This is my rink too.”
Izuku hummed softly and took another drag, the glow lighting his face briefly. Katsuki caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his mouth softened when he exhaled, tension easing just slightly from his shoulders. That bothered him.
“You always do that?” Katsuki asked, nodding toward the cigarette.
Izuku followed his gaze, then shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Doesn’t seem very… disciplined,” Katsuki said, more curious than accusatory.
Izuku’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Neither is drinking.”
Katsuki scoffed. “Touche.”
Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but heavy. The air felt different out here, stripped of ice and expectations. Katsuki leaned against the opposite wall without realizing he was mirroring Izuku’s posture.
Izuku lowered the cigarette and looked at him properly now. “You skate like you don’t care if you fall.”
“I care,” Katsuki replied. “I just don’t freeze because of it.”
Izuku considered that, eyes tracing Katsuki’s face like he was cataloging something new. “It must be… freeing.” The word lingered between them.
Katsuki’s gaze dropped to Izuku’s hands again, the steady way he held the cigarette, the lack of shake. Control, even here. Even in this.
“You push yourself too hard,” Katsuki said quietly.
Izuku blinked, clearly not expecting that. “So do you.”
“Not like you,” Katsuki replied. “You grind yourself down until there’s nothing left but precision.”
Izuku looked away then, ash tapping loose onto the concrete. “Precision wins medals.”
“Not all of them,” Katsuki said.
Izuku didn’t argue. He took one last drag and stubbed the cigarette out with practiced care, slipping the butt into a small tin instead of tossing it aside. That, too, said more than it should have.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Izuku said, pulling his jacket on properly now.
“Yeah,” Katsuki replied.
Izuku hesitated, then added, “Don’t go easy on me.”
Katsuki met his eyes, something sharp and unreadable sparking in his chest. “Wouldn’t fucking dream of it.” Izuku nodded once and walked off into the night, footsteps fading into the distance.
Katsuki stayed where he was for a moment longer, the scent of smoke still lingering in the cold air. He hated how much that quiet version of Midoriya unsettled him. He hated even more that part of him wanted to see it again.
-
Katsuki didn’t go home. He never did after days like this.
The club was already loud when he arrived, bass thudding through his ribs like a second heartbeat. Lights cut the dark in violent colors of red, blue, and white flashing fast enough to blur faces into motion instead of people. The smell of alcohol and sweat hit him all at once, familiar and grounding.
This, at least, made sense.
Someone shoved a drink into his hand without asking. Katsuki took it, downed half in one swallow, welcomed the burn as it dragged his thoughts back into his body. The crowd pressed in, heat and movement replacing the cold precision of the rink. He let himself be pulled along, shoulders loose, jaw unclenched for the first time all day. Music swallowed everything. For a while, it worked.
He danced without counting, without correcting, letting rhythm take over the way skating usually did. He laughed once when Mina appeared out of nowhere, already tipsy, pink hair glowing under the lights as she yelled something he couldn’t hear. She dragged him closer to the speakers, moving like gravity didn’t apply to her.
“This is what I’m talking about!” she shouted, spinning him once before letting go. “You look less murdery already!”
Katsuki laughed and took another drink. But then an unwanted and uninvited thought went his mind and betrayed him.
The way Izuku had looked outside the rink surfaced without warning. Quiet. Still. Smoke curling from his mouth like he was exhaling thoughts instead of air. The memory didn’t belong here. Katsuki scowled into his glass and drank again, harder this time. Didn’t help.
Every brush of a stranger’s hand made him think of the weight Izuku had surrendered for that split second on the ice. Every controlled movement in the crowd reminded him of discipline disguised as calm. It pissed him off how easily Izuku followed him earlier. How quickly he’d adapted once Katsuki forced him to stop thinking.
Someone leaned close, shouted something flirtatious into Katsuki’s ear. He turned, ready with a sharp retort and froze. It was not Izuku, just someone with green-tinted lights hitting their hair the wrong way.
Katsuki cursed under his breath and pulled back, suddenly tired. He shoved the rest of the drink back and set the glass down harder than necessary. Mina noticed immediately. She always did.
“You good?” she asked, expression softening just a little.
“Yeah,” Katsuki said. It was automatic. Unconvincing.
She studied him for a second, then smirked. “That ice dancer messing with your head already?”
Katsuki shot her a look. “Don’t start.”
Mina laughed but didn’t push. She just bumped her shoulder into his. “You hate people like him because they make you think too much.” Katsuki opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.
The music swelled, the crowd cheered, and someone spilled a drink nearby. Still, Katsuki felt off-balance.
He left without saying goodbye, the night air cold against his flushed skin as soon as he stepped outside. The noise faded behind him, replaced by quiet broken only by distant traffic. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. Partying usually burns everything else away. Tonight, it only sharpened the edges.
Katsuki stared up at the dark sky, jaw tight, and wondered when exactly Midoriya Izuku had become a problem that followed him off the ice.
And why the hell that bothered him more than losing ever did.