Chapter Text
“To be the best, you must train like you’re second.”
— Yuzuru Hanyu
The rink cafeteria grew almost aggressively cold after 9 p.m., as if the building was blowing out the day’s last breath, expelling whoever insisted on staying.
Katsuki occupied the table closest to the coffee machine, where the steam from the drinks formed a flimsy thermic blanket against the building’s artificial chill. The intense smell of roasted, almost burnt, beans lingered in that untouched corner, making it strangely inviting. He never liked the winter, the way the ice seemed to vanquish not just the rink, but his bones, too, and yet, there was something about that specific brand of solitude. That emptiness of stacked chairs and dim lights, that felt… comfortable. Or perhaps just familiar.
From his table, Katsuki could see the paths of the rink through the enormous glass windows. The pale glow of the spotlights crossed the space in spectral stripes, hitting against his dark clothes as if the ice insisted on claiming him even far from the rink.
The low hood concealed his ash-blond hair and his worn-out earbuds. He slumped deeper into his own clothes, burying his chin into the collar in a posture that said: ‘Don’t come close’ without the need to open his mouth.
It wasn’t just the cold he was trying to keep at bay, it was the whole world, and he was in no mood to face either that night.
Even tucked in his hoodie as it served as a makeshift armor, he couldn’t ditch the almost compulsive habit of picking himself apart. His finger traced absent circles along the edge of the styrofoam cup. His coffee, if he could even call it that at this point, had long gone cold before his first sip. His attention was drawn to his phone screen, where he played the footage from thirty minutes ago on a silent loop, scrutinizing each movement under the cold gaze of someone who sought flaws in their own shadow.
Katsuki’s red eyes darkened as he started into the bluish light of the screen, moving with surgical precision. He knew exactly where the flesh turned rotten.
The entry to his Lutz was half a degree too open. His fucking axis tilted slightly in the air as he went for that jump, a fraction of a second that, when watched in slow motion, seemed to last forever. At the end of the combined spin, the rotation wobbled and was sent to an early grave before he completed all the planned rotations.
Tiny, stupid flaws. Details.
To Katsuki, fractures.
He stopped the circular movement of his fingers, crushing the cup until the styrofoam crackled in a sharp, irritating sound, as if he could crush the failure between his hands.
Pause.
Play.
Pause again.
Katsuki dissected that Triple Axel piece by piece, like he was performing a meticulous autopsy. The exact moment of takeoff. The height that could have been higher. His arm’s closure, millimeters off what was ideal. The blade touching the ice on the landing was solid, but not perfect.
And it was that not perfect that consumed him.
Because it wasn’t enough to master the triple jump. Katsuki nurtured a sick obsession with evolving it into a quad — four complete rotations capable of transforming ambition into gold, of getting that medal to weigh against his chest like inevitable destiny. It was the jump that no athlete in the country executed with consistency. The jump that would place him above the others, in another category.
Untouchable.
But the ice didn’t let itself be seduced by promises. It was a cruel mirror, reflecting the beauty and the ugly with the same relentlessness and coldness of the rink, without distinction. Every time he skated over it, Katsuki saw himself exposed: every weakness, every betrayal of his body against the perfection he demanded of himself. There was nowhere to hide.
That was why he needed to polish every edge, every invisible detail, every breath, until there was no room left for errors.
Until the mirror finally shattered.
However, there was something the ice couldn’t tame. Something that turned this entire pursuit for the absolute victory even more unpleasant and dangerous.
And the biggest stone in his way was sitting on the other side of the cafeteria.
Shouto Todoroki.
The steam rising from the freshly served cups at the counter spread through the cold air and hung between them like a thin curtain. Through that fleeting mist, Katsuki could only see fragments of Shouto. The slope of his neck as he hunched over the scattered papers on the table. The pen hovering over the paper, frozen between two words he never wrote. His hair falling over his forehead in its hypnotic colors, one half white as pristine snow, the other red as the blood from an open gash.
Katsuki shouldn’t be looking — not like that.
As Shouto frowned, Katsuki couldn’t spot any anger, only concentration. A focused silence, like he was trying to figure out something that couldn’t fail. Maybe it wasn’t only about his technique. Maybe there was something else he was struggling to keep under control.
Shouto’s posture was impeccable, but his shoulders betrayed a tension that didn’t match the lightness and poise he displayed on the ice. On the rink, he glided like a snowflake carried by the wind, each of his movements flowing so perfectly as if gravity had been designed to support him. Outside of it, however, there was some hesitation, it was almost imperceptible, but it was there all the same.
Katsuki thought that Shouto sometimes seemed like he was deliberately trying to take up as little space as possible. Almost as if he was always asking permission to exist.
Katsuki fucking hated that.
He hated even more the fact that he somehow understood what that silence represented, something that bordered on similarity, a silent recognition. Rather than a matter of perception, that was proof that they shared the same world, the same coaching team, the same schedules that began at dawn and only ended when the ice stole the last remnants of warmth from their bodies.
They also shared the same dread of being constantly evaluated, scrutinized by the federation, the other athletes, the public, and their parents.
United by the same flag, but divided by an invisible line that would decide which of them would be the face of the country at Worlds.
The point wasn’t as much about winning.
It was about being the only one.
“What the fuck…” The words came out rougher than intended. Restless with his own thoughts, Katsuki ripped the earbuds from his ears and tossed them onto the table, the hollow thud cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Shouto lifted his head, drawn by the sound.
Not immediately, but in a slow and calculated movement, as if deciding to face Katsuki was a conscious choice. Katsuki returned the gaze with a sharp, pointed look through blond lashes, as he ground his teeth. When their eyes met, the rink’s iciness seemed to ricochet between the two of them, echoing the silence they’d been fostering for months, exchanging words only when necessary.
The serenity with which the grey and blue of Shouto’s eyes settled on him was almost unsettling. There was no hostility there, only meticulous attention, as if Katsuki was a complex piece of art too difficult to unravel at first glance.
Katsuki remained still, refusing to blink, as if stubbornness alone was a silent victory. And yet his body still reacted under that obnoxiously serene gaze. The cold climbed up his spine like a frigid hand, and his heart raced, it was the feeling of someone acknowledging their opponent.
Look closely, you half-and-half bastard.
Shouto didn’t blink.
That second stretched, elastic, and unbearable. Long enough for Katsuki to register with uncomfortable precision the purple shadows under Shouto’s eyes. That type of fatigue wasn’t from a single sleepless night. There was some old weariness stockpiled there for longer than he could tell, and it was impossible to ignore.
Shouto’s long fingers tightened around his pen until his knuckles turned white, oblivious to his own strength. His breath escaped quietly through his parted lips, as if the air in the cafeteria was too thin.
Something was off-axis there, too, reflected in Katsuki’s thoughts in different shades, but born from the same tension.
The cafeteria door swung open with a sharp bang, cutting through the invisible thread that bound them. Both their attentions shifted, reluctantly, toward the exaggerated movements of the pair skaters barging in.
“Kat!!”
Mina burst in like a hurricane in human form, arms thrown wide as she braced her hands against the doorframe. Her skates scraped against the linoleum floor, clattering in chaotic echoes that reverberated through the space. Her messy bun left stray pink strands plastered to her damp forehead with every frantic movement. Right behind her, Eijirou stumbled in, dragged along by the force of his partner’s energy, wearing the expression of someone abruptly torn from sleep and trying to catch up with the chaos that had already swallowed him whole.
Katsuki felt his jaw tighten and forced his attention toward the girl, who already had her palms flat on the table and her eyes shining a little too brightly to mean something simple. There were only two reasons for her to seek him out after an exhausting day of training: some stupid romantic gossip, or something fucking incredible.
She plopped into the chair across from him with the clumsy elegance of someone who spent more time on the ice than in ordinary seats. The redhead collapsed beside her, still catching his breath, his cheeks flushed from the effort of chasing after her.
“This is serious. Like, dead serious.”
“Everything you say is serious until it turns into gossip,” Katsuki growled, but he didn’t stand up and leave. Something in Mina’s posture, in the way she cast furtive glances over her shoulder toward Shouto, made his stomach twist.
“Tomorrow,” she began, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “a choreographer from Saint Petersburg is arriving.”
Katsuki’s interest was piqued before he could suppress it. Saint Petersburg was known for producing the best dancers and choreographers, a place where technique and artistry fused into something dangerously flawless.
“So what?” he forced indifference, eyes returning to his phone screen.
“He’s coming to set up a gala exhibition,” Mina continued, ignoring his scowl. “The end-of-year one, you know? Charity, fancy guests, the whole glam shebang.” She gestured broadly with her hands. “They’re picking two skaters to perform a special pair number. The opening act.”
The silence that followed was heavy and dense, as if something huge and invisible had settled in the center of the cafeteria, impossible to ignore. Katsuki didn’t need to look to know that Shouto had stopped pretending to be interested in the papers. He felt the weight of that gaze return to his profile, burning with something sharper, a different kind of intensity than the confrontation from before.
“Probably you two…” Mina wiggled her finger casually between them, and Katsuki finally snapped.
His eyes moved unwillingly, pulled by the magnetic force that always betrayed him, and found Shouto’s eyes. Again.
“No!” The word echoed through the cafeteria like thunder. Katsuki leaned forward so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor, tipping onto two legs. “I don’t do pairs. I’m a singles skater. Always have been!”
“Unfortunately, the federation makes the calls…” Eijirou said in that perpetually calm tone of his, the exact tone that fucking grated on Katsuki’s last nerve. “And they want a show. You two together? That’s a show.”
Shouto didn’t move. His mismatched eyes held Katsuki’s gaze for a moment too long, and there was something unmistakable in them: you know what this means, too. Then he blinked, and the empty mask slid back into place.
“Excuse me,” he said, simply. The chair slid back almost noiselessly as he stood, with that infuriating subtlety that always pissed Katsuki off. “Early start tomorrow.”
Shouto crossed the cafeteria without looking back. As Katsuki followed him from his peripheral, just to make sure he was actually leaving, he noticed that Shouto let his left foot linger a fraction of a second longer against the floor, as if he was testing his weight before taking the next step. The hesitation was nearly imperceptible, a tiny disruption to the otherwise perfect rhythm of his stride.
Like a ghost, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind only the soft echo of footsteps that soon dissolved into silence. The cafeteria seemed smaller after that.
“Dude…” Eijirou leaned forward only after Shouto was gone, hands clasped over the table. “I know you don’t like the idea of sharing the ice with him, but think about it. It’s a chance to show the world you’re not just brute force, that you can be… uhm, elegant, and uhhh, artistic?”
“I am elegant!” Katsuki shot back, as if those words themselves were an insult.
“You’re explosive,” Mina corrected, stealing a sip of Katsuki’s cold coffee without asking. “And that’s amazing, but a pair with Todoroki? The press will lose their minds. The fans, too.” She paused, the corner of her mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And the two of you… well. You were born to make history.”
“There ain’t the two of us!’” Katsuki snapped, finally ripping his gaze away from the doorway. “There’s me. And there’s him. Separate.”
“Sure, sure,” Mina sang in that melodic, infuriatingly satisfied tone. “Except you were looking at him like the rest of the cafeteria didn’t exist… aaaand he was looking right back! So maybe wipe that frown off your face, boo-boo.”
“Bullshit.” He stood abruptly, aggressively snatching his backpack from the chair beside him. “I don’t look at anyone. I observe my rivals. It’s different.”
“Suuuuure thing,” she replied mockingly sweetly.
“Enough.” Katsuki slung the cord of his earbuds around his neck. He was already halfway across the cafeteria when Eijirou spoke again.
“Hey!” There was something different in the redhead’s voice, a sincerity that made Katsuki pause, if only for a second. “Whatever’s going on between you two… be careful, okay? Pairs on the ice… it’s intimate. More intimate than a lot of things. You’ll have to let him into your space. And he’ll have to let you into his.”
Katsuki didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The mere idea of Shouto invading his space — his technique, his rhythm — left no room to breathe. Sharing the ice meant sharing every inhale and exhale, every drop of sweat. It meant building an intimacy that bordered on violent.
Something inside him recoiled.
Repulsion, he labeled it without hesitation.
Anything else would be unacceptable.
Without another word, he whirled around and left the cafeteria.
The corridor connecting the main complex to the dorms stretched long and narrow, a glass passage cut through campus like a crystal vein. Outside, snow fell in whimsical spirals, blanketing everything in sight in white. Katsuki shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and kept on walking.
The cold from outside seeped through the glass despite the air conditioning, fogging up the edges with a condensed mist. His breath formed small, fleeting clouds with every exhale. The silence there was different, just sterile and lonely. Katsuki liked that. A space without voices, without stares, without interference. A place where his thoughts didn’t have to fight for space.
Away from Shouto, and from the whispers.
At least until he reached the trophy hall.
The glass wall gave way to a dark marble and brushed steel structure, bathed in soft lighting that created glowing patches in the dim hallway. There was a row of crystal trophies, medals hanging on navy blue velvet, photographs framed in matte gold — and at the center, dominating everything, her.
Mitsuki Bakugou.
The photo was old, but the quality of the print preserved its sharpness. Blonde hair pulled into a flawless bun. Her vermilion eyes, the same shade as Katsuki’s, with the same intensity, fixed on the camera with a smile that never reached her eyes. She had a gold medal clutched in her hand, and the Japanese flag behind her, despite being blurry, was unmistakable.
Two-time World Champion. One-time Olympic gold medalist.
Gold.
Katsuki stopped in his tracks.
He always stopped.
The spotlight above the frame cast an aureate halo around her, as if the light was emanating from within her, crowning her in gold. And in the empty corners of the hallway where shadows gathered, he could either feel or hear the whispers — he could never tell which was for sure.
Perfect.
The word seemed to come from nowhere, and it seeped into everything. The cold marble beneath his feet. The frozen glass at his side. The excessive gleam of the medal in that picture, reflecting too much light, enough to blind him for a heartbeat.
You have to be perfect.
He closed his eyes, but Mitsuki’s face was already burned into his retinas like an annoying sunspot, her tight smile sharp enough to cut.
The cycle has to continue. The victories. The gold. Always the gold.
But what if it wasn’t gold?
What if it was—silver?
What if he wasn’t enough?
What if he had to share the ice with someone else?
With Shouto.
The thought slipped in before he could stop it. Sharing meant relying. It meant matching his pace with someone else’s, making room for them.
Or worse, relinquishing the spotlight.
Katsuki inhaled deeply, the cold air stinging his lungs. Outside, the snowfall thickened, dissolving the world into white and grey. He should keep walking. The dorms were only minutes away, across the campus, but his feet remained rooted there, trapped between two ghosts — the golden past that demanded absolute perfection, and the uncertainty of a future that whispered about shared spots, and gazes that shouldn’t linger.
With an invisible weight settling over his shoulders, Katsuki forced himself to step forward.
Behind him, the spotlight above Mitsuki’s photograph flickered once.
For a fraction of a second that was so brief it could have been imagined, her smile looked less triumphant, and more like—a warning.
But Katsuki didn’t look back.
He never looked back.