Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Inko’s heart sledgehammered against her chest when her son didn’t budge from where he lay on the ice. 

She kept waiting for him to sit up, brush off the fall and skate on. But he didn’t. 

Her feet moved on their own. She raced out the door with a tight knot constricting her throat. She stepped onto the frozen lake without a second thought, then halted. 

She couldn’t trip now. She couldn’t. 

Her baby lay limp in the middle of the frozen lake and there was no one else around to help them. She’d be useless if she tripped and fell on her head too. 

Inko reached her son, nearly crawling towards him in the end. 

“Izuku,” she whispered, her voice trembling.  “Open your eyes, baby, come on.”

“Inko!” A familiar voice called in the distance. 

Cradling her son against her chest, Inko raised her head towards the man stumbling out of his truck next to the Midoriya residence. Shouta’s steps were hasty towards them. 

“What happened?” He leaned down next to her in concern, then placed his gloved hand over the boy’s peaceful features. 

Inko’s breathing was erratic. 

“I - I was watching him skate. He - jumping, but –”

Aizawa’s jaw clenched, “How long?”

“Right now! Just now!”

He took the kid from her friend’s arms, nodding toward the edge of the lake. “Get in the truck. Quick. I’ll drive you to town.” 

Partial blindness, the doctor had said. He’d called Izuku lucky. Inko was just grateful her son hadn’t been paralyzed. Or worse, dead at the tender age of thirteen.

When she’d seen his head hit the ice, her blood ran cold. She’d feared for the worst. But her baby was alive. 

Blindness. 

It was something they could live with. Something they’d work through together. And they weren’t alone.  

Aizawa and his husband offered the Midoriya’s a place in their home, where both would get much-needed support through Izuku’s recovery and adaptation. 

Yagi had immediately offered the same. Guilt ate at his insides from the moment he’d heard the news. He’d seen raw talent in a young soul and decided to exploit it. That first time he’d seen Izuku land an axel had been enough to send Toshinori’s dreamer heart soaring. 

They’d set to train, and by the time Izuku had reached twelve, double axel jumps almost seemed like a breeze – but despite both their longings to shoot for the stars, the truth was, Izuku was nothing more than a boy with a dream. Without funds to invest in his career, that was all it was. A dream.

Toshinori never would’ve imagined they would end up in this situation over the bad landing of an axel, of all things. 

Inko would have to seriously consider their offers. Working on the weekdays, she wasn’t willing to leave Izuku alone and so far out of town! It just wouldn’t be convenient.

Inko hadn’t expected Izuku to take the news lightly. But she hadn’t expected a full shutdown either. It broke her heart to pieces. There was nothing she could do but be there. Be his mother.

Much to everyone’s surprise, on his sixteenth birthday, Izuku asked for a new pair of skates. Three years had passed since the incident. Three years of looming, adapting and moving forward with the help of his doting mother, her friends and his mentor. 

Inko’s heart jumped in her chest when she watched Izuku step onto the ice for the first time after so long. 

Pinky wouldn’t be skating this season.

Katsuki felt like punching a wall. He refrained from doing so, since clearly, punching a wall wouldn’t heal his partner’s injury. 

Katsuki scoffed. Maybe he would punch Grape-head instead. Wouldn’t solve that problem either, but at least he’d be getting some sort of relief the healthy way. The hockey jock was getting on his nerves lately more than usual.

Oh. Right. Hockey. Kirishima would chew his ear off if he injured a member of his team again. Though surely Grape-face wouldn’t make that much of a difference? No one would notice. What is that extra good for, anyway? Getting benched, that’s what. 

Katsuki was met with his reflection from across the mirror. He paused to stare into carmine eyes in complete disbelief as to what had been going through his mind this past hour.

His friend had just told him she’d have to stay out of the ice this term due to an injury and here he was, pitying himself over the loss of an ice dancing partner instead of checking in on her – or whatever. 

Coach was right. He was too selfish. 

Torino 1 - Katsuki 0. 

Pathetic.

Katsuki sighed.

He took one last look at his dishevelled form in the mirror before exiting the locker rooms. 

“Leavin’ already, bro?”

Katsuki glanced back. There, his best friend stood with that stupid golden retriever look on his face, smiley as ever. 

“The fuck d’you want?” 

“Heard Mina got injured during the offseason?” 

Katsuki sneered at the group of hockey players who gathered around their captain like children waiting for their bedtime story.

Hanta waved at Katsuki with a lazy grin. Katsuki glared in return. 

“She’s fine. That it?” 

“Oh, I’m glad,” Eijirou chuckled, “I was worried there for a sec. But then, you’re short of a partner?” 

Someone get Einstein an award. 

“What’s it to you?” 

“I just, I mean … why don’t you – ask Denki?” 

Katsuki gagged, “Why in the world?”

“Seen him practise on the weekends and all. Just saying.”

“Well tell him weekends aren’t enough since he keeps moving like a newborn Bambi.” 

“Yo, I’m right here! What the hell?” 

“No one’s talking to you, Pikachu.”

“Oh, hi Denki!” Kirishima beamed, waving at the blond sitting on the nearby bleachers. 

“Hey, Kiri.” 

Katsuki groaned under his breath, catching Kirishima’s attention again. 

“You could always ask Shouto –”

“I’d rather die.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened, “Please don’t?” 

“Shitty hair,” Katsuki slung his bag over his shoulder. Kirishima followed the movement. “I get what you’re doing but stop. You lot get back to chasing and throwing around that little fucking piece of black plastic and I’ll deal with my own shit.”

“Why don’t you just go single since you’re so awesome like that, huh?”

Katsuki was met with Kaminari’s annoyed yet steady gaze. Anger bubbled in his stomach at the sight of such confidence coming from the dunce, but then something in his brain clicked. Katsuki’s eyes had just been opened, and surprisingly, by none other than single-brain-celled Pikachu over there. 

A grin formed on his lips, Kaminari winced at that, glancing around nervously. “It was a joke, bro. You can stop making that face. Thanks.” Denki nearly recoiled as Katsuki approached him, only to stare confusedly at his back when the spiky-blonde simply walked past and headed straight towards coach Torino’s office. 

The old man wasn’t fazed by Katsuki’s loud barging into his office anymore. Torino averted his tired eyes from the newspaper he held in both hands and set his attention on his student. 

“Finished for today?” 

“I’m doing single.” 

Torino blinked unimpressed, “You’re what?” 

“This season. I’ll go single.”

Torino took a deep sigh, then folded the newspaper over his desk. “No.” 

“What do you mean no, old man? You ain’t the boss of me.” 

“I’d advise against it, is all. Your strong suit is pair skating, ice dancing.”

“I won’t find a partner.” Katsuki quickly cut in. 

“Just ask the Todoroki boy – or Kaminari.” Torino shrugged, “Besides, switching to another category will be a hassle.”

“I want single.”

“I don’t coach singles.” 

“Fuck you. Who does?” 

Torino’s booming cackle cut through the tension, “Think I’d refer you?”

“You won’t?” 

If looks could kill, Katsuki would be six feet under.

Torino took a deep breath, “I do know someone…” he shook his head, “This is stupid, Bakugo. Just re-pair.” 

“Who’s the guy?”

Katsuki had not processed the meaning of Torino’s words when the old man said the famous Toshinori Yagi had retired to a remote town. 

Coach’s words started to sink in the further the train got from the city, but as of now, standing at the deserted train station, suitcase and bags at his feet… yeah, you could say Torino’s words had finally sunk in. 

Tōkuken’s main station was nearly empty and it was only 6:00 PM. An old woman buying from a cart of ikayaki side glanced at the blond. The street vendor simply nodded towards him in acknowledgement. 

A man with a choco banana cart hurriedly waved him over with a wide grin. Katsuki sneered, turning away. The man laughed, and if it weren’t because Katsuki had spotted Yagi’s thin, tired frame making his way towards him from across the station, he probably would’ve lunged at the choco banana vendor. 

“Young, Bakugo!” Toshinori called. A wide smile plastered on his face, just like Katsuki had seen on TV. “I’m glad you made it safely! How was your trip?” 

After sitting on his ass for nearly five hours, enduring toddler’s wails, other gross sounds and smells, crap food and odd-tasting water, his legs crammed in his seat… how was he? Katsuki’s stomach growled. Toshinori’s grin simply widened. 

“Oh, I know just where to take you. You like karaage, hmm?”

The karaage wasn’t anything to write home about. And really, his cramped bedroom either.

Mitsuki was quick to butt into his business and find out his plan about changing into the single’s category this season. She’d immediately shared her unrequested opinion on how she thought Torino was right: Katsuki’s decision was dumb. 

Excellent. Katsuki had thought. Though his reaction hadn’t been as controlled and passive at that moment… which led him to a pointless argument with his mother, in which she assured her son that he’d deal this season without his father and her financial backup – unless Katsuki accepted to be in the wrong.

Torino had shot him the stink eye when Katsuki explained, though pulled some strings and chipped in for his passage without being asked. 

That was the shortened version of how Katsuki ended up in retired famous figure skater Yagi Toshinori’s cold and humid basement, staring at a framed photo over the desk in the corner of a curly-haired and freckled boy. He stood in the snow hugging Yagi, who looked down at the boy with fondness as the other beamed, holding up what Katsuki presumed was a new pair of ice skates. Katsuki had seen that same boy in other framed pictures hanging on the wall around the small house, but in this picture, he appeared so much younger. 

The soft knocking on his door snapped Katsuki out of his thoughts. Toshinori stood there, a tired smile on his lips. 

“Did you manage to power the heater? It’s old, so it’s a little rusty but –”

“Is that your son?” Katsuki gestured at the framed photograph. 

Toshinori’s eyes softened, “That’s Izuku. He’s not my son but… you could say I do regard him as such.” He shrugged, then took a deep breath when Katsuki didn’t reply. “The skating rink opens in the early morning. I’ve got some matters to attend tomorrow, but feel free to get there first… I’ll let you rest now.” 

The skating rink wasn’t empty when Katsuki got there. 7:00 AM sharp and yet some guy was using it, moving so naturally as he danced, he made skating look as easy as breathing. Katsuki frowned. 

Mornings were the highlight of Izuku’s days. Well, no. Dancing to his favourite playlist on the ice rink every morning was the highlight of his days. It was a carefree activity he could indulge in before his daily routine crashed onto him like a brick to the face. Okay, that was harsh. He enjoyed working his shift with the toddlers and chatting with customers at the rink, but there was absolutely nothing better than gliding and twirling over the ice without care, music blaring through his earphones. 

Izuku's fingers let go of the cold metal of the blade as he twirled in a layback, hands over his chest. Truly, his favourite twirling position so far. The movement came to him so fluidly, it was refreshing. Stepping onto the cloud, gliding towards the next one… and up, two, three, land. Red, red wine… cross roll one, cross roll two, toe steps three and four and stay close to  – 

“ –damned idiot, I’m fucking talking to you!” 

Izuku screeched stumbling forward, the toe pick getting caught in the ice as he was harshly brought back to the real world, headphones having been ripped out from his ears.

“What was that for?” He spat.

“I’m trying to skate here but you keep getting in the way. Stay on one fucking side of the rink, will ya? It’s fucking annoying.” 

Izuku’s heart pounded anxiously in his chest. He didn’t know that voice. The blur of colours… blond, was that blond hair? Or a yellow shirt? Who is this arsehole?

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Give me my earphones back!”

“Pick your side first.”

“Huh?”

“Your fucking side of the rink, dumbarse!” Katsuki dangled the pair of earphones in front of the shorter man, then frowned when he didn’t get a reaction out of that.

Izuku blinked, then shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, I was leaving anyway! Give me my –”

“Whatever,” Katsuki huffed, then threw the mess of cables at the shorter boy. Izuku flinched back after the earphones had hit him in the face. “Did you just –?” Izuku groaned, cheeks flushing in anger and embarrassment. 

Katsuki couldn’t help but cackle, “How can anyone coached by Yagi be so damn clumsy?” 

“Coached by –? Who even are you?” Izuku’s eyes narrowed. 

“I’m Bakugo fucking Katsuki, haven’t you heard?”

Oh. Realisation dawned on Izuku. Of course, he’d heard that name before! Ice dancers Mina Ashido and Bakugo Katsuki had been popular names among the ISU during last season’s championships. 

“You’re Bakugo?” Izuku spoke aghast. 

The blur of pale colour hues that were Katsuki moved away from Izuku’s poor vision’s reach. “Fuck yeah, I am. My face’s up here, idiot.” Katsuki snapped his fingers, a sly grin playing on his lips.

“Uh, I’m –”

“Izuku, my boy! You’re still here?” 

Both boys perked up at the sound of Toshinori’s booming, cheerful call.  

“Toshinori! I – yes! What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock, so I would’ve thought you’d be on your way, my boy!”

“Nine. It’s nine already?” Izuku’s shoulders anxiously raised. He turned towards Katsuki with a scowl, “Hand me back my earphones, I’m leaving.”

“They’re right there.” Katsuki shrugged at the ice. 

Izuku sighed annoyedly before turning and skating towards the rink’s exit, earphones forgotten on the ice. 

“Are ya just gonna leave ‘em there?” Katsuki’s confusion was genuine. He kicked at the mess of cables.

“I don’t have time to play treasure hunt, you keep them!”  

Katsuki was met with Toshinori’s disapproving look. 

“What?” The younger man spat. 

Toshinori sighed as he stepped onto the ice. “Give them here, I’ll keep them.” 

Katsuki picked up the earphones from the ice, then scowled at Toshinori before skating away,  “Get your own pair, old man.” 

Today was Katsuki’s third training session with Toshinori. And it’d been miserable. Toshinori wasn’t a bad teacher at all, but Bakugo kept struggling to remove the phantom dancer next to him, and that was driving him nuts. His movements were sluggish and broken. 

Now, he was working on a triple-axel-to-double toe-loop combo, a sequence that required his entire focus and precision, but every time Katsuki powered into the take-off, something felt hollow. Like something or rather, someone was missing. 

Being used to dancing with someone sucked ass. 

Every time Katsuki took off in the air, he’d be expecting Mina’s hand in his and the synchronised snap of their perfect landing together. But she wasn’t here. Nobody else was here and it felt… odd. 

Bakugo stopped to catch his breath for a moment. He glanced at the side of the rink and again, Izuku was there. 

Izuku was everywhere. His head was turned slightly towards Katsuki as he wiped the plexiglass barrier thoroughly. 

Bakugo completed another rotation, but his landing was clumsy, his foot dragging slightly. “Damnit!”

“Your prep-take off is too wide.” Izuku called out, his voice annoyingly soft. He didn’t stop wiping. “You’re losing speed on the curve. You’re supposed to rotate, not drift.”

Katsuki clenched his teeth, “Shut up, nerd! Focus on your wiping!” 

Izuku shrugged, “I’m just pointing out what coach Toshinori is about to point out.” He finally looked up, but his gaze seemed to fixate a little past Katsuki’s shoulder. “You’re trying to overpower through mistakes instead of correcting them. You’re wasting energy.” 

“The hell you know about triple axels?” 

Izuku shrugged again, turning back to his wiping. 

“That’s it. Mind your own business, broccoli head.” Katsuki snarled, but the insult felt flat even to his own ears. He spent the rest of his session trying to prove Izuku wrong, repeating the axel combo until his calves burned and his frustration boiled over.

That evening, Katsuki stayed late at the rink. He’d told Toshinori he’d stretch a bit before heading home, but in reality, Bakugo was avoiding the inevitable: going back to the cold and humid basement that was his temporary bedroom. 

He stood in the locker room, shoving his damp clothes into his bag. He paused near the fogged-up mirror, catching his own reflection. His carmine eyes looked tired, edged by dark circles he usually masked with relentless aggression. 

His shoulders were slumped. 

He looked like shit. 

He glared at the tired face in the mirror and slung his bag over his shoulder.

He stomped out of the locker room, ready to brave the walk home, when he heard it: the crisp, clean sound of a blade biting the ice, followed by a light landing.

Katsuki stopped dead. It was late. It had to be the infuriating Freckles. He doubled back, moving silently toward the glass partition near the entrance to the rink — and there he was: Izuku was out on the ice —and he was dancing. He seemed utterly lost inside his own world. His body was loose, relaxed, and his movements were a seamless expression of the music only he could hear. He moved with a kind of weightlessness that made the blonde jealous.  

Katsuki couldn’t deny it. Izuku’s edges were sharp, his carriage was perfect, and his flow was breathtaking. He was faster than he looked, carving deep edges like it was effortless – and his hands. They moved deliberately and expressively, reaching out to touch – Katsuki’s eyebrows shot up when Izuku stumbled right after a landing. 

He spun wildly, catching a toe pick just inches from the ice. Katsuki heard Izuku's sharp inhale as he fought gravity, his hands flailing out before he managed to steady and catch himself. Izuku froze in place for a long moment, his hands instinctively clapping over his rapid beating heart. He took a shaky breath, then let out a short, choked chuckle, as if mocking his own brush with danger. With a resolute shake of his head, he resumed his routine, choosing a safer, tight sequence close to the boards.

Katsuki walked out of the building and headed back to Toshinori’s place, the image of Izuku’s graceful dance and stumble burning behind his eyes.

The walk from the rink to Toshinori’s house no longer felt like a trek through a foreign wilderness; now, it was just a dull, humid trudge through a town that refused to wake up.

Katsuki stepped onto the porch, his movements mechanical. The wooden floorboards didn’t just groan anymore; they gave a familiar, predictable creak which he’d grown accustomed to. Two weeks of hitting the same ice and failing the same transitions, and sleeping in a basement that felt like it was slowly trying to reclaim him into the earth.

The sharp, medicinal scent of the house was no longer something he noticed—it was just the way the air tasted now.

He slumped into his usual mismatched chair. The table was set with a simple meal of grilled mackerel and miso soup. The humidity was a physical weight in the small kitchen, making the steam from the bowls hang in the air.

"The local market had fresh plums today," Toshinori said, breaking the silence with a soft, hopeful tone. He pushed a small wooden bowl toward the center of the table. "They’re quite sour, but they’re good for fatigue. You should have one before you head down to sleep."

Katsuki poked at his rice, his expression sourer than any plum. "I don't need fruit, old man. I need better ice."

Toshinori chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound that held no malice. "Always the ice. You know, when I first moved here, I hated how quiet it was. I used to keep the radio on all night just to drown out the silence. But after a while, you start to hear things you missed in the city. The way the wind moves through the pines... the way the lake breathes when it freezes."

Katsuki glanced up, his carmine eyes narrowed. "The lake doesn't breathe. It's just water."

"It’s a different rhythm, that's all," Toshinori replied gently, taking a slow sip of his tea. He leaned back, his oversized cardigan swallowed by the shadows of the room. "I've seen you watching the neighborhood kids on your walk back. The ones playing soccer by the clinic. You look like you want to tell them their footwork is atrocious."

"Because it is," Katsuki grunted, finally taking a bite of the fish. "They're uncoordinated. It's painful to look at."

"You have a sharp eye, Katsuki. You always have." Toshinori’s gaze softened. "It's why you were such a formidable pair skater. You don't just see your own movements; you see the entire space. You see the gaps."

Katsuki’s chopsticks paused for a fraction of a second. The mention of his "eye" hit a nerve he hadn't expected. For nearly two weeks, he’d been seeing gaps—not in his own routines, but in the way the other kid moved.

"The nerd," Katsuki said, his voice low and carefully neutral. He didn't look at Toshinori. "The one who mops. He’s got decent edges. Better than the hacks back at the academy."

Toshinori’s expression shifted, a flicker of something guarded crossing his face. 

"Izuku? Yes. He’s... dedicated."

"He’s weird.”

“… How so?”

“He moves like he’s got the whole rink mapped out in his head, but the second he gets into open ice, he falters.”

Toshinori went quiet. He didn't offer a defense or an explanation. He just picked up his teacup with a hand that trembled slightly more than usual.

"The stars are very clear tonight," Toshinori said after a long moment, his voice reaching for a change in subject. "You should look out the window before you go down. It helps with the feeling of being trapped."

“…”

“…”

“…Right.” Katsuki let out a sharp, dismissive huff. “It’s whatever. Night, old man.”

The utility closet was a narrow, windowless throat of a room tucked behind the locker rooms. It smelled of concentrated floor wax and the damp, heavy scent of the hockey gear stored in the back. 

Katsuki stopped at the door, his gear bag slung over one shoulder.  The light was off, the interior bathed in a dim, greyish gloom. Inside, Izuku was a dark silhouette standing perfectly still, his hand skimming the middle shelf with a rhythmic, light touch. 

“The light switch is right behind you.”

Izuku didn’t jump, “I’m aware.”

“Then use it. You’re wasting time.”

Katsuki didn't wait for a response. He reached out and snapped the switch.

The fluorescent bulb overhead flickered once and then flooded the tiny room with a harsh, buzzing yellow glare. The reaction was instant. Izuku's shoulders jerked up and he squeezed his eyes shut, his face twisting in a sharp, visible wince, his arm covering his face.

Katsuki didn't move. He stood there with his hand still on the switch, “it’s a light bulb, not a flash bang.”

Izuku didn't answer for a long moment, waiting for the stabbing pain behind his eyes to settle into a dull throb. He slowly lowered his arm, keeping his eyes down, fixed on the floorboards. 

“I’m just… sensitive to sudden light changes.” 

Katsuki hummed. 

“You were standing in the dark.”

“No, I was grabbing the window cleaner.”

Katsuki glanced at the shelf, reached out, grabbed the bottle and shoved it toward Izuku’s hand.

Izuku’s fingers brushed the plastic, and he gripped it immediately. He didn't look at it. He didn't look at Katsuki.

“Uh – thanks.”

“Yeah. See you ‘round, Freckles.”

Katsuki watched Izuku’s evening session. He was beginning to feel like a pervert of some sort.  But although he’d never admit it, he enjoyed watching Izuku.

 Katsuki watched with a clinical intensity. He had picked up an odd pattern over the last few weeks: the moment Izuku moved away from the wall, his body hitched. It was subtle—a fractional second of hesitation in the shoulders, a tightening of the core. His gaze, those wide green eyes, were slightly unfocused, sweeping the white expanse but never truly locking onto the markers.

Katsuki had seen rookies freeze up, but this wasn't panic; it was a physical disconnect. It was like his body knew the geometry of the move, but his sense of security left him. Izuku suddenly spun out of the cross-roll, a fast, tight turn, and compensated perfectly. But the sequence was broken. He was good—fuck, he was great—but his skating was punctuated by moments of inexplicable and risky stumbling.

Katsuki pulled out his phone, the screen's glow harsh in the dark stands. He typed: Izuku Midoriya figure skater.

Results: 0.

No records. No news. No digital footprint of a boy who skated like a natural law. If the kid was this good, why was he a ghost? Why was he wasting his time cleaning floors?

The only person who could surely explain the anomaly, was the man who housed him.

Katsuki slammed his phone onto the bench and headed straight for Toshinori's office. 

Katsuki didn’t bother to slow his pace as he reached the end of the corridor. He pushed the heavy wooden door to the office open without knocking.

The room was small, cramped, and smelled of the same cedar and old paper as the house. Toshinori was sitting at his desk, the warm light of a single lamp casting long shadows over the stacks of old skating magazines and framed certificates. He was looking at a photograph in a small, silver frame.

He didn't look up when Katsuki entered. He just let out a slow, tired sigh. "You're supposed to be resting for tomorrow’s training."

“What the hell is wrong with that kid?” Katsuki demanded, not bothering with pleasantries. He stood there, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the photograph Toshinori was holding.

It was a younger Izuku, maybe twelve or thirteen, grinning widely with a gold medal around his neck. His eyes in the photo were bright, sharp, and focused—completely different from the unfocused, searching look they had now.

Toshinori sighed, setting the photo down gently. “Young Bakugo, whatever do you mean?”

“What's the deal with him?" Katsuki asked, "I’ve been watching him. He's better than anyone you’ve got in this town. He’s better than most of the seniors back in the city."

The light from the lamp caught Toshinori’s weariness in his face, making the hollows of his cheeks look deeper. "He is. He was supposed to be the best."

"Then why is he scrubbing floors?”

Toshinori went utterly still. The amusement faded from his eyes, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“When I met young Midoriya, I saw pure, raw talent— we were aiming for— I saw gold.” 

“And?” 

“He was only thirteen…" Toshinori said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Working on a triple axel. He caught a toe pick on a bad landing. He hit his head on the ice. Hard."

Katsuki stared at him. The silence in the office felt heavy, the humidity of the evening pressing in through the open window.

Katsuki stared. The pieces clicking into place with a cold, sickening logic. The hesitant movements, the unfocused eyes, the reliance on sound and touch.

“The fall… he’s… what, he’s blind?” Katsuki asked, the accusation draining from his voice.

Katsuki studied his coach's posture, his tired eyes never leaving the picture on his desk. 

“The doctors called it a traumatic brain injury," Toshinori finally said. The words were clinical, stripped of warmth. "It damaged the visual cortex. He has significant vision loss—permanent. His depth perception and peripheral range are effectively gone. He’s legally blind, Katsuki."

Toshinori leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "He can't track the markers on the ice anymore. He doesn't know where the center of the rink is. That’s why he stays by the boards. He needs a physical anchor to know where he is in the space."

Katsuki stood there, silent for a long moment. He felt a strange, cold clarity. It suddenly clicked. He  hadn't seen a clumsy kid; he had seen a world-class athlete navigating a world where the map had been erased.

“And you’re letting him mop floors.”

Toshinori looked at him, surprised. “I’m letting him be safe," he replied. "What else is he supposed to do? You can't skate a singles routine if you can't navigate the ice."

Katsuki didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the office, his mind racing.

Another week passed. The humidity in Tōkuken  didn't break, and neither did the routine.

Katsuki’s training was a slow, quiet exercise in frustration. Every sequence made his muscle memory search for a partner who wasn't there. The ice felt too vast. He felt too alone.

He watched Izuku from the shadows of the bleachers during the evening sessions. He saw it now with new eyes—the way Izuku tilted his head to listen to the acoustics of the rink, the way his hand trailed near the boards like a lifeline. He wasn't just "hugging the wall." He was using it to stay grounded.

Watching Izuku skate was like watching a natural law in action. His edges were sharp, his carriage was perfect, and his flow was breathtaking. He moved with a kind of weightlessness that Katsuki couldn’t deny.

Then, he watched him move into a hydroblade—a long, low glide where his body was nearly parallel to the ice. A move that requires total trust in one's balance.

Katsuki felt a jolt of clarity.

With a partner to anchor him, to be his eyes, Izuku would be unstoppable. His lightness and musicality, combined with Katsuki's power and precision, would be championship gold.

Katsuki slammed his empty bottle down. He stood up and skated onto the ice.

Izuku stopped his sequence, pulling out an earbud as the spray of Katsuki's blades hit the barrier near him. “What do you want, Bakugo? Did you lose something?”

Katsuki skated right up to him, stopping inches away. His breath was ragged. He looked down at the shorter boy, at the wide, green eyes that searched for his face in the blur.

“I’m doing pairs,” Katsuki spat, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Izuku blinked, “Good for you. Go find another partner.”

“No,” Katsuki ground out, leaning in just enough to hold Izuku’s wandering focus. 

“You and me. We’re doing pairs.”

Chapter Text

The humidity of Tōkuken was a physical weight, a damp wool blanket that clung to the back of Izuku’s neck. But here, with his skates biting into the ice, the air was sharp and thin. It smelled of frozen water and the faint, underlying scent of cedar from the rafters—a smell that usually meant safety.

But today, the safety was gone.

Izuku’s left hand was clamped onto the top of the wooden boards. The grain was familiar, a rough map he’d memorized over the years. As long as he touched the wood, he knew where the world ended.

"You and me," the voice said. It was low, raspy, and carried the undeniable weight of an order. "We’re doing pairs."

In the center of Izuku’s narrow field of vision, Bakugo was a jagged streak of ink against the blinding white of the ice. His hair was a flickering, pale halo, catching the glare of the overhead lights until it practically vibrated.

Izuku’s chest tightened. His temper, usually kept under a mellow, practiced seal, flickered like a live wire.

"I don't do pairs," Izuku said, his voice flat. He didn't look at the blur of Bakugo’s face; he looked at the dark shadow of his chest. "I don't do charity cases, either. Find a partner who can actually see where you're going."

"I’m not looking for a guide dog, Deku," Bakugo snapped. 

The name felt like a physical shove. The dark streak moved closer, and Izuku felt the sudden bloom of heat that came with Bakugo’s presence. "I’m looking for someone who doesn't skate like a coward. You’ve got the edges. You’ve got the flow. But you’re rotting away over here by the wall."

"I am safe by the wall!" Izuku’s voice rose, his mellow mask cracking. "I know where the wall is. Out there—" He gestured vaguely toward the vast, screaming white void of the center rink. "Out there, the world doesn't have a floor.”

“Then let me be the floor."

The words were arrogant, cynical, and completely insane. Izuku didn’t hold back his bursting cackle. “That’s the cringiest thing I’ve ever heard—“ Before Izuku could process further, the dark streak lunged.

Izuku didn't see the hands coming. He felt them stiff, hot, and unyielding, clamping around his waist. He gasped, his fingers scrambling for the wood of the boards, but he was already moving. Bakugo’s strength was a shock; he didn't just pull Izuku away from the wall, he hoisted him.

Suddenly, the world vanished.

Izuku was in the air. His skates—his only connection to the physical earth—were dangling in nothingness. The boards were gone. The sound of the wood under his palm was replaced by the terrifying, hollow rush of the rink’s acoustics.

The White Abyss didn't just surround him now; it swallowed him. Without the boards, he had no up, no down, no center. He was floating in a sensory deprivation tank, and the only thing that existed in the entire universe was the iron-grip of the hands on his hips.

“Put me down!" Izuku shrieked, his voice cracking with a raw, primal terror. He thrashed, his hands coming down hard on Bakugo’s shoulders. He felt the thick, bunched muscle of the other man. Katsuki was a pillar of solid reality in a world that had turned to liquid.

Bakugo grunted, his own body stiffening in obvious discomfort. He clearly hated the proximity and the frantic clutching but he didn't let go. He skated three more strides into the dead center of the rink, his blades echoing like thunder in Izuku’s ears.

Then, he dropped him.

Izuku’s blades hit the ice with a jarring thud. He stumbled, his knees buckling. He spun around, arms flailing for a wall that was now twenty feet away. He was lost. He was drowning in the light.

"See?" Bakugo’s voice came from somewhere to his left, "you didn't die. You’re just standing in a different spot."

"You... you arrogant jerk!" Izuku swung blindly toward the sound. His hand connected with something solid—Bakugo’s chest. He didn't pull away. He gripped the fabric of Bakugo’s jacket, his knuckles white, using the man as a human anchor. "You have no right! You don't know what it's like when the lights eat everything!"

“—Enough!”

The voice boomed from the doorway. Toshinori.

Izuku didn't let go of Bakugo’s jacket. He couldn't. He stood there, chest heaving, his tunnelled vision fixed on the dark streak of Bakugo’s training gear while the rest of the world remained a shifting, terrifying blur.

Toshinori skated toward them, his rhythm slow and heavy. Izuku could feel the disappointment radiating off him, but there was something else, too.

"Young Bakugo is right about one thing, Izuku," Toshinori said, his voice softening as he reached them. "You are rotting by the boards. But he is wrong about the method. A pair isn't a kidnapping."

Toshinori looked at Bakugo, who was standing perfectly still, his shoulders tense by the way Izuku was still white-knuckling his lapels.

"A pair is one body," Toshinori declared. "If Izuku can't see the lead, he has to know the man. You won't touch the ice together again until you can navigate the world together. That is your assignment."

“Navigation?" Bakugo scoffed, though he didn't pull away from Izuku’s grip. "I’m not a tour guide."

"You are now," Toshinori replied firmly. "For one week, Bakugo, you are Izuku’s eyes outside the rink. No cane. No boards. Just your arm. You will talk. You will eat. You will walk the streets of Tōkuken until you build a bond. If you can't trust each other on gravel, you'll never trust each other on the ice."

Izuku could feel the vibrations of the ice beneath his skates, a low-frequency hum that seemed to match the thrumming of his own panicked heart.

"I didn't agree to this," Izuku rasped. He was still reeling from the sensation of the lift. The way his stomach had dropped, the way the world had turned into a formless, white scream. "Toshinori, I didn't say yes. I’m not— I’m not—!"

Toshinori stepped closer. To Izuku, the coach was a tall, familiar shadow, his presence smelling of the peppermint tea he drank to soothe his cough.

"I saw you two from the observation glass, Izuku," Toshinori said gently. "I saw young Bakugo march onto the ice with a purpose I haven't seen in him since he arrived. And I saw you, for the first time in years, move into the center of the rink."

“I was dragged here!" Izuku snapped, his temper flared by the lingering adrenaline.

"Maybe," Toshinori conceded. "But you didn't fall. And he didn't let you. Look at your hands, Izuku."

Izuku looked down. In the center of his vision, his knuckles were still ghost-white, his fingers hooked into the fabric of Katsuki’s dark training jacket. He hadn't let go. He was still using Katsuki as his only point of orientation.

He yanked his hands away as if the fabric had turned into hot coals.

Katsuki let out a sharp, jagged huff of air. He looked away, his blonde halo flickering as he turned his head toward the exit. "I’m not doing this for fun, old man. I’m doing it because I’m not finished. If he’s the only one with the edges to match me, then he’s the one I use. But I’m not holding his hand like a child."

“Then you’ve already failed the first lesson of a pair," Toshinori said, his voice taking on a rare, steel edge. "Izuku, you don't have to agree to skate. Not yet. But you will agree to the assignment. One week. If you still want to return to your boards and your mop after seven days, I will never mention pairs to you again. But for now... the ice is closed to both of you."

The walk to the locker rooms was a staggered, miserable affair. Izuku followed the rhythmic clack-clack of Katsuki’s guards on the concrete, using the sound to stay centered in the narrow hallway.

Inside the small, cedar-scented locker room, the air was thick. Izuku sat on the bench, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with his laces. Usually, he did this by feel, his fingers dancing over the leather. Today, they felt like lead.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over his field of vision. A dark streak had sat down on the bench directly opposite him.

"You’re shaking.”

"I’m fine.”

"You’re not. You’re terrified of the open ice." Bakugo stood up, the floorboards creaking. "Toshinori is an old romantic, thinking we’re going to 'bond.' I’m here to get back to the Grand Prix. If that means I have to let you hang onto my arm for a week so he opens the rink back up, then fine. Don't make it more than it is."

Izuku stood up, his skates finally off, his feet feeling heavy and strange in his sneakers. "I don't want your pity, Bakugo. I don't want to be your 'way back' to the top."

"I don't have pity to give," Bakugo snapped, turning toward the door. "Now come on. It’s dark out, it’s raining, and I have to get you to that dusty house of yours without you tripping over a pebble and ruining your ankles."

The transition from the cooled rink to the Tōkuken night was like walking into a steam room. The rain was a fine, misty drizzle that didn't cool the air but only made it heavier.

Outside the training center’s entrance, the world was a blur  of shifting shadows. The streetlamps were glowing, fuzzy orbs that bled light into the mist, washing out the edges of the sidewalk. To Izuku, the ground was a flat, gray mystery. He hesitated at the top of the concrete stairs, his hand hovering, searching for the metal railing.

"Here."

Katsuki didn't reach for Izuku’s hand. Instead, he jammed his elbow out, his arm a rigid, unwelcoming bar of muscle. He stood a half-step ahead, his posture stiff, his head turned away.

Izuku hesitated. This was the moment. He could refuse. He could find his own way, slow and careful, like he always did. But the memory of the White Abyss on the ice was still fresh—the feeling of having no floor, no ceiling, no him.

He reached out. His fingers closed around the rough fabric of Katsuki’s sleeve, just above the elbow.

Katsuki flinched. The muscle underneath Izuku’s hand twitched violently, and Katsuki’s shoulder bunched up toward his ear.

“Don't grip so hard," Katsuki muttered, though he didn't pull away. "You’re going to wrinkle the jacket."

"Then don't walk so fast," Izuku countered, his voice prickling with defensive heat.

They began to move.

Tōkuken at night was a chorus of sounds. The rain on the leaves, the distant, muffled rhythm of a passing car, and the steady, aggressive thud of Katsuki’s boots. Izuku focused entirely on that thud. He let the sound of Katsuki’s steps tell him where the pavement was level. He let the heat radiating off Katsuki’s arm tell him how close they were to the hedge on the left.

"Is it always like this?" Katsuki asked after a long block of silence. His voice was quieter now, filtered through the damp air.

"Like what?"

"The way you’re looking at the ground like it’s going to open up and swallow you."

Izuku tightened his grip on the sleeve, feeling the solid, unyielding reality of the man beside him. "It doesn't swallow me. It just... disappears. If I don't have something to touch, I don't know where I am in the space. It’s like being in the middle of a cloud."

Katsuki didn't answer. He didn't offer words of comfort. But he did something else. He slowed his pace. 

The realization of the distance didn't hit Katsuki until they were twenty minutes into the walk. The pavement of the town center had long since given way to a narrow, winding track of packed dirt and loose stone. The humidity here was thicker, smelling of rotting leaves and the deep, cold dampness of the lake.

"How much further?" Katsuki barked. He was still stiff, his elbow held out like a wooden peg. His training gear was starting to stick to his skin, and his annoyance was simmering.

“About three more miles," 

"Three miles? In the dark? Every day?" Katsuki stopped short, nearly jolting Izuku off his feet. "Toshinori didn't say anything about a cross-country hike. Why the hell do you live all the way out here?"

Izuku pulled his hand away from Katsuki’s sleeve, his face setting into a hard, defensive line. "Because it was cheap, Bakugo. My mother bought it because no one else wanted a house that was falling down and three towns away from a grocery store. If you have a problem with the commute, you’re free to go back to your basement."

Katsuki stared at the dark streak of Izuku’s silhouette. He could hear the prickle in the other man’s voice. His mellow exterior gone. 

“Fine," Katsuki spat, jamming his arm back out. "Keep moving. I'm not getting eaten by bears because you're sensitive about your real estate."

When the house finally appeared, it didn't look like a home so much as a shadow. It was a small, traditional minka: weathered wood, a heavy tiled roof that sagged in the center, and sliding shoji doors that looked fragile in the mist. It was isolated. There were no streetlamps here, only the silver-gray reflection of the lake through the trees.

Katsuki followed Izuku up the stone path. He noticed the way Izuku’s feet never hesitated on the uneven rocks. 

“Stay here," Izuku said, his voice dropping as he reached the sliding door. "I'll turn on the light."

Katsuki stepped into the genkan and immediately felt the shift in atmosphere. The house smelled of damp cedar, cold stone, and something sweet, like dried flowers.

As the single, low-wattage bulb flickered to life, the house revealed itself. It was a beautiful, crumbling relic. The tatami mats were worn, the paper on the doors was yellowed with age, and the kitchen was a tiny, cramped space with a single burner.

Katsuki looked around, his eyes narrowing. He saw the way Izuku had mapped the space with strips of high-contrast tape on the edges of the steps, the way every piece of furniture was pushed against a wall to keep the center of the rooms clear and a single chair, perfectly centered in front of the window overlooking the lake.

“You live here alone.”

“Most of the time," Izuku said. He was busy putting his keys in a small wooden bowl. "My mother works in the city. She worries. Toshinori worries. I don't."

Izuku stood by the kitchen counter, his silhouette a dark, still smudge against the dim light from the porch. He didn't turn on the overheads. He didn't need to. He moved a hand to find the edge of the table, his movements practiced and rhythmic, navigating the shadows without a single stumble.

Katsuki watched him for a second longer than he intended. It was annoying. The way the nerd moved with more certainty in this dark, rotting box than he did on the ice. It made the "assignment" feel even more like a waste of time.

"You've got a draft in the corner," Katsuki noted, his tone blunt and uncharitable. He walked back toward the door, his shoulders hunched, "and the floorboards near the sink are soft. Fix them before you put a foot through the wood."

"I know where the soft spots are, Bakugo.”

"Yeah, well, I don't need you breaking a leg before we even get back on the ice." Katsuki stepped back out onto the porch, the humid night air rushing to meet him. He turned back, his blonde hair a pale, vibrating blur in the flickering porch light.

"Seven A.M sharp," Katsuki stated, his hand gripping the frame of the sliding door. "I’ll be at the end of the gravel lane. If you aren't there, I'm coming up here and dragging you out. Don't make me do it."

"I'll be there.”

Katsuki slid the door shut with more force than necessary. The thud was final, a heavy punctuation mark in the silence of the woods. He turned and began the long, solitary trek back toward the town, his heart still thumping with the leftover adrenaline of the rink, his mind already calculating the hours of sleep he was losing to this hike.

Izuku stood at the edge of the gravel lane, his fingers curled into the straps of his gear bag. He was early. He was always early. To him, the morning was a chorus of wet sounds. The dripping of the cedar trees, the heavy drops of water hitting the surface of the lake, and the distant, rhythmic croak of bullfrogs.

He didn't have his cane today. Toshinori had been clear: No cane. No boards. Just the man.

It felt like a betrayal of the life he’d built since he was thirteen. For seven years, the cane had been his primary bridge to the world, a way to reclaim the independence the ice had taken from him on that frozen lake. Without it, he felt stripped back to that first year of recovery, vulnerable, blind, and waiting for someone else to tell him where the floor was.

Then, he heard it.

The sound of footsteps on the gravel different from his own. It was aggressive, the heel-strike heavy and intentional. Katsuki didn't walk; he conquered the ground beneath him.

"You're actually here," his voice rasped out of the gray of the morning.

Katsuki emerged from the mist like an ink blot. To Izuku’s narrow vision, he was a pillar of black training gear topped with that pale, glowing halo of hair. He didn't slow down as he approached. He stopped exactly two feet away, close enough that Izuku could feel the bloom of heat radiating from his body, cutting through the damp morning chill.

"I said I would be," Izuku replied, his voice thick with sleep.

Katsuki didn't offer a "good morning." He didn't ask how Izuku had managed for nearly a decade in a house that felt like a relic. He simply jammed his elbow out, his arm a rigid, unyielding bar of muscle.

"Let’s go. I’m not spending the whole morning standing in the weeds."

Izuku hesitated. His hand hovered in the air, searching for the familiar rough texture of the jacket sleeve. When his fingers finally closed around it, he felt Katsuki’s entire arm nearly bolt-upright. The muscle beneath the fabric twitched, a sharp, involuntary flinch that made Izuku’s own shoulders bunch.

Katsuki hated this. He was a man built for speed and power, and here he was, tethered to a man who had been out of the game so long he had to navigate every pebble as if it were a landmine.

"You're walking too fast," Izuku snapped three minutes into the hike. The gravel was shifting under his sneakers, and without the cane to probe the depth, every step felt like a gamble.

"I'm walking at a normal human pace, Deku," Katsuki shot back, though he didn't pull his arm away. "Maybe if you hadn't spent the last hundred years hiding, your legs would remember how to move."

"I know how to move! I just can't see the dip in the road!"

"Then trust the lead.”

“…”

"If I'm not stumbling, you aren't stumbling. Just... stop thinking about your feet and move."

It was an impossible request. For Izuku, "thinking about his feet" was the only thing that had kept him upright since middle school. But as the miles dragged on, something strange happened. Because Katsuki was so stiff, so incredibly, stubbornly rigid, he became a perfect physical signal. Every time Katsuki’s shoulder dropped, Izuku knew there was a slope. Every time Katsuki’s pace hitched, Izuku knew there was an obstacle.

Katsuki was a "polite jerk" of a guide, but he was precise. He treated the walk like a technical drill, his arm providing a constant, unmoving point of reference in the gray void of the morning.

By the time they reached the town center, the sun was a pale, searing smudge in the sky, turning the mist into a blinding white glare that made Izuku’s eyes ache.

"We're eating," Katsuki announced. He didn't ask. He simply steered Izuku toward the bell-chime entrance of the only diner in Tōkuken that served breakfast past eight. The air inside was thick with the scent of grease, cheap coffee, and old vinyl. To Izuku, it was a nightmare of acoustics. The clattering of silverware, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the muffled voices of the regulars.

Katsuki didn't lead him to a booth. He found a small table in the corner, away from the windows where the glare was strongest. He didn't pull out Izuku's chair, but he stood there until Izuku's hand found the back of it.

"Sit," Katsuki said. He sat opposite him, the chair creaking under his weight.

The silence between them was sharp. Izuku stared at the shifting blur of the table. He could see the dark rectangle of the menu, but the text was a swarm of black ants, unreadable. For years, he had survived on the same two meals just to avoid the embarrassment of this moment.

"What’s on it?" Izuku whispered.

He expected a jab. Instead, he heard the sharp snap of the menu being opened.

"They've got pancakes," Katsuki said flatly. "Eggs—scrambled, fried. Coffee that looks like it was brewed in a shoe."

Izuku blinked. "I’ll just... have the pancakes, please."

When the food arrived, Katsuki did something that made Izuku blink aghast. Katsuki reached out and tapped the edge of the plate at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, and six o’clock.

"Pancakes are at center," Katsuki muttered, his voice low so the other customers wouldn't hear. "Syrup is in a small cup at two o'clock. Coffee is at ten. Don't knock it over."

Izuku sat there, his fork hovering. "Toshinori told you to do that."

"Toshinori gave me a pamphlet," Katsuki snapped, his face turning a dull, embarrassed red that Izuku could just barely register in the blur. "Said if I wanted a partner, I had to learn the protocol. It’s inefficient to have you fumbling around. Just eat."

It was the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for him in years, and it was delivered with the grace of a physical assault.

“Off-ice training only," Toshinori declared. "If you can't balance together on the floor, you'll never survive a throw on the ice. Bakugo, Izuku—center of the room."

The dry-land training room was a mirrored box that smelled of rubber and old sweat. For Izuku, the mirrors were a chaotic kaleidoscope of light.

"Face each other," Toshinori ordered. "Close your eyes, young Bakugo."

"Why?"

"Because you're trying to lead Izuku like he's a sighted partner. Close them. Feel the weight of his breath."

Katsuki complied, letting out a low, guttural growl.

Izuku stood in front of him, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was closer than they had been on the walk. He could smell the sharp, peppery scent of Katsuki’s and the underlying heat of his skin.

"Hands on each other's shoulders," Toshinori commanded.

Izuku reached out. His palms landed on the thick, hard muscle of Katsuki’s shoulders. Katsuki’s hands followed, his fingers digging into Izuku’s shoulders with a grip that was entirely too tight.

“You’re shaking.”

“Am not.”

“You are. I can feel your pulse through your shirt. It’s like a rabbit stuck in a trap."

"Focus, boys." Toshinori spoke. "Now, lean. Small circles. Find the common center."

“You're resisting!" Katsuki snapped, opening his eyes. His blonde hair was damp with sweat. "I'm trying to set the axis, and you're pulling back!"

"Because you're moving like a tank!" 

“No, I’m not!”

“I can't follow a lead that feels like an attack, Bakugo!"

"It’s a signal!"

"Well, it’s a shit signal!"

They stood there in the center of the rubber floor, chest to chest, glares meeting in a space that was only inches wide. Katsuki didn't pull away. He stood his ground, his hands still clamped onto Izuku’s shoulders, his breath hot against Izuku’s forehead.

"A pair is a conversation," Toshinori spoke. "Right now, you’re both just screaming. Go home. Talk about something other than skating."

The walk back to the lakeside house was slower. The humidity had finally broken into a soft, steady rain—a quiet, rhythmic drizzle that made the gravel path slick.

Izuku gripped Katsuki’s sleeve. He was exhausted. His brain was fried from a day of processing noise, and his legs ached from the six miles they’d covered since morning.

"Why did you choose me, Bakugo?" Izuku whispered as they reached the edge of the lake. "Truly. I’ve been off the ice for years. There are dozens of skaters in the city who are available and ready to just… go.”

Katsuki stopped. He didn't turn to look at Izuku, but the tension in his arm changed.

“Because they're all the same," Katsuki said, his voice raspy. "They all skate with one eye on the judges and the other on their own reflection. They're careful."

He turned slightly, his pale halo catching the faint silver light reflecting off the lake.

"You aren't careful, Deku. You skate like you're trying to prove the ice doesn't exist. It’s a contradiction. And I..." He paused, his throat working. "I’ve spent my whole life being perfect. I want to see if the contradiction is better."

Izuku stood there, the rain soaking into his hair. For the first time, he felt the weight of Katsuki’s ambition, not as a threat, but as a shared burden.

They reached the porch of the Minka. The flickering yellow light was a beacon in the dark.

"Seven A.M sharp," Katsuki said. He didn't wait for a "thank you." He simply turned and disappeared into the rain, his heavy footsteps fading into the silence of the woods.

Izuku felt the ghost of Katsuki’s hands on his shoulders, and the terrifying, beautiful possibility that for the first time in years, he wasn't navigating the void alone.

The week had been a slow, grueling exercise in patience that neither of them possessed. Toshinori’s assignment was a iron-clad decree: for seven days, they were tethered. No ice, no skates, no cane. Just the friction of their tempers and the stiff, reluctant contact of Katsuki’s arm.

Their days were spent in the stifling heat of the training center’s off-ice gym. Toshinori had them performing balance drills that felt more like a test of nerves than athletics. For Izuku, those hours were a sensory overload. Without his sight to ground him, he had to rely on the heat radiating from Katsuki’s chest and the rhythmic, aggressive sound of his breathing. Every time their skin met, Izuku felt the hitch in Katsuki’s movement, a sharp, involuntary recoil that spoke of a deep-seated discomfort. Yet, despite the weirdness of it all, Katsuki never pulled away entirely. 

By the fifth evening, the air in Tōkuken had reached a breaking point. The humidity was a physical weight, thick enough to taste, and the sky had turned the color of a fresh bruise. As they stepped out of the training center to begin the long trek back to the lake, the clouds finally gave way. It wasn't a gentle rain; it was a sudden, violent deluge that turned the world into a wall of gray water.

"Fucking great," Katsuki growled, his voice rasping against the roar of the downpour. He jammed his elbow out, his arm a bar of iron. "Grab on. I’m not spending the night in a gutter because you can’t navigate a puddle."

Izuku reached out, his fingers locking onto the rough fabric of Katsuki’s sleeve. He could feel the tension in the muscle beneath, the way Katsuki’s shoulder bunched up as if braced for a strike. They moved onto the gravel path, the sound of the rain hitting the trees a rhythmic, percussive chaos that drowned out everything but the sound of their own footsteps.

The three-mile walk felt longer in the storm. The gravel was shifting, slick with mud, and Izuku had to lean more heavily into Katsuki’s side than he ever had before. Every time he stumbled, Katsuki’s grip would tighten instinctively, hauling him upright with a strength that was devoid of gentleness but filled with a fierce, stubborn competence.

As they crested the final hill, the acoustics of the world shifted. The dense sound of the forest opened up into a vast, hollow silence, broken only by the rhythmic slap of rain on open water.

“The lake," Katsuki noted, his voice dropping an octave as the dark expanse of the water came into view. He looked at the shore, then back at the small, aging house. "Is that why you're out here? You're so obsessed with the ice you have to sleep next to it?"

It’s the only place I ever felt like I was flying," Izuku said, his voice quiet against the roar of the rain. He turned his head toward the water, his eyes unfocused. "I was out there, just past the reeds, when I went down. I didn't even see the patch of black ice until I was already hitting it."

Katsuki went still. He looked out at the bruised violet of the water, then back at the man tethered to his arm. He hadn't realised this was the place. The fact that Izuku lived here, within earshot of the very thing that had shattered his world, hit Katsuki with the force of a physical strike.

"So this is it? The spot?" Katsuki asked, his voice taking on that blunt, raspy edge. He looked at Izuku, who was standing perfectly steady in the downpour. "You're remarkably calm for someone standing on the edge of the place that took half his brain."

Izuku let out a small, huffed breath that might have been a laugh. "It’s been years, Bakugo. If I let myself be afraid of the water, I’d have to be afraid of my own front door. I made my peace with the shore a long time ago."

Katsuki didn't respond, but the anger he usually carried felt different now. Sharper, less about himself and more about the sheer, stubborn idiocy of the man beside him. He steered them toward the dark shadow of the minka, his grip on Izuku's arm tightening just enough to ensure they didn't slip on the mud.

They scrambled onto the porch, the air smelling of damp cedar and wet earth. Izuku slid the door open, the familiar scent of his home, green tea and old paper, wrapping around them.

"You're staying," Izuku stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "The road back will be washed out by now. You'll never make it back to Toshinori’s in this."

Katsuki stood in the genkan, water pooling around his boots. He looked like he wanted to argue, but the sheer violence of the wind against the paper doors made even him pause.

"Fine," he muttered, kicking off his shoes with a frustrated thud.

Izuku moved into the house. He didn't turn on the lights. In the dim, blue-gray glow of the storm, he was a ghost, moving through the cramped living space with a fluid, relaxed grace. He didn't stumble; he didn't reach for the walls. He navigated the shadows by the feeling of the floorboards and the memory of the space.

Katsuki watched him from the doorway, his own body feeling far too large and aggressive for the quiet, aging house. He saw the way Izuku moved—how he found the linen closet by the texture of the wood, how he navigated around the low table without even looking. It was a technical mastery that made Katsuki’s own movements feel clumsy.

"Towels," Izuku said, reappearing and holding out a bundle of white cotton. Katsuki took them, his fingers brushing Izuku’s cold, wet skin. The weirdness of the contact hit him again, but he didn't pull away this time. He just draped the towel over his head, his face obscured by the cloth.

"Kitchen is this way," Izuku said. "I'll make tea."

Katsuki followed him into the narrow kitchen. He stood in the corner, watching as Izuku moved to the stove. It was a tiny space, and with the two of them in it, the air felt thick and overcharged. Katsuki’s presence was a heavy, brooding energy that Izuku could feel against his back.

“I'll do it," Katsuki stepped in, his shoulder brushing against Izuku’s as he reached for the kettle.

"I can do it, Bakugo. I've lived here since forever—"

"I’m faster.”

Snatching the kettle from his hand, Katsuki didn't wait for a rebuttal. He filled the kettle by the sound of the water hitting the bottom, his movements sharp and efficient. He found the matches on the counter and lit the gas ring, the small blue flame casting long, dancing shadows across their faces.

"Sit," Katsuki ordered, gesturing toward the low table in the living room. "Toshinori’s assignment is for us to 'bond,' right? So talk. Why the hell are you still here, Deku? Why not go back to the city with your mother?"

Izuku sat on a cushion, his fingers tracing the grain of the worn wood table. "Because in the city, the world is too loud. The sirens, the crowds... it all bleeds together into a noise I can't map. Here, the world is quiet enough that I can hear the edges of things." He looked toward the kitchen, his eyes wide and unfocused. "And besides. If I left, it would mean the lake won.”

Katsuki brought the tea over, setting the tray down with a deliberate tap on the wood to signal its location. He sat opposite Izuku, his legs crossed, "you're a contradiction," he  said, taking a sip of the green tea. "You act like you’re at peace in this graveyard, but when you’re on the ice, you look like you’re trying to tear the world apart."

"Maybe I am.”

They sat in the dimness for a long time, the only sound was the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof. They didn't talk about technical scores or pair dynamics. They talked about the humidity, the way the local diner’s coffee tasted like battery acid, and the weird, peppermint-scented soap Toshinori kept in the training center showers.

Katsuki remained stiff, his body angled away, the weirdness of the intimacy still a low-frequency hum in his bones. But as the hour passed, he stopped looking at the exit and started looking at the man across from him—really looking at the way Izuku’s hands moved, the way he tilted his head to listen to the storm, the way he seemed to occupy the space so naturally.

As the rain finally slowed to a rhythmic drip, Katsuki stood up. The week was nearly over. The assignment was reaching its end.

"Seven A.M sharp," Katsuki said, his hand lingering on the sliding door as he prepared to step back onto the porch. "Toshinori’s week is up tomorrow. We’re getting back on the ice. No more balance drills, no more walking."

Izuku stood on the porch, the scent of the wet earth filling his senses. "I'll be there, Bakugo."

Chapter Text

The humidity of Tōkuken always seemed to stop at the heavy, double-paned glass of the training center’s entrance. Inside, the air was a different beast. Thin, sharp, and smelling of frozen water and the old, dry cedar of the rafters.

It was seven in the morning. The rink was a cathedral of hollow acoustics, the only sound the distant, rhythmic hum of the refrigeration units.

Izuku stood at the edge of the rubber matting, his fingers hooked into the top of the wooden boards. The grain of the wood was his only map, a rough, familiar texture that told him exactly where the world began and where it ended. He’d spent eight years clinging to this wood, using it to anchor himself against the shifting, formless blur of the ice.

Today, his cane was locked in the cedar-scented locker room. Today, there were no boards.

"The ice hasn't changed since yesterday, Deku," a voice rasped.

Katsuki was already out there. To Izuku’s narrow, straw-like vision, he was a dark, vertical streak of ink against a world of blinding white. His blonde hair caught the glare of the overhead stadium lights, vibrating like a pale, jagged halo.

Katsuki watched him from ten feet away, his blades making a rhythmic, aggressive scritch as he shifted his weight. He felt the familiar simmer of repressed anger—that roiling frustration at the way Izuku was currently standing. Izuku looked small, his shoulders hunched, his knuckles ghost-white as they gripped the wood. To Katsuki, it looked like cowardice. He didn’t understand the physics of what Izuku was seeing. He didn't know that for Izuku, the center of the rink was a sensory deprivation tank where "down" didn't exist. Katsuki just saw a talent wasting away because it was too afraid to leave the wall.

"I'm not going to stand here and watch you pet the wood all morning," Katsuki snapped, his voice echoing in the rafters. "Step on or go home. I’ve got a career to rebuild, and I’m not doing it at a walking pace."

Izuku’s jaw tightened. The mellow, patient mask he usually wore was beginning to fray at the edges, scorched by the sheer arrogance of the man in the center. He took a breath, the cold air tasting like iron in his lungs, and stepped onto the ice.

The world instantly turned to liquid.

Without the tactile feedback of the boards, Izuku’s internal compass spun wildly. The ice wasn't a solid floor; it was a vast, bottomless glare. The white of the surface bled into the white of the walls, erasing the horizon line. He felt the weightless, terrifying sensation of floating in a void, his brain screaming as it lost the sense of depth.

“I... I can't tell how far you are," Izuku whispered, his voice trembling. He took one tentative stride, his blades feeling like they were sliding on glass rather than biting into ice.

Katsuki scoffed, a sharp, jagged sound. "I'm right in front of you, nerd. Stop acting like I'm a ghost. Use your eyes."

"I am using them!" Izuku yelled back, his temper finally snapping. "The light is eating everything, Katsuki! You're just a smudge of black in a world of white. I don't know if you're five feet away or twenty!"

Katsuki went still. He looked at Izuku—really looked at him. He saw the way Izuku’s green eyes were wide, darting frantically, unable to settle on a single point of reference. He saw the way Izuku’s hands were reaching out, fingers splayed, grasping at the empty, cold air as if searching for a phantom wall.

The annoyance didn't vanish, but it shifted. It turned from frustration into a cold, focused curiosity. He realized then that Izuku wasn't seeing him at all. He was navigating a nightmare.

"Fine," Katsuki muttered. He skated in close, the sound his blades made, loud and rhythmic. He didn't stop until he was inches away. He saw the way Izuku flinched as the dark streak suddenly grew in size, the heat of Katsuki’s presence hitting him like a physical blow.

"I'm right here," Katsuki said, his voice dropping into a lower, more grounded register. He reached out and caught Izuku’s forearms.

The touch was a shock. Katsuki’s hands were hot, and his grip was firm. Aggressive, but steady. He felt the way Izuku’s muscles were vibrating, a fine, high-frequency tremor of pure terror. It felt weird to be this close. To Katsuki, touch had always been a tool of the trade, a way to hoist a partner or stabilize a landing but this was different. He was acting as a literal anchor for someone who was drowning in the light.

"Don't pull away," Katsuki ordered, his fingers digging into Izuku’s sleeves. "I’m the lead. If you can't see the ice, then feel the pressure in my hands. If I move, you move."

“You're too fast," Izuku panted, his hands coming up to grip Katsuki’s wrists. He was white-knuckling the other man, using him as a human replacement for the boards. "Everything about you is too fast."

"Then keep up," Katsuki countered.

They began to move, slowly at first. It was a clashing of physics. Katsuki moved with the power of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Izuku moved with the hesitation of a man who expected the floor to vanish at any second. Katsuki could feel every stumble through their connected arms. He felt the way Izuku’s weight shifted incorrectly, the way he leaned back instead of into the curve. It was inefficient. It was messy.

“Stop looking for the ground," Katsuki ordered. He was so close that Izuku could smell the sharp, pepper scent of his soap and the underlying, metallic tang of the ice. "The ground is a lie. Look at me."

At first, it was a disaster of clashing rhythms. Katsuki was too fast, his movements driven by a decade of singular, perfectionist momentum. He expected Izuku to react like a machine, to anticipate the lead before it was even given. Izuku, in turn, was too hesitant. He was still trying to "see" the ice, his body tensing with every stride as he waited for the edge of the rink to appear in the gloom.

"You're fighting me!" Katsuki growled, his breath hot against Izuku’s forehead as they glided through a long, sweeping curve.

"I'm not fighting you, I'm trying not to die!" Izuku yelled back, his own temper finally surfacing through the fear. "I need to know where the center is!"

"I am the center!"

Katsuki stopped abruptly, the spray of ice from his blades hitting Izuku’s shins. He didn't let go of Izuku’s arms. He pulled him in until their chests were inches apart, until the only thing Izuku could perceive in the entire world was the heavy, rhythmic thrum of Katsuki’s presence.

"Look," Katsuki said, "The ice is a void. Fine. Let it be a void. But I am solid. Do you feel that?" He gave Izuku’s arms a sharp, grounding tug. "I’m not a wall. I'm a signal. If you stop trying to find the boards and start trying to find me, the void doesn't matter."

Izuku took a shaky breath. He closed his eyes—it was easier that way, letting the shifting blur of the rink vanish entirely. In the darkness, the world narrowed down to the heat of Katsuki’s palms on his arms and the sound of their shared breathing.

“Again," Izuku whispered.

This time, the friction changed.

Katsuki slowed his pace, his movements becoming more deliberate, more rhythmic. He started providing check-ins—a slight squeeze of the forearm before a turn, a shift in his weight that Izuku could feel through the contact. It wasn't kind; it was technical. But it worked. 

Katsuki watched the transformation with a quiet, roiling intensity. The second Izuku stopped fighting the void, his skating changed. The weightless, fluid contradiction returned. Izuku moved like he was part of the wind, his edges silent and precise. 

"There," Katsuki whispered, more to himself than to Izuku. "Keep that edge. Don't look at the walls. Just feel where I'm leaning."

The discomfort Katsuki felt—that strange, intrusive heat that came with being this close to someone—didn't go away. It just became a background hum, a professional necessity that was slowly turning into something else. 

By the time Friday arrived, Katsuki was physically fine, but he felt a strange, heavy restlessness in his chest. Being the eyes for another person was more exhausting than any quad-jump he’d ever landed. It required a constant, vigilant awareness of every micro-movement, every twitch of Izuku’s fingers.

Izuku, however, looked like a ghost.

He slumped onto the bench in the locker room, his skates still on, his head hanging between his knees. The mental energy required to process a world of static while moving at high speeds had drained him to the marrow. His brain felt like it was full of gray wool, overstimulated and under-fueled.

"Here," Katsuki grunted. He tossed a sports drink at Izuku’s lap. He didn't offer a "good job." He didn't tell him he’d been brave. He just sat on the opposite bench, his own shoulders tense, staring at the scuff marks on the floor.

Izuku fumbled for the bottle, his fingers clumsy. He took a long, slow drink, the sugar hitting his system with a dull thud. "I... I think my brain is melting," he said, his voice sounding hollow.

"It’s because you're still trying to see too much," Katsuki said, his voice blunt. "You’re fighting it. You need to just trust my signals. It’s inefficient to use that much energy on trash data."

Izuku let out a small, tired huff. "Trash data. That’s a very Bakugo Katsuki way to put it."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the smell of the damp cedar walls and the lingering chill from the rink. The weirdness of the morning—the way they had shared a single center of gravity—was still a low-frequency hum between them. They weren't friends. They weren't even really partners yet. They were just two points of friction trying to survive the same void.

Toshinori appeared in the doorway, his silhouette thin against the afternoon light. He looked at them—one sitting in a heap of exhaustion, the other a coiled spring.

"The Tōkuken Summer Festival is tomorrow night," Toshinori said, his voice carrying an immovable weight.

"No," Katsuki said instantly. "We’re behind. We need more ice time."

"You need to breathe," Toshinori countered. "A pair is a living thing. If you only feed it work, it will starve. Izuku, you look like a ghost. Bakugo, you are wound tight enough to snap. Tomorrow, the rink is closed. You will go to the festival. You will exist as people in the world."

“I don't do festivals," Katsuki snapped, standing up with an aggressive clatter of his guards. "They're loud, they're crowded, and they're a waste of time."

"Then consider it a tactical exercise," Toshinori said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "If Izuku can navigate a festival crowd with you, he can navigate a stadium in the city. Go.”

Katsuki let out a sharp, jagged growl of frustration, but he didn't argue. He knew that tone. He looked over at Izuku, whose eyes were closed, his face pale in the dim light of the locker room.

"Fine," Katsuki spat, grabbing his gear bag. "But I'm not wearing a damn kimono."

“Seven A.M sharp?” Izuku whispered from the bench, his eyes still shut. 

“What?”

"You said seven, for the walk, right?"

"No," Katsuki said, his voice dropping into a lower, raspy register that Izuku could feel in his bones. "I’ll be at the end of your gravel lane at five P.M. Be ready, nerd. If I have to spend a night in a crowd, you’re going to be the one making it worth my time."

He marched out of the room, the heavy thud of his boots echoing in the hallway. Izuku sat in the silence, Katsuki’s pepper scent still lingering in the air.

Katsuki leaned against the weathered stone marker at the edge of the lane, his boots scuffing the dirt. He wasn't checking his watch. He didn't need to. He was listening to the rhythm of the gravel further up the path: a steady, light crunch that he’d spent a week memorising.

Izuku appeared through the golden haze of the sunset, his dark green linen shirt looking almost black in the failing light. He walked with a sharp, focused energy, his chin tilted slightly as if he were catching a scent on the wind. He didn't have his cane. He didn't even have his hand outstretched. He moved with the confidence of a man who had walked this particular mile of earth every day for eight years.

“You’re a minute late," Katsuki said. His voice was raspy, stripped of its usual bite, sounding almost thoughtful in the quiet of the woods.

"I had a disagreement with a button," Izuku replied, his tone just as sharp. He stepped onto the asphalt, his hearing picking up the change in the road’s texture. 

They turned toward the town together. They didn't touch—not yet. They walked side-by-side, their strides falling into a synchronized cadence that felt less like a training drill and more like a shared conversation. To Izuku, the road was a map of sound and temperature. He could feel the cool draft from the bamboo groves on the right, the way the sound of the cicadas changed pitch when the trees grew denser, and the exact moment the gravel gave way to the smooth, heat-retaining asphalt of the main road. 

“The wind is coming from the south tonight," Izuku noted, his voice mellow. "That means the festival smell will hit us before we even see the lanterns. It’ll be oil and sugar first."

Katsuki watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"You're remarkably chatty today," 

"It’s a festival, Katsuki. I'm allowed to be excited." 

Izuku’s shoulder brushed against Katsuki’s arm. A brief, accidental contact that sent a jolt of friction through both of them. Izuku didn't pull away immediately. "Besides, I wanted to show you the shrine. Most people just go for the stalls, but the inner courtyard has these old cedar trees that catch the sound of the drums perfectly. It’s... it's the only place the noise makes sense to me."

Katsuki felt a strange, heavy pressure in his chest. It wasn't the simmering anger he was used to; it was a deepening curiosity, a need to see the world through the narrow, vibrating lens that Izuku lived in.

"Then lead the way." 

The walk into Tōkuken felt less like a commute and more like an infiltration.

The evening air was thick, smelling of resinous pine and the heavy, electric hum of cicadas. To Izuku, the world was a series of gradients. The cooling asphalt beneath his sneakers, the shift from the open, breezy lakeside to the close-set timber buildings of the town center. He didn't need a hand to hold. He walked with a sharp, focused energy, his chin tilted as if he could feel the shape of the street through the pressure of the air against his skin.

Katsuki matched his pace, his presence a constant, radiating heat to Izuku’s left. He watched the way Izuku’s feet never hesitated at the transition from gravel to stone. There was a prickly competence in the way the other man moved—a refusal to stumble that Katsuki found himself respecting more than he wanted to admit.

The entrance to Tōkuken’s main square was a sensory explosion.

The world transformed into a shifting, liquid gallery of gold and crimson. The hundreds of paper lanterns were no longer distinct objects; they were vibrant, bleeding smears of light that floated in the dark. Because Izuku’s brain couldn't process the depth, the lanterns looked like they were hovering inches from his face, a beautiful, chaotic neon dream.

"Oh," Izuku breathed, his pace slowing.

Katsuki saw the change instantly. He saw the way Izuku’s green eyes widened, the way they darted toward the lights, trying to stitch the smears into a coherent image. He didn't wait for Izuku to ask. He reached out and caught Izuku’s hand, his fingers sliding into the gaps between Izuku's with a proprietary, unhesitating grip.

"Don't get lost in the glare.”

Izuku’s fingers tightened around Katsuki’s. He squeezed Katsuki’s hand, his palm hot and dry against Katsuki’s calloused one. "I'm not lost," Izuku whispered. "It’s just... it's more beautiful than I remember. The way the red bleeds into the shadows... It looks like a painting."

Katsuki didn't look at the lanterns. He looked at the way the light caught the bridge of Izuku’s nose, the way the crimson glow softened the prickly, defensive line of his jaw. The "weirdness" of the intimacy had long since melted into something more substantial—a shared gravity that made the crowd around them feel like ghosts.

They moved through the stalls like a single unit. Izuku led them toward the back alleys he knew by heart, "Left here," Izuku said, steering them toward the shrine. "The main road will be a bottleneck. We’ll take the cedar path."

The shrine grounds were a pocket of relative calm. The air here was cooler, smelling of ancient stone and deep earth. Massive cedar trees lined the courtyard, their branches catching the distant glow of the lanterns and turning it into a soft, dappled gold.

"This is what I wanted to show you," Izuku whispered. He stopped in the center of the courtyard, his face relaxing for the first time all day. "The trees... they act like a filter. They catch the echoes from the square and soften them. This is the only place where the music actually has a shape I can understand."

Katsuki looked up. The trees were titans, their gnarled trunks disappearing into the dark. 

"It’s quiet," Katsuki admitted. He stepped closer, his shoulder brushing against Izuku’s. He didn't pull away. He felt the tension in the air. A heavy, expectant silence that had nothing to do with the festival and everything to do with the man standing beside him.

“I used to come here when I was a kid," Izuku said, his voice mellowing. "After the accident... I’d sit against this trunk and just listen to the wind. It was the only thing that didn't feel like it was screaming at me."

Katsuki looked at the way the light caught the bridge of Izuku’s nose, the way his green eyes were wide and filled with the reflection of a thousand distant lanterns.

“You're not sitting against a tree today," Katsuki said, his voice raspy. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a heartbeat before he caught Izuku’s wrist. His grip was firm, his fingers circling the bone with a possessive heat. "You're with me. Let’s go get that food you were bragging about."

Izuku squeezed Katsuki’s hand back, his fingers tracing the rough callouses of Katsuki’s palm. 

For nearly an hour, they existed in a rare, shared peace. They moved through the outer stalls, Izuku navigating the crowd with a sharp, focused grace, his hand never leaving the crook of Katsuki’s elbow. They ate takoyaki that burned their mouths, the ginger-scented steam rising between them in the humid night.

The shift happened with the moon.

A sudden, collective cheer went up from the center of the square. It was the signal for the Bon Odori dance to begin. What had been a manageable hum of activity instantly transformed into a roaring wall of sound. The taiko drums, which had been a distant thrum, were now a percussive assault, the bass notes vibrating in Izuku’s chest.

The crowd surged. A group of excited teenagers, swept up in the momentum, pushed between them. For a heartbeat, the contact was broken.

In that heartbeat, the world fractured.

The hundreds of red and gold lanterns, swaying in the sudden surge of the crowd, became a strobe-light of crimson glare. The white-out was instantaneous and absolute. The shadows Izuku used to map the ground were eaten by the shifting, vibrating light. The noise, the drums, the shouting, the shrill whistles blew out his auditory map.

Izuku was standing in a white-hot scream.

He felt the floor dissolve. The pavement didn't feel solid; it felt like a liquid, unpredictable plane. He stumbled, his shoulder clipping the corner of a wooden stall, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his arm.

"— K-Kacchan!" he yelled, but his voice was swallowed by a fresh explosion of fireworks from the lakefront.

BOOM.

The flash of the firework was a searing, blue-white needle in his visual cortex. His brain couldn't process the sudden shift in light and sound. His survival reflex kicked in—his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He felt small. He felt blind. He felt the abyss opening up at his feet.

Then, the world was seized.

Katsuki didn't just find him; he crashed into him. He shoved through the crowd with a reckless, protective energy, his broad shoulders carving a path like a snowplow. He grabbed Izuku’s wrist, his grip so tight it was a literal anchor.

"We’re leaving," Katsuki rasped, his voice vibrating against Izuku’s temple. "We’re going to the lake. Just hold on. Don't let go of me."

He didn't say anything else. He took command of the space, his presence an aggressive, protective shield. He used his forearm to shove a path through the crowd, his other arm locked around Izuku’s torso, hauling him into the safety of his own orbit.

As the noise of the festival receded, the air grew thinner, smelling once more of the deep, primeval water and the cooling stones of the shore. By the time they reached the wooden dock, Izuku’s breathing had finally begun to level out, though his fingers were still white-knuckled in the fabric of Katsuki’s shirt.

Katsuki came to a stop at the edge of the dock. He didn't let go immediately. He stood there in the silver moonlight, his heart still hammering from the adrenaline of the exit, his own breath coming in ragged cycles.

"You can open your eyes now.”

Izuku pulled back, his eyes blinking open. The lake was a vast, silent mirror of dark silver. The festival was a colorful, blurry smudge on the horizon, its lights reflecting in long, shimmering streaks that didn't hurt to look at.

“I’m sorry, I — I thought I could handle it.”

“The fuck you talkin’ ‘bout? You did. For two hours, you did.” 

 Izuku looked at him— the solid, dark smudge of him. He realized then that the trust he’d been building wasn't just about skating. It was about the fact that Katsuki was the only thing in his life that refused to change its shape.

"You're the only thing that didn't move.”

"What?"

“In the square. When the lights ate the shadows... everything was moving. The floor, the people. But you were solid. You were the only thing I could feel that stayed in one place."

Katsuki went still. He looked out at the water, his jaw setting. He felt the weight of the statement. Katsuki could only nod. 

“That's what a partner is for,  nerd.”

He sat on the edge of the dock, his legs dangling over the water. Izuku sat beside him, their shoulders brushing. The tension in the air changed then. A quiet, heavy shift that had nothing to do with the ice. As the moon rose over the water, Izuku leaned his head slightly, his shoulder pressing more firmly against Katsuki’s.

Katsuki didn't pull away. 

Chapter Text

The days following the festival’s announcement were a slow-motion study in calibration. Tōkuken was caught in a weather pattern that felt like a held breath; the sky was a pale, parched violet every morning, the air so saturated with the scent of pine resin and ozone that it felt thick as wet wool in the lungs.

In the basement of Toshinori’s house, Katsuki’s ritual had become a form of meditation. He sat on the edge of the narrow cot, the springs letting out a slow, metallic groan that resonated in the concrete walls. He wasn't thinking about the technicality of the triple-twist or the scores they’d need to qualify. He was thinking about the way his own body was learning to exist as fixed point for Izuku.

He ran a cloth over his blades, the steel cold and unforgiving. He could feel the microscopic burrs on the edge, a testament to the aggressive work they’d been doing. For nearly a month, he had been a living compass, and the responsibility of it was beginning to change the way he carried his shoulders. There was a restless, blunt intensity in his chest—a feeling that he was no longer just skating for himself, but carving a path through a void for someone else. 

He thought about the dock.

In the silence of the basement, the memory of Izuku’s fingers tracing his knuckles felt like a phantom heat. It wasn't the intrusive discomfort of the first few days. It was something sharper. A restless, growing hunger. He found himself obsessing over the signals he sent out on the ice. Was his lead clear enough? Was his weight-shift readable through the air?

He stood up, the springs of the cot letting out a long, metallic groan. He splashed cold water on his face, the liquid shocking his system. He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink—a smudge of sharp angles and blonde hair. He looked different. Less angry, perhaps. 

At the lakeside, the minka was a sanctuary of cooling cedar and long, deep shadows. Izuku didn't wake to an alarm; he woke to the sound of the house.

He lay still for a moment, his head resting on the firm tatami mat. He listened to the house breathe with the way the old timber creaked as it shed the previous day's heat, the distant, rhythmic lap of the lake against the stones, and the specific, dry rustle of the trees. These were his landmarks. They were the fixed points that told him exactly where he was in the universe before he even opened his eyes. He reached out, his hand finding the edge of the low wooden table beside his futon. His fingers brushed against the grain, mapping the surface with a familiarity that was both a comfort and a cage.

For eight years, this house had been his only world. Now, the world is expanding. He thought of the walk to the training center, the way Katsuki’s shoulder felt like a physical anchor against the shifting blur of the forest road. The "assignment" was technically over, but neither of them had mentioned the cane or the boards again. The touch had become an elective habit, a shared language that was slowly replacing the silence.

He dressed with a deliberate slowness, then spent a few minutes on the porch, his bare feet feeling the textures of the weathered wood. The air was pressurized, a heavy stillness that told him the mountain storm was still hours away.

Inside the training center, the air was a sharp, iron-scented shock to the system, a separate climate from the parched, electric heat that had begun to bake the mountain ridge outside. 

Before hitting the ice, the pair sat on the wooden bench in the locker room. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic tug-hiss of lacing up. Katsuki finished first, his movements efficient and aggressive, but he didn't stand up to leave. He stayed on the bench, his elbows on his knees, watching Izuku out of the corner of his eye.

Izuku was bent over his left skate, his brow furrowed in a sharp, focused concentration. He was pulling the laces with a strength that made the leather groan.

"You're tying that one tighter than the other.”

Izuku didn't look up, his fingers looping the heavy string. "My left ankle has more scar tissue. From the fall. If I don't tie it tight, the feedback from the blade feels... muffled. I need the pressure to know where my center is."

Katsuki looked at the scarred knuckles of Izuku's hands, then at the left skate. Without a word, he shifted on the bench, leaning into Izuku's space. He reached out and placed his hand over Izuku's, stilling the movement.

"Let me." 

"Bakugo, I can do it—"

“I never said you couldn't. I said let me." 

Katsuki took the laces. He didn't just tie them; he felt for the tension, adjusting the pressure with a steady strength. He tied the knot with a final, decisive snap of the wrist. "There. Better?"

Izuku shifted his foot, a small look of surprise crossing his face. "Yeah. That’s... it's perfect."

"Then get on the ice. We're losing the morning."

They stepped onto the surface together. The rink a cathedral of silver glare, a featureless white-out, where the walls bled into the ceiling. But Izuku’s fixed point was already active. He didn't reach for the boards. He followed the Katsuki’s dark and foggy silhouette to the center of the ice.

"Ten o'clock," Katsuki said as they glided to a halt. "Close your eyes."

Izuku blinked, his green eyes widening. "What? We’re in the middle of the rink, Katsuki."

"I know where we are. Close them. Listen to the room."

Izuku hesitated, then let his eyelids flutter shut. The world went from a searing white to velvety darkness.

"What do you hear?" 

"The refrigeration hum," Izuku whispered, his head tilting. "The drip of the condensation in the far corner… you."

"Good. Now listen to the ice." Katsuki shifted his weight, his blade making a slow, deliberate hiss against the surface. "That’s the texture. It’s hard today. Brittle. It’s going to fight you if you don't stay over your center. Put your hand on my shoulder."

Izuku reached out, his fingers finding the firm, warm muscle of Katsuki’s shoulder. The fabric of the training top was slick under his palm.

“We’re going to do slow, mirrored circles," Katsuki said. "Don't open your eyes. If you feel me lean, you lean. Match the pressure of my shoulder against your hand. We’re finding the resonant frequency."

They began to move.

It was a slow, agonizingly beautiful dance of physics. Izuku’s other senses snapped into a sharper, more desperate focus. He felt the shift in Katsuki’s weight through the palm of his hand. He heard the exact moment Katsuki’s blade bit into the ice to initiate a curve.

Katsuki watched him with a raw, focused intensity. He saw the way Izuku’s body was beginning to relax, the defensive prickliness melting into a fluid, weightless grace. 

“You're tracking," Katsuki spoke, his tone holding a new kind of pride. "You're right on the axis."

"I can feel the pull," Izuku murmured, his eyes still closed. "It’s like... like we’re caught in the same current."

They continued like that, carving perfect, synchronized circles into the brittle ice. They eventually slowed to a halt. Izuku opened his eyes, the White Abyss returning, but it felt less like a threat. He didn't pull his hand away from Katsuki’s shoulder. He reached out with his other hand, noticing a small fleck of shaved ice that had landed on Katsuki’s collar. He brushed it off, his fingers lingering on the skin of Katsuki's neck for a second too long.

It was a small, domestic gesture—sweet and unhurried.

Katsuki went still. He looked down at Izuku’s fingers, his breath catching. He was becoming addicted to these moments. The touches having nothing to do with skating and everything to do with the way Izuku was slowly dismantling his defenses.

"Katsuki?" Izuku said softly, noticing the way the other man had gone quiet.

"Again," Katsuki rasped, his hand reaching up to catch Izuku's wrist, his thumb brushing the pulse point. "Full speed. I want to see you hold the outside edge through the entire arc. Don't hunt for the center. Trust that I’m already there."

They pushed off, the glide of their blades accelerating into a high-pitched, rhythmic scream against the brittle ice. At this velocity, Izuku’s peripheral vision became a streaking tunnel of light. He couldn't see the floor. He couldn't see the boards. He was a passenger in a universe built entirely of white noise and the radiating heat of the man skating inches from his left shoulder.

Katsuki watched him with an intensity that bordered on the obsessive. He saw the way Izuku’s green curls were rustled by the wind, the way his jaw was set with a sharp, focused resolve. Katsuki wasn't just leading; he was projecting his own center of gravity toward Izuku, creating a shared inertia that made them move as a single, heavy machine.

"Leaning... now!" Katsuki barked.

They tilted into the curve, their bodies angled toward the ice at a degree that defied common sense. Izuku felt the pressure building in his ankle and he leaned into the tightness of the laces Katsuki had tied. He felt solid. He felt like he belonged to the air.

It was a microscopic flaw—a rut no wider than a fingernail, left behind by a previous turn. At their speed, it was a landmine.

Izuku’s left blade caught the edge of the rut. The feedback through his boot was instantaneous: a sharp, jarring vibration that traveled up his leg and shattered his balance. In a heartbeat, their shared inertia snapped.

Izuku launched into the void, his breath caught in his throat in a silent scream. 

The transition from control to chaos was absolute. Without the contact of his blades, the White Abyss claimed him. He was spinning through a featureless, silver scream. His orientation vanished, he felt the weightless, terrifying vertigo of the fall. He reached out, his hands clawing at the freezing air, his lungs refusing to pull in the biting chill.

Katsuki—!

He didn't even have time to shout. 

He didn't hit the ice.

Katsuki had seen the slight tremor in Izuku's left skate a millisecond before it gave way. He didn't think. He simply launched himself across the gap, his body a blunt, protective force. He caught Izuku flush against his chest. The impact was violent, the air leaving Izuku’s lungs in a sharp, pained gasp as Katsuki’s broad shoulders took the brunt of the collision. Katsuki’s arms wrapped around Izuku’s torso like iron bands, pinning him against his own heat.

The momentum carried them both into a long slide across the rink. They were a tangled mess; Izuku felt the vibrations of the ice through Katsuki’s body—the hiss and grind of their clothes against the frozen surface as they fought the physics of the fall. Katsuki’s legs were locked, his skates digging in to find purchase, his jaw clenched tight.

They finally came to a grinding halt in the dead center of the rink, the spray of shaved ice settling over them like cold dust.

Silence.

The only sound was the distant, rhythmic thrum of the refrigeration system.

Izuku was buried against Katsuki’s chest, his hands white-knuckled in the fabric of Katsuki’s training top. He was trembling so violently that his teeth were chattering, his eyes squeezed shut, his face pressed into the crook of Katsuki’s neck.

And then, he heard it.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was the loudest sound in the universe. Beneath the layer of cotton and the heat of Katsuki's skin, his heart was drumming—an aggressive and undeniably alive solid rhythm.

In the middle of the formless void, where the floor had disappeared and the light had turned into a cage, Katsuki’s heartbeat was a location. 

Izuku realized it then, the truth of it blooming in his chest with a clarity that made his eyes sting. Katsuki wasn't just a partner. He wasn't just a lead. He was the only thing in the universe that had a permanent address. As long as he could hear that rhythm, Izuku wasn't lost. And to be frank, that made him feel absolutely insane. 

"Hey," Katsuki rasped. His voice vibrated against Izuku’s temple. His own heart was hammering against Izuku’s ear, a frantic pulse. Katsuki’s grip on Izuku’s waist was possessive, his fingers digging into the thin fabric as if he were trying to pull Izuku into his very bones. "I've got you, Deku. Stop shaking."

Izuku didn't pull away. He didn't try to stand. He leaned further into the heat, his forehead resting against Katsuki’s collarbone. "Your heart," Izuku whispered, his voice barely audible in the vast silence of the rink.

"What?"

“It grounds me.”

Katsuki went still. He looked down at the green curls buried against his neck, his jaw setting. He didn't have the words for what he was feeling. His rough exterior had been completely vaporized by the other’s words. So he just held on tighter, his chin resting on the crown of Izuku’s head.

“… you’re welcome, I guess.”

Izuku’s bubbling laugh was wet, “what a dumb thing to say, Bakugo Katsuki.” 

They stayed there for a long time. The iron-scented air settled around them and the White Abyss slowly receded into the background.

The mountain rain had a way of turning the minka into a bell—a vast, hollow cedar vessel that caught every drop and resonated with a deep, wooden thrum. It was the kind of evening that made the world beyond the lakeside feel like a distant, irrelevant myth.

Inside, the living area was a pocket of amber light and domestic chaos. The low table was nearly invisible beneath a spread of white paper cartons from the only Szechuan place in town. The steam from the mapo tofu carried a sharp, vinegar-and-chili kick that competed with the earthy scent of the rain-damp forest outside the sliding doors.

“I’m telling you, the woman is a tactical genius," Katsuki said, his voice low and casual, stripped of its usual razor-wire tension. He was leaning back on one elbow, his other hand expertly navigating a pair of chopsticks through a carton of spicy green beans. "She watched me look at the protein bars for exactly four seconds before she hit me with the 'limited time' discount on the mountain-spirit grip tape. I didn't even want the tape."

Izuku let out a soft, genuine laugh that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. He was sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion, his head tilted toward the sound of Katsuki’s voice. "Mrs. Sato has been running that convenience store since the eighties, Katsuki. She can smell a 'Type A' personality from across the street. She knew you’d buy it just to prove you could master the friction.”

“Master the friction — the hell does that even mean, hah?” Katsuki grunted, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "She told me I had 'clouded eyes' and needed to balance my fire. Then she gave me a plum candy that tasted like fermented dirt."

"It’s an acquired taste," Izuku teased, reaching for his tea. He found the ceramic cup with a fluid, practiced motion, his fingers brushing the warm surface to gauge the level of the liquid. "She used to give me those when I was six. I’d hide them in the dirt behind the shrine because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I think there’s a whole ecosystem of plum-candy-fed beetles back there now."

Katsuki’s huff of laughter was short and sharp. "Doubt it. Nothing could survive eating those things. They’re biohazards."

He watched Izuku take a sip of tea. There was a comfortable hum between them, a lack of performance that usually defined their time at the rink. Here, in the minka, the stakes were lower. The fixed point wasn't a survival requirement; it was just a man sitting across the table, sharing a meal.

"Did you always want to be a skater?" Izuku asked, his voice mellow. "I mean, growing up in the city, there must have been a thousand other things to do. Why the ice?"

Katsuki shifted, the tatami matting creaking softly beneath him. He looked out at the rain-streaked glass of the porch doors. "The city was loud, Deku. Constant. You had the trains, the sirens, the people who never stopped talking. It was like a radio that you couldn't turn off. The Old Hag—my mum—she’s the same way. She’s a hurricane in a linen suit. I think I started skating because the rink was the only place where the noise had a limit."

He took a slow, deliberate bite of the spicy tofu, the heat grounding him. "The ice doesn't argue. It doesn't make small talk. It’s just a flat, cold physics problem that you have to solve with your own weight. I liked the silence of the glide. It felt like I was finally ahead of the noise."

Izuku nodded, his expression reflective. "I get that. For me, it was the opposite. Tōkuken was always quiet. Almost too quiet. The ice was the first thing that gave me a voice.”

He paused, his fingers tracing the rim of his tea cup. "After the accident... I missed knowing exactly where the mountain ridge ended and the sky began. I missed the visual certainty of a tree branch against the moon. But this house... it taught me a different kind of certainty."

"The creaks," Katsuki noted.

"The creaks," Izuku agreed, smiling. "And the way the wind sounds when it’s about to snow. It’s a lower pitch, like a cello. Or the way the lake smells like iron right before a storm. You start to realize that the world isn't just something you see. It’s something you inhabit."

"You inhabit it better than anyone I've ever seen," Katsuki said. It wasn't a compliment meant to flatter; it was a blunt observation of fact. "Most people would have stayed in a hospital bed. You're out here arguing with me about 'inefficient tilts' at thirty miles an hour."

“Well, someone has to keep you humble," Izuku joked, nudging Katsuki’s foot with his own under the table. It was a brief, playful contact, a gesture that somehow felt as natural as breathing. Katsuki didn't pull his foot away. He let the contact linger for a second, feeling the warmth of Izuku’s sock against his ankle. "Yeah, yeah. You're a regular saint, nerd."

They lapsed into a long, easy silence, the sound of the rain intensifying on the cedar roof. It wasn't a heavy silence; it was the kind that only exists when two people have stopped trying to prove anything to each other. Katsuki found himself watching the way the lamplight played across Izuku’s face, highlighting the constellation of freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks. He’d seen them every day for a month, but in the soft, amber glow of the living room, they looked like a map he was finally learning to read.

"Toshinori told me he used to drive rally cars," Katsuki said, breaking the quiet with a colloquially amused tone. "He took the corner by the post office yesterday like he was trying to break the sound barrier. I nearly bit my tongue off."

Izuku laughed, a bright, clear sound. "Oh, he’s terrible! He thinks the mountain roads are a personal challenge from the universe. He told me once that the secret to a good life is 'shared inertia,' but I think he just likes the feeling of G-force. He used to take me for drives after my physical therapy sessions. I’d be clutching the seat for dear life while he’d be humming '80s pop songs and telling me to 'feel the curve.'"

"The man is a menace," Katsuki grunted, though there was a clear affection in his voice. "He’s got a heart of gold and the driving record of a demolition derby champion."

"He means well," Izuku said, reaching for the last dumpling. "He’s just... intense. I think he sees himself in us. Or maybe he sees what he wanted to be."

"He sees a pair that’s going to win," Katsuki countered, his voice firm. "Menace or not, the old man knows the ice. He knows that whatever we’re building here... it’s not just a comeback. It’s something else."

They sat there for what felt like hours, the takeout getting cold as the conversation drifted through mundane things—the best place to get ginger tea in town, the way the local stray cat always seemed to know when Katsuki had fish, and the specific, annoying way the locker room at the rink always smelled of old peppermint.

The rain had transitioned from a steady drumming into a dense, immersive roar that seemed to swallow the lakeside whole. Inside the minka, the air was warm and thick with the lingering scent of chili oil and steamed dough, a cozy contrast to the wild, restless energy of the mountain storm.

They had finished the bulk of the takeout, the paper cartons now folded and stacked neatly at the edge of the table. Izuku reached for the teapot, the ceramic warm against his palms. He poured a final cup for Katsuki, the liquid hitting the bottom of the cup with a soft, melodic splash.

"You know," Izuku said, his voice quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the rain. "I used to hate the thunder. When I was small, I thought the mountains were actually growling at us. My mom used to tell me it was just the earth shifting its weight, trying to get comfortable.”

Katsuki watched the steam curl from his cup. He looked more relaxed than Izuku had ever seen him, his shoulders dropped, his usual defensive posture softened by the weight of the meal and the easy rhythm of their talk. "Your mum has a lot of theories, doesn't she?"

"She has a lot of heart," Izuku corrected, a small smile playing on his lips. "She had to. This place can be a lot to handle if you're not ready for the quiet."

The atmosphere in the room began to shift, not all at once, but in subtle, creeping increments. The amber glow of the lamps began to throb, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic hesitation that made the shadows on the cedar walls stretch and retract like a slow-motion heartbeat. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised, impenetrable black, and the wind had picked up a high-pitched, mournful whistle as it tore through the trees.

Katsuki looked up at the overhead light, his brow furrowing. "The grid in this town is as old as the rocks, isn't it?"

"Older," Izuku murmured. He didn't look up, but his head tilted, his ears picking up a sound Katsuki couldn't hear yet—a distant, metallic hum that was rising in pitch. "The transformer at the end of the lane usually complains for a few minutes before it gives up."

The first flicker was brief—a sharp dip into twilight that lasted only a fraction of a second before the light surged back, brighter and harsher than before. It made the room feel temporary, as if the reality of the minka were being held together by a fraying thread of copper.

“I should have looked for the candles earlier," Izuku said, his voice calm, even as the lamps began to buzz with a frantic, dying energy.

"We don't need them yet.”

Then came a heavy, metallic snap from the road—the transformer surrendering to the surge. The hum of the house simply ceased.

The darkness that followed was dense, but not oppressive. It was the kind of total blackness only found in the countryside, where there are no streetlights to bleed through the shutters. The minka, which had been a sanctuary of amber warmth, was instantly reclaimed by the shadows. The only thing that remained was the roar of the rain, which now sounded like it was coming from inside the room itself.

Katsuki sat perfectly still, “well," he said into the void, his voice carrying a dry, amused edge. "That’s efficient."

"I told you," Izuku’s voice came from the left, sounding closer than Katsuki expected. "The mountains are getting comfortable. We just have to wait for them to settle."

In the dark, Katsuki heard the soft, familiar click-slide of bare feet. It was a fluid, confident sound. Izuku wasn't navigating; he was inhabiting. For him, the loss of light wasn't a loss of information—it was just a change in the medium.

"Stay put," Izuku whispered.

Katsuki felt the shift in the air, a localized warmth that told him Izuku was leaning in. Then, a hand found his—a steady, dry contact. Izuku folded his fingers around Katsuki’s, grounding him with a gentle, nonchalant strength.

"The table is still right here," Izuku said, his voice a soft anchor. "And I'm right here. The dark hasn't changed the physics, Katsuki."

Katsuki’s fingers tightened around Izuku’s and let himself be led, his world reduced to the friction of Izuku’s palm against his. He followed the sound of Izuku’s breathing, letting it dictate the rhythm of his own.

“We'll sit here," Izuku murmured, guiding Katsuki until they were sitting side-by-side on the tatami, their shoulders locked together. "It’s better to just be still until the lightning gives us enough light to find the matches."

The silence of the house was deep, saturated with the smell of wet cedar and the ozone of the storm. In the lightless room, the ease of their earlier conversation seemed to deepen, turning into something more tender.

"It’s strange," Katsuki admitted, his voice barely a murmur. "At the rink, I'm the one who tells you where the floor is. Out here... I can't even tell where the wall ends."

"It doesn't end," Izuku said softly. "It just cycles. You get used to it." He reached out, his other hand finding Katsuki’s shoulder, feeling the way the muscle was relaxed but solid. "But you aren't alone in the shadows, Katsuki. I've lived in them for a long time. They're actually quite friendly once you get to know them."

The air between them was thick, a mounting stillness that felt like the quiet before a different kind of storm. Katsuki was still holding Izuku’s hand, his thumb unconsciously tracing the slow, steady pulse in Izuku’s wrist.

“Can I...?" Izuku started, his voice a mere breath that ghosted over Katsuki’s cheek. "I want to see you. Properly. Without the glare of the rink."

Katsuki didn't answer with words. He reached out and caught Izuku’s hand, his own palm hot, and guided it toward his own face. He was perfectly calm, his heart drumming a steady, discoverable rhythm, but the intimacy of the request made his breath hitch. He let his eyes close, focusing entirely on the sensation of Izuku’s fingertips.

Izuku’s fingers found Katsuki’s jawline first. The touch was light, exploratory. He traced the hard, aggressive line of the bone, moving over the hollow of Katsuki’s cheek, feeling the sharp, angular architecture of the man.

The rain continued to hammer against the cedar roof, a heavy, percussive roar that made the interior of the minka feel even more like a private world. In the absolute dark, the boundaries of the room had vanished, leaving only the warmth of the tatami and the radiating heat of the person sitting inches away.

Izuku’s hand was cupping the side of Katsuki’s face, his thumb resting just below the cheekbone. He moved slowly, his touch deliberate and unhurried, as if he were trying to memorize a map that had finally been laid out before him.

"You're very still," Izuku murmured, his voice a soft vibration in the dark.

"Hard to move when someone's trying to reconstruct my skull by touch, nerd," Katsuki replied. His voice was raspy, but the usual bite was replaced by a quiet, grounded curiosity. He didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into the palm of Izuku's hand, a silent permission to continue.

Izuku’s fingertips drifted from the jawline toward Katsuki’s ear. He traced the outer curve, feeling the sharp, distinct cartilage. "Your ears... they’re smaller than I thought they’d be. Very precise. Like the rest of you."

"Precise ears," Katsuki huffed, a short breath of amusement that ghosted over Izuku's wrist. "Is that a compliment or are you just running out of things to describe?"

"It’s a compliment," Izuku teased, his fingers moving to the lobe before tracing back up toward the temple. "It fits. No wasted space. Everything is just... built for a purpose."

His fingers slid into Katsuki’s hair. The ash-blonde spikes were coarse but surprisingly soft at the roots, a chaotic texture that Izuku spent a long moment exploring. He let the strands slip between his fingers, feeling the way they resisted the touch before settling.

"The sun-hair," Izuku whispered. "It does feel like it has its own fire."

“It’s just hair, Izuku," Katsuki muttered, though he let his head tilt back slightly, exposing the line of his throat to the cool air. "Don't go getting poetic on me now."

Izuku’s hand moved back down, his fingers finding the ridge of Katsuki’s brow. He traced the slight, permanent furrow between the eyes—the place where Katsuki’s simmering anger usually lived. He smoothed it out with the pad of his thumb, a gentle, repetitive motion.

"There's so much tension here," Izuku noted. "Even when you're relaxed, you're still waiting for a starting whistle."

"It's a habit," Katsuki admitted. "If you aren't ready to move, you're falling behind."

"You aren't behind tonight," Izuku said softly. "The ice is miles away. There’s nowhere to go."

He moved his touch to the bridge of Katsuki’s nose, tracing the straight, sharp line down to the tip. It was a perfect, geometric feature, unyielding and solid. As his fingers reached Katsuki’s upper lip, Izuku paused. The skin there was incredibly soft, a stark contrast to the hard angles of the jaw and brow.

“You're very quiet now," Katsuki noted, his voice dropping an octave. He reached up, his own hand finding Izuku’s wrist, but he didn't pull it away. He just held it there, his thumb resting against the quick, steady thrum of Izuku’s pulse.

"I'm just... seeing," Izuku replied. He moved his other hand up, cupping both sides of Katsuki’s face. "I’ve had a month of your voice and your heat. I’ve had the sound of your blades. But I didn't know you were this... this deliberate."

“And what about you?" 

“What about me?”

Katsuki moved his hands from Izuku’s wrists to his cheeks, his thumbs finding the constellation. "You’re built for the long haul. This skin is soft, but I can feel the strength in your jaw. You're stubborn. Probably more than I am."

"I have to be," Izuku murmured, hesitantly leaning his forehead against Katsuki’s. "The blur doesn't give up. You have to fight it every morning."

When Katsuki didn’t move, Izuku allowed himself to relax. 

"You don't fight it," Katsuki corrected, his thumbs tracing the bridge of Izuku's nose. "You navigate it. There's a difference. One is a struggle, the other is an art. And you're a damn artist, Deku."

Izuku let out a small, huffy laugh. "An artist. I’ll tell Mrs. Sato. She'll want to sell me more 'healing' cedar for my inspiration."

"Don't you dare," Katsuki chuckled.

They stayed like that for a long, unmeasured stretch of time—sitting on the tatami, foreheads pressed together, hands mapping the familiar and the new. The rain was a constant, heavy backdrop, but inside the minka, the air was still and saturated with a mounting, elective intimacy.

"Katsuki," Izuku said, his voice barely a breath.

"Yeah."

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah.”

Izuku’s heart hammered against his chest. 

“Katsuki.”

“Yes?”

“I think... I think I prefer the dark. It makes the signal much clearer."

Katsuki’s hands tightened slightly on Izuku’s face, his thumbs brushing over the freckles one last time before settling. "The signal was always clear, Izuku. You just finally stopped trying to look for it and started feeling it."

Their moment was interrupted by the world outside reminding them of its existence. A distant light appeared through the trees. A swinging, yellow beam that cut through the sheets of rain. It grew closer, dancing across the porch and illuminated the puddles on the gravel lane. The sound of a heavy, wet knock followed, striking the sliding door with a dull thud.

"Izuku? Bakugo? You both in there?"

It was Toshinori. His voice was muffled by the deluge, carrying a frantic, rain-soaked energy.

Izuku and Katsuki pulled back, the cool air of the room rushing into the space they had occupied. The loss of the shared heat was sudden and sharp. Izuku blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the faint glow of the flashlight reflecting off the porch.

"Toshinori?" Izuku called out, his voice a little breathless as he stood up, his hand lingering on the table to find his bearings.

He moved to the door and slid it open. Toshinori stood there, a towering silhouette in a dripping yellow raincoat. He held a heavy industrial flashlight, the beam momentarily blinding as it bounced off the cedar entryway.

"The power's out across the ridge," Toshinori panted, wiping rain from his brow. "Transformer took a hit. I wanted to make sure you two hadn't burned the house down trying to find the matches."

"We're fine," Katsuki grunted, standing up behind Izuku. He had reclaimed his bravado, but his eyes stayed on the back of Izuku’s head. "We were just finishing dinner."

Toshinori stepped into the genkan, the water shedding from his coat in a heavy patter. He looked at the two of them, the way they were standing, the lingering stillness of the room and his expression shifted from concern to something more grave.

"I’m glad you’re both safe," Toshinori said, his voice dropping. He paused, his eyes moving between Izuku and Katsuki standing behind him. His expression shifted, his usual warmth replaced by a grave, professional weight. He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, damp notebook.

"I’ve been waiting for a call," He began, “I sent your medical history and a preliminary intent to register to the Japanese Skating Federation last week. I didn't want to bring it up until I knew we had a path forward."

Izuku felt a cold knot form in his stomach. This was the first time the reality of the professional world. The JFS had breached their sanctuary. "And? What did they say?"

“They’re skeptical," Toshinori said plainly. "A return to the ice after a TBI of your magnitude is unheard of in their records. They see a massive liability risk. They aren't going to let us simply sign the papers based on my word alone. They’ve mandated a formal, high-stakes evaluation."

Katsuki stepped forward, his jaw setting with a sharp, protective resolve. "An evaluation? We’re still in the middle of calibration. We haven't even started a program."

"They don't care about the program yet," Toshinori replied, looking Katsuki in the eye. "They want to see if the partnership is even physically viable. They’ve scheduled medicals, a full neurological battery for Izuku, and a technical demonstration of your navigation protocols on the ice. If the judges think you're a danger to yourself or each other, they'll block your registration before the season even starts."

"Where?" Izuku asked, his voice steady despite the dread of leaving his safe map.

“In the city," Toshinori said. "Next Tuesday. We leave at five in the morning. I’ve already booked the travel and the hotel. You’ll be sharing a room; I told the Association that Katsuki is your primary navigator and that you can't be left alone in a city environment.

"Go get some sleep," Toshinori said, turning back toward the rain. "The power should be back by morning. We have three days of training left before we head into the mouth of the beast."

Chapter Text

The blue hour at the lakeside was heavy. At five in the morning, the mountain air was already thick with the summer humidity, smelling of damp cedar and the sharp, clean ozone of the water.

Izuku stood on the porch of the minka. He had been awake for nearly an hour, his movements through the dark house a silent, practiced ritual. He didn't need the lights. He knew exactly where the edge of the tatami met the wood; he knew the specific, dry protest of the floorboards near the kitchen.

In his anxiousness, he’d been armouring up since the night before: his bag sat by his feet, packed with a precision that bordered on the obsessive. He’s also checked the contents more than twice. Noise-canceling headphones in their hardshell case, migraine suppressants, clothes, skating gear and buried deep in the side pocket, the cold, segmented weight of his cane. He didn't plan on using it. The simple  thought of unfolding it in front of the Federation judges felt like a white flag he wasn't ready to wave. But he needed to know it was there. It was his secret anchor.

The sound of tires crunching on the gravel lane broke the mountain silence. Izuku tracked the sound—the low, gravelly hum of Toshinori’s car. 

Katsuki stepped out of the car, looking uncharacteristically somber in the blue light. He stopped at the edge of the gravel, his eyes immediately finding Izuku on the porch. 

“You're early," Katsuki noted, his voice a low, raspy friction in the quiet air. He stopped a respectful distance away, his eyes tracking the way Izuku’s hand was still hovering near the handle of his bag.

"I didn't want to keep Toshinori waiting.” 

Katsuki looked at the bag, then back at Izuku. He reached down and hooked two fingers under the bag's strap. "Hand it over," he said, "Toshinori’s got the trunk open, and I’m not fighting this thing for legroom in the back seat for two hours. It’s a cramped enough ride as it is."

Izuku hesitated, his fingers twitching against the nylon. "I can just keep it at my feet. It’s fine."

"My legs are longer than yours and I’m not sitting sideways so you can cuddle your backpack," Katsuki countered, though his tone lacked any real bite. It was just logic. "Give it here. I'll put it on top so nothing gets crushed."

Izuku felt the prickly urge to argue, to prove he could manage the bulk of it himself, but the practicality of Katsuki’s tone defused him. He let go of the strap, feeling the slight weight of the bag vanish as Katsuki hoisted it.

"My headphones are in the top flap," Izuku whispered. "Be careful."

"I’m not a caveman, Deku. I know how to put a bag in a car." Katsuki turned and headed down the steps, his stride easy. He put the bag in the trunk and waited by the open door. "Come on, it’s getting late."

The drive to the valley station was a descent into a different world. As the car wound down the mountain passes, the air changed. The cool, resinous scent of the pines was replaced by the smell of parched asphalt and the heat rising from the valley floor.

The car ride was quiet. Toshinori kept his eyes on the road, his hands gripped tight on the wheel, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel every time they hit a red light. Beside him, Katsuki was a steady, warm presence, his arm resting on the door frame, his eyes fixed on the passing silhouettes of the trees. 

When they pulled into the valley station, the silence was replaced by the high-pitched whine of the electric rails and the rhythmic, metallic clack-clack of the departures board.

"Stay close," Toshinori said as they stepped out of the car. He looked over the roof of the car  at Katsuki, his brow furrowed. "Katsuki, keep him centered. The morning crowd is aggressive, and I can't have him getting unanchored before we even hit the Shinkansen."

Izuku froze, his hand halfway to the door handle. The words hit him like a cold splash of water. Toshinori was standing right there, yet he had spoken about him as if he were a piece of fragile glass, a liability to be managed rather than a person standing three feet away.

"I have ears, Toshinori," Izuku said, his voice laced with a sharp, brittle edge. He stepped out of the car, his posture stiffening. "And I have a name. I'm not a cargo load you need to secure."

Toshinori blinked, a flash of genuine guilt crossing his face. "Izuku, I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant," Izuku interrupted, not looking at him. He reached out and hooked his arm firmly through Katsuki’s elbow, his grip tighter than usual. "Let’s just go. The light is already starting to sting."

Katsuki didn't say anything, but he didn't pull away either. He leaned into the contact, his arm becoming a solid, grounding weight that shielded Izuku from Toshinori’s hovering concern.

The Shinkansen was a vibrating tube of sterile light and recycled air, hurtling through the Japanese countryside at speeds that made the world outside a streaking blur.

They were seated in the middle of the car, tucked away from the high-traffic vestibules. Toshinori had taken a seat several rows back, his thin frame hunched over a laptop, surrounded by a fortress of manila folders and medical charts. He looked like a man trying to solve an impossible puzzle, his brow furrowed as he typed rhythmic, frantic bursts of correspondence to the Federation.

In the row ahead, Katsuki and Izuku were squeezed together. The space between them was non-existent, a forced proximity that felt both grounding and suffocating.

Izuku sat with his hands folded tightly in his lap, his head bowed. He had his noise-cancelling headphones on, the active dampening humming against his ears, but he could still feel the world. He felt the tilt of the train as it carved through the mountain tunnels and the sudden pressure changes that made his eardrums pop. His eyes were shut, fighting off the sharp ache that came from the continuous change of light, whenever the Shinkansen left an underground tunnel. 

After an hour, the silence of the headphones became its own kind of noise. His mind began to spiral, replaying the way the city judges might look at him—clinical, disappointed, cold.

He let the headphones slide down to rest around his neck. He didn't open his eyes yet; the glare of the white cabin was still too sharp.

"What are you doing?" Izuku murmured, his voice sounding thin against the low-frequency hum of the train.

There was a quiet rustle of paper. The heavy, tactile sound of a page turning.

"Reading," Katsuki replied. 

"A book? A real one?" Izuku’s eyelids fluttered, opening just a fraction. Through his tunnelled vision, he could see the dark edge of a hardcover.

"Don't sound so shocked, Freckles. I have a life outside of yelling at you."

“I’m just surprised you can read.”

Katsuki let out an amused huff. 

"What is it?"

“A suspense novel. Some gritty noir set in Shinjuku.” Katsuki shifted the book slightly so Izuku could see the weight of it. "Lots of rain, bad decisions, and people who talk too much. It’s better than the garbage they put on the seatback screens."

Izuku let out a small breath, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. He liked the idea of Katsuki lost in a dark, complex world of fiction. It felt —attractive in a way that made Izuku’s heart do a nervous, fluttering skip.

"Is it good?"

"The detective is an idiot, but the pacing is decent." Katsuki turned another page, the sound sharp and clean. "Close your eyes, Izuku. You’re squinting."

Izuku obeyed, but he didn't put the headphones back on. He shifted, his shoulder brushing against Katsuki’s. "I'm bored. And I can't stop thinking."

"About the evaluation." It wasn't a question. Katsuki closed the book, his finger marking his place.

“… yes.”

Katsuki hummed. 

"Do you think they’ve already decided?" Izuku asked, his voice barely audible. "Maybe they already know the answer is ‘no’ and we're just going there to hear them say it."

Katsuki was silent for a long moment. The train screamed through a long tunnel, the pressure change causing a sharp, stinging pop in Izuku’s ears.

"Maybe some of them have," Katsuki finally said, "There are always people who want the safe choice.” 

“…”

“Do you want them to say ‘no’?”

Izuku gasped, indignant, “of course not!”

“Then don’t think about it.” 

“… right.” 

Izuku leaned back in his seat and settled for silence once again. Katsuki opened his book again; the ruffling of pages gave it away. 

“Mina Ashido was a safe choice… wasn’t she?”

Katsuki tensed. His book closed again. 

The mention of his former partner hung in the air, heavy and unbidden. Katsuki took a breath, then spoke, "Mina was a teammate," he said bluntly. "And she’s out for the season. Her knee doesn't care about 'safe choices.'"

“But if she weren't injured," Izuku persisted, "You’d be in the city for a different reason. You’d be preparing for the Grand Prix. You wouldn't be 'navigating' someone. You'd be winning."

Katsuki didn't offer a platitude. He didn't tell Izuku he was wrong. Instead, he reached out and snagged Izuku’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his lap. He interlaced their fingers, his grip heavy and anchoring. 

“I’ve won with Mina," Katsuki rasped, "and it was fine. It was technical. It was professional. But it wasn't this." He squeezed Izuku’s hand until it was almost painful, a blunt demand for attention. "I’d rather fight the Federation with you than win easy gold with anyone else.”

“… I guess I’m just scared.” 

Katsuki wanted to tell him everything would be okay, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know either. And frankly, he was also scared. The Federation could easily take this away from them. They’d have to make a compelling case. 

Katsuki took a deep breath, then settled on his seat, leaning his shoulder towards Izuku. He then forcefully pushed Izuku’s head into his shoulder in a violent attempt of comforting. “Shut up. Put your headphones on and sleep.” 

He reopened his book, but he didn't start reading. He just sat there, acting as a human shock absorber for every jolt and vibration of the train.

Izuku obeyed, sliding the headphones back on. The world went blissfully muffled. The exhaustion of their early start and the weight of the anxiety finally won out. His head lolled fully onto Katsuki’s shoulder, his breathing turning deep and rhythmic as he drifted off.

The deceleration of the Shinkansen was a heavy force that pulled Izuku from a shallow sleep. He didn't wait for the doors to slide open to prepare; he knew the city was waiting for him like a predator. 

He didn't wait for instruction, nor for Katsuki to offer a hand. Izuku simply stood, his hand finding the familiar, solid weight of Katsuki’s bicep and hooked his arm through his partner's with a practised familiarity.

The doors hissed open.

The mountain air of Tōkuken was a memory replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone, the smell of hot asphalt, and the overwhelming roar of a million different lives in motion. Even with his eyes closed, the light was a physical pressure against his eyelids, the glare of sun, cars and buildings screaming through the glass doors of the station.

Toshinori stepped onto the platform with them, but his energy was different than it had been at the car. He wasn't hovering. He walked between them and the crowd and when he spoke, he looked at both of them. "There’s a taxi waiting for me at the north exit," he said, his voice low enough to under-ride the station’s roar. "I’ve managed to get an early slot with the medical lead at the JFS headquarters. It’s better if I go alone for the initial paperwork… less of a spectacle for the board."

He reached out, his hand hovering briefly near Izuku’s shoulder before he pulled it back, offering a small, encouraging nod. "Get some food. Get settled in. I’ll meet you both at the hotel later tonight. We’ll go over the technical demo requirements then."

“Go," Katsuki grunted, "We’ll be fine."

"See you tonight, Toshinori." Izuku added, his voice steady despite the way the station floor seemed to vibrate beneath his soles.

Toshinori offered a wave and vanished into the sea of suits.

The taxi ride was a blur of hasty drivers and the smell of old leather. When they finally reached the hotel, the transition from the car to the lobby was a gauntlet of air-conditioned chill and the scent of some floral cleaner. 

Inside Room 1412, the door clicked shut, and the world finally went still.

Katsuki let out a long, ragged exhale, the kind that felt like it was purging the metallic taste of the city from his lungs. His shoulders ached from the weight of the bags and the constant, low-level vigilance of navigating the station. He dropped the luggage by the small foyer, a heavy, muffled thud on the dense carpet.

"Yours is on the right," Katsuki muttered, his voice raspy. "Don't trip  over it."

He didn't wait for a reply. He walked into the room and flopped onto the bed. He stretched his arms over his head, his spine popping in the quiet, and let out a short, grounding sigh of relief. It was the first time in five hours he hadn't been vibrating in sync with the Shinkansen’s motors.

From his position on the bed, Katsuki turned his head slightly, watching his partner  through half-lidded eyes.

Izuku was studying the room. He had released Katsuki’s arm the second the door locked, and now he was moving in a quiet, systematic way. Katsuki watched as he found the wall, his fingertips trailing over the textured vinyl wallpaper, tracing the patterns. He watched Izuku find the corner, then the edge of the mahogany desk, his hand ghosting over the ceramic lamp with a light, checking touch.

It was fascinating, in a way. Watching Izuku map and claim the space. He finally reached the curtains, his fingers finding the heavy velvet. He paused, turning his head in Katsuki’s general direction, "Do you mind if I close them?" 

"Nah," Katsuki said, staring up at the ceiling. "Close 'em."

The room plunged into a deep, velvety twilight as Izuku pulled the blackout fabric shut, sealing out the jagged silver slivers of the afternoon sun. In the sudden dark, the room felt smaller, more private. Katsuki heard the faint click of a plastic bottle.

“What’s that?”

“Just pain killers. For my head.”

Katsuki hummed. He watched the silhouette of Izuku move toward the bed. Izuku reached out, his hand sweeping the air until his knuckles accidentally brushed against Katsuki.

The contact was brief, a spark of heat in the cool, air-conditioned dark.

Izuku used the contact to orient himself, then plopped down on the far side of the mattress. The bed shifted, a slow, rolling wave that brought their shoulders within inches of each other.

Katsuki turned on his side, his head resting on his arm, and looked at the man beside him. In the dim, filtered light of the room, Izuku looked different. The prickly, defensive shell he wore in the city had softened. Katsuki found himself tracing the line of Izuku’s profile—the bridge of his nose, the slight, stubborn set of his jaw, and the way his green curls were a chaotic mess against the white pillowcase.

He didn't realize he was doing it. He didn't realize that he was cataloging the way the dim light hit the bridge of Izuku’s nose or the way his eyelashes cast long, feathery shadows over his cheekbones. He just knew that, for the first time all day, his own anxious thoughts had quieted down to a low, manageable hum.

“Can we just rest for a few minutes?" Izuku murmured. His eyes were closed, his face turned toward the ceiling. "My head is pounding. The station... it was a lot."

"A few minutes," Katsuki agreed, "then let’s get some food. I'm starving."

"Okay.”

The respite didn't last long. When they finally stepped back out onto the sidewalk, it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was at its most vicious. It was a high, white-hot glare that turned the skyscrapers into towering mirrors. The world was a sheet of burning tin. To Izuku, the sidewalk was a river of liquid silver, and the shadows of the pedestrians were jagged, black holes that darted in and out of his narrow vision. Despite this, Izuku was keeping his anxiety under tight control. 

Katsuki felt the sting through their shared contact from the way Izuku's arm would jump with every sudden strobe of light reflected off a car windshield. He used his broader frame to block the worst of the sun, steering them toward the shadows.

“I looked up a few restaurants earlier. There’s a place two blocks down."

Izuku nodded. 

They walked in silence, a single unit moving against the tide of commuters. Katsuki noticed a shop from a distance—a recessed, minimalist storefront with dark glass. He didn't say a word. He just changed their trajectory, pulling Izuku along with him.

"What is it?" Izuku asked, his voice tight.

“I just wanna check something out. Follow me.”

“We don't need to go far, Katsuki," Izuku said, his jaw set in a hard line. "There was a convenience store near the lobby, no? We can just get something there and go back."

"The food there is cardboard," Katsuki grunted, his eyes fixed on a point down the street. 

“It's too bright," Izuku countered, his voice carrying a prickly edge. Every time they passed a glass-fronted building, he felt the sting bypass his eyelids like a sharp, electric jolt to his brain. "My head is already starting to throb. This is a bad idea."

Katsuki didn't answer. He simply adjusted his stride, pulling Izuku into the deeper shadows. They reached the door of the shop, and the chime was a soft, high-pitched bell that cut through the city’s roar.

"Where are we?" Izuku asked, his ears picking up the hum of air conditioning instead of the clatter of a restaurant. "This isn't a restaurant."

"Shut up for a second," Katsuki muttered.

A worker approached them, a young woman with a kind, soft face and hair pulled into a neat bun. She looked at the two of them, but she seemed to zero in on the way Izuku was shielding his face.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice warm and melodic. "Are you looking for something for the city glare? It’s particularly harsh today."

Izuku shifted his weight, his hand tightening on Katsuki’s arm. "Katsuki, this is a boutique. I don't know what you're doing, but I don't need this. We don't have the budget for some high-end city brand."

"This is an investment. Doesn’t need a fucking budget," Katsuki snapped, though he didn't pull away. 

The worker offered a sympathetic smile, her eyes lingering on Izuku with a gentle curiosity. "Actually, he’s right to be skeptical. A lot of high-end brands are just fashion. But we carry a specialized performance line, if that’s what you guys are looking for.”

"He’s got a TBI," Katsuki said, his tone blunt. "He needs something that specifically targets horizontal glare—the kind that bounces off the pavement or the ice. And I want a high-wrap frame. I don't want light leaking in from the periphery."

The woman smiled again, “Of course," she said, her expression softening into something genuinely helpful. "High-glare shades. We carry a specialized performance line. They don't change what you see, but they neutralize the 'white-out' effect from glass reflections."

Katsuki immediately noticed Izuku’s sudden interest at her last words. The skepticism in Izuku's posture didn't vanish, but his grip on Katsuki's arm loosened as he processed the terms Katsuki had just used; terms he hadn't even used himself.

“Y-You mean… the physical pressure behind my eyes?" Izuku asked, his voice softening as he turned toward the sound of her voice. 

“Certainly! Would you like to try them on?”

Izuku hesitated, bit his lip. Katsuki squeezed his hand, expectantly.

“… yes, please.” 

“Of course! Right on it.” She walked over to a recessed glass case and pulled out a pair of charcoal-grey frames with a deep, rose-copper tint. "The tint is designed to relax the eye muscles. It won't clear nor fix your field of vision, but it does take the bite out of the light. That’s essentially what they’re made for. Medical grade.”

Medical grade sounded expensive already. Izuku really hesitated. He took them, his fingers tracing the lightweight, rubberized frames. "They feel... expensive. Katsuki, let's just go. I can manage with my eyes shut."

"You aren't managing," Katsuki insisted, moving into Izuku's personal space. He took the frames from Izuku’s hands. "Hold still."

"This is ridiculous, Katsuki. I don't need these for one day," Izuku protested, though he didn't move.

"It’s not for one day. It’s for the ice," Katsuki pushed. He stepped in close, his fingers slow and deliberate as he slid the frames onto Izuku’s face. His thumbs lingered by Izuku’s temples, his touch grounding and steady. He looked at the girl. "Does the strap come with these? He’s a skater."

“It does," she said, nodding. "It’s adjustable so they won't shift."

"Open your eyes," Katsuki whispered.

Izuku blinked. He braced himself for the usual jolt of pain, but it didn't come. The rose-copper tint didn't fix the blur, and it didn't open up his tunnel vision—the world was still a narrow, blurry straw. But the glare was dead. The burning silver of the shop's floor was now a soft, manageable amber. Speechless, his heart pounded against his chest. 

He looked up, and for the first time in the city, he could see the silhouette of Katsuki’s face without the light eating the edges of his features. 

“Well?” 

“They... they actually work," Izuku whispered, his hand reaching up to touch the frame. "The world is quiet."

"Told you," Katsuki rasped, his hand still lingering near Izuku’s ear.

"It’s a very good fit," the woman added softly. "You look much more relaxed."

The transition from the blistering glare of the street to the quiet, amber-tinted peace of the boutique had already uncoiled some of the tension in Izuku’s shoulders. He stood there, the rose-copper frames resting on his face, finally able to keep his eyes open without the physical sting of the light clawing at his brain.

"How much?" Katsuki asked, his voice low and blunt, cutting through the soft hum of the shop’s air conditioning.

The woman smiled, though there was a professional hesitancy in her eyes as she looked at the digital display on her tablet. "For this specific performance model, with the polarized medical-grade filters and the adjustable athletic strap... it’s eighty-nine thousand yen."

Izuku’s breath hitched. He didn't need to see the number to feel the crushing weight of it. To him, that wasn't just a pair of glasses; it was months of rent in Tōkuken, or a mountain of groceries, or the cost of new blades they couldn't afford.

“Eighty-five thousand?" Izuku’s voice was a frantic whisper, his hand immediately flying up to the temple of the frames.

"I'll take them," Katsuki said, reaching for his wallet.

“Katsuki, no. Absolutely not. That’s insane. I’m taking them off right now."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Deku? Keep your hands down.” Katsuki commanded, his voice dropping into that raspy, unyielding register. He reached out and caught Izuku’s wrist before his fingers could hook the ear-piece.

“Katsuki, listen to me," Izuku protested, his prickly defensiveness flaring back up. "I can just stay in the hotel. I can wear a hat. I can manage. I’m not letting you drop that kind of money on a 'maybe.' What if the evaluation goes poorly tomorrow? Then you’ve just thrown away eighty-nine thousand yen on a pair of glasses I’ll only use to walk to the grocery store."

Katsuki didn't let go of his wrist. He stepped closer, crowding into Izuku’s narrow field of vision until he was the only thing the rose-copper tint had to focus on.

“I'm not paying for a 'maybe,'" Katsuki muttered, his eyes boring into Izuku’s with a proprietary intensity. "I'm paying for the showcase. If you’re squinting and fighting a migraine on the ice, you aren't tracking me. And if you aren't tracking me, I can’t catch you. Do the math, nerd. If we drop a lift because you’re dazzled by a spotlight, the medical bills will cost a hell of a lot more than eighty-nine thousand."

The worker watched them, her head tilted. She saw the way Katsuki held Izuku’s wrist with a grounding, steadying weight. She saw the way Izuku’s mouth thinned into a line of stubborn guilt.

"It is an investment," she added softly, stepping back toward her terminal. "But... you did happen to mention he’s a skater?"

Katsuki turned his head slightly. "Yeah. What about it?"

“We have a legacy partnership with the JFS," she explained, her fingers dancing over the screen. "And honestly... seeing how much these clearly help him... I can apply the 'Emergent Athlete' grant code. It’s usually for juniors, but given the circumstances of his recovery, I can justify it. It brings the total down to fifty-two thousand."

Izuku’s grip on Katsuki’s arm loosened just a fraction, the number still feeling astronomical but no longer like a death sentence. "Fifty-two?"

"Fifty-two," she confirmed with a wink. "And I’ll throw in the hard-shell case and the cleaning kit for free. I’ll just be needing the name of your coach.”

"Toshinori Yagi," Katsuki said instantly.

The woman’s eyes widened. "–Toshinori? Oh, that’s—” she smiled, suddenly nervous. “Of course. That works.” She composed herself, "It's such an honor to help one of his students."

Katsuki didn't wait for Izuku to find another reason to argue. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and tapped his card against the reader before the worker could even finish her sentence.

"Katsuki—"

"It's done," Katsuki interrupted, his tone final. He turned back to the worker, ignoring Izuku’s wide-eyed shock. "Put the strap on now. I want him wearing them when we walk out that door."

As they headed back out into the sun, the world was still a blur, and the city was still a technocolour chaos, but as Izuku felt the cool, steadying weight of the frames on his face, he realized that Katsuki wasn't just buying him protection from the light. He was buying them a future where Izuku didn't have to navigate the dark alone.

"I’ll pay you back," he whispered as they hit the sidewalk. "I’ll find a way."

"You'll pay me back by hitting the triple-twist tomorrow without flinching," Katsuki grunted, steering him toward the smell of savory broth and soy. "Now shut up and walk unless you wanna drag my passed-out ass back to the hotel. I’m starving.” 

The basement noodle shop was a sanctuary of steam and shadow, tucked away from the city streets. The air was thick with the scent of simmering dashi, ginger, and roasted soy. A heavy, comforting aroma that seemed to ground Izuku the moment they stepped over the threshold, but made Katsuki’s stomach growl with the force of a thousand suns. 

The lighting was low, provided by amber lanterns that hung from dark wood beams, and for the first time since leaving the mountains, Izuku felt the physical pressure in his head begin to recede. The rose-copper glasses remained on his face, turning the dim interior into a warm, sepia-toned world where the edges of the tables and the silhouettes of the other patrons were finally stable.

Katsuki didn't ask for a menu. He steered Izuku to a high-backed wooden booth in the far corner, far from the door's draft.

"Two orders of the spicy miso," Katsuki told the server, then paused, his eyes flicking to Izuku. "Make one of them mild. No bean sprouts. Extra pork."

Izuku blinked behind his new lenses, his hands resting on the cool, worn wood of the table. "You remembered the sprouts."

"They're a distraction," Katsuki grunted, leaning back into the shadows of the booth. "You spend ten minutes picking them out instead of eating. We don't have time for you to play with your food."

Despite the blonde’s cranky answer, Izuku’s heart warmed, and his cheeks turned rosy. Katsuki’s practised jerk exterior was firmly in place, but Izuku could feel the lack of real bite in the words. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the rhythmic thrum-thrum of a knife in the kitchen and the low murmur of the city above. With the glare gone, his other senses weren't quite so raw, but he found himself focusing on the man before him; on the way his partner’s breathing was steady, a grounding signal in the quiet shop.

“Katsuki?”

“Izuku.”

“In the boutique... the thing you said to the woman. About the 'horizontal glare' and the 'wrap' of the frames."

Katsuki was busy breaking apart his wooden chopsticks with a sharp, clean snap. He didn't look up, but his jaw tightened.

"How did you know those were the right words?" Izuku persisted, his curiosity finally overriding his prickly defensiveness. "I haven't even seen a specialist since the hospital. I never told you those technical terms. How did you know what would stop the stinging?"

Katsuki went still, his chopsticks poised over the table. He finally looked up, his carmine eyes catching the lantern light. There was no nonchalance in them now; only the sharp intensity of a man who had spent the last month treating Izuku like the most important puzzle of his life.

"I’ve been watching you miss the edge of the blue line for a while now… every time the sun hits the south windows of the rink, you tilt your head to try and compensate for the glare. You lose the mapping of the ice for a split second when the light bounces off the plexiglass. I didn't just guess, nerd. I looked up the medical archives on contrast-sensitivity loss. I needed to know why you were flinching before I even touched you."

Izuku felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. A realization that hit harder than any physical contact on the ice. Katsuki hadn't just been navigating him, he had been studying him, cataloging the gaps in his world, and finding the technical bridge to fix them.

“You've been researching my injury?" 

“Look, if we’re going to hit a triple-twist tomorrow, I need you to find the signal through the noise. I’m not letting some shitty city glare be the reason we fail."

He pushed the miso bowl toward Izuku. "Now eat. Before it gets cold."

Toshinori Yagi didn't look like a hero when he walked in. He looked like a man who had spent the last six hours being slowly dismantled by a committee. His frame looked even thinner in the dim light of the foyer, and the scent of the city clung to his coat. He didn't sit. He just leaned against the mahogany desk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“They aren't looking at the progress, Izuku," Toshinori said. His voice was hollow, stripped of the booming warmth that usually anchored them. "I gave them the logs from the rink. I gave them the video of the catch. But to the medical board, you aren't a skater. You’re a liability."

Izuku sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into the duvet. The prickly heat of defensiveness rose in his chest, a survival reflex he couldn't quite dampen.

"So that’s it?" He asked, voice thin and brittle. "They’re just going to pull the license without even seeing us move?"

"No," Toshinori whispered, finally looking up. "They’ll let you on the ice. But it’s not a showcase anymore. It’s an autopsy. They’ve brought in their own technical observers for a dawn evaluation. Six in the morning. If they see one moment of hesitation, one sign that this ‘navigation’ system is failing—they’ll end it before the music stops."

Katsuki stayed by the window, his back to the room. He didn't snap. He didn't yell. But his simmering rage was radiating off him in waves. 

"Then we’ll give them nothing to find," Katsuki said, "Go get some sleep, Yagi. We’ll be at the rink at four-thirty."

When the door clicked shut, the sound felt final—like a guillotine blade dropping into place.

Katsuki finally turned away from the window. He walked toward the bed, stopping just inches away from Izuku.

“Katsuki," Izuku whispered. The name was a plea for grounding.

"Don't," Katsuki muttered. The nonchalant mask was cracking, revealing the raw obsession underneath. "Don't think about the doctors. Don't think about the board. Tomorrow morning, there is no Federation. There’s just us."

Izuku looked up, his unfocused eyes searching for the heat of Katsuki’s face. He wanted to reach out, to crawl into Katsuki’s skin just to feel safe, but the weight of the dawn was between them.

"I don't want to take this away from you.”

"You aren't taking anything," Katsuki rasped. “Get in bed, Deku," he commanded softly. "We have five hours before the sun tries to kill us again."