Work Text:
''It was Thursday.'' is the opening line Izuku decides on for his new compiled piece of words and sentences and punctuation, otherwise declared as a 'book'.
Simple, cliché, and alluring - the perfect recipe to drawn in a reader's eyes, not confusing them or baffling them on the first syllables alone, but setting a bland and easy to understand basis for them to continue on with the complex sentences to follow; which is where the real story building starts.
Izuku would know, trust him, all considering he's a literature teacher at one of the most prestigious academies for a young pupil to ever enrol into,
Musutafu university; Unique & Athletes.
Nezu was particularly proud of that prideful and flashy title, adamant on the rhyming factor for it to be able to stick into people's minds.
Although, in the inevitable end, the term used for the school around the city has been shortened and undermined to a much simpler term,
'UA.'
The athletic part was already underlined in the title, pretty obviously show-cased to the world. The school was an electronic enigma of sports; netball, basketball, swimming, judo, ice hockey, you name it, it was there, and most definitely had it's individual team and events.
How the sport organiser, Tenya Iida, someone who Izuku found himself pretty fond of - despite the navy man's uptight restrictions and constant scolding to aspiring artists hitting people with huge canvases - managed to keep all of those events in a tight, unlinking and unanimous schedule, Izuku couldn't even guess.
With that brief mention of the painters who inhabit the building, that leads Izuku swiftly onto the 'Unique' implement of the title.
A more hidden and under-sighted analogy laid there, which Nezu claimed to be ‘ to show the true artistic intention and creativity of the very own principal', not to admitting the truth which was that he didn't want there to be two A's in the name.
'Artists and Athletes', he said, 'wouldn't ring well enough.''
Izuku thought the opposite, although, sure the alliteration would create an even catchier tone, and despite his opposition, he, alas, was a mere Shakespearean expert and avid author, and therefore - could do nothing about his personal choices.
Despite the claims for the writing method to be included in the title, Izuku was the head of the English department and didn't wish to be demoted and for a snotty-nosed old woman to take over his position -
he couldn't even imagine the amount of Dostoevsky she would put into the curriculum; Knowing his students, likely Katsuma and Mahoro, they would quite efficiently die with boredom.
The literature block wasn't the only one, there was the engineering course - ran by Mei Hatsume, an eccentric inventor whom went to his middle school and had always a slight screw loose, but always had a mean knack for driving screws in.
She was always making insane stuff, whether it be a sparrow-bird made out of random litter found on sidewalks or effective dumpster diving,
or a whole mechanical leg she gifted to Todoroki-Kun, the sculpting professor, as a way for him to perfectly carve as a leg on one of his many statuettes.
It was also a sly way of saying 'Hey, I'm into you.' to Todoroki, but the dual-haired man didn't apply the message to the gift, despite the fact his oblivious self wouldn't even notice whenever the blossom-messy-haired girl would physically say 'You're handsome.' anyway, - and Izuku has deemed her childish and petty crush as hopeless.
Then, there was the music department, which was immediately gifted and declared to Kyoka Jirou the minute she was hired;the most musical prodigy to ever musical prodigy in the whole of existence.
Izuku, who had been an aspiring writer since the age of thirteen; stuck on his home computer writing fanfictions between some of his idols (Mount Lady and Kamui Woods), had even heard of her amazing piano playing as she proceeded to become a national treasure to Japan.
Nowadays, however, her chilled-tones stuck more to her bass plucking and casual keyboard notes being pressed down - her performing life, despite her age being only twenty-one, was behind her.
Understandably so, considering all the large venues she's ever played at during her time she would play classically at the opera, whether it be her iconic piano or occasional cello solos, they made her enough money to live off of for her life.
In addition, teaching highly in UA equalled to enough money to buy a colossal mansion.
Of course, there was the drama and performing arts section, ruled and dominated by Hagakure Kirigaki, the one and only star that has the most bubbly and positive persona Izuku has ever spoken to, rivalling his best friend, Uraraka.
Izuku has watched most of the school productions, and if that's anything to go by, Hagakure has nurtured those kids intensely and extremely professionally.
Pfft- Izuku definitely hasn't cried to them.
Why would he do that?
Hah.
Hagakure's own best buddy, Mina Ashido, controlled the dance and choreographic regiments of the school, simultaneously organised the cheer-squads marches, the band's rhythmic details, and the competitive international dance camp's many tournaments.
And Izuku thought he had a ton of work to complete.
He mentally thanks Nezu that his assignments to hand out and also work on himself are for the most part, excusing that one time he made him do fifty laps around the neighbouring park to write an short paragraph on scenery and the emphasis of imagery - Izuku must prepare to teach for the very best after all - , merely writing.
Although his work-pieces were never typically messy, putting aside the occasional typo or smudged ink, he couldn't say the same to Koda and Sato's work, the chefs of the building who prepared the daily lunch, and the culinary cooks.
Sato was a typical baking professor, all about sugar and cupcakes and sweets galore, but he would have to take-over for Koda's cooking lessons that included meat, mainly because Koda was an adamant vegan and if someone else didn't cook the food as an example to his students, he would quite promptly vomit all over it - and that would not look too well for the school, or anyone in it.
The final teacher in the art department is the one and only, YaoMomo. Or Momo Yaoyorozu, in contrast to her fashion designer name.
She's the exceedingly elegant textiles teacher, and Izuku is always shocked by the amount of callouses on her hands despite her seemingly clean appearances, but he can't expect any different, considering every time she's spotted by his green eyes, she's either crouched over a sewing machine or an embroidery hoop.
Izuku is no different, also with scarred and gruff hands due to the amount of times a pen is looped between his large columns of fingers.
If Izuku were to read this entry page of the fanfic he didn't even know he was in, he'd likely say it was too lengthy, and to get to the darn point.
(Damn, in his book, is a swear word - the author would know.)
And, if this were a student's work, he would tell them to start the story with a mere, passing, and relatable verb.
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Stretching his arms over his head, Izuku stretches his admen refreshingly, the tension of it muffling his hearing slightly and a low groan is emitted out of his throat. He can't find himself to be embarrassed, all considering he's crammed up in an empty lecture halls as all of his students have been long-gone, likely resting at home
… as he should be right now.
Curse his reverse procrastinating!
A singular sentence stating the day of the week is the only thing presented next to his blinking cursor on his laptop screen. Izuku shoves his head into the cradling presence of his hands; groaning annoyedly from his mouth this time, and he moves his strained from re-typing too many sentences fingers up to tug at his lincoln-green strands tumbling over his pale forehead.
Writer's block was a harmful, deadly curse and it seemed to love favourably infecting him, almost permanently.
''Reeeaal nice, Izuku. Sure, a short, snappy sentence is - '' He pauses ''-compelling.''
He decides on, with a short, approving shrug as he tilts his head in thoughtful consideration - gesturing with his hands blindly as he debates on whether or not the sentence is a banging approach or a plain deadpanning statement.
''But,'' He notes with criticism, ''it's nothing without the rest of the page.'' He mutters blankly to himself with no apparent reason other than plain irritation at his lack of letters on the wordcount.
Placing his cupped hands hovering above the keyboard again, he jabs his index finger downwards, passionately.
‘It was a Thursday|'
'It was a Thursda|'
'It was a Thursd|'
'It was a Thurs|'
'It was a Thur|'
'It was a Thu|'
'It was a Th|'
'It was a 'T|'
His screen is left blank as he repeatedly slams down the backwards and delete key, and he hastily retypes with a breakthrough,
'It was a Wednesday.'
Perfect.
Done for the day, having already been doing a full day mixed with Seminar's and lectures, the man is tired and in addition, he had marked 15 out of 30 essays from his last homework task, and whilst his student's works are all extremely professional for their young ages, - 15-17 - (The school was a university, but for only for the gifted and exceptional, therefore they're naturally a bit younger than the typical and normal age range for such a extreme and adult-like school), Izuku always ends up regretting ever suggesting to set such large thesis statements and overall large 4,000 words minimum works.
Just as he grabs the lid of his laptop to forcefully slam it closed, he is stopped as a notification sends a vibration to his eardrum.
Lifting the top of it up slightly more, he sees a pop-up from messages appear on the bottom right of his screen and immediately purses his lips in order to stop an eye from twitching vigoursly.
His neck ends up twitching.
kota, the best has sent him a message, name credits go to the horned-hatted devil himself.
yoyo! big bro, iiii kinda forgot that i stole your satchel as a prank or wtv -
Izuku pauses reading the message to quirk an eyebrow and spin round on his wheeled-chair to find his bag not in the usual place he sets it upon everyday.
A shock of realisation running through his spin, the particles running down his neck to his backside as their cellular feet pad against his bone-structure, and he hastily scrolls down to the rest of the message, briefly skimming through it.
- and... i may have forgotten it in the ice-hockey stands during practice?
plz dont murder me. i am yet a foetus and have a long life to live.
sincerely, kota the best (as the contact name reads)
fyi. should i change it to kota the boss?
p.s. i think coach bakugou should be sill training anyways, he'll let you in :P
Izuku is going to strangle that little cockroach by the neck until all the butterflies in his belly from his blossoming youth crawl out as moths, hoping to find some air outside of his crimpled body.
Hey - Izuku should write that down! Maybe for a murder mystery book? He mentally notes to himself, but directs his focus once more to the issue at hand.
Not only has his satchel been a victim of heinous theft, he has to walk all the way across the campus just to reach the large, looming double doors of the Ice rink.
Heh - Nice alliteration.
Focus on the bag!
His beloved, little leather satchel is like his third and conjoined arm - you will never find a tired writer without their trusty little sustainable bag that they've had for five or more years.
Ne-ver. It's just a rule, that applies to all writers, and Izuku can not simply go against his peers and betray them by breaking the code of conduct.
So, decisively, he finishes closing his laptop - speedily sending a thumbs up to Kota, and the pure drive of his ambition echoes through the room and it radiates off of him.
Tucking his laptop into a side drawer, he really doesn't think he can look at the dreaded thing in it's apple logo anymore, he reaches subconsciously for his bag and finds nothing there to greet his hand that resembles a leathery strap of thin material.
Instead, his callouses find the soft fabric of a scarf, and he shrugs nonetheless, because despite it not being what he was initially reaching for,
Cough, the invisible side-bag, Cough, he still rips it off it's peg with as much determination he's feeling right now and wraps it around his neck with as much wit a man can wrap his scarf around his delicate neck with.
It was hockey season, after all.
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Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold!...
… was the furthest length his mind's extremely complex words would reach as he trudged through the snowing campus, briefly pondering on why on earth he didn't think to snag a cheeky jacket before leaving his smug and cosy apartment as he departed earlier.
Some students still lurk around campus, either sledding playfully down the hills or walking on the pathway and narrowly avoiding thrown snowballs by a wistful dodge.
Some of his own pupils from his variety of creative writing and or literature classes give him a firm nod or a cheerful wave as he walks past them; He can't help but feel envious of their several beanies and crocheted scarfs that hide their rosy cheeks that are battered blue from the cold.
Battered red is a more accurate statement, but anything for that snappy sentence, Izuku thinks from a true writer's perspective, he amends himself with a fond smile.
On his way, he spots the main building where most of the indoor activities take place, the self-proclaimed,
'Training grounds.'
Izuku doesn't find himself in there a lot, as he's usually in the safe warm comfort of the teacher's lounge, on a sunny bench reading a classic he's read a million times, or evidently; and most typically; stuck inside of his empty lecture halls with mountains of sheets before him.
He only knows of it because of town gossip, or more accurately - campus gossip - supplied to him by the infamous Ochaco Uraraka, the pole-vaulting coach. Ever since adolescence, she's been labelled in newspaper's as the 'floater', known for going to miraculous heights throughout her events which she undoubtedly places first in, no matter what.
Her students can most definitely try, but Izuku is almost certain none of them can surpass her natural defiance to the physical laws of gravity.
From her streaming flow of words, he knows most of the athletic events partake somewhat in that very building, almost making it as a somewhat staple for the university.
The rock climbing walls, from the mere flashes he's seen of them, are absolutely huge, scaling up to about 50ft in that building alone.
It's instructed by a curator commonly known as 'Froppy', namely Tsuyu Asui, who has gained the iconic nickname by her frog-like ability to seem to naturally suction-cup to the grips on the walls and fly up them in countless seconds, reaching the top and ringing the bell without a singular ounce of effort in her body.
Izuku is pretty sure he sweats more from writing than she does her rock climbing.
It's a theme for the more dangerous activities to be planted there, as Judo and Boxing, instructed by Ojiro and Kirishima (in that order), also share that gymnasium, one of them having it for one week and so on - the other having to rent out a dance studio that Mina practically battles them for.
Izuku has never exactly gotten involved in the exact statistic of that unspoken war, but he's sure if he ever mentioned it to the floater, she'll end up spirally about the whole length about the time period it's stretched across, and Izuku just fears he doesn't have enough time to listen to all that at the moment.
All he knows, from witnessing interactions at teacher going-outs, is that Kirishima and Mina have developed some sort of messed up, wordless chemistry from the arguments, and Izuku can almost deduct pretty clearly that the pair matches almost strangely perfectly - both passionate, driving individuals, and he can't help but recognise them as a match made from mercury.
… Gosh darn you, Alliteration Gods!
As Izuku got lost in thoughts, trekking from one end of the walkway to the further other end, he finds the track-course just to the left of him and spots some, quite frankly, insane people running in this cold weather.
A high-pitched octave breaks him out of his judgement.
He takes a look over to the whistle that was just blown, finding Denki Kaminari, the exuberant and hyper track coach, as the perpetrator.
Of course, the unnaturally warm guy, Izuku mocks in his head - feeling a slight fondness despite his jealousy towards the guy's natural sunshine radiation - would have his pupils run laps outside.
Seriously, the guy was like a human radiator. Izuku can confirm, with the amount of times the guy has hugged him.
Not that Izuku's complaining. A warm hug is a good hug.
The yellow-haired-with-a-black-streak man excitedly spots the pistachio haired teacher, and waves with a grin plastered across his face, and Izuku feels his own smile etching from one cheek to the other as he waves, with a considerably lower hand, but just as happily back.
With a fond, accepting smile still ghosting on his freckles, the viridescent man continues on with his walk, almost positive that Kaminari's snow-like teeth had somehow made the journey slightly more heated.
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Rushing hurriedly towards the doors of the Ice-rink, Izuku, in a speedy pace, pulls open the door as soon as his hand can grasp a stable hold around it, and steps inside the building.
Closing the door behind him, he sighs with relief when the warmth envelops his body cosily, like aural hands hugging him tightly as if to embrace him with the heat he so desperately needs.
With the latter half of his walk, came the latter half of winter's weather and it began snowing again for the latter half of the day.
Looking outside of the glass that makes up the door frames, he stares at his reflection slightly, his green hair now coated delicately with snow that looks like sugar chunks, and he shakes it softly in an attempt to get it out.
It's partially successfully, aside from the fact some cold particles only sink deeper, sending a splash of coldness down on his scalp and he shivers at the sensations.
Turning around, he is faced with the surprisingly familiar sight of the ice-rink, which is only familiar because of Kota and nothing else.
Not the other players.
Or the blonde coach. The one with the alluring smile and silly little dimples - No - Izuku's inner monologue messed up.
He meant, The one with the witty retorts and anger on the rink, with the passion blaring in his wine-alighted irises every time he witnessed an extraordinary play by one of his students; and Izuku only knows that because he merely wants to watch Kota's coach to analyse him... Yeah, Izuku decides on, that's righ-
No, it's not!
His monologue must've messed up again, and Izuku blinks harshly a couple of times, straining his optic nerves in the hope it resets a jammed cog in his brain, and he reamends his mindset.
The coach... who...who... Okay, so what if Izuku can't think of a negative connotation?!
He huffs out audibly, walking further into the inviting building which is only magnetising him to the inner warmth of the heated bleachers - like he's been emphasising, this really is the best university in Japan.
The satchel is slung over the banister that leads up to the stairs, and Izuku mentally thanks Kota for not hiding it like he's done numerous times previously. The teacher quickly grabs it, eager to get out of here to the comfy escape of his bedroom, his mouth practically foaming at the orgasm-worthy image of his gorgeous bed flashing frequently through his headspace.
Turning away, prepared to trek the long way back after such a tedious journey here for such a snippy visit, Izuku goes to walk out of the corridor again when he hears the ice being skidded onto.
Slowly facing back towards the direction of the solidified water, it doesn't take the sage-green haired man long to recognise the silhouette of the muscular form skating as none other than the menacing leader of the team, and the ice hockey teacher; the enigma called Katsuki Bakugo.
Also known, to Izuku, as Kacchan, his childhood friend - who moved away, moved back, became friends with Izuku's bullies, stood to the side for a short while, snapped into his senses and beat the shit out of Izuku's bullies, and proceeded to go through the rest of Izuku's embarrassing life phrases with him.
And that, was the summary of Izuku's life.
Because, it mainly revolved around Katsuki and work - which to him, were almost the same thing.
Pivoting on his foot as it swings above the ground loosely for a moment before the gravitational pull ushered it back down, his body rotating a quick 360 degree turn that could've likely resulted in whiplash.
Katsuki glides over to the boy gently and with ease, zooming as though it was human's nature to.
When the man finally reaches the edge of the rink, he taps on the protective glass a couple of times with a natural goofy smirk on his chin, a little bit of his dimples popping up, as though he's attempting to capture the green-haired man's undivided attention despite Izuku already looking at him - because, in the end, Katsuki somehow always somehow manages to grasp the boy's fixed gaze.
''Hey, Deku.'' Katsuki greets teasingly, that contagious smile gracing his plump lips as they open to speak, the same childhood nickname escaping his mouth simple. Izuku's bullies had originally intended for it to mean 'useless', but after Uraraka rebranding it to mean 'do your best', Her and Katsuki have both gotten pretty fond of it.
And since then, it's caught like the plague amongst their group of friends.
''Hello, Kacchan.'' Izuku deadpans, acting as if he's not secretly ecstatic deep down inside at bumping into his childhood best friend, feigning an impassive and dismissive approach.
''Wow. Bland reply, much?'' Katsuki just gapes, gobsmacked. “ 'Whatever, nerd.'' He shakes his head in disapproval, pretending to be offended and placing a mocking hand on his chest, skating away backwards, still taunting Izuku with that unserious pout.
''Dont ever contact me again!'' He cheekily skates away, skidding his left foot forward to create a dramatic flare of ice particles flying up to create a silly little shield in front of him, and he reaches a hand out - blocking his face from Izuku's view.
Not effected by the drama queen named 'Katsuki', Izuku rolls his eyes playfully and waves the bag foolishly - as if to show Kacchan what he had exactly came for, but going along with his best friend's silly charade, he slides gracefully to the door opening the rink up into it's icy landscape, adding a little pizazz by flaring his arms out to add a bit more dimension and fluidity to his movement.
Gripping onto the frame with a harsh grip, he reaches a yearning hand out towards the direction of the still skating away ,whilst looking at Izuku's freckled face , Katsuki and bends his body as if to show his 'dismay.'
''Oh, great, Kacchan! I am deeply sorry, for alas, I hath not meant for thy statement to come unfaithfully across in such an impertinent manner.''
Izuku speaks in Shakespearean tongue, not accurate at all considering he's too focused on the banter and charisma naturally flowing through their chemistry, and he knows the professor version of him would scold the use of it if one of his students said what he had just.
Katsuki merely stops in defiance but hums thoughtfully for a brief second, to which Izuku just smiles wider and tilts his head to the side curiously, his green hair cascading with him as he quirks an eyebrow at the contorted expression upon the spiky-blonde's thought-progressing face.
Without a word, Katsuki just zooms back, even faster than his initial approach, and Izuku is taken off guard when a warm hand is all of a sudden clenched over his fragile wrist, tugging him onto the ice; No ice-skates or any sort of warning or hindsight as he slips and slides ungracefully.
Thankfully, Katsuki, who had already seemed to have formulated his devilish intents, prepared himself and had already taken into account the small of Izuku's back, his giant gloved palm framing it singlehandedly- and Izuku can't resist leaning into it... for the fear of falling - that's it!
''Hey there, tiger, you were gonna come on eventually; No need to be so eager.'' Katsuki taunts unheedingly sarcastically, grinning down at the fumbling boy encaged in his hockey arms, where his touch is igniting unsettling sparks burrowed deep beneath Izuku's skin, contrasting highly towards the icy-chill of the holy ground they stand on.
''I wasn't eager! You dragged me on.'' Izuku pouts, protesting against the false accusation and squinting his eyes into a hard-set glare, but a little smile peeping only slightly out of the corner of his lips, a little crinkle setting into the edge of his eye, and that's enough for Katsuki to know he doesn't really mind.
‘'Did I? We all knew you were gonna come on the magnetic ice eventually - It's inevitable.''
The syllables of the last word rolls off Katsuki's tongue smoothly, and he practically purrs the word, setting a ticking bomb in Izuku's heart, and he's not sure if it exploding it going to be a good or bad thing.
Nonetheless, he's curious as to the result when the time finally diles down to one.
Not replying, but growling slightly in his throat, Izuku lets out an incoherent grumble that Katsuki raises a mocking eyebrow at, and the green-haired man finds something lodged in his throat at the strange emotion he felt in his appendix at the look, and darts his head away abashedly.
''Here's the deal. You score one, I let you go.'' Katsuki removes one hand from Izuku's waist to point a finger directing to the hockey sticks piled in a corner, and then darts that same index to the puck, and finally to the goal.
''What?! No! Kacchan!'' Izuku whines, trying to wiggle his way out of Katsuki's grips, and at the reaction, the blonde only tightens the pressure of his fingertips, them now slightly digging into the boy's skin and sparks slowly igniting into fire, burning his inner-muscle away and resulting him into a pile of worthless and putty ashes.
Weak to the touch.
Still trying his best attempts to scramble his way out of the only increasingly stronger grasp, Izuku manages to flail free - but only because Katsuki lifts his hand up in mock surrender.
As soon as it happens, however, Izuku is rejoiced as he thinks his wish has come true, but his unmistakable error quite literally almost hits him in the face and his destination seems to be the floor.
Plummeting in what feels like slow-motion, Izuku braces himself for the hard impact, tucking his arms up and scrunching his eyelids painfully.
He was going to bite his tongue, but decides against it last minute at the thought of the impact ripping it off.
Although, said impact never arrives, and he is once again meant by not the chilly ground, but the same arm wrapped around his hips, keeping him barely up-right, and he quickly scrambles to be standing up again.
With the lack of clear balance, he tumbles directly into Katsuki's arms and his face smacks right smack in the middle of the man's chest, but he finds himself grateful it's not the cold floor he's landing on, and instead the warm pulsating of Katsuki's surprisingly thunderous chest.
A very, soft, warm, chest.
Looking up, suddenly furious at the only few inches that separate the two's heights, - because Izuku, too, was a tall man - he catches Katsuki just in time to find the blonde rolling his eyes expressively.
As much as he didn't want to, Izuku puts a bit of distance between him and Katsuki, still being held by him, but a few inches rightfully between their torsos, and Katsuki takes that as an invite to propose his offer again,
“'Clearly, you can't escape off of this ice. Succumb, 'Zuku. I'll guide your hands.''
Katsuki makes a tempting bet, Izuku gives him that.
Especially with that strangely beautiful face.
So unfair.
With no other option, Izuku looks left and right, hoping to peep a quick way out, but to no avail as he can't seem to create an ideal solution.
So, it is with defeat, he sighs and grumbles, shoving a hand into Katsuki's chest,
''Let's just get this over with.''
Katsuki grins, and guides Izuku over to the wall of the rink, settling him there and telling him to stay whilst he grabs the appropriate stick.
Technically, Izuku could flee then and there, gripping his way along the half-wall to victory, but Katsuki is Izuku's victory, and he's almost curious as to how this is going to pan out.
Not too long after, Katsuki appears again with a hockey stick and a puck he's guiding with said hockey stick, and he doesn't even need to look at it as he glides effortlessly across the rink.
Wordlessly, he tosses Izuku the stick and it only fumbles three times in the man's butter fingers, which he declares improvement, and Katsuki finds himself behind Izuku - holding his hips again; something he's taking a bit too much pleasure out of, and gently turning his hands so he's gripping onto the stick correctly.
''Just remember, I'm not an Athlete like you, Mr muscles.'' Izuku comments over his shoulder as Katsuki slowly begins to push them into a solid rhythm, their feet moving in sync as they make their way towards the centre puck.
''You think I'm muscular?'' Katsuki speaks, and due to their proximity, it feels as though the vibrations just went directly into Izuku's eardrums, and the smell of Katsuki's expensive cologne overflows his nostrils, but he can't say he dislikes it.
Izuku isn't fond of lying.
In response, the green-eyed boy just elbows the wine-alighted eyed boy lightly, it barely grazing him but the message still conveying thoroughly of, ‘ Shut up.'
Katsuki just huffs out an amused sound, and slowly guides Izuku's stick to knock the puck slightly towards the goal, the two of them timidly turning
- or more accurately, Katsuki turning a timid Izuku.
''Now, we pick up the pace.'' Izuku throws a small gaze behind him and sees Katsuki focusing his eyes set determinedly on the net, and he gulps slightly nervously at the increase in speed, but he finds himself adjusting to it quite easily.
A nervous smile begins forming on his face at the thought of him overcoming a new challenge, but he hasn't scored yet, so it's not worth a full grin.
Yet.
The net is only getting closer, and Izuku is only getting more passionate, and it feels like forever until Katsuki wraps his fingers around Izuku's, knocking the stick back, and knocking it right back down with an unmatchable amount of flare and power; and Izuku feels his arm go slightly numb at the drive.
And… the puck flies, it skids, its tumbles, it glides, it swerves slightly to the left, and lands in the right corner of the net!
“Kacchan.” Izuku whispers at a quiet level, blinking as his brain resets,
“Kacchan! Did you see- I did it? I did it!” Izuku exclaims excitedly, joy fuming through his ears and to Katsuki’s nostrils as he can’t help but smile from the contaminating presence of the shorter boy in front of him.
The literature teacher grips onto the coach’s wrists, shaking with excitement as he looks back and forth between the magma eyes of the man and the net that his puck still lays abandoned in, his neck darting back and forth so quickly, Katsuki is surprised he’s not developing whiplash.
With every shooting direction of his neck, comes a little tug on Katsuki’s wrists, therefore causing the blonde to bop along slightly with the green-haired man, being pulled simultaneously.
Izuku isn’t even conscious of his footing anymore, seemingly have found his balance. His euphoric celebration is dying down slowly as he absent-mindedly smiles to himself, pleased over such a small thing.
Nonetheless, pleased.
Raising a hand up to high-five , Izuku grins as Katsuki immediately returns the gesture, slamming with all his might; the way he’s all done since childhood and adolescence, so Izuku was subconsciously preparing himself for the harsh slam of their palms connecting.
Unlike a normal high-five usually transmitted between the two, Katsuki’s hand lingers slightly over Izuku’s after the initial connection, and he slowly intercepts each little section with his own column of skin; interlinking their hands to interlace together.
Izuku has no move to stop it, as his smile slightly falters to a more sheepish grin, moving his oggling stare from their connected hands to the boy in front of him, who is already gazing at him longingly.
Naturally, their arms move down, and they move closer.
Their interjoined hands are slightly brushing against his padded thigh, and Izuku swallows a large lump of unknotted feelings in his oesophagus, gulping any anxiousness and his eyes become hazy as they focus in only Katsuki, blurring out any background noise from an air conditioner or any form of peripheral vision Izuku had before the blonde’s eyes encaptured him.
Enamouring him.
By a pure coincidence, their faces have closed the distance between themselves naturally, their hot breathes mingling in a chilly breeze and eyes flickering to silent stops as they align their mouths wordlessly.
Izuku doesn’t know who initiated it, and it might’ve been him, or maybe Katsuki took the first brave step; but a second later, their lips come crashing together at an ignition of sparks.
Izuku’s eyes are screwed tightly shut, turning off his sense of sight to strengthen his sense of taste, his hand is still interwined in their embrace, and his other hand curls around the back of Katsuki’s spikey hair, resting over the man’s nape as he pushes their faces closer.
Katsuki also takes action, not breaking their hand-hold too, but moving his other arm to slot itself behind Izuku’s waist, pulling their bodies impossibly closer and Izuku slightly has to lean on his tip-toes in order to reach the tall height of the other’s skating shoes.
Momentarily, Katsuki’s hand moves to Izuku’s hair, entangling itself within the green curls and he adjusts the tilt of his head so the blonde can gain better access.
As they kiss slowly and sensually, Izuku can only feel the pleasure pile up, letting out a soft sigh of relief that the sun-kissed hockey player takes as an invite to sweep his tongue over the interior of the pale boy’s gums, slightly sucking down onto Izuku’s own tongue; which causes him to let out another embarrassing whine.
When the kiss is finally over, the two are out of breath and Izuku has made the epiphany that the bomb in his heart earlier was the fireworks beginning to spark in his blood.
Leaning back, still captured in Katsuki’s tight grip, the two just scan each other’s face, both looking for something whilst also having everything in front of them - and it feels straight out of a movie.
Like Taylor Swift’s labyrinth should be emitting vibrations from the stadium’s speakers.
’ Uh oh, I’m falling in love.’
Izuku leans back a bit more, taking in the full thing that is Katsuki Bakugou.
’Oh no, I’m falling in love again.’
Unfortunately, Izuku leans too far.
The track skids to a messy stop.
Too caught up in his feelings, Izuku had completely forgotten about his lack of proper skating equipment, and had quite efficiently perfected the worst possible outcome; falling on the floor.
The ice seeps wetly through his formal jeans, and he yelps at the sudden contact, grappling tightly onto the fabric of Katsuki’s clothes with enough strength to pull him tumbling down too.
With a thud, and an ‘oof!’ in the collosion, the pair are mingled on the floor, Katsuki’s heavy-weight chest atop Izuku’s and the green haired man pushes it off hurriedly to prevent death from lack of air, or for a better term, chest strangling.
Katsuki lifts himself up on his forearms, hair dangling down and Izuku’s hair clinging to the icy floor as the two stare at each other in the same way, regardless of their position.
Finally, Katsuki breaks their longing and yearning stares, grinning a bit too happily as he lets words roll out of his mouth,
“You just couldn’t help falling for me, could you?” He teases, in a gorgeous manner, like he did everything in.
“Shut up.” Izuku grumbles, trying to muffle his own smirk but failing to do so as it seeps through the cracks of his lips.
“Make me.” Katsuki’s eyes gained a different type of glint Izuku had never been the one to witnesss before, or maybe he had without realising.
“Gladly.” Izuku managed to escape, breathlessly as he leaned up for another kiss, eager to taste his new favourite food.
It would’ve been the ideal kiss, if not for the fact neither of them couldn’t stop smiling like stupid idiots.
Their teeth clashed, and it was messy with the hard floor beneath them, but it was perfectly imperfect.
If Izuku was writing this fanfiction, he would declare this as just the beginning.
Oh, I’m falling in love.