Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm sorry if you came here looking for a fic, I've got nothing and no time to write anymore - yet. Just you wait for me to get my creative writing spark back - then it’s over for all you bitches (affectionate).

This is a pilot I'm dropping (yes, I can do that - I can do whatever I want Haylie, you can fuck right off babes - sorry was that too rude? I love you, don’t leave me <3). Let’s see if I can get someone to either help me write it or co-author with me, I don’t mind either, I just need enough motivation of get this engine on the track (Ha, get it- engine, track - it’s cause it’s a racing sport series- yeah, okay i’ll stop)

But anyway, I hope the description can evoke some images of where I was hoping to go with this fanart/ possible fic. Let me know what y’all think.

Chapter Text

[Overtime Begins]

Commentator 1 (Jack):

We’re back at centre ice for the start of sudden-death overtime! The scoreboard reads 3–3 after a wild third period that saw both teams trade goals like heavyweights in the final round of a title fight.

Commentator 2 (Lia):

Absolutely, Jack. X Hunter's captain, #17 Babe, tied it with just 46 seconds left on a wraparound that caught Chens’ goalie completely off guard. We are now in 3-on-3 overtime—wide open ice, and anything can happen!

[19:10 — Overtime Clock]

Jack:

Chens gains possession early. Here comes #88 Winner down the right wing—he’s got speed—drops it to #12 Dean, who shoots—OH! Just off the post! That iron is still ringing!

Lia:

So close! That could’ve ended it. X Hunter needs to reset here. Kim Minsu picks it up behind his net—he’s surveying the ice like a chessboard.

[18:43 — Overtime]

Jack:

The puck trickles into neutral ice—Kim Minsu’s chasing it down with speed—but Kenta steps up, the Chens’ right defenseman cuts him off at the red line—big collision! That’s a statement hit!

Lia:

Whoa! That wasn’t just defense, that was personal. Kim’s slow to get up—and look at that! He’s getting right in Kenta’s face!

Jack:

Words exchanged—gloves still on, but you can feel the tension. Kim jabs a finger in Kenta’s chest—Kenta responds with a shoulder nudge. Ohhh, this is boiling.

Lia:

They’ve had a history, haven’t they? Back to the winter invitational—those two went at it then, and it’s never cooled off.

Jack:

Ref’s stepping in now—but neither of them is backing down. Kim’s jawing hard. Kenta? Cold stare. Stone-faced. Like he’s daring Kim to make the first move.

Lia:

This overtime just gained another layer. Not just sudden death hockey—it’s personal now. And if these two meet again on the next shift?

Jack:

Grab your popcorn. Kim and Kenta might not need a puck next time—just open ice and unfinished business.

[17:02 — Overtime]

Jack:

Kim accelerates, crosses centre ice—he beats one defender! He’s got a 2-on-1 with Charlie on the left—slides it across—Charlie shoots—SAVED by Chens’ goalie Way! What a left pad flash!

Lia:

Way keeping Chens alive! You can feel the crowd holding their breath with every pass. This is playoff-level intensity!

[15:43 — Overtime]

Jack:

And now a turnover! Chens on a break—#9 Mix, alone on goal—he fakes—backhand—ROBBED BY X HUNTER’S GOALIE ALAN! Unbelievable reflexes!

Lia:

Alan’s glove is basically a magnet tonight. He just stoned him point-blank. We’re still knotted up!

[0:00 — Overtime Ends]

Jack:

And we’ve got nothing decided in overtime! These teams refused to blink. And you know what that means…

Lia (with a grin):

It’s shootout time, folks. Get ready for drama.

SHOOTOUT ROUND

Jack:

First up for X Hunter—it’s their star, Babe. The captain steps up, takes the puck…

Lia:

Here he comes… weaving left, then right… fakes the wrist shot—backhand—GOAL! Babe delivers with surgical precision!

Jack:

1–0 X Hunter in the shootout. Chens sends up Dean now.

Lia:

Dean has slick hands. He glides in, slow approach… tries five-hole—NO! Alan clamps down. Nothing doing!

Jack:

X Hunter maintains the edge.

Lia:

Next up, Charlie for X Hunter. Here he comes—snaps a quick shot—OFF THE CROSSBAR! So close!

Jack:

Chens can even it now. #88 Winner skates in… zigzags… quick release—GOAL! Beautiful shot, glove side!

Lia:

Tied 1–1. Here comes X Hunter’s third shooter— Kim. Pressure’s on.

Jack:

Baines fakes, forehand—STUFFED by Way! Great read!

Lia:

Chens now sends up #12 Kenta. If he scores, they could win.

Jack:

Kenta moves in—stickhandling like he’s got glue on the blade—he shoots… GLOVESAVE BY ALAN! We’re going to sudden-death rounds!

[Shootout Round 4 – Sudden Death Begins]

Lia:

X Hunter rolls out a surprise pick—rookie North.

Jack:

North glides in—he’s got a chance to make history—shoots… SCORES! Upper corner! What a laser!

Lia:

Chens MUST score here. It's all on #16 Lin. The arena is electric.

Jack:

Lin skates in—he fakes—GOES BACKHAND—DENIED!! ALAN SHUTS THE DOOR!

🏁 FINAL CALL

Jack (shouting):

AND X HUNTER WINS IT IN A THRILLER! 4–3 in the shootout! What a game! What a finish!

Lia:

That’s one for the highlight reels, Jack. Babe led with fire, Alan stood like a wall, and the rookie North? Instant legend.

Chapter Text

Kenta finally lets his shoulders drop in defeat—yet another game lost to X Hunter in the conference finals. The weight settles on his spine like wet snow. At this rate, they’d need to claw their way past the Revenants just to sniff the cup - something he was sure Tony wouldn’t be thrilled about.

His gaze drifts across the rink, following his teammates as they slink off the ice. Way is the last to go, lingering like regret. He barely meets Kenta’s eyes before yanking open the bench gate and climbing into the box with a clenched jaw. Kenta exhales slowly, there’s something more brittle in Way’s posture—like a man cracking under the pressure of memories he hasn’t named aloud.

Kenta knows better than to pry. He’d never fully understand the wounds Way still carries—the ones left behind when he got cut from X Hunter.

Tony had made it clear—to everyone, but especially to Way: if they didn’t win the conference, he could kiss his chances at the Trade Meet goodbye. And Way? He’d already been caught once in the crossfire between Tony and Pete, X Hunter’s owner. If it hadn’t been for that mid-season showdown with Babe, Way might still be wearing X blue instead of their black and gold. And maybe he'd have been happier for it.

Kenta turns toward the tunnel, just beginning to strip off his gloves, when something sharp and beautiful slices into his senses: a heady mix of crisp pine and petrichor, like a storm blowing through a cedar grove. It rushes over him before he can brace, curling down his spine, seeping into his lungs.

Kim.

Every nerve in his body lights up, instinctively wanting to lean in, soak it up, let himself drown. But no. Not here. Not now.

“Awe, come on, babe—” Kim’s voice lands behind him, breathless and familiar. His glove is off, hand wrapping around Kenta’s forearm, grounding and unwise. “Don’t be like this. I’m sorry—”

Kenta’s eyes dart toward the exit. The bench is empty. Good. Most of the team is already in the locker rooms.

“What are you doing?” he hisses under his breath. “Get back to your—”

His reprimand is cut short as Kim climbs into the box, into his space, into his scent. Their foreheads are nearly touching, their breath shared in a cloud of tension and unspoken apologies.

“No.” Kim’s eyes burn stubbornly. “Not until you accept my apology and actually look at me.”

He’s already reaching for him again, and Kenta backs away by instinct. Not here. Not now. Not with Tony in the VIP suite, and certainly not with cameras still lingering like vultures.

“Minsu, I swear—get out of the box.” His voice drops into something darker, sharper. His scent sours—vinegar and cracked pepper, harsh enough to make Kim wrinkle his nose and recoil with a soft, involuntary whine.

Kenta regrets it immediately. But fear is louder than guilt.

“I’ll talk to you when I get home,” he mutters. “Don’t make another scene. Please.”

He’ll play all his cards—every last one—to keep Kim safe. The last time he hadn’t, when he let Kim joke too casually about their rivalry in front of the wrong people, it ended in blood, a hospital bed, and a contract that read more like a prison sentence. Kenta is not letting history repeat itself.

“Ken,” a new voice breaks through—the sharp edge of it almost welcome.

Jay—the Chens’ manager—emerges from the shadows of the tunnel, tablet in hand and attention elsewhere. The screen casts a faint glow on his face as he speaks, distracted and efficient.

“The reporters want to have a session with the team first, before they move on to X Hunter. You should get changed.”

Kenta nods stiffly. Thankfully, Jay doesn’t even look up long enough to notice the man in white and blue standing beside him. And then he’s gone, vanishing back into the dark like a thought you meant to keep.

The moment swells, suspended—a breath neither of them takes.

Kim fidgets. “I’ll see you at home,” Kenta says finally, voice cold on the surface but his scent softening to something warmer**—mulled wine and burnt sugar**, a quiet reassurance.

“Please don’t pull any stunts like yesterday when you talk to the reporters later,” he adds, fingers twitching at his side, dying to reach out.

Kim deflates in front of him, like a balloon with a pinhole.

“You really shouldn’t try to test Tony, Minsu,” Kenta whispers, barely audible. “Please. Just listen to me.”

The locker room is unusually quiet.

A few of the guys sit slouched on benches, still in half-peeled gear. The scent of sweat, ice, and bitter liniment clings to the air like a bruise. Jay hovers by the back wall, giving occasional glances toward the reporters filtering in with notepads and blinking red mics. Everyone knows the drill, but no one has the heart for it today.

The reporters are here with smiles too polite to be genuine.

“Mix,” one of them starts, “walk us through what happened out there.”

Mix answers steadily. Classic captain. Calm. Controlled. No blame. No excuses.

Kenta stays off to the side, towel draped around his shoulders, pretending not to listen. But he hears everything.

Especially when Way speaks.

The goalie’s voice is flat, careful. He doesn’t say much, just the basics. But Kenta hears it anyway — the weight in his tone, the edge of something deeper grinding beneath the words.

Way had taken the loss hard. Of course, he had. Every time they faced X Hunter, it carved him a little more open. Another reminder of what he lost. Of the team he lost.

Kenta tunes out eventually, gaze drifting toward the floor. The bruise on his right thigh is already darkening under the fabric. Another mark. Another reminder.

And Then -

“Kenta?”

His head lifts slowly.

A pause. A rustle of paper. The voice — too smooth, too rehearsed.

“Speaking of X Hunter, Kenta — any comment on Minsu Kim’s pre-game interview?”

The room shifts. Quietly. Uncomfortably.

Kenta doesn’t react right away. He keeps his eyes forward, steady.

The reporter continues, casually flipping a page on his notepad.

“He said — and I quote — ‘Getting traded to X Hunter was the best thing for my career. The only downside was leaving Kenta behind.’”

A low hum moves through the room. Someone clears their throat.

“That seems... personal,” the reporter presses. “Does that statement mean something? And does it have anything to do with what happened between you two today on the bench?”

Kenta knows this is exactly what would happen.

Kim never filters. It’s one of the things Kenta loves most about him — and one of the things that could destroy them both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Measured.

“I think Minsu’s talking about friendship,” Kenta says, keeping his voice level. “We played together for a long time. You get close with teammates — especially ones that push you to play your best.”

The reporter doesn't flinch. Just leans in slightly.

“Right, but leaving you behind — that sounds like more than just a line about locker room chemistry.”

Kenta’s smile is small and unconvincing.

“I’m not here to interpret soundbites. I’m here for the team.”

The silence that follows isn't awkward — it’s pointed. Everyone feels the question still hanging in the air, like a puck sliding just past the crease.

The reporter’s eyes narrow, like he’s turning something over. Almost like he knows something no one else does.

Jay claps his hands once. Too loudly.

“All right, that’s enough for now. The team’s got recovery to handle. Thanks, everyone.”

There’s a shuffle of jackets and scribbled notes. The reporters trickle out, murmuring among themselves.

Kenta doesn’t move right away.

Way catches his eye from across the room — unreadable. But this time, Kenta sees something in it: not judgment… something closer to knowing.

Way knows.

And for just a second, Kenta thinks: this is how it starts. Not with a scandal. Not with a kiss. But with a quote

The road to their place winds through tall pines and whispering leaves, far from city noise and prying eyes. Their home is tucked deep in the woods—secluded and quiet—a sanctuary they’d carved out together. It was a place where both could breathe, away from the pressure and chaos of their worlds.

Kenta steps inside, the soft click of the door echoing in the stillness. The house smells faintly of watered pine, like the forest itself had seeped through the walls. The scent wraps around him like a worn-in jacket — familiar, grounding.

It makes him ache for Kim, but Kim isn’t here. He wasn’t coming back soon. The team was celebrating, reckless and loud, somewhere far away. And Kenta, left alone in the quiet, felt the weight of the day press in like a tightening noose.

Kenta kicks off his shoes and slips under the covers, pulling the blankets up and letting himself sink into the hollow where Kim usually lies. He inhales deeply, drawing in Kim’s scent—the sharpness of pine, the fresh dampness of rain on earth—anchoring him when his mind won’t still.

His heart races, replaying the day’s interview, the reporter’s probing questions, the weight of public eyes on a private fracture. He doesn’t know when or how he’d gotten used to letting his emotions run wild—like a river bursting its banks. But here, wrapped in Kim’s scent, he wills the flood to slow.

Just as sleep begins to pull at his lids, a soft click from the front door—the lock turning—snaps him awake.

He slides out of bed, moving quietly into the dim hallway just in time to see Kim’s familiar silhouette framed in the doorway, keys dangling from one hand.

Their eyes meet—brief and raw.

Kim’s shoulders are tense, eyes sharp with exhaustion and something heavier — guilt, maybe, or regret.

For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other—two halves of a broken whole, pulled apart by fate and circumstance.

Then Kim closes the distance, wrapping Kenta in a hug that mends all the ragged edges left by the day. It’s an apology and a reassurance, spoken without words. Kim cups his face gently, thumb brushing over a tense line near Kenta’s temple. He kisses him soft and slow, steadying them both.

When they part, their foreheads linger close, breath shared and uneven. Kenta’s hands clutch Kim’s sides like he’s afraid this moment might dissolve if he lets go.

“You always come back late,” Kenta murmurs, voice low.

Kim gives a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t feel like celebrating.”

“They won,” Kenta says.

“Didn’t feel like that kind of win.”

Kenta exhales through his nose, and something shifts—an invisible wall lowers between them just enough to breathe.

For a second, they just stay like that. In the hush of their quiet home, wrapped in shared silence. The weight of everything left unspoken hums like a second heartbeat between them.

“Come on,” Kenta says finally, gently breaking the stillness. “You’re freezing.”

Kim doesn’t argue. He lets himself be led, fingers brushing against Kenta’s in passing. Still tethered. Still reaching.

They end up in the kitchen, the overhead light a soft golden pool in the middle of the darkened house. Kenta puts on water, hands moving with the quiet repetition of someone trying not to think too hard. Kim leans against the counter, still in his away jersey, his hair damp with sweat and cold air.

“I heard about the question,” Kim murmurs, pulling back just enough to catch Kenta’s eyes.

Kenta’s lips twitch into a tired smile.

“You always say things like that. Like no one’s listening. But everyone is, Kim.” Kenta’s voice finally breaks, soft but cut from steel.

Kim’s jaw ticks.

“I meant it.”

“I know you did.” Kenta stirs the spoon against the ceramic. “That’s the problem.”

Kim exhales through his nose, bitter and restless, “So what, I’m not allowed to say I miss you now? That I hated walking away?”

Kenta turns, the kettle beginning to rumble behind him.

“You’re allowed to feel whatever you want. But the second you say something, it becomes a headline. A whisper in Tony’s ear. A problem I have to clean up while you’re out there playing hero.”

Kim stares at him, eyes shadowed with frustration and something more fragile underneath.

“I’m not trying to make you clean up after me,” He goes to Kenta, hands reaching out to gather Kenta’s and bring them up to his lips for a gentle kiss. “I’m trying to drag you out of that mess. Out of that locker room. Out from under Tony’s damn boot. Can’t you see what he’s doing to you? To all of you?”

Kenta doesn’t answer immediately. He slowly pulls away to turn off the kettle. The whistle dies. Then quietly, almost too soft he replies,

“You got out. I didn’t.”

Kenta takes a step toward the sink, his hands curling unconsciously around the edge of the counter.

Kim watches him—two seconds, maybe three—before pushing forward, into Kenta’s space, almost as if he recognises Kenta’s attempt at escape, at running away from the bigger conversation they should be having.

“You can, Ken. You just won’t.”

Kenta doesn’t look at him.

He exhales through his nose, quiet and sharp, before reaching for a mug and pouring the water from the kettle with careful, practiced movements. Like this conversation isn’t happening. Like Kim isn’t standing a breath away.

Kim doesn’t back off.

Instead, he leans on the counter beside Kenta, eyes flicking to the mug, then back to Kenta’s profile.

“You think I didn’t want you to come with me?” he asks, his voice low now. Not biting. Just tired.

The water hisses faintly as it hits the instant coffee.

Kenta stirs. Once. Twice. The spoon clinks against ceramic.

Then finally, he says, “I didn’t think. I knew.”

A pause.

“You left.”

Kim’s jaw clenches. He swallows it.

“I asked you to.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

Kenta sets the spoon down gently. Deliberately.

Still not looking at him.

Now it’s Kenta’s turn to bristle, but it’s not anger. It’s pain — old and familiar and buried deep.

“You really think I haven’t tried? That I don’t want to leave?” He sets the mug down with a hard clink. “If I walk, the contract drags you back. You become Tony’s again. And I—” he swallows hard, “I can live with being caged. I won’t survive watching you go back.”

Kim flinches like it physically hits him. He immediately dives in and leans his weight on Kenta. He noses at his lover’s scent gland for comfort, letting out his own calming scent to ease a bit of the tension in the conversation, maybe even his own heart.

“You’re not a goddamn sacrifice.”

“Maybe not. But I’m the one holding the line.”

They both stand there, the air between them crackling with everything unsaid.

“God, I fucking hate him,” he murmurs. “I hate what he’s done to you. To Way. To all of you.”

Kenta leans his head back so Kim could scent him - despite himself, eyes closing. He doesn’t say he hates Tony too. He doesn’t say he wishes Kim would keep talking like that just so he doesn’t forget what freedom sounds like.

Instead, he opens his eyes, exhaustion swimming beneath the surface.

“If I keep quiet, you stay free.”

Kim stills then, and Kenta knows it’s because the man is trying his best to calm down. His jaw works, a silent grind of frustration. One hand clenches at the fabric of Kenta’s hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I don’t want your silence,” Kim says quietly, voice almost breaking. “I want you. Not the version he owns. Not the one buried under contracts and fear.”

Kenta doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. Just breathes.

Kim’s hand comes up, trembling, like he’s afraid to touch him but afraid not to. His fingers trace the edge of Kenta’s cheekbone, reverent, careful, and then—

He kisses him. It’s not sweet. It’s not fiery. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to press a thousand unspeakable things into one moment of contact.

When they pull apart, Kenta presses his forehead to Kim’s.

“I’m proud of you,” he says again. “You played a hell of a game.”

Kim doesn’t say thank you. Just holds him tighter, breath shaky.

“One day,” he whispers, “I’m going to get you out.”

Kenta doesn’t answer.

Because they both know — if it comes down to it, Kenta would burn before letting Kim walk back into that fire.