Chapter Text
“Shut the hell up nerd! You dont know what the fuck your talking about!”
“You can’t just go flying like that with your shoulder leading, even in a practice. That’s a high tackle—it’s too aggressive and the ref would call a penalty and send you to the bin.”
Katsuki scowled, his crimson eyes narrowed, sweat and dirt streaking his face. He threw the rugby ball he was holding to the ground with a frustrated thud that sprayed mud.
Izuku added, "You can't just shove people like that, even in a practice. It's too..aggressive."
Kacchan scoffed and rolled his eyes.
“Kacchan, if we were playing another team right now, you would have gotten a yellow card,” Izuku, the team's manager, insisted, his voice a little shaky but holding firm. He clutched his clipboard tightly to his chest.
"Yellow card?! That idiot Deku thinks he knows everything about the game just 'cause he reads some rulebook! That was a clean block! Stop acting like a perfect little know-it-all, you damn nerd!"
He took a menacing step toward Izuku. "I'll do whatever it takes to win! You just need to shut the hell up and stay out of my way because you don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"
Izuku, still wringing his hands slightly, took a half-step back but didn't look away.
"You already said that, and it's not about what I think, Kacchan, it's about the rules! You need to be able to control your temper and your force! You're the best player we have, but if you get a red card in a real game for something stupid, you'll let the whole team down!"
A low growl rumbled in Katsuki Bakugou's chest. The frustration from the practice match boiled over, fueled by the insufferable correctness of the person he called Deku.
"Don't you dare tell me about control, you damn nerd!" Katsuki snapped, shoving his hands deep into his shorts pockets, which only barely contained the urge to strike out. "I control everything on that field! I decide what's a block and what's a foul! And that was a block! It was a tactical, winning move! You're just jealous because you can't play with the same fire!"
Izuku, though still visibly nervous—his hands twisting into knots and his shoulders hiked up—kept his eyes locked on his rival.
"Fire doesn't win games if it gets you kicked out," he countered, his voice gaining a slightly more steady edge. "A yellow card is a yellow card, no matter how 'tactical' you think it is. You call me a know-it-all for knowing the rules, but you're being an idiot for ignoring the consequences!"
Izuku took the final, difficult step forward, closing the distance Katsuki had created.
"It's not about me, Kacchan. It's about the team losing you for the rest of the match. What kind of best player is that? You can't be the number one if you're stuck on the bench!"
Katsuki's face twisted into an expression of pure rage and disbelief. He had no immediate, loud insult that could refute the logic of letting the team down. The only thing he could manage was a furious, guttural noise as he spun on his heel, snatching the oval ball from the ground with a vicious kick that sent it soaring high into the stadium seats.
"Fine! Whatever!" he yelled over his shoulder, walking away with rigid, pounding steps. "Next time, I'll just score ten goals so it won't matter if I get kicked out, you spineless crybaby Deku!"
A long, strained silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant thwack of another ball hitting the net on a different field. Katsuki's back was still rigid, his shoulders high as he stormed toward the sideline.
"Kacchan," Izuku called out, his voice quiet now, the earlier firmness giving way to a weary plea.
"I'm not saying you have to stop being aggressive. You need that. But if you can't be Number One and smart enough to stay in the game, you're just going to burn out before you hit the finals."
Katsuki froze. The insult about letting the team down had stung, but the words "burn out" and the subtle implication that his intensity wasn't smart enough hit a raw nerve. He slowly turned his head, not moving his body, his gaze burning holes into Izuku.
"Don't you ever tell me I'm going to burn out," he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register that was somehow more frightening than his usual shouts.
"I'm not some little candle you can blow out, Deku. I'm an explosion, and I'll keep getting bigger, stronger, and hotter until everyone else is just ash."
He finally spun around fully, taking two swift strides back toward Izuku, stopping only inches away. He leaned in, his shadow enveloping the smaller boy. He finally spun around fully, taking two swift strides back toward Izuku, stopping only inches away.
“You like rules? You wanna talk about consequences? Fine. The consequence of standing in my way is that I’ll crush you until you can’t even stand up. Now get out of my sight and go practice making sure the reserve kit is folded properly, Manager! I'm going to practice my pushes.”
Without waiting, Katsuki marched back to the drill, his focus immediately snapping onto his task. He picked up the ball and, with brutal intensity, slammed into the scrum machine, the heavy equipment groaning under his sheer force.
Izuku watched, clutching his clipboard. He needs to win. He needs it so badly he can't see anything else. He thinks intensity is the only strength. But the strongest players, especially in the pack, are the ones who can control that fire.
Izuku nodded once to himself, then turned and walked toward the gear shed. He had new equipment to inventory and more importantly, he needed to start creating a statistical breakdown of how often Katsuki commits fouls during high-pressure situations.
"I'll see you on the field, Kacchan," Izuku muttered, already planning his next strategy to curb his star player's destructive tendencies—a strategy based not on emotion, but on cold, hard data.
Izuku watched as Katsuki Bakugou, fueled by white-hot pride, slammed back into the scrum machine. The sound was a deafening, futile roar against Izuku's logic. It’s useless to argue with him when he’s like this, Izuku conceded, finally turning away from the star Prop. He had something far more critical to manage than Katsuki's temper.
Izuku crossed the muddy turf toward the small cluster of players who were cooling down. He targeted the team's leadership committee: Tenya Iida, the rigorous Fly-half and team captain; Shoto Todoroki, the quiet but dependable Lock; Eijiro Kirishima, the reliable Hooker; Momo Yaoyorozu, the tactical Flanker; and Denki Kaminari, the energetic Winger.
"Iida, everyone," Izuku began, skipping pleasantries. He flipped his clipboard open, his tone clipped and professional. "We need to talk about the last few practice plays. We can't rely on getting away with those kinds of hits in a match against the Big Three schools."
Iida adjusted his glasses, his hands chopping the air. "Midoriya, I concur. Bakugou’s aggression is a phenomenal asset, but his disregard for the High Tackle law is a major liability. If we lose him to a Red Card—even for ten minutes in the Sin Bin–-our offensive scrum capability collapses."
Kirishima ran a hand through his spiked red hair. "I tried to talk to him, but he just sees it as 'being tough.' He thinks the ref will let it slide if he hits hard enough. But the point of being tough is being reliable, right? Not getting kicked out."
Todoroki spoke without emotion, his gaze steady. "The other teams know how unstable he is. They’ll use their scrum-half to bait him into reckless plays near the breakdown."
Yaoyorozu, the team's Flanker and tactical mind, tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her arm. "I've been tracking our penalty count. We've accrued seven penalties in the last two scrimmages directly tied to Bakugou's high impact during the clear-out. That's seven potential points for the opposition. We need to plan for his absence, not just hope for his discipline."
Izuku nodded sharply, his eyes glowing with manager-level intensity. "Exactly. He gets flagged for a high tackle or a dangerous clear-out roughly 35% more often when we're defending within our own 22-meter line. The pressure breaks his discipline."
Kaminari, the Winger who relies heavily on the pack's stable platform, looked genuinely frustrated. "So what do we do? We can't bench him, but I can't be chasing down a try while he's sitting in the sin bin."
"We can't change Kacchan's aggression overnight," Izuku explained, tapping the clipboard. "But we can change how the team reacts to his foul-prone plays. We need a strategy that covers his discipline gap."
Izuku pointed to his notes, assigning roles based on their strengths:
"Iida, you are the emergency disciplinary voice. A clear, calm call to pull back right before Kacchan commits—specifically calling out 'Shoulder!' or 'Drop!'"
"Todoroki and Kirishima, you two, as part of the tight five, need to immediately shift your positioning during a defensive scrum near the try line. We need a faster, pre-determined formation—the 'Shield Protocol'---that protects the weak side, allowing us to absorb the defensive pressure even with one man down."
"Momo, I need you to create a specific set of lineout calls that prioritize short, quick throws if Bakugou is off the pitch. We need to minimize the time the ball spends in his usual area of conflict."
"Denki, you have the speed. Your job is to make a specific, deep run into the backfield immediately after a high-pressure penalty is called, whether or not Kacchan is sent off. The goal is to draw the opposition's eyes away from the substitution or the ensuing penalty kick, giving us a precious few seconds of psychological distraction."
Izuku paused, his voice now firm and strategic. "We train the team to not need Bakugou's force in every single play, but to have a structured, disciplined fallback position. If he's going to be a missile, we need to be the shield that doesn't shatter when the missile flies off course."
The five core players exchanged determined looks, the plan providing a clear, logical counter to their star player's fatal flaw.
"Understood, Manager," Iida confirmed, giving a sharp salute. "The Shield Protocol is in effect."
Izuku nodded, a small, satisfied smile touching his lips. The manager couldn't win the argument with Katsuki directly, but he could win the game by preparing the team for his inevitable mistakes.
“Okay guys I think that we'll end practice here today. I'll talk to Coach Aizawa about our ideas for creating new plays in case you know who gets a red card during a game.”
The team let out a laugh as they gathered their things to go shower in the locker rooms.
Izuku had already taken two steps back when Katsuki Bakugou's voice—raw, loud, and bristling with indignant anger—sliced through the relieved laughter of the team.
“You know I can hear ya, you dumbass nerd.”
The small, satisfied smile vanished from Izuku's face. The team's amusement evaporated, replaced by the immediate tension that always preceded a confrontation with their volatile Prop.
Izuku slowly turned, seeing Katsuki standing stiffly by the scrum machine. He wasn't yelling, but his voice carried the deadly quiet menace that meant he'd heard everything. He'd heard the term "Shield Protocol," he'd heard the percentage of his fouls, and worst of all, he'd heard his teammates laughing at the casual mention of his inevitable Red Card.
Izuku didn't flinch this time. He couldn't afford to. He gripped his clipboard like a shield.
“Good, Kacchan,” Izuku replied calmly, ignoring the insult and focusing on the fact. “I meant for you to hear it. It’s on the strategy sheet now. We are adapting our defense and our lineout calls to account for the possibility of your ejection. It's a pragmatic necessity, not a personal attack.”
Katsuki stalked away from the machine, his rugby boots sinking slightly into the mud with each heavy step.
“Pragmatic?! You’re building the entire team’s game plan around the idea that I’m gonna screw up!” he snarled, jabbing a thick, muddy finger into the air. “You’re treating me like a liability, Deku!”
Iida, the Captain, immediately stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation before it boiled over.
“Bakugou, that is a misinterpretation. Midoriya is simply-”
“Shut up, Four-Eyes! I wasn’t talking to the Captain!” Katsuki’s glare cut through Iida, silencing him instantly. He stared back at Izuku. “You think your little data sheet is smarter than my skill? You think your numbers matter more than the force I put into every tackle?”
Izuku squared his shoulders. This was the moment he had to stop hiding behind the clipboard and face his star player head-on, not as a fan or a former victim, but as the Manager responsible for winning.
“Yes, I do,” Izuku said, the quiet assertion dropping into the silence like a stone. “Your force is predictable, Kacchan. Your rage is a variable the opposition can control better than you can. That’s why we have to build a system that protects the team when your self-control fails.”
He held up the clipboard, not lowering it. “Until you prove you can play with intensity and discipline, the data says you are a risk. And the Shield Protocol is how we manage that risk. The team is reliant on your strength, but we cannot afford to be dependent on your temper.”
The weight of Izuku’s quiet authority hung in the air. Katsuki’s chest heaved with fury, his hands curling into mud-caked fists. He wanted to rage, to attack, but the solid logic—backed up by the quiet nod of agreement from Kirishima and Yaoyorozu—hit an impenetrable wall of fact. He couldn't deny his fouls, and he couldn't deny the team's need to win.
With a sound that was half-shout, half-defeated roar, Katsuki pivoted and stomped toward the locker room entrance, kicking a loose ball far into the practice field’s netting.
“I’ll show you and your damn data how wrong you are, Deku!” he yelled without looking back. “You just watch the scoreboard! It’s the only number that matters!”
The sound of his rage faded toward the locker room, swallowed by the hum of the floodlights overhead and the distant murmur of another team finishing drills on a far field. But the damage was already done—the tension he left behind was palpable, clinging to everyone like the damp air.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Izuku stood still, clipboard heavy in his hands, the adrenaline from the confrontation slowly ebbing into exhaustion. His pulse was hammering, but his expression stayed neutral, composed. He’d learned long ago that arguing with Bakugou in front of others only poured gasoline on a wildfire.
“Manager Midoriya,” Iida began cautiously, his tone gentler now. “Was that… wise?”
Izuku exhaled through his nose, pushing his hair back from his forehead.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “But it was necessary.”
Todoroki, arms crossed and unreadable as always, tilted his head. “He’s going to train harder now. You know that.”
“I know,” Izuku said. His gaze drifted toward the direction Bakugou had gone, the locker room door still swinging from his exit. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”
Kirishima frowned. “Man, you’re playing a dangerous game. You poke that bear too much, and he’s gonna blow.”
Izuku gave a tired half-smile. “He already blew. The trick isn’t stopping the explosion. It’s shaping it, containing it long enough for it to do something useful.”
Yaoyorozu nodded approvingly, already taking notes in her strategy binder. “Then we proceed with the Shield Protocol?”
“Yes,” Izuku confirmed. “We drill it tomorrow. But… we also make sure Kacchan never feels like we’ve given up on him. He’s reckless, but he’s also the reason we’ve made it this far. If we can redirect his drive, if he learns to channel that fire instead of burning everything around him, then we’ll have something unstoppable.”
The group dispersed slowly, the tension dissolving into the night air. Iida gathered the last cones, Kirishima slung an arm around Kaminari’s shoulder to lighten the mood, and Yaoyorozu closed her notebook with a soft snap. The team knew Bakugou would come back tomorrow, angrier, faster, hungrier—and that Izuku would have to meet that heat again with pure, unflinching logic.
When the field finally emptied, Izuku lingered.
The grass squelched beneath his shoes as he walked toward the spot where Bakugo had kicked the ball earlier. It was still lying at the far end of the pitch, half-sunk into the mud. Izuku bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in his hands. The familiar weight of the ball grounded him.
“He’s right about one thing,” Izuku murmured under his breath, eyes distant. “The scoreboard does matter. But not because it proves who’s strongest—it proves who can stay standing the longest.”
He tucked the ball under his arm, straightening up, his expression hardening with renewed purpose.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else, “we start phase two. Not just strategy training—discipline training. If Kacchan wants to prove my data wrong, then I’ll give him every opportunity to do it. But this time… we’ll both be keeping score.”
The wind picked up, carrying the faint sounds of shouting and laughter from the locker room—the rough, unfiltered energy of a team held together by tension, talent, and something dangerously close to loyalty.
Izuku turned away from the field, his muddy sneakers leaving a single trail of footprints behind him, heading toward the flickering lights of the storage shed. The clipboard under his arm wasn’t just a record of penalties anymore. It was a blueprint.
And on the final page, he scribbled a single note in fresh ink:
“Katsuki Bakugou: Controlled emotions = Victory.”
The rain started as a whisper against the roof of the storage shed—a soft, uncertain patter that grew steadier, heavier, until it became a curtain of sound. By the time Izuku finally packed up his clipboard and notes, the sky had turned a deep slate gray, and the field lights were beginning to flicker off one by one.
He hadn’t realized how long he’d been there until the last whistle from another pitch echoed faintly across the empty complex. The adrenaline that had carried him through the confrontation with Bakugou was gone now, leaving behind only the dull ache of regret. The storm outside felt like it was settling inside him too.
He replayed every line in his head—the data, the criticism, the way Bakugou’s expression had twisted from fury to something more complicated. Your rage is a variable the opposition can control better than you can.
At the time, it had felt right. Sharp, precise. Necessary. But now, in the quiet aftermath, it sounded cruel.
Bakugou didn’t respond well to reason that felt like judgment. He never had. Even when they were kids, Izuku’s “advice” had always sounded like pity to him. And maybe, deep down, Izuku hadn’t entirely stopped talking that way.
By the time he reached the locker room, his chest was tight with guilt.
The heavy door creaked open, echoing through the empty space. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow over the metal lockers. Steam still lingered in the air from the team’s earlier showers, and water dripped from someone’s forgotten towel into a shallow puddle on the floor.
Izuku’s eyes found Bakugou’s locker almost immediately—it was open, empty, a streak of mud smudging across the nameplate like a fingerprint of anger. The sight made his stomach twist. He could picture it perfectly: Bakugou yanking his gear out, slamming the door, leaving without a word.
He sat down on the bench across from it, the wood damp and cool beneath him. The room smelled like detergent, sweat, and rain seeping in through the half-open window. Outside, thunder rolled, low and lazy, before splitting into a distant crack.
The guilt settled heavier in his chest. He knew Bakugou would never admit it, but that look on his face earlier hadn’t just been rage—it had been hurt. Izuku had crossed a line somewhere between leadership and betrayal.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re supposed to be the one who knows how to keep people together, Izuku,” he muttered to himself. “Not push them farther apart.”
The next flash of lightning briefly lit the lockers silver. The power flickered once. He decided that was his cue to go.
He grabbed his bag, tucking his clipboard under his arm, and stepped out into the night. The rain was coming down in sheets now, washing the field in silver streaks beneath the floodlights. He pulled his hoodie tighter around him—it wasn’t much protection—and started the walk toward the dorms.
He didn’t have a car; he didn’t need one. The UA dorms were just up the hill, and his shared manager’s quarters were right next to Bakugou’s. That proximity was both a blessing and a curse—convenient for strategy meetings, impossible for peace of mind.
He was halfway down the path, squinting through the rain, when he froze.
Under the lone streetlight by the field gate, a figure stood waiting, umbrella tilted low.
Even through the haze of rain, Izuku recognized that posture immediately—arms crossed, weight shifted impatiently to one leg, chin ducked against the wind.
“Kacchan…?” Izuku’s voice carried weakly over the rain.
Bakugo didn’t move for a moment, then gave a short grunt that might’ve been acknowledgment—or irritation. When Izuku got closer, he saw his hair plastered damp against his forehead and the stubborn scowl that hadn’t quite softened despite the rain.
“You’re slow, nerd,” Bakugou muttered, jerking his chin toward the umbrella. “You’d have drowned out here.”
Izuku blinked in surprise. “I—uh, didn’t think anyone was still out here. What are you doing—”
“Don’t make it weird,” Bakugou cut in sharply, thrusting the umbrella toward him. “You live next door, idiot. Figured you’d take forever cleaning up your little charts and whatever, so I waited.”
Izuku’s lips parted, caught somewhere between gratitude and disbelief. “You… waited for me?”
“Don’t say it like that,” Bakugou snapped, ears turning faintly red. “I just didn’t want to hear you whining tomorrow about catching a cold.”
Despite himself, Izuku laughed under his breath. The sound earned him a sharp glare.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, stepping closer under the umbrella when Bakugou tilted it toward him. “It’s just… that’s kind of thoughtful, Kacchan.”
“Shut up.” Bakugou’s voice was low, but there was no real bite in it. “You talk too much.”
They started walking, shoulder to shoulder, the umbrella barely big enough for both of them. Their arms brushed every few steps, and neither pulled away. The air smelled like wet earth and ozone; puddles reflected the orange glow of the dorm lights up ahead.
For a while, neither spoke. The rain filled the silence, soft and constant, like a heartbeat between them. Izuku could feel the warmth of Bakugou’s arm beside him, a steady counter to the chill soaking through his jeans.
When the dorm came into view, Izuku finally broke the quiet. His voice was tentative. “Kacchan… about earlier. I shouldn’t have said some of that stuff. I know I can be—”
Bakugou’s glare cut him off, though his voice stayed even. “Don’t.”
Izuku blinked. “What?”
“Don’t apologize,” Bakugou said. His hand tightened slightly on the umbrella handle. “You were right. About the rules. About me losing it. You’re the manager—that’s your job. Just…” He hesitated, teeth gritting. “…don’t talk like I’m some hopeless case. I’m not.”
Izuku looked up at him, rain dripping off the edge of the umbrella. “I don’t think you’re hopeless, Kacchan. I never did. I just want you to stay in the game. The team needs you. I need you.”
That last line seemed to hang between them, heavier than the rain. Bakugou glanced sideways, eyes unreadable under the streetlight. For once, he didn’t snap back.
“…Tch. You’re still a nerd,” he said finally, thrusting the umbrella into Izuku’s hands. “Take it. I don’t need it.”
Izuku frowned. “Kacchan were going to the same place. Plus you’ll get soaked—”
“I said take it.” Bakugou’s grin was sharp, defiant, a flicker of old heat returning. “Rain’s just water. I’m not made of sugar, Deku.”
"Where are you going, the dorms are right up here?"
"None of your damn business Deku."
He turned away, stepping into the storm. Within seconds, the rain plastered his shirt to his skin, but he didn’t slow down. He looked like a spark refusing to die, burning hot even in the downpour.
Izuku stood still, watching him go, the umbrella trembling slightly in his hands. The rain hammered around him, but under the canopy, it felt strangely quiet.
“Yeah,” he whispered, smiling faintly. “Just water.”
He took one last look down the path, where Bakugou’s figure had already vanished into the rain, before turning toward the dorm entrance. The windows glowed warm and gold against the storm.
Tomorrow, they’d argue again—probably before practice even started. But for tonight, the sound of the rain between their two doors would be enough.
Izuku reached his room, pausing by Bakugou’s door just next to his. He hesitated, then quietly leaned the umbrella against it before slipping inside.
From somewhere beyond the thin wall, he heard a muffled sound—like a quiet snort of amusement.
Izuku smiled into the dark. Maybe they didn’t need to say sorry. Maybe this was how they said it.
Even though they wouldn't be called friends—not even even allies—Izuku still knew everything there was to know about Katsuki Bakugou. Every habit, every tell, every fracture beneath the fire. And Kacchan, for all his bluster, knew Izuku just as completely, as if they’d been built to understand and frustrate each other in equal measure.
They both knew exactly when their friendship had ended. It was the morning after a party three years ago, right before college started. Kacchan had been furious about something Izuku said—though he’d never explained what it was—and Izuku couldn’t remember much from that night beyond the hazy blur of laughter, cheap drinks, and the strange, heavy silence that followed. They’d both been drunk—maybe a little too drunk—and from that moment on, something between them had cracked in a way neither of them could fix.