Chapter Text
Dear Katsuki Bakugou,
The toe box crackles like old rotting wood when he presses his heel down on top of it, beginning the arduous process of breaking down the ultra-stiff form inside. Hardened by a special paste, the densely packed layers of cardboard and fabric need to be softened before the shoes can be worn. It's not the first time he's done it, and it's not going to be the last.
Thank you for submitting your audition to the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.
Putting all his weight on the back of his heel, he bounces a couple of times until he feels the box give beneath him. Repeating the motion on his other new shoe, the last pair he has with no money left to buy another until rent is paid, he sighs. Looking out the window of his shitty Brooklyn apartment – which gives him a view of nothing but the neighboring building's brick wall – he continues until he feels the other box crack under his weight.
Unfortunately, as a rule, we do not offer pointe positions to male dancers within our company, as your audition interview specifically requested.
Lowering himself to the floor, he pulls a shoe onto his lap and begins to bend the shank, curling it until it's bent in half, then turns it the other way to repeat the same motion. The curve in the shoe is important since it has to match the natural curve he’s worked so hard to attain in his own foot.
We will keep your information on file in the event that our company ever decides to utilize male pointe roles in the future.
Using his thumbs, he massages the toe box, working them in a little bit more until they soften under his fingers. He smacks the hard boxes against the hardwood floor a few times, deeming this step of the breaking-in process done and setting them aside.
The Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater extends good luck to you in all of your creative endeavors.
Pulling on his toe guards first, he tries to push yet another rejection letter out of his mind, since it's become commonplace for him. It was a shot in the dark to begin with, a stark reminder of the gender constraints placed upon dancers, both male and female. Progressive or not, the industry is still tightly bound by the established expectations of the centuries-old formalized art form.
He won't stop trying, not with how surreal it feels when he's on his toes.
Being a dancer in Japan had come easily to him. He began private lessons at the age of five, and due to an abundance of unshakable drive and focus, he moved from a local studio to a more reputable school when he turned ten. He excelled quickly from there, attending summer intensives and accepting an invitation to a pre-professional program by the time he was fourteen thanks to a generous scholarship won at a high-stakes competition.
It sure as hell didn't hurt that men in ballet are considered a hot commodity. Hell, they're often headhunted and fought over, offered ample opportunities and funding much like the scholarship he'd earned. Supply and demand isn't just for products bought in a store, after all.
Like most other ballet dancers, he was strictly trained classically from the beginning. It's where his strengths had always laid and where his skills flourished and developed from early on. He is not a large-statured man, shorter than many and while he has a broad chest, his waist and hips are trim, making his poses more aesthetically pleasing.
He knew coming to America was a risk. He's had unending support from his parents and his long-time mentor, Yagi Toshinori, and by all rights, he's wildly successful. There's no arguing that, and he is truly living his lifelong dream of being a professional dancer.
He was twenty-two when he'd auditioned for and accepted a spot with a small-but-reputable ballet company in Manhattan and made the trek almost seven-thousand miles to pursue his ultimate dream in the land of unending opportunity.
To say it was a culture shock would be an understatement. It's truly the city that never sleeps, and for a long time, neither did Katsuki. Adjusting to the noise was awful. Neighbors who either don't work or just choose to practice their DJ skills at three in the morning? Pure torture.
Whatever, when he'd looked online and found the apartment listing, he'd talked the landlord down from $600 a month to $500, and rented the place sight unseen. For a place in Flatbush, that didn't seem too unreasonable. He'd been to the city enough times growing up to have an idea of what areas to avoid, yet, even now, he's still surprised the risk paid off. It's decently accessible to midtown by way of the Q, with just a twenty-minute walk and a thirty-five minute ride. It's sure as hell better than the sticker shock he had in Brooklyn Heights — he would need three jobs to pay the asked rent there.
His apartment came with a ghost of a roommate, who to this day he's only actually seen a handful of times in the four years he's lived here. Not that he's complaining, the guy travels the world for work and only makes it home once in a blue moon. They occasionally communicate by email or text, but for the most part, it's as if he lives alone — with a secret, locked bedroom next to his own. He gets the benefits of living by himself without the expense of paying full rent.
He is still incredibly thankful to his parents for helping him financially until he had a steady paycheck, and also for forcing him to not only learn English in school but periodically speak it at home as well. It sure as hell made becoming acclimated to a new culture a little easier. Being a small fish in an unimaginably large pond was hard as hell, but adding in language barriers? It would have been miserable.
That was four years, two dance companies, and countless roles ago. His hard work and dedication to his craft had recently earned him a spot as a solid contender for promotion to principal in his current company and the chance to earn one hell of a solo performance if he lands the role. At least that's what he's heard through the rumor mill.
He is thrilled, obviously; his obsession with becoming the best hasn’t once faltered in his almost twenty years of dancing. If all else fails and he doesn't receive the promotion, he would still be content to continue on his current path until, inevitably, when his body grows too old to dance, he would retire and do something else. What that something else is, he has no fucking idea, but that is far from being a now problem. Typical retirement age for professional dancers maxes out around forty — he has time to figure the rest out.
Katsuki loves ballet. Every lift, every turn, every leap feeds his insatiable hunger for perfection. It burns in his veins and fills his soul, so the idea of abandoning traditional ballet for something different is a hard no. He doesn’t want to leave what he’s accomplished and earned; he just dreams of adding some flair on the side. He craves more. He's not so much interested in swapping gender roles as much as he wants to extend or even push beyond societally driven gender norms. He wants to break out of the confines of the box he's locked in and…evolve.
His issue at present is the 'more' that he's yearned for since its introduction into his life as a teen. His true passion is ballet and always will be, but issue that's he's constantly presented with is that the niche he feels himself drawn to and enamored with is not accepted in classical performance arenas. While male pointe dancers are growing in popularity and numbers, it's slow going and he's sure that only certain contemporary studios would ever allow any sort of unconventional roles.
It only took stumbling upon a YouTube video when he was thirteen to spark his curiosity. Two men, both in pointe shoes, doing what could only be described as a dance both beautiful and seductive at the same time. Katsuki had not only re-watched the performance an embarrassing amount of times, but he also dove down a rabbit hole, seeking more of the same. He felt an immediate connection with the men on stage or rehearsing in a studio. The masculinity of their movements mixed with the sensuality of their touches and the way their eyes met…he was toast.
He'd spent months doing research into the unique art that was male pointe ballet while, at the same time, perfecting his core love of traditional ballet. The combination evoked a multitude of feelings within him, the kind that spread beyond who he wanted to be as a dancer and led into the exploration of his sexuality.
It was because of this deep-rooted awakening that he eventually bit the bullet and ordered a pair of men’s pointe shoes in his late teens. Keeping it between himself, his parents, and his mentor, he would stay late in the studio or come in hours before group rehearsal. Dancing was Katsuki's drug. Being en pointe took that high and intensified it, offering him even more of a crippling addiction to something to which he'd already dedicated his life.
Huffing out a breath, he cracks his neck to one side, then the other.
His mind is wandering today. It's easy to get lost in his thoughts when breaking in a new pair of shoes. It's a process with which he is very familiar. It's tedious, but he's nothing if not meticulous in how he prefers to ready them for wear. Though rigid and uncomfortable when he first puts them on, he loves the way that, over time, they would fit the shape of his foot perfectly.
He can only do so much in his tiny shoe box of an apartment. He often works at his portable barre that blocks the locked bedroom door next to his own or works on spins and small moves that won't cause injury by being in the small space. It's enough, though, for now at least. He doesn't want his skill to regress just because he hasn't found the right space in which to practice it.
His four years in America have been amazing. Incredibly difficult in so many ways, but overwhelmingly rewarding and he has no regrets. However, now that he feels at home here, and his adjustment period, both culturally and professionally, seems to have passed, he feels as if it's time to broaden his horizons. With his attention set on expanding into other mediums of dance on a more official level, he's been putting out feelers as of late.
All of which have resulted in rejection.
Maybe he needs to go at this from another angle.
Being a private person makes it difficult to network and seek out others with like interests, specifically men who may or may not dance en pointe or people who know of someone who does. Katsuki isn't social, he keeps to himself and stays in his lane. After two years with this company, one would think he would have forged some friendships, but alas, he has not. Colleagues and acquaintances, sure. Friends?
Not his strong suit.
It's been a few years, but he's done a few obligatory internet searches. He knows there are some inclusive places in which he can drop in and take classes of all types regardless of gender, though none specifically mention or picture men in pointe shoes. He's not opposed to checking them out, but one thing he doesn't have is an excess of free time, and he sure as fuck doesn't want to waste it on another dead end.
Kind of like his dating life…which is lackluster to say the least.
It's impossible to walk down the street without seeing Pride this and Gay that and any combination of colorful flags to go along with the innumerable identities, genders, and preferences. Hell, that's one of the many reasons he loves it here. No matter who he is or what he does, he feels accepted by the city as a whole, and, should he decide to really put himself out there, it seems like there might be opportunities abound. It's the whole 'putting himself out there' that he never seems to make a priority.
The few relationships he's had, from some that didn't go beyond a couple of dates to one that actually lasted a few months, ended up fizzling out for multiple reasons.
So, he dances.
While he does get one or two days off a week, a typical non-performance week day starts out with a class to warm up and refine technique, then four to six hours of rehearsals. His contract requires him to take two weekly classes above and beyond his rehearsals, so adding in the potential of taking a drop-in class on the side at whatever studio he can find that allows him to dance pointe — fuck, even he thinks it's crazy. He can almost taste the burnout on his tongue, and it's sour as hell.
Yet, the other side of the whole thing is that learning other dance mediums make him a more well-rounded dancer. He already knows this; how is he supposed to be the best if he doesn't put his all into it?
He can and will become not only the most sought after principal dancer, but also attain his goal of dancing en pointe in at least one show. Somewhere. Anywhere. He doesn't want to give up his position at his current company. He likes it there. He gets along decently well with the other dancers.
He just wants to have his cake and fucking eat it, too.
He sighs again, eyebrows pinching together.
After tying the nude-colored ribbons around his ankles, he snaps the elastic to rid it of wrinkles and stands up. He can't help the grin that splits his face as raises up to his toes and his arms move outward. He feels amazing, empowered. He feels like a motherfucking king, damnit. And gods, he can't get enough.
When Katsuki practices his jumps, he feels like he's flying. Whether it be a grand jeté, a double cabriole, or pas sissone, he soars high in the air, floor far beneath his feet, and he's untouchable. It's an incredible feeling, unlike anything he’s ever experienced in his entire life.
After Company Class, which consists of more than thirty dancers warming up at the barre and doing center work, the men typically split off into more specialized classes. Today, they're practicing jumps, and Katuski couldn't be more thrilled. Propelling himself off of the ground, he feels weightless as he flawlessly executes a revoltade. When his foot hits the floor, he allows his momentum to turn his body, and his foot slides out as his arms go up. It was perfect—
"You overrotated," comes the unimpressed voice of one of the ballet masters, Shouta Aizawa. "Hitoshi, next."
"The hell I did," Katsuki argues, though he knows from two years under Shouta that it will fall on deaf ears. He's not a ballet master for nothing, and regardless if he's full of shit, it's not as if he will rescind his correction.
Jaw set, he walks along the wall to the end of the line, behind Shouto Todoroki.
"I do not believe you overrotated, Katsuki," the man says plainly, eyes following Hitoshi Shinsou as he begins his turn.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"My name is Shouto. We've been friends for two years, I'm unsure why you can never remember it."
Katsuki stares at him, blinking. This guy is something else.
"Maybe I don't give a shit," he offers in reply, but he smirks. Hitoshi lands his double saut de basque, earning a few claps from other dancers, and the line moves along the wall. "And we're not friends."
During his first few months in this company, he didn't know how to take Shouto. He's different. Blunt, but unlike Katsuki, he's not rude about it.
"What do you mean? We're best friends."
This is not the first time they've had this conversation. It's not the tenth, either. It varies in specific verbiage but the premise is always the same. He'll never admit it to the guy, but he thinks Shouto is decent enough. He comes from money, that much is obvious, but whether it's his own or from family, Katsuki doesn't know.
His hair, evenly split between red and white, is a fashion anomaly and hangs halfway down his back when they're not practicing. During performances, he'll often wear wigs or utilize black hair spray to change it to a more appropriate color due to the personal appearance clause in all of their contracts. Some roles allow for certain flexibilities, but Shouto is a principal dancer, so straying away from the ultra-specific requirements is unlikely.
"Best friends, eh?" They move up another spot as Hizashi, the oldest in their company, comes to the end of the line. "Name one time we've even seen each other outside of work."
Shouto is silent for a minute, watching with what appears to be a lack of interest, but Katsuki knows better. He can see Shouto's eyes follow Mashirou's jump with focused intensity. It's observant. Calculating. It reminds Katsuki of the way he also studies the way others perform and practice. One can learn a lot by watching.
"Come to dinner with me, then."
Nearly a minute has passed since Katsuki spoke, and he thought the conversation was over. They move up another spot, making Shouto next in line, but Katsuki is stuck on the random dinner invitation.
"Careful, Icy Hot," Katsuki warns, pulling out his favorite nickname for the guy, who often uses the menthol-scented salve to soothe whatever muscle is pissed off on that day. "I might think you're asking me out."
There's a teasing lilt in his voice but he falters when Shouto's eyes meet his own and, with no time to reply, he jogs to the end of the room and goes through his own series of jumps across the floor. He nails them, of course. He expects nothing less from the man, whose talent matches Katsuki's more than anyone else in the company. It might be arrogant to hold himself higher than the others, but it's true.
"Do you plan on taking your turn today, Katsuki? Or maybe sometime next week," Shouta drawls, eyebrow cocked up in annoyance.
Goddamnit.
With their show premiering in just under two weeks, practices have been grueling. Katsuki has one major and one minor role, but since Shouto is a principal, there's even more on his plate. He hasn't had a chance to demand clarification on what sort of dinner invitation the man so nonchalantly threw out there, and as much as he tries to pretend it's not driving him insane…it is. When Shouto is rehearsing, Katsuki is waiting, and vice versa.
He's leaned up against the wall next to Erika — with a K, which she never lets people forget — who stifles a yawn. It's nearing five o'clock and it seems everyone is either tired or hungry. Or, as the ballerina, who's part of the Corps de Ballet, complains for what feels like the thirtieth time, both. It's all Katsuki can do to bite his tongue. He's not necessarily in disagreement — his stomach is also screaming for some kind of sustenance — but he wishes she would shut the fuck up already. Nobody is forcing her to dance for a fucking living and he doesn't get paid enough to listen to her incessant whining.
He lets out a sigh of frustration, turning his focus back to the center of the room. Currently, Shouto's running through his pas de deux with Momo, one of the female principals, and even Katsuki can admit how well they work together.
With his hands around her waist, he bends his knees into a plié to put himself under her and hoists her into an arabesque lift. They look regal, like royalty, and even with the stuffy, unforgiving heat that's built up through the day, creating dark patches of sweat that's soaked through both of their tights and leotards, they look incredible. It's truly a thing of beauty seeing rehearsals like this, raw and imperfect, but with every ounce of mustered determination.
Shouto is lean and tall, but like Katsuki, he's strong as fuck. They have to be, not just to dance in general, but especially to lift the women into the air in a manner that's safe and doesn't hurt them. Katsuki has done his fair share. There's a reason male dancers lift weights and have strict workout routines. There's also a reason why they say they need to trust their partner and often encourage them to hang out outside of work. Building bonds and all that jazz. Hell, for all Katsuki knows, that's why he hasn't been promoted to principal yet. He doesn't have many weaknesses but can recognize that as one of the few — his lack of intra- and interpersonal skills is often glaring.
Some steps, some turns. A few jumps. No problem, right? To the audience, it looks easy. Effortless, like if given the chance, they could stride up to the stage and have half a chance at pulling it off themselves. They can't, obviously, and it takes a lot of work on both dancers' parts to achieve it in a way that makes it appear seamless. They move with grace and elegance. Their transitions are fluid. Every step is purposeful and light, every touch perfectly planted and every time their eyes meet? It's magic.
That's what they aim to create in those that come to their shows. Magic. Mystery. It's not just about dancing, putting one foot down, then another. Lifting one arm up and twirling around. They become someone else, just like actors in movies, and they want to draw the audience into the show with them, to make them just as much a part of it as they are. They want to enshroud them in the awe of it all, and when they file out at the end, one by one, all they can hope is that it's with smiles on their faces and sparkles in their eyes.
It's such a high, honestly. One that, even after twenty years, Katsuki never tires of, no matter how many roles he's had, how many shows he's performed in, or how many thousands of hours of classes and rehearsals he's attended. He keeps chasing that high. They all do. It somehow makes every rejection sting just a little less, and adds fuel to the fire that burns within him, urging him to do more. Be more.
"That's a wrap! Same time, same place tomorrow!"
The shrill voice, many decibels above the tired groans and sighs of relief that follow, is that of Yu Takeyama, another ballet master as well as the artistic director for their upcoming premiere. She's tough as nails, a trait Katsuki tends to respect more than anything, but she knows her shit and doesn't take it from the dancers. It doesn't stop Katsuki from dishing it out, but that's not targeted at her alone; he's an equal-opportunity asshole.
The current production, being performed by another troupe, has just three performances left. One tomorrow night, two on Saturday, then after a day of cleanup and strip down, the stage crew for their production will begin to move their set in piece by piece on Monday. Load-in will probably take a week , then they'll have a week of rehearsals with the set before final dress rehearsal the day before opening night.
When he was new to professional dancing, it was mind blowing how quickly an entire production, whether a shorter length or multi-act performance, came to fruition. Rehearsals started five weeks ago, which is standard for the type of ballet they're putting on. It gives enough time for group rehearsals as well as individual practice since they are tasked with writing some of their own moves. While there is a choreographer, a lot of it falls upon the dancers, not that they mind. It's fairly commonplace to fill in the gaps, unless you work for one of the top companies in the world.
Shouto jogs off the floor with Momo right behind him. She always appears to glide rather than walk. After she nods at Katsuki, she veers off to the side toward her bag that's lined up with the others along the wall. The slight imperfections and minor hiccups in their performances would go unnoticed to those in the audience, but not to them. No dancer is perfect, no matter how much they tell themselves they are, but they're so close to nailing it. A few more rehearsals and the nit-picky things that the ballet masters continue to harp about would work themselves out like kinks from a knot.
"Hello Katsuki," Shouto greets, lifting one foot, then the other to remove his slippers one at a time. "How was your day?"
"You ask that like you weren't here for all of it," he grumbles in return. If he hadn't been fixated on the pas de deux, he would be ready to walk out by now. Instead, removes his own slippers, then squats next to Shouto to put them away. He keeps his bag like he keeps his apartment: meticulous and uncluttered. Each item has a place, and he sighs in annoyance because clearly someone has kicked or otherwise moved his bag whilst he wasn't looking. It's in total disarray. "I wish you damn heathens would watch what you're doing!"
"Ugh, don't be such a diva," comes the voice of his nightmares. Katsuki bristles, lip curling up into a sneer. He doesn't need to look, nor does he want to. The less he sees of Neito Monoma the better, fucking conniving bastard with his innate ability to weasel himself into all the places he probably shouldn't be. He doesn't work with the idiot often, since Neito thankfully only dances in a few shows a year and always in the Corps de Ballet.
"Shut the fuck up, you eighty-pound twink, nobody asked you," he shoots back, raising his signature middle finger for added emphasis.
"Or what, you're gonna hit me? Push me down the stairs? Or, what was your threat last week…hang me from the stage light by my non-existent balls? You need some new material, Katsuki. I think you're starting to repeat." Neito's rebuttal was airy and uncaring, and Katsuki wonders if he realizes he's the actual diva here. "Plus, my balls very much exist, thank you, but you'd have to pay me to let you see them."
"Sex work is a fitting career path for you." Katsuki stands, stepping into a loose-fitting pair of sweats and pulling them up over his tights and smirking when he gets the exact reaction he's hoping for from the pompous ass. Neito always acts as if his shit doesn't stink — factually incorrect, seeing as the men all share a goddamn bathroom every day — and sits on his throne of judgment like he was born for it.
Once the blond has thrown his hissy fit and storms away, Katsuki chuckles, shaking his head as he stands up again.
"I'm pretty sure he does have balls, Katsuki."
"Oh my god, Shouto, do you not understand sarcasm?"
History deems that to be true, no matter what Shouto's answer, which in this case is a shrug. He is the most literal, dry-humored person Katsuki has ever met, no contest. He could tell the man to take a long walk off a short plank and…well, actually, he's pretty sure he's already done that.
"So, about dinner," Shouto starts, pushing himself from the floor and shouldering his bag. "Perhaps you'd like to come to my place on Saturday."
Through his amusing altercation with Neito, he'd temporarily forgotten about Shouto's one-off dinner invite from earlier, and the resulting confusion that followed.
"Dinner at your place? So you are asking me out, then?"
Shouto seems to ponder his question in a way that only he can pull off without angering Katsuki, but before he can speak up, Shouto answers, "You are very good looking Katsuki—"
"I know."
Shouto grins, then continues, "I suppose it's not out of the question, though the others might be confused as to why there's a date happening in the midst of our weekly get together."
The others.
Katsuki does a mental face palm, then shakes his head as he grabs his own bag and walks side by side with Shouto toward the exit. "What is this, some kind of friend dinner?"
"Well, if not a date, then yes. You are my best friend, after all, and subsequently reminded me that we have not yet been friendly outside of work."
The way Shouto words things can often be taken in multiple, equally hysterical ways, and the laugh he barks out is obnoxious. "You're a freak," he says, still grinning as they push through the doors and out onto the sidewalk. The fact that he doesn't get hung up on the fact that he pretty much made a fool of himself by assuming it was a date is telling, but then again, Shouto seems as unbothered as usual, so there's that.
After a quick glance at his phone, he's pleasantly surprised to see it's earlier than he expected. "See ya tomorrow, Icy Hot." With a smirk, he walks backwards for a few steps.
"So that's a yes? I will text you the address. No need to bring anything." Shouto's soft smile, almost always present when he's not dancing, plays on his lips.
Does he want to go? Not really, but those weaknesses of his are still at the forefront of his mind, so…fuck it.
"Sure, I'll come."
He turns and jogs toward the station, only to hear Shouto calling out to him, "I don't have your number!"
He can wait until practice tomorrow. Katsuki might be able to get a decent work out in if he hurries.
Notes:
As always, thanks for reading and coming on this journey with me. I am so excited. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
Next update: August 27th.
Chapter Text
Yet another benefit to living in Brooklyn is the accessibility to any number of gyms near his apartment. After trying out a few, he finally settled into Sunrise Fitness, which is on the northern edge of Flatbush. Its class times are decent, plus he has a key card that allows him access during unstaffed hours.
While he isn't insane like some three a.m. fitness freaks, he's still surprised at how quickly the equipment fills up after six. Nothing that a pair of earbuds and an overworked middle finger can't fix, though — both of which seem to fall into the category of Brookyn's love languages. His sleep schedule is sometimes a little crazy depending on how loud the people in his building are, but generally he's up by five, either going for a run or at the gym. Then after grabbing a shower, he's on the Q to get to rehearsal.
Sometimes he partakes in their evening classes if they align with his rehearsal schedule, especially workouts that will benefit his flexibility and stamina, like HIIT or yoga. On days that he's sore or dealing with a minor injury, he takes a yoga class and sits in the sauna for a bit. He has learned to let his body dictate what it needs, which didn't happen until he learned to listen. Fighting against it and pushing too hard would lead to a worse injury, and he doesn't have time for that shit.
Today's rehearsal didn't push him as much as he would've liked, so he's left feeling pent up and antsy. It's not a yoga kind of night; he needs to burn some energy and get rid of the aggression that often drips from him like blood from a fresh wound. He's learned to either ignore the way it desperately begs for release or to funnel it into something productive. It's been years since he has even thought about following through on what the sometimes intrusive, angry thoughts tried to convince him to do, and maybe he has ballet to thank for that amongst countless other things.
With the class schedule always changing, he falls into a crowd of others boarding the Q, grabs hold of a bar above his head, and pulls up their website on his phone. The song blasting through his singular earbud changes, moving from Imminence to Godsmack, and his head lightly bops to the fast beat of "Whatever." As he scrolls through the grid of class times, not just for tonight but for the coming week, he takes a couple of screenshots.
Perfect. According to the schedule, a HIIT class starts in an hour, which gives him time to change and refill his water bottle before it starts. As they begin to move, he inches his feet apart just a bit to center his gravity and keep his balance. As always, it's crowded as fuck. Personal space does not exist on the Q during peak times like this. He had grown used to it long ago, but it doesn't mean he likes the jabbing elbows into his sides, the sticky palms on his shoulder as someone pushes past him, and the insane lack of self-awareness from far too many fucking people. It's hot and stuffy, reeks of summer sweat and bad decisions, and is perpetually the longest commute of his life.
Every. Single. Day.
His feet move with him realizing it, pointing, turning outward, in, then pointing again as he goes through a combination in his head. He sighs, now irritated with himself because, in this short amount of time, he's convinced Shouta is right; he's overrotating his revoltade. Logically, he knows he's not, but give him enough time alone with his thoughts and he'll begin to nitpick flaws that don't exist. Stupid brain.
Almost forty minutes later, the faint voice of the conductor announces his stop, or he assumes as much since the words that filter through the speakers are never recognizable. He'd gotten lost in his personal playback of his rehearsal, as he usually does to pass the time, but he knows the route by heart and doesn't rely on being told which stop is next.
It's with a huff that he pushes between two overly chatty assholes to exit the Q and breathes in a fresher version of the toxic air. Digging into his bag, he pulls his other earbud from the case, shoving it in his other ear, and makes the short trek to the gym.
Music is blasting from somewhere inside, loud enough that the bass beat can be felt through the soles in his shoes.He scans his card, jutting his chin out in greeting at WhatsHerFace that always works the desk. There are few people he deems worthy of removing his earbuds when he's Done With People™ and she is not one of them.
The locker room is never empty and today is no exception. The steam rolling across the ceiling like fog after a storm indicates that there are showers running somewhere on the other side of the long bank of metal lockers. There are a few men, out of sight but with loud, echoing voices that penetrate the Green Day playing directly into his brain. The room is nothing but a meat locker for testosterone-riddled men who think solely with their dicks, leaving their brains to waste away like Jello.
He can't blame his attitude toward them on anything specific; this is how he normally feels, which might be another reason he's still single. The dating pool is filled with men like this. Vain, puffing their chests out like fucking gorillas in an effort to make themselves seem more appealing, when instead, it just decreases their intelligence.
Fine. He has the time to date, despite using it as an excuse as to why he doesn't, but when his selection of men is limited to FuckNo and OverMyDeadBody and NotIfHeWasTheLastManOnEarth, he'd rather stay single. In other words? He's picky as fuck. Maybe Neito is right and he really is a diva.
Scratch that — if he ever so much as thinks about Neito being right again, he's taking a dive off of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Once changed out of his rehearsal clothes and into his standard workout gear of a black tank top and loose sweats, he slams the metal door, checks the lock, and leaves the stench of toxic masculinity behind.
Group classes are held in the open floor space that takes up a large portion of the gym itself. It's the epicenter to all of the segregated spaces that house more specific fitness things, like free weights, cardio machines, and smaller areas for personal training.
Attendance to the classes vary wildly depending on time and day, but he recognizes a few semi-familiar faces. It's been a few weeks since he's taken a HIIT class, but it's also not as if he comes to the gym with the intention of making friends either, and most of the time one face blends into another. They're all just extras in this game of life, fighting for space on the same board full of millions of other people, and hopping toward what they hope are their ultimate goals. There's no purpose in wasting his time and energy meeting them, talking to them, or learning about them. Chances are, they care just as little as he does.
"Hey, man, mind if I stand next to you?"
Katsuki can feel the guy's presence before he hears him, close enough that his body warmth soaks into Katsuki's skin. He turns, an insult ready to fire, but the crack about personal space dies on his tongue before he can say it. Standing next to him is a man, both taller and broader than Katsuki, with a bright smile, vibrant red eyes, and… "Why is your hair so shitty?"
About that insult…
Except, instead of getting pissed, or coming at Katsuki with a harsh rebuttal, he just laughs. Laughs. As if Katsuki told a joke or something.
"Well hello to you, too," the man says instead, still smiling as he unrolls his workout mat in front of him, right next to Katsuki. He didn't wait for permission, but something tells Katsuki that he wasn't truly asking for it. Narrowing his eyes, Katsuki does the same, as more people meander into the open space and the instructor, some guy Katsuki vaguely remembers, takes his position at the front of the room.
"I'm Eijirou," the guy offers, sticking out his hand as if sharing a fitness class and receiving one of Katsuki's insults somehow meant they should now be friendly.
He looks at the proffered hand, then back up to the guy with an 'are you fucking kidding me?' look, then purposely moves his mat twelve inches to the right, as if that simple gesture alone will get his point across. Who shakes hands, anyway? What is this, a business deal in the 1950's?
However, stepping to the side by that small amount means he can get a better look at Eijirou, who is wearing a muscle shirt — aptly named, since his muscles are in abundance — and basketball shorts. If the way Katsuki's eyes drag down over them is obvious, taking in tanned skin and a few scars here and there, he actually doesn't care. If the guy is going to show off his body, he should expect to be looked at, except when he watches Katsuki's eyes, his grin turns into a smirk.
Ah, so he definitely knows how good he looks, okay. Got it. Perhaps he belongs in that group of locker room men with egos that far exceed the size of their dicks and their brains combined, and little to say that held any sort of intellect. Though, by the way this guy — Eijirou — holds himself, he doesn't have the cocky stance he expects, which pushes Katsuki's judgment to the left a little: Himbo. Textbook definition, probably.
"Didn't ask," he replies, stretching his arms up over his head. He doesn't necessarily need a rigorous warm up, but a good stretch would be helpful. He's taken this instructor's class before; he knows he's going to be putting in some hard work, not leaving without his clothes being soaked through and wondering if his legs will actually work to take him the rest of the way home.
The look he gets in return isn't one of anger or disgust. It holds no disappointment nor does it appear that Eijirou is holding back some choice words. Instead, he just smiles, then chuckles, before beginning to do his own stretch.
He's sure he's in the clear. The remainder of the spots fill in pretty quickly and the instructor tests his mic, and through it all, Eijirou remains silent.
"Come here often?"
Katsuki freezes right in the middle of bending over, fingers curled under his toes to stretch his hamstrings. He turns his head and looks up over his shoulder and, not only is he met with a smirk that rivals his own, but he's ninety percent confident he'd caught the guy checking out his ass. It's a great ass, he fucking knows that, but the audacity to do so when…well, at all, actually?
Yes, he's aware of the blatant hypocrisy of his thought process, thank you very much.
"What is this, the gym or fucking Tinder?"
"Hmm, definitely the gym, but I've never used Tinder so I can't vouch for that," comes the reply, along with yet another smile. "More of a Grindr guy myself."
"Again, didn't ask," Katsuki replies, but he can't help the way the admission of sexuality affects him against his will. A small flutter in his chest and a warm twinge in his stomach confirm that his brain clearly forgets that he does not want to date and has no interest in men right now. Not when he's on a goal-achieving warpath and finally making a damn name for himself.
"I know, but I did. I want to change gyms and wondered if the classes were worth coming to," Eijirou says, watching intently as Katsuki straightens back up again.
"As if I'd be here if it was a waste of time?"
"Hey, who knows, maybe you have shitty judgment."
Eijirou is teasing him, evidenced by the playful lilt in his voice, and it's all he can do to not fall victim and lash out, especially as the instructor pipes up and begins the class. He answers, instead, with a middle finger and a roll of his eyes, but Eijirou must consider it a win, because he laughs as they begin with prisoner squats.
The class is thirty minutes of agonizing, muscle-burning hell and he loves every second of it. Everything that's been pent up inside of him has dulled. His head is g gloriously quiet, which is precisely what he needed from this class. It was an excellent choice, giving him far more tension release than yoga could have, though that might have to be on tomorrow's agenda for sure.
After their cooldown and stretch, half the class is laying on their mats, chests heaving and skin glistening with sweat, the sign of a kickass workout in his opinion.
"Not gonna lie, I had doubts you'd be able to keep up," Eijirou says, laying on his back with his knees bent and his fingers locked behind his head.
Katsuki's sitting on his mat, doing a few extra stretches as he thinks about using the foam roller on his quads when he gets home in addition to his normal nightly stretch routine. He lifts an eyebrow. "What, you thought I was weak just by looking at me?"
"Not weak, I can see your muscles. But strength doesn't always equal stamina."
"No shit," he shoots back, a little hung up on the fact that, in the forty minutes since he met Eijirou, the guy has admitted to being gay and checking out his muscles. "Any idiot knows that."
"Guess you're not an idiot then," Eijirou muses, pushing himself to a sitting position.
"Obviously." Katsuki stands, grabbing the mat to roll it up and take it back. He wastes no time, because if he was hungry before, it's nothing compared to how starving he is now.
Eijirou follows him into the locker room, opening one at the end of the same row Katsuki had chosen, and, when he turns to leave, Eijirou is right on his heels. Out on the sidewalk, the sun still burning brightly in the cloudless sky, Eijirou pauses when it seems he's turning in the opposite direction.
"Guess we're going different ways. I'm gonna go for a walk. Get some fresh air, ya know?" he says, yanking a thumb over his shoulder toward Prospect Park.
Katsuki follows where he points for a second, then steps out of the way of a few people exiting the gym. "Yeah, well, I'm this way." He also jacks his thumb behind him, feeling like they're somehow dancing around each other but not understanding why. It's awkward as hell. "Anyways, I'm fucking starving, so—"
"Oh, right! Well hopefully I'll catch you around, man. Nice meeting you…" Eijirou draws out the end, as if asking for Katsuki's name.
He begrudgingly concedes, but catches himself as he almost offers his last name, a habit that he thought he'd all but broken since moving to the US. Whatever, it's just a name, it won't hurt to give it to the guy, right? "Katsuki."
Eijirou silently mouths his name, and he can't help but watch his lips as it forms the syllables. "I really hope we run into each other again, Katsuki," Eijirou says, then with a grin, he takes a few steps backwards, then turns and walks away.
This time, it's Katsuki's turn to appreciate the view.
He is human after all.
While not everyone in the city has weekends off, it doesn't make his commute on Saturday any better. The Q is packed, the people — as always — smell awful, and his patience is at an all-time low.
Giving his number to Shouto at rehearsal yesterday has already proven to be a mistake. For once, his neighbors had allowed him the benefit of falling asleep at a decent time, only to be woken by a text from the man at one a.m. Was it an emergency? A house fire, perhaps, or someone fucking breaking and entering? Nope. It was a picture. No words, just a picture.
Of a cat.
That isn't even Shouto's.
He rarely shuts off his phone or even feels the need to silence it considering it's rare that he receives calls or texts outside of rehearsal, class changes, and the occasional obligatory parental communication, but if the constant barrage of texts — read: one singular text — continues, he might.
A fucking cat.
"Are you coming to our dinner date, Katsuki?" Shouto asks, leg straight up and pinned between his torso and the wall, foot far above his head and perfectly pointed. They had just come back from their lunch break, which for Katsuki consisted of a protein-heavy snack and some coconut water before stripping off his warm-up clothes to get back to rehearsal.
"Which is it, a dinner or a date?" he asks, smirking as he does a pirouette to start to warm himself back up again.
"Katsuki, do you not recall the conversation we had? I explained—"
"Oh my god, Icy Hot, yes I remember and yes I'll be there. You only told me seven o'clock three times now."
"Yes, seven o'clock, I'm pleased that you're coming, as are my friends." Shouto switches legs and Katsuki rolls his eyes.
"Super." The sarcasm in his reply falls on deaf ears, as it usually does.
Rehearsal is fine and passes by without incident, which brings them another day closer to what is looking to be a decent performance. Most of them are dismissed at three, with the Corps de Ballet held back. Katsuki isn't complaining, since it gives him time to hit the four p.m. yoga class as Sunrise Fitness. He was debating between that and dropping in on a men's technique class at his regular studio, but yoga would benefit him more today.
Maybe he's a little disappointed when he gets set up with a mat at the gym and the annoying redhead from a couple of nights ago doesn't show up.
He raps on the door of the ridiculously nice brownstone in Cobble Hill that had to cost more than he would make in ten lifetimes. Hell, he doesn't think he's ever been in this neighborhood before tonight.
Katsuki isn't nervous. Living in the most populous city in the United States pushed him far out of his comfort zone and past the point of nerves when meeting new people, but this is different. This is a voluntary get together with a guy he works with and his friends. Fine, Shouto is a friend, whatever, but he knows nothing about the others that are going to be in attendance for this dinner.
Really, it's more the neighborhood that he's in that has him on edge, and what that might translate to in attendees. If it turns out that it's a dinner full of Xerox Shoutos, this would be his first and last social engagement with the man.
When the door opens, it's Shouto he expects, but not who he sees.
"Momo?"
The surprise on his face must match that in his voice, because Momo just chuckles quietly, opening the door further to allow him to come in. "Hello, Katsuki. It's good to see you."
Sure, he knew they dance together quite frequently, but he had assumed that their relationship ended there. However, that could just be him projecting his lack of social interactions and friendships on others.
"Yeah, you too," he replies, but it's slightly distant as his eyes scan the open area as soon as he walks in and slips his shoes off by the door. The first thing he notices is how bright it is, painted in all white and accented with soft, luxurious hues that Katsuki would normally hate, but it seems to work here. The pristine furniture appears as if it's only for show, and he'd be shocked to find a speck of dust anywhere.
The house, in the middle of a row of others probably set up nearly the same, is long from front to back and semi-narrow and, from the looks of the outside, is at least three floors high. Following Momo, they bypass a staircase and walk through a formal living room to an even fancier kitchen and dining area.
He's eternally grateful for the ability to conceal his reactions because he feels so out of place with a table that can seat at least twenty, and a kitchen with appliances that probably need high-tech computers or college degrees to run them. Shouto stands at the stove, stirring something Katsuki can't see, and there's a girl with pastel-pink hair sitting in one of the dining chairs, knee to her chest and scrolling on her phone.
"It says that there's three—" The girl looks up, then grins as she eyes Katsuki. "Well, hey there," she greets him. "You must be the elusive Katsuki that Shouto always talks about. I'm Mina."
Figures. "That's me," he says just as Shouto looks at him from over his shoulder.
"Hello Katsuki, I'm glad you could come. We are just waiting on one more person since Mina's boyfriend has to work tonight—"
"Boo, don't remind me," Mina interjects, full, painted lips forming a pout. "Day shift, my ass. I think he works more nights than any of the other guards."
Mina stands and the two set the table, leaving the food for the end. It smells good, whatever it is, and Katsuki's stomach grumbles in a reminder that he should've had a snack after yoga.
"Need help?" he asks, stepping to the side as Momo begins to fill five expensive-looking glasses with white wine. He's not a big drinker, but isn't opposed to a glass with a nice meal. However, anything more than that would leave him feeling like shit the next day.
"Nope, we've got it," Mina says with a grin, pearly whites on full display. She wears a lot of makeup, especially around her eyes, but somehow pulls it off to where it looks more natural than some others he's seen. Hell, he's been wearing makeup for performances for years and is pretty decent at applying it himself, but she's clearly had much more practice.
It's not long before they're seated, munching on their salads with steaming bowls of Italian Wedding Soup in front of their plates.
"Shouto, what's our main course this week?" Momo asks, taking a sip of her wine.
"I hope that Ei can come before we eat," Mina interrupts again.
He's not sure who this Ei person is, but what he is sure about is how good the soup smells. He didn't take Shouto for a cook, and while the guy could probably afford staff to do it for him, the kitchen looks as if he prepared it himself. Color him impressed, and that means something considering Katsuki also enjoys cooking. Is it possible they have more in common than he originally thought?
"Our main course this week is prosciutto-wrapped chicken breast stuffed with herbed goat cheese," Shouto replies, as if that is a normal meal to serve a few friends on a weekly basis.
Katsuki's stomach growls at the description. The scent of the soup wafts into his nose, and…shit, he really should not have skipped his afternoon snack. He subsists on two calorie-dense meals with several snacks through the day. It's not what all dancers do, but a stomach full of food always makes him lethargic which is not conducive with dancing for obvious reasons.
Mina groans, clearly liking the sound of what's on the menu as well, and Momo chuckles.
"That sounds delightful, Shouto," Momo says, with an emphatic nod from Mina, whose mouth is full and thankfully has the fucking manners to not talk.
"So, your boyfriend's a guard?" Katsuki asks, pushing his plate aside to move his soup bowl closer.
"Yep! He works at the UN doing security. Been there about five years now? It was supposed to be mostly day shift, but somehow he always gets stuck working events in the evenings."
"Maybe it's because he's the best," Momo chimes in, standing to take the emptied salad plates to the sink.
"It would make sense to have someone they trust working events at such an important governmental agency," Shouto adds, watching Momo as she turns the oven down to warm.
"Yes, exactly. Tetsutetsu is good at his job and has been there long enough to build up his credibility and prove that he is trustworthy."
The conversation continues with talks about work. Mina is a waitress but met Momo and Shouto through dance, though not ballet. He's intrigued and wants to ask questions, especially since dance was mentioned, but they talk so fast that he can't get a word in edgewise.
It's fine, he's still reeling with how easy this feels. Normal. The apprehension he'd had as he walked up to the door of Shouto's brownstone a little while ago had vanished. There's no overwhelming feeling of snobbishness and wealth here, no heavy blanket of feeling somehow subpar because they run in different crowds. They've made him feel welcome, including him in conversation, and…well, he doesn't hate it.
Fine, he's having a good time.
"So you live alone here?" Katsuki asks as Shouto stands to pull the pan from the oven. "This is quite a house."
"Oh, it was my father's before he moved to California for work. Rather than deal with selling or subletting it, he gave it to me. It's not like he needs the money, anyway."
Ah, so family money, that makes sense, both in environment and in demeanor, though Shouto's tone implies that there's no love lost between him and his father. There was a time when he didn't much care for Shouto, but the bastard grew on him like a wart, and by the sounds of it, he may never rid himself of the guy. Again, whatever, they're friends, even if it was originally involuntary on his part.
The chicken dish, with roasted potatoes nestled between the pieces of meat, golden brown and smelling divine, is set on a hot plate in the middle of their end of the long table. It sizzles, filling the air with the fragrant smell of herbs, and he immediately knows the flavor will be incredible.
Just as they're serving the meal, a voice calls out from the entry way. "Guys! Sorry I'm late, work went over today." The sound of footsteps walking the same path Katsuki had earlier greets them, and they all look up when the man comes through the widened doorway that separates the living room and kitchen area.
Katsuki very nearly drops his fork.
Walking into the kitchen, wearing a maroon button-down shirt and a dark pair of jeans, with damp, freshly showered hair hanging to his shoulders, was the guy from the gym, Eijirou Kirishima. He sooner would have expected Gandhi to walk in rather than the guy he met two nights ago, shared some casual flirting with, and absolutely checked out in a less-than-respectful way. With just under three million people in Brooklyn, the odds of this specific person waltzing into Shouto's house are infinitesimally small.
"Ei!" Mina says, grinning from ear to ear, then stands and crosses the distance between them to hug him.
So this is the guy they were talking about earlier. He gets it now, Ei is Eijirou, a familiar nickname between friends. This group is like a patchwork quilt made of pieces that don't exactly fit together and definitely don't match, but just…work.
It's not until Mina pries herself off of Eijirou that he seems to notice Katsuki sitting at the table, like one of those games of 'which one of these things is not like the other.'
Their eyes meet.
Eijirou smiles.
"Katsuki."
Notes:
As always, thanks for reading and coming on this journey with me. I am so excited! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
Next update: September 10th.
Chapter Text
Silence.
Several seconds of confused and perhaps flabbergasted silence follow Eijirou saying his name, but then the commotion of three people's reactions ensues. Talking over each other, Mina, Momo, and Shouto are throwing questions out at both of them in raised volumes and looking between Katsuki and Eijirou as if this was some kind of planned prank. Variations of asking how they know each other, when did they meet, and how, flood what was a calm room just seconds ago.
"We met at the gym a couple of days ago, actually," Eijirou says, finally catching a break from the constant barrage of questions. "I was checking it out because, ugh, remember that issue I've been having at my gym? Anyway, I decided to take one of their HIIT classes and Katsuki was there."
"Uh huh, uh huh, go on," Mina coaxes, chin resting in her palm as if she's watching the newest episode of Love Island.
"I mean, that was pretty much it," Eijirou says, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. "We worked out, exchanged names, then parted ways and I went to the park."
She pouts, bringing her wine glass to her lips, settling into the seat next to Momo. "You and that park. I swear to god, you're no fun," she adds, then turns her attention to Momo, and the two women whisper something to each other while glancing at Katsuki. Gee, that's not obvious at all.
Eijirou takes the seat directly across from Katsuki, and the rest of them exchange niceties of their work days and their plans for the rest of the weekend. He assumed their talks would center around dance, and while there are bits and pieces scattered throughout, the rest bounces between normal, everyday things. TikTok recipes, spring weather, grocery prices, and a random complaint from Shouto about dog shit on the sidewalk.
That's enough to pull a snort from Katsuki.
Because he's not directly involved in much of what they discuss, Katsuki expects to feel out of place or somehow distanced from the group, but he doesn't. Instead, he feels like a part of them in an odd sort of way, as if he's always been here, part of the group, talking about life and having weekly dinners.
It's something he's never had, not even when living in Japan. He's had friends, just not close ones, always inadvertently keeping them an arm's length away as he made his career in dance a priority. Paired with his less-than-pleasant attitude, one could say his social calendar has never exactly been over packed.
Dinner is, by far, the best meal he's had in at least a month. Despite having minimal schedule changes since moving to the US, he's fallen into using the truly shitty cycle of using daily rehearsals and his class schedule for the reason his own cooking has fallen by the wayside as of late. He needs to get his shit together, but in the meantime, he savors the meal just as much as the company.
The clincher? Mina's overly loud statement of Eijirou's singlehood when she asks about his last failed date, followed by Shouto outing Katsuki as well. Who needs Grindr when he's found himself wedged in a group of meddling friends trying to play matchmaker? It's not exactly pushy, leaning more toward lighthearted banter followed by genuine laughter as they fortunately ease back into normal conversation.
As dinner continues, though, there are several times throughout the meal that he and Eijirou exchange glances. At first, they're accidental. A momentary glimpse caught by the other that lingers a few seconds too long to be considered casual. A wink followed by a laugh at something one of the others says. Then, they morph into something that feels more purposeful, more targeted, more seductive in a way. Shouto and his friends seem none the wiser, prattling on about construction on the bridge or the delay on the Q a couple days ago.
"So Katsuki, have you lived in Brooklyn your whole life?" Mina asks.
"What do you think?" he asks, half sarcastically. "Did the strong Japanese accent not give it away?"
She laughs, as do the others. "I didn't want to be rude and come right out and ask!"
"I've only lived here four years," he replies after an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
"Oh, that's long enough to have gotten out and about, though," she says.
"Yeah, I bet you've at least seen all the big touristy stuff by now," Eijirou adds, but Katsuki just shrugs.
"I don't have time for fucking sightseeing. You know, since I'm trying to steal the show from this tool," he says, jutting his chin toward Shouto, who simply smiles in his normal Shouto way.
"There's always time, you just have to make it," Shouto argues, clearly not ready to let go of the subject any more than he is the spotlight.
"I see enough off the Q."
"Off the…wow, dude," Eijirou says with a playful scoff, then after a shake of his head, gets distracted with a side conversation about Tetsu's latest attempt at fixing the faulty oven in their apartment.
As the table is cleared he's not sure what to do, so he lingers at the table with Momo while Mina pours herself another glass of wine. Do they all hang around afterward? He's not necessarily opposed to it, but it's nearly nine and there's rehearsal tomorrow morning. Of course, Shouto will be there as well but his commute is only a matter of walking upstairs, not forty minutes split between walking and the Q to get from here to his apartment. Fuck, even in his head, he sounds like an old man, and he can't decide if he's always been like this or if it's a more recent—
"Katsuki?"
He whips his head up from where he was apparently staring at the off-white placemat where his plate once sat. Shouto was looking at him as if waiting for an answer to a question he didn't hear.
"What?"
"Did you hear me? I said you don't have to feel obligated to stay since we have rehearsal in the morning. Mina will be heading home shortly and Momo lives close by, though I believe Eijirou lives in your direction, right Eijirou?"
"Oh, yeah! No rush, man, but if you wanna go home together—"
Mina snorts, covering her mouth to stop a potential spray of wine across the pristine table.
"Oh god, shut up! That's not what I meant!"
It's not often that Katsuki smiles, small, big, or anywhere in between, but this was enough to make the corners of his lips quirk up. The color on Eijirou's cheeks nearly matches his hair, and Katsuki decides immediately that flustered is a good look on him.
After a few more minutes of goodbye conversations, he looks at Momo. "See you tomorrow, Momo. Oh, and Icy Hot," he calls out, "thanks for dinner."
"Bye Katsuki, nice to meet you!" Mina's grin reminds him of the Cheshire Cat, and the three of them wave as Eijirou walks after him. "Maybe you can come again sometime!"
"We'll see. Come on, then, Shitty Hair, let's fucking go," he says, still smirking.
"Hey!"
Katsuki snickers at the reaction, but doesn't slow until he reaches the door.
"My hair's not shitty," Eijirou remarks, pulling the door closed behind them, then jogging down the long set of concrete steps that spill out onto the darkened sidewalk.
"Matter of opinion," he teases.
The two fall into step together. They're quiet at first, the sound of their footsteps echoing around them, only drowned out when a car drives by. The air is still warm but the humidity has given them a brief reprieve, at least.
It's only a few blocks to the Q, and if he was by himself, he probably would've been there by now, but he doesn't hate the slower pace. It gives him a chance to see things he might not have if he was alone, like the way the neighborhood looks different in the dark. Still just as high end and slightly opulent, but the lights that glow from the windows through sheer curtains or open blinds give it more of a homey feeling.
"So, you're a dancer?" Eijirou asks, breaking the silence they'd maintained for almost two blocks. He couldn't help but wonder how long the man was capable of staying quiet, because his guess is that it's not typically very long.
"Shouto tell you that?"
"More or less. He sent a text to our group chat saying he invited his best friend from work to our weekly dinner, so I made assumptions."
Katsuki huffs at the best friend reference. He's heard it enough from Shouto, but to hear it from another person makes it somehow funnier, and it makes him wonder what other things Shouto has said about him.
"What if I was in set construction or the janitor or something?" A grin tugs at his lips as they turn the corner toward the Q.
"Hmm, I mean, that's possible for sure, but…"
He gives Eijirou a few seconds to finish his thought, but when it doesn't come, he asks, "But?"
"But you have the legs of a dancer."
When he looks, he catches Eijirou's eyes on him, but unlike at dinner, neither of them are in a hurry to look away. It's as if they're back in the gym again, checking each other out and flirting back and forth…though Eijirou's flirt game far surpasses Katsuki's, if only because he rarely finds himself in a position to be truly coquettish.
"Checking out my legs again?" he asks coyly, blinking at Eijirou as they step onto the Q. It's not nearly as full as it is during typical working hours, but far from empty. There are a few seats open in shades of orange from dull to vibrant, but they both take a spot standing in the center and hold onto the chrome pole between them as they start to move.
"Technically I checked out your ass at the gym," Eijirou counters. "Well, and your biceps, but that's because they were on full display and I couldn't help myself."
"Careful, I might start to think you're one of those locker room meatheads that only care about getting their dick wet." It's said in jest just as much as it is in seriousness, and Eijirou's grin falters if only for a split second.
"Hey, I'm not! I mean, don't get me wrong, I openly admit to checking you out, but I sure hope I'm not as bad as a meatstick—"
"Meathead."
"That's what I said." Eijirou chuckles. "I mean, what are the odds that you'd end up at dinner tonight?"
"About one in almost three million, I guess."
"I don't know, man, it seems kinda like the universe wanted us to see each other again."
If not for Eijirou's genuine smile, Katsuki might think the reply was sarcastic or even patronizing, but the wide, almond shape of his eyes and the defined curve of his lips makes it difficult to think Eijirou is capable of such deception.
"The universe, eh? Sounds like bullshit to me. It's just a fucking coincidence."
"Mm, I don't really believe in coincidences."
Their eyes meet again and Katsuki is transfixed, pulled into the crimson pools that surround Eijirou's pupils like a moat of lava, a mixture of fractured oranges and reds that should put Katsuki on alert or somehow warn him of impending danger, but instead have the opposite effect. They draw him in, falling over him like a magical hex centuries in the making. It may be because of the sway of the train, but Eijirou seems closer now, like he's leaning toward Katsuki as the smile still plays on his lips.
Except it's not Eijirou that's tilting, it's Katsuki.
He's the first to look away this time, shifting back a few inches and intently staring out into the void of darkness on the other side of the windows, fighting the urge to look at the man again to see if it has the same result.
They fall into a wired silence, one that feels as if they both have things they want to say but neither make the first move to break it, which is fine with Katsuki; he's never felt the need to fill empty space with needless words. It doesn't feel awkward, though he's not sure why he thinks it would.
Halfway through the train ride, though, Eijirou tugs on his sleeve.
"Hey, you want to get off at the next stop and walk the rest of the way?"
It's not Katsuki's intention to level him with a look as if Eijirou had grown dragon horns out the side of his head, yet he does. Instead of getting defensive, though, Eijirou laughs and holds his hands up in a show of surrendering innocence.
"I promise I'm not going to murder you!"
"Uh huh, that's what all murderers say, isn't it?" Katsuki retorts, lifting an eyebrow in faux accusation.
"Stop!" Eijirou laughs, loud and ridiculously obnoxious, and…Katsuki doesn't hate the sound, nor does he miss the way it makes his chest flutter. "I just thought since you haven't really explored, well, anything from the sounds of it, I could show you someplace that I really love."
Katsuki narrows his eyes, debating, but before he can answer, Eijirou adds, "I promise, it's not far out of the way, plus it's a nice night!"
A scowl, lips pressed into a flat line as he studies Eijirou's face, but inevitably he sighs, looking away. "Fine."
He can't see the beaming smile, but he can feel it.
After getting off at 7th Ave, they fall back into the same slow walking pace. Eijirou was right; it is a really nice night for a walk, something Katsuki often takes for granted. Walking, for him along with many others, is simply a form of transportation and nothing more.
Even being new to not only the city, but to the United States in general, he quickly fell into a routine: rehearse, class, chores, work out, eat, sleep. It's rare he strays away from those six things, especially if they deviate from his career path. Dancing is the whole reason he came to the US, so unless it furthers his goals, he finds little value in it.
Yet, here he is, willingly walking side by side with a man he'd just met days ago, so he supposes there's a part of him that finds worth in it or he would've immediately declined the invitation. One might think that part of him is his dick, but he is not a meatstick, either.
He grins at the recent memory.
They don't walk for long, only about fifteen minutes, but yet again, it's in comfortable silence. They're still north of Flatbush, in what he thinks is probably Park Slope, though he's never been here before. However, when the arch on the outer edge of the Grand Army Plaza comes into view, he knows that must be where Eijirou is taking him.
"So, what, is your job a tour guide or something?"
It's not lost on Katsuki that he still doesn't know much of anything about Eijirou. He can tell he's at least of Japanese descent, though his English is perfect and there's only a Brooklyn accent to be found. He knows he lives somewhere close to him, though not specifically where. He knows nothing of how Eijirou knows Shouto or Momo, nothing about what he does for a living, or…well, anything else, actually.
So why does he feel so at ease with the man?
"Nah, I might've been born in Japan but I was raised here, so I can definitely do all the cheesy tour guide stuff, but also show you the lesser known highlights. I just thought you might like to see this."
They both pause.
"This is the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Arch. I think it was dedicated around 1892? It's a staple stop on my official tour," Eijirou says teasingly, glancing down at Katsuki, who just stares. "I mean, besides the library over there, which, in case you're ever interested, is free and has some really cool archives. Oh, and every Saturday there's a huge farmers' market. I can't come every week but I try."
Katsuki huffs out a breathy laugh at the continuation of the faux tour, but admittedly, he's actually enjoying it. He's in rehearsals almost every Saturday, but the idea of a farmers' market is intriguing enough that he might come on his next Saturday off between shows. Off season is just around the corner and he's guessing the market will be well stocked during the summer. Maybe it's the ass kicking he needs to actually start cooking again.
He looks up at the giant curve of the arch and the massive figures that, against the bright glow of the nearly full moon, are eerie silhouettes, majestic but kind of creepy. "Am I going to be quizzed on this later?"
Eijirou laughs. "Hm, maybe. C'mon."
He tugs at Katsuki's sleeve again and they walk under the arch. He's been so focused on the the massive structure that he failed to see the fountain that lays just beyond, lit up in warm golds that somehow dull the harsh white lights of the Brooklyn backdrop. The two figures, a man and woman, both naked, are standing above what appear to be figures from Greek mythology, though he's not about to ask.
"This is the Bailey Fountain. I'll save you the historical details," Eijirou teases, "but aren't they beautiful?"
Eijirou is standing close, upper arm pressed against his as they both watch the water arc up, then fall to the ground in an unending splatter. He doesn't reply since the question seems rhetorical, but after a few more seconds, his sleeve is tugged again. "Ready?"
"Yeah. Where to now?"
"Now we go to my favorite place in Brooklyn."
It's just a short walk to the entrance of Prospect Park. Katsuki's never actually been inside, but has been by it plenty of times. He knows just a few things about the park: it's massive, it has some kind of body of water, and people go there to play sports.
During the day, the park is probably jampacked with people, but at night, it's far less crowded. Like pretty much any part of the entire city area, it's probably never truly empty, but with families at home doing family things, the people are few and far between.
It's kind of nice to walk through it like this, footsteps in sync with Eijirou's, hands shoved into his pockets, but taking in the scenery despite the darkness of the night. It's not nearly as well lit as the Plaza was, though he supposes it's to keep the ambiance of the park. It works. The moonlight helps though, illuminating the night sky and everything it touches in a pale, silvery glow.
After they've walked down a wide, concrete pathway for a few minutes in yet another period of silence, Katsuki asks, "So, if you're not some famous tour guide, what do you do for work?"
Eijirou laughs, looking at Katsuki with a wide smile, teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I do a little bit of everything, actually. I usually just take odd jobs, nothing that lasts too long so I don't get bored. I love the spontaneity. It's always something new, something exciting. And heck, maybe something I've never done before."
"Odd jobs," Katsuki repeats. How the hell does someone afford to live on an odd-job income? "Like what, a fucking handyman or something?"
"I've done that! Really, though, everything. Maintenance, landscaping, dog walking, set building—"
"Set building?"
"Mhm, that's how I met Momo, then Shouto. I was helping with a set on one of their shows about…three years ago? Somewhere around there. Sometimes he'll tell me if they're looking for extra people and I'll work there for a week or two."
That answers another one of Katsuki's questions. Clearly he has more than he thought. Eijirou is like an enigma, intriguing and magnetic, and despite Katsuki's more-than-obvious aversion to people in general, he's unarguably drawn to the man.
"My turn?"
"Huh?"
Another laugh. "My turn for a question, I mean."
"Oh, yeah sure."
"How'd you get into ballet?"
That's not a short answer, and while Katsuki doesn't go into every detail, if there's one thing he can prattle on about without encouragement, it's ballet. The conversation, with questions and remarks from Eijirou and info dumping from Katsuki, is unexpectedly pleasant. Eijirou isn't nosy or judgmental. He comes across as genuinely curious about who Katsuki is as a person and what has made him the man he is today.
Katsuki feels seen in a way he never has yet the transparency isn't off putting, nor does it discourage the conversation from continuing. Instead, he finds himself pushing it forward, asking Eijirou more about his jobs, where he lives, and how he met Mina.
"Oh, Mina is a dancer, too!"
"She does ballet?" Katsuki is stunned, to the point that his steps falter for a second.
"Oh! No, not ballet. She leans more toward hip hop and jazz, but like, not for her career or anything, just for fun."
That seems right up Mina's alley if her wild hair and over-the-top personality are anything to go by. Katsuki respects her authenticity, and honestly? He likes her. He's astonished at the realization, but he does.
"That fits her."
"Right? She's great, and probably one of my best friends now, along with Shouto and Momo. Oh, that's not how she met Momo, though. I never really did get the story behind that, but between you and me, I think they might've had a thing."
Eijirou's waggling eyebrows make Katsuki snort.
"My turn. Why'd you bring me here?"
Katsuki is nothing if not blunt in his thoughts, and it seems to take Eijirou by surprise, but not in a way that seems to put the man immediately on the defensive. Instead, his smile softens and he stops on the edge of the path. While Katsuki has been vaguely paying attention to where they're walking, he's been more focused on the conversation than their surroundings. So when Eijirou yet again tugs him to the side by his sleeve, instead of looking at him, he looks over his shoulder and pulls in a quiet breath.
There's something whimsical about the way the large lake behind Eijirou shimmers in the moonlight. The surface of the inky, black water is still, like a mirror reflecting the night sky in all its star-filled glory. It creates such a serene vision that Katsuki is rendered speechless for a moment as he takes it all in, to the point that Eijirou turns and stands by his side to look as well.
"See that island?"
He doesn't point, but Katsuki nods. It doesn't look like much, especially in the dark, but when he squints, he can make out a small island not far into the water, every inch of which appears to be densely packed with trees.
"That's Duck Island. This is my absolute favorite spot in the park. They're probably sleeping, but when I have time, I like to come here during the day and watch them," Eijirou muses.
It's not one thing in particular that makes the view as profound as it is, but instead all of the pieces that come together to make it whole. It's captivating.
Fingers brush along the side of his hand, sending a shiver up his arm that has nothing to do with the warm breeze. It's a tentative touch, one that doesn't come with words or a look from Eijirou. It doesn't need it any more than the next motion, when Eijirou's pinky hesitantly hooks around his.
If it's meant to be a distraction from the fact that Eijirou hasn't answered his question, it works, albeit only temporarily. He doesn't move his hand, neither away nor closer, but such a simple gesture has his heart pounding like a fucking teenager. It's both ridiculous and embarrassing, even if it's just him that's aware of the way it thuds inside his ribcage.
"So you brought me here to see…a lack of ducks?" He pivots his body to face Eijirou, pinkies still hooked as their hands dangle between them. There's just a couple of inches difference in their heights, but it's enough that he has to look up at Eijirou.
"Not necessarily but everyone that lives here needs to see Duck Island—"
"Okay, but—"
"I brought you here because…well, I guess I kinda like you."
There goes his heart again, thump-thump-thumping in his chest like the energizer bunny's drum. It's something so simple, yet for someone like Katsuki who has purposely not made time for dating and relationships, it just hits different.
"Kinda?" he goads, lips curving into a devious smirk.
"I mean, maybe not kinda, maybe definitely."
The high school nature of the conversation isn't lost on him; he just met Eijirou two days ago and now he's standing by a lake past ten o'clock at night, holding pinkies like teenagers. Yet, no matter how much he searches, he can't find any fucks to give.
Maybe later he'd chide himself on having fallen into the romantic booby trap that is Prospect Park and start a petition regarding the need for signage that says as much, but for now, he just lets it be. He's living a moment that most people probably experienced as by the time they could drive a car but can't be arsed to care about how socially or romantically behind he is.
What he can't help, however, is the yawn that tickles in the back of his throat, working it's way up until he has to use his free hand to cover his mouth to hide it.
That's all it takes to break whatever movie-worthy trance they've fallen under.
"Fuck," Katsuki says, checking his watch. "It's nearly eleven."
"What, gonna turn into a pumpkin?"
"Fuck off, I have rehearsal in the morning," he snaps back, though the harsh rebuttal has no effect on Eijirou, who just grins.
"Alright, let's go. I don't want Shouto to get mad at me."
"Oi, if that's—"
"I'm kidding, c'mon."
If their hands came together properly for the rest of their slow walk home, that was between them and the dazzling moonlight.
Truth be told, he didn't even notice they were on his block until a couple of minutes ago. They'd talked on and off for the entire twenty-five minute walk from the park's exit. The lapses in conversation weren't long, interrupted by one of them making a comment or asking another of what turned into some sort of twenty questions game.
It wasn't a date, but it kind of started to feel like one as they went along. He learned about Eijirou's family, and how he was adopted as a baby and raised in Brooklyn, then told him about his own as well, which is a rarity in and of itself. Eijirou's hobbies are working out, spending time with his friends and family, being a go-to person just as much as a yes guy — whatever the fuck that means — and, in a shocking turn of events, he's an avid history buff.
Katsuki's hobbies? Ballet. Listen, could he make time for other things? Probably, but even when he's tried, it still ends up being ballet related — hence his interest in pointe, which…is still ballet. Sue him.
"This is me…wait, you live past here?" Katsuki asks, visibly confused, when they get to the front of his apartment building. They obviously live at least semi-close, or he assumes so based on the gym conversation and Shouto's remark at dinner, yet they haven't parted ways yet.
"Me? Oh, no, about ten minutes back that way, actually." Eijirou looks over his shoulder in the direction from which they'd just come, then chuckles sheepishly. Their hands are still connected, but once they come to a stop, Katsuki's the one to pull his away.
"The fuck? Why the hell did you walk ten minutes past your place?"
"It's no big deal, I just wanted to make sure the pumpkin got home okay," Eijirou teases.
"Shut up." If not for the distinct lack of street lights on his block, the heat on his cheeks might be called out for the blush that it is.
"Thanks for walking with me, Katsuki."
Eijirou is close, standing only six inches from him, and when Eijirou takes another step forward, Katsuki's convinced he's going to kiss him. A large palm rests on Katsuki's bicep and he leans in and presses his lips onto Katsuki's cheek.
It's respectful and sweet, and something Katsuki's never experienced before. They left Shouto's house over two hours ago, and he's lost count of the firsts that he's experienced in that time span, let alone the entirety of the evening.
"Yeah, it was nice, thanks," he replies truthfully. Eijirou's hand still rests on his arm, thumb brushing up and down over the curve of his bicep.
"Do you maybe want to…" Eijirou's voice trails off and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth as a few pregnant moments pass by.
"Clock's ticking, Shitty Hair. I feel the pumpkin transformation starting," Katsuki taunts, earning himself another genuine laugh from Eijirou.
"Okay, okay. Do you want to go on a date with me? A real one?"
"Tch," he replies, taking a step backward and watching as Eijirou's arms fall and his thumbs hook into his pockets before taking another step. "Bold of you to assume this wasn't real."
When Eijirou's lips part, forming an O of surprise before curling into a grin, Katsuki smirks. "See ya, Tour Guide."
"Katsuki, wait! Can I get your number?"
He pauses, hand on the knob of the entryway door to the building. "You want my number that bad, guess you can work for it."
With a wink, he lets himself into the building and heads up the stairs to his apartment, snickering at the gasp he hears as the door closes behind him.
Chapter Text
In the two weeks since his Eijirou had walked him home, his life had first buffered, then completely rerouted him like the annoyed voice of a GPS telling him to make a legal u-turn when possible.
Turns out, he should have threatened Shouto with a little more intensity than he did at rehearsal the day after the dinner, because the asshole gave in to Eijirou's request for his number just a little too easily. Something tells him Mina played a part in that, because somehow he not only continued to receive texts from Shouto, but Eijirou was then added to the mix.
Worse yet, after only one day of those two idiots, he was added to a group chat with the friend group from dinner plus Mina's boyfriend.
A fucking group chat, a technological nightmare!
Katsuki cannot stand group chats, but he can't leave it. Literally. He tried multiple times. Every time he made a proverbial run for it, one of them added him back again within the hour, so after the fifth time, he gave up. The first several days were filled with so many back-and-forth texts that he couldn't keep up even if he wanted to. Eventually, he shut his phone off, not turning it back on until two days later. After that, it slowed down but barely, so he's settled on keeping the chat muted until late at night after he's settled in.
And occasionally on a break in rehearsal. Fuck off, it's whatever. Their texts weren't an all-day-every-day thing, nor did the topics go beyond surface level, but he didn't hate it. Hell, maybe he looked forward to checking those texts and seeing the individual messages from Eijirou, whose overuse of emojis and "u" instead of "you" would normally piss Katsuki off but somehow just…didn't. Maybe he also found himself smiling at his phone on more than one occasion.
He's barely talked to any of them over the last week, though. Tech week involves a mix of technical, orchestra, and dress rehearsals twice a day leading up to Opening Night, and there just wasn't any extra time or energy outside of passing comments with Shouto or Momo between rehearsals.
Including today. He managed to reply to Eijirou's 'Good morning' text and hasn't looked at his phone since. With warm-up class at the barre, one final rehearsal, and lots of stretching, plus eating multiple small meals full of complex carbs and lean proteins, he's barely had time to think.
Performance day is like putting on a mask. He's quite literally becoming someone else, telling a story with his moves and facial expressions, and it creates a novel when mixed together with all the other scenes being performed both alone and as groups.
It would be impossible not to feel the buzz of excitement emanating from all of the dancers as well as those behind the scenes that make a performance all come together. It's infectious, and Katsuki doesn't hold back the grin when Momo waves as she passes by, all made up and in her first costume.
It's hard to believe that it's already opening night. In ten minutes, actually. The curtains are pulled closed and the stage, wings, and backstage area are bustling with activity, and if Katsuki was to peek out from the edge of the curtain, he's sure he would see the house filling up as well.
"Katsuki—"
"Don't you fucking dare," he says, lifting his palm and holding it right in front of Shouto's made-up face.
"But Katsuki, you know it's our tradition."
"We don't have a tradition, you insist on rattling off an annoying, overused saying that will in no way, shape, or form impact how we perform."
Shouto pauses, tugging on the corner of his wig as a frown curves his small lips downward.
Wait, did it work? Katsuki blinks in disbelief. Was it really that easy? If that's all it took to get Shouto to stop, then—
"Break a leg!"
Katsuki sighs. He should've known there was no getting around it. "Yeah, yeah, you too, Icy Hot," he grumbles, rolling his eyes as he steps out of the way so the set crew can position a scenery wagon near the edge of the wing.
He's in the third scene, so he stands by as those opening the show begin to file onto the stage. The dancers that are waiting in the wings are doing any number of stretches or whatever rituals they use to calm their nerves and ready themselves to perform. Even the most seasoned dancers can be plagued with opening night anxiety, and Katsuki isn't completely immune from the worry that something will go wrong. There will never be a perfect performance; Murphy's Law is a bitch and there are so many unexpected things that can make something go awry, but they can only deal with it and hope that the audience is none the wiser.
There's an itch on his face, one of those annoying ones that you know won't go away unless you scratch it, but he can't, not with a face caked with stage make-up and a costume that's half white. Instead, he distracts himself by reaching behind him, grabbing hold of his foot, and pulling it up to his ass to stretch his quad while tilting his ear toward his shoulder to stretch his neck.
As Hitoshi walks by, they fist bump, and the man, with purple hair dyed in such a deep hue that it looks black under the stage lights, heads to stage right to take his position. The large, heavy sets of velvety curtains that conceal the stage from the audience begin to part as the stage hands pull on heavy ropes just out of sight in the wings.
It's seven thirty.
It's time.
It's nine o'clock and it's done.
Opening night is over; the dancers have bowed and smiled until their cheeks ache. The principals and soloists have received their accolades and their flowers and the applause has died down enough that the curtains are pulled closed.
They all breathe a collective sigh of relief for an incredible performance.
Granted, it wasn't one without flaws, as expected. Murphy's Law will always hold a front row seat to their shows, a season ticket holder meant only to cause mayhem and make the dancers think on their feet.
Tonight's show's fails included not one, but two members of the Corps de Ballet — looking at you Erika with a K — that slipped or lost their footing and fell on their asses. They recovered well enough, but there were many tears as they stepped off stage.
Hitoshi had a costume issue halfway through, when he was to put on a suit jacket for the next scene, with only a matter of two minutes between leaving the stage and re-entering. The issue came when the liner of the jacket ripped and, when Hitoshi quickly shoved his sweaty hand into the sleeve, his arm ended up between the liner and the jacket fabric, unable to come out the other side. No matter how many times he tried to fix it within those two minutes, he couldn't. His dance had to be done with one hand trapped inside the jacket sleeve.
They adapt and move on, not letting the audience know that whatever happens, whether any of them notice it or not, in any way affects them. The show doesn't stop for a fall or a missed cue. It doesn't pause for a costume malfunction, nor a shoe that dislodges itself from a foot mid jump.
The show must go on.
Tonight, it did. All things considered, they nailed it. Katsuki's trio with Nadia and Geoffrey — they fucking killed it. Now, as he walks from the stage to the dressing room, past the other male dancers in various stages of undress, he can't help but smirk and give himself a mental pat on the back.
The wardrobe crew is already in the process of collecting costumes, which will need to be cleaned and, in some cases, repaired before tomorrow's matinee performance. He's not sure how some of the many different crews, all with different responsibilities that bring a show together, get everything done. Stage, lighting, sound, wardrobe, and orchestra just to name a few — it's incredible.
"Tough break," he teases Hitoshi, who just grins and shakes his head. There's no use in getting — or at least staying — upset about it; it's in the past and no amount of obsessing over what happened will change the past. By tomorrow, his sleeve will be fixed, or if not, there will be a different suit jacket for him to slip on. They've all had to dance in shitty costumes, ones that don't fit right or fall apart when you least expect, which is always at the worst possible time.
Fuck Murphy, he's a bitch.
"Yeah, well, can't be perfect all the time," Hitoshi shoots back.
"Tch, unlike me." Grabbing his toiletry bag, he throws a sarcastic wink at Hitoshi, who's rifling through his own to pull out his clothes. They have post-performance down to a T; it'd be hard not to considering the number of times they've gone through the same rigamarole. They probably stink, however since a shower and real make-up removal won't come until later when they're home, they have to do their best to clean up in the dressing room to tide them over.
Thankfully, there are less male dancers than female, so the fact that they don't have a lot of space doesn't matter as much to them as it probably does the women, who are more than double in numbers. Still, it seems smaller with most of them crammed in here than it does when they're coming and going between scenes or pre-performance.
Hitoshi follows suit, retrieving his own bag — a zippered kit, lavender with cats printed all over it — next to Katsuki's plain black one made of nylon. Nearly all of them are stripped down to nearly nothing; it's normal, they're used to it, but he can't help but chuckle at what those not in the industry might think about some of their ways.
To get rid of their putrid smell, most of them use wet wipes called shower sheets that at least rid them of the sweat that collects in every crevice. It's not perfect, but it's enough, especially once they put deodorant and clean clothes on.
That's the easy part. Stage make-up, however, is a fucking bitch to take off,which is why they get as much of the darker shit off while they're there and do the full shebang at home. Oil-based cleansers, micellar water, multiple gentle scrubs, then moisturizer and serum to top it all off. It's a routine that Katsuki, along with most of the others as far as he can tell, refuses to skimp on or rush. The make-up is applied heavily and won't come off with a few swipes of a dollar store remover pad, and he's seen a few beginners make the mistake of using shit products and end up with rashes, chemical burns, and clogged pores.
"Oh look, the diva himself."
Hitoshi snorts from next to him and the two exchange a look as Neito walks behind them to his spot at the row's end without giving Katsuki a chance to snap — whether that means his neck or an actual reply is undecided. The urge to spray his $18 micellar water all over Nieto is so strong that he has to physically bite his cheek to stop himself. He is a grown man. Mature. Professional. Yet, he wants nothing more than to drag the asshat to the bathroom and give him a swirly.
It's with a grimace that he looks at his own reflection in the mirror and gives himself a little, silent self talk that Neito Monoma is not worth losing his job. Five times he has to repeat it before he feels the murderous rage begin to ebb so he can continue removing his make-up.
Since he's not one of the principals or soloists, he felt no need to go out to the lobby for the meet-and-greet portion of the night, like many dancers do. He doesn't know anyone that was in the audience, and while he's busting his ass to make a name for himself, one that people will pay extra to come see perform, he's not quite there yet. Maybe if he's able to land a big role next season…fuck, that would be incredible.
So he takes his time cleaning up, then pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a fitted black t-shirt before packing his duffel bag. It's not a shower-fresh feeling, but it's a far cry from how disgusting he felt standing under the blazing-hot lights when the curtains closed.
"See ya," he says to Hitoshi, who is leaning in close to the mirror and offers a wave. In twelve hours, they'd be back in the same spot again, reapplying the make-up they'd just taken off. He's too revved up to feel the exhaustion that thrums under the surface, but knows once he gets home, takes a hot shower, and does some before-bed stretching, he'll conk the fuck out.
With his bag over his shoulder, he walks out from the back and toward the lobby. Most people have cleared out by now, audience members and dancers alike, so when a small group of people part ways and head out the door, he catches a glimpse of a head of red hair standing on the other side.
It takes a second for his scarlet eyes to send the proper signals to his brain, feet rooted to the floor while the gears slowly turn. It's then that Eijirou raises his own gaze from his phone and meets Katsuki's, and his lips split into a bright grin. He straightens up, but stays where he's standing, shoving his phone into his pocket and adjusting the small bouquet of flowers perched in the crook of his arm.
Katsuki walks toward him, perplexed. "Hey," he says, looking up at Eijirou.
"Hey," Eijirou replies, still grinning. "You looked amazing. I mean everyone did but…wow, Katsuki. You were…it was magical, all of it. But you were stunning."
He's been receiving compliments just like this in every imaginable variation for twenty years. At this point, he often feels a mixture of desensitization and obvious agreement. He knows he's a phenomenal dancer; he wouldn't be where he is today if he wasn't. Yet, there's something different about the way Eijirou says it.
Except there's not. It's the same words, the same awe-filled tone, the same wide-eyed look filled with wonderment and admiration.
"Thanks," he says, and the normal "I know" that usually plays in his head is missing, the cocky retort that he really shouldn't say but can't stop from thinking is oddly silent.
It's not the words that are different, nor the way they're said or the genuineness behind them. No, it's not that at all, instead, it's a combination of who said them and how they made Katsuki feel that gives him pause.
"Oh! These are for you." As Eijirou hands him the small bouquet of flowers, a mixture of oranges and reds and greens with long stems and a wide burlap bow, his hand comes to rest on the back of his neck and his cheeks flush to match the shade of his ridiculously dyed hair. "I wasn't sure if it was some sort of faux pas to give a guy flowers, but Shouto said—"
"Shouto knew you were coming?" he interrupts, the crease in his forehead deepening as he moves from confusion to irritation.
Eijirou's eyes widen, and he stammers, "Yes! No! I mean, yes, but I asked him not to tell you. Was…I mean…" He pauses, inhaling a quiet breath in an apparent attempt to stop stumbling over his words. "You looked incredible out there, and I'm glad I got to see you at the very first show."
The flowers smell nice, not overly potent, but mildly fragrant in a way that makes him want to bury his nose in them to see if it gets stronger. The petals vary in shapes and sizes, with tiny little yellow centers and green leaves poking up in between them.
It's a first for him, getting flowers. He's seen hundreds upon hundreds of bouquets delivered to male and female alike over the years, but has never received them himself. With each flower and each color Eijirou chose, he thought of Katsuki.
"Do you wanna get out of here?" he asks, looking back up at Eijirou.
He doesn't even own a vase, but will sure as fuck figure it out. He's getting kind of good at that lately.
"Hell yeah," comes Eijirou's reply, right along with a sly grin and the offer of an outstretched hand.
It would be rude not to accept.
"Uh, yeah hi, can I please have bananas foster french toast? With bacon and a large orange juice."
"You got it, sweetheart. And you?" The waitress, probably in her sixties, wore more make-up than he'd had on his face tonight for the show and smelled as if she poured her entire bottle of Avon perfume on her low-cut shirt before work. Ethel, her name tag read, which he felt a little dirty looking at considering it was right next to the wrinkly skin of her barely concealed chest.
"I'll have the avocado toast with two poached eggs and fruit," he replies, closing the menu and laying it on top of the one Eijirou had just slid toward the waitress. She's writing slowly, pad and pen about four inches from her spectacled eyes, and her lips move as she mouths their order, one thing at a time. "Oh, and water to drink."
"Got it, sweetcheeks. I'll get this right in for you both." Before she turns, she winks her mascara-and-liner heavy eye at them.
Apparently late-night IHOP is something else.
He shakes his head, but smirks at the sight of it all. His flowers lay atop his duffel bag on the seat beside him and he peeks at them, not for the first time. His disbelief is so strong that it's as if he thinks they might disappear, a temporary token of Eijirou's surprise attendance.
"You only got avocado toast?" Eijirou asks, pulling the paper napkin holder from the silverware set and folding it in half, then again.
"And eggs and fruit," Katsuki says. He's starving and, despite the late hour and the fact that he's been on the go since nine this morning, his hunger had ultimately won. "I can't eat big meals before bed." He shrugs, looking up at Ethel as she brings their drinks, then picks up his water for a long swill of it. "Plus we have a matinee tomorrow."
"I mean, I ate dinner before your show, but I'm always hungry. My mom says I'm still a growing boy…I mean she's teasing me since I'm twenty-eight, but I do burn a lot of calories every day," Eijirou rambles, then laughs.
Twenty-eight, just two years older than Katsuki. He would've guessed a little younger, honestly, but if dance has taught him anything, it's that age is just a number.
The straw paper Eijirou just removed now twists around his fingers, tied into a knot, then a bow. Either the man is nervous or he's the type to have to be moving his hands or feet at all times, Katsuki can't quite pinpoint which. It's kind of cute when Eijirou looks up at him, because when their eyes meet, his hands still.
"So, you know, you never did answer my question," Eijirou says.
There's a little smile line that forms on the edge of Eijirou's cheeks when he smiles. Katsuki didn't notice it until now. It reminds him of a misplaced dimple, deepening when his smile grows, then disappearing when he frowns or talks, only to come right back again.
"What question is that?"
He knows what question, and hes aware that he hasn't answered it, but the banter and minor flirting they've done in their sporadic texting since the night in the park has been fun. It's not that he thinks it will end if he says yes to another date, it's just that he…well, maybe that is what he thinks. It's not logical, he knows that, but his track record hasn't been the best.
Either he's never really paid close enough attention or there's never been someone quite like Eijirou.
"The date," Eijirou reminds him, flattening out the paper napkin ring again before folding it in the opposite direction, this time in a triangle pattern. "Well, the second one, I guess. Plus, I did hold up my end of the bargain, you know."
"Oh yeah? What was that?"
Eijirou's grin becomes a little devilish as he folds the last edge of the paper around and tucks it into the open edge. "I got your number."
"Like it was that hard? If your friends had their way, we'd be fucking married already."
Eijirou laughs, showcasing those laugh lines again. "I mean, we can be one of those, but that's not the point."
This guy.
"Who says this isn't a date?" Katsuki asks, doing his best to keep the conversation out of the gutter, lest it might drag his mind down with it.
"Is it? If so, it's not like I asked you specifically to come on this date. Seems like a pattern to me."
"Maybe you just suck at date planning, since you keep showing up and forcing me—"
"Forcing you!" He laughs again. "Yeah, you fought tooth and nail the whole way, gripping those flowers like a machete and sneaking glances at your phone to Google if you can kill someone with a flower stem."
It's Katsuki's turn to laugh, real and uninhibited.
Ethel, in all of her perfect timing and overpowering perfume, brings their food, sliding Katsuki's plate onto the table first. "Here you go, boys!" she exclaims. She grabs hold of Eijirou's forearm, batting her eyelashes at him as she puts his steaming pile of carbs in front of him. "Extra sweet, just like you."
Though Katsuki makes a concerted effort not to laugh, barely covering up his obnoxious snort with a fake cough into his own forearm, the look on Eijirou's face seals his fate. As Ethel walks away, purposely sashaying her elderly ass from left to right, Katsuki's bark of a laugh masks Eijirou's whispered plea to be suddenly swallowed by a sinkhole.
"Katsuki!" he whisper shouts, eyes wide with terror and a bold shade of burgundy creeping up from his neck to his cheeks.
"Hey, ya never know, maybe she'd be a better second date than me."
The horror-stricken expression on Eijirou's face morphs to surprise, then those laugh lines crease into his cheeks again. "Nah, I'd say you have that in the bag."
Smooth talker.
Two dates with Eijirou; maybe the whole impromptu thing just works. As a chronic overthinker who typically hates doing things off the cuff, it's unpredictably refreshing with Eijirou. Exciting. He's not given a chance to talk himself out of it or come up with a million excuses as to why it's a bad idea, he just…reacts. Says yes. If this is what Eijirou meant before about being a yes man, then maybe Katsuki could learn a thing or two.
Their conversation dies off a little bit as they eat, and they make small talk about favorite foods after Eijirou teases Katsuki for never having been to an IHOP before. The food is fine, but it's nothing he hasn't made at home for a fraction of the cost, though his rebuttal is shot down.
It's fine, because as Eijirou pays their bill — not without a near scuffle with Katsuki — he turns it around that Eijirou's never had authentic Japanese food, either, which is a travesty considering it's literally his homeland.
"Seriously? Never?"
They're back on the sidewalk, two blocks from IHOP and heading toward Katsuki's place. He knows Eijirou is ten minutes on this side, but doesn't argue when they continue to walk together nonetheless.
"I've had sushi!"
"Oh my god, sushi from 7-Eleven doesn't count!"
"Why not? It's still sushi, right?"
Katsuki audibly scoffs. "Hontoni baka ne," he mumbles under his breath in Japanese. "You cannot be serious."
"What's my alternative?"
"Outside of any number of actual Japanese restaurants? You're the tour guide here, I'm sure you could find one."
Eijirou laughs. "I probably could, but seeing you so passionate about it makes it worth it."
"Passionate is a stretch, but if you're going to eat Japanese food, or any food for that matter, at least make it taste good."
"Can you cook?"
The question might seem innocent enough, but it's the challenging implication that Eijirou uses that gives him away. He's asking Katsuki to cook for him and either doing a piss poor job of hiding his true intentions or purposely giving them away, beating around the bush in a playful way that neither annoys nor deters Katsuki.
Though in all reality, regardless of which it is, the answer would be the same. "Obviously, and if you're asking me to make you real Japanese food, then I'll ask what's in it for me?"
"Uh…real Japanese food?"
Huffing out a breathy laugh, he pulls his hand from Eijirou's — how long had they been holding hands? — to adjust his bag and move the flowers to his other arm. It's irresponsible for him to be up this late the night before an early performance. If his inevitable lack of sleep in any way affects the way he dances, he will never forgive himself, but…
"This is you, right?" Eijirou says, looking up at Katsuki's apartment building. Another walk home ending with Katsuki not realizing where they are. It's easy to lose track of time, and apparently location, when he's with Eijirou.
"Yeah, and you're ten minutes back that way, right?"
"Sure am." Eijirou turns to face him, skin glowing as the waning gibbous moon casts its light upon them. "Guess I'll see you around? Maybe for our third date."
"Getting awfully presumptuous, aren't you?"
It's quiet for a minute and Eijirou just hums, looking at him with an indecipherable expression. Katsuki wants to ask what it's about, but he also kind of likes the way it feels to be looked at like this. It's not like when people watch him dance, mouths agape and only seeing him for the character he portrays.
"Maybe, but if it gives me a reason to see you again and get amazing food, then I call it a win."
Katsuki hums a short sound, unsure if what he should say is the same as what he wants to say. A list of pros and cons instantly floods his mind like cars on a racetrack, zooming through, leaving trepidation and uncertainty in their wake. Yet, he knows his answer without needing to think it through or go over some ridiculous list which would only have pages and pages of bullshit excuses that would keep him in his apartment alone every night.
If being spontaneous is something that takes practice, just like ballet, then he sure as hell isn't going to get better at it by doing nothing.
"You're pretty awesome, Katsuki."
The simplicity of the compliment makes a laugh bubble up in his throat. It's reminiscent of those little valentines they passed around in elementary school, the kind that had a dinosaur on them, with 'You're pretty roar-some!' printed in bold letters.
"Yeah, you're okay yourself," he replies with a quiet chuckle.
They're in each other's space, close enough that the cool air of the night is fought away by the warmth that emanates from Eijirou like a human furnace. They're saying nothing but holding a conversation with their eyes, asking and answering questions, searching and seeking and diving into the recesses of unspoken thoughts that lay within the sparkling red of their irises. They're willingly drowning in the unknown with no worry about coming up for air.
There's a thumb brushing across his cheek.
Then lips press against his, another question to which he responds with the whisper of a kiss while that same hand slips around to rest on the back of his neck.
Eijirou's tongue tastes of caramel, and Katsuki's never tasted anything quite as sweet.
Notes:
Thank you for all of the kudos and comments! I love hearing what you think so far!
Next update: October 8th <3
Chapter Text
Through his years of dancing professionally, Katsuki's time off—whether it be the short breaks between shows or the months-long off season—still revolves around ballet. His routine only changes because he no longer has rehearsal. Even then, he just ends up taking more classes, ballet or otherwise, just to fill his time, and doing as much pointe work as he can in his apartment. Anything to keep him dancing.
He had told the truth that night at Shouto's house: he doesn't get out much. All of his ventures to midtown or even around Brooklyn have a purpose. An agenda. Work, class, food, post office, or buying shit he needs. Hell, even medical appointments are few and far between, usually only needed if he's done something stupid and hurt himself, and even then he pushes through until he can't.
He's never built fun activities into his free time because, first, he's never seen the point, and second, who wants to do that kind of thing alone? The thing is, he's always tried to play it off that he's a homebody or that he just doesn't have the time to stray from his rigid routine. Sure, he's busy, sometimes more than others, but while his work is clustered in periods that range from weeks of heavy rehearsal obligations to those with few commitments, when he steps back to look at the overall picture, he doesn't work any more than the regular Joe.
"Hey, Katsuki!"
There's obviously a reason that this is the first time he's really looked forward to having a few days off.
"Hey," he says as he steps out of his apartment building, greeting Eijirou, who's practically vibrating with so much excitement that he resembles a puppy, wagging tail and all. He's literally bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he's waiting for Katsuki to throw a ball for him to fetch.
Opening night and their second impromptu date at IHOP was almost two weeks ago, and while the unending supply of texts from the man hadn't dried up, this is the first time they're seeing each other since that night. It wasn't that Eijirou hadn't tried, he had, but it just wasn't in the cards.
"I'm so excited to spend the day with you," Eijirou says, dipping his head down to kiss the corner of Katsuki's mouth.
Is this a thing now? Do they just randomly kiss every time they see each other? They haven't spoken of the post-IHOP kiss, but Katsuki noticed the little addition of a heart emoji in a few of Eijirou's texts. There's obvious attraction between them, any idiot could see that, but it doesn't automatically translate into a relationship, especially without even talking about it.
Yet, Katsuki isn't going to put the cart before the horse. There's nothing inherently wrong with kissing, nor is it required to mean anything beyond what it is at face value. A kiss — nothing more, nothing less. Two dates do not mean they're dating.
"Come on, let's get going, we have a ton to do and we don't want to be late!"
What this full day entails, he has no idea since Eijirou had refused to tell him. Bastard.
"Shouto and Momo are meeting us this morning, but later we'll meet the others. Oh! And you get to meet one of my other friends later, too! He doesn't come to Shouto's dinners because he usually works Fridays and Saturdays, but he's off tonight. He's really cool. I've known him since high school after he first moved up here, but he's way different now."
Eijirou follows up that very vague statement with a laugh that comes off like Katsuki should be in on some kind of inside joke.
"That sounds promising." His sarcastic tone elicits another laugh from Eijirou but he offers no further clarification, and Katsuki doesn't ask.
Once they're on the Q, the excited rambling doesn't stop. Either Eijirou is more of a morning person than Katsuki assumed, or he downed multiple energy drinks before they met outside. Could go either way, honestly; neither would surprise him with how he's practically bouncing off the walls.
Eijirou offers his hand, outstretched as if it's commonplace for them to be joined. When Katsuki takes it, he looks down at their hands and Eijirou's words falter. When he looks up, he's met with a smile and a look that's silently asking if it's okay.
Their eyes lock and Eijirou goes completely silent for a moment, tilting his head to the side like a golden retriever. Katsuki can't help but wonder, would it be so bad if they are dating?
It's not an exaggeration to say that Katsuki doesn't often stray from the Q but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a general understanding of the city and what to do. He's not an idiot. His preference to walk when feasible is less because of his lack of expertise in NYC transportation and more of, well, just a preference. When Eijirou takes him from the Q to the R, though, he still isn't quite sure what their destination is going to be.
As such, when they end up in the Staten Island Ferry Station, the surprise on his face is genuine. "Are we riding the ferry?"
He's never been on a ferry before, so when Eijirou gleefully nods, still filled with barely contained enthusiasm, Katsuki can only stare. It's such a simple idea, one that, just like his daily commute on the Q, he's written off as being merely a means of transportation for those traveling to and from the island. Yet, the novelty of the whole thing is what makes a small smile play on his lips.
"Hello Katsuki. Eijirou."
If Katsuki was a cartoon cat, he surely would've jumped to the ceiling by now, clinging to it with extended claws, hissing loudly with his hair standing on end, poking up in every which way. Well, he has the hair part down pat, but Shouto is incredibly lucky he doesn't have a black eye on top of the scar on his face, that much is for sure.
"Sneak up like that again and I'll drown you in the harbor," Katsuki threatens with a growl, but it doesn't affect the upward quirk of Shouto's lips.
"Hello," Momo says. "Are we ready to board the ferry? It's been some time since I've ridden it."
Momo, who's standing at Shouto's side, is wearing a pair of dark jeans and a chic wine-colored sweater, and Katsuki's pretty sure this is the first time he's ever seen her with her hair down instead of in a bun or ponytail. It's stupid that he somehow expects her to be the picture of ballet grace and elegance even when out and about in the city, but it almost takes him aback the way she looks so down to earth.
Once they make their way onto the upper deck and the ferry leaves the station, Katsuki is planted at the railing. Fingers curled around the cool iron, he stares out into the water of the harbor as it's unlike anything he's ever seen before.
His reaction is ridiculous, he knows this, especially since the media often broadcasts how disgusting the bay is, how too much rain makes sewage overflow into the water, and a laundry list of other historical contamination reports. Still, with small boats peppered throughout the open space and a clear blue, cloudless sky on the horizon, he can't help but appreciate the view.
The others are laughing about something behind him, but he's not paying attention. It's loud as fuck out here, to the point that it's hurting his hears, but he isn't quite ready to go back inside. The breeze ruffles through his hair and the light spray of the saltwater mists his face and, for a moment, he closes his eyes. He can feel the moment when Eijirou comes to stand by his side and he opens his eyes just in time to watch the Statue of Liberty as it draws closer.
Eijirou tugs on the sleeve of his shirt and motions toward the door to go back inside. He follows, appreciating the much quieter atmosphere once they go down the stairs into the lower seating area of the ferry. Finding a open space between rows of seats where he can still look out the window, he says, "Okay Tour Guide, is this why you brought me here? Are you going to wax poetic about Lady Liberty or do you want to go back outside so we can have some sort of Titanic moment?"
Eijirou chuckles, mirroring Katsuki's stance with his hands on the the bottom edge of the large window. "You aren't a true New Yorker until you've seen her," he says with a shrug. Momo and Shouto move to stand on the other side of Eijirou, all watching as the ferry continues it's path until the massive figure is almost out of sight from where they stand.
"You come to see it a lot, or something?"
The others snicker, but Eijirou full-on laughs. "Oh, hell no."
"Oi!" Katsuki warns, which just makes Eijirou laugh more, earning himself an elbow to the ribs. Eijirou nurses his fake injury in such an dramatic way that Katsuki can't help but laugh, too.
The ride is short, only about twenty-five minutes one way, but as soon as the ferry has exchanged passengers and begins its trek back again, the group of them seem to have loosened up even more. Shouto is telling jokes that are astonishingly funny — in his own dry humor sort of way — and actually laughing at them, too, and Katsuki is quite literally trying to heave Eijirou overboard. If he gets banned from the ferry, it'll be worth it.
Momo, however, looks a little peaked, complexion pale. Perhaps she's gotten a touch of seasickness. She's taken a seat near where the others are standing, clutching her knees with white knuckles, and breathing through her nose as if trying not to throw up. Katsuki doesn't suffer from motion sickness, but his father does. Once, on a family trip to the Prix de Lausanne competition in Switzerland, Masaru got so air sick that he nearly missed watching Katsuki perform.
Conversations hop from one topic to another, but unlike at the dinner they'd shared, they settle into the one thing three quarters of them have in common: ballet.
"Shouto, why are you arguing?" Katsuki says loudly, smirking. "I'm not saying Baryshnikov wasn't incredible, the execution and height on his jumps alone was unbelievable, but Nureyev? When he was on stage, you were transported." If anything brought out the passion that burns within Katsuki, it's this, that much is blatantly obvious.
"I'm not arguing," Shouto deadpans. "I'm just explaining why I'm right and you're wrong."
From next to him, Katsuki hears both Eijirou and Momo—who are sharing a pack of peanut butter crackers as a snack—laugh, but at least they have the decency to make an attempt to hide it when he whips his head to look at them. Does it work? No, but the sentiment is there.
"You know what, next time I see you, remind me not to talk to you."
"That would not be very best-friend-like of you, Katsuki. You know, we are allowed to to have conflicting opinions on things—"
"My opinion is that you should seek counseling."
The conversation veers off to something else but the mood remains light and the banter never lets up.
"I believe we should capture this momentous occasion," Shouto interrupts, pulling his phone from his back pocket, opening the camera app. "Pardon me, could you possibly take our picture?" he asks a woman, there with two young kids in a double stroller. She agrees, and the four squish together with the window at their backs and big grins on all four of their faces.
"What's the occasion, Icy Hot? Are we celebrating your first time acting like a human instead of a robot?" Katsuki teases, but it's true in a way; this is the first time he's seen Shouto behave so…normally. Of course, he supposes the same could be said about him, considering that, outside of the one dinner at Shouto's house, the only time they saw each other was when they were in rehearsal mode.
It's not as if they turn into different people at work, but today, even though it's still morning, it's already been an eye-opening experience. Being removed from the no-nonsense and uncompromising mindset that goes hand in hand with the culture of professional ballet clearly allows them to be more like themselves. More real. More free and relaxed.
Though, maybe the strict constraints of work culture is a Katsuki thing more so than it's an everyone else thing. Hell, he's laughed more with this group of people than he has in years. Years.
"Say cheese!" the woman calls out, snapping photo after photo of them not only looking at the camera, but continuing to tease each other.
"Cheeeeeese!" Their voices are in semi-unison, loud and rambunctious and filled with so much infectious happiness that even the woman's kids are giggling from their seats in the stroller, tiny, chubby hands slapping on the blue plastic edges.
They're all pushing and elbowing and laughing in a way that creates splinters and fissures in the protective wall Katsuki had so firmly erected around himself many years ago. Every laugh, every time he shoots a sarcastic remark at one of them only to receive a matching one right back, every slap on his shoulder or grab at his wrist, every minute spent forging a set of friendships with such a dynamic impact that he questions why he fought against having them for so long.
"I like this one," Momo says, holding Shouto's phone as they walk down the boardwalk in Coney Island, another place Katsuki has never been. She shows the three of them the picture.
Katsuki is smiling. With teeth. One of Eijirou's arms is around his shoulder, and the other is holding bunny ears up behind Shouto's head. Momo's cheek is pressed against Shouto's and they all look as if they're having the best day of their lives.
Has he been possessed? Does Shouto have Photoshop on his phone, giving him the ability to manipulate his face and add a smile that wasn't originally there? Of course not, but it's such an oddity to see himself that way despite having been cognitively aware it was happening at the time. It looks unnatural on him. Not necessarily awful, just…different.
The boardwalk isn't packed—their busy season probably won't start for another month or so—but there are still people walking around, either for exercise or out for a day with family and friends. Most shops are closed, locked up until they open for the season, but the beach and ocean view is likely enough to draw people in. Katsuki's seen the ocean plenty of times, but has never been to the beach so he keeps glancing to the other side of the boardwalk to see the sand and the way the water laps up over it. Hell, while he knew there was a beach here, he assumed Coney Island was some kind of hyped-up amusement park with little else to offer.
"Wait, where's the one where Katsuki tried to push me overboard? Here, this one!" Eijirou says, swiping through several photos. "Oh…" Eijirou brings the phone closer to his face, shielding the screen from the sun to get a better look. "Do you have dimples?"
"Let me see," Shouto says, tilting the phone to look, then to Momo to get her opinion. "I think those are dimples. I was unaware you had them, Katsuki."
"Maybe you should smile more," Momo teases, her own grin curving her pink-stained lips.
"Maybe I should not—" Katsuki starts, but freezes as something bright pink catches his attention. "Are those fucking tentacles sticking out of the roof of that building?"
"They sure are, blondie," comes a voice, one with a bit of a drawl that does not belong to any of the three people he's been with all day. Neither does the petite hand that squeezes his bicep, complete with three-inch acrylic nails with pink lightning bolt designs and dagger-like points. "You must be this Katsuki I heard all about, hm? Eijirou's right, you are a hottie."
"Denki!" Eijirou whisper shouts through clenched teeth, as if that somehow means Katsuki won't hear him.
"Hello Mina, Denki," Momo says, offering a small wave.
Katsuki turns his head and, with murderous eyes, looks at the shorter guy beside him. With yellow blond hair cut to just above his shoulders and a face full of admittedly impressive make-up, the guy is batting his mascara-laden eyelashes at Katsuki, smile showcasing a lip ring and shiny lipgloss. "Who the fuck are you and why are you touching me?" Katsuki gruffs.
"Ooh, feisty, too? Ei, baby, you sure you wanna keep this one all to yourself?" Denki asks in a thick southern accent.
"Oh my god, Denks, can you stop?" Eijirou whines, dragging Denki off of Katsuki before the two can clash further.
"Hi, Katsuki!" Mina says, chuckling. "Having fun today?" She wiggles her eyebrows, earning herself a middle finger. Instead of having the desired effect, it only makes her laugh more. "So, in case Eijirou didn't warn you, that's Denki. He's super gay and has no filter, so you can just ignore him like we do."
"Hey!" Denki complains. "Listen, sweetheart, it's not my fault those muscular thighs belong wrapped around my face—"
"Okay! Let's get going!" Eijirou interrupts, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, hooking his arm around Katsuki's and pulling him closer.
"What the hell? Is this an aquarium?" Katsuki asks, purposely standing on the other side of Eijirou as they walk toward the building.
"Yep! Aren't those tentacles awesome? I mean, I love aquariums, so listen, it might've been my idea." Ah, yes, the puppy is back, bouncing on his feet enough to make the boards under them vibrate.
"Have you been here before, Katsuki?" Shouto asks, leading them off of the boardwalk and toward the self-service ticket kiosk. Right next to them is a large, multi-colored fish sculpture that appears to be made of plastic pulled from the ocean.
"I've never been to any aquarium before," he admits, staring at the plastic fish.
They stop dead in their tracks — every single one of them — and look at him as if his head had just spun in circles, Exorcist-style.
"What!?"
"Really?"
"Wow, Katsuki."
"Oh, darlin'!"
They all speak at once, and Katsuki just shrugs, breezing past them to walk to the kiosk. Between their questions and their gasps, Katsuki just rolls his eyes. It's not a big deal, just another thing he's never done or cared about before.
Much to Shouto's dismay, Katsuki purchases his and Eijirou's tickets before Shouto, the rich asshole anyways, can swoop in and buy them all like he's obviously itching to do. Purple tickets in hand, they begin their afternoon adventure through the New York Aquarium in the main exhibit, the Conservation Hall.
"Guys! Look!" Eijirou, much like some of the children Katsuki sees walking through the building with their parents, is practically plastered to one of the tanks. This one has seahorses, and he squats down to see the one swimming close to the coral at the bottom of the tank. "Aren't they so cute?"
"Ei, you've said that about everything we've seen so far and it's only been a half hour," Mina says, patting his shoulder on her way by.
"But it's true! Katsuki, do you see?"
He squats down next to Eijirou, shoulder to shoulder, and watches the small seahorse chug through the water slowly. "Mhm."
"This one's name is George."
"I thought the jellyfish was George?"
Eijirou gasps in faux offense, hand to his heart and everything. "Katsuki! That was Gemma!"
"I used to date a drag queen named Gemma," Denki interjects, tapping his ridiculously long nails on the glass above their heads as he walks by. "He wasn't as dainty in bed as he portrayed on stage."
"Denki! There are kids here!"
Mina slaps her hand over Denki's mouth before he can defend his honor in what would probably be explicit detail, and Eijirou and Katsuki stand to follow behind. If he thought the day was going to somehow be boring, he's being proven wrong at every turn, especially with the new friend in tow. He's a lot to swallow—pun absolutely not intended—but Katsuki guesses he's okay. The group doesn't seem the type to hold a close friendship with someone who's an absolute shitbag, so he'll at least attempt to give him the benefit of the doubt before committing murder.
"Nemo! Katsuki, look!"
The next two hours is spent peering into every tank, reading every informational sign, and endless gasps by all of them, Katsuki included. It's magical in a way that justifies Eijirou's excitement, which only intensifies as they move through the aquarium.
"Girrrrl!" Denki squeals. He's repeatedly clicking all ten of his nails together in a grabby-hand motion that makes rage burn inside of Katsuki. "I am starving! Let's go to the cafe!"
"Ohh, I could eat!" Mina chimes in. The others agree, then look to Katsuki, whose breakfast of tofu, natto, and mixed vegetables is long gone.
"Yeah, sure."
More squeals, obnoxious enough to grab the attention of nearby patrons, echo through the hallway as they head to the aquarium plaza.
The menu is exactly what Katsuki would expect at a place like this. Burgers, fries, chicken tenders, soda, and baked treats cover the menu, all overpriced and disgustingly unhealthy. He grimaces, wishing he'd put more than a protein bar and a pack of nori in his backpack. At the time, he was more concerned about water, since dehydration is detrimental to his muscles, but it's mid afternoon and it's not as if he has the luxury of being picky right now.
"Please, allow me to buy everyone lunch," Momo insists.
Katsuki opens his mouth to argue, but Eijirou leans down to whisper against his ear, "We usually pay for our own when we go out like this, but sometimes they like to treat everyone."
Well, shit. "So if I say no, I'm the asshole?" He keeps his own voice low as well, looking at Eijirou.
"I mean, not an asshole but I think their love language is gift giving, so you'd make them really happy by allowing them to pay."
That doesn't help. He doesn't give a shit about love languages or making people happy. He despises being indebted to others, and the declination hangs on the tip of his tongue, ready to be spoken, until he looks at the others again. Momo is laughing about something with Mina, Denki is pointing something out on the menu with his talons, and Shouto is asking him a question, as if they're deep in debate about which of the shitty selections they're going to choose.
He sighs. Since when does he have a damn conscience? With an unimpressed look and a downward curve of his lips, he caves.
"Fine, whatever," he grumbles.
"Oh, delightful," Momo replies, smiling genuinely as she pulls her designer wallet from her just-as-designer crossbody. He'll figure out how to repay her somehow, even if the polarity between their net worths is glaring.
Eijirou's hand comes to rest low on his back, just above his ass. Katsuki's cheeks warm but Eijirou is unaware, looking at the menu with his lower lip between his teeth as he peruses his options. "Hm, I'm thinking the double cheeseburger and fries. What about you?"
"I guess the chicken caesar salad."
Several sets of eyes flick towards him and he's, yet again, under some kind of scrutiny from the masses.
"What?" he snaps.
"A salad? On Friend Friday? Oh babygirl, that is travesty!" Denki exclaims, as if he's a goddamn debutante. In that sentence alone, there is way too much to unpack, from Friend Friday to being called babygirl, all by a guy that might be the actual personification of Deep South Barbie. "How am I supposed to steal your french fries if you do not get any french fries?" The guy looks truly affronted, blinking those bright golden eyes, complete with eyeliner so sharp it could probably stab a man. How the fuck does he get his cat eye to look like that?
"Bold of you to assume you're stealing anything of mine," he growls, but Denki is unaffected by the lackluster threat, simply winking at him in return.
In the end, he concedes to the peer pressure, another item to check off on his growing list of firsts. Instead of going full bore, though, he avoids the regular cheeseburger and chooses the black bean burger instead, which comes with guacamole and fries. The rest place their orders, and a short time later, they're all crammed into a booth that's much too small for six people. Mina's cackling, Denki is trying to crawl under the table, Shouto is whispering with Momo, who hasn't touched her food, and Eijirou—
"Why do you have fucking googly eyes?"
"Wha—" Eijirou coughs, sputtering at having been caught staring right at Katsuki as if he's not sitting smooshed up against him. "Sorry, man, you just look so happy. Handsome? Hot? H-hungry? Hungry! Yeah, hungry!"
Katsuki can't help but stare, unblinking and utterly stupefied. "Did you just have a stroke?"
Eijirou manages to laugh it off, redirecting the attention back to the group by recapping everything they've seen so far and what he's most excited about next. He's not slick, but Katsuki lets it go, if only because he can still feel the heat on his cheeks.
Soon enough, Eijirou's hand slips between him and the back of the booth, thumb caressing his back in a small, circular motion. He's talking as if it's nothing, as if it's not a form of PDA that Katsuki isn't used to but wholly accepts nonetheless. It doesn't feel possessive or claiming in nature, more like a simple way to feel closer. Eijirou has already proven that he's a touchy-feely bastard, so it shouldn't come as a surprise. It doesn't, actually, but…it's nice.
The black bean burger is good and the guacamole is fresh, so it wasn't a bad choice. He doesn't chow down like Eijirou and Denki do, but he slowly eats as they continue blabbering on about this and that. A few of his fries disappear, clutched with stabby nails on ringed fingers, but he doesn't mind; he's not eating them anyway.
Once they're done eating, there's no holding Eijirou back from dragging them out of the cafe so they can continue on. He's been chomping at the bit for a solid ten minutes, knees bouncing hard enough they kept smacking the underside of the table.
The next stop is the penguin exhibit, which with the way Eijirou reacts, it must hold the only penguins ever known to man. For a guy who already has big eyes, they grow even wider when he realizes how close they are to the aquatic birds. It's reminiscent of how the people in Jurassic Park acted the first time they saw a real, live dinosaur, for fuck's sake, but he somehow pulls it off and still looks fucking cute at the same time.
"Look who's got the googly eyes now," Denki drawls, scratching his glittery velociraptor claws over Katsuki's shoulder.
"Hey asshole, you know if you connect your top lip to your bottom lip, you'll shut the fuck up?"
Mina snorts, Shouto chokes, and Eijirou looks back and forth between them both trying to decide which reaction would get him in the least trouble. He's barely holding in what would probably be one hell of a burst of laughter, so much so that it looks as if he might shit himself if he keeps it in anymore.
"How about if I connect my top lip and my bottom lip around—"
"Oh my god, look! Guys! He's coming this way!!"
Of course the only distraction strong enough to drag Eijirou's attention away from the impending cage fight in the busy aquarium is the fact that a rogue penguin is waddling itself right up to the glass. It's head swivels to the right, then the left, as if he's looking between them. In an instant, they're all huddled around the glass, reduced to blubbering messes of oohs and aahs, baby talk, and in Katsuki's case, a grin that would stay between him and the penguin.
"I think this is where we must part ways," Shouto says once they're back outside again. "I'm going to see that Momo gets home."
"I'm truly sorry to cut our afternoon together short, I'm just not feeling very well and need to lay down."
"Oh no, babes, don't worry. We've had a great day together!" Mina assures her, rubbing her back comfortingly as she pulls her into a hug.
"Thanks for coming, guys!" Eijirou says, waving as they turn to head back. "So what are we going to do? It's too early to go home."
"I mean, we could just walk around till we get bored," Mina offers. "Let's get off the boardwalk though, maybe head toward Brighton Beach? If nothing else we can just get on the Q from there."
"Oh my god, we're gonna go right by the House of Wings!" Denki cries out, the back of his hand planted on his forehead dramatically, as if he's an actor going for Best Performance on Oscar's night.
"Denks, do you always think about food?" Eijirou asks as they start to walk.
"I have a healthy appetite for many things, Ei-baby, like your blondie, for example."
"Oi, fuck you!" Katsuki bellows.
"Fuck me yourself, you coward!"
"On that note!" Mina interrupts. "Let's go before someone calls the cops on you again, Denki!"
"That was one time!"
They set off down the sidewalk, absolutely not stopping the back-and-forth crosstalk in varying shades of inappropriate. It's funny how he feels comfortable enough in the group to participate the way he does. He's a confident guy, but people skills have never been his forte and his social battery would have normally been depleted hours ago, but this? It's fine. It's good, actually.
An hour passes as they walk, seeing nothing of great importance, and only stopping once to ogle the window display of a bakery that's already closed for the day. It's nearly five o'clock now, nine hours after Eijirou met him at his apartment building this morning, yet it's gone by in a flash and he hasn't murdered anyone yet. That should earn him a gold star, damnit.
It's not until they round a corner that he hears it, or rather, feels it. The heavy bass beat of a somewhat familiar song draws his attention to the left. A wide, glass storefront catches his eye, then he looks up at the sign hanging above the glass.
"What the fuck kind of name is Dancer's Den," he says with an amused huff.
It's obviously a dance studio of some sort, with people lingering just beyond the glass, all in different kinds of dance or workout apparel.
"I'm not sure, but it's giving Footloose," Mina says, moving closer so she can watch the class warm up.
"Do you think they do strip teases, because I am a pro at that," Denki adds, swinging his hips from left to right, raising his arms up in the air.
Katsuki is intrigued. What kind of classes does a place called Dancer's Den offer? It's not far from his apartment, he could come back tomorrow…or stay tonight.
Okay, fine, so he's an addict. He sees a studio and he immediately needs to check it out. He can't help it.
"I think I'm going to see if they have any classes tonight."
Silence.
"Wait, really?" Eijirou asks, but Mina perks up, turning to look at him with obvious interest.
"If you do, I'm so in," she says, then looks at Denki.
"Girl, I don't need to be asked twice. These hips don't lie."
"Guys! I don't dance, though," Eijirou whines, a pout pulling his lower lip out.
"Tch, everyone can dance, just not as good as me." Katsuki rolls his eyes, pulling open the door.
At the registration desk inside the door, the Latina woman working there greets them, eyeing the others as the file in behind him. "Hey," she says, smiling. "What can I do for you?"
"You have any open classes tonight?" Katsuki asks.
"Sure, we have a few. What kind are you looking for?" she replies, cracking her gum.
"Anything but ballet."
Notes:
Thank you so so much for all of the comments and kudos. I am so excited to take y'all on this journey. What do you think so far??
Next update: Oct 22, 2025
Chapter Text
"We have two spots left in our hour-long beginner's hip hop in—" She looks at the clock. "—ten minutes. Then we have two spots in our advanced master class, but that's two hours. It starts right after the beginner class."
"Aww, they sound fun, but we wouldn't be together." Eijirou's pout is back in full force.
Mina turns to the lady. "Lydia? Hi, I'm Mina, nice to meet you. Any chance you'd let us watch each other's end-of-class dances if we take your last four spots?" It's sugary-sweet and schmoozy in a salesperson kind of way, but they can immediately tell it works.
The woman sighs, but it's obviously for show since she's smiling, too. "Alright, but don't go broadcasting it because then everyone will want to do it," she says with a playful tone. "Our rooms are not that big." She laughs, then sits back in her metal chair. "So who wants what class, then?"
Mina grins and looks between them. "I mean, Eijirou, you obviously want the beginner's class, and probably Katsuki—"
"Girrrl, oh hell no, I talk a big game but I can't dance for shit, do not put me in a master class unless it involves me being tied up and spanked by—"
"Denks!" Eijirou shushes him with a wide-eyed glare.
"Oof, well, think you can tough it out in the advanced class with me, Katsuki?" Mina wiggles her eyebrows and it's everything Katsuki can do not to shut her shit down right now. He doesn't, of course, because immediately he's got one hell of a devious idea.
"I'll be fine, but what the fuck are you guys gonna do for two hours while we have our class?" Katsuki asks to Denki and Eijirou. Waiting for less than an hour to see their end results is fine, but by the time he and Mina finish, it'll be nine o'clock.
"Oh, babygirl, bless your heart. Ei and I will be going back to the House of Wings because we will need some sustenance after working so hard to look so fine."
Even Lydia joins in on the laughter now.
After they've all paid for their spots, Katsuki and Mina wave goodbye to Eijirou and Denki and head out for a walk.
"So, Katsuki…"
He should've expected this. The lecture, the 'you're not good enough,' or the shovel talk that's inevitable with how close Mina and Eijirou obviously are. He's sure he's about to hear a list of reasons as to why an asshole like Katsuki doesn't deserve to be with a veritable saint like Eijirou. How Katsuki isn't good enough or nice enough or any number of judgments that friends make on someone else's behalf.
He doesn't answer, instead just glances at her, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants as they slowly walk down the street.
"I think you probably know, but Eijirou really likes you," she starts.
Here it comes. The 'but,' the 'don't bother calling,' or the 'leave him alone.'
"Yeah," he says. Why now, after an entire day spent with the group of them? Had they just been nice to his face, biding their time until one of them could get him alone to drop the bomb?
"I'm glad," she continues. "I know it hasn't been long since you guys have been…well, whatever it is that you're doing, but he looks at you as if you hung the moon and the stars all by yourself." She shrugs, looking up at him with a soft smile. "You're cool, you're funny, and don't think I don't see the way you look at him, too."
"Tch, the fuck is that supposed to mean," he snaps, but it's quiet and lacks any sort of heat whatsoever.
"You know what it means." She knocks her shoulder into his.
"Fuck, here I thought you were going to tell me to leave him alone or something."
"Well, first of all, I doubt you'd listen to me anyway—"
"Fuck no."
"And second, did you miss the part where I said that he really likes you? Eijirou is a good guy, Katsuki. A really good guy. So you should really consider yourself lucky—"
Katsuki snorts, the mythical real smile curling his lips yet again as he stares down at his feet as they meet the sidewalk.
"Yeah, I guess I do."
He does. How could he not? He's caught the eye of a man who's unlike him in all the right ways yet hasn't once tried to correct or change him. It might be a new record, honestly. The few times he's dated a guy, it sure as hell didn't take long for them to tell him he swears too much or that he should be nicer to their friends or complain that he takes too many classes or isn't emotionally available — the list is longer than those relationships ever were.
Almost an hour later, Mina and Katsuki are sitting along the edge of the open room as groups of three people take turns going through the same exact routine, a showcase of what they've learned in their class. The moves are simple but the music and eagerness bring it all together. It's exactly what he would expect out of a beginner's class, and they definitely do not disappoint.
Eijirou and Denki are together in the last group of three. They both look nervous as hell, and it's a little choppy at first, but once the beat starts, their nerves seem to melt away and they really try to get into the groove of it. Denki makes his a little more sexy and Eijirou's pretty stiff in his motions, but all in all? They exceed Katsuki's expectations.
Katsuki and Mina are quiet during the performance, as is expected, but as soon as the song ends, they both catcall them, clapping their hands and hollering their names. They stand up just as Denki and Eijirou walk toward them.
"Guys! How'd we do?"
"Eeeee!" Mina squeals, smacking Eijirou's arm. "You guys did so well!"
"Damn right we did!" Denki agrees, repeating one of the moves. They all laugh, but the energy is amazing.
"Hey, you looked good," Katsuki says to Eijirou, whose hand ends up on Katsuki's waist as someone squeezes past them.
"Yeah? Hey, listen, good luck in there. I know you're gonna do great."
Oh, he will.
"Yeah, okay, see you later."
Eijirou leans in and kisses his lips, then steps back with a smirk on his face. He knows what he did. A public kiss this time? It felt like a 'good luck' just as much as it did a challenge whether that was his intention or not.
Turning to Mina, he says, "Let's fucking do this."
As with all classes of this sort, they're to learn the routine all together then, at the end, split into smaller groups to show off their skills to the others. Their instructor has dark skin, short hair, and a wild personality. His energy is contagious from the minute they walk into the room and set their things off to the side.
It's warm in the room, with only a few box fans to keep air moving, so Katsuki and Mina both strip off their long sleeves, leaving Mina in some kind of sports-bra-type shirt and cargo pants, and Katsuki in a tank top and…well, shit. Their pants aren't that much different, which he doesn't notice until now. Though hers are pink and his are olive drab, he rolls his eyes when she points out their similar fashion choices.
"What's up, guys! My name is Niko and I'll be your instructor for today's advanced hip hop class. Take a few minutes and get warmed up, then me and Jay here are gonna go through the piece for you so you can see it. Then we'll get started."
He and Mina, along with the others in the class, begin stretching. "Hey, just do your best, okay? Don't get too down on yourself if you can't keep up," Mina whispers, and at first he thinks she might be joking, but the look on her face is both serious and encouraging.
What was it that Denki said earlier? Bless your heart?
"Yep, got it," he says with a smirk, then backs up against the wall to watch Niko and Jay go through it from start to finish to some 50 Cent song he's heard before about a candy shop.
The routine isn't really that difficult once it's pieced out into individual combinations. Katsuki is nothing if not insanely focused as Niko has them spread out and starts with the first section. He and Mina are too involved with learning and mimicking to give each other much shit, but it doesn't stop them from checking out each other's moves as they progress through the class.
The shock on Mina's face when she realizes that his dance talent doesn't stop at ballet is priceless, even more so when she almost trips over herself because she's staring with her mouth agape. His smirk turns devilish and she scoffs playfully before turning back to Niko. It fuels him, pushes him to perfect his isolations and smooth out his hip rolls, and makes sure to keep his motions sharp.
There are some incredibly talented dancers in the class with them, and each one of them brings a fire that spreads through the entire room. With each jut of their hips, each snap of their arms, each pose that slides into something else, it burns inside of them until they aren't dancing to the music, but feeling it dance inside them instead.
It's no different than ballet in that regard; it's less about each individual step than it is about allowing your body to feel the music. Toshinori used to say he never wanted Katsuki to dance, just feel.
An hour and forty-five minutes is gone in a flash. They've gone through the entirety of the dance so many times that Katsuki can recite every lyric, but he's ready. He and Mina are put in different groups, so when Denki and Eijirou sneak in through the door, he sits on the floor between them, with Mina on the other side of Denki. Three groups go before Mina's, and they all look incredible. Even Katsuki is bopping his head to the beat as they showcase their hard work.
When Mina's group gets up, Denki and Eijirou are practically vibrating with excitement. Her partners are a good fit with her, balls of energy waiting to unleash it upon them. If he could bottle their enthusiasm and sell it, he'd be a fucking millionaire, and the others love it.
She kicks ass, of course, and Denki and Eijirou tell her as much as soon as she plops back down again.
"Not bad, Pinky, not bad," Katsuki teases, standing up, shaking out his arms and rolling his neck in a circle. "But watch this."
"What does that mean? Did he do okay?" he hears Eijirou whisper as he walks to the center of the room with his two partners, turning toward the wall where his friends sit with the rest of the members of the class.
It's silent for a second before the same song that's been played every time starts up again, and the three of them start their routine with Katsuki in the middle and Staci and Zach on either side of him.
Katsuki holds Eijirou's gaze as much as he can. His sharp, explosive movements are synchronized with the beat, and as the seconds tick by, Eijirou's eyes only grow wider. Katsuki doesn't half-ass anything. It doesn't matter if this is just a fun outing for them, or if his friends are here watching. He puts his all into it regardless, and it shows. His feet move quickly, barely staying on the floor for more than a few seconds before he's moving them again.
Every slice is confident, every melt is fluid, and he can almost hear the gasp from Eijirou's mouth when he rolls his hips seductively halfway through. His crotch grab is deliberate and assertive, and he's pretty sure he sees Eijirou's Adam's apple bob when he does it. He can't stop the smirk that plays on his lips when he does it a second time, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he turns on the 'Woah'.
His partners are killing it just as much as he is, and if there was an award for best performance, there's no doubt in his mind it would go to them. Cocky or not, it's fucking true. It's barely a minute from start to finish, but when it ends, his chest is heaving and his mouth is split into a victorious grin. Eijirou looks nothing short of shell shocked, and the glimmer in his red eyes appears darker than Katsuki has seen it before.
In an instant, everyone is on their feet, applauding each other and themselves, and their friend group surrounds Katsuki, all jabbering at once.
"Babygirl, how did you do that?!"
"You guys are as surprised as I was, right? He's so good!"
"Katsuki, that was hot as hell!"
It's not as if Katsuki's ego needs another boost, but he takes it nonetheless. Shoving his shirt into his backpack, now far too hot to put it back on, he shoulders the bag and heads to the door. They thank Lydia on the way out, still chattering excitedly about how good of an idea it was to do the class together.
"How were your wings?" he asks Eijirou, walking at his side while Mina and Denki are skipping — yes, skipping — together about twenty feet ahead of them.
"Good," Eijirou replies with a grin. Their hands hang between them, fingers loosely laced. "Denki thought he could beat me in a wing-eating contest, but he could barely pick one up with his nails in the time it took me to eat one, so…" He laughs quietly.
It's nearly ten, but with no rehearsals for the next few days, he's in no hurry to get back. A slow walk through the streets of Brooklyn, with Denki and Mina hooting and hollering up ahead…well, it's nice.
"You knew all along that you were going to eat that performance, didn't you."
"Obviously," he replies, grinning smugly. "I've danced just about every genre and am required to take elective classes as part of my contract."
"Do you like them? Other kinds of dance?"
"They're okay. Tap and jazz fucking suck and I'd be happy to never take another one of those classes again, but hip hop is fine, just nowhere near as good as ballet."
"You guys are so slow!" Mina and Denki are stopped, waiting for them at a corner. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, Katsuki was just telling me about the different kinds of dance he's done."
"You're definitely full of surprises, aren't you, Katsuki?" Mina beams, walking backwards. "What other secrets do you have?"
At first, he can't think of a single thing. Racking his brain, the best he can come up with is that he's a decent cook. It's not exactly a secret, either, just something he hasn't divulged to anyone but Eijirou at this point. A secret would not be how he got into dancing, nor the roles he's performed or—
Wait.
"I can dance en pointe."
It comes out far more nonchalantly than it feels. Saying it out loud comes with a mixture of excitement and vulnerability, mainly stemming from not knowing how the person on the receiving end will react. But wasn't it just a few weeks back that he decided he needed to put himself out there?
The endless applications aren't getting him anywhere, and the more he thinks about it, the more he doesn't think it's the right way to go about it anyway. He likes his company, he likes the people he works with—well, most of them—and the ballet masters push him to improve. He doesn't want to leave to go to another company, he just wants to dance up on his toes. He just wants to twirl and soar the air and feel beautiful and masculine as he does it while breaking through the barriers that were put in place long ago to keep him from doing so.
If the three people he'd just confessed his deepest desires to, for lack of a better word, twist it around as a joke or use it as ammo to make fun of him, he would file it under a failed conquest, move on, and never bring it up again. He has broad shoulders, he can take—
"Wow, really?" Eijirou asks.
"Babygirl, that is so badass!"
"Stop calling me—"
"Katsuki! You really are full of surprises!" Mina is literally squealing and bouncing on her toes, much like Eijirou had done earlier. "I bet you're amazing!"
"You should see him do ballet," Eijirou says. "It's incredible, like…Wow, I was floored!"
"That's because you like him," Mina teases.
"Have you ever done a show in pointe shoes?" Eijirou asks, pointedly ignoring Mina.
"I bet you could do a boudoir photo shoot in just your pointe shoes," Denki says—because of course he does.
It doesn't matter if Katsuki tries to interrupt them; when they start rapid firing questions like this, there's no chance at getting a word in. Yet, there's a subtle upturn to his lips, because not only was he not negatively judged for it, but they seem genuinely excited to hear more.
"I haven't been able to really find anywhere here to do it. I really need to have room to practice so I don't lose everything I've learned, and my apartment isn't cutting it anymore."
"Oh? I mean, I think I can help with that." Mina turns and, as they start to walk again, she's by his side, hooking her arm through his.
Katsuki's brows knit together and he looks at her, trying to read her expression. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, I have a friend that owns a studio," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "Pretty sure he has men in his pointe classes."
"She means an ex," Denki whispers. "I still think he had a small dick, and that's why you—"
Katsuki stops so abruptly that he inadvertently jerks the two connected to him to a sudden halt. "Are you serious?" he asks, turning a deaf ear to their complaints.
"About his dick?" Denki asks. "I mean I didn't personally see it, but ain't no way she gave up a hottie like that if he was hung."
"No, dumbass, not you. I was talking about the studio."
"Oh!" Mina laughs, taking his arm again and tugging it so they'd start walking. "It's up in East Village. I mean, it's not right off the Q or anything," she taunts.
"Shut the hell up," Katsuki gruffs, which only makes her laugh again. "I can leave the damn Q I just…don't."
He probably can, but honestly, if there's one thing that would make him want to learn, it's hearing the news he's been wanting to hear for years. Inside, he's… well, as giddy as Katsuki Bakugou can get, but the fact of the matter is, he's fucking excited.
"Here, give me your phone. I'll put the name of the studio and my friend in your notes so you don't lose it."
When she hands it back, he looks at it, committing the person and the studio's name to memory before slipping it into his back pocket.
Hanta Sero, Velvet Barre
The man single-handedly created a dance studio that sounds like an underground sex dungeon.
Once they make their way back to Flatbush, the air around them seems to settle like dust after a storm. There's still a vibrating energy there, but it's shifted from something high voltage to something more like a pleasant hum. Mina and Denki had no intentions of going home, wherever that might be, and decided to make the most of their night off by heading to a bar they often frequent. In their defense, they did invite Eijirou and Katsuki to tag along, but his damn social battery had reached negative numbers by this point so he declined.
As did Eijirou.
Katsuki doesn't do bars. However, before today, Katsuki didn't do ferry rides or aquariums or take hip hop classes with friends. Hell, Katsuki didn't do friends.
Enter the poorly timed horny thoughts that are somewhere along the lines of 'but he'd do Eijirou.'
It's not his fault that he's still thinking about the way Eijirou's sculpted muscles tensed and his hips moved when he was dancing earlier. Choppy or not, it's something he absolutely wouldn't mind seeing again. There's no doubt in his mind that Eijirou is ridiculously strong—he's got the build to prove it—and he's seen a little bit of those muscles simply because the man likes to wear tank tops and Katsuki has eyes, but…
"This is you," Eijirou says when they find themselves once again standing in front of Katsuki's building, hand in hand as they have been since they left Coney Island.
"That it is," he replies, stepping into Eijirou's space. He's rewarded with a hand that slips around his waist, pressing against his lower back just as it had at the aquarium earlier. Eijirou pulls him closer.
How bad is it that, after just a few weeks and only two dates, he wants to invite Eijirou in? Does that put him into slut category? No, of fucking course not. Dates don't necessarily have to equal dating, but they mean something, right? He barely has time to stew on the question when a soft pair of lips press against his own. One kiss, then another, tender and gentle in a way that makes him crave more.
Eijirou's mouth moves on his, a deliberate dance for two that Katsuki answers in kind with increasing urgency. It's difficult to hold himself back now that he's had a taste, and having no rehearsal tomorrow wipes out another excuse before it can even become one. Eijirou's hand slips down, not going for the full ass grab, but the sentiment is the same.
On more than one occasion in the past two weeks, he had debated something in his head, then ultimately said fuck it and went for it.
So…fuck it.
With his lips still brushing against Eijirou's, he inhales, then says, "Want to come up?"
There's a quiet hum followed by a pause, and Eijirou's answer comes in the form of a kiss much harder than ones they've exchanged before. Katsuki's head is screaming Yes, Yes, Yes, when he's being walked backwards toward the concrete steps outside the building's entrance.
Somehow they manage to make it up to his apartment, though it's not without some ungraceful stumbling and muttered swear words. Unbeknownst to Katsuki, the sexual tension between them has clearly been so pent up, stretched taut like a rubber band. It was either that or he was blind to it, just as he had expected to get the shovel talk from Mina, but instead received support and a gentle shove to continue.
If there was ever a time to be glad his roommate is somewhere in China, it's right now. Their lips barely separate when Katsuki's hip rams into the end table by the couch, sending the lamp crashing to the floor.
"Oh shit," Eijirou whispers. "Let me—"
Nary a thought exists as to whose lamp it is or if it's broken, and he makes that point by crashing their lips together again, silencing him along with any ideas of cleaning it up right now. The only thing that matters at this moment is the way he fits atop Eijirou's lap as they fall to the couch. Straddling his wide hips, chests together, Eijirou's hands rest on his thighs, fingers curling into his muscles.
"Roommate?" Eijirou manages, lips grazing against his own, as if the very thought of parting was too much.
"Out of the country," he replies, leaning back when those thick fingers that were just on his legs skate under the hem of his tank top, tickling against the bare skin of his sides. Eijirou doesn't wait for permission; it's as if he already knows he'll get it, and a few seconds later, the black material of his shirt is tossed in the general direction of where he'd dropped his backpack.
"Holy shit," comes the whisper in the dark.
With fingers outstretched, Eijirou sucks in a breath, gliding his palms over the hard planes of Katsuki's abs up past the defined tone of his pecs. When thumbs graze over his nipples, Katsuki's mouth is back on his again.
It becomes a back-and-forth game of strip poker, the kind where both of them are winning and the ante grows by the second. Hands roam, lips follow, and instead of a match of strategic cards, they're mapping out a world diagram on each other's bodies. With hot breath against his neck, the sweat-slicked skin of their chests slide together as their hearts pound against their ribs. Quiet moans swirl around them like a dust storm as one large hand and one smaller one encircle both of their cocks, lined up but wholly disproportionate.
He doesn't care, and if the way Eijirou seems so passionately invested, it doesn't appear he does either. In all of his sexual experiences, dick size has never mattered, and the assholes that think it does are those meatsticks back in the gym's locker room.
That doesn't mean he isn't practically drooling over Eijirou's biscuit can, but in his defense, he'd be drooling over it regardless.
The way their hands move, almost in sync, feels incredible albeit a little sloppy and far too dry. It's enough, though, and fuck, he can feel the way his balls tighten and his hips thrust into their hands involuntarily. The friction is divine, and even without lube, it far surpasses any handjob he's ever gotten, both from himself and from other men. There is no fucking comparison.
He'll unpack that crazy chaos of a realization later.
Maybe.
Eijirou's other hand grabs a handful of asscheek and squeezes hard, pulling his hips inward even more. "Katsuki…shit… you're so hot, I…"
The man never shuts up, not even through the throes of mutual masturbation, but, if nothing else, he makes up for Katsuki's contrasting silence. Katsuki winces when he tries to rest his forehead against Eijirou's but cracks them together instead, but the pain only lasts a second because then he's forcefully exhaling a breath, coating their hands in spurts of hot, sticky cum. His brain fills with the white static of a television with no signal.
Through the continued motions of their hands—more Eijirou's now than his own nearly unmoving one—his cum is spread down over their cocks, easing the glide. Katsuki's head falls back again, lolling against his shoulders as he rides the waves of orgasmic bliss. With his neck bared to Eijirou, the man sucks along the underside of his Adam's apple, running a flattened tongue over it before seeking his lips out again.
When Eijirou reaches his own climax, it's not silent, instead with a whisper of Katsuki's name.
Katsuki chuckles against his lips. "Least you won't get me a noise violation," he teases, only to be kissed deeply immediately after. He hums against Eijirou's lips, relishing the way his body feels warm and pliant as Eijirou turns his body to lay Katsuki down on the couch and hover over him, not breaking the kiss.
It doesn't matter that there's cum smooshed between them, growing tacky on their abs and hands. All that matters is the kiss, the rumbling aftershocks of their orgasms that pull them down into the hazy dredges of drowsiness and utter satisfaction.
He only vaguely notices when the weight of the man stretched over his body suddenly lifts off of him. "Be right back," Eijirou whispers, gently kissing him. He can hear the toilet flush from around the corner and the telltale sign of proper hygiene when the sink turns on afterward. Thank fuck.
There's a permanent upward curve to his lips but his eyes are closed and his body is obviously made of ooey-gooey taffy. He can't help it; it's a result of coming his brains out. Minutes or hours or years go by before he's being carefully lifted from the couch and carried to bed. He grunts in complaint, receiving a kiss to his temple in return.
"If you're anything like me, your back will be killing you in the morning if you sleep out here," Eijirou says quietly.
Nuzzling into the crook of Eijirou's neck, he hums, then mumbles, "Can fucking walk myself," but makes no effort to actually do so.
Tomorrow he'll bitch Eijirou out for laughing quietly at his expense, but for now, he'll allow a warm washcloth to clean him off and strong hands to pull him close. When the heavy blanket is draped over both of them, any argument he wants to have fades into the darkness along with the whispered 'goodnight' and soft kiss to his cheek.
Notes:
Thank you all for following along with the story so far! I looooove (and low key thrive on) your comments, so keep 'em coming!!
Next update: November 5th
Chapter Text
No rest for the weary.
Or at least that's what Katsuki's internal alarm thinks when he wakes up just before six a.m. Grogginess weighs his head down and glues his eyes shut while he curses the way his body has programmed itself like this without his permission. It's absurd, and makes the times when he could actually sleep in seem like nothing but distant memories.
If he was a heavy sleeper, perhaps he'd be startled into remembering why there's a warm body clinging to him as if it was a backpack. He needs no help in recalling how it all played out. Katsuki yawns, carefully rolling to his back, staring up at the ceiling, lit only by the early morning daylight coming through his singular small window. He never bothers shutting the blinds; unless someone somehow manages to climb up the broken fire escape, there's nothing anyone can see anyway.
His thoughts wander, taking him back through the events of yesterday and how he ended up with Mr. McClingy next to him like this. He doesn't hate it, just as he didn't hate hanging out with the others all day, it's just…different. Unexpected in the most basic of ways yet somehow accepted just the same.
The master class was fun as hell, both flaunting and competitive, leaving him wanting more. The way Eijirou looked at him as he watched, in unmistakable awe yet with a tinge of lust that flushed his cheeks and darkened his eyes...he can't stop thinking about it.
Just as much as he can still hear his name on Eijirou's lips as he came last night.
The arm draped over his abs twitches, but apart from a deep sigh, it doesn't appear Eijirou is going to wake up yet. It's fine, Katsuki doesn't mind, nor is he in any hurry to shove the guy out the door. With no rehearsal for the next several days, he has no concrete plans other than taking a class or two, fitting in some gym time, doing the dreaded laundry and cleaning, and buying some actual fucking food for his apartment.
Maybe the latter will be his task today, but first he desperately needs a hot shower, some coffee, and a good long morning stretch.
Hair still damp and dressed in a pair of black boxer briefs and a tank top, he takes a sip of his coffee—bitter and scalding hot, just like he likes it. He'd almost forgotten about the lamp and cursed under his breath when he had to clean up the mess before getting a shower, but that was his only complaint about last night's activities.
Setting his mug on the end table by the couch, he pushes aside the flashes of what had happened there just hours before and, instead, grabs his six-inch foam roller from behind the table. Stretching, for him, isn't just a five-minute task, nor is it the same every time; it depends on what he's doing, what's tight, and what hurts. It's not something he can rush through, not if he doesn't want to hurt himself. Stretching is incremental, letting the muscles loosen before going further.
By the time he hears feet hit the floor and a rousing yawn come through the open door of the bedroom, his mug is empty and he's nearly done with his stretches. With his legs out in a side split and the foam roller under his right ankle, he leans forward with his elbows on the floor right as Eijirou pads out of the room and stops in his tracks.
He can feel Eijirou's eyes on him.
"Morning," Eijirou says, voice still thick with sleep.
"Hey." His reply is more of a strained grunt as he lays his torso onto the cool tile floor, arms stretched out in front of him. His hip flexors are still tight as fuck, but once he loosens them up, he should be good to go.
"You, uh…does that hurt?"
He can almost hear the gulp from somewhere above him and he huffs out a breathy laugh. "Nah." It does, but that's neither here nor there.
"You're really flexible."
"Did you forget the part about me being a dancer?"
Eijirou laughs, quiet with a underlying hint of something akin to nervousness. "No, and I know I've seen you dance but I guess I just forget how much you guys put into it outside of practice. I mean, I know Shouto and Momo do a lot, too, but I don't know…you know what, I'm going to shut up and go use the bathroom."
Katsuki chuckles, then inhales, deepening the stretch as the bathroom door clicks shut. After another minute, he raises himself to his knees, then to a squat as he stretches one leg out behind him to open up his hip flexors. He hears the toilet flush through the thin walls, then the sink water turn on for a couple of minutes while he switches sides, leaning forward to really open them up.
When Eijirou comes out, Katsuki's pushing himself off the floor, and it's just now that he sees the man is still just in his boxers. Okay, fine, so is Katsuki, with the addition of a tank top, but it gives him pause to see Eijirou like this. In the daylight. In his apartment.
Actually, the weird part is the fact that it doesn't completely throw him for a loop. It doesn't make him panic or give him the overwhelming urge to hurl himself out the window to become just another splatter of an unknown substance on the sidewalk below. He feels completely and utterly normal about it.
Mostly.
"All done?" Eijirou asks with an upward quirk of his lips.
Every time he tries to come up with a new reason not to date or not to do anything relationship-like, he sees the way Eijirou looks at him and those excuses are pushed by the wayside. "Yeah. You want some coffee?"
Empty mug in hand, he saunters to the kitchen and pours himself another cup.
"Oh, no thank you. I never did get into the whole love of coffee thing. Shouto made me an espresso once…well, it actually had some kind of fancy name I don't remember, but I think he still holds a grudge that I hated it." Eijirou grins, following him into the kitchen as he talks.
"Tch, what'd you do, insult him about it?"
"Not on purpose! It's not my fault that I spit it into the sink!"
The bark of Katsuki's laugh echoes sharply for a split second before absorbing into the walls. Picturing it in his head makes him snort again, because he's sure Shouto was personally affronted at the time and will probably bring it up when they're all sixty. The man does not have a vindictive bone in his body, but still knows how to hold a grudge.
Katsuki enjoys a cup or two on his days off, but isn't nearly as bad as some of the other dancers with their addiction to coffee, or in some cases, coffee-like products with as much syrup and caramel drizzle and cold foam they load into them. He's pretty sure he's never seen Erika-with-a-K ever come to rehearsal without one.
The conversation—if it can even be called that—dies off and is replaced with an awkward elephant taking up the twelve inches between them. He might feel normal about being in the same space as Eijirou, but he can read the room enough to know the silence is a precursor to a topic that—
"So, about last night…" Eijirou starts.
Yeah, that one.
"What, you regret it already?" He's not joking, nor is he offended in any way. They're grown men, not teenagers, and if it was nothing more than a lust-filled hookup, he's man enough to take it. He has before. Would he have a bit of a bruised ego? Yep, he can admit it. This isn't a fairy tale or a goddamn romcom but unlike the other guys he's been with, he also knows that whatever is brewing between them isn't something he'd felt with them.
"Regret it? Oh, shit, no way, man." Eijirou grins, sheepishly raising his hand up to the back of his neck like he had when he'd given him flowers after his performance. However, the grin falters just a bit as he continues, "I wanted to make sure that it was okay that I stayed over. I guess I should've asked instead of assuming."
"Did I kick you out?" Katsuki says half rhetorically, lifting an eyebrow as he raises his mug to his lips for a sip of coffee.
"Uh, no?"
"Then it was fucking fine, obviously. If I didn't want you here, you wouldn't have been here."
The grin is back, mixed with relief, and Katsuki wonders if, at some point, he'll stop being surprised by the fact that Eijirou is an actual good guy in a sea of assholes. Most men wouldn't think twice about sleeping with someone, invited or not, then either taking off in the night or leaving without a word about it in the morning. Not Eijirou, who's apparently worried he'd somehow overstepped. Fuck, maybe this really is a romcom.
"Good, because I had fun. I mean, not just, you know, on the couch, but all day yesterday. It was a lot of fun."
That earns him a snort, and Katsuki shakes his head. "Yeah, it was a good day. Plus, you danced better than I thought you would," he says with a smirk.
"Hey!" Eijirou scoffs. "Listen, you all knew I couldn't dance, but you! You tricked us all, looking all hot and sexy, making us think you'd never done that before."
He shrugs smugly, because he has no rebuttal since it was a very purposeful move that played out in his favor just as he knew it would. Or hoped it would, at least. "I didn't hear any complaints."
"And you won't, not from me." Eijirou turns, leaning against the counter next to Katsuki, their bare biceps brushing against each other. "You have plans today?" he asks, head turned to look at him.
"Just chores and errands this morning. Maybe a class later or tomorrow."
Eijirou hums, scratching his wrist. "I guess I better get home. I have a quick job to do today and I should probably shower first. You know," he says, chuckling as he gestures abstractly. "Maybe I'll text you later if that's okay? Maybe can do something…No pressure or anything, just if you're bored." It's Eijirou's turn to shrug, pushing off the counter and looking at Katsuki, bottom lip between his teeth in a flirty gaze, before heading to the couch where Katsuki had put his clothes.
"Like you'd fucking listen if I said to stop texting?"
Eijirou feigns offense, fake gasp and all. "Of course I would!"
"Uh huh, sure." There's a playful lilt to his voice that goes hand in hand with the ease of the conversation. The short stint of awkwardness between them earlier hadn't reared its ugly head again. "No promises, but it's fine."
When Katsuki walks him to the door a few minutes later, it's not a simple 'bye' or 'see ya later' that he gets. It's a morning-breath kiss from Eijirou, one that he finds himself leaning into and mourning its loss when it's over.
"I'll text you," Eijirou whispers, low and rough. Then, after one more kiss, he's gone.
Katsuki isn't one of those people that turns his entire life upside down when he's dating someone. Even if it's an assumption that 'dating' is the right label for them, he has the ability to go about his day and not think about Eijirou every thirty fucking seconds. That's not to say the guy doesn't cross his mind a couple of times throughout his morning and one more in the afternoon—he's not fucking heartless—but definitely not more.
The hours pass by full of the monotony he anticipated, but he's never really minded doing chores. Not only was the payoff worth it, but he gets lost in the silence that surrounds him as he moves through each task and always feels refreshed when they're all done.
By the time four o'clock comes, his laundry—bedding included—is done and put away along with the groceries he'd bought earlier. At least he has enough food to last him more than a day or two now, and he has actual ingredients to cook rather than heat-and-eat shit that's full of sodium.
There's nothing like the feeling of being covered in dust and sweat to necessitate a second shower of the day to wash it all away. When he comes out, towel around his waist, he hears his phone dinging from where it's plugged in on the kitchen counter.
Shitty Hair: Hey r u free tm?
Katsuki: Yeah other than a class at 4
Shitty Hair: Sweet!! So if I give u an address and ask u to meet me there at 11 would u?
Katsuki: … Are you fucking kidding me?
Shitty Hair: I don't joke about 4th dates 🧡
What's crazier, the fact that he knows he'll say yes or that he's kind of excited about it? An eleven a.m. date is intriguing, but after yesterday's adventure, he really shouldn't be surprised. At every turn, Eijirou is breaking the chains that seem to have formed in Katsuki's brain about what should and should not be considered a date. Unplanned and mysterious are apparently Eijirou's go tos, two things Katsuki—certifiably Type A—typically stays far away from.
Yet, nothing about this has been typical for him.
Katsuki: What's the place?
Shitty Hair: Shh that' s a surprise! I said I'd give u the address not the name
Katsuki: Fine, what's the address?
Shitty Hair: Fr? Awesome! It's 419 MacDonald Ave! O and promise me u won't cheat and look it up!! 😁
Katsuki: I won't fucking look it up, idiot.
Shitty Hair: See u tm! O and wear comfy clothes!! Nuthin fancy or n e thing
Fucking hell, his texting is atrocious.
True to his word, Katsuki did not look up the address Eijirou had sent him yesterday. That didn't stop him from going through a multitude of date-like possibilities from the time he sent the final text to now, as he walks down MacDonald Ave, not far from Prospect Park.
419 appears to be right next to the Post Office.
Badass Animal Rescue.
An animal rescue? What the hell? Looking up the sidewalk, then down the other way, he pulls out his phone and compares the address Eijirou sent to the large 419 on the building above the door. If Eijirou thought that adopting a fucking cat was good date material, he will have to seriously reconsider whatever it was they were doing, because he doesn't have time for animals nor the desire to have his furniture destroyed and covered in pet hair.
He's halfway through typing out a text saying as much when Eijirou's voice pulls his attention away from his screen.
"Hey!" Eijirou calls out from where he's standing just beyond the shelter's entrance. In his hands are two leashes, one bright red and the other burnt orange.
"Hey," Katsuki replies. As he walks toward Eijirou, his eyes follow each one of the leashes downward. The red one is connected to a dark brown dog that is probably about thirty pounds overweight with more gray on his chin than brown, and the orange leash is affixed to a huge motherfucking dog that comes up to Eijirou's hip and has jowls for days. "Is adopting dogs together your idea of a fourth date? Because it seems a bit forward if you ask me."
Half expecting the dogs to lunge at him, he braces himself as he comes to stand in front of Eijirou, but it's all for naught. Their butts remain on the sidewalk, tongues lolled out and panting, and neither seem all that impressed with having to be outside especially since the cool weather of spring has faded into the warmth of early May.
Eijirou just laughs, all wide grin and white teeth, then bends over just far enough to pat both mutts on the top of the head. "Nah, I volunteer here sometimes because they don't have enough staff. Mostly I just walk dogs, especially the ones that seem to be passed over by the other volunteers, like Mae and Loki here."
"Mae and Loki," he repeats, looking down at the furry beasts. It's not that he dislikes animals, he just doesn't have enough time to devote to actually having one. Even if his landlord allowed pets, it would be wholly unfair to keep one locked up in a small apartment for hours upon hours while he's at work or class.
"Yep! This is Mae." He scratches the head of the big one, who doesn't bother to look up at Eijirou as a long string of drool hangs off of her jowl. Instead, she rests her head against his thigh and continues panting. "She's a Great Dane, but she's an old lady so they're struggling to get her adopted."
"How old is she?"
"Seven I think? That's pretty old for a Dane, though. But she likes to walk and she loves people. She just doesn't have the energy that she used to but walks are good for her heart so I usually bring her bestie, Loki, along with me to motivate her."
Loki must be the brown one. "What's his story, then?" Katsuki asks.
"My bro Loki here…well, his gorgeous brown eyes don't work and he needs to lose a few pounds. We don't think he's fat though, do we bro! Just needs to be a little healthier before he'll be put up for adoption. Dude, wouldn't it be cool if they could go to a new home together? True besties for life, then!"
"Wait, he's blind?"
"Yep! He doesn't let it stop him from loving life, though, do ya buddy?" More head scratches for both pups and Katsuki chuckles.
He can't help the way his lips upturn at the way Eijirou seems to get excited about so many things Katsuki would never consider. Mae and Loki, a little motley crew of sorts.
"So this is the date, then? Dog walking?"
Eijirou laughs again. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't really want to go to another restaurant for a date. You like to be active and seemed to have a lot of fun the other day, so…" He shrugs, grinning as he holds both leashes out. "Which hooligan do you want?"
Mae flicks her eyes upward, probably at the movement of the leashes, but Loki's unseeing gaze is off to the side somewhere, oblivious. How is he to decide which one to take, and more importantly, why does the decision feel more weighty than it probably is? Is there somehow a wrong answer of which he's not aware that he'll be taunted with later?
Better yet, why the fuck is he overthinking which dog to walk?
Finally, with a huff, he chooses the red leash. He kind of admires the way the dog is so happy-go-lucky despite having some odds against him. Being blind and overweight can't be easy on the mutt, probably leaving him confused and uncomfortable at times. Yet, he doesn't get that vibe from him at all. Even with the slightest tug on the leash, his butt is off the ground, tail wagging and ears perked up.
"Okay, Loki, this here's Katsuki and listen, he's really cool so be a good boy for him, yeah? I'm trying to make a good impression here," Eijirou fake whispers, running his hand down over the the brown fur that coats his back, then again.
Trying to make a good impression. It's kind of annoying the ease in which Eijirou makes him smile and he shakes his head at the fact that, even if he tries, the curve of his lips remains. When Katsuki's hand joins Eijirou's, petting down the length of Loki's back, their eyes meet and his chest flutters.
"Good impression, eh?" he asks, both hands still moving on Loki's back and eyes still locked together.
"Mhm," Eijirou replies. "Is it working?"
Katsuki's smile shifts into a smirk. "Hmm, the jury's still out."
With a laugh and a playful scoff from Eijirou, they begin a slow walk with the two furry friends on either side of them at first. Their fingers lace together as they seem to do naturally now, bringing back that same chest flutter again.
This guy.
"See how Loki's walking close to you like that?" Eijirou asks as the turn the corner onto Parkside Ave, clearly heading toward the entrance to Prospect Park.
He looks down, then nods.
"He likes to know that you're close. It also helps if you talk to him and give him some kind of sensory stimuli when you're going to change direction or stop. Sometimes he gets stressed out if he doesn't know what's going on."
Makes sense, and it's strangely relatable. "Why are they at the shelter?"
"I'm not sure about Mae. She's been here for almost a year now. Loki came three months ago because his owner died…an elderly woman who just couldn't physically walk him and definitely overfed him. He's actually lost a few pounds since he came here. Didn't ya, Loki?"
The pup just pants, bumping his shoulder against Katsuki's knee. He feels bad that these two animals, amongst probably way more than he even realizes, are stuck in cages in a shelter as they live out their days.
"That sucks." It's the only thing Katsuki can say, because as much as words won't change the situation at hand, it stirs something inside him. It's not either dog's fault they ended up here, just like it's not Loki's fault he's blind and overweight, yet they're living their best life right now. "That's why you walk them."
"Yep. There are others that come in to volunteer, even doing playtime with the cats, too, but it never seems like it's enough. If this is the best part of their day and I'm able to be the reason for it, then I guess that makes it a good day for me, too."
Katsuki can only stare at the man walking next to him, revoking the himbo card he'd assigned all those weeks ago at the gym. Eijirou's not a himbo any more than he's a meatstick.
The walk through Prospect Park is much different than the first one they'd had. While they do make a pass by Duck Island, there are no moonlight kisses to be shared this time. The park is a hub of activity now, full of other people walking dogs, riding bikes, having picnic lunches, and throwing frisbees and footballs around.
Katsuki seems to gravitate to conversations about dancing, and though Eijirou indulges him, he doesn't dwell on it. In his words, 'dancing is what you do, not who you are,' and while he can kind of understand what the man is saying, he's not sure he completely agrees. Katsuki is a dancer through and through. It makes up his very DNA, and he sometimes thinks that he would be nothing without it.
Eijirou is an enigma. Apparently making a living doing a wide variety of odd jobs only solidifies his train of thought on occupations. He admires that about Eijirou, but knows there's no way in hell he's suited to do anything but dance. When he retires… fuck, he doesn't even want to think about it.
"So what was the job you had yesterday morning?" he asks.
"I helped someone move furniture to a new place," Eijirou replies with a chuckle.
"A friend?"
"Nah, never met her before. I saw her ad on Nextdoor and texted that I could help. Two other guys showed up, too. Dude, one of them goes to our gym! Uh, Mario maybe? Mirio? Something like that. He seems cool so I got his number so we can spot each other sometime. Anyways, so yeah, that's what I did yesterday."
Katsuki just blinks. It's so mind boggling to him that Eijirou just floats along working odd jobs without knowing when the next one will pop up. Even if it wasn't for the money and paying bills, the unknown has always given Katsuki unrelenting anxiety. It's why he relies so heavily on a set schedule and planning out most facets of his life.
Yet, it's not a condescending judgment he feels when he thinks about it. It's almost like an awe-filled jealousy of sorts, envious that the man has the mental ability to go through life bouncing from one thing to another and finding joy in the unknown rather than apprehension.
"I start rehearsals again the day after tomorrow," he blurts out, unsure why it's important for him to say it right in the middle of a conversation about Eijirou's employment.
"Yeah? Are you excited? Oh, do you know what you're doing yet? I can't wait to come see you dance again."
"Of course I am."
What he doesn't say is how he feels listless and out of sorts when he has more than a couple of days off. That he's both looking forward to and dreading the nearly four-month off season in six weeks. Sure, the break will give him time to explore some new dance opportunities, such as the studio Mina had suggested that he may be able to dance en pointe. He's absolutely excited for that, but he also knows the toll it takes on him mentally to not have his strict daily agenda.
"Maybe I can see you tomorrow night? I know you'll be really busy after that and…" Eijirou shrugs. "Plus, I just really like being with you."
If Katsuki can feel the warmth on his cheeks, he's sure it's ultimately visible as well, but Eijirou says nothing. He just smiles, hopeful and happy.
"Sure, but no more fucking midnight walks the night before rehearsal."
Eijirou's smile grows impossibly wider to the point that the skin around his eyes crinkles. "No more midnight walks, got it."
It's Katsuki's turn to grin, and a second later, there's a soft touch to his cheek.
"Did I mention I really love your dimples?"
This guy.
Chapter Text
Katsuki can't remember a time when he wished his break between shows was longer. He's always in a rush to make it through his days off and get back to the grind. It's exciting learning a new performance, busting his ass to perfect his scenes. He's ready for the challenge, ready to push himself past the edge of his abilities and come out the other side as a stronger dancer. That hasn't exactly changed, at least fundamentally. The thrill of a new show is bubbling under the surface and he definitely craves the normalcy that comes with his daily routine.
But now he has Eijirou thrown into the mix. It's not a problem, obviously, yet it's dulling the pull to get back to the studio first thing tomorrow morning. The once-taut thread that connects him to his work has loosened just enough that he wouldn't necessarily be mad if he had another day off.
Is this what dating someone does to a person?
He sighs, and it must not be as quiet as he thought because Eijirou looks at him, then squeezes his hand. "You okay?"
What was left of the evening sun had already vanished under the darkening clouds, and he looks up at the sky as they walk through Prospect Park. It's become a thing for them, apparently, which makes sense since it's not far from where they live, or at least where Katsuki lives. The precise location of Eijirou's place is still a mystery, one that has no reason to come up in conversation but that Katsuki is curious about nonetheless.
"Yeah, just kind of wishing I had one more day off."
Eijirou chuckles, pulling him close and dropping his hand in exchange for sliding his arm around his waist. "Is it just because I have you out for another nighttime walk before you go to work tomorrow?" he asks teasingly. "It's a little too early to turn into a pumpkin."
"Idiot." He huffs, leaning into Eijirou a bit more as they fall into step together. "This is our season closer, so if I'm able to get a bigger role, I might not be around as much." It's not as though his rehearsals would necessarily change much, but on the off chance he secures a larger presence in the show, he knows he will push himself to the brink of insanity to make the best impression.
Then maybe, just maybe, it'll show him in a positive light for when the new season starts in the fall. Perhaps he'll be able to follow through on his good-natured threat to steal Shouto's spotlight, at least a little bit. He tries not to make it a habit to put the cart before the horse; there's a fine line between being fueled by dreams and being blinded by them. However, he thinks he has a solid shot at principal, either in the next season or the one after.
"You get a long break after that, though," Eijirou says, tugging him to the side of the walkway to allow a group of joggers to pass by.
He knows the park is massive—hundreds of acres, according to Tour Guide Eijirou—but hearing a number and connecting it with what he sees are two different things. They've been walking since seven and it's got to be after nine now, yet he still hasn't seen any of this part of the park before. Two hours of walking and the only thing he'd seen before was the entrance. It's craziness.
"Yeah, about four months, maybe a little less."
"What do you usually do during that time?"
"Dance," he says honestly. "Work out. Cook. Maybe travel home to see my parents."
"They're still in Japan?"
"Mhm. They come to America but not often."
"Are you going to see them this year?"
He shakes his head. "Not this year, but maybe next. It's too fucking expensive."
Eijirou hums, turning onto a different path. Somewhere nearby, Katsuki hears the faint sound of music. He tilts his head, as if that will somehow help him hear it more clearly, and it grows slightly louder as they walk. "Do you hear that?"
"Hm? Oh, the music? It's probably a busker under the Cleft Ridge Arch up here. They play there a lot. Do you want to go check it out?"
Now that they're a little closer, he can tell that it's a violin. He's intrigued, not because he's never seen a busker before, but because he feels drawn to the melancholy melody floating through the air. "Yeah, sure."
They round the corner and the tunnel comes into view. There are people milling about and those just passing through from one destination to another. All of them take a gander at the violinist playing underneath the pedestrian tunnel. The acoustics of the tunnel make the music sound amplified, and its dissonant chords echo through the space, haunting and somber but eerily beautiful.
They stop, still standing together with Eijirou's arm around his waist, fingers pressing gently into his side under his ribs, and watch the man perform. His empty violin case lays at his feet, a tip jar of sorts, filled with bills and coins, with more added when a kind soul walks by toward the other side of the tunnel.
"It sounds so sad," Eijirou comments and Katsuki nods in agreement.
"Do you hear how it moves down to the low register, then up high again? He does that to create a sort of tension. Unease. He wants it to sound unusual and unsettling. It's incredible."
Eijirou's looking down at him, eyes filled with wonder and a slight awe-filled curve to his lips. "You never cease to surprise me, Katsuki."
"What, it's somehow shocking that a dancer likes music? Wow, how revolutionary."
Eijirou's laugh overpowers the music for a second and Katsuki feels himself held just a little tighter afterward. "I guess you're right, they do go hand in hand, huh," he admits.
They stand there for a while in silence. The busker continues to play and Katsuki finds himself enveloped in his music, enamored with the sadness it evokes and the emotional turmoil it projects. It's incredibly powerful and moving, and Katsuki is decidedly impressed.
Every minute that passes by, however, makes the blackened sky turn even more ominous. "I think it might rain soon…" Eijirou says, and Katsuki follows his gaze, looking upward at the rolling clouds, different shades of gray mixing together into a palette of gloom.
Fate must be listening, because it's as if, with those six words, Eijirou himself summons the rain. Big, fat raindrops begin to fall from the skies, sporadic but targeted. It starts light but becomes more steady as people begin to scatter. Some take cover under the tunnel, others leave to head to whatever their next destination happens to be.
Katsuki can't help but notice the way the change in the weather immediately affects the sound of the music, dampening it and morphing it into something sort of suspenseful.
"I don't think this is going to be a quick one," Eijirou says, brow furrowed with clear droplets rolling down his tanned face and flattening his hair against his head. "Do you want to head back?"
Katsuki considers it, even turning his head to look over his shoulder at those that have thrown in the towel and abandoned ship. Some are jogging with backpacks held over their heads and the occasional umbrella, but it seems a lot of them were ill-prepared, just like Katsuki and Eijirou. "Nah, already fucking wet, might as well listen for a few more minutes," he finally replies.
Clearly that's an open invitation, because Eijirou's arm drops from his back and he comes to stand in front of him, hand outstretched in an almost formal manner. "The hell are you—"
"Dance with me," Eijirou says, grinning at him as water soaks into his already wet shirt.
"Dance with you? In the fucking rain?"
Eijirou shrugs. "Like you said, we're already wet, right?"
He stares down at Eijirou's hand, still held out between them, then shakes his head with the faintest of smiles on his lips. Eijirou has the innate ability to push Katsuki outside of his comfort zone, to make him do things that he typically would never even consider, and at the same time, he makes it undeniably fun.
This guy.
There's really no question when he accepts the hand and allows himself to be pulled into Eijirou. A hand slips around to the small of his back and their eyes meet. The rain picks up, moving from a drizzle to a steady fall now, but he barely notices. All he hears is the busker move on to a whimsically romantic piece, slow and light, and they begin to sway side to side in time with the violin's tempo.
Score yet another point on his romcom bingo card, because how the hell do you top slow dancing in the rain?
"You look beautiful," Eijirou says quietly. A couple of droplets of rain fall from his eyelashes when he blinks, rolling down his ruddy cheeks and blending in with the rest, and the dim pole lights make his skin glisten almost magically.
"Whatever, I probably look like a drowned rat," he counters, knowing his spiky hair is probably even flatter against his head than Eijirou's. He can already feel the blush on his neck, hot and slowly creeping up toward his ears.
"The prettiest drowned rat," Eijirou teases, leaning in and kissing Katsuki's cheek. In a swift movement, he steps back and theatrically spins Katsuki around before tugging him back in again. He's quite proud of himself, if the bright, shit-eating grin plastered on his face is any indication. "Wow, you can move…ever thought of dancing?"
"Oh, aren't you a funny guy," Katsuki replies, finding himself pulled close to Eijirou once again, returning to their slow sway back and forth. "Nah, I'm considering going into accounting."
Eijirou chuckles, forehead coming to rest against his, and Katsuki rests his hands on Eijirou's biceps before letting them slide down and fall to his hips. They move like this as the rain continues to fall and the busker's music becomes nothing but background noise, a soundtrack to whatever this is they're doing, not just tonight but together in this time in their lives.
A gentle touch to his cheek makes his eyes open. He doesn't remember closing them, but when he looks at Eijirou and receives a gaze full of so much fondness, he finds himself questioning so many things. Yet, just as quickly as they opened, his eyes flutter shut again when Eijirou's mouth presses tenderly against his own, warm even in the coolness of the evening.
His lips taste metallic from the rain but sweet from the intimacy of the moment. The way Eijirou's thumb softly strokes his cheek makes him feel a vulnerable tenderness he's never really known. He's not sure whether to love or hate it, but even recognizing it is a little overwhelming.
Somewhere along the line, the violinist packs it in for the night, leaving them to be surrounded by a shimmering curtain of rain and its constant patter against the concrete below. They're immersed in each other, and Katsuki lifts his hands to cup Eijirou's jaw before breaking the kiss. Now, their breaths, quiet between them and synchronized, are the only thing he can hear.
"Come back to my place?" he asks, holding Eijirou's gaze even when those crimson eyes squint a bit when he smiles.
"Absolutely."
They alternate jogging and walking back to Katsuki's apartment, hand in hand. Rain or not, they're not the only ones out on the streets at this time of night. The city that never sleeps extends its tendrils to Brooklyn, though to a lesser degree, but he doesn't give a shit. He feels like he's a kid again, jumping in puddles, and laughing loudly and without inhibition. He smiles so much that his cheeks ache and his heart pounds in his chest.
Sure, taking the Q would've been quicker, but…fuck it.
"Want something to drink?" he asks once he turns the kitchen light on. "I can put our clothes in the dryer if you want."
"No, I'm good," comes the reply.
Back in Katsuki's apartment, door locked and sopping-wet shoes left just inside the threshold, he wonders if it would be too weird to take Eijirou's hand and lead him right to the bedroom. Why mess around in the kitchen when there's no denying that they came back to Katsuki's place to have sex? The implication was pretty heavy when he asked Eijirou to come, but now that they're there and the kissing moment passed, he feels awkward bringing it up again.
It's not necessary, though, not when Eijirou comes up behind him as he pours a glass of water from the fridge, pressing his lips against his neck and humming. It vibrates his skin and he grins.
"You know, I think you should dance for me," Eijirou says, stepping back and padding to the couch, tugging down his pants, then stepping out of them. "A private show," he adds, peering over his shoulder.
"Dance for you?" he replies with a playful scoff. "What is this, fucking Magic Mike? You want me to dance to Pony? Do a little strip tease?"
Eijirou laughs, fiery eyes sparkling in the low light that's cast from the kitchen, but lifts his shoulders in a little shrug. "Hey, I saw you dance at the hip hop class. The whole part at the end where the instructor said to make it your own? God, Katsuki." Eijirou pulls off his shirt, dripping water from the hem, and drops it onto the floor with a plop. "Were you doing that for my benefit?"
Katsuki smirks, a smug grin, because that's exactly what he did. "Maybe."
Water forgotten, he rids himself of his own shirt, and has to bite back a laugh when Eijirou starts to do a rendition of Pony with humming and some off-kilter form of beatboxing that shockingly doesn't sound that bad.
"Come on, Kats, show me what you don't do on stage." Those crimson eyes seem to glow, darker than ever, and god, he can feel it in the deepest caverns of his soul. "Show me something just for me."
Who is he to turn that down?
While it's all done in jest, the way Eijirou stares at him as he starts to dance, playing along with the charade, is motivating in a profoundly personal way. This is nothing like being on stage and doing ballet. It doesn't compare to taking a hip hop master class. It's not competitive or done in a way solely to practice or show off his skills. It's for Eijirou, and he guesses for himself as well, because when he drops down into a low squat, holding Eijirou's lustful gaze, he feels like he's engulfed in the hottest of flames and he can't get enough.
His movements are fluid, smooth and slow. Instead of sharp juts of his hips, they roll with ease. Instead of harsh tugs of his arms, they flow gracefully. He feels sexy, and when he meets Eijirou's eyes, having crossed half the distance between them, the music-like sounds he was making stop and he licks his lips as if preparing for a meal. To be looked at like this is entirely new and he's instantly addicted.
His undulating hips showcase the smooth planes of his abs, arms lifted above his head, fingers buried in his hair, as he moves a couple steps closer. Eijirou has to tilt his head back now to see his face, and his fingers dig into his own thighs as if he's trying not to reach out and grab him. Dragging a finger down from his throat to his sternum, he finally comes close enough to make Eijirou lose control.
Thick fingers tug at his wet pants, shimmying them down over his hips as Katsuki continues to swivel them in a circular motion. Eijirou groans, a sound low in his throat and needy, which only lends to deepening Katsuki's smirk. He feels seen, something that's becoming a common thread to merely being in Eijirou's presence, and when those same fingertips skate up over his chest and shoulders, tugging at him to bend over and kiss him…
Would he ever tire of kissing Eijirou?
It's a random thought that flies through his mind at top speeds, leaving as quickly as it came. Abandoning the living room, they leave the distinct trail of wet clothes between the kitchen and the couch and head for his bedroom.
With the last piece dropped to the floor, Katsuki's boxers, which pool around his ankles, Eijirou gently lowers him onto the mattress, following closely behind. Warm hands skate against skin tacky from being under soaked clothes, but neither of them pay it any mind. Lips drag against his chest, laving with his tongue and sucking small, pink marks on the way to his neck. Katsuki exhales, a sigh of pleasure when hot breath flows over a freshly kissed spot below his ear. He shivers lightly as goosebumps erupt over his skin just to disappear again.
This is a whole different kind of vulnerability, being laid out and bared in front of someone who's not quite a stranger but still holds a certain level of mysteriousness. Not in front of, but underneath, as Eijirou straddles Katsuki's thigh, pulling his earlobe between his teeth.
The daydreams, or maybe nightdreams, that he's had about Eijirou's fully naked body dull in comparison to seeing and feeling the real thing. He's chiseled and toned, broad and bulky to Katsuki's lean and lithe, and that doesn't even take his cock into consideration. The same cock that's pressed against his hip, hard and dripping pre onto Katsuki's skin. No judgment, since he can only assume his own is doing the same from where it's pinned between them.
His blond hair is still slightly damp, head laying on his pillow as Eijirou trails kisses along his throat, then across to his other shoulder, creating a map of marks that feel more like temporary tattoos of passion. He's not a virgin, yet he's not felt like this before. The alluring heat between their bodies, exchanging heavy, intoxicating breaths, he's completely and utterly engrossed in all things Eijirou. Every one of his senses is focused solely on this man.
Lube attained from the nightstand drawer, Eijirou's fingers work him open, pressing Katsuki's knee to his chest, but he doesn't draw it out. There's no reason to, not when they're both ready. With a condom rolled on, Eijirou pushes in slowly, swallowing Katsuki's throaty moan with a deeply passionate kiss. When Eijirou moves, Katsuki's fingers dig harshly into his back, scratching lust-filled rows down over his shoulder blades, and he elicits a groan that rings out like a symphony in Katsuki's ears.
Unlike his other sexual forays, Eijirou doesn't make it all about himself. Quite the opposite, actually, since Katsuki keeps waiting to be flipped over and fucked into the mattress from behind as the other uses Katsuki to chase their orgasm and theirs alone. He should know better, since Eijirou has broken Katsuki's mold of male expectations at every turn, making this experience just as emotional as it is physical.
Their bodies move together, Katsuki's back arches from the bed enough that Eijirou slips his arm underneath just to hold them closer together. Their sweat-slicked skin slides against each other, and their breathing becomes more labored with each passing minute. When Eijirou's hips begin to snap just a little harder, he snakes his hand between their bodies and takes Katsuki into his hand and he digs his knees into Eijirou's hips just to keep from feeling like he's falling off the edge of a cliff.
The apartment is doused in bright white when he cums, breaths shallow and staccato as his climax washes over him. With a drawn-out moan, Eijirou follows soon after, body tense and hips still for a minute before he slowly rocks them again, working himself through his own orgasm.
Chests heaving together, they lay in silence, sinking further into the plush mattress as their climactic aftershocks begin to wane and satisfaction and exhaustion take their place. He's lost all concept of time, but he doesn't care. He's content to lay here with Eijirou atop him, with each punch of his heartbeat echoing his own.
Soon after, just as he had last time, Eijirou disappears to the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth. The man's aftercare is top notch, and Katsuki doesn't bother to fight it, not when accepting it feels so fucking right.
Is it possible to become hooked on the way a person makes you feel?
"What time do you have to get up?" Eijirou asks, once settled back in bed with Katsuki, warm blanket tucked under their arms and bodies aligned together perfectly. "I can set an alarm."
He groans, reminded of practice tomorrow. "I don't need one. I can never sleep in," he murmurs, voice thick with impending sleep. Nuzzling his face into the crook of Eijirou's arm, he yawns, then feels a soft kiss pressed to his cheek.
It's quiet for a few minutes, enough that he's nearly asleep but still has his toes in the realm of wakefulness. Gentle fingers caress his cheek and brush a lock of hair from next to his eye, tucking it behind his ear. "You're beautiful," Eijirou whispers, then kisses his eyelid before letting his head rest comfortably down onto the pillow.
"Fucking sap," he replies, earning himself a breathy chuckle.
"I had a nice time with you tonight," Eijirou says, but before Katsuki can inevitably pick on him, he adds, "I mean, not just the sex, though that was incredible. The whole night. Every time we're together, actually."
"Is this some kind of post-nut sappy talk?"
"I mean, kind of but not really." Eijirou chuckles again, then hums. "I really like you, Kats."
"You don't say—"
"Shh, let me finish." Another soft caress against his face and Katsuki finally opens his eyes to meet the tender gaze of the man looking at him. "We haven't really talked about this, about what we are or what you want to be, but…"
A pause, followed by the bob of Eijirou's Adam's apple.
"But?"
Eijirou bites at his lip for a second, then smiles softly. "Do you want to make this official? Be mine or, whatever other cheesy thing I could possibly think of to say?"
It's Katsuki's turn to snicker quietly. "You want to be my boyfriend or something?"
"I mean, yeah—"
"Hm, it's not much different than what we already are, I guess. S'not like I've been out dating anyone else." His eyes fall shut again after blinking a couple of times. He's quickly losing his battle against sleep, and being warm and cozy post-sex isn't helping.
"Boyfriends, then," Eijirou says, kissing the corner of Katsuki's mouth, then his lips as everything fades into sleepy darkness.
Notes:
All of the positive feedback I've received on this so far has been incredibly heartwarming. Thank you all so much! As always, comments and kudos are always appreciated.
Also, another HUGE shoutout to KrBaka for helping me, answering multitudes of questions, and being an all around support for this story <3
Next update: December 3rd
Chapter Text
Katsuki does not regret the late night rendezvous with Eijirou. He doesn't, not even a little tiny bit. However, for someone who touts never needing an alarm, the warm body that was melting into his own when he woke up made it incredibly difficult to actually crawl out of bed. The same warm body that now, after Katsuki has showered, eaten breakfast, and drank a cup of coffee, still lays buried under his blankets, snoring softly and drooling on his pillow.
"Hey," he says, lightly shaking Eijirou's shoulder. "I gotta jet."
Nothing.
"Eijirou, wake up." Another shake of his shoulder, more firmly this time, followed by a tight squeeze of his bicep.
Still nothing.
Part of him wonders how anyone could possibly sleep this soundly and the other part of him is undeniably jealous. Being a light sleeper is for the fucking birds, because in an apartment building in Brooklyn, true silence doesn't exist. He's tried sleeping pills. He's tried melatonin and white noise machines and earplugs, but eventually just resigned himself to the fact that uninterrupted sleep was not going to happen.
Now, he's not so sure, since the two times Eijirou has slept over ended in a better night's sleep than he could remember ever having.
With Sleeping Beauty still deep in slumber, he realizes that it's time to pull out the big guns. With a smirk curling up the corners of his lips, he leans down, palms on the mattress on either side of Eijirou, who's laying on his side. Pressing his nose against the soft spot under Eijirou's ear, he hums, then flattens his tongue against the pulse point on his neck, slowly dragging it up over the scratchy, stubbled skin of his jaw.
Eijirou's eyelids flutter a couple of times and his nose scrunches up once, but he doesn't awaken. Katsuki chuckles, no more than a breathy sound as he shakes his head. He's nothing if not persistent, so he simply continues his ministrations, nipping gently at the skin as he moves toward Eijirou's chin. His hand dips under the blanket, roaming over Eijirou's chest, bare and warm, thumbing his nipple while pressing chaste kisses on the edge of his mouth.
That's all it takes to rouse Eijirou, who, with a movement faster than should be possible after just coming out of a deep sleep, throws his arms around Katsuki, flips them over, and straddles his hips.
"Oi, you mother—"
He can't complete the scorching expletives that were en route from his mouth because in a flash, there are lips against his, kissing him breathless, morning breath be damned. Eijirou sinks into him, laying his entire body right on top of his, and Katsuki can't even be mad, not when it's his turn to have his neck kissed and warm hands on his body.
Maybe he can catch the next train.
After bidding Eijirou farewell—who clearly felt comfortable enough in Katsuki's apartment to stay in bed after their impromptu make-out—and giving him instructions to lock the door when he leaves, Katsuki heads to midtown for the first day of the rehearsals for the new show.
While there might be the slightest bit of ache in his ass, it's countered by an unusual pep in his step. The first time Eijirou had slept over brought with it questions and nervousness and too many what ifs for his sanity to handle. Now, knowing that what they have is no longer under the looming shadow of a large question mark, he had allowed himself to enjoy the soft kisses and lingering touches that came with the morning.
He can't help but look forward to some more substantial time off, which will hopefully come with a few more sleepovers and mornings where he doesn't have to scurry off to work. He's grinning, picturing a lazy morning, wrapped up in each other in bed, when he walks into the studio.
"Good morning, Katsuki," comes the all too familiar voice of Shouto Todoroki, who falls into step with him as they make their way into company class. Normally, Katsuki would be one of the first to arrive, but with his incredibly worth-it delay, it appears most of them are already here.
"Morning," he grunts back, scanning the room for new or missing faces.
Laying their bags down along the edge of the room, they both make quick work of stepping out of their outer clothes and pulling on their ballet shoes. When Momo walks in with Ms. Takeyama, the two pause in the doorway to continue their private conversation while the dancers get ready for warm-ups. Katsuki eyes them curiously for a moment, then turns back to his clothes, folding them and slipping them into his bag.
In true Shouta Aizawa fashion, he breezes past the duo in the doorway, obnoxiously clapping his hands to get everyone's attention as he makes his way to the open area in the middle of the floor. "Good morning, welcome back. I hope you didn't waste your time off by being lazy and eating everything under the sun like I did."
He's always making stupid fucking jokes, though the persistent dark circles usually found under his eyes are noticeably missing.
A moment later, Ms. Takeyama joins him in the center of the room, the picture of poise and class as is to be expected. She smiles at them with mauve-stained lips, looking around the room and waiting for the last remaining whispers to die off before speaking. "Yes, welcome back. I want to start off with an announcement before we discuss the upcoming performance and roles. Mr. Aizawa and I have been quite busy while you were on break, so don't let him fool you."
A round of quiet laughs jump around the room, but disappear as quickly as they started.
"Some of you might already know this, but this will be my last show with this company. In New York, as well. I've accepted a position with the San Francisco Ballet, one I've been dreaming of for some time. "
The initial sharp gasps and subsequent whispers are loud in the echoing space, but Yu lets it continue for a few moments before clearing her throat to bring everyone's eyes back to her.
"I know it's a surprise, and trust me that I did not come to this decision lightly. It's not that I do not love New York, I do. As you know, my own ballet career was right here in this beautiful city at ABT, but my heart is in California where my daughter and her family reside," Yu says, still smiling fondly. "I've missed enough of my granddaughter's life, and I just found out that they're expecting once again."
After a few minutes of cheers and claps, she continues, still smiling, "That said, Shouta and I have decided—"
"No, this was all you," Shouta interrupts, grinning.
"Fine, fine. I know it's different, but for my last show with this wonderful company, I selfishly want to do a collection of my favorite solos and pas de duex of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. We have toiled over which dancers we want to perform which dances, and of course that came with many difficult decisions, but we both feel strongly that this will be an amazing ending to my time in New York." Her voice wavers, lip quivering as emotions threaten to push past the normally ultra-controlled surface.
Shouta nods, resting his hand on Yu's shoulder. "We will be emailing cast lists by the end of the day. Individual and group rehearsals will begin tomorrow."
That's all it takes for an uproar to break out amongst nearly all the dancers, Katsuki included. To make them wait hours before knowing what roles they've been selected for is abhorrent. He's pretty sure riots have been incited over delayed cast lists in the past; ballet dancers are quite feisty when it comes to their roles.
Still, Ms. Takeyama just laughs, light and airy. It's clear she knows that, despite the chaos and commotion the announcement just caused, she and Mr. Aizawa have the upper hand. It's not as if the deferral is enough to make dancers walk out and abandon the show, but it definitely doesn't stop them from voicing their opinions.
Though, that's far from uncommon as it is. Ballet dancers are mouthy motherfuckers, present company included.
"Now," Ms. Takeyama calls out, "if you'll find your way to the barre, we can begin."
Since he'd missed his pre-rehearsal workout, and had forgone several others during his off week, Katsuki stops at Sunrise Fitness on his way home. However, in lieu of taking a HIIT or yoga class, he hits the treadmill and then the weight room for a solid ninety minutes. It's a 'two birds, one stone' situation, because for his entire train ride from midtown to Brooklyn, he stared anxiously at his phone, email app open. No matter how many times he'd refreshed the screen, a big, fat zero showed up next to 'unread messages.'
At least when he's working out, the urge to stalk his inbox is muted. His focus is solely—or almost solely—on the way his sneakers slap on the belt of the treadmill or the way his chest muscles burn in the best of ways every time he pushes the bar upwards.
By the time he steps into his apartment, closing and locking the door behind him, it's nearly dark. Sweat soaks through his clothes, for the second time today, and the scalding-hot shower he takes as soon as he's home feels incredible on his muscles.
Better yet, once he's dressed in a pair of lounge pants, hair damp and rid of the smell of hard work, he's grateful that he'd taken the time last week to do some cooking. Sure, it took forever and made one hell of a mess, but in return he's got a freezer full of single meals and a few stashed in the fridge to eat in the upcoming days.
Throwing one of the containers of vegetable stir fry and chicken breast into the microwave, his fingers practically itch to look at his phone again, which he had purposely left in his bag where he'd dropped it by the door. As the seconds tick down on the microwave's digital display, he has a staredown with an inanimate object, the bag by the door. What if there's an email now? It's after eight, surely they would've sent them out by now, right?
What if the fact that he didn't get an email means he wasn't cast in this show? Sure, it's hard to believe that would happen, but the mind plays funny tricks on someone when hyped up on anxiety. The tips of his fingers drum rhythmically against the countertop, and he bites at the tender skin on the inside of his cheek. His resolve to wait until he goes to bed to check his email is quickly dwindling, much like the seconds on the timer behind him.
It's with a sharp exhale, perfectly timed with the harsh beeping of the microwave, that he gives into his urge and crosses the living area to the door. Phone in hand, he grabs his food and sits on the couch, legs pulled under him and food resting on his thigh with a blanket as a hot pad.
One unread message.
Before he clicks on his inbox, he swears on all that is holy that if, for some reason, the unread email is one of those goddamn coupons for Target or a political message urging him to vote, he's yeeting his phone across the room and giving up. On what, he doesn't know, but his patience has long since receded and it's been twelve hours since their company meeting this morning. Enough is enough.
He clicks on it, and his heart beats just a little faster when he sees it's from Ms. Takeyama. Once open, he skips the pleasantries at the beginning, figuring he can go back and read them when he's done, so long as his ridiculous fear of not being cast is proven wrong. There's a list of each solo and pas de deux dance with the names of the dancers after, with the Corps being split up into sections so they all have time on stage for those pieces that utilize them.
His eyes scan and scan, and he's nearly at the bottom when he finally sees it.
Black Swan pas de deux - Katsuki Bakugou and Harley Johansson
As recognition turns to understanding, the flat line of his lips slowly curls into a smile. Not only did he secure a pas de deux based on merit alone, but it's the most famous duet, even coming in ahead of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet and the sugarplum fairy in The Nutcracker—whether his opinion is dogmatic or not doesn't matter. It's true.
Quickly, he scans the list again, checking to see which of the other company members were given what roles. Shouto was cast in a solo, Basilio's tavern solo in Don Quixote, and Momo also landed a solo, performing the tambourine variation solo from La Esmeralda. Good for them, they deserve it—which he knows he's only thinking because he's happy as fuck about his own role. If bitterness was forming his thoughts, it would be 'fuck that half and half bastard' instead … but no shade toward Momo because Katsuki actually likes her. Apparently today is Shouto's lucky day for multiple reasons: being cast in an amazing solo and not catching Katsuki's wrath.
His dinner has long been eaten, empty container setting on the end table, when Katsuki finally closes his email app. Having read through the entirety of the email multiple times—with a stupid ass smile on his face the whole time—he finally clicks over to his texting app, which shows over one hundred new messages. One fucking hundred? He hasn't checked his phone since before the gym, but triple digit texts is so far out of the ordinary, he hopes nothing terrible has happened.
Ninety-four of them are in the group chat that he was added to a while back, filled with congratulations for all three of them on their achievements. Somewhere along the line, Denki was also added, which made the chat pop off in a whole different way. The occasional innuendo becomes far more frequent as he reads through the texts he's missed, and by the end, he's both rolling his eyes and grinning like an idiot.
Katsuki: Watch out Icy Hot, I'm catching up. Gonna steal your spotlight next season for sure!
Shouto: I don't have a spotlight on my house, but if you find yourself lacking light, I will purchase one for you tomorrow.
Katsuki just shakes his head, then goes to his individual texts with Eijirou, who's the other multi-text offender.
Eijirou: So awesome 🧡
Eijirou: I made Shouto tell me what dance thing u got and I've watched it 6x on youtube!
Eijirou: U can lift ur partner like that?
Eijirou: I bet I can lift u like that 🫣
Eijirou: Miss u
Katsuki shakes his head, but the warmth in his chest and the faint smile on his face is a dead giveaway on how the texts really make him feel. Shit, it's not even been that long but, despite being fast moving and one fuck of a whirlwind, he really likes Eijirou. Who the hell else could make him smile like this?
Katsuki: You just saw me this morning, idiot
Eijirou: KATSUKI! I know but I'm still allowed to miss u. It's boyfriend code or smth
Katsuki: I'll see you Sunday
He pauses, then sends another text, biting at his lip, with his grin turning into a smirk.
Katsuki: Or you could come over Saturday night…show me exactly how you want to lift me
Eijirou: fsdfasdfhladasdlhfaldfashldfa ILL BE THERE 🏸
The laugh Katsuki barks out is loud enough to echo in the empty space. What the hell kind of emoji is that?
Katsuki: Is that fucking badmitton?
Eijirou: IDK I GOT EXCITD OK 😭
Katsuki: Whatever ya idiot, see you Saturday
Taking his dishes to the kitchen, he plugs his phone in on the counter before cleaning up. It's not until twenty minutes later, when he's heading into his bedroom, that he realizes he's still smiling.
Weeks pass by in a blur. His days are spent in company class and men's class in the morning, then working with Harley on their pas de deux after lunch. In the evenings, he's either taking additional classes or at the gym, before falling into bed in an exhausted heap. The next morning, rinse and repeat.
He and Eijirou find ways to see each other once or twice a week. A few times, it's nothing more than a quick meal or a shared workout at Sunrise Fitness. A couple of times, Eijirou's spent the night and made sure to leave him with something to remember him by, whether it was the ache of his ass or the deep purple marks decorating his pale skin. Thankfully the scattered purple hickeys and bite marks are easily concealed, especially after Katsuki all but lectured him to make sure nothing was visible.
Everything is going so well that he feels like he's constantly bracing himself for the other shoe to drop. While he's never worked directly with Harley before, she's nailing her moves and their communication through rehearsals is exceptional, bar none. She's skilled and thankfully not a royal bitch when he messes up, especially because she's made her own fair share of mistakes. She's humble though, and simply apologizes before moving along.
To not dwell on the hiccups that come along with learning something new is refreshing, and it reminds him that, though he's been dancing a long time, he's still learning, both in ballet and interpersonal skills. Part of being a professional is recognizing that they're human, not machines simply created to entertain people. Fucking up comes with the job; how they react to it, however, is 100% choice.
The inevitable happens, just like he knew it would, and the shoe doesn't just drop, it careens onto the floor just two weeks before their performance. Ms. Takeyama and Mr. Aizawa call the attention of the company on Monday morning. "Just a few quick announcements. First, and most importantly, and yes, I have permission from Ms. Yaoyorozu to share this information with you all, but at the first rehearsal, she let us know that she's expecting."
Murmurs and whispers roll through the dancers like a wave from one side of the open room to the other, but they quiet down quickly so Mr. Takeyama can continue. Katsuki looks around the room but doesn't see Momo. Eyebrows knitting together, he exchanges a glance with Shouto.
"Unfortunately, there have been some complications with the pregnancy, and Momo has been put on indefinite bedrest, which is best for her and the baby right now." More whispers.
He should've known something was up when he'd seen Momo talking to both ballet masters on the first day back from break, but because she'd kept returning to rehearsals after that, he hadn't given it any more thought. Then, when they had their weekly dinner on Saturday—one of the few that Katsuki was able to attend—Momo was mysteriously absent despite having promised to be there. The subject, however, was deemed hush hush, apparently, when Shouto brought it up a couple of times and Mina told him he was on a need to know basis. Katsuki couldn't help but snort at how quickly Shouto was shut down, but still, there was concern lingering under the surface. Still is.
Mr. Aizawa speaks up. "Attention, please! I assure you that Ms. Yaoyorozu is okay and is doing what she needs to do. If the time comes that she is able to return to work, we will welcome her." He pauses, looking from Ms. Takeyama to the dancers. "We are very happy that Ms. Yaoyorozu is healthy and we know it was not her intention to leave us in the predicament we're in, as minor as it is in the grand scheme of things. Now, moving forward, we have two choices with her solo: cut it or audition it."
Many voices pipe up at once, every one of them demanding for it to be auditioned rather than cut, likely based on their own desires to dance Momo's solo; whether their intentions are good or they're vultures circling a carcass makes no difference. Katsuki stays silent, eyeing the group as they continue to make their very strong feelings on the subject known.
Both ballet masters grin and it's clear the decision has already been made. Pulling the solo from the show would be a last resort, no matter what the show's content is, but with Momo being awarded such an iconic dance, it would be even more detrimental to the performance as a whole.
"They'll audition it," Katsuki says to Shouto, who nods in reply when they make eye contact again. "No fucking way they'll cut it."
"I think you all know that we don't want to cut the solo, however it's not out of the question depending on auditions," Mr. Aizawa continues. "Because of the short turnaround between now and opening night, auditions will be held tomorrow morning starting at nine. If you are not auditioning, you will not have rehearsal."
The rest of the announcements recede into nothing more than background noise. Katsuki's brain shifts focus, because something is niggling in his brain, stroking his ego, coaxing him to audition for Momo's solo. It's absurd. Ludicrous. The tambourine variation is a female solo, en pointe, full tutu, the whole fucking package. Why the fuck would he go stand in line with Harley and Kate and fucking Erika-with-a-K, just to be made a fool of and turned away?
As they break, heading toward the barres to start warming up, Katsuki's focus is still on auditions, even as the piano music starts to play. There's clearly a reason he's still thinking about it as Ms. Takeyama walks slowly around the room, calling out instructions as she goes. "Fix your turn out," she says to Kate, then, "Yes, that's better. And ecarte, and two, and point, and three."
Pros and cons — what's stopping him from showing up and demanding to be allowed to audition? More importantly, why is this, of all things, suddenly so important to him, enough so that it's lodged itself in the innermost part of his mind, clutching tightly. It's a distraction from warm-ups that he doesn't need, evidenced by the way he's startled to see Ms. Takeyama standing right next to him. He didn't even hear her come up, and the way her eyebrow is lifted and her head tilted, he knows he missed something.. "Brush and plié, Katsuki."
Damnit.
Out of self-preserving necessity, he pushes aside all thoughts of the impending audition and his potential participation so as to not piss Ms. Takeyama off before he even decides if he wants to do it.
Fuck it.
It's those two words, the ones that hold some sort of magical power, that finally seal the deal when it comes to the audition. All night he'd fretted about it, pacing back and forth in his apartment, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Tension had crept up through his back, lingering in his shoulders, and made his neck stiffer than the Tin Man's — all for nothing, because he'd known since the announcement that he'd be auditioning this morning.
Unsurprisingly, there's a group of dancers already waiting in the hallway outside the room in which company class is typically held—including Erika, who's already in her warm-up clothes and is stretching off near the door. Katsuki gives her a wide berth, ignoring the whispers that crop up when the others see him. Slipping into the men's room, he takes a moment to splash some water on his face, patting it dry with scratchy, industrial-grade paper towels. He's been awake for hours now, but letting the fatigue get to him is not an option. Unable to sleep, he'd taken a sunrise yoga class at the gym this morning, ensuring that he's nice and limber coming into the auditions, but even the generally calm nature of yoga did little to calm his nerves.
When he comes back out, dropping his bag across from Erika, she sneers haughtily at him. "Don't get near me," she snaps. "Don't even look at me, you'll break my focus, and I need this solo!"
Okay, Erika, he thinks, inner voice dripping with just as much sarcasm as it would if he was vocalizing it. Then go down the fucking hall. But he keeps his mouth shut, only answering with a roll of his eyes. His lack of flipping her off should speak volumes to how badly he wants this, putting his professionalism above snarky comments and lashing out.
Several more women make their way into the hallway as the time creeps toward nine a.m. They talk, they look at him, they talk more. He doesn't speak, nor is he spoken to. He knows he's the outlier; he's not here to fucking make friends.
The doors open, pushed by the assistant—whose name Katsuki never bothers remembering. She smiles at everyone that walks by until it's Katsuki's turn. She stops him, brow furrowed in confusion. "There's no rehearsal today," she says, as if he's stupid enough to have made a mistake in his own damn schedule.
"I know, I'm here to audition."
"You're…" Her voice trails off for a moment. "But you can't—"
"Nothin' says I can't, now let me in."
Their interaction catches the attention of Mr. Aizawa, who, upon seeing Katsuki standing at the door, simply says, "No."
Katsuki's immediately on the defensive. "What do you mean, no? There's no reason I can't—"
"Absolutely not," Mr. Aizawa interrupts. "Don't pull this kind of shit. We know that you're good, but don't be stupid."
"Stupid?" Katsuki snaps back, anger slowly taking the place of the professionalism he'd been clinging to just moments ago. "I'm stupid for wanting to—"
"What's going on?" Ms. Takeyama strides over to the door, coming into Katsuki's line of vision. "Katsuki, there's no rehearsal today."
"Yes, I've very well aware, I'm here to audition for Momo's recast."
"Are you serious?" she asks him. She's not smiling. Neither is Mr. Aizawa. They look irritated, actually, as if his mere presence is a waste of their time.
"Obviously," Katsuki replies, standing his ground. He's not backing down, not now. "What do you have to lose? Either I come in and make a fool of myself and you don't have to cast me, or I'm better than everyone else and I prove you wrong."
She gazes at him for several long, drawn out minutes, each second ticking by with painful anticipation. Katsuki shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the unspoken answer hanging between them, making the air feel thick and unbreathable. He can almost see the wheels turning in her head, weighing her options very carefully.
Mr. Aizawa cuts in, as if he, too, is trying to not only get a read on Ms. Takeyama's thoughts but also get ahead of them. "Don't do this Yu, it's a slippery slope that you won't be stuck dealing with once you leave in a few weeks."
All that does is bring a sharp laugh to her lips, mixed with what appears to be at least a semi-genuine smile as she looks at Katsuki. "You know what? Why not?" she asks rhetorically, and when Mr. Aizawa inhales as if to counter her off-the-cuff decision, she looks at him and continues with a shrug, "It's my last show, and I'm already doing something that's kind of out there. So why not? He's not going to shut up about it anyway, so we might as well just let him audition."
Mr. Aizawa is very obviously in disagreement, lips pressed into a flat line and everything, but he doesn't argue. He knows she's right, it's her choice, her show. Now that he has the approval he needs to audition, he takes on the challenge with all the fervor of his strong-willed, persistent, and determined nature. He squares his shoulders, lips pursed, and steps through the door, because like hell he's going to give anything less than his very fucking best today. It's time to put up or shut up.
With Ms. Takeyama walking away, Katsuki plans to follow, but there's a hand on his arm, holding him back. He looks up, meeting Mr. Aizawa's narrowed gaze. He's not angry—fuck knows he's seen him pissed off before, and this isn't it—but he's serious. "Do not fuck with the new director like this," he says quietly, just loud enough for Katsuki to hear. "He is not to be messed with, and if you do, it's not going to end the way you think it will."
Katsuki holds his gaze, his own eyes tapering to match Mr. Aizawa's. He says nothing, but the muscles in his jaw visibly pulse with how hard he's clenching it. The ballet master is not scolding him; it's a warning.
One he already knows he will ignore.
This isn't his first audition by far, even if the goal is wildly different. While the nuances between them might vary, the basics are usually the same. Group warm-ups, complete with a couple of huffy glares from Erika when she gets too close to him—not the other way around—proving herself to be more of a bitch as every day goes by. Their dancing might be a competition, but the attitude is not, and he again finds himself keeping his snarky, very blunt, thoughts to himself.
"Okay," Ms. Takeyama calls out once warm-ups are done. "We're going to move into floor work, starting with pique turns in pairs, then grouping up for pirouettes. I expect to see, at minimum, clean triples."
There are fifteen of them in total, so Katsuki chooses his place at the end of the line, ensuring himself a solo trek across the floor for his pique turns. With the women en pointe and Katsuki en demi pointe, they perform the sequence from one corner to the other, ending with a single or double turn. When they change to stationary work and the piano music starts again, they start with doubles to warm up, then triples from forth position, but Katsuki is here to impress. While all but two of the women stick with triple turns, Katsuki easily pulls off a quad. If he had more time, he'd attempt five, but he'd rather do a quad perfectly than risk his landing.
Every single time, he nails it. Every turn, every bit of strength and balance and grace, he is lacking nothing. The only difference is that he's wearing different shoes but still achieving the same or better results.
They move into one-at-a-time sequences next, taking turns—like they often do in class with jumps—starting with arabesque détourné. Grand jeté comes after, which really allows Katsuki to show not only the strength he has in his legs but the sheer height he's worked so hard to reach, sailing through the air as if he's been blessed with wings. He can't stop the grin from forming on his lips as his feet hit the floor after his last jump.
He's showing off every one of his fine-tuned abilities. He refuses to walk away from this with any regrets that he didn't do enough.
The last section of the audition is learning a part of the solo as a group, then performing it all together. It's an important part of auditioning, because choices are made not just on ballet skill alone, but who can both act the part and maintain the character throughout.
The curiosity of which selection will be chosen out of the tambourine variation has been plaguing him since yesterday. Last night, he spent hours watching videos and practicing in his living room—granted with very concentrated moves because of the small space. He assumes it will be the very beginning, and as Mr. Aizawa hands out tambourines, which they lay at their feet for the moment, Katsuki takes in a few deep breaths.
This is his time to shine, pointe shoes or not.
Ms. Takeyama stands in front of them. "Together, we'll go through the choreography, and you'll be doing the last eighteen measures of the piece."
The last eighteen measures…which means they'll be doing the burners, giving Katsuki one hell of an opportunity. Six full measures of balancing on one foot, alternating between—for Katsuki, at least—á terre to en relevé on every beat with one leg, and the other going through a progression of kicks from low to high. It's exhilarating, it's complex, it's fucking difficult, and Katsuki is thrilled. And the icing on the cake, ending in a grand jeté, giving Katsuki yet another chance to show his power and height.
Slowly, they cut the selection into chunks, taking the next twenty-five minutes to learn it, with the last ten minutes used specifically for the burners. He's not paying much attention, but he assumes Erika-with-a-K is struggling—if the annoyed grunt beside him is any indication.
One of the reasons Katsuki chose to audition for this dance was how sassy the music is, and how strongly he feels that attitude would shine through the dancer. They are, after all, a vessel of the music, taking the notes and tones and radiating the feelings that go along with them. It's choreographed, yes, but it's also incredibly interpretive.
Katsuki is nothing if not sassy and full of attitude, so during their last run through, letting a bit of his true self shine through is easy, especially when his eyes burn fiery rays when he looks directly at both ballet masters.
A devilish smirk rests firmly on his lips, not only because it fits the character's demeanor, but also because he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he's the best in this room by far. Nailing every crisp snap, every high kick with his foot smacking against the tambourine, and he does it without the jerky movements he sees from a couple of the other dancers.
"Alright, I'm going to group you in threes, then you'll have an opportunity to show how well you've learned the selection," Ms. Takeyama calls out. "Isabella, Anna, Megan, you're first," she says, and after the three dancers take their positions, Ms. Takeyama nods to the assistant who's manning the music.
The first group finishes, then the second, run through what equates to one minute's worth of music. It's short, but the anticipation builds with each group until his name is called in the fourth.
"Ara, Michele, Katsuki, you're up."
Tambourine in hand, he stands in between the two woman, he points his right toe in front of him, raises his right arm up with the instrument, and puts his left hand on his hip. He looks off to the side, remaining still until he hears the music begin.
When he moves, he transports himself into the music. He feels the notes, he dances the rhythm, he becomes the sounds. With every press of his feet into the floor, every arabesque lift or spin, he breathes in the melody and exhales the movement.
The cool air of the studio breezes over his skin with every turn he makes. His movements are precise, turns flawless, and each rap of his foot against the tambourine rings out with musical clarity. His burners, with each kick, each time he brings the tambourine to his chest just to kick again, are exquisitely done.
And then it's over. Sixty seconds of dancing, over in a flash, but he feels incredibly confident about his performance.
There's whispering between the ballet masters for several long seconds. The dancers stand, waiting to see if they'll be asked to—
"Katsuki, Harley," Mr. Aizawa says, then adds, "and Ara, get up there, I want to see a quad from each of you. The rest of you are dismissed."
Oh. Hell. Yes.
When the three of them are also dismissed, Harley and Ara head out quickly, barely waiting until they're in the hallway to start squealing to each other, but Katsuki hangs back for just a minute. For some reason, broaching this subject, even if done in a vague way, is a risk that could cost him the role before he's even offered it. Yet, staying silent, left with unanswered questions, would leave him with regrets that would keep him up at night.
"Something wrong, Katsuki?" Ms. Takeyama asks, noticing that he hasn't left yet.
He looks at them, inhaling silently. It's just a question. It's just a fucking question. "What would you say if…a guy wanted to dance this solo en pointe?"
Their expressions don't change with the exception of Mr. Aizawa's gaze sharpening just a bit. He doesn't hesitate to answer Katsuki, leaving no room for interpretation. "I'd tell him not to push his luck."
"When did they say you'd hear about the audition?" Eijirou asks, taking a sip of his tea. They're all sat around Shouto's table, bellies full of yet another incredible Saturday group meal, this time fork-tender braised pork chops, drenched in rich broth, with peppers and carrots, ladled over rice.
They're all stuffed—if the groans echoing between them is any indication—and Katsuki's quite sure that every time he eats at Shouto's, he gains a few pounds. Worth it, especially with how damn good the food always seems to taste.
"They said whoever got the solo would be called by tonight at ten." He looks, yet again, at his watch. It's just past six, only seven minutes beyond what it was the last time he looked. "I mean, it's not a foolproof assumption, but I was one of three asked to stay and—"
His phone, ringtone far louder than it ever is simply because he doesn't want to miss the call, begins to crow with a melodious tune. In a flash, he's up and out of his chair, pressing the green 'accept' button while jogging toward the door.
"Hello?" he answers, pulling the door shut behind him. It's relatively quiet on the stoop outside of Shouto's house, and he doesn't want to have three sets of eyes staring him down while he's trying to listen.
"Katsuki, Shouta Aizawa," comes the voice on the other end.
If Mr. Aizawa is calling him, that can only mean—
"Congratulations," the ballet master continues. Katsuki face splits into a grin and he very nearly drops his phone, fingers trembling with uncharacteristic nervousness. "It was with much deliberation that we've decided to give you the solo. It was not an easy decision to make, nor did we make it lightly. We know that this is very nontraditional, and giving it to you is a risk, but both Yu and I feel that it's in good hands."
"Thank you, sir," Katsuki replies, bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. He's in shock, because while he knew he'd absolutely killed his audition, he's neither naive nor stupid; giving it to a man is absolutely a risk, one that many conventional and traditional companies would never even consider. "I appreciate the opportunity."
"Rehearsal will start Monday morning. You have two weeks. Don't let us down."
"Of course not, sir."
"Oh, and just to reiterate my answer to your question at the end of the audition, this will not be performed en pointe, understood? Remember what I said about the new director, Katsuki. Do not ruin your career over this."
"Yes, sir," he replies, the ache in his chest threatening to overwhelm the happiness he feels in attaining such a life-changing goal.
"See you Monday," Mr. Aizawa says, then disconnects before Katsuki can bid him farewell.
He stands on the stoop for a few minutes, fingers tapping on the back of his phone while he stares up at the glow of the sun as it moves behind the tall houses across the street. He refuses to feel any negativity about landing this role. If he allows bitterness to seep into his soul, it'll eat away at him. Resentment is like a cancer, and if allowed to spread, that would be the end of his career far before his constant need to push boundaries.
When he walks back in, smiling from ear to ear, Eijirou is up out of his chair, arms thrown around him in a tight hug. "You got it? You got the solo?"
Shouto and Mina are rattling off questions and statements in the background, but he lets himself sink into Eijirou's arms for just a moment, soaking in the warmth and support, before pulling back and addressing them all. "I got it."
"Yay!" Mina cries out, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "Are they gonna let you do it in pointe shoes like you asked? Surely they will, because, come one! That's so fucking cool, right? I mean—"
"No, I won't be doing it en pointe. It was just a question, anyways. Not like I was demanding it as part of the audition or anything."
Mina keeps going, though, asking, "Why aren't you mad? Why didn't you stand up for yourself?"
His stomach sours, and a deep crease forms in his forehead as he fights an internal battle between the toxicity of those intrusive thoughts and the optimism that comes naturally with landing such a prestigious part. "Because it's progress!" he shouts, allowing just a fraction of the war within to escape past his lips. It silences her continued line of questioning, bringing a surprised look to her face. It's quiet for a second, and when he speaks again, it's not resignation in his voice, but hope instead. "It's something."
Notes:
As always, thanks for reading and coming on this journey with me. I am having so much fun! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
Next update: December 17th.
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