Chapter Text
The first game of the fall season always felt just a little excessive, with everyone trying to prove their best, for who exactly? The teenagers who busted their entire paycheck to watch a bunch of sweaty men glide around and slap ice? The grown men who took the sport just a little too seriously? The drunks?
Who knows.
The people roared, screamed, and argued in the stands. At this rate, they were practically doing it all. And the first game hadn't even begun. The panelled rink walls rattled as the crowd bellowed. Because tonight was the night. Rival night.
And what did rival night mean to Saitama's number one, Megumi Fushiguro?
Number 22. Yuji Itadori. Sendai's best, cockiest, and loudest player. His face was plastered on every damn thing within Sendai, and hell, parts of Saitama, too. Which, honestly, felt strongly backhanded, and honestly kind of offensive. There wasn't a single day in Fushiguro's life where he didn't see that annoying bastard's mug on a shitty pin-up poster or on some stupid highlight pop-up. He was always smiling, teeth bared, with his left front tooth entirely missing, flexing the lost bone as if it were a damn prize. He only earned that ‘trophy’ by being a noisy, ill-mannered prick.
Fushiguro was the one to blame for his stupid missing possession. A body check and a nasty crush into panelled walls however many games ago. Sometimes, Fushiguro replayed the slam captured in every angle imaginable just to get a good hoot. The way he folded into the glass was almost the best damn thing he'd seen in the entire history of his career. He honestly felt sorry for whoever saw the view up close. But of course, Itadori's fans dumbed it down to be the best thing that ever happened to him. Highlight clips and reels of the injury surfaced everywhere, and he’s skyrocketed since. As if he wasn't popular enough beforehand.
Regardless, Fushiguro had been the best on his own team. So he had his personal fair share of media hype wherever he ventured. People chanted and sang his name in the stands, especially during home games back in Saitama. Just as they did with Itadori, though. But even so, he was the face of Saitama's hockey scene, from posters to interviews, he was the local phenomenon. When Itadori's face wasn't plastered over his, of course. And within the midst of it all, their controversy drew fierce due to this childish media rivalry. Which only grew stronger as they gained a reputation on either side. Every game between them proved this.
Thursday, September 4th, 2014
Fushiguro rolled his shoulders, taking three deep breaths in, and three deep breaths out, the blades of his skates kissing the ice below him. The audience roared as he slipped into the fluorescent rink, he waved a gloved hand in the air as he skated around, and before he even realized, warm-ups blurred past like every other and he was steadied up for faceoff. Fushiguro skated to center ice, mouthguard hanging slack from his teeth as the announcers played their part in the welcoming introduction.
“Welcome back to another beautiful season!” The announcer barked, “We're headed on to faceoff, lined up with Saitama's shining star, number 20– Megumi Fushiguro!” The arena exploded with cheers before the announcer could finish Fushiguro's introduction.
“Coming clean off a 26-goal season in a round-up total of 36 games! A truly reliable sportsman with relentless leadership.” The announcer declared over the crowd's reverberation, etching a grin across Fushiguro's pale, helmeted skin. The crowd never seemed to settle, though. Which was typical. But Fushiguro knew what tonight had in store for him, along with his entire reputation.
His name began in the stands first, the arena shifting in tone drastically. Fushiguro could just barely register what this was before the announcer denoted it. He dreaded this season's beginning, because he knew this was bound to happen. “And facing him tonight–”
Fuck. He knew it.
“Here in his hometown, Sendai's very own, number 22– Yuji Itadori!” The crowd screeched once again and the stands genuinely rumbled. Because here he came, Itadori in the purest flesh, skating onto the ice, waving a hand and laughing clearly at the exhilarating crowd reaction, his teeth were proudly bared as he laughed, per usual, flexing what he treasured. The staple of his career. All thanks to Fushiguro.
They seriously couldn't have chosen Yoshino or something?
“Returning from a whopping 30-goal strike season. Itadori rightfully claimed his seat as the league's top player. With outstanding highlight plays and glorious public coverage, what can't Itadori do?!” The announcer exclaimed. Itadori was clearly his favourite. But when wasn't he everyone’s favourite? Fushiguro scoffed as he watched Itadori pull himself to center ice, his lip curling, cursing the announcer internally, because once again, everyone's attention was reverted to the league's golden boy.
Itadori snickered to himself as he skated in. Folding his stick, the bladed edge pecking at the ice below, tapping down in an obviously taunting demeanour. Fushiguro clicked his tongue against his mouthguard as he watched Itadori's stick flick the ice. What an actual douche. How the hell was he a practical media slave with an attitude like this? And the game hadn't even started yet.
“Miss me?” Itadori finally snorted, eyes scouring Fushiguro's through his helmet visor.
Fushiguro rolled his eyes, spitting onto the ice infront of Itadori's skates.
“Fuck off.” Was his response, which only fueled Itadori's overly inflated ego to the millions. Because Itadori smiled at him as if he'd already won, denuding the slot Fushiguro had driven through. Those stupid fucking teeth. Fushiguro wouldn't dare hesitate to clock a second one straight from his face if given the chance.
Within seconds, the game's referee skated towards the middle, puck in hand, ready to let it fall at any second. Itadori and Fushiguro leaned forward, their gazes stabbing through each other's thick vizors. Itadori mirrored Fushiguro's exact expression, it was something like determination, and maybe the underlying urge to lunge forward and thunk his teeth in– again. Fushiguro exhaled slowly while Itadori gleamed at him. This game would be his. He didn't care anymore, he needed to win, and he'd do it all to bring Sendai to their knees the first game in.
Realistically meaning he'd do it all to bring Itadori to his knees.
“Settle, boys.” The referee prepped, “Here's to another great season, good game you two.” The puck dropped immediately and the clash was immediate, Fushiguro's elbow slammed into Itadori's chest as a fellow teammate hooked the puck, racing along the ice, Sendai close on his skates. A pass, and another hook. The puck was in Fushiguro's hands, he could already sense Itadori racing for the kill.
The ice screamed under his blades as he pivoted an opposing defender, his shoulder slouching low, the Saitama audience surged for Fushiguro, voices booming as Saitama pushed Sendai's zone. Fushiguro just barely glanced up, and in the blink of an eye, the puck skirted forward. A clean pass, a simple one, dragged along the boards, now laid out in Okkotsu's hands. A prideful smirk wiped his face as he snagged Fushiguro's pass. Typical.
Fushiguro coasted along the side of the rink, eyes on the puck. His surroundings entirely blurred out by Okkotsu's play. Off guard, again. Before his eyes and brain could paint the picture, a body heaved into him, sending him directly into the glass. It rattled violently, and the crowd roared again. Fushiguro groaned as the heavy body weighed him into the glass, his shoulders compressed against it. Fans squealed behind the glass Fushiguro was shoved against, probably loud enough to shatter it. But Fushiguro couldn't register, all he heard, or all he chose to hear was laughter. Itadori was laughing in his face. This was pure amusement for him, like a goddamn game of duck duck goose.
“Watch yourself, asshole.” Itadori laughed in retaliation directly in Fushiguro's ear.
Fushiguro snarled as he stared through the hole in Itadori's smile. “I'll be winning tonight, Itadori.” He glared, shoving him off, retaining his unbreakable facade. His skates dug sharply into the ice, slashing it underneath his feet as he pushed forward. Itadori stalked behind him, laughing to himself again. Fushiguro could hear him lurking close behind, and god did it piss him off.
The puck flung past, rebounding off of near boards. Fushiguro snatched it immediately, lunging along the ice. He shouted, passing the puck along in a clean juke and another pivot.
“Left!” a Saitama player shouted. Ino– number 26. Definitely reliable, but he can get carried away with himself easily. But who was Fushiguro to talk?
He flicked the puck in his direction, Saitama players flew in the direction of it, Sendai was tagging close between them. In an attempt of grace, a Sendai player, number 1– Kamo, lunged towards the puck for a steal, failing.
Saitama surged, “Center!” Ino barked a second time, flinging the puck in Fushiguro's direction again, catching Kamo's missed steal.
Fushiguro belted along the ice, the puck threaded between skates just perfectly, settling smoothly in Fushiguro's range. He darted from center ice smoothly, Saitama quick on his side, and Sendai tailing near. The goal was open for less than a second, determination coursing through Fushiguro's veins pressured him into a shot, and in that moment he actually thought he made the season's first goal, snapping the puck forward in glee.
A stick swooped from the side, hooking past Sendai's goalie, a clean, uncalled for snag. Fushiguro swore underneath his breath, he could've seriously had it, a proper first goal within minutes of the season's start. He hitched his breathing as the Sendai crowd screeched, bulleting across the ice, his eyes on the prize. Of course Itadori would be the one to steal and tarnish his entire game reputation, maneuvering around like it meant nothing to him.
Fushiguro gained on Itadori, trudging hard on his skates behind him, his teeth digging into his mouthguard as he pushed himself forward. Over time, Fushiguro analyzed Itadori's playing style. He was cold, determined, playing like his life was on the line. Although Fushiguro never really saw him out to be aggressive. With other players, at least. He seemed genuine, well, when he wasn't being a total asshole. But with Fushiguro? Everything was entirely different. He was loud, backhanded, snarky. All of it, he was everything. And Fushiguro knew that the public media played a role, as in constantly fighting in the ‘who's the better player’ or ‘who's more popular,’ battles. But the physicality seemed personal, or, maybe it was definitely personal.
Last season, Fushiguro and Itadori rounded a total of 7 on ice fights, one including Itadori's infamous tooth breakage. Itadori never seemed to shove, well, pin anybody as hard as he did with Fushiguro. This all made Fushiguro hate him even more, because, seriously, why him? Sure, he's the best on his team. But aside from that, what else was he? Especially to Itadori specifically? He seemed totally obsessed with the concept of dominance in the rink.
Fushiguro crept along, trying to spare himself from his internal analysis. He watched Itadori's shoulders droop and his skates drift outwards, his stick settling tightly. Men from both teams scattered along as Itadori slid across the rink, The second Itadori dove to sling the puck, Fushiguro rushed him, his stick clipping his, along with his entire body, slamming him against the boards behind the goal, the puck flinging loose. Itadori slipped to his knees, padded gloves catching his fall as he cursed outloud. Fushiguro slid backwards, expecting this to continue normally.
“You’re ruining me, Fushiguro.” Itadori growled, skirting to his feet, his shoulder checking Fushiguro's as they skated the rink again.
Fushiguro grumbled, not giving Itadori the gift of his response. He rushed off too quickly anyway. And just to Fushiguro's surprise merely seconds after, Itadori scooped the puck again. Maneuvering with ease, kicked up ice still clinging to his knees from his previous Fushiguro caused body check. The buzzer rang before Fushiguro could make it down Itadori's path in time, and the crowd boomed. Itadori clutched a fist in the air as his teammates crowded, nudging and slapping him on the back.
Fushiguro scowled, silent as they circled again, cursing himself, and even Itadori for getting too distracted. He watched him smile and laugh, his missing tooth displayed for the whole damn country to see. Fushiguro physically felt his ears go red, his blood running hot. He curled his lips again, muttering to himself.
This was Itadori’s first game. His teams first game, which was a home game, and the season's first goal.
Yeah, he’d be hearing about this all night.
The game finished 5 to 3 with Sendai, or, Itadori, claiming the first win, as expected. Fushiguro was handed the belt in the locker room after the game, his teammates scolded him for his ongoing distractions. Given him being the best coordinated, but hell, it wasn't his fault, Itadori was all over him tonight. He tried explaining that, as if they'd give a damn, though.
During the finishing handshake line, Fushiguro smiled, respectfully nodding to most of the Sendai players, he held no grudge against the lot, that'd be childish. Although, as Itadori came down the line, Fushiguro's smile had never dropped faster. Their eyes locked onto each other, green on brown, like the oak to a tree. Fushiguro didn't even want to touch him at first, but Itadori's grip was rough on his immediately. Tight. Like it was telling him something he couldn't figure out.
“Nice play, Fushiguro.” Itadori complimented, slowly, just so the words could really linger.
Fushiguro didn't respond with words, simply just the least enthusiastic head nod on the planet. Their eyes remained as the line continued, to the point where Itadori was wrenching his neck to stare in Fushiguro's direction.
What a total weirdo.
Fushiguro shook his head, a half assed attempt to rid any tiny thought of Itadori and whatever the hell had happened earlier. The locker room was empty now, their coach, Gojo, finished his ‘constructive’ criticism, while in reality it wasn't really constructive at all. Peer pressure, mostly. He pressured Saitama 24/7 to enter the rink riddled with greed. “Be greedier” He stated before every game, all while slapping the men on the back, or flicking their helmets.
The silence was loud in the locker room. Everyone was probably on their way to grab a bite from a nearby restaurant by now, or back at the hotel resting up. Just Fushiguro remained, with the occasional breakage in the noisy silence caused by his gear hitting the floor or the fabric of his clothing slipping around. He didn't bother showering, not now. He'd clean himself up later. Fushiguro stood from the damp, melted ice covered bench, shoving his gear into his sling bag, zipping it tight. He closed his eyes for a moment, slipping out his wired headphones from his pocket. He might as well listen to something on the way back, maybe a podcast, or some new music.
Fushiguro exhaled through his nose, prepared to leave. Finally having calmed down after tonight's unfortunate loss. Just before the latch of the locker room door rattled open. Fushiguro didn't pay any attention, it was probably just a rookie who forgot something anyway, some gear, maybe. Fushiguro gazed over his shoulder, his bag strap clutched in his hands.
And just to his fucking surprise.
“What a game, huh?” Itadori smirked. How the hell did Itadori of all people know he was still in here? And more importantly, why was he in his opposing teams locker room?
“Are you– why the hell are you in here, Itadori.” Fushiguro stuttered, his voice flat.
Itadori leaned against the locker room doorframe, his gear bag slung over his shoulder, watching Fushiguro's expression change from something as ‘I'm already pissed off enough,’ to ‘if I see this guy's face one more time, I’ll hurl.’
“Just thought I'd come to say hi.” Itadori chuckled, his teeth on sharp display.
“That's bullshit.” Fushiguro rolled his eyes, making a blunt attempt to push past Itadori through the doorframe. Failing inevitably, Itadori was all muscle, so he didn't budge.
“Move.” Fushiguro huffed.
Itadori just sat there, treating this as some stupid little game again. He was getting a laugh out of this. And in one singular step, the latch clicked, the door shut behind Itadori's back. Fushiguro exhaled a thin sigh, running a hand down his face, his patience was already thin enough from tonight's loss, and this was basically just the cherry on the top of the cake.
“Seriously, Itadori. Move.” Fushiguro breathed, his voice shallow. "I'm not doing this right now." He added, trying not to entirely blow his cool, taking a step away from Itadori.
“Sheesh, you really are pissed off tonight, Fushiguro.” Itadori scoffed, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, I am. What the hell are you doing in here?” Fushiguro replied. "Because this isn't funny. At all."
Itadori's eyes dragged over Fushiguro slowly as he spoke, inspecting him. “I came to check on you.” He grinned, “came to see how you were taking tonight's loss.” He teased, eyes shimmering in pride.
“Fuck you!” Fushiguro spat. He wasn't having any of this.
Itadori laughed in his face, differently this time. It was rough, not the usual fake– ‘I'm itadori and I'm the greatest’ laugh he usually bellowed on the ice or in interviews, this one was smothered with amusement. Like he was waiting to hear Fushiguro retort back in anger like that for ages.
“Man, you're easy to rile up.” Itadori responded as his laughter subsided, wiping the corner of his eye with his finger. “You should see the look on your face right now.” He added.
Fushiguro glared, because what else was he supposed to do? Leave? Not while Itadori was blocking the door. The closed door, to be exact.
“You done?” He asked after a few moments of silence and Itadori's laughter.
“Nah, not really.” Itadori responded, now picking at his cuticles, putting on some bullshit nonchalant-esque facade. “Just trying to test your.. patience.” He paused briefly, “Seeing as how this is only the first game of the season, and you're acting like you're gonna knock my other tooth out for proper symmetry.” Itadori continued, his head cocking lightly.
“What the hell– What is wrong with you? You won one singular match and you come to me acting like some fucking superstar.” Fushiguro retorted.
“One singular match? Who do you think took home that cup last season, huh?” Itadori argued. “Last time I checked,” he laughed, “Sendai did.”
“Yeah? Well congratulations.” Fushiguro replied, “You sneak in here just to jerk yourself off over your achievements? Because I'm not interested.” Fushiguro glared again, eyeing the door behind Itadori's large frame. God, he needed out of here before he flipped his lid entirely. “Now, move.”
Itadori barked a laugh at Fushiguro's remark “Jeez, you're funny. You don't take being teased very lightly, do you.” He continued taunting, “Y'know, Fushiguro, I think of you a lot.” He replied suddenly, pausing for a second, his brows furrowing before he continued, narrowing his vision on Fushiguro, his nose curling, “I think of how you're the best thing that ever happened to my career.” He said, flashing his teeth, laughing again. Clearly referring to their on ice conflict, which overtime earned him extensive popularity.
Fushiguro growled, thw back of his neck, and honestly his entire head running hot, shoving Itadori away from the door. Itadori was definitely stronger than he was, but that didn't mean Fushiguro was some weak little rookie. Itadori made it seem as if he himself was all muscle and absolutely zero brain. At least Fushiguro had some sort of wit towards his peers, unlike somebody.
“Seriously, man? I'm just screwing with you.” Itadori barked, shuffling backwards as Fushiguro pushed him out of the way, “Lighten up a little, Fushiguro. Honestly.” He shouted, following Fushiguro out the door.
“Lighten up? Are you kidding me? We aren't friends, Itadori. Go home or something. I'm not doing.. whatever this is. I'll see you next game.” Fushiguro breathed, trying desperately to dismiss Itadori, continuing down the arena hallway. He heard Itadori trying to call him from down the hallway, so in return, he plugged his wired headphones back in and popped them into his ears, trying to tune out.
“Fushiguro! C'mon, you can't be serious.” Itadori whined, trudging behind Fushiguro, keeping a light distance.
“Fushiguro?” Itadori rang again as Fushiguro, who was just a few feet up ahead, kept walking silently. “Are you deaf or just ignoring me?” He chirped again, picking up his own pace, walking closer behind Fushiguro.
“Dude!” Itadori yelped, throwing a hand up onto Fushiguro's shoulder.
Fushiguro exhaled angrily, snapping his shoulder backwards, ripping his headphones out, and turning around. Itadori’s smile was finally nonexistent, as if Fushiguro could give a lesser shit anyways though.
“Okay. So first you target me, then you trap me in a locker room like some fucking creep, and next you stalk me out? Take your shit and leave me alone, Itadori. We. Are. Not. Friends.” Fushiguro exclaimed, basically just repeating himself.
“Not friends? That's hilarious. Your play tonight says otherwise, because I could've sworn we were something.” Itadori chimed.
Here he goes again.
Fushiguro froze in place, staring the same daggers from earlier through Itadori's smug ass face.
“I don't like you, Itadori. We're opposers.” Fushiguro said, continuing, “We're guys who just so happen to play against each other. Nothing else. Okay?” He finished. Itadori’s expression didn't change at all, he just kinda sat there. Was he even listening? Probably not.
Fushiguro didn't like him.
He studied Itadori's face for a moment, something shifted, he just didn't know what. His demeanour, maybe.
Oh, so he was listening.
Itadori eventually nodded, really slowly, as if it were in defeat, finally. And he didn't blink either, he kept his gaze clean on Fushiguro's deep, forest-y green eyes. They were interesting up close, and of course, not behind a visor.
“Opposers, huh?” Itadori muttered, squinting, tilting his head slightly, glancing around the wide, empty hallway they stood in. “Alright.” He smiled shortly after.
Fushiguro stared at him, a little confused, but still wildly ticked off. “...Yeah.” Fushiguro responded dryly, a brief silence draping over them both, aside from the quiet hum of the Zamboni polishing the ice back in the rink.
Okay, now it was awkward.
“You're fun.” Itadori straightened after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, “I'm looking forward to our next.. run in.” He added, his smile still apparent, running a hand through his already slicked, blossom-toned hair. He eyed Fushiguro a final time, before he began to trail down the hallway, slapping Fushiguro on the back as he breezed past.
What the hell?
What the hell was that about? Fushiguro stood still as he watched Itadori continue down the hallway, and to his surprise, he didn't turn around and run his mouth like he usually would. He left. Like, actually fully left.
Fushiguro watched him swing the arena doors open, his hair ruffling as the draft from outside crept through. And then it closed, and Itadori was gone.
Fushiguro barely spoke to Itadori off the ice. Usually just in the occasional interview or speedy run-in while trailing down the arena hallway or in the parking lot. But never like that, never has Fushiguro truly been alone with him in private.. like that.
He glanced around the area, strongly off-put, mumbling to himself. “What just happened..” he grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.
God, did he need a cigarette or something, and definitely shower. He exhaled, his hand moving to cling onto his gear strap again, making his way through the hallway, following the same path out of the area Itadori had taken. He was internally praying he didn't run into anybody else on the bus back to his hotel. He didn't want to see anybody else until maybe tomorrow at the earliest.
Especially not Itadori.