From The Sidelines.

The Words He Left Unsaid.

There has always been an unreachable space between them, Katsuki thought as he stood from the inside of the chain-linked fence, separating the track field and the sidewalk.

Izuku always made his home on the ground, surrounded by friends and family who believed in the boy's genuinity, while Katsuki made his place in the sky, too far for anyone to ever reach, the distance between them forever a constant.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with the sky, and Katsuki loved it: the feeling of soaring over everyone else, the wind in his hair, all of the sort. He didn't need anything else. He didn't need anyone else.

The first time Bakugo Katsuki noticed Izuku stopping by on his way home from school to watch him practice was when he was 11, and had only begun pole vaulting. It was only a couple of minutes, so it wasn't even worth the energy to yell at the kid. And so he never bothered to acknowledge a certain set of wide green eyes watching him. Before he had a stadium audience of hundreds, before he ever even had an audience of dozens, he's always had one consistent audience: Izuku.

Katsuki had expected for the shorter to get bored one of these days, especially on days where he'd repeat the same bar height over and over again. Days where he'd waste sweat preparing the same run, just to fail, and make no progress by the end of the day. And yet, like clockwork, Izuku comes back each day.

Everyone on the team was used to it by now. Midoriya Izuku, the resident fanboy of Bakugo Katsuki, but only from a distance. Most if not all of the vaulters knew the boy by now, and are even friends with him, and Katsuki would catch them throwing a wave over to the boy at practice.

In the beginning, he'd get a comment or two from the other athletes about it, wondering why the proclaimed sweetheart of Ise stopped by for just a couple minutes every day just to watch practice, especially when the known interactions between the two of them have been anything but friendly.

And each time, Katsuki's reply was merely a simple shrug.

Occasionally, someone would even ask if Katsuki would want them to go talk to Izuku, and tell the kid to stop doing it. To this, for some odd reason, the blonde's immediate reaction would be to shut down the suggestion, words leaving his lips before his thoughts could even catch up.

"I don't give a shit what the nerd does," Katsuki would immediately tell anyone who'd suggest it, "And if I did, you don't think I could talk to him my fucking self?"

The truth was, and it was a truth that Katsuki didn't fully understand himself, was that rarely did people watch the mundane parts of his pole vaulting. The parts where he repeats the same bar repeatedly until his arms feel like breaking off, the parts where he just does practice laps around the track to warm up.

Katsuki had learned over time that most people don't care about that. All they want to see are those shining moments, at the tournament, as he makes his official runs. And even then, they'd only want to see it if he clears the bar. Otherwise, Katsuki was just a trophy for the town. The pride and jewel of Ise. The star athlete.

To be polished behind the scenes, and then presented perfect and prettily during performances for the population to praise. Pathetic. It was all a pathetic show of circustry.

And so, even if it was Izuku of all people, it was interesting to see that someone doesn't mind watching the mundane parts of his sport. Not that Katsuki would ever admit anything of the sort.

Besides, it barely bothered him, because when he was high up in the sky, nothing else mattered. Not those creepy green eyes, that were too big and too expressive for Katsuki's comfort. Not the people of Ise, who love to call him the pride of their town, but really, his athletic performance is just about the only thing they're proud of.