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waveridden · 5 years ago

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FIC: no silver lining (gotta get that gold)

This is the Olympics, hosted in Japan for the first time in twenty years. This isn’t just the biggest sporting event in Japan, it’s one of the biggest in the world, and it’s the kind of sporting event that’s going to make or break reporters. (A BNHA Olympics AU, 2.8k, gen)

AUcember || read on Ao3

As soon as the doors close behind them, the first thing out of Izuku’s mouth is, “There’s always next time.”

All of the other reporters ignore him, but Shinsou gives him a look, eyebrows half-raised. It’s the kind of look that means that he sees what Izuku’s trying to do, that he sees right through it, and that he’s not going to let it slide. It’s kind of his default reaction to everything Izuku does: bemusement, with what Izuku likes to think is an undercurrent of genuine fondness.

Izuku meets that look, even-keeled and determined, and Shinsou tilts his head. “Next time,” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah,” Izuku says, with confidence that he doesn’t feel.

Shinsou looks away without saying anything, but Izuku knows exactly what it is he’s not saying. This isn’t the “we’ll try next time” that comes after most meetings like this. If they’re not assigned to the story they want, they can pitch another one next week and see if that makes it through.

But this is the Olympics, hosted in Japan for the first time in twenty years. This isn’t just the biggest sporting event in Japan, it’s one of the biggest in the world, and it’s the kind of sporting event that’s going to make or break reporters. TBS can only send a few reporters to help with the live broadcast coverage, the part that everyone will be watching.

And the two of them didn’t make the cut.

“It was a nice thought,” Shinsou says, eventually. He looks tired as he picks some random direction and wanders off. “I’ll see you around the office, Midoriya.”

Izuku grits his teeth. He considers going after Shinsou for a second. The two of them aren’t… friends, exactly, but Shinsou is the closest thing to a friend he has at the station right now. And they work well together, which is why most of their pitches are joint pitches.

He had wondered what would’ve happened if only one of them got to cover the Olympics - probably Shinsou, because there’s no shortage of reporters right now but they could always use more good photographers - but it turns out that he never had to worry about that.

In the conference room behind them, they’re probably divvying up assignments and strategies. Maybe there’s already a plan in place for things like this, a plan for how to cover the biggest international sporting event in the world. Maybe they have to revamp the plan, with the games practically happening in their backyard.

Izuku wants, more than anything, to be a part of that plan.

He calls his mom once he’s home, eating the nicest takeout he could afford as a consolation. She makes all of the appropriate motherly noises: she awws, and she apologizes, and she calls him baby a thousand times.

But then, after she’s done with her motherly sympathy duties, she says, “So how are you going to get there?”

Izuku swirls his chopsticks in the ramen in front of him. “I’m not sure I can.”

“Well, you can’t do it like you were planning on,” she says, reasonable as ever. “Not the live coverage, is that right?”

“That’s right.” He sits back a little further against the wall. The network has a point: Izuku is a good reporter, but he’s not a good live reporter. He freezes up on air, on the spot. It’s part of the reason that he’s a reporter instead of an athlete: thinking on his feet doesn’t come easily to him. It’s easier to research and learn and strategize, and then let other people act on what he reports.

“So what are your other options?” his mother says, patiently, kindly. “Because I know you, Izuku, and I know that you won’t give up on this.”

She’s right, in a way. She’d been on his side through all of the failed tryouts, for baseball and football teams, for clubs and extracurriculars. She’d been stunned when he first said he wanted to be a sports reporter instead. He thinks, privately, that she had expected him to give up on sports altogether when he couldn’t play them anymore. But she’s been his staunchest supporter since then.

He’s pretty lucky, he thinks, to have a mother who’s on his side.

Izuku swirls his ramen with a little more force, broth sloshing up towards the edges of the bowl. “I’m not good at the live reporting, but I’m good at covering features. And the network has a limited number of slots for reporters who want to cover specific sports.”

“Do you think you can get into that?”

“I can try, but it’ll be competitive.” He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, thinking about it. “There are a few spots, but they’re for reporters across multiple networks. A lot of people will want to cover the popular sports, and nobody will want to watch the unpopular ones so there’s no point in assigning a specific reporter.”

“Izuku.”

“And it would be nice if I could get Shinsou to do it with me, so we’d need a sport that people will care about visually. We’ll need to talk about what sports are the best for coverage, or the most competitive, but-”

“Izuku,” Mom says kindly, “if you could cover any sport or team, what would you want it to be?”

She knows the answer already. She has to. There’s no hesitation when he answers, “Baseball.” He’d tried playing all the positions, even tried softball for a while. He just hadn’t been any good at it, but he’d always loved the sport. He still does. He does TBS’s weekly sports column online, and the baseball section is always by far the most fleshed out.

“Of course,” Mom says, sounding terribly fond. Izuku’s heart clenches for a moment. “Can you work with that?”

“Baseball hasn’t been in the Olympics in twelve years,” Izuku points out. And just like that, he can see the outline of the story unfolding in front of him, like a map, like a shining city. “But Japan’s team historically did well when it was a competitive sport. This is either going to be a comeback or a catastrophe.”

“And either way there should be a reporter covering it.”

Izuku falters. “But there will be a lot of people who want to, and I-”

“But there’s not one assigned yet,” Mom says. “Izuku, baby, you want this so badly. Quit making excuses for why you can’t do it.”

He swallows. For a second, it’s hard to breathe. “I love you, Mom,” he says, a little hoarsely.

“I love you too.” She pauses for a second, and then says, laced with hesitation, “Honey, you know who’s on the team, right?”

Of course he does. He would have to be blind to miss all of the media excitement. People from his hometown are ecstatic. Sports fans are crazy about him. He knows exactly who his mom is talking about.

“Yeah, but I’m not six anymore,” he says gently. Judging by the way she huffs out a breath, he’s hit the nail on the head. “And we’ll both be there for work, technically. Kacchan wouldn’t be mean to me if I’m doing a story on him.” At least, he hopes not. Bakugou Katsuki’s reputation isn’t exactly sparkling, but he’s talented enough that it makes up for it. Surely he won’t risk the chance to play in the Olympics just because of some childhood grudge against Izuku.

“You grew up a lot,” his mom allows. “I’m just worried that he hasn’t.”

“Then I’ll avoid him.”

“Is that reasonable?”

No, Izuku wants to say, because it’s really… not. Especially not if Kacchan is one of the star players of the national baseball team. But if his mom is saying what he needs to hear right now, he can do the same for her. “Of course it is.”

She tuts, like she doesn’t quite believe him, but she sighs. “You can do this, Izuku.”

“I can do this,” he repeats. It feels good to say it out loud. “But that’s enough about me. How are you?”

Mom makes a noise like she knows what he’s doing, which she probably does. But he thinks it’s reasonable for him to change the subject about now. He has enough to think about, and he could use a break.

He settles in a little more firmly and forces himself to focus on what his mom is saying. The pitch can wait until after this conversation.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: pitch!!! Attachments: olympics_pitch.docx

Can you read this before the feature pitch meeting tomorrow and let me know what you think?? Thank you!

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: you should be asleep Attachments: olympics_pitch_revised.docx

pitch looks solid. would probably be better if you didn’t argue that you need a photographer, but I get the idea that you’re not going to give that up. (not that I’ll say no if you can convince them.)

also you know this is 300x more work than anyone else puts into pitches right

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: you should too >:(

I’ll be able to report better with someone helping me document. Also, they could always use more people on the ground.

It’s the Olympics, Shinsou. I’m going to put in more effort than I have to. It’s worth it for this.

Wear something nice tomorrow for the meeting.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: I don’t sleep, we know this

mildly worried that you’ve just insulted my fashion sense, too bad I don’t care

you don’t have to convince me, Midoriya. it’s the other people at the meeting who you need to win over

The NHK building, in downtown Tokyo, is huge. It’s nothing special, but Izuku has taken more school trips and longing visits there than he has anywhere else. They’re the biggest broadcaster in Tokyo, even bigger than TBS, and they’re sending the most reporters to the Olympics. They’re also hosting the pitch meeting for all the reporters in Japan to pitch their sport-specific stories.

Izuku arrives, just barely on time and just barely out of breath, in a suit and tie he hasn’t worn in a very long time. They’re a little shabby, dark green, gifts from his mother and he’s pretty sure that she found them secondhand. But he feels comfortable in them. At least, as comfortable as he can be as he looks around the room.

There are dozens of reporters already there, milling around the hall outside of the conference room. Some of them have notecards, and some are scrolling through notes on tablets. Some are staring into corners and practicing their pitches out loud, gesturing animatedly.

Izuku can feel his stomach climbing into his throat. People who pitch stories to cover Olympic sports are good reporters. There are a lot of reporters in this hallway, and all of them are at least as good as him.

His fingers brush against the buttons on his suit jacket. He knows baseball. He knows how to do this.

“We should’ve made sure we don’t clash,” a monotone says behind him. When he turns, Shinsou is standing behind him, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed. He tilts his head, looking Izuku up and down. He probably has a point, because he’s wearing a shade of purple that doesn’t fit well with the green that Izuku has on.

Izuku still smiles up at him. “You ready?”

“How many are they taking?”

“Five,” says a woman next to them. She looks sleek and put-together, in a red dress with immaculately styled hair. “That’s the quota.”

Izuku can feel his eyes widening, not quite of his own accord. There are two dozen people in the hallway, and he’s not sure how many have already pitched. “Out of everyone?”

“Olympic committees have quotas,” she says, a little sharply. “They only want the best of the best.”

Shinsou whistles lowly and looks back at Izuku. “Got our work cut out for us.”

“We all do.” He leans around Shinsou’s shoulder to look at the woman in red. “Uh- good luck!”

She blinks in surprise, but her face softens into something friendlier. “You too.”

Shinsou shakes his head and starts ambling down the hall, towards the door of the conference room. Izuku follows him, and Shinsou says, “You know, with only five of us, it’s not likely that they’ll take two people to cover one sport.”

“You’re not being positive about this.”

“And you’re not being realistic.”

“I’m a better reporter with the visuals to match. You know this pitch, we need the photos.”

The pitch is dangerously simple, the kind of thing that’s either going to sink them or save them. So many of the pitches are going to be for pure sports coverage, the kind of thing that the network is doing anyways. But Shinsou and Midoriya are a dream team for lifestyle pieces. They’re good at other things - Izuku does sports, Shinsou does good interviews - but they do good profiles. They’re good with people.

So they’re not only going to try and cover the baseball team’s games. They want to cover the baseball team’s lives.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” Izuku presses. Shinsou turns his face away from Izuku, which is as good as an admission. “We can do this together. This is the kind of pitch nobody else is going to make.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It’s a good thing.”

“You’re too upbeat for your own good,” Shinsou says, matter of fact. It’s the kind of thing Izuku has heard a thousand times, and a couple hundred of those times were definitely from Shinsou. But when he looks over his shoulder at Izuku, he has a sharp smile on his face. “Better make it a good pitch, Midoriya.”

Izuku knows. Izuku knows that this has to be the best pitch of his life, because this is the best shot he will ever have at covering the Olympics. Izuku knows that he’s taking a risk. When he thinks about it for longer than two minutes at a time, his chest gets too tight for him to move, for him to even stand upright. But he has his partner with him, the closest thing he has to a friend in this business. And he has this idea, that nobody else is going to pitch.

“You’re pitching it too,” he points out, and Shinsou’s smile widens, a knife’s edge, the greatest curve to his mouth that Izuku has seen in a long time. He wonders if that’s Shinsou’s way of showing that he’s nervous too.

The conference room door opens, and an assistant sticks his head out, glancing down at a clipboard. “Midoriya Izuku and Shinsou Hitoshi?”

“Our cue,” Shinsou mutters.

Izuku steps forward, clutching the strap of his bag a little tighter. He makes sure to brush past Shinsou as he does, and he’s not sure if he’s trying to provide or seek out comfort from the gesture. It helps that Shinsou follows him. It helps that nobody else seems to even look up as the two of them walk into the conference room.

To: [email protected] , [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Olympic Coverage

Greetings, Midoriya Izuku,

We would like to thank you for your pitch at the Japan Consortium meeting. We heard over thirty pitches, all from skilled reporters, and we are excited to announce that your pitch has been accepted! You will be joining the team for Olympic reporting.

Your accreditation will be Es-class, meaning that you are expected to primarily report on the sport that you have been assigned. Additionally, Shinsou Hitoshi has been granted accreditation that allows him to photograph your sport and your story. The selection committee was impressed with your suggestion to cover not just the athletics but the personal lives of the Samurai Japan baseball team.

In addition to your responsibilities covering the baseball games, you may be expected to assist with live broadcasts and the general broadcast team of the Consortium. More specific assignments will be given at later dates; please work with your team and the Consortium to figure out what assignment will be best for you.

Next week, we will be publicly releasing our list of reporters. We encourage you to keep this news private until the announcement is formally made. We will also contact your station with the appropriate information about accreditation. Please complete all the required paperwork by the end of the week.

You will receive additional information about press training, etiquette, and reporting expectations. Please contact us with any questions you have about the process.

Again, congratulations! Welcome to the team.

Warm regards, Nezu Chair, Japan Consortium

#bnha #bnha fic #waveridden.fic #aucember19 #if you guys remember like eight months ago a lot of random baseball/olympics talk? that was because of this #i never did end up finishing but i still think this is like. some of the best setup for a story i've ever done?

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