Archive of Our Own ^beta

Putting down his skates with the intent to never wear them again, Jun Yodaka walks out of the rink’s arena. Hikaru’s cries echo in his ears, and the shock on Shinichiro and Riley is burned into his retina. 

Just get away.

Light up a cigarette.

Take a deep breath.

Close out the world and focus on nothing but the stinky smoke that fills up your lungs, the more and more useless hit reaching over as a new dose of nicotine enters your bloodstream.

For long (in his lies to himself, at least) this, the smoking, has been enough. This, and the girl he doesn’t coach. These… and the guaranteed time on ice that he should not be worthy of anymore.

Jun tries to resist and not let the waves of his memories crash over his head—but he is only human. Too human. Despite all he had done not to be. 

His lungs protest as he lights up the third cigarette in a row—he keeps walking away, pacing up, and his legs protest against this even more. An exceptional talent left to his own devices since the very beginning, not a single adult in his life ever tried to stand in his way during his mayfly-like, magnificent, yet short career. 

The ice is cold and unforgiving to everyone. 

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Many years ago, Jun learnt how to finally feel alive—the ice allowed him to do so. The first thing that ever did.  Maybe, he thought, maybe if he won it all, then he would be worthy. 

Worthy of… what even?

Love. 

To be alive. 

Maybe, he thought, the ice will help him find a meaning. 

With everything —and even more—he got, Jun Yodaka did just what he set his eyes on. Never stopping. Never letting anything stand in his way—let it be adults, rivals, or his own limitations. 

Some quit once skating starts to hurt and setbacks happen. Some realise they have to slow down—or they are forced to do so. Some gamble: what if they can bear the pain and do it anyway? If only their body holds itself together. 

Stopping has never been an option—and Jun has been conscious enough to realise it on his own, he needed muscles to support his joints and bones the most—so it wasn’t a gamble in the end. Or…?

Even if it was, the odds were at least much better. 

This way, there was nothing but him, the ice, and his goals. And also the pain, of course. 

Jun was only Novice B when on top of the growing pains, he felt something give in his knee during a landing he still managed to hold—though he needed his hand on the ice to not fall.

Big words for a child who didn’t have a single guardian to decide in his place and to support his dream more than it could be done with money (Jun has been telling himself that the gamble of upbringing was already won on his side as money allowed him to be here in the first place). Big words from a doctor like a ‘partially torn ligament’, ‘joint laxity’, and ‘clinical signs of instability’. Also, maybe a smaller tear on the cartilage that can heal on its own if he’s lucky —they determined it did not need an operation. 

‘Not now, at least’—the words of his doctor stayed with Jun. He was told that if he keeps up his regimen and he pushes more, not letting himself heal, then there is only one future that awaits him. 

Winning enough and getting seeded allowed time off the ice—all of this got dedicated to exercises that could make his leg stronger. The pain has never disappeared, though… but Jun learned to welcome and embrace it like a friend, tagging along with it with every single jump.

Giving everything to skating, yet his age made him miss the Olympics when he was in top shape. Hating himself for being so weak, with no competitions to skate, Jun’s eyes were set on the next Gold he could win… even if it could only come in four years. 

Jun loved the ice—but it didn’t love him back enough.

The ice has been utterly unforgiving and it didn’t allow Jun to be strong enough and deal with the pain on his own—so while others competed for the gold at the Olympics, Jun laid on the operating table, anaesthetised, his unconscious body waiting for his surgeon to cut and fix things that could have ended his career many times if he was not fortunate enough to pull through.

His ligaments still intact, even if loose, now without the broken cartilage doing even more damage inside, Jun could start to actually get better—to give everything and beyond to skating until he reaches the top. 

Through many lonely nights and tears that no one but the ice saw, pushing and pushing no matter how much it hurt, skating his free skate at the Olympics made Jun feel that he truly lived. 

That he was alive. 

Even if only for three minutes, he was.

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With the adrenaline so high, the faint—but real—smile stays on his face as, with chest heaving, he holds out his ending pose. One second. Two. Three. 

The audience roars. Then they roar more, only getting louder, and the announcer’s voice almost drowned in the crowd. 

Jun is given five seconds of blissful happiness that the ice loved him back, and that finally, now he gets to understand a deeper meaning, and he will also see how he is enough if he achieved even this… 

Five seconds of delusion until everything comes, crushing down. Jun doesn’t get to understand any of these things.

With the adrenaline lowering in his bloodstream, pain comes, and it hits tenfold. Jun stands from his ending pose and bows, then he skates off the ice to the ‘kiss and cry’ to listen to what he already knows: he broke records. 

It doesn’t matter. 

What’s next, now?

He won with a margin… but he still could not defeat himself. Ever-present, the pain reminds him, and not for the first time, Jun is happy his leg hurts because it makes the gaping hole in his chest more bearable.

He took the greatest stage, yet nothing changed.

The press conference is a mess. Jun announces his retirement, and he doesn’t have more to say about it—the press wants to eat him up alive, but all Jun has to offer is the apathetic coldness he learnt from the ice.

Shinichiro, with the silver around his neck, opens into Team Japan’s locker room of the Olympic facility just quietly enough that Jun can’t hear and react in time. Curled up in a corner, his shoulders shaking, his head hanging low, tears are falling onto the gold that rests over his chest—a piece of metal he cried and sweated blood for, thinking it gave all the answers… only to learn that nothing changed and now he can’t even achieve more. 

Jun is only twenty years old, and there is just nothing more for him to achieve…

…but then, what is he good for, even?

Catching himself with the unexpected visitor, Jun wipes on his eyes and stands, heavily favouring his hurt leg during the motion. Shinichiro must know, so there is no point in hiding it—but Jun hates himself enough that he does his utter best to try not to limp as he walks away.

With the gold around his neck, after winning everything, Jun spends the night the same way he has always done: alone. Shinichiro left him a note and a warm invite—one Jun can’t get himself to use. He knows it’s not a pity exactly, yet…

Nothing changed, no matter how far he came, and nothing ever will, now he knows. The ice loves him enough that he was given moments to shine and a different life to live, but crushing down on him, all things come to an end now. 

End, a final destination… Because where else is there to go?

Where else could he even when his leg seems to not want to hold up any longer? (Not like he has treated his body any better than he had to—Jun has always had a religious regimen. Blaming an old injury he can deal with, even if it hurts a lot, is just another lie and excuse that makes it easier to accept: there is nothing more for him to do.)

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Jun cries his eyes out like he has never done in this life before, then, not being able to sleep, he ventures out of the building. The fresh air’s coldness maybe helps—but walking around on his swollen knee certainly does not. 

But Jun does it anyway: he has no more reasons why he should not. 

His mindless wandering leads him to a corner store in this foreign country, and not exactly knowing why, Jun goes in. The man before him buys a packet of cigarettes and, not knowing better, Jun just utters that he wants the same and leaves with the package, only to realise later that he doesn't have a lighter. 

The man stands outside, a sigh leaving his mouth as he lights up his cigarette and takes the first suck. Seeing Jun’s hesitation and his empty hands aside from the cigarettes, he wordlessly offers the lighter—no way to go back. Fumbling with it as if his fingers would try to protest, Jun eventually manages to light up with the cigarette, the sour smell and tiny pieces of ashes caught in the wind immediately being blown back to his face.

Jun doesn’t miss the pitiful look in the man’s eyes when he hands back the lighter with a slightly trembling hand—but at the very least, he just grunts and turns to leave. Feeling pathetic, Jun exhales, then inhales deep while sucking on the cigarette. 

The coughing fit and the rancid feeling as the smoke fills up his lungs leave him heaving, bending over, holding himself up on his thighs while his hurt leg trembles under his weight. Tears prick Jun’s eyes, but having nicotine for the first time in his bloodstream also makes him feel alive like nothing else could before—except the ice. 

The laughter that escapes his mouth is wet and fake, then more tears come until Jun almost falls to his knees in the entrance of the dark alley by the main street, only hoping that no one will be able to see. 

Barely getting enough out of the cigarette before it burns to its end, Jun throws the still orange burning end to the ground, and with the help of the wall, he stands up fully, tall. His leg trembles, the pain is bad, but it holds up, and Jun feels he must skate or he will just die.

Maybe, likely, he should see his doctor and take time off to rest… Only then could he continue training. It wouldn’t be the very first time in his career—even if a longer break would be needed now, Jun could afford the time. He could take a year off then come back and aim for the next Olympics… He could have, but Jun saw no point as he already proved everything .

Jun makes his way to the smaller practice rink they had at the edge of the Olympic facilities, only stopping on his way to get his skates, Jun hopes he won’t be discovered and he can just… 

Be. Exist. Just be here, in the rink, until he figures out what to do next. 

Only using one of the smallest of lights, after his athlete magnet card lets him inside, there is no one but him, the darkness, and the ice.

Getting his skates on is part of muscle memory—methodical movements while all his surroundings fade and Jun feels every corner of his body, accelerated. His knee barely bends enough so Jun can tie his laces like he always does without the pain becoming blinding—but the feeling and ache are welcomed as friends he made and got used to in the past ten years. 

A part of his mind tells him that he should definitely not skate on his leg now as he can’t even walk without a limp, not even if he tries, but Jun can’t help but give in to the temptation. Sliding around the rink feels easier than walking anyway—so does the take-off of his first jump and its landing. 

In his youth, Jun could do all jumps and landings similarly on both legs, but over time he ended up preferring to use his right leg to take more impact. Any outside observer could think it’s because that was his more dominant leg, the difference between sides when landing quads, forcing him to choose a side. They could hardly be more wrong: if Jun had a more dominant leg which allowed him to learn things easier and nail jumps sooner than it was his left—except his knee became a liability, causing Jun not be able to trust it enough that it won’t give out once he lands many jumps and combinations.

Most skaters are right-leg dominant—Jun was just simply one of them, he told himself.

If someone asked now, Jun couldn’t explain why he even tries, why he gets an idea that he should know is wrong.

Maybe it’s just to prove to himself that he was just too weak all these years, and he could have taken landings on his left leg. Maybe it’s a desperate attempt to cling to the dream of skating because he might have won everything and stands lonely at the top, but maybe if he takes his retirement back and continues and keeps winning, then one day another person will come who can actually challenge Jun and understand his place. 

Someone who will see skating the way Jun does… and then finally, he doesn’t have to be alone. 

Even though he hasn’t done this in a long time, his body and muscle memory know it better than to just forget: Jun slides into the take off phase of a triple Axel, his direction and the steps into the jump switched, preparing to rotate the other way, intending to land on his left leg. 

His posture and technique are impeccable, the take off is wonderful, even though it hurts so much more than it has ever before. His rotations are precise, too—Jun jumps and arrives at the landing as perfectly as it is possible to do so. 

Everything is as it should be, textbook-like, except…

Bending his leg just enough, not sinking, preparing for the force and the impact, Jun’s stance is flawless—yet his knee gives up. 

No matter how the angles and forces were right and aligned with biomechanics, the impact is just too much, and before Jun has any option to correct his form or lighten his landing, his bad knee first, he slams into the ice with the full force of a perfectly executed triple Axel. His hip, shoulder, and head also hit the ice as his body, like a whip, crashed onto the cold surface, one part after the other, one by one. 

The air knocked out of him, the pain in his leg is so unbearable that Jun loses his consciousness for a few seconds. Once blinking again and fighting the weight on his chest, with the sour taste of the cigarette in his mouth, Jun gasps for air while uncontrollable, quiet sobs shake him in his core. 

The ice is cold, and it doesn’t love Jun—it has never even loved him before. 

Thankfully, the press conference and his announcement of retirement were done just after the medal ceremony—for the better, as now no one has to know Jun can’t even skate anymore. Through tears and hisses and grunts, with a dizzy head and tasting blood in his mouth, Jun eventually manages to sit up and crawl to the wall of the rink to push himself up to standing on one leg. He tries to put weight onto his left, but if not for holding the edge of the rink, Jun would have fallen the second time. 

Not exactly knowing how (mostly jumping on one leg and holding onto things), eventually Jun makes his way back to his hotel room. At the very least, the bones in his knee don’t seem to be broken—trying to assess the damage, the feeling as something snapped inside, the noise echoing in his ears, makes Jun almost throw up. 

His knee is hot and swollen and absolutely cannot be straightened or bent. 

Seeing a doctor in the middle of the night at the emergency room would certainly not slide by the media, so Jun takes the painkillers he has been using anyway to push through the pain (no avail it helps more, yet desperate enough, he does dare to take the triple dose, even) and wraps up his knee in compressive bandages as tight as he dares without fearing he cuts off the bloodstream, causing more damage. The tiny fridge in his room has ice, too—Jun sinks to the ground between the bed and the fridge, and with tears in his eyes, he elevates his leg up to the edge of the bed. Then, using a pillowcase as a bag and filling it up, he buries his knee in ice as much as he can. 

Then now… Wait. 

The moon shines high, painting long shadows onto Jun as he didn’t bother closing his blinds. His good knee drawn up to his chest, Jun rests his forehead there while he just tries to stop the trembling of his hands. Grabbing onto the edge of the nightstand, Jun accidentally moves it—as if fate would smile at him, a stray lighter falls to the ground that could have been stuck between the furniture and the wall for weeks. Maybe months, even… who knows?

Fumbling with his hands, Jun finds the package of cigarettes in his pocket—with his newly acquired lighter, he lights up the first cigarette. Smoking hurts and makes him cough, rattling his body and his bum leg, but it doesn’t matter because the rush of nicotine makes him feel just a little bit more alive. The knowledge that this is a way to slowly kill himself makes it even better and more tempting to continue. 

Jun smokes until the plate he used for the ashes is full, until cold sweat beads on his forehead, his hair drenched, until his heart beats so fast it almost feels irregular, and makes Jun wish he could maybe just simply die because that way it would be so much easier.

The sun is up already when the utter exhaustion catches up to Jun and he falls asleep for an hour—only to wake up to the knocks on his door as he missed the meet-up with team Japan. Not like it matters or he should care anymore. Thankfully, his phone is in his pocket too, so Jun sends a text to Shinichiro (not to his coach, as his phone only has a single number saved) that he will be staying here longer as he is free to do so if he pays for his hotel room on his own.

Maybe, if Jun were different before, then his coach would not let him be sent away when he highly suspects something is wrong. Maybe, in a different world, Shinichiro would have insisted on going in because he has always cared about Jun, even if all he could see was his back as Jun always stepped up and ahead, never looking back. 

But fifteen years of distance grants Jun the loneliness he has never wanted, yet couldn’t live without. 

He manages to find an appointment for a doctor for that late afternoon—leaving through the back entrance to the taxi he ordered there ahead saves him face and keeps his failure a secret. Jun ‘impresses’ the medical staff with his so called ‘idiocy’ for not coming in sooner; yet all they can do for him now is to do a scan, find him a proper brace that locks his leg into place, give him crutches he must use, and offer a surgery date if he wishes to get it done here instead of travelling back to Japan. 

Jun declines the last and leaves the hospital—with his small luggage by his side that holds his skating costume and skates, not caring about the rest he left in the hotel (he pays with a bank transfer and makes a call about the room and cancellation), Jun finds a faraway from the city-centre, calm, and boring hotel instead. Spending a few weeks here doing nothing but smoking and sometimes eating the food he ordered, Jun lets his leg rest enough that he can board a plane without crutches, the bulky brace hugging his knee hidden under thick, long pants.

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An Olympic medalist arriving back in Japan without fanfare, in incognito—with a moving company, Jun relocates to the countryside and finds a way to see his former surgeon in his private practice, where the media will leave him alone. They fix his torn ligaments and cartilage the best they can, then Jun travels to his new city to live alone, secluded. Lonelier than ever, without seeing the ice being in plan, in pain, smoking. 

Winter comes again, and Jun hates himself and the TV too, where they broadcast skating even on channels where they should not—his fist bleeds when he breaks the screen, but the newly come silence in between the still unpacked boxes somehow brings peace. His leg heals, yet it still hurts, lacks power and range of motion—Jun told himself he has no reason to continue doing his physiotherapy or to keep up staying strong and healthy.

Once, as Jun must leave his home to handle some paperwork at the bank, the weather is unkind and leaves the sidewalks with almost perfect ice: rain falls that just freezes onto the cold enough ground. 

After exiting the bank’s building, just a few meters from Jun, a child falls and starts to slide towards the road where a car comes—before he knows, his body acts on its own. Sliding on the ice in his normal shoes is so different, yet similar—his balance on point, Jun snatches the child and changes position enough that even with their changed force of gravity, they don’t fall and avoid the road. Jun has to sink deeper to hold his position as he tries to stop, and his formerly hurt leg protests—a sudden sharp pain renders Jun blind for a moment, so all he can do is gently drop the child by the wall before he takes the fall alone. At least, neither of them is close to the road. 

The mother of the kid cries and offers many apologies and gratitude—Jun just nods, and way less elegantly than he’d like to, he crawls to his feet, and limpingly slides and walks away on the slippery sidewalk.

It’s been a year since he last skated or even tried to think of it—as if he could ever forget, as if he could stop dreaming the same things over and over again, as if…

Treacherous tears come, and on the rare occasion, as he normally never drinks, Jun gets very drunk, but he finds the instruction paper for the physiotherapy he should have done. For the first time this night, he goes through the full routine on his own—at least he tries to, as much as his drunk mind and body allow him. After his surgery, until the medical system and his doctor forced him, he attended the physio sessions, but not a single time did he bother to follow the regimen at home. 

Being told clearly that he will never be good this way and might need more surgeries later made no difference or could convince Jun otherwise… then a random fallen kid and the weather did. Jun knows he is being ridiculous.

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A year later, after smoking a package of cigarettes a day, yet otherwise having his utter best to get into shape done and having practiced jumps on land, Jun books a rink for himself in a nearby city at a late hour. Stepping on the ice for the first time since the Olympics… Jun slides into the rink and just lets the momentum bring him into the middle, then… he just stands there. 

An hour passes, and Jun leaves without having done anything else. 

His second, third, or not even the sixth time is any different. Jun stops coming to the rink. It is pointless—why skate when it leads him nowhere?

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Years pass and mistakes are made. Hikaru is one of them. Not being able to say no, Jun meets her, and not knowing better, he brings her to skate. If there is any language he understands, then it is through the ice… But can a child also speak the same?

Jun hasn’t skated or jumped on ice ever since his fall—yet when he slides across the rink with the little girl in his arms, Jun wonders how he could miss out on this. Hikaru makes a soft sound, wonder and amazement written on her face—and Jun can’t help but smile, the ghost of happiness slightly sitting on his face for the first time. 

Later, he puts down Hikaru and tells her to watch. It’s been years, but his body is strong now, and muscle memory never forgets. Jun goes into a difficult step sequence and zooms figures across the ice with all the precision and perfection he can muster—even though it’s only a young child who can see, Jun skates as if a gold medal would be at stake. 

His knee holds up—it hurts and burns, but this is just his newly welcomed old friend, pain. 

No music plays yet Jun can hear it anyway; before his conscious mind could stop him, Jun continues just where he left off and slides into the triple Axel to land it on his left leg that he failed last time. Off ice, he could do it, both sides—and now he can too here, while he skates. It’s infinitely easier, even.

Saying goodbye to this jump made out of arrogance, Jun finally steps over the years of mess he made, and he doesn’t land more combinations on his left. He skates just like he had for years before the Olympics, and his body cooperates.

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Years pass, and even though he has no reason to get better for himself , Jun makes it his life’s goal to skate perfectly so whenever he demonstrates to Hikaru, she can only see what she should. No mistakes are allowed. Jun doesn’t tell her, but if he were to fail a jump, then he would withdraw from being her coach in the shadows—he doesn’t think he deserves the post if he can’t be perfect like he should. A part of him wishes Hikaru would leave. Jun does his best to tell her she won’t be happy if she follows his past—being on top as a champion is lonely, and there are no rewards in the end… now Jun knows this well.

Hikaru stays anyway.

She is almost perfect, and Jun feels a weird feeling of warmth when she performs well—yet he brushes these off and keeps to himself. Hikaru should be happy and break free of her past. She doesn’t know who Jun is to her, and Jun tries his best to make her forget where she came from, even childishly throwing away the family heirloom necklace when they get into one of their rare arguments. Jun, of course, goes to find it himself—his failure leading him to kick over a trashcan.

If he has ever had a friend, then it is Shinichiro—Jun still wishes the older skater would hate him as he robbed him of the gold medal that, no matter injuries and setbacks, even at an older age than Jun, Shinichiro came to take.

Shinichiro is kind and an amazing guardian and father figure—Jun wonders if Hikaru realises how much she acts for nothing because in the end her joy with the Sonidori family is pure and real and she is not alone. Shinichiro tries to include Jun, and he doesn’t say, but he tries to be there for Jun, too—he tries in ways he didn’t when they were younger. The Kamisaki's letter that invited Jun offered him private ice time, wanting to provide him a place and to protect his skating—Shinichiro now makes sure Jun has the same, his action speaking volumes in his place.

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Seeing Hikaru grow hurts as Jun knows the inevitable ending nears—he insists he is not her coach so she can never leave him. Jun doubts he would survive that. Hikaru insists on the same path and changes clubs. She skates her program like Jun, then… she skates better. Forming the program to fit her in the second half, stepping out of Jun’s shadows, Hikaru rises up like a new, hungry wolf. A predator that is out there to take every medal she ever chooses to fight for. 

But Hikaru doesn’t skate for herself or the medals this time… Yet it is beautiful. Maybe it is so wonderful because she doesn’t.

Watching her fills up Jun’s chest with pride, and draws a small smile onto his face—the most real one even since his last program or since he skated with Hikaru in his arms for the first time. 

She came so far. She is perfect. She can do so much more. 

If saying goodbye to competing was hard, then finding a ‘good enough’ reason to leave Hikaru overwrites the scale in Jun’s head. He knows she may bargain and beg and cry, yet he comes with determination that cannot be shaken. 

If there is one cruelty Jun cannot do, then it’s to not be enough: to make Hikaru think Jun’s ground is the same as hers while she could fly so much higher.

He shows her the failed jump, then Jun leaves the ice. If he were to stay only so he can skate, then it would be for himself—Jun gave up living for himself a long time ago. 

He existed, but never really lived. He tried, yet it led nowhere.

Leaving his skates behind is a message he knows he cannot take back: he is done. 

For real, this time. 

Shinichiro and Riley are there for Hikaru, and Jun could never wish anything better for her than this. Staying would only tie Hikaru down—not letting her try to jump over Jun’s path would be vicious. Jealous. Pathetic.

The cigarette’s taste in his mouth is familiar, and it’s the only thing that grounds Jun enough that he can simply walk away instead of breaking down… as if he would have a reason. He hasn’t really cried since the Olympics and his mistake.

Jun staked his life as a skater to prove everything was possible, but he stayed alone in the end because nothing good awaited him on the other side once he burned too bright for his body to keep up. Once he burnt too bright that his soul felt empty, and the reasons to compete ran out.

If there is one thing Jun doesn’t want, then it’s for Hikaru to burn herself out too much—to do so much more than she needs to, only to prove herself. To prove to Jun that she’s better and she doesn’t live in his shadows anymore.

Light rain falls as the rink’s building sinks into the distance at the competition venue.

Today, it was only a single jump Jun performed, yet with the changing weather—he is surely not getting any younger—his leg aches already more than usual. Having practiced all his life to keep his hurt to himself, Jun doesn’t limp, but it is increasingly harder and harder not to. 

The lack of enough warmup, stretching, and sleep is something he can’t ignore anymore.

Time—life—passed over Jun’s head too fast. The packet of cigarettes in his pocket was almost full when he left—after his walk that led him to the bridge and the riverside, now it is close to empty. He went through a day’s worth in half an hour.

The air is cold and fresh, yet breathing is not so easy. The rancid smell he normally barely feels anymore deeply etched in his nose, Jun lights up yet another cigarette. Just like on that night in the hotel room after the Olympics, Jun’s hands tremble, and cold sweat drenches his hair along with the rain as this high dose of nicotine even hits an athletic man in his mid-thirties.

His coat is too light for the weather, and there is no shelter around here except under the bridge. Jun lets his legs bring him towards the stairs that lead down to the grassy field by the river and to the little road that curves back under the arch, providing cover.

Standing at the top of the stairs and looking down by the railing where a vertical drop is closed off from people, for a moment, Jun wonders if he should just climb over. The thought of ending it all has been tempting for a long time, slowly worming its way into the back of his mind—but Jun hates himself for being too weak and never being ‘enough’ that it has never been a serious enough thought.

A twisted smile sits on his face for a moment—if he were to fall here, he likely wouldn’t die, just break his legs and become a helpless, pathetic mess.

With the rain and the late night settling in, Jun barely passed any people on his way—now as the noise of approaching footsteps reach his ears, not wanting to see anyone or accidentally find himself in an interaction with another human, Jun steps ahead to head down the stairs and wait under the bridge as maybe the rain calms a little.

A voice inside asks: Why wait? 

Wait for what ?

What is exactly out there for Jun? Is there even anything left…?

No, of course not —it’s the only correct answer.

But it’s not one that allows a person to live . To go on.

The image of his skates left behind plays in his mind.

Jun takes another deep suck of the cigeratte and the first step down the stairs. The new rush of nicotine gets into his head—a rush of dizziness washes over him with so much more force than he could anticipate. When did he even eat last time…? Reaching for the railing to hold himself up, Jun tries to save the situation, but…

With his weight on the leg that aches and the nauseating vertigo taking over his body, Jun’s attempt to catch the railing is futile. 

An Olympic medalist, a person who can still skate on that level and just performed impeccably less than an hour ago—now overdosed with nicotine, drenched in rain, hurting… Jun Yodaka falls, and there is no way to avoid it.

Trying to balance with his arm, yet being thrown off his center as he attempted to reach the railing instead, gravity pulls Jun forward and down. Sharp pain arises in his knee, yet it holds up—until Jun’s ankle twists from the force and his knee eats up the first part of the impact.

Putting his hand out saves him from shattering his head on the edge of the concrete stairs—having punched things out of anger, Jun broke his wrist before, welcoming that pain as it didn’t matter if it hurt because he didn’t need his hand to bear weight while he skated. Now, a sickening crack (or maybe just Jun hears it louder in his head, he doesn’t know) and burning, electric pain envelops his wrist—yet it is not enough to stop his fall.

Being mentally ready—as much as anyone can in the span of a tenth of a second—Jun braces himself for the roll down as the straits down are still long… But that pain never comes.

As if he just hit a wall in the middle of the flight of stairs, Jun’s body crashes into something … Someone.

He crashes into his saviour’s shin and strong calf, as the person who stops his fall, holds out both of their weight and impact with one leg put sideways, a step or two lower than Jun. Gentle, yet firm hands reach for Jun’s shoulder and direct his roll into an upward angle, so with the last rotation of his fall, Jun ends up sitting on the stairs.

For a moment, only the sounds of their breathing break the pitter-patter noise of the rain. Jun blinks away the dark spots from his vision. The hands on his shoulder are still warm, and somehow his body’s reaction is to relax into the touch—but Jun hates himself for this so much that he tries to escape and yank himself away. 

Even to stand, to just leave. To go away, to pretend this never happened. To save face.

…How foolish of him, right?

The moment he moves and tries to push himself up, the ankle he lightly sprained, and his bad knee don’t hold him up. His ‘saviour’ pulls away when Jun moves, yet as soon as Jun falls again, he’s there one more time and helps the Olympian sit back securely.

His drenched locks clouding his vision, not caring about his wrist, Jun takes his right hand to push his hair out of his face—his wrist hurts enough he grimaces and hisses… all the while as Coach Tsukasa’s openly worried face fills up his field of vision, up close.

If there is one person, or maybe a list, Jun would not have wanted to be here at the last minute, then it surely includes Tsukasa Akeuraji.

Jun’s hate for Tsukasa is deep-rooted—it stems from the place of understanding that he must deny for himself, or else his whole concept of the world and his own life fall apart. Being Hikaru’s help, Jun understands just well enough what Tsukasa can feel for Inori—yet he cannot justify the decision to give up on his own career.

Tsukasa is a scarcity, and he could have been the rival Jun wished to have. Someone who could have caught up, someone younger chasing him, making him never want to quit and leave. Someone who could have understood how it is to be in his place, another who can see himself in that labyrinth from above and self-assess in ways that no outsider eye can ever do. Someone who could have understood it all .

Jun hates Tsukasa for throwing away his talent, and for not even being brave enough to admit he has it, even if late. Not admitting it—not to himself. 

Their gazes lock for a too-long moment. When Jun realises he is staring—his pupils blown, his green irises barely visible—he averts his eyes. Now, with more care than before to not hurt his wrist more, he fumbles with cold fingers to find the package and a lighter in his coat’s pocket, having dropped the other cigarette during his fall.

His hands shaking and not being able to hide it, not knowing how to deal with Tsukasa just yet… Even though the younger coach let Jun go, he is still too close and he can’t look away, as if the whole situation had just rendered him blank. As if it would matter to him and he would have a reason to feel anything about what just happened.

An attempt to press the lighter. A fail.

A second one. Another fail.

Anger growing, and blowing up inside, with Tsuakasa’s golden eyes still on him, unavoidable and unmistakable to see as Jun can’t just go away, he hisses, “No need to stay around, we’re not on ice and I’m just a random person you saved from a fall. You can leave.”

Jun wishes he could say ‘thank you’ but the words don’t come to his lips.

The third attempt to get the flame out of the lighter is better, but to no avail—it doesn’t work. Jun’s hand shakes more, and Tsukasa is still silent, unmoving. The monster that feeds on his anger grows, threatening to tear out of Jun.

Swallowing hard, Jun grits his teeth, biting down on the cigarette in his mouth. He pulls up his good leg—the other being outstretched, Jun knowing it better than to try to move it just yet—so he can stabilize his forearm on it and focus better on the lighter.

Being so close to just losing his mind, Jun tries to push the button on the lighter deep enough so the flame lights up, and he can get his cigarette burning. Ignoring Tsukasa and almost praying the rain also doesn’t cross his plan, Jun presses—and thankfully , it works.

Sucking deep on the cigarette, the nauseating wave of yet another dose of nicotine hits Jun’s mind—it is unpleasant and makes him dizzy, yet it helps with his hurting body, and lets him not deal (just not yet, not now, not until he is more stable) with the mess of thoughts in his mind. Jun closes his eyes for an infinitely long second.

Having ignored Tsukasa who still half kneels, half squats in front of him a step lower, after the third deep suck on the cigarette, Jun’s gaze now again goes back to the other’s because there is no way to just pretend he is not here. Not when Tsuakasa looks like he is seeing a ghost, when his expression is turned into a hurting half-grimace, and it is written on him that seeing Jun this way breaks his heart.

Jun thinks that he should repeat himself—he decides against it. 

He’s too tired to do so. Using the last drops of respect and politeness in him, Jun turns his head when he blows out the smoke so it doesn’t go straight to Tsukasa’s face. With the exhale, a sigh coming from the depth of his soul arrives as well—he truly wishes he could just be left alone. 

Keeping up an apathetic face is not easy, not even for him. Not now. Jun wishes he could be angry, but now he has spent almost as much time not skating competitively as he spent skating, and the sheer fact he is still here is too depressing to deal with, washing away the volcano that otherwise blows up so easily inside.

With a slow blink and unsaid words, Jun hopes Tsukasa can remember his former request or read the same on him now: Leave.

Jun hopes—then he wishes he didn’t.

As if something deep in his heart had been ignited, protest rises in Tsukasa and erupts to the surface:

“No,” he says. Firmly, like he means it, his expression relentless, almost heartless. He says it in a way, as he would otherwise normally not speak—except, he did in the past already. He did, but only to Jun when he declared promises he couldn’t keep.

Jun inhales through the cigarette, slowly, letting the rancid smoke reach the depth of his lungs. His gaze is cold, yet Tsukasa doesn’t falter; Jun turns away again to blow out the smoke.

Maybe not having to endure Jun’s dead gaze helps him; Tsukasa continues a moment after their eyes don’t meet: “You are hurt.”

It’s more of a statement than anything else—Tsukasa doesn’t need to ask to know. His gaze drops and follows Jun’s outstretched left leg, slowly going from the swollen knee, visible through fitted pants, to the ankle that is at least kindly covered by the edge of Jun’s shoe and the end of his pants. 

Tsukasa looks like he would like to touch—he acts as if Jun would be but a fallen skater in the rink, and Tsukasa would be the first to stop by. Not letting an athlete hurt themselves any further can be important: just holding the injured limb in place, at the same angle until more help comes, can be vital.

Except Jun isn’t injured like that. And they aren’t in the rink. And Jun does not need anyone’s help. And Tsukada should never, ever care.

“It’s fine,” Jun shrugs and takes another deep breath of the cigarette. With his gaze trained on the river far away ahead, he doesn’t see Tsukasa’s growing anger—Jun adds more without knowing it is only oil on the fire. “Even if I’m hurt, it doesn’t matter. I don’t skate anymore.”

He doesn’t even know why he has to say it.

Jun thought: saying the words will make it so much easier. He thought it’d help to accept that it ended with Hikaru—not being on the ice in the future was inevitable anyway. 

These should be things he had already gotten over a long time ago, yet… Jun thought and anticipated so many things—but not that his throat constricts and closes up, and through the dizziness of the nicotine, he will feel his chest crushing on him and air not being enough.

Fighting the hotness at the back of his eyes, if there is one thing Jun doesn’t need, it’s Tsukasa to grab him by the shoulder and shake him—with intent, yet lightly enough to not cause any pain. His golden gaze glowing, through the white noise of the rain, Tsukasa’s words are clear and hit Jun in the middle, arrow-like:

“Your worth is so much more than your ability to skate, and you are a fool for not seeing it!” Tsukasa yells, all that faith and belief that he could have had for himself being put onto another person one more time.

Air stuck in his lungs, Jun’s eyes widen. He wishes he would be stronger and he could interrupt Tsukasa, yet all he does when the younger man opens his mouth again to continue, is to listen.

“You are as perfect as an athlete can ever be. Your skating is better than before, even though it has been more than a decade since your gold… such a long time you spent destroying yourself,” says Tsukasa, the boiling anger already long gone, his words quieter and slower, filled with sadness and loss. 

Things no one should feel for Jun. 

And as if it wasn’t enough to throw the things into Jun’s face that others didn’t dare out of respect or love, things that alone change nothing as Jun has been aware (yet hearing them matters, still), Tsukasa has more to add: 

“Saying these feels like insulting the past you—so please, forgive me for this. But you matter, you’re the reason I started to skate—you’re the reason many others ever did.” 

With all the honesty of a grown-up man and tears that now mix into the rain that falls down on Tsukasa’s face, his eyes big and open, no matter how much Jun wants to ridicule this blind opinion, he is unable to snap back with something that could hurt Tsukasa enough to leave Jun here, alone.

Jun fears: no matter what he’d say, it wouldn’t be enough. Even if he were to lie.

As a prodigy and an Olympian, Jun is not new to seeing blind and baseless adoration, but Tsukasa understands his greatness as a skater. Many other fellow athletes do too… Yet neither of them, not even Shinichiro, was ever bold enough to speak like this—not while being apologetic. Bless his good heart and for being able to put up with Jun, Shinichiro is the only person Jun has ever considered as a friend—Jun knows Shinichiro tried his best to respect the hard lines Jun drew, yet care about him. He did his best, and if Jun has ever been grateful to anyone, then it’s Shinichiro.

“Your career could have been so much longer,” Tsukasa continues, treading dangerous waters that help Jun fight the tears that prick on his eyes. “ If you decided to compete more or to go back to it, you could have. You still could because you are that great. I’ve seen your skating and it is the most beautiful, I—”

“What do you know about being out there, if anything at all?” Jun snaps, finally, interrupting Tsukasa, making him draw back from the sudden force.

His heartfelt expression frozen on the younger man, he seems the shrink as Jun’s frustration and anger of fifteen years are released on him:

“What other goals could I have reached when I did it all, and there was nothing left for me to do, and no one else got even close?” Hissing the question, with his unhurt hand, Jun grabs onto the front of Tsukasa’s sweater, not letting him pull away more. 

“Do you know…” Jun starts, high up, his voice raised, yet quieting down midway. 

The words even in his mind shake him at his core, and Jun wants to say them so badly, but they are stronger than he is. His grip loosening, the wet fabric of Tsukasa’s sweater falls out of his hand. Opening his mouth, the cigarette falls out, rolling away, the rain extinguishing the amber in its end.

Inhaling sharply, Jun swallows and tries to find the anger inside that made him hit and break things for many years now. He goes again, “Do you know—” but his voice breaks, pathetically, his throat closing, a wet sound escaping him instead.

Jun failed at something—again.

Why is he surprised, even? He has failed at everything except skating.

Dropping his head, his shoulders slumping, all anger and passion and vigour leave Jun with the threat that this is really irreversible and nothing can ever bring back anything that makes life worth living again. Defeated, Jun admits with a whisper, long-held-back tears finally flowing, his shoulders trembling: 

“Do you know how lonely it is to be on top and think if you do your best and pull through and win it all, then eventually there will be something you understand and it will give meaning to your life and you learn how to live outside of the ice?”

Not knowing if Tsukasa still listens or if he could even hear it, Jun fights that sob that tries to shake him in his core—he wins, but only before a warm arm sneaks around his waist from the back and pulls him gently into a half hug. It feels the world gets quiet and time stops, indefinite.

Jun doesn’t know the last time anyone hugged him. 

The closest to another being in his proximity was when he skated around with Hikaru in his arms, finding something in life to look out for, even if he denied it.

Is there even anything now to cry about? 

Absolutely not.

Does Jun sob for the first time ever, with another person holding him, for everything hard he went through and the things he has never had or lost?

Pathetic, but he definitely does.

The ice is cold, and it doesn’t have favourites—but Jun loved it enough that it hugged him back and let him feel alive.

Now, on this rainy night, Jun learns that maybe there is a warm way of feeling loved, too.

The next hour passes fast and in a way that Jun just hopes later he can pretend it never happened—or at least he will never be forced to talk about it. He doesn’t think he can, ever.

Tsukasa lets him cry, waiting patiently until the tears don’t flow anymore, and Jun can breathe and think again. Light rain falls—yet over time, it drenches them both down to their last layers. 

The only question Tsukasa asks is if Jun needs to go to a hospital, which Jun declines—Tsukasa makes him look into his eyes as he does so. Jun knows Tsukasa has no reason to believe him (as unexplainable as why he is here, caring), yet the younger man gives him the trust that a former Olympian knows his body and injuries enough to decide for himself when he needs medical attention. 

(Wrong. No one should ever believe Jun about this—but Tsukasa’s lack of fight is appreciated.)

After a quick inquiry, Tsukasa learns Jun stayed at the hotel close to the event venue—just thinking about how he parted from Hikaru makes it hard to name the location.  ‘I don’t skate anymore,’ Jun said previously—but Tsukasa cannot know that this time, he meant it. For the first time in three decades (or even a bit more) since he started, today is the first time ever Jun left his skates behind.

It feels like a piece of him stayed by the rink—and it did. 

A part of him could never leave; even when he withdrew from skating, he couldn’t stay away. Jun couldn’t ever watch men’s singles, but his love for skating and the ice sometimes led him to events—like the one where he saw Tsukasa skate in ice dancing. 

Up until the lifting mistake, it was the talent that caught his eye—it made Jun wonder why someone with such edge control and ability couldn’t appear in men’s skating when he was still active. 

Loneliness at the top, achieving everything, and climbing so far ahead that no one could catch up—the denouement of geniuses. Of Jun Yodaka.

The fighting spirit gone from him, when Tsukada tells Jun, he shouldn’t go back near the skating venue, not tonight, maybe, then Jun just nods and accepts whatever else option Tsukasa has in mind instead. If the younger man speaks more (Jun is quite sure he does), then Jun is too zoned out to hear and actually comprehend.

Sitting under the rain, at one point, Tsukasa lets him go and tells him to stand up. He offers a hand and arm to hold onto—yet he leaves Jun to decide if he wants to take it or not. 

If someone skates, then eventually they sprain an ankle: being the most common injury amongst skaters, Jun can easily assess that this is just something light and he can stand on it without hurting himself further. As for his knee, though… A part of him deeply fears it is a lot worse—during the time they’ve been sitting on the cold concrete stairs, Jun just let his leg hang outstretched in the same position as he arrived after his fall. 

From the impact, he is sure it will be bruised, his fair skin blooming in all purples and livid reds. Jun felt the twist—all so familiar—yet he (almost desperately) tells himself this couldn’t be that bad and nothing should be torn inside. At least not as much as it can’t heal on its own soon. It should just be an aggravation of his old injuries. If it were worse than his ‘good’ old friend, pain would scream at him louder even as he sits, right…?

Hoping not to be injured… then remembering it doesn’t make a difference because he left his skates behind and he should be closing doors, leaving this world behind.

Swallowing his pride and seeing Tsukasa’s unprompted and growing worry, Jun just accepts the hand and lets the man help him get up. Thankfully (Jun isn’t sure why he feels any gratitude), even though it throbs and aches badly, he can put weight on it—a good sign. A wonderful one, even.

The same strong arm that warmed Jun and pulled him close, now, one more time wraps around his waist, keeping him close and steady, all the while as Tsukasa lets him go up the stairs on his own. Using up the remnants of his dignity, Jun doesn’t take the stairs one by one, even though this way every second step means Tsukasa can feel him leaning more over to his side, using his provided support.

The taxi ride is silent.

They don’t travel far, yet they drive in the opposite direction from the event venue—Tsukasa explains that accommodation at a distance was cheaper, so he chose this option for himself. Jun wonders if Tsukasa realises he is technically taking Jun back to his place—he also wonders if Tsukasa explained what he will do and what the plan is, but Jun was just too busy grieving (grieving… what exactly? His career? Skating?) things in his life that he didn’t realise to mean more than he could just simply let go and never look back.

For the first time in his life, Jun lets someone else make decisions for him. He does care… but he just can’t care enough. Then also… he trusts Tsukasa for some unexplained reason that makes this so easy (a lot easier than it should ever be)—and Jun tells himself he doesn’t know why this is.

All Jun wants is to be left alone—but he is too weak to ask and leave when Tsukasa’s warmth enveloped him so much, and he offers his kindness and good heart on a silver plate. Jun could be cruel and break it with words alone: the realisation that Tsukasa puts himself into such a vulnerable position for Jun, and for Jun alone, makes Jun’s throat constrict again.

In which world does he deserve this treatment?

It’s already cruel to accept benevolence when he can’t give anything back in return.

“This is the inn of the bathhouse next door—we can just walk over in half a minute. At this hour, the locals should have gone home already, and the place is small and less frequented anyway,” Tsukasa explains once they get into the small room that only has one double-sized bed. Thankfully, the room is on the ground floor and there are no more stairs to climb here. 

Exhausted in body, mind, and soul, all Jun can do is listen and nod that he understood the information. It’s a minuscule job, yet Tsukasa reward him with a warm smile for it. 

In the past, Jun would have surely taken this as offense, his blood already boiling and lashing out with words colder than the ice—but tonight, Jun can see this could be the furthest thing from an insult. He sees and knows, even if he doesn’t understand the reason for it.

“You should warm up in the bath… Well, we both should. Then eat something. The innkeeper usually has a bowl of soup and rice for me at this hour… At least she had in the past days since we arrived for the competition,” Tsukasa explains. “I should ask her ahead of the bath.” 

Getting flustered—maybe from the lack of resistance from Jun—Tsukasa suddenly grows very self-conscious of the situation. His smile is awkward, and despite his impressive height, he seems to sink into himself. Shinichiro told Jun about how his name got mentioned (again) at the coaches’ night at the training camp; even without this information, Tsukasa’s adoration or his earlier words today would speak loud enough for Jun to know how the younger man feels about him.

Still, it feels impossible to accept this reality. Even if it’s not Jun’s intention to disvalidate the feelings that Tsukasa wears outside, brave.

Jun hasn’t cared too much about what others think of him—not in the good, nor the bad sense. Tonight, though, Jun just wishes that all that sheer and toned down adoration that makes Tsukasa appear almost like a dog that is trying hard not to wag his tail would be not for him—but for someone who is more worthy.

In a different world, maybe Jun could tell Tsukada about this… But here, the task feels unimaginable. Nodding only, Jun responds without words, then averts his gaze to the ground. He wishes he could just sleep, but his body is so cold after the rain that he knows not even in hours could he feel he’s warmed up, no matter how thick his blanket is.

The bath is nice: it’s empty and steamy and quiet. With his hurt wrist, washing up isn’t the easiest, but Jun is a more meticulous man than to let anything small like pain stop him from being decent. Afterwards, limping to the pool, not as gracefully as he would prefer, Jun slides into the hot water. 

It’s wonderful… and also, it is too much. 

Jun feels circulation returning and running high in his limbs again—but the warmth brings the misery back, increasing it even tenfold. Like with any swollen joint, keeping it lowered the way he sits in the pool is already something unhelpful; then add the hot water on top, and formerly bearable pain can soon turn into something worse and way less tolerable. Even for someone who is used to it.

A loud sneeze gets Jun’s attention away from his aches: apologetic, Tsukasa now sinks into the water, too. Jun is sure the younger man deliberately took his sweet time to give him some space and privacy. Not knowing how to say the words, but Jun is grateful.

“I hope you won’t get sick,” Jun says this instead, his tone flat but honest, his eyes not exactly meeting Tsukasa’s—if there is an answer to this in the other man’s expression, Jun doesn’t know.

Giving himself a few more minutes in the water to bear the pain and warm up, Jun also feels that all the nicotine in his system, now with the heat together, starts to pace up his heart enough that his chest feels close to uncomfortable. Jun curses himself for being so weak and just giving in to Tsukasa and coming here—his thoughts trail downwards when the water moves, and Jun no longer sits alone as the younger man has slid across the pool to join him.

“You could elevate your leg on the edge of the pool—my shoulder could be your backrest if you do!” Tsukasa says with a megawatt smile, his fisted hand only having his thumb pointed out, which gestures to his shoulder to illustrate his idea.

The presentation feels like it was an explained idea he presented in front of his snotty-nosed skating kids at training.

Tsukasa is so incredibly childish—but kind. Perceptive, too—observant enough that he picked up on Jun’s discomfort and dilemma. Creativity and solution-finding could also be written up on his imaginary chart that Jun’s mind has for the assessment of this infuriating and good-hearted man.

With the pool’s structure, aside from basic decency and not wanting to sit here with one leg being at the height of his head, Jun has no real solutions that involve both staying in the water and not making his pain any worse than it was before. Tsukasa’s suggestion solves the problem: Jun can just turn a quarter and lean onto the offered muscular shoulder, using the other edge of the pool to put his leg up.

“If that’s fine with you,” Jun replies quietly with a nod.

Scratching the back of his head as he realised he again overdid it with his cheerful side, after Jun’s response, now relief washes over Tsukasa, and he only says a quiet, but clear, “Of course.”

Jun Yodaka has always kept to himself. Dressed in nothing but long black clothes, his body was for no one else to see except the necessary medical professionals whose help was needed along the way. Despite these, only a bit ago, he faced Tsukasa, shirtless, on a video call that should not have involved the man next to him.

Any other day, it would bother Jun to be this close to someone else, to be openly anything but perfect. The elevated ankle is a little puffy, Jun’s otherwise bony structures and gracious lines not properly visible. The bruises already bloom on his swollen knee, along with and around them, a few faded, old surgical scars cross over the joint. 

Feeling incredibly self-conscious and vulnerable, Jun glances over at Tsukasa from the corner of his eye—the younger man sits in the water with his head slightly turned away, eyes closed. He’s surely not blind, and he could see everything he wanted… but he is respectful enough that even after all the unkindness and downtalking he got from Jun before, one more time tonight the Olympian is given consideration and kindness.

Tsukasa could also ask . Everything and anything… But he doesn’t. Jun appreciates his silence a lot.

The lack of food in his body, the nicotine, and the hot water tire out Jun so much that he actually needs Tsukasa to hold him up when he stands, or else, with the sudden drop of blood pressure, he would have fallen over. Tsukasa’s hand lingers on Jun’s lean, muscular back just a moment longer than it is necessary before he lets go. The place he touched, even though Jun’s body steams from the hot water, now feels cold.

His knee structurally holds up, but Jun wishes he had painkillers with him because even without weight on it, shutting out the throbbing ache every second is hard and a way to skip on sleep, no matter how exhausted he feels. 

His wrist isn’t really bruised (yet, Jun thinks, the sickening crack he felt echoing in his mind), but it’s swollen enough that Tsukasa notices, his eyes widening in the slightest, when Jun gives him back the borrowed towel, neatly folded. Having broken his wrist in his rage before, Jun is quite sure this is ‘just’ a sprain. He makes a mental note about where he left the cast in his apartment that he used before—he will likely need it in the near future. 

With his own clothes still hanging and drenched, Tsukasa lends him a pair of loose grey sweatpants and a simple, black shirt. The latter would be filled out by Tsukasa’s muscular body—it hangs loosely on Jun, just like the pants. The sleeves are long enough that Jun folds them up already before taking them on, so he won’t accidentally trip over or need to lean down to do this later, putting more pressure on his hurt leg.

Tsukasa wears similar clothes, just maybe a little bit more faded, as if that pair had been through more rounds of washing than the one Jun wears.

Once Jun finishes with the pants’ sleeves and he’s dressed, Tsukasa leads him to the cosy dining room of the inn. An old woman—who has grown old smiling a lot, her wrinkles selling her out—welcomes them and places two bowls of hot soup onto one of the tables. 

She disappears for a moment, only to come back with a big portion of rice and two glasses of water. Everything from the plates to the room itself is simple, yet clean and decent—the out-of-the-way location of the place and its plainness may explain the cheaper price Tsukasa mentioned.

After a quick ‘ Itadakimasu ’, Tsukasa hungrily digs in—seeing him starved and interested in food makes Jun’s stomach twist in a weird way. Throughout his life, a few times he had asked himself: why can’t he just simply be normal? He tried out so many different foods once he retired, yet there wasn’t a single one he truly enjoyed. If he were more honest, then he rather disliked everything—except as a human and someone who still tried to skate his best, he had to eat.

Skating…

Tears welling up, Jun has to blink fast to not let them overflow. Thankful for his bangs covering his face, not wanting to give in to the turmoil he managed to suppress for decades, Jun just picks up his chopsticks and starts to eat. He can’t say he likes the food… but maybe this is the least disliked bowl of soup he has ever eaten in his life.

Jun can’t finish the soup or even think about touching the rice—with a genuinely apologetic face, he murmurs a thank you when the old woman comes to get their plates. Without words, she only smiles at Jun and pats his forearm lightly, making Jun feel he is a small child one more time. No adult has ever treated him this way—not the Jun Yodaka. Then his parents simply didn’t care enough to ever even try.

Tsukasa tells him to go ahead, back to the room—Jun makes a mental note to figure out how to send the night and the food’s price to Tsukasa later. The younger man arrives back quickly enough that all Jun could do was to brush his teeth with the inn’s freely given brush that remained unused as Tsukasa brought his own, when the door opens already and Jun is no longer alone.

The room is modest and tiny with a single bed for two people—having come this far tonight, and the food weighing him down, exhaustion is so much stronger than the protests Jun can think of. There is no turning back since he was weak enough to accept Tsukasa’s offer to come.

Leaving his life with Hikaru behind, the package of cigarettes, the stairs, the pain, the first hug he has ever received, Tsukasa’s continuous, sun-like warmth and company… 

Jun isn’t one to complain, but this is just too much.

Too much even for him.

Where to head tomorrow and what to do with his life?

Question upon question—giving in to the lies he has never told himself, not about his future, not like this, Jun hopes maybe if he manages to sleep, then he can wake up with all the answers in his lap, all knowing.

Approaching with hesitance, Tsukasa tries to hide his uncertainty when he walks up to Jun by the side of the bed the skater chose for himself.

“In case you need anything like this…” Tsukasa says, his voice quiet, his posture shrunken while he hands over a small bag to Jun. 

Frowning, Jun takes it with his uninjured hand: inside, the bag has two packages of ice, a few rolls of elastic bandages, a vial of commonly used menthol ointment, and a box of over-the-counter painkillers for joint pain and injuries.

If Jun could make a list of things that could help him without submitting himself to a visit to a doctor, then the bag contains it all. 

Back at home—or just back in his hotel room—Jun could have a knee brace he still uses sometimes, higher dose pills, and the exact brand of the elastic bandages he prefers… Things he had gotten for himself and got used to over the years.

Maybe his own things could be better… but nothing could make up for the gesture that Tsukasa didn’t ask him, yet cared enough to know the answers anyway and to try to get whatever he could at the moment.

“Thank you,” soft words fall from Jun’s lips, his gaze still trained on the inside of the bag. From his peripheral vision, he sees Tsukasa visibly relaxing—his reaction makes Jun wonder if the younger man thought his gesture would be taken as a sign of… What even? Disrespect? Unwanted worry? Infantilisation? 

A burst of laughter almost escapes Jun at the idea anyone could ever try to infantilise him.

Tsukasa hums back something and disappears in the adjacent bathroom to brush his teeth—he is gone just long enough that Jun has privacy to pop pills, use the ointment, and wrap up swollen joints so the compression helps with the pain throughout the night. Not wanting to risk an ice burn, Jun lies in bed as comfortably as it's possible and finds a way to have the bag of ice stay over his knee outside of the borrowed sweatpants. 

It’s written on Tsukasa that there is a lot he would like to say, yet just after a short question, he turns off the lamp and gets to bed. The mattress dips under his weight, yet it holds them both up well. 

The rain now falls harder outside, and the room is chilly–after the hot water and the soup, even when he pulls up the blanket more, maybe the ice on his leg is not helping the case, but Jun feels cold. Too cold to fall asleep. 

Shifting, uncomfortable, it doesn’t get any better, so Jun just tries to give his consciousness over to the darkness. The proximity of another and the situation weigh too much… Jun wishes he could just light up a cigarette.

When he finally manages to stay motionless, Tsukasa also moves around a little—maybe subconsciously, but both end up just a bit closer to the other, now the heat from the other’s body being unmistakable.

“Jun?” Tsukasa asks, whispering as if he were a child who dares to speak after curfew. 

The simplicity of using only Jun’s given name is… comfort in ways Jun cannot name, not even to himself. Humming as a response is enough for Tsukasa to add more:

“Are you cold?”

After everything, Jun cannot hold it back: a chuckle over the insanity of what just happened this evening escapes the Olympian. There are so many things Tsukasa could tell him. He could—maybe he should—hate Jun for how he spoke of his student, for not minding the weight of his words, for telling Tsukasa to go after his own career. 

Yet, there is no resentment. 

Tsukasa could also ask anything and everything about skating that so many people have tried before—he could hope maybe Jun would explain or speak more tonight.

There are many ways Tsukasa could use Jun—at least he could try—but the thing he asked is only of concern. Of worry that he only has because he was perceptive enough.

Silence falls over them once the echo of Jun’s chuckle disappears. Tsukasa’s presence in the dark feels anxious and restless—does he think Jun ridiculed him?

Jun wants to explain, he truly does, but the nth example of compassion directed his way tonight hits even stronger in the darkness. 

“I…” Jun starts, but he must stop and swallow to try to make the imaginary lump in his throat disappear, which doesn’t let him speak. Exhaling slowly, Jun brushes back his hair, then wipes at the corner of his eye with his thumb.

With time passed and their eyes adjusted, the room isn’t dark enough that the motion avoids Tsukasa’s eyes. When the silence between them after Jun’s failed answer is heavy enough that Jun has to shut his eyes tightly to keep the remnants of his control, Tsukasa moves a bit closer, the rustling noise of the sheets breaking the quietude. 

“Hey, just… Tell me if it’s not okay, alright?” Tsukasa says, then before Jun would need to ask what isn’t okay, he lifts up his own blanket to put over Jun, then scoots closer and raises the edge of the one that covers the Olympian.

Both blankets are a little too small for two people, yet certainly big enough for one; once understanding Tsukasa’s idea and having no reason to protest against logic (because this is only logic , surely, it must be), Jun also moves closer, trying to mind his hurt leg and the ice that still remained at the perfect place somehow. They end up almost in a half-hug—it’s not so much more apart than how they sat in the rain when Jun cried.

Jun has never slept with someone like this—he hasn’t been this close to another person to actually sleep. Tsukasa’s warmth under the blankets is radiating; it unfreezes something in Jun’s heart he cannot name.

Easier than expected, they just fit well together… and they can fit the blankets as well.

To make it more comfortable for both of them and let the blankets properly cover them both, one of Tsukasa’s arms goes under Jun’s neck, essentially replacing his pillow, letting Jun use the relaxed, soft muscles of his shoulder as a headrest. Their legs stay on their designated sides, Tsukasa not wanting to accidentally hurt Jun… but now with a pillow now being free, it quickly finds a new place under Jun’s knee for more support.

It almost feels like two grown adult men, for the sake of warmth on a cold night, play Tetris with themselves and a few additional beddings… Yet, once they are truly settled, nothing could be more comfortable.

A contented sigh leaves Tsukasa—it makes the corners of Jun’s lips turn upward in the slightest. Surely, this whole day… 

It cannot be real.

The tendrils of the tempting darkness pull Jun down already; fighting the feeling because he would hate himself if he couldn’t be brave enough to ask, Jun whispers into the darkness:

“Why?”

Why help me? Why care? Why be kind? Why can’t you just step away and pretend I never existed? Why do you always look at me as if I am amazing even when I am not on the ice? Why would you try to change my views on the world and this sport? Why can’t you just be a little bit more selfish and do things for yourself? Why…

Jun could ask a hundred questions, yet he doesn’t speak a single one.

The toned muscles under Jun’s head shift a little when Tsukasa takes a slow, deep breath. His hand reaches out under the blanket, and just with a fingertip, he touches the back of Jun’s hand before he speaks. His voice is solemn, the words falling softly from his lips, “Because you are also a person and you can have bad days and face hardship. You matter too—like everyone else.”

Do I?

The question arises in Jun’s mind like a tornado—could he ever have value outside the ice? As a person ?

What use am I when I’m not skating?

Maybe, one day, Jun will have the words to reply—or the ones to ask more questions. Tonight, instead, for the first time in a long while (or ever), all Jun does is just take it all in: accepting the freely given warmth is only the step on square one… 

Jun has a lifetime’s worth he still has yet to learn and experience about this—about being human .

Before Tsukasa can draw back his hand, Jun slides up his own a little, pushing into Tsukasa’s, so the faint touch becomes a light hold. His offer isn’t much, nor could he say it even if he were forced—but Tsukasa, always attuned, understands him anyway and accepts with the slightest curl of his fingers, squeezing Jun’s hand for just a moment.

Light rain falls at the early hours of the morning on this cold night.

With his skates left behind and the future as slippery as the rink, after a lifetime spent feeling nothing but the coldness of the ice, Jun Yodaka falls into dreamless sleep in the embrace of someone who loves him with warmth.