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The scores flash up on the big screen overhanging the arena, and it takes Yuzuru’s mind a minute to compute; 98.39, and already second place. Not first, not born into greatness, not holding on for even a minute – second, and he knows that the some of the best have yet to come.
He doesn’t say a word. Brian and Tracy are right next to him, and he hears Brian’s indignant question about the deduction, realizes that he needs to smile, to nod, to accept and move on – but he’s cold, he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to think about it.
Fifth in the short program. A messy combination, a late start, the lurch of his ankle as he stumbled on the quad salchow, and the same question, over and over again: ‘is this really all you’ve got?’
Of course, he’s determined. It’s not over yet, not by a long shot, because this is figure skating, and the impossible happens every day. Some would argue that the impossible did indeed become all too probable, today – who would have thought, who could have guessed, that things would end up like this , they say, and it’s true. No-one thought it, no-one guessed it, and yet there it is; 98.39, and a fifth place that tastes all too much like the end of something wonderful.
But he’s being melodramatic, and he knows that he’s still got it, he’s still Yuzuru Hanyu, and there is nothing and no-one who can rob him of that. He knows that there’s still a chance, however slim – but he’s thankful enough to be even a podium contender, to be able to erase that ugly 5 by his name and replace it with something worth remembering. He knows all these things, knows them by heart and by head, and he prays that it will be enough.
Yet all the knowledge in the world can’t stop his fingernails from biting too hard into the soft skin of his palms, as he tilts his head and laughs and smiles with just the right amount of regret.
This was meant to be his year, his title, and when the others in the changing room pat his back and grip his shoulder in condolence, he almost wants to throw up.
***
Javi comes looking for him right after the press conference – it’s the first time they’ve spoken properly all week. It’s not unusual; during competitions, they’re each in their own space, their own mindset, and this time around, they’re even in different practice groups. Hurried ‘good lucks’ and rushed smiles are all they’ve had time for. It isn’t anything new, and it makes a lot of things easier, focus-wise.
Yuzuru can feel Javi’s eyes on him as soon as he gets up to leave at the end of the conference. Honestly, he’s not in a mood to talk, and certainly not to go over the short program in excruciating detail. But he sternly banishes the uncharitable feelings to the corner of his brain and he waits by the door, smiling a little as Shoma, Patrick and Javi line up to take pictures, Shoma reverting to his default third position before remembering and scurrying sheepishly back to receive the little silver medal.
As expected, Javi taps him on the shoulder a few minutes later. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ Yuzuru chucks the greeting right back, and he honestly doesn’t mean for it to sound as aggressive as it does. Javi frowns, his hand pausing on Yuzuru’s shoulder for a second longer.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, head tilted in concern, and Yuzuru really shouldn’t want to hug him as much as he does right now. Instead, he settles for a smile.
‘Yeah. I’m sorry.’ He drops his head. ‘I…am just tired. Today was very long.’
By this point, almost everybody has left the conference room.
Javi nods in understanding. ‘Me as well – I’m tired too. But today… You looked really sad, when you saw your scores. You look sad now, too, Yuzu. I can tell.’
This is exactly the conversation Yuzuru had been hoping to avoid having. There will be time for self-pity later, he tells himself sternly – but now, it is Javi’s day, Javi’s success, and truthfully, he is heart-stoppingly proud of his boyfriend. He looks up again, and there is real warmth in his words when he replies.
‘You were amazing today, Javi. Your program was…’ He trails off, shaking his head. ‘It was amazing.’
His voice sounds too loud in the quiet of the hallway. The fluorescent lights are hurting his eyes with their cold blue stare, and quite suddenly, all he wants is to go back to his room and sleep. He’s smiling, but soon enough it turns into a grimace, the corners of his mouth tugging down into a sort of snarl.
And it’s in this moment that he really hates his own bitterness. He’s ashamed of himself, ashamed that he can’t even congratulate his boyfriend without obsessing over his own mistakes, ashamed that he made those mistakes when everyone expected him to be perfect, and ashamed of the despair that he can’t shake from his mind despite all the hugs, all the reassurance, all the good wishes and the cheers.
He realises that neither of them have said a word. Fuck , he thinks, raising a hand to scrub angrily at his eyes. Javi is still standing right in front of him, but Yuzuru just wants to leave, to get away from it all and brood in blessed isolation – because Javi doesn’t deserve to have this day spoilt for him.
‘I’m sorry. I not…good at this. Good night, Javi,’ he says, rushed, trying to slink away into oblivion. He doesn’t get far, though, for there is a hand caught loosely around his wrist, holding him back.
‘Hey, hey, slow down. You don’t get to run away like that, Yuzu. You owe that to yourself, at least.’
Javi’s tone is sharp, but the undertone of desperation shines through at every word. Yuzuru stills in his movements, but doesn’t turn around.
‘I know you’re angry, I know you feel bad. That’s okay, you know. But don’t make yourself suffer more than you need to. That way, you’re not helping anyone. You still want to win this, right?’
Yuzuru looks up. Javi is watching him, reproach and worry circling in his eyes like fish in a pond. ‘Yes,’ he says, and his heart beats almost painfully in his chest, because he wants it so badly .
‘Then what more is there to say? You want it, now you have to go and get it. And I think you know that you can, Yuzu.’
For a dreadful minute, Yuzuru wants to be selfish. He wants nothing more than to say I can’t, I can’t do it , and give himself over to the lonely bitterness of being so close, but never close enough. Yet as soon as he goes to open his mouth to let the treacherous words escape, he realises that saying it would make it real. That saying it would be nothing but a betrayal of everyone who’s worked hard to get him to where he is now; a betrayal of Brian, of Tracy, and of himself.
He closes his mouth with a snap.
‘I know. I can do it. I know, but –’
‘Shhh.’ Javi’s smile is warm and bright and familiar. ‘No buts. There isn’t time for that now.’
Somehow, they’ve ended up with Yuzuru’s hands tightly knotted in Javi’s shirt, and Javi’s thumbs stroking along Yuzuru’s cheekbones; but Yuzuru can’t bring himself to mind, not when the heavy load on his mind is being eased, ever so slightly, bit by bit.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, butting his head against Javi’s shoulder. ‘I’m proud of you.’
Javi kisses him gently on the forehead. ‘It’s not over yet.’
‘I know. But I still proud.’
The bitterness has gone from his mouth. Right now, though he is still angry, still disappointed in himself, the anger is pushing him on instead of dragging him down. He owes it to himself, to everyone around him and everyone who came to watch him. He has everything he needs to win – but it’s on him now, and he needs to take that sliver of a chance and make it first into a possibility, then a probability, and finally a certainty.
‘I’m not just going to let you win, though.’
Yuzuru snorts. Javi says it with teasing evident in his tone, but he’s serious. They are rivals, first and foremost, after all. At least for now. ‘I don’t make it easy for you, either.’
Javi chuckles. ‘You won’t, that’s for sure.’
They stand there in silence for a moment longer, just soaking up each other’s presence. It’s getting late, though, and time won’t stop for anything. There is practice to be done tomorrow, in their final day of preparation, and it’s been a long day – sleep is calling, Yuzuru’s eyes getting heavier and heavier with every blink.
‘Stay with me tonight.’
The words slip from Yuzuru’s mouth without permission. ‘Please,’ he adds weakly, hating how hideously needy he sounds, even to his own ears. He looks up through his fringe, which is finally overcoming the constraints of the remaining hair-gel.
Javi blinks, once, twice, his face settling into something strangely soft . ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let me get some clothes from my room and I’ll come up.’
They part ways in the elevator back at the hotel.
***
The corridors are quiet as Yuzuru reaches his room. The keycard flashes green, and the door opens with a soft hiss. The room itself is objectively nice, with a good-size television opposite the bed, a big balcony and potted plants on practically every flat surface - but all these things are only worth so much when the room’s occupant is only interested in flopping on the bed and passing out. Still, he cleans himself up, splashing cold water in his face until his eyes are streaming. He only pauses for breath when he pulls his pyjama shirt over his head – he doesn’t finish the motion, leaving the material draped across his face and hair. The shirt is blue, the colour flooding his eyes and blocking out everything else – it’s been a long day, after all, and he’ll take any chance he gets to feel peaceful. It’s oddly calming, until a knock on the door jerks him out of his trance and he remembers that he’s standing half-dressed with a t-shirt over his head.
He swings the door open, and of course Javi is standing, bag in hand, in the dimly lit hallway.
Without a word, Yuzuru steps aside to let him in. Javi plants a quick kiss on his forehead, then heads to the bathroom, flicking the main light off as he goes, leaving the room lit only by the blue glow of the bulb above the mirror. Yuzuru can hear Javi’s humming echoing through the thin wall, and feels the corners of his lips lift just slightly. There’s a crash, some muffled unintelligible swearing, then the humming resumes. It feels a little like home, and Yuzuru’s smile grows as he wraps himself in the duvet.
Sleep doesn’t come as easily as he had hoped, and he’s been staring at the cracked ceiling for twenty minutes when he feels a tug on the blankets, cold air rushing in as Javi settles beside him.
‘Don’t do that,’ he grouses, pressing icy feet against Javi’s shin. ‘Too cold.’
Javi yelps. ‘You’re freezing. Come here,’ he says, curling an arm around Yuzuru’s waist and dragging him closer. ‘Better?’
Yuzuru shifts around for a minute, rolling over to rest his head on Javi’s chest. ‘Better.’
Silence overtakes them, the room utterly quiet except for the gentle sigh of their breath. Yuzuru’s fingers are tapping out an ever-changing rhythm on Javi’s collarbone – the heartbeat in his ears seems to have travelled to his hands.
It’s when Yuzuru is right on the border of sleep and wakefulness that Javi speaks again, fingertips gently tracing Yuzuru’s shoulder blades, the bones jutting sharply from underneath the blue shirt.
‘Sometimes I feel like you’re going to fly away, one day.’
Yuzuru hums, the words taking a while to percolate through the haze of fatigue. ‘I don’t have wings.’
‘Plenty of people think you do, in a way. They draw you with them all the time. You must have seen it, on the banners.’
Yuzuru has seen it, of course, and it always makes him wonder – do people really see him fly? To look up, and see those posters, the ones with his name emblazoned bold upon the fabric, has always made him smile, made a quiet wave of pride rise in his chest.
But now, it mostly hurts.
I don’t feel like I could fly away, even if I wanted to.
His wings, if he ever had any, have been torn clean off today, it seems. A shiver runs through him, all the way to those forlorn stumps they call his shoulder blades. It’s a strange thought, and entirely unwelcome.
He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels Javi’s arms tighten around him in what must be an attempt to soothe the dreadful shaking. Neither of them speaks a word. He’s tired, so very, very tired, and for now, this is enough.
It takes a while, but the tears stop. Once more, silence settles down upon the room, and this time, it remains unbroken. He’s glad – Javi kisses him, on his cheeks, his lips, the sore, salt-soaked corners of his eyes, but says nothing, for nothing more needs to be said. He knows what he has to do, and now, in the eye of the storm, he wants it more than ever.
***
The next day passes quickly – they go to practices, interviews, meetings with coaches and the only thing they don’t have on their schedule is time to think. The air in the arena is thick and heavy with tension, as programs are tweaked for the last time and steps are given a final polishing. The wave of competition is carrying them all, now, and Yuzuru can only hope it brings him back to shore.
What unnerves him the most is the position he finds himself in. He’s looking up at the medals, this time, not lonely on the high peak of the mountain – it’s a new sensation, and he relishes the challenge.
But there is no time to think of the past, the future, or to really get nervous. An eerie calm has settled over him, and he refuses to allow himself to be shaken. Brian senses the change in attitude, and adjusts himself accordingly; he lets Yuzuru do mainly as he pleases during the practice sessions, trusting that he knows what he needs to make perfect for tomorrow. The practices themselves have been going well, his jumps solid, steps sharp and precise, spins fast and centred. But just as easily, all this might amount to nothing in the end, when it really matters.
The last year has been one great exercise in stability – the injuries, the painstaking, painful recovery and re-learning, even just the growing need for consistency in a field deeper than ever before – and Yuzuru knows that he will need every last scrap of that stability for what lies ahead.
***
He wakes early the next day, before his alarm has the chance to interrupt the peace. Surprisingly, there isn’t a single flicker of fear on his face, when he looks at himself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. His hands don’t shake when he draws back the curtains and steps onto the balcony, nor do his eyes water as he looks out to the sunrise.
Javi is probably sound asleep in his room, two floors below. The image brings back memories of mornings far lazier than this, of warmth and sunlight and contentment hanging in the air like dust. Yuzuru smiles softly, and feels something thaw within him, even as his fingers freeze under the weak Finnish sun. They have a ritual, tried and tested, for competitions like this; they had each gone to their own rooms the night before, by unspoken agreement, only pausing for a last good-luck hug on the way. When your closest rival is also the person closest to you, space becomes a valuable commodity.
Breakfast is a silent, tense affair. Skaters are dotted around the tables, all at least a couple of metres away from each other. Their coaches are at a similar distance, watching anxiously as most of the food remains untouched. To his right, Yuzuru spies Shoma staring at the piece of bacon on his plate with murder in his eyes. He suspects he’s not much better, only poking half-heartedly at the rice in front of him. Eventually, after the exasperated sighs of his dietician become too much to bear, he manages to force some of it down.
***
Time seems to wrap itself around him, blurring his eyes and the rest of his senses, before spitting him out onto the ice as the last group begin the six-minute warmup. He’s shuffling his feet, clenching and unclenching his fingers inside the blue gloves while the announcer introduces each of them – every fibre in his body is screaming at him to go, go, redeem yourself, show them what you’re truly made of. He starts out slow, circling the rink in long, loping strides, eyelids fluttering in the chill breeze, turning, arms out to steady himself, leaping up, up; his position unravels mid-air, free leg trailing behind like so much loose thread.
He skates away, allowing himself a moment, only a moment, to duck his head away from the cameras eagerly documenting his every trip, slip and blunder. Focus, focus ! He bites down sharply on his lower lip, the pain cutting through the maelstrom of noise swirling around him. Takes a breath. Another jump, an axel this time. A fall. The concerned gasp from the stands. Brian sending him off, warm and steadfast. The handshake, the sting of his palms as he slaps the boards, once, twice – then silence.
There is only him now, and as the music begins, he remembers why he loves it that way. He reaches out, a grasp for perfection, closing his fist on nothing - there isn’t a character this time. The soft piano notes guide him around the rink, urging him on, clearing the way for the first of his jumps. He takes a breath, feels it whistle through his lips. A clean landing.
Now the tension has been broken, the first obstacle overcome. Still, the battle hasn’t been won, let alone the war. The next jump is looming ahead – the quad salchow, the reason he crossed the ocean, the reason he left his home and would one day find another, amid the strangeness of Toronto. He pushes against the ice, and it doesn’t fight him today; he spins, once, twice, three times, four – and lands smooth and sure, the running edge carrying him onwards.
The combination spin passes in the blink of an eye, the momentary halt in his journey melting to the back of his mind as he drifts into the step sequence. It’s a new angle, a new visual – he remembers the glistening roar of Seimei, the passion of Romeo. This is something different, something softer, more delicate, containing far more of himself than he would once have thought existed. A pause: he brings his hands up in front of his eyes, the conductor of his own symphony, and sees every person he’s ever been staring back.
For better or worse, with ghosts winging his ankles and wreathing his head, he skates on – but something has changed, and every swipe of his blades carves a crack in the earth, shapes valleys and mountains, even raises a forest – and in the midst of it all, he is the river crashing towards the faintest promise of an ocean.
Now for the triple flip, the jump he worked so hard to fix and make anew. As he readies himself, he knows that though efforts may lie, and all too often do, they are not in vain. He lands clean, and the answering yell from the crowd is blood and fire in his veins.
The second half, and with it a moment to breathe. He needs it, this time no different – he’s working hard, chest heaving with exertion, but there is more to come. The moment elapses, and as the music builds, the familiar flicker of panic shudders to life in his stomach; but this time it’s quenched by the waters of the river as he thunders down the rink, earth shaking, ground moving, and it all depends on this, only this, there’s only this –
There isn’t time for that now.
And with only his faith left to guide him, he jumps, he lands, he can’t believe it , he jumps again, lands once more and he’s done it, roaring with the crowd as he digs down for the last quad toe.
Everything is stretching out behind him, everything he’s ever done, as he flies into the triple axel combinations, too high to even dream of falling. Now all that’s left is the choreo, the final stretch of white water as he slips into the hydroblade, leans back into the Ina Bauer, the lutz, and he can barely hear his music through the applause, but it’s okay, because it’s over, it’s done, and he can finally stop chasing.
He lifts an arm to the heavens, and the river flows into the sea.
***
His score is enough. When it appears, the whole arena shivering with anticipation, he’s just frozen, lost for words, for breath, for anything except joy .
It’s enough to beat himself, to prove himself once more. A year has passed, since Barcelona, since Boston, and it hasn’t been easy. When you’re so close, so painfully, bitterly close to the perfection you’ve been seeking all your life, only to fall so far from grace – loss shows no mercy, and he’s never been one for self-pity. But it’s over, it’s finally over, and he’s learnt that perfection comes in many forms.
Emerging from the green room as the lights go down for the medal ceremony, he doesn’t hesitate when Javi turns to face him. He practically throws his arms around Javi’s neck, grasping desperately at the back of his shirt, and he can feel Javi do the same to him. This year their positions are reversed, and it feels a little nervous, a little shaky, when Yuzuru rubs a slow circle into Javi’s back and huffs a trembling breath into his shoulder.
They draw apart, and Javi looks at him with a mixture of pride and regret that has Yuzuru’s heart twinging painfully in his chest. I love you, is what he wants to say, but he can’t, not here. So he settles for another hug, tighter than the first, and hopes his message is received.
***
It’s been two hours since all the noise stopped – all the interviews, the speeches, the handshakes and the pictures. The night is cool, but not unpleasantly so; Yuzuru keeps the balcony doors wedged open with the corner of his suitcase, and sits down on the gritty concrete itself, legs dangling into the dark between the railings.
He sighs. It’s been a long day, but he can’t find it in himself to be properly tired – every cell in his body feels like it’s full of air, fizzing and breathless with a nervy, dried-out excitement. Even sitting out here, breath coming out in smoky huffs, doesn’t bring him back into himself.
He closes his eyes, tipping his head back until the evening breeze washes along his neck, down to where collarbones peek from his shirt.
‘Hey.’
Yuzuru doesn’t say anything, just nods his head for Javi to come sit beside him. Below their feet, Helsinki glitters with golden threads, the red tail-lights of cars barely visible amid the glow. They could be anywhere, really, Yuzuru thinks – anything could have happened, and each city would still look the same.
‘Not even going to ask how I got in?’
‘Brian gave you card.’
Javi laughs, nudging closer until they are touching from shoulder to knee. ‘You know him too well. He asked me to make sure you weren’t re-watching your short again.’
Yuzuru looks over. He lets his eyes trail over Javi’s profile, mapping out the weariness set deep into his bones, his lips pressed too tightly together for such a casual conversation.
‘That only reason you come?’ Yuzuru says it softly, but Javi stares at him with such surprise that he might as well have shouted. ‘I know you well, too. Not just Brian.’
Javi stares out at the horizon once more, and something aches in Yuzuru’s chest. He knows Javi is hurting, and he knows the pain of losing, even to someone you love, all too well. Yuzuru has regrets – he always does – but Javi’s seem heavy enough that Yuzuru can see them pushing on his shoulders.
‘I came because I didn’t think you would,’ Javi replies, though there’s no reproach in his voice.
‘Didn’t know if you want to see me.’
‘I always want to see you, cariño. ’ He says it with a smile, the pet name cradled carefully on his tongue, and Yuzuru can’t help but laugh at the cliché sentiment. ‘And I wanted to tell you that I am so proud of you. And happy. For you. Not so much for me.’
Javi’s voice wavers only a little.
‘Next year we fight for it again,’ Yuzuru says, running his thumb over the back of Javi’s hand.
Beyond the balcony, even the tallest high-rises are blinking themselves into darkness.
Yuzuru stands up. ‘Come on. We should go inside now,’ he orders, tugging at Javi’s pyjama shirt.
***
Just as they’re both about to fall asleep, Javi’s hands carding increasingly slowly through black hair still slightly rough with gel, Yuzuru speaks.
‘Proud of you,’ he says, the foreign words unusually warm in his mouth. ‘I feel like this is yours too. You help me all the time. With everything.’
Javi chuckles quietly, the vibrations reaching the skin under Yuzuru’s cheek. ‘If anyone had to take it from me, I’m happy that it’s you.’ A moment passes, then, very softly: ‘Thank you, Yuzu.’
Yuzuru isn’t sure what for, but he’s too tired to spend time wondering. ‘Sleep now,’ he mumbles, voice bubbling thickly with fatigue. ‘Gala practice tomorrow.’
***
‘One more time. From the top.’
Tracy’s voice echoes across the ice to where Javi is still bent over, gasping, from the last run-through of his new free skate. Yuzuru can see the sheen of sweat glistening all over his face and neck, and he can’t help but tease him just a little.
‘Javi almost sweat more than me.’
‘Not possible,’ Javi wheezes back. ‘You sweat more in a day than I do in a month.’ He straightens up, looking at Yuzuru with a glint in his eye, and Yuzuru just knows that this won’t end in anything but one of their mad chases around the rink.
Tracy evidently knows this too. ‘Fernandez. One more time, come on. If you have enough energy to play tag with Yuzu – don’t deny it – then you have enough energy to do one more run-through.’
Javi looks over at him with something between desperation and terror apparent in every inch of his face, and as much as Yuzuru would like to yield and beg Tracy to relent, they have a busy season ahead. ‘No. Do run-through, and we can buy ice cream on way home.’
‘Traitor.’
***
It’s almost ten in the evening by the time they reach Javi’s apartment, skate bags in one hand and sweating tubs of ice cream in the other. Practice had run late as it was, and buying ice cream on the way home had dissolved into bickering over flavours.
‘Chocolate is always best, Javi. Don’t be idiot.’
‘It’s too hot for chocolate. Anyway, haven’t you had enough chocolate from all those Ghana commercials, hm?’
Javi shoves the door open with a sigh, motioning Yuzuru through to the kitchen. He’s been here enough times to know where everything is, and they’ve developed a quiet sort of routine to fill the long summer nights. Setting the ice cream down on the counter – there doesn’t seem to be any point in putting it in the freezer; it’ll be gone too soon – he pads into the bedroom, feet sinking into the plushy rug as he rummages in the dresser for clothes.
A few minutes later, he wanders back out to the kitchen-slash-living area, flopping down on the sofa that Javi has jokingly declared ‘Yuzu’s throne.’ The air is pleasantly warm, even with windows open all through the apartment – the gentle splash of the shower is just audible over the sluggish ten p.m. traffic outside, the newly stolen España shirt thick with the smell of a laundry detergent almost as familiar as his own.
He makes a mental note to force Javi into a Team Japan jacket one day.
***
At some point, he must have fallen asleep – all at once, something cold is being pressed against his cheek, and there’s something warm and purring kneading into his stomach.
‘Yuzu. Yuzu, wake up.’ He doesn’t even bother to respond, instead curling deeper into the couch. Javi sighs. ‘We didn’t go to six different convenience stores just so you could fall asleep and forget the ice cream.’
Yuzuru does his best to pout, despite the ice-cream bowl shoved against his face. ‘Javi is mean,’ he whispers to the cat on his lap, even as he takes the bowl, squeezing the other’s hand in thanks.
‘Not true. I am so kind to you, all the time.’
‘Even Effie likes me better now.’ As if to prove Yuzuru’s point, the cat turns and blinks at her rightful owner, yellow eyes narrowed.
Javi groans, collapsing on the sofa in mock defeat. ‘Both of you are too much for me. I feel like a stranger in my own home.’
‘We love Javi really,’ Yuzuru assures him through a mouthful of ice cream.
***
Later that night, when even the traffic outside seems to have tired itself out, Yuzuru is still awake. As he sits up, careful not to disturb Javi’s sleeping form, he catches Effie’s gimlet eyes gleaming at him from the foot of the bed.
He smiles softly, reaching down to scratch her under the chin, just how she likes it. He’s met with a purr of approval as she pushes her head more firmly against his knuckles.
Maybe it’s the lateness of the hour, the sugar still buzzing faintly through his veins, or something else entirely – as they sit there, warm fur against colder skin, Javi’s breaths rising slow and deep to his right, Yuzuru feels like something that has been drawn tight for too long has finally laid itself to rest.