Archive of Our Own

“Ya need a break, ‘Tsumu.”

Those weren’t the words he’d expected to hear from his twin brother as soon as he opened his door and heard thirty seconds of his rambling about one of his past performances, offering him a little advice on his wobbly jumps. He’d expected a ‘let it be, it’s no big deal’ or perhaps a ‘tell Minako and leave me alone’, maybe even an ‘okay, I’ll keep it in mind’ (though that was more unbelievable than the situation he now found himself in). He’d even expected the door closing on his face as soon as Osamu realised it was him the one who bothered him on a Saturday at six in the morning. He didn’t expect the man to practically fire him.

Saturdays were training days, which, as all the other previous days, had become futile a little while ago, for his brother was bedridden and his skating partner was enjoying her little vacation back in Aichi.

Truth is, Atsumu woke up an hour ago, did his usual routine, had his usual breakfast, and did his usual coaching stuff, which included half-an-hour of watching Osamu and Minako’s training videos and mentally annotating stuff to work on. It was simple muscle memory to cross the hall and knock on his twin’s apartment door, something that previously led them to go to Itachiyama Club’s ice rink together as he told him whatever was on his mind after reassessing his performances, yet now only made Atsumu miss the last bit of normalcy left in his day for his feet could only lead him inside the apartment, not outside of the building.

Not being at the rink was causing him to go through some kind of withdrawal, and there was no one more annoyed by it than Osamu, who had to suffer through his incessant ranting, pacing, and planning that led nowhere because none of his skaters were either in the prefecture or physically fit to actually do what he wanted them to. It had been a little more than two weeks since his brother had basically reenacted some mythological event by rupturing his Achilles tendon and had to get surgery to reattach it, and the prospect of having to wait from four to six months for him to get back on the ice was slowly driving him insane.

As soon as Osamu’s words reached his ears, Atsumu replied with a perplexed look. “Please elaborate before I tell mom ya just fired me.”

He invited himself into his twin’s apartment and sat down on his couch, feet lifting up to rest on the coffee table, as he waited for his brother to elaborate on his unprompted comment.

Osamu, after closing the door, heavily dropped on the spot beside his brother, letting his crutches fall to the floor without a single care, lifted his injured foot to rest on Atsumu’s lap—something he couldn’t complain about because, well, the man had had surgery —and sighed.

“I have, at least, four months until I can do anythin’ on the ice. Minako plans to focus on uni this semester, and we probably won’t be competin’ till next season, meanin’ yer gonna be jobless for at least a year.”

Mistaking Atsumu’s silence as lack of understanding, Osamu kept going: “I ain’t firin’ ya, but I’m restin’ , ‘Tsumu, and ya can’t keep verbally coachin’ me. I needed a break, and I’m gettin’ one right now. Ya need a break, too.”

So, yeah, maybe he was right. Maybe Miya Atsumu might’ve needed a break. Being too dependent on something was no good for anyone, much less someone who couldn’t even do the activity by himself, but he couldn’t get away from the ice. It was something ingrained in his body since the age of four—he was forced to leave the main stage, but he’d always been better at puppeteering, anyways. Being deprived of that, even for just a few days, let alone months… It felt worse than when he’d had to retire as a competitor. 

He’d been coaching his brother since then, though, so he’d never stayed too far from the rink. Minako had joined them as soon as she qualified for seniors, her previous partner suddenly deciding to leave the sport and Osamu being the victim of her puppy eyes and plea to become her new one. Thus, being his twin’s brand-new coach, and having taken a liking to the little excited girl, Atsumu became their main coach for the following four seasons. Even though he was way too young and inexperienced , as many claimed whenever they talked about him, plus having never been too into pairs skating, Osamu and Minako successfully reached the podium over and over again with his help, two-time World champions, one-time Grand Prix champions, yadda yadda yadda… something they hadn’t been able to achieve before.

“Whaddaya suggest, ‘Samu?” He asked, raising his hand to tiredly rub his face. “I ain’t coachin’ another couple, I’ve had enough with Sunamin and ya. And if I have to stay at home for a whole year, I’ll go mad. And ya know that.”

“I wasn’t suggestin’ any of those things.” Osamu smiled, taking out his phone from his back pocket and unlocking it. After a few seconds of searching, he flipped it around to show his brother a screenshot of an article:

TAKEUCHI HAMADA, LEGENDARY FIGURE SKATING COACH, UNEXPECTEDLY FIRED.

The figure skating community woke up to a surprise at the beginning of the 2016-2017 season, which now included fan-favourite Sakusa Kiyoomi’s despite his absence from the last competitions last season due to a minor tear on his adductor muscle. What they weren’t expecting was the lack of a main coach in his Japan Skating Federation’s official profile, leaving everyone to wonder what exactly had happened between the skater and his lifelong coach in such a short amount of time, given their claim to be already training for the Winter Olympics a couple months ago.

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Takeuchi instantly declared when asked about his absence from Sakusa’s profile, a smile on his face to dissipate all of the fan’s doubts about the future. “He’ll soon realise it and come back to me just in time to prepare for Pyeongchang’s Olympics. There’s nothing to worry about.”

After coaching the men’s singles three-time World champion for sixteen years… 

He stopped reading as soon as the boring part started, having already understood what his brother was hinting at.

A moment passed. He raised his eyes to meet his twin’s own, already expectant for his reply.

“What makes ya think he won’t go back to him?” Atsumu asked, raising an eyebrow. There was one clear thing about the resident figure skating prodigy, and it was that his coach had always been the same, and he’d achieved many great things with him. If there was a route to certain victory, it would be repetition, and he was sure that, for Sakusa, repetition meant his coach’s hand continuously pushing him forward. Changing the equation in the middle of the game would only tug him backwards. That was obvious. He didn’t know what had caused the skater to fire his coach a year shy of the most crucial moment of his career, but it probably hadn’t been anything good.

Osamu pursed his lips, throwing him a pointed look as he talked. “Word around’s that he was reachin’ retirement and wanted one more medal below Sakusa’s name thanks to him—tried to get the guy on the ice after his injury way before he should’ve and risked a serious one.”

There was a moment of silence before he spat out his reply. “That hag…” He sighed. “I once told him to take it easy when I saw him going off to some of his junior skaters. Poor things were tremblin’. I didn’t realise they might’ve not been the only victims.” 

He’d had his fair share of overworking coaches, those who put the gold medal on top of the skater’s health, and he despised them. He’d gotten in trouble with the club’s administration before for yelling at them when he saw them getting too rough with their skaters. The coaches had badmouthed him to the parents, leaving way for the mothers to gossip about him and almost getting him kicked out of the club—Minako had handled it brilliantly, though: she’d called her older brother, asked him to film her practice and upload it to the internet, and, purely by accident , caught one of those dickheaded coaches aggressively handling one of the juniors.

That coach was never seen around again, the other coaches didn’t misbehave again, Atsumu had never been badmouthed by the mothers again, and that little boy had approached Atsumu and Minako and uttered a shy thank you , never to be mistreated again.

Atsumu knew what it was like for one’s health to be taken for granted more than anyone. He knew what a bad coach did to an athlete, how it took away one’s spirits and diminished one’s willpower. He wasn’t going to let any other dream break just because of someone else’s impertinence.

He suddenly raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. “How’d ya get the info, tho? Ya don’t have many friends, ‘Samu.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “Suna plays volleyball with Sakusa’s cousin, so he heard from him, and he told Minako, who told me.”

The sickeningly sweet smile finally made its way on Atsumu’s face, making Osamu instantly frown.

“Shut up.”

Atsumu’s smile broadened. “When will ya stop askin’ Sunamin about her brother and start actually talkin’ to Sunarin?”

“Shut up.”

“Why are ya more comfortable textin’ an eighteen-year-old we’ve known since she was a child instead of the pretty and available twenty-two-year-old she’s tryin’ to set ya up with?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yer an embarrassment, ‘Samu. I can’t believe yer my brother.”

“As if yer any better.” Osamu finally caved to the teasing, accompanied by an irritated tone and his signature eye-rolling. “Ya haven’t talked to anyone ‘bout nothin’ that ain’t skatin’. At least I’m not a nerd.”

Atsumu smirked, pleased about the clear frustration on his brother’s face. “I ain’t lookin’ for a relationship, that’s why. But ya have it handed to ya on a silver platter and yer still makin’ Minako do all the pushin’ and pullin’. I’m pretty sure she’ll bring Sunarin with her when she comes back, and he won’t’ve said yes just for her.”

“He actually loves his sister, that’s why he says yes to everythin’ she asks. He’s not like ya.”

“Please,” Atsumu scoffed. “He might love lil’ Sunamin and all, but he certainly didn’t have to drive almost five hours all the way from Nagoya the day ya ended up in the hospital just to see if ya were okay and then drive back the same day.”

“Minako wanted to go home. He only came to pick her up.”

“Yeah, but she coulda stayed a couple more days and go back alone on the weekend, as she’s always done. But he stayed more than he needed to, y’know. Didn’t leave till ya woke up and he got to say hi.”

Osamu stayed silent, his gaze locked on the floor. Atsumu let him have his moment of introspection—god knows he’d needed quite a few of those.

He wondered how they had reached that conversation topic when they had started talking about him needing a break and all of that bullshit. It was often that they found themselves talking about one thing only to end up arguing about something completely unrelated. A sibling thing, he supposed. 

Atsumu didn’t need a break. Not from coaching, at least. Not from working and helping others achieve their goals, not from orchestrating the steps to that glory. He needed the job, needed to stay active and constantly plotting new things. His mind wasn’t made to rest. But he understood that Osamu and Minako perhaps did need a break, did need to rest, and he was willing to give it to them (even though he kinda had no say in that, probably because his brother had his ankle opened up and sewn together just a couple of weeks ago and needed a couple of months for recovery and stuff… but that doesn’t matter).

“Listen,” he started, bringing Osamu’s attention back to him. He pretended, just this once, to ignore the rosy tint on his brother’s face, who had probably just realised his crush wasn’t as unrequited as he thought (though he did keep the moment stored in his memory for future teasing, he wasn’t stupid). “I’m a pairs skating coach. I haven’t skated in four years, nor have I  ever coached any singles skater— ya don’t count, idiot, it was less than a month before Minako manipulated ya with those puppy eyes and forced ya to join her. But…”

He paused for a second, letting the word hang in the air, to see if he got his twin’s interest—he was suggesting this deal just for him (and, maybe, for the challenge it implied, the memories it brought back, but that’s something to touch on later), so he’d better pay attention to him.

“But…?”

“I’ll get in line behind the hundreds of good-for-nothin’ coaches lookin’ to seize the same opportunity I am, I’ll even get on my knees and beg the motherfuckin’ god of skating to let me be his coach.” Atsumu smirked. “But only if ya grow a pair and ask Suna for a date.”

Osamu pushed him off the couch.

On Sunday, Osamu stayed inside his apartment all by himself, refusing to open the door for Atsumu, who had no doubts it was because his twin had to mentally prepare himself to ask out his long-term crush.

On Monday, after a series of texts from Minako (who was coming back to Tokyo the following week), he learnt that his brother had asked her the best way to approach her older brother, even though they were friendly with each other since they’d met, and had hung out a few times, and had actually striked a comfortable friendship between them. Osamu was truly hopeless when it came to romance, and not in a cute hopeless romantic way—it was for all the bad reasons.

On Tuesday, he had three texts in his lockscreen greeting him as soon as he woke up.

mom’s least favourite | 03:37 a.m.

fuck you. 

He knew his brother well enough to know that was as good as a thank you .

mom’s least favourite | 03:37 a.m.

now’s your turn

mom’s least favourite | 03:41 a.m.

and you better get that job before unemployment drives you insane

On Wednesday, he was ready to head to the rink and lose his dignity in front of Japan’s— the world’s greatest male figure skater.

Oh, the things he did for his twin.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, despite his life being constantly talked about ever since he was a kid, was known to be unapproachable at best, leading Atsumu to wonder just how much his presence could intimidate someone at his worst.

He hoped he didn’t get to find out. 

His aloof appearance didn’t seem to scare away the multiple coaches surrounding him just outside the boards, not allowing him to enter the ice. They were constantly asking him about his training routines and preferences for programs, offering to give him anything he asked.

Atsumu snorted when he heard them, desperate and quite obvious about it. That wasn’t the job of a coach. Not his, anyway. It was to lead the skater, not be led by him. Not give him whatever he wanted, but to make him work harder for it. He directed an amused look at his colleagues’ attempts to make the star figure skater give them what could possibly be the greatest job of their lives.

None of them had any shot, sadly. It was clear by the slight glare in Sakusa’s eyes, visible above his black face mask, which Atsumu had previously noticed he didn’t take off until he had skated one lap around the rink.

He went up the stairs and took a seat in the cafeteria, which had glass windows especially made for the skater’s parents’ nosiness, so that they could intently watch whatever happened on the ice. He’d never actually watched other skaters practice—his focus was solely on his twin and his partner, and how he could make them better. The only external help he had were videos and his friends, but, in principle, it had always been just him and his skaters.

Watching Sakusa practicing his previous programs almost felt like a religious experience.

There was no doubt why the man was considered the world’s best. His every move was calculated, yet he fluctuated from element to element with a natural grace it was impossible to look away from. He wasn’t perfect, no one was, and there were things to take care of, which he mentally noted for later—perhaps they would come in handy, or perhaps they would be useless information to remember whenever he watched the skater from the sidelines, but, you know, just in case. 

Each of the other coaches remained outside the boards, unprompted praise leaving their lips whenever Sakusa performed a jump particularly well, and words of reassurance whenever the man popped a jump or fell. The constant distraction and unasked criticism made the glare on the skater’s face even more apparent than before, the lack of a face mask unable to cover up the disdainful tug of his mouth.

Atsumu lightly snickered, which he covered up with a cough when he felt some stares directed at him. He was so ready for this. 

Two hours later and some half-devoured food in front him, the star skater sat down on a table close to his, curls still wet from the showere he must’ve taken after his small practice.

The cafeteria was busy due to the start of a junior class, so it wasn’t like he’d had much of a choice regarding seating arrangements. Though quite a majority of the people around them were eagerly staring at Sakusa, resembling vultures hoping someone else would bite the bullet and attack first, only for them to pick at the remains. The lack of an expectant expression on Atsumu’s face had probably made the man a little less uncomfortable sitting close to him, instead of facing the circling predators.

It was a shame that little sense of comfort would disappear as soon as Atsumu opened his mouth. Perhaps a bit before.

Atsumu was a competitive man. And as a competitive man, he hated losing. And he hated losing to people who weren’t on the same level as him—no disrespect to his colleagues but, c’mon, at least he had some manners. No one liked to be analysed as some kind of laboratory rat, nor praised and showered with useless compliments like a child. They must’ve been junior coaches, there was no way they behaved the same way with their senior skaters.

Anyway, he wasn’t going to lose to some idiotic coaches who only wanted the recognition yet did nothing to deserve it. He might’ve been asked to do this by Osamu, but his brother knew him and knew exactly this was, basically, his life goal.

But he couldn’t dwell on that right now. He had a job to get.

As soon as he felt the moment was right, a few moments after the skater’s food had been delivered to his table, he swiftly stood up, picked up his half-drank iced tea and barely-there slice of lemon pie, and limped towards Sakusa Kiyoomi’s just-occupied table, a vacant seat in front of the man, dropping his food.

His actions elicited an annoyed stare and a little noise of disgust, but he welcomed them with the usual grin on his face.

“Hi.” He sat down, uninvited, absentmindedly rubbing his knee. “Miya Atsumu.”

The man continued to stare blankly at him.

Atsumu’s grin widened. “Hm, silent, sure. I can work with that.”

He got comfortable in the little plastic chair, mixing his drink a little with its straw. The skater didn’t even acknowledge him, focusing on eating his sandwich.

“Okay, so,” Atsumu clasped his hands together, catching his companion’s attention. “What’s yer biggest goal, Sakusa?” He asked, then scrunched his eyebrows together. “Nah, that doesn’t sound right.”

He was rewarded a cold response. “What doesn’t?”

“Yer name.” He looked at the man before him intently, trying to find something that could provide him a nice nickname—and also to annoy him a little bit. “It doesn’t feel good. Too long, too stiff, not made for ya.”

An incredulous expression adorned the skater’s face, the first glimpse of a real emotion he’d seen on him. It looked like Sakusa had completely abandoned his resolve of ignoring him, at least. “I can’t change my surname.”

“Kiyo sounds too childish.” He thought out loud, if only to see his reaction. “Yomi? Nah, too stupid. Omi…?” Sakusa’s frown had deepened at those two simple syllables, and Atsumu had to swallow his smirk. “Omi!” He exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Ya mind if I call ya Omi-kun?”

“I do mind.”

“As I was sayin’, Omi-kun,” Atsumu waved his hand dismissively. “What’s yer biggest, ultimate goal?”

“Don’t call me that,” Sakusa spat, but then straightened his back and answered, boredly: “Pyeongchang’s gold medal, of course.”

Atsumu brought his elbows up to the table, and rested his chin above his hands. A sly smile slipped on his face. “Ya can do better than that.”

Sakusa scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Just one gold?” He snorted. “Please. Yer tellin’ me ya ain’t goin’ for at least three?”

“I’ll think of the next ones after I reach the first one.”

“Where’s yer ambition, Omi-kun? Ya ain’t gettin’ anywhere like this.”

Sakusa stayed silent, again, his eyes holding the same get-the-fuck-out expression as when he’d first introduced himself to him.

Atsumu didn’t mind him. Picking up his drink, he said, “Let me be yer coach.”

He received a sudden snort from the curly-haired man. Good , he thought. A reaction is good.

“What makes you think you’re any different from the much experienced coaches who have already asked me to hire them?”

Atsumu gave him a condescending smile. “I can actually get ya on the olympic podium.”

After taking a sip of his coffee—black, apparently, given the lack of sugar packets on the table—he raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I thought you were a pairs skating coach. Isn’t your brother the last World champion?”

“Consecutive two-time World champion alongside Suna Minako, yes, that’s him.” He allowed some cockiness to take over his lips. “But I competed as solo for fourteen years, ya must’ve known me—we actually competed against each other a few times and all.”

“The broken champion.” The smile on Atsumu’s face wavered for a second, but he kept it there, if only to show he wasn’t as affected by the title as he once would’ve been. “I’m familiar.”

“Great name, isn’t it?” He sipped his tea. “It’s an honour to be remembered like that.”

“But you haven’t made a name for yourself in coaching, like my previous coach.”

“So freshly-debuted pairs skaters winnin’ medals isn’t a name good enough for ya to seriously consider my proposition? They made the Grand Prix their bitch ’cause of me, ya know.”

He knew he was bragging a little too much at this point, it wasn’t just him the one who took them there, but desperate times call for desperate measures—and Atsumu was never one to be humble.

“You’re my age and not a coach in my discipline, I’m not sure I could seriously consider you.”

“I coach some juniors off-season, though.”

Sakusa snorted. Atsumu narrowed his eyes.

“One competition.” He leaned forward, probably invading more of Sakusa’s personal space than he should’ve, but he needed to have his full attention, and look at him right in the eye. “If ya don’t see any improvement with me after one competition, I give ya permission to banish me from the men’s singles area. I won’t work with anyone who ain’t a couple—much better: anyone who ain’t my brother and his partner.”

The skater lightly scoffed, leaning backwards, causing Atsumu to slump back in his seat so as to not make him any more uncomfortable. “That’s quite a bargain you’re proposing.”

“I have full confidence in my coachin’ skills, ya see.” Atsumu grinned. “And, honestly, ya gotta work on many things. But I’m not tellin’ ya which ones until ya hire me.”

Sakusa’s head tilted, a gesture that strangely reminded Atsumu of a puppy—an incredibly annoyed and close-to-emotionless puppy—, and the coach felt his silent analysing stare on him for what felt like an hour, though it had probably been just a few seconds.

“Fine, Miya.” He sighed, finishing his cup of coffee. “One competition. and we’ll see if you learned anything from watching from the sidelines these four years.”

He didn’t even mind the insult. Sakusa said yes. He’d actually said yes—to hiring him, not that other thing.

“Call me Atsumu or ‘Tsumu, Omi-kun.” He beamed. “It gets confusin’ with my brother and all.”

His only reply was a blank stare. Sakusa wasted no time getting up and leaving the cafeteria. Atsumu saw his hand raising his phone to his ear, probably to announce to his manager—and, thus, to the world—that the way too young and inexperienced pairs skating coach, Miya Atsumu was to be Japan’s men’s singles figure skating’s king, Sakusa Kiyoomi’s new coach.

He rubbed his face with both his hands and stared at the table in front of him, a sigh leaving his lips. He could feel the burning glare of multiple pairs of eyes stabbing him from every angle, wondering how and why him and what could he even do .

To be honest, not even Atsumu himself knew the answer to any of those questions.

“Fuck.”

“Sunamin!” He exclaimed as soon as he saw the tiny teenager on his doorstep. The black-haired girl beamed and threw herself onto Atsumu. “No, no, wait—”

His ankle yelled in pain. His right knee buckled.

As expected.

Osamu opened his door just in time to see his twin brother and skating partner on the floor, hysterically laughing and playfully hitting each other; whereas the two on the floor calmed down just in time to see a rare smile appear on Osamu’s face as soon as he noticed that Minako’s older brother, Rintarou, was barely a meter away from them, phone in hand and, most likely, recording their disgraceful fall. 

“Yer back!” Atsumu yelled as soon as his stomach stopped hurting from laughing too much.

The bright smile on Minako’s face, a toothy one which showed the little space between her two front teeth, a smile he’d dearly missed in those two weeks she was gone, greeted him in an instant. “I’m back!” She directed her grin towards Osamu. “And I brought Rin!”

His twin’s cheeks flared up, the man looking to the side to try to hide it from the three-person smirk.

Minako turned to Atsumu from her spot on the ground, beside him. “When were you going to tell me you’re coaching Sakusa Kiyoomi , ’Tsumu? I had to find out through Twitter that you had abandoned me!”

Her brother snorted. “She found out on the way here. I’ve never heard her screech like that before. Thanks, Atsumu.”

He grinned. “Sorry, Sunarin. And ya, Sunamin, abandoned me first, y’know. I was waitin’ for ya to come back.”

In the few seconds that followed, he saw Osamu, now blush-less, ready to talk to the subject of last week’s impromptu date proposal. Atsumu was a good brother, he liked to think he was the best, so he decided he should probably leave the two of them in the hallway and get into his apartment.

And then spy on them. Because he was a good brother.

As soon as he tried to stand up, though, he felt the familiar reluctance of his knee at supporting all his weight, or even just a little bit more than usual. His smile didn’t leave his face, as always, but he felt his stomach slightly dropping; and, with it, his raised spirits. He murmured, “Hey, Sunamin?”

Minako, who was looking at something on her phone—probably stealing Atsumu’s Wi-Fi, at this point she was so comfortable here it was like her apartment, too—, as soon as she noticed the position Atsumu was in, instantly rose and grasped his hand, helping him stand up. He gave her a head pat in return, knowing the girl understood enough about him after four years around each other that he didn’t need to use words.

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. She knew Atsumu too well.

They directed a look at their siblings and decided what to do instantly: the door silently closed behind him and his youngest skater, the girl crouching down to the keyhole’s height and Atsumu sticking his eye into the peephole—both of them trying to see as much of the scene between their womb-partners as they could.

Osamu had only been using only one of his crutches, which he utilised as some kind of resting place for his hands, and thus, his chin. His posture leaned towards the slightly taller male in front of him, and Suna was reciprocating his gesture with a lean on his direction.

They were smoothly talking, a little smile on both of their faces, and Atsumu had just found the perfect position for his eye to remain peeping and his ear to be able to listen to their conversation through the wooden door—but his ringtone sharply interrupted his plans.

He left Sunamin to do her job for both of them, knowing she would inform him of any development between the two pining idiots, and stepped into his bedroom to accept the call from the unknown number.

“Hello?”

A familiar voice greeted him. “ Hello. Is this Miya Atsumu? ”

He smiled. “Yeah, Omi-kun. What’s up?”

“ I thought I told you not to call me that. ”

“I ain’t hearin’ ya complainin’ ‘bout it.”

“ I literally am. Right now. ”

Atsumu let out a short chuckle. He heard his front door open and closing, so he assumed the private conversation was over and Osamu had knocked on the door, telling Minako to come to his apartment to eat. They always ate together when one of them came back from their hometowns. 

“So, why the call?”

“ To inform you that you start your coaching duties on Monday, and on the same day we’ll do the contract signing. ”

“A contract? We need one?”

“ Miya, it’s standard for a job, to take care of wages and working hours. Don’t you have one with your skaters? ”

It was stupid. He knew it was. But, well, given that his main client was his twin brother , he obviously didn’t think of making a contract. And Minako was like a little sister to him. It’d been all ad honorem , more of a love for the sport and them. He lived off the salary the club provided for his off-season junior coaching, and the apartments were provided by the Japan Skating Federation so they could stay in Tokyo and bring more local attention to the sport. Never had he thought he needed to be paid more than he was.

He was comfortable living like this. He truly didn’t need the money—the groceries were split between Osamu and him, Minako usually paid for them whenever they went out, his mom still sent him some little ‘gifts’ from time to time… and he wasn’t planning on being actually unemployed any time soon. 

“I don’t.” He finally answered. “And ya don’t need to pay me, Omi-kun.” 

Sakusa scoffed. That was becoming a common occurrence with him. “ What kind of skater doesn’t pay their coach? ”

“A skater that has a dedicated and handsome coach, like ya. What a coincidence! No contract .”

Atsumu got out of his bedroom and approached his apartment’s door, ready to join the others—he could smell the food his brother cooked from a mile away, and he wasn’t going to miss it.

After a few seconds of pondering, the skater sighed. “ We’ll talk about this on Monday, Miya. ”

He stepped into the hallway, again. “Nah, we won’t. And I told ya not to call me that. It’ll get confusing.”

“ I ain’t hearin’ ya complainin’ ‘bout it.”

Atsumu sucked in a shocked breath. Sakusa took the chance to end the call with a simple: “ I’ll be at the rink at six a.m. sharp. Don’t waste my time. ”

He didn’t expect to cackle so early in the morning on a Monday , much less end up laughing so much it felt like he’d just done his whole abs routine—but he did, and it was all thanks to his new skater, Sakusa Kiyoomi. God bless him.

With the little air he could breathe, his words came out ragged and harsh, but he had to ask: “What… in the world… are those… boots…?”

Now, listen, he knew figure skating fashion was constantly evolving—it was no surprise to see some recreational skaters wearing coloured skates, perhaps even plaid skates, or some other crazy stuff stamped onto the boot. But, in competition, there was a standard: black or white skates. The first for men, the latter for women. You could use whatever you desired, though, but it was considered a tradition, and not many strayed from it.

When Sakusa stepped into the ice on their first practice together, his usual black boot covers were off (which he had just noticed the skater used in every occasion), and it was then that Atsumu noticed his boots were anything but traditional (and he understood why his boot covers were a constant companion).

They were bright yellow. Faded into a lime green close to the sole. 

They were absolutely ridiculous .

And he carelessly started roaring with laughter.

Sakusa had decided to ignore him, instead doing a couple of laps around the ice, warming up even though he’d already warmed his muscles enough before changing into the scandalous skates.

He’d done at least ten laps before he approached his coach and glared at him.

“Please.” Atsumu finally calmed down, his hand holding his stomach, glossy eyes, and breathing heavily. “I need to hear the explanation. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

He got a blank stare in response.

“Yer not gonna tell me, Omi-kun?” He leaned on the boards, closer to the skater. Atsumu then remembered—he smirked. “Imma ask yer cousin, then.”

Sakusa frowned. “How do you know Motoya?”

“I have my ways.”

By ‘ways’ he meant his twin’s skating partner’s brother, but Sakusa didn’t need to know that. His cousin, by the way he’d managed to befriend someone as closed-off and asshole-y as Suna, seemed extroverted enough for it to be possible for him to be Atsumu’s acquaintance. 

“He doesn’t know.” The skater informed him. “I’d rather it kept that way.”

He kept silent the next few seconds, as his coach waited to hear an answer. At his obvious reluctance, Atsumu sighed.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. Be that way.”

He didn’t get to ask about it again. He understood that same day when he left the rink and realised yellow and lime green were Itachiyama Club’s colours.

After telling Sakusa to do his usual thing, he took the time to spill on paper everything he’d mentally stored on Wednesday, plus some things he noticed that day. His notepad was already filled with annotations about Sakusa, for Atsumu had spent the weekend studying his every program and carefully analysing his scores.

It had become clear they would need to work on many, many things. It was one thing to admire the skater’s work as an outsider, mesmerised by his movements, the precision no other skater had. It was another one to analyse it from the perspective of a coach. Sakusa was far from being the ideal figure skater, outside of the record-breaking scores and professional (and fanatical) praise.

The man wanted the Olympics’ highest podium spot, and Atsumu couldn’t say no to such a challenge. He was more than ready to give it to him. Sakusa wouldn’t reach it the way he skated now, that’s for sure. There were plenty of strategists in the world ready to take that gold home.

But Atsumu would get him there. And he would get that gold medal because he truly deserved it. He knew he could do it.

An hour later, and three pages full of scribbles and notes, Atsumu decided it was time to step in.

“So, Omi-kun.” He caught his attention quickly, his voice taking over the empty rink—he loved private practice time, for people weren’t allowed to enter the club’s rink until after ten in the morning, when they left. “Have ya tried to jump with yer hands above yer head?”

Sakusa came to a stop close to his spot on the boards, having just completed a successful quadruple lutz.

Don’t tell him, but Atsumu thought that was his most beautiful jump. The difficult contradiction in it seemed to be second-nature for the skater.

“No.” He frowned, wiping the sweat on his face with his towel. “Takeuchi always said those were cheap tricks to get points you could earn by jumping better and landing smoother. So we never even tried.”

“Damn.” Atsumu pursed his lips. “We’re tryin’ them, then. Do the Tano variation, first.”

The skater directed a blank stare to him.

Atsumu coughed. “That’s the one with one hand above yer head. The Rippon variation has both.”

Another beat of silence.

“I know them.” Sakusa stated, staring at him as if he were stupid. Atsumu probably was, but he wasn’t going to let his man treat him as such without actually knowing him and why he was stupid.

He raised his eyebrows, pointing to the ice with his chin. “Then why aren’t ya doin’ them?”

“There’s no point. I have to work on steadying my quads, not adding a useless variation to my jumps that will only throw off my center of gravity and make it harder to rotate.”

Atsumu pushed his hair back, letting out a deep sigh. He’d had enough reluctance to his instructions with Osamu constantly challenging him and Minako childishly following him, but they always did what was asked of them at the end of the day. Sakusa, however, seemed to have no inclination towards doing what Atsumu wanted. And he seemed to be hung up on whatever his old coach had instilled in him.

But Atsumu wasn’t Takeuchi Hamada. He wasn’t a legendary figure skating coach, his teachings purely traditional and . But he was Miya Atsumu, adaptable, competitive, fun-seeking, thrill-loving. They weren’t going to get anywhere if they didn’t try new things. And he had to make his skater realise that.

“Ya hafta work on gainin’ more points, however possible.” He said, dropping his hand from his head and placing it on the barrier between him and the actual ice rink. “Ya have top-tier jumps, amazing coordination for footwork, incredible flexibility for spins, and three out of five possible quads as stable as they can possibly be. But that’s not enough. Ya need grade of execution points. It doesn’t matter if ya think they’re cheap tricks and not actual points—if they’re done well, they add more than they take. This is figure skating, not jump skating .”

Sakusa scoffed. “I know that—”

“Ya clearly don’t,” he cut him off. “Yer Component Scores—meaning anythin’ that ain’t technical, ya surely know that too—aren’t as high as they could be with yer skills. Even I could manage to score more in interpretation, and I can’t even skate anymore.”

Atsumu pointedly leaned closer to Sakusa, flashing a wry smile in his direction. 

“A jump with a variation is the first step to one-uppin’ the technical-based programs that old man gave ya.” He calmly explained. “The next one is workin’ on yer resistance, so we can balance the programs with more jumps on the second half instead of ya losin’ that ten-percent bonus by doin’ them all at the beginning. And then come harder entrances to the jumps. I ain’t askin’ ya to humour me just ‘cause I’m bored—ya wanna bite that Olympic gold medal? Ya gotta seize as many points as ya can. Qualifyin’ is easy for ya, but winnin’? The others are gonna eat ya alive.”

Sakusa’s frown deepened for a bit, but then it disappeared, and he looked at his coach with a pensive look on his face. As soon as Atsumu saw that, he continued: “Now go and try a triple sal with a Tano. Or surprise me and do a triple lutz.” He gave the skater a cheeky smile. “And make it as pretty as yer face.”

Sakusa did a triple toe loop.

But with a Tano.

Progress .

“I’m serious, Omi-kun,” Atsumu pinched the bridge of his nose. “Keep yer money for something worthy. I don’t need it.”

“Either you accept the salary or you can say goodbye to the chance I gave you.”

“Ya must get paid really well for ya to insist this much.” He smirked. “Or do ya just wanna spoil me?”

Sakusa rolled his eyes and signaled to the paper between them. “Just sign the damned contract, Miya.”

Atsumu signed the damned contract. After signing it, he read it, because there was no other logical way to do things. When his eyes found the large number he wasn’t expecting on seeing, he choked in his spit.

“ What the fuck is this? ”

“That’s a piece of paper with legal value. You just signed it. You’re my coach now. Well, until you fail.”

He didn’t pay attention to the skater’s snarky comment. “Why the fuck are you paying me this much?”

Sakusa blinked. “That’s just a little bit more than the standard coaching wage, and exactly what Takeuchi used to get. Did you really coach your skaters for free?”

“Did ya really pay your previous coach the salary of a fucking mayor ?”

“It’s really not that much, Miya.”

“I could pay for a house in little more than two years with this.”

“You won’t last that much, don’t worry about it.”

“Omi-kun.” Atsumu raised his voice a little, trying to make him understand. “It’s not a me thing. I know how much coaches make. I was expectin’ ya to offer a lil’ more, yer the top-ranked skater after all. But this is way too much. It’s more than five times the usual wage. This is just… wrong.”

Atsumu guessed Sakusa didn’t know. How would he know? He’d been with the same coach for fifteen years. Had gone from having absolutely nothing to being the favourite to win the Sochi Olympics—from spending more than he gained to being the one of the best-paid active skaters in the world and living comfortably. And Takeuchi, with the trust they had built after all those years working together, had probably taken advantage of that.

Atsumu wanted to say it. He truly did.

But the look on Sakusa’s face told him he’d already understood.

“It doesn’t matter.” He replied after a few seconds, a slight defeated tone staining his velvety voice—the edge he’d always been walking on whenever the ex-coach topic came up now blatantly obvious, his expression tight. “It was already on the budget.”

And Atsumu wanted to ask. He truly did.

But he knew it was not the time, nor the place for such a conversation. So he caved and accepted the salary he did not deserve. He could fix it later.

They left the rink shortly. Sakusa said goodbye with a, “Same hour tomorrow—every day.”

Atsumu answered with his usual too-big smile, and they went their separate ways.

As he walked home, he took out his phone and made two separate calls. 

They had to work on many things, he knew that. And he couldn’t do it by himself—he couldn’t step on the ice, he couldn’t even demonstrate a jump on the ground. But he had friends scattered all around the different disciplines and other sports, and many have already offered themselves to be of help whenever he needed. With Osamu and Minako, it hadn’t been a problem. Physical boundaries didn’t exist when you spent nine months together in the womb with someone, so he could approach his twin and correct him with his hands, even making him try new things by moving him around.

But Sakusa wasn’t his twin. He wasn’t a friend. He had very clear boundaries, obvious by the way he carried himself around people. Thus, touching him was entirely out of the question. He couldn’t move the skater’s limbs around, but neither could he correct him by replicating the figures by himself—his leg didn’t have enough strength to support his whole weight, not even for a second.

This meant he needed a visual demonstration, and he needed someone else to do it for him. So he called his friends, the two that he knew would always willing to help, and those two he knew were good enough in their disciplines for them to actually teach someone of Sakusa’s calibre. And he called the one dancer who was good enough to travel to another country just to teach ballet.

Atsumu hadn’t been born knowing how to delegate. It was always me and I can do this and I’m ok by myself . But things happened, and he couldn’t do everything by himself anymore, and liked winning more than he liked his pride. So he kept learning things even after leaving the ice.

He trusted them. He’d learned to. And because he was showing them he trusted them, they all agreed, though they had to work on their schedules before setting their specific practice time. Yet Atsumu’s chest already felt lighter than before.

Sakusa wanted the top spot. He’ll get it. He’ll make sure of it.

As soon as he arrived to his building and got off the elevator, a smirk made its way onto his face when he walked past Suna Rintarou on his floor’s hallway, receiving a bored look in return. The slightly taller man was obviously leaving his twin brother’s apartment, given Osamu’s figure resting on his door frame, a small smile directed at the floor.

Atsumu limped faster, impressed his brother hadn’t noticed him yet, and then nudged him with his elbow, a pleased look on his face when he startled him. 

“So…” He dragged the vowel until Osamu rolled his eyes. “How’d it go, ‘Samu?” 

“Shut up.”

“I was just askin’!” He chuckled, turning around to open his own apartment door. “Yer welcome, by the way. Ya wouldn’t’ve gone for that date if it weren't for me.”

He could feel Osamu rolling his eyes at his back. “It’s ‘cause ya woulda been miserable if I hadn’t made ya get a new job.”

Atsumu cheekily grinned as he entered his apartment and, turning around one last time, he said, “I’m guessin’ it went really well. Ya never woulda admitted that if ya weren’t happy.”

The door closed just enough for him to miss his brother’s lovesick half-smile, but not his softly-murmured words: “Yeah, I am.”

Two weeks later, things were already set in motion.

Atsumu walked a bit faster, catching his skater just outside the club rink’s doors. He’d received two on my way messages, and he didn’t want his friends to get lost on their way inside, trying to find them.

Sakusa shoved his hands in his coat’s pockets. “Why are we waiting outside, Miya?”

Atsumu didn’t reply, for he had just noticed a ginger man approaching them, and an instant grin took place in his lips. It was a few seconds before the short figure reached them, clad in his usual black and orange sportswear.

“Atsumu-san! I missed you!” His excited friend greeted with the biggest grin on his face. He wrapped him in a hug, taking care not to lean too much on Atsumu’s frame, instead pulling the man towards him.

“Missed ya too, Shoyo-kun!” He turned to Sakusa, but kept his arm around his shorter friend’s shoulders. “Omi-kun, this is Hinata Shoyo, ice dancing rising star.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow at him, then looked at the younger man. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

Shoyo smiled, enthusiastically nodding. “I know! Of course I know! You’re amazing! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sakusa-san!”

“And…” As if on cue, a boisterous laugh could be heard from behind the black-haired man. Atsumu’s grin widened when he saw a familiar flash of grey running towards them. “That’s Bokuto Koutarou, also an ice dancer.”

“It’s six in the morning. Why is he this happy?” Sakusa mumbled to himself.

Atsumu knew Bokuto was a deceivingly smart person, well aware of everything. But he also had his fair share of impulsive moments—which led to him dropping his bag onto the ground and carelessly throwing himself onto Atsumu, making the blonde reflexively take a step backwards in an attempt to stay on balance.

Of course, Atsumu had lost the ability to shift his weight onto his right leg four years ago. Thus, his leg buckled, Bokuto didn’t have time to react, and both of them ended up on the ground.

Why did that keep happening to him?

“Tsum-tsum!” Bokuto cheered on top of him, quickly standing up and offering both his hands to him. “It’s been months!”

He accepted the help and rose from the ground, groaning as he felt some pain on his ankle. He could stand on his own, luckily, but his back was also protesting against the harsh treatment it had received that week. “Hi, Bokkun.”

He introduced the grey-and-black-haired man to Sakusa, who’d given him the same raised-eyebrow stare, probably wondering why were those two strangers meeting them outside Itachiyama Club’s ice rink.

A cheeky smile appeared on his face as he led them all inside the complex, heading towards the locker room. “Thank ya both for comin’ on such short notice. Omi-kun and I have started workin’ together just yesterday, and he needs as much help as he could get.”

Sakusa glared at him.

“I can’t think of anything Sakusa-san could need help with!” Shoyo exclaimed as they sat down to put on their skates. 

Bokuto made a noise of agreement, the toothy smile permanently on his face. “Yeah, Omi is basically as good as it gets!”

He caught the exasperated look on Sakusa’s face at Bokuto’s use of Atsumu’s nickname for him, and he chuckled. This was going to be fun.

“Don’t let his skills fool ya. His footwork may be impressive and all but it’s too robotical. He needs to learn how to actually perform.”

“Atsumu-san…” Shoyo replied, halting his lace-tying, eyes wide.

He knew today was some kind of meet-your-hero experience for Shoyo, who’d admired the figure skater since before he’d met his ice dancing partner, Yachi Hitoka—the one who’d convinced him to switch disciplines. Sakusa, to Hinata, was supposed to be untouchable and perfect in every way, a role model, an inspiration. 

Atsumu was sorry to take that away from him, to show him that, after all, Sakusa was still human, and humans weren’t perfect. But he needed help, and his friend had always been good at following his verbal instructions and demonstrating what Atsumu couldn't. Shoyo was skilled, as was Bokuto, and both of them were the only ones he knew that could provide Sakusa what he was lacking.

Atsumu gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Ya’ll see when he’s on the ice and ya can observe him with no music, costume or choreography. It’s really not that good.”

It really wasn’t. And Shoyo instantly understood, getting to work alongside Bokuto.

After two hours of trying to deviate from Sakusa’s ‘ this, this, this ’ and converting it into a ‘ this, then this, and this, and this next ’ (Shoyo’s explanation was more onomatopoeias than actual words, don’t blame Atsumu for his rough translation), the two ice dancers had to leave the rink to start their own trainings.

“They’ll be comin’ to help on Tuesdays,” Atsumu informed Sakusa as soon as they were alone, the skater resting for a few minutes. “But ya gotta practice everyday for these weekly couple of hours to make a difference in yer overall performance. Yer too stiff.”

“No one has ever said that about my skating before.”

He snickered. “No one has ever cared ‘bout polishin’ ya before. They just praised yer jumps and precision and called it a day. But that’s why I’m here. It’s my job.”

“Are you saying Takeuchi never cared about that?”

“I’m sayin’ that ol’ coach probably cared more ‘bout the money and the medals he could make ya win because of him than ‘bout improvin’ ya. He got ya masterin’ all the jumps but where’s the emotion, Omi-kun? That’s what he shoulda made ya refine.”

“It’s there. You’re either too blind to see it or you’re ignoring it, Miya.”

“Nah, it’s not there.” Atsumu stood up and clapped twice. “But we’ll get there. Now start with the Tano jumps. We’ve gotta correct that rotation of yours.”

Sakusa returned to the ice, sending a pointed look in his direction. “There wouldn’t be any rotation to correct if you didn’t make me raise my arm above my head and throw off the whole jump.”

“Stop complainin’ and skate.”

By the time practice ended, he was satisfied with the improvement in his jumps. Instead of downgraded, as they were the first day they’d tried them—meaning if Sakusa tried a quad, it would be counted as a triple—they were now under-rotated, thus keeping the higher base value. Not quite there yet, not ready to use in actual competition, but it was still amazing progress in just a little over two weeks, though it would take way more for Sakusa to completely adjust his jumps. 

That’s fine, Atsumu told himself. They had time. It was the last week of July. The Grand Prix’s assignments were already published, and Sakusa’s first event was on the last days of October. No rush. 

“Next week comes the choreographer,” he told the skater before they left the rink. “He’s helpin’ me design yer programs, so prepare for that. He’ll also be yer ballet instructor, god knows ya need someone new to shape ya up. Piece of advice: ya better keep the comments about his height to yerself.”

Sakusa turned around as he opened the door leading outside. “His height?”

Atsumu grinned. 

August and September had come and gone, and it was then when Atsumu’s patience ran out.

His friends did wonders. Or tried to, at least. Shoyo and Bokuto had advanced greatly with the step sequences and footwork—Sakusa’s movements were now seamlessly tied together, whether because the choreography did it or because he realised there was some open space to weave something in between. He’d become good at understanding that steps were to be natural, not robotical, and that he could tweak them if he wanted to.

Yaku Morisuke, freshly back from Russia, had stitched an amazing free skate program for Sakusa, and had helped Atsumu finish up his short. As a ballet teacher, well, he’d tried imbuing some emotion into the skater’s movements, pushed and pulled and pricked and jabbed at the man to try and get something out of him, but there was no such luck. His movements were now even more graceful than before, even his flexibility had improved (Sakusa’s Biellmann spin had never looked more beautiful), but there was still the lacking sense of feeling that tore apart everything they’d been working on.

Skate Canada, part of the Grand Prix series, was less than a month away. And while Sakusa’s skating was as brilliant as ever, Atsumu couldn’t let go of the fact that it was not enough.

He knew Sakusa had more to give than whatever he was doing right now. So why was he holding back?

“Ya gotta tell me, then,” Atsumu sighed, when their practice ended and the frustration had built up inside him. “I know ya ain’t emotionless. Ya probably got more emotions than the average man—why dontcha let them out? Why neglect that part of figure skating?”

“I’m not neglecting it.”

“Ya ain’t havin’ fun, ya ain’t giving me anythin’ but ‘ I need to do this jump properly ’, ya ain’t understandin’ the basics of the sport, like many other mediocre skaters.”

“Are you calling me mediocre?”

“Yeah, I am.” Atsumu stepped closer to the man. “Ya might’ve worked on the fluidity of the movements, but yer still missin’ the spark. With no clear emotion on the ice, there ain’t a performance. It’s just ya and yer little silly jumps. That doesn’t set ya apart from the other skaters.” 

He took a deep breath, tilting his head slightly to observe the man in front of him. There was him and then there was Sakusa, and no way to cross the river between them.

Atsumu had to build a bridge.

It was putting himself out there, sharing something too personal, but if it meant reaching out a hand to pull Sakusa from wherever he was stuffing himself in… He’d figured it’d be worth it.

“But I remember a lil’ boy.” Atsumu stared intently at the skater. “Back in juniors, way too young yet already shoulder-deep in worldwide recognition. A boy who cried when he finished his last junior free skating program. A boy who inspired many to keep going.” His shoulders sagged, his voice lowered. “And many to give up.”

Sakusa’s eyes finally met with his, and he felt the weight of that dark stare as he had felt the weight of the world’s expectations at such a ripe age. He remembered those eyes, that face, he remembered the program that had made him stop in his tracks, he remembered the emotion spilling from his every movement, the downright joy dripping from his body as he skated his emotions on ice. The physicality was the same—same eyes, same face, same skater. But there was nothing unguarded about him, nothing that spoke to his soul and showed him what true love for the sport was.

Atsumu took a step closer. “I remember a boy who made me think, I’ll never reach him, but I can help him get higher .”

Sakusa’s eyes were now wide-open, mouth slightly open—in shock or about to say something yet stopping himself, he didn’t know. He’d never seen Sakusa like this, open and worrying; but, then again, Sakusa had never seen him like this, open and spilling, either.

No one had, actually.

“And I’m tryin’ to get that boy back,” he finished, his hands itching to grab the man in front of him but knowing it was not his step to take. They weren’t there yet. “Because I’m here. I’m gettin’ ya higher. But ya need to cooperate.”

The skater’s stare didn’t leave his own. He simply asked, “Was it intentional?”

He didn’t say what. He didn’t need to. Nobody had ever asked him about it, always assuming and never intruding—not that he minded, of course. It was better to think it was a terrible accident, caused by negligence and overworking. An overachieving teenager not taking care of himself. A success-hungry athlete not letting his body rest properly, and paying the consequences. It was better to elude the truth than to lie about it. 

Atsumu ruefully smiled.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Osamu had probably understood when his twin had only moped for about two days after the whole ‘ retiring at eighteen because of irreparable damage to his knee’ thing, but he never said anything. He knew him more than anyone, and, because of that, had known asking Atsumu about it would lead them nowhere. What was done was done, and Atsumu was happy. Happier than he ever was skating, actually. And as long as he was happy, Osamu had told him once, he wouldn’t get involved.

“After juniors,” Sakusa suddenly interrupted the long-prolonged silence, his voice less abrasive than usual, “I realised it was too much… Too much vulnerability, I guess. For me, anyway. And Takeuchi agreed.”

And the bridge was crossed.

Atsumu couldn’t handle the closeness between them, not after Sakusa had accepted his invitation towards his side, so he retrieved his working tools and took a step back, leaning on his good leg. A little smile appeared on his face.

“Yer already bein’ physically vulnerable by throwin’ yerself onto the air and spinnin’ four times in less than a second, only to fall down on hard ice wearin’ two very sharp knives below yer feet. I think a little emotional vulnerability won’t harm ya worse than that.”

Then, something incredible happened. Something he’d never expected to witness, much less be its cause. A sight so beautiful and rare, at the time, that it would become embedded in his memory and forever remembered.

The corner of Sakusa’s lips started lifting up, and soon created the most breathtaking smile Atsumu had ever seen. Not just because Sakusa Kiyoomi was actually smiling , but because the corners of his eyes had also lifted creating half-moon shapes, his face adorned with such a pretty gesture, such an angelical expression. Atsumu never wanted to forget the feeling of being able to elicit such a response from Sakusa, nor did he ever want to stop doing it.

His heart stopped for a second.

As soon as he realised what he had just described, and the way he had described it, and the sudden increased beating of his heart because of it, his only thought was: fuck .

It was the last day of training before they left for Skate Canada when he admitted it to himself.

“Ya know,” Atsumu started, as he calmly approached him and dropped a bag on Sakusa’s lap, “ya should really take care of yer belongings.”

The man boredly felt around the soft bag, only to end up raising an unimpressed brow at the bleach-blonde when he figured out its contents. “I didn’t lose my skate guards.”

“No, ‘course ya didn’t.”

“These aren’t mine, then.”

“Yes, they are.”

“I just said I didn’t lose my guards.”

“And I just said ya didn’t. I did. Gifted them to some kid enterin’ the rink. The lil’ girl sobbed when I told her they were Sakusa Kiyoomi’s .” He chuckled to himself as he remembered the look on the girl’s face. “Those are your new guards. Yer welcome.”

Atsumu didn’t stop smiling, Sakusa didn’t stop frowning. 

“Miya.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Why?”

“They were gettin’ old, Omi-kun.” He patted the bag. “Plus, I have a feeling ya’ll like these ones better than those generic ones.”

Sakusa finally took them out of the bag. The new skate guards were half yellow, half lime green. Engraved at one end of them were the words Itachiyama Skating Club . His hands tightened around the guards as his eyes skimmed through that part.

Atsumu couldn’t help but ask, in a low voice and a hopeful look, “Ya like them?”

A soft smile formed in the man’s face, Sakusa’s eyes adopting that half-moon shape that he had longed to see again ever since he’d first been rewarded with the sight. He didn’t think it’d happen again so soon.

It was gone quickly, but the soft look remained in his face. “Yeah.” He paused to look at the items on his hands again. “Thank you.”

Atsumu rubbed his neck, averting his eyes from the man. “Even when ya hide yer skates with those black boot covers, ya can have the club still there with ya, out in the open.”

Sakusa didn’t reply after a long moment, so Atsumu had already started to head outside. But sudden words stopped him in his tracks, just as he reached the locker room’s door.

“Thank you, Atsumu.” His breath caught in his throat as he heard the care, the outright gentleness with which Sakusa pronounced his name for the first time. He had to force himself to stay frozen in his spot. He didn’t know what he would do if he turned around and saw the skater, saw that special look in his eyes again. “I really appreciate it.”

Oh, Atsumu was in deep shit.

“See ya tomorrow, then,” he smiled, heart beating faster than normal.

He knew what he was feeling. He might’ve never felt it before—not like this, not as strong. He wasn’t stupid enough to deny it.

Atsumu liked Sakusa. More than he should.

“See you tomorrow, Miya.”

More than Sakusa liked him, that’s for sure.

mom’s least favourite 

hey

come eat lunch

sunamin is coming

you mean sunarin too and you

dont want sunamin to thirdwheel?

shut the fuck up

just come

i made onigiri

thats so cute samu

you trying to impress him with your food

i’m spitting in the tuna ones

you’re the only one who eats those anyway

NO

WAIT

NOT THE TUNA

PLS

SAMU

SAMUUUUUUU

OSAMU !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Atsumu shot out of his bed and crossed the few meters that separated his apartment from his twin in record time, his knee protesting in pain but powering through it. He was not going to let those tuna onigiris get defiled in such a grotesque way—much less when he knew Osamu always used fatty tuna for them because it was Atsumu’s favourite and he’d rather spend a little more money than give him some mediocre tuna. 

He was left with his fist hanging in the air when the door opened without letting him knock it.

“Sunarin!” Atsumu watched as the man leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t know ya were already here. Move.”

The man didn’t, a mischievous look in his eyes as he crossed his arms. “Nah, I don’t think I will.”

“Let me in, Suna.”

“No can do, Osamu told me to stall you a little. He said something about tuna onigiri…?”

Atsumu pushed him out of the way, Suna moving without any more complaints and letting out a chuckle as he stormed towards the kitchen. “‘Samu! Don’t touch my food!”

He found his brother sitting on the countertop, peacefully eating his wrapped onigiri. “They’re safe, ya moron.” Atsumu could barely understand him when he talked with his mouth full, but this was his twin—he’d acquired some kind of translator over the years.

He glared at Osamu. “Didja make me run for nothin’? Sunamin ain’t even here!”

“She’s nearby.” He took another bite of the triangle-shaped rice ball. “And ya live literally two steps away, ‘Tsumu.”

“Ya disturbed my Dragon Ball binge-watch.”

“Ya were procrastinatin’ doin’ yer bags for tomorrow. I did ya a favour. Now eat and then go do whatever yer puttin’ off.”

Atsumu pouted for a moment. It was always the same, though, because Atsumu hated doing things in advance and waited till the last possible moment to pack whatever he needed for the trip, and Osamu had always indirectly told him to get his shit together by disturbing his preferred method of procrastination with some kind of food. He shouldn’t be surprised his brother was still following his little routine, even when the one flying overseas wasn’t him. 

As he walked around Osamu to grab an onigiri from the full plate, instantly recognising the tuna ones—for his brother had always made them the same way, the same shape and decoration—, he heard the door open behind him, and a familiar rushing of steps approaching the already crowded kitchen (it was a small kitchen, but Osamu was comfortable cooking by himself and Atsumu almost never bothered him nor did he touch his own kitchen, so there were no complaints).

He had just taken a bite of his food when the little demon appeared.

“‘Tsumu!” A red-cheeked Minako grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the living room, throwing him onto the couch and almost making him choke on his onigiri. “You have to tell me what Sakusa-san is going to do on friday!”

“Whaddaya mean?”

The girl jumped up and down in excitement. “Like, the program! The music! Is he doing quads? I wanna see him doing a quad lutz! It’s my favourite! Is he hydroblading? Is he doing something crazy? Oh my god, is he doing a cartwheel? ”

She got more and more excited as she talked, almost yelling the last question, a toothy smile on her face. Atsumu couldn’t comprehend how she was Suna Rintarou’s, resident lazy boy, sister. But then again, Osamu was his brother. Cut from the same cloth, but only one of them could be graced with the privilege of being better. He guessed Minako was to Suna what ‘Samu was to him.

But she definitely wasn’t very bright.

“Min, ya can find that on the internet. It’s literally all there.”

She froze for a few seconds. Then she started basically vibrating again, getting closer to him. “But that’s only the required elements! Is he hydroblading, Tsumu? Is he?”

“Geez, woman,” Atsumu pushed her face away from him. Minako was definitely scary when she was energized—they had, once, made the mistake of giving her a cup of coffee just to wake her up at six a.m. They quickly understood there was a reason she hadn’t been hooked on the stuff before, and had never let her go near a similar beverage again. “ No , he isn’t, dammit. And no cartwheels, either. And there will be plenty of quads—there is a lutz in there, yes.”

“Oh my god!” The girl yelled, throwing her arms around him. “I’m so sad I won’t get to see him live. But I can say that my coach was Sakusa-san’s coach this season—that’s so cool!”

“This season?” Atsumu frowned. “Ya have no faith in me, Sunamin. I’m keepin’ Omi-kun.”

“That’s only if ya manage to make him beat his personal best, ain’t it?” Osamu asked, finally getting out of the kitchen and bringing the plate full of onigiri to the table, Suna behind him. His brother was able to take off the brace on his leg a month ago, so he was now walking normally—physical therapy did wonders when you actually tried to get better. Who would’ve thought?

Atsumu noticed both boys had slightly swollen lips and rosy cheeks, though displayed no shame whatsoever. He gagged a little. “Yer both disgusting.” He received a mocking smile from Suna. “And yeah, ‘Samu. But he’s beatin’ it. I’m confident.”

“Has he mastered the art of feeling the music , as you put it?” Suna asked as he sat down on one of the chairs, Osamu next to him. Minako and Atsumu got up from the couch and joined them. “You were pretty worried last time.”

That was weeks ago. Suna went to Aichi Prefectural University, meaning a five-hour distance, and came to Tokyo most weekends to see his sister (and, unofficially, to see Atsumu’s brother, too). The last meal they’ve had together with the Suna siblings, though, was a month prior to that day, and Sakusa had advanced a lot since then—not as much as Atsumu would’ve hoped, honestly, but it was still something.

He didn’t know what to do to make the skater loosen up. It was easy for Atsumu, everyone knew he wore his heart in his sleeve and had more emotional outbursts than he should’ve. He never concealed anything (well, except certain affections, but he’s just being professional!).

Yet to someone like Sakusa, who remained guarded all the time, who barely showed anything that could be used against him, and who didn’t let many people be able to see through the cracks, actually expressing something on the ice was harder than expected.

Everyone knew those stone-faced, boring, socially awkward and stiff athletes. Japan’s other top-skater, Ushijima Wakatoshi, was one of them. Many included Sakusa in that category, even though Atsumu knew he was so much more than that. Sakusa was fuller than most skaters. He was just… selective.

Atsumu was glad Sakusa had deemed him worthy of seeing him be more . He only wanted the world to see that, too. 

“He’s still progressin’, though he got better,” he settled on saying. “Not an emotionless robot like before, but not givin’ ya much, either.”

Osamu sighed. “Then how’s he goin’ to beat the score he achieved with a much experienced coach, ‘Tsumu?”

“One, I’m definitely better than that coach. I had to coach ya two,” he glared at his brother and Minako, who was almost deepthroating her umeboshi onigiri. He gave her a disgusted look. She shrugged. “Two, the technical score base value for the program is higher than before—Shoyo-kun and Bokkun did wonders with the step sequences and Yakkun with the spins. 

“Three.” He grinned at his brother, who was still looking at him with a pitiful look. “Component scores, my young padawan.” 

“Component scores?” Suna asked.

“Costume, music, choreography, the overall artistry. The emotion he’s lacking is an added taste—he’ll do just fine without it, for now.” Atsumu explained. “Omi-kun’s gonna be a goddamn rockstar. Ya better watch him.”

“‘Course we’ll watch.” Osamu rolled his eyes. “I’ve gotta know if ya’ll stay gettin’ paid by yer boyfriend or if unemployment will find ya again.”

“What the fuck, ‘Samu, he’s not my boyfriend!”

“Tell that to yer face, ‘Tsumu. Yer redder than Hinata’s hair.”

“His hair is orange, and focus on yer not-boyfriend-till-he-graduates, ya dumb fuck.”

“Sorry, Atsumu, did Osamu touch a sore spot? Are you really that mad Sakusa isn’t your boyfriend yet?”

“I’m gonna cut off all yer hair in yer sleep, Sunarin. Just wait.”

“It can’t be worse than your dyejob.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

It was starting to make Atsumu nervous.

Ever since they’d boarded the plane— no, scratch that . Ever since they met at the airport, ready for the half-day long flight, Sakusa had been as distant as when they’d first met. He seemed to be one annoying comment away from spitting in Atsumu’s face.

Of course, the man had remained civil. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, didn’t look at him unless prompted to, didn’t even acknowledge his presence at first. Atsumu had tried to make some conversation, as he always did, but even his best attempts at sparking an exchange ended up being fruitless.

One of those attempts went somewhat like this:

“Omi-kun! Look at that woman, she has a charm in her bag with yer name! She must be yer fan!”

“I see.”

“Why dontcha go say hello?”

“I don’t want to.”

And the woman didn’t even notice she was waiting for the same plane as the skater she adored, so there was no coaxing the man into indulging her a little. He stayed away from the crowd, moping in a corner with Atsumu by his side, yet his presence was as good as inexistent.

Another attempt, when they were already on air, went like this:

“Didja see that, Omi? The air hostess just winked at ya’!”

“I noticed.”

“Yer not interested? She’s really pretty.”

“She is, but I’m not.”

“Have ya ever been interested in someone, Omi-kun?”

“I have.”

And when Atsumu inquired to know more, both for his curiosity and masochism, the man stayed as silent as he’d been since the start of the day.

It felt like talking to a wall, except the wall replied with annoyed noises and occasional glares. Sakusa seemed to just want to rest, Atsumu just wanted things to be normal again—as normal as they’d been for the three months they’ve known each other.

Atsumu wasn’t worried. He wasn’t worried at all. Maybe he texted his brother a little to see if it was just in head (it wasn’t. He’d heard people around the sports complex gossiping about the silent treatment Sakusa Kiyoomi was giving his brand new coachling ). Maybe he texted Minako a little to ask for advice (Osamu was no help with the previous inquiry. Minako has more experience than him when it came to interpersonal relationships, anyway. She was no help, either, for all she said was to “man up and talk it out”. He was not going to do such a thing with a man who was pretending Miya Osamu was an only child).

But there was nothing he could say for the skater to behave as he’d been doing before—always replying to his banter, some snide remarks here and there, merely looking at him.

Practice went smoothly, though still silent. Sakusa was going through his short program like a well-oiled machine. Atsumu had told him over and over again how that wasn’t his goal, how he should let go, how it was missing something important. Sakusa ignored him, doing his every move with the accuracy he’d trained all those months with him, and all the years before him, and Atsumu had gained pitiful looks from the other skaters and coaches who were also practicing at the time.

How foolish was Atsumu to think he could change Sakusa’s reluctance to show the vulnerability that had bewitched them all years ago with just a mere few months?

Their stay in the hotel was silent, too. They didn’t share a room, luckily, so the uncomfortableness didn’t spread there, but breakfast was tough for him, as were lunch and dinner. Sakusa powered through everything as if it were normal, as if he’d never formed a bond with his coach, as if Atsumu had been nothing but an employee who helped him get there, and that was it.

It hurt Atsumu more than he wanted to admit. It wouldn’t have hurt as much if it were someone else. But this was Sakusa Kiyoomi, and he’d awoken something inside Atsumu that he’d never thought he’d feel.

And he hated it.

He’d finally had enough two days after the continuous icy behaviour from the man, just before he had to leave the waiting room to perform his short program. 

“Listen, Omi-kun.” He tried to make Sakusa look at him, but he wouldn’t budge. His stare was set on the floor, hands clutching his feet. “ Omi-kun , I’m tryin’ to speak to ya.”

“This is the first time I’m not at a competition with Takeuchi,” Sakusa suddenly said, unprompted. His eyes were still looking down as he stretched, the Japan Skating Federation jacket hugging his lean frame. “But it doesn’t feel weird.”

“Huh?”

Sakusa started getting up, his curls lightly bouncing with the movement. “I feel more comfortable with you, Miya, than I ever did with him. I knew him for fifteen years. And you, barely four months.” He straightened his spine, his eyes finally rising to meet his gaze. “Isn’t that strange?”

To see the sheer sincerity in his dark eyes, the openness in his face, almost gave Atsumu whiplash. It dawned on him, then, that the skater was opening up. Perhaps not in the most ideal of places (he was, after all, about to go outside the waiting room, onto the rink, and wait for his turn to take on the ice), perhaps not in the most ideal of situations (he was, after all, about to skate his short program in a competition in which, if he didn’t surpass his record, his season with Atsumu would be over), perhaps not with the most ideal words (why would he mention his good-for-nothing ex-coach?), and perhaps not in the most ideal time (he’d outright ignored Atsumu for two days before this).

But he was opening up.

“I don’t think it’s strange, Omi-kun,” Atsumu said, quietly. He had wondered many times about the relationship he’d formed with the skater, and he always arrived at the same place: “I think I understood you better, and we’ve built some level of trust that man had simply assumed. That’s the way it’s gotta be with every coach ya have.”

“I don’t want to skate with another coach.”

Atsumu froze. He couldn’t look away from Sakusa’s face—Sakusa’s eyes, which expressed more than he’d ever thought possible. Sakusa’s mouth, which uttered the words he’d never thought he’d hear, yet those he wanted to hear the most.

The man continued, “I don’t want you to lose the bargain you made with me back in July.”

A smile found its way on Atsumu’s face. He couldn’t think properly, not after that moment of sincerity, but the answer was on his lips before his brain could process it. “Then ya hafta show just how much ya love skatin’. And I’ll stay with ya.”

It was a simple instruction—the simple instruction he’d tried to make the man in front of him follow for months, the one he’d had most trouble with. To bring back that little boy in juniors, that was Atsumu’s goal. That boy that skated as if the ice was a hug and the air was a soft blanket, as if gliding and jumping and spinning was like standing up and walking; as if the blades below his feet were part of his body, made just for him. As if being in love with the sport was as natural as breathing.

Because he knew that, for Sakusa Kiyoomi, it was. It still was, after all those years of trying to get rid of that vulnerability he had so readily spilled and shared with the world as a young child. The little boy who made others fall in love with what he, too, loved. That’s what the world was missing, and that’s what Atsumu wanted him to realise.

Sakusa stepped just a tiny bit closer to Atsumu. The distance was still there, but, for some reason, he felt a line they’d been skirting around before had now been crossed.

The look in his eyes was now stronger, deeper. Purposeful. “Watch me.”

And Atsumu did.

Sakusa started his short program with a smirk on his face. The people around Atsumu were already with their jaws on the floor at such display of emotion from the usually stoic skater. His costume fit him beautifully—black pants, black boot covers, and a long-sleeved slightly flowy shirt in different shades of blue, which alluded to the toned body below it in a suggestive sort of manner.

The music playing, the one he’d had to connect with, was as sensual as an instrumental could be. It’d been a surprise when Yaku suggested such a concept for his short and Sakusa immediately agreed with him. It’d been more of a surprise when Atsumu had seen just how perfectly it all fitted the skater. Even when there was no expression in his face, his movements were enough to communicate what the lyricless music couldn’t.

But Sakusa didn’t skate without an expression, like he’d been doing up until that event. Sakusa seemed to be skating a story, and by the way he’d gazed at Atsumu just before his program started, the story started and ended with him.

Wishful thinking, he reminded himself. It did him no good.

He watched as Sakusa glided for his first jump, a quadruple toe loop, and landed it perfectly, and the cocky smirk turned into a small smile. He watched as he landed his triple axel, and the little smile widened. Then he watched the quad lutz triple toe combination, the one that’d given him the most trouble in those months—Atsumu had wanted him to do the triple toe with the Tano variation, and it was still difficult to get the rotations right.

But Sakusa landed the lutz. And he landed the toe. And he did it with his arm above his head. And his smile now reached his eyes, showing the entire world just how beautiful his face was outside of his icy expression. He performed his step sequences with a never-seen before swagger in his movements, the pure and uncensored enjoyment showing with every sway of his feet, every roll of his body perfectly timed with the song’s beat, looking like he was dancing rather than skating—he’d give Osamu a run for his money in his discipline. And the spins he executed were as clean as they could be, perfectly centered and demonstrating his flexibility.

When his last spin ended, and the music died out, Sakusa stood in the middle of the ice rink, one arm raised, the other by his side. The smile fit easily on his face, as if it had always been there, for the whole world to see.

The public stood silent, a collective sigh filling the stadium. Even the event’s staff and the cameramen seemed to hold their breath—Sakusa had done that. He’d made them all stop in their tracks, he’d made them look at him, and only at him.

It happened in a fraction of a second. The arena exploded in cheers. The ice filled with flowers. The people around him started clapping louder than it should’ve been acceptable for staff members.

And Atsumu ran.

He ran towards the door, the one he’d forgotten to approach because of the tight grip Sakusa’s movements had had on his body. He couldn’t have looked away from him, it would’ve been considered illegal—sacrilege, even. 

The skater was almost there, the petal of a flower caught in one of his curls. Atsumu wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull it out. But he swallowed it down and, instead, offered the man the brightest smile he had, his eyes barely visible and able to see, pushed by his cheeks.

“Omi-kun!” He opened his arms as a reflex, always the one to wrap his twin in a hug after he left the ice. Then he realised what he’d implied and dropped them in a second.

Sakusa said nothing. He didn’t mind. The smile was still on lips, the best ornament he could sport. It became little, barely visible as he slid his new blade guards on and walked alongside Atsumu to the kiss and cry area, but it was still there, out in the open for the world to see.

No other words were spoken between the two. There was no need for words when looks and actions meant more than them.

They sat together, closer than they would’ve on a normal day with Sakusa’s aversion to physical touch and Atsumu’s aversion to making him uncomfortable. Atsumu attributed it to Sakusa’s adrenaline sparking up—and the joy that performance must’ve given him. He offered the skater his jacket back, and he took it, his arms brushing against Atsumu’s as he put the garment on.

If he were still being wishful, he would’ve thought the touch to be on purpose.

But he wasn’t, and it wasn’t.

And he was fine with that.

It was curious how, even if Sakusa had just come out of the ice, trembling, nose red from the cold, and even if Atsumu wore a jacket that did nothing for the freezing air that came from being too close to the rink (but, damn , did it look good on him), he’d never felt warmer than in that moment, sitting beside his skater, shoulders barely touching each other.

Atsumu let Sakusa have his moment of introspection as he analysed himself in the screens in front of him, showing a slow-mo replay of his required elements and highlights. It was all done so precisely, so beautifully passionate and raw, that Atsumu’s eyes filled with tears when the replays showed Sakusa’s smile at the end—triumphant, divine, otherworldly.

He had to look at one of the bright lights in front of him to prevent the tears from spilling (even though it was called kiss and cry for a reason, he’d always preferred the first part of that dichotomy).

“Sakusa Kiyoomi has been awarded in the short program…” The mechanical voice from the arena’s speakers snapped him out of it. He felt the skater tensing up beside him. “101.45 points, a personal best, and is currently in first place. Congratulations.”

A personal best . He was also pretty sure no one had scored above 100 points in the short program— ever . Sakusa had just gone and done it, and he had made it look as easy as walking. And he’d been smiling as he did it, too.

And he’d done it because he wanted Atsumu to stay as his coach.

Atsumu almost cried again. 

mom’s least favourite

hey

i got a boyfriend

now’s your turn

shut the fuck up

and congrats

fucking finally

 

---

 

sunamin

hey

i got a girlfriend

now’s your turn

i’m going to murder samu

rin told me to text you,

actually

are you ok with being an only child?

sure

i’m my mom’s favourite anyway

 

---

 

sunasshole

hey

dont say it

i got a boyfriend

shut the fuck up

im gonna punch you in the throat

c’mon tsumu

step up ur game

did you see him skate??

and the thing where u wait

for the scores??

yeah

i was there

what about it

man

i think the whole world knows

dont you?

know what

ha

nevermind

???

 

Going back to training was like falling into routine, and exceptionally performing at championships was part of it. Three shiny gold medals had come back with them, and, thus, Atsumu had stayed.

He didn’t know what to think of the way it felt so comfortable to see Sakusa first thing in the morning, nor how much he liked that the first familiar face that greeted him was him. Atsumu didn’t like pondering about how much he liked any of the things Sakusa did, actually, because he ended inevitably thinking about how much he liked him , and that was a rabbit hole he couldn’t let himself fall into. Not anymore.

Sakusa Kiyoomi wasn’t what one would call emotionally available. After knowing him for eight months, he’d gathered as much. They’d made some progress in the emotional part, but the availability? That wasn’t for him to work on.

Besides, overthinking would do him no good. He’d learnt that the hard way.

The year had come and gone. A new year was upon them, and with it, an important event: the World Figure Skating Championships.

Everything before that had been for Sakusa as a men’s singles skater, an individual. He’d beaten his personal record, had set a new world record for both the short program and the free skate, had inspired multiple articles about this new side of him—had made the world not only continue looking at him, but had also brought the attention to Miya Atsumu, the coach that brought out the unreleased Sakusa Kiyoomi, one that had exceeded the veteran Takeuchi Hamada.

It’s not like it bothered him too much. He liked the attention, he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, and Atsumu had already been known in the figure skating community.

Forced to retire, men’s singles skater becomes his twin’s coach .

Miya Atsumu, previous men’s singles Grand Prix Final’s runner-up, now pairs skating coach—and he’s only eighteen-years-old!

Miya Osamu and Suna Minako—who’s the coach that cracked their code for victory?

He’d lost the count of the amount of times he’d been mentioned by the media, whether to talk about his accident, about his life afterwards or his twin’s career and his involvement in it. Thus, due to this attention he’d brought to himself and his twin’s skating career, the Japan Skating Federation had obviously heard about him. He’d made friends in it, people close to his age who let him know whenever something important came his way—like the time they’d offered to pay for their housing and talk to the club if they stayed to live in Tokyo, or the time they’d offered to speak with potential sponsors to help with Osamu and Minako’s expenses.

Or that morning, when Ojiro Aran called him to tell him he’d better keep the momentum going with Sakusa and make sure to get a spot in the top three in the next competition, for the 2017 World Figure Skating Championships defined the spots each country could fill for next year’s Pyeongchang Olympic Games, and they were counting on Sakusa. If Ushijima Wakatoshi made it to the top ten alongside him, they’d snatch those three spots Japan so-badly wanted.

That meant Sakusa’s goal was closer and closer each day, and they had to work their asses off to reach it.

Skaters didn’t qualify to go to the Olympics through competition—that decision was purely made by the JSF, and though their standings did influence them, it didn’t instantly mean they’d go if they kept winning gold medals. They chose the skaters that had the most possibilities of winning an olympic medal, and that could mean anyone had the chance of being chosen—and junior-level skaters at the time could qualify, too, for they could go if they turned fifteen before this season ended. That meant more competition, less certainty, more uneasiness.

In less words, even if Sakusa secured those spots at Worlds, nothing would secure him one of them would be his.

So Atsumu had told him so as soon as he got off the call. And Sakusa had told him not to worry, the JSA wouldn’t overlook him. Atsumu had told him don’t be stupid, they do what they want . Sakusa had told him I’ll make them choose me again . And the conversation ended there.

Sakusa had always been confident. It was one of the things that made him such a good skater: he didn’t doubt himself, thus, things didn’t go wrong because of hesitation or insecurities. But there was a new edge to him that Atsumu had just started to notice, and it was now becoming painfully obvious.

Sakusa Kiyoomi liked to finish things. He didn’t end his training until he’d accomplished everything he’d set up to do that day. He didn’t leave a program half-done, nor a spin half-good. He liked gold medals not because they meant he was good—he knew that already—but because it meant standing at the highest place on the podium, nowhere else to reach afterwards. It meant having already finished that competition. No loose ends.

Atsumu had understood that a few months down the way. He’d also understood why Sakusa had given him that particular answer when he’d asked him for his ultimate goal.

For an athlete, the last level to clear was the Olympic Games. And it wasn’t enough to just perform there—it was winning the gold medal. That’s the step everyone wanted to reach before retiring, the highest they could go, the finishing line. What proved that their efforts hadn’t been in vain, nor unrecognised.

Sakusa hadn’t seen the Olympics as some stepping stone to keep acquiring titles. He’d seen Pyeongchang’s gold medal as a true ultimate goal—the last thing to clear, the finishing line to reach and being able to say he’d finished his skating career. Whether he continued skating afterwards, that’s for him to decide. But it was true that his goal was that gold medal, that’s what he’d been waiting for since he started the sport.

And Atsumu had forgotten Sakusa had been unable to go to the Sochi Olympics back in 2014 because of some muscle strain just a few weeks before the event, so of course he was going to want Pyeongchang, and of course he was going to make sure the JSF sent him there, and of course he was going to try harder at practice because of it.

He should’ve known. He really should’ve. Atsumu was the same way when he was younger and with different goals.

Instead, he saw it happen in slow motion.

Sakusa was still training, still going through his free skate program. He was about to enter a lutz, the long entrance already set up, when his face scrunched up. He didn’t mind it, though, because the man still jumped up just fine.

The problem was the landing.

Atsumu was on the ace as soon as he heard Kiyoomi’s body colliding with the harsh surface.

He wasn’t wearing skates—he couldn’t. Not because of medical reasons, but because of the awful feeling he had whenever he could feel his ankle getting the support it didn’t have without them. He didn’t want to depend on them to feel like everything was okay again, nor did he want to remember the time when he went beyond his limits only for them to break apart. Thus, he’d vowed to never step into the ice, much less wear ice skates. He was fine pulling the strings from the sidelines, he had people who could do the demonstration for him.

But he wished he had skates on. He wished he could go faster than the clumsy steps he had to take in order to reach Kiyoomi, who was lying on his side, facing away from his direction, so he couldn’t see if the man was unconscious or not. He wished the mere act of walking on ice didn’t make his spine tense up. He wished he wasn’t that much of a coward.

It’d been a horrible fall. He’d never seen Kiyoomi fall without the proper care every skater was instructed with when they first started on the sport. He never wanted to see it happen again.

After fifteen seconds of waddling in his feet, heart on his throat, Atsumu gave up and dropped to his knees, ignoring the piercing pain it sparked in his body, and allowed the microscopical amount of water on top of the ice, with some help from his limbs, to simply slide him towards the skater. He reached him in another ten seconds, kneeling beside him, and inspecting him. 

It took him just one second to see Kiyoomi begin to open his eyes, apparently regaining consciousness. It took him two more to process the trickle of blood falling to the ice, a wound in his forehead. It took him twenty seconds to take out his phone and dial the rink’s emergency team, them saying they would be there shortly. And it took him five to realise Kiyoomi had groggily moved his hand and placed it on top of Atsumu’s, which was resting on his own knee, slightly squeezing.

“I’m fine,” he heard him say, his voice softer than it would’ve been had he not almost broken his craneum on the hard ice. His hand felt cold, though Atsumu could feel it warming up with his touch.

“Fuck you,” Atsumu squeezed Kiyoomi’s hand harder. This was the first time he touched him, willingly, so why did it feel so comforting? “Yer not fine, ya moron. Ya fell. And yer bleeding.”

“It’s just my adductor.” Kiyoomi let out a sharp chuckle, wincing afterwards. “It’s acting up again. I’m fine, Miya.”

Atsumu didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t want to—he wanted to yell at Kiyoomi, wanted to make him understand that he had hurt himself, that it could’ve been so much worse and that he was lucky he was even conscious right now. He wanted to ask him why he still jumped even though he’d clearly felt pain just before attempting the lutz, and he wanted to berate him for it. He wanted to ask for forgiveness, because he should’ve known , he should’ve realised the pressure was higher than before and he should’ve stopped him before he made the jump with the strained look on his face.

He wanted to do so many things, but the emergency team had just arrived, and Atsumu knew the skater’s wellbeing was worth more than just a few seconds of screaming at him.

So he moved away from Kiyoomi, leaving space for the medical team to inspect the injured man, and he let them take him out of the ice and into the nursery, and he let them keep Atsumu anxiously waiting on the hallway of Itachiyama Club’s ice rink, and he let them tell him that Kiyoomi was fine, that there was no concussion, and that yes, it was his adductor what was acting up.

It would take him two to three weeks to heal the slightly torn muscle, the doctor had said. But he was completely okay. No need to worry. He just had to stretch better—it was his third time having trouble with that area, the first one being the injury that left him out of Sochi; the second, the one that had made him fire his previous coach. 

Kiyoomi was okay. He was let into the room where the skater rested, ice placed on top of his groin and his forehead, and he was allowed to wait for him to wake up. So he sat down on the chair beside the bed, stretched his hand towards Kiyoomi’s, as if compelled by some kind of magnetic force. Then he realised what he was doing, and brought it back to him.

Before he could completely take his hand away, the very same one it had tried to approach had grasped it, softly enveloping it as if it had done it a thousand times. Which it hadn’t, but Atsumu wished he would.

As he raised his eyes to meet Kiyoomi’s, he felt the same squeeze as before. He beamed at the man.

“I hate ya so much.”

Kiyoomi slightly smiled back, dropping his hand and sitting up.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Ya gotta loosen up. Yer too nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Atsumu smirked. “Yer holdin’ that bottle tighter than ya should, ain’tcha?”

Kiyoomi noticed his hand squeezing the water bottle—fingers white from the strain of pushing against stainless steel—and he instantly released it, his cheeks slightly acquiring a rosy tint.

“It’s gonna be fine, Omi-kun,” the coach kneeled down in front of the skater on the bench. 

“Haiba Lev scored just a couple points less than me in the short.”

“I know. And you ,” he made the effort to pronounce it correctly, “know yer still gonna win. So why are ya gettin’ like this?”

Kiyoomi sighed, running a hand down his face. “I want that gold medal, Miya. I want to stand out, and I want the JSF to pick me. This isn’t my last chance, I know that, but I don’t want to live regretting this day as much as I regret the day I didn’t stretch correctly and lost Sochi.”

He appreciated the way he seemed to be so much more open than before, easily sharing his concerns with him—and only with him—, but it also pained him to know just how much this meant to him. And how much he’d gone through to reach this point.

Atsumu sighed. “Omi-kun, yer not gonna regret today. Yer gonna go to the ice and yer gonna skate so beautifully, Tchaikovsky himself will cry from heaven and choose you over his compatriot, that Haiba kid. Today’s yer day, as much as that Skate Canada short program was yers, too.”

Kiyoomi stayed silent for a minute, until his eyes snapped to meet his and blinked several times.

“Oh. That’s it.”

“What?”

“I just have to skate like back then.”

“Well, yeah, I thought ya were already doin’ that all these months.”

“No.” His dark eyes pierced Atsumu’s, a shy smile on his lips. “Tell me you’ll quit if I don’t win gold.”

“What? No!”

“That’s the motivation I need. Like in Skate Canada.”

Atsumu felt his heart thumping against his ribcage, a sudden warmth climbing his back, reaching his neck and then his ears. He tried to hide the blush through a smirk and a snarky tone, though he knew the skater had noticed it, due to the increased size of his smile.

“Ya need me to threaten ya with leavin’ for ya to skate like yer life depends on it, Omi?”

Kiyoomi leaned forward, their faces much too close for it to be shrugged off as a natural gesture. “Yes.”

Suddenly, it had become very difficult to breath. For Atsumu, at least.

“I’m not threatin’ ya.” His smirk widened, his face approaching Sakusa even more. “If ya need me to be a motivation, then use me accordingly.”

“And how would that be, Miya?” His breath tickled Atsumu’s face, his eyes slightly lowering.

Atsumu didn’t want to think about what they were looking at. He didn’t.

But he did. And he wished, with the entirety of his heart, that he was correct.

“Skate for me, Omi-kun.” He settled on saying, voice softer, ignoring what he truly wanted to announce. “Make me proud. That’s it.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes went back up to share a glance with him, and there it was—that glint in them, that determination. The same one from that first competition together.

“Watch me, then.”

And Atsumu did.

He watched as Kiyoomi stood in the middle of the ice, tightly fitted costume—a simple black and maroon outfit, golden buttons and shoulder pads, barely hinting at the origin of the music he’d skate to—, his face adorned with a soft expression.

This wasn’t sensual, nor was it joyful or flirty. This was a powerful piece, a statement, something that yelled I’m here, look at me . It was a call for attention, a deserved one, it was what represented him best, it was Sakusa Kiyoomi in its entirety.

It was Atsumu, too. But his role was not the starring one.

The Nutcracker’s pas de deux started playing, and Kiyoomi became divine.

Every movement, every spin, every jump and every step was so beautiful, so intricate, he’d made the whole stadium hold their breaths. It wasn’t the fact that he was skating for Atsumu that made it so special—it was that Atsumu could now see it: he could see that he loved the sport so much, his love had started spilling from him and drowning everybody surrounding him.

It was the same from back then. The little boy from juniors was on the ice, and he was making everyone look at him, not a single person unaware of the magic that was skating around the rink, not a single soul who didn’t recognise the passion in his moves.

Kiyoomi’s gaze found Atsumu’s multiple times, conveying what was left unsaid between them, what the coach had understood a long time ago and tried to shove back down, only for it to come back doubled in size. He could feel the skater pulling him in, pushing the doubts away and bringing him closer to the rabbit hole he’d steered clear from. He could feel him calling his name, could feel him expressing through his movements what he couldn’t in words.

And he smiled. He gave Kiyoomi the sweetest smile his body could muster, because he was done holding himself back. He was done hiding what shouldn’t be hidden, and he was done not letting him know he was so, so— 

No. Not yet.

Kiyoomi continued skating, the grace in his movements becoming less fragile and more forceful, driven by the music and the emotions in it. It was like watching a god create and then destroy, only for life to grow from that destruction.

It was Sakusa Kiyoomi, in his rawest interpretation to date.

And as the skater finalised the program, on his knees and breathing heavily, the crowd had understood they’d just watched how a new world was just created, and threw presents and flowers to celebrate it. 

Atsumu didn’t run this time. He took his time in reaching the gate, taking notice of the curly-haired man’s delayed exit from the ice. It was a sight for sore eyes, the artist and his muse.

It happened again—the silence. The smile was enough, they both knew that already. So to the kiss and cry they walked, closer than they should’ve. And they sat down to watch the replays, closer than they should’ve. And Kiyoomi’s hand found his, and Atsumu let him hold it, because he was already closer than he should’ve.

And when the rapporteur announced that Kiyoomi had scored 223.20 points, a new world record, the skater and his coach tightened their hold in each other’s hands, feeling warmer than they should’ve.

Not only had he won first place, securing Japan’s two spots at the Olympics, but he’d also broken his previous record and achieved a new one. Not only had he continuously grown so much in terms of skating in less than a year, but, when Kiyoomi turned a little to whisper a small thank you , he realised the skater had grown emotionally, too. And he’d been part of that ride, had encouraged him to do so, had been the cause of many of his improvements— not to toot his own horn or whatever the fuck someone with modesty would say, but he was Atsumu and Atsumu bragged and man, did he want to brag about Kiyoomi.

He almost teared up, again, as all those months ago, back in Canada.

He didn’t, because he wasn’t a little bitch. But he almost did. That was embarrassing enough for him.

Atsumu had once thought watching Kiyoomi practice was almost like a religious experience. Then he saw him flawlessly perform a program made by him, and it instantly became the closest thing to one.

When Kiyoomi pushed him against the wall, grabbed his face and feverishly pressed his lips against his own in some nondescript hallway inside of Helsinki’s Hartwall Arena, Atsumu realised the real one was this moment.

A kindling fire spread everywhere inside him as arms wrapped around one another’s bodies, holding each other closely, not letting the warmth escape. He smiled against Omi’s mouth, eliciting a small one in response, and he knew no happiness in the world could compare to this.

Minako had once ranted about some mythological tale which explained the concept of soulmates: it told of how humans had originally been born with four arms, four legs and two heads. Shit happened and some stupid god had separated them in two, leading humans to live without their soulmate literally with them anymore.

(Of course, being an identical twin meant he’d had that before—literally growing alongside someone else—, though he thanked the universe for separating him from the other half of his body. This wasn’t about Osamu. He’d already found his soulmate, that bastard.)

The thing is, when Sakusa kissed him, Atsumu felt like he was whole. Like this had always been meant to be. Like his body had missed a part of itself it had never met, but now had, and it would never be the same again. It felt like a warm cup of coffee in the mornings, it felt like the hug of a blanket on a chilly evening, it felt like the hold of a hand and the sincerity of a smile.

And it all felt like Sakusa.

It wasn’t there was Atsumu and then there was Sakusa. It was now Atsumu and Sakusa. Less words, less space, less unknown between them.

He didn’t know if there was anything more familiar to him than where he was now. Maybe he was in a foreign country, maybe he was surrounded by strangers, maybe this was the first time he’d experienced something like this. But the feeling of Kiyoomi against him, his lips on his own, the smile he was holding back from releasing… Nothing had ever felt more right.

mom’s least favourite

fuck you

i got a boyfriend

nows your turn to propose

 

fucking finally

 

“Ya know, I really don’t like yer surname.”

“Huh?”

Twenty-five-year-old Atsumu half-smiled, one hand buried in his boyfriend’s hair and the other on his stomach—both slightly trembling. “It doesn’t feel good. Too long, too stiff, not made for ya.”

“Gee, thanks, love.” The sarcastic tone was so Kiyoomi it almost made him tear up way before planned. But his lover had failed to recognise the familiar words, and he wasn’t going to spoil it. Though, true to himself, Omi replied with the same ones he’d uttered all those years ago: “I can’t change my surname.”

This time, Atsumu had his own script to follow.

“Ya can, actually.”

Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow, slowly raising his head from the bleach-blonde’s chest. “Atsu…?”

“I think Miya Kiyoomi, Olympic gold-medalist, fits ya better.” He beamed down at him. “Dontcha think the same?”

And Kiyoomi, whether because Atsumu knew him too well or merely by chance, followed Atsumu’s mental script for this scene, which he had played out too many times on his head, down to a T.

“No.” Omi’s dark eyes crinkled because of the wide smile on his face, one only he got to see, one that never failed to spread a well-known warmth all around his body. “Sakusa Atsumu, Olympic gold-medalist Sakusa Kiyoomi’s husband, is obviously better.”